Archive of Our Own

Zanka would like to argue that he did, in fact, not struggle with food.

Which contradicted the popular belief that he had an eating disorder — that, he did not. He’d say that as many times as needed.

Whether he’d know he was lying would be unrelated.

See, the thing was, Zanka had always been a stubborn boy. From the very moment he learned how to fight, to living with a chaotic mess of a man who, unfortunately in this case, was the love of his life.

Stubborn down to every last cell in his blood — he knew how to stand his ground, and always did. 

It was primal nature at best, narcissistic insecurity at worst, your pick.

It hadn’t grown from nothing, actually his parents used to scoff and look away when he didn’t immediately back down on his word just due to a threat in the shape of a palm on his cheek. He did, eventually, back down. Stubborn to a fault, but not enough to not sob his tiny eyes out when met with cruel punishment for such a thing as ‘talking back’ upon having asked a mere question.

He never understood like other kids did.

Even when he lived with his guardian.

Being stubborn from early meant that Enjin would slide food over the table while muttering to himself through exhaustion, and Zanka would simply sit and stare to calculate how many mixed textures were touching, and how they would blend on his tongue — with this happening repetitively, Enjin would bring it up on occasion, but he was always shut down by the boy.

Because Zanka wasn’t struggling.

And sure, he didn’t enjoy ever being a bother to Enjin, absolutely fucking hated the very idea, but he had limits. Limits that all came back to one specific genre of thing, the broad spectrum that was food.

He didn’t like certain textures, sure, and he really didn’t like certain smells, but wasn’t everybody like that? Nobody liked everything, there was nothing special about him.

He had heard it before, too. People in restaurants who’d sigh, mumble something with disappointment in their voice and subtly pick up a napkin to cover their mouth as they spit the food out.

Why was it different when he did it, and why was it disrespectful for him to voice it as such? Zanka never understood

And anyway, it wasn’t like Zanka didn’t eat.

Whether it be specific snacks he could pop into his mouth so he didn’t have to commit to a full meal, or something he ate more often than not because he knew he liked it and wouldn’t gag from the feeling in his mouth; he ate.

Enjin still brought it up, but over time he learned that bargaining with Zanka was useless. 

Cook something he likes, or he won’t eat, simple as that.

It wasn’t rebellion, as he had partly believed in the start like any parent would — like a brat who just craved sweets and didn’t eat their food out of protest, but no, Zanka was far from that.

It couldn’t be protest when the boy would whimper out of hunger, yet refuse to reach for any ingredients in their fridge. Enjin actually found that Zanka found himself safest in very processed food, but always the exact same orders.

Frankly, it was as if the boy had a damn near phobia of trying something new.

One singular time, Enjin had pushed too far.

He shouldn’t have, obviously, but he was a young dad of two kids ( way before Rudo stumbled into the family ) and just wanted his boy to eat. So, he sat Zanka down, and waited.

Zanka never spoke up. He never looked away in embarrassment and whimpered, “I can’t eat it.” — because somewhere in him, he knew he could. Physically, sure, even if it made him sick, he believed himself to be irrational. 

He didn’t know why food worked like that in his brain, like territory he had to step around carefully. A minefield he walked blind.

That day, Enjin might’ve accidentally pushed him to step on a mine.

Because, as previously stated, Zanka hated the idea of being a burden, a problem. 

He knew how to stay in line, do what he was supposed to do and eventually achieve praise — but Enjin had never acted as if him not eating certain foods was downright troublesome, he’d ask with worry but never ill intent, which led Zanka to have a faint feeling that it was okay —

‘It’s not okay.’

‘You’re starving yourself, Zanka.’

— Yet, having been sat down and put under a scrutinising gaze, he thought ‘ah, have I been bothering you all along?’ — and forced the food down his throat, not without a fight back from his angry body.

The bathroom ended up occupied with vomiting, solely because Zanka kept gagging and even if his body understood that nothing was wrong with the food, it was incapable of pushing back against the force.

That never happened again, to say the least.

Nonetheless, people didn’t bring it up as often as one would think. Yes his dad mentioned it, but after the whole throwing-up incident, he started accommodating part of their meals to Zanka’s needs.

It made him feel bad, really.

By now, he wasn’t quite that far from actually feeling like a burden, because Enjin shouldn’t have to work around him, he should suck it up and be grateful for the food he was given, however he was simply incapable.

He hated being incapable, don’t get him wrong. Zanka had tried, but fear refrained him from repeating past actions, as they all eventually led to his stomach churning and his mouth salivating.

Frankly, he’d rather take an angry, red palm across his face rather than throw up. He’d take a lot of things before choosing to throw up.

Riyo never mentioned it, not to him at least. She probably spoke to their dad about it on really bad days, out of worry alone, and sometimes she’d go out of her way to buy very specific foods she knew Zanka could eat, then go sit in his room with him and eat them herself, offering one up so he wouldn’t feel pushed.

She knew he hated feeling like he was troubling anybody, so if she simply went “I bought you that thing you like, I know you’re having a bad day but will you eat?” — he’d feel pressured to do so to not make her feel bad.

If Zanka felt pressured to eat, that only worsened his state.

So talking her mouth to ruins while popping chocolates, chips, whatever it may be, was usually the go to. Then she’d cock an eyebrow and tilt her head, “you want one?”. Sometimes he did, sometimes he didn’t.

Candies were usually a safe bet, to her credit. 

Zanka liked the feeling of letting the syrupy sweetness pass back and forth in the hollow of his cheeks, his tongue playing around with the unfamiliar intruding object. 

Sometimes it wasn’t as great, sometimes he didn’t like that he couldn’t hurry it up with candies, it was a process — and that wasn’t always safe in his head. Most times it was fine, but everything was a risk when it came to him.

Rudo mentioned it once, but never to him.

It was only a few months after he had lost his father and ended up in the hands of Enjin, of all people, just like the two others. 

Zanka barely remembered it, because it truly hadn’t been that big of a deal. Dinner, probably, and Rudo had turned his head in confusion, “Why does Zanka get something different?”

Enjin had said, “He struggles with specific foods.” In a shrug, like an afterthought despite how much he did to make sure Zanka didn’t end up on the floor, puking his guts out again.

Rudo had left it alone after that.

Years passed before someone noticed again, lo and behold, Jabber Wonger.

Not that they spent a lot of their time together eating — most of it was through sparring which was how they had met, parties Zanka got dragged to by his sister, and then the later occasional hook ups. Yeah, well, it took them a while.

A sparring session had been happening like usual, moving smoothly, only not really. Jabber, by this point, knew Zanka’s moves and forms like the back of his hand, a dance he knew how to bend to, waves he could curve along, however Zanka had been sort of .. sloppy, for lack of a better word.

Missing Jabber in attacks he almost always perfected, not blocking moves he really should be blocking, and eventually landing on his back, unresponsive.

