Archive of Our Own ^beta

My Own Boy,

Your sonnet is quite lovely, and it is a marvel that those red rose-leaf lips of yours should be made no less for the madness of music and song than for the madness of kissing. Your slim gilt soul walks between passion and poetry. I know Hyacinthus, whom Apollo loved so madly, was you in Greek days.

Why are you alone in London, and when do you go to Salisbury? Do go there to cool your hands in the grey twilight of Gothic things, and come here whenever you like. It is a lovely place and lacks only you; but go to Salisbury first.

Always, with undying love, yours,

Oscar.

—Oscar Wilde to his lover, Alfred ‘Bosie’ Douglas. 1893.

You'll be hard pressed to find anyone amongst the cleaners with a solid, healthy sleep schedule. They’d all ended up in this business for one reason or another, and most of the time, that reason was less than savoury.

Memories tend to linger in the dusty, forgotten corners of your mind, until the darkness of your bedroom draws them out with a comforting croon. A bump in the night is commonplace here.

However, up until now, this had been a good night for Zanka. His day had been packed full of plans— Giving Bro a hand to dish breakfast, letting Amo watch while he and Rudo trained in the early afternoon, even a recon mission with Riyo, Gris and Follo that spanned the evening and ended with a hearty meal they put on Enjin’s tab never ending tab at their favourite bar. By the time his little bedside clock struck twelve, for the first time in a long time, he was out like a light.

Of course somebody had to ruin it.

He lifts a hand to rub at his sleepy eyes, subsequently dragging it down his cheek when he feels a cool breeze brush against his sleep flushed skin. A groan escapes his lips when he eyes open, just enough to fall towards his bedroom window.

He'd opened it right before he conked out, convinced that the air inside was too stuffy and would worsen his insomnia. It's only typical that the one night he plans ahead is the one night it doesn't matter. 

He'd been startled by a loud noise, that he's sure of, like a bang or a slam from another cleaner's door or window. The noise has most likely leaked through the open glass. Just his luck.

With a grumble about nothing intelligible, Zanka swings his legs over the edge of the bed, pulling back his cosy sheets and exposing himself to the chill in the early morning air. The sun hasn't risen yet, the first rays barely cresting over the horizon, so the moon's frosty hold on early november is still tangible. He knows he sleeps better when his room is colder, but this is just taking the piss.

It's a quick walk, barely a handful of steps, but he hates every one all the same. Mentally, he curses every single person he knows whose room is within range of his own, even if he doubts any of them are the culprit.

The handle bites his palm as he grabs it, almost forcing him to let go just to rub it against his clothes. He doesn't, instead hissing out a quiet “fuck, ow,” from between clenched teeth. The air’s kiss makes the stupid thing's metal hinges squeak as Zanka yanks it inwards, making him cringe as it echoes through the night.

He'll close this, grab the extra blanket Riyo bought him from the bottom of his wardrobe, and try to get another half hour before his first alarm goes off. If that doesn't work, he'll finally start that book Tamsy recommended and light a candle to read by. 

They're both equally idyllic ideas, he thinks, until a third option— quite literally— presents itself.

Just as the window clicks closed, another noise catches Zanka's attention. It's coming from above, but close, and his tired eyes react just a little too late to catch where the small, crumpled piece of paper falls from.

It floats down to him like a feather, twisting and turning hypnotically until it places itself on the floor by Zanka's bare foot. There's writing on both sides that he barely catches, blurred by the moon's faint light shining through the thin material, covered in graphite scribbles and torn at the corners where a rubber had been a tad too harsh.

Zanka stares.

The rational side of his brain says to leave it be. Trash isn't exactly unusual on the ground, it's bound to be a lost shopping list or something else blown in from the nearest polluted zone. 

If he has anything to do with it, it'll be to scrunch it up and bin it properly, then go right back to bed and forget he ever saw it.

The impulsive side of his brain makes him reach for it before the monologue even finishes.

There's no weight to it, the poor thing barely bigger than the size of the hand that holds it. He has to turn around, back facing the glass, to make out what currently looks like ancient hieroglyphics to his impaired vision.

It's definitely some of the worst handwriting he's seen, and when you live in a place with an illiteracy rate so high it's considered normal to struggle with the alphabet, that's an incredible feat.

Once he gets the right angle, holding what he realises is a letter like a town cryer, he finally lets his curiosity get the better of him.

The first line addresses the recipient, but the name had been scored out so harshly Zanka can feel the indents through the back with a pass of his thumb. The first word is most certainly Dear, and he can just about make out an a and what falls between an m and an n in the next one, but anything else is a lost cause. 

My name has an a at the start, His thoughts supply, there's an n next to that. 

His rational side doesn't bother to brush it off as a simple coincidence, and he feels his heart stammer in his chest.

Dear  a̶n̶  

My old man told me once that writing things down helps if you can't say it out loud. I haven't tried it before, but since you came back I can't talk to you how I want to. So I'm writing it here. I don't think it’ll be any good, but I don't know what else to do. I hope it's okay.

…It's not the start he was expecting. He swallows, an aftertaste of something like sentimentality lingering on the back of his tongue. It's awfully sweet.

This might not be something he should be reading. He has no idea if the name is actually his or how it coincidentally ended up in his grasp, but it still might could be an invasion of privacy. Even if it is for him, who says it was intended to be read? It doesn't exactly seem in a state that's fit to be delivered.

…But his clock reads just past five, and if he squints, he could almost believe it really is addressed to him. Enjin's always loved the phrase curiosity killed the cat, but Zanka knows that satisfaction brought it back. That's all it is, he tells himself. The want to scratch an itch.

He smothers his guilt under the blanket of darkness engulfing his room, and continues.

I know we didn't get off on the right foot, but I meant it when I said what I did. You make me want to learn how to raise my hands for things other than violence. Like holding yours. I think it would be nice. 

Everything about you is nice, like your hair and your eyes. I like your voice too, especially when you laugh. I want to tell you that I think you're really pretty but I get too nervous, so I can't. I like talking to you the most though. You're smart and funny, a lot more than you think you are. 

Whoever this mystery author is, they aren't very eloquent. Their grammar could use some work, evident by the various mistakes littered throughout the monologue. It's cute, if somehow a messy blend of both specific and vague.

That's what he chooses to focus on, instead of the heat steadily spreading across the arch of his cheekbones and back of his neck, until the next line catches his eye.

We haven't known each other long, but you've become someone special to me.

I think I realised that in the trash beast.

So, it was a fellow cleaner. 

It's not surprising, considering who he is and where he found it, but it catches him off guard nonetheless. He doesn't remember much from Zodyl's experiment after Jabber had knocked him on his ass with that hallucinogenic, but from what the others had told him, it hadn't been pretty. It never was when Riyo had to go back to her old reliable.

She’d shot Jabber with it after their fight, she'd told him with a grin from her seat by his medical bed. At the time, he hadn't been lucid enough to register any information beyond the swirling visions of glowing purple clouding his vision, but it doesn't take an artist to picture the elation Jabber probably felt getting his thighs and torso blown wide open after such a disappointing turn of events.

That memory with Jabber is another addition to his repertoire of night terrors. Some nights, he can't help but compare himself to a broken record, lines like I thought if I fought you, I'd get a more savage fight or maybe I could have fun if I thought a different cleaner spoken while Zanka was the cusp of falling head first into the venoms elation had branded themselves into his brain like a scar from a hot iron rod.

It had been humiliation at its finest. It still is. The worst part might have been how jealous Jabber sounded when he laughed out a half hearted you are having a lot of fun! While frustrated tears burned the edge of Zanka's vision.

He hates him. He hasn't seen him since, and thank the sphere above for that. 

Now that he thinks about it, the raiders as a whole haven't made an appearance in a while. He knows they tried to pull some shit while the others hunted down the information broker, but according to Gris, the worst had been a gnarly car chase on the road to Tori. Ever since their ace in the hole, a plain looking girl with a set of headphones as her vital instrument as Rudo described, had been taken out, they'd gone awfully quiet.

Which leads him to another realisation— it wasn't just the cleaners inside the trash beast.

He looks at the letter. 

It should be a pointless thought. Why would a raider write this? He'd only met a handful of the bastards, but none of them seemed the type to go around dropping cheesy letters outside people's rooms.

He scoffs quietly to himself. For a moment he doubts any of them are even capable of experiencing the gross, mushy, all encompassing insanity that comes with an emotion like love, until he remembers the romantic keen to Jabber's voice when he'd describe Mankira's abilities to him back in that basement just over a month ago.

Well, they are all givers. He thinks Enjin reminded Rudo of that once, which makes him flush with lame embarrassment.

It weighs a little heavier now, for reasons he doesn't want to place.

It changed things. I couldn't stop thinking about you despite our fight, even after we got out. The only thing I cared about after was finding you and seeing you again. When we were all trapped together inside it, you were my only priority.

It made me realise that I want you in my life. You’re just like me, but you still teach me how to be better. I really care about you.

I probably won't send this, because I don't know if I should tell you. My dad would've thought so, but he's always been an optimist. I know he would've really liked you.

I like you. More than I should.

This is stupid.

There's a few lines that follow, but they're marked out so harshly not even a hint is left. He flips the paper round both ways, just to be sure.

Honestly, he doesn't know how to feel about it. The initial curiosity has been satiated, but the feeling of dissatisfaction has taken its place. The guilt from earlier has deepened at least tenfold too, especially after those last lines, stirring in his gut and making him almost nauseous with it. He feels as though he's intruded on something he was never meant to see.

Should he pretend he didn't? Dumping it in the bin feels too impersonal, like it'd be an insult to the sender's emotional turmoil. Even in his current state, Zanka can still admire the courage it must have taken to write this. 

Maybe he's been spending too much time with Rudo lately, if the idea of throwing away inanimate objects has started to pain him.

The idea makes him scoff.

