Chapter Text
Enjin doesn’t remember falling asleep.
At some point, the ceiling must’ve blurred into nothing and his thoughts finally burned themselves out, because when his eyes open, the light in the room has shifted; it's bright. Too bright for his liking.
Slowly, he crooks his head to one side and tries to blink the sleep away, the movement drawing a deep grunt out of him when it pulls at the tender skin around his throat. It always gets him when his brain still isn’t fully awake.
The next thing that greets him is the persistent throbbing in his head.
Enjin groans and forcefully presses the heels of his palms into his eyes until he sees sparks and his vision swims, pushing harder until the pressure settles something loose in his skull.
The sun is still shining too brightly the next time he opens his eyes, and Enjin already hates it. Wishes it would leave him alone. He exhales through his nose and runs a hand through his hair, wincing when his fingers catch in the tangled strands. All in all, he probably looks like hell right now.
Serves him right.
His throat still tastes faintly like smoke and cheap liquor.
Nothing about this is a surprise; no matter how many times Enjin pretends otherwise, this is what follows a rough mission. He should be used to it by now.
Four hours of sleep isn’t bad either. By his standards, that practically counts as resting.
His body feels like it’s been dragged through concrete several times over. Hopefully, nothing a quick shower and a cup of coffee won’t fix. He’s in dire need of one after last night’s mess.
For a second, Enjin just lies there, staring at the ceiling. Fingers idly brushing Umbreaker's handle beside him as he adjusts to his surroundings, the wood is cool against his fingertips, familiar in a way little else is anymore. basking in the short-lived quiet that only ever greets him during the first few minutes after waking up.
He exhales sharply when It breaks soon enough. The noise in his skull threatens to wander back, and he forces himself upright.
Don’t think. Just move.
It’s easier this way. Thinking never does him any favors this early.
By the time he makes it to the dining hall, he’s already in clean clothes, sleeves shoved carelessly to his elbows, damp hair still dripping cold water down the back of his neck, smelling less like crap. The pounding in his head has dulled enough to let him function—more or less.
Enjin slows for half a second in the doorway. He adjusts his choker, runs a hand through his messy strands to tame it a little, then pulls on his best smile and walks in like he normally does. Not like he spent half the night staring at the ceiling thinking about things he has no right thinking about.
He didn’t. He swears he didn’t.
No one’s checking anyway.
The dining hall is already loud by the time he walks in—chairs scraping, utensils clattering, someone arguing over something Enjin doesn't catch. He spots Gris right away. Of course he does. Gris is always in his usual place, near the cracked window that never shuts properly in winter, like clockwork. He’s got one boot hooked around the chair leg like he always does. And Enjin drops into the seat across from him harder than necessary. The chair legs scrape loudly against the floor, A few recruits glance over before losing interest just as quickly. He pays it no mind.
“Morning,” he mutters around a lazy smile, stretching his arms in front of him.
“Morning,” Gris hums without looking up. He’s looking fresher than he did last night, hair sleeked back, face shaved and ready for the day, halfway through his breakfast already. Good.
Enjin’s smile widens as he reaches for the cup in front of him and takes a sip, then immediately winces when the warm liquid hits his tongue. grimacing, he pulls it away.
“Why does this taste worse every day?” voice rough with sleep. He tries and fails to get the taste out of his mouth. Only Gris would drink coffee like this. Holy shit, it’s so plain. It tastes like Gris forgot sugar existed. again.
“Because you keep stealing mine,” Gris says, calm as ever, finally sparing him a quick, amused glance. Blue eyes squint before he reaches over to take his cup back for a sip.
Enjin’s lips purse. “Aw, and here I thought you made it just for me. Your best buddy.”
Gris flicks his gaze over the rim of his cup, one brow raised.
“You flatter yourself. Go get your own.”
“I happen to like your cup. Got such a cool design.” It didn’t. All the cups were the same.
Gris humors him with a quiet chuckle, setting the cup down with a soft thud before nudging it a little farther from Enjin’s reach. His attention returns to the plate in front of him, though the faint curve lingering at the corner of his mouth gives him away
“Too bad. I happen to like my cup as well.”
Enjin’s lips curve up before he catches it. He leans into it anyway.
They talk about nothing. Training schedules. Some idiot recruit who nearly got himself killed yesterday. A complaint about Gris’s taste in coffee earns him a look Enjin hardly calls a glare. Enjin grumbles about the water temperature in the showers, complaining that his morning shower was far too hot for his liking.
Talking about anything and everything with Gris is always effortless; he’s a good listener. If the humming and the occasional nods are anything to go by, Gris is a calming presence to be around. A gentle breeze in this chaotic world that Enjin enjoys spending his free time with.
A good friend.
Enjin pretends not to notice when he catches Gris’s gaze lingering on his neck, or the way it happens more than once. That’s normal. Instead, he focuses on stealing food from his plate.
