Work Text:
“I’m going for a drive.”
Semiu does not look up at the jangling of his keys. Her fingers do not stall on her keyboard, nor do her eyes lift from the screen as she says;
“I’ve no leads for you. I haven’t heard anything.”
It’s routine for her, almost. Gris can’t help his chuckle at the soft drone of her voice, “I didn’t think so. That’s not why I’m stopping by, anyway. Just thought you should know.”
Though the light is still warm through the window, its waning glow denotes the up-coming finale to a long day. Fatigue rattles on the sigh Semiu half pushes through her nose. The click-clacking on her keys pauses as one of her slender hands raises to rub at her eye behind her glasses, after which her gaze drags from her PC screen and up to regard him.
Semiu’s expression is always a bit methodical in observation. Currently, it takes the shape of a softly concerned regard for a friend.
“You’re off the clock. Showered, too. You know this isn’t your responsibility.”
He pinches the ridge of the key between his thumb and index finger. Gris has always liked the feeling of the notches pressed into his skin through folds of a cotton glove. The shrug he offers Semiu is about as luke-warm as the silver feels in his hand, “No. But I’m in the mood for a ride, anyway. It doesn’t hurt to take advantage of coincidence.”
Her stare feels more personal than any label of friendship could. There’s a complaint somewhere in the brief furrow of her brow and purse of her lips–until they flatten out, and whatever words that had thought to lift from her tongue dissolve into her next swallow.
“Be safe out there, Gris. I’ll let you know if something turns up before you get back.”
There is endless gratitude in the smile he lends to her.
“Sure thing. I’ll keep you updated on my end, too.”
The menial ambience of Headquarters fades into the rumble of his engine as Gris sparks the ignition. Headlights flicker on as he pulls into drive, and worn tires groan against the concrete garage floors all the way out the door. The jeep dips at the first trekked inch of outside gravel. Gris checks his mirrors, swipes away a bit of uncleaned debris from his gauges, then eases his foot onto the gas pedal and sets out on the road.
They’re on the prelude to dusk. Orange sweeps across the horizon, then draws deep purple into its hues the closer it inches toward the thick realm of smog overhead. The air is pleasantly warm at this time of day, so Gris rolls down his window and saddles his elbow in the empty space it leaves behind. It isn’t often that Gris sits in this seat relaxed. He lets the passing breeze lift wisps of blond from his cheek and kicks his left foot to rest diagonally closer to the door.
Gravel crunches beneath his tires. Cotton whispers against the leather wheel. Small pebbles kick up from the beaten road and pitter-patter against the sturdy body of the car. Occasionally, a litter of sand will trickle off the windshield. Gris likes these sounds. They’ve been the backing track to the everyday goings of his everyday life for what may as well have been his entire existence thus far. They make up an integral piece of who he is. But he has grown to stop finding total comfort in them while piloting an empty vehicle. His knee takes command of the wheel while his hand busies itself with finding a station on the radio. Blurted glitchings of shifting voices and instruments quickly find themselves among the otherwise natural symphony of the road.
Gris doesn’t have a destination in mind. Enjin’s disappeared, again. As he does. As he always probably will. And it will never be Gris’ business–as far as to why and where Enjin goes–but it is an intrinsic flaw of his dutiful nature to at the very least make an attempt to be in proximity to it. Nothing will change on the basis of whether or not he concerns himself with his absence, because the outcome of Enjin reappearing at Headquarters come morning is infallible. He knows this, as an unanimously agreed upon aspect of the giver’s nature. Gris is sitting alone behind the buzzing wheel of his jeep anyway.
A guitar riff phases in over the static hiss of the radio. Gris finally takes his fingers off the dial, and returns his hand to the wheel to take a left turn off the paved road. His wheels creak off the asphalt edge, and the jeep rattles as its weight sinks to the dirt below. The whine of the suspension hardly phases him, nor does the brief second of airtime he takes from off his seat. He plops back down as weathered vocals begin to hymn over the speakers.
