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They made it back to HQ. Nobody was dead or missing, everyone was more or less intact, and Rudo had returned to normal — at least on the outside. It was enough cause for celebration after the nightmare at the Doll Festival. Everyone had gathered in the Mess Hall, to eat, drink, check Rudo's face for fur and try to make sense of what had happened.
Zanka considered joining them, but he didn't know which thought made him more nauseous — of eating anything, or talking about what had happened to him.
Again.
After having been tended to by Eishia, he felt pretty much fine. He spent a day at the infirmary of the South Ward Cleaners, sharing a room with Enjin and Rudo, before they were deemed fit to go back. He'd spent that time preoccupied with Rudo, undoubtedly altered by the whole experience, despite his appearance being back to normal, and the revelation that his father's murderer allegedly worked for the Cleaners. Plus, Enjin had been there. Zanka didn't want to appear weak in front of him.
Now, in the dead quiet of his own room, he could finally feel the full weight of his humiliation in peace.
He'd been taken out of commission again, pierced straight through his stomach and vomiting blood, and when he had the audacity to complain about this state of affairs, it seemed like fate itself decided to punish him by placing him within Goka's earshot. Zanka had been away from his family for long enough to recognize that calling one's dying brother pathetic was not a kind thing to do — but first of all, Goka wouldn't do it to just any old stranger, that cruelty was reserved for family; and second, the reason it hurt was probably because it was the truth. He'd gotten one hit on Mymo's transformed form and called it a day. Acted all mighty about it, too. Let's clean him up, he'd said, as if he was actually going to participate. He spent the rest of the fight being carried on his big brother's shoulder, receiving medical attention and hallucinating that Hyo was a member of the festival staff. He was laying flat on his back while Rudo was changing the essence of his very being to defeat Mymo. If that wasn't pathetic, Zanka didn't know what was.
And now he was fine, which meant it probably hadn't been that serious in the first place. He shouldn't have let Goka carry him away. He should've leaned on the Assistaff and walked away on his own. He should've tried again. Maybe he could have been of some help to Riyo, if not Rudo. He should have gotten up. Proven himself to be anything other than mediocre.
Nothing even hurt anymore. There was no trace left of his failure, except on his mind - and everyone else's, too; aw, poor Zanka, he got so hurt again, but it wasn't his fault, he tried his best, didn't he? He should probably be doing something now, training, being there for Rudo, trying to catch the villain hiding in their midst, but all he felt up to was sulking in his bed. God, his family had been so right about him.
He made his way to the showers, having recalled that he hadn't even bothered to wash himself after making it back from South Ward. Clearly, there was nothing he could do about being pathetic, but he could at least try not to be gross on top of that.
He dropped his dirty uniform to the ground. Eishia didn't even leave him a scar. There was nothing left of the wound that had felt so dire in the moment. It wasn't like the last time, when he spent many days suffering and puking his guts out while she tried to come up with the antidote for Jabber's cocktail of poisons.
Yeah, that had been worse. You'd think he'd learn something after that experience.
He didn't remember most of the fight on the trash beast. He was seeing things for most of it, but he couldn't recall the hallucinations, either. While his comrades were fighting for their lives and showing what they were worth, he was stuck in a deep, dark void. In a hole, where he belonged.
It was hard to miss Riyo carrying him on her shoulder, though. He remembered her picking him up like he weighed next to nothing, even though his body was limp and uncooperative. He recalled being dropped on the ground at some point, too.
He definitely remembered Enjin's bewilderment at the state he was in, being asked if he was alive and desperately trying to form words to give him an answer. He wasn't forgetting that one anytime soon.
He never wanted Enjin to see him like this again. He didn't even want to know what Enjin thought of him now. All the praise he'd given to him must've made him feel stupid in retrospect.
Zanka went through the motions of washing his hair with rigid, shaking hands, trying to swallow through a tightness in his throat. He let the foam drip down his face so the burning in his eyes could be blamed on the shampoo.
Again. It happened again. They desperately needed his power, and he spent the battle laying on his back.
But then again, obviously they hadn't need him after all, had they? Both times, they did a wonderful job. Everyone worked together and saved the day without him. At the Doll Festival, he contributed one attack to everyone's efforts against the transformed Mymo. On the trash beast, he couldn't even help by defeating one crazy guy.