Gris barely reacts, just a quiet huff as he watches Enjin. At this point, Gris has probably accepted that half his meals belong to Enjin the moment he sits down.
“Really? I was gonna eat that.”
Enjin pops the piece of fruit into his mouth with a grin. Gris should be used to this by now, but his reactions still amuse Enjin enough that he keeps doing it.
“Looked pretty lonely to me.”
Gris shakes his head in quiet disbelief, eyes flicking between Enjin and the half-empty plate.
“For real, man. Go get your own. I’m sure there is still plenty of food left.”
“Nah,” Enjin draws out around another bite, “Tastes better when it’s from your plate. Can’t miss out.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
Enjin throws him the best grin he could muster and stuffs his face with Gris’s breakfast. Gris returns the smile despite the half-hearted complaints, not pulling his plate away when Enjin reaches for another piece. They resume their morning debriefing soon after.
As one of the few givers available, Enjin is assigned to another mission today as well. It’s more than he’d prefer to handle, but the lack of givers isn’t something that can be fixed overnight. He doesn’t have a choice but to follow through.
Once they both finish whatever is left on Gris’s plate, the supporter stands and excuses himself. Mentioning how he’s been tasked with training and guiding the team’s newest recruit, Tomme. Enjin recalls her name. Despite her eagerness to join, she lacked the practical experience needed to keep herself safe in the field. Enjin had considered offering to train her himself, but ultimately decided his methods would be too intense for someone so new. Especially someone who isn’t a giver.
Gris, ever the dependable one, took on the responsibility without objecting. Of course, patiently guiding her step by step. She was in good hands, if Enjin said so himself. His eyes follow Gris across the dining hall until he disappears behind the large door.
They don’t see each other for the rest of the day.
That’s good.
So why is Enjin—
==========
The next few days drag by in the same miserable cycle of missions, exhaustion, and just enough sleep to keep functioning. The days start blurring together, missions bleeding into one another until Enjin can barely tell them apart.
Enjin is exhausted, restless in a way that makes his skin crawl, and no amount of cigarettes is enough to calm him down. Everything is testing him as of late. And even if it hasn’t been long since the last time he went out, his body is already craving the distraction again.
When they finally get a free night, Enjin drags Gris along like he always does, and they drive together to the bar on the other side of town. More like, Gris drives and listens attentively while Enjin complains about something from the passenger seat.
At the bar, Enjin wastes no time once the alcohol starts settling into his system, drifting too close to women more than willing to entertain him. It’s fun, it’s what he needs after a long week, exactly the kind of distraction Enjin keeps crawling back to.
He let one woman touch him however she liked. Her perfume clings too sweetly to the collar of his jacket. basking in the attention she offered so easily. He laughs at her jokes, throws compliments back just as easily—and it works, like he’s used to.
It is easy.
He doesn’t think about anything else for a while.
And later that night, when they’re alone somewhere, and his head is filled with too much alcohol to think properly, the woman leans in with soft lips and brushes along the side of his neck. It takes Enjin one beat before he tilts his head slightly, making sure she mouths at skin fabric won’t hide well, even beneath the ink covering half his neck.
Just enough.
His hand settles at her waist after. He manages to say something low and witty to make her laugh, something he won’t remember five minutes from now, but that’s not the point anyway.
When he returns to the bar, he avoids looking across the room right away.
He doesn’t need to. He knows Gris will see. Knows exactly how long his gaze will linger before it disappears again.
This is what Enjin is.
This is all he is ever going to be.
Gris says nothing on the ride back. Enjin doesn’t expect him to.
==========
It’s routine by now. Enjin’s been doing this for years, if he remembers right—ever since sleep stopped indulging him and smoking stopped helping. Ever since the thought of sitting alone with his own head became too much to handle.
A week after their last night out, Enjin returns to HQ from a mission and spots Gris down the hallway before he means to. Gris is heading toward the dorm area. The hallway lights flicker faintly overhead and somewhere deeper in the building, pipes groan behind the walls. Enjin feels some of the tension leave his shoulders as he falls into step beside Gris.
Out of habit, Enjin fishes a cigarette from his pocket. The carton is nearly empty, and he nods toward Gris.
“Yo, you busy tonight?”
“Oh, Enjin,” Gris glances at him, brief and unreadable.
The dim light catches in his eyes, and Enjin almost gets distracted by rings of gold caught within the blue. Gris fixes his attention back ahead, and Enjin quickly regains his composure.
“Depends.”
“On?”
“On whether you’re planning to drag me somewhere.”
Enjin huffs a quiet laugh to fill the space. “Maybe,” pausing just long enough to make it sound like he’s not already decided, fiddling with the cigarette in his hand, he tilts his head to one side. “Bar?”
The word comes out lighter than it should. Like it doesn’t carry the weight Enjin knows it does to both of them.