His course is in complete opposition to Semiu’s wishes. Perhaps even in opposition to his own. He makes a swerve to dodge a jutting blade of scrap-metal lodged in the cracked clay earth, then another to skirt the link of barbed wire in the other direction. His knee takes over the steering again, wedged firmly up into the leather, as he fishes a mask from his glovebox.
There’s no real reason that Gris is heading in the direction of Mono. As a lone supporter, dressed down into his casual clothes with nothing more than his fists and a good-luck charm, there’s no justifiable reason that he even should be. The thought should be the furthest from his mind. It’s a mere hunch that’s drawing him there, though hunches are the last thing to be given any credence when in regards to a No Man’s Land. Gris, under any other circumstance, wouldn’t. But what he’s discovered over the years is that Enjin is the only factor that can ever bring his sound-mind into question. It’s often begun to feel like he plays a hand in influencing Gris’ intuition itself.
The song that’s playing is an old, familiar tune. Gris enjoys the station that airs it, and has probably been listening to it longer than the cumulative time he’s spent listening to people’s voices over the years. His fingers tap along the outer-edge of his door to the pull of guitar strings, cotton parsing through the coursing wind. He’s watching some distant swirl of clouds over the darkening sky while his rugged humming follows the chorus of a sodden melody. The hiccups in the road, brought beneath his tires by forgotten piles of trash, are hardly hindrances. He avoids what he can, smoothly dragging the wheel beneath one hand, and tanks what he can’t without regard for the aftermath.
A long road stretches like this, tires scraping beneath the mauve ombré of the sky to the softly changing notes of plucked chords. Though Gris eventually settles on rolling up his window (as the sand begins to kick up around him), the sharp edge of the breeze still wisps through the interior. His mask is rattling up on the dash, over-seeing the approach to Mono. They’re still a ways away, but its permeatingly grim visage has begun to distantly crest over the horizon. Along his hardly-treaded path there passes an increasingly varying quantity of trash. Gris doubts he’ll get close enough tonight to facilitate wearing any protection. He hardly ever does when his spontaneity lines up with Enjin’s tendencies–but even for Gris, the man can be a shot in the dark to read. One of these days he might need it, so it never hurts to have it at the ready.
Today is not that day, however.
Some stretch down dunes of rubbish, spliced between clay and sand, Enjin materializes at the first chilling gust of dusk. The golden glow of sunset has since begun to interweave itself with the twilight hues of night, leaving him illuminated solely by the far outreach of Gris’ headlights. They’re some miles out from Mono. Still, Enjin’s full-mask sits to obscure his face. Umbreaker is unsheathed over his shoulder, pale dome back-lit by dying flecks of amber. He is expectedly alone.
Gris rolls the car forward. Enjin’s acknowledgement is a banal recitation of every time before this–though Gris does not often find him with the mask. His head cocks, Umbreaker slides to fit the new notch in his neck, and his ambling trek pauses into a brief standstill with Gris’ jeep shifting into park. His engine whines–the old thing–and clicks into obscurity as he kills the ignition off. It takes the soft string melodies with it. The headlights still beam out ahead.
The jeeps from Headquarters all have vaguely tinted windows. Even the windshield can at times be an obsidian slab from the outside perspective. It’s no clearer at night. Enjin, some dozen yards away, surely has nothing more than a faceful of blindingly white light–and Gris cannot be anything other than a vagrant shadow behind dark glass to him. Regardless, the hand not intertwined with Umbreaker’s handle comes to wrap around the edge of his mask. Long fingers curl beneath the hood, then draw back and up, all the way until swept strands of blond come to attention along the wind. Enjin’s face is nearly imperceptible from this distance, elucidated or not, but Gris still manages to catch the soft dimpling of his grin before the timer on the lights cuts them both back into ambient black.
