Archive of Our Own ^beta

Riyo was extremely efficient in gathering everything Enjin had asked for, breaking what could be considered a personal record: soft, fluffy towels freshly pulled from the dryer (still warm to the touch), bottles of fresh water (plastic fogged with condensation), several Tupperware containers overflowing with healthy, nutritious meals (cooked by the chefs specifically for the occasion), a couple of extra pillows (stuffed with soft cotton), a bag filled with the exact assortment of Rudo’s favorite sweets (courtesy of Gris, Follo, and Amo), and even a surprise that Riyo hoped the gremlin would like.

On top of all that, a set of medical supplies prepared by poor Eishia was added, who seemed on the verge of a nervous breakdown. She couldn’t bear feeling useless, especially when it came to helping one of her teammates. With trembling but steady hands, she had organized a small blue first aid kit with painkillers, antacids for stomach discomfort, cold and hot gel patches shaped like animals, hypoallergenic tissues, and elastic cotton bandages.

It was almost a miracle that Eishia, instead of getting frustrated, handled it so practically. The idiot had barely given a list of symptoms that raised more questions than answers. Enjin had been vague enough in explaining what was happening with Rudo for the Cleaners’ medic to include a little bit of everything she considered essential, anticipating any possible complication.

Now, leaving aside the first aid kit and returning to Enjin’s original request, it didn’t take much insight to understand the man’s plan. Riyo grasped it instantly. The clarity, confidence, and gravity in his voice when he requested the first two items on the list left no doubt. And she accepted it without reservation, and far from finding it strange, disgusting, out of place, or indecent, it filled her with an unexpected tenderness.

There was something deeply endearing in that human impulse to care.

It was strange, in these times, to witness such selfless affection between two people who had known each other only a few months and whose first encounter, generously speaking, could have gone better. No one enjoys being handed on a silver platter to traffickers; even if it amounts to nothing more than a momentary scare, it leaves a wound that embeds itself in memory with bitter clarity. Riyo still found it baffling that Rudo had let it slide without making too much of a fuss.

She remembered thinking that with such a beginning, it would be only a matter of time before Enjin grew bored of the sphereite and set him aside… or for Rudo, true to his nature, to sink his teeth into his jugular.

She had never been so happy to be wrong.

Any Cleaner observing them for more than five minutes could notice a nearly visceral kindness between them. And while it may have initially been conditioned by notions of leader and subordinate, over time it had acquired a familiar, endearing quality. There were no hidden transactions, no pending favors, no shadow of imposed obligation. It was something raw and, precisely because of that, more real.

It showed in the small gestures, almost invisible to anyone outside this world and unaware of what to look for: the way Enjin always kept an eye on Rudo even while pretending to be distracted; the endless patience in accompanying him through the piles of trash until something caught his interest; the genuine smile that appeared on his face when the boy showed him a repaired piece; or the tension that left his shoulders the moment he saw him return safe and sound from a job.

Rudo, for his part, was more complicated but no less obvious to the trained eye. Though he still seemed allergic to open displays, the way he had stopped fleeing from Enjin’s contact was almost amusing. He no longer bristled when the man draped an arm over his shoulders, nor did he abruptly push away the hand that ruffled his hair into an even bigger mess. Small concessions that, when viewed together, formed a silent portrait.

To Riyo, it reminded her of an abstract sketch of what she used to see when Bro and Dear were in front of her. It wasn’t a direct comparison, nor did she intend to equate such different relationships, but she enjoyed identifying similarities, as if certain universal gestures survived any context.

And she, a silent witness, felt that this moment belonged to her a little. It was like peeking through a crack at a scene no one had intended to show her, an intimacy not meant for the public. She found in someone else’s tenderness something that moved her deep in her chest. Perhaps that was what they called pride? Was there a word to describe the happiness felt for the happiness of others?

She imagined that, in retrospect and behind the scenes, she herself was participating in a silent, cathartic act, one of those that seek no recognition nor intend to leave a mark… but which, once they occur, mark a point of no return for those involved.

In short, she was witnessing the moment when the violent dog, after all the bites, scratches, and growls, finally lets itself be petted. The silly mental image drew a brief laugh from her, a small but genuine burst that broke the tension she had carried inside since the incident at the door.

“What’s so funny?” asked Zanka, walking beside her while adjusting the weight of the huge box against his torso.

Riyo turned her head slightly toward him, still smiling at the corner of her lips. She considered offering to swap the box for the first aid kit, because the way he clenched his jaw made it clear he was having trouble… but sheer stubbornness prevented him from asking for help. She decided it wasn’t worth it, haha.

“How quickly you offered to help me.”

Zanka frowned, clicking his tongue. “Tsk… People say thank you.”

“You’re welcome!” she replied theatrically, exaggerating a mock bow.

He didn’t respond immediately. He looked straight ahead, letting silence stretch over most of the walk. His steps echoed heavily on the metal floor, in time with the faint creak of the box. For a moment, Riyo thought he wouldn’t speak again, that Zanka’s rough silence had sealed the rest of the path.

Yet his monotone voice rose again, almost like a resigned growl:

“It’ll be a headache if the idiot dies from something as stupid as a cold.”

Riyo arched an eyebrow and, not missing the opportunity, teased him with a mischievous smile.

“Is that worry I hear?” she tilted her head slightly, studying his stony expression. “If he survived a fall from heaven, a fever and some dizziness will be a piece of cake.”

Zanka grunted, short and hoarse, refusing to give in. And yet, the slight movement at the corner of his lips betrayed him; perhaps he had smiled, if only for a second.

The air between them became lighter, but the feeling coursing through Riyo was anything but calm. Because thinking about it carefully was terrifying: Rudo had traversed dense clouds of dust and toxic smoke from who knows what height, a distance enough to turn any other human into an unrecognizable pile of bones and shredded flesh. And yet, he hadn’t just survived: according to Enjin, when he found him, he didn’t even seem too badly hurt. It was absurd. Unnerving. As if something (or someone) had intervened to cushion the fall.

“Oi, hurry up,” Zanka suddenly growled, pressing the box against his chest before quickening his pace. “I’ve got things to do.”

Riyo clicked her tongue and shook her head, as if trying to shoo away any thought that might drag her into a dead end.

“Bah! Who cares?” she thought.

And, as if by silent agreement, they both began to speed up. First with a few longer steps, then with more pronounced arm swings. Without saying it, they had started a childish race to see who would reach Rudo’s door first.

