Chapter Text
The knocking started as a dull, distant sound, like it belonged in someone else’s dream.
Then it got louder.
“ZANKA. OPEN THE DOOR.”
Zanka groaned into his pillow, one arm thrown over his face, tangled in sheets that had long since lost any sense of order. The room was dim, lit only by the dull glow of a forgotten desk lamp and the soft hum of his laptop still running something he hadn’t finished. He didn’t move.
The knocking got louder. Sharper. Intentional.
“I KNOW YOU’RE AWAKE,” Riyo shouted from the other side.
A second voice followed, more sing-song, more amused. “If you don’t open this door, I’m picking the lock again.”
Zanka shot upright.
“You wouldn’t—”
Click.
The door creaked open.
Riyo stood there with her usual unimpressed expression, already stepping inside like she owned the place. Behind her, Tamsy leaned against the frame, grinning like this was the highlight of his night.
“You’re unbelievable,” Zanka muttered, dragging a hand through his hair. “It’s … what time is it?”
“Party time,” Tamsy said cheerfully, pushing off the frame and striding in. “Get dressed.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
Riyo didn’t even argue. She walked over to his closet, flung it open, and started pulling things out like she was assembling a case. “You’re going. You’ve been holed up in here all week.”
“I like it here.”
“You like being boring.”
Zanka frowned. “I’m not boring.”
“Then prove it,” she shot back, tossing a shirt at him.
It hit his face.
He pulled it down slowly, staring at them both. Tamsy had already made himself comfortable on the edge of the desk, watching with the kind of interest usually reserved for reality TV.
“…I hate both of you.”
“Love you too,” Tamsy said.
—
By the time they were done with him, Zanka barely recognized himself in the mirror.
The off shoulder sweater hung low, slipping just enough to expose the layered straps of the tank beneath, giving everything a slightly undone, careless look, like he hadn’t tried, even though he absolutely had. The fabric was thick, ribbed, dark gray, hugging his frame while still looking oversized in the right places. Around his neck, layered chains caught the light, one shorter, one longer, both adding weight and a subtle metallic edge.
The belts were Tamsy’s idea.
“More is better,” he’d insisted, threading multiple studded belts around Zanka’s waist so they overlapped and angled unevenly, creating this chaotic, almost armored silhouette.
Zanka had argued. Briefly.
Now he kind of got it.
The pants were loose, washed gray denim that pooled slightly over heavy black platform shoes. Everything about the outfit felt … structured, but unpredictable. Like it belonged to someone who didn’t follow rules.
Zanka adjusted one of the chains, trying not to feel like he was stepping into a completely different version of himself.
Riyo gave him a look over. “You’ll survive.”
“Barely,” he muttered.
Tamsy grinned. “You look hot. Let’s go.”
—
The party was already in full swing by the time they arrived.
Music pulsed through the building, bass vibrating up through the floorboards. Voices overlapped, laughter spilling into the hallway, lights flickering in colors that made everything feel slightly unreal.
Zanka hesitated at the entrance.
Riyo didn’t.
She grabbed his wrist and pulled him inside.
“Stick with me,” she said, already weaving through the crowd.
Tamsy peeled off almost immediately, eyes lighting up as he spotted someone across the room. “I’ll find you later,” he called, already gone.
Zanka opened his mouth to protest.
Too late.
“Come on,” Riyo said, dragging him toward the bar.
—
The bar area was slightly quieter, tucked off to the side, but still buzzing with energy. Bottles lined the shelves, light catching in glass, casting reflections that shifted with every movement.
Riyo leaned against the counter like she belonged there. “Two shots,” she told the person behind it.
Zanka blinked. “Two?”
She glanced at him. “Scared?”
“No.”
“Good.”
The shots arrived.
Riyo grabbed one, held it up. “Race you.”
Zanka narrowed his eyes. “You’re on.”
They knocked them back.
Riyo slammed her glass down first.
“Ha.”
Zanka coughed. “That doesn’t count, you—”
“Again.”
And again.
And again.
Somewhere between the third and fourth round, the sharp edge of Zanka’s nerves dulled. The noise didn’t feel as overwhelming. The crowd didn’t feel as suffocating. Everything softened just enough.
Riyo smirked. “See? Not so bad.”