It is unsurprising, in all regards, that Enjin knows whoever has rolled out here to meet him will know his face. Just as Gris knew the blobby shadow of his form before it took shape over the rubble, Enjin’s heart is in tune with the drone of Gris’ engine.
”You can worry about something else now, Semiu.” He says, hand tapped to the choker around his neck.
There’s a brief blip, then a scratch, “Took long enough. I’ll see you soon.”
Gris leaves the mask on the dash, and pops out of the driver’s seat with a thunk.
Enjin’s hair is pitching on the whim of the gusts blowing past. Gris himself is hit with the unexpected tug of the wind, collar flickering out toward his shoulder in tandem with the billowing of his bangs. It’s cool now, though his forearms feel the lapping of fading warmth. Beneath his feet, aluminum crunches and roils into the dirt. The crinkling sound carries on a howl that coalesces and warps around the amphitheater that is Umbreaker’s hull.
”You come here often?”
Gris is making his way around to the hood of the car as the breeze carries Enjin’s teasing to him. He presses his back into the grate, and folds his arms over his chest to put himself in the perfect position to watch the rest of his approach. There’s a smile on his lips—gentle—that had already formed long before he was certain of Enjin’s shape.
”Funny you ask,” He snorts as hazel eyes loom out of the darkness, “I was about to use that same line myself.”
The cheeky grin he gets is a stark white contrast to the night enveloping them. Gris watches as the last few radiant hues of daylight swirl, then die, in the dead landscape of Enjin’s ‘giving’ pupils. He doesn’t utter another word as his feet—so typically inpatient—languidly rise and fall over foot-flattened debris in Gris’ direction. His hand is busy stuffing his mask down into his pocket all the while. Gris imagines he’ll receive a hefty lashing from August if he ever finds out how Enjin is currently treating his handiwork (as rough as it's meant to be handled).
Another howl—louder this time—wraps around the ‘dunes’. It tugs at Enjin’s coat wildly, and Gris raises his hand to block his eyes from the dirt it kicks up.
”You stink.” He waits to say until Enjin is standing just a few arms length away.
A sturdy boot kicks into the sand, and Gris has to turn his head away to provide better defense against the sand than just his hand, “We can’t all come out to the trash heap freshly bathed, princess.”
The hood thuds with a new weight against it. When he turns back to his side, Gris finds Enjin eyeing him, Umbreaker no longer hoisted over his shoulder. Instead, it swings to shield in whichever direction the wind attempts to assault them with brittle earth.
”And, y’know, just for the record—strolling out this far in your ‘off-day uniform’ is insane, even for me.”
”Seems perfectly apt for driving, to me,” Gris says with a light kick to Enjin’s shin, “If I’d known I’d be coming all the way out here, maybe I would’ve suited up. But I was just following the whim of the wheel.”
Enjin retaliates with a back-hand from his heel and snorts, “Oh, yeah? You’re tellin’ me the guy with safety’s stick up his ass was going to coast right into Mono if he didn’t run into me first? And just on a whim, of course—in his Saturday card-playing best.”
”What,” Gris’ eyes crinkle with just a semblance of mischief, “You don’t think it’d be fun to drag-race a trash beast?”
There’s a light that turns on in Enjin’s head. He’s blank staring at Gris for a moment, before laughter spills out on the next gust Umbreaker is swinging around to block, “Not while totally defenseless—but if that’s somethin’ you wanna’ do, you could drive a hard bargain to convince me to be your co-pilot.”
He knows Enjin can never resist a joy-ride in Gris’ passenger seat. Admittedly, he’d been merely joking (and Enjin certainly was too), but now he’s half-convincing himself of his own idiotic idea. For one night, though, there had already been more than enough unwise decisions. His chuckle floats along the shake of his head, “Some other time, maybe. When I don’t have to worry about Semiu gutting me for improper use of a facility vehicle.”
”Like this isn’t already ‘improper use’.”
