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Jabbers there, bouncing on the spot like his bones rattle under his skin in this jagged, one-two frequency. This little half-vibration, half side-step he occasionally whips out of his entourage of 'weird shit Jabber just does.' Dacing while he's waiting, strangely patient, for Zanka to reboot after a left-hook that sent him into next week? Sure, why not?
Duh-dun! Dun-dah! Psst! Pah-pow!
Jittery. Heel-toe back again. Away. Shoulders twitching, all micro spasmic.
If you didn't know Jabber, you'd assume it was choreographed. Fixed and planned and practiced
Unfortunately, hilariously, sadly and happily, Zanka does know Jabber.
It makes it funnier, somehow.
Zanka's on his back in the dirt. Chest heaving. Body creaky with achy muscle joints. Kicked in and loving every second of it. That sickly sort of routine. The quiet aftermath while Jabber waits for him to get up after a beat down. Because Zanka always gets up.
A couple seconds, a couple one-two-steps, and Zanka finally manages to creak out a laugh from somewhere beneath his aching ribs.
"You like dancin' or what?" Zanka tosses the question in Jabber's direction in a tone that's way too fond to exist between them. Zanka pushes himself up on his elbows.
Jabber blinks and pauses momentarily. Looking down at his feet like he's been, somehow, unaware of himself jiving over Zanka's humiliation for the last ten minutes. Then shrugs, careless and easy as always.
"Nah, it's just what y'body does. You dumb or summin'?"
Zanka fucking snorts.
Airless. Fond. The laugh that comes from guys with painful self awareness of the foot they've got in the grave. Because it's just too funny. The way Jabber talks like anything he says makes sense. Zanka's got a hefty list of angry reasons to live, but a reason to laugh? Jabber occupies every spot like a carving into a cave wall.
Jabber talks as if his body is seperate from himself. A monster truck he rides around in. As if movement isn't something you choose, but something you survive.
And maybe the most important things in their relationship are the things Zanka chooses not to say. Because he really wants to tell Jabber:
Nah, actually, man. Most people decide whether or not they're dancing. They don't just...do it.
But, ah, Jabber ain't most people.
And so Zanka doesn't say it.
Because saying it wouldn't make Jabber self conscious, no. But it'd make him think. Make him look down and realize. And Jabber gettin' all introspective is the human equivalent of a gas leak.
Zanka wipes the blood of his lips with the back of his hand.
Jabbers dancing, again.
"Come on, Zanka! Zan-ka. Get up! Get up! G-e-t up!"
So Zanka hauls himself up on shaky legs and watches the tiny tremors dancing down Jabbers calves as he waits to knock him down again.
And adds that to the list of shit they'll probaly never talk about.
Hah, fuckin' dancing.