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"Ya plannin' on kissin' me at some point or what?"
Follo stops polishing his hammer. Or he might still be. His brain is doing something of a reboot that turns everything out of his line of sight and hearing into dull static.
He turns his head to Zanka, slowly to make sure there's plenty of time for his brain to come back online. It doesn't. The quiet calm of Zanka's room suddenly feels like a cage. "What?"
Zanka's always scowling. It works for him, with his bored stare and slouching posture, cool in the sort of way that tends to have people pissed at him before he even gets the chance to say anything real insulting — and he usually will, eventually, if he thinks it's deserved. What it says about Follo that he's always been into that attitude, he'd rather not know.
What he does know is that Zanka, for all his abrasiveness, is sincere. He means what he says, even when it's messed up, so he's careful to only share the things that won't jam in his throat trying to get out. Which makes showing his real feelings a mess. The scowl on Zanka's face is more of a grimace, face pinching painfully the longer he forces himself to hold Follo's stare.
Even with his head tilted down, hair curtaining his face with shadows, Zanka's growing flush is visible. Pink ears peaking out between unstyled hair, spreading over the sharp slope of his cheeks.
Follo's no good when Zanka gets like this, stomach rolling like a hungry animal's, his own face warming, tongue useless. All he can do is stare back. The little sensation he has left in his hands, he uses to grip Alan helplessly.
Zanka sees this and huffs. "I ain't repeatin' myself if ya heard me the first time."
"I don't think I did," Follo says weakly. The corners of Zanka's lips twitch up. Follo can't help but drop his gaze to watch, mouth suddenly bone dry. "You — since when've you been thinking about that?"
"Follo." Zanka shakes the thigh Follo's been using as a cushion for his head this whole time, voice flat. "We're datin'. Been datin'. For weeks."
"Okay, yeah," he splutters, a stupidly large part of himself doing backflips — he actually said it! — on the inside.
"If ya don't wanna, that's fine," Zanka says, and he genuinely means it, tone firm but simple, the one he usually reserves for training Rudo. His attention's already returning to reapplying Aibō's bandages, but there's a new tension in his fingers, movement stiff for something that should be muscle memory. "Didn't mean to push."
"It's not that!" Follo shoots up, wincing through the soreness that twinges through his back. Leave it to Zanka to drop this on him right after they finished sparring, the little shit. "It's just, when we started, you said you wanted to go slow? So I thought… if you ever wanted to…"
Zanka blinks. "Oh. So ya wanted permission."
From someone else, it could come off as mocking, the type of jab that easily sinks under Follo's skin and festers. But Zanka is blunt and Zanka is unyielding even when uncomfortable, and there is genuine curiosity in his words.
There's a push and tug of emotions stirring in Follo's stomach, makes him scrub his face with a low, shaky sound.
He's so new to this. They both are, really. It took years alone for them to work their way into a coexistence that didn't involve trying to punch each other's teeth out whenever an ugly similarity became too noticeable. That on-edge feeling around Zanka never went away either, only morphed into something even more urgent, makes Follo stupid and malleable. If luck is real, he's pretty sure he used up all he had in this lifetime having Zanka like him back, no matter if it’s less conventional.
Regardless, none of that effort and dreaming to get to this point makes knowing what the fuck to say or do any more obvious.
"I just didn't want to push you into something you weren't ready for, or interested in," Follo mumbles. "It never seemed like you were?"
Jokes have always followed after Zanka. Even for a giver, his attachment to his jinki is severe, something that might not be a cause for concern but makes people need to find humor in to understand. Follo never needed to because who’s he to judge when he’s spent years dreaming of having that same bond, some tangible, undeniable proof that he was worth a damn? At least Zanka made his goals happen. Who cares about the details.
So whenever Zanka avoided joining in on conversations about dating or love, or he’d flat out say he didn’t care if someone pressed for answers, Follo left it at that. Then to have Zanka willingly spend more time with him, to seek Follo out on his own just to talk, and one day even admit he likes Follo too, it was all a shock, but nothing he felt the need to question either.
