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Most days, they usually head straight back to HQ, both of them worn out, bones aching after going on missions almost every day with no rest.
But every once in a while, the exhaustion digs in too deep to ignore and Gris needs to unwind. Needs to stop thinking for a bit, needs to just exist- So when Enjin suggests they stop by the bar on their way back, like he has many times before, Gris really can’t say no.
For one night, he wants to stop being responsible.
Even if he knows exactly what kind of night awaits him there.
The bar isn’t far from HQ. A dim, familiar place with crooked lights, cheap whiskey, and a bartender who knows better than to ask too many questions when Cleaners walk in after dark. They’ve been there enough times that it feels almost like part of the routine.
At first, it’s easy.
They sit side by side at the counter, shoulders almost too close. Enjin lights a cigarette and makes some passing comment, such as how the bar lights should really be fixed, or how the whiskey tastes unusually bitter tonight
Gris hums back lazily in response, nodding along, too drained to answer with words. Enjin never minds. Never expects him to. They're just two tired men sharing the same space, letting the weight of the day slowly melt into the low hum of the bar. Gris likes these moments more than he’ll ever admit out loud. Enjin’s presence settles something restless inside him.
It's normal.
And for a little while, Gris almost believes tonight will be different.
Then the drinks start working like they always do and Enjin has never been the type to sit still for long after.
Eventually, Enjin offers the cigarette he's smoking. Gris studies it for a moment before leaning forward and taking it between his lips. Might as well get it over with.
They both know what it means, this part is routine. Familiar.
Gris only wishes it wasn't.
Because Enjin always slip away to find someone else.
It’s fine.
Gris is used to it, well aware of Enjin’s tendencies once a few drinks are in his system. he wouldn’t have agreed to come along if he didn’t already know how these nights go once Enjin has a few drinks in him.
That part is normal too.
He’s gotten very good at pretending he doesn’t mind
At pretending he doesn’t feel that quiet ache every time Enjin drifts away from the barstool beside him.
Gris is a patient man. Years of being a Cleaner shaped him that way. You learn quickly that life rarely gives you what you want, and wanting too much only makes the work harder. Life is already hard enough as it is
So the conclusion had been simple.
The moment he laid eyes on Enjin the first day, he knew he would never have him.
Not the way he wanted.
They’re coworkers. Friends. He considered Enjin as one of the few people he could actually let go around, he was easy to be around, strong and fierce. He was loyal and kind. Despite what he shows to others.
But beyond that, Enjin has never looked at Gris the way Gris looks at him.
Gris gestures to the bartender to refill his glass. The cigarette Enjin left him still rests between his lips, the smoke leaving a bitter taste behind, but he makes no move to put it down.
It’s the closest thing they share tonight.
Once his glass is filled, Gris tries focusing on anything but the blond figure a few feet to his right, the one he already knows he’ll end up driving back to HQ later when he's done having his fun.
Still, it’s hard not to look.
Just tonight, he tells himself, tonight he’ll let himself look. He’ll allow it just this once and come tomorrow, he’ll get himself together again like he always does.
The alcohol helps blur the edges of his better judgment.
His eyes slowly drift across the room. The bar isn’t crowded tonight, making it easy to spot the source of his quiet misery.
Enjin leans against the far wall, drink in hand. Blond hair slicked back, shoulders loose, smile easy. Gris can’t see every detail from this distance, but he doesn’t need to. It’s all etched into his memory anyway. No amount of alcohol could erase it.
The image is carved into his skull.
The dimples that appear when Enjin smiles.The way the dim bar lights catch in his hair. His tattoos, black and red ink swirling down his arms all the way to his hands.
Hands that are now resting comfortably around someone else’s waist.
All normal.
The girl laughs at something Enjin says, brushing against him every few seconds. She tilts her head when she looks at him, lashes fluttering in a practised way.
Gris watches as Enjin leans down and murmurs something against her ear.
His stomach rolls once. He blames the alcohol. And takes a long drag from the left-out cigarette to ground him.
It’s been years, and Gris tells himself he should be used to it by now. That every time they end up in a bar this late, Enjin will eventually wind up wrapped around someone new.
Always flirting. Always inviting. Always searching for someone willing to lose themselves with him for a few hours.
