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Enjin is pathetic. Like absolutely miserable.
“Having feelings is a normal human trait,” says Semiu, putting a glass into his hand.
“I'm almost 30. I have better things to do,” he laments, but accepts the drink.
“Being a grown man does not absolve you from having feelings,” the administrator shrugs.
It's Semiu’s day off, the one that started with her regular “I'm going to get so wasted” spiel. It's not Enjin’s day off, but rarely does Enjin take into account if he's supposed to be working or not, so at a bar they are. At a bar they are, and Enjin is sulking for reasons shameable and laughable. Semiu doesn't mind, though, because Semiu has seen things worse than an ill-tempered co-worker. And also Semiu is pretty efficient in her task of getting drunk, so that should be alleviating some of the irritation that Enjin's presence must generate. Or she doesn't care. She orders another round of drinks while Enjin pulls on his hair in utter frustration.
He didn't mean to tag along originally, but then realised he probably won't be able to sleep anyway. And between being devastated over nothing of substance in solitude he would much rather at least spend some time with one of his closest friends, given that it's been a while since their last outing. He isn't sure if Semiu is happy that he’s here, though, but she didn't chase him away, so here Enjin remains. Still as devastated as ever, but at least this bar has decent alcohol and music. And permits smoking indoors, which is a great bonus. He offers Semiu a cigarette and she shakes her head at him.
Communication is key , he said to Rudo. Look at him, doing the absolute opposite of his own advice. No, Enjin is great at communicating with people in regards to work matters. But whenever anything personal gets involved his speaking skills are out of the window in an instant. Not a great quality to have, but he tries his best. Or he usually does. Or pretends he does. Whichever is more fitting in the specific scenario.
The evening drones on and Enjin slowly zones out, lost in thoughts of various levels of coherency. Eventually Seimu gets up to leave and taps him on the shoulder. He trails behind the administrator back to the headquarters in silence, and then drops dead in his dorm without taking his boots off.
The next morning is worse than the previous one. Not because he's hungover — which he isn't, to his deepest surprise, — but because sleep evades him. Instead he kind of doses off, half awake, and tosses and turns until the sun rises and Enjin can hear the birds chirp outside. He hates the sound, he just decided. He flops on his back, covering his ears with his hands, and stares at the ceiling.
No matter how hard he tries, instead of sleep his thoughts wander back to yesterday and his general predicament.
See, Enjin is an experienced cleaner and a decent mentor, but every good skill of his is severely outclassed by Gris. He feels like an inadequate intern in his presence these days, even more so ever since Rudo came along. And thus he follows the exact same strategy everyone else does — if you want to do something but can't do it yet, then run. Wasn't that also Gris’s saying? God damn it.
It gets to a point, though. It gets to a Point.
He weighs his options for the hundredths time in the past several weeks. What does Gris like aside from mentoring Follo and doing his job? Driving, but Enjin only has one car and he likes it very much. His Jeep has suffered enough of their interchangeable driving already, and he isn't sure how much the poor vehicle has left in store. Gris mentioned he likes drinks. Maybe Enjin should invite him for drinks next time. The problem here is that Gris doesn't like unreasonable environments, and Enjin is currently kind of an unreasonable environment himself if he thinks about it.
It's not that Enjin is that bad or lacks experience in romance specifically, he’s actually a pretty decent flirt when needed. It's just that the last time he was ever interested in someone past a one night stand stage was years and years ago, and it felt drastically different for reasons unknown to him. Last time it was kind of just a short term interest. Was nice while it lasted. Gris, however, makes him incredibly forlorn, and he has no idea what to do with it. He isn't even sure Gris is interested in anyone at all, let alone men. He could ask Gris straightforwardly and then depending on the answer just drill a hole through the floor with Umbreaker and fall to his death. That sounds like a great plan.
He opens the door to the cafeteria around dinner time, not expecting much. Most of the teams are out and about except his own squad, who were currently on standby and left to their own devices. True to his expectations, there's barely anyone. But Gris is there. This time Gris is wearing a plain shirt instead of his usual teal one, still maintaining a casual look while being more dapper than he is around the headquarters. Enjin has opinions about this fit that he refuses to even acknowledge, let alone voice out loud.
He almost marches straight towards the man, mustering every ounce of courage that he possesses, but notices Follo midway and instantly decides that the interaction isn't worth it. To his misfortune, he's noticed and waved over, so Enjin smiles as politely as he can.
“Fancy runnin’ into you here,” he says, stopping in front of the duo and shoving his hands into his pockets, “What are you two up to today?”
“We were heading to the city,” explains Gris, “Zanka offered his help in training today, so we decided a dinner after a good workout is a great way to restore energy.”
“Zanka is the least ordinary cleaner there is. I'm completely spent,” yawns Follo, stretching his arms, “Wanna tag along, Enjin?”
Enjin considers the offer for a split second and decides that that would be ultimately an awkward and awful experience. By all means, Follo is very nice. He likes Follo to a plausible degree. Enjin just kind of cannot act well composed around Gris as is, and having Follo alongside would be infinitely worse.