The sound of footsteps pulled Enjin out of the small bubble of sleep that the dim light, comfort, and Rudo’s scent had created. First, he heard a hurried thudding, then a dull knock, and finally a muffled gasp he recognized instantly: Riyo and Zanka. A race to the door? Yes, that made sense. Even asleep, Rudo seemed to sense it: he shifted uncomfortably, let out a weak whine, and pressed himself tighter against Enjin’s left side, as if to make sure he wouldn’t be dragged back into any hostile place again.

“Shh, shh, shh. I’ve got you.”

Whoever had won, the loser wasn’t satisfied, and they began to bicker. Enjin couldn’t see them, but he found it amusing to imagine Zanka, in his eternal quest to assert himself through logic and bad temper, being dismantled by Riyo’s calm stubbornness, who ignored him as if his fury were nothing more than a bothersome mosquito. An immovable object against an unstoppable force. The same as always.

The argument abruptly stopped when, perhaps remembering they weren’t alone, one of them (probably Riyo) gently tapped the door.

“Enjin?” she asked cautiously.

“Come in. Don’t make a sound”

The door, which had been ajar, opened slowly. Riyo was the first to appear, her silhouette outlined against the hallway light. Behind her, Zanka carried a huge box that Enjin assumed contained what he had requested. Riyo raised an eyebrow, silently asking for confirmation to enter. Enjin, from his place, nodded.

Riyo stepped inside without further comment. If the scene struck her as strange—Rudo curled up against Enjin, the room in shadows, and the dense scent in the air—she chose not to mention it. Instead, she placed a small blue first aid kit on the bed and, with efficient speed, gathered the crumpled candy wrappers, empty water bottles, and half-eaten protein bars, tossing them into the trash can beside Rudo’s desk.

“Smells like honey and… blood?” Zanka asked, wrinkling his nose as he entered and set the box next to the first aid kit.

“Close. It’s rust” Enjin corrected.

“Do I want to know why?”

“Maybe later”

Zanka grunted, half-accepting, and settled beside Riyo in the doorway frame.

“Eishia regrets not putting more stuff in the kit,” Riyo said, crossing her arms.

Enjin chuckled softly.

“She always regrets something. Tell her not to worry.”

Zanka and Riyo exchanged a glance. Different as night and day, but after so much time integrating the Akuta team, they already shared the same spark of understanding. One neuron.

“You don’t have anything to worry about either, you know?” Enjin added, in that half-serious, half-teasing tone.

Zanka and Riyo looked at each other again, as if mentally debating the credibility of that statement.

“You’re in a pillow fortress,” Zanka began, “being used as a pillow by the idiot allergic to human contact.”

Unconsciously, Enjin frowned; he wasn’t angry, just thinking of a proper response.

“First: it’s a nest. Second: come on, the kid is a mess. He has the right to be a little brat.”

Zanka lowered his gaze to where Rudo slept. Calm, at peace. Far removed from that desperate, whirlwind anger from earlier.

“Really… he’s not going to die?” he asked softly.

“No,” Enjin replied confidently.

“Good.”

“…good.”

For a moment, Enjin thought that would be the end. That they’d close the door and leave him in peace. But then, almost reluctantly, Zanka let slip:

“Take care of him, please.”

The request, stripped of his usual rudeness, surprised Enjin. Riyo closed the door without another word, and after a long minute of expectant silence, Enjin heard their footsteps retreat in opposite directions. One to the left, the other to the right.

The room sank back into a calm, gentle stillness. The air, refreshed when the door opened, slowly filled again with the soft trace of rust and sweet honey. Pleased with the quiet, Enjin turned his gaze to the child curled against his side. Rudo’s sweat-dampened skin gleamed under the faint light seeping through the curtains. The warmth of his body, though not as high as before, was still elevated. Seeing him like this, reduced to a miserable little bundle, was horrible.

“Oi, wake up.” His voice was low, almost a whisper, yet carried a tone that admitted no reply. With one hand, he lightly tapped Rudo’s shoulder. “It’s time to take a bath.”

For a moment, there was no response, only the boy’s labored, wet, and broken breathing.

“And I need you to cooperate,” he added.

Rudo stirred barely. A guttural groan escaped his throat, a mix of complaint, surrender, and pain. He didn’t open his eyes, but his fingers clenched tightly, gripping a fold of Enjin’s jacket. There was something so childlike in that gesture that Enjin felt guilty for bothering him.

“I promise you’ll feel better once you’re clean.”

Enjin waited patiently for the words to register in Rudo’s mind, and after a long minute, he finally gave in. His fingers’ grip loosened slowly, first resisting, then trembling in what seemed more like defeat. His lips parted in a hoarse sigh.

With a snort, Enjin slipped an arm under his shoulders and lifted him gently.

Sometimes Rudo felt that the world spoke a strange language. So many complicated words that meant the same thing, so many simple words that were completely opposed to each other, so many hidden, twisted nuances that seemed innocent and then suddenly became leather whips studded with thorns. And he, unable to understand, was profoundly inhuman: a foreigner infiltrating among normal people, a deformed monster who didn’t know how to communicate. Son of a killer. A disgusting omega.

He wore a skin that never fully belonged to him and tried to navigate a dark, icy, cruel sea, where every wave seemed intent on dragging him under.

Perhaps that was why the trash was, in some sense, a safe place for Rudo.

Of course, the trash would never be kind to the body. The smell was harsh, acrid, exuding a stench that clung to the throat and burned it slowly; the texture was rough, merciless, like sandpaper, scraping at the slightest touch; and the appearance of the heaps of chemical byproducts, organic matter, and general waste was nauseating. But trash, at least, had something people didn’t offer: it stayed. It remained where it had been discarded, immovable, until someone decided to pick it up.

Like rescuing an injured dog that still bares its teeth. Regto looked at him, accepted him, and together they formed a small pack of two.

Rudo listens as Riyo and Zanka enter his cave. Their voices mingle, twisting in his head like a jumble of nonsense his exhausted mind can no longer process. The words arrive hollow, meaningless, and he doesn’t bother to shape them. The only thing clear, the only thing real, is that he wants them gone. The omega in his brain screams and digs in his claws at the mere thought of Riyo surveying every flaw in his improvised nest with her enormous green eyes, and worse, imagining Zanka, with those pale blue eyes heavy with fatigue and judgment, digging into the misery of his existence fills him with a mix of rage and shame.

Only the possibility of losing the touch of Enjin’s hand, warm and firm on his hair, keeps him still, restrained. Were it not for that contact, he would have already sat up with a growl, showing his teeth, ready to defend his lair like the cornered animal he is. The brushing of those fingers over his scalp is like an anchor, a reminder that, for a few seconds, he can remain still, continue resting. Danger cannot touch him because someone is watching over him.

