Chapter Text
Enjin could confidently say he was the happiest man alive right now. Sure, he could be rich, or trash beasts could stop existing, or he could have endless treasures. All those would make him happy, but nothing was better than Gris’ hands roaming his waist. The supporter’s lips brushing against the tattoos on his neck with his back pressed into the wall of this dingy room they’d rented. The supporter’s hands without his gloves were rough, years of working with his hands had worn the skin down overtime. They traveled up his waist, worn, calloused skin scratching against his own in a way that always drove him crazy.
There’s alcohol on their breath, and really, they’d never do this after a mission when they weren’t on base if there wasn’t alcohol involved. But even when they would drink, this rarely happened, not without some other unforeseen circumstance. The lady at the bar who had come up to him, drunk and wanting a one night stand, was in fact the unforeseen circumstance. Gris hated it when anyone pointed out, but he could be incredibly jealous. The man might hate it, but Enjin absolutely adored it. It made that smug side of him overjoyed when he could spot Gris from across the room trying to look like he wasn’t bothered. For such a composed man, watching him get all antsy because of something so small really made his evening because he knew exactly what kind of evening he’d have.
Who was he to stop Gris from having a little fun for once? With the last few missions, they deserved to let loose, get drunk off their asses and do something a little irresponsible. Gris moves impossibly closer, crowding his space to start on his jawline, and Enjin tips his head back, a groan escaping his lips. Yeah, he is the happiest man in the world.
He wants Gris’ lips, much softer than his calloused hands, on his own, so he grabs the man’s face, locking their lips together. He can feel Gris’ face twist, before they break apart.
“Did you smoke before coming up here?” he mutters, and Enjin huffs out a laugh, linking his fingers together behind Gris’ neck.
“Me and Semiu shared one.” She rarely tagged along on missions like this, but they were going to a city she’d need to be in for Corvus, so it all worked out. He’d been outside when she’d shown up next to him with her hand out; he’d lit one up without a word. He wouldn’t be surprised if she slipped out of her room later to ask for another.
“She still smokes?” Enjin shrugs and begins scratching his nails across the man’s nape. Gris’ eyes flutter at the action, and Enjin watches, amused as his smile grows wider.
“On occasion.” Gris huffs, and Enjin nearly yelps when he’s suddenly being picked up, manhandled in a way he’d only ever let Gris do. The supporter drops him off on the bed. It’s old, so the squeaking of ancient springs accompanies every movement, but there is no world in which he cares about a squeaky bed over the sight of Gris standing over him. Enjin smirks up at him.
“In a rush?” he remarks, propping himself up on his elbows.
“With you? Always.” It feels like fireworks go off in his chest at the words, his smirk morphing into something almost shy. He’s giddy, and he knows Gris loves it, practically crawling on top of him to connect their lips once again. He’s almost unsure of what to do with his hands. What part of Gris doesn’t he want to grab right now? But Gris has his face buried in his neck, dipping down to his collarbone while squeezing his waist like he’d try to get away if given the chance. But he’s exactly where he wants to be, burying his hands in Gris’ hair once more.
They have a pretty strict rule about leaving visible marks, and given the low cut on his shirt, it’s especially noticeable for him, but that seems to go out the window tonight when Gris returns to his neck. Maybe if he were sober he’d stop him, but he remains perfectly compliant as Gris sucks on his neck, just above the collarbone. He was gonna have a fun time explaining that tomorrow. The thought of Gris’ red face tomorrow while Semiu inevitably lectured them makes his own face light up and a giggle slips out. That woman would never let Gris live it down.
Gris leans back at the sound, looking down at him with a curious expression.
“What’s so funny?”
“You leaving a visible hickey I’ll have to explain is pretty funny.” Gris eyes snap the mark, widening slightly as if finally realizing what he’d done, looking sheepish. It’s cute, and he wants to kiss him again, wants Gris to feel as good as the supporter always made him feel.
“Sorry?” Enjin nearly laughs again because he doesn’t sound sorry at all.
“Maybe it’ll ward off any other drunk ladies, hm?” Gris rolls his eyes, but his cheeks are a deep shade of red, and not just because of their current position pressed against one another. Of all the things to be embarrassed about and it’s that. He really made it so easy to tease him.
“You’re…” Gris’ words trail off, and he glances at him, before shaking his head.