Follo has spent too much of his life sweating the small stuff. If Zanka really believes there’s something special in Follo he wants to keep close, then for once, that’s good enough for him.
Zanka drops his gaze to Aibō, fingers tracing over her scuffed wooden spine. "I… ain't exactly. Not the way everyone else seems to be. Datin' and all that ain't ever been somethin' I wanted. But you've always been different for me, and eventually I realized I wanted to let ya in, or try to anyway. Reckoned it couldn't hurt to give it a go, and it didn't. It hasn't. So I've been thinkin' what else I can try with ya, and then I see the way ya look at me sometimes…"
"We don't have to," he says immediately. He knows all too well Zanka would never do something out of pressure, but it horrifies him anyway, ice dumping into his stomach at the thought he's come across as wanting more. "I never meant to — Zanka, I'm happy like this. Seriously, I'm like, the easiest guy ever. Just being with you's all I could ever ask for, okay?”
A soft sound slips out of Zanka. He flinches like Follo punched it out of him. Eyes horribly wide as they fly to him, a fierce flush working its way back onto his face, splotching down his neck.
"I didn't — Don't go sayin' things like that, for pete's sake!" Zanka squawks, waving Aibō at him as he reels back. "That wasn't even my point!"
Follo sighs in relief and deflates. "Just wanted to make mine clear. Wow." He tries touching Zanka's ear to check his temperature, thrilled at how ruddy his skin's turning, but Zanka whacks his hand away with his stick, pissed off and cute. "Watch it, I have a job tomorrow!"
"Eishia can handle broken bones," he growls. "Best start worryin' 'bout a concussion."
"You're so bad at this," Follo laughs, then harder when Zanka hooks Aibō around his waist and shoves him flat to the floor. "Zanka!"
"Shuddup!" Zanka's kneeling over Follo now, hands gripping Aibō tight, pinning Follo in place. "Like you're any better. Gotta do all this just to talk to ya, asshole. And who interrupts someone's speech to go confessin' again?"
"Alright, alright, sorry," he lets up, laughter settling. He wraps his hands around Aibō's arch and gets comfortable, stares up at Zanka's glare with a patient smile. "Go on. Your point."
Immediately Zanka's expression crumbles. He must realize the position he's put them in and tries to pull back, but Follo's grip on Aibō keeps him in place. His eyes narrow, unimpressed.
"You're bulkin' up too much."
"You're pretty when you stall."
Zanka drops his full weight onto Follo's belly as he sits, the air leaving him in one croaking wheeze. "Still think so?" he asks as he tucks his knees on each side of Follo, completely ignoring his pained twitching.
He can't even answer, just glares through his bangs. But — yes. Something about his face must be pathetic because Zanka softens enough to brush the strands out of his lashes.
"My point," Zanka stresses, "is that I wanna try things when it's with you." He stops and bites his lip, stare sweeping away, knuckles turning white around his stick. He's testing his next words, Follo can tell. Always careful of how he allows himself to be seen despite how hard he tries to be nonchalant, free like those around him.
Follo reaches for his closest hand and coaxes him to let go so he can link their fingers together. Zanka looks back at their hands and breathes out through his nose, slow and tired.
"I never had time for labels or soul-searchin' growin' up, so I got no clue what any of this means. If it should mean anythin'." It's with that same self-loathing tone as always, shoulders twitching to hunch in. But Zanka shakes his head and meets Follo's eyes again, refuses to ever half-ass anything. "But I figure if I didn't need to give up or change anythin' to want ya, and you didn't need to be anythin' but yourself to make me want ya, then — that's that. I want ya, and whatever that comes with."
He's confident for a total of five seconds before his eyes blink in horror and he works his hand free from Follo's slack grip to clear his throat, stare pointedly fixed on a wall. "So… yeah. Long fuckin' story short, kissin' is fine. If that works for ya."
Follo wants to kiss him right now. More than he ever has. Would pry that blue stick out of Zanka's hands, set it to the side and guide him down.
But there's one issue.
"Yes," he says when Zanka eventually looks at him for an answer. "It's just… uh…" He squirms as far as Aibō and Zanka will allow, face heating against his wishes. "It's not gonna be… good."
