Work Text:
The cellar door slams, and for a moment there’s only yawning silence. The trash storm howls overhead and Enjin curses, fumbling at the dry earthen walls for a switch.
Somewhere in the dark beside him, Zanka catches his breath, each feathery sound swallowed by the walls around them. He shuffled anxiously, hand brushing Enjin’s knuckles as he aids in his search, shoulders catching.
“Sorry,” Zanka says.
“Don’t worry about it,” Enjin replies. His fingertips find cool plastic and the squared peg of some kind of mechanism. He throws it on instinct and light fills the cellar, yellow and buzzing.
Earthen walls yawn around them, a dingy cellar. Crude wooden shelves line the walls like a decaying ribcage, bowing under the weight of various cans and jars of rotted foodstuffs. The cloudy glass makes them resemble a chorus of blind eyes. Roots lace between them and dangle overhead between the tangled wires of an underground electric system, tasseled tendrils and loose wires reaching down towards the packed dirt floor.
“Cozy,” Enjin remarks, and the dirt swallows his words.
Zanka seems to have planted himself near the very entrance of the cellar, limbs twined around his Assistaff as though it's anchoring him in place. He looks smaller in the sickly, stammering lights, just a little too gaunt and solemn.
Enjin paces towards the far wall and sets Umbreaker aside before collapsing gracelessly at the base of it, legs sprawled out across the dirt floor. Both surfaces are dried and packed too tight to leave any sort of residue, hardened beyond any semblance of comfort, but after a day’s worth of trudging and clambering through concrete jungles they might as well be one of the luxurious feather mattresses he’s seen advertisements for in rotted magazines.
He fishes his cigarettes and lighter from his pocket, grateful to find neither crushed into uselessness. The smoke from his first exhale wavers pale into the air, a strange mirror to the way Zanka trembles a few feet away. He’s watching him, eyes wide and lips creased into a thin line as though he’s afraid of something escaping them, or perhaps something getting in.
Enjin cocks his head and pats the dirt to his left.
“Take a load off, kid,” he offers, words slurred around the butt of the cigarette.
Zanka shakes his head, tasseled earring swaying at his jaw like curtains. “No way. Um, no thanks. I’m good standing.”
Enjin sighs and brings a thigh to his chest, propping his elbow on his knee to gesture upwards at the storm that’s already faded into white noise. “Gonna be a long ass night of just standing.”
Zanka glances up as though the indication had been an order, but as soon as he sees the rusted wiring overhead, the overgrown, grimy root tendrils, he flinches back down, grimacing.
“It’s alright,” he says, not really to Enjin. “It’s fine. I’m fine here, I mean.”
Uninterested in trying to talk Zanka out of his neat freak spiral - and certain it wouldn’t work, besides; Zanka likes things spotless, and this place is filthy - Enjin props the cigarette between his teeth and reaches up to shrug off his coat. He doesn’t miss it in the damp warmth in the cellar, tossing it to the side to create a makeshift seat.
“Sit down, Zanka,” Enjin says, heartily patting the coat’s lining.
Zanka’s eyes have gone from wide and darting to wide and frozen, staring at the pile of wool and linen lining as though it’s something locked away behind a glass case, a museum artifact. “I don’t think I can.”
“You can,” Enjin assures him. It’s both an encouragement and a permission. He’s used to holding the door open for Zanka and ushering him through it in the same motion, and he hardly minds. By now, he’s seen him beat down more than enough doors on his own in his strange, elegant stubbornness.
Long fingers flinch around the handle of the Assistaff, and the storm howls overhead. The lights crackle just slightly, and a small trickle of clumped dirt tumbles down just shy of Zanka’s left shoulder.
Zanka makes a noise remarkably like a trodden mouse and leaps for the coat. Enjin’s just brought his cigarette to his mouth for another drag and the smoke’s hardly hit his lungs by the time Zanka’s legs are folded beneath him on the coat, curling up within its borders. Between his wind-touseled hair and the underground around them, he looks not unlike a frazzled animal that’s just settled in for hibernation.
“Better?” Enjin asks. The word grinds out wreathed in smoke, and something seems to snap loose in Zanka’s limbs at the acrid scent of it.