Wasting his time ruminating over the daft thing isn't going to help, he knows, but those two little words at the start draw his attention far stronger than the sight ofthe time. The recipient's name is nearly ineligible, and he doesn't want to get his hopes up, but his heart skips a beat as he rereads it.

If he's been absolutely, completely honest with himself, the thought isn't too far fetched, right? Zanka has never considered himself the hopeless romantic type, he's hardly even considered the idea of romance itself once in his entire life, but any normal person would fall for the potential what if it's for me? if something like this fell into their lap.

The more difficult aspect is trying to believe that someone else wrote it for him. It's no secret that there isn't much to Zanka that's worth loving, as the memory of his siblings so often likes to remind him, let alone enough to write a whole essay about.

Still, it's a nice thought that there’s a person out there who thinks he looks nice, that might like his features beyond aesthetics like others who aren't as acquainted with the Kamuatari District and its residents often do. 

He's used to standing out amongst his peers, strangers eyeing with him expressions that scream that well bred young man has a nasty look in his eye, of course he's a cleaner. He's never considered that one of those looks, hidden at the back of the crowd, could be admiration instead.

He can feel his cheeks heating up again as his eyes roam back over that one particular paragraph. The same giddiness he feels when Enjin compliments him bubbles in his chest but different, but now Zanka doesn't know what to make of it. It feels different, and in a strange way, better.

He wonders what the sender would think, if they knew he'd read it. Maybe they'd be embarrassed, flailing and turning as a blush rapidly spreads across their face. They don't seem very confident in their feelings, if the cutoff is anything to go by, but they did still send it in the end. Maybe they'd nod and look at Zanka, and ask him if he feels the same.

He wonders what it's like to have a crush. Maybe even be in love. He shouldn't have chastised the raiders earlier, since he probably knows far less about it than them. Hell, the concept alone is foreign to him.

Beside him, the clock reads five past five, meaning he's got just less than two hours until his seven o'clock alarm for morning training. He has an observation job with Tomme tomorrow too, and he promised he'd help Follo train with Alan before dinner. Riyo and Enjin will find him for a chat at some point while they eat. 

He has another full day ahead of him, but despite the rising sun looming over the grounds clouded horizon, he finds it hard to concentrate on the fact. 

I like you. More than I should.

He trudges back to bed despite himself. It's much warmer now without that achingly cold breeze, but comfortable. 

He debates himself for a moment, the hand holding the letter drifting between his desk and his bed, until he takes one last look outside his window at where he'd found it. 

More than I should.

He's thankful nobody is around to see his smile as he slides it underneath his pillow.

He’ll read it again after he wakes up. Maybe he can find something like a clue, maybe a letter drawn in familiar writing or a pattern of speech that could hint to the secret admirer's identity. If nothing else, he feels obligated to at least give it back, just in case they really hadn't meant to send it. It didn't exactly seem in perfect sending condition, after all.

At least they mentioned the trash beast incident from last month. That narrowed down his betting pool to the better part of ten people, six if he's excluding the raiders. 

The possibility that it might not be a teammate taunts him, lingering in the back of his mind like an omen of something to come. It’sis almost slim to none, considering how heavily fortified HQ is thanks to Semiu and Shikage, and that goes without mentioning the high walls around the area. 

But they have that manhole, his brain recalls. He chooses to ignore it. If they haven't used that woman's vital instrument to attack before, it's unlikely they'd be stupid enough to give the game away over a confession.

He needs to sleep. He'll be useless to everyone if he's running on fumes, and that's the last thing they need right now. This can be a problem for tomorrows Zanka, tonights needs his beauty sleep.

His eyes close, albeit forcefully. The paper crinkles with the movement of his head against the pillow, soothing the anxious rhythm of his heart caused by his thoughts ever so slightly.

He's never formed a solid opinion on love. There's no official couples within the cleaners, at least that he's aware of, and he hasn't known another person who's experienced anything close to a relationship. Even back during his school days, surrounded by girls and boys clamouring for his and each other's attention, it never occurred to him that he should be reciprocating, or at least relating. 

The warm, fuzzy feeling that eases him back to sleep almost makes him feel like he's been missing out on something all this time.

Seven o'clock comes and goes, and Zanka is less than pleased about it.

He'd hoped his little late night reading session wouldn't affect today's performance, but it was proving unlikely. The moment his alarm rings, he feels that usual burn behind the eyes that signal a lack of sleep, and groans aloud to himself. At least it isn't as bad as usual thanks to his early night.

He tries to ignore the draw of his attention to the little hiding spot as he gets ready for the day, eventually turning his back to it entirely when he realises he's accidentally put his pants on backwards. 

The words call to him like a siren's song, hand twitching by his thigh as he resists grabbing it for one last read before he heads out. He can feel Lovely Assistaff’s judgemental gaze on him from her resting place against his wall as he reaches for her, ready to start their day together. It makes him turn away, bashful.

“Don't judge me.” He mutters.

She doesn't reply, of course, but he can guess her answer.

It's common practice to lock your doors around here at night, but if he slips his key into his pocket as he leaves this morning, nobody else is around to see. 

The hour he's on the training grounds passes by suspiciously fast. Zanka's routine doesn't change any bit— He still spends the first ten minutes feeling the weight of his vital instrument in his hands, running his calloused fingers over her frame to check for any new scrapes or cuts or bandages needing replaced, another ten stretching himself out and making sure he's thoroughly warmed up, and the next thirty practicing their usual array of moves together.

It certainly can't have anything to do with the fact that he wastes the entirety of it all reminiscing on the way his mystery suitor had waxed poetics about how they want to hold his hand. That would be lame, and not like Zanka at all. Definitely.

He’s using the last ten minutes to cool down, running through his favourite simple stretches with Assistaff laying beside him on his unzipped jacket like a blanket, when he hears the door nearby click open.

He eases himself out of his last lying leg raise, head turning enough to catch a glimpse of sweet brown eyes, accompanied by a friendly wave.

“Hey! Thought I'd find you here.” Tomme calls, setting the stack of papers she'd been holding on a bench nearby. She's in her uniform too, hair perfectly styled and smile gleaming far too bright for the time. She's one of the only people that's always up on time, unlike the other supporters who always sleep until at least ten. That'll be why she's his favourite.

She wasn't in the trash beast, he hears his inner voice recall, completely unwarranted. It catches him entirely off guard.

Tomme laughs at whatever face it makes him pull, causing his cheeks to redden slightly with mild embarrassment. “Bad session?” She asks sympathetically, blissfully unaware of his inner turmoil. “I saw through the window.”

The excuse sounds far better than the truth of nah, actually, I can't focus because I'm pretty sure someone here is kinda in love with me, so he does his best to look dejected. “Had better.” He shrugs. 

She nods. “Don't worry about it, we all have off days. Have you eaten yet? It's always easier to concentrate on a full stomach.”

He rolls his eyes, albeit not without a smile. “Ya sound like Gris,” he teases, “But nah, I’m just about to head. You?”

He leans over to pick his stuff up, pushing himself up to stand while Tomme huffs. “Hey, he gives good advice!” She counters, and Zanka can definitely agree with that. Gris has always been a good guy, even if Enjin would swear otherwise. “Corvus wanted me to drop by and give you mission details before I ate.”

He makes his way over to her, slinging on his uniform while precariously handling Assistaff. When he's close enough, Tomme takes her off his hands to let him pull his arm through the sleeves. It goes to show just how much trust givers have in their supporters, and vice versa. 

“Thought it was just some routine border checks?” He asks.

Tomme sighs, which is the farthest thing from a good sign, “originally, yeah, but something's come up in the town nearby.”

She hands him his instrument back so she can get her papers, flicking through the first couple of sheets on top until she finds whatever she's looking for. He recognises Corvus’ neat, swirly handwriting on what he now realises is a last minute brief.

“According to local intel, there's an abandoned building just on the edge of the polluted zone that's been reported for strange activity. They aren't sure if it's traffickers or trash beasts, but they're leaning towards the latter, which is why we're being sent in instead of the hell guard.” The change of plans brings a frown to Tomme's face, while the mention of his old affiliation makes Zanka grimace. “Sorry,” she apologises, “I know it's last minute.”

On any other day, Zanka would have been mildly annoyed. Any job that comes with the possibility of running into his siblings is always enough to sour his mood, which is known to most of his colleagues. Tomme is most likely expecting that to worry him more than the last minute change of plans.

Today, however? The timing couldn't be better. She doesn't seem to be expecting the pleasant expression he gives her, let alone the cheer in his voice when he says “Fine by me! I always like a challenge, ya know.”

It's the perfect opportunity to right his stupidly distracted brain. He won't have time to wonder about which colleague enjoys the sound of his laughter a little too much, which is something he desperately needs if he wants to actually get any work done today.

Tomme's face takes a moment to relax, but once it does, she seems genuinely glad that Zanka doesn't mind. “Okay, cool!” She cheers, handing the paper over to him so she can pick up the rest of her stack again. “You can keep that if you want a proper rundown. It doesn't seem too bad, just time consuming. We might not be back until evening.”

That catches his attention. “Crap,” he huffs, "I'd promised Follo a fight before dinner. Think he'll mind?”

Tomme's head shakes. “It's Follo, he'll understand. Just remember to tell him so he doesn't wait up. We'll try and be back in time.”

Zanka nods. He doubts he'll be able to catch the supporter at breakfast, but he can probably find Rudo and get him to deliver the message later. He pointedly ignores the voice in the back of his head that reminds him how Follo wasn't in the trash beast either, because really, it's getting out of hand.

His eyes flick down to the paper, catching the words departure time listed as eleven am at the start of the second paragraph. Two hours. “I'll get you in the garage?” Tomme starts to turn towards the exit, passing one last reassuring look his way.

Truly, the time cannot pass fast enough. 

“Sounds good,” he agrees.

They wave each other off with matching farewells, and Zanka watches as she leaves towards the mess hall. His stomach must be jealous, as it lets out a horrendously loud grumble that he's very glad Tomme just narrowly missed.

