Paper Planes
Zanka Nijiku & Reader One Shot
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Notes: I highkey finished chapter 83 and immediately started writing this. I know they gotta do my boy justice later.
-> Zanka Nijiku & Reader//‘You’ used//Gender neutral//Angsty//Opposite sides//Raider Reader//Hurt Zanka//No big spoilers but finish the anime//Friends but who knows maybe more//no happy ending
Desc: After his latest battle with Jabber, you decided to visit Zanka. It’s been years since you’ve last seen your once good friend. Did the visit leave either of you for the better, or worst?
Warnings: Profanity
M.list
⋆‧°𓏲ּ𝄢 𓆱 . ݁˖ . ݁𓆸
You stood in the corner of the room. The overhead lighting was dimmed. Fitting. Zanka liked to think in dim, quiet places.
He lay in his bed. He stopped stirring a bit ago. His face stopped contorting. His mind stopped torturing him with illusions long before arriving, probably. Even as the mixture of toxins flowed through his system, the worst it would do was hinder his healing and give him bad headaches.
But it wasn’t the physical injuries that left the most severe symptoms. It was the scars of failure.
You knew how much failure got to him. How a fight against Jagger of all people would’ve gone with someone who seemed like everything he wasn’t. Erratic. Undisciplined. Excitable. Loud. Talented. Effortlessly talented.
But that’s what you liked about the present Zanka. His growth. You liked him before, even in his pompous times, because you saw how hard he worked. As easy as he made it seem, it was through effort and time.
But the moment someone came and showed him what true effortlessness was, instead of acknowledging how hard he had worked, taking pride in the fact that he hadn’t been given his strength and talent at birth, he crumbled. He was the most miserable you’d seen him. Up until now, in any case. He wore his fury, shame, and insecurity like a jacket that melted to his skin, draining him to a state where managing a grin was his hardest task of the day.
Yet he pretended to be fine.
So you pretended he was fine, too.
After the Cleaners… he was all the better. They did what you couldn’t do: properly articulate just how highly you thought of him. How much further would he go if he didn’t give up. Who he could be when he finally beat out talent with work ethic.
You left him in the well.
He asked you to. To leave him behind. And without the words you needed, you did just that. For your own comfort. To avoid the hard part of being a friend. Being there.
Unacceptable. Unforgivable.
But here he was. In a position you could only dream of being in with a group of people straight out of every fantasy you had about the path you thought you’d be on. Friends. More than that, family. People who had your back. Who wouldn’t give up on you.
Nothing you deserved.
And now you’re here, in the same room after avoiding it for years.
“I know you’re here.”
His voice croaked. His eyes blinked awake, and he sat up. He gripped the stick that was lying across his body as he slept.
You didn’t respond at first. You didn’t have much time. You didn’t know what you could have said. Should have said. Again.
“I… I wanted to see you.” Was all you could manage.
“You’re…” he furrowed his eyes. He blinked them. Once. Twice. Then rubbed his eyes. “You’re real?”
You nod and carefully walk closer, as if he were a small creature you didn’t want to scare away. “It’s me. For real.”
His confusion melted. Anger replaced it in waves. Not a hot one. It was cold. Calm. Blue. The type of fiery rage that sits flickering at the tip of the flame. You stopped. Getting even a little closer to him would get you burned.
“Why are you here? How’d you get in?”
“Doesn’t matter. I just wanted to see you, I guess.”
“You just wanted to see me, you guess? That’s fucking it? When you had years to… the hell you care about me for now?”
“I always have, Zanka—”
He pointed his stick toward you. It transformed, elongating into a man catcher. “Don’t you dare use my name.” He sputtered a cough and dropped his Jinki. It transformed back as he held his head.
“Don’t overdo—”
“Shut up. Like you know me. You're with the Raiders now, are you not?”
Your face, as careful as you were being, hardens. “I am.”
“So what. Do you want information? To finish the job? Get off on me being bedridden?” He spat. You weren’t sure the venom Jabber had would ever be as potent as the venom in his voice right now. “All of you are sick in the head.”
