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Life on the Ground means living unfazed. Flying trash and murder garbage monsters attacking people is just A Thing down there. Pollution blackening your lungs until the cells give up on keeping you alive is so normal it's become almost as common a death as old age. Death doesn't scare Zanka. He's not suicidal, but he's not actively trying to preserve his life. It's inevitable. He accepts it. He's destined to die a slow, painful death, mauled to shreds by whatever trash beast gets the jump on him. Or so he thought.
In truth, he feels little pain. The sting of the wound carved into his chest is present, but it's not unbearable. More like an annoying fly in his ear. His body feels light, almost like he's detaching from it. In a way, the analogy isn't wrong. The feeling of his brain cells rapidly killing themselves to prevent the spread of a toxin is likely what provides the floating sensation. It's nice. Zanka hasn't felt this free in a long while. Probably back when he was a kid, and he was still on top of the world. Still treasured by his family. Still the heir to the Nijiku's. Now, he's just Zanka, an average stick-wielding cleaner.
Speaking of sticks, Lovely Assistaff is here too, admittedly worse for wear. Her once sleek metal is now soaked in blood, hilt buried into Jabber's abdomen. It's a little grotesque. His dreads are falling over his face, skin caked with blood and dirt from their fight. Scratches and deep cuts litter his exposed skin. The raider is lying in his arms like a damsel in distress. Jabber is no damsel, nor is he distressed at all. If anything, he looks serene. His usual manic expression has become something more sincere, a small smile quirking his lips. They don't say anything, just stare at each other. Zanka thinks he's beautiful.
Something in his brain is telling him to panic. To call for help. Toss Jabber to the side and run as far as he can before the toxin kills him. He knows it's futile. He's going to die right here, holding his enemy, and Jabber's face is going to be the last thing he sees. It's not at all a bad thing.
Fighting Jabber was like fighting the parts of himself he banished to the dark a long time ago. He was always envious of his free-spirited, honest nature. That's partly why he hated him so much. He was jealous. Jealous that he was able to accept himself for what he was, and freely present it to the world. Jealous of his natural talent. Jealous of his strength. He worked himself to the bone, training relentlessly just to have a shot at winning a single fight.
"You never could just let me win, could ya?" Zanka finishes his thought out loud. A dry wheeze is his response.
"Let you win? For what? You'd only- ugh, get mad I held out on you."
He's right. For all his faults, Jabber never did hold back. He held Zanka to impossible standards. Told him to let loose, go all out, even when he was giving it his all. That only made him more determined to show him he was good enough. Show him he deserved to be called a worthy opponent. Show him he was worth the attention. Jabber had always been right in a way.
"Yeah," he sighed. "Yer right. Still sucks, though. We're probably gonna die here." He surprises himself with how calm he is about it, although it's 90% toxin speaking.
Jabber laughs again, a full-body thing, jostling Lovely Assistaff inside his abdomen. He grunts in pain, but his eyes are clearer than they've ever been. Maybe it's the inevitable death looming over his head. Zanka has a feeling that it has nothing to do with that.
"Ain't no probably," he smiles up at him as if they were talking about the weather. "We're dead meat. Might not be found for a few days either. They're gonna find us jus' like this, holdin' each other like two newlyweds."
It's Zanka's turn to laugh, a small chuckle at first, then a cackle. He laughs and laughs and laughs until tears prick his eyes, shoulders shaking. The tears don't stop. They pour out of his eyes like a broken faucet, dripping onto Jabber's clothes.
He might've liked to get married. Maybe if he hadn't been born in this shithole, he would've had a family. A real family. A wife, children, a home. He would've had someone waiting for him to come back safely.
That's not right. He does have someone waiting for him. Multiple, actually. Enjin's face appears behind his eyelids when he blinks, and the tears pour faster.
