Work Text:
The rakish look in Jabber's expression is infuriating, teasing in nature. It is Jabber's vigor, pushing against Zanka's resistance, that slowly erode Zanka away like a river would a stone. Except Jabber is no river. In the face of Zanka's shallow resistance, Jabber is a rapid.
Had Zanka known better, had Zanka known his curiosity and interest towards Jabber was more than that— Zanka could have prepared, at least. He did not think his own current would meet Jabber's so violently. He had looked at his own interest, at his own desire to match Jabber, and he had thought the man nothing but a Class II rapid, something he could pull out and away from with no issue. Something safe, something that posed no risk. In the throes of Zanka's drive to surpass Jabber's skills, he saw him as a Class III. Irregular, intense. Zanka expected the bruises to come from him traversing the waters of what was his own focus on Jabber.
Zanka had been confident, thinking himself aware of his and Jabber's self-interests. He had not accounted for the snowmelt of his own emotions, adding speed to the flow, until the current Zanka ended up caught in was beyond his skill level. He knew not the dangers.
The drop that came from nowhere, Zanka had not expected. It was a steep drop, threatening to overturn Zanka; and even if Zanka had managed to stabilize himself, he was not prepared for the waves of Jabber's interest in Zanka to fed into the turbulence of Zanka's interest in Jabber.
Only once he had violently choked in the inhalation of water —of Jabber’s interest and his own turning to something more unruly, more wild and dangerous—, did Zanka realize how deep his interest in Jabber ran. How Zanka’s fixation turned to be a flood that did not help him react in time. Zanka would do his damnest to keep his head above these unpredictable waters. Yet Jabber was a Class VI rapid, obsession-changed phenomena, and one Zanka drowned in, inexperienced.