Chapter Text
Zanka was many things: the youngest son of a prestigious family, heir to his father’s company, a college student, and a runaway.
He was also an employee at a dingy gas station, working graveyard shifts to keep up his living expenses. He used to be more, but he couldn’t hold the three jobs he was used to now that he actually had classes.
Today he had come in earlier than was expected, putting on his apron and ridiculous looking cap before clocking in, taking over his colleagues’ shift with a yawn. He high-fived her, rubbing his tired eyes with his other hand before peering towards the little notepad Riyo had left for him, lined up with the usual tasks.
“Try not to fall asleep, ‘kay?” Riyo told him, and he hummed in response. How could he fall asleep with all the sketchy characters coming into the store to pay for their gas and questionable snack choices? He’d made the mistake of dozing off just once, and when he regained his senses, a man was trying to rob the cash register very, very quietly.
The bat laying behind the counter had come in handy that day.
“I’ll see you in class,” Zanka waved at her as she disappeared into the back room, and then it was quiet.
The soft humming of the refrigerated section was the only thing louder than his own breathing. He resisted the urge to just sit down on the stool shoved into the corner of the counter and wait out his shift, but Riyo had given him stuff to do, so he might as well cross it off his list before he sat down to study.
He started with restocking for the next day, helping the sparse amount of customers entering his shop. One had refilled his car’s tank, and the other needed a drink.
After all the aisles were stocked with the things still left in the backroom, he got to cleaning. Luckily the old mop had been switched with a new one, so he didn’t have to endure the musty smell that came with it. Getting mad at the manager for his shitty standards seemed to have helped regarding their cleanliness.
He saw a bucket hat clad customer enter just as he smacked the water logged mop on the floor, so he set it against the candy shelf to scan the meagre amount of items. Eyeing the clock, it was 11 pm.
The man wearing a bucket hat left without any words, leaving Zanka to get back to mopping the floor. There was something… hypnotizing about watching the fibres move over the tile, but soon the feelings he'd been struggling with for months bubbled up and reared their ugly heads at him, a punishment for being too quiet.
Boring. Repetitive. Tiresome.
Zanka took this job because he had no other choice and Riyo put in a good word for him. It was close by and he didn’t need any previous experience to get hired.
If his family saw him like this, though, they’d probably laugh at him. Esteemed Nijiku son, spotted cleaning grime off the floor in a run-down gas station.
Zanka stared at said floor, blinking a few times.
He desperately wanted something nice to happen to him for once. Every day had been a fight just to make ends meet, the stress of school was wearing him down more than he liked to admit. He hadn’t been able to indulge in his hobbies, or meet with his friends. The last year was just one giant blur, and he was in the middle of it.
Finally finished, he picked up the mop, dropping it into the bucket. He slowly pushed it towards the back room and emptied all of murky water into the toilet, the stall tucked away behind a bunch of jackets and stacks of old paperwork.
He scanned the shop, which looked pretty okay. He’d just wipe down the fridge doors and spend the rest of his hours cramming for the upcoming biology test. His stupid professor had left the wrong test dates on the syllabus from the last time he taught the class and refused to keep it as it was. It meant his schedule had become even more zombified since all he’d been doing during any free time was read about kinesiology and anatomy until his head started spinning. He only had one more day to prepare for it.
Sighing softly, he sat down at the counter and rummaged through his backpack which he’d left on the floor when he came in. He pulled out his textbook littered with sticky notes and his most recent notebook, clicking his mechanical pencil a few times before squishing his cheek with his palm as he leaned his head on his hand, reading the mindnumbing paragraphs.
He had no idea how much time passed until a single soul entered his general vicinity. Despite Riyo's previous warnings, he’d nearly fallen asleep when a tattooed hand waved at his face.
Irritated at himself, Zanka blearily looked up, slamming his book shut and quickly shoving it to the side.
In front of him was a man that easily towered over him. He had a shock of blonde hair and a lazy smile on his face, dressed in all black (was that a motorcycle jacket?) And holding a matching helmet under his arm. Something about the way he moved made it seem like the guy was jacked as fuck, and Zanka wasn’t just judging by how big his arms were.
Zanka's eyes briefly darted outside, catching a glimpse of a flashy motorbike waiting for its owner. Definitely worth a small fortune.
Didn’t hurt that the owner was equally flashy.
He cleared his throat, willing his eyes to divert back to the intense man standing in front of him.
“How may I help you?” Zanka asked when he realized the man had no items, nor a card out to pay.
