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If Enjin had to be honest, then Enjin would say, it's fate.
Like, he doesn't believe in fate and destiny and all those kinds of superstitious things, but he genuinely thinks there's no other explanation.
How come, in the club this crowded, with the loud music blasted on the speaker, with a mix of chattering people filled the room, his eyes landed on a very particular someone on the bar counter?
He doesn't think much when he enters the establishment. He's tired, and stressed, and very much in need of drinking and smoking.
And if he's lucky, maybe he can score some hottie too.
Enjin doesn't believe in love at first sight.
Lust, however... he gotta say, there are some people who are charged with strong attractiveness that he can't help but being, well, attracted.
And this guy, in no better definition, is so fucking hot.
The sharp jawline catching the neon lights just right, ash-colored hair tied in a messy bun, some falls on the side of his face, framing his beautiful face. The lean but definitely well-built frame is wrapped in a maroon waist coat, with his inner black shirt unbuttoned some, he also has what Enjin assumes to be his gray coat, draped on his stool.
Cutting through the sea of people, Enjin walks straight to the bar; and the closer the step takes him, the more he thinks that distance really can't justify the actual presence of beauty in front of him.
The man wears glasses, slightly obstructing the azures behind them. Enjin doesn't usually wax poetic about someone's facial feature, unless it's their tantalizing and inviting lips, but this man got so much more than that. When he smiles, the mouth curved perfectly giving the warmest reaction someone could ever get. When he chuckles, his nose scrunches cutely and the sound of it is so hypnotizing, Enjin wouldn't be surprised if the bartender he's talking with, is falling in love with him.
Well, between trying his luck or nothing at all, Enjin is never one to not throw all of himself in.
He slides into the empty space beside the guy, close enough that their shoulders almost brush.
"Mind if I sit here?" His voice is low, casual, but the once-over he gives, is anything but. "It's crowded as hell tonight."
While it's partly true, the intention that Enjin doesn't bother to hide—not even a bit, is impossible to be missed.
The man turns to him, and if he thinks, from distance that those eyes are deadly, Enjin could say, it's much deadlier this close.
There's a certain sharpness, tinted with curiosity, as if Enjin's presence is intriguing for him.
Enjin feels a small triumph reigns the pride, when he's greeted with a smile.
"Be my guest," he says, raising his glass. "Nobody claims that seat, anyway."
Enjin mirrors the smile, is already confident with the smooth beginning.
He flags the bartender with two fingers. He gets a disapproving look from the woman who's previously involved in a conversation with this man, but she still comes over to him. Enjin grins at her, feeling childishly smug for no reason.
"Whatever he's having, and one for me. Make it strong."
The man in front of him lifts his eyebrow at that. "Very bold of you."
"Life's short." Enjin leans an elbow on the counter, angling his body toward him. "And you look like the kind of short that might be worth the risk."
To no one's surprise, the man laughs under his breath, the sound almost lost under the music.
But, the way he doesn't pull away, is enough answer for Enjin.
"I don't doubt that," he wheezes. "You do seem like a true risk-taker."
The bartender slides his drink and Enjin's palm meets with the glass in one swift motion.
"Through and through," Enjin sips his drink, before he offers his glass for toast "The name's Enjin."
The man doesn't hesitate, not for a second, before he clinks his glass to Enjin's.
"Zanka," he smiles, sipping his own drink.
Enjin's grin widens as their glasses clink, the sound a melodious tone among the obnoxiously loud music.
Zanka, Enjin tastes the name.
It settles into him like the first burn of whiskey, something he already wanted more of.
"What brings you out in such a fine night like this, Zanka?" Enjin props his chin. He must have picked the equal opponent, because Zanka copies his move, looking straight at him.
"Just winding down after a long, hard day," Enjin swears the word choice is intentional, but Zanka seems like the type of someone who can say the dirtiest things with a straight face. "You?"
Enjin pretends to think, before he answers, "Just the usual."
At Zanka's questioning look, Enjin elaborates.
"Drink," Enjin takes another sip of his glass. "Smoke," he pats his jacket pocket, before pulling out his creased pack of cigarettes. Enjin kindly looks at him for confirmation if it's acceptable for him to smoke, and Zanka gestures to him to keep going.
