zanka cannot help but love you. β₯οΈ
it happened during the hazy post-dusk of a clement spring night, the moon hanging mutely in the sky above and the weight of your presence pressing heavily upon zankaβs thrumming heart. it whacked against his chest, making the tips of his fingers twitch and his eyes flick about your face with a new precision.
you had been on a mission; both of you, but not togetherβseparate battles had been won. you were exhausted and he knew it, for he could see the deepened lines of your face and the way it swirled about your obscurely hunched frame, but somehow had it in you to find yourself there, sat left of him on his bed, rambling a recounting of your day with but a touch of fatigue in your voice. he listened, quietly, while ignoring the affection colouring his gaze.
he did not know why you sought him so. he did not dare to ask. all he knew was that his room was your first destination when all that was left within your bones was weariness and instinct; your fingers searched for the embrace of his every instance they trembled; and somewhere along the jagged, ever-twisting line of your companionship, such habits had begun to be mirrored by him.
he had not known he was capable of it. to let his soul be infiltrated by another; to exist in the cavity of anotherβs chest and you, his; to let every beat of his heart gasp a syllable of your name.
he never told you, but he spent every day trying to be worthy of it.
ignoring such sappy, dangerous thoughts, he tuned back into your voice. he tilted his head ever so slightly as he took in your words, many of them as they were. his blond bangs brushed the curve of his nose as they moved with the force of gravity. he always looked pretty like that, when his face got soft and tranquil and his eyes calmed.
βand guita, bless her heart, truly thought-β
the words came out soft, whispered as quietly as the faint sound of steps down the hallway and the hush of passing winds. the world seemed to pause. fuck. he had not meant for it to leave his mouth with such brashness, such absolution, but all finesse had fled from the intent of his tongue and nestled away in the darkness unsaid. he watched you pause mid-sentence, your eyes flickering with a sudden sense of shock that induced your silence.
zanka had never said that before. sure, you felt it written in the creases of his palms every time they pressed to yours. sure, you could see it in the gleam in his eyes, or the way he always seemed to have something to prove when you were watching. sure, you knew it was there, but it had never been said, and that was what made this so devastatingly impactful. it did not only mean he loved you. it meant he felt you were intimate enough for him to put it into the air. it meant he could hand you his heart and look you in the eyes as he did it.
he felt his face redden more with every passing second (the traitor; he cursed his own flesh in his mind), but he did not take it back; he just waited.
once it had set in, it seemed that every bit of consternation melted away, leaving your every feature soft and ardent. your response came whispered, ββ¦I love you.β
the relief he felt was so striking he had to look down at his lap for a moment and pretend he had not just lost his breath. he wanted to say so many thingsβhow he was grateful for your love, your attention at all; how he had had that confession burning itself into his throat for months; how he had never heard a sweeter thing than when you spoke it back.
however, zanka was not a man of such words, so all he did was tilt to the left until his head settled on your shoulder. then came the slow easing of his side against yours, cheek pressing to the curve.
the rawness of it was a confession in its own. the verbal was no mastered art of his and he knew it, but heaven knew he tried to show it. he trusted you to have the sense to see it. he trusted you to exist in the silent realm of intimacy with him, unspoken, and somehow eternal in its presence.
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