He hopes Enjin isn't the one to find his body. He probably will, though. The look on his face would be enough to make Zanka rise from the dead just to die of guilt. Enjin always looked out for him. Ever since that day in the well when he gave him the strength to force his way up after 3 days of no food or water, Enjin had been his rock. He always knew what to say, how to help. Even after all these years, he's still picking up strays and reforming them into decent members of society. It's admirable. Zanka never had the patience to do charity work.
Jabber lifts a hand, Mankira still activated. He doesn't use the claws, but rather the soft pad of his palm. The warm skin caresses his face, thumb brushing his hair out of his face slightly.
"Oi, what'cha cryin' for? You ain't going out alone. Ol' Jabber's here to keep ya company til' we both kick the bucket."
"I ain't cryin'," Zanka mumbles, blinking the tears out of his eyes. "Just laughed too hard. It was funny, us gettin' married. Wouldn't that be a damn spectacle," he gives a half-hearted chuckle.
Jabber gives him a complicated expression.
"Not really. Lot'sa people get married. We could've."
He doesn't quite know what to say to that, so he settles for a joke. "Us? Domestic violence case waitin' ta happen."
"Nah. Wouldn't be domestic violence if nobody called the Hell Guard."
Zanka smirks, amused.
"So 's fine to hit yer husband as long as he doesn't tell?" he asks.
"If he's hittin' you first, yeah."
The conversation flows so easily, it's almost hard to believe they're both on the verge of death. It slips Zanka's mind until Jabber chokes on his own blood mid-sentence, coughing it up all over both of them.
"Ack-" he wretches, gagging on the taste.
Zanka watches it pour out of his mouth. He wants to recoil away, but he endures it. Not like he can move much anyway with the toxin messing with his head. Mankira's claw brushes against his face, and he leans into it.
"...Any more of that toxin and you'll die right now," Jabber warns.
"'S fine. She ain't gonna hurt me." The irony is lost on neither of them. "She's pretty."
"That's a new one. Usually people don't call 'er nothin' but a weapon."
"Yeah, well," he shrugs, raising his free hand to caress the metal that sits over Jabber's knuckles. "It's pretty cool. If I could'a seen her up close properly…" his thought trails off, too busy running the pads of his fingers over Mankira's claws.
Jabber says nothing, but Zanka sees a flush creeping up his face. It's kind of cute.
"Don't be talkin' like I'm the only one with a cool Vital Instrument," he huffs, rolling his eyes. "Assistaff is fuckin' sick. I always wanted ya to use her spikes on me," he shudders at the thought, drool slipping out of his mouth. Freak.
"Those aren't fer humans," Zanka chides. Jabber only laughs more. "But… Thank you. She's been through a lot, and plain as she is, she's always held up." His voice shakes a bit towards the end of his sentence. Talking about Lovely Assistaff always gets him emotional. The toxins definitely aren't helping.
"Plain, huh? Look," Jabber gestures to his abdomen weakly, groaning at the movement. "Got me clean through. Don't think any ol' thing could do that. You take a whole lotta care of her to be callin' her plain."
Zanka doesn't really know how to respond to that. He deflects instead.
"Ya take care of Mankira the same way. I've never seen her with even a speck o' dust."
"Yep, these rings're my pride and joy!" He says, suddenly chipper. Zanka suspects it's because he gets to yap about his jinki. "She's real special to me. Got them from my mama suuuper long ago. They couldn't even fit on my fingers back then," he muses. His eyes are a little cloudy with nostalgia, not completely in the moment.
Sweat slides down the nape of Jabber's neck, disappearing underneath his rumpled jacket. He reaches for it, wiping the fluid away from his skin in an almost tender gesture. Jabber gives a strained smile.
"You gettin' sweet on me now, Mr Bad Attitude?" He asks, blinking slowly. His eyes are clear again.
"Do ya ever shut yer mouth? I'm tryin-" he pauses, a wave of dizziness slamming into him. "I'm tryin' to make up fer lost time."