“A little,” Zanka admits. Another puff of smoke and he slumps, releasing his Assistaff to rest against the wall at his side, the opposite of the frame of Objects that now exists around them. “It’s still gross down here.”
Enjin hums in agreement, tapping some ash into the dirt. “Not exactly five star digs, no. Hopefully the storm’ll pass quickly.”
Zanka pulls his knees to his chest, squeezes another shudder from his body like wringing water from a rag. “Wish it hadn’t hit us so fast. You’d think there would have been signs.”
Enjin just shrugs. “I’m no weatherman. All I know’s how to avoid the rain. Usually by expecting storms.”
The last of his cigarette falters at his next inhale and he stubs it away into the dirt before flicking it a few feet away. It lands dented side down, mangled butt facing up like the legs of a dead bug.
“You think everyone else made it somewhere safe?” Zanka asks.
The last Enjin had seen of the other half of his team, they’d been beelinning for an old well, one of many in the town they’d found themselves stranded in. If the cellars are as sturdy as this one seems to be, he reasons the sewer system’s hardly a threat, particularily against the capability that is Riyo and the hardiness that is Rudo.
“Not a doubt in my mind,” Enjin says. “So quit your worrying. Some of it, at least.”
Zanka huffs. “Fine, fine.”
He sits back in the same moment that Enjin shifts to pluck another cigarette from his pack. Their shoulders brush, catch like velcro, and his fingers falter around paper and dried herb.
Enjin doesn’t know when it started, what it even really is, but he refuses to try and learn. It’s not Zanka that’s changed, at least not suddenly - he’s always looked at Enjin like he hung the moon, syrupy sweet adoration. As the years have gone on he’s hid it less, stopped stealing glances and staring across rooms in favor of openly admiring Enjin from the passenger seat on long drives, eyes never so much as gracing the road. It had been harmless for a long time, cute, even after its evolution into pointed desire.
And the Enjin had started to feel something back.
Unlike Zanka, he refuses to return the look. The new cigarette is staler than the first but he takes a generous drag anyway, tips his head pointedly back against the wall to stare down the ragged ceiling. “Might wanna get some shuteye, if you can manage. Probably gonna be here all night until the storm passes and we can use our comms on the surface again.”
Asking Zanka to rest is pointless, livewire of a human that he is. He sparks at the best and worst of times, hums almost contentedly now like the lattice of wiring overhead. There’s hardly any space down here, and somehow even less between them than when Zanka had first sat down. Whatever semblance of walls remains between them seems torn to flimsy nothingness, hastily tacked up cardboard and dingy clothes.
“Maybe I will,” Zanka says suddenly, surprisingly. He’s still looking at Enjin. “It’s actually quiet down here, for a change.”
Enjin huffs. “You got that right. Almost eerie, not hearing you or the rest of the hooligans training and god knows what else.”
“Thought you wanted me to train,” Zanka protests, words clipped and expectant. It’s a trap that’s almost too obvious. Then again, Enjin’s more than bored enough to trip it anyway. It occurs to him perhaps that’s the real trap, and his response comes out grinning. “Course I do. You’ve come a long way, kid.”
Zanka sparks. “Don’t call me kid.”
Enjin sighs. “Sorry. Force of habit.”
More ash falls into his lap.
“‘S fine,” Zanka replies. “Unless…I mean, you don’t still see me as a kid, do you?”
“No,” Enjin says, so fast he nearly bites his cigarette. Too fast.
Smoke wavers and Enjin’s coat shifts against the dirt as Zanka moves closer, intentionally this time. The gravity of it all isn’t lost on Enjin; Zanka’s as intentional as he is, and when their intentions align the world leans.
In place of walls Enjin blows smoke, its bitterness overwhelmed in an instant by the sweetness that is Zanka, sweat and sugar, sunbaked and burnt.
Zanka’s eyes trace the shape of Enjin’s mouth with such intensity he can almost feel them like a physical thing, can almost wince as the callouses from his grip on his staff catch at the scar on his lower lip.
Enjin pulls his cigarette away to tap the ash, and Zanka’s eyes stay. “I’ve been wondering if those taste good.”
