Imagine: The first time Enjin asked you to paint his nails, it came completely out of nowhere.
You were sitting in the base’s common room, sprawled across the couch with a book, when he appeared in the doorway. He had only gotten back a little while ago: his hair was still slightly damp from the shower, his choker sat around his neck as usual, and he was wearing that same stretched-out old T-shirt he stubbornly refused to throw away for some reason.
You glanced up for barely a second.
“If you’re here to steal my snacks again, there aren’t any left.”
“You always assume the worst of me.”
“Because yesterday there were snacks, and today there aren’t.”
“What a remarkable coincidence.”
He walked over, dropped down beside you, and stayed suspiciously quiet for a while.
You turned a page.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Enjin.”
“What?”
You slowly lowered the book. He was looking at you with a perfectly innocent expression. Then he placed a small bottle of black nail polish right on top of the open page.
You looked at him. Then at the polish. Then back at him.
“No.”
Enjin laughed.
“Will you do them for me?”
You raised an eyebrow.
“Can’t you do it yourself?”
“I can.”
“Then why do you need my help?”
He shrugged.
“You’re neater.”
“How would you know?”
“I’ve seen your hands.”
You went quiet for a few seconds. So did Enjin. Then his smile widened just a little.
“Wow. That was a very meaningful silence.”
“Don’t even start,” you scoffed.
“I didn’t mean anything by it.”
“I can just tell on a subconscious level when you’re about to say something inappropriate.”
“Actually, I was going to say I’m touched by how much attention you pay to my compliments,” Enjin said, putting on an exaggeratedly offended expression.
You smacked him in the shoulder with your book, but took the polish anyway.
“Give me your hands.”
Enjin obediently held them out.
“Careful,” he warned.
You gave him a disbelieving look.
“Are you serious?”
“Of course. This is an important part of my style.”
“Oh, just shut up.”
He did. You held his hand in yours, carefully dragging the brush across each nail. The old polish had chipped in several places, so you had to clean everything up first before applying a fresh coat.
Enjin was unexpectedly still. So still, in fact, that after a while you were the one who looked up at him.
“What?” he asked, smiling at you.
“Nothing.”
“That’s the second time you’ve said ‘nothing’ today, and both times you were lying.”
“I’m just thinking.”
“That’s an extremely dangerous habit for you.”
“Very funny.”
You went back to painting.
His fingers were long, and there were several small scratches across his knuckles from the last job. Without thinking, you paused over one of them.
“Where did you get this?”
Enjin looked down at the same spot.
“Don’t remember.”
“Of course you don’t.”
“I really don’t.”
You clicked your tongue quietly.
“You could at least disinfect these once in a while.”
“Yes, Mom.”
You squeezed his finger harder.
“Ouch!”
“Accident.”
“Sadist.”
“Other hand.”
When you were finally done, Enjin stretched both hands out in front of him, critically inspecting the result.
“Good.”
You stared at him indignantly.
“Good?”
“Very good.”
“I’ll accept that.”
He wiggled his fingers.
“So I can’t touch anything now?”
“At least ten minutes.”
Enjin immediately looked at the table, where his mug was sitting. Then at you.
“Even coffee?”
“Even coffee.”
He let out a dramatic sigh.
“A cruel price to pay for beauty.”
You opened your book again.
“Deal with it.”
Enjin was still sitting beside you on the couch. At first, he stayed quiet, staring at his mug as though he were trying to drag it toward himself with sheer force of will.
Eventually, he gave up and turned to you.
“Hey.”
“No,” you answered immediately.
“But I haven’t even...”
“You want coffee.”
“I want coffee.”
You looked at him. Then at his hands, held carefully out in front of him. And finally picked up the mug.
“Open your mouth.”
Enjin blinked.
“You’re serious?”
“Or wait ten minutes.”
He leaned closer. You carefully brought the mug to his lips. Enjin took a sip without taking his eyes off you.
“Convenient,” he remarked.
“Don’t get used to it.”
He only smiled. As it turned out, he did get used to it. Because a couple of weeks later, Enjin showed up again in the evening.
This time, he didn’t even say anything. He simply sat down beside you and placed the bottle of black polish on the table.
You looked at him.
“Seriously?”
He held out his hand.
“It chipped.”
“And?”
“Looks bad.”
“Can’t you do it yourself?”
“I can.”
“Then why me?”
Enjin tilted his head slightly.
“Tradition.”
“What tradition? We’ve done this once.”
“Everything has to start somewhere.”
It was surprisingly difficult to argue with such incredibly stupid logic. So you picked up the polish again.
And eventually, it really did become a tradition. After long missions. Before important assignments. Sometimes late at night, when everyone else had already gone back to their rooms and the base had become unusually quiet.
Enjin would find you, sit down beside you, and hold out his hands. Sometimes you talked. Sometimes you argued. Sometimes he told you completely pointless stories while you tried not to paint half his finger black because he refused to stop gesturing.
“Stop moving,” you would grumble.
“I’m not moving.”
“You literally just waved your hand around.”
“That was an emotional necessity.”
“One more emotional necessity and you’ll be walking around with a black palm.”
That usually made Enjin stay still.
For a little while, anyway.
But the evenings you liked most were the ones when, for some reason, he became quiet.
He would simply sit across from you, his hand resting in yours while you slowly covered his nails in black polish.
One evening, you were almost finished with his last hand when Enjin suddenly asked,
“What if I stop painting them?”
“What?”
“My nails.”
You shrugged.
“Then you stop.”
“So that means the tradition is over?”
“I guess.”
He looked down thoughtfully at his fingers.
“Then I won’t stop.”
You snorted.
“Oh my God, Enjin.”
“What?”
“You know you can just come hang out with me without needing an excuse.”
He went quiet. So did you.
It took you a couple of seconds to realize exactly what you had just said. The brush froze above his pinky.
Enjin slowly lifted his eyes to yours.
“I can?”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“No, no.” His lips were already pulling into that familiar smile. “Too late.”
“Enjin…”
“So the nail polish was never actually necessary?”
“Give me your hand.”
“I could’ve just said, ‘Hey, I want to spend some time with you’?”
“Enjin.”
“All that nail polish wasted for nothing…”
You finally finished the last nail and let go of his hand.
“Done. Get out.”
“Can’t.”
“Why not?” you asked with a laugh.
He dramatically raised both hands.
“They’re not dry yet.”
You stared at him in silence. Enjin settled more comfortably into the couch.
“Guess I’ll have to stay here a little longer.”
And somehow, that was the moment you finally realized that the black nail polish had quietly stopped being anything more than an excuse a long time ago.
