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It's become a disgusting kind of normalcy for Zanka, visiting Jabber. First it was fights. Then Jabber would sit with him while he recovered from the poison. Then they exchanged blood with their chokers, and everything went downhill from there.
It's gotten to the point of them interacting without fighting. It's almost romantic, in a sickening way. They indulge in that romance without acknowledging it. Whatever happens, they don't talk about it. Zanka finds this to be slightly more comfortable, even if the whole ordeal makes his stomach churn when he thinks for too long.
Right now, he and Jabber are in the same bed. That idea would've been absolutely ridiculous a few months ago. But his habit of visiting Jabber has reached a point to where he knows all of the little hovels where the other man stays.
Jabber is wearing a tank top, and Zanka is wearing a t-shirt. Both of them have scars lining their arms, scars that have yet to be acknowledged until recently. Jabber was the first to admit their existence – he'd run his fingers over the bumps on Zanka’s arm, mentioning how nice it felt to do so.
Zanka is sat up against the wall, surprisingly comfortable laying on a shitty mattress next to Jabber Wonger. His eyes trail over the claw-like marks that curve around his arms. Some are indents in his flesh, some are bumps above the rest of the untouched skin. His scars are large and jagged, done with desperation and lacking neatness. It almost looked like he was mauled by an animal.
“... What are yers from?” Zanka mumbles, lifting a hand lazily to brush his fingers along the marks. Jabber doesn't jolt or pull away or even look up, not like Zanka would have. He's always oddly relaxed when he's not about to start something.
“Myself,” Jabber says bluntly. It doesn't surprise Zanka in the slightest, but he is almost impressed by how easily the admission comes out.
Jabber lifts a hand and lightly wraps a hand around Zanka's wrist. Mankira’s metal is smooth and warm against his skin.
“What about yours?” Jabber replies so effortlessly, as if discussing the weather. For a point of much shame in Zanka's life, Jabber doesn't show a single sign or turmoil. Zanka doesn't buy it.
“Same as you.”
“I figured.”
Zanka doesn't take any offense – with his scars, it's easy to tell. Small, neat lines, from his wrist to his elbow. They're all healed, reduced to white or red bumps along soft skin.
Zanka has been clean for a while. Enjin worried a lot when he found out Zanka was cutting, and no relapse got past that man. As much as he used to hate it, it helped Zanka tremendously.
Zanka still scratches. He still bites his cheek until it bleeds and leaves his palms scabbed up from digging his nails into skin. But he's clean. It doesn't count, that's what he says to himself.
“Why do ya do it?” Zanka asks hesitantly. He'd mulled over every potential question for a few minutes before even speaking, but the topic is still a bit unpredictable. Jabber is even more unpredictable as a person.
“Why do you think? It feels good,” Jabber snorts, though his tone grows sharper. Zanka catches it. Jabber is not as unaffected as he'd like to appear.
Zanka understands that. It does not make it better. There's a peculiar and frightening part of him that's screaming at him to offer help.
“That don't make it any better, ya know that righ-”
“When are you gonna stop expecting good from me?” Jabber retorts without letting Zanka finish. Zanka, in response, bristles slightly.
“Do ya even want ta stop?” Zanka huffs, sitting up. He understands that different motives come with different experiences, but it's not as if Jabber's masochism excuses self-harm.
For a moment, something furious and defensive flashes behind Jabber's eyes. Zanka expects harsh retaliation – if not a physical fight like usual, then yelling – but Jabber calms himself just enough.
“No. Don't act like you're above me just cuz you ain't cutting yourself up anymore,” Jabber's eyes narrow with his sharp tone.
That's wrong, Zanka can't help thinking. He doesn't want to quit. That's so wrong. His throat feels dry, which is weird, because he completely understands the feeling. He understands not wanting to get better. He remembers being fifteen and feeling accomplished at how deep his wounds were, he remembers wanting to get so much worse than he was, he remembers being jealous of people who he deemed “more sick.”
It was awful. To be jealous of people with bigger issues, to want to suffer in the name of being seen. That's where Jabber is, or at least he assumes so. The behavior is familiar, almost nostalgic in a way that makes his skin feel too tight.
Zanka pulls his wrist from Jabber's hand and slots his own fingers together, wringing his hands together lightly. He decides not to pry anymore since Jabber was getting all antsy.
“Why'd you do it?” Jabber's voice is slightly less sharp when he asks. It's almost like he had the social consciousness to me mindful of the topic.
Zanka pauses, and during that pause Jabber leans forwards to peer at Zanka's face from the side.
Zanka has no idea where to start. He couldn't start with Hyo and how he tried to let himself die in that well. He could talk about how he's never been enough. He could talk about those nights where he sat with a blade in his hand and contemplated over and over whether or not he had the guts to end all of it.
He says none of those things, because it would be too vulnerable and it would be a mouthful and he refuses to let himself think Jabber would care.
“I didn't like myself, end of story,” Zanka mutters, a bitter tone creeping into his voice. Jabber nods shortly, like he understands. That only makes Zanka more inclined to believe that Jabber is not that different from him.
“That's not the end.”
“It's all yer getting.”
Jabber doesn't argue with that. His irritation is still there, as if Zanka's concern had been deeply offensive, but he's docile for now. His hand reaches over to Zanka's arm, once again trailing his fingertips over the scarring.
It's almost intimate, at least to Zanka. Jabber sees this part of him, and even with their different reasons for it, he understands. He doesn't think the scars are weird or unsettling. His eyes don't linger too long. It's not like how everyone else looks at the ugly marks.
Zanka feels something nagging at him in the back of his head. He struggles to place it for a while, and when he figures out what he's itching to say he feels a mix of dread and frustration.
He wants Jabber to quit. He wants to help this freak get better. It's awful.
Zanka thinks over what he could say for a while. Everything felt insensitive or tactless or corny or just far too open and honest. He doesn't come up with anything good, just something that will work. The least awful way to voice this nagging thought.
“If I wanted to get ya to stop,” He starts with a reluctant tone, eyes darting to the messy floor of Jabber's ‘place,’ whatever one would call it. “Would you ever let me try ‘nd help?”
The words taste foul on his tongue. Help Jabber? Stupid idea. It was foolish and senseless and absolutely illogical, all things uncharacteristic of Zanka.
“No.”
The answer is cold and blunt and Zanka hates how his chest tightens in response. He almost allows himself to press the matter. He almost allows himself to be the idiot.
“... Okay,” Zanka replies, staring at his hands. Staring at Jabber's hand, still on his arm. It has stopped the up and down movement along the underside of Zanka's arm, stilling as the air grew more tense.
“I told ya,” Jabber growls, slowly pulling his hand away. “Stop expecting good from me. You ain't that stupid.”
Zanka can only nod in reply. He isn't that stupid. Even if Jabber had agreed, what was the point? That was his enemy. His enemy. Zanka tries not to wonder when they stopped being just that, just enemies.
There's a long stretch of silence. This time, Zanka is the one to fold and come back despite the tension. He feels exhaustion weighing his limbs and allows himself to rest his forehead against the back of Jabber's shoulder.
And Jabber allows it. The conversation is buried, though the memory of it keeps the tension from dissipating. They mumble a few other words to each other, a couple short exchanges of words. It was too casual.
When Zanka finally leaves, he keeps Lovely Assistaff on his back and lets his fingertips run along the scars on his arm. Jabber was right, the feeling is oddly soothing.