Gris doesn’t answer right away, his lips pressing together faintly. He slows down and Enjin follows suit. It looks like he’s considering it. And that's new, Enjin cocks a brow; he is usually met with approval. Gris’s hand drifts absently over his left forearm. And that’s when Enjin notices it.
Three thin cuts drag across Gris’s pale skin, red against skin that bruises too easily. already dried over, but Enjin’s gaze catches on them anyway and refuses to move.
Right.
It’s just a scratch. It shouldn’t matter what he keeps repeating in his head. Gris’s body is not without them.
Enjin tries to ignore the way it curls uneasily under his skin, tries to push it aside. They’ve both walked away from worse without blinking. But the memory hits him before he can stop it.
On their last mission together, the damned trash beast had come out of nowhere, closing the distance before either of them had time to think. It had slipped past him in a moment of weakness, aiming toward their young supporter, Tomme, and Gris moved with no hesitation. His arm came up instantly to shield her, taking the hit like it was the only outcome that ever made sense. Before Enjin could even think of moving.
Enjin’s grip tightens around the unlit cigarette in his hand. The paper crinkles softly beneath his fingers.
One second he was watching, the next everything blurred—Umbreaker was already tearing through the thing mercilessly—for not seeing it sooner, for letting it get that close, for letting Tomme be in danger on her first real mission—
Enjin only remembers the rage he felt. For letting Gris—
He exhales slowly, forcing the memory back where it belongs.
Stupid. Stop.
Dragging his attention away before it lingers too long. It’s nothing. It's just—
Gris, still deep in thought, barely spares the injury a glance, fingers scratching over the cut with no clear rhythm, like it’s expected. Like it’s just another part of the job. Which, in a way, it is.
Enjin still hates it. Always has.
Fingers fumble with the lighter in his hand, flicking it once, twice, dragging the moment out longer than necessary just so he has something else to focus on.
In that small stretch of silence, the uncomfortable pull in his chest returns. The one that keeps telling him he shouldn’t be doing this, Annoying and unnecessary.
Gris got hurt, and Enjin’s still asking him to come along anyway. Asking him to sit there and wait while Enjin does what he always does best—what he keeps craving every time he can’t stand being alone with everything sitting under his skin for too long.
What kind of friend does that make him? He is the—
Enjin almost tells Gris to go rest instead. Almost ignores the tightness in his soul and considers sleeping off tonight or going alone; he almost does the right thing this time.
“You know wha–”
“Sure. We can go.”
Gris doesn’t even look at him when he says it, eyes lingering on his arm.
And somehow, that makes it both better and worse.
It takes one slow inhale before Enjin forces his lips into a grin and shoves everything else down where it belongs. The voice in his head is easy to ignore when he tries hard enough.
“Oh man, almost thought you didn’t have it in you!” He teases, nudging Gris’s shoulder as they pick up their pace again.” Try not to slow me down this time.”
Gris lets out a snort, sounding more amused than anything. “Try not to get punched again.”
Enjin can’t quite stop the way his lips tug at that. “Hey, that was one time, Gris, one time, and it was almost punched.”
“Twice.”
“Once.”
“If I recall correctly, you got slapped a few weeks ago–”
“Details, Gris, I remain alive and breathing.”
Gris turns his head, and their eyes finally meet. Enjin catches the hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips despite him shaking his head. Enjin turns away quickly, pretending to focus on his cigarette instead, watching the flame catch at the tip as he inhales.
Eyes fixed anywhere but Gris.
Like that’ll help.
==========
Enjin wonders what he is doing wrong.
He catches Gris’s gaze across the bar, only to watch him turn back to his drink like it’s suddenly the most interesting thing in the world.
Gris is supposed to stop.
A shaky laugh catches in Enjin’s throat. His attention snaps back to the woman in his arms just as quickly. Just in time for her to reach for him, reminding him this is what he came here for in the first place. That this is enough.
Gris thinks he’s subtle, thinks he hides it well under those fleeting looks.
Enjin’s been good at reading him for years. Better than Gris realizes.
It wasn’t hard to piece together. Really. Not when Gris wears every feeling in the space between his words.
The careful way Gris asks questions like he’s trying not to push, but can’t quite help needing to know. His voice strained just enough that Enjin could hear what was sitting underneath. And Enjin has always been observant when it came to Gris. More than he should be.
Or the way he puts up with him. When Enjin gets loud, annoying at times, and pushes too far too often. When Enjin leans a little too close and Gris’s shoulders tense instinctively, color creeping faintly across his face.
And Enjin keeps doing it on purpose. Keeps testing the line just to make sure it’s still there. Just to prove the point.
Gris is not subtle at all.
And still, he doesn’t stop.
That's fine, Enjin reassures no one as he guides the woman in his arms out of the doors and toward the nearest private place he can think of. Her hand slips into his pants pocket like she already knows him. She doesn’t. Most people never do.
Enjin still feels Gris watching him when the bar doors swing shut behind him.
Eventually, Gris will get tired of him, too.
They all do.