The idiot had fucking fainted right on Jabber, who stood completely caught off guard.

He had then later been told that Jabber found Enjin’s contact somehow, and brought him home, as embarrassing as that was. Enjin had explained the issues ( which, fuck him by the way,  so not his place to do but Zanka could see how it was warranted ) and they came to the rightful conclusion, Zanka hadn’t been eating.

As much as he wanted to hate it, he felt awfully warm at Jabber’s minor change.

Every time they sparred, he’d pass a stupid fucking chocolate bar before they started, something he somehow ( curse you Riyo ) knew that Zanka could eat.

It wasn’t laced in kindness, nothing Jabber ever did was — he pulled it off by waving a hand the first time, as dismissive as it could get and muttered “ain’t want ya fainting again while I’m tryna have a good fight.”

Yet, despite that, there was a hint of something different in his intention.

Was that the catalyst for Zanka’s stubborn self to realise that maybe, just maybe the guy he had been hooking up with was … something a little more? Not a friend, god not a friend, which only left one option back.

“Do you want me to put curry in today?  ‘M so feelin’ curry.”  A voice broke him out of his endless thoughts, sing-songy and carefree, opposite of his other half.

Jabber hummed, having just started to cook some low-effort bland ramen, something that Zanka had been eating like a main food-source for almost a year now.

It was easy on his tastebuds and his stomach, a perfect fit.

“Mm…” he thought, gripping around the counter to hoist himself up and sit. “Sure, just a little bit.”

So no, Zanka Nijiku did not struggle with food. 

He took accommodations, and had boundaries like anyone else — a completely normal situation, for his completely normal brain.

The self proclaimed chef grunted in acknowledgement to the order. “Based, you got it babe.”

It hadn’t been a bad day, per se, just… a difficult one, maybe. Breakfast had been skipped, his stomach churning at the idea of food upon waking up.

Which was normal. Zanka just wasn’t a morning person, simple as that.

His boyfriend never questioned him or pitied him. 

If Zanka couldn’t eat, Jabber would nod and say, “aight, let’s do somethin’ until you can.” — he knew that usually, the lack of motivation for food came from anxiety and a running head, so he managed to distract Zanka until eating felt okay. 

Most times at least.

He rested his heavy head against the cupboard, feet dangling from the counter as he released a sigh.

Jabber looked up from the two bowls in which he created the magical wonder of Zanka’s comfort food, smiling at the display. “What’s up, babe? Not feelin’ it?” He chuckled softly, scooting slightly to the side and adjusting to stand in between those slender legs, exposed to the world with only a layer of sleep shorts covering.

Rough fingers ran up soft thighs, slowly and gently settling in their rightful place.

“Hm?” He leaned in, pressing a kiss to Zanka’s chin as his thumbs started rubbing those amazing small circles. “Wassup?”

A non-committal shrug, “‘Dunno.” He didn’t even lean down to meet Jabber’s eyes, gasp, the simple but hurtful betrayal.

“‘Dunno’” Jabber mocked, one hand coming up to pinch around Zanka’s chin, guiding his head down to sit straight, “What’s got yo ass all quiet on me, man?”

Once again, his only reply was a shrug, and a sigh.

Nothing he wasn’t used to, really.

This was a very common back and forth between them, something that early on in the relationship had been exceedingly frustrating. For Zanka because Jabber wouldn’t give it up, and for Jabber because Zanka was too stubborn to just admit when something was wrong.

By now they had both learned the reasons for each other’s antics, and it ended differently each time. 

Sometimes Zanka got away with not talking, sometimes he ended up admitting what was plaguing his thoughts.

Neither of them knew what today would be.

“Babyyyy” Jabber sang drawn out, his touch so awfully warm on Zanka’s thighs that he found himself unable to resist the affection. He linked his arms around his boyfriend’s shoulders, allowing the kisses along his jaw with not a single sexual intent in them. “Still not out of it, hm?”

Jabber was a sexual person, down to the bone ( a great innuendo, Zanka would’ve silently praised if his head wasn’t so loud ), and his actions so very often carried obvious intent behind them, never pushy but never quite subtle either. He made it known what he wanted, but knew how to take a hint.

However, sometimes, he had a vague softness to him. A word that didn’t seem fit for his character, but that Zanka couldn’t help place anyway. Because it was. Soft.

Soft in the sweet, quiet kisses that weren’t meant as foreplay, but as comfort. In the lingering touches that weren’t meant to convey a ‘come here, dog’ but a ‘m’here if you want’. Zanka didn’t always want, sometimes he needed the space, sometimes he didn’t. It was always sometimes with him — never a direct one-pathed road.

His softness had a rough edge because they both knew better than the other how new gentleness was to the man, and how new care was for Zanka.

Not as new, given Enjin’s softness on particularly rough days, but new in a different way. He hadn’t been in love before, hadn’t been loved like this before.

Zanka huffed, moving away from the mouth to instead pull Jabber close, nuzzling his head into the space between shoulder and neck.

God, I love you so much.

Another thing that had been difficult early on was the difference between their need for touch. 

Jabber practically breathed it like the air he’d die without, always touching Zanka in some way. Linking a pinky together, gently rubbing his knee, having their shoulders bumping when walking — there was always a connection.

However, Zanka was a little different.

He didn’t mind the touch, not at all, actually. He loved it almost as much as Jabber did, always melting into it when able to, only he was fucking terrible at seeking it out himself, so in the rare occasions where they’d lay upon the couch not wrapped up with eachother, he felt like he was burning.

Because yes, Jabber always remained within contact, their feet touching perhaps, but he wanted to be close close close, so close he could dig into his stomach and crawl up to rest in between his ribs.

Zanka didn’t know where that bone-deep obsession came from, he just knew he ached to be closer.

Luckily, after two years together, he could now seek it out. Asking? No, no probably not, but he could tug on Jabber’s hoodie and pull him in, or crawl over to lay on top of him. Or opposite, actually. Zanka really enjoyed the feeling of having Jabber’s weight comfortably placed on top of his chest.

Above him, there was another chuckle, this one softer than previously.

Rough, warm hands slid up to wrap entirely around his waist instead of his thighs, catching Zanka in a full embrace. They slithered around him like a sneaky snake, tongue flicking in search.

Fuck, he needed air to become the very scent of Jabber Wonger like, yesterday, probably.

With his thighs now free, he in reciprocation wrapped them around the slender waist in front of him as well, linking his ankles behind Jabber’s back.

They, if Jabber had to admit it despite not giving a single fuuuuckkkk because his man was here wrapped around him like a delicious fuckin’ meal, did painfully dig into the sides of his lower waist, boney heels pressing in. He still, did not care.

“‘Bit clingy, aint’cha?”

“Just tired.” He mumbled, tightening his hold, immediately getting a tighten back.