“Zodyl has something I need. Information I can’t get anywhere else. I tried. That's why I disappeared.”
He bitterly laughed. “I didn’t ask why you’re with them. I don’t care. You’re nothing to me. Do you hear me? Nothing.”
You held your arm. “I was never there for you like I should have been. I’m sorry.”
He said your name.
“I know we are on enemy teams, but—”
He said your name.
“—I want to try to be the friend I never was. I'm here now after years because I fucked up. Badly. Not just with you. But with everything. Everyone. My past. My present. My future. All of it I’ve ruined.”
You pulled a small paper airplane out of your pocket. It floated onto his lap after your throw. He didn’t touch it but stared.
“This battle with Jabber is just one. He’s going to want to fight again. It’s inevitable. Get stronger and don’t give up, okay?”
“I don’t need you to tell me that.” He spoke. His eyes were still cast on the letter. “I hated you. I still hate you. For leaving. I was angry for years.”
His hand gripped the side of his face as it twisted into a pained scowl, “And after I thought I got better, here you are again. To remind me of how mad I am at you. How sad I am for you.”
Zanka took a few deep breaths. He threw back his sheets, then his feet swung over the edge of his bed and settled onto the ground. The ash haired boy rose, coming to an unstable stand. He hissed as he began to stumble, holding his hip. You immediately go over and gently hold his torso, guiding him back to the bed.
As you pulled away, he held you closer. His arms circled you tightly. “I just wanted to know if you were real.”
“You’re still hurt. You shouldn’t move—”
“Shut up. You’ve got no right to order me around.”
He breathed in and out. His breaths staggered, like he was crying. You stayed like that, bent over the bed, holding him. Tears trickled down the corners of your eyes.
“Just stay. Leave them.”
“You shouldn’t care about me. I was a terrible friend.”
“Yeah. You still are.”
“Wait. You…”
He pulled you more onto the bed so you were sitting on it. He still didn’t let go. Didn’t let you see his face.
“Shut up. If I can go from being an egomaniac to a normal person, then you can grow too.”
“But I don’t think I can—”
“Don’t ruin this for me. I’m the one hurt, and you’re spilling all your feelings.”
“Sorry.”
“Do you remember when we were kids, you’d train so hard you’d be sleeping while your body moved.” He reminisced, his voice small.
You laughed a little. “Yeah. You remember holding your training staff for so long you couldn’t position your fingers any other way?”
“I do.” He murmured. “We treated ourselves so harshly. Nothing was enough.”
“Is it ever?”
“No. But at least I have a goal now. Back then, it was growth for the sake of growth. For the sake of praise. Of ‘being the best.’ When you have something tangible to fight for, it becomes less of a burden on yourself.”
“Wasn’t becoming a Hell Gaurd the goal?”
“In training? No. The goal was to be the best. Be the talent. Sit on a chair and prove that everyone else sat beneath you. But here… it doesn’t feel like an endless upward spiral. You can see yourself protecting your friends. You can see yourself getting rid of the things that harm them. You can see your results and milestones instead of being told them.” His nails dug into your shirt. “I didn’t do that. I lost.”
Your head shook. “You tried your hardest.”
“And that’s the worst part. It wasn't enough. I wasn’t enough.”
“You’re so much more than enough, Zanka.” You paused, squeezing your eyes shut. “It was always hard to describe how magnificent I thought you always were. Even at your lowest, I felt you were better than me.”
“Shut up. Why do you have to put yourself down to compliment me? You worked just as hard. We trained together. In what world are you below me?”
You let your unsaid answer silently ring in the room. “I know this isn’t where you stop. Keep going. What Zodyl has planned, it can’t happen.”
He pulled away and faced you directly. “The whole Sphere thing? I was mostly out of it but heard some things here and there.”
“It’s more than that. I can’t speak on it.” You glanced at your watch. “I have to go now.”
His hand grasped yours. “You don’t. You can be a Cleaner. You can make up for everything.”
You gently pried him off. “I can’t. I have to—”
“I mean, you don’t even really have to join. Just stay here and I’ll explain. I’ll vouch for you.”
