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Zanka stirred to the aftertaste of warmth.
The sheets were creased where two bodies had been pressed together hours ago. His muscles ached in that dull, satisfied way that should have meant something. The ceiling above him was stained with old water marks: faint rings spreading like ghosts of past leaks, highlighted only by the early light that crept through the window in thin, metallic streaks.
Ignoring the crick in his neck, he turned his head.
Jabber was already awake.
The other boy was propped up, shoulders hunched in on himself and pecking at his nails. The muted clicking of his rings against each other remained the only sound in the room other than Zanka’s sudden hitch of breath; Jabber’s own was imperceptible – controlled and trained – however the blond could make out the odd, subdued sound of humming coming from him. It carried a tune eerily similar to a children’s lullaby. His hair formed a thick, dark veil over his profile, blocking out the facial expression Zanka was so curious to see.
He watched him longer than what was polite.
There was something almost childlike in the way Jabber folded in on himself, shoulders drawn tight as if to shield himself, dexterous fingers worrying at the edges of his nails, the skin around them riddled with self-imposed bites. It struck Zanka, distantly, that Jabber had probably been doing this long before he’d woken. Long before Zanka had even stirred.
The humming didn’t stop.
It climbed instead, reaching a thin, trembling pitch – uneven, almost abrasive. Grating in the way it reminded Zanka of the bothersome cicadas that would lie outside his window on the hotter days. As annoying as they were, he couldn’t find it in himself to shoo them off, figuring they were just trying to escape the unbearable heat. He’d let them cling to the trim wood of his window frame, their brittle bodies vibrating with effort. He remembered lying awake, sweat sticking the sheets to skin, listening to them rasp and cry until the night finally cooled. They’d burn themselves out, eventually, against the weight of the sun in desperation for a relief that never quite came.
Blue eyes flickered to the other boy, wondering if it was the same for him. He sat just as rigid as before, shoulders hunched inward, the sound coming from deep in his chest, as if it were something he hadn’t consciously decided to make. Zanka wondered if Jabber even realised he was doing it. If the noise was a comfort, or a release, or simply what happened when everything else became too much.
A coping mechanism, maybe.
The sound settled into him.
Zanka lay still, letting the hum vibrate through his ribs, through the hollow space behind his sternum where warmth had been only hours ago. It wasn’t loud enough to demand attention, but it refused to fade, threading itself through his thoughts until it became impossible to separate the noise from the moment itself. He focused on it the way one focused on breathing—counting the rise and fall, pretending it anchored him instead of unmooring something fragile inside his chest.
Jabber shifted.
The movement was small, almost negligible, but it disrupted the rhythm enough for the blond to notice. The hum wavered, then resumed at a lower pitch, steadier now and almost corrective in its flow. Zanka found himself swallowing thickly.
‘’Jabber.’’ He rasped, pulling his tongue from the roof of his mouth. He remained ignored as the humming continued, almost mockingly now. He gave a frown, calling out again. ‘’Jabber.’’
Zanka watched the slow rise of Jabber’s shoulders, the way his spine remained tense even at rest, like a wire drawn tight and left that way out of habit. Whatever relief the sound brought him, it wasn’t enough to loosen that line. His head flopped to the side, locs finally moving and letting Zanka see his face. It was moulded by listless, full lips, and a vacant, dry stare.
The sight made something in Zanka’s chest give way.
Jabber’s eyes were lidded, unfocused, fixed on nothing in particular. They didn’t land on Zanka — not really. They slid past him, glassy and distant, as if his presence existed somewhere outside the room, outside the moment entirely. The humming persisted, vibrating faintly in Jabber’s throat, stripped now of its earlier wavering and rendered mechanical by repetition.
‘’Hey,’’ he tried again, softer this time, cautious. ‘’Ya with me?’’
His question met empty air.
In a stubborn movement, he raised a finger to Jabber’s flat nose and tapped it a couple times until a slender hand seized his wrist. With a jolt, he looked to see a pair of rouge-pink eyes blink hazily at him before properly softening in recognition.
The taller cocked his head, grip still firm around the blond’s wrist.
For a second, his expression hovered somewhere unreadable with lips slightly parted and a brow drawn in faint concentration as if he were piecing together how they’d gotten here. The humming had stopped entirely now, leaving behind a cold, ironic silence that wormed into Zanka’s ears with a rush.
‘’...What’re you doin’?’’ Jabber finally asked, voice low and a bit rough, seemingly from unuse.