He'll go finish his cooldown, freshen up, and grab a bite of whatever's left to fill his stomach for the rest of the day. Since he'll have time to kill, maybe he can find Follo himself. He can give Lovely Assistaff a good clean too, to apologise for his poor performance this morning.

…He could reread the letter, but that would defeat the entire purpose of getting away to take his mind off it, so he shouldn't. He won't.

The hellguard had always loved to preach about self restraint during classes and assembly, how it was an important skill for a fighter, to be able to control one's urges and focus on their given task at hand. 

It isn't an ideology the cleaners are particularly beholden to with all the nonsense they get up to on the battlefield, but Zanka is unfortunately still yet to shake it, even if he's trying. The others have certainly helped with that— he still has nightmares about the first time Enjin ket him try alcohol.

You don't have to hide it anymore, a twisted memory rings out unexpectedly from somewhere within his subconscious, when you're with me, you're free. 

It makes him flinch. His grip on his instrument tightens alongside the muscles in his face, a sharp intake of breath echoing throughout the empty area.

That's what Jabber had told him before their fight. Inside the trash beast, that eager voice lights up again, and Zanka wishes for a second that he could punch the source without hurting himself.

It's just an impulsive thought, he tells himself. Today his brain just seems to be latching on to anyone he saw back then, if Tomme and Follo are any examples to go by. He certainly doesn't harbour any feelings for them beyond camaraderie, so why would this be different?

Not that he and Jabber’s relationship even comes close to that. Sure, the man had sounded borderline obsessed with him once he'd thought Zanka was more than he'd bargained for, but that was promptly thrown out the window after he was struck by the gluburblous poison of Jabber's left claws. 

The guy had gone as far as trying to sacrifice Zanka to the damn monster they were all fighting inside while he was out cold. Not exactly sportsmanlike behaviour.

He shakes his head, lifting a hand to rub at his eye. Maybe he'll use his newfound time to take a nap, since it seems sleep might be the only escape from his wandering mind until this afternoon.

With a sigh, he starts to head back over to where he'd been sitting before Tomme's interruption.

Just two hours, he reminds himself. That's all it is.

Like hell he’ll read it.

In the end, He and Tomme end up leaving exactly on time. He finishes his cooldown, snatches the last bits of warm food from the breakfast bar, and luckily bumps into a sleepy Follo on his way back to his room. They talk for a bit before Zanka excuses himself for a lie down, apologising about potentially missing their session together to dismissal and friendly wave. He sleeps for just over an hour, and makes a point to not move his pillow once the entire time.

By the time he freshens up and heads outside, she’s already there, car keys jingling as they twirl around the end of her gloved finger. She looks much more awake than he feels, the dregs of his quick nap swimming behind his eyes. He lifts a hand to cover his yawn.

“Morning sleepyhead,” the amusement in Tomme’s voice is evident, but not cruel, “you feeling any better?”

Zanka nods, and surprisingly, he finds that he means it. “Yeah,” he reaffirms, “How ‘bout you?”

He gets one of Tomme’s delightful smiles in return, her free hand reaching to open the driver’s door, “rearing to go!” she confirms. Zanka follows suit, walking around to the passenger door and jumping in. He’s careful to avoid hitting assistaff off of the hard metal, manoeuvring her out of the holster on his back to sit comfortably between his legs. He wishes he could have driven them today, but Gris doesn’t trust him behind the wheel yet. He’s only had one lesson, but whatever.

Despite their destination being described as “close by”, it’s almost three hours away. The Ground is large, so much so that it hasn’t actually been entirely charted, so for them that was a pretty decent travel time. After all, some missions like their venture to the north ward had taken over two days by car, and although the trip was originally for leisure, the time it has taken to reach the doll festival was nothing to scoff at. Three hours is easy, especially with such lovely company.

They don’t talk much. They’ve been stuck together on enough car rides to feel comfortable in their silence, with Tomme more than happy to rifle through Gris’ massive CD collection until she finds something she thinks they can both stomach. It’s Too Lily, of course, and Zanka is pretty sure this is the one he got Enjin for his birthday last year, so he makes a little comment about it. 

Tomme huffs, albeit fondly, brown eyes rolling momentarily before focusing back on the road. “Why am I not surprised? I feel like those two are practically attached at the hip these days.”

“Right?” Zanka perks up, glad he’s finally found someone who agrees.

“Right!” Tomme fires back. “Those guys have always been close as long as I’ve been here, but these days it's like it’s getting ridiculous. Did you know Gris turned down a day off to go on a solo mission with Enjin last week?”

“Shuddup! F’real?”

They gossip about their superiors for a while, something anyone aside from Riyo and Tomme would have thought incredibly uncharacteristic of him, but so what? He likes a bit of drama. It’s grown on him since his academy days.

The time flies by, conversation ebbing and flowing as they pass by miles and miles of empty dirt road, until a groan of relief leaves Tomme’s lips while Zanka is caught up inspecting an old scar in assistaff’s wood. He looks up, only to be greeted by their destination quickly rolling into view over the horizon.

Even from here, Zanka can tell the town has long been abandoned. Houses lie in derelict and decay, shop windows bare with no signs of life moving between the narrow streets. It isn’t anything special. 

The lack of possible casualties does reassure him, since it will make Tomme’s job a little easier. She’ll have to record the proceedings, but now neither of them need to concern themselves with civilian interruptions. 

There’s a large dome just west of their position, presumably housing the new town that they’d moved to some time ago to avoid the encroaching pollution. It’s far enough for them to discard, but not a possible trash beast.

Their target is glaringly obvious, a large warehouse lurking at the back of the town catching both their attentions with ease. Nothing seems too out of place aside from some heavy damage, but out here, that could have been caused by anything.

Tomme guides them through, parking them in a sheltered alleyway to avoid their ride home getting crushed by a stray attack. “We couldn’t get any intel on the air’s toxicity, but I’d still wear our masks to be safe.” Tomme says wearily. 

Zanka nods, reaching into his bag. “Ya bring yer full face or half?”

“Half. You?”

“Same.” They pull them out in tandem, giving each other a brief pause to strap themselves in before they open any doors and expose themselves to the sharp atmosphere outside. Once ready, they step out, Assistaff held languidly at his side while Tomme clutches her clipboard and pen. Wordlessly, they move out.

The entranceway towers above them, easily twice their size at least for no reason other than decoration. The left door sits ajar, but there’s no sign of any bolt and chain lying around to signal forced entry.

“Looks good from here,” Tomme mumbles to herself while she starts her recording, “you heading in?”

“Yup,” Zanka pops the p, before leaning forward and carefully sticking his head through the gap. It’s dark inside, no sign of a working light source with all the windows boarded up, but there’s nothing that signals any movement either. In fact, it’s eerily quiet. Leaning back, he shakes his head to let her know that there’s no immediate danger, and with a deep breath, sucks his gut in and shuffles through the gap.

Tomme follows after him and pulls a flashlight from one of the small bags attached to her belt. Of course supporters would be equipped with shit like that, Zanka thinks with a smirk. He throws her a thumbs up to thank her for the assist, receiving one back he can tell is accompanied by her usual cheery grin.

There’s two floors to the warehouse. If the trash beast is one of the bigger types that tend to be less trash and more beast, it’s likely lingering down here somewhere, so they take their time doing a thorough sweep of the place. With so many nooks and crannies to check, Zanka can see why Tomme thinks they won’t be home until late. It isn’t difficult by any means, but it sure is boring.

They do get it done eventually. It only takes an hour or two, but their efforts prove all for naught after a thorough search.

Nothing is out of place— No scratchmarks on the walls or floors, no furniture destroyed, no abandoned crates of cargo smashed, not even any discarded trash that might have fallen from the thing’s body while it moved around. Once they make it back to the main area, they stop, looking to each other for guidance.

“Ya think the thing was smart enough ta find it’s way upstairs?” Zanka asks first. Tomme shrugs, finishing off what seems to be one last sentence before looking up.

“I mean, the door was open. It might’ve left already.” She shrugs, turning to look back behind them for a moment. From their limited visibility, nothing seems amiss outside, so they both aim their attention towards the second floor instead. 

The layout is open plan, a thin staircase leading to what seems to be only a couple of rooms accessible via a landing. There’s no damage there either, but that doesn’t mean it’s stable enough to walk on. “We have to check anyways,” she confirms, “but at least it’s a lot less than down here.”

She’s got a point. Zanka starts to make his way over, going slowly so Tomme can right herself and her work and catch up. Using Assistaff, he gives every stair a little poke as they ascend to make sure that the worn old slats are still able to hold any weight.

He continues to do so with the landing, checking every floorboarding before daring to set his foot down. Tomme uses her flashlight to follow his lead, leaving him with little to go on since even the windows up here are covered, but they make it work.

The first room is barren. What looks as though it used to be an old meeting or board room is now desolate, nothing besides some overturned chairs and a large table missing one of its legs. If there had been anything here before, it was likely that marauders or thieves had ransacked everything worth the effort. That leg totally ended up embedded in some poor man’s gut, if Zanka had to take a guess.

The second room is the same. Another mess, another table, another wasted effort.

It’s the third one that finally proves fruitful. 

He can hear Tomme’s gasp as they make their way towards what seems to be an office. This door is the only one with a lock and handle, but Zanka has to kick them away from their place on their floor when he nearly trips over the stupid things. 

He goes to curse the marauders in his mind for leaving evidence behind right where he’s walking, but it's only when he enters the room that he realises it’s unlikely they ever touched it.

Shelves upon shelves of books line the walls, not a picture or art piece to be seen amongst the clutter. They aren’t organised very well, some on their sides or even on the floor in bizarrely neat piles, but it’s possibly the biggest collection of them Zanka’s ever seen. It even rivals Corvus’ office, if his only memory of being in there serves him well. He can imagine just how much of a fit the boss would throw over such a treasure trove of information. Wait, this should probably be mentioned in the report, right?