Time passes slowly, dense like thick liquid. Footsteps and murmurs fade, dissipating into the walls like a weakened echo until they vanish completely. Finally, silence returns. And with the silence comes the rough calm, that fragile bubble in which only he and Enjin exist, reducing the world to a minimal boundary where nothing else matters.

But Enjin has to ruin it. He can’t simply stay still, let him sink into the artificial calm of his touch. He shatters the quiet with words that pierce the silence, with movements that shake the peace Rudo clings to. It’s as if he doesn’t understand that all Rudo needs is stillness.

And Rudo doesn’t want that. He doesn’t want to move, doesn’t want to open his eyes. He wants to sink deeper, as if he could sleep forever enveloped in that scent surrounding him, a mix of ink, cigarettes, mint, and sweat, everything that makes up Enjin. It’s an irregular, superficial scent that fades as soon as the man bathes, an artificial trace that never becomes permanent. False, fleeting. A scent that can never truly perfume… and what does it matter!?

It matters to him, of course, it matters so much it hurts.

But he can’t demand the impossible from Enjin, can’t force him to do something that biologically isn’t in his hands. That impotence burns his chest. He wants to cry, tear himself apart from the inside, but he doesn’t. He forces himself to take what he has, to make do, and inhales deeply, desperate. Like a newborn creature seeking the warmth of the sun.

Enjin’s scent doesn’t last, yet inexplicably it feels safe. There’s something in its transience that nonetheless offers refuge. He wants to disappear into that fragrance, melt until the edges of his own existence blur. He wants to perfume Enjin, wants their scents to intertwine, to define them as a pack, to bind them in a way that can’t be broken. But for that to happen, he knows, desire alone isn’t enough. It’s the adult who must take the first step. Regto did it once. Now he waits, heart overflowing, for Enjin to do the impossible.

The heat of his rut has his emotions so tense he can barely contain himself. Damn it! He doesn’t want to wake up, doesn’t want to return to a world that demands words and judgment, but Enjin insists, offering him a reality he cannot ignore: a bath. A simple, practical invitation that nevertheless feels like an intrusion.

And Rudo wants to be clean. He craves it silently, even though the dirt, decay, and shame have become part of his skin. He wants it, but not under these conditions—not if it means leaving the refuge he just built with a handful of scents and the shadow of a touch. His body cries for one thing, while his mind, worn and vulnerable, clings to another. And in that contradiction, he burns, motionless, as if the slightest movement could make him collapse.

“We don’t have to leave the room,” Enjin’s voice cuts through the air, forcing him to open his eyes.
That catches his attention. Immediately. Already sitting up, Rudo focuses on the man rummaging through a box. His throat emits a hoarse squeak, a sound halfway between protest and question. Obviously, Enjin doesn’t understand.

“How?” he manages to articulate, throat tight.

“Dry bath,” Enjin clarifies, pulling out a couple of towels and bottles of water. He lifts them as if they were a sacred offering. “Come on, don’t make that face at me.”

Rudo frowns deeply. The concept isn’t unfamiliar: Regto used to bathe him like this when his rut left him sick and unable to move. Like now. But Enjin isn’t Regto, and accepting it means exposing himself, allowing a stranger who isn’t part of his pack to see him naked. Anxiety fills his veins with tar, his gums ache from the teeth pressing impatiently, and his claws dig into the leather of his gloves.

No.

No.

NO.

“You can’t… I don’t want to” He growls, voice so low he barely recognizes it. He watches as Enjin takes a cautious step back, slow, careful.

“I know it’s not my place to decide anything,” the man’s voice is low, firm. “I can leave the things here and wait on the other side of the door until you’re ready.”

The mere idea of Enjin leaving, leaving him alone, makes him let out a shaky, frightened whine. He doesn’t want that.

“Or I can help you,” the offer lands like a soft blow. Enjin places the items on the bed and approaches again, stopping at the edge of the nest and leaning toward him carefully. “You can let me help you. Everything I do will be on your terms. I won’t do anything that makes you uncomfortable. And I’ll stop the moment you say so.”

Rudo breathes with his heart in his throat, drowned in doubts. Enjin smells only of smoke and cigarettes, nothing else. That scent is too plain, too human; it isn’t alpha, omega, or beta, nothing that can reassure him that these words are true. Rudo can’t know because he is an inhuman being who doesn’t understand what a normal person’s words mean! His eyes blur with hot tears, and a whimper escapes him without permission. He doesn’t want to feel pathetic, doesn’t want to feel childish, doesn’t want to feel…

Enjin’s hand descends and sinks into his greasy hair. He scratches gently at the scalp and then down to his cheek, where his thumb wipes away the tears he could no longer hold back.

“Shhh… come on, kid, look at me.”

And Rudo obeys.

“It’s okay. Maybe it was a silly idea. We can go back to the nest, sleep, let everything pass. If that makes you feel better, we’ll do it.”

Rudo blinks, disarmed. He doesn’t know if what he hears is true or just another lie the world throws at him to break him. But the caress continues, steady, and the fingertips scrape a sensitive spot by his neck, slick with sweat, forcing an involuntary purr.

He doesn’t want to be dirty anymore.

“I want to bathe…” he admits, sniffing.

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to”

“But I do.” His voice is a low, tight growl. A bead of sweat slides down his neck and trails along his back like a nauseating reminder. “I disgust myself”

Enjin remains silent for a few seconds, considering. “Can you manage on your own?”

Rudo bites his lip hard. “No” The single word makes him want to cry again.

“…Do you want me to help you?”

A thread of voice, tense, agonizing, rises from deep within his throat. “Please”

There is a viscous, almost unnameable revulsion, intimately associated with the concept of nakedness, of which Enjin is painfully aware. It is not just the exposure of skin: it is a mud that clings to the bones, a morbid whisper that corrodes the teeth, an invisible weight that tears flesh with knives and, at the same time, brutalizes the individual’s entire existence.

Nakedness implies relinquishing belonging to oneself in order to also belong to another. Another who observes, measures, evaluates. Another who judges and kills without mercy in silence, with a venomous gesture, or aloud, with words as lethal as a bullet to the temple, or the heart, or one’s dignity.

Nakedness is, in essence, a surrender of sovereignty.

“ Killing me softly …” a song used to say.

Enjin doesn’t remember where he heard it (perhaps in a restaurant after a successful job, or with Semiu during one of their drinking meetings) but it comes to mind at this very moment, and it couldn’t be more fitting. Cruelty doesn’t always arrive with fists or blood. Sometimes it comes in condescending glances, minimal expressions, in the way someone handles a body and turns it into something unrecognizable.