”I got my cruising approved, just so you know.”
Enjin rolls his eyes. A puff of air sighs through his nose, and his left arm comes to settle up on the cool metal of the hood. Not not intentionally, Gris shifts ever so slightly into the small opening by his side.
Billowing wails fill the comfortable silence that settles between them. The hollow caverns dug out in igloos of trash reverberate and release the same cries back out into the desert—a self subsisting echo-system for Mono’s surrounding haunting choir. There’s more to listen to than there is to see. Beyond what’s visible in the realm of the average human’s night-vision, there is nothing but the blacked out silhouettes of trash dunes. Gris doesn’t mind the eeriness so much. On his own, he might drown the howling beneath the radio. With Enjin, he doesn’t find he needs an interruption for nature’s quiet.
Umbreaker fwwps over Enjin’s right shoulder as the wind shifts direction behind him. Entirely unrelated to the insignificant force pushing on the umbrella, Gris watches him stumble forward. His hand is crawling along the hood as his feet shimmy along the clay. He opens himself a little to Enjin’s direction, turning his head to meet the approach of his gaze. There’s a smile there, on cracked lips. Gris traces the outline of dimples while he feels eyes fall to his bottom lip.
He gives it a moment. Tunes into the tap of Enjin’s fingers inching toward him. Admires a glinting obsidian band hanging from his earlobe. Then, when Enjin leans in forward, he draws up his hand and places a gloved palm over his mouth.
”Stinky,” Gris reiterates.
Enjin’s offence is made loud and clear, even through the fabric. He sputters at first, before his brows contort into a pout that is made much more definite by his frown when he pries Gris’ glove off his lips.
He doesn’t actually care whether or not Enjin smells like a trash chute. They’ve had each other worse. Rather, he’s certainly smelt worse. That doesn’t mean Gris doesn’t find his reaction to rejection cute. Or that he doesn’t like teasing him.
”C’mon, don’t get all picky just ‘cause you’re all clean—it’s not like there’s anything I can do! Gris—“
But he isn’t at all listening. Enjin’s soft, sulking face is all he really cares about. His hand saddles up on the hood to intertwine with Enjin’s as he leans forward to share his laughter with pouting lips.
Lanky fingers curl around his with a gasp. Enjin both melts and surges into him, muffled complaints infectiously turned into giggles puffed against his cheek. He swallows Gris’ own joy so easily–and with how Enjin tugs on their hands, drawing his arm into his chest, it’s clear he plans to encompass Gris in his entirety as well.
It isn’t an easy feat one-handed, so Gris does him a favor. His other hand draws up to bracket itself along Enjin’s collar, then dips into the fabric to pull him near. A satisfied huff fades into their kiss, and in return, Gris offers up a doting hum.
“Not nice,” Enjin lilts on a breath, “Trying to make me all upset.”
Gris is leaning into him with a smirk, hand trekking from the edge of his collar to dip inside and get leverage on his shirt instead, “I missed your expressive face today. You won’t let me catch up a bit?”
“Aw, you missed me, did you?” There’s a chuckle ghosting against his cheek, then lips pressing back into his. Gris finds the little cracks from the day’s wear to be a pleasant texture against his soft pair, “Aren’t you just so sweet, Gris.”
The wind, ever volatile, shifts again. Enjin is rolling Gris’ back against the hood before a lick of the encroaching breeze has a chance to graze him. Without so much as faltering in his kisses, Umbreaker saddles over Enjin’s shoulder to deflect the gust that now passes on either side of them. A gasp draws from Gris’ throat as he settles against the frame, and Enjin takes full advantage of the opening it gives him to slide his tongue into his mouth. There’s a specific weakness that only Enjin can inflict on him that makes Gris entirely unable to protest. He welcomes the intrusion with a sigh, and runs his hand up to pull Enjin in closer by the back of his neck.
