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"You're pathetic." Goka says, deadpan, and Zanka doesn't dare lift his gaze to see what expression accompanies the words.
Not like he could, if he wanted. Not like it would matter, if he did. His vision was blurry and the pain was making it hard to concentrate on anything but that. It hurt like all hell, like his muscles had been torn and his bones had been scraped to the sinew. He felt bare, exposed, far too vulnerable. The blood that soaks his mouth is bitter, and Zanka tastes it with every raspy breath he struggles to get through, he feels it stick to his throat like a prickly thing.
It feels heavy, the result of things. Of whatever it is he's done or lacked now, of whatever external force had made it to put him on the ground, slumped over and aching with a pain that kept him awake, even if he felt like passing out.
"So this is what becomes of the man who refused to live up to his elder sister's expectations."
Zanka wants to laugh. For Goka to bring up Kyoka here, he must be frazzled. For much as his words are steady, collected, Zanka recognizes all the tells. Kyoka's name being brought up, the expectations she once had —and surely still has— for him. The expectations both Goka and Zanka had tried so hard to meet. The ones Goka had managed to, and the ones Zanka had refused so brazenly.
Kyoka's expectations had been refused, once Zanka had realized there was more than one path to one's life, once he had been presented with the opportunity of a different life experience. To be a Cleaner, as he had told them so back when he had made his mind, when he had decided he would learn and grow with the Vital Instrument he had awakened— back when he had ached to follow after Enjin, the man who acted as a beacon in one of Zanka's darkest days. His own sun, offering hope and warmth and lighting a path Zanka had never considered.
"Zanka. Your dependence on your Vital Instrument makes you vulnerable."
I know, he wants to spit, just like the Hell Guard's reliance on one another, on their weapon and their skills. To Zanka, Hell Guard and Cleaners were not too far off. Different sides of the same coin, perhaps.
It does not ease his bitterness upon hearing Goka's words, though. Because, for much as they were true, it was a Vital Instrument's dependence on their Giver that made them vulnerable. He looks for Lovely Assistaff from the corner of his eyes, and Zanka is relieved to see her intact. Good. Mymo had not damaged her. His fingers twitch against the ground as he tries to reach for her, but they don't move from where they lay. Oh, it's so hard to breathe, let alone move.
So Zanka remains quiet.
"Is your flame only good for heatin' lukewarm water for the Cleaners?"
If he had the air for it, if his lungs where up for task, Zanka would laugh, for real now. Flame. That tricky little word his sister loved to use, the one she kept telling Zanka to not take for granted, the one she kept telling Zanka to not let die due to his recklessness. The one she used to praise, once upon a time, after Zanka overcame an obstacle in his path, after Zanka became more resolute to be better. Back when he wanted, so desperately, to meet his family's standards.
But Zanka understands Goka's words because of it. That Goka is goading him into a reaction is amusing, when all Goka and Kyoka have ever done in the prior years is ignore him, when all they did at a certain time in his life was to highlight all his flaws. Zanka closes his eyes and wills the tightness in his chest away.
Because all they had done before is not what Goka is doing right now. Right now, Zanka understands his brother's words. He understand the recognition Goka is giving him in between the lines.
Lukewarm, Goka says, linking the temperature to the Cleaners. He really knew where to press. He really knew where Zanka's flame had gone to— and one Zanka refused to let burn to just a lukewarm temperature. No, lukewarm would not satisfy him. Zanka would be remiss to let said water be anything but scalding.
He startles when he feels Goka's hands slip under his armpits, and he stills, unsure of this closeness Goka's made. One Goka had torn once upon a time, leaving a gash so big Zanka was sure it would never close by either's actions. Funny how him being on the brink of death closed such open wounds.
Funny how Goka's hand reached for Lovely Assistaff, once he had let most of Zanka's weight rest against his shoulder. It reminds Zanka of kinder, warmer times, when they were younger and the family's expectations did not crush them all, when they had more freedom and less responsibilities.
It reminds Zanka of the care they used to show for one another, back when they still expressed their love unashamedly.
"Don't get any funny ideas." Goka says, as if reading his mind, but Zanka is still reeling with the care and affection Goka's actions are showing. "I'm only doin' what Kyoka asked me to do." Ah, there it is, his sister's name again. So they've always cared. "I will report to her about your incompetence." So you did care.
It baffles Zanka, how much they still seemed to care for him— in between the harsh, cold and distant words, Zanka could see all that Goka refused to express outwardly. His wound throbs angrily when Goka stands, when his body sways limply over it, the pain too deep to even try to fight the motions. Goka's hand, firm over his back and a few inches off his wounds, feels so warm when Zanka's body is steeping in coldness.
They still care.
It pains him so, that they still do. That they still do and still had refused any attempts at possibly reconnecting, at possibly seeing one another after he had left for the Cleaners.
They trust me as much.
As much as to leave him be, as much as to let him lead his own life, without their interference. It dawns on Zanka, now, how his family had never reached out to him— not his siblings, not his parents or his extended family, or, or—
The thought bubbles in his mind: how much did Kyoka and Goka cared for him, for Zanka to be able to live his life? Was him being disinherited a mercy, a parting gift?
Goka pauses in his step, and it's enough of a pause from the jolts of pain in his chest, that the thought festers in his mind. He closes his eyes once more, turning the information in his head, reading into all of Goka's actions so far.
You're pathetic, Goka had said. But it wasn't in that derisive, disappointed, "I'm looking down on you" tone Zanka had heard one too many times in his younger years. It wasn't like Goka wasn't aware of Zanka's own high standards for himself. Was Goka echoing Zanka's thoughts, out loud, then?
They still love me.
It was bittersweet. It was... and they couldn't be normal and let him know with words?
"Za—"
"I suppose you're worried about your friend." You are too, fool, Zanka recriminates Goka mentally, "But it is not acceptable for a Nijiku to die from somethin' as minor as this."
Zanka scowls, recognizing Goka's words to be directed at him, too.
And yeah, what a pathetic sight it would be, wouldn't it? If Zanka were to stop here. If Zanka were to die here. If Zanka refused to meet his own expectations, if Zanka's flame burned lukewarm, tepid.
"Your pity is unnecessary." Zanka hears the sharp inhalation of Rudo, and he is sure the young boy is remembering Zanka's own words, after his ordeal with Jabber in the Trash Beast. He really took after his family, didn't he...? "You keep your focus on puttin' holes in that thing, Rudo Surebrec!"
Zanka should have known. That his siblings cared, that they refused to pity Zanka, that they refused to show their worry. Zanka should have known, that their distant, merciless behavior was nothing but a facade to their real feelings. The ones the three of them struggled to express.
It was the same facade Zanka knew how to wear, too. Cool, collected, standoffish. A mask to hide things he had been taught to perceive as unreliable.
As Goka carries him away, Zanka can't help the small, breathy laugh that escapes him. He truly took after his siblings.
Zanka lets himself sag against Goka's sturdy body, letting the warmth of his hold around his torso comfort him. In their own distant, muddled way, they truly cared.