His lower lip burst between his teeth and little drops of blood mixed with the water floating down the drain between his feet. He tried inhaling through his nose and exhaling through his mouth, in, out, but every breath only got more shallow and shaky. His desperate attempts at getting himself in control felt like delaying the inevitable.
He remembered the hysterical laughter that he couldn't do anything about, back then, when poison was coursing through his body. The tightness gripping his chest now felt a little bit like it did at that time. Another laughing fit was too much to hope for, though. His eyes and his throat burned in a way that was hard to mistake.
There was no blaming anything on the shampoo when tears started rolling down his cheeks in earnest, big, shameful drops. Why did these things always happen to him? Was that the price of a mediocre man reaching for things that weren't meant for him? Is that how it would always be? Just new flavors of humiliation, every time?
Voiceless sobs tore out his throat, completely out of his control.
He punched the white tiles on the wall, to distract himself more than anything else, fully aware that it would do the opposite of making him feel better about himself. Literally hitting the wall. The universal gesture of pathetic loserdom. He did it again, and again, until his hand was throbbing and bright-red strings of blood were circling the drain.
The pain did nothing to stop him from crying. If anything, it got worse; he was a sniffling, sobbing mess, gasping for air like a fish out of water.
He never used to cry before. It was beaten out of him early, as was the case for everyone else in his family and at the Hell Guard academy. He hadn't cried after his weapon-choosing exercise fiasco; just crawled into a hole for three days and then laughed at his own failure, because what else was there to do?
He hadn't cried when his family disowned him, either, because he'd already seen it coming. His siblings would say that the Cleaners have spoiled him, made him soft. And they'd probably be right.
He clutched his bleeding fist to his chest and crouched down on the wet floor, pressing his forehead against the wall. He needed to get a grip. He had to get out and stop using up everyone else's warm water.
It was impossible. He couldn't make himself stop. Pain didn't do it, breathing exercises didn't do it. He was going to cry himself to death in the shower.
No, that would be too merciful. Someone would find him there. Everyone was up and someone would eventually wander to the bathrooms. And if they weren't alarmed by the banging sounds coming from the shower, they definitely would be by the audible whimpering.
He covered his mouth with both of his hands, biting down on the skin. If anything, being found like this would only be very much on brand. He'd laugh about it, if he could stop crying for a second.
At least fate had spared him that one indignity. After what felt like hours, he got out and got dressed, with aching hands, a bleeding lip and tears still rolling down his cheeks, sniffling and cursing himself.
Misery caught up to him only in the corridor, in the form of Semiu returning from the mess hall, because if he was going to run into someone, it had to be the one Giver who would never miss anything. The only thing worse than this would be Rudo waving a plunger around. If that happened, he'd burst into tears all over again, right in the middle of the hallway, and no one could blame him for it.
At least Semiu wasn't the sensitive type. She just asked if everything was okay. Zanka told her he was fine, and that was the end of it.
It was only after making it back to his room that he realized she would tell Enjin. He didn't want to imagine what she'd say, but couldn't help rubbing salt into that wound anyway. Any idea what's Zanka's deal? Or, I think Zanka hasn't been doing so hot. Maybe he shouldn't be out of the infirmary yet. Or, Hey Enjin, one of your kids is crying. Go check on him.
And Enjin would say something like oh, shoot, I better go, like Zanka was a stove that he'd left on before leaving the house. Or he'd sigh that his partying had been interrupted by someone having a crisis. Or he'd be the responsible team leader and show up at his door with food and a pep-talk.
He didn't want anyone trying to comfort him. He didn't want Enjin to be that person the most of all. He thought of running away — going anywhere, even just down to the garage; then he realized he'd just be giving Enjin extra work, if he was in fact searching for him.
Or maybe Semiu would forget about it. Or decide that it was none of her business. Somehow, as he laid in back and waited for someone to appear at the door, that possibility didn't make him feel better at all, and wanting to be found felt like the most pitiful part of his little breakdown yet.
At least the conundrum was solved for him with a quiet knock on the door.
"You in there?"
Zanka did considered faking being asleep, letting Enjin walk away and then probably having another crying fit when he was gone, but his voice betrayed him.
"Yeah. What do you need?"