He can feel Zanka's eyes boring into him. "It won't be good," he repeats. "What's that s'posed to—" Zanka cuts himself off. "Oh. You're a bad kisser?"
Follo hides behind his hands with a whine. "Kill me."
Zanka sighs. "Foll— Hey, oi." He smacks Follo's hand away as it pats around for Alan. "I was jokin' about the concussions earlier, don't get any ideas."
"Didn't feel like a joke," he grumbles. Zanka ignores him.
"Ya do realize I ain't ever kissed anyone before, right? So it ain't like I'm goin' in knowin' what to do."
"That's different," Follo says weakly. "You haven't, but I have, and I…"
"Was shit at it?"
Follo has half a mind to punch him. The other half, unfortunately, fucking agrees. So he just groans into his palm.
Now would be a great time for a trash storm to come crush him. Or get thrown off another cliff. He's managed to scratch two things off his bucket list. Good enough.
"How many times?"
Follo blinks. "What?" He's startled enough to take his hand off his face to check. Zanka's dead serious. "Why?"
Zanka waves him off. "Just answer the damn question."
He struggles miserably. "Four." Zanka raises a brow, expectant, and Follo really hates how effective this is on him. "Three girls back home, and a guy at a bar in West Ward last year."
"That Viander with the fuck ass haircut who reeked of garlic?" Zanka asks flatly.
Follo's mouth falls open. "How'd you know that?"
"I was there when he asked ya out," he says as he smooths a lock of hair behind his ear. "Real tacky guy, flirtin' with ya in the middle of my barterin'."
He's shrugging to come off casual, but Follo's seen Zanka pop a blood vessel over Enjin praise enough to know when he's bullshitting. He's gripping Aibō like he's about to swing, mouth twisting with the taste of something sour.
Then it clicks. "Were you jealous?"
"No," Zanka says too fast, voice cracking at the last second. He jerks his head away as soon as Follo starts grinning. "Loser just fuckin' stank. Your shit taste ain't none of my business."
You're the one who asked. Follo's chest is puffing the tiniest bit, absolutely cheesed at this revelation. He squeezes Zanka's knee. "For the record, I barely got to kiss him. Lightweight puked after one shot and ran."
"Like I said: loser," Zanka huffs, wrinkling his nose. His posture relaxes significantly though, jaw unlocking as if he had been clenching it. Follo snorts.
"Sure."
"But the other guy. Alan," Zanka presses on, still says to that damn wall, "ya never…?"
Follo looks away too, gaze landing on his hammer without meaning to. He isn't surprised by the question. "We weren't like that." It was worse. "I didn't know I liked guys too back then, anyway. Who knows if he does."
If Zanka can tell how clipped his voice has gotten, he doesn't mention it. That's one thing you can depend on from a giver: nobody pries too deep.
"And the girls? What were they?"
"School crushes," Follo says. "Junior high, one in high school too. None of us…” If he starts diving into any memory of himself with braces, he'll have to jump out a window. “…really knew what we were doing."
Zanka hums. "So really ya just lack experience."
"I—" He almost laughs, that all too familiar bitterness forming behind his teeth, coating his words. It always comes back to lacking for him. "Yeah, I guess."
"Well... that's what practice is for, ain't it?"
Follo snaps his head up. Zanka's finally looking at him. Face flushing, slit brows pinching into whole pieces again, pushing through the embarassment out of sheer willpower.
His entire vocabulary is wiped clean at the sight. Suddenly Follo's 17 again and finding his desperation for the first time reflected in a runty boy who stumbled through the snow with each step towards a hulking trash beast, who would forge himself a path with a broken body because all he knows is to keep charging forward.
Follo thinks he manages something like um, but it's too weak to tell, more air than sound. Zanka nods stiffly then crawls off Follo's stomach to kneel beside him.
Time slows traitorously as Follo sits up, but his mind is still going a mile a minute. He does everything possible to avoid turning. Smooths out his clothes, fixes his hair, grabs his hammer. For once Alan's dependable weight does little to ease him, instead a reminder of why he wears gloves even after becoming a giver.
