P.USHER

The warmth of the day shrouds your tired bodies, skin covered in a thin layer of sweat and sheen that rolls off your body and muddles the concrete, leaving a sad, sad imprint as proof of your hard labour. At this point, you're permanently glued to the hard surface. Zanka lies beside you, tired and worn from the vigorous training routine he subjected the both of you to.

If you weren't so busy trying to suck air back into your shrivelled lungs, you would've chewed him out for going so hard on you, and nobody would be able to convince you it wasn't deserved.

You could crack every code, solve every riddle and problem the world flung at you. Hell, even cure life's biggest mysteries if you put your mind to it (not really, though).

But you can't for the life of you decode Zanka's mind — to even have a clue about how he worked was a scenario that only played out in your wildest dreams.

You peel yourself off the pavement to turn over on your side, now facing Zanka as he drifts off, mind elsewhere while he stares blankly at the sky.

“A bag full of candy. The good ones, though, not the gross ones that taste like cough medicine. " You start, and Zanka peers at you with a confused look on his face.

“What??” He replies, tired perplexity coating his words. You sigh and shake your head like it's the most obvious thing in the world, only fueling his confusion.

“It's what you owe me for working me boneless, I'm not letting you off without a fine.”

A scoff. “If anything, you owe me–” Zanka turns over on his side to face you “–for teaching you how to protect yourself, of course.”

Now it's your turn to scoff, the sheer ridiculousness of such a suggestion catching you off guard. ‘Sure, sure, and soon you'll be asking me to repay you first every training sessions.”

“You owe me that too.” He adds, to which you roll your eyes.

A silence settles between the two of you, one that's comforting and broken by the occasional caw from a crow.

“I don't get you.” You mutter, head turned to stare at the sky.

“What's there to get??” He asks, tiredness lacing his tone as he rubs his eye with the back of his palm.

You inhale. “Well, you work me till I'm all mushy–” a snort erupts from him and you throw a pointed glare in return. “–And you insist that we train outside of what we're mandated. Train, train, train, everyday. I'm more than capable of doing a good job with half the training, honestly.”

Now it's his turn to inhale — his turn to carefully think about his words while forming a response. One wrong move, and he could spill out his guts; admit his creeping fear of losing you.

“You need to hone your skills.” He says after a pause

“They're honed.”

“Yeah right.” He stands up abruptly, making his way into the building and leaving you to follow on his trail, throwing words of defensiveness at him to protect your honor.

“They're honed, Zanka, honed I say!!!!”

“Whayever helps you sleep at night.”