Archive of Our Own ^beta

Jabber Wonger was a scientist.

Something like that, at least.

You see, his main problem with that was that most of the scientists he'd run into were way too interested in wasting a bunch of time doing boring shit. They believed in stuff like "ethics" and "not using yourself as a test subject for unknown toxins".

Y'know. Useless stuff.

And Jabber stood by that. Even when the consequences would come rolling in. Even when he'd be delirious for days. Even when his head felt like it was about to explode. It was more fun that way, after all.

Whenever it came to new toxins, that number one spot in line was reserved for him, and it always would be.

And of course, this time was no exception.

His brain felt like it was floating. The world was made of stuffing right now, and his head was stuck a thousand feet underwater. Laughter was drawn from his lips like a leaking faucet, sputtering and inconsistent, but never truly stopping.

Hell yeah.

This was going to be great. It would be the perfect gift.

As much as he was enjoying the gentle pain of prickling needles all across his skin, this toxin wasn't for him.

No, no, no, this was for a special someone.

A special someone that was going to beat his ass good tomorrow. (Hopefully.)

It was going to be great. This toxin was the first sign of that. It reminded him of their fight back in Zodyl's trash beast. He'd just been about to resign himself to disappointment, then— boom, maniacal laughter. That was the good shit.

Looking back on it, he couldn't believe he'd been about to consider regretting fighting Zanka. Not now.

A lot had changed since then. A lot a lot.

It'd started simple. He'd happened to spot the Cleaner out on his own, and hadn't hesitated to start a fight.

To his delight, Zanka hadn't hesitated to fight back.

He'd gotten stronger. That was the part that excited Jabber.

I mean, it sounded natural on paper. If people keep surviving, they get stronger, simple logic. But it wasn't. Not really.

A lotta people tend to just plateau after they get their asses handed to them. Not Zanka. He'd get up, and get up, and get up, and get up— it brought a grin to Jabber's face just thinking about it.

After a few more instances of jumping each other in alleyways, (yes, each other, because one time Zanka had been the one to hunt him down), they'd gotten a bit more talkative. And once they began to talk, it was easy to see how their goals fit together.

Zanka wanted to get stronger so that he could kick Jabber's ass.

And Jabber wanted that so fucking bad.

So, they started arranging their little meetings. After exchanging blood, of course.

The look of sheer horror on Zanka's face when Jabber had licked his choker with his bleeding tongue had the Raider cackling for days.

Since then, it'd been fight after glorious fight.

Some days they switched up. Chose a different, equally competitive activity to engage in instead. They'd even started placing bets on those.

Jabber would be lying if he said there weren't days where Zanka was lingering at least somewhere in his mind from sun up to sun down.

It was intoxicating. Slipping closer, and closer, and closer, addicting in a way nothing else had ever managed to be.

And then Zanka had kissed him.

Kissed him, and sunk his teeth into his lip.

Pulled back, and hadn't even bothered to wipe the blood from his mouth, as if he'd never given Jabber that disgusted look back when he'd cut open his own tongue.

Jabber hadn't needed to consider it for even a moment before he returned the favor.

It felt like the most natural evolution of their relationship.

It wasn't anything sweet. Nothing romantic.

There was no caress between them that wasn't destined to bruise or draw blood.

If you weren't looking close enough, it was almost indistinguishable from their fights.

Nothing but unmasked passion and mutual pleasure.

Jabber ran his hands over Mankira, tracing the rings' grooves one by one.

That's all it was—

Jabber's smile stretched even wider.

—and it was everything he could ever ask for in life.

Finished with his tracing, his hands found his way to his chest, tapping along his sternum in the rhythm of "Zanka", that name that came so easily now from his lips.

Zan-ka

Zan-ka

Zan-ka

Right in time with his heartbeat.

If he kept going on forever, he wondered which one would stop first.

His heart? Or the thrumming of that name?

It was at that thought that he finally stilled.

Jabber pushed himself into a sitting position, rising from where he laid on the patchy couch. The toxin was wearing off. It was nothing too crazy for him, but unfortunately that was to be expected, given his high tolerance.

He pulled the vial containing the toxin's remainder out of his pocket.

It was kind of a shame that it wasn't one of his own creations.

This particular substance had been the gift of his last mission, found among a target's possessions. Always a fun find.

Maybe he could try mixing it with something else, give it his own personal touch. That's what Zanka deserved; just injecting him with this felt like cheating.

But the memory of Zanka laughing in the trash beast held strong. Jabber wanted to see that again.

More so, he wanted to see Zanka laughing like that without—

Without—

The memory played in his mind once more.

Those tears. Why did they bother him all of a sudden?

They hadn't used to. Hell, at the time he'd just gone right ahead to drag Zanka away to the trash beast's core.

It'd be a boring reaction, to see it again. Hard to have fun that way, after all.

There it was. That had to be it.

It'd be different this time. He was sure of it.

One of those feelings, y'know?

He tucked the vial away again, humming to himself. He could hardly wait.

Zanka would find some new way to surprise him tomorrow.

Jabber knew it.

* * *

The location wasn't his first choice. Jabber always preferred the more remote areas, where they could fight for hours and hours without interruption. Where his attention could be solely focused on the Cleaner and vice versa.