Jabber blinks again. His brows knit together in confusion. It's an expression Zanka hasn't seen before. Pretty.
"Whas' that supposed to mean?"
Zanka doesn't answer, bringing his hand around to cradle the base of Jabber's neck and feeling the warmth of his skin for the last time. His body temperature has dropped significantly. He's usually so feverish, hot and full of life. It's weird now that he's got the temperature of an average person. Everything happening now is so weird. Zanka imagined dying alone in the jaws of a trash beast. They'd call him a hero, bury an empty grave, and move on. His existence would wash away like chalk. Instead, he is held in the arms of his enemy and his greatest regret.
"It wasn't s'posed to be like this," he slurs.
"Okay, I get you're goin' through it, but you gotta make some sense, Z."
"I wanted ya."
The words tumble out of his mouth, eyes begging to close. He does not obey. He can't bear to miss a single microexpression. This is the first and last time he will ever have the chance to be this close, to study the other man. He watches as Jabber's eyes widen a fraction, fingers twitching where they hold his face.
"...huh?"
"I wanted ya," he repeats. His nerve is quickly dissolving into shame, so he forces the rest of his sentence to make sense. "It ain't fair," he chokes on his own spit. "It ain't fair that the only time I ever got to hold ya is when it's over."
Jabber's mouth hardens into a flat line, and for a moment, Zanka believes that he might sink Mankira into his skull and put him out of his misery early. He can't say he wouldn't deserve it for springing this on him now. Then, he smiles. It's not his usual smug look, nor his euphoric grin. No, it's something different. Pity, maybe.
"Ha," he breathes. "Ain't that somethin'."
"Forget I said anything if ya don't feel the same. Not like it even matters-"
Jabber pulls him in, pressing their lips together. It's not sweet like the films they show on TV. It's desperate, chapped lips brushing together, painful and raw. It hurts, honestly, but he kisses back in earnest. His eyes slip shut, fingers on the raider's neck tightening, pressing them even closer together. Jabber grunts against his mouth, simply breathing against him after running out of breath.
"Sorry, can't close my eyes," Jabber laughs. "Might not open 'em again."
"Yer not funny," Zanka says, but he laughs anyway.
They sit like that for a while, breathing each other's air. It's nice. Deceptively nice. His body reminds him that he's on borrowed time by giving his heart a rough squeeze. He gasps, a guttural noise.
"Looks like our time's almost up, huh," Jabber says, something like sadness twinging his voice.
Zanka can't help the way his eyes sting again, self-loathing crashing into him like waves.
"I didn't- I wanted-"
"Shhh," he says, bringing his free hand up. He clasps it over where Zanka grips Assistaff. "We're here now, right? Ain't no use in regrettin' the past."
"I know, but I wanted more." Speaking is beginning to scratch at his throat, each word a knife digging in. "I wanted to get married, someday." To you goes unsaid.
It's irrelevant. Being anything more than this was never in the cards for them, let alone happiness. Zanka imagines it anyway. Jabber in a tuxedo, probably not the traditional black but rather a dark pink. Their wedding. Jabber, holding their kid on his lap and reading bedtime stories. Family photos hung up all over the walls. Zanka would have given his child everything. He'd make sure they grew up loved and happy. Perhaps to compensate for his lack thereof during his childhood.
Jabber brings him out of his imagination when he deactivates Mankira on his right hand. He shimmies one of the rings off, ring finger now bare, and holds it between his claws in front of Zanka's face.
"I can't get down on one knee, but…" he wheezes with a laugh. It's wet, blood mixed with saliva leaking out of the corner of his mouth. "ZanZan, will ya marry me?"
Zanka's breath catches. Time freezes, and for a moment, a vision of Jabber dressed up and on one knee flashes behind his eyes. Clear skies above, the sun gently kissing the older man's face. A ring sparkling in a soft box. Then he blinks, and he's back in the damp cave with Jabber bleeding out in his arms.
