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Zanka can still hear the voices, Zanka can still see everything; and yet, Zanka can't do anything.
He can only watch, he can only stand there—rendered useless. He tries to reach, he tries to speak; and still to no avail.
This can't be happening, this can't be happening, his mind swarms in denial because the other option is acceptance and he can't, he will never be able to accept the reality of this.
No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no.
The same word just plays itself on loop, deafening him.
Because maybe, if he says the word enough, it will prevent everything from ever happening.
Because maybe, if he believes the word enough, nothing—not a single thing of this will ever materialize itself into an actuality.
You can't, Zanka wants to scream but he can't find his voice. You can't do this, Enjin.
You can't just go and leave me, the sentence hangs uselessly on the tip of his tongue. Zanka clutches his heart, but he might as well try picking up the scattered pieces of it off the floor.
"Enjin, please," he finally manages to croak the name.
And the sight of the man—the man he has been in love with, the man who has changed the course of his life, the man who has made a home in every corner of his world—fades away.
Zanka wakes up in sweat.
And tears.
For a moment, Zanka can't recognize the gray ceiling. For a moment, the concrete seems alien. For a moment, the stains that have been there forever, look foreign.
It takes a while for Zanka to realize that the dirtiness of it belongs to his own room. The various abstract patterns in different shades of color that used to annoy him because he can never get rid of them, apparently the ones that tether him to reality.
He's in his room.
It takes him a little longer to notice that the space which should give him peace and security, has been suffocating him.
He can't hardly breathe.
It was like he was in Polluted Land and he ran out of oxygen. He needs to get out of here, he needs to get some fresh air—
—but he can't.
Because the moment he attempts to rise from the bed, Zanka finally catches on the weight befalling on his back.
Wrapped him in the confinement, entrapping him.
The first thing that registers to his mind is how warm the restrain is, how alive.
The vitality of it—Zanka almost doesn't dare to dream, but he's awake now.
He's awake.
And if he's awake, this can't be a dream, right?
This has to be real, this has to be—
"Zanzan, go back to sleep," the words being murmured right on his nape, feels like Eishia's electricity.
Electrocuted him to motion.
Zanka forces himself to turn around.
And there—there he is.
The man who doesn't move, not even a fragment a minute ago, the man who can barely breathe, who can hardly respond; the man who seemingly has met the fate and nothing—not a single thing Zanka can do to prevent this from happening.
But there—there he is.
Warm and alive.
Enjin shifts in his sleep, adapting to Zanka's change of position. He doesn't even open his eyes, but he does loosen his grip around Zanka's middle, as if he wants to give him some space to move.
Enjin is here.
With him.
Only then, Zanka realizes that the prick in the corner of his eyes can no longer be contained and the slow stream of tears already has its way across his cheeks.
The dream so real, it revives the memory.
Zanka hates to be weak, hates to be seen as weak, hates to be perceived when he's weak—but right now, he doesn't have the energy to conceal it.
The dream he just had, the nightmare—is the remnants of the memory he has tried to shove back, to forget.
The moment when he was notified, he might have to lose Enjin.
The man who went out of his way to defeat Mymo, to save Rudo; the man who had fought with the entirety of him to the point of the self-sacrifice.
And Zanka wasn't there to have his back, to be by his side.
Until it was too late.
There were too many nights like this.
Zanka being reminded of how useless he was, how weak. Zanka blamed himself for getting attacked so easily, to get dragged out of the battlefield so soon.
Zanka waited here alone with his grief, his regrets—while Enjin laid there, eyes closed for nobody knew how long.
Couldn't open his eyes, wouldn't open his eyes.
Almost like this.
Except Enjin doesn't dress up in that horrible hospital gown, Enjin doesn't wear bandages or those strange machines attached to him, Enjin doesn't feel cold and lifeless despite the machine constant beeping tries to tell him otherwise.
Enjin is shirtless, Zanka can make out the red and black inks covering the half of his body, the color slightly muted by the presence of soft body hair. The patterned ink is extended to his arms that connect themselves around Zanka.
The blond hair befalling his forehead, an endearing curtain that shields the closed eyes, making him look younger, innocent.