It’s a miracle that he doesn’t taste nearly as awful as he smells. Perhaps it’s an even greater miracle that Gris feels as putty-like as he does considering Enjin’s smell. His bangs are swept to the side, spilling off his cheek to pool onto the hood with the rest of his hair and his face has lightly dusted itself with a smattering of red that reflects on Enjin’s own. The closest to grounding himself he can get is the soft squeezing of his gloved fingers against rough skin. But then each flick of Enjin’s tongue against his own sends a wild buzz through every lit up nerve in his body and he has to recalibrate all over again.
Gris doesn’t realize he’s been panting until Enjin is parting with the lick of his lips. His gaze, while not glowing, shines with adoration through crinkled lids. He’s just about as out of breath, but it doesn’t stop him from nudging past Gris’ swept hair to nibble at his earlobe. The sensation of teeth against sensitive skin sends a jolt running through his veins that, in junction with the sharp howl of wind just over Enjin’s wet mouth, instantly reminds him of just where exactly they are.
“Enjin,” He hums on the edge of a breath. There’s an idle hum in response, then the flat brush of a tongue in his lobe. Gris tightens his hold on the back of Enjin’s neck, then lifts a heel to kick his calf with another warning, “Enjin.”
“Mm, what?” There’s a whine straight in his ear, that fades as Enjin draws back to look at him. The wind is still buffeting at Umbreaker’s dome, making his voice sound dull over the ruckus, “What was that for?”
Slowly, pryingly, Gris inches his fingers out of Enjin’s hand, “Right time, not right place.”
The pout he’d sealed with his lips earlier is curling right back onto the face in front of him, “You started it. And what, a guy can’t get a little make-out after a long day? You came all this way out for me, too.”
“Except you clearly weren’t intending to keep it a ‘little make-out’,” Gris snorts against his cheek, “Don’t think I don’t know you.”
When their hands untangle, Enjin brings his now free fingers to rest against Gris’ shirt collar, thumb teasing the fabric, “Well, the car is right h–”
Gris pushes a palm into his chest, “No. I’d love to anywhere else–but not in Mono’s splashzone.”
A great, big sigh pushes out from Enjin’s scrunched little face. He leans off of Gris at the push-back, looking like a child being denied a cookie, “Fine, fine. I guess it could kill to ‘live a little bit’.”
That draws a laugh out of him. He taps his palm against Enjin’s chest as he settles back onto his feet, “I’m glad you’re getting the memo. Now go make yourself comfy in your seat. We’ve got a long ride back.”
Enjin meets his eyes with a mischievous look.
“...Hypothetically, say we make a pit-st–”
Gris slips out from Umbreaker’s shield, and lets the wind stumble him back toward the driver side door, “No. We’ve got a job tomorrow. Get in the car.”
The groan he hears may as well have been just another component of the cool night breeze. A little bit of laughter rumbles through his throat as he swings back into the driver’s seat and watches Enjin sulk over to the passenger door. Umbreaker closes right outside the window, before Enjin pries open the handle and saddles his long legs inside.
The wind sharply ceases inside, save for the gentle rattling it assails on the frame. Gris sparks the ignition while Enjin fishes his mask out of his pocket and tosses it into the back with a sigh. The radio flickers on again with the fresh roar of the engine, as do the headlights, shaping a bright spotlight across the stretch of garbage ahead of them. He waits for the sound of Enjin’s seatbelt clicking before he reaches for his own.
“Anything you want to listen to?”
Enjin’s eyes are shut, his feet kicking up onto the dash. Gris loiters his fingers around the dial, expectantly parsing the man’s jutted portrait. After a moment of letting the guitar ruminate, Enjin peers out the window through slits and sighs, “Nah. This station’s fine.”
His hair looks egregious windswept–which is a testament to its current state, considering how handsome Gris usually finds his do. Blond strands are sticking out in every direction, looking more wild than intentional. Gris leans over, then sweeps across his scalp starting from the forehead. Enjin peaks an eye over at him, brow raised.
