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Most people on the ground don't care about the age of majority.
The fines for selling alcohol or tobacco to minors are an extra source of income for town councils — that's pretty much the extent of it. It hasn't been introduced out of any concern for children's health and safety, varies between districts, and generally doesn't mean much. The Ground is built on child labor.
Besides, a lot of people don't know their birth date at all, others know the date, but not the exact year, or the other way around. Zanka is one of the lucky ones who know exactly how old they are, to the hour. His birth is a very well documented event. It was supposed to be a significant one.
He'd never thought of himself as a child, though; his family was unfamiliar with the concept. His eighteenth birthday is an excuse for everyone at the HQ to throw a party, get drunk and have a bit of laugh watching the stickler for the rules take his first shot.
He doesn't care for drinking something that smells and tastes like industrial waste, and doesn't want to lose control over any part of himself. His first shot would have been his last, if it wasn't for Enjin hovering over and practically begging him to have fun. And since it's him who asks, Zanka does have fun, as much as he's capable of. It's convenient that his idea of a good time is anything, as long as Enjin's near.
And three drinks in, with Enjin's arm around his shoulder, he wonders if there might be more to the number eighteen than just being allowed to buy cigarettes. If there ever was someone who'd wait…
Zanka spends a lot of time wondering if Enjin knows. It's so hard to hide his love sometimes, he keeps himself up at night, wondering if everyone knows, if he's the older Cleaners' favorite inside joke. If Enjin catches slack from others for Zanka's obvious obsession. That would be awful.
Most times, though, he's pretty sure Enjin is completely oblivious.
Two weeks after the birthday party, he takes Zanka on a short assignment. It's an easy job, and they happened to be on call. Zanka doesn't want to get his hopes up that it means anything, but he doesn't know why Enjin didn't just go alone, either. Probably didn't want to miss an opportunity for Zanka to practice, given his mediocre track record with fights that actually matter.
When the job is done, they take a moment to rest, sitting side by side on a pile of scrap metal. They've moved quite a way from the support team, who stayed behind with the car, so it's just him and Enjin. On the rare occasion that they're left alone, they always end up talking about Rudo, or some horrible thing that just happened. This time, Enjin doesn't seem eager to talk about anything. He lights a cigarette and watches the yellow clouds of pollution pass through the sky.
Watching Enjin smoke is one of Zanka's favorite things. He could spend the whole day just looking at his beautiful, tattooed hand flick the ash from his cigarette.
"Want one?" The object of his affections extends the half-empty pack towards him, and Zanka jumps. "It's fine. I see the way you're staring."
Enjin, his Enjin — he changed from that Enjin into his Enjin some time ago, — offering him a cigarette would have been cause for celebration until recently. Now, Zanka thinks that maybe he should be a little more obvious with his pining. That he might have a chance and never even know it.
I'm not staring at your stupid cigarettes, I'm staring at you, because you're hot, he means to say, but instead, he reaches for the pack and feels his ears turn red.
Maybe that's his chance. If he starts smoking, they can take breaks together, and bond, and talk like equals. (Not that he'll ever measure up to Enjin.) Are you coming?, his Enjin, the Enjin in his head, pokes him on the shoulder and asks to join him outside, to walk with him into some warm and endless night that Zanka hasn't been allowed to see until now.
The real Zanka, the one sitting on a pile of scrap metal on a job with the real Enjin, puts all of his brain power into not looking like an idiot in front of his crush. He takes out a cigarette and hesitantly puts it in his mouth. Enjin's tattooed hands are suddenly very close to his face. He can smell the tobacco and dust lingering on his fingers when Enjin lights the cigarette for him, sheltering the flame with his other hand. Zanka holds the cigarette between his index and middle finger, tries not to think about how his sleeves will smell of the smoke (like Enjin) later, shoots him a little "thanks," and inhales.
And then he starts coughing.
That's fine. Enjin knows this is his first time smoking. It's probably normal. It'll stop soon.
Zanka keeps coughing.
"Oh, boy. You okay?," Enjin snickers. "Sorry, I forgot how strong these are."
Of course his Enjin smokes the strongest shit that can be found on the ground, and Zanka is ashamed that he didn't even know that, but it's very cool, very on brand. His eyes tear up.
He keeps coughing.
Enjin is properly laughing at him now. Good going, Zanka. That's how you get someone to fall for you, alright. At least he gets to enjoy Enjin rubbing circles into his back. The only romantic action he'll ever get is being comforted for being completely pathetic.
"Seriously, you good?"
"I'm— good," Zanka chokes out, when he finally manages to stop coughing for a second. He tries not to think what he looks like, with his face all red and tears in his eyes. Oh, why, why does it always have to end like this. His dream of smoke breaks with Enjin is blown away, but—
He's pulled into an embrace. His face is squished against Enjin's chest, his nose fills with the scent of smoke, sweat and the faintest trace of perfume. It's the scent he's come to love, but has never smelled from this up close before. He's got half a mind to move the still smoldering cigarette in his hand away from Enjin's collar.
Enjin keeps laughing when he rubs his shoulder and ruffles his hair; it's with a laugh when he kisses Zanka on the temple. Three loud, playful smooches.
