Work Text:
for all of the time zanka nijiku had known you, the fact that you were a very affectionate individual had been integral to your character. at first, it had made him flinch or scoff or, if he was feeling docile, simply raise a brow in your direction. it still made him flinch. though, it was for entirely different reasons now. every time you so much as brushed against his arm, his instinctual reaction was to shudder—second in line was to turn his face away so you could not see how it had gotten about four shades more pink.
it was ridiculous. the other day, zanka came back into the building after spending a number of hours training. he was weary to an extent he would never dare to admit, focused on nothing but not dragging his feet as he tried to lug his tired body back to his room. you came up to him, murmuring words he could barely process about overworking himself and walking the wrong way down the hall. amidst your fussing (he tuned that out), he recalled you taking his hand and leading him down the corridor. every sense had come jolting awake the very second your fingertips brushed his calloused palms, digits dancing along and slipping between his like it was a well-choreographed, eternally practiced waltz. his coordination was far from superb in that moment, and he did hate to dance, but something about the exhaustion and the oh so soothing feel of you being close to him made it feel like home rather than a stage.
earlier in that same week, you had grabbed his arm for balance while you were laughing hard enough to double over—over something enjin or riyo had said, perhaps, though his attenton had not been on any of their nonsense in the slightest. it was a mindless action, one you would have done no matter who was standing beside you, zanka told himself. still, he spent the rest of the night making retrogressive attempts to not dwell on it. he felt abjectly foolish being so useless in fighting something as kitschy as the butterflies in his stomach, but had long since realized it was a battle he was bound to lose.
zanka never said anything; he never asked for more, never initiated it himself, never even leaned into it. he simply let the feel of you fade from his exterior like passing tides ebbing away shapes drawn in the sand; the memory could exist, but the ever-shifting currents of time would make sure it was nothing more so long as he remained silent. the height of the waves grew with every instance he restricted himself, for the taut grinding of his teeth stirred the waters as the plates of earth did amidst their own friction, and their rapidness did such in succession. for another, sucking it up and ceasing the shame binding his lips together may have been a simple task, but zanka had spent his whole life being told he was not strong enough to keep his head above water.
then came today. the tides were low, and his form fragile. like a rowboat beset by the seas, he was susceptible to his surroundings.
it was mundane, really. evening was commencing, hues of marigold making their steady advance from the window and along the ridges of floorboards. zanka sat next to you, back propped against his bed—when had you got there, again? when had he started letting you in so easily? he was uncertain; at what point had your presence become such a regular piece of his day?
zanka was reading while you sat idle at his side, knee bumping his every time you shifted. then, like that was not enough torment of his dolorously longing soul, you reached over and pushed a piece of hair behind his ear. "y'got a little…"
his breath hitched, jaw tightening. a single beat passed before it seemed his entire soul lurched within him, face turning into your touch before he could think it through—before he could process his heart's whining and logicize it within his head; snuff out that flame before it was large enough to burn. the press toward your hand had your hand cradling his cheek then, his face warm as it was pink in your grasp. he stiffened when he realized, eyes flicking to you, watching for the subtlest of cues that you did not want him like this. when he realized what lay behind your irises was nothing but a horrifyingly boundless affection, something at the edges of his frame seemed to melt away. the hard exterior chipped, then crumbled. it was with great hesitation that he raised his own hand and brought it to cover yours—so careful it was barely tangible at first. his fingers covered yours and pressed your hand more firmly against his face and oh—
—oh, that was… so nice.
he blinked long and hard, trying to ignore the way his breath was coming in faster drags than before. your thumb stroked over his cheek. he could have wept for the pleasure of it if he were a lesser man.
zanka peeked over at you, eyes only half-open and lashes fluttering. when he saw the mild amusement in your eyes—it was behind the fondness, but yes, it was there—he huffed.
he did not, withal, let go of you. he simply muttered (though it lacked conviction even as it rang through his own head), "shut the hell up."
a snort. "I didn't even say anything."
"you thought it." he tried to sound the least bit pestered, though it was ravaged as the beginnings of a smile graced his mouth—he tried to right it, he really did, but his efforts were fruitless. it was a strange feeling, this closeness without worry, but he found that he would not mind experiencing it more. it was the same way he felt in every other moment you so generously provided touch (like it was not everything to him, deep down), but more intentional. it felt a bit less like being a victim of your lifestyle and more like being wanted anyway.