That is why he cannot afford to make mistakes.

Rudo has given him fragile trust, held together by mere threads, and any misstep would be like staining a white sheet of paper with black ink. An irreversible disaster, impossible to correct. And if that happened, there would be no one to blame but him, because he is the adult in the room. The one who must maintain calm. The one who must bear the weight of the responsibility he assumed, that he chose to take on.

Rudo, on the other hand, is a child terrified, trapped in a body that constantly betrays him, shrunken by fever, head throbbing, heart racing. A child full of problems that Enjin can barely begin to imagine, yet wants to understand.

Because Rudo mattered to him. More than he was willing to admit out loud.

“Alright,” he breaks the silence with a low but firm voice. “I need you to sit on the mattress, okay? I don’t want the nest to get ruined by accident.”

He makes sure his words sound neutral, practical, as if he were speaking only of logistics. He tries not to load the phrase with emotions that could sound like orders.

To the side, by the sink, he has arranged the open first-aid kit, a couple of neatly folded towels, and the bottles of water that gleam under the light filtering through the increasingly dim curtains as night approaches. On the floor, at the foot of the bed, the box with the remaining supplies waits silently.

Enjin waits for a reaction, but Rudo remains motionless, pinned amid the blankets. His breathing is audible, uneven, and his eyes seem fixed on some invisible point.

“Did you hear me?” Enjin insists, tilting his head slightly to try to enter his field of vision.

Nothing. Not a gesture. Only the tension accumulating in Rudo’s shoulders.

Enjin exhales sharply through his nose and lets out a tired huff. “Ugh… I already told you this won’t work if you don’t put in some effort.”

He immediately regrets how it sounded: too brusque, too much like a reproach. He thinks about how to get out of the hole he’s already halfway in and clears his mind. Alright. He can handle this. He takes a step forward, slowly, with hands visible at all times.

“Hey, look at me for a moment” He says, softening his tone.

Rudo’s eyes move only slightly, with distrust, pupils narrowing into vertical slits, as if measuring every intention. Enjin’s throat tightens, but he keeps his voice steady.

“Remember, I’m not here to force you,” he adds. “I just want to help you feel a little better. But I need you to tell me how. If you stay silent and stiff, I won’t know what to do, understand?”

The silence stretches between them, charged with electricity. Finally, Rudo swallows, a tiny gesture, but enough for Enjin to understand that he heard him.

“Very well. So…” he continues cautiously, “do you agree to leave the nest?”

Rudo barely nods, a small tilt of the head. But his hands remain clutched to the blankets, fingers rigid like claws, refusing to let go. He doesn’t move.

This leaves Enjin at a dead end, looking at him with a mix of resignation and strategy. Until an idea occurs to him.

“Do you want me to carry you?” he asks, testing the waters with a light voice.

Rudo’s pupils dilate suddenly, and a short, sharp squeal escapes his throat, a mixture of shock and embarrassment. He curls into himself, hiding his face against his shoulders.

“Is that a yes?” Enjin presses, raising an eyebrow.

Rudo presses his lips together, gaze diverted anywhere but him. After a moment too long, he murmurs barely audibly:

“…yes”

The response brings an involuntary smile to Enjin’s face, the kind that can’t be helped even in a delicate moment. “Well, I didn’t see that coming,” he thinks, and without wasting time, he finds a good point of support. He crouches and slips his arms under the boy’s armpits. The contact is brusque and yet careful at the same time.

Rudo’s light weight in his arms does not go unnoticed. The boy seems made of thin bones and warm skin, far too light for someone his age. Enjin frowns unconsciously and silently promises himself he’ll watch more closely to ensure he eats better. Isn’t this supposed to be a crucial stage of development? What if being an omega disrupts the whole process? Suddenly he remembers the time he heard Rudo say he thought he was fifteen while playing with Remlin. Who the hell isn’t sure how old they are? Ugh… too many questions, zero answers. And now is not the time to sink into that.

He sets Rudo carefully at the edge of the bed, letting his legs dangle. The gesture is gentle, yet the boy emits a low growl when he feels Enjin step back, as if the distance were punishment.

Enjin watches him for a moment, scratches the back of his neck awkwardly, and speaks again:

“Alright, relax. I’m not going anywhere.”

Rudo glances at him sideways, still defensive.

“Do you want me to start with the top or the bottom?” Enjin asks casually as he opens the clothing drawer. He goes through the contents until he finds something similar to what the boy is already wearing: a large, loose t-shirt and sweatpants that reach his knees.

He pauses for a moment, holding the clothes, hesitating. “Hmm…” he mutters. Perhaps he also needs to find underwear. He crouches again, rummaging until he pulls out a pair, just in case.

“This will do,” he says more to himself than to Rudo, placing the clothes on the bed. Then he looks at him again. “Okay, tell me, top or bottom?”

Rudo lowers his head, ears flushed, and mutters something unintelligible.

“Sorry, what did you say?”

“…top,” the boy repeats, this time with a bit more firmness, though his voice still trembles.

“Alright…” Enjin takes a moment to consider how to proceed, because every step counts. “Here’s what we’ll do. I’ll take off your gloves first, then the shirt, and finally the bandages. Agreed?”

Rudo nods, but without lifting his head, as if even that gesture is a struggle. Enjin can almost hear the creak of his clenched teeth.

“Here I go,” he warns gently.

With extreme care, Enjin moves forward. He becomes meticulous in his movements, slow and calculated, attentive to every micro-gesture, every spasm, every shallow breath. Each time Rudo shivers, he stops and asks softly: “Is that okay?” Only when he receives an affirmative answer does he continue.

The gloves are the easiest to remove, though no less alarming. What he finds underneath twists his stomach: the bandages are stained with dried blood on the nails, knuckles, and wrists. Tiny claws pierce the fabric at the fingertips. His brain triggers all alarms.

“Rudo…?”

“It’s okay,” the boy murmurs almost without voice, as if he already knows what he’s going to say. “Continue.”

Enjin presses his lips together, because it’s not okay. Not even close. But he doesn’t insist. Not now. Not when, for the first time, Rudo is cooperating.

“Very well. I’ll need you to lift your arms.”

Rudo obeys slowly, as if every inch were an invisible torture.

“On the count of three, I’ll take off the shirt. One… two… three.”

The fabric slides off without resistance. Rudo’s lanky body is exposed all at once, and Enjin feels the air escape his lungs. Before him appears skin too pale, too tight over bones that protrude: ribs, collarbone, and vertebrae sharp under the skin.