Zanka can still see the long eyelashes cast the shadow upon his cheeks, the dimple that surfaces when Enjin snores, the scrunches of his nose when he breathes.
The man continues losing himself in slumber and Zanka lets himself be pulled by the charm of it.
Zanka wonders if this is real.
Even when he can feel the warmth of Enjin's touch around his waist, the warmth of Enjin's hand resting on his hip, the warmth of Enjin's body heat echoing to him amidst the close proximity, the warmth of Enjin's breath against his hair.
But nightmares always have their way to trick him before.
Giving Zanka the false sense of security, giving Zanka empty hopes, having Zanka believing that everything is going to be alright when nothing seems like it.
Zanka reaches for Enjin, pressing his palm lightly on his chest. The bed of hair there feels real, the warmth of the skin is too.
The touch is met with rise of the chest, inhaling the air.
The sign of life.
Zanka presses again, absorbing the heat of the skin.
The touch is met with the faint echo of the heartbeat.
The sign of vitality.
Enjin is there—Enjin is here.
Zanka sniffles at the revelation, before he retracts his hand to wipe the trail of tears on his face.
How embarrassing, he thinks but he doesn't even feel any ounce of shame upon his emotional reaction. In fact, he would rather wake up in sweat and tears, only to be reminded that everything awful he has just encountered will only exist in his nightmares, the bad dreams.
Because the good dream isn't just a dream.
It is a reality.
He's glad he mostly have gotten rid of the saltiness on his face, because not long, Enjin finally cracks open his eyes, meeting his gaze.
Zanka thinks he will be startled, but he mostly feel relieved.
"It's still too early," Enjin mumbles with a smile.
Zanka wants to laugh at the mundanity of his words.
When you're so close to losing someone, it's never too early to start your day being grateful to see another day with them.
"I know," Zanka sighs his agreement instead, reaching for his neck.
He can feel the slightly uneven surface, where a long scar resides on the side of Enjin's neck. The tattoo there has been tainted, but for Zanka, the scar is a trophy of Enjin's survival, the badge that honors his battle against the death.
Something flashes on Enjin's eyes the moment Zanka touch him. He can feel the older studies him for a while, as if he wants to observe and probably confronts him.
But in the end, Enjin merely mirrors his sigh, covering Zanka's hand with his.
"I'm here," he says. Zanka doesn't trust himself to speak, so he just nods. Enjin leans down, pressing their foreheads.
Warm.
Alive.
Enjin is there—Enjin is here.
He makes sure Zanka knows it too.
"I'm here," he repeats the whisper directly to his skin, as if he wants to infuse the realness of it.
Zanka tightens his grip. Enjin understands even with no words uttered from him.
"I'm here," he repeats, reaching for Zanka's face now, aligning him to meet his eyes.
The amber meets the azure.
Zanka almost wants to cry.
How close he is to never see the light in those orbs again.
"I'm here," Enjin breathes the words against Zanka's trembling lips, steadying him. Zanka opens just enough, accepting the words, letting the aliveness of Enjin soothe him.
The kisses taste like comfort, and life, and salt.
"I'm here," Enjin slips the words again, when they pull back for air.
Zanka pecks his lips, finally having enough courage to echo, "You're here."
Enjin smiles against Zanka's lips and Zanka smiles back, mirroring him.
They stay like that for a moment, absorbing the presence of each other, breathing in the comforting mix of the incense in Zanka's room and the remnants of the cigarette that always clings on Enjin.
The smokes have always been their thing, the sign of something lit.
"Stay," Zanka says, when what he means is —with me for the rest of our lives, do not let me go, do not leave me, no, never.
"Of course, Zanzan," Enjin pulls him even closer, their body flush together like pieces of puzzle falling to their places.
Zanka tightens his grip on Enjin's neck even more. The scar a rough reminder of what could have been.
And should never have been.
Do not go where I can't follow, the touch says.
Enjin bumps their foreheads.
I will not go anywhere.
And the sight of the man—the man he has been in love with, the man who has changed the course of his life, the man who has made a home in every corner of his world—remains.
Zanka doesn't need to wake up alone, when Enjin will constantly remind him that he will never need to.