Zanka didn’t pull away. He let his hand remain there, fingers slack, pulse still racing beneath Jabber’s hold. “Y’weren’t answerin’,” he said, trying for lightness and missing by a mile. “Thought I’d lost ya for a sec.”
Jabber’s gaze flicked down to where he held him, then back up again. The recognition that passed through his eyes was brief, clinical—an inventory taken and concluded. His fingers loosened, releasing Zanka’s wrist without ceremony. Zanka felt stupid for the contact that he suddenly found himself missing.
With a huff, he mumbled, ‘’I was just thinking.’’ The explanation felt thin, but it was all he offered.
Jabber let out a confirming noise, shifted his weight and turned away from Zanka entirely now, the movement practiced and unremarkable. Whatever space had opened between them moments ago sealed itself shut with the simple roll of his shoulders. He sat motionless before swinging spindly legs off the side of the mattress, arching his back momentarily to rid himself of any tension then finally stood up with a crack of his ankles. Zanka watched with eyes flowing off the movement of sinewy muscle and tanned skin. He thought of saying something, thoughts floating around his head as Jabber slipped his bangles around his wrists and tugged his shoes back on. The room suddenly felt too small, cluttered with evidence Zanka didn’t know what to do with—creased sheets, discarded clothing, the lingering heat where Jabber had been sitting.
Zanka cleared his throat. ‘’Heading out already?”
Jabber pulled his hood over his head and nodded. ‘’Got stuff to do. Bossman wants me back, anyway.’’
The words landed flat, piercing with their finality.
Zanka nodded back, mirroring the motion without thinking. He didn’t trust himself to say anything else, not revealing how much he wanted Jabber to stay, how much the silence and coldness already started to hurt.
‘’See ya,’’ Jabber said, impassively.
Then he was gone.
He stared at the open door for a moment more before flopping back down onto rough pillows, eyes fixed on the ceiling as if it might offer him something to look at. The water stains stared back, warped rings overlapping each other, impossible to tell where one ended and another began. He counted them without really meaning to, anything to keep his thoughts from circling too close to the edge.
A long sigh pushed itself out of a chest far too heavy with words left unsaid.
– – –
Two weeks passed.
Zanka didn’t count the days at first. He told himself there was no point in it—that if he stayed busy enough, if he let patrols blur together and nights bleed into mornings, the time would pass on its own. That Jabber would slip back into the category of people he knew, rather than someone he kept thinking about when he shouldn’t.
He wasn’t shocked when it didn’t work.
The city shifted in small, unremarkable ways: new graffiti bloomed across brick walls, a street vendor moved locations, and the air would grow heavier and arid with a clinging heat. Zanka noticed all of it because he was looking for something else to notice instead.
He didn’t see Jabber.
Not on patrols. Not in passing. Not as a familiar pressure at the edge of his awareness. The absence became its own kind of presence—quiet, persistent and impossible to ignore.
By the fourteenth day, Zanka stopped expecting it to change.
He was halfway through an evening patrol when the city’s market district came into view, lanterns strung low across narrow streets, their glow spilling warm gold onto cracked pavement. The air buzzed with life: voices overlapping, vendors shouting prices, the smell of fried food and spice cutting through the usual metallic tang of the city. He figured a festival must be approaching soon. Patrol protocol didn’t require him to pass through the market, but it wasn’t forbidden either. Enjin was the furthest from meticulous, and Semiu wouldn’t mind as long as he did his job – though it wasn’t uncommon for her to be upset if he didn’t grab her the newest edition of her most favoured pin-up magazines. He let his steps drift that way, pulled by the noise, by the sense of movement and humanity pressing close on all sides. Weaving through the crowd with Lovely Assistaff held in a ready grip, his shoulders brushed with strangers who exchanged murmured apologies automatically. Somewhere, he heard a distant melody crackling out from cheap speakers.
For a moment, Zanka felt himself relax in the welcoming atmosphere with shoulders sagging and his grip loosening on his staff.
Then he felt it. A strong wave of unease washed over him, drowning him in a sudden, cold sweat.
Not the sharp spike of danger, no immediate threat, no monster pressing against his senses. Just a wrongness. A pressure that didn’t belong to the market’s lively rhythm. His jinki stirred uneasily beneath his skin, blood humming low and alert. Blue eyes quickly surveyed the crowd before landing on a flash of purple.
And there Jabber was.
Standing just beyond a stall piled high with fabrics, half-shadowed beneath a flickering lantern, and his hood pulled up over his hair. His jacket was splattered dark along both sleeves, the stains nearly dry. His rings glinted dully as his fingers flexed, then stilled, as if he’d just realised he was moving at all.