Jabber knew him well, knew his likes and dislikes and therefore also knew that Zanka fell on the spectrum of people who enjoyed feeling pressure. 

Not open spaces where nothing incaged him, giving his thoughts too much space to roam — he liked small spaces where he had to fold in on himself to fit, and that feeling ventured, translating into physical touch as well.

“M’supposed to be makin’ your food, y’know..” Jabber hummed in pure content, not an ounce of complaint in his voice. “Not that I’m ever complain’ about all this attention, y’know I’d never, ain’t my style, y’feel? But I also don’t dig cold food, unless it’s on a head-throbbing hangover, but lucky for you, I am sober as a newborn. Which means I want that food hot, Zan-Zan.”

“Mm…” nuzzled the tiny voice further in, almost daring him to step away. And, well. Well. Jabber was really only a man, wasn’t he? A Will-strong, hot-headed, hedonistic man, who became oh so weak when his boyfriend was throwin’ whimpers and pleas out like he carved them from his throat.

Another chuckle, to no one’s surprise, and suddenly Zanka’s head was being downright assaulted in an onslaught of kisses, all pressing hard and fast to his head.

“You’re actin’ all cute ‘n shit.” Jabber huffed, this time with a little complaint — like one would have when experiencing cuteness aggression over a needy puppy, “What’cha doing that for, huh? Ugh, you suck, Zan.” 

Regardless of his .. complaints, Zanka still had to press an eye closed due to all the kisses meeting his head, his ear, his forehead, cheek, nose, chin— Christ, okay. “J– okay, I get it-“

“Nuh-uh,” the boy above him shook his head.

“Come on- Jesus, o-mghh.” Zanka was, against all will, cut off from protesting any further. Jabber smiled against his lips, disappearing as fast as he had appeared, but instantly pressing one more, and one more, and a last one. 

Aaaaand maybe just a laaaaast one!

Then, the arms around him tugged themselves loose, and warm hands cradled his face.

Jabber smiled, tilting Zanka’s entire head in his hands, “‘s yo fault.”

“Just make our food.”

Successful, Jabber thought to himself.

“Aye-aye.” He giggled, pressing a final kiss to the small nose before finally moving away.

____________________

“Aaaaand here you go—!” 

A bowl of bland, seasoned, steamy ramen was placed in front of Zanka, who had found himself a spot on the couch. Well, found and found, it was the same spot he always sat in, but regardless.

There’d be no game in it if he acted like everything he did was with full intention. It was but he liked to pretend small things were coincidence, like ‘oh, I’ll just sit on this seat, because it looks nice’. Instead of voicing the knowledge that he’d sat there the first night they ate dinner as had been genuinely rendered useless at even attempting a different seat after that.

The blabbermouth continued, successfully ripping him from his ever loud head as usual.

“I know, I know. No need to thank me, ‘s just what I do, makin’ my man happy, be the best boyfriend in the world, y’know? Full time job but I am one hell of a worka’ baby.” Jabber rambled on in display, making a show of having made ramen. 

Nothing new there, Zanka supposed.

“Thanks.” He replied simply as the theatrical man flopped onto the couch as well, pulling his own bowl close and grabbing the remote.

“What we watchin’?”

“Uhhh, I don’t know, try YouTube.”

“‘Try YouTube’, oh yes master I shall..” Jabber huffed, taking a bite of his ramen while simultaneously getting YouTube ready. “M’not even playin’ anymore, YouTube lost s’touch after the shorts update, t’much like other media now, y’dig?” He mumbled around a mouthful, words barely able to be untangled like a messy pile of chords.

Zanka felt himself sink a little, dragging his knees up to his chest to escape the large space of their livingroom, folding himself in hope it would help.

Ah, my chest feels really tight.

He swallowed, rubbing a hand over his chest to ease the tension, his eyes remaining glued to the untouched bowl.

There was no reason for this sudden burst of uncertainty — except for the fact that he’d already had a ‘difficult day’ and the lack of food in his system made him feel sick, which somehow translated to him not being able to eat.

It was illogical, he wasn’t stupid. It was as irrational as it was entirely explainable in his head.

Not eating made him feel sick, but he couldn’t eat if he felt sick because he was convinced he’d throw up, even if he knew the food would actually remove the sick feeling, the risk always felt much too big to just.. abandon his fear.

“Yo, babe. ‘S good?” Jabber nudged his shoulder with his own.

In a failed attempt to clear his throat, Zanka nodded. Because yeah, yeah. It was good. All was good. He was good, he had no reason not to be whatsoever — so yeah.

Even if he wasn’t, he had no reason not to be — yeah he felt sick but, but it was good. It was fine. Because Zanka didn’t struggle, he just.. he took time. That was a different thing, he liked to do some things at a snail's pace, sue him. 

He tried so, so hard to make himself believe that was the truth. 

However his attempts didn’t seem to surface as believable to Jabber, who put his bowl and remote down, adjusting on the couch to cross his legs and turn to Zanka.

One leg crossed up and under his own thigh, the other dangling idly off the couch, his position so casual despite how his heart skipped a beat.

It didn’t take a genius to read Zanka, really.

Especially not when you’ve lived with the guy for a year.

“Hey.” Jabber moved forward again, gently placing his chin on the boney tip of Zanka’s shoulder and reaching out, locking their fingers together. “‘S just ramen, Z. You’ll be fine, you eat this all the time.”

“I know.”

His brows furrowed at the defensive tone, and he let his free hand come up to softly play with Zanka’s newly washed hair. The guy had some weird enjoyment for morning showers, especially on the weekend where he could simply go back to his comfortable sleep clothes.

No need to dress up or wear fabrics that rubbed him the wrong way, just be clean and comfortable. It made Jabber smile with painful adoration.

He felt the fingers intertwined with his squeeze, and he instantly squeezed back.

“One bite?” He hummed, smiling with reassurement and pressing the softest kiss to the revealed shoulder, Zanka’s shirt loose enough to roll down his arm.

Usually, Jabber really wasn’t a touchy-feely guy, and didn’t really fuck around with comfort. Emotion wise, he loved some skin-to-skin contact, but the.. the words shit?

He didn’t know how to do it, and he didn’t wanna fuck it up with Zanka and make it worse — Enjin had told him ( after he finally accepted that Jabber might be sticking around ) that the best way to deal with it was be patient and not pressure Zanka, but that didn’t mean you couldn’t interfere a little bit.

So, Jabber cooked, and he urged on a little bit, but never anything more than that.

Especially on difficult days, even more on bad days, those were never quite fun, which was why he had learnt to adapt. Always doing his best to keep a difficult day from tipping over the edge.

He cared so much for Zanka, loved him to the end of the fucking world and would frankly impale his own very heart to keep his boyfriend safe — so of course he didn’t mind being patient, even if he was the least patient man ever.