He doesn’t realize how long he’s been staring until Rudo reacts. The boy curls in on himself, as if trying to disappear into his own torso. A low, vibrating growl rises from his chest, a sound that pierces Enjin’s ears, accompanied by a new wave of odor. Metallic, sharp rust, clinging to the throat and burning the lungs. Enjin’s instinct screams to step back, to cough, to protect himself. But he stays still, fighting the automatic reaction, because retreating would be betrayal.

“Sorry, sorry…” he stammers, raising both hands in a pacifying gesture.

The silence lasts a few seconds, so tense it feels eternal, until Rudo hisses:

“…You look at me like I’m bad.” His voice sounds broken, undone, with that edge before tears that Enjin is beginning to recognize as a warning.

And damn, yes. He feels like an idiot. The biggest idiot. Because Rudo is about to cry and it’s all because he couldn’t control his expression.

“I’m sorry,” he says immediately, with genuine weight in his voice. “I didn’t mean to.”

“But you did.”

Enjin swallows. There is no escaping that.

“You’re right. I did. And I apologize. No… I don’t think your body is bad.” He pauses, searching for the right words. “I just care about your well-being. That’s all.”

Rudo trembles, and a brief growl, an echo of distrust, escapes him again.

“Your body isn’t bad,” Enjin repeats, firmer this time. “It’s tired, it’s hurt, it needs care. But it’s not bad. Understand?”

Rudo lowers his head slightly, hiding his eyes under his tangled bangs. His breathing is uneven, jagged, as if every inhale is an effort to swallow the shame. The following silence is not complete acceptance, but neither is it rejection.

“I don’t understand why this happens to you,” Enjin admits after a moment, voice dragging with honest confusion. “The smell, the nest… everything.” He extends a hand, hesitating, holding it nearby without touching yet. And it is the boy himself who, with a brief, clumsy gesture, tilts his head to brush Enjin’s knuckles, initiating the caress. That minimal contact is enough to pierce the man inside. “But I want to learn because I care about you.”

“Why?” Rudo gurgles, his red, wet eyes glowing like embers in the dim light.

The answer gets stuck in Enjin’s throat. He feels the pressure of the metallic tang in the air begin to dissipate, filtered by the dense, honeyed sweetness that makes the atmosphere breathable. “I’ll tell you when we’re done with this,” he improvises, hiding behind a vague promise.

Rudo pouts, a contained frown. “That’s not fair.”

“Oops…” Enjin raises his hands as if admitting the fault, with a crooked smile. “Where were we?”

The momentary truce shatters as he remembers what’s coming: the bandages. That is the real obstacle. Though they seem freshly applied, sweat and dried blood have hardened them into almost a second skin, sticking cruelly to the injured flesh. Removing them without causing further harm will be difficult.

“I’m going to dampen them to loosen them,” he announces calmly as he rises from the bed. He takes one of the folded towels, runs it under the tap until it’s soaked, and wrings it out forcefully. “It’s cold,” he warns before returning and pressing the damp cloth against the boy’s left arm.

Rudo shivers and hisses, teeth clenched in an attempt to disguise it. Yet he doesn’t ask him to stop. On the contrary: as the seconds pass, a brief, low squeal, almost a stifled whimper, escapes his throat.

Enjin stays still, alert, fearing he’s hurt him. But then the boy clarifies, lowering his gaze with flushed cheeks: “It feels… refresh”

The man blinks, surprised, and nods with a sigh that eases the tension. “Good. Then we continue.”

Once the bandage begins to loosen, Enjin carefully moves the cloth aside and rests it on his own shoulder, ready to dampen it again if needed. Then, with slow, meticulous movements, he begins to unroll the bandage. Each turn reveals a little more of… that. The air in the room grows heavy, charged with expectant silence. Enjin feels that every inch exposed weighs more than the last, as if what emerges from these layers of fabric is not just skin, but a painfully revealed secret.

He bites the inside of his cheek to say nothing, to avoid letting the slightest sound escape that could betray his revulsion or anger. Because the darkened skin appearing before his eyes is not merely the trace of a wound. The scars form an unnatural pattern, a twisted design of strips starting at the fingertips, spiraling over the back and palm, and rising almost to the elbow. It is not the organic chaos of an accidental burn. It is planned. Deliberate. Cruel.

A disgusting, visceral, and atrocious intentionality sinks into Enjin’s consciousness, making his blood boil beneath the skin.

“Who…?” his voice comes out rougher than intended.

“My father.”

The answer is so immediate and cold that for a moment Enjin is left breathless.

“…Regto?” he asks in disbelief.

“NO!” Rudo growls, his voice broken between fury and pain. He grips Enjin’s wrist tightly, without letting go of the gentle hand that kept him anchored. “The other one…”

The dense silence fills the room.

“Oh…” Enjin finally says, almost a whisper, as if any stronger word could shatter the boy. The echo of that “other” lodges in his throat, leaving a metallic taste.

Rudo sniffs sharply and, with his free hand, wipes the tears that insist on sliding down his face. The gesture is clumsy, childish, and hurts more than any exposed scar.

“Go on.”

Enjin watches him, hesitating. “Are you sure?”

“…yes.” The answer is barely audible, but the tremor in the voice comes with a slight nod.

So Enjin nods too, saying nothing more, and repeats the same process on the right arm. He dampens the towel, presses it against the hardened fabric, waits patiently for it to yield. Then, turn by turn, the bandage unrolls, freeing the second half of that hell etched into living flesh. The image is the same: skin fragmented into symmetrical strips, more like scarification.

Enjin forces himself to stay calm, to follow his own advice: inhale and exhale steadily, until the tremor threatening to climb up his fingers dissolves into the air.

“We’re done with the hard part…” he finally says, forcing a smile as he searches Rudo’s eyes. “Oh, boy…”

Rudo’s eyes, glassy and red, cannot hold his gaze for long. Hot tears run down his cheeks as he bites his lip until it leaves a reddish mark on the skin. His chin trembles as if about to collapse under the weight of everything he has held inside.

“Shhh… come on, the worst is over.” Enjin lowers his voice, almost a murmur, as if speaking too loudly could break him further. He debates for a moment, wrestling with the idea of approaching, taking his face, hugging him. But intuition stops him: something tells him that now, any direct contact would only deepen the pain. Still, he risks words. “You’ve come very far… you’re very brave.”

Rudo emits a few more sounds, a guttural gurgle from deep in his chest. It’s not ordinary crying; it’s a broken, animal-like noise, as if he lacks the words to name what he feels.