For a second, Zanka forgot how to breathe. The same hollow pressure bloomed in his chest as it had those mornings ago; staring at a ceiling that refused to explain anything.
Jabber looked… off.
He didn’t seem injured – though it was possible he had used his numbing left claw – or particularly shaken up. Just wrong in a way the Cleaner couldn’t immediately name. His posture was looser than usual, shoulders slumped slightly forward, gaze unfocused as it drifted over the crowd without really landing on anyone. Like he was watching the world through a pane of glass. Zanka found himself approaching before he could talk himself out of it. His mind swirled with all the questions he wanted answers to about that night.
‘’Jabber.’’
The Raider’s head snapped up, eyes sharpening just enough to register recognition. Rouge-pink flickered over Zanka’s face, cataloguing, assessing. His mouth parted slightly, then closed again.
“Oh,” he said, craning his neck and getting closer to the blond’s face.
The word carried no weight. Just observation.
Zanka stopped a step away, suddenly aware of how close they were. “Didn’t think I’d run into you here.”
“Wasn’t planning on it,” Jabber replied, voice soft. It sounded fairly normal; flat and controlled. If not for the way his fingers kept twitching at his side, Zanka might have believed he was fine.
“The hell’s with ya?” Zanka asked, then winced internally at how obvious it sounded.
Jabber frowned faintly, like the question needed parsing. His gaze slid past Zanka, tracking the movement of the crowd. His focus landed on a young child and his mother sharing a treat, before Zanka moved his head to block his vision with an arched brow. “Just finished a job, but I had some time to spare.”
Zanka’s eyes flicked to the stain on his sleeves that were now darker than oil. Thicker.
‘’Oh,’’ he echoed, quieter now. A vendor shouted nearby, breaking the moment. Someone brushed past Jabber’s shoulder, close enough that Zanka felt a flash of irritation he didn’t have the energy to unpack.
Jabber didn’t react at all.
“You shouldn’t be here,” Jabber blurted suddenly.
“In the market?” Zanka asked. “I’m on patrol.”
Jabber shook his head, sharp and abrupt. He was silent for a moment, jaw shifting as if testing out the words in his mouth. “You should go.” He then focused on the ants trailing the ground.
Zanka studied him more closely now: the slight delay in his responses and the way his gaze kept slipping free of focus. His brain clicked with the recognition of similar behaviours in Rudo, and, though rarely, Enjin. Quickly, he seized Jabber’s hand, dragging him away from warm-hued lights and bargaining shouts and taking him to the much more secluded area of the backstreets.
What was most odd, however, was the absurd lack of resistance from the Raider; he didn’t even make a smart-ass quip or his usual double entendres. That, more than anything else, unsettled Zanka.
He let himself be pulled through the thinning crowd, slippers scraping against uneven stone as the noise of the market dulled behind them. The warmth of lantern light faded with each step, replaced by the cooler, bluer cast of streetlamps that hummed overhead. Shadows stretched long and distorted across the walls, swallowing their outlines and stitching them into the quiet. Zanka released Jabber’s hand only once they’d reached the mouth of an alley and gestured for him to sit on the nearby crates, which he did. His pulse thudded loud in his ears, a dull counterpoint to the distant murmur of the market. He turned, searching Jabber’s blank face again.
Up close, the vacancy was clearer.
Jabber’s eyes tracked movement without settling, flicking to the ground, the walls, the far end of the street – anywhere but Zanka. His shoulders were still hunched forward, his weight pitched slightly off-balance, as if it were uncertain of its own existence.
“Hey,” Zanka called quietly, keeping his voice low.
Jabber blinked, once, twice; gaze sliding to the other’s emblem, then his shoulder, missing his eyes by a hair.
‘’Told you. M’fine.’’ He replied, the words now slurring together.
This only made Zanka frown in response. Such behaviour from Jabber was unseen to him; he’d seen him in motion many times: laughing high and sharp in the middle of bloodshed, large eyes alight with ferality and obscene in its joy. He’d watch him follow through Zanka’s own retaliations with flowing limbs, body moving as if their fights were some sort of private indulgence along with grinning teeth and reckless momentum. Violence worn like a second skin.
But the Jabber sitting idly in front of him wasn’t anything like that.
Zanka shifted his weight, unsettled. ‘’Ya don’t sound fine.’’