"Yer seriously the worst, ya know that?" he hiccups, taking his hand off of Jabber's neck to slide the ring onto his finger. It never fit past the first knuckle for Jabber, but it slides snugly onto the base of Zanka's ring finger. "Of course I'll marry ya."
His heart squeezes again. Maybe it was the toxin. Maybe it was all the love and hate he held for his rival, his equal, his husband, apparently. The sensation makes him groan.
"Should I start callin' you hubby now?" Jabber asks, raising a brow.
"Don't start." Zanka deadpans.
"Aw man," he frowns, but shuts up anyway. For about two seconds. "We would'a had a crazy wedding night, huh?"
"You-!!" Zanka feels his blood rush up to his face, and he clamps his ringed hand against Jabber's mouth. "Shut up! That's…not important right now."
Jabber's laugh is muffled behind Zanka's hand, and something wet coats his palm. He pulls away at lightning speed, mistaking it for saliva. Crimson slicks his hand instead. His heart clenches again. On cue, Jabber sighs.
"Alright, alright." His voice is weaker this time. "I'm beat now, gimme a goodbye kiss."
It hits Zanka all at once. Yeah, they're going to die. Jabber is going to die in his arms, and Zanka is going to die in his.
A second realization comes. This is the only way it was ever going to be. The only way he would ever want it.
He leans down, locking their lips together one more time. Blood swirls between their mouths. Zanka tries to convert everything he left unsaid into the kiss.
I hate you.
Yer cruel.
You never acknowledged my pain.
You always pushed me harder, even when I gave ya all I had.
You never gave up on me.
You saw me for who I was.
I love you.
A sharp sting presses into Zanka's neck.
"Ugh-!"
His eyes fly open, only to find Jabber smiling at him, really smiling.
His breathing evens out after a moment, and his heart slows down, thoughts becoming clearer again. Pain burns through his chest, but adrenaline makes it hard to care. His eyes widen.
"Y-You…"
Jabber's smile doesn't waver, but his eyelids are half-mast, and he's barely breathing.
"I know. Hate me for this all ya want," Mankira dissolves in a soft pink glow. He cradles Zanka's face in his palm once again, without the claws this time. The cold metal of his rings presses against Zanka's cheek. "But you ain't done yet. You still got all that potential to unlock, yeah? Shame I won't be able to feel you kick my ass when it happens, but oh well."
"Jabber, what the fuck-"
"Sorry I gotta make you a widow so soon." he interrupts, swiping his thumb over Zanka's tears. He coughs once, twice, then: "I love you, Zanka."
Jabber's hands slowly relax, thudding against the rocky ground. Zanka rushes to hold onto his body, letting go of Lovely Assistaff.
"Jabber!"
Zanka grips his face so hard he worries he might shatter bone.
"You can't do this, fuck, you can't-" he shakes him, pressing their foreheads together. "You can't just leave me!"
Though a serene smile is still plastered across his face, Jabber does not respond.
-
"Zanka, do you need anything? I'm heading to Canvas Town." Rudo barges into his room without asking. Zanka sighs, annoyed.
"Didn't they teach ya how to knock on the Sphere?"
"Didn't they teach you how to let things go on the ground? It's been four years."
Zanka doesn't really have a reply for that. Rudo's grown up, but he still grates on Zanka's last nerve as he did at fifteen.
"...whatever. Grab me some metal polish while yer there. I'm almost out."
"Got it," he gives a thumbs up, darting out just as quickly as he came. The door slams shut. Zanka groans in exasperation, dragging his left hand down his face. Cool metal soothes his skin.
He pulls his hand away. Five brass rings sit on his knuckles, gleaming when they catch the sunlight. Zanka brings his hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to each ring.
I miss you.
He holds up his right hand, only four rings adorning it. His ring finger is bare. He kisses those, too.
I love you, Jabber.