There’s a desk sat at the far end of the room, also covered in a few scattered novels and sheets of paper. There’s a pen and inkwell too, obviously showing the facility’s age, but they’re long dried up. The chair sits, miraculously upright.

“Tomme,” he asks after a moment of awe, “are ya gettin’ this?”

“I don’t think she’s doing much of anything right now.” a voice replies.

Zanka’s breath catches in his throat,

He hears the dull thud of a body falling to the floor, followed by a choked gasp caught in a gas mask’s filter. A smaller thud follows, then the metallic clink of a rolling pen cuts through the deafening silence.

Zanka’s entire world is flipping on its axis so hard he feels dizzy. There isn’t even any venom in his system yet, but he already thinks he’s going to be sick.

There might have been a trash beast here at some point, but like him, it didnt’t stand a chance.

“Long time no see,” Jabber's saccharine sweet voice croons like a visiting lover, “Mr. Bad attitude.”

For one horrible, terrible moment that Zanka will spend the rest of his nights replaying in his mind when it gets too dark and his room gets too quiet, he forgets about protecting Tomme.

 He even disregards her safety completely, taking Assistaff by her midsection and swinging her behind him with the force of a man deranged just to have a chance of striking Jabber first. 

He doesn’t, of course, the other boy already prepared for the impact. Jabber jumps up like a cat, having the gal to dare to use Zanka’s vital instrument to boost himself higher into the air and above the attack. If Tomme hadn’t fallen to the floor, she’d be lucky to make it back to Eishia’s infirmary alive.

“C’mon man, that all you got!?” Jabber taunts, the leering grin on his face giving away his true feelings of elation. Zanka grunts, changing tactics and aiming Assistaff upward, but Jabber seems to expect it. He flips around behind Zanka, Mankira unsheathing herself while Jabber lands in a crouch.

With a heave, Zanka swings his weapon above him in an arch, using the momentum from her weight to bring her down heavy on Jabber. With his claws bared, Zanka expects him to block and tank the hit, and it proves a testament of their time spent together when Jabber does exactly as planned.

“Zanka, my friend…” He speaks slowly, a sharp edge to his words, “it’s been so long since we’ve seen each other, and this is all I get?”

Now locked in a stand off, Zanka’s fiery glare focuses on his opponent, taking the brief moment of clarity to realise how close they’ve become. Jabber’s stuck beneath the barrage, meaning he has to look up at Zanka through thick, long lashes to meet his eyes, their magenta glow almost blinding him with their intensity. 

His tongue peaks out from between dry lips, and only thanks to the reflection of the light against it does Zanka notice the small, metal ball sitting snugly in the center of the muscle. Jabber had gotten a new piercing since last time, it seems.

This is a horrible, terrible time for his brain to notify him again that Jabber was also inside the trash beast.

Before he can stop it— before he can command it, even— one of Lovely Assistaff’s thick, heavy metal spikes shoot out from the side of her head. Since Zanka isn’t expecting it, neither is Jabber, and it bypasses his forearm and goes right through the meat of his torso.

The uneasy weight Jabber had been holding on his bent knees crumbles, sending both boys tumbling into a dazed pile on the ground. This digs Assistaff harder into Jabber’s side, causing a sharp wail of pain to erupt from his mouth. “FUCK,” He screams, “What the fuck!?”

His face twists in agony, that stupid expression finally falling into something pained, something Zanka can stomach easier. His teeth grind together, eyebrows pinching while a vein pops on the side of his temple. 

It’s oddly reminiscent of that time when Zanka broke his ribs, the last hit he was able to get on the slippery bastard. Sparks fly in his lower stomach at the memory.

“How’s that?” Zanka squeaks out before he can stop himself. Well, he figures, might as well play it off as somethin’ I did on purpose. “Your li’l masochistic ass satiated yet?”

Jabber growls in return, one claw shrinking down so his hand can cover the wound. “It’s only been a month,” he huffs through the pain, “Where’d you pull that from?”

Zanka shrugs. There’s a special type of pride to be found in the shock of being able to take Jabber by surprise. “Doll festival.” is all he says in reply.

 The apparent bloodlust that had been emanating from Jabber wanes for a moment, a split eyebrow raising through his grimace. “...That festival they hold down south?” he questions, “ain’t you a bit old for that, man?”

Zanka’s face quickly shifts to reflect his mutual confusion. “Hah? Ya mean ya ain’t hear about what happened?”

Jabber shrugs, indifferent. “I ain’t a big halloween guy,” he provides. “My old man never really cared for it.”

My old man told me once that writing things down helps if you can't say it out loud.

That stupid letter jumps to the forefront of his mind again, which makes no sense because everyone has a father. Some are better than others, yeah, but that doesn’t mean they don’t exist. The common phrase would be a compelling factor for an argument in Jabber’s favour, if the term weren’t so widely used. Hell, Zanka’s pretty sure even Rudo called his guardian that every now and again.

“Shut the fuck up.” Zanka says through his sudden fluster.

Jabber’s visage contorts to one of offence. “what did I say?” he gawks.

“What are you even doing here?” He fires back, matching his tone of voice mockingly. Please take the bait, please take the bait.

“Oh!” Jabber takes the bait. “So not my usual turf right? The bossman wants some old books lying around here somewhere. I ain’t normally the guy for recon missions, that’s Cthoni or Momoa, but I think he got sick of me bugging him for a beatdown. Lame, but hey! Here we are.”

He jumps on the hey, accidentally jostling his new wound. He hisses again, although it takes a noticeably breathier tone this time that makes Zanka’s stomach flip like he’s experiencing the aftereffects of déjà vu. “What kinda freaky bullshit did they pull for you to learn this?” Jabber whines.

Zanka doesn’t really feel like talking about it. Ah Y’know, got gutpunched by some scuzzball who turned himself into somethin’ that ain’t human but awakened my vital instrument on the verge of death and gave it a real ugly mouth by accident. My brother kidnapped me after, but that’s a story for ‘nother day isn’t exactly fighting talk, after all. “Worse than anythin’ you ever gave me,” he grumbles reluctantly. “Ask yer teammates.”

That seems to offend the raider, who struggles to push himself up onto his elbows, disarming Mankira’s other claws to do so safely. “Worse than me?” he repeats, gobsmacked. The sight makes Zanka chuckle, if only a little.

“Way,” he confirms. “Why d’ya think she’s so different now?”

Jabber’s evaluation eyes roll over to Assistaff, who’s still held tight in Zanka’s grip. Her head sits right in front of his own, so despite his sharp intellect, it takes him a moment to spot the newly glaring difference.

Zanka’s name, carved in a glowing font at the base of her arch.

He watches his face morph into a wicked grin as it clicks, teeth so sharp they almost look like fangs glinting in the dim light provided by Tomme’s dropped torch. “Damn, that’s cool!” he cries, “You finally did it! Man, I always knew you had it in ya! Too damn smart to waste that potential, huh?”

You're smart and funny, a lot more than you think you are. Strike two, the pesky urge drills against the base of his skull.

Jabber’s yammering on, about how “augh, I should’ve been there!” and “so how did it happen, huh? You beat their ass real good, Zanka?” but the revelation is too much for him. He does catch his name leaving Jabber’s lips, spared from the usual mutilations like buddy or Zan-Zan, and that joins the crescendo bubbling up inside him, boiling the blood inside his veins until his hands quiver.

Fool him once, shame on you. Fool him twice, shame on him. What happens if a third time is reached? Goosebumps rise on his gloved arms, hidden from Jabber’s view.

Surely they won’t. Surely he won’t, right? There’s no way. There’s still so many options to explore, so many opposing arguments like why on earth would Jabber think he was pretty or want to hold his hand. He certainly didn’t want to hold his.

But the voice doesn’t settle. Instead, it rises from its position like a defense lawyer, armed with references and ready for a cross examination. 

I like your voice too, especially when you laugh. Zanka doesn’t laugh much, but he remembers enough from their short lived skirmish to recall the way Jabber had so eagerly laid beside him to join their hearty cacophony of cackling.

I couldn't stop thinking about you despite our fight, even after we got out. Well, that one is obvious enough.

You’re just like me, but you still teach me how to be better, The letter had said. You’re just like me, Jabber had repeated.

I like you. More than I should.

“See? That’s why I like you, man.” Jabber hums, smooth voice drawing Zanka back to their current situation. His head tilts, long wicks cascading like water down his face and shoulders, expression soft despite the simmering glow of his lidded magenta gaze that’s trained itself back to him. 

There’s a light, barely there dusting of rosey blush filling his gaunt cheeks, most likely from the arousal flooding his senses the longer he spends thoroughly impaled. Their positions mean Jabber’s lithe body is angled parallel to Zanka’s, exposing his thin waist and unmarred neck like a temptation, the perfect place to slot his unsure hold should he choose to disable his weapon. “Ain’t nobody like you out there, except for me.”

More than I should.

Zanka isn’t sure who leans in first. One second, they’re locked in heated eye contact, a feeling he can’t bring himself to name lodging itself in the back of his throat and flooding his system down to the tips of his curling toes. The next, Mankira unfolds back into her real form while Assistaff is ripped free from her prison of flesh and goes back in for another bite.

“Bet you thought about me,” Jabber’s words are thinner than intended, struggling to hold his awkward position with a now actively bleeding hole in his abdomen, “am I right?”

Zanka’s thoughts are a little all over the place, but he isn’t so drunk on the cocktail of feelings mixing inside him as to let the answer they both know spill from his lips. “Like ya ain’t been too since last time.” He jabs back between clenched teeth.

Jabber wins the standoff. Zanka relinquishes the crushing pressure, jumping out of reach as Jabber manages to regain his footing. He wobbles a little, not expecting the weakness that takes his right side for a moment as injured muscle clenches around nothing. Zanka watches as the pain makes him keen, almost sending him back to the dank floor.

“Every day,” he replies with a little too much reverence for Zanka’s liking. “You have no idea how badly I’ve needed this, Zanka, my friend!”