That wasn't to say urban area couldn't be fun too. They provided the added challenge of avoiding the sight of bystanders, and provided a change in terrain. Besides, it allowed him to meet up with Zanka on his errand days for the Cleaners.

He struggled to keep himself still, sitting against the wall of the alleyway. He'd already loaded the toxin into Mankira. Now all that was left was to play the waiting game.

Sometimes he'd hide— wait to get the jump on Zanka and delight in how quickly the other snapped into battle. He wasn't feeling that today.

Instead, he was just sitting there, as patiently as he could manage. Waiting.

Because he knew someone was coming.

Someone whose soul seemed to mix so perfectly with his.

"Finally found ya." The shadow of an already activated Lovely Assistaff fell over his face. "Would it kill ya to be more specific?"

"What's the point?" Jabber grinned as the satisfyingly familiar weight of Mankira's claws settled over his fingers. "Not like you'd stop looking till ya found me. So reliably considerate, Zan-zan."

"Thought I told ya to stop callin' me that."

"Don't see anyone stoppin' me, do I?"

There wasn't a single word more that was needed from that second.

That first lunge, each of them with their vital instruments raised for the first strike— it always seemed to play in slow motion.

It was a promise, a vow, however you wanted to say it.

A simultaneous "I do" from both parties, willingly subjecting themselves to and participating in some beautiful, beautiful violence.

Blow after blow, cries of metal against metal, and the even more magnificent feeling of blunt pain blooming across his skin, it all left his mind flying high without the need for any toxins whatsoever.

Not for him, at least.

"Got something real special for ya today." Jabber could barely spit his words out between giggles, fully immersed in the battle's rapid dance. "Had me feelin' good last night, so you gotta return the favor before then, okay?"

"I don't owe ya shit!" Zanka glared, landing a delightful kick to Jabber's side that sent him flying towards the opposite wall. "I'm doing this all for me, not you."

"Oh, I know!" Jabber practically sang the words, voice dripping with carnal desire, hopping right back up to his feet as pain blazed down his side. "'Cause you're just like me, Zan-zan!"

His body felt as light as air, Mankira outstretched as he pounced right back at his dear opponent.

"Like hell I am!"

And of course, there was his ever-faithful suitor, staff already raised to block his advances.

As it turned out, Jabber's hunches were absolutely right. The fight left him unwrapping surprise after carefully wrapped surprise.

Zanka's moves were sharper than ever, harder to predict, yet always holding the boldness that defined them. He continued to focus on Jabber's injured side, deepening the pain with every hit.

How sweet of him. Jabber hadn't even needed to ask.

Dear, dear, Zanka, always returning with more to give than he'd ever previously given, his glare never half-hearted in the slightest, whether it be hate or satisfaction behind those eyes.

For a moment, Jabber forgot his curiosity about the toxin. It could wait thousands of years, for all he cared.

He wanted this to last forever and ever. Till death did them part.

And one day, maybe it would.

But not today.

The blood that splashed onto the wall of the alleyway provided the plain evidence of that.

Looking at the vibrant red spilling from the cut on Zanka's cheek felt like watching a curtain fall. Show's over.

But the after party was just about to start.

"Damn it." Zanka hissed the words through his teeth, knees already beginning to fail him.

"Another win for me then." Jabber followed him to the ground, folding his legs before he hit the concrete. "In more ways than one, you got me good! Think my left side's gonna be black and blue from head to toe tomorrow."

He stroked his own newly awarded cut, a present from Lovely Assistaff's spikes, stretching from his left shoulder down to the middle of his torso. It wasn't too deep— not to the point of putting him at risk of bleeding out anytime soon— but man did it sting.

Zanka didn't respond, didn't reprimand him like usual, instead fully collapsing to the floor, face pressed into to the ground.

That's right. The toxin was starting to take effect.

It wasn't a paralytic or a sedative, so it wasn't like Zanka would be immobilized. He probably got too dizzy.

He'd be up any second now.

Jabber watched the Cleaner in giddy anticipation, rapping the now de-activated rings of Mankira against his knees.

He was ready to hear that laughter again. He was ready for whatever crazy shit Zanka was about to throw at him.

He stilled completely as Zanka's body twitched, a shaky hand moving to prop his body up.

Jabber Wonger was something of a scientist.

A scientist that skipped over all the boring parts—

Zanka raised himself up to a sitting position, head still hanging low.

—sometimes more than he should.

Jabber leaned in close, eager.

Zanka tilted his head up slowly, now-disheveled hair shifting to reveal eyes that held a conscious that wasn't quite there.

The Cleaner's eyes seemed to focus on Jabber, some sort of recognition gradually glowing within them.

The width of Jabber's grin was beginning to hurt his face.

All of sudden, Zanka's head fell again, followed by a small shake in his shoulders.

Ah. There it was.

The sound of laughter. Right on the money. Jabber jolted himself forwards, trying to catch a glimpse of the other's expression.

He wasn't expecting the hands that gripped his shoulders.

Oh. This was going to be fun.

But there was one problem.

Boring as they were, the rules of science were there for a reason.

For example: any experiment should be run in multiple trials before concluding any definitive results.

Zanka looked up at him, a giant, dopey grin on his face.

