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The bass is already there.
It’s low. It’s wet. It crawls under Jabber's skin. And he rolls his shoulders with it, lets it settle under his skin. Grin all loose as it seeps into his bones, finding its place in the marrow, the circuitry, the shit that keeps him wired. In the shit he lives for.
Lights burn overhead.
Too white. They seep everything in bleach, white out. And in that, all that’s left is shine. The reflection on skin when sweat crawls all over. The wet slick of red on the floor.
Fuck, it’s-
It's delicious.
Jabber loses himself in the noise. Bodies move around, yet they're faceless, irrelevant in the rhythm. He’s not looking at them. At those nobodies. His eyes have already locked on the only thing in this whole place worth looking at.
There
Over there.
Oh fuck-
Zanka. Standing in place. Feet on the ground as he dances like nothing can touch him, like nothing owns him. It’s a real beautiful sight to see.
I gots to get high.
I need to get high
His boy doesn’t belong to the crowd, and his boy doesn’t belong to the noise.
Zanka belongs to himself, yes, and it's crazy, real crazy, because he can’t see that.
But Jabber can he can see it.
Because he’s enlighted.
Jabber’s in rhythm with the rhythm. He can hear colors. And can see sounds. And his face is bleeding off into a melted, messy puddle about his feet.
Yeah, he enlightened.
And it’s in that vein Jabber knows that the second Zanka realizes that he only belongs to himself is the second in the world burns to ash.
Reguardless. Cut the introspection, yo. Skip the romance and live in the here and now.
Here now-
Zanka's tips slightly forward and chest rising real slow. Mouth parted. There’s something dark in the corner of his lips, slick, wet, and it catches the light every time he breathes in. Out. In.
Jabber's smile pulls wider.
“Damn.”
Suddenly, the beat is shifting. Dropping. Moving to a lower level and Zanka moves with it. It's this weird mix of fighting and dance. Together. intertwined. Zanka has this energy that's mix of rhythmic and trained. A dancer that bites. Something trained that forgot how to behave. Moves like he's owed money, like he wants eyes on him. Unique, he is. Unique and fucking crazy-
Jabber can see it in the way his body carries it. In the turn of his shoulders, fuck those shoulders, and the twist through his waist. The clean lineferal of motion cutting through the air like he’s carving straight through it. Making room. Taking up space in the heat of the moment. Wrapped up in the feral nature their interactions spark inside him.
Jabber laughs under his breath. Bingo. He’s been caught.
“Who you performin' for, pretty boy?"
Zanka's mouth moves.
He doesn’t hear it.
He doesn’t care.
All that matters is the next turn. Another step, another moment where something flashes, long and sharp and passing through close to Jabber's body. Jabber barely registers it through the haze. Through the substance in his blood . The thing bubbling under his skin. The creature with purple eyes that spin into spirals.
Show me what you doin'-
Jabber scratches his own arms because the sensation will boil him alive otherwise.
Show me what you do to me-
Something in his head laughs, ha ha ha, and it has claws.
Claws like...like Mankira.
It’s comforting like her, too.
It confuses Jabber. Makes his blood feel like it’s on fire, bubbling like soup left too long on the boil. His brain makes a rattling noises and his skin vibrates. The color blue (the same color as danging earrings and piercing eyes) has this deep, rhythmic base noise. Thrum. Thrum, it goes. Thrumtee and circle cobalt and fill him up to the brim, baby, like a cool glass of water.
All Jabber sees is the follow through.
The finished motion. Zanka's body cycles through it. His breath hitches after.
A single drop of sweat runs down Zanka's temple in a neat line. Reflected by the neon. Down his jaw, it goes. Splits in two, one down the neck of his jacket and the other drips onto the floor. Jabber can see it in crystalline detail. It makes a noise that sounds like a bomb being detonated when it hits the ground.
Yeah.
Jabber breathes.
Yeah, that’s the shit.
He drifts closer, not even defensively. Drawn in by the movement, their dance, the sway of Zanka's hips to the rhythm.
This song is so good, man, it’s so good-
It has just the right beat, Jabber thinks. It’s just fast enough. It makes his brain feel happy in his skull. Bonus, too, when teenage boy part of his head watches the way Zanka's hips moves with it and foams at the mouth a little. Jabber tracks the hips with his eyes, it feels good to note the movemen.
He dances back, of course, of course, of course-
Two step.
One and two and-
Step, spin, swing, exist in the moment. Take the energy between them in both hands and get high of the fumes
Zanka suddenly comes at him quick. He moves closer and the beat is so loud. The lights in the club are so bright when they flash in hundreds of millions of different colors. Ones that aren’t perceivable to the human eye, maybe, but Jabber can see them because, again, he’s enlightened. he’s floating. He’s walking on air. He's more than human. He’s outside of his skin. His body is a shell containing him. Locking him up. Keeping him prisoner in the flesh.
Jabber ducks back just enough to let it pass because the game is too good to give up just now. They brush just enough. It feels like a kiss, like a make out against the wall. It’s real enough to drag a laugh out of this chest. Right from the epicenter. Jabber's head jerks with it when the noise comes in simultaneous slow motion and whiplash, the sound delayed by several paces.
Jabber laughs and asks:
"You feel that too?"
Zanka knocks him back like he ain't earned it yet.
The space closes. He stumbles back, breath catching in surprise. His laugh is punchy pink colored, twisted into red rage, red sex, red rage-
Yeah, Jabber's tongue drags slowly across his teeth. You’ve got real bad attitude.
The lights flare again, one last time, white heat.
Suddenly, they’re close close enough to touch.
The song gets into this slow momentary rhythm.
Turn
Step
Swing
No-
Jabber's knees buckle a little in the spin, he ignores it.
Zanka slows and tilts his head-
"You don't look so," bass, treble. "Good-"
And that just won’t do.
Jabber tells him to keep going! To keep going and don’t stop. He doesn’t realize he’s talking out loud. The whole conversation is happening entirely in his head, single-handed. Maybe he gets a response. Maybe he doesn’t. It doesn’t matter because Jabber entertains himself all his own. Jabber speaks with his hips, with the bass, with the dance that they’re in, with his too fast heart and with the sound of the club around them-
Don’t stop, Zanka, don’t mess up the flow
Show me what you doin'-
He reaches out, not to grab or, spare him, block. Just a touch of fingers. Brushing at the fabric. Skin on skin. Poking at the source of the heat. Just enough to prove that Zanka is real, that he’s right here that’s not a trick of the club lights or the crap he took half-hour ago.
Zanka recoils irritated, at the messy touch. Jerking away. Playing hard to get like he isn't calling to Jabber from the dance floor. There’s something wet, thicker and darker than sweat, sliding down his hairline.
It’s back on again!
Zanka gets a laugh for his trouble. a teasing voice, a 'damn you’re dramatic , Mr. Bad Attitude'. Which sets them right back into motion. Back into the dancing.
Jabber's so lucky. He’s so lucky to be dancing in this moment. To live in the thrill. To experience the beauty of a racing heart and a melting face and-
What he do to… score all this, huh?
Zanka moves, a final spin. A final flash of motion, close, tight, Jabber doesn’t move because he doesn’t want to.
Show me, show me, show me-
Muscles flex.
And the hit lands-
Oh.
It cracks through Jabber. Loud and real and wrong.
The music stops and the-
The lights flicker and-
They’re in a dirty alleyway fighting to the death.
Assistaff connects with his skull and everything cuts to black.