“I’m what?” he mutters, letting his fingers dance down Gris’ spine. The supporter shivers, leaning into his touch before he locks eyes with him again, tightening the hold on his waist. His other hand comes up to trace the tattoos that adorned his skin, the supporter’s hand warm against his neck.
“You’re mine.” Enjin doesn’t know if it was the way Gris’ voice dropped, or maybe the grip he has on him, or even the mark on his neck still damp with spit, but chills break out across his skin as his words. Not the kind that came from just the right touch or dirty words. It was the kind that was followed up by a hole opening up in his stomach, like the way your stomach lurches while falling.
His skin feels cold suddenly, and Gris’ touch is burning. He jerks, harsher than anything Gris was doing warranted, and the other man startles. His soft stare changes, suddenly alert and clearly surprised. Enjin feels his chest grow tight. What the hell was wrong with him? He grabs at his shirt, brows furrowing. He feels sick, like he’s going to vomit if he doesn’t get off this bed, or get away from Gris.
“Enjin? What’s wrong?” That’s something he’d like to know too, a gag building in his throat. He scrambles upright, nearly bumping into Gris’ face, but he’d already moved off him, knelt next to him on the bed. Why can’t he catch his breath? Why does Gris’ hand on his shoulder feel so wrong? He throws his legs over the edge of the bed and nearly heaves, hunched over. Gris’ hand never leaves his back, and normally that’s comforting, a reassurance that the other wasn’t going to leave him alone, but now it only serves to rile him up more.
Why did he feel so sick? Why did Gris’ mere presence make his skin crawl? Why can’t he breathe? Enjin stumbles to his feet, pulling himself away from Gris’ touch. He can hear him call out, but he ignores him entirely, rushing into the bathroom. The door has a lock, thankfully, and he twists the small knob into place, backing away from the wooden door. It’s old, and the paint’s chipping in places, but as long as the damn thing stays shut he doesn’t care.
There’s a ringing in his ears, loud and obnoxious in a way that drowns out every other sound. He can’t hear his labored breaths, but he can feel each one, his lungs straining for oxygen there’s no shortage of. He grabs his hair, tugging on the strands to try to regain some semblance of control, or balance, or just the ability to fucking breathe again. Nausea gnaws at him like hunger, and he twists around, looking for the toilet.
Only then does he catch sight of himself in the mirror. He looks like shit; his shirt is wrinkled and crooked, and his hair has fallen back down to his face, sweat soaking his brow. He’s shaking hard enough that he can see it in the mirror, eyes blown wide and searching his reflection for some kind of answer. Why did he feel so bad? Why did he feel so sick suddenly? Why did this feeling of dread abruptly settle in his chest?
A part of him knows what this is. He’s felt this way before; he could never forget this type of debilitating fear worming its way into his mind, into his very being. He’s utterly terrified. Enjin staggers, grabbing the edge of the sink. Water hisses when he twists the handle, and he gathers water in his hands before splashing it on his face. It runs down his chin and his neck, dripping onto the counter. Enjin freezes when he catches sight of the reddened skin just above his collarbone.
A mark for everyone to see.
A mark he’d said would keep anyone away.
You’re mine.
Vomit crawls up his throat, hot and rancid. Enjin crashes to his knees by the toilet and heaves. It’s nothing but a reminder of his poor choice of drinks and food for the evening. He can’t really be this stupid, can he? It’s been years. Years since he’d gotten so worked up about it. He’d been fine; he’d been better. He heaves over the toilet again, and now his neck is alight; the small, innocent mark felt as if hot iron was being pressed against his skin.
Enjin couldn’t breathe, not without a gag following up, so he ended up choking more than anything. His stomach twisted into knots while his hand scratched at his neck, leaving behind thick lines of inflamed skin. It felt too much like a brand, like possession. Like he was being claimed once again.
You’re mine.
The words were so simple, yet unimaginably cruel. They were normal; he’d seen it in movies, read it in books, heard it from other people, but hearing them directed at himself? To him, it felt like the walls of this shitty, rented room were collapsing in on him, like he hadn’t almost been free for longer than he’d been a slave.
Enjin wasn’t one to speak of his past. He’d only told the story maybe once or twice, and certainly not to Gris Rubion. Gris couldn’t have known, so logically it’s not his fault. He knows this, and yet it does little to ease the horror that’s encapsulated him. He can’t escape the phantom feeling of the supporter’s hands on his body. The places he’d gingerly left kisses now felt singed, like he’d put out a cigarette on each spot. Tender actions he loved now tainted by his poisonous past.