“Zanka, if I stay it’ll be worse for you—”
He scowled. “For me, or your guilt!?”
You gaped. Your mouth dumbly opened and closed. Why, why, can’t you talk? Just say it. Say it. It felt like the world’s heaviest anvil sat on top of your lungs. It squeezed out every bit of air to be used for words as the pit in your stomach dug deeper and deeper. You didn’t regret coming, but you wished he wouldn’t see you as he did now. For the coward you really were.
What if it came out wrong? What if he didn’t get it?
Being misunderstood based on what you said somehow felt worse than it being based off everything you didn’t say. You hesitated. You would always hesitate when it came to him.
Zanka waited as the silence permeated. Disappointment shadowed over his face, a grim frown crossing his lips. “If you turn your back on me, then you can forget ever being friends again. I’ll hate you for real.” You left the bed and watched him. He looked up at you, fury gone and replaced with pleading.
He meant what he said, but you could see everything in him didn’t want it. “Me, or the Raiders.”
You swallowed. You looked away. Down. You picked at your nails.
“Answer me,” Zanka said. He laughed ruefully. “Is the information you need worth more than me?” He asked. The turmoil in his voice pierced your heart.
“Look at the note.” Was all you could say.
You turned on your heel and paused. You heard the unmistakable sound of paper ripping.
“Go to hell.” Was his final sentence. He was done. Probably forever. For the better. You didn’t deserve someone like him. Someone with so much resolve. Hope for life. For a better future for others.
You nodded and gave him the last words. ‘Already there.’ You thought as you walked toward the corner of the room. Your selfishness rotted your core. You’d sooner die than give up this opportunity.
The note was a false hope. You knew in your heart your one attempt to be a friend was just a goodbye. Goodbye to your past. Your last piece of goodness.
Zanka bit his lip. Curled his fist so tight he palm bled. He looked up. You were gone as if you were never there. He didn’t even hear you leave.
Through watery eyes, he looked down at the airplane paper he ripped in half. You’d always talk about making some contraption that could fly. Something with wings that could go so high it’d pierce the barrier without anyone dying. Not to get to the sphere, but high enough to pierce through the smog and unclean air. Perhaps there, you’d get your first breath of truly clean air.
It was naive at best. Though, it was that kind of hope that kept his days lighter. Wishful, silly thinking he couldn’t pull off himself. Well, not in the way you did it. He used to have even sillier ideals. At first it made him feel better about himself, “At least I’m grounded.”
Then, he got jealous. Your ideals made you happy. They weren’t about winning or being the best. You hoped for something better. An escape from expectation. Joy.
You were always there to comfort him. He couldn’t fake his anger, his sadness, his resentment, not in the face of you. He always felt like you saw it no matter how hard he covered; gave him an empathetic smile, soft eyes, but never mentioned it until he brought it up on his own time. He was thankful. So thankful.
Maybe he relied too much on you. At the well. You tried to be there for him, he knew that. But it was too much. He made you feel like you being there, always being there, wasn’t enough for him. When he asked you to leave, you respected it. He wished you didn’t listen. That you would have fought, but that was… complex. He couldn’t imagine the kind of sadness that came with seeing a friend in that position. How overwhelming it may have been and not knowing what to do about it.
He wished you stayed. He hated you didn’t. And he shouldn’t have put you in that position. He hated he did.
Then you left soon after it. Completely. He blamed you. You abandoned him was the narrative he had for years. It’s what came up in his chest as he yelled. But he knew that wasn’t it. If anything he was the only thing keeping you held back; he pushed you away.
He felt his heart in his throat. It thumped harshly, caged in by all the things he should have said. Wished he did. The walls were green and thick, laced with guilt, regret, and poison to rival Jaggers own.
His attention turned back to the letter. He unfolded both of the pieces and put them together.
His eyes widened at the message. He gulped, a sinking, terrible feeling settling into his chest. Past the pain. Past the anger. Past the anguish.
“I don’t know what to do.” That was all he could say as he read it over and over again.