Smoke curls from his nostrils and the jagged seam of Enjin’s lips as he sighs, watches the grey tendrils linger hesitantly about Zanka’s cheekbones and jaw. “Doesn’t matter. You don’t want it.”
It’s a lie for both of them, and it fools neither. The smoke around Zanka’s face fades but the moment lingers, sweeter and richer than tobacco, and more addictive still.
Zanka’s lashes flicker and Enjin opens his mouth to take another drag, bracing to pull away and stub out both his light and whatever this has become in the same motion.
He doesn’t get the chance because Zanka lunges, grabs his neck and jaw with long, too-cold fingers, and kisses him squarely on the mouth.
Their teeth knock and clatter together like collapsing rubble, a hard press of just askew enamel. It’s all brute force like Zanka’s found another door to batter his way through, another obstacle he can throw himself at until it gives way to a victory he can no longer truly define.
Enjin reaches blindly until his hand finds Zanka’s chest just beneath his collarbones, the hammer of his heart a call and response against his palm. He pushes them apart, a sticky, buzzing tear that lingers across his lips afterwards.
Zanka’s still staring and Enjin realized he’d kissed with his eyes open, eager to devour the moment with all his senses.
“Don’t ask me if I’m sure,” Zanka says, and Enjin wonders if he’d tasted the words on his tongue before he could say them.
“Maybe I’m the one that’s not sure,” he says instead. It’s a feeble half lie, thinner than smoke, and Zanka scoffs it away just as easily.
“I see how you look at me,” Zanka says. “You’re not stupid. You know how I look at you. You’ve started looking back.You don’t have to stop, Enjin. I want it. I’m sure.”
“I believe you,” Enjin replies, stammering around an omitted “kid”. Zanka’s lips are pink, just slick enough to catch the light. “But you might not always want it.”
He runs his thumb over the damp end of the cigarette where his mouth had been, frays the paper beneath his fingerprints. “What if you start to hate it and can’t stop, huh? What then?”
Zanka reaches for the cigarette and plucks it away. He doesn’t bring it to his mouth, just holds it between them. “You’d help me quit.”
There’s no uncertainty in his voice, no fear. It’s all trust, walls built around them instead of between. The storm can howl forever - inside, Zanka and Enjin remain, this thing between them burning.
It seems a waste, then, to watch it go to ash.
Enjin takes the cigarette back and takes one last drag, the embers at the tips of his nails. The smoke mists over Zanka’s features, his high cheekbones and upturned nose, the pretty turn of his lips and lashes, the darkness hollowed beneath his eyes.
“Then what are you still staring for?”
A spark, again. Enjin grins.
He just barely manages to grind the remains of the cigarette into the dirt before he’s catching the clambering shape of Zanka’s body as he surges into his lap, tongue battering wetly between his lips and catching at his teeth.
It’s a clumsy mess of a kiss but Enjin collects it anyway, steadies Zanka’s waist with one hand and his cheek with the other. Once his body’s steady he can think about his mouth, angling his head to tilt so they can slot more easily into each other, wrestling his overeager tongue between his teeth.
Zanka sighs into the silent instructions, always just a little too pleased to be guided. He’s a quick study like always, and the choppy awkwardness of it all eases into a steady tide. The desperate claws around Enjin’s neck loosen to drape, the whole of Zanka’s body melting into Enjin until he’s cradling a lapful of quietly whimpering contentment.
Beneath his jacket, Zanka’s heart thuds louder, and Enjin presses into the beat once more to separate them, just enough to breathe this time. The air comes tacky between them, strung through with tobacco scent and a single glimmering strand that snaps to land cold on his chin.
Zanka’s red-faced and panting but he protests instantly, groans with petulant irritation when Enjin’s broad hand stops him.
“Breathe, baby,” Enjin chuckles. “No fun if you pass out.”
“I won’t,” Zanka insists, still struggling, and Enjin tilts his head just enough that Zanka’s mouth can land on his jaw instead. He must reek at least a little, sweat and dust, but Zanka kisses him anyway, butterfly gestures that linger and vanish as quick as fallen snowflakes.
Enjin sighs, runs a hand along the line of Zanka’s spine through his jacket. It’s nice, this lazy entanglement. He could almost fall asleep.
Then Zanka’s hips press, grind, and Enjin bites back a curse at the hardness digging into his stomach.