“Can I have a pack of smokes and a map?”
The brunet paused.
“A… map?” He tilted his head. What was this, the 90’s?
“Phone’s fucked,” the customer said when he noticed Zanka’s confusion. He tossed the proof on the counter. A completely shattered phone with parts of the glass screen missing. Yikes.
“I apologize, we don’t really sell maps here. I can point you to another gas station that does though,” he mentally cursed at his manager for being such a cheapskate while he turned around to access the many brands of cigarettes. What if this guy would get mad at him?
“That’s fine,” the man brushed off, “gimme the red one right there,” he pointed his hand on the top most shelf, and Zanka had to stand on the tips of his toes to grab the pack. He felt his cheeks redden from the fact he couldn’t just reach up and grab it, having to stretch himself fully just to get to it.
When he succeeded, he smoothed out his clothes and tried not to frown while scanning the pack, peeking back at the motorcyclist. He prayed his ears weren't as red hot as they felt.
The stranger had his head tilted, still looking at him with a lazy smile.
“That’ll be six bucks,” Zanka said, staring at his biology book instead. What the hell? Since when did he have an issue with eye contact?
“Ah, gimme a sec,” the man said, looking over at the small candy display before grabbing a dozen of the same ones and dropping them right next to the cigarettes. Silently, Zanka felt his brow furrow in a blend of confusion and judgment.
Zanka dutifully scanned each bar while unwelcome gold eyes studied him, and when he was done, the total displayed on the register had quintupled. The man dropped all the candies (and the shattered phone) in his helmet in one motion without sparing them a second thought.
“Thirty-one dollars and sixty cents, please,” Zanka told him, watching the guy take out a fresh band of cash that Zanka would literally kill for.
They were all one hundred bills, Zanka realized as he watched those ridiculously big hands search for the amount he roughly needed.
“Ahh, whatever,” the blond muttered, shoving two bills in Zanka’s face. “Just keep the change. As a tip, alright?” The man gave a bright, pearly smile paired with a wink, and then he sauntered off, opening the pack of cigarettes after tearing off the plastic.
“Sir, I’m not allowed to–”
The door closed with a mocking beep.
What. The hell.
Zanka sagged back in his seat, sorting out the cash register and dropping the leftover $170 in the dusty donation pot next to the candy display.
Watching the money sit there while he was probably going to eat instant noodles for breakfast was rough.
He was being recorded though, and he didn’t want to lose his job. Not yet. He could be honest with his manager, but taking money from the store was considered theft here. Why risk it?
Zanka pulled the book back to him, opening it where he left off.
What a weirdo.
The next day Zanka was absolutely wrecked. The weather was total garbage, and he’d arrived at his morning classes in the same clothes he’d worked in since he had to go straight from the gas station to campus. He was completely soaked, dropping (and dripping) into the seat next to Riyo. She gave him one look before her face did that weird thing where she’d get such sad puppy eyes you’d join her in her misery, digging into her duffel bag and pulling out a soft towel for him to use.
“Didn’t wanna be late today. Attendance, and all that,” he muttered, taking the towel. His head was throbbing.
“Don't you have an umbrella? It’s supposed to rain all day long,” she said, her voice soft as the professor started speaking.
Zanka shook his head, and Riyo frowned.
“How will you get home?”
“Rain never hurt anyone, did it?” Zanka shrugged, taking off his tassel earrings to also dry them off.
“You could get sick, you know," she countered. “Seriously sick.”
“Come on, it's not the 1800s. I haven’t even been sick in years,” he raised a brow at her puffed up face, and she looked away, crossing her arms.
“Suit yourself.”
“Besides, I know you’ll come over and spoonfeed me canned soup when I'm dying from the flu since you’re such a great friend and all,” Zanka waved off her faux anger, and he got the wet towel shoved in his face for it, startling him.
“Bold of you to assume it won’t be made from scratch. I care about my friends enough not to feed them that poison.”
Zanka chuckled, relaxing somewhat.
“Thanks for the towel,” he gave it back to her and she nodded.
The rest of the lecture was awful. Riyo had to wake him up several times, and his clothes were still pretty damp by the time it was over. Then he had to go home the long way due to construction. Just like Riyo predicted, rain continued to flood the streets.
“Goddammit,” he muttered, stepping into the downpour. The comfort of his half dry clothes was forgotten immediately as he jogged through the storm, using whatever cover he could find as he went, but it was useless.
He was exhausted, irritated, and wet.