Jabber’s gaze drifted again, skimming the alley walls, the ground, the mouth of the street behind them. Anywhere but Zanka. His shoulders remained drawn in, posture closed and awkward in a way that looked almost wrong on him. As much as Zanka – for some reason unbeknownst to him – wanted to reach a calming hand out, he wasn’t sure if that would end well. After all, he remembered how easily contact had been withdrawn before, how fast warmth could be mistaken for permission. So he stayed where he was, hands at his sides, pulse still running faster than it should have.
‘’Look,’’ He started, musing words over his tongue. “We don’t gotta talk. Just–’’
He trailed off to the sound of gnawing and clinking. Jabber had started worrying his fingers between his teeth, opposite hand twisting the rings he narrowly missed around bony fingers with unconscious precision. The metallic clicks were irregular and out of sync with his breathing.
Zanka’s stomach tightened.
‘’You just did a job,’’ he said slowly, eyes watching the other carefully.
The taller didn’t answer, instead choosing to stare down at the ants threading their way through cracked, painted pavement. Zanka found his own gaze trailing down, watching their minuscule movements and efforts to gather what crumbs people left in their wake.
‘’Ya must be hungry, right?’’ Zanka shuffled his feet, tapping his boot a bit away from Jabber’s. The other, still gnawing on reddened fingers, gave a slow nod. After glancing at the packed market outside, Zanka thought for a second: It wouldn’t be wise to leave him here right now, would it?
After a moment, he patted the side of his pants, digging into the deep pockets and pulling out a small wrapped snack. ‘’We got these snacks from one of our trips earlier this week. Rudo kinda pigged out on ‘em, so this is one of the last left.’’ He explained, holding the bar out to Jabber in an open palm. The brunet slowed his biting, eyes trailing from the snack up to Zanka’s face and gave a tiny tilt of his head. ‘’Shit, I haven’t had it in my pocket this whole time, if yer so damn worried about that.’’ He flushed, shoving his hand out a bit further.
All was silent for a moment, Zanka nearly retracted his hand, before thin fingers slowly wrapped around the wrapper and took it. The Cleaner watched as Jabber fumbled with the bar for a moment, fingers a bit too loose and unmanageable, and he found himself snorting at the way it was oddly endearing. Smiling, he offered his palm out again. Jabber paused his attempts, eyes flitting before returning it. Zanka quickly unwrapped it and presented it to him with kind eyes. The other stares for a beat, turning the bar over in his hands, thumbs pressing idly into it and tracing the logo. His hesitation made Zanka wonder if he had already checked out again.
‘’Ya don’t gotta–’’ Zanka started, then stopped himself at the sight of Jabber’s bite.
It was messy and careless. A bite taken too large, teeth scraping at the edge of the bar, with his jaw letting out obscenely loud cracks as it worked – Zanka figured it was dislocated. Crumbs dusted his fingers, one stuck to the corner of his mouth unnoticed.
Zanka watched for a moment more before asking, ‘’Like it?’’
Jabber slowed his chewing, already going in for a second bite. ‘’Sweet. Real sweet.’’ His words were slightly muffed around the bar. The blond gave a chuckle.
‘’Rudo’ll eat anything with sugar.’’
Jabber gave a confirming sound, swallowing. ‘’Might rot him.’’ Then resumed to his final bite before discarding the wrapper haphazardly. It fluttered once against the pavement before settling near the wall. A silence of ironic normalcy set over the air, aside from Jabber’s arrhythmic kicks against the crate, and what Zanka was certain was the beginnings of a hum from him. Zanka was about to open his mouth to speak before being cut off by a quiet meow, Jabber looked at him with confusion.
‘’That wasn’t me, idiot.’’ He grumbled, folding his arms over his chest. At the sound of rustling and clutters, both looked behind the crate Jabber was sitting upon. Armed with his staff, Zanka circled it carefully, Jabber looking on with half-dazed amusement, chin propped against his knuckles and leaning so far out Zanka thought he might fall off.
It was within the split second Zanka blinked that a dark blur flashed and he felt a mass of fur over his face. He let out an undignified yelp as sharp scratches raked across his cheek and nose while simultaneously trying to rip the cat off his face. Over his squawks, the sound of the Raider’s uneven chirps of laughter rang out as a crooked smile pulled at his face. The feline disengaged as abruptly as it had attacked, springing off Zanka’s face and landing in a clean, effortless arc straight into Jabber’s lap. The blond staggered back, swearing under his breath, a hand clamped over his nose.