Zanka scoffs. "Who's stallin' now?"
"Am not," Follo hisses, wiping his clammy palms aggressively over his joggers. It only dries his hands even more. Hysteria's starting to bubble to the surface, panicked laughter spilling out like a hiccup. "Just — give me, like, two seconds?"
Fingers wrap around his wrist, thumb on his pulse, and tug. Follo gnaws on the inside of his cheek, forces himself to meet his eyes.
It's the closest they've ever been, Zanka's knees pressed to Follo's thigh. He can count every short lash on Zanka's half-lidded eyes, every faded cut and acne scar, the lone freckle on his nose bridge. Follo shivers, knows Zanka can feel the uptick in his heartbeat.
His first breath in after a long time, and it smells like Zanka's freshly shampooed hair, rosemary and mint.
Follo pitches forward.
Whatever mouthwash Zanka used is strong. It's all Follo registers in the beginning, a tingle transferring from Zanka's mouth to Follo's, sending goosebumps up his arms and neck. And he was right — he's got no clue what to do. Maybe it's not horrible, but their lips don't quite meet properly, Follo landing on Zanka's chin, overbearing and clumsy. What's worse is Zanka is stiff as a board against him, the hand around his wrist flexing too tight to misinterpret.
It only lasts a few seconds, but it's. Fucking. Brutal.
He reels back in shame, hand over his mouth. "I'm sorry," he gasps, blood burning through him hard enough to make his carotid throb, humiliation tearing through his insides. He can't cry. He better not fucking cry. "I— I thought maybe if I… fuck, I told you, I'm no good—"
"Then try again."
It shocks him to a halt. Zanka says it so simply, but he's cringing just as hard too, hiding his face the instant Follo looks at him.
"What?" he croaks.
"Yeah, it sucked. But halfa' that was me suckin' too," Zanka says quietly, still gripping his wrist like a lifeline, pulling Follo closer despite confusingly leaning away. Keeps going until Follo's practically kneeling between his legs, ignoring Follo's sound of panic. "So try again."
It should hurt hearing Zanka confirm it. And it does, a little, but the audacity to say that, then try remedying it with an insult to himself, then to demand more while shying away — it's so ridiculous, all Follo ends up doing is laughing.
"You make no sense," Follo says, some of the mortification dispelling. "Is this supposed to be some kinda reassurance?"
Zanka makes a small, offended noise and peeks through his hair to glare at him. "Well it don't seem like ya need it. So now it's an order." And then he's yanking Follo in again.
It's too much force, noses knocking together hard, teeth clacking. "Shit," Zanka winces, losing balance and flailing backwards with a yelp. He latches onto Follo's shirt for support but it only drags Follo right along with him, Follo barely managing to slip a hand under Zanka's head before it slams against tile.
An elbow digs into Follo's ribs, prying the air out of him then back in as a giggle.
"Don't — fuckin' dammit," Zanka growls, and that just makes Follo laugh harder. "And what's your problem!"
"Nothing, nothing," Follo soothes, pushing onto his palms so he can look at Zanka properly, makes his voice and smile real sweet. "It's my fault I like you even like this. I’m just a lost cause when it comes to you, huh?”
Pale skin turns pink then red, blue eyes flashing with surprise as they widen, more color than this drab, dull Ground has ever seen. Follo has to fight back another fit of laughter so he can kiss him.
Follo's still fucking terrified, but the knots in his stomach unravel ever so slightly at the rough texture of Zanka's chewed up mouth. He's lost count of how many times he's seen Zanka bite his lips bloody in muted rage, scarred long before Eishia's healing could do anything about it. Something about the self-imposed punishment always bothered Follo for reasons he could never explain. It still kicks up feelings in his chest even now, strong enough for Follo to change the angle so he's gently catching Zanka's bottom lip, kissing where the scarring is the worst.
Zanka makes a small noise against him. His hands come up to Follo's jaw, body twitching then settling back easier as if all his strings have been cut. He's not pulling away, Follo realizes, cheers, so he does it first.
The hands around his face immediately bring him back into place. "Again," Zanka mutters, lips brushing over each other.