Enjin clenches his jaw and bites the inside of his cheek, hating his own clumsiness. He knows these sounds must mean something, that they are a private, intimate language, but he doesn’t have the tools to understand it. And in that moment, he feels useless, like someone watching a fire without water to put it out.

“Now…” he says gently, exhaling, “I’ll wet the towel again and clean you. I’ll be careful with the scars, but I need you to tell me if I should stop, okay?”

The boy nods, and though he says nothing, the way he keeps his arm extended toward him is enough answer.

Rudo barely registers Enjin’s movements as he steps away again to dampen the towel. His senses, dulled by fever and exhaustion, only catch scattered fragments: the constant murmur of running water from the faucet, the rough sound of fabric being wrung between strong hands, and finally, the steady rhythm of footsteps returning to his side. It’s like a small ritual that repeats, a cycle offering him the certainty that there will be no surprises.

Enjin speaks to him each time, asks before he touches, warns him about what he will do. That way of conducting himself, loaded with care and patience, is a strange contradiction: uncomfortable and comforting at the same time. Rudo finds it unbearable that someone who isn’t Regto cares so much, and yet all he wants is to sink into that feeling and stop fighting it. He is baffled by the way Enjin waits, the way he never imposes his will, as if his intention matters more than the task of cleaning and bandaging itself.

The man’s hands, those ink-stained hands, should feel rough, clumsy, but they are not. They are firm when needed, soft when required, always gentle. And that gentleness disarms Rudo more than any bullet or stab. He shouldn’t be crying from being treated this way; it’s absurd, humiliating, and pathetic. Yet something in his chest burns, a throng of dogs clawing at his insides with every touch, with every pause in which Enjin meets his eyes to make sure he’s okay.

All Rudo wants, with a primitive, irrational force, is to leap at Enjin and bury his nose in his neck, scenting him with his own fevered smell, to receive the same mark back on his skin, until there’s no room for doubt that they are part of the same. His inner omega roars, demanding, begging: pack, now, with him. Because Enjin is good.

Enjin is not Regto.

Enjin is Enjin.

And that simple fact, that clear separation, becomes a strange relief that gives meaning to what he feels. He is not seeking a replacement. He is not confusing one face, one scent, one voice for another. No. His body knows the difference, and accepts it.

The cold cloth touches his burning skin, and the contrast hits him like an electric shock. His inner omega shrieks, writhing with a shiver that runs down his back. The damp cloth glides over his torso, down his shoulders, back, and waist, each contact a reminder of how vulnerable he is. The cold makes him shiver, draws a sharp gasp, yet it also clears some of the heavy haze of fever. The water cleans him, soothes him, and hurts him at the same time. Still, he doesn’t pull away. He allows it, because there’s no one else he trusts with this body.

Suddenly, a sharp movement snaps him from his trance. Enjin brushes the scent gland on his neck clumsily, with more pressure than necessary, and the impact sets him ablaze from within. It’s not just pain: it’s a whip that awakens buried instincts. A low, threatening growl erupts from the depths of his chest, and a hand, armed with black claws, grabs the invasive wrist and squeezes it with fury. Fangs bare in a feral grimace, and the warning resonates steadily, almost animalistic, in a growl that vibrates in the air.

Enjin freezes. His yellow eyes widen with a flash of surprise and caution. He doesn’t move, doesn’t try to pull free. He only swallows and raises his eyebrows.

“Alright…” he murmurs with forced calm, measuring his voice, “Wrong spot.”

“It hurt,” Rudo growls, squeezing even tighter, his nails scratching the tattooed skin.

Enjin hisses, “I understand. Sorry… was I too rough?”

“It hurt a lot” Rudo insists.

“Message received,” Enjin nods, his tone grave and sincere. “Which part exactly?”

Rudo resists answering.

First, he releases the grip, and it isn’t until his omega stops crying that he finally growls through his teeth:

“Gland. Looks like… a swollen spot at the nape.”

Enjin nods slowly, as if noting the information carefully in his mind. “Mmmm…”

“It’s sensitive,” Rudo explains, swallowing, his voice low and rough. “Very sensitive when I’m like this.”

“Shit,” Enjin mutters in frustration. “I’m sorry.”

The repeated “I’m sorry” tastes bitter to Rudo. A wave of nausea hits him, as if those words, no matter how genuine, only remind him of how much protection he needs.

“It’s responsible for producing the scent” He finally confesses.

Enjin blinks and exhales through his nose.

“Oh… that explains why I suddenly feel like I’m in a scrapyard.”

The comment pierces him like a thorn. Rudo growls in pure embarrassment, curling inward, wishing he could disappear. It wasn’t a flattering comparison.

Enjin notices and raises his hands in a conciliatory gesture.

“Calm down, I didn’t mean it badly. It’s strong, like… metal and heat mixed. Not unpleasant. Just different.”

Silence settles again, awkward. Enjin clears his throat, seeking to soften the edge of the situation.

“Is there any other delicate area I should know about before continuing?”

Rudo bites his lip, chapped from biting it too often. His cheeks burn, fever mixing with a suffocating shame. He doesn’t want to answer, doesn’t want to bare more of his secrets. But he knows that staying silent will make it worse when pain betrays him.

Resigned, he raises his arms, showing wrists marked by scars. “There are more glands… here,” he murmurs. “The scars mess them up, but I know they still work.”

He returns his hands to his lap, clenching them into fists, uncomfortable. He swallows and forces the confession that makes him feel more exposed than ever:

“And…” he hesitates, shakes his head, but pressure forces him. “Fuck! It’s humiliating.” His face is flushed, so hot it seems about to explode. “On the inner part of the… thighs.”

The last word barely audible, drowned in shame. His eyes drop, unable to meet Enjin’s gaze. He feels reduced, crushed by the reality of his own body and all that being an omega entails.

“You really are a little kid…” Enjin chuckles, but there’s no mockery in his tone, only a strange mix of tenderness and relief. His hands, warm, heavy, tattooed, take Rudo’s face with soft firmness. He forces him to lift his gaze, if only for a second. “That information is important. Thank you for daring to share it.”

Rudo sniffs, clumsily, a low whine that doesn’t form into words.

“You can continue… but be careful.”

“I will,” Enjin promises with a slight smile, retrieving the damp towel as if the agreement had sealed something between them.

And then he proceeds. His movements change: measured, almost surgical, meticulous in every stroke. The cold cloth glides along the neck, avoiding the gland with a precise detour; he continues over the arms, down the scars, respecting the wrists.

Enjin takes a second, now dry towel, and gently absorbs the remaining water.

