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Jabber laughs whenever they fight—loud, harsh, shrieking. He twists and slithers out of Zanka’s reach, howling with glee before lunging in close with Mankira again. His eyes burn bright, brighter than even a Giver’s should, face twisted into a sick, giddy grin. Even when he’s short of breath, or injured, even when Zanka’s actually getting some hits in, he’s always fucking laughing. Daring Zanka to move faster, swing harder, come on, give it to me for real!, as if that isn’t what Zanka’s already doing.
It’s fuel, sometimes. Like if Zanka’s pissed off enough, it’ll somehow unlock something in him, the beast Jabber wants him to be so badly. Other times, it just makes him more tired—Zanka can’t count the number of times he’s seriously considered throwing Assistaff down and screaming, what more do you want?
As if Jabber would ever be willing to hear that. Zanka’s tried backing out before, firmly saying that he can’t go further, he’s done, he’s hit his limit. But it never works. Zanka’s weak for approval, weak for high expectations, and when Jabber drops his chucklefuckery and grabs him by the wrist, dead serious and unusually earnest, I don’t believe you. Convince me—how’s Zanka supposed to say no to that?
He can’t. So he doesn’t. And the cycle begins again—meet, fight, lose, trip, wake up, leave, train, meet. Rinse and repeat. Feet kicking up dirt, bones cracking, blood spilling. Zanka giving everything he has, giving so much he wants to lay down and cry, and Jabber. Laughing. Laughing. Always too fast, always too tough, always too strong for Zanka to actually nail a meaningful blow on. No matter what tricks he and Assistaff pull out of the hat, it’s never enough.
It’s never enough.
Zanka can’t count the amount of scars Jabber’s given him. He doubts Jabber can say the same. Assistaff’s spikes move fast, and but not fast enough to seriously pin Jabber down. Like all that knock me on my ass, Bad Attitude! talk is just him bullshitting so that he can see the look on Zanka’s face when he refuses to just lay down and take it.
When he’s on the ground, when he’s good and lost, Zanka always sees the same thing. He imagines the fight keeps going, he imagines getting back on his feet and screaming like an animal. He imagines beating Jabber into the ground, and Jabber for once staying there. Fists raining down on him, the sky growing dark and bearing down on the both of them as Zanka rips Jabber to shreds, the both of them laughing and laughing and laughing. He imagines burying his face into the Raider’s neck and crying, he imagines pressing their mouths together and pleading tell me I’m good enough tell me i’m good i need to hear you say it while Kyoko’s voice spits scorn in his ear and Goka’s hand grabs him by his shirt collar and Hyo’s eyes burn holes into his back.
For once, for once, Zanka just wants it to be real.
The sound of metal on metal is a familiar one—blocking Mankira, swinging Assistaff—followed by shoe soles scuffling on ruined concrete and that fucking—fucking—laughter. Zanka’s quick on blocking the next flurry of strikes but that stupid named move where Jabber spins so damn fast he may as well be a mini-trash storm, that always throws him off. Zanka doesn’t bother with defense there, instead dodging every slicing, poison-laced blade as it cleaves through the air.
He’s exhausted.
And Jabber’s not fucking stopping.
“You’re slowing down on me, Bad Attitude!” Jabber crows, skidding to a halt. His shoulders are heaving, Mankira branching from his hands in her full, lethal glory. He’s grinning like a kid, eyes crinkling, all teeth. His fingers wiggle antsily, all the quiet, restless frustration Zanka would rather he just say outright. I’m getting bored. This is boring. You’re so boring.
“C’mon, don’t tell me you’re tired already.”
“Like hell,” Zanka snarls, gripping Assistaff tighter and shifting his grip before bolting at Jabber, full offense. Like if he just keeps moving, it’ll ward off the heaviness in his limbs, the ache in his hands, the acid-burn of the tiny scrapes Mankira has already given him.
I can’t keep doing this.
I need to keep going.
I can’t—
He doesn’t go for his usual wide swings, instead bringing Assistaff down in a vicious overhead that Jabber dodges of course he dodges, he always dodges that’s why you’re all fucked up and he hasn’t even got a scratch with ease. Dodge, dodge, parry, dodge, redirect, quick lurching offensive, strike—
He’s not fast enough. This next cut goes deep, tearing into Zanka from navel to just below his diaphragm—not a proper stab, not enough for Zanka to go down instantly, but deep enough for them to know. Both of them.