‘’Shit– where the fuck did that thing come from?’’ He seethed, glaring at the cat now wedging itself even further into the other boy.
Jabber barely spared him a glance, looking down at the scrawny creature, and brows lifting a fraction as it immediately curled in on itself, releasing purrs loud enough to vibrate. Its paws began to knead at his thighs, head nuzzling his stomach. Jabber let out his own hum in response. He began to poke the cat’s side with two fingers, deliberately too firm. ‘’Do it again,’’ he whispered flatly, as if the cat could understand him.
The cat responded by headbutting his wrist and purring louder.
Jabber clicked his tongue, irritation flickering across his face. “Useless.”
Zanka stared with thinly veiled disgust. ‘’Are ya tryin’ to get scratched?’’ He wasn’t unfamiliar with the other’s masochistic tendencies but this was just comedically absurd.
Jabber didn’t look up. He dragged his knuckles lightly along the cat’s spine, sharp nails scraping just enough to be annoying. “Supposed t’hurt,” he muttered, the furrow in his split brows deepening. The cat only stretched more, exposing its belly in an obscene display of trust. In response, Jabber froze, then scowled down at it, bitterly. ‘’...Traitor.’’
Zanka let out a short, incredulous laugh despite the sting on his face. ‘’There’s no way yer pissed over this, Dreads.’’
Jabber finally glanced up at him, eyes flicking over the scratches with mild interest. In a lethargic fashion, he pointed an accusatory finger at Zanka. ‘’Why’d it hafta pick you for?’’ Zanka’s laugh only rose in volume when he noticed the beginnings of a pout make its way onto the Raider’s face.
‘’Ya jealous?’’ He teased now rubbing at his face dramatically, ‘’Man, these hurt soo bad, damn good thing you didn’t get ‘em.’’ If it were anyone else in front of him, he’d probably be more embarrassed to act so childishly.
Jabber scoffed, but his finger lingered midair before dropping back to the cat’s fur. ‘’M’not jealous…’’ He sounded unconvinced even to himself, the whining lilt only exposing him. The cat purred on, blissfully ignorant, tail flicking lazily as Jabber’s hand resumed its slow, absent strokes.
Zanka wiped at his cheek again, inspecting the crimson blood smeared across his bare knuckles. ‘’Yeah, sure,’’ he quipped lightly. ‘’Yer thrilled.’’
Jabber shot him a nasty look, that would have been much more intimidating if he didn’t have a furball pawing at his jacket, then looked away just as quickly. ‘’Maybe it’s ‘cause you’re a loudmouth. Scared it.’’ He scolded, jutting his chin out.
Zanka gave a loud squawk of protest, ‘’That thing jumped me.’’
The Raider hummed faintly, holding a fond note as he drew squiggly shapes into fur and gave an absent nod. Zanka let out a sigh and fell into a crouch, watching the cat now swat its paws at Jabber’s hair, the clanking of his jewelry thrumming as the boy silently petted it behind the ears.
‘’Are ya always like this with strays?’’ He asked, tone light but curious despite himself.
Jabber huffed. ‘’Dunno. They always come up to me and won’t leave.’’ The cat punctuated that by kneading harder, purring loud enough to vibrate through Jabber’s chest. He dragged his nails just a bit too roughly through its fur again, testing. The cat responded by shoving its head into his palm.
It was over an hour later when the cat eventually hopped down, tail swishing once before slipping into the dark. Jabber’s hand lingered where it had been, fingers flexing once before dropping back to his knee. Zanka had now migrated to sitting against the crate, staff laying between his knees and resting his face against its wood. The boy above leaned down, hair casting a veil against the faint light creeping in from beyond the alley’s entrance. From the corner of his vision, Zanka could have sworn he noticed a faint pink glow from Jabber’s eyes.
“…You’re bleeding a lot,” Jabber mentioned flatly, pressing a sharp finger against Zanka’s face.
Zanka swat it away, wiping at his cheek again, fractured brows raising at the fact he was still bleeding. “Yup. Damn, aren’t I lucky?”
Jabber clicked his tongue, looking away as Zanka stood and dusted off his pants. “Dumb way to go.”
“Relax,” Zanka replied, already stepping back toward the streetlight. “Takes more’n that.” He paused, then lifted a hand in a loose, casual point. “Try not to vanish this time, yeah?”
Jabber didn’t answer right away. When he did, it was in an odd, softer tone. “Not promising anything.”
Zanka walked off with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, the hum of the lamps swallowing his footsteps as the alley fell still again.