“Ah,” Zanka breathes, chest stammering as he chases the sensation. His pelvis shifts lower and fuck, Enjin’s stomach twists.
“Enjin,” Zanka whines, impatience smeared across the cords of Enjin’s throat, “are you gonna fuck me now?”
Enjin barks out a ragged laugh and lets his head fall back against the wall, a hollow thud against the hard layer of dry dirt over moist earth. It’s all he can do to steady Zanka’s hips with his hands, hipbones digging into the meat of his palm with each clumsy roll. Their cocks brush through fabric, electric.
He should have known he would ask, should have known a single crack would shatter everything in moments.
“Not happening,” Enjin manages, and Zanka stops immediately, yanks away to reveal a frown twisting his kiss-plush lips.
“What do you mean not happening?” he snaps, incensed in the way only Zanka can still manage from the rickety high ground of his pride. He looks utterly forlorn, and it takes Enjin a few moments longer than he’d like to admit when he realizes Zanka thinks he’s been rejected.
He’s already pulling away, fingers slipping from their places in the sharp fuzz at the back of Enjin’s neck and the seam of his jeans. It’s so painfully Zanka, so certain if it’s not all that it’s nothing.
“I thought you - “ Zanka says, and Enjin catches his wrists, draw them up to his mouth to brand kisses to the pattern of tendons and veins beneath the base of his palm. He feels his heart again, a distant thrum against his skin like the bass of the radio from outside the mess hall.
“I do,” Enjin promises. “Zanka, sweetheart, want you in this shitty cellar on my coat so fucking bad.”
Zanka shivers, eyes straying to the crumple of wool beside them, longing. “Do it, please, have me. I’ll be good, Enjin, I promise.”
He says it so easily, as easily as the breath that wraps around the syllables, and Enjin imagines it just as easily. He buries his nose against Zanka’s palm, smothers the thoughts of Zanka’s lithe limbs sprawled out beneath him, stomach flexing and ribs flaring around his gasps, into the ripe scent of sweat on his skin.
“I know,” Enjin says, tracing Zanka’s lifeline with his tongue.
“Why don’t you?” Zanka huffs, and this time Enjin can’t help but laugh, the sound impossible to stifle when Zanka’s pretty face twists into another sour pout. It’s so easy to talk filth to him, so easy to imagine the ways their bodies would fit, and so easy to forget what a virgin he must be.
“Need a little bit more than just us, baby,” Enjin says. “Not gonna be pleasant otherwise.”
“I don’t care,” Zanka insists, all the sour attitude of someone not quite grown out of a spoiled childhood, and Enjin laughs again. “Don’t care, I want it.”
“You and me both,” Enjin manages, catching his chin to sooth a kiss to his mouth alongside a promise. “Next time. Home. Whatever you want.”
Zanka’s bristles settle at that, joints folding into Enjin’s embrace. The kiss ripples, and in the settling the trembling of Zanka’s body surfaces.
“Everything okay?” Enjin murmurs.
“It hurts,” Zanka complains. He’s rutting against Enjin’s hipbone now, chasing scraps of a high.
Enjin cards his fingers through his hair and sits back to give him space, enough for them both to watch.
“Get yourself off, then,” he offers. “Not like I mind.”
Zanka catches his lip between his teeth and looks away, face flaring. When he manages to drag his gaze back to Enjin it’s all pleading, unspoken question. “I don’t…that is, I never - “
Enjin cuts him off with a groan. Of course Zanka’s never touched himself. Of course he’s sitting in his lap now, hard and flushed and eager, too shy to even ask aloud.
“Need me to teach you, baby?” Enjin asks. “You’re a quick study. You’ll get it.”
He unclasps the belts at Zanka’s waist and brushes aside the thick fabric beneath them so he can get at the ties of his pants. It’s quick work to tug the neat knot loose, one brusque yank and the waist band is pooling around Zanka’s hips, propped up by bone and the trembling peak of his erection.
Zanka twitches, defensive and ashamed on instinct, and Enjin catches him quickly. Zanka’s slender and hot in his hand, flushed skin and veins catching the callouses bordering the top of Enjin’s palm. At the first stroke Zanka gasps like he’s been punched in the gut, shoulders snapping into a stiff line as his entire body lurches into the sensation.