Mankira’s blades clatter loudly as Jabber lunges, the thin soles of his shoes scraping with the effort he puts behind his attack that Zanka just manages to both block and divert, sweeping away with a woosh of air as he bends into a backwards arch to avoid catastrophe. He uses Assistaff’s slender body to their advantage, Mankira sliding off her angled form with a pointed shriek. 

Zanka has two options right now: Lead Jabber further into the room to avoid injuring Tomme any further, or flipping the fight to guard her unconscious form. He trusts— knows Jabber well enough to safely assume that whatever he’d stabbed her with was non lethal, and not even one of his regular toxins if her lack of physical reaction is anything to go by. The stuff he enjoyed torturing Zanka with would’ve had him springlocked from its flaming agony by now, but the steady rise and fall of her chest makes it look like she’d merely fallen asleep.

There isn’t enough room in here for Jabber to bring out his instrument’s awakened form, not unless he’s willing to destroy those books his boss is eagerly awaiting, but that didn’t apply to the rest of the place. Like that, it would be harder to defend himself, let alone another person who was also inebriated for the time being. He doesn’t even consider trying to run with her, knowing Jabber would catch them before he could lift her into his arms.

Plan A it is. With all the grace of a falling cat, Zanka propels himself into a backwards handspring. The heels of his boots just barely cross the threshold of the door, but in an instant he’s launching himself forward again, sticking his weapon into the ground and shooting himself feet first in Jabber’s direction. The raider beams, and Zanka hopes he doesn’t recognise it as the same move Jabber pulled on him back in the trash beast.

I think I realised that in the trash beast.

He falters. His stiff stance weakens enough for Jabber to catch, and he takes the opportunity to grab him by a now exposed ankle. His palms are warm and sweaty against Zanka’s skin, the faint brush of Mankira rippling along the fabric of his pants before Jabber leans back and throws him in a circle. The air around them whips and wanes to their whims, a sense of vertigo knocking his senses sideways until he’s let go of. 

Zanka yowls as he crashes against the desk at the far end of the room, feeling its sharp wooden edge grind between the disks of his spine with the excessive force. His elbows take some of the brunt, but he can already feel the viscous bruises that will form in the wake of the throb tomorrow morning.

Jabber descends onto him, digging the tips of Mankira into the frame to hold his bodyweight while he perches his feet on either side of Zanka’s waist. 

“You’re distracted.” He says. It’s not a question.

“Piss off.” Zanka spits back anyways.

“Zanka,” that sweet voice sings, balancing between firm and playful, “We’re having a good time together, y’know? You’re my only priority right now...”

When we were all trapped together inside it, you were my only priority.

Those two ain’t even all’at similar, he wants to bite back at his own unfocused stream of consciousness, but he doesn’t get the chance. His inner turmoil must show on his face, enticing Jabber to lean in so closely he can imagine the taste the other’s breath on his tongue through his mask.

“Spill.” He whispers, voice dropped to a level one would use on a partner sharing their bed. Soft. Intimate.

Zanka matches his energy, albeit unintentionally. The atmosphere between them is unsettled, either shifting or thickening, he can’t quite place. “Why should I?”

That makes Jabber frown, so deep it borders on a pout. “Nothing should be more important to you than me right now,” he tries to go for intimidating, but ends up somewhere around strangely clingy. Too much so for the man deemed his rival, who had just tried to kill him thirty seconds ago.

It’s almost funny how Jabber doesn’t realise how close he is to the truth. Zanka is thinking about him, involuntarily but nonetheless. He’s rolling Jabber’s dialogue around in his head, connecting it to the mad scribbles delivered through his window by a piece of paper cowardly hidden away in his room. He’s hanging off of Jabber’s every sentence, watching, waiting with baited breath for a new clue.

Pinned beneath him like predator and prey, he can almost convince himself the knot in his stomach is just anxiety from his inability to predict Jabber’s actions. 

That it isn't a strangled hope at the possibility of uncovering his secret admirer, the odds increasing every minute that the human typhoon known as Jabber Wonger might be the one who described everything about him as nice.

There’s silence between them for a beat, two, three, until Jabber sighs and tilts his head back. 

“This is stupid.” He mutters with finality. Just like the letter had ended.

And finally, blissfully, after twelve hours of experiencing the entire spectrum of emotions a hormonal and desperate seventeen year old boy was capable of having, Zanka snaps.

It’s easier without Jabber’s eyes on him, scrutinising his every twitch. He has to bear through the pain the suddenness brings, especially since he uses his battered back muscles to straighten himself. Lovely Assistaff forces Jabber’s left arm away as Zanka pulls her inward, the other man’s reaction a second too delayed to stop Zanka from cornering his neck between her prongs.

Swapping her to his left hand, he plants the balls of his feet on the ground, letting out a sharp yell. There’s a noise from Jabber too, but it’s cut off, interrupted by Zanka swinging them around a full one hundred and eighty degrees. Mankira is ripped from the wood, taking chunks with her as she goes. She makes it so Zanka can wedge the twin tips of Assistaff into the ragged holes left behind, forcing Jabber into a bend so steep it’s basically an arch.

His hand comes to rest beneath his scrawled name, holding her by the throat like she has Jabber by his. Zanka stands between his legs, spread, while Jabber stares him down. 

He’s oddly still, considering the fact he’d just been overpowered and forced down. His face is blank.

“You wanna know what’s stupid?” Zanka growls, deep and rumbling. “The fact that you still think yer slick, ya punk.”

“...Hah?” Jabber croaks. There’s a hint of a smile on his face, making the corner of his lip tick upwards as his jaw drops. His eyes widen, brow curving slightly, eyes sparking with delighted confusion. It pisses Zanka off.

“What, we playin’ pretend now’?” He scoffs, leaning in closer. “Don’t act like yer clueless ass don’t know what I’m talking ‘bout. You think it’s real funny tormentin’ me like this.”

“I like it when we play together,” Jabber agrees, “just you and me. I seriously dunno what this is all about, but it ain’t bad.”

Jabber blinks up at him, and the first word that comes to Zanka’s mind to describe it is sultry. Disgusting comes second, but he isn’t sure which of them he aims it at. “I’ll let anything you do to me, Zanka, buddy. As long as it's you. That’s why you’re special.”

You've become someone special to me.

“Shuddup!” Zanka can’t control the way his voice breaks, panicked, raising so loud in volume he feels it reverberate off of the walls of shelves surrounding them. His grip on his weapon tightens, simultaneously forcing Jabber down that last bit further. “I get it, asshole! You already said allat shit once, what’s the point in repeatin’ yerself! Ya sound like a broken record!”

“Have I?” Jabber breaks character for a second, squinting like he’s replaying his own words in head. “When?”

“In the letter!”

His arms tremble with the force of his grip. He can feel a vein pop on his neck. Sweat beads down behind his ear, the coolness boiling against his sweltering skin.

The air turns tense. He’s glaring at Jabber viscously, a mix of embarrassment over admittance and fear of rejection, but he’s met with neither. Instead, Jabber pauses.

He looks at Zanka.

Zanka looks back.

“...That old thing?”

Jabber’s eyes roll, body sagging despite how uncomfortably he must be, locked in a position like that. He’s lucky he’s so flexible. “Man, that’s what this is all about?”

“Wha— Of course it is!” Zanka exclaims, the confirmation that Jabber really did send it setting off fireworks in his gut. His face burns and he’s not sure it’ll pass as sheer anger anymore. “You wrote me a freakin’ love letter!”

“Hey, I can be romantic if I want.” Jabber just shrugs again, his lips filling out into a smirk that Zanka definitely doesn’t watch unfold with poorly concealed interest. “You surprised?”

“More like horrified.” Zanka isn’t even convincing himself, let alone Jabber. Whatever. “Why?”

Jabber ogles him, seemingly gaging his reaction to the turn of events. “...I was bored?” He asks, sounding like he’s unsure of his own actions.

Well, at least Jabber isn’t anymore persuasive than he is. “Would it kill ya to tell the truth?” Zanka huffs.

He watches the inhuman glow fade from Jabber’s irises, hearing the shirk as Mankira shrinks down to her usual ringed appearance. Now safely out of the way, he brings his hands up to rest over Assistaff’s curves, crossing them at the wrist like a dainty lady’s legs.

His knuckles lightly brush the covered skin of Zanka’s forearm, unintentional but deliberate. “Maybe.” he mutters, eyes averted.

“Unlikely. I’ll kill ya first.” Zanka deadpans. A clipped chortle escapes Jabber before he can apparently stop it.

“What, not gonna return my feelings beforehand?” He coos.

“In your dreams, bastard.”

He pointedly does not tell Jabber that he himself had, in fact, spent the entirety of last night and his morning nap dreaming about it.

They hadn’t consisted of much. A person, faceless and genderless and wholly unidentifiable, reciting the words embedded into his psyche. They’d dropped down to one knee, then next held his hand and kissed the inside of his wrist. The section of his brain that he’s now seriously considering lobotomising to save himself from any more heartache decides that it’s a brilliant idea to replace the stranger with Jabber.

Jabber’s hands holding his own, Jabber’s lids fluttering as he gazes upwards, Jabber’s lips skimming his sensitive skin…

A husky voice pulls him from the daydream. “Oh, you’re totally thinking about me,” Jabber smirks. “Not what I meant earlier, but hey, I’ll take it.”

Zanka’s going to hit him. If Jabber won’t stab him and put him out of his solemn misery, he’lll take the other out himself.

The instant he pulls his arm back, Jabber shrieks, tugging his hands back to try and scrabble up and away through a bubble of shrill laughter that makes Zanka hesitate.

“Wait, I’m just playing! Be nice!” he tries, but the harsh movement jiggles a stack of books to tip over the desk’s edge, falling beside them with a definitive crash.

They both turn to stare, startled out of their weirdly wholesome moment. “Shit,” Jabber mutters, “They’re for the boss.”