It’s over.
Again.
Again
Fuck this—
Zanka’s knees begin to buckle, Assistaff already threatening to regress into her base form as he grinds his teeth against the pain. Blood gurgles in his throat, splashes against and slithers between his teeth as his weapon becomes a crutch, dug into the ground, keeping him upright.
Jabber’s not smiling anymore. No, that’s not it—he’s still smiling, but only barely, only with his face. Zanka can see the moment the Raider begins checking out from the fight. The disappointment stiffening between his brows, the restless movement of his fingers finally stopping.
“Well, shit. Guess that’s that.”
Mankira flashes, slipping back into her base form before Jabber puts his hands in his pockets with a shrug. He clicks his tongue before dragging the sound out into a hiss.
“Nearly thought you had me that time, man.”
“Ain’t down yet, quit talkin’ like it.” Zanka means for it to come out like a growl, but it comes out pinched and thin, barely even words. It fucking hurts. It hurts, but Zanka still drags his feet, reorganizing his already-heavy limbs into an approximation of a stance.
He probably looks so pathetic right now
Jabber cocks his head, wicks swinging around his face like pendulums. He’s not smiling at all, now—the bastard doesn’t even have the decency to look annoyed. He just looks—he looks—
FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU YOU STUPID PIECE OF SHIT I’M GONNA KILL YOU
He looks at Zanka in a way that makes him feel like that stupid kid in that stupid classroom, holding that stupid, stupid stick.
“You know,” he finally says, bringing one hand out of his pocket to present Mankira—just the rings, shining on his limp, lithe fingers. “It ain’t easy to dilute something once Mankira’s already got it in her system. I can add and blend new shit, sure, and diluting the toxin itself is light work. But I don’t think I’ve ever tried to take what Mankira’s got and make it hit less hard.”
Through the thickening fog of the toxins, Zanka’s stomach drops. He’s suddenly keenly aware of his injuries—no more or less severe than any of their other scraps, but enough that he should have been feeling the effects a lot earlier. The realization is a knife—Jabber had dialed back this time. And then, the twist—Jabber had dialed back, and Zanka had still—still—
Jabber looks at Zanka one last time, sighing before pulling his hood over his head and turning to go.
And Zanka—
Zanka wants to curl up on the ground and cry
Zanka sees red.
He doesn’t know how his feet are able to move so fast in the state he’s in. But Jabber doesn’t have time to fully turn around before he’s being tackled to the ground.
There’s no technique, no finesse—all those years of training go out the window, every drill with Kyoka, every lesson beaten into Zanka by the Academy. There’s only Jabber, squawking in some mix of confusion, surprise and delight, a wriggling body that lashes out with hands and nails and teeth as Zanka fights tooth and nail why don’t you ever stay down, Jabber is words in his ears, fuckin’ ecstatic, there he is, there you are, that’s what I wanna see and Zanka is glowing and seething when he sees the flash and glint of Mankira’s massive claws fast fast fast FUCK YOU
Zanka’s never stabbed anyone before. It feels different when he’s not on the receiving end. He’s used to feeling things break under his hands, but Jabber’s stomach is nothing like a trash beast’s hide—it’s soft, squishy. He can feel it flexing and twitching around the blade as Jabber’s eyes go wide in genuine, earnest shock.
It doesn’t feel real. It doesn’t feel real. Any moment Zanka will wake up, bleary and bloody, all alone on the concrete. Any moment the burning will start, the scrutiny, the not enough from every person he failed to measure up to.
A broken, wheezing noise drags Zanka out of his thoughts. It takes him several seconds to realize that it’s Jabber’s lungs, heaving just a few inches above where Zanka’s buried Mankira in his gut. His eyes aren’t on Zanka anymore—they’re on the caved-in ceiling of the warehouse they’re fighting in, pupils blowing wide and constricting erratically as bloody foam bubbles at the corners of his mouth. A full dose. Even diluted, it still works fast.
Zanka waves a hand in front of Jabber’s face. Snaps his fingers. His body is so much lighter now, he feels like he might unspool and float away.
“Hey,” Zanka murmurs. “Weirdo. You good?”
This can’t be real. There’s no way.
Jabber lays on the ground, twitching and unresponsive.
