Work Text:
The lamp on the nightstand hummed as the clock ticked closer to midnight. Incense and a lingering scent of an unknown cologne filled the room. Zanka hunched over the sofa of their shared apartment, using every ounce of his strength to fight the weight of his eyelids. Papers, books, surveys, and material littered every available surface, even spilling onto the floor.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
11:58 P.M. glowed on the clock’s digital face. It has been 5 hours since Jabber left in the middle of dinner. The rice hardened on the edges of the pot, steam long vanished. Chopsticks placed on the ceramic bowls left untouched. Warm cooked meals now grown cold.
—
The fight hadn’t even been about the dinner. It started with a passing comment about a promotion at the agency, a position Zanka was perfect for, but one he’d already decided he wasn’t “bold” enough to take.
“I’m just not that guy, Jabber,” Zanka had muttered, staring into his steam-filled bowl. “They need someone to drive the ship, I'm just the one scrubbing the deck.”
Jabber dropped his chopsticks with a sharp clack. “You’re the most brilliant strategist and is the top-performing worker in that building. When are you going to stop pretending those titles aren’t proof enough?”
The reassurance felt like sandpaper tonight, rather than the usual warm blanket. Zanka’s exhaustion turned into something less than a defense, more than an accusation. “It’s not pretending when I know my place. Y’know, not everyone can be as loud and confident as you!”
“That’s bullshit and you know it.” Jabber snapped, standing up so fast his chair screeched on the waxed floor. He didn’t stay to hear the rest. Grabbed his jacket and walked out, leaving the apartment echoing with the sound of the door slamming.
—
The hum of the lamp was a constant reminder of the electricity being wasted while he sat motionless.
Tick. Tock.
He looked at the papers. Every stroke and every correction seemed to blur. Everything that Jabber ever offered, every “You’ve got this” and “You’re incredible,” felt like a debt Zanka couldn’t repay. This was something beyond low self-esteem, but more like fraudulence. He felt like he was tricking Jabber into staying with a ghost of a man, a placeholder for someone who actually deserved what he gave.
He imagined Jabber out in the city, breathing in air that wasn’t heavy with Zanka’s suffocation. Pictured Jabber realizing that it was easier to walk without lifting such a heavy burden. To walk without pulling someone else out of the mud was easier than to slowly sink with the other.
He’s not coming back this time, Zanka thought, and thought was a cold relief. If Jabber didn’t come back, Zanka could stop trying to be what Jabber insisted he was. He could just be the cold rice, the unfinished paper, the flickering nightstand.
Zanka reached out a hand, his fingers hovering over the untouched ceramic bowl. Filling the chill of the now cold porcelain. Maybe the “final straw” wasn’t the fight, maybe it was the realization. He had become a vacuum, sucking the joy out of the one person who saw him as something more than a shadow or a fake.