God, it was still audible in his voice. He sounded like he had the worst cold of his life.
"Nothing." Enjin let himself in and turned on the nightlight. Zanka squinted at the sudden brightness. His eyes still burned. He didn't miss crying. There was nothing relieving about the experience. It was all pain and humiliation. "Haven't seen you all day. What, I can't miss my teammate?"
"You can go," Zanka uttered, despite his naive, treacherous heart wanting to sing at the joke about Enjin missing him. What kind of a failure enjoys being patronized to? "I'll be fine."
"I know you'll be fine." Enjin sat down next to him on the mattress. "You just need to crawl into a hole for a little bit, but you always make it out on your own."
Zanka scoffed. How many holes can one person crawl out of?
"Don't scoff at me. Do you want a pep-talk? Cause I can give you a pep-talk."
"No."
"That's what I thought," Enjin sighed with exaggerated relief. "You already know what you need to do. You don't need to hear me say it."
"Then what are you doing here?"
Zanka was facing the wall, with his back to Enjin, so he couldn't quite see what he was doing when he felt a hand hovering over him. He just hoped Enjin wasn't going to try to give him a hug, or something equally out of character. So maybe he did want his attention, so what. He definitely didn't want his pity.
"Told you, I haven't seen you all day." Enjin's hand found Zanka's scratched-up, swollen one, and reached for it, as if picking up a skittish animal. "And, uh, to be honest with you, I was hoping to assess the damage."
Of course Semiu saw his bruised knucles and babbled. After a quick calculation, Zanka decided that a swift check-up would be less humiliating than throwing a tantrum, and allowed his mangled hand to be picked up and inspected, turning towards Enjin to let him have a better look.
"Actually, I do have a word of advice," Enjin cleared his throat. "Don't do… that."
"Yeah, thanks. Will keep that in mind."
Enjin held Zanka's hand in his, turning it over and looking at it from different angles, as if it was some kind of curiosity. Zanka's face burned as steady fingers ran over his knuckles, pressing at the bones, checking for cracks and fractures. It should be unpleasant, but Enjin rubbing his aching palm felt more like a massage.
"I don't think you've broken anything." Of course. It would take a stronger man to break his own bones. Zanka just threw a pointless little fit in the showers. "Now squeeze?"
It hurt, but Zanka did as he was told.
Enjin's hand was warm, larger than his, rough and calloused under his fingers. It was a good hand, a strong one. Zanka squeezed like he could get some power to keep going through their entangled fingers. He could crawl of this hole on his own, sure. But maybe Enjin wouldn't begrudge him taking a little bit of strength from him.
"Not me, silly," Enjin chuckled, a gentle, but definitely amused laugh. "I meant clench your fist."
Zanka's vision went white.
Consciously, he knew that was the most humiliating part of the day yet. There was a part of him that wanted to scream, cry in front of Enjin, and bang his head against the wall, forget the fists. And then run away to live in some remote hut in No Man's Land, as far away from the Cleaners as possible, and wait for his well-deserved premature death to catch him there.
The rest of him just laid there, holding Enjin's hand with a smile, and let the shame pass through every cell in his body. He let it envelop him, feeling its excruciating burn from head to toes, and let it go. It wasn't the first time. He should use the practice, because it certainly wouldn't be the last.
"Ah, my bad." Zanka, still smiling like he'd been sedated with a particularly potent medicament, released Enjin's hand from his and clenched his fist. "Looks like it works. Doesn't it?"
"Works just fine," Enjin nodded, laughter still in his voice. He reached back for Zanka's abused fist and gave his fingers a reassuring, if gently mocking squeeze. "Still got a hell of a grip. I'll see you at breakfast."
"See you there."
"Which you will eat, by the way. No fasting for three days this time."
"Yes, sir."
Enjin took one final look at him over his shoulder and left. The door closed with a click.
At least he got to hold Enjin's hand for a while. Not everyone could say that. Him and that Enjin, his Enjin, held hands at one point. Silver lining, or something.
It wasn't even that funny. He'd definitely done dumber things in his life. But he was clearly having a rough time controlling his emotions that day, and that's why he couldn't help laughing about it.
And then he got up the next morning, ate his breakfast and took Lovely out training, because he refused to die mediocre.