Zanka sneers. “Then pick ‘em up, idiot.”

Jabber shoots him a side eye, glaringly unimpressed by the command.

Oh, right, The whole I have you trapped beneath me while I crowd between your legs that I spread thing. Oops. 

With a frazzled yelp, Zanka pulls back, tugging his stick with him. He hadn’t realised how close they were, Jabber’s thighs cushioning his hips for the last ten minutes with their chests almost pressed directly together. Shit, why didn’t Jabber say anything?

The boy in question takes the opportunity to laugh at his reaction, hisline of thought traitorously written all over his steaming face. He does do as he’s told though, bending over and gathering his prize into his arms.

“Cool,” He hums, “cool. Boss’ll be expecting these soon.”

Zanka nods shyly, coughing into a curled fist as he stands Assistaff up right. “Uh, yeah. Enjin’ll be lookin’ fer us too.”

He looks at Jabber.

Jabber looks back.

It’s a lot more awkward this time.

Weirdly, the answer to the question that has spent the last 12 hours plaguing him has left him satiated. He isn’t particularly glad that it’s Jabber, but he wasn’t the worst candidate.

Zanka had known the other was attractive as soon as he’d laid eyes on him, bloodied and battered and a sight for eyes that hadn’t realised they were sore. His voice is rich and sweet, sending goosebumps riveting down his body with every word. Even the masochism isn’t so bad. It’s kind of fun to beat a guy without worry for the consequences.

The same can’t be said for the rest of his personality. A shame, really. Jabber is wasted on himself.

Jabber’s eyes dart around, peering between the locked windows and doorway blocked by Tomme’s body. Shit, he should really get her to Eishia. Zanka is fully aware of the fact that when he sees Jabber, everything else just melts away, but it’s still embarrassing to admit.

“Don’t send any more, ya here?” He calls, walking over to pick her up with gentle hands. She doesn’t weigh much to him despite their height difference, a note Jabber seems to take if the way his eyes sweep along his arms means anything.

“Really? You liked it,” Jabber replies. The casualness between them is…strange. Uncharted territory, like they've crossed a line they weren’t even aware of. 

Zanka can’t say he minds it.

“Threw it in the trash,” he lies.

“Liar,” Jabber repeats, “Guess I’ll have to replace it.”

That seems to bring the pep back to his step. He secures the books in his arms, and with a smile that seems deceptively truthful, frolics past Zanka and Tomme towards the stairs.

“Write me one back,” He cheers gleefully, “You ain’t given me an answer yet!”

“The hole in yer side not good enough?” Zanka grunts back, taking much slower, cautious steps to make sure he doesn’t send them both crashing to the ground via an unstable floorboard. Jabber’s already made it to the door by the time he starts to descend.

After the rest of Akuta’s skirmish with Kuro, Zanka been more than disgruntled to learn that Jabber had unleashed Mankira’s true form on someone other than him, but Riyo been moreso focused on the detail that Jabber didn’t wear a mask in a polluted zone. As she put it, he enjoyed the rush of the toxic fumes too much to care for the consequences. 

That proved true now too, the other daring to open the door minus any protection. He and Tomme still had theirs sat snug around their jaw, but Zanka’s sliced eyebrows still furrowed. “Only if you meant it as a yes,” Jabber’s expression isn’t visible, backlit by the sun outside. Shadows crawl over him like they’re right at home. His voice does lower in pitch, laced with intent as he continues, “Feels good enough to be one.”

There’s a split second where Jabber’s hand lowers to his side, a sickly squelch paired with a noise that Zanka has to immediately discard from his mind, else he risks harking back to it every night for the rest of his life. The light catches on his piercing as his tongue licks his lips.

It’s impossible to make out, but Zanka knows Jabber is fingering the injury he gave him.

Then, like a fading memory himself, he’s gone. Zanka thinks he catches a flash of blue and yellow flicker between the gap. For the sake of his own dignity, he ignores it.

After all, they have a long trek back to cleaner headquarters. If this doesn't prove to Gris that he needs another lesson, he doesn’t know what will.

To Zanka’s own amazement, they make it home alive.

There were some close calls, like when he couldn’t figure out when to move into which gear or how he almost stalled while going 110mph, but they roll back into the garage like nothing ever happened.

He’d called Eishia with his choker an hour before they landed, informing her of Tomme’s condition so she can be ready to receive her new patient as soon as possible. She’s rushing over from the entrance when he spots her, haphazardly parking them in the first clear area available and rushing to carry her out of the back seat where he’d put her, secured by every seatbelt he could carefully wrap around her limp body. 

He’d considered giving her painkillers and attempting to clean the stab wound in the back of her neck with stuff from the first aid kit tucked away in the jeep’s boot, but he didn’t want to jeopardise her condition anymore than he already had. He was selfish, taking so long to satiate his own curiosity.

That selfish part of him hoped she’d forgive him, even if he didn’t want her to.

He spies Gris following after her, then Enjin, then Follo. Eishia’s asking him rapidfire questions like “how long ago was she stabbed?” and “was she convulsing at any point?” while Follo’s eyes water with worry. Gris takes Tomme from him before he can protest, Enjin coming to rest a hand on his shoulder as they watch him go.

He answers as best he can, but he fears Eishia can tell how shaky his responses are. She thanks him, and follows along back to the infirmary.

“Nothing you can do now, kid,” Enjin makes his attempt to console him, “shake it off. I’ll let ya know when Eishia gives the all clear.”

For once, Zanka accepts defeat.

He stays in his room until dinner. Assistaff rests against her usual place by his bed, his window thrown back open and uniform removed and swapped out for his go to lounge wear. It’s only when he’s throwing his jacket in the washing basket that he sees the left side is covered in blood, mimicking the vision of Jabber’s right after his injury.

The scent is irony, pungent. It gets shoved to the bottom, buried beneath everything else.

He ignores the crinkle of paper as his head hits the pillow. Zanka falls asleep again at some point, exhausted from everything, and doesn’t answer when someone (presumably Enjin) knocks on his door and wakes him up.

Even when they knock again.

Even when they knock again.

He’s about to get up and tell them as politely as he feels to fuck off, not even looking as his clock to calculate whatever time he’s been transported to, when the handle starts to jiggle. Now is the time to notice that his room key is in his pocket, sitting where he’d left it after arriving home and collapsing into bed.

The door creaks open.

The silhouette is not Enjin, if the missing foot of height is any indication. The scruffy head of hair is similar, but Zanka knows the head of team Akuta doesn’t own a pair of such chunky gloves.

Rudo stands out in the hall, a plate of steaming food held nervously in his grip. He looks like he’d rather be anywhere but here, but his face is pulled into an expression that falls on the Surebrec-invented scale of determined and constipated. This, Zanka recognises as Rudo’s ‘I’m being very brave about this social interaction’ face.

Rudo eyes him for a moment, unsure, before speaking. “You missed dinner,” he grumbles out, forcibly, “Riyo told me to bring you a plate.”

Like Pavlov’s dog to a bell, Zanka’s stomach suddenly lets out a loud, echoing rumble as the scent of dinner wafts through the air. His curtains ripple, a small gust blowing through and sending a shiver down both of their spines.

“How’re you not cold?” Rudo seems to take it as an invitation to let himself in, kicking the door shut behind him. Zanka, sitting up, shrugs.

“Just how I sleep sometimes.” he explains, “close it if ya wan’.”

He does, but not before plopping the plate down at the edge of Zanka’s bed. He sees a bowl of soup, thick with noodles and vegetables and the usual mystery meat, with a side of a few slices of bread for dipping. There’s a spoon, a fork and a napkin, and a glass of water Zanka hadn’t caught when Rudo appeared. Must’ve been balanced in the hand that opened the door.

He thanks Rudo, albeit hesitantly. The boy grumbles again, so close to a whisper it might as well have been under his breath, and sits next to the plate to hand it over.

Zanka wonders if Rudo knows about Tomme’s condition. Enjin hadn’t come, so maybe she’s still wrapped in the throws of Jabber’s venom, but he sees now that the clock says quarter to ten and knows it wouldn’t have taken Eishia eight hours to figure out an antidote. She’d helped him recover in record time after the trash beast, after all.

That’s where everything leads back to. Jabber’s feelings, Zanka’s feelings, the letter. He shoots a quick glance down to make sure it isn’t visible, fear spiking through his system and turning his skin clammy. It’s not.

His mattress dips, then rises, then dips again, and Zanka lifts his head to watch Rudo shuffle around. He’s antsy, eyes darting around examining every flat surface in the joint. He twists the fingers of his gloves around each other, shoulders hunched. Zanka shovels a mouthful of soup into his waiting mouth, a question on the tip of his now slightly burning tongue.

“Whaddya want?” his accent thickens around the cutlery in his mouth, which gets set aside and replaced in his hand by the bread. It’s thick and dry, no mold to be seen. The meat is a little tough, but nothing unusual for groundling cuisine. He’s lucky that there’s meat in it at all.

Rudo flinches, hands flying down to curl over his boney knees. He’s so knobbly from head to toe, he needs the protein more than Zanka does. He wonders if he was the same on the sphere, or if it’s a result of adjusting to life on the ground. “”Nothing!” he yelps suspiciously.

“Liar,” his inflection mimics Jabber’s. He pretends not to notice.

Rudo seems much more susceptible to ridicule than Zanka, giving a short turn of his head to Zanka’s direction. He gapes at him, trying to find his words, and Zanka knows that this is when Enjin would tell him that as Rudo’s teacher, he should be patient with. He tries for a handful of seconds, then a minute, until it gets a bit ridiculous and more than a bit humiliating for Rudo.

“Well?” he nips. 

Rudo sits up properly at that. “I’m trying, asshole!” he barks back.

“Just spit it out!” he fires back, “I ain’t gonna bite ya fer askin’ a question.”

Rudo seems to take this into account, and after an obvious war with his inner thoughts, finally asks “Do you always sleep with your window open?”

