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The late afternoon left your room with various shades of orange, yellow and red. The distant sound of footsteps and the wind passing through the cracks brought a rare peace to that place.
Zanka was sitting on a chair in your room, his shirt stretched out on his lap, with two sizable tears in it. It looked like claws had done that damage.
You soon appeared, walking through the door and holding a small box with thread and needle.
“Again, Zanka?” You asked with an amused smile, placing the box with the needle and thread on the pillow of your own bed. “How many times have I told you to be more careful? And I'm not talking about your clothes.”
He looked away, a little embarrassed. “It’s not on purpose.”
“Yeah.” You walked over, grabbing the other boy’s shirt and his arm. “Come on now. I’ll fix your shirt, and I hope you’ll wait a bit before bringing it back to me.”
Zanka obeyed, somewhat reluctantly, but without complaint.
He sits on the bed and you don't take long, taking the little box with the things and sitting between his legs, then starting to sew the torn fabric.
While you were sewing, he watched you in silence. His head was resting on your shoulder, his face, usually so impassive and tense, seemed softer now—his eyes fixed on your fingers moving carefully, the thread moving back and forth across the fabric.
“You’re good at this,” he said in a low tone.
“I know,” you replied, laughing. “Someone has to take care of you, right? I’m your boyfriend after all.”
Zanka made a sound that sounded like a half laugh, almost inaudible.
“Yeah? But I can do just fine on my own too.” He points out with a raised eyebrow.
“Of course you can.” You looked up, smiling. “But I like helping you, you know? It gives off a sense of partnership, dating partnership, Zanka.”
“Dating partnership...” He repeated, as if testing the words in his mouth. That was definitely a new term you just made up, but it didn't sound bad.
Then he was quiet, watching you again.
You finished the stitch and cut the thread with your teeth. “There, this ond is ready. Almost like a new shirt, now all that's left is the other rip.”
Zanka looked at the shirt, then at you.
“You always do that,” he commented.
And you looked at him confused, a simple smile on your face. “What do I always do?”
He sighs, “You care too much about me.”
You shrugged. “There’s no such thing as ‘too much’ when it comes to you.”
He looked away, and the corner of his mouth lifted just a little. “You’re silly.”
“You like it,” he teased. “And you’re more silly than me, you idiot.”
Zanka didn't answer, but the way his gaze lingered on your face said all he needed to.
You leaned over a bit, finishing sewing up the other tear. “There. Now it’s perfect.”
“Hm,” he murmured. “Or maybe you’re the one who makes everything seem better. Perfect.”
You blinked in surprise. “Oh? Was that a little flirting?”
“No.” He answered too quickly.
You laughed, shaking your head. “Awh! It was! How cute.”
He buried his face in the crook of your neck, mumbling and trying to hide the laughter behind his flushed cheeks. “Shut up and go sew something else.”
But as you stopped laughing, you could still hear his low voice behind you, almost a whisper: “...Thank you for fixing my clothes...”
You smiled without looking back.
Because you knew that, for him, that "thank you" was worth more than a thousand declarations.
And deep down, Zanka knew it too—there was no thread in the world that sewed as well as the affection that existed between the two of you.
The next morning, you walked into the Cleaners' HQ, entering the room to flop down on the couch for the next few minutes before actually going to do something useful.
As you enter the room, you hear something between the sound of a line breaking and an all-too-familiar irritated grumble.
“Zanka...?” You called, your voice still sleepy, you had woken up just a few minutes ago, by the way.
“...I'm busy.” he replied, in a dry tone, too focused on what he was doing, which only increased your curiosity.
You walked over, looked over the couch, and when you got close, you had to hold back a laugh.
Zanka was hunched over the fabric, his large fingers gripping a needle as if it were a deadly weapon.
The thread was completely tangled and even wrapped around his hand.
“I should have guessed, but I didn’t suspect it for a second,” you said, crossing your arms and laughing. “May I ask what you’re doing, sir?”
“Fixing your bag,” he replied, without looking away. “It was ripped,” he added, almost offended, as if you were to blame for him being stuck with a needle.
You leaned closer, trying not to laugh anymore. “I could have done that later, Zanka.”
“I know,” he said, frowning, trying to thread the needle for the fourth time. “But you always do it for me... so I wanted to try. I have to try and help too... I am your boyfriend, after all.”
The simplicity of his speech disarmed you, your heart melting with his sincerity.
You watched him in silence for a few seconds—his serious, focused manner, his tongue between his teeth and his brow furrowed, as if sewing were a life-or-death mission.
.
..
...
“Want some help?” you asked, smiling.
“No,” he replied firmly. Another five seconds passed before he mumbled, “Okay… maybe a little.”
You walked around the couch, sitting next to him, guiding Zanka's hand slowly, showing him how to thread the fabric without tearing it.
His shoulders relaxed slightly, and you realized he was truly paying attention, every movement, every touch.
“Like this,” you whispered. “See? It’s not that hard.”
“Hm.” He murmured, focused, repeating his previous actions.
The end of the thread passed through the needle perfectly this time, and you clapped softly. “There you go, Mr. Multitasking Cleaner!”
Zanka snorted, a little embarrassed, a wry smile on his face. “I’m not good with small things.”
“Funny, because it's with 'small things' that you tend to be more delicate. Not breaking them.” you say, laughing, eliciting a shy smile from him.
When the patch was finished, the stitching was... crooked. Very crooked.
But the effort was so genuine and sweet that you didn't have the courage to say anything.
“Here we go,” he said, satisfied, a proud smile plastered across his face, holding up the sewn bag. “Just like you do!”
You looked up and let out a warm laugh, nodding. “Yeah… Perfect just like I do.”
Zanka looked at you with wide, hopeful eyes. "Really?"
“Totally perfect, I swear!” you replied quickly, still laughing. “And worth more than any repair I could ever do.”
He was silent for a moment, smiling stupidly and his soft gaze focused on your face, but he soon cleared his throat and handed the bag to you. “W-Well!- Your bag is now repaired and new for you to use.”
You leaned in close and gave him a quick kiss on the corner of his mouth. “Thank you, my clumsy tailor.”
Zanka's face turned slightly red, he opened his mouth to respond, but only a confused mumble came out.
Zanka couldn't say what his life would be like without that boy, without you... You made him feel silly at the same time you made him feel amazing.
And while you laughed, he looked at the bag again, this time with a small smile, muttering softly to himself “...At least the stitching didn’t come undone.”