"Yer real cute, y'know?"

What.

Jabber's smile dropped, switched out in favor of a shocked look.

Zanka broke into a fit of lazy giggles, slowly leaning forward until his head hit the center of the Raider's chest with a solid thunk, the hands he had on Jabber's shoulders beginning to loosen as they fell further down the other's arms.

Huh.

This wasn't— this wasn't what he thought—

It seemed that the younger had completely rag dolled against the older, head drowsily continuing to slide down Jabber's body. The Raider didn't even stop to take pleasure in the stinging sensation that ran along his cut as Zanka made contact with it, too distracted with the situation at hand.

Zanka's lower body slid out awkwardly as his head fully dropped, landing right in the middle of Jabber's lap, hands clinging gently to his waist.

Jabber promptly shoved him off, completely ignoring Zanka's groan of pain as his head banged against the concrete.

What the fuck? What the fuck?

This wasn't how this was supposed to go. This was supposed to be fun, Zanka was supposed to be having fun, and Jabber was supposed to be having fun watching Zanka have fun.

Jabber didn't feel like he was having fun right now.

No, instead the ghost of Zanka's touch was burning in a way that it had never done so before, so far removed from the pleasant pain Jabber was used to. What was going on? He'd tested the poison, and he hadn't reacted anything like that.

Maybe it was just a fluke. Maybe Jabber kinda-perhaps-just-a-little-bit overreacted a teensy bit too quickly.

He got up onto his heels, half-crawling over to Zanka's new position on the floor. The Cleaner was already pushing himself up again, his grumbling making his discontent clear.

Jabber waited patiently, not saying a word, as Zanka lifted his head once more.

He blinked leisurely, then—

There it was again. That stupid fucking goofy smile.

"There ya are. Where'd ya go?" His speech was slurred, syllables melting between words.

He reached out his hand again, sluggishly moving his arm to bridge the distance between them—

"You feeling a bit silly up there?" Jabber pushed Zanka's hand off course, using his other hand to tap at his head. "Think you'd be real embarrassed if you could see yourself right now, Zan-zan."

Zanka didn't seem to register any of what Jabber had said, if his expression was anything to go off of.

No, instead the fucker wrapped his hand around the one Jabber had used to push it away, like a vine clinging to a wall, slotting their fingers together.

"'M feelin'…feelin' like…" Zanka's train of thought was interrupted by a few stray chuckles, leaving his words scattered even more than they already were. "…I think my head's a…a pillow. Yeah. Mhm. 'S good."

Oh, he was gone.

Jabber stared at their interlocked fingers, not moving quite yet, even as his whole hand began to itch.

"She's nice 'n cool." He was broken out of his thoughts by Zanka's muttering, watching as the Cleaner ran his fingertips over Mankira, tracing the rings' grooves just as Jabber had done the previous night. "Always so shiny. Ya take real…real good care of her, right?"

Jabber stood up abruptly, ripping their hands apart.

"I think you're high outta your little mind right now."

It seemed Jabber had made a severe and continuous lapse in his judgment.

Of course, he'd known Zanka's tolerance wasn't anywhere close to touching his, but he hadn't expected the difference to be this drastic. After all, the Cleaner's exposure to various toxins over the course of their fights had certainly changed things. Apparently, it hadn't given him the range to cover this particular substance.

Jabber found himself pacing in circles before he knew it.

What was it? A stimulant, or depressant? Maybe a hallucinogen? Probably had something to do with serotonin. How long was it going to last?

What was up with that reaction? Cooing at Jabber, acting like he was some old grandpa fussing over a small animal. Or like he was some lovey-dovey idiot, all smiles and flattering nonsense.

And why did it make Jabber feel so—

"Tha's where ya went."

Jabber's head snapped up at the sound of Zanka's voice.

Great. He could stand too.

This time, thankfully, the object of Zanka's affection was not the Raider, but instead his vital instrument, still laying on the ground where it'd been left when he'd been poisoned. Zanka bent down to grab it—

—and fell flat on his face.

Well shit.

Jabber's gut reaction was to flee. To go somewhere far away, where he wouldn't have to worry about these soft touches and stupid compliments. Ignore whatever was going on in his brain and wait until he could tease Zanka about it another day.

But he couldn't really do that.

First of all, the stupid location they'd chosen. Sure, it was in a fairly uninhabited area of this town, but as long as people were around, nowhere was truly safe on the Ground. Besides, as clumsy as he was right now, Zanka could evidently still move, and might wander into a more populated area.

Jabber could knock him out.

…

Yeah. He might as well tie Zanka up and put a neon "Please kidnap me" sign over his head.

What else? He could contact the younger's Cleaner buddies. Except that conversation would probably go something like: "Hey, I totally just poisoned one of your dear members, and now he's absolutely wasted. Don't worry, he was perfectly okay with it, and you should definitely still let him go out whenever he wants and not ask questions!"

No way they'd ever let Zanka spar with him again. Not that they were necessarily "letting" him do it now.

He couldn't just leave him here, though.

Couldn't risk losing him.

Not when he'd finally found someone that complimented him so well in spirit and desire. Not when Zanka still had so much room to grow, so much to achieve. Not when Jabber couldn't keep him out of his thoughts, couldn't stop lingering on every moment, every—

Nope. Not going off the deep end that easily.