…Huh. Not what Zanka expected. “Sometimes?” he’s shocked into replying. “Cool air helps me relax.”

This gives Rudo a boost of confidence, pushing him to continue. “Did you have it open last night?”

“For a while,” Zanka doesn’t like where this is going. Only two things happened last night; The noise, and—

“Did you find a letter?” It comes out all in one breath, like Rudo is transferring his anxiety to Zanka via the sharp intake of breath he stutters through. It feels worse than a punch to the gut, or a dripping blade slashing the skin of his shin, or the way his heart had skipped a beat as he heard the words ‘That old thing?’

He keeps going. “I was trying to write one for Amo, but my window was open too and a breeze came in and blew it out my hand, I couldn’t find it this morning, but my room’s right above yours so when I saw yours was open I thought it might be worth asking…”

He keeps yammering on and on about who knows what, and if Zanka wasn’t debating on the quickest way to kill himself he probably would’ve laughed at him 

It hadn’t been an n. It was m, for Amo.

Jabber hadn't written it.

The fucker.

Every word out of that pierced mouth had been a lie. No wonder he’d seemed so confused by his own proclamation of boredom, He didn’t have the slightest clue what Zanka was talking about. He’d just found a crack in Zanka’s tough guy facade and stuck a nosey little finger in it, chipping away until he got an amusing reaction. 

And Zanka had let him.

It all made sense now, like the use of Rudo’s nickname for Regto, the way it had found itself to Zanka’s room, the one line who’s so called connection he never figured out. You make me want to learn how to raise my hands for things other than violence, which, in hind sight, was a repetition of the words Rudo had offered Amo, paired with a blood soaked glove held out like an olive branch.

Of course a stupid masochist wouldn’t say that. No matter how many coincidences Jabber could conjure up, he would never deny his own feelings. That wasn’t the kind of guy Zanka knew he was. The last thing Jabber is is a romantic, unless romance translated to getting his ass beat black, blue and bloody.

Anything else that counted as evidence had been Zanka grasping at straws, turned daft in the heat of the moment. He should’ve known, had known since the well that he wasn’t someone capable of being loved. His own family didn’t want him, so why would a genius?

“Nah,” he croaks out, vocal cords strained by unshed frustration, “I ain’t seen it, Rudo.”

Rudo’s mouth snaps shut in the middle of his sentence. “Oh,” he says simply. “Okay.”

His cheeks flush, embarrassment fizzling his in gut as he stands and walks out of Zanka’s room. He’s mortified at the prospect of outing his little crush, presumably, but Zanka couldn’t care less. It’s not like every cleaner in the building hasn’t known for months anyways. Those two are way too obvious.

His dinner doesn’t even smell appetizing anymore. He shucks it up onto the set of drawers by his bed, almost pushing his alarm over the edge with the force. He’ll take it downstairs tomorrow.

“I’ll catch ya if I see it.” He calls before Rudo can dip completely. The other stops over the room’s threshold, turns back, and nods.

“Thanks,” he returns. “Night Zanka.”

He lets him go without reply.

A scoff escapes him, arms melting into jelly as he falls backwards into the cool, inviting sheets of his bed. They’re all messed up, but the night air still lingers around him, trying its best to war against the heat flushing through his body.

It’s not anywhere close to the mental state he’d fallen into back when he was fifteen and clueless, but he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t currently being battered by waves of nostalgia. 

That horrible, sickly feeling of abashment settles in the base of his lungs like mud, and the scoff turns into a gag, which turns into a sudden desire to breathe a lungful of fresh air to rip the taste of the stale well air from his mouth.

He quivers as he pushes himself to his feet, making a half hearted attempt to avoid tripping on his rug as he makes his way over to his windowsill. His sweaty palms slip on the handle until they get a good grip, wrenching the damn thing open, and he finds himself back in the very same position he’d stood in when this whole mess started.

He’ll burn it in the morning, when he can sneak down to grab Enjin’s lighter from the table he always leaves on in the mess hall and head to the general waste room, unseen. He can’t risk anyone else seeing it for Rudo’s sake, and won’t risk Rudo seeing it for his own. 

He feels like he should be more annoyed than he is. Like yelling at someone or throwing something will make him feel better, like it always does when he’s mad, but he’s learned the hard way that it just isn’t the same when that anger is aimed at himself. Besides, it’s hardly even anger.

Worse, he’s disappointed. He let himself fall for a fantasy, the idea that there could be a person out there who views him as desirable. Zanka knows he doesn’t have much going for him, as average as he is in both appearance and battle prowess. His personality is hardly stellar too, loud and brash and self depreciating to the core. A real catch. It’s a miracle any of his classmates actually fell for him back at the academy, even if that was his academic persona.

He’d admitted to himself that Jabber is attractive back in the warehouse. He stood by it, shameful as it made him feel, but he’d lied about one thing. Jabber’s personality really isn’t all that bad.

For one, he’s smart. He knows his way around substances better than any professional toxicologist might, even if he does dumb shit like stick his hand in them for fun mid fight. Speaking of, he’s an incredible combatant. Ever since the raider’s trap in that abandoned basement, Zanka has understood that Jabber earned his place on their front lines fair and square. It wouldn’t be praise to say he’s the closest Zodyl has to a star player, ignoring the unique assistant types like Cthoni and headphone girl.

It’s rare for a giver to have one vital instrument made of multiple objects, yet the raiders have two. He gets the jist with Bundus, who’s had years to fall for every arm he’s ever built, but they were all birthed from the scraps of the first. Mankira? Jabber loved her, whole and simple. He may be both bark and bite, but Zanka remembers the line of thought he’d gone down while standing here last night. Jabber is a romantic, but only for his rings.

Not for Zanka.

If they weren’t cleaner and raider, maybe they might have gotten along. Zanka still hates geniuses, and he’s yet to find a better word to describe Jabber, but that doesn't mean he hates him. He makes Zanka feel alive, a new experience after a lifetime of monotony. Compared to a harmless scrap against a classmate or romp with a trash beast, Jabber is new. He’s dangerous. He’s as addictive as the substances he loves.

But Jabber yearns for Zanka to kill him, and Zanka’s too busy trying to make it happen to worry about silly what ifs. At this rate, the only relationship in the cards for them is a parallel to Romeo & Juliet’s, now minus the amorous subplot.

Cautiously, he balances his elbow on the small ledge, careful to avoid knocking over any scattered trinkets so he can lean his chin on the ball of his palm. It’s even colder than last night, his hot sigh curling into a small bloom of steam as it hits the air. The sky is pitch black, like usual, but now the horizon matches, the inky colour even blending into the ground. 

Although, when Zanka looks down, he comes face to face with a bright, sickeningly familiar pink.

“You gon’ let me in?” Jabber asks, like this is completely normal, “I’m freezing my ass off out here.”

Zanka does not scream.

He lets out a muffled noise, instincts sending his hand up to cover his mouth before he can let it out. Jabber takes the opportunity to pull himself up, tumbling over the high edge with a little oof! When he flips head over heels.

Zanka’s first impulse is to grab Lovely Assistaff, but she’s nowhere near them, still right where he’d left her before his nap. He does note that Mankira isn’t activated, so for now, at least they’re playing on equal ground, but Jabber’s never been the type to start a fight with guns blazing.

His second impulse is to tackle the guy and send them both falling to their deaths, but that one’s still a little severe for the current stage of the interaction.

“What,” he forces out between clenched teeth, “are ya doin’ here?”

Surprisingly, Jabber’s hands raise into a defensive stance from his position on the floor. He’s flat on his back like a puppy showing its belly in submission, white shirt riding up above his shorts where Zanka is specifically not looking to show sweet, tan skin.

“Nothing bad!” The reply is too loud for Zanka’s comfort, but Jabber’s pitch softens as he speaks. “I really wish it was, but Zodyl’s still mad at me for getting stabbed while book shopping, so we can’t play tonight.”

The wording kicks Zanka’s brain into gear, focusing on Jabber as a whole rather than just a situation to escape from. He notices the lack of usual raider uniform, replaced by what's actually a white tank top and grey sweatpants. The clothes are a little worn and baggy against his lithe frame, giving the impression that they might be borrowed.

Zanka eyes him up and down. “Ya think I’d believe that?” he snarks despite understanding that Jabber always respects Zodyl and his wishes. He feels like an animal backed into a corner, scared with no other option left than to bite.

He doesn’t want to see Jabber right now. Frankly, he’d rather never see him again and wallow in his shame for the rest of his life. Seeing the objects of his naive (if temporary) affections splayed out in his room, so close yet so far, is too much. His outline against Zanka’s wall as he sits up feels sacreligious.

“Don’t hafta,” Jabber shrugs nonchalantly, “just letting you know. I love it when you beat on me, so trust, I’m saying with a heavy heart.”

His hand goes to reach into his back pocket. Zanka’s breath hitches, muscles tensing as if bracing himself. For what, he isn’t sure, but he knows that nothing is safe when Jabber is involved.

It takes him a second, nonplussed about the heavy silence surrounding them as he rummages around. When he finds what he’s looking for, Zanka knows, because that signature cheshire grin curls over his lips as he gives a little cheer.

An envelope is produced, gripped softly between thumb and forefinger.

Zanka gawks.

“Tada!” Jabber winks, wiggling the flimsy paper around proudly. “Told you I’d replace it.”

Zanka’s brow folds. His words from earlier come back to him, reprimanding Jabber for writing a letter that wasn’t even his. He’d told him not to write anymore, but now he knows Rudo was the author all along.

There’s no point in pretending. “We both know it wasn't yers.”

“Do we?” Jabber’s head tilts, too confident for his own good. “‘cause you seemed real confident back there.” 

A spike of warmth explodes in his stomach, Zanka grunting as he looks off to the side. Of course Jabber would rub his mistake in, because he’s a dick. Zanka almost forgets why he even liked him after those fifteen minutes spent together in the warehouse, instead wondering where the most satisfying place to poke another hole in him is.