Finally, Zanka let out a shaky breath, and a nod.

A big, toothy smile broke out on Jabber’s face, and he pressed a hard, almost wet kiss to Zanka’s face.

“Yeah, yeah.” Came the expected eye-roll, as he reached forward to gently pull the bowl to himself, turning the hollow spoon over and over. “Don’t know why m’being weird.”

“Ain’t nothin’ weird about it, Zan. ‘S just how your brain works.”

“Yeah well, my brain works weird.”

“Okay, sure, but so does everybody, just in different ways.” Jabber shrugged, still with his head in place instead of going back to eating, offering the comfort of his presence. That much he could do, it was all he really knew how to do. 

Be there.

“Small bite, babe. It’ll make ya feel better.”

A sigh, “Yeah.”

At last, Zanka bent his neck a little to blow on the spoonful of ramen and broth. 

The scent was the same as always, he had no reason to suddenly feel unsafe about it ( hell, he had no reason to feel ‘unsafe’ about food at all, what was he on? ) but it felt scary all the same, somehow.

He blamed it on the lack of sleep he’d gotten, always made his brain fuzzy and weird. Yeah, yeah that was probably it.

His very first observation when letting the food into his mouth was .. too hot.

Should’ve blown on it more.

Zanka shrugged that off and allowed it all in, closing his lips around the hollow spoon and feeling the warmth for a moment.

It wasn’t a big amount, not a spoonful, much less a mouthful, but he had a distinct urge to softly hollow his cheeks to give space to the food anyway, as if it was imposing on his sacred space. 

He slipped the spoon off of his tongue, and closed his mouth entirely around the food, on his merry way to chew a little and then swallow. Easy as that. Easy-peasy, as Jabber would say. 

It should’ve been that easy. Been that simple. But the food was so.. so much more prominent than usual.

And then – it got weird.

The taste was the same, somewhat at least, honestly there could’ve been more curry which was his fault but regardless, the texture.

Noodle texture usually never overwhelmed Zanka, it was easy to understand and eat, yet now it felt– it didn’t feel good, god it actually felt..

He could feel the individual ones, practically like worms in his mouth, and the mixture of that with the wet liquid of the broth, it was so horrible all of a sudden.

The broth made the noodles slide and glide in his mouth, like they had a mind of their own, much like worms indeed. Wiggling their way through his head, either to crawl up to his brain and eat away at every last brain cell he’d ever miss, or down to his stomach and eat eat eat until his guts were no more, and Zanka would never have to eat again because he’d be dead, eaten by his own food. Ironic, as ironic as it gets. Stupid as it does, too.

Either way, he got his answer to the as above so below when one wet worm ( noodles, they were fucking noodles ) attempted to slip down his throat.

Jabber’s eyes widened with confusion when Zanka clasped a hand over his mouth to block a gag and shook his head desperately, quickly putting the bowl down and hurrying to the kitchen to spit it out.

Instantly following suit, Jabber got up on his feet and ran with him.

“Hey, what the hell? You-“

“I’m sorry— can’t-ugh,” Zanka gagged again, gathering the saliva in his mouth to spit out even when barely any was left. His knuckles turned white with the pressure from holding onto the counter and bending over the sink, “Fuck- it’s like, shit, like wor-ughhmsgh..” he heaved once more at the word. 

He could still feel it.

A warm hand was gently placed on his back, rubbing up and down in an attempt to soothe, while another gently brushed Zanka’s hair away from his damp forehead, “Do you need to throw up?”

Attempting to shake his head, his hand flew to his mouth to suppress another horrid gag, what was wrong with him? 

Jabber sighed, “If you gotta puke, don’t hold it in. That shit‘s just gonna make you sick, Zan.”

The still rational part of him wanted to jab, ‘throwing up is the sick part, if holding it in will make me sick, that’s a paradox’ but, shamefully so, he was not in his right mind to mouth bicker right now.

“I don’t- I just,” he almost wheezed the air in, lowering his forehead to press against the cold counter, “It’ll pass.”

“.. Okay.” The taller man nodded, “Sit down, at least?”

After a moment’s hesitation, Zanka nodded and let Jabber guide him back to the couch, and without giving him any room to breathe, his boyfriend instantly wrapped his arms around his waist and pulled him to sit in between his legs.

It took a few minutes for Zanka to not feel like he was gonna throw up anymore, and so in the meantime, his head rested on Jabber’s shoulder.

Nausea often gave him those hot flashes that made his entire body break out in a cold sweat, downright terrified of throwing up, shaking from sheer anxiety because god, no, and it took a while to come down from. 

He always did, eventually. Rarely ever threw up, but nausea was a recurring given, due to his lack of eating. It was a loop, getting nauseous due to not eating, not eating due to nausea. He never knew which came first, the chicken or the egg, but it didn’t matter. It always resulted in the same.

Finally, he swallowed and nodded, “Think m’good now.”

“Yeah?” Jabber hummed quietly, fingers gently threading through Zanka’s hair, scratching his scalp and playing with the ends of strands every once in a while. “What happened?” He dared to ask, testing his luck.

Too exhausted to deal with his body and mind’s horrible fate, Zanka decided to simply melt into the touch. “Was like.. like wo-“ the nausea rose at a rapid pace, and he abandoned the word altogether. “Just felt wrong in my mouth.” He settled on slurring.

Above him came a soft hum, understanding not to press further yet, then a kiss to the head and the motion continued.

He idly tried to adjust, leaning his side into Jabber’s chest instead of his back, and once again found himself burying into his neck, arm coming up to wrap around.

Subtly ( not ) he inhaled deeply, letting the scent of weed and caffeine ( if he was ‘sober as a newborn’, how the hell did he still smell like weed? Did this guy ever wash his fucking clothes?’ ) swim through his veins until it pulsated alongside his heart. A hint of ramen had him shuddering, but he recovered. Mostly.

Neither of them were good with the whole.. words thing.

Communication usually happened never — they made up by fucking eachother raw and bleeding, and they comforted with sweet touch alone. 

So when Zanka needed closeness, that was what he got. When he needed words .. well, that didn’t really happen often anyway. Panic attacks, maybe, but those were rare for him — he usually dealt with shutdowns instead, but regardless, if he was panicking then Jabber would do his best to talk and be there. He knew how to do one of those at the very least.

“Zan,” Jabber sang sweetly, brushing a lock of hair behind Zanka’s ear. “C’mere, you big ass baby.” He huffed, reaching over to grip under Zanka’s knees and pull him completely into his lap, his own legs spread to accommodate the person in between.

“Mm..” grunted the boy in his arms, tightening his grip and nuzzling ( somehow ) even further into Jabber’s neck, like he was trying to merge their very bodies together and become one.

Alike organisms, merging in nature.