“Easy,” Enjin cautions, pumping him slowly. His fingertips can touch around Zanka, each pass of his wrist smoothed by glimmering pearls of precum that bead and trail down his cock like rain. With his other hand, he cradles Zanka’s hipbone, coaxing him into gentle thrusts in time with his own motions. They hit a rhythm and Zanka seems to fall back into instinct, the silence between the slick sounds lessening with each moment until it stops suddenly.
Before Enjin can ask, Zanka’s scrabbling at his wrist, stilling them both. “Wait. Stop, wait.”
Enjin does instantly, heart shivering with cold anxiety as he pulls his hand away like he’s been burned. “You alright, Zan?”
Zanka chews his lip, body trembling as his mind seems to steam and smoke with the effort to speak.
“Did I hurt you?” Enjin cautions, and Zanka’s eyes snap wide as saucers. “No!”
His entire body lurches with the forces of the single syllable, grabbing at Enjin’s arms as if he’ll vanish. He stares somewhere around Enjin’s collarbone, eyes not quite able to meet his anymore. “No, no, it was good. Feels good. I just…”
The silence stretches, and Enjin waits.
“I want to make you feel good, too,” Zanka whispers, peering up at him through thick lashes.
Enjin just barely suppresses a shudder. It’s not so much that Zanka wants to get him off, not really. He’s hardly picky, would have been utterly content to let Zanka grind into his fist and drift off into post-orgasmic sleep. It’s that Zanka asks like he needs permission, that he wants it so bad it feels like a service to himself and not Enjin, that’s making Enjin’s vision go a little blurry at the edges.
“Yeah?” he asks, grit and barely concealed want. “Wanna be good for me like that?”
Zanka sucks his teeth and nods, words finally failing him. Enjin decides not to speak, either - he draws Zanka’s shivering touch to his waistband, hovers like a guardian over his trembling undoing of the button and zipper. It’s only gotten warmer in the cellar, hot breath clouding like sun-warmed fog, enough that Enjin hardly winces when his skin meets the air.
As it turns out, he has all the time in the world to adjust. Zanka’s gone back to staring, the same way he’d stared at the coat on the dirt, the way Enjin’s started to realize he always looks at anything concerning him.
“You’re big,” Zanka murmurs at last, and somehow it doesn’t sound played out, his voice thick with reverence instead of worn thin as cheap magazine dirty talk.
Enjin takes himself in hand, biting back a groan at the friction he’s denied himself until now. It’s all for show, the way he strokes himself, presses his thumb to the pearls of precum at the head until they burst and roll down the shaft. “That good or bad?”
Zanka wets his lip. “Good. Yeah, good.”
Trembling fingers brush at the space between them and Enjin catches the slender wrist that they lead to, guiding Zanka’s palm to cradle his cock. His skin is cool, dry in the damp air, and Enjin lets a sigh shred between his teeth at the sensation.
Zanka strokes him hesitantly, a curious gentleness as though he’s made of glass. His thumb smoothes over the head, a steady rhythm of slick circles. It’s not exactly pleasurable, not exactly anything, but the reverent caution of the touch lingers on Enjin’s skin like the aftermath of a warm bath.
“You’re quiet,” Enjin murmurs. “Means something’s happening upstairs. Out with it, then.”
Zanka bites his lip, eyes rising and catching somewhere at Enjin’s hipbone, his attention caught between the sight of Enjin’s face and his own hand around his cock.
“‘S weird to look at,” Zanka admits. “Kinda nice, too.”
“Think so?” Enjin asks, lets his thumb catch at the bitten swell of Zanka’s mouth, smearing the lingering slickness across the skin. “Want to do more than look?”
Zanka blinks. “What - ?”
Enjin presses between his lips, brushes the taste of himself along the crooked edge of Zanka’s teeth. “Want to taste?”
The corners of Zanka’s nose crinkle, an instinctive recoil at the ripe flavor. Enjin lets his face go immediately, biting back a laugh as Zanka seems to realize what he’s done. “Wait, I - I can try, it’s just - “
“‘S alright, baby,” Enjin stops him. He drops his hand into Zanka’s lap instead, thumbing at the crease of his thigh through the thick linen of his pants. “I’ll just suck you off next time.”