"What's going on?," is the only thing that Zanka can say, because nothing else comes to mind.
"Nothing, I just like you." Enjin shakes his head. "You were adorable."
That's a word used to describe children and pets, not fellow adults one is interested in. Zanka's adorable.
He glares at the cigarette. Enjin points at it.
"Are you going to finish that, or should I?"
"Take it," Zanka sighs. His lungs still feel itchy, so the next attempt would end in a similar disaster. "I don't want it."
Enjin's fingers brush against his when he takes the cigarette. Zanka has spent so much time watching those hands that he could draw the tattoos on them with his eyes closed. He'd imagined those hands doing countless unspeakable things to him.
And now, the same hands put the thing that's been in his mouth between Enjin's lips. Enjin closes his eyes and sucks on it with a satisfied smirk. It's hard not to think that it's come to his mind, too. That he's taking pleasure in the fact that this is now Zanka's cigarette.
"Wait. I changed my mind," Zanka jumps on the chance. "I want to try again."
"Suit yourself."
Zanka savors the process. He watches the filter leave Enjin's lips, and when he puts it to his own, it's like they're indirectly touching. He takes a drag, thinking that instead of smoke, he's inhaling the air from Enjin's lungs.
Enjin watches him like a hawk. Zanka manages to avoid coughing his lungs out this time around.
"Aww." Enjin grins. "You're like a baby bird."
"Huh?"
"You can take it, but you needed it straight from my mouth."
Zanka blushes, and it has nothing to do with his coughing fit from a moment ago. He pictures himself, opening his mouth, sticking out the tip of his tongue, looking up at Enjin, waiting for anything that the other man would offer him. And he can't not think about Enjin putting his tattooed fingers inside, or holding his jaw open so he can spit in his mouth, or even—
There's no way Enjin isn't thinking about it, too. There's no way he's that oblivious.
Zanka meets his eyes. They're amused, but not in a patronizing way; it's a look of curiosity, like he's inviting Zanka to have fun along with him. And Zanka accepts, taking a drag from the cigarette without breaking eye contact, and slowly, deliberately, blowing it in Enjin's face.
He can't imagine that he's particularly sexy right now. His face is flushed and his eyes are probably still blood-shot. He's nothing special in the looks department on a good day. He's not even Enjin's type.
But damn him if he doesn't give it his best try.
And it feels like it works. Enjin's palm covers his mouth; his fingers touch Zanka's lips, rough and dry, when he takes the cigarette back. Zanka holds the smoke in his lungs. His vision swims, his brain turns foggy and his heart accelerates, and he has no idea if the nicotine is doing that, or if it's just Enjin, because it's not his first time feeling that way.
Enjin keeps looking him in the eye while he smokes. Zanka leans towards him. He doesn't know if he's doing it consciously, or if he's just so lightheaded he can't sit straight anymore, but their faces are now close, and the smoke they exhale mixes together.
He's not imagining it. Enjin wants him. Enjin finds this hot. Enjin knows, and he's fine with it, nothing, I just like you. Like you, like you.
He waits for Zanka to make the first move because he's younger and he's Enjin's subordinate, that's all it is. Zanka's heart pounds. His chest hurts, his head swims, but he's sure that he can do it, like this, when he floats above his own body. He just needs to do anything and let Enjin take it from there. Grab his hands, touch his knee, anything, anything.
He keeps his lips slightly parted as he leans further forward. There's a second when he thinks he's going to pass out. His vision turns completely black when his forehead touches Enjin's, burning hot skin against his clammy face. He comes back to a golden eye staring right into his.
"Right." Enjin practically jumps up from his seat. His feet hit the sand with a loud thud that makes Zanka shudder. "Enough sitting around. They're waiting for us."
He throws the cigarette on the ground and puts it out with the sole of his boot.
Zanka sits on the pile of scrap metal with his mouth open, dizzy, flushed, and feeling like an idiot. But surely, he can't be that stupid. He didn't imagine Enjin touching his lips, or the way he looked at him. They were there together. They shared that indirect kiss.
Enjin walks off towards the car, hunching down. His silhouette screams defeat. Maybe he just thinks it's Zanka who doesn't want it. Zanka's pounding heart swells at the thought that Enjin could be afraid of breaking it.
"I like you, too," he calls after the other man.
Enjin stops and turns his head.
"Thanks!," he responds with a wide smile. "You coming, or not?"
"I really like you." Zanka doesn't know how else to put it into words, to let him know that it's okay, without running up to Enjin and kissing him. It's fun to imagine, but he could never do that. "I really do."
"That's sweet of you. Come on, get in the car."
"Not like a friend," Zanka pleads.
Enjin's smile dies on his face.
"I know." His voice is steady, collected and cold. It doesn't leave room for discussion.
He knows. Zanka's not naive, and Enjin's not oblivious. It really happened, then it ended, and there's nothing more to it.
He looks at Zanka for a little longer, and then keeps walking, leaving him alone with the taste of smoke in his throat. The cigarette butt lays in the sand where Enjin had stomped it into the ground.