Bile climbs up his throat this time, having run out of food to upchuck, and he retches. Heaving over the toilet as tears involuntarily welled in his eyes. From the vomit or the situation, he doesn’t know. The rotten taste of alcohol and his dinner coat the inside of his mouth like a thick paste, relentless in their assault on his taste buds. A sour odor invades his nose, and he nearly reaches again, fumbling around blindly until his fingers push down on the toilet’s handle.
Enjin wipes the sweat from his forehead with a trembling hand before leaning backwards. He tips himself off his knees, barely flinching when his back collides with the cabinet behind him. The handles dig into his spine, sharp pain dancing up his spine, but it pales in comparison to the agony that’s embedded itself into his mind. The tears that had welled threatened to spill over, and he blinks trying to will them away.
What was wrong with him?
This hasn’t happened to him in years. This profound sense of shame and fear, feelings so deeply ingrained in his past; he avoided anything that could remind him of it. He’d gotten his tattoos, gotten a name, gotten a new family, a new life. He’s okay. Yet here he was, sniveling and trembling like the scared child he used to be. Shame overwhelms him, and he rests his head against his knees, trying to get a hold of his breathing.
This is entirely his fault, and he knows it. Perhaps that’s why the humiliation is so painful this time. He’s known Gris for a while now, and they’ve been seeing each other for almost two years. He knows the other man, knows what gets him riled up. He’d done this, egged Gris on by mentioning the random woman from before, by engaging with her at all. This whole thing was a mess of his own making. He should’ve had a drink with Gris, headed upstairs and gone to bed. But he wanted to let loose, he wanted this, and now he can’t even suck in a decent breath.
He can’t help but wonder now who he’d see if Gris were to be next to him at this moment. Would he see Gris or would he see the faceless people who’d walk around them, eyeing them like merchandise? One of the people who’d drag his housemates out while they wept or fought back, beating them into submission if they got too fiesty. The same kind of people who restrained him still when they’d held that tattoo gun to his arm. His arms itch at the memory, like bugs under the skin.
He knows that’s not right. Gris wasn’t like that. Gris was kind and protective; he respected everyone he met even if they maybe didn't deserve it. He wasn’t cruel and dehumanizing. He was the kind of guy who’d punch a slave owner, not be one. Gris didn’t look at anyone the way those people had looked at him and his housemates. Gris didn’t want to own him, and would probably become sick at the mere implication. He knows this, but it doesn’t ease the irrational fear that’s spreading like wildfire.
He’s tainted something so good in his life with his bothersome inability to move on from his past. Gris was someone he never really felt he deserved, but now? Now he doesn’t even think he can look at the man without goosebumps breaking out across his skin or the insatiable need to scratch at his arms bloody. He hiccups at the thought, hand covering his mouth to muffle the humiliating whimpers.
Through the buzzing in his ears, he can faintly make out the sound of knocking, the doorknob jiggling, and he startles, head snapping up. The doorknob was rattling, like someone was trying to force their way in. It’s Gris, it can only be Gris, but the thought of facing the supporter is far too much to bear. Enjin looks around, catching sight of the window in the corner.
It was smaller, but if he tried, he could probably fit.
With that thought, he scrambles to his feet, ignoring the way Gris is shouting his name through the door. Ignores the way the knocking gets louder in favor of heading towards the window. Enjin freezes when his fingers graze the frame. He can’t leave Umbreaker here, but she’s not here with him. He’d left her out there, by the door, when they’d stumbled inside giggling like drunken fools. The idea of leaving her behind has rooted his feet to the floor, unable to move another inch, fingers twitching.
Enjin doesn’t have time to prepare himself for the door snapping open, the wood bouncing off the wall behind it. Gris’ hand stops it from closing again, and he looks like a mess too. Looking absolutely terrified, he stands in the doorway, breathing hard. His horror morphs into shock, brows furrowing at the sight before him. Fear and misplaced anger welled up all at once, and Enjin lunges forward, grabbing the edge of the door and shoving it back.
He’s pretty sure it hits nearly Gris square in the face, but even then the supporter grabs it, already pushing it back, so Enjin slams his shoulder into the door, not caring how it makes the joint in his shoulder go rigid.
