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Gris never harbored a particular inclination to deliberately get drunk.
Drinking to the point of exceeding his limits is not, and never has been, something that interests him — a thought he believes is linked to his fears about how he would act with enough alcohol in his system to cloud his judgment.
Part of this is also due to the fact that he possesses an absurdly high tolerance for alcohol, as he has heard from his fellow janitors countless times before.
Enjin, on the other hand, is the complete opposite.
He, unlike Gris — who only indulges in a good drink on special occasions — is the type of person who drinks for pleasure; he delights in it, and has been blessed with the immense misfortune of not being able to handle more than two bottles without starting to lose his shit.
There were countless times, during celebrations at the Headquarters, that Enjin drank more than he knew he could handle and ended the night slumped over on the bench, throwing up everything he had ingested during the night and subjecting everyone to a nauseating sight, effectively ruining the whole party.
Despite the warnings he received to temper his recklessness with more common sense, he, stubborn as he was, disregarded the advice and did as he pleased, so Rubion left him to his own devices. The Giver was already quite grown up, after all, and if he claimed to know what was best for himself — he didn't — Gris wasn't going to interfere.
Putting some sense into that reckless boy's head wasn't his job, no matter how much he thought it was.
Naturally, this night couldn't be any different from any other.
Riyo announced to everyone the party she was organizing, to, according to her, “generally relax! God knows some of you been needing it…”, and Gris, having spent the morning wandering around the Headquarters with little to do given the recent shortage of Trash Beasts to fight, shrugged and promised to be there.
Enjin's presence, of course, is always a constant, as he never misses a good night out.
Therefore, it's not surprising when, as soon as he crosses the threshold, Rubion catches him talking a mile a minute — and shouting as fuck, too, because the frequency of his voice could double when he drank — in the company of Semiu, a half-empty glass of beer in front of him and a cigarette between his fingers, because it's clear that just one toxic substance at a time isn't enough for him.
Zanka sits in a corner, frowning into space, and Rudo talks to Guita, gesturing wildly with those enormous gloves, Riyo right beside him, laughing at whatever he's saying.
The whole scene is pleasantly familiar, and a bubble of warmth immediately spreads in Gris's chest, unable to stop a faint smile from forming on his lips.
He strides to the bar, ordering two bottles of beer and some toast to snack on. He politely thanks the bartender with the large mustache as his order is promptly fulfilled, and as soon as he turns his head, he sees Follo, who has his hand raised in the air, waving. He goes over to him.
"Looks like I was the last one to arrive," he says, pulling out a chair that makes an unpleasant scraping sound on the floor. "You here for long?"
Making himself comfortable, he shoves one of the bottles he brought with him toward Follo, who dismisses it with a nonchalant wave.
"Nah" he denies, scratching his head. "I arrived about 10 minutes ago, more or less. But I don't feel like drinking anything today, I woke up with a bit of an upset stomach."
"Well, I think that's even better. Don't follow the example of that fool Enjin or you'll end up kicking the bucket early." He wets his lips with a good gulp of his beer while glancing sideways at the man in question. He barely feels the sting of the alcohol going down his throat.
A laugh escapes Follo's mouth at the comment, and he tries to stifle it with his palm, as he always does.
"I think that's his second glass since I arrived… Oh, look, he just got his third."
Rubion refocuses on Enjin's silhouette across the room and sees him slumped carelessly in the chair with his feet crossed on the table, his left hand raised in a lazily gesturing motion, and his glass refilled in his right hand, along with his cigarette.
Gris is about to shake his head in disapproval when, as if feeling a telltale burning sensation in his ear, Enjin tilts his head slightly to the side and fixes a pair of golden-blond eyes on him.
Rubison's synapses short-circuit for a moment at the sight, the sip of beer he was trying to swallow getting stuck in his throat, until Enjin flashes a crooked, weak smile.
"Enjoying the view, Gris?" he asks, raising his voice to be heard over the commotion. Semiu, beside him, also looks at Rubion with a raised eyebrow, and Gris suddenly feels very embarrassed, without quite knowing why.
Feigning composure he definitely doesn't possess, he clears his throat, narrowly avoiding choking, and sets the glass down on the table with a soft clinking sound.
“I’m just worried about your self-destructive habits,” he says.
Enjin’s smile only widens. His pupils are so dilated they almost swallow all the yellow in his irises, and he takes a thoughtful drag for a moment, lightly tapping the cigarette to dislodge a handful of ashes.
“So you admit you care about me, huh?”
“I care and worry about all the Cleaners, Enjin, not just you especially,” he retorts. Semiu tries to hide the amused grimace that traces his lips against the back of his hand, turning his head to the side.
Enjin, however, doesn’t seem particularly shaken by the frankness of the answer. Of course, there are few things in this world capable of affecting him, especially when he’s out of his mind, as he is now.