“I have some things to wrap up around here today, unfortunately,” he says, knowing fair well he has nothing to do whatsoever, “But I hope you two have a wonderful evening.”
Gris clicks his tongue in what either sounds suspiciously like disappointment or is Enjin's wishful thinking. “Ah, that's a shame.”
“You have to go with us next time,” laments Follo.
“I will,” smiles Enjin.
He leaves. He wanders through the empty corridors like a ghost, kicking air with his heavy work boots. The floorboards are squeaky clean and his steps are loud.
He could go to the city and waste some time there instead of being bored to death in the headquarters. But going to the city means risking meeting Gris and Follo, and staying here means risking getting actual work to do, so he just hides in his room for the rest of the day. His room isn't well furnished (according to others. Per Enjin's opinion, it's a perfectly fine room) and has little to do in it, so he kind of tries to sleep through the whole thing. He closes his eyes only for his mind to helpfully visualise Gris in his half done teal button up t-shirt he wears around the headquarters.
Enjin wants this man in ways unimaginable, but the worst part is that he kind of just wants to hold him. Or be held. No, that's worse. Whatever.
“Maybe killing the guy will solve all of my problems,” he says to the Umbreaker that rests in the corner across the room. The jinki does not respond, which he takes as a silent agreement with his statement.
There's a knock on the door that startles Enjin out of his sorrowful and murderous musings. Did his job finally find him? Oh please no, he's not in the mood for a mission neither today nor tomorrow. For a second he wonders if he should just pretend to be asleep, but the knocking repeats and he reluctantly drags himself up and to the door.
He instantly regrets his decision, because the person at his doorstep is a man with a scar across his left eye. Enjin feels his own eye twitch. The smile tastes plastic.
“Gris!” He says in mock excitement, “It’s late, man. Didja need something?”
“You’ve been weirder than usual in the morning. Is anything up?”
Enjin blinks. Ah yes, Gris Rubion, everything is great. Offhand question, have you ever considered sleeping with me by chance? Y’know, hypothetically. No real reason for asking, of course.
“What's that supposed to mean?” He voices instead, narrowing his eyes.
“You look more disheveled than usual,” Gris states.
“...Do I?” asks Enjin, and it's a genuine question, because he has no idea of how he must currently look whatsoever. He smiles wider for good measure. Maybe that’ll fend the other cleaner away.
Gris frowns at him. “Are you sure you're well?”
Oh why does he have to be nice. This just makes everything worse. This is wildly unhelpful to Enjin’s state of wellbeing.
“Yes, I'm fairly sure.”
Gris crosses his arms and leans against the doorframe. “That's just not true.”
“Aww,” drawls Enjin, making a mischievous face, “Are you worried about me?”
“Yes.”
“A.” Well, there goes all the mischief he managed to muster.
Enjin tries to shut the door, then, because that's the only thing he can think of. He slams it with everything he has, but Gris, to his devastation, has always been and continues to be physically stronger by a good mile. Gris just holds his hand forward, and then lets himself into Enjin's room, at which Enjin is thoughtfully horrified.
It's not a bad room. It's a decently clean and well kept room. It's currently the worst place on the surface, because Enjin is locked in it with Gris Rubion.
“You're like a disease,” he declares, pointing an accusatory finger at Gris, who’s standing right in the middle of the area.
Gris laughs. His deep laughter resonates and bounces off of half empty walls, filling the air. Enjin might just die.
“I'm just concerned with my friend, that's all.”
If it were anyone else, Enjin would make a scene. He would dramatically raise one of his hands to his head with a sigh and say something along the lines of “ It is true, I'm so incredibly sick and I require utmost personal attention from you specifically” and then almost fall with all of the theatrics. But it's not anyone else. It's Gris Rubion. It's Gris Rubion, and the sickness is terminal.
“Your concern is misplaced. Now shoo, shoo, stop invading my personal space.”
“Since when are you concerned about personal space?”
“Since you wear half buttoned shirts around the headquarters, the sight of which makes me unreasonable.”
Gris quirks an eyebrow at him. Enjin death glares back. The stalemate continues for a good few minutes. Neither of them moves an inch.
“Do you like men, Gris Rubion.” Enjin says. It was supposed to be a question, but it comes out more like a statement. Gris raises his eyes to the ceiling, considering the inquiry with utmost seriousness for some reason.
“I've never thought of it, but now that I do, I'm not opposed to trying,” he says, “That's also a very roundabout way of asking me out.”
“I'm not asking you out.”
“Sure, Enjin. Whatever you say, Enjin. But if you were to ask me out, it would be a yes.”
“Get the fuck out of my room,” Enjin snaps, like a well composed adult that he is.
“Alright, alright,” Gris waves his hand apologetically, “Have a good evening, Enjin. I’ll tell Follo that you agreed to visit the city with us next time.”
“I didn’t—” Gris is out of the door before he can even finish the sentence.
In the silence of his own room, Enjin is more miserable than ever.