Once everything is ready, he takes the rolls of bandages that Eisha (blessed be) had placed in the first aid kit. With patience, he wraps them around the clean scars, layer by layer, from the fingertips to a few centimeters below the elbow. The firm contact of the elastic cloth presses just enough, and the throbbing pain eases. The sight disappears too: no more charred flesh, no black lines rising like poisonous snakes, no indelible echo of the mark his progenitor etched into him.

“Raise your arms,” Enjin requests.

Rudo obeys, though clumsily. The fresh fabric of a new T-shirt masks the fact that it has no scent, a strange neutrality.

“And now...”

The gloves fit perfectly over his hands. As the leather envelops the sensitive skin, a different relief washes through him, deep, visceral. The contrast is so brutal that a low, soft purr escapes from his throat, unexpected. He brings his hands to his face, inhaling, hiding behind the protective fabric as if he could disappear there.

“Much better, right?” Enjin exhales, rinsing the towel in the sink. His tone mixes satisfaction and fatigue, but also a hint of affectionate teasing.

Rudo only nods, still with hands over his face, breathing into the warm hollow between his palms and skin. He doesn’t trust his voice; he fears it will betray him, sounding like a foolish puppy purring in relief.

“Now…” Enjin’s yellow gaze examines him from close range, gauging if he can push a little further. “Do you want to continue?”

No. He doesn’t want to. Genuinely, Rudo does not want to. He doesn’t want to be further exposed, doesn’t want to unravel aloud what his body screams on its own. He doesn’t want to be seen so fragile. But the desire to be clean burns stronger than shame, so he hisses an affirmation through his teeth.

“I need words,” Enjin says, kneeling before him. His eyes soften, leveling with him from below. “I know this is embarrassing, but I promise it will be much easier than anything we’ve done so far.”

Rudo frowns, fed up with Enjin not understanding. “I said it’s fine.” His voice cuts sharp, a blade that harms no one.

“Oi, don’t get mad at me, kid,” Enjin teases, tone gentle. “I still haven’t learned to talk in growls.”

Rudo glares. He thinks maybe that would have been funny in another context, if not for the fact that now he has to remove the shorts he’s wearing. Just thinking about it flushes his face again.

“I think it’d be better if you stand,” Enjin offers, shifting slightly back to give him space. “I promise to work fast, and once we’re done, I have a surprise for you.”

Rudo raises an eyebrow, wary. The heat in his chest mixes with curiosity.

“What do you say?” Enjin insists, smiling enigmatically.

Instead of replying with words or growls, Rudo stands. Bare feet shock with the cold floor, a whip of ice climbing his ankles, but he ignores it. He wants to discover this supposed surprise Enjin boasts about.

“Can you do it yourself, or…?” the man asks, leaving the sentence hanging, too light for the seriousness of the situation.

Again, Rudo chooses violence as an answer. He says nothing, hooking his thumbs into the waistband of his pants. He yanks them down like ripping out a thorn, and the fabric slides heavily down his thighs to pool on the floor. His skin burns at the touch of the fresh air, contrasting with the fever licking every inch.

Enjin doesn’t laugh, but neither does he feign indifference. He watches with a strange respect, as if Rudo’s gesture carries more weight than the simple act of removing a garment. His eyes narrow slightly, and the silence between them is so dense Rudo feels he could cut it with claws.

Nothing particularly intimate is exposed; he still wears underwear, and the same T-shirt reaches just above mid-thigh. But the sweat covering his filthy skin is revolting in itself; the oily sensation where the glands first produce scent in a long time makes him hyperaware of what being an omega means. Memories bite: words spoken by the adults in the Sphere, repulsive, grotesque, exuding terrifying, vulgar, brutal intentions, eyes that didn’t see him as human, only as usable. Revulsion rises like bile.

His hands begin to tremble, claws scraping the glove fabric.

“Shhh… hey, Rudo, it’s okay.” Enjin’s voice reaches him just as the air threatens to become unbearable. The man takes his hands, gently stroking the gloves. “It’s okay. It’s just us.”

Rudo blinks, eyes moist with rage more than sorrow. He wants to scream that he doesn’t understand, that he will never understand how filthy he feels, how humiliating his body is. But when he opens his mouth, only a stuttering gasp comes out.

“No… it’s not okay.” His voice low, hoarse, broken. “I… I stink. This stinks. I don’t… I don’t want to be like this.”

Enjin doesn’t let go. He lets him speak, lets him tremble. He only tilts his head and observes with the patience Rudo both hates and needs.

“It’s your body, brat,” he responds with soft firmness, like an anchor keeping someone from sinking. “Neither good nor bad. It’s yours.”

The words hit harder than they should, because they sound too much like something Regto might have said. Rudo’s chest tightens, and the tears he held back escape silently.

“Shut up…” he murmurs, barely a whisper, hating how quickly the atmosphere collapsed because of him. “Just… shut up and do it quickly.”

Enjin nods without arguing. No mockery, no reproach. Just a gentle, obedient “Okay.” His large, ink-stained hands return to the damp towel, wring it with precision, and press it against the burning skin of Rudo’s thighs.

The contact makes him let out an animalistic growl. The cold against the fevered heat is like an electric shock that shakes him whole. His body arches, leg muscles tense, and for a moment he thinks he will shove Enjin’s hand away. But he doesn’t. He clings to the gloves, fists tight, knuckles hard.

“Breathe,” Enjin reminds him softly, continuing his work. “Let it pass. It’s only water. It’s only me.”

And indeed, it’s only Enjin.

Enjin, repeating the same procedure as before, this time on the legs. He glides the damp cloth over the fevered, emaciated skin, unhurried but continuous, ensuring each stroke is fast enough not to irritate, meticulous enough to clean. Never a nasty comment. Down the thigh, around the calf, to the bony foot. Then the other leg, like performing a strange, almost solemn ritual. His hands move confident, precise, and in tense moments, when Rudo’s trembling threatens silence, he adds words of comfort.

“Calm… almost there.”

“Hold on a little more. You’re doing very well.”

Enjin is especially careful around sensitive areas: the inner thigh glands. Rudo holds his breath whenever the cloth brushes near, and Enjin notices. The oily fluid is thick, sticky, hard to remove, identical to that from the neck gland and damaged wrist glands. He could complain, but he doesn’t. No grimace, frown, or comment.

Nothing.

“We’re done,” Enjin finally says, standing and stretching his tired back.

He takes a dry towel and repeats the procedure, almost mechanically, gently removing excess water. His voice maintains the same calm as he asks, naturally offering a choice, not an order:

“Just asking, in case. Would you prefer to keep your underwear or put on a clean pair?”