Zanka taps Jabber’s cheek. Lightly at first, then a firm, proper slap, the kind he’d see other students get at the Academy. Jabber’s head flops to the side, cheek reddening where he was hit. No gross noises or heady grins or loud, screeching laughter. Mankira flares with light before unraveling back into worn, non-threatening metal.
Zanka remembers how it felt, waking up from that first shitty trip. Limp in Riyo’s arms, the memory of his hands around the Raider’s neck still fresh in his mind. He remembers feeling his knuckles split, he remembers Jabber’s groggy, ruined praise bright in his ears. He remembers the moment he hauled himself back to his feet, Jabber turning around with a smile like bright neon street signs, threatening to blind. He’d looked happy, he’d looked proud, he’d looked so good on his back as Zanka beat his fucking face in with nothing but his own sorry, average fists. Zanka had been happy. Zanka had felt alive.
And none of it had been real.
Zanka doesn’t slap Jabber this time. He balls his hand into a fist, brings it down right on Jabber’s nose like a hammer. Pop. This feels more familiar, bone breaking, blood flowing. Jabber doesn’t so much as flinch.
Holy shit. Holy shit.
He should go. He’s already hurt. He’ll tell Enjin…something. He’ll say he ran into Jabber, the Raider picked a fight. Not too far from the truth, anyway. He should—he should go. He should leave. He won, there’s nothing left here.
Zanka won. Zanka won, he fucking won, holy shit, holy shit, holy shit, no way, no fucking way
He pops Jabber in the face again. Breaks his nose further. It’ll never heal right now. If it ever gets cold, he’ll feel a phantom ache and think of Zanka, Zanka, Zanka and smile like the sick little freak he is. Zanka punches him again. Again. Again and again, until the flesh is stripped from his knuckles.
It’s not fun. Not really. Fun would mean Jabber being here for the pain, screaming and wincing and flinching and fighting back even as he’s cackling and looking at Zanka like he’s finally, finally where he belongs. On top of him. Over him. Crushing him like he deserves. But it’s so fucking cathartic, and Zanka can’t stop.
Zanka is liquid, he’s fire, he’s burning up and completely cool. He’s got his forehead pressed against Jabber’s, not caring about the Raider’s sweat sticking in his bangs. They’re both breathing heavily, sucking in each lungful of breath like it’s their last. Jabber stares through Zanka’s head, unseeing as the whites of his eyes turn pink and a thin, drawn-out groan creaks out of his throat. Zanka stares at the tiny mole at the inner corner of his left eye, the scars through his eyebrows from what looks like botched piercing attempts, the blood all over his face, god, he looks so good.
A noise comes out of Zanka’s own throat. It takes him a few seconds to realize it’s laughter—creaking, breathless, thrilled, hungry. He won. He fucking won, he won a fight against Jabber, and he can barely feel the toxin anymore as he shrieks like a goddamn animal, grinning so hard his face hurts. The stars are bright and beautiful above his head, almost as beautiful as the damn, stubborn, psycho, strong strong strong person underneath him.
He feels like he might be in love. He feels like he’s going to die. He feels like he’s about to tear both their hearts out, eat them, and still be hungry.
Zanka’s never kissed anyone before, doesn’t know how, doesn’t know why he holds his mouth against Jabber’s like it means something as he laughs and laughs and laughs. Like he’s expecting Jabber to laugh with him, that hysterical fuckin’ laughter as they kiss like the depraved maniacs they both are. Kyoka would be so disgusted if she saw you now. Depraved, that’s what they are—depraved, sick, powerful, alive. Zanka feels alive. Jabber makes him feel alive, makes Zanka feel like he’s still that stupid kid at the Academy, buzzing and floating on a high of praise and admiration. If anyone saw you, they’d be sick. They’re worlds, the both of them, they’re gods, they could tear the Sphere back down to earth with their own two hands and make out in the bloody, desecrated remains before tearing each other to pieces. God, Zanka needs Jabber to wake up. Needs him to wake up so he can see this. So he can—so he can see, so he can know.
You were right, Zanka thinks, his words slurring pleasantly in his brain, thick as syrup. You were right. Thank you.
I’m going to kill you for this.
The first thing Zanka does when he regains consciousness is throw up.
