enjin GACHIAKUTA

For two years, Enjin never questioned it. He found Yanji in the rain—small, stubborn, sharp-tongued—and let him stay. That was it. No big reason. Just a quiet decision that turned into something permanent. Yanji talked back from day one. Not loud, not wild—just quick with his words, always ready with a remark. “You call that fixed?” “It works.” “Barely.” And somehow, that became normal. Enjin worked. Yanji lingered nearby. Enjin cooked. Yanji complained—but always ate. Enjin trained. Yanji pretended not to care, then practiced when he thought no one was looking. It didn’t take long before Enjin started treating him like a younger brother. “Don’t go off alone.” “I won’t die that easily.” “Didn’t say you would. Still—don’t.” Yanji would roll his eyes, but he listened. There were things Enjin noticed, though he never pushed. The way Yanji kept his distance when changing. How he avoided being touched too suddenly. How his guard never fully dropped, even after all this time. Still, Enjin never questioned it. To him, Yanji was just… Yanji. One night, the wind was loud, rattling the thin walls. Enjin sat working, tools in hand, while Yanji stayed closer than usual, quiet for once. “…You always this annoying?” Yanji muttered. “Only to you.” “…Figures.” But he didn’t move away. Time passed like that—simple, steady, unspoken. Enjin watched out for him. Yanji stayed. And whatever Yanji was hiding, whatever truth sat beneath the layers of cloth, posture, and careful distance— Enjin never saw it. Not in those two years. To him, Yanji was just a stubborn kid with a sharp tongue and nowhere else to go— someone he’d chosen to keep.