And every time, Gris sits back with half-lidded eyes and a refilled glass, pretending the sight doesn’t claw something raw open inside his chest.
Gris doesn’t see much of Enjin the next time he looks up.
Which is both a blessing and a curse. Because he's not sure how long he can keep this facade.
At some point the cigarette burns out and he asks the bartender if he’s seen him. He mentions Enjin left not so long ago with the person of choice for the night.
Being the gentleman he is, he’s probably finding somewhere decent they can spend the night together privately and Gris tells himself it's for the best, Enjin needs a safe place to rest his vital instrument before he did anything reckless.
It still didn't make it hurt any less.
He drains his glass and waits, checking the time every once in a while, knowing Enjin will come back. It’s just the two of them tonight, after all, and someone has to make sure neither of them, drunk as they get, drive straight off a cliff or something worse.
Gris gives him an hour. At best.
He’s wrong.
Not even thirty minutes later, Enjin reappears.
The girl is nowhere in sight.
Gris notices him immediately, the way his shoulders sag slightly as he pushes through the door, the faint wobble in his step as he tries to rest his weight on his umbrella, His hair is messy, blond strands falling loose around his face.
He looks… frustrated.
Good. The thought slips in before Gris can stop it, and he hates himself for the quiet flicker of relief that follows.
Gris assumes Enjin must have said something stupid along the way to the girl and she probably decided she had better things to do than indulge him.
Happened a couple of times before. And Gris was a witness to it.
Enjin drops heavily into the seat beside him with a long sigh, slumping forward until his head rests on his folded arms across the table. From the corner of his eye, Gris catches the faint red marks on his neck that had nothing to do with ink.
He looks away immediately.
Nothing for him to see.
All normal.
“No luck, huh?”
Enjin groans into his arms and Gris tries to understand his muffled words, “She wasn’t my type anyway.”
“That’s what you always say when it doesn’t go your way,” Gris hums back.
Enjin lifts his head and meets his eyes. Gris notices the slight glaze to them, the flush spreading across his cheeks, the way his hair has come loose from whatever attempt he made to tame it earlier, his lips parted like he’s still catching his breath.
Gris’s chest tightens.
He wants to kiss him so badly it almost hurts.
But he doesn’t.
“That’s because it’s true,” Enjin grumbles. “Not a lot of choices tonight.”
“So you definitely offended her somehow—”
“I was nothing but a gentleman!” Enjin protests, sitting up. “If you must know, some random guy shows up out of nowhere and nearly punches me in the face. How was I supposed to know she had a boyfriend?”
Gris snickers despite himself, raising his glass for a slow sip.
“You could’ve asked before you left with her.”
Or you could stop going home with strangers. That part stays locked behind his teeth.
From the corner of his eye, Gris watches Enjin suddenly reach over and snatch the glass from his hand.
“Hey. Get your—”
Too late.
Enjin steals it from his hand and downs the rest of the drink in one go before slamming the empty glass back onto the table with a dull thud. He wheezes loudly and tips his head back toward the ceiling in dramatic defeat.
Gris watches him.
His face is still flushed. His throat moves when he swallows. His lips still slightly parted, a sheen to them now,
Very kissable— No.
Gris drags his eyes away.
Acknowledging the fact that the longer he kept staring at Enjin, the harder it was to stop himself from doing something he would regret.
He keeps his hands firmly on his own side of the table, forcing himself not to lean over and close the small distance. resisting the urge to press his mouth against Enjin’s and finally taste him, like how all these strangers have.
The liquor is testing him tonight; it's making it harder than usual.
Probably due to the fact that he's been trying to cut it off lately, nothing good ever came out of getting wasted while Enjin fucked around.
He hasn’t even had that much; he thinks this is only his third glass.
And he still has to drive them back to HQ, which means he absolutely cannot let himself do something he’ll never be able to take back. There was never a possibility he could kiss Enjin and pretend it was nothing.
And yet, it's all he can think about.
The thought hurt. Gris couldn't help but want him. In every way possible-
Gris notices the moment Enjin decides he’s bored. The moment Enjin decides he’s had enough of sitting still after his first failed attempt.
It starts with the tapping of his fingers against the side of his glass. A restless rhythm. Then his eyes begin to drift, slowly at first, scanning the room with that familiar casual curiosity.
