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Canvas Town never sleeps, especially not during special holidays. It’s Valentine’s Day, and every alley in this place is blooming with makeshift hearts and scavenged tinsel, plastic flowers twisting through chain-link like someone tried to ransom some kind of beauty from the city and only half-succeeded. THE DAY OF LOVE—that’s what the hostel chalkboard says, scrawled messily in red, far more of a suggestion than a promise. Most people are drunk, half-naked, covered in body paint, and shouting for someone they probably shouldn’t be in love with.
You and Zanka walk through the streets on Cleaner business, your shoulders brushing as you weave past market stalls and bucket drummers, sidestepping spilt paint and lovers with little to no respect for privacy. The city’s an open sore: walls fever-bright, air prickling with the smell of aerosol and old rain. Someone’s roasting sweet potatoes on a barrel fire. Neon script flickers over every cracked window, running advertisements for love hotels and cut-rate fortune-tellers. Zanka’s jaw is tight, hands jammed in his pockets. The unreasonable amount of public affection on display is not something he deals well with, so he keeps his head down, as if the lights themselves might catch on the wrong thought and spill it across his face.
There’s a garish-looking stall just ahead with cheap plastic roses bristling from a crate; the vendor is lounging behind a pile of discount chocolate hearts, eyeing the two of you with a smile that’s seen a thousand couples walk past and knows every shape of love. As you walk past, to pay for batteries and a wholesale bag of rice, the vendor grabs Zanka by the wrist and plucks out a rose, spinning it between his fat, calloused fingers.
“For your sweetheart?” the vendor asks, already leaning in, a creepy grin spread across his face.
You laugh louder than you mean to, shaking your head. “Oh—no, we’re not—” You push the vendor’s hand back gently, shoving the rose back into the pile before Zanka has a chance to respond. “We’re just grabbing supplies. It’s not like that.”
Zanka blinks. The vendor shrugs, smile fading, and turns to harass another couple instead. You finish, continue to the vendor further up that you’re actually supposed to be paying, and head for the hostel, your stomach knotting a little from too much city.
Zanka is silent the whole walk back, boots scraping the gutter as he walks. At first, you chalk it up to exhaustion or maybe the extra intense nature of Canvas Town today, but as you climb the narrow stairs, you notice how he won’t look at you, how the sharpness is gone from his voice when you ask him to unlock the room. His hands shake, just a little, as he finally gets the door open.
The hostel is thin-walled and washed in the sickly green light of a broken streetlamp outside. Two narrow beds, white sheets gone grey with use, a single heater rumbling in the corner, fighting a losing battle against the cold. You toss your bag onto your bed, kick off your boots, and stretch, bones aching. Zanka sits on the edge of his mattress, hunched, picking at a loose thread in his trousers. He still hasn’t said a word since the stall.
You watch him out of the corner of your eye. His shoulders pull in on themselves, chin tucked, hair hiding his face. You’ve known him long enough to recognise when he’s spinning out. It usually ends with him working through the night, pushing himself to exhaustion, or getting into a fight that he definitely shouldn’t be able to win.
“Alright,” you say, breaking the silence. “What’s wrong, Zank?”
He doesn’t look up. “Nothing. S’all good.”
You sit on your bed, arms draped over your knees, and study him for a moment. “You’re lying. Been acting weird since we left the market.”
He shrugs. “Just tired.”
You snort, pressing your toes into the thin carpet. “Sure. You’re always tired. Try again.”
He finally glances up, his blue eyes have lost their sparkle. “Just drop it, alright?”
You don’t. “You got all stiff after that vendor said we were a couple. If it’s that, just say it.”
His jaw works, the muscle ticking. “Why’d you have to correct him so fast?” The words are a shock—quiet, almost muttered. “Could’ve just… let it go.”
You stare. “What, just let him think we’re—? Zanka, it’s not true.”
He laughs, hollow and rough, still not meeting your eyes. “Yeah, I know. Leave it. Was just a question.”
He sits with his hands between his knees, eyes fixed on the seam of the floorboards. You can tell by the set of his mouth that he won’t say more unless you drag it out of him.
“Talk to me. You’re not like this unless something’s really rattling you. So, why did that?”
His shoulders rise, fall. The silence stretches. Finally, he mutters, “Why would anyone think… why would someone like you pick me?” He swallows, the confession small and sharp. “Doesn’t make sense, does it? You said it so quick. Like it was obvious.”
Something in your chest twists. You cross the space between your beds, sitting down beside him so your knees bump. He doesn’t move.
“Look at me, Zank,” you say. He doesn’t. So you tap his thigh. “Zanka!”
He lifts his eyes, wary, ready to snap. But when he sees your face—whatever’s there—he looks away again, suddenly more embarrassed than angry.
“Don’t do that,” you say. “I hate it when you’re cruel to yourself.”
He huffs. “Sure. Easy for someone like you.”
You shake your head. “No, it’s not. I know what it’s like to feel like a piece of shit, trust me. But you’re not. You’re incredible, Zanka.” You reach up and brush his fringe from his eyes. He freezes, breathing shallow.
He’s always been like this, slow to believe anything good about himself, always bracing for someone to laugh. You’re not thinking about anything beyond wanting him to feel better, for once. Maybe that’s what makes you lean in and press your lips to his cheek, not as a come-on, just as proof that you care.
He jolts, pulling back as if stung, eyes wide. “What are you—?”
You don’t let him finish. “I corrected a mistake. That’s all. It was just... a reaction, I don’t know. Definitely not because I don’t think you’re worthy or me, or whatever stupid shit you’re thinking. ”
You offer a gentle smile. He really looks at you then—eyes narrow and defensive. “Don’t pity me.” There’s anger in his voice, but you’re close now, close enough to feel the warmth from his breath in the cold room.