“Your hair looks cute,” He wiggles his fingers against the ends of the strands, then rakes them across from his hair-line again, “Don’t mind me.”
There’s a bit of fatigue that finally settles in Enjin’s eyes. He evidently relaxes under Gris’ touch, eyes shutting again–before he’s clicking his tongue and waving his hand off of him, “No more kisses for me means no hair-petting for you.”
Rolling his eyes, Gris draws his hand to the shift-stick and pulls into drive.
“Don’t be so dramatic, Enjin. I’ll give you plenty once we’re back home and you’ve showered.”
“You better,” He hears Enjin grumble, “Though I’d rather have them now.”
Neither of them jolts at the crushing crunch of rusted metal as Gris spins the wheels into a U-turn. The jeep lurches unevenly as tires roll haphazardly over junk, then balances out with a wobble the instant he starts the trail back on the path he’d driven out on. Darkness shrouds everything around them, his headlights unveiling only what is directly ahead. The unease that turning his back to Mono might typically bring is nullified by Enjin’s lulling head in the corner of his vision. The acoustics flowing through the stereo are certainly of help, too.
Enjin’s tired, so they don’t talk much. Not over the soothing melodies or the wail of the passing wind. Gris keeps his eyes on the road—especially in these tumultuous bits of unpaved earth—but occasionally flicks his gaze over to the passenger seat. His hair is flopped against the window, forehead pressed into the glass with his neck leaned over. Umbreaker is held between his legs, hands intertwined around its handle. A bit of foggy condensation has formed by his nose, pulsing with each small breath.
He isn’t asleep, but Gris can tell he isn’t pretending to be, either (as he often does). Enjin is only resting as much as he can. It’s endearing to Gris. The sound of Enjin’s soft breathing is something he deliberately aims to pick out over the radio.
They don’t talk about why Enjin ever ends up in these places, or about why he never seems to give a heads up to anyone—not even Gris. It isn’t wrong to say that Gris has been curious, he still is, but one thing that he’s never been is nosey. There are things that people simply don’t talk about. He’s known Enjin long enough to know that he has plenty of truths he’d rather keep under wraps. Gris has a few himself. One day, he might let Enjin in on those—but he’s always been okay with the fact that Enjin likely won’t ever bring Gris into his walls in return.
The most he’ll ever peer into this world of his is this; the intuitive pick-up after a long-day, where Enjin ragdolls into his passenger seat like Gris turned out to be the real oasis he’d convinced himself was a mirage. It’s all he needs to know, really. There’s a special sort of satisfaction that comes from being Enjin’s ‘light at the end of the tunnel’.
A melancholic tune strums across the radio as they rattle back onto the paved road. Enjin babbles a complaint against the window that Gris shakes his head at.
”We’re almost back, you baby. You can handle a few more bumps.”
A large cloud of condensation puffs against the window on Enjin’s next exhale. He shifts sleepily, pressing his forehead into the glass as leverage to push himself a bit more upright in his seat. A few small blinks open his eyes into leering slits that peer at Gris when his head lazily cranes in his direction. On the paved road, Gris is much less hesitant to hold his gaze.
Enjin doesn’t say anything. He merely lifts his left hand from Umbreaker’s handle and—extending it like a dead weight limb—flops it palm-up on the center console. Gris’ amusement huffs through his nose. With a feather soft grin, he takes his right hand off the wheel and intertwines it with Enjin’s.
Except Enjin doesn’t quit staring at him. His fingers don’t even close around Gris’.
”…take it off,” He hears, faintly. Glancing down, he can spot Enjin lazily picking at his glove.
”Hold the finger,” Gris instructs. When Enjin complies, he draws his hand out from the fabric, and again re-offers the appendage, “Better?”
