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Zanka didn't mean to get set off.
It was supposed to be a regular sparring session. Teaching Rudo close combat, what to do in the event he didn't have anything he could use 3R on.
The boy was fast, forcing Zanka to break a sweat in a battle he would otherwise have had the upper hand on. Rudo was a scrawny kid, nothing without his overpowered jinki. Zanka was a Nijiku, a former Hell Guard trainee. He should've had the upper hand.
So when Rudo ended up kicking his ankles hard enough to make him stumble and throwing his full body weight to take him down, something in Zanka snapped.
The stupid kid, the one everyone was after, was a natural genius at everything. He fought Zanka in hand-to-hand combat and won.
Enjin and Riyo looked surprised, Rudo was panting, eyes wide, staring at where he had Zanka pinned. Zanka could have flipped them, taken Rudo down quickly. He could still technically win the spar. But that didn't change the fact that Rudo had pinned him.
Rudo had him down. Rudo won. Rudo won.
Zanka grits his teeth. "Get offa me," he says in a low voice, and Rudo scrambles back. He stands up, brushing his uniform a little too roughly. "That's… enough for today." The words choke out of his mouth, scraping along his tongue like glass.
And of course, Rudo senses something, sees something in his facial expressions that Zanka tries to shove down. Their constant dance, back and forth offenses. "Why are you looking at me like that?" Rudo asks, and Zanka balls his fists.
"Shut up, Rudo. I didn't say anythin'."
Rudo's face turns into a scowl. "Don't tell me to shut up, shitface! I'm trying to be nice!"
"That's not a nice way of asking anything!" Zanka roars, and Enjin snaps over to separate them before things escalate further.
"Whoa, alright. I think both of you should go take a breather, okay?" He asks, looking between the boys.
And something breaks deeper in Zanka, something he can't explain.
He shoves away Enjin's hand. "Fuck off," he shouts, glaring at Enjin. He turns and storms away, grabbing Aibo from her place, leaning against the courtyard wall.
"Zanka, hey, talk to us. What's going on?" Enjin jogs over to him, standing in front of the door to the courtyard.
He doesn't realize that his hands reach out, shoving Enjin away from him. The blinding anger bubbles through his lungs, running through his veins. He needs to get away from here before he combusts.
Enjin stumbles back, surprise on his face, but Zanka doesn't care.
He slams through the door, heels clacking against the tiles as he nearly starts running. His chest burns, tears welling up in his eyes. Everything feels like it's too much. Static buzzes on his skin.
Only seconds after he closes the door to his room does everything explode.
Stupid Rudo and his stupid powers and his stupid fighting skills. How the hell did he get the upper hand? Zanka was supposed to be better, supposed to be the best in combat without a jinki. Nobody could beat him. Riyo was the only one who could get the closest, and he'd still won over half their matches.
But this nothing kid got the upper hand. Knocked him off balance. He might as well have put the knife against his neck. Rudo didn't even know how to use a knife.
Zanka screamed again, knuckles turning white against Aibo's wood.
Why must everyone always prove his incompetence? Why must they always prove they're better? Just when he's getting stronger. Jabber had already destroyed him twice now, and now Rudo was joining him. Why was everyone so hellbent on proving Zanka was useless?
Aibo clattered to the ground as Zanka sobbed, hands grabbing clumps of hair and pulling. The pain—he needed the pain. It kept him grounded. It reminded him of his failures.
He was an idiot to believe he'd ever amount to anything here. All these Givers with their ridiculously overpowered jinkis, their innate knack for combat. They were everything. They were geniuses standing on their Spheres-dammed pedestals and laughing as he scraped himself among the dirt to try and reach one.
He hated it. He hated them. He hated the Cleaners.
His hands itch for violence, rushing outwards. Stray thoughts dance across his vision, ones that would get him kicked out, ones that would land him in the depths of Hell Guard's prison.
The heel of his hand smacked against his temple. Once, twice, a repeating pattern until his head throbbed and his hands were reddened. If only he were strong enough to smash his skull, break it until his fleshy brain-bits spilled against the wall, and he could claw out whatever was wrong with him.
A small voice in the back of his head shrieks against the prospect, against the idea of dying now. He didn't have that voice before, before with the well and the Hell Guard and Hyo with her stupid contempt.
The stronger voice says he needs pain, he needs it now. He is a useless nobody, mediocrity seeping through his veins. He doesn't want to die, but—he needs it. Needs to die. There's no rhyme or reason for it, but he needs it, right now.