Gris already knows what it means. He has seen this routine enough times to recognise it instantly. he had just been through one not an hour ago. Enjin was really restless tonight.
He gladly accepts it when the bartender fills his glass again, almost thankful for it gives him something to do with his hands, keeps him busy and steady or els—
He takes a sip of his drink and waits, because what else is he supposed to do? He’s afraid to open his mouth and say something he might not mean, or worse, something he might mean.
Sure enough, a moment later, Enjin exhales softly through his nose and straightens up as he slides off the stool beside him. His umbrella hanging loosely around his elbow.
“Don’t get too comfortable without me,” he mutters, half-teasing.
Gris hums, distracting himself with the swirl in his glass, though Enjin is already walking away before the sound fully leaves his throat.
The empty seat beside him feels colder almost immediately.
Gris keeps his gaze on the amber liquid in his glass for a few seconds longer than necessary and tells himself not to do this all over again, but eventually curiosity—or maybe something worse—pulls his eyes back up; he did promise just tonight.
It doesn’t take long to find him.
Enjin has stopped near the far end of the bar, leaning casually against the counter beside someone Gris hadn’t noticed before.
Another woman.
She’s sitting alone with a drink in her hand, shoulders turned slightly toward Enjin as he says something that makes her laugh.
Of course she laughs.
Even from this distance, Gris can see the familiar rhythm of it: the tilt of Enjin’s head, the easy smile pulling at his lips, the dimples that appear when he says something just a little too charming for his own good. Enjin always makes it look effortless when he flirts with people who aren't Gris.
Gris studies the quiet scene over the rim of his glass.
The way Enjin leans a little closer as they talk. How his hand rests lazily on the counter near hers, close enough to brush but not quite touching.
It’s practised.
Not fake, never fake, but practised all the same.
The woman smiles again, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. Enjin says something else, something quieter this time.
She leans in to hear him.
Gris looks away.
He stares down at the bar instead, tracing the faint rings left behind by old glasses and tries to think about anything else. The music hums softly around him, blending with the low murmur of voices and the occasional clink of glass.
He already knows how the rest will go.
Eventually, Enjin will tilt his head toward the door. The woman will laugh again. Maybe she’ll pretend to hesitate. But she’ll go.
They always do.
Gris lifts his drink again, swallowing a slow mouthful. The alcohol burns a little on the way down, but it’s not enough to dull the quiet pressure sitting behind his ribs.
Across the room, he hears Enjin laugh. It’s a sound Gris would recognise anywhere.
Against his better judgment, or maybe because he was starting to loosen up and he could always blame it on the buzz of the alcohol in his system, he glances up again.
Enjin is still there, leaning close now, his shoulder almost brushing the woman’s. She says something that makes him grin wider, and Gris catches the quick flash of those dimples again.
Then Enjin reaches out, his fingers brush the woman’s wrist casually, an invitation maybe. She doesn’t pull away.
Of course she doesn’t.
Gris lowers his gaze again before he can see anything else and finally decides it is enough for tonight.
He focuses on the dull shine of the bar beneath the low lights, letting the sounds of the room blur together around him.
It’s fine.
This is normal.
It’s how these nights always go.
Still, when he hears the scrape of chairs and the soft murmur of voices moving toward the door, his chest tightens before he can stop it. At least he doesn’t look up this time. Instead, he raises his glass and tries to wash away his feelings with every sip.
He tells himself the empty seat beside him doesn’t feel quite so noticeable after all.
Gris thinks maybe he should stop saying yes whenever Enjin suggest they have a night out, it never ends well for him.
Yet here he was.
After spending what felt like hours but in reality only forty minutes at most, Gris wasn’t sure how long he'd been sitting in the same spot for. He got distracted at some point by whatever was on the television; he's still nursing the same glass he had when Enjin finally decides to return.
Gris hears the door before he sees him.
The bar’s entrance creaks open, letting in a brief gust of cool night air. A couple of people glance up out of habit, then go back to their drinks.
Gris doesn’t look right away because he already knows.
Still, his eyes eventually drift toward the sound, As usual.
Enjin is stepping back inside, running a hand through his hair as the door swings shut behind him.
His blond strands are all over the place now, far cry from the carefully slicked-back style he’d walked in with earlier, His shirt is half untucked, the collar of his coat pulled crooked to one side, revealing way too much skin. There’s a faint flush across his cheeks that has nothing to do with alcohol.