“I’m not,” you say, quieter. “If anything, I… It’s just—” You pause, the truth heavy in your chest. “In our line of work, can we even have relationships anyway? I don’t want to let myself care and then lose someone the next damn day.”
His jaw works, but he doesn’t pull away. What you don’t tell him is that the thought’s crossed your mind before; just quietly, in the off-hours, when you’re too tired to pretend you don’t notice how easy it is to talk to him, or how much you like being the one person who can really make him belly laugh.
You hold still, feeling the tension stretch. You notice the way his eyes dart to your mouth, lingering for a moment before flicking back up to meet your gaze. For once, he doesn’t have a sarcastic comeback, just that raw, searching look.
Zanka’s breath catches, and before you can say anything else, he leans in, cautious, his mouth finding yours; soft, a little clumsy, every inch of him trembling with nerves. You let it happen. His lips are unexpectedly gentle. You let your eyes fall shut and—hell—maybe you’ve wanted this longer than you’re willing to admit. All the noise of the day drops away, leaving only the pulse of want under your skin.
He breaks away and stares at you, mouth parted. “I—sorry—I don’t know what—”
You shut him up by kissing him again, hard. His whole body locks up at first, then gives way, melting against you. His hands are hesitant, unsure where to go, so you pull him down with you onto the mattress, never breaking the kiss. He groans as you push him onto his back, your thigh sliding between his, pinning him.
When you pull back, his eyes are blown wide. You bump your forehead to his, grinning. “Why’d you have to go and break all my rules, Zanka?”
He swallows, his cheeks are tinged bright pink. You slide your hand down his stomach, feeling the jump of his muscles with every shaky exhale. He doesn’t stop you, not even when you fumble with his belt, not even when your fingers hook into the waistband of his trousers and push them low on his hips. He’s hard already, straining in his underwear, a sticky patch blooming at the tip. You palm him, feeling the heat, the thickness—you clench your thighs, trying to ignore just how wet he’s gotten you already.
He covers your hand with his, just for a second, as if to slow you down. “You—don’t have to—”
“Not doing it for you,” you say. “Doing it for me. I’ve thought about doing this to you for—well... since I met you.”
He shivers at that, eyes squeezing shut as you slide your hand inside, wrapping your fingers around him. He’s veined, heavy, the skin satin-smooth. You stroke him once, twice, slow and steady, and he lets out a whimper.
You don’t let up. You slide down the bed, knees hitting the threadbare carpet. He tries to prop himself up on his elbows to watch, but his arms are too unsteady.
You drag his underwear down. He lifts his hips for you, clumsy and eager, face gone dark red now. When you take him in your hand again, you feel the steady throb of blood pulsing, urgent, under your palm. He’s handsome—hard and flushed, almost too much to fit in your grip. He twitches when you lean in, pressing your tongue just under the head and catching the tang of salty pre-come. He makes a strangled sound, fists clutching the sheets.
You grin. “Fuck, Zanka. You want this bad, huh?”
You open your mouth and slide him in slowly, your tongue working over the tip before you ease down further. He tastes good—salty, clean, just a hint of sweat from nerves. You press your lips tight around him and suck, feeding saliva into your mouth from the back of your throat until you’re dripping for him, spit slicking everything you can reach.
His knuckles go bone-white on the blanket, every muscle straining to keep still while you show off—hollowing your cheeks, swallowing him deeper, letting your tongue curl and tease along the thick underside.
You’re savouring the way he falls apart. You swirl your tongue, suck until his hips jump. He’s groaning, mouth open, head thrown back, eyes screwed tight.
You pull off, spit pooling at the corners of your mouth, and look up at him. “Watch me...”
When he finally lifts his head, his eyes are huge, black swallowing out the blue. He’s shaking, shoulders tense and breath all choppy. You stroke him, thumb teasing the slit, watching the way he tries and fails to keep from whining for you.
“Still think I don’t want you?” you ask, squeezing just enough to make him gasp again.
He shakes his head, the smallest, most honest movement you’ve ever seen from him.
“Good,” you say. Then you take him to the base, mouth sloppy, bobbing your head, working him with every trick you know. Your fingers squeeze the base, spit dripping down your knuckles, lips working him wet and messy. Every noise he makes is muffled, but desperate; high, pleading, on the verge of falling apart.
He’s so close already, you can tell from the way his thighs shake, and his belly jumps with every dip of your head. He tries to warn you—“Wait, I’m gonna—” but the words break apart when you suck harder, grip tight at the base, determined to get him all the way there.
His hand scrabbles for something to hold onto, then finds the back of your head, fingers twisting in your hair. When he comes, it’s a shock to both of you: he bucks up, a ragged, choked sound slipping out before he slaps his other hand over his mouth, trying to muffle himself. Hot spurts hit the back of your throat—he comes hard, too much, almost more than you can keep up with. You swallow once, then again, his cock still twitching on your tongue as he spills into your mouth, pulse after pulse. Each wave forces you to gulp him down, until he’s finally spent and quivering beneath your hands. He’s panting, whimpering, his hips jerking even now, like he can’t control anything anymore.
You swallow, then pull off, catching a thread of slick at the corner of your mouth and wiping it away with the back of your hand. You glance up at him, a huge grin pulling at your lips—he’s sprawled back, eyes glazed and wild, trying to catch his breath, looking a little embarrassed at how loud he got.
You crawl up beside him, fingers trailing along his hip.
“Shall we go and visit that vendor again now?” You murmur, smirking.
He stares at the ceiling, throat working as he tries to catch his breath. “Shut up.”
You laugh, flicking his side. “That’s what I thought.”