Zanka sobs, tears spilling down his cheeks. He doesn't want to die. He can't, not now, not when he's built up so much.
But he's built nothing. He's created nothing other than the most average career. He's not good. He's not strong. Enjin is lying. Nobody will ever look up to him. He's no hero, no incredible Cleaner. He should crawl back into the well and die; it was only fitting.
Thwack. Zanka's head bashes against the wall before he can stop it. The pain sparks across his vision, shooting down his nerves. It's almost too much. He continues anyway.
Over and over again, letting the pain suffocate him until his forehead goes numb. It's only then that he pulls back, gripping his head and pressing into the bruises. Screams and sobs spill from his throat, and he wants to break something.
The rage fills through him, and he grabs his teapot, chucking it against the floor. The destructive sound of shattering only brings so much relief. The cups go next, and their saucers, and it's only at the second-to-last cup that he realizes the damage he's done.
Zanka gasps in a breath, holding the cup tightly, staring and shaking at the mess.
"Zanka? Zanks, I need to come in," Enjin's voice comes from the other side of the door.
"Go away!" The voice isn't his, but it sounds like him in all the ways that matter. Zanka squeezes his eyes shut as another bottle of rage threatens to explode.
The door opens anyway, and Zanka bares his teeth. He swallows down the vitriol on his tongue, the common sense in the back of his brain reminding him that he can't sabotage this too much or he'll be on his way back to the Kamuatari District. He clings to it, holding on like Aibo in that trash flood.
"Oh, Zanka," Enjin says quietly, and Zanka glares.
"Leave me alone," he says, voice hoarse. "I don't want to talk to you."
Enjin bites his lip, sinking down to sit with his legs crossed, moving next to the door so Zanka could theoretically leave. "I know," he replies. "But you know I can't leave you alone during your crashes."
"I'm not—" he tries to defend, his stomach churning and anger ready to lash out. "I want to hurt you," he settles on, fists clenching and unclenching. "I want to hurt Rudo."
There's a quiet for a moment, one where the gravity of the words hangs in the air, before Enjin speaks again.
"But you're not going to." It's not a question, nor an order. It's a statement, one that Enjin knows because he knows Zanka, knows him in a way that makes bugs skitter under Zanka's skin. "You removed yourself from the situation before you got violent."
"I shoved you," Zanka admits. His anger sits deep in his stomach as nausea rolls through him. It's still there, but harder to reach through the sickness.
Enjin shrugs. "Barely hurt, you just pushed me aside. You did a good job, kid. I'm proud of you."
The praise is barely a spark where it should be a flame. It doesn't matter, because his hands still flex, trembling with the need to destroy something again. The anger threatens to spill out again.
Enjin doesn't say anything else, he just sits and waits. It infuriates Zanka, but he turns away. Yanks at his hair again. Grabs a pillow and screams into it. Paces around his room. He has half a mind to pick up the porcelain shards of his tea set, throw them at Enjin, or carve his chest open and pull out that anger.
He drops to the floor instead. Curling up and gripping his forearms tight.
"Sorry," he croaked out, a half-ass apology he doesn't have the heart to pour more into. His head aches; he hadn't broken skin, luckily, but he rattled his brain around well enough. Something in him pulls at Enjin. This is the Enjin, apologize more, but his emotions are dwindling, settling back into their bottles in his chest as numbness spreads through his system.
Enjin hums, barely above a breath. "Do you want Aibo?"
Wood splintering enters his mind, the rage sneaking out for a moment behind his back, and he shivers, shaking his head. "I might hurt her," he confesses, like a sin. Tears stream down his cheeks, the very prospect of the thought wrenching something loose.
"Kay." Enjin doesn't move towards him, doesn't force anything else out. He just sits, surprisingly quiet. He does his best not to make any noise, and Zanka feels grateful. The slightest sound could unscrew that bottle, pull up the blockades in his veins.
They sit there for a while, as Zanka stews in his misery. The tired, numb acceptance of his inferiority. It chills his marrow, pulling it down like lead into the well. Tears continue to shed until he doesn't have any more to spare.
A waterbottle is rolled his way, and Zanka sniffles a snort. He unfurls a bit to grab it, noting Enjin silently staring off and tapping his thighs in a nonsensical rhythm.
He takes a few swigs from the bottle, letting the cold water sizzle out the flames. He breathes deep, focusing on his lungs and letting the oxygen take the anger. He can't snuff it out, but he can take small bits, sort them through his body until it's in manageable specs across his system instead of a volcano in his center. Enjin's mouth quirks up in a small smile, and Zanka continues until he's sure he won't strike.