Zanka’s hand stammer and his eyelashes twitch, a full body shudder seizing at his limbs. “You…me?”
Enjin finds a loose thread at his pants seam and loops it playfully around his finger, not quite tugging. “Mhm. I’ll suck you off and then I’ll fuck you. How’s that sound?”
“Yes,” Zanka says, a little too fast. Enjin reaches for him and he chokes on his hasty recovery, the man’s callouses catching the soft skin of his dick. “Yes, please. Alright.”
“See? Just need a little patience,” Enjin says, wondering vaguely if Zanka has even the faintest thought to spare the hypocrisy of the statement, all things considered.
He slips a hand between Zanka’s shoulder blades, fingers splayed between the plates of bone, bracing. He wraps his other hand around both their cocks, a gesture that’s all too easy, and Zanka whimpers.
It’s a slow start, coaxing tugs to warm like the first moments sinking into a hot bath. Enjin’s struck with the thought of doing just that, later, back at the base in the single tub that he’s certain Zanka could slip into with him, limbs tangling through the cooling water. His dick twitches against Zanka’s at the thought and he banishes it quickly.
Beneath the pale fringe of his hair, Zanka’s brows furrow, spine flexing as he starts to roll his hips again, rutting himself against Enjin’s cock. “You’re going too slow.”
That sour-sweet brattiness has crept back into his tone and Enjin’s mouth waters.
“Am I?” he asks. “I was just thinking we should savor this. Not like there’s much else to do down here.”
Zanka’s lips part to protest, but all that emerges is another gasp as Enjin starts to work them faster. He deflates like a flag after a gail as he releases the breath, the tense layers of him fluttering to rest into Enjin’s chest. His cheek lands somewhere against Enjin’s collarbone, lips cracking open to spill hot air over his skin.
“You’re kinda mean sometimes,” Zanka mutters. “You know that?”
Enjin idly rubs his thumb across the heads of their cocks, smears them together like the drying grafitti paint on the walls of Canvas Town. He knows they’ll wash off each other even easier, relishes the challenge of creating something new in the blank space they’ll leave behind. The thought drags another laugh from him, the thought of himself as an artist, mixed with the lingering amusement from Zanka’s weak barb.
“I think I’m a pretty generous guy, actually,” Enjin says. The weight of Zanka against him seems lesser now, as if each tug of his palm between their legs has melded them all the more. “Maybe you’re just greedy.”
Zanka huffs again, the sound whet sharp as the end with a whine. “I take it back. You’re a dick.”
A callous catches on a slick vein, soft heat and rough coolness, and his words flicker away into stifled gasps. Each breath sputters like a lighter flame and Enjin cups him close, keeps him lit.
“You know, you’re not nearly as subtle as you think you are,” he murmurs.
Zanka’s brows curl beneath his fringe, the blissed out glaze over his eyes cracking for the briefest moment. “What…hm, what d’you mean?”
Enjin slows his hand and steals a glance between them, admiring. Zanka’s so hard it looks painful, reds and purples staining his skin like a fresh bruise. In truth, it’s accurate to say he’s all bruise, that they both are, the kind they both get a sick sort of pleasure from pressing again and again.
“You’re tryin’ to get a rise outta me when you say shit like that,” Enjin says. “Same as when you wanna pick a fight. I see it.”
The line of Zanka’s throat ripples as he swallows, caught. There’s no point to protest, not when Enjin’s right, not when they both know why - for Zanka, it’s not real if it doesn’t hurt.
“Enjin, I - “
Enjin shushes him with a kiss that’s all balm, a soothing brush of lips. He doesn’t mind a little hurt, the singe of a cigarette burned to the end, the rasp of liquor as it goes down. Zanka’s tried to be all teeth and bristle, knows he’s snagged Enjin on each sharp edge, but he seems ignorant of the fact that it’s the softness beneath makes him stay.
Well, Enjin reasons, he’ll teach him that, too.
“You can relax now,” he promises.
Contradictorally, Zanka’s spine goes rigid, muscles hardening. “‘m relaxed.”