Jabber sighed.

He knew what he had to do. As much as he didn't want to do it.

Why was he thinking like this anyways?

This was nothing. Just some silly words and mindless, drug-addled movements. It was even a bit funny. Yeah. It was funny. He'd be able to hold this over Zanka's head forever.

What had Jabber so conflicted? He knew what their relationship was. He knew that these light touches weren't real. And even if they were, why would that cause him any grief? They wouldn't mean anything to him.

He approached Zanka, wrapping an arm around his chest to pry him off the floor, reaching to grasp Lovely Assistaff with his free hand.

"C'mon now. At this rate you're gonna beat yourself up more than you beat me up." He hauled the Cleaner all the way up, pulling Zanka over to lean his weight against him. "I brought ya this so you could have some fun, and Jabber ain't gonna just go back on his word. Let's go somewhere a bit more outta the way, 'kay?"

Zanka only flopped further into Jabber's side, predictably still off in la-la land.

He was just tripping. It was a bit weird, but what trip wasn't?

It was fine.

Jabber had this.

When didn't he?

* * *

He'd managed to find some supposedly— at least until further notice— abandoned apartment for the two of them to hole up in while the toxin ran its course. Zanka had seemed to have attempted everything in his power to make the journey more difficult, rambling on some mushy tangent Jabber tried not to listen to, leaning this way and that, randomly deciding he was actually done walking right this second— it had certainly been a time.

But of course, Jabber had laughed through it. It'd be a waste not to.

He all but dropped Zanka on the floor, (hey, it wasn't concrete this time), stretching his arms high above his head.

There was that.

He should probably take care of that cut. Sure, infection brought its own joys, but it could also be hella annoying, and take up a whole lot of time that Jabber didn't have the patience for.

He wandered around until he found the bathroom, testing the sink. Bingo. Must've forgot to cut off the water to the building. That, or the system was too janky to do that.

Jabber peeled off his top layers, reaching for the small roll of bandages and tube of disinfectant he kept in his pocket for just such an occasion. Always nice to have something on the road. Especially when he couldn't resist getting caught up in a good fight.

It didn't take long for him to clean himself up and wrap the wound, though he was momentarily distracted by his urge (which he acted upon, naturally) to press into the sore muscle and skin he'd been awarded with. He didn't really have enough bandages to wrap the wound securely, given the length of the cut and the issue of accounting for his shoulder's mobility, but it'd do for now.

Now, for his next problem.

Trip sitting.

Exiting the bathroom while he was buttoning up his vest, he scanned the room for his sparring partner.

He almost missed him.

In contrast to his previous sprawled out positions, the ball Zanka had curled himself into against a wall was weird enough for Jabber to approach to investigate. His face was hidden in his knees, arms curled over them, Lovely Assistaff clutched tightly in one hand.

"What's going on, Zan-zan?" Jabber crouched in front of him, tilting his head curiously. "You got some injury you ain't telling me a—"

The hand that snapped out to grip the collar of his hood was far quicker, far firmer, than any of the Cleaner's other movements since the toxin had taken effect. For a second, Jabber thought the toxin might've already worn off.

"…Ya didn't leave."

'Course it hadn't. It was way too early.

And even if it'd been hours, that voice was far too soft to belong to a sober Zanka.

Jabber took in the other's hunched posture, replayed that uncharacteristically small voice in his head over and over, took note of the the hand clenched tightly in his hood.

Zanka had been all smiles since this had all started.

He didn't sound like he was smiling now.

Refusing a moment to think, it was Jabber's turn to snap his hands forward, wrenching Zanka's head out of its hiding spot. Before they could even make eye contact, Jabber gripped the sides of the other's face, thumbing wildly over the space under Zanka's eyes.

Nothing. The skin was dry.

Zanka still hadn't cried.

A breath left Jabber's lungs. He'd told himself last night that it wouldn't happen. Zanka wouldn't cry this time; it would be different. It didn't matter how much had already changed between this incident and their time inside the trash beast. This was the only difference that mattered.

The Cleaner just stared back at him, seemingly confused.

Jabber sighed, long and drawn out. What the hell had gotten into him? Had he injected himself with something and forgotten somehow?

He was all worked up, and over what? Over making sure Zanka wasn't crying? The only reason he wanted to avoid that was because it would bore him. That was the conclusion he'd reached last night. So why now, when so many other entertaining developments had arisen, was he still so stuck on the idea of—

"Yer making a dumb face right now."

Jabber barely had time to process the words before two hands pinched the skin of his cheeks, pulling at it and stretching it out as wide as it would allow, raising the edges to form a grin.

Just like that, Zanka's smile was back. He started giggling again, seeming to be amused by his handiwork.

Apparently not satisfied with just that, Zanka continued to grab at the skin of his face, pulling and kneading it like dough.

Really?

This was what had Jabber so mentally conflicted?

He let Zanka entertain himself for a minute or so more, mostly out of curiosity over the question of how long the Cleaner would keep going. When the answer to that turned out to be "indefinitely", Jabber swatted his hands away, like he was fending off bugs.

