Work Text:
It's funny that what wakes Enjin up is his own bed.
It takes a moment for him to gather his consciousness to realize where he is, and he's surprised to find that he's at his own home.
Or precisely, his own apartment.
And he has been living in this apartment for, what, almost five, seven years? Even long before he acquired his own bike shop. It's small, sometimes it feels cramped, but it provides enough resting place for him. He rents this place because Gris recommended it, it's accessible, it has good environment, and the most important thing: it's cheap.
He was saving for the building he planned to turn into his bike shop, so the last one is very deciding factor.
And after he did, he still occasionally returns to this place, despite his bike shop also has a bedroom on the second floor.
He never brings anyone here, not even a one-night-stand because 1) this place is very personal to him, and he's a no-strings attached kind of guy, and 2) this place is already cramped as it is, if hypothetically he were to bring someone, he doesn't think it'd be comfortable for them (Riyo, his niece can testify).
And yet.
Enjin looks around like this place suddenly feels strange. He's so used to seeing a nightstand next to the bed, with shelves full of medical books and mystery novels covering the wall. He's so used to the presence of table and chair where a computer resides with some trinkets on it. He's so used to the existence of built-in wardrobe with a full length mirror that will show him how exactly messy his hair is after a long night.
In short, he's so used to staying in Zanka's house, that Zanka's house almost feels like his own home, instead of, well... his boyfriend's home.
Enjin sighs, running his hand over his face.
As much as he likes to be in Zanka's space, that isn't really Enjin's place to get used to with. He has this place, this apartment that he once calls home, though considering how he rarely stays here, might as well call it a haunted house.
Stretching his sore body, he grabs the nearest shirt on the bed, only to stop midair, because the shirt is definitely not his.
It's too small.
Only then, his stupid brain finally catches up with the situation.
He didn't just come home last night, he brought someone else.
And that someone else wasn't in bed.
Judging by the disappearance of Enjin's shirt and that suspicious noise coming from the room next door, he may have a few ideas of where his company go.
It doesn't take long to find Zanka in his kitchen.
Well, calling it kitchen is not quite right.
This room can be kitchen, dining room, and living room at the same time.
The doctor is clearly trying to be quiet, when Enjin pops his head to see what's he up to. He tiptoes and he attempts to make no sound, while he rummages through the cabinet and the fridge. Enjin doubts he'll find anything edible there, he doesn't remember storing much food with how often he staying out.
Zanka doesn't find nothing though.
He manages to gather enough ingredients to make a simple pancake. Enjin hazily remembers he buys a pancake pre-mix for when he's too lazy to make his own pancake batter, but he never really gets to use it.
His own tastes better, arguably.
He leans to the wall, watching Zanka moves with an ease of someone who's living in this place for years but forgetting some details because he hasn't been around much here. Maybe that's the perks of having small apartment, everything is so easy to spot on.
Zanka hums as he starts working. Enjin doesn't recognize the song, but it sounds like one of those nursery rhymes he often hears from the children's ward.
The thought that Zanka unconsciously sings the kid song makes Enjin smiles. The doctor always appears so strict and aloof, but when it comes to the kids, he's always the sweetest.
"Now, where's the spatula—Jesus fuck!"
It's a good thing that Zanka has trained his reflex to adapt into the most shocking condition, because he doesn't drop the bowl when he turns around and his eyes collide with Enjin.
"How long have you been standing there?" Zanka puts down the bowl, inhaling deeply.
Enjin crosses his arms over his bare chest.
"Well," Enjin scans Zanka from head to toe, before he smirks. "long enough to know that you look really good in my shirt."
Zanka looks down at the maroon shirt that is triple the size of him, pulling at the hem.
"I didn't notice it was yours."
Enjin's smirk grows wider. "Understandable, considering how fitting it's on you."
Zanka rolls his eyes at that, but Enjin catches a tinge of pinkness gracing his cheeks before the man turns around.
"Are you gonna be a good wife and cook me breakfast?"
Zanka whisks the batter. "First of all, that's sexist and second, it's barely breakfast. I'm making do with what you have, which is practically nothing, except for this instant pancake."
Enjin is eyeing the wooden chair, which obstructs the view of Zanka's backside in his shorts, and he never hates how cramped this place is, more than ever.
"There's this technology called, the takeouts. Surely you're familiar with it?" Enjin decides to completely ignore the chair and just goes straight to what he wants.
Though, the thought makes him chuckle.
There's nothing straight about what he's doing.