When a car splashed water all over him from the ditch, he kind of just stood there, glaring after the asshole.
“What a fuckin’ drag,” he muttered, shuffling forward. He just wanted to go home and take a shower.
Homemade soup sounded nice, he thought.
God, he was pathetic. He ran away with nothing, and now he had something. He couldn’t just let life step all over him like this. He'd gotten somewhere. Gotten into college all on his own, dammit. He’d gotten an apartment through sheer fucking will, and small as it was, it was his. Every cup of shitty instant noodles inside that apartment was his, too. Still, the heavy sense of defeat rubbed at him, causing his skin to prickle, feeling raw and exposed like a nerve.
Honestly, realistically, how much longer could he really keep going like this?
He was about to take a deep breath and continue his trek home when the rain suddenly stopped.
The sound remained, though.
Looking up, he saw an old, white umbrella covering him from the water, the tap-tap-taps so much more comforting than the continuous swishhh…
“Shitty weather to walk in. Got anywhere to be?”
Zanka slowly turned, feeling weighed down by his clothes and his mind, running on no sleep at all. It finally crashed into his brainchamber how this was his fortieth hour without it.
Next to him stood that weirdo from yesterday, this time in some loose clothes, a gray pair of jogging pants and a half opened black hoodie, revealing a tank top and a matching swirl of black and red tattoos marking his chest and shoulders like a painting.
“H-huh?” Zanka uttered.
“You’ve been standing there for like… two minutes? I figured a brain eating amoeba got you, but then I realized they only show up in lakes with stagnant water,” he eyed the ditch. “You should get a check-up. Just to be safe.”
Zanka’s eyes registered the fact the guy was talking to him, but it was like everything he said was muffled, a dozen miles away, like he had slipped beneath the surface of consciousness. Zanka looked down, then he rubbed his eyes and tried looking back up again, squinting.
The blond stranger was now quiet, his expression somewhat concerned.
Ah… guess Riyo was right once again. How many tallies were that today? He tried to step forward, but the weird feeling in his head increased, and he lost his balance, dead to the world.
When he came to, he was in a dark room. He groaned, feeling cold and hot all at once.
“Shit,” he said miserably. Where was he? Looking around, he saw the curtains were completely black and opaque, failing to give any hints about time. Next to him was a small nightstand, but when he tried to pick up what he could vaguely make out as a watch, the sound of a door opened, and the silhouette matched the guy he’d run into before he did the whole fainting thing. Embarrassing…
“Oh? You’re up,” the man sounded relieved. Zanka must’ve caused a real scene for this guy to be worried.
“I apologize, but where am I?” Zanka asked, rubbing his arm and suddenly realizing he wasn’t wearing his shirt. His eyes widened, and he glared at the stranger standing in the doorway.
“Did you undress me?” He asked, immediately noticing those tattooed hands rise in defense.
“You were completely soaked. What, you wanted me to just stuff you under the covers with the whole weather report still clinging onto you and messing with your immune system even more?” The sound of him clicking his tongue made Zanka look away, still mildly irritated.
He had a point.
“Anyway, you’re at my place. Go get some more rest, I’ll call you for dinner,” he said, closing the door before Zanka could even say anything back.
He couldn’t afford to waste his time here. He had to study and get ready for another shift.
Scooting to the edge of the large bed, he pushed the covers off his body and immediately felt himself tremble at the cool air. It was just a cold. He could handle a cold.
Zanka stood up, walking towards the door and opening it just a little to peek through. The stranger was nowhere to be found, just like his belongings. Fuck’s sake.
Was his only option to just waltz around naked in an unknown guy's house, hoping to find his clothes?
He felt a bit defeated, looking down at himself. At least he was wearing his boxe–
Those weren’t his.
His whole face got hot, and he pulled at the fabric a little before closing the bedroom door and sliding down against it, absolutely mortified.
So much for modesty.
Feeling determined to get the hell out of dodge all over again, he decided to just bite the bullet and sneak around the place. It was filled with random items everywhere. Zanka would call the guy a hoarder, but everything had its own spot, neatly taken care of. He peeked past the wall to what seemed to be the living room, and he saw his backpack sitting on the floor next to the couch.
Maybe his clothes were in the bathroom?
The apartment, he judged it to be, was huge. Much bigger than his own with many different doors leading to rooms that were equally as stuffed with miscellaneous knick-knacks. Zanka started to grow annoyed when he opened the sixth door and still didn’t find a clue as to where his shit was.