"Alright, that's enough of that. You're gonna pull my face off." Jabber rubbed at his harassed cheeks. "Which I wouldn't be opposed to, really, but not when you're looking at me like that. You're one to talk about 'dumb faces'."

Zanka looked at him, contemplative.

Not a thought behind those eyes right now, was there?

Jabber leaned his back against the wall next to the Cleaner, trying not to think about the uncomfortable feeling of his shoddy patch job; the bandage already felt like it was straining to hold itself together.

"Ya look like…like a cat. A lil' bit." Zanka was squinting at him, seeming to be deep in thought over this very pressing issue.

"You're just jumping all over the place today, aren't you?" Jabber laughed, deciding to play along. "Aight, how so?"

There we go. Some nice, classic, conventional, stoned rambling.

He knew how to handle that. He could do this.

The younger continued to stare, barely blinking. Just as Jabber was beginning to think he wasn't going to respond, he spoke up again.

"'S yer eyes." He nodded, a confirmation to himself. "They're…they make ya look…"

Zanka trailed off, apparently at a loss for words.

"Really?" Jabber leaned closer, opening his eyes as wide as possible, in a way he was sure was downright disturbing.

"They're pretty."

Aaaaaaaaaand never mind.

Something shifted in Jabber's chest, something new, or maybe it wasn't all that new, although certainly still recent—

Nope. Hell no. Enough of that.

"Alright. Okay." Jabber shifted back, planting his hands on his knees, brows furrowing. "You think you're slick don't you? Is this funny to you?"

Zanka blinked in response.

"Jokes on you though, Zan-ka." He pointed a playful, accusatory finger at the Cleaner. "I ain't anything like what your thinking. I'm not gonna fold to make your sappy ass feel better, high or not. Better hope this is all 'cause of the toxin, 'cause if not that'd be totally boring. And I'm not wasting my time on boring people. I'll leave ya and never look back."

Zanka stared at him, a small frown on his face.

Then he sniffled.

Shit.

"Hey," Jabber waved his hands in front of Zanka's face in a poor attempt at providing consolation, "hey, hey, hey, hey, I didn't mean that. I was just joking. Sorry. You beat me up so great today, ain't no way I'm leaving you like this! You're just a bit stoney baloney right now. I do weird shit all the time when I'm testing toxins. 'S not your fault. You're good, you're good."

Damn it. This motherfucker had him out here apologizing.

Whatever. He was ignoring it right now.

What was important was making sure—

"Zan-zan?"

Zanka's head leaned into Jabber's outstretched hands, planting his forehead into the other's palms.

"Yer hands are warm."

Slowly, Jabber pushed Zanka's forehead up to get a view of his face.

Still no tears.

He returned the Cleaner to his position against the wall, using one hand to guide his shoulders, keeping the other against his forehead.

Alright.

He needed to figure this out.

Zanka was wasted right now because of his toxin. A toxin that would wear off.

Jabber was completely sober. That wouldn't wear off. (Not permanently at least.)

Why was this getting to him? Why did he care so much?

It wasn't like he'd never been affectionate with Zanka.

There'd been plenty of times where he'd leaned on Zanka, thrown his arms around the Cleaner, shouted a number of flirtations his way— everything that the younger was doing right now.

But all those times before, they'd all been jokes. They'd all been carried out with the expectation of being slapped away and scolded. It was entertainment. Teasing.

And every single time, Jabber was the one that initiated it.

The way Zanka was acting right now didn't feel like a joke. Even if he was under the influence of the toxin, every action, every sweet word that fell from his lips, felt disgustingly earnest.

Jabber hated it.

It was too foreign. It left him stranded in the middle of nowhere. Like he was lost in the middle of a No Man's Land, and the air wasn't so fun to breathe anymore.

He wasn't made for this.

He nearly flinched as a hand touched his cheek.

(But he didn't. Because he put everything into keeping it down— he was already acting like an idiot, he couldn't be jumping at every small bit of contact too.)

Unlike the other touches up until now, Zanka wasn't so gentle. Instead, he pressed his thumb into Jabber's cheek, pushing against his teeth.

"Watcha up to now?" Jabber grinned at the familiar discomfort, teeth closing down on the flesh that was pushed in between them.

But Zanka's thumb didn't continue to press down. It swiped to the side, lifting from the skin in one, swift motion.

Jabber glanced at the Cleaner's thumb, only to see it speckled with flaky, dried blood.

"Ya had something on yer face," was all the explanation Zanka had to offer, accompanied by a smile Jabber was beginning to know all too well.

This wasn't them.

They didn't wipe blood off of each other's faces.

They didn't call each other "pretty" and mean it.

They didn't let each other come that close without preparing a blow to retaliate.

Did they?

This was just the toxin. Nothing more.

Except—

There were times, before or after their fights, where Zanka's voice was softer. Where the bite in his insults was more familiar rather than hateful. Where he grinned, and maybe it wasn't just because of the fight, or because of the hit he'd, or because of the pleasure—

When had the two of them become so nauseatingly intertwined?

Jabber was fine with the fact that he'd lay wide awake at night, wild with excitement over meeting Zanka the next day. He was fine with declaring Zanka as the one who matched him in his passions so perfectly. He was fine with tapping Zanka's name on his chest to the rhythm of his own heartbeat.