"I'm sorry," he tries again, and there's more care in his words this time, more acknowledgment.
Enjin nods, silently offering his arms out.
Zanka crashes into them, letting the arms grip him bone-crushingly tight. He doesn't always do this; sometimes touch makes things worse, sometimes the numbness doesn't care for it at all. But some little voice in the back of his brain needs it. Like he'll fall apart if he's not held together.
"'M sorry, 'm s-sorry," Zanka chokes out, gripping Enjin's shirt tightly. "I got really close to hurting Rudo."
It hurts to say out loud this time. Something with consequences, something that will make him bad and everyone hate him. He can't—he has to be good. This isn't what good people do.
Enjin makes no move to let go, holding him tight and running a hand through his hair. "What set it off?"
Zanka buries his face against Enjin's collarbone, shame flooding through his veins. "He… he pinned me. 'M supposed to be better in combat and he—"
Enjin hums, rocking them slightly. "You are phenomenal in combat, Zanka. One of the Cleaner's best. Even Corvus has commented on it. Most of us don't know how to fight well enough without jinkis. You'd wipe the floor with me if I didn't have Umbreaker. Hell, you're pretty good at beating my ass with Umbreaker."
His nose scrunches. "Only 'cause you gotta hold back."
Enjin shrugs. "I don't use Umbreaker's drill on people anyway. You're able to control your weapon to keep it from going lethal, that's extremely important. You're good, Zanka, really good. You're smart and quick on your feet, a great strategist in the heat of the moment. You're good at solo missions, too, and taking command of a group. You'd make a great leader someday."
The words run through his ears, down his neck, and swirl into a warmth in his chest. Enjin believed he was a good fighter. Enjin thought he was good. And this time, the praise works. He feels a little lighter, a little less at the bottom of the well again. He grips onto Enjin tight, fresh tears starting to build up again. He wipes them away quickly.
The cigarette scent is a comfort, even if Zanka hates the smoke itself. Cigarettes and a perfume underlay that's a woody smell and makes him smell a bit like campfire. It's familiar and safe, and Zanka buries himself in it. He breathes deeply, letting it wash over his senses.
It doesn't stop the numbness, the aching hole in his chest that always happens during times like these. The self-hatred still spirals in his head, but it's more muted now, a little more tolerable. For anyone else other than Enjin, he'd probably still push them away.
But after hours of high emotions, Zanka is tired. He's exhausted, bone-deep weariness tugging at his skin.
Mourning the loss, he pulls away a bit. "Gonna… take a nap," he says quietly. He pulls himself up, grabs his sleep clothes, and changes in the bathroom.
A gentle clamor greets his ears, and he peeks out after finishing. Enjin is cleaning up the tea set, sweeping them carefully into a pan. Zanka's stomach plummets.
Looking up, Enjin notices him. "I'll give these to Rudo. He'll enjoy putting them back together. We can probably make it usable again. It's mostly big pieces. He's been itching for a good project anyway. Is that cool?"
"Yeah," Zanka mumbles out, settling on the edge of his bed. Aibo was placed in her holder next to him, and he pulled her to his lap, inspecting her. He doesn't see any splinters or cracks, which is good. If he hurt her, he might end up with a days-long episode instead of a few hours. He kisses her gently, promising a new ribbon wrap as an apology for dropping her on the floor. He settles her back in the holder before removing his slippers and sliding into bed.
Enjin places the dust pan to the side. "Are you gonna be okay if I give you space?" He asks, and Zanka shrugs. "Alright then. Scoot over there, bud."
Red flushes through Zanka's face, but he can only give a glare to Enjin. Words of protest die on his throat as he tries to summon them.
A devilish grin appears on Enjin's face as Zanka moves, turning and flopping down. "Welp, you've made your bed, so to speak. Either kick me out now or I ain't moving." He wiggles, throwing a hand above his head and getting comfortable.
"You're…" Zanka starts, and before quickly shaking his head.
"I'm?"
"Ugh, never mind." He lies down, giving himself a bit of distance from Enjin—though it won't mean much in the long run. He sighs, eyes fluttering shut.
Enjin's arms wrap around him again, and he makes no move to stop them. He's held tight once more, carefully keeping him from falling apart.
It's insufferable, sometimes, the lengths Enjin goes. This is far from their first song and dance. It'll be far from their last. But he stays, anyway, even through the venom Zanka spits at him, he stays. He'll never quite understand it.
Enjin holds him together like the shards of the broken teapot, and Zanka eventually falls asleep.