“Enjin-!” he hears, and an aggrieved noise escapes his lips, pressing harder against the wood. He doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing. All he wants is to get away, but he can’t let go of the door because then Gris will get in. He shouldn’t be scared of Gris. The man was almost incapable of hurting anything that didn’t deserve it, and yet he kept pushing, digging his bare heels into the tiled floor. Even if Gris is fighting him, having the door between them is like a lifeline he refuses to let go of.
“Enjin!” comes Gris’ voice again, panicked and riddled with so much concern that it makes his chest ache.
“Go away!” he snaps, wincing at the way his voice cracks. It should've been far more intimidating, but his voice is nasally from the tears, and hoarse from the retching. No matter how hard he pushes against the door, he knows he’s no match for Gris’ strength, not in this state at least.
“Piece of shit,” he mutters, watching his feet begin to slip on the tile. He hadn’t had a plan when he’d tried to slam the door, but he certainly hadn’t planned on fighting Gris this much. He knows the man’s desire to help is far outweighing any other thought, but it only spurs on the fear clouding his mind. Gris is talking again, but he can’t hear anything. He’s absolutely terrified of him getting in, yet utterly helpless against the man’s immense strength. Helpless and alone, and the only thing he can think of is to run, again. The thought makes him sick again, and he reluctantly forfeits the battle against the wooden door, scrambling back over to the toilet.
His knees crack hard against the tile, and more bile drips into the water; his head swimming. An acidic smell makes his eyes well up again, heat growing behind his eyes. The door swings open behind him; he can hear the footsteps, and in some last-ditch effort to keep Gris away, he throws his hand out for him to stop. The footsteps abruptly freeze, and Enjin hacks again, gripping the toilet seat so hard the porcelain creaks under the force. Even though he’s stopped approaching, Enjin can feel the man’s eyes on him, looming over him. A hoarse laugh escapes his throat, and he wipes a hand across his mouth.
“You getting something outta this? Or are you just being a fucking asshole?” he bites out with surprising vitriol, and he can hear Gris’ sharp inhale. He doesn’t dare turn around as a fresh wave of tears drips down his nose, making tiny splashes as they hit the water. He wants him out, he wants him away, he just wants to be alone because being alone is better than anything. You can’t be hurt, or used or betrayed if you’re alone.
Some voice in the back of his head is screaming at him that that’s wrong. That this isn’t fair. That Gris hadn’t done anything, but he can’t see the logic he’s perfectly capable of using any other time, can’t separate the defensive rage from the debilitating fear. He just wants to be alone, he just wants to feel safe.
You’re mine. The words echo in his head on repeat like a broken record, relentless in their assault.
In a sudden burst of energy, he stumbles to his feet, wiping the tears and snot off his face before turning around. He knows he must look downright pathetic, a total 180 from the man he was just ten minutes ago, laid back and smug, different from the man Gris had gotten to know. Gris looks like he’s been gutted, anguish written all over his face, confusion harbored in his eyes, and one hand is outstretched like he wants to do nothing more than reach out to him.
“What?” he hisses, and Gris flinches at his tone. Watching the man who could crack a trash beast’s head open with his bare hands flinch at his words makes an awful feeling burrow its way into him. The supporter seems totally at a loss, completely unable to keep up with the sudden change, hesitant on how to handle the mess falling apart three feet from him on swaying legs.
Gris doesn’t say anything, his words failing him, and Enjin is rapidly losing the ability to stand, his legs threatening to give out under him.
“Leave,” he murmurs, and Gris stares. He looks like he’s about to cry.
“Please,” he begs desperately, placing his hand against the wall to steady himself. He feels like he’s about to pass out. Gris’ hand drops, and he gives a shaky nod.
“Okay,” he whispers, taking a step back and ducking out of the bathroom. Enjin stands there, half hunched over. He listens to the sound of Gris picking up his clothing, listens for a change in the weight of his footsteps that means he’s put his shoes back on, and he strains to hear the muted squeak of the door’s hinges as they open. Only when the resounding click of the front door echoes in the silence does he let himself slide down the wall, burying his face in his knees. He’s huddled in the corner, knees pulled to his chest and nails digging into the ink on his arms.
The air has gone still around him, and the silence that fills the space is deafening when the ringing in his ears finally subsides.
He laughs, broken and exhausted, the sound echoing in the room. He really is still nothing but a foolish child.