“That’s what you say to try and convince yourself,” he says, with a wink that was probably meant to be charming, but which only looks clumsy and awkward in its current state.
Rolling his eyes, Rubion turns forward again and finishes his beer, away from Enjin’s nonsense. Better to let him talk to himself.
He comes face to face with Follo’s smile.
“I find it very funny how you two tease each other like a divorced couple desperate to get back together.”
Gris almost spits out his beer.
The party stretches on for countless hours, and Rubion thinks he’s lost count of how many bottles he’s drunk. The bitterness of the beer has succeeded in distracting him, even though it doesn’t even make him dizzy.
Follo left some time ago, claiming tiredness and a migraine, so Gris’s only company now consists of a pile of bottles and an empty chair. It doesn’t matter, though. He also appreciates the silence. This silence, to his dismay, doesn't last as long as he'd like. Soon he hears approaching footsteps, and with them comes the smell of cheap cigarettes, so characteristic of a certain fellow, and it's at the heavy touch of a hand on his shoulder that Rubion raises his chin to face him, knowing exactly who he'll find.
Enjin's silhouette, bent forward, blocks the light from the crooked lamp hanging above them, casting uneven shadows on his face, and the light emerges from behind him in rays. From this angle, he seems to glow.
"Looking for a drinking buddy?" He now speaks slowly, dragging out the words, and even his grip is a little loose. It's not an unfamiliar scene for him, not by a long shot.
"You offer as if you could keep up with me," he huffs, blowing an intruding strand of hair away. "But since you're already here, you can sit down. I don't refuse company."
With the confirmation — though Gris knew the Giver would have imposed his presence anyway — Enjin throws himself into the chair next to Rubion and immediately starts kicking Rubion's chair leg to the rhythm of the music coming from the speakers, because he came with some factory setting that prevented him from coexisting with any other human being without disturbing them in some way.
He no longer has anything in his hands except the glass, which is filled to the brim, the foam running down the edges and dripping onto his knuckles. It doesn't seem to bother him at all, however.
"For your information," Enjin begins, searching for the pack in his pocket, and Gris realizes he's celebrated victory too soon. He sighs, "I can keep up with you. I've probably drunk even more than you today."
A smile appears at the corner of Rubion's mouth, which he hides behind the rim of his glass, a silent itch appearing on his chin as he rubs his beard against the glass.
"Well, I highly doubt that. You can't handle it."
Enjin pauses his search to face him, raising an eyebrow. His expression shows genuine offense and outrage.
"And what makes you say that? Know that I hold the record for who can drink the most shots in a row here in the Headquarters."
That's because I've never participated, Gris wants to say, just to see how he'd react. Instead, what comes out of his mouth is:
"That's not what I'm talking about. Whether you like it or not, you get drunk much faster than I do. Today I drank at least six bottles and I'm still perfectly composed."
"Me too!" he shouts, and contradicts his own statement when his arm slips off the edge of the table and he sways forward, bringing the glass with him and spilling a good chunk of beer on Gris's boots — and consequently reducing the glass to shards.
Quick-witted, Gris prevents him from taking a tumble, grabbing him by the shoulders and pushing him back until his back is against the chair again. He smiles, without moving away.
"See? That's what I'm talking about."
Enjin seems annoyed at having been refuted so quickly for a moment, but emotions like that never last long for him, and he quickly recovers, leaning forward with his lips curved upwards. His breath smells of nicotine and cheap beer, which would be unpleasant on anyone else, but coming from him, Rubion isn't as bothered as he probably should be — and he's not at all inclined to elaborate on the possible reasons for this, thank you very much.
"Okay, I admit, you're right, I might be a little disoriented right now," Enjin says slowly, "but that doesn't mean I don't know what I'm doing."
The "a little" he refers to is accompanied by terrible balance and a wavering voice. It's almost laughable.
Not even slightly convinced by his theatrics, Gris raises an eyebrow.
"Oh, yeah?"
"Uh-huh." Shamelessly, Enjin leans in even further, invading his space without any subtlety or decency. He never really had much of either of those qualities, actually. "And also…" A well-polished finger pokes Rubion's broad chest, "I know you've been staring at me for a while now."
The confrontation is delivered in such a confident tone that it makes Gris freeze for a split second. Giver's smile widens.
"I wasn't," Rubion replies defensively.
"Yes, you were," he retorts, with a low, hoarse laugh that sends shivers down Gris's spine. "I know very well when someone looks at me wanting to devour me. I'm not blind."
Then, slowly, Enjin's hand slides from his own glass to reach Rubion's forearm, wrapping his fingers around his wrist.
The whole room seems to compress until only the two of them can fit inside, and Gris resists the urge to tug at his collar and take a deep breath, feeling like he's suffocating. He does his best to ignore the burning sensation at the tips of his ears, and glances quickly down, then at Enjin, who is still smiling as if he's caught a canary.