He pulls one for himself and offers it to Zanka, but Zanka shakes his head. Enjin rummages through his jeans for the lighter, but Zanka already slides one to him.
"Not mine," Zanka tells him. "The bar's property."
Enjin accepts it with a soft murmur of thanks.
And not long, the thin veil of smoke surrounds him.
Zanka doesn't look like someone who's fond of smoking, but Enjin is very pleased to see that the man shows zero objection of the action.
Maybe I'll be lucky to get someone pretty to waste the night with, he thinks to himself, though he has the feelings that he doesn't need to say it, for Zanka to get the message loud and clear
The conversation comes easy after that.
They talk about anything, from works (keeping them vague, informative enough to establish their talks but never to give away their identities), the club's music choice (they're both in disagreement at the topic of whether Too Lily's pop star or rock star; Enjin thinks this guy's pretty stubborn), what they usually do in their free time (Zanka kinda implies that night out isn't usually his scene, and Enjin practically advertises himself as the bar hopper). Everything flows like the river, carrying stories about the shitty week that brought them both here, bad jokes with a sprinkle of corny flirtations.
Zanka corresponds to all of those with a perfect unamused reaction, that somehow only highlights how amused he actually is.
Enjin can tell with the way he suppresses his laugh, how he always has this small smile, tucked shyly on the corner of his lips.
He doesn't even realize he's gravitating to the man, until he feels the brush of their knees because of course, they practically pull their stools close to each other.
At some point, Zanka takes off his glasses, showing Enjin the true danger of his hypnotizing gaze. Enjin is glad nobody can hear his thoughts, because holy fucking hell.
This is bad, so bad. So. Fucking. Bad.
He tries to keep it casual, but casual doesn't seem to fit them anymore.
Not when, Enjin can feel the air is charged with so much electricity, it's electrifying.
Better try than never. It never hurts to try, anyway.
Slowly, Enjin's hand finds the edge of Zanka's knee under the bar and gambling with his luck, he squeezes gently.
And just like everything he has confidently predicted, Zanka doesn't flinch.
Instead, the man shifts just enough that the contact now becomes an unmistakable display of wants, his own fingers brushing the back of Enjin's hand like a quiet invitation.
Enjin doesn't count his drink, but he's pretty sure it's enough to explain the heat that gradually builds between them. The words trade places with touches that linger too long to be an accident. Every smile and laugh is always accompanied with the encouraging look, the one that says: I know you want this; I do too.
They're just deep into some story about their worst night out experiences, when Enjin's phone vibrates hard against his thigh.
Begrudgingly, he pulls his hand off Zanka's knee, before he fishes the device out.
The screen lights up with a name he can't ignore.
Shit, this is the kind of call that doesn't leave voicemail.
"Damn it," he mutters, almost considering throwing his phone out of the window. For someone who claims to be a huge risk-taker, he's sure so easy to cave in to the work call.
He leans in close enough that his lips almost brush Zanka's ear, he can feel Zanka shiver at the light touch and Enjin already feels greedy for wanting to elicit the audible reaction too. "Gotta take this. Don't go anywhere."
Enjin doesn't mean to, but the words come out half-promise, half-command.
Zanka takes a deep breath as if he tries to compose himself, before he tilts his head, a smile played on his lips.
"There's no place I'd rather be."
Enjin pushes off the stool and makes his way through the quieter hallway near the restrooms, the phone already pressed to his ear. Turns out, the call stretches longer than it should—ten minutes, maybe even fifteen. By the time he hangs up, irritation is buzzing under his skin, fueling him with ridiculous annoyance.
He wants to get back, he needs to get back
He steps out of the hallway and the loud music hits him once again.
His eyes find the barstool instantly, already expecting to see Zanka to wash off the ugly feelings crawling up him.
Instead, what meets his gaze only makes it worse.
Someone else is already there, claiming his seat.
A broad-shouldered guy in a too-tight shirt is leaning into Zanka's space, one hand braced on the counter, the other gesturing animatedly.
Zanka is still smiling, polite but not quite as warm as before, and the new guy is talking fast, clearly trying to make his presence acceptable for Zanka.