"It's seven in the morning, Enjin, nobody will deliver food that early," Zanka tenses when Enjin sneaks his arms around his waist but quickly melts towards him, once Enjin fully plasters himself on his back.
Enjin nuzzles his neck. Zanka smells like sweat, and the lingering disinfectant scent from the hospital, and also a faint trail of Enjin's soap. The doctor has just finished his night rotation and Enjin thinks, that maybe a change of scenery would be good.
Of course, that spontaneous suggestion isn't backed up by enough preparation.
At least, there's convenience store nearby and despite never having more than one people on it, his bed is very sufficient for the two of them.
"It's just ten minutes walk to get some sandwich or onigiri," Enjin's shirt is so big on Zanka that it keeps slipping off his shoulder, exposing a patch of skin for Enjin to inhale.
"Since when the guest has to trouble themselves?" Zanka slightly tilts his head, to give Enjin more space, clearly indulging himself too.
Enjin kisses the pale skin, lingering for a moment, his words come out muffled.
"You do trouble yourself." He presses another kiss and another one and another one again, until Enjin can feel Zanka goes lax in his arms and stops whisking.
Enjin grins against the skin. "Am I special, Doc?"
Zanka pushes the bowl aside, before he turns around, hands quickly find their way around Enjin's neck. In this very, very limited space, their bodies are pressed against each other, and yet, they seem to gravitate to the other even closer.
"You're certainly—" Zanka brushes his hands over Enjin's undercut, toying with the blond. Like an obedient puppy that he is, Enjin lets himself being tugged down. "—an exception."
Enjin slots his leg between Zanka's thighs, beckoning him to the kitchen counter.
Zanka bites his lips, which Enjin is almost sure, to suppress the moan.
"So, it's a boyfriend privilege," Enjin says, inching closer.
Zanka nods, doesn't bother with words, as he meets him in the middle.
Enjin doesn't think he has ever told a soul about this, not even Zanka himself, but sometimes he can't believe that he and Zanka finally found their way to each other. That the Fate is kind enough to let them meet, for the first time and those times after Enjin forgets about everything. It still feels surreal, sometimes. Being with Zanka, getting intimate with him—it's all his reality now.
Kissing Zanka always makes him giddy, no matter how often it happens. Having his hands on Zanka feels so right, and so does having his lips and literally any body part of his, too.
This time, Zanka is the one who deepens the kisses, licking his way to Enjin's mouth, before he starts entangling their tongues. He can hear the doctor makes a pleased noise when Enjin lifts him by his waist and slightly moves him from kitchen counter to the dining table.
It would escalate further if they hadn't heard any cracking sound.
Zanka immediately pulls back, looking bewildered.
"What was that?"
Enjin is harder to be distracted, especially since Zanka looks so fucking good with his swollen, spit-glistened lips and those glassy azure.
"The best breakfast I've ever had?" Enjin suggests, caging Zanka as he leans forward again, hoping that they can return to their previous activity.
"I'm serious," Zanka pushes Enjin's chest, but the fingers that briefly touch the chest apparently decides to linger,
"I heard you," Enjin murmurs, aiming for Zanka's neck now, sucking a fresh hickey there. Zanka gasps at the touch, looking for composure in the soft chest hair while his hands are trapped between them.
"You can't possibly not hear that creak—ah!"
Enjin hums against the skin.
"My concern—ah!—" Zanka's hands are meant to be delicate and yet stable enough for medical practice, but the way he's holding on for dear life over his chest makes Enjin thinks that he must be the luckiest man on earth to have the doctor losing himself like this.
Either coincidence or not, Zanka kicks his side, forcing Enjin to let him go.
He can't stop the overflowing pride upon seeing Zanka's neck is decorated in red marks though.
"Yeah?" Enjin's own voice comes out rough.
Zanka has his hands on the tattooed collarbones as he regulates his breathing. Enjin expects to be scolded for interrupting his very rare attempt at cooking, but instead, Zanka wraps his thighs around Enjin, entrapping him.
"My concern is that this table doesn't seem sturdy enough," he breathes out.
Enjin grins, almost manically when he hears that.
"I can fix that, Doc," he says, before he pulls Zanka by his thighs, hoisting him up. Zanka is quick to establish his position by locking his legs around Enjin even tighter.
He's very, very delighted to know that it's not the spatula that nudges his middle.
"Hey, Zanka," Enjin whispers to Zanka, licking the shell of his ear, as the man shivers at the touch. "I think we should conduct more experiment to know whether my bed is sturdy enough or not."