"You've had enough to drink for today, Enjin," he finally says evasively, to avoid compromising himself more than he knows he should. The usual firmness isn't present in his words, but given Enjin's current state, he considers the likelihood of him noticing much lower than the opposite.
"Oh, c’mon." Enjin rolls his eyes, still approaching, and Gris holds his breath. "You don't need to play the responsible guardian around me."
"But someone needs to, right?"
"And why does it have to be you?" He tilts his head. "Huh? Why always you? Is it because you like taking care of me, Gris?"
Even drunk, Enjin remains dangerously aware of the effect he causes. It would be impossible not to be, with the number of stares he throws whenever he enters a room. He always basks in the attention he receives, as it soothes his already inflated ego, and being pampered never loses its appeal for him.
But Rubion didn't expect it to backfire on him.
Still, not wanting to give him the wrong impression, he grabs his wrist before he can raise those adventurous fingers any further, though he doesn't put any real force into the grip.
"Get up" he orders dryly.
A glint of amusement swirls in Enjin's eyes at the command, and he laughs.
"Oh, am I in trouble? Are you going to kick me out now?"
A dull pressure already throbs in Gris's temple as if someone were striking his skull from the inside with a mallet, and he wonders, not for the first time, why he still bothers to attend parties like this, if he never gets anything out of it but trouble.
"No, I'm just going to stop you from doing even more things you might regret tomorrow."
"I think it's a bit late for that."
"Enjin." He gathers as much authority as he can in his tone, hardening his expression. "Now."
At least it has some effect, because Enjin clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth and tries to stand up, only to collapse back into the chair like a sack of potatoes. Unable to contain the laughter that melts away his rough facade, Rubion snorts softly, bending down to help him.
Enjin clings to his arms, propelling himself upwards, and Gris wraps his arm around his side, putting his arm over his shoulder and sliding his hand down his waist.
Enjin's body hangs awkwardly in his grip, his two feet on the left, and his ragged breath ricochets hot against Rubion's neck, who begins to wonder if, by any chance, someone set fire to somewhere in the Headquarters given the sweltering heat his body is in.
"Can you hold on there?" he asks, feigning a stability he no longer possesses even a trace of, and slowly leads him out of the hall. Luckily, everyone else is so drunk they don't pay attention to the pair, so they go completely unnoticed.
"Just fine," Enjin replies, his eyes half-closed as he puts all his weight on Rubion, knowing he can handle it. "I could stay like this all night. Your chest is so soft…"
Gris's face heats up at the comment.
"I can't believe that's what you're thinking right now."
A giggle blows across the patch of skin between his collarbone and neck. The hairs on Rubion's arms stand on end, and he tries not to make his shudder too obvious.
"Ah, you really wouldn't last a day inside my head," Enjin intones cheerfully, as if it were something to be proud of.
"I don't think so," he replies, giving him a shake. "Come on, let's go. Stop dragging your feet."
"In a hurry, are we?" he teases, pronouncing each word very slowly, and suddenly turns his face away.
A fiery, fervent heat runs through Gris from head to toe as the pressure of moist lips trails along his neck, uncoordinated enough to betray his drunkenness, though still possessing a slight hint of intention behind it. He knows very well what he's doing to Gris, the damned man.
"Enjin," he calls sharply. It's a pretty clear warning.
"What?" He's as deceitful as ever, as if he hadn't just done something that will change their relationship forever.
Rubion's grip on his side intensifies.
"It's time to stop this."
Enjin's smile grazes his skin.
“Stop what?” he asks softly, his voice filled with feigned innocence, and another warm breath follows. It’s slower this time, resembling a kiss, and Gris is burning with a desire he didn’t even know he harbored.
With a Herculean effort, he grabs the back of Enjin’s jacket and pulls it off in one swift motion, like grabbing a cat by the scruff of the neck. Enjin protests with a sulky grumble, but Rubion isn’t in the mood for games today.
“You’re drunk, Enjin.”
Enjin’s lips form a pout.
“So what?”
“So what that you don’t know what the hell you’re doing.”
“Yes, I do,” he retorts promptly.
Gris chooses to ignore his arguments, for the sake of his own sanity. He adjusts him against his side and, not for the first time that night, Enjin almost stumbles. Gris snorts.
“See?” he points. "That’s what I’m sayin’. You don't even know how to walk."
"Yeah, and it's your fault."
Indignant at the accusation, Rubion pierces him with his eyes.
"How is it my fault?"
"Your beauty distracted me."
He's absolutely ridiculous. Gris suppresses the smile that threatens to stretch his mouth and sighs.
"Idiot. Let's go."
The rest of the way is peaceful in comparison. Enjin no longer tries to flirt with him, and also manages to maintain a steady walking pace without tripping over his own feet.