Follo's breath hitches. He's starting to feel like a pet with all these commands, but then Zanka urges his chin higher with a single tap of a finger, hums approvingly against Follo's lips when he obeys, and he decides he's totally okay with this.
Follo's never been a fast learner. He tests with each kiss he presses to Zanka's waiting mouth, gradually changes from chaste to slow, heart cramming further into his throat with every soft sound of their lips separating. Just the feeling of warm lips seeking his makes him flush from his hairline to chest, lightheaded and buzzing with a level of greed that surprises him. He's used to wanting, but this makes every other dream feel like a watered down joke.
Why the hell didn't they do this sooner?
He gets his hands under Zanka's haori to clutch his waist, thumbing over a bruise he knows he put there earlier during their spar. Zanka gasps sharply and pulls back, eyes wild, and Follo shrinks in panic.
"Sorry," he starts sheepishly, but Zanka cuts him off by sitting up, Follo jerking backwards to make space. Before he can ask, Zanka crawls forward. One palm flat to Follo's sternum, shoving him back until his spine hits the bedframe, Zanka caging him in. "Zanka?"
"Again," Zanka demands, voice rough, and it's starting to feel like it's the only thing he knows to say, like the only thing he knows to do is fit their mouths together.
Fingers bury themselves in Follo's hair and tug as Zanka kisses him up against the frame. Still fumbling but insistent, still good because it's Zanka, who doesn't know the first thing about backing down and apparently came built in with more than just a nasty scowl.
Zanka gets a thumb around Follo's chin, pushes until his mouth parts open and then sinks his teeth into his bottom lip. A noise rips out from deep in Follo, body jolting at the stinging shock but pinned under Zanka's hands and weight and mouth — and then Zanka runs his tongue along the wound he's made, wet and warm, and Follo swears steam pours out of his ears.
It doesn't go further than that, but Follo's too long gone to care, melted lax, mindlessly pawing at Zanka's hips to bring him close as possible. Happy for any sound he can coax out, happy to kiss again and again, happy, happy, happy.
When their mouths get too tacky with spit, Zanka finally pulls back, panting against his chin. Follo chases after him, leaves two last pecks farewell to his top lip before Zanka reigns him away by the grip in his hair.
"Easy," Zanka warns in a rasp, too out of breath to do anything else, eyes too heavy to glare. His hair has dried out in frizzy tufts, the ashen half reminding Follo of a bird's nest. Skin splotching like a drunk's down to his throat, clothes rumpled, mouth swollen dark, a stark contrast to the strict image of control he has for himself.
Because of me, Follo awes, something feather-light fluttering inside him, a shit-eating grin forcing its way onto his face. His own lips tingle with the beginning aches of a bruise. He hopes it does.
"Oi," Zanka grunts, displeased by the lack of response. "Ya still there?" Follo hums, all blissed stupid, and takes Zanka's confused face in his palms.
He tilts him to kiss each corner of his mouth. "Here," he sighs dreamily, brushing the tips of their noses together. "Whenever you want me, beautiful."
Zanka makes an — it's a mix of a gurgle and a honk, eyes nearly bulging out of his sockets, beet red all over again. He grasps half of Follo's head in his clammy palm and pushes with all his strength. “You’re so — f-fix yer fuckin' face!"
Follo cackles against his skin, latching back onto his waist and hauling him down too, scrambling to move on top of him. He never imagined they would play fight this much (though it's starting to feel serious on Zanka's end, nails digging into his cheek too deep for comfort). "You're the one who did this to it!"
Zanka actually stops to look. His pupils are still blown out, thin rings of blue that sweep up and down his skin, intense in the way he gets when he's picking apart a fight cog by cog, hungry for the smallest detail. Follo swallows hard, would shy away if if weren't for the hand on his face that softens to cradle him, fingers brushing over his scars before tucking a strand of hair behind his mangled ear.
"Yeah." Zanka taps his thumb to Follo's lip, right where he bit him. He smiles, small but smug, and the joy even reaches his eyes, so infectious Follo can't help but hide behind his hair, laughing into Zanka's palm. "I did."