“Oh, shit!” someone says—Zanka thinks he sees a Cleaner uniform out of the corner of his eye before lurching forward, stomach and throat wrenching violently as he retches all over the concrete. “Oh, that’s—okay, that’s—nope, not gonna think about it.”
”Enjin,” Zanka mutters —he thinks it might be Enjin, anyway. It sounds like him, but Zanka’s brain is so fucked up he can’t be sure. If he could turn his head, Zanka would probably look to check for his tattoos, or Umbreaker tucked under his arm. But the idea of moving makes him want to die.
Another trip, he thinks. Fuckin’ great.
Figures.
“There he is,” Enjin—Zanka’s 99% sure it’s Enjin—says, jostling Zanka so he’s a little bit more upright. “Think you can walk?”
God, no, Zanka tries to say. Instead, he winds up coughing out another round of bile.
“I’m gonna take that as a no. C’mon, lean on me. I gotcha.”
”’Ssistaff,” Zanka slurs, vaguely aware of being carefully hauled to his feet. Both the hand slung over Enjin’s shoulders and the hand hanging at his side are empty, and the realization that he doesn’t have her anymore sends a bolt of panic through his chest. Actually, he shouldn’t think about his chest—that just makes the wound he got hurt more. Fuck, everything hurts. Where’s Assistaff? How did Enjin find him? How long’s Zanka been out? He’s in so much trouble. Enjin’s gonna hate him. Stupid, stupid, stupid Zanka, you stupid fuckin’ idiot—
“I got her right here, breathe easy.” A familiarly wrapped grip is gently eased into Zanka’s dangling hand, and he grips it as tight as he can. One good thing. “We’re gonna get you outta here, okay?”
Zanka hopes the noise he makes sounds like an affirmative. If he tries to nod, he thinks he’ll wind up puking again.
I lost.
It comes out garbled when he says it, less words and more drawn-out syllables. But the truth hits him hard. Not crashing-into-a-brick-wall hard, more knife-slowly-pressed-into-your-gut hard. Poison-bleeding-into-your-veins hard. Thinking-you-finally-did-something-right-only-to-find-out-it-was-all-in-your-head-and-you-shouldn’t-have-expected-anything-different hard.
I lost.
Zanka replays the memory of Jabber’s face—his actual face, from before he’d turned to leave. Like he was looking at the world’s biggest letdown, still holding on to a lame fucking stick he wasn’t even supposed to pick up, but still can’t put down. Acting like he’s something special if he just tries hard enough.
Still got your delusions of grandeur, huh, Zanka? Fuckin’ idiot. One guy tells you he sees somethin’ special in ya, you just got to prove him right. And look where that landed your sorry ass. You never fuckin’ learn. You never fuckin’—
“By the way,” Enjin says, “This is a one-time thing. Next time we see you guys dicking around with one of our own, you won’t be walking away so easy.”
“Whatever you say.”
The voice isn’t Jabber’s, which is the first thing that throws Zanka off. None of that—none of that had been real. He started hallucinating the moment Jabber nicked him. So why—
“The boss isn’t looking to pick a fight right now,” the voice continues—low, gravelly, absent of Jabber’s accent or wild-lilting cadence. “It’s just this moron who can’t control himself.”
Enjin laughs. “Yeah, and look where that landed him. Guess that goes to show—you don’t mess with our Zanka.”
Zanka blinks slowly. He can’t turn his head, but he can move his eyes a little—far off to the side, away from where Enjin’s directing him. The concrete, smeared with his blood. A Raider uniform, but not Jabber’s—the manhole lady, the short one with the bowlcut. The oil-slick of her active Vital Instrument shines behind her as she works to hoist Jabber onto her back.
He’d run the blade so deep it came out his back. Zanka can see the exit wound.
No fucking way.
Zanka cranes his head as Enjin leads him away, as much as he’s able, watching the manhole lady drag Jabber into the portal. His body hangs limp, and the stomach area of his uniform is saturated with blood. His head lolls with every move she makes. It isn’t until Zanka actually tries to strain his ears, just before the portal closes behind them, that he can hear the thinnest, tiniest strain of soft, ecstatic laughter.
Zanka doesn’t say anything the entire ride back. He lets himself be checked into the infirmary without complaint, and it isn’t until he’s sure he’s alone that he rolls into his pillow and laughs until his stitches pop, until his ribs scream, until he feels like he’s going to die.
About time, he thinks. I love you, he sobs.