They’d always been that way, drawn to each other — whether it be beating one another to blood, fucking till their breaths ran dry or pulling the opposing body so close to theirs that you couldn’t tell one from the other.

Unhealthy codependency, some might say.

“Let me know when ya wanna try again, aight?” Jabber kissed his head, cradling his jaw to tilt his face up.

Zanka nodded absentmindedly in reply — if he knew himself, it wouldn’t be today. Fuck was he supposed to do now, if the one thing he always found safe, was suddenly making him react like this? 

God, he wanted to be closer, he needed to be closer.

“Come on..” he mumbled quietly, tugging in complaint at Jabber’s hoodie. 

A huff, “I’m literally as close as can be, Z.” 

“…”

“Alright, look,” Jabber bent his knees a little, causing Zanka to rise slightly in his lap. The extra pressure forced him closer to his chest despite them already being in contact, and the boy let out a sigh of relief, nuzzling his nose into Jabber’s pulse point beating under his neck.

He was so fucking cute.

Downright cheek-pinching adorable, Jabber would argue. He sort of wanted to rip his hair out whenever Zanka did this shit, because fuck was it not often — sure he seeked him out but this? This fuckin’ nuzzling and pulling shit? Being all whiny and needy, god Jabber couldn’t handle it.

And then, to make matters worse, Zanka whined.

Ohhhh, Jabber wouldn’t make it out alive.

“Chill, babe. M’right here.” He teased, magenta eyes meeting fiery blue.

“You’re so pretty.”

“Is that so?” His knuckles lightly brushed against Zanka’s cheek, keeping the eye contact he was so graciously offering. Eye contact with Zanka was very rare.

“Mhm.”

Smiling, Jabber leaned down to kiss his boyfriend. 

___________________

Zanka felt himself come about deep into the night, eyes fluttering open to the endless void of darkness in the room. 

He would’ve loved to claim that he had no such idea as to why he was waking up at — 4:38 am? Jesus — but, the aching pain in his stomach and rising nausea in his throat gave him a little idea. 

“Mmrghh..” grunted the voice behind him, an entire head nuzzling into his shoulder blades and arms tightening strongly around his waist.

The pressure was nice, comforting, even if it didn’t necessarily help the nausea.

He was so fucking hungry, it hurt everywhere. 

It was only in a physical sense, though. His mind didn’t register it as hunger, as a need to consume — instead it just felt like an attack, like how upon being choked you’ll instantly fight and squirm because you need to breathe.

A bodily reaction, primal and natural.

Zanka barely remembered when he’d last eaten. It could’ve been days ago if this fucking ache was anything to go by, but he wasn’t shaking yet which meant it definitely was not more than a simple day.

That only resolved to make him feel more pathetic, though. 

Not even a day, a day and it hurt this bad? Wasn’t he a fighter? He had dealt with this all his life, his stubborn mind refusing to just eat because oh no, the food was a little uncomfortable on his tongue, yet it still affected him to such extents.

Jabber’s arms around him loosened slightly, the boy rolling over to his back and sprawling out — and snoring. Always fucking snoring.

“Right,” Zanka sighed, almost inaudibly, and got up.

Maybe they’d have something. 

They usually kept stuff around that Zanka could eat, snacks that he always found safe unless he was spiraling bad and .. and well, he wasn’t. It didn’t feel that bad, as of now at least. It hurt, sure, but he didn’t feel like laying down and sobbing about it.

Zanka didn’t really ever feel like laying down and sobbing.

He rubbed at his eye before bending down, picking up a pair of disregarded sweatpants — they were very loose and baggy around the legs, Zanka didn’t like tight comfortable clothes.

Tight clothes in general, yes, because the pressure kept him grounded if he wasn’t feeling too sane, but in the afternoon in the safety of his own home .. he really preferred clothes so loose he could barely feel them.

Running a hand through his messy hair, Zanka padded away to the kitchen.

The entire apartment was completely dark, leaving him barely able to see where he walked, though when living in a place for long enough you learn the way around instead of it feeling like walking a maze blind. 

Alright, food.

The fridge, good place to start.

The sound was way too loud, and god was it cold, but Zanka appreciated the bit of light source making him able to see shit. 

The blue value powering back at his face practically howled at him in mockery, though. ‘Coming back here, knowing you won’t eat anything’ it laughed, ‘gonna open the fridge again despite remembering nothing seemed appetising’ it snickered. 

Zanka repeatedly clicked his tongue lightly behind his teeth, rummaging through whatever was in there.

They didn’t keep a lot of ingredients, neither of them were too keen on cooking. Zanka preferred highly processed foods because they were less overwhelming, and Jabber genuinely just didn’t enjoy cooking — he did make easy food, throwing in stuff that had been frozen for example, but full on cooking? Yeah, no.

So their fridge was full of easily edible stuff, and yet nothing seemed appealing.

Anything he got his eyes on, his tongue would twitch uncomfortably at the mere thought of eating it.

Fuck, why did this stuff have to be so difficult? He just wanted to eat.

Actually, he didn’t really wanna eat, not at all frankly, but he wanted something to ease that horrible stomach pain.

Zanka groaned as he closed the fridge — okay, drawers and cupboards it was.

Drawers, nothing. There was bread but, he just- nothing fucking felt right, it was all off, why was it all off?

Cupboards … chocolate. A plain bar, one that he’d bought but never got around to eating it, then stuffed it away somewhere in case he had a ‘difficult day’. 

He hated the therapy language, it was a shit day, not a ‘I’m gonna kill myself’ day, which was what his therapist advertised as calling a ‘bad day’ but it was all too.. sugar-sweet. It wasn’t a difficult day, it was bullshit, was what it was. 

But even on shitty fucking days, Zanka could usually stomach something easy. On bad days, all hope was lost, but tonight? A simple chocolate bar..

Okay, yeah. Yeah that could work.

“‘S fuckin’ stupid.” He grumbled to himself, reaching for the bar and pulling it down. It was the same brand he always ate, nothing was new so nothing should be wrong.

Nothing should be wrong.

Get it together.

His chest felt so, so tight. A little bit like he couldn’t breathe. Could he not breathe?

Zanka swallowed, slowly opening up the plastic wrap, eyes glued onto the bar.

And— no fucking way.

The outer layer of it was melted just the smallest bit, leaving a thin layer of residue on the inside of the wrapper. Melted. Melted.

What deity was sitting upon the clouds and laughing at him right now? What horrible deed did he commit in his past life that warranted such a severe punishment? 

In a matter of very few seconds, Zanka thrashed the half open chocolate bar across the open kitchen “Bullshit!”, the sound of it hitting the wall much too loud. So loud — he could hear his pulse throbbing in his head.

He felt his back crash against the wall and slid down, needing to be caged in. The space was so large, there was so, so much space and yet Zanka felt a bit like he was being choked.