Rubion practically drags a limp Enjin with him the whole way, and the Giver's throat vibrates with the low, off-key singing of the music that can still be heard coming from the hall. He sounds even worse when drunk.
Then, abruptly, Enjin's mouth closes with a click and he falls strangely silent. Gris glances to the side, expecting to find him dozing, but what he finds is a pair of golden suns fixed on him, slightly tapered, as if trying to decipher him.
"What is it?" Gris asks anxiously.
Enjin moves a little closer, his lips pursed in a grimace.
"It really pisses me off that you pretend not to look at me the way I look at you." The cadence with which he speaks is slow, syrupy, and awkward. The words stumble on his tongue.
Rubion's body betrays him before he can restrain his reaction; his pulse races to his temples in a feverish rhythm, and his blood thunders in his ears.
He does everything to conceal his reaction, maintaining a firm mask of indifference on his face.
"And how do you look at me?"
"You know very well how" is the immediate reply.
Gris needs to find a way out of this situation before Enjin says too much for his own good and decides to run off to the mountains in the morning for revealing too much.
"We'll talk about this later, okay? Let's put you to bed first."
Reluctantly, Enjin lets himself be led, though his displeasure is very clear with his sullen face, clinging to Rubion's biceps as if it were a lifeline.
He stumbles as they reach the doorway, and Gris keeps him on his feet with a tug while he busies himself retrieving the room key from Enjin's back pocket — who seems immensely pleased with this.
"If you wanted to grope me so badly, you could have just said so. I would have let you."
Rubion's face flushes again.
"Just stop talking. For both of our sakes."
A giggle blows against his neck, but surprisingly, Enjin actually obeys.
Gris tightens his grip on his hip and pulls him into the room as soon as he unlocks the door. Once inside, he removes Enjin's arm from his shoulder and leads him to the edge of the bed. Then, he carefully lays him down on the mattress.
As he begins to move away, however, Enjin's hand closes around his arm to stop him from leaving. His grip is loose, not intended to cause any pain, but Gris's step stops nonetheless, and he looks over his shoulder.
Opalescent slivers of moonlight seep through the gaps in the curtains, spilling onto Enjin's face, whose expression more closely resembles that of a kicked dog. Rubion never thought he would see such an expression on his face.
"Stay here." Enjin's voice comes out fragile, low, and pleading. The sound of it causes a 360° turn in Gris's stomach, and something restless twists beneath his ribs.
He observes the mo...of how the light rays reflected on Enjin's golden hair, on his glassy eyes, his parted lips.
For the first time that night, Gris wished he were the one intoxicated between them. Anything to numb the excruciating awareness of each point of contact where Enjin's hand encircled his wrist, the warm palm on his skin. Anything to distract him from how beautiful Enjin looked when kissed by the moon.
He shouldn't be so surprised to realize that he wanted to be too.
"Are you going to stop with the jokes?" It was the only condition he set, without any hesitation. The possibility of refusing didn't even occur to him.
Enjin's eyes crinkled at the corners with the crooked smile that spread across his face.
"I can't promise anything."
"Enjin."
With a snort, Enjin rolled his eyes exaggeratedly and turned in bed to lift one side of the blanket in a very clear invitation.
“Yeah, yeah, alright, I promise. Just lie down already, I'm cold and you'll warm me up.”
“You're covered up to your chest.”
“Body heat is more efficient.” With all his brazenness, he argues.
Rubion rolls his eyes with a smile that reveals far more tenderness than he'd like.
“You really have no shame at all, do you?”
“No, not at all.”
Unimpressed by the shamelessness of his reply, Gris decides he's heard enough and gets rid of his boots, lining them up right next to the bed.
However, before he can even slide under the sheets on his own, Enjin pulls him down in one swift motion. Gris grunts at the impact, landing face-first on the pillow, and the vibrations of Enjin's dizzying laughter spread throughout the mattress.
Gris hates that the sound makes his chest warm.
“Go to sleep.” He pushes his shoulder aside. “We have a lot to talk about tomorrow.”
“I'll do it if you hug me.”
For a brief moment, Gris considers refusing, not wanting to cross any further boundaries, but the refusal dies before it even reaches his lips. A single glance at the vulnerability barely disguised beneath Enjin's arrogant facade is enough to loosen that pent-up desire within him. With a resigned sigh, he opens his arms.
Enjin doesn't wait even a second before throwing himself at him, chin resting on his shoulder and arms around his torso. The satisfied sigh he lets out reverberates in Gris's chest.
Rubion's hand hesitates in the air for a brief moment before slowly sinking into Enjin's golden locks. The gesture is diligent, almost reverent in its gentleness. He feels Enjin's body soften with a sound of contentment and smiles.
“Good night, Enjin.”