Because that was easy. It was fast, it was intense, it was free.

It was unbreakable. Impenetrable. It left Jabber with all the power, left him untouchable.

You couldn't break something if it was already hurtling to the ground to shatter itself, grinning ear to ear.

This, this gentle invitation right in front of him, it was the complete opposite.

Fragile. Vulnerable. Soft around edges that would've previously cut deep into his skin. Hell, it might not even be real, given the circumstances.

It was asking him to be honest.

Not in a way that made his chest bloom with fire, shouting out all the enjoyably ugly parts of himself. No, this was asking him to put his neck to a blade, not fearing a slit throat, but that the holder of the blade would lift it and leave him kneeling at the execution block.

Fear. Why the hell did that word come to mind? Jabber wasn't afraid.

That would be saying that this mattered to him. That it was something too valuable to replace.

And it didn't, it was just—

Hands wrapped around his arm, tugging it closer.

He hated that there was no shock, not even a small, instinctual deliberation as to who the hands belonged to.

This time, Jabber did nothing. He let Zanka pull himself closer, tugging Jabber's arm across his body, a mirror to the scar that spanned across the Raider's chest. He let the younger boy lean his weight on him, shoulders touching with all the impact of a kiss on the forehead.

He waited.

But Zanka didn't say anything. Didn't provide any sort of explanation. Didn't start talking mindlessly. Didn't request anything of the older other than to just be there.

He didn't say anything, as if there was no justification needed for him to hold Jabber's arm so reverently.

Jabber would prove it.

He'd prove it right here. Prove that this was all nothing. That he wasn't going to fall for that life— that he couldn't, that he was incapable of doing so.

That would be it. That would be the end.

But even he couldn't deny the feeling of something racing all up and down his arm, reaching across his shoulder and burrowing itself in his chest.

He didn't have a word for it. It wasn't quite agitation, nor was it excitement, annoyance, anger, joy, sorrow or anticipation.

It was just something, an enigma living outside of the walls Jabber had constructed for himself.

He let it fester, writhe beneath his skin, permeate and imbue itself through his bones.

Gave up his arm to Zanka, too desperate for an answer to do anything else.

And then, a thought came to him.

Completely unbidden, manifesting out of nothingness.

No build up. No warning.

Just existing, all at once.

I want this.

And suddenly, Jabber was terrified.

He knew what he wanted. He knew what he was. He'd figured it all out. That was supposed to be it.

This was too new. Too sudden. Too different, too changed, too—

But it had already happened. The thought had happened, undeniably.

He couldn't take it back. Because by simply existing, by its ability to be able to be formed in his mind at all, it had shifted everything.

Jabber's arm tensed, going completely rigid, like he was corpse already stilled, already on his way to rotting, it was happening, he was crashing and burning, he'd hurtled right into the ground and shattered, except he hadn't done it himself, and his grin was gone—

"You gotta relax." Clumsy fingers stroked the length of his arm, fingertips stumbling and sluggish, but still persisting in spite of it all. "'S all good. Yer good. 'S not…not yer fault. Right?"

The repetition of those words, those stupid, panicked, half-assed words Jabber had dug up to comfort Zanka, said with such warmth and tenderness, held so dear, repeated to soothe him because they must've done so for Zanka—

It hit him like a truck.

For a moment, everything stopped.

And then a second thought occurred.

I think I want to try.

And wasn't that the worst part of all this?

He turned his head over to look at Zanka. The idiot was still beaming, not a care in the world. The expression, the demeanor, it was all so far removed from the Zanka that he knew.

Could there be a day that he'd ever see him make this face naturally?

Where the tension in his brows would disappear without force?

Where he would look so free, so light?

Fuck. Fuck.

"…You've got no idea what you do to me." Jabber chuckled, dry and humorless. "Or maybe you do. You sadist."

Because the trouble with "wanting to try" was that it was doomed. Fragile hopes like that were like baby birds, too weak, too exposed, unable to hold up their own heads.

Fated to become nothing more than a smear on the pavement.

"That really is what you are, aren't you?" Jabber hung his head, the curtain of locs that fell to cover his face not shielding him in the slightest.

Damned sadist. Making him go through all this when he didn't even know how much of this affection was real. When in a few hours, Zanka would be back to himself, and none of this would matter.

Leaving Jabber utterly shattered on the ground, for no reason at all.

Taking everything but the memory of some stupid, meaningless touches and words.

Zanka moved his arm, hands ceasing their comforting motions to wrap around Jabber's hand, drawing it somewhere else.

The Raider didn't care anymore.

The other could do whatever he wanted with his hand.

Hold it, burn it, cut it off— was there any difference?

He didn't even look over.

That was, until he felt lips being pressed to his fingers, right over Mankira.

It wasn't a kiss. Only a simple moment of contact, just long enough for Jabber to feel the warmth from Zanka's lips sink into his fingers, feel the exhale of a breath pass over his knuckles.

The Cleaner pulled back with a small laugh.

"Y'know…I've never felt like this before. 'Bout anyone." He ran his thumb over the older boy's knuckles, rising and falling with each bone. "Isn' that funny? All…all this time, and I've never been in lo—"

Jabber slapped his free hand over Zanka's mouth before he could even think about it.