“I had my reasons.” he tries to clarify. “Ya kept repeating stuff Rudo wrote, like some crazy psychic—”

“Rudo?” Jabber cuts him off, a tone of strangled amusement dousing the name. “You mean you got me mixed up with the little man?”

“It was about yer trash beast!” Zanka downright hisses, planting his hands on the floor and leaning forward with a nasty glare. “It flew out his window an’ down ta mine!” 

His stress grip soaks into the carpet, fibers slipping between his grasp. Jabber shuffles too, mimicking Zanka’s position and dropping his conversation to a whisper. “So it wasn’t for you?”

“Obviously not,” Zanka’s eyes roll, “he wrote it for the girl who’s boots ya stole.”

Jabber’s face squints, nose scrunching as he tries to remember. “...Nemo?”

Zanka doesn’t have the strength to berate him. “Amo.”

“Lucky lady.”

Zanka groans, a weight he didn’t realise was there sliding off of his hammering chest. His body relaxes, and he lifts a hand to sweep the hair from his face. The scene feels like their departure from the job location, informal and easy going in a way they never are. The unintentional reveal of Zanka’s cards must have shifted their relationship in Jabber’s eyes, and in turn, the effect has rippled back to Zanka.

He feels no fear or panic anymore. Like when seeing him appear from Cthoni’s portal nearly a month ago, a serenity washes over him. All he can think about is Jabber.

There’s a smile on his lips. “Yer stupid,” He berates anyways.

It cracks a snort from Jabber. He tries to speak, but keeps unravelling into fits of giggles that transmute into butterflies when they reach Zanka’s eardrums. “Not as stupid as the guy who thought I wrote it,” it’s said with startling fondness.

“Not into dramatic declarations of love?” His question appears as more genuine than intended, but Jabber hums in thought nonetheless.

“Maybe,” is all he says. “You?”

Zanka thinks back to last night. The sweat in his hands as he held it, shaking in a way they hadn’t since his first day at the academy, wracked with nerves that only came with a particular brand of excitement. The hope that stirred in him, silly and youthful and as addictive as the man in front of him. He realises he wants to feel it again; wants to be wanted.

“Not doin’ em,” he decides, “but I’d wanna receive one.”

Jabber waves his pointer finger in mock disappointment, “Greedy. You’re real lucky I’ll like you enough for that, Mr. Bad attitude."

“Fer what? And I think that’s the last thing I’d describe as lucky.”

The nickname irks him, even if he’s grown used to it. He’d allegedly called Riyo Bang Bang Braids, much to her irritation, but he doubts it was spoken with the same adoration Jabber’s always used for him.

There's no way he looked at her with the eagerness he reserves for Zanka either, the glimmer in Jabber’s eyes that screams I can’t wait for you to hurt me like a lover would spill I can’t wait for you to kiss me against their partner’s lips. He’d wanted Riyo’s bullets, not her, but he craves Zanka’s entirety. 

Even if he knows Jabber doesn’t like him like that, he can rest assured that the unhealthy obsession is at least mutual.

“You forget already?” Jabber’s hands swap, the gift now back in Zanka’s point of view.

Zanka, however, won’t get his hopes up. He’d learned his lesson the hard way. “Nope, just don’t believe it.”

Jabber frowns, a sight that’s so unexpected it makes Zanka regret the sentence for a pause. “Well, believe it!” Jabber copies, shoving the thing out in front of him.

It slips, flipping and floating through the air until it traverses the minimal space between them and lands on Zanka’s knee. The envelope is a girlish pink, a small heart doodled over the closed seam in a way that Zanka can’t decipher is mocking or not. When flipped around, his name is scrawled in an attempt at fancy script.

He looks up at Jabber, whose anticipatory stare pins him in his stiffened place. “Do I gotta read it in front of ya?” he pales.

“Duh? What’s the point of spending all day writing it if you don’t?”

Jabber seems miffed, but Zanka doesn’t care, too distracted by his heart jumping into his throat while it skips a beat.

The possibility that Jabber put effort into writing this for him makes Zanka take a second glance at the object in his hands, so small but now carrying more weight than expected.

“All day?” he asks, voice small but laced with wonder.

He doesn’t see Jabber’s expression, but he hears some movement he can’t make out. “Came as soon as I finished it,” his voice is closer, deeper than before. Tentative. “Nicked Momoa’s stuff, she wasn’t too happy about it.”

Zanka guesses that that’s headphone girl, since he barely recognizes the name. He doesn’t dwell on it, too busy trying to suppress an eruption of goosebumps.

He spies Jabber’s hand sliding into view, settling next to his shin. “Open it?” The question borders on a beg.

His crackled thumb nail slips under the fold. Zanka gulps.

The parchment matches the colour scheme, also pink. There’s lines printed to help keep sentences steady, and nowhere near as many scratchmarks as the first one. This is noticeably more refined, not even a spelling error to be seen. He can’t imagine Jabber did this on his first try. Maybe not even his second or third.

The handwriting is a little shaky, like he’d forgotten how to hold a pen but taught himself the skill for the task at hand. Some words are slightly smudged, but the size and directions seems to suggest it was due to a pointer finger running over in revision.

Jabber must notice it, their close proximity allowing him to look down and read it himself. “Momo checked it for me,” he clarifies bashfully.

He’s so cute, he thinks to himself.

He tells himself that Jabber doesn’t love him. This is an attempt to impress, or tease, or whatever Jabber gets a kick out of it. Even if it works, and Zanka swoons like a teenage girl right into Jabber’s deadly arms, it still isn’t mutual.

Steeling himself, Zanka starts to read.

Dear Zanka

You remember what I told you when we fought?

You are just like me. You didn’t seem all that happy about it back then, and afterwards I got why. You put up a good fight, but we both know I wiped the floor with your ass.

I said I should’ve fought a different cleaner, Dunno if you knew that.

He didn’t. He shoots Jabber a glare, having to look up to do so. Their foreheads are almost pressed together, but Jabber ignores him, gesturing back down to make him continue.

Even if you don’t, I need you to know I take it back.

You ain’t like anyone I ever met. I can’t stand weaklings, so I want an opponent who’s gonna hurt me so bad I feel like dying. I don’t want someone I can beat, but I still want you.

You got a spark in you, Zanka. I see it when you look at me across the battlefield, it’s like you wanna see my guts spilled all over your stick. When you spiked me today, I think that’s the closest to heaven I’ll ever reach. Do it again sometime, okay?

That’s why I can’t give up on you, cause I see it in you when I don’t think you don’t see it in yourself. Every time we duke it out, you pull a trick out of your ass that has me falling all over again. I need you, Zanka.

You’re my dream come true. I’ll hunt you down for the rest of your life if that’s what it takes. You’re going to fight me until one of us dies, and it better not be me.

P.S. A kiss before I go is more than welcome.

— Always, and with devotion, J.

Silence.

Jabber’s fingers twirl Mankira’s parts around in time with the pounding in Zanka’s ears. He can tell his breathing is too fast, alerting the other of his dishevelled state. His hands vibrate, exhilarated. 

It's better than last night. It’s better than anything he’s ever felt in his life.

He reads it again. It’s nothing like Rudo’s, violent where he was gentle and so very Jabber in all the ways that Zanka knows him. It feels akin to an invitation into Jabber’s very psyche, like Jabber had sliced a blade down his torso and dragged Zanka’s inside to touch his very soul amongst his soft insides.

There’s no talk of hand holding or becoming better, just a cruel desire to ruin each other forever, satiating selfish desires with bloodshed. He’d joked to himself about likening them to Romeo and Juliet, but their tragedy is child's play compared to the devastation Jabber craves, to the point Shakespeare himself would be bewitched by the green eyed beast.

He folds the letter in two, having to force himself away from the temptation it offered. Jabber jumps at the action, hands shifting into fists in his lap.

“So,” Jabber says, not even a murmur, but Zanka still feels the warm air blow against his chin, “better than Rudo’s?”

Zanka nods, chuckling fondly. “Better.”

He laughs again when Jabber deflates like a balloon, the stress that had settled over his shoulders melting away with confirmation. Zanka gets it. “The end?”

For once, Jabber blushes, and Zanka has never wished so badly to own a camera. Maybe if she forgives him, he’ll ask to borrow Tomme’s. “Momo said it wasn’t romantic enough. I thought it was, so I didn't know what to add.”

“So you asked for a kiss?”

Jabber’s line of sight darts down to his lips. “Figured it was worth a shot.”

Zanka understands now. Jabber has always been a romantic, in his own way. He was too caught up in stereotypical ideals to notice.

He’s the stupid one here.

“Did you mean it?” He needs to hear it out loud. That part inside him that hasn’t shut up won’t settle until he does.

There’s a hum of agreement. “Every word. Especially those last ones.”

He doesn’t bother drying his hands on his shorts. With the confidence he learned from the other, he pulls Jabber in towards him and gives him what he asked for.

His lips are soft and pliant, twitching as they try so hard to smother a beaming smirk. Jabber moves to hold him by the back of his neck, Zanka adjusting so he can run his thumb along Jabber’s cheek bone. Their noses bump in their eagerness, but they make do, until a tongue swipes along Zanka’s bottom lip and he feels that devislish little ball of metal scrape against his soft pallate.

 He kind of forgets about everything else.

The next time they fall into their roles of cleaner and raider, Zanka will show Jabber everything he and his vital instrument have to offer. Jabber will mouth off, Zanka will return it full force. They’ll fight, and Zanka will lose.

Jabber will sit with him while he recovers from Mankira’s newest poisons. When Zanka’s aware enough, he’ll hold his arms out, and Jabber will happily kiss it all better.

After a visit to Eishia, Zanka will go to sleep, the moonlight glinting off of the new picture framed displaying paper where his alarm clock used to sit.

The window will be open, and a new occupant will join him.

Zanka learns that he can be loved.