Zanka exhaled, leaning back slightly against the counter. “… Yeah. I guess not.”
“Good. I’m gonna go play spin the bottle.”
“What—why—”
But she was already gone.
Zanka stared after her.
“… traitor.”
“Rough night?”
The voice came from his right.
Zanka turned.
And for a second, everything else, music, voices, movement, faded just slightly.
The guy who’d sat down beside him leaned casually against the bar, dressed in layered gray tones that somehow looked effortless. A long sleeved, slightly cropped shirt clung just enough to show shape without being tight, the hem riding up just enough to reveal a sliver of skin above low-slung cargo pants. The pants themselves were loose, heavy with pockets, worn in a way that made them look lived in rather than messy.
A belt with a large, detailed buckle caught the light.
Chains hung loosely at his neck, shifting slightly when he moved.
There was something relaxed about him. Not careless, just … comfortable. Like he didn’t need to try.
Zanka blinked.
“… Something like that.”
The guy smiled, just a little. “First party?”
“… Is it that obvious?”
“A little.”
Zanka huffed. “Great.”
“Hey,” he said lightly, “you’re doing better than most. You’re still standing.”
“Barely.”
“That still counts.”
Zanka found himself smiling slightly.
They fell into conversation easily after that,
unexpectedly so. It started simple. Complaints about dorm life. Bad professors. The questionable quality of cafeteria food.
Then it drifted.
Music. Late night habits. Random thoughts that didn’t really connect but somehow made sense in the moment.
At one point they argued, lightly, about whether pineapple belonged on pizza.
“It absolutely does not,” Zanka said.
“You’re wrong.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“Am not.”
“You are, and I’m judging you for it.”
Zanka snorted. “Wow. Harsh.”
“Only a little.”
They both laughed.
Time slipped.
Zanka didn’t notice.
“… By the way,” the guy said after a while, tilting his head slightly, “I never got your name.”
“Zanka,” he said. “Zanka Nijiku.”
“Jabber.”
The name fit him. Somehow.
Zanka nodded slowly. “Jabber.”
“Yeah.”
Another small smile.
—
“Wow.”
Tamsy’s voice cut in suddenly as he slid onto the seat next to Zanka, eyes flicking between the two of them with very obvious interest.
Zanka stiffened. “Don’t start.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were about to.”
Jabber glanced between them, amused. “Friend of yours?”
“Unfortunately,” Zanka muttered.
Tamsy grinned. “Best friend, actually.”
Jabber gave him an easy, welcoming look. “Nice to meet you.”
“Likewise.”
There was a brief pause.
Then Jabber glanced at the time, exhaling slightly. “I should probably head out. It’s getting late.”
Zanka’s chest did something weird at that.
“Oh. Yeah. Right.”
Jabber stood, adjusting one of the chains at his neck. “It was nice talking to you, Zanka.”
“… Yeah. You too.”
A small nod.
Then he was gone.
Just like that.
—
“… You have a crush.”
Zanka choked. “I do not.”
“You do.”
“I don’t.”
“You literally do.”
“I literally don’t.”
Tamsy leaned in, grinning. “You were smiling.”
“I smile.”
“Not like that.”
Zanka shoved him lightly. “Shut up.”
“Crush.”
“Shut. Up.”
Tamsy laughed.
Riyo reappeared then, eyeing them both. “Why are you two arguing?”
“He has a crush,” Tamsy said immediately.
“I do not—”
Riyo gave Zanka a long, assessing look.
“… We’re leaving,” she said.
“What. Why—”
“It’s late.”
Zanka opened his mouth to argue.
Closed it.
“… Fine.”
—
The drive back was quieter.
Tamsy scrolled through his phone in the front seat. Riyo drove, focused, occasionally glancing at the road like she didn’t entirely trust the late-night traffic.
Zanka sat in the back, head resting lightly against the window.
The city lights blurred past.
And without really meaning to, he thought about Jabber.
The way he’d smiled.
The way conversation had felt easy.
The way, for once, Zanka hadn’t felt out of place.
He exhaled softly, watching the lights streak across the glass.
“… Jabber,” he murmured under his breath.
The name lingered.
And somewhere between one streetlight and the next, Zanka found himself hoping that wasn’t the last time they met.