The sight invokes something even uglier in him.
Something's nasty.
Enjin's jaw tightens, he doesn't even think twice to take long strides right in Zanka's direction. The closer he gets, the clearer the picture becomes.
Enjin doesn't bother with subtlety. He steps right into the open space on Zanka's other side. If Zanka is surprised by his unannounced arrival, he doesn't show it.
"You're in my seat," Enjin says, calm but flat.
The man next to Zanka doesn't seem intimidated by him, if anything he looks like he's gonna take up the challenge.
And that's exactly what this jackass does.
"Didn't see a name on it. We were just talking."
"We were just talking," Enjin corrects him. "Before you decided to park yourself here. Move your fucking ass."
The guy's laugh is short and ugly.
"Or what? You're gonna make me?" His eyes flick over Enjin, dismissively, before he returns his gaze back to Zanka. "See, this tattooed hunk here, apparently thinks he owns the place."
Enjin's jaw flexes. He doesn't raise his voice, but nobody can possibly miss the danger it possesses.
"I was here first. He's not interested. Walk away."
"I was here first," the guy repeats with a mocking tone. "Maybe he likes the upgrade."
The guy leans in. It takes everything in Enjin to not just go and fucking punch the guy in the face.
"Right, Sweetheart?"
Okay, maybe, in the stomach too, or right in the nuts, Enjin ain't picky.
"Last chance," his words get colder. "Get the fuck off."
The guy opens his mouth again, already yapping crudely, some nonsenses about "sharing" or "taking turns"—and that's when Zanka finally has enough.
He sets his glass down with a hard thump. The sound gets both men to look at him.
Zanka's smile is gone. His face shifts into something hard, the sharp azures are speaking on his behalf.
He glances between them once, then settles his gaze on the interrupting stranger with quiet finality.
"Maybe," Zanka starts, twirling his glass, "I should get to decide who I want to talk to."
Silence hangs for half a second.
The stranger's face tightens, ready to argue, but Zanka doesn't give him the room for it.
"And right now," he continues, tilting his head just slightly toward Enjin, "it's not you."
The rejection almost lands too slow. The guy's mouth opens, closes, then he mutters something under his breath that gets swallowed by the music. He steps back, shot one last glare at Enjin, and melts into the crowd without another word.
He catches a disgruntled "fucking bitch" but Zanka grabs his arm in the time, before Enjin can react and actually beats the shit out of the asshole.
"Not worth it," Zanka says, using his leg to hook around the stool and pulling it closer.
Enjin obediently takes a seat. Zanka flags the bartender to refill their drinks, giving Enjin enough time to compose himself.
When his glass is full again, he doesn't hesitate to chug it down in one go.
"You good?" Zanka's eyes meet his, the earlier amusement returning in much softer shape. He picks up his drink again, takes a slow sip, and speaks with the same dry ease as before.
Enjin snorts, already pushing his glass for more drink.
"I should be the one asking you that."
Zanka chuckles. "Well, it's pretty good for me, now that the seat is back to its rightful owner again."
Enjin feels ridiculous for staying on the edge after the worst has passed, but he can't help it.
Zanka must have noticed this, because he moves first, bumping their shoulders. The sleeve of his shirt, brushing Enjin's leather jacket, and suddenly this piece of article is very insulting in this situation.
Sighing, he takes off his jacket. He catches Zanka's soft gasp, almost unnoticeable if they aren't sitting this close.
Damn, he has a whole beauty next to him and all he can think about his violence over the guy who isn't worth his time.
Downing his drink, Enjin decides to go all in.
Nothing to lose, because even if he loses, he will still win.
"You know," he says, eyes flicking over Zanka's face. "if beauty was a crime, you'd be serving a life sentence."
Zanka stares at him like he grows two head before he burst into laughter, clearly doesn't expect the change of behavior.
"That's so freaking terrible," he wheezes.
"Yeah?" Enjin grins, already forgetting what he's annoyed about. It's hard to feel like punching someone, when Zanka's reaction is genuinely more fascinating to him. "Alright, how about this—"
Enjin takes a drag of his cigarette, before he continues, "Are you a parking ticket? Because you've got ‘fine' written all over you."