Gris notices all of it in a single glance.
Then he looks back down and away before he is caught staring. This is normal too.
Enjin spots him right away —since Gris doesn't move from his seat all night— and makes his way over, weaving between tables before dropping into the stool beside him with a long, satisfied sigh.
For a moment, neither of them speaks. Gris studies the amber liquid in his glass yet again, because really, there was nothing for him to say that wouldn’t hurt either of them.
Enjin smells faintly like someone else’s perfume.
It’s subtle. But it’s there.
And it makes him want to throw up.
“Well,” Gris says eventually, voice steady enough. “That was quick.”
Enjin huffs a quiet laugh, leaning back against the counter.
“Not really.”
Gris hums. Not liking the implication of it.
From the corner of his eye, he catches the darker marks along Enjin’s neck now that the collar has shifted. The kind that weren’t there earlier.
His stomach twists again.
Probably from the alcohol.
“Everything go well?” Gris asks despite himself, keeping his tone neutral.
Enjin shrugs loosely. He studies Gris for a moment before speaking, and Gris really wonders what he’s thinking right now, if he caught on to whatever Gris has been feeling the past couple of hours, how long has it been since they came here? Not more than three hours for sure, Enjin was quick enough, which was a small mercy in a way.
“Yeah. She was nice. really good with her mouth.”
Nice.
That was his criterion for sleeping with someone. Nice
Is he doing this on purpose?
Gris nods like that answers something important.
“Didn’t think you’d come back tonight,” he says after a moment.
“Thought about staying,” Enjin admits, rubbing the back of his neck. “But figured you’d be stuck here waiting for me.”
Gris lets out a quiet breath through his nose.
“You assume I’d wait all night for you?”
“You always do.”
There’s no teasing in the statement. Just simple certainty.
Gris doesn’t argue with him, because there is no point; he would never leave Enjin with no ride back. And the giver knew that.
Instead, he finishes the last of his drink and sets the glass down with a soft clink.
“We should head back,” he announces. “You’ve had enough.”
Enjin glances at him sideways, one brow lifting.
“You’re not exactly sober yourself.”
“More sober than you.”
“Low bar. You totally had more drinks than me, did you even do anything while I was away, besides drinking?”
Gris stands anyway, takes a breath to steady himself, then he's already fixing his jacket back over his shoulders, ignoring the question.
“I’m driving.”
Enjin watches him for a second before sliding off the stool as well.
“Bossy tonight.”
Gris ignores that too.
The cool air outside hits them immediately, sharper than the heavy warmth of the bar. The streets are mostly quiet now, the distant hum of the town settling into the late hour. It was late, close to midnight and if they didn't want to worry anyone back in HQ, they better start driving right away.
They walk toward the jeep in silence.
Enjin is quiet beside him.
Unusually quiet for someone who's just had the best time of his night.
Gris unlocks the car and slides into the driver’s seat before Enjin can say anything else.
The car’s engine starts with a low rumble.
The drive back is quiet.
Not tense exactly, just the kind of silence that settles easily between two people who have spent years beside each other. The buildings thins around them as Gris steers the car through the late-night streets
Enjin sinks deeper into the passenger seat, one arm draped lazily over the door. head tilting against the window. At some point, he mutters something about being sleepy, voice slurred just enough to prove Gris made the right call driving. He was still sober enough
Driving gives him something to focus on yet there is the faint smell of perfume clinging to the passenger seat beside him that he tries to ignore.
For a while, the only sound is the engine and the quiet hum of the road.
Gris keeps his eyes forward.
Both hands firm on the wheel.
And then—
“You didn’t have to leave,” he says after a few minutes, voice surprisingly calm.
Enjin turns his head slightly. As if startled by his voice.
“Yeah?”
“You could’ve stayed with her.”
Enjin studies him for a moment. And it stretches to the point Gris feels like he said something he shouldn't have and—
“Didn’t want to.”
Gris’s grip on the steering wheel loosens slightly.
“That’s new.”
Shit maybe he did have too many drinks.
Enjin snorts softly.
“You sound disappointed.”
“Just surprised.”
Silence settles between them again.
