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If it isn't for the way he's been touched, Enjin would think that he's been dreaming.
It happened before, in his dream. It's weird to think about, it's even weirder to talk about it to someone, so Enjin just keeps it to himself.
But, yes, it really happens.
Most times when he's spent the nights at the hospital, when he tries so hard to remember about fragments of his life that are ripped off of him. Most times when he's just interacted with a certain someone and Enjin could feel the strong wave of melancholy crashing over him. Most times when he's been discharged and any possible form of interaction has decreased to a minimum, almost nonexistent.
There are times when Enjin thinks he's hallucinating.
When he feels a faint touch on his skin, when he hears intangible whispers and calls of his name.
There are times when Enjin thinks he's imagining things.
When he opens his eyes and sees no one, when his consciousness returns but the reality doesn't present what he's been looking for.
Enjin used to not know which one is worse, to have dreamed or to have no dream at all.
These days, he won't mind having the dreamless nights.
Because when he opens his eyes, his reality is better than any dream he has ever had.
"You know sleeping on the couch is bad for your back, right?"
Zanka's face comes into his sight, so close. Hand gently taps on his chest, like he's trying to calm a baby. Enjin can't help the goofy smile that has become his nature when Zanka is involved, grabbing the said hand and squeezing it lightly.
"I can always count on my doctor to make it better," Enjin flips the hand so he can entangle their fingers, Zanka leans to the couch, fully sitting on the floor to indulge him.
Zanka gives him a completely flat, unamused face.
"I'm not your chiropractor."
Enjin frowns, feigning confusion. "I don't know what kind of dinosaur is that, Doc."
That breaks through Zanka and earns him a chuckle. Enjin can't help but feel a little smug by the fact that he can get the doctor to laugh after a long shift of—
"Oh, shit," Enjin immediately rises from his laying position, not without letting go of Zanka's hand. "I'm so fucking sorry, didn't mean to oversleep."
It's Saturday.
Enjin always picks Zanka up because he only has a half-day at the bike shop and Zanka usually takes the morning shift. He still had some time to kill before he went out, so Enjin spent it by doing some cleaning. Ever since he moved in, Enjin feels this strong urge to keep the house pristine, better than his own apartment. Zanka deserves no less than that.
He remembers, he had just finished the kitchen before he took some breather on the couch, pondering whether he should start on the bedroom or the living room first. It was too hot and his shirt was wet with sweat, so he opted throwing it away in the laundry. He was gonna pick up Zanka anyway, he could change later after showering.
He did none of those.
"You know, it's perfectly fine for me to take the bus from work, right?" Zanka joins him on the couch. He still wears his jumper over his scrubs, because Sunday is laundry day and he probably wants to throw the clothes he wears into the washing machine later.
"You should've called me," Enjin huffs, Zanka glances at his phone on the table, that Enjin immediately reaches for.
Two missed calls, both are from Zanka.
"You should've called me harder," he stubbornly says.
Zanka looks at him straight in the eyes.
"Unfortunately, I don't condone any inappropriate action within the working environment, even if the working hour has ended."
It takes a moment for Enjin to digest the words and with the remnants of sleep, he probably doesn't do a great job in concealing his scandalized expression.
Zanka snickers, patting his jeans-covered knee.
"It's all good, okay? You don't have to pick me up every single time—"
"I want to," Enjin cuts him off, uncaring that there's definitely the whine in his voice and the pout curling up his lips. "I want to be the one to take you home."
That gets Zanka's attention. Enjin is aware of how childish it sounds, how dramatic he has been, but he can't help it.
Zanka scooches closer to him, Enjin lets go of him, and automatically lifts his arm to wrap itself around Zanka's shoulder. Zanka comes into his confinement so willingly.
"Well, I'm home, now," Zanka says, looking up to him with those beautiful azure eyes, with a smile so soft it feels like Enjin doesn't deserve any of that.
But, Enjin is greedy and will always be greedy when it comes to Zanka, so leans down and captures his lips, claiming him.
"Welcome back," he breathes out, once the kiss eventually ends.
Zanka sighs, pecking his lips for one last time, before he settles on Enjin's side, hand slides up back to his chest, tracing the red and black patterns on his chest.