Barely audible is the vaguely hummed agreement. His reward comes in the form of Enjin’s fingers finally squeezing back in with his. Admittedly, it does feel nicer to have his skin flush to his own. Enjin’s thumb soon after comes smoothing against the back of his hand, idly stretching against the skin. Gris sighs in his seat. There’s nothing he wants more than to suddenly be back in Enjin’s room, curled into each other’s arms.
Though, he just as equally wants the road to yawn on forever—with Enjin’s hand in his, accompanied by the low rumble of the engine and the gentle guitar serenade from the radio. Warm yellow light flits across the windows in phases out on the main road, and each pass that illuminates Enjin’s resting face tugs at his heart. He looks peaceful. At the very least, as much as someone like him can be.
The amount of time that passes is insignificant. Headquarters looms like a beacon in the distance. This is Gris’ realized oasis. The promise of a warm, soft bed—and beside him, the body that will lovingly inhabit it. Enjin’s hand is limp in his. At some point, he’d quit the stroking and miraculously conked out. His breaths are quietly shallow, rising slowly from his chest. Gris won’t wake him yet. Maybe he won’t at all.
Asphalt rolls over into the familiar gravel of Headquarter’s parking garage. The tires squeak over rock as they pull in beside the small entourage of other company jeeps. Gris’ was the only one missing before they returned—now, the full fleet stands at command. He feels a bit of apprehensive satisfaction as he kills the ignition, and shifts his foot to lock the parking break. Enjin is still slumped over in the passenger seat. Gris feels a lump form in his throat at the thought of letting go of his hand.
He has to do it, anyway. Carefully, with the precision of a surgeon, he peels their sweaty fingers apart. Clicking off his seatbelt, he twists to lean into the backseat and grabs Enjin’s full-mask. It folds under his armpit while he kicks his way out of the driver side door to collect Enjin from the passenger seat.
Enjin is not a small man. He is not exactly a light one, either. Or short. But Gris is a fighter, somebody who has prevailed solely through physical feats his whole life. Lifting Enjin is hardly a thought in his mind. He braces himself on the assistive step of the frame and leans over to click off his seatbelt, being careful not to bump into Enjin’s drooping head while doing so. Gris lifts Umbreaker shortly after, and situates the umbrella up on the dash while he focuses on getting its Giver out, first.
”Alright, big guy,” He’s whispering, slipping Enjin’s mask into his lap while he digs a forearm beneath his knees. Gris’ other hand slithers to support his back, “Up we go.”
Gently, with as much grace as he can muster, Gris lowers back to the garage floor with Enjin in tow. He takes a deep breath, watching for any movement in his face, before reaching back up into the jeep to retrieve Umbreaker. He folds the umbrella into Enjin’s limp arms, then softly shuts the door.
Headquarter’s lobby is quiet. It’s late enough that Semiu has retired from her desk, off to rest in her own room most likely, leaving Gris’ staggering footsteps the only resounding echo. Enjin’s head is laid against his chest, nose tickling against his skin where the buttons of his shirt were left undone. There is nothing but utter fondness in his gaze as he observes him. Still, there is always a better place to drink him in. With no reason to stick around the lobby, Gris takes a stride toward the corridor that’ll take him to Enjin’s wing.
He makes it about half-way there before an unintentional squeak of his boot against the tile spawns a twitch in Enjin’s brow. It’s the subtlest of movements, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it, but Gris catches it. He doesn’t miss the undeniable burrow of Enjin’s face against him, nor the adjusting grip on Umbreaker as he pulls it into his chest. And what he certainly doesn’t miss, above all, is the way his breathing goes from shallow to deep inhales.
This is an Enjin attempting to feign sleep.
Gris catches a sharp whiff of his odor, and suddenly decides—for as cute as Enjin is—that he definitely doesn’t need to continue being coddled.
”You’ve gotta’ stay awake enough for a shower if you want me to stay with you, Enjin.”
There is the quietest little groan falling from his lips. A protest, of sorts, “…Can’t you just do it for me?”
