Work Text:
One night, Zanka asks the question Enjin had never expected anyone would ask him.
"Why there aren't any tattoos, here?"
Funny, that Enjin never thinks anyone would ever have anything to say about this. It's not important, it seems insignificant, it's so easy to miss.
But, of course, he should have known better that among everyone, Zanka will be the first to notice.
The question, at first, doesn't register to Enjin. He's so content, wrapping Zanka with his figure and letting unnecessary thoughts inhabit his mind no more. Chest to back, skin to skin; basking in the warmth of Zanka lean but muscled body, feels like a good reason for him to start dozing off.
But the question doesn't appear alone. A familiar calloused hand finds its way to Enjin's, intertwining their fingers. Enjin squeezes once, and Zanka squeezes back.
"Mmmhhm," Enjin nuzzles the nape of the younger, inhaling the lavender off of him. Zanka always smells like everything good and nice in Enjin's life; Zanka might as well become the only good thing about it. He tries to reroute his mind back to the conversation in hand, even if it's hard to do it, when Zanka has just adjusted his head so Enjin can indulge himself further.
"What was the question again?" He murmurs against the skin, the lips vibrates every word. Enjin is very pleased to feel a slight shiver runs down Zanka's body, it's still noticeable enough for him.
"Your pinky," Zanka peels Enjin's hand gently, unraveling the fingers.
In time like this, Enjin almost feels like a criminal when the realization of how big their physical difference hits him. Zanka's fingers are smaller than him (obviously), daintier like they're not meant to do rough work, but the more he touches, the more Enjin knows that they aren't as soft as he imagines. They're rough and calloused, the kind that is carved by years of hard work and endless training. They aren't smooth, either. Enjin can feel the uneven surface of skin, a permanent souvenir of the battles Zanka has endured.
Zanka caresses a particular finger of Enjin's again, as if to emphasize his previous words.
"My pinky?" Enjin repeats, lifting his head just enough to see Zanka tracing the lines on Enjin's knuckle with his fingertips. Slowly, Zanka spreads Enjin's palm, turning it over on top of his own. Before he aims for the smallest finger and lift it up.
The only finger that is not tainted by the ink.
"I always want to know the story behind this," Zanka admits softly, caressing the finger now. "I always want to know how you get to tattoo your whole body, but seemingly missing this one little spot here."
Enjin freezes, just a moment, no more than any needed seconds necessary, but the brief change of motion doesn't lose on Zanka.
"Only if you want to share," he adds hurriedly, attempting to curl Enjin's hand back to the fist, ready to bury any form of curiosity that may arise. "You don't have to tell me anything."
Enjin refuses to deny him the answer.
Gently, Enjin takes Zanka's hand, turning the situation around. He rests on Zanka's shoulder, the ash-colored hair, a curtain before his face. Shifting his body, he leans even closer to the younger he can feel the press of his chest hair against the smooth back.
"My name is Enjin, now," he starts. "But I've been someone else for a long time before that."
Enjin has never told Zanka this. In fact, he has never told anyone. He doesn't even remember telling someone this story, except that time when Alto Surebrec was present in it. He doesn't exactly hide it, but he just doesn't tell people. He doesn't think, his past is relevant to his future, if Enjin is determined to change it in every aspect. His past is just like a piece of clothes that he hates to wear, but he can never get rid of, because it's his, at the foremost.
"Endoareilychimaillastsallimachiadaleotragosphidipharjin." Enjin breathes out the secret straight to Zanka's skin. Zanka responds with shiver. "That's the name I was given. That's the Identity I had to wear."
Zanka listens attentively, doesn't interrupts him. Not with the words, not even with the touches. He just holds Enjin's hand there, as if he's anchoring himself to him or the other way around—Enjin can't tell.
One thing is for sure, they keep each other stay right where they are, floating just enough, never too far away.
"My childhood—was not a childhood at all," Enjin chuckles, though he knows it's bitter and hollow. "It was so bad, so fucking bad like no one would, could ever imagine it to happen. How come a kid survive that?"
He can feel his voice wrecks at the end. He hates to think about this particular memory, he hates to invoke everything he has been working hard to bury.
"You don't have to tell me if it's—" But Zanka doesn't ask him to, Zanka doesn't force him to.
All he wants to know is something purely innocent, nothing's intruding.
But it isn't always as it seems.
"I want to," Enjin's whisper to his skin, taking a long, deep inhale of the familiar scent of Zanka, the combination of his sweet lavender incense and the lingering smoke off of Enjin's. "I want you to know who I really am."