Enjin indulges him, feeling the blunt nail of the doctor drag ever slowly on his skin. He can tell Zanka moves differently when he reaches for the faint scar over the tattoos on his upper chest. Most of his scars are almost gone by now, except the one near his collarbone that cuts across his upper pec. It's the longest to heal, it's the hardest to conceal when he's in this state.
The souvenir of his survival, the permanent reminder that death almost touches him but Fate decides to give him the mercy.
Zanka is always careful when he's touching that scar. Every movement is done almost thoughtfully, gentler as if the scar can still send pain if it's acknowledged. Enjin would say those years of medical school really paid off if the way Zanka treats him with nothing but delicacy is the indication.
But, maybe it's just Zanka.
And maybe it's just Enjin.
If it isn't for the way he's been touched, Enjin would think that he's been dreaming.
It happened before, in his dream. It's weird to think about, it's even weirder to talk about it to someone, so Enjin just keeps it to himself.
Zanka's touch feels solid.
Despite being done in the gentlest way possible, Enjin can still feel the weight of his fingers, every press of the tips too.
The realness of it, is what convinces him that he's awake.
"What are you doing before I get home?" Zanka asks, still has his attention on his attempt of tracing the whole patterns of his tattoos.
"Doing some cleaning in the kitchen, restocking the pantry—" Enjin taps his phone screen. "—which reminds me, that I should probably start the dinner, soon. You want anything?"
"Anything sounds great," Zanka murmurs against his chest, still hyperfixated on his tattoos and predictably, on his scar too. Enjin catches his palm, pressing it lightly where it resides, with his own hand.
Zanka looks up to him.
"It's all good, okay?" Enjin repeats what Zanka has said earlier. He knows that Zanka knows; what the words mean, what the unsaid things they carry.
"It doesn't hurt anymore," Enjin aims for his forehead, lays a soft kiss there. Zanka drops his head back to his collarbone, as Enjin responds to it by burying his nose in Zanka's ash-colored hair.
The tension that ever presents, melts in an almost slow motion. The stiffness of his shoulder turns lax. "It's just ugly thing that ruins my tats, now."
Zanka leans to him, Enjin can feel the doctor inhales deeply as if he's trying to get some composure. Enjin lets him, inhaling Zanka in return.
He's no longer surprised by the combination of the clean sweat, faint lavender, and the disinfectant getting this addictive.
Everything about Zanka is.
"That's not true," Zanka says, so close to his skin the words echo back in vibration on its surface. "You're still beautiful to me."
Even if Zanka has said the same things numerous times, it's still like the first time whenever Enjin hears the words.
"Aww, Doc, you really know how to make a guy feel special," Enjin tries to lighten the mood, because he still doesn't know how to properly respond to such devotion, to such reverence, without feeling overwhelmed.
Zanka isn't a man of poetry, he is a man of science.
And everything he says is less exaggeration, but more like an undeniable fact, the indisputable truth.
Zanka hums thoughtfully, before he responds again with the same clinical tone that makes him ten times more endearing.
"You are special, Enjin, that's just what you are."
Enjin grins, even if Zanka can't see it.
"I thought, I'm your super hot boyfriend?"
Zanka shifts, only to climb onto his lap.
"Who says anything about super hot?" The doctor loops his arms around Enjin's neck. The air between them is now charged by much different tension.
It's exciting how things have escalated.
Enjin retaliates by grabbing Zanka's waist, spreading his palm over the span of the area there, as if he's measuring him.
"My self-awareness," his grin grows wider and goofier.
It's amazing how Zanka turns from someone who wants nothing but devoting his life to him, to someone whose signature move is rolling his eyes exasperatedly, 24/7.
One of Enjin's hands travels down behind and Zanka jerks forward, palm slides to his chest in a warning.
"Enjin—" Zanka hisses in which Enjin responds with a victorious smirk.
If it isn't for the way he's been touched, Enjin would think that he's been dreaming.
It happened before, in his dream. It's weird to think about, it's even weirder to talk about it to someone, so Enjin just keeps it to himself.
But, yes, it really happens.
Though, he has this kind of vision in his dream, truly nothing beats the reality.
Enjin used to not know which one is worse, to have dreamed or to have no dream at all.
These days, he won't mind having the dreamless nights.
Because when he opens his eyes, his reality is better than any dream he has ever had.
"Hey, Doc," he whispers huskily. "Shower or tub?"