Like an open ocean, perhaps. Never-ending space to roam, yet one wrong move and he’d have no space to breathe. His kitchen was like an ocean. 

All of this over food? 

How pathetic could it get?

But — Zanka did not, under any circumstances, have an eating disorder. He didn’t. 

He just got weird. His body was weird.

Rubbing the heels of his palms into his eyes to keep himself from falling apart because he could not be sobbing over a fucking chocolate bar, Zanka dragged his knees up to his chest.

His fingers reached his hair, pulling and pulling to feel that familiar pressure on his scalp as his breaths turned erratic — was he crying? He couldn’t tell. Everything hurt, his stomach the worst.

It pulsalated with complaint, and rumbled in hope of reminding him, but it stood no chance against his spit-fueled mouth and his throat that worked overtime to keep swallowing because he could not throw up, he had nothing to throw up.

Zanka had no idea why he was losing his mind over something so small, but it felt so so big. 

He had wanted to eat that chocolate bar, he had. He wanted to eat it. But he couldn’t, not when it was melted and would make a mess, he just— he couldn’t. He wanted to but he fucking couldn’t. 

In the midst of choking on a sob, Zanka didn’t hear the click and a small light turning on above him, “..Z?” yawned a voice.

Jabber, was the first rational thought in his head.

It was quickly replaced by the same panic that had been plaguing him for the last – how long had he been on the floor? – few minutes, seconds maybe, or perhaps it was actually years. 

His boyfriend’s familiar voice was only a drop of water in a desert, enough for a second of relief but not enough to end the thirst.

“Yo, Zan,” approached the man, crouching down in front of the mess of his boyfriend. Zanka didn’t look up at him, couldn’t right now. He needed to keep the pressure on his scalp, to stay in his folded position and to hide the disgusting tears.

He felt off-putting, looking a mess and being unable to quit it. He hated being vulnerable more than he hated the sun for shining on days where it shouldn’t. Zanka was strong, and he’d do anything to forever keep up that image, because it was the truth. It wasn’t a facade, he was merely a person with layers, but that didn’t mean he was open to being peeled apart.

“…” 

The silence was unnerving, making Zanka gasp and choke on another sob.

Why was he quiet now?

He wanted to wipe at his face, the thick tears making him so uncomfortably wet on the surface of skin, but he couldn’t move his hands. He tugged harder on the strands, lightly hitting his knuckles against his head in frustration. 

This was so wrong, all of it, and Jabber was here just- just watching him lose his fucking shit over nothing.

“Can you talk?” 

Had he been more coherent and not lost in his own frantic pursuit of reality, he’d have noticed the waver in the voice above him. He’d have noticed the hitch of breath, the unsure hesitation, but alas, he did not.

He sounded so indifferent, his voice plagued by an illusion that he didn’t care — Zanka knew better, knew Jabber well enough to know that if he didn’t care, he’d have walked away. He wouldn’t have gotten out of bed from the start, actually. But he couldn’t pick up on the small details right now, rationally barely kept him sane enough to not spiral into thinking himself a burden.

Jabber kept his rest precious to his heart, it was hard to wake him up, even worse to get him out of bed, yet a simple shout and he had come here.

Weakly, Zanka shook his head, knocking against himself again.

“M’kay.” Jabber nodded ( assumedly, Zanka couldn’t really tell ) and took a deep breath. “Is this a ‘don’t touch me I’ll kill ya’ thing or.. or like, do you need, uh. Shit I don’t remember the protocol for this, swear Enjin told me.” He muttered the last bit to himself, and Zanka almost didn’t pick up on it due to his own sobbing.

Regardless, he felt bad.

Jabber shouldn’t have to deal with this, didn’t know how to. 

He’d seen Zanka overwhelmed or overstimulated, shutting down a few times too but never a meltdown, and now, woken up in the middle of the night, he had to? It wasn’t fucking fair.

And worst of all Zanka just wanted to sob and reach out, wanted to manage a ‘please hold me’ because he needed Jabber close more than anything right now, but he couldn’t because he couldn’t speak, and he couldn’t detach his fingers deathgrip.

He didn’t want to seem clingy either. Clinginess wasn’t strong, it was pathetic and weak. 

But that was all he was now.

Pathetic and weak.

“I can call Enjin?” Jabber asked hopelessly, and Zanka shook his head.

He didn’t need his dad, he needed his fucking boyfriend and he needed to pull himself together.

“… do you, uh.” Jabber tried to clear his throat, “Is touch ‘kay?”

Frantically, he nodded his head, practically wailing like a toddler in the meantime. Yes, yes it’s okay. Please. I need you.

“Okay, okay.” Gingerly, Jabber sat down fully, then very slowly he slid his feet forwards until they reached where Zanka’s was linked tight to the back of his thighs. 

They slid in, separating his tightly folded position, Jabber’s entire leg coming under Zanka’s. 

Rough fingers slid around his ankles, and he felt himself be pulled forward despite never looking up nor releasing his grip. “Here ya go.”

Their legs entangled, Zanka almost In Jabber’s lap by now and the close proximity sent a wave of relief down him — not nearly enough to calm this onslaught of frustration, but just enough to not make him bite his lip to blood.

Very cautiously, the same fingers let go of his ankles and instead slid up, cradling his wet face. 

Another sob tore through him as his head was tilted up, frantic eyes meeting calm ones.

“Ah, what a mess, huh?” Jabber whispered, thumbs slowly wiping thick tears away. It didn’t really help, given Zanka only let out another sob and a new fresh stream fell down, making him tug harder in his hair. “Hey, don’t hurt yourself, Zan. I get the whole groundin’ thing, makes ya brain have somethin’ to latch onto, but you’re gon’ start bleeding if you keep that up.” 

A pathetic whimper escaped him involuntarily.

“I know, ‘s stupid. ‘S the pressure that’s good?” Jabber guessed correctly.

Zanka nodded, tugging again at the reminder.

He was being so stupid, utterly childish and yet somehow, Jabber was being patient and understanding. When the fuck was Jabber Wonger a patient and understanding man?

Maybe he’d finally lost his mind and instead made up an imaginary boyfriend to soothe him through this. Didn’t seem too far off, actually.

“Pressure, m’kay, let’s try somethin’ else though, yeah?” He whispered sweetly, his voice so calm and protective that it made Zanka want to throw up. Fuck, he was really nauseous too.

“Here, give me your hands Z.”

…

“Zan, c’mon.”

Tug.

“Zanka.”

Tug, knock.

“Baby, okay.” Jabber sighed, gently reaching up to wrap around Zanka’s fingers, causing a filthy sob. He didn’t wanna let go, if he lost the pressure he’d sink even further into this despair.

“Here, slowly.” Fingers interlaced with his own, still gripping tight onto blond strands — “You’re doin’ fine, Z. Just gotta let go, yeah?”

