#requests.

as silly as it is to say; zanka is the other half of you, a soulmate, maybe, or something beyond human comprehension. something that is so sacred it scalds the hands that touch it, blinds that eyes that see it, and deafens the ears that listen.

there isn’t a single thing you wouldn’t do for him, whether it’s to protect or to give. you’re his and he’s yours. for eternity. you will devote your whole body and mind for him, and he would do so for you, if he ever had to.

there is a stir of butterflies in zankas chest, a tight, overbearing feeling paired with a smile and a blush that burns too hot across his face. his voice is now a whisper when he speaks, like it’s only for you to hear and no one more. “y’re strong, y’can handle anythin’.”

you nip at his neck and earn a small yelp from him and speak, unsure of your own voice. “how do you know that?” your words are small and untrustworthy of themselves, like they are too afraid of the reality that lurks behind them.

zanka chuckles. “‘cause i know ya, and what y’re capable of.” he brings his hand to your thigh that rests over his lap, and smooths it up and down. reassuring you this time.

a smile spreads over your face, and you move to kiss along the line of his jaw. “i’m happy that you believe in me as much as you do.”

there’s a long pause before you say what you want. it’s not an easy topic to bring up, but it hurts to see zanka speak of his strength the way he does. it pains you to see him say that he’s not good enough, because he is. if not for anyone, then for you he is—more than enough.

you wonder if he even realizes what those words sound like when they leave his mouth. if he knows how carelessly he handles something you hold so dear.

“you should have that for yourself, as well…” you say quietly, as you pull away from him and look down at his hand that was atop of your thigh. you place your own palm against his hand and pick it up, cradling it in your palms drawing small circles into the bone with your thumbs.

you hear silence. and feel a certain gaze on you as you’re hyper focused on the task at hand—literally. he doesn’t say anything an you don’t think he plans to. there’s a few different things you could say; “you’re good enough”, “you don’t have to constantly put yourself down to get stronger”, but they all feel too wrong for some reason.

your fingers stop and you look up at him, finally deciding to meet his eyes. his face makes you pity and you feel your eyes brim with tears. oh zanka, you think. you bring his hand to your lips and kiss the soft skin, tears falling onto it.

“you’re strong too, zanka,” you finally say. “and i know you like to believe you’re not, and that you could be stronger…” a few more tears fall pooling at your chin. “but i think you’re the strongest person i know.” you give him a velvet smile, one that’s only reserved for him and kiss his hand once more.

he looks at you and quietly exhales, making the same face you just had a few moments before, tears also threaten to slip. “don’t joke.”

you tilt your head to the side. “i’m not, not to you, ever.”

zanka lifts his hand out of your weak grasp and moves it to cup your cheek, thumb swiping your tear stained skin. he kisses you, it’s as soft and as sweet as ever. you pull away, not too far, noses still touching. “i told you i love you, and i mean that with my whole being.”

“swear,” he asks, looking down.

“on my life.”

“Harsh.”

“You started it.”

He exhales a gentle huff akin to a tch. “Fair.”

After living with Levi and Furlan for two years — not to mention Isabel for less than one — it isn’t uncommon to take turns cutting each other’s hair. Just like any other clean-up chore, it’s easier when someone else can eye the back of your head for you.

(Though the razor you’ve been using to fade Levi’s undercut is dulling. He might need to start growing it out, wild, like your other cohorts.)

As much as Levi trusts them with his life, though — he specifically requests for your hand. According to him, he’s particular about who holds a blade up to his face.

Furlan has never taken offense. 

Isabel, as always, seems to side-eye the specificity.

You say nothing.

(You always say nothing, especially when it comes to him.)

“Apparently people pay for these up on the surface,” you continue as you snip the strand, making sure it’s even with the other side you’ve trimmed up.

“What, haircuts?”

“Yeah.”

“Sounds stupid to throw coins at.”

“I wouldn’t say it was stupid,” you retort airily as you continue to measure the length of the fringe in his face. “Not when you have the coin to do it. I think I’d shell out.”

It’s grown long, almost too long — if he kept putting this off for another week, then it stands to reason he could use one of Isabel’s hair ties. Even his undercut has grown out, its edges licking the nape of his neck. 

If anything, it makes him look boyish; a stolen childhood returned.

His abrupt question cuts through the warmth spreading through your chest. “Why?”

“Because sometimes you cut unevenly.”

Managing to say such a flippant statement out without giving away your joke is a mighty feat, but you stay strong—

And if the abrupt offense tightening in his face is any indicator, Levi’s taken the playful bait. His eyes narrow in return, and in an act of defiance, he blows the long, wet strand from his face.

“Excuse me?”

“Hey!” you yelp with feigned annoyance. “Rude. I’m gonna have to do that section again.”

“Not my problem,” he replies without skipping a beat. “Say it. I’ve never cut anyone’s hair unevenly.”

“Are you sure?”

“James.”

Although the front of his hair is still long, you can see the way his brows slide high to his hairline with the expectations of a surrender.

“I’ve never.”

“Uh-huh.”

Pursing your lips to avoid a smile, you comb the front of his hair back to its original state before cutting a few of the final pieces, finally revealing most of Levi’s blue-gray gaze once more.

“Never.”

You can see the gears turning.

His eyes shimmer as they take yours in — left, right, then left again — before the realization hits. The intensity of his expression softens, though the ghost of a scowl remains.

“You’re fucking with me.”

“Only a little,” you confess, flicking the freshly-cut lock to the small wastebin on the floor by his boot, “so stop moving before you end up with a cut as lopsided as Furlan's."

There: a tiny smile finally forms on his lips.