Enjin fingers between his vertebrae, thumbing each knob of bond until they come loose and Zanka’s liquid in his arms again. “Now you are. That’s it, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”
He starts to stroke again and Zanka just moans, his trust evidently the winner amidst all his neuroticisms. Perhaps Enjin’s no better than him, in the end, because the next words that come out of his mouth are all prickling, inflammatory.
“Makes me kinda worried, though. Seeing you like this from just my hand.”
“Why’sat?” Zanka slurs, content, and Enjin’s stomach flips.
“I’m already losing you,” Enjin says. “How do I know you won’t go braindead on my cock?”
Zanka’s whole body twitches, breath hitching as his own cock jumps in Enjin’s fist. He doesn’t get a chance to speak, and he doesn’t need to.
“Like that, huh?” Enjin continues. He moves faster, fast enough to push any thought of hypocrisy from his mind - as if he doesn’t, as if the thought of a babbling, fucked out Zanka doesn’t make him nearly drool - and leave them both sated in only bliss. “Want me to fuck all those thoughts from your pretty head?”
Zanka whimpers against his throat. “Yes, fuck. Yes, please.”
His words curl and mold against Enjin’s skin like his tattoos, teeth and breath stinging like the needles that left them there. There should be something terrifying in the sentiment; Zanka’s always been a control freak, obsessed to the point of madness with being alert, being ready, and here he is getting off on the thought of being helpless in Enjin’s arms.
It’d be worrying if it didn’t make Enjin see stars.
“Enjin,” Zanka says. He drags the syllables between his teeth and Enjin realizes he’s stopped bucking into his hand, that his whole body is taught like a livewire. “Enjin, ‘m gonna - fuck - “
“Go ahead, baby,” Enjin says, and Zanka buries his face in his neck and does, a silent cry of pleasure the only sound between them. Heat and wet spill over Enjin’s fist and he’s momentarily despaired to be deprived the sight of Zanka’s face when he comes. He pictures it anyway, delicate features stretched around pleasure, cum spattered on pale, damp skin. The thought’s enough to send him hurtling after Zanka all at once.
“Fuck,” he curses into Zanka’s hair, the word bitten around powdery shampoo scent and stale smoke. Somewhere in the haze, he wonders if it’s his own or someone else’s, if Zanka’s picked up the lingering stink of nicotine from some other Cleaner with a bad habit.
The thought makes Enjin momentarily so jealous his vision wavers and he drags himself away from it like a dog by its scruff, snarling.
He focuses on Zanka’s breathing instead, cooling ashes between them. The sound smooths the buzz of the overhead lights, a prickling white noise.
It’s a trick to wipe them clean and tuck them away without moving Zanka much, but Enjin manages. Zanka pants against his throat all the while, breath sticking in his lungs with each catch of skin on skin. When they’re presentable enough, Enjin puts the arm at his back around his shoulders and tugs him closer, draping his overheated form across his chest like a duvet as he leans back against the wall.
“Was I good?” Zanka murmurs, syllables blurred together by his cheek pressed to Enjin’s collarbone. It’s a thickly layered sort of question, made even headier by lingering tension, but Enjin resolves to cut through both with the simplest, “Very, baby.”
Zanka hums happily, lashes landing on his cheeks. In time, his breathing slows and Enjin knows he’s asleep by the way his limbs unwind, the ever-present threads of anxious stiffness loosening the way they only seem to when Zanka’s not awake.
He doesn’t quite join him, lets himself drift in and out of unconsciousness as time passes in lazy waxes and wanes. The storm howls overhead until it doesn’t, until it’s only his and Zanka’s breathing beneath the whine of the electrical light system overhead.
It must be near morning when his comm finally crackles, the barest hint of words.
“ - jin. Zanka,” comes Rudo’s voice, ever so slightly threadbare. “Well - safe. Rendev - en minutes.”
Enjin sighs, carding his fingers through Zanka’s hair to stir him awake. “Storm’s over, Zan.”
Zanka wrinkles his nose, eyes still resolutely folded shut. “Wanna sleep.”
Enjin huffs, amused as he reaches for Umbreaker and peels Zanka away in the same motion. He repeats the same promise he had before, just as certain. “Next time, baby. Next time.”