He shook his head, sobs bubbling and splurting out of him, ah fuck, he was pretty sure he could feel spit down his chin. What a fucking mess he was.

“Let go, baby. I’ve got ya.”

Another whimper dragged free as his hands were pulled away from his hair, making weak attempts to get back and hit, trying to curl into fists but were kept separated with Jabber’s longer fingers in between his.

“There you go,” suddenly, Jabber’s hands squeezed his own, tight, only getting tighter by the second. “M’gonna try not to cut your blood circulation, but I’m keepin’ them tight, sounds good?”

Zanka sniffled, tears falling free as he nodded.

Anything, anything with pressure.

It almost burned, with how tight it was. Warmth seeped up his arms, almost all the way to his ears — it was a nice sensation, something he could focus on like when tugging at his hair.

“Good?”

He nodded again, a small gasp of relief breaking out from having held his breath, when did he stop breathing?

Somehow, and Zanka really couldn’t fathom how, in spite of how tight Jabber was holding, he managed to still let his thumb rub gentle circles into Zanka’s skin. 

“Mm..” he whined, staring at their hands, focusing on the pressure to keep him grounded — it didn’t stop the tears, he didn’t know if anything even could right now.

“You’re fine, Zan.”

Silence stretched on for a few minutes, the only present sound being Zanka’s occasional whimpers and sniffles.

By the time he felt a kiss press to one of his knuckles, he hadn’t even registered the pressure loosening up a bit. He could breathe fairly normally again — maybe, at least enough to not feel faint.

He was still crying, for some reason he seemed currently incapable of refraining.

A kiss was placed on every single one of his knuckles, then his wrists, and slowly he was pulled forward and forward, kisses being plastered up his arms. 

His inner elbows, then his shoulders.

Zanka ended up with his head resting in between where shoulder met neck — alike earlier.

“So fuckin’ gorgeous.” Jabber murmured, his palm warm against Zanka’s jaw as he kissed everywhere he could, making the sobbing boy need to close his eyes when he felt lips on his skin right above, then his eyelids when closed. “‘M so lucky, ain’t I? Luckiest bastard in the world, I think. Pretty ass boy, fuck man.” He kissed Zanka’s cheek, specifically where the tears had fallen most.

“I love you so much, Zan. Ya have no idea.” The words rumbled against his skin, and he sniffled at the onslaught of praise and compliments, tightening his now free hands in Jabber’s shirt.

“So–“ a kiss on his eye again, “fucking–“ on his nose, “much.” and on his lips.

Zanka let out a small pained whimper, unable to resist himself from wrapping his arms around Jabber’s shoulders, and he was quickly hoisted completely up into his lap. Arms wrapped around him tightly, immense pressure that felt oh, so good.

He nodded, burying himself into the comfortable warmth of his boyfriend.

“Yeah? That’s good?” Jabber hummed, fingers slowly threading through Zanka’s abused hair.

“Yeah.” He whimpered, the noise squeaky and pathetic, but his boyfriend thought it a win, he was talking again.

The voice inside his head remained loud and recognisable, constantly screaming at him to pull it together because he was acting weak, but the irony of it, Zanka couldn’t find the strength to care.

So what if he was weak for one fucking second? He could spiral over that later ( and would ) but right now all he needed was Jabber. His touch, his voice, all those stupid kisses, the pressure of his embrace. His very presence seemed to be the remedy of tonight’s break.

It was all so much, really.

So much that Zanka found himself swallowing another sob, tightening his hold once more.

Jabber hummed above him, soothingly, “why’re you still cryin’ Z?” He asked, confusion and concern evident in his voice.

“I don’t know,” he slurred, the words barely put together due to the sobs.

“Do you wanna head back to the room?” Came a kiss, two kisses to his jaw, so sweet and loving. God. He loved him so much, he really couldn’t take it anymore.

Zanka whimpered, “can’t move.”

“Oh, that makes sense, actually.” Jabber nodded in thought, “‘s like a, uhh, a lockdown, right? Shutdown?”

Weakly, Zanka nodded.

“Alright, well, come on then.” Quickly, his ankles were pushed towards each other behind Jabber’s waist, and his arms slowly guided to hold tighter — then warm hands under his thighs, and he was being hoisted up. “Guess I gotta’ carry ya. Oh no, poor me.”

As much as he desired to protest, Zanka found himself unable to do much more than a small grunt, sniffling in hope to save some face.

He didn’t like this sort of treatment, being taken care of.

Sure, being hugged and sweet-talked was one thing, but he wasn’t helpless. He couldn’t walk right now, because his legs were really weak and they shook like he’d been fucking ambushed, but he’d gain his strength back. He wasn’t paralysed, Jabber should just wait it out.

“I’m fine.” He mumbled, the claim meaningless to the waver in his voice.

“Yeah, you were just sobbin’ yo eyes out, but you’re so fine, aint’cha? You ain’t foolin’ nobody, Z.” Jabber grumbled back, clicking his tongue in displeasure.

“Mrghm….”

“Stop squirming.”

“Let me go.”

“You’ll fall on your ass– or worse, faint.”

“I don’t faint anymore.”

“That’s not- how do you think faintin’ works, oh genius? You think you can magically become immune to being sick? Idiot.”

“You’re being a bitch.”

Jabber kissed his teeth, “and you’re bein’ a fucking baby. Shut up.”

Somewhere deep in his chest, Zanka felt his heart twist painfully. Yeah, maybe he was being overreactive, but– fuck, everything was just so much. 

His stupid fucking brain, making him unable to eat like a normal person. His inability to sleep because his body reacted to his lack of food, making him so exhausted that his emotions didn’t know how to stay within their realm of reality. 

His stupid, stupid boyfriend who refuses to be his impatient bitchy self, no, no instead Jabber has to sit down and be sweet and he has to cook and be patient and carry Zanka because he can’t fucking wa—

“Baby, you for real gotta stop getting in yo head. It’s morning, if you keep spiralling you’ll-“

“I love you.” Zanka whined, tightening his arms and legs to the best of his abilities, practically clinging with everything he had. “I love you so fucking much.”

Jabber paused in his grip, standing still without taking a breath for a moment.

A dry laugh, “stealing my words now, Z? Low blow.”

“I love you.”

“Jesus..” 

“Please.”

He felt the chest against his rising with a deep inhale, then heard it exhaled in a sigh. Jabber adjusted his arms, making one of them lay arm-first under Zanka’s thighs, assuring he had a hand free to rub up his back. “I know. I love you too.” 

____________________

“Here we go!” Jabber sang happily, spinning once before dramatically placing two plates on the table, a proud smile spread on his face. “A genius, is what I am.”

It was a picture-perfect mirror of the day before.

Zanka raised his eyebrow, chin in hand, knees to his chest and sunken deep into the couch. He cautiously eyed the plates, eyes ranking over the simplified meal, something alike familiarity ringing bells in his head.