Zanka laughs even harder. "You're really going all in with the classics, huh?"
"I'm just getting started, I've got tons of this," Enjin shifts closer, knee brushing Zanka's under the bar. Zanka bumps his knee back, acknowledging the action. "Is your name Google? Because you have everything I've been searching for."
When he has set his eyes on something, Enjin can be very, very determined and motivated.
He gives more bad and corny pickup lines, while Zanka laughs harder and harder—especially with the drink in between.
Zanka's cheeks are a little flushed now, the coordination of his body gets clumsier, the words are coming out hard; whether from the alcohol or the lines, Enjin can't tell.
And frankly, Enjin has more important things to focus on.
Enjin's hand finds Zanka's thigh again, higher this time, thumb stroking slow circles through the fabric of his pants.
If Enjin had to be honest, then Enjin would say, it's fate.
Like, he doesn't believe in fate and destiny and all those kinds of superstitious things, but he genuinely thinks there's no other explanation.
How come, in the club this crowded, with the loud music blasted on the speaker, with a mix of chattering people filled the room, his eyes landed on a very particular someone on the bar counter?
"What do you say, we get out of here?" he leans to Zanka's side, the whisper comes out rather breathlessly. "I bet, you're way better to wake up next to, than a hangover."
Zanka's breath hitches. Enjin is familiar with this telltale. He's leaning in, lips parting like he's about to say yes and Enjin can finally—
"Hey."
The bartender's voice cuts through the moment.
If Enjin thinks her dislikeness to him is merely a speculation, now he gets the confirmation.
The woman sets a glass of water down hard in front of Zanka, while her gaze locks onto Enjin with a promise of violence.
Or, at least, that's what Enjin interprets from her.
"He's had enough," she says flatly, slapping the rag on the table like a whiplash. "And you need to back off."
Among everything, that is definitely not something he expects to hear that Enjin can only blink, hearing the warning. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me, dude," the woman glares at him now. "He's clearly tipsy. I'm not letting some random guy who just walked up try to take him home. I've seen too many creeps pull this exact move." Her eyes narrow on him. "Find someone else to hit on. He's not leaving with you."
The protectiveness is so unexpected that it catches Enjin's off guard.
He opens his mouth, ready to argue, then freezes when the full absurdity of the situation hits him.
He glances at Zanka.
Even amidst his haze, he's clearly aware of what is happening. Zanka is now biting the inside of his cheek, shoulders shaking with the effort of not laughing.
Those blue glassy eyes are sparkling with pure mischief. He reaches for the water like a good boy, takes a slow sip, then looks up at the bartender with perfect innocence.
"It's okay," Zanka says, attempting to return his voice in his serious mode. He may be drunk, but he's not that drunk. "I… actually know him."
The bartender's frown deepens, fingers pointing at him like he expects Zanka not to take Enjin's side. "You just met him half an hour ago."
Zanka chuckles at that, before he turns the stool fully toward Enjin; reaching out to grab the front of Enjin's shirt, tugging him close.
"Actually, no," he corrects, loud enough for her to hear. "I've known him for years."
Enjin doesn't even care if he looks stupid, but he uses the opportunity to nuzzle Zanka's neck, something he has been wanting to do, since he sees him.
Zanka tilts his head, laughing; arm sneaks around Enjin's shoulder, keeping him where he is.
"He's my husband," he grins, reaching from his open collar, pulling out a chain necklace with a golden ring in it.
Enjin does the same, down to mirroring the grin too.
The bartender drops her rag, along with her jaws.
Enjin slides an arm around Zanka's waist like it's the most natural thing in the world, which, after years of marriage and countless nights like this, it is.
This game never gets old.
It sure as hell, won't stop anytime soon.
Enjin presses a quick, possessive kiss to the corner of Zanka's mouth, which is welcomed with a giggle; then he looks back at the stunned bartender.
"Guilty as charged," Enjin says, giving the woman a salute. "Worry not, I can promise you, I'm the only 'creep' he's going home with, tonight."
game changer (noun.)
: a newly introduced element or factor that changes an existing situation or activity in a significant way.