Zanka tenses at the words, but he quickly relaxes when Enjin presses a soft kiss on his shoulder. Zanka covers Enjin's hand with his, squeezing them lightly in answer.
"I was growing up in an orphanage, you see," Enjin says. "I was the oldest there, always had been trusted to take care of the younger, always had been trusted to be their reliable big brother. It was a responsibility I was proud to bear. But, it could be very tiring. With no money, when the food were scarce, everyone started to fight. There was no day without fighting, arguing—it was so frustrating. So I snuck out, thinking that maybe I could have done something for everyone back home. And I did."
Zanka moves as if he wants to turn to him and says things like praises he doesn't deserve.
So, Enjin precedes him.
"I did make it worse."
Enjin knocks his forehead to the back of Zanka's head.
"I met someone who I thought, could change the course of our fate, being so kind and so welcoming, I was a fool for blindly believing him. And changing our fate, he did. He turned the orphanage into a slave market. Branding every children so it's impossible for them to run away. They were nothing but commodities, I was nothing but some random kid on the shelf for someone to pick me up with the right price."
Zanka doesn't just hold his hand, he's fully hugging Enjin's arm now.
"They were kids, Zanka, we were kids. There were a lot of kids younger than me, so much younger, the ones that can barely hold my hand with their little fingers, the ones that can only reach for my pinky, the one who has faith in me that I can provide a better life for them," Enjin's voice turns hoarse. "The ones I made a promise with, the ones whose promises I failed to fulfill."
He knows, Zanka is strong. The younger possesses a great strength that he can take him down in a fight if he could.
If he would.
Instead, Zanka uses his strength, to break free from Enjin's embrace, wiggling himself out of it just enough so he could turn around and face him.
The moment Enjin meets those azures, he crumbles.
Those eyes are always brimming with adoration and love and fondness, but they are now trickled with sadness and grief.
Only a moment, before Zanka drops his head to his chest.
"Enjin—" he only manages to say.
Enjin pulls him to his chest, holding him tight.
"I have never thought of myself as a good person, Zanka," Enjin cradles Zanka's head firmly. "I've committed too much sin. So fucking much, I am covered in it. My tattoos, they're helping me forget about what I had been; but they can't erase what's hidden underneath. The ugliness of it, the awfulness of it. Like it or not, they are also part of me, of who I am. My tattoos do not just cover the part I wish I could get rid of, it's also how I want to claim what is mine all along, the bad too."
He can feel Zanka slightly tremble in his embrace and it makes Enjin's heart aches with regret.
"You ask me, why my pinky doesn't get any tattoo," Enjin runs his hand carefully over Zanka's ash-colored strands. "Because I'd like to think, even with everything I've done wrong in my life, I was once the good one. And I should never have to cover that up."
Zanka pushes himself off of Enjin's chest, his hands slide up, catching his jaw.
"You're a good person," Zanka forces him to meet his eyes. And unfortunately, Enjin is weak when it comes to Zanka. He shifts his gaze down, the amber collides with the azure.
"Despite everything, you're still a good man."
Zanka leans in, pecking Enjin's lips softly. Even if it's brief, the warmth quickly spreads throughout his body.
"Thank you for telling me this, Enjin," whispers the younger as he pulls back.
Thank you for trusting me.
Thank you for being vulnerable with me.
Thank you for sharing your story.
Thank you for showing me who you truly are.
—the rest goes unsaid; Enjin hears it loud and clear anyway.
Zanka stays put, never too far, always in the distance where Enjin can take him closer.
When he dives in, claiming Zanka's lips for the second time; Enjin can feel Zanka tremble, unsteady with emotions.
Enjin's hand reaches for his face, keeping him in place, as he absorbs everything Zanka wishes to say but he doesn't.
Zanka shifts his arm, covering Enjin's hand with his hand now. Enjin slides his hand under Zanka, his pinky hooks itself on Zanka's thumb.
A makeshift promise.
When they eventually break the kiss, their hands still stay glued to each other, the pinky and the thumb are intertwining in everything loud yet, unspoken
"Endoareilychimaillastsallimachiadaleotragosphidipharjin."
Zanka looks up to him, the azure are twinkling with something heavier than just fondness and affection.
"Did I say it right?"
Enjin breathes out the answer straight to his lips.
"Perfect."
And to Enjin, it's not even about the pronunciation.
Not in the slightest.
Never.