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Maybe he was born to never create a deep bond with another. Often, at night, when the Cleaner’s headquarters were too quiet, and when the silent shuffle of bugs along tile is the only sound to be heard; the only light the moon, and the Ground’s smog feels almost cleared, Zanka catches his mind in corners of thoughts he wishes to forever forget- to not have to feel this strange and horrible way. But alas. His heart aches as feelings pulse through him, numbing his veins and paralyzing him in place. In this way, he almost likes the feeling of the onslaught of dread that comes from these thoughts; they bring him back to that trash beasts stomach, to the claws of someone's jinki caressing him in a way he has never felt before- like the hand of a lover- would a lover touch him like that?
This is why he dislikes these late night spirals. They make him feel sick to the stomach. Why must he be reminded of his defeats in these moments? Why must his brain turn the throttling he took into something intimate? Why does his heart call for the cold blade of a tainted claw, all while his brain cries for him to never look another in the eyes ever again? He feels disgusted in himself over these desires. An itch calls for him to to pray to something, someone, to bring him back to these moments of unadulterated violence, these entanglements of visceral hatred and intimacy; the violent thrust of Lovely Assististaff, the feeling of claws plunging in his stomach, twisting and making a home inside of his guts like a desperate lover. Oh, Fuck him. Zanka wishes he could stop waxing poetic over getting drugged up by some weird freak.
But… as much as he hated the feeling of hopelessness beneath someone else, someone so clearly enjoying his despair, it also made his stomach curdle in a way unfamiliar to him. The weight of red-magenta eyes glowing bright pink could be felt, even with his own eyes shut, and he almost wanted to crawl out of his own flesh at the feeling that tingled under skin due to that weight. Weird. Maybe that poison hasn’t cleared out of his system as Eishia seemed to think it had. This line of thought, the buzzing under his skin, the furl of some strange… feeling, under skin, has sufficiently distracted him from his initial agonizing trail of thoughts and crumpled it into a new one; what the Hell is Jabber’s deal? All this talk of unlocking some untouched potential, hiding under the surface of Zanka- Bullshit. If there was one thing that pissed Zanka off the most, it was some natural talent making all these probing remarks- teasing and yanking and pulling at Zanka’s skin, at who he was- some average ass joe with no big win to his name. There is no ‘awakening’, there is no something deeper. He will always be painfully average, and will never have the thing that those around him have: natural talent. Every day of his life must be a grueling battle against the normalcy that is his life, and every day he must grapple up walls those around him can simply leap to the top of. It is his fate, and there is no changing that.
Yet. Even when swallowed the feeling of inadequacy, Jabber’s insistence still calls to his heart. It’s weird; like some strange validation of feelings. That Zanka is more than he thinks he is, that he has worth outside of his own perception that he has yet to see. Every time Jabber would brag at how he only let go around strong people, even as he beat and poked and stabbed at Zanka, it would both carve a hole in Zanka’s pride at getting bloodied by someone so clearly above him in rank, but it also lit a heat in his stomach that someone so driven by strength saw the thing that drives them crazy in him. It makes his fingers twitch, hand phantom holding his staff; it makes him want his fist to meet a stupid, grating smile, his fingers pushing at a deeply tanned face.
…And there is the other issue. While the thought of this annoying, grating man atop him, clawing and tearing into his flesh makes his stomach flutter, in equal measure, the thought of himself, atop this man, pinning him down with his staff, making it known that he cannot overpower Zanka in that very moment, makes him want to tumble out of bed hard. He wants to hit him in the ribs again; he hopes the next time they fight, there’s still a soreness in his side, and craves to jab his Lovely Assististaff right back into that healing rib, and shatter it all again. He wants to stick his fingers into the bruising, wants to yank at the locs atop his head and force him to look him in the eyes, say please for it. He wants him to want the pain he wishes to give. And he knows he will. He’ll laugh and guffaw and Zanka will look away when he talks about how hard he’s getting, and Zanka will look away and pretend the knowledge that the hurt he incurs does that to Jabber does get him just as hot and bothered. In these quiet moments, all Zanka can think, all Zanka can feel, is the heat of Jabber’s eyes, the cool of Makira’s metal; his mind consumed with thoughts of one man.
He craves both the violent throttle of fists against him, and he craves to return the pain tenfold; to make another squirm and writhe in a mix of agony and arousal. He craves for his words to wash over him, to let the fuzzy sensation of endorphins and what other chemicals pump through him when his only thoughts are about harming another, and the only thing he can feel is the ache of sore muscles and developing bruises. Sometimes he thinks he ought to feel more guilty about this utter derailment of morals; Zanka should not want to hurt another, but something about how much Jabber insists upon himself makes him shudder. He wants to freeze in awkwardness when faced with this man so clearly aroused by pain inflicted by Zanka, wants the feeling in his stomach to be something other than shared arousal.
He knows his pleas will not be answered, just the same as the first train of thought that brought Zanka to this topic. Oh Well. Perhaps he was destined for at least one person.