Maybe never.

Maybe one day.

But he couldn't hear it now, true or not. Not like this.

Zanka stared at him for a moment. Stared like he was figuring something out, like that currently fried brain of his could come up with any antidote for the internal wreck Jabber had become. As if he could even see that thinly veiled wreck right now.

He slowly brought his hands up to pry away the one the Raider had clamped to his mouth. Jabber's hand twitched, afraid that he'd need to snap it right back into place, that Zanka would dare to finish that cursed sentence.

As it turned out, there was no need.

"…Ya didn't need ta do that." Zanka was laughing again, as if he hadn't just been on the verge of uttering something so dangerous. "All you…ya just had ta ask."

Before the other could ask any questions, the Cleaner was pressing Jabber's palm to his lips, just as he'd done for the Raider's fingers, gentle and guided.

He knew he'd never be able to forget that feeling now.

Every word had been robbed from his chest. It seemed the thief was coming for his breath next.

"'M tired." Zanka yawned loudly, sliding into a laying position on the floor, dragging the hand he held captive with him.

Jabber followed him to the floor without protest.

If Zanka was actually going to sleep now, there was a high chance the influence of the toxin would be gone when he woke up.

Good. Maybe Jabber would be able to get a hold of himself by then. Shove all these pieces out of sight if they couldn't be put together.

Hands were reaching for him, grasping at his shoulders and the middle of his back.

This time, he did flinch.

But this time, he also allowed himself to be pulled close.

"…I meant it, jus' so ya know." Zanka's words had become even more incoherent, cloaked in the haze of drowsiness already. "Yer really cute. 'N pretty."

He reached one hand behind Jabber's head, pushing it into his chest, painfully tender. Sheltering him, almost. Holding him, as if he was something worth holding.

Jabber laid there, listening to Zanka's heartbeat as it slowed, feeling the imprint of that giant, dopey grin against the top of his forehead as the latter drifted off to sleep.

He stayed that way for an untold amount of time, hands remaining uselessly still at his sides.

Jabber wasn't made for this.

He wasn't made to want this.

It wasn't what he was.

But somehow, some way, some small part of him did, and he might lose his mind over it.

After a while, (minutes, hours, who knew), he sat up, leaning against the wall again, letting Zanka's arms coil around his waist, ignoring how the younger adjusted to the new position unconsciously.

It was so much easier to think when the Cleaner was finally still.

Would Zanka even remember any of this when he woke up? Jabber couldn't decide what option would be worse.

He'd gotten too far ahead of himself. Too easily he'd put the fact that none of would really matter behind him. He hadn't let it stop him when he should've.

He was an idiot.

Oh well. It was over now.

Time's up.

Enough with all these fantasies of gentleness, the only person they were real for was himself. And what was there to do with that?

Jabber sighed, loudly, and it sounded a bit more like himself.

His chest felt heavy. Like a giant weight had settled in it, unmoving, gradually becoming more and more unbearable.

He glanced down at Zanka's sleeping face, now pressed into his outer thigh.

Maybe.

Maybe he could have one thing before it was all gone.

One attempt.

Slowly, watching the Cleaner carefully for any signs of wakening, he raised Zanka's head to lay in his lap. Just as the younger had done himself when he'd first fallen under the toxin's influence.

He raised a hand, and threaded it through Zanka's hair.

Well. More like shoved.

He pulled his hand through the Cleaner's hair, towards the ends.

His fingers caught on knots. The strands snared the base of his knuckles. Zanka made a small noise, causing Jabber to freeze entirely until the former settled again.

Jabber's brows furrowed in frustration.

"Why's this gotta be so damn difficult," he muttered to himself, freeing his hand.

Then he tried again. He didn't dig his fingers so deeply into Zanka's hair this time, resulting in a few of them catching nothing but air before he even got halfway through the process.

He let out a muted groan.

And then he tried again.

And again.

And again, and again, and again.

Until his hands moved smoothly through Zanka's hair. The movement was still awkward, too stiff, too procedural, lacking more than half of the gentleness the Cleaner had been able to shower in him while high.

But it was there.

It probably wasn't soothing. Or comforting. Or sweet. Or romantic.

But he'd done it— done something, he'd tried.

Even if it would be the only time he ever would.

"You won't ever know this," Jabber's voice was a whisper, lacking the energy to be anything more, "but you won this time. Got me real good. More than I've ever gotten you. More than I ever will. Can't tell you that though. Your ego would get too big."

He paused his strokes, curling his fingers into the other's hair.

That wasn't true in the slightest. If anything, Zanka's ego could stand to grow quite a bit.

It was alright. It didn't matter what he said now anyways. He was the only one around to hear it.

He looked down at the Cleaner's face, specifically at the cut Mankira had left on his cheek.

Jabber raised his free hand, and attempting a gentleness he knew he didn't possess, wiped away a streak of dried blood with his thumb.

It would wash off. It would fade.

If only this new yearning could do that too.

Maybe he could find a cure.

He was a scientist, after all.

* * *

Zanka hadn't remembered it. Or at least, he hadn't remembered anything substantial.

Of course, his first question had been why he'd woken up in Jabber's lap.