“Looking for something?” The voice belonging to the stranger suddenly said behind him, and Zanka jumped, hiding behind the seventh door he was about to open.
“Gimme my stuff. I gotta go,” he muttered, his eyes briefly widening at his own piss poor attitude. “Please.” He added, looking down at his feet.
He blamed the lack of sleep and this weird day.
“As you wish,” blondie shrugged and went into the room Zanka had opened, the brunet hearing some noise before his clothes were held out in front of him. Dry and smelling faintly of washing detergent.
“Thank you,” he said quietly, not moving until the taller man got the hint to stop looking.
Everything went fine until he felt a wave of nausea upon stepping into his pants, and he blindly grabbed the wall, sliding the wrong way and hitting a picture frame, both him and the item dropping to the floor.
Zanka looked at himself sprawled on the floor, dazed.
“I know I can’t peek, but judging from the gracefulness I’m hearing behind me, you’re in no shape to go back home in this weather.”
Zanka’s head shot up. “It’s still raining?”
“Mhmm. That’s why I told ya to just chill out.”
Blue eyes closed in frustration, and he bent his knees to his chest.
“I can’t afford to,” he said. “I don’t have time.”
He received no reply, and when he slowly opened his unfocused eyes, he was met with golden ones, looking at him. The man had squatted down in front of Zanka, his tattooed arms on full display as he rested them on his own knees.
“You won’t lose anything from taking a few days to recover. They will understand.”
“They won’t. If I miss one shift I’ll end up in debt. If I miss one day of studying I won’t be ready for the test. I can’t get sick. I can’t,” he felt himself panicking.
The man sighed.
“We’ll figure that out when it’s time for that, okay?”
Zanka felt himself get mad.
“How can you possibly tell me that? You don’t know what I’m dealing with, barging into my life like this and just telling me what to do!” He yelled, instantly regretting his outburst.
“Broke college kid working graveyard shifts at a gas station who hasn’t skipped a day of class while battling sleep deprivation and starvation,” the man said, tilting his head. “Relying only on himself.” Was added a second later.
Zanka’s eye twitched.
“I’m Enjin. I moved here a week ago.”
“Your apartment looks too lived-in for it to be just one week,” Zanka immediately told him.
“The other guy died,” Enjin looked dead serious before bursting out in a fit of laughter when he saw Zanka’s face.
“What the hell?” Zanka half yelled.
“I’m joking, I’m joking,” the blond wiped a tear from his eyes, “I’m here on business. The apartment is owned by my friend.”
“I don’t believe you,” Zanka deadpanned. The draft from the hallway made him shiver, and he stilled himself to fend off the cold.
“You don’t have to. Just look at the picture you dropped,” Enjin nodded vaguely to Zanka’s left, and Zanka followed the man’s gaze to a small picture with a now broken glass. He slowly picked up the frame, revealing a large man with dark skin and a kind smile, holding Enjin in a headlock with one arm and swishing a beer towards the camera with his free hand.
“Whatever,” Zanka pouted.
“Let’s get you back to bed,” Enjin stood up, holding out his hand.
“Do you have my phone anywhere?” He asked, using his unworn clothes to cover his body when he let himself get pulled up by the other man.
“Ah, I’ll get it for you if you tell me your name,” Enjin gave that lazy smile, and Zanka sighed.
“Zanka Nijiku.”
Something flashed into Enjin's eyes for a split second before it was gone, and he pulled Zanka along with him to the bedroom.
“Well, Zanka, you wanna work so bad? Your job is to sleep. Got it?” Enjin went from happy and laid-back to completely serious, and holy shit he kinda looked scary. Zanka swallowed while he was pinned beneath Enjin’s intense gaze. He nodded once, twice, before Enjin relaxed and left him alone.
When Zanka buried himself in the mountain of pillows and comfortable blanket, Enjin entered the room and gave him his phone, fully charged.
“I’ll check up on you when I have dinner ready,” he said. Zanka stared at his back as he walked away, the one thing he’d been itching to understand making itself known above all else.
“Why’d you help me?” Zanka asked. And before Enjin could answer, he quickly muttered, “and… sorry for blowing up on you earlier. I’m just confused.”
Enjin turned back to him, humming at the question in thought.
“When a pretty boy lands in my arms, how can I not?” He grinned. “And you’re fine. Sleep well, Zanka,” he said, his voice dropping lower at Zanka’s name. He closed the door and all that was left of him were his heavy footsteps sauntering off.
Zanka remembered how to breathe around a minute later, after his face finally stopped blushing.