Gris focuses on the drive. The turns of the steering wheel. The distant glow of HQ is slowly coming into view. The promise of his bedsheets wrapped around him as he slumped and pretended all of this was okay sounded good. The promise of forgetting and not thinking about Enjin anymore sounds even better.
Driving helps.
It gives his thoughts somewhere else to go.
Because if he lets himself think too hard about the flushed look on Enjin’s face when he walked back in—
Or the marks on his neck
Or the quiet satisfaction in his voice that Gris is well accustomed to after many nights repeating this.
He’s not sure he’ll keep his composure the rest of the night.
So he keeps driving.
Eyes forward.
Like everything is perfectly normal.
And it is normal.
When HQ building finally comes into full view, Gris feels something in his chest loosen a little. Safe ground at last.
He pulls into the garage and kills the engine, and for a moment neither of them moves. Gris is unsure what to say, if he should say anything at all. He checks the clock on the dashboard and is surprised they made it before midnight rolled. Was he really unfocused the whole time?
Then Enjin stretches with a low groan, rolling his shoulders as he climbs out of the car.
“I'm exhausted,” he says casually, already turning toward the entrance.
Gris nods.
Because what else was he expecting? It was just a regular night out, the usual, normal
They walk inside together, boots echoing softly through the quiet halls. Most of the building has long since gone to sleep; only a few lights remain on, casting long shadows down the corridors.
At the fork in the hallway where their rooms split off, Enjin lifts a hand in a lazy wave.
“Nighty night, try not to brood too much, you’ll age terribly,” he teases.
Gris snorts.
“Go sleep it off.”
Enjin grins once—dimples flashing in the dim hallway light—then disappears down his corridor.
Gris waits until the sound of his door closing echoes faintly through the building.
Only then does he turn toward his own room.
The moment he shuts the door behind him, the quiet feels heavier.
Gris exhales slowly. Feeling the weight of it all.
For a second, he just stands there. Then he rolls his shoulders, tugging his jacket off and tossing it onto the chair.
The smell hits him again.
Subtle. Easy to miss if he wasn’t paying attention. But he was.
Alcohol.
Cigarette smoke.
And beneath it all
That perfume.
Gris grimaces slightly.
He’d picked it up somewhere along the night. Probably when Enjin leaned too close in the car at one point, or when he stole his drink earlier at the bar. He wasn't sure which woman it belonged to.
The scent clings faintly to his clothes now, and Gris can’t stand it.
He scrubs a hand down his face and heads straight for the bathroom.
The shower turns on with a familiar metallic groan, steam beginning to gather as the water heats.
He strips out of his uniform quickly, dropping it in a small heap by the door like it personally offended him somehow.
The hot water hits his shoulders a moment later, and he lets out a deep, relieved sigh.
Gris stands there under it without moving, letting the heat soak into his tired muscles, letting the steady rush of water drown out the lingering thoughts still circling his head.
He only needs to rub his skin a little before the smell is gone within minutes.
Good.
If only the same could be done to his feelings
Gris exhales slowly, steadying himself with one hand against the tiled wall in front of him and finally letting his thoughts run free in the comfort of the small bathroom.
It’s fine.
This is fine.
He’s handled worse things than this.
Gris has always been good at enduring things quietly. Years of work as a Cleaner taught him that much—how to carry things without letting them show.
This isn’t any different.
He can’t have Enjin. That much has been clear from the start.
But that’s fine.
He can still work with him. Sit beside him at the bar. Share cigarettes and quiet conversations after missions. He knows it's greedy, knows it's slowly eating away at him, doesn't know how long he's gonna keep this up.
One day, the tight feeling in his chest will fade. One day, it won’t sting to watch Enjin drift toward someone else across a room.
Time fixes things like that.
It has to.
Gris tilts his head back under the spray and closes his eyes.
Tomorrow he’ll get his shit together again. Like he always does. Enjin won’t suspect a thing.
And Gris will keep standing where he’s always stood behind him, steady, patient, and quiet through all of it.
There was never a possibility Enjin would be his.
Enjin wasn’t someone you could keep. Enjin wasn’t his to claim. And Gris would just have to learn to live with that.
Even if he was doing a terrible job at it.
Even if it sometimes felt like his insides were being torn apart by a trash beast.
Honestly, that might hurt less.
But it's his normal.