So of course, Jabber regaled him with tales about how the Cleaner had acted like a sloppy drunk, hanging off of everything close to him, talking to walls, passing out on his sparring partner— the usual. As expected, Zanka had been mortified.

And as expected, Jabber hadn't felt bad about lying to him.

After that, everything had gone back to normal.

Just as expected.

Jabber didn't schedule their next fight for a while, claiming official Raider business as an excuse as he tried to sort himself out.

Naturally, he wasn't exactly stoked about confronting all of that.

So he avoided it.

By thinking about Zanka instead. Obviously.

The two of them had been so similar in other areas, including desires. And while Jabber was sure his new interest wasn't requited, he began wondering about Zanka's relationship with gentle affection altogether.

He'd watched (read: stalked) Zanka while the Cleaner was out on missions before. He'd seen him interact with his team. He knew they were close, that much was obvious. But as he re-examined the scenes now, he noticed something else.

Zanka was never the one to initiate physical affection.

Reliably similar as always.

It wasn't exactly the same. For one, Zanka certainly seemed to be better at accepting affection than Jabber (well, that was the understatement of the year).

But he wasn't a master of it yet either.

Every time, even if it was just for a slight second, he seemed caught off guard. Surprised that gentleness would be given to him that easily. Every head pat, every arm thrown around a shoulder, all followed by a small, almost imperceptible freeze. And this was with the people he trusted the most. How bad was it with others, then?

Maybe— and just maybe— Jabber was delusional.

But first and foremost, he was a—

You get it by now.

And by that logic, once he'd formed his hypothesis, he was bound to test it. Not that he was planning the experiment out.

In fact, it had happened by accident.

Much like their first meeting after the trash beast incident, he'd happened to catch sight of Zanka on the streets of some random town or city, (he hadn't bothered to check), and the urge to approach him filled Jabber's senses like carbon monoxide poisoning.

He really had stayed away for too long, hadn't he?

Zanka seemed to be alone, at the moment, at least. Jabber had been tailing him for a while, only observing for the moment. The Cleaner seemed to be running errands, some kind of grocery list held out in front of him.

He wondered if Zanka had nearly forgotten him by now.

Nah. He hadn't.

As much as both of them, (yes, both, after "The Incident"), would hate to admit it, he knew his sparring partner way too well.

He was probably antsy now. Jabber's sudden avoidance was fairly out of character, after all.

That just meant he had to come up with something good to surprise him with. Couldn't just be a normal fight.

His "hypothesis" entered his mind.

From that second on, he was dead set on it.

He continued following Zanka, waiting until he turned onto a decently empty street.

(Ignoring how his heartbeat continued to accelerate.)

He stepped closer, searching for the perfect moment, waiting, waiting, waiting—

There.

Approaching from behind, he wrapped his arms around Zanka's middle, pulling him into the alleyway he was passing. It was slow, the leisurely pace disguising Jabber's efforts to keep his arms steady. He pressed his head into Zanka's back, pushing his forehead into the ridges of the younger's spine.

Zanka flinched, as expected of anyone hugged by a stranger on the street and dragged into an alley—

But then he felt the Cleaner's neck snap to get a clearer look at the hands laying on top of his waist.

Jabber almost laughed. Of course Zanka would recognize him by Mankira. She was always doing so much for him.

Even after the recognition set in, Zanka remained still, frozen by something else, something that Jabber didn't know—

A moment passed. Maybe a minute.

Then, the torso that Jabber was leaning against turned, dislodging his tucked away head, revealing it to an assumedly very baffled Cleaner.

"…Jabber?"

Unfortunately, turning around left his front side unguarded. The side the Raider had so thoughtfully stationed Mankira on.

Jabber painted a grin on his face as he sunk the tip of a claw into Zanka's side.

"You let your guard down, Zan-zan." He backed away as Zanka stumbled. "Gotta be careful about that."

"You bastard," the Cleaner practically growled, gripping his staff even as he quickly lost the strength to activate it. "That's how you come back?"

But Jabber wasn't listening by that point.

He'd already begun his escape, practically skipping out of sight.

"Hey, don't…don't just—"

And there goes his handy-dandy paralytic, right on time.

He was sure this would all end stupidly. Jabber had never been good at hiding his desires, after all. This— whatever they had— surely had been stamped with an expiration date, courtesy of the ticking time bomb that was Jabber himself.

And yet—

"That's how you come back?"

Implying there was "something" to come back to.

And to "come back"—

As if it was where he belonged.

Well. At least he was right about being delusional.

If it was all going down the drain anyway, then why stay away? Might as well enjoy it while it lasted.

It was just a passing fascination, after all. Once it was done, he'd be back to solely relying on his masochistic, impulse-driven ways. He'd probably be able to get Zanka on board again once he got all this out of his system.

He knew he wasn't made for that mushy stuff, really. It was just taking his mind a little bit to catch up to that.

He'd only been able to receive it through a lie, after all.

He'd learn soon enough.

Jabber hummed to himself from his spot on the rooftop, watching over Zanka's paralyzed form below. It'd only last a little while. But he'd stay here until then.

He ignored the small part of himself that protested.

The part of himself that was still sitting on the floor of that abandoned apartment, learning to run his fingers through Zanka's hair.

Jabber had this.

When didn't he?