He extends a set of clean underwear and sweatpants without insistence.

“I’ll turn around and won’t look,” he adds, as if detailing a basic rule of coexistence rather than consideration.

Rudo reaches for the clothes, staring at them for a long while, long enough for Enjin to count each breath between them. But he doesn’t pressure him. Waits, patient, arms crossed, gaze averted, knowing this pause is part of the process, not a whim.

Finally, Rudo’s voice is low, hoarse:

“Turn around…” he pauses briefly, awkwardly, then adds, “Please.”

The man smiles softly, a small gesture but full of intent, and leans down to give him a light pat on the head, just enough to break the weight of the moment.

“Of course.”

He turns with a simple motion, keeping his arms crossed and his posture relaxed, as if there were no rush at all. His gaze rests on a crack in the wall, pretending to be more interested in that line than in what’s happening behind him.

Behind him, he hears Rudo’s clumsy struggle. The faint crunch of fabric being removed, the restrained exhale as he bends over, fingers still trembling from exhaustion. Enjin doesn’t move, doesn’t interfere; he simply gives him the space and privacy he needs.

Soon after, the sound of fresh fabric sliding over skin replaces that of the old clothes. The touch is cleaner, lighter. From the sigh he hears, Enjin imagines the boy feels immediate relief. He also hears the creak of the bed, assumes Rudo has sat back on the edge, and in any case, a clear, continuous purr escapes from his throat.

Enjin is no expert in this language, but he can assume that this particular purr is pure satisfaction.

“Finished?” he asks without turning.

“Yes.”

Enjin turns slowly and observes him. Rudo is disheveled, eyes still heavy with fever, but the new clothes make him look more comfortable in his own skin, less miserable on the verge of collapse. The man tilts a small smile.

“You look good,” he says, approaching the box and starting to rummage through it. “Do you still have energy for anything else?”

The boy tilts his head and lets out a growl that needs no translation: he wants nothing more. He’s had enough for today and wants to return to his nest and sleep.

“It’ll be quick, I promise. You’ll even like it.”

Rudo squints. “Is it part of the surprise?”

“Nope,” Enjin replies, dragging the word with a teasing tone. “The surprise comes after this.”

Rudo hisses, annoyed. “And what is it?”

Enjin waves a light blue bottle and a wooden comb in front of his face, like a carnival trick.

“It’s dry shampoo,” he explains casually. “You don’t need wet hair to use it. What do you say?”

“I want to sleep.”

“But…”

Rudo sighs, the weight of it seeming to pull half his body down. “You better make sure the surprise is worth it.”

“Trust me,” Enjin responds, amused, yet sincere in his eyes. “You’ll love it.”

He walks over and stands in front of him. Sitting on the bed, Rudo’s face is at the level of his stomach; for the first time in a while, Enjin doesn’t have to bend his back, and he appreciates the brief respite.

“Same rules as before,” he says calmly. “If anything bothers you, tell me and I’ll stop. Okay?”

“You don’t have to repeat that like I’m an idiot.”

Enjin sighs, though he doesn’t lose patience. “I’m not repeating it because I think you’re an idiot. I repeat it because it’s important that I know you’re the one in control here.”

Rudo doesn’t answer. His lips press into a stubborn line, but Enjin notices the way his shoulders drop slightly. He waits a moment longer, until he’s sure the silence isn’t a refusal. Then he nods to himself and opens the bottle.

“I’m going to start,” he announces softly. “It’ll feel like dust… and it might tickle your nose a bit.”

As expected, the first puff of dry shampoo triggers an immediate sneeze. Rudo reacts with an irritated huff, wrinkling his nose in a childlike expression of annoyance, and Enjin can’t help letting out a brief laugh.

The powder, opaque white and scentless, blends almost instantly with the equally pale strands, becoming invisible among them. Enjin applies just the right amount, more by intuition than calculation, then caps the bottle and sets it carefully aside.

With one hand he holds the wooden comb, and with the other he parts the sweat-clumped hair. He alternates between sliding the comb through and using his fingertips, making sure the product is well distributed from the roots. Whenever he finds a knot, he pauses; he doesn’t pull or force it. With patience, he loosens it with his fingers, stroking gently until the tension in the strands yields to soft friction.

Rudo murmurs something, barely a sleepy sound, which Enjin can’t quite make out.

“What did you say?”

No answer comes. Instead, he feels a sudden weight against his stomach. He looks down and finds it: Rudo, half-asleep, has leaned forward, resting his forehead and part of his face against him.

“Alright…” he murmurs with a crooked smile, stroking the hair even more carefully. “I’ll hurt my neck, but that’s fine.”

Rudo doesn’t reply. His breathing deepens, heavy, interrupted only by a low purr of satisfaction. Enjin continues working, combing slowly, massaging the scalp in circular motions, and rubbing the knots until they become nothing more than loose strands obedient to the comb.

From time to time, his hand pauses to give Rudo a break, to feel how he relaxes even more under the touch. The silence in the room is dense but not uncomfortable.

“I hope I’ve taken good care of you,” he says suddenly, his voice softer than intended, as if afraid to break the calm. He doesn’t expect an answer. Maybe he doesn’t even want one.

All he gets is a sleepy exhale, barely a warm puff against his chest. Enjin chuckles softly again, that brief laugh that seems to hide something deeper. Leaning carefully, he sets the comb aside and manages to lift Rudo into his arms. The movement requires some juggling: with one hand he feels for the pillows he had left in the box, and with a quick gesture, tosses them into the nest.

“You really can be tender without even trying,” he murmurs, arranging the warm, limp body against his own.

Carefully, he lays them both down in the cushioned space, among the fabrics and pillows stacked inside the pile of trash that serves as a refuge. The contrast between the surroundings and the improvised comfort makes him crack a tired smile.

Rudo purrs contentedly, eyes closed, just a low, vibrating sound that travels across Enjin’s skin like an unexpected echo. He rubs his face against Enjin’s neck, seeking warmth, breathing peacefully.

“Mmmm… Sleep, pup” Enjin says. “The surprise isn’t going anywhere.”

The boy seems to half-hear him, as his breathing slows further, deep, exhaustion finally claiming him. Enjin holds him against his chest, and though his own neck protests from the forced angle, he pushes through the discomfort. He raises a hand to Rudo’s head, caressing the freshly cleaned white strands, and without much thought, plants a small, fleeting kiss where the hair begins on the forehead.

“Sleep,” he whispers, warmth flooding his chest. “I’ve got you.”