Enjin’s voice is tired, cracked, and wispy from sleep. Gris just snorts, “You’re grown. I’m tired too, you know.”
The greatest sigh he’s ever felt is melted into his chest. Enjin rolls his head off him and taps him twice with his knuckles. Gris takes it as the sign it is to let him down. It’s gradual, and reluctant from both sides, but eventually Enjin’s feet stumble to the tile. He takes the readjustment with a stretching crack in his spine, that Gris feels just as equally in his own back.
”Sorry,” Enjin mumbles, then, reaching immediately for Gris’ hand, “For making you do all that extra work.”
He never really does think anything of it. Enjin or not, Gris will always take care of his people for want of nothing in return. For as nonexistent as Enjin’s empathy is, Gris does at the very least know that he is aware of that fact. He’s apologizing, anyway—which is just how he is, at times. Those small blips of awareness, in an otherwise detached shell.
”Let’s just get you cleaned up, yeah?”
Noncomittal, Enjin hums into his side the rest of the way back to his room.
By the time they make it through the door, there’s a bit more energy coursing through Enjin’s steps. He’s still dragging his feet, but at the very least he’s quit leaning onto Gris for support. They part in the door-way. Gris is sliding out of his slacks and shuffling toward the bed while Enjin makes a snail-pace break to the entry of his tiny en-suite.
“I won’t be long,” He hears just before a mop of blond disappears into the other room, “So don’t fall asleep on me, ‘kay?”
Gris is already climbing beneath the sheets, shimmying out of his top, “I’ll just be warming the bed, Enjin. Don’t worry about me. Focus on washing the grime out of your ass.”
The tired complaint he gets from Enjin is one he’s grown deeply familiar with over the course of the night. The en-suite door clicks shut, followed by the groan of running pipes and sprinkling water.
Enjin’s room smells like smoke and sandalwood. His sheets carry that same scent in an even more potent quality. Gris imagines that he himself has begun to develop that same ‘cologne’. He furrows his nose into the pillow he’s since designated as his to drink it all in.
It’s warm. The bed is comfortable. There’s fatigue gnawing at him with so much ferocity he isn’t sure how he never noticed it drawing at him before. But he holds on. He promised Enjin kisses, and he hasn’t gotten the chance to bestow them yet.
The mattress dipping beside him sends his eyes snapping open. Leaning overhead is Enjin, hair flat against his forehead, strands dripping from root to end. He isn’t carrying the rotting stench of garbage on his skin anymore, and the weight of the day looks rinsed from his shoulders. He’s only wearing boxers, and one of his over-sized, boxy black t-shirts. Gris doesn’t know where he appeared from. He hadn’t heard the water shut off, nor had he heard the en-suite door open or close.
It doesn’t matter. Gris shifts, pulls the sheets back, and invites Enjin into his own bed. A heavy exhale sags him into the mattress, and before he knows it, Gris is being swallowed up by a pair of lanky arms and legs twining around him.
”Thank you,” Enjin whispers, wet lips instantly finding Gris’, “For waiting.”
He sets a slow rhythm. It’s chaste, in a way neither of them typically are. Gris’ arms reach up to sandwich Enjin’s cheeks, thumbs resting by his brow. He flutters his eyes open, and Enjin parts from him to press their foreheads against each other.
”Would you be mad at me if I wanted to reserve your kisses for tomorrow?”
Enjin laughs in his face, then, against his lips. Short and sweet, he peppers a few up Gris’ cheek and eyelid before drawing back, “No. Go to sleep, you dork. I’d rather knock-out at this point, too.”
That sweeps relief over him. He sags just as equally into Enjin, who pulls his head down beneath his chin. Gris breathes a sigh into the crevice of his neck where he buries his nose.
”I owe it to you tomorrow, then.”
”Mhm. I’ll be waiting.”
To the sound of Enjin’s heartbeat, Gris wanes into slumber.