“Genius for what, exactly?”

“Glad you asked, Z.” His boyfriend chuckled, flopping down into the couch. “I called dear ol’ daddy to help with this crisis–“ he poked Zanka’s temple when he opened his mouth to protest against the use of the word ‘crisis’, “because I ain’t qualified enough to know. I love ya, but I’m still new to this and frankly, Smokeshow knows more than I could.”

A familiar sting of guilt twisted in Zanka’s chest, hearing how Jabber went to the lengths of calling his dad, because he himself didn’t know how to deal with Zanka and his fuckass brain. Pathetic.

“Ey.” Snapped a firm voice, pulling him out of his own head, “‘S no issue, Zan. I love you, get out yo’ fucking head. Anyway, dad-“

“Don’t call him dad, ‘s weird.”

“He’s my father-in-law, ain’t he? Gives me like, a legal right to call him that.”

“It’s really more of an older brother situation, just because he’s my legal gua-“

“Older brother; he says. I know your ass has called him dad, stop playin’ and let me talk.”

Zanka sighed and nodded with defeat.

“So—! Dear Enjin told me that back in da days, whenever your head got all weird ‘n you struggled–“ Zanka bit his cheek hard at the word. Struggled. He didn’t struggle. “– plain toast would usually work, if like.. burned at the correct.. time limit.. I think. I’m tryin’ here.”

Trying. Jabber was trying, he always tried so fucking hard for a man who barely gave a shit about anything, but when it came to Zanka.. 

“You don’t have to do all that.” He whispered weakly, annoyed at himself for causing this.

Jabber blinked, tilted his head so a lock swung over his magenta eyes, “Don’t hafta to what? Make toast? I’m plenty capable of making toast, Baby.”

A loud groan erupted deep from within Zanka’s tightened chest. 

A sudden burst of rage, perhaps only frustration, bubbled out of him. He didn’t know from where, but the rational part of his brain reminded him that not eating makes the average human grumpy, if no other word fits better. He was grumpy. He was angry.

“You don’t have to call Enjin or— or try to find out what fucking food I can eat or how to make it or- I don’t fucking know, get up in the middle of the night because I can’t pull myself together enough to eat just because a fucking chocolate bar had melted slightly like some pathetic whi–“

“Boy,” Jabber sighed, then corrected himself when Zanka grimaced, “Baby, quit allat. Deadass, I don’t give a fuck. So what if I called him?”

“I don’t need you burdening yourself because I don’t work.”

“You don’t work?” He echoed, “Fuck does that even mean?” — there was an unusual hint of venom in his voice, like Jabber was truly offended at the concept of Zanka even remotely degrading himself.

Zanka leaned forward, rubbing hard at his face with rough palms, spreading his thighs away from each other and catching a stray scent of the toast from the table. He vaguely registered how his mouth watered. 

He couldn’t tell if it was from hunger or nausea.

“My brain is fucked up, I freak out over food. ‘S not normal.”

And yet, he insisted.

Zanka Nijiku did not have an eating disorder.

“This again? Z, Christ.” Came the expected reaction, “Everybody freaks out over somethin’, y’know that. I freak out over shit.”

He shook his head, “You freak out over things that are normal.”

“Eh..” Jabber shrugged, “What defines anythin’ as normal anyway. I think about gettin’ murdered by a drunk driver and think ‘Fuck yeah, need that soon as possible, thanks.’ Or I have a nightmare ‘bout mom. Is that normal?”

“Yeah.” Zanka nodded, “Yeah it’s normal to have nightmares about your dead mother, J.”

“Okay, arguably that should be subjective, but sure, humor me. What about the murder thing? That normal for ya?” Jabber was balancing on his own patience, a thin line being strained from a pull from each end. One that said ‘you know he struggles, it’s not his fault’ and another that said, ‘he isn’t even trying to let himself breathe’. 

Jabber wasn’t a patient man, but he was a patient boyfriend. That patience, however, was indeed running thin.

“Being passively suicidal is a common thing for individuals who have experienced traumati-“

And it snapped.

“Enough with your fuckin’ logistics!” He groaned so impossibly loud, the exhaustion very present in his voice,  “That’s my point, Z. It’s all normal, it’s all equally fucked up. Eating disorders are common for shitheads who have controlling issues, and that’s only one reason out of five fucking hundred and a ton of different disorders! Why the fuck are you beating yourself up over this?”

Silence stretched heavily, Jabber staring with wide furious eyes at his boyfriend who refused to meet him halfway, instead looking down at his open palms.

“Fucking answer.”’

“…”

“You want logistics? You want facts? You, Zanka my guy, are autistic. You’ve got crazy fuckin’ brainworms that you think controls ya because you’re stupid.” Jabber huffed, arms up in gesture to emphasise his point. “You have trauma, because you love to bring up the shit that does to one’s head, it fucks you up. Your words. You like patterns ‘n you like familiarity, no fucking shit you’re gon’ lose your mind when your schedule goes out of order.”

“…”

“That’s normal.”

“It’s not.” Zanka weakly protested.

“Fuck, I’m so tired of you.” His boyfriend groaned, “Why won’t you understand—“

“Why won’t you understand?!” He shouted, his voice dragging up the needles in his throat as he stood up, the table rattling from how his knee bumped into it with the sudden movement. “Okay, maybe you’re right, oh wise one, maybe it’s not as weird as I’m making it out to be but it sucks, okay? I need food, everyone needs food but I’m terrified of it–! It scares the shit out of me, every time I eat I dread it even when it’s food I like because I never know I never know.”

Not at all faced by the outburst, Jabber vaguely gestured to continue.

Usually he’d take the bait, rise to the same level of volume, but he’d frankly just wanted Zanka to talk, to fucking open up or whatever, so he’d count his current predicament a win.

“Maybe it’s normal to be scared by food, but it’s inconvenient. You can be scared of the dark or- or of heights, something, I don’t know, but you can avoid that! You can find ways around it but I can’t.. I can’t avoid food, I have to eat.”

Jabber nodded, “Yeah. You have to.”

“And so obviously it messes with my head!”

The two stared at each other in silence for a little bit, one panting with furious eyes and a tone laced with rage, the other already calmed down now only left with a face of something akin to boredom. Underneath it lay a skin full of truth, of the understanding Jabber always held in his heart for Zanka.

With a nod, Jabber stood up.

He took a step towards Zanka, gently grabbed his hands, and forced him back to the couch again.

“That was my point, dumbass.” He sighed, brushing some of Zanka’s disheveled and wild hair behind his ear. “I told ya, it’s normal to freak out. What’s the problem is that you think it’s an issue for me, an issue in general, really. Obviously it messes with yo head,” he repeated Zanka’s words, “Was the whole thing I was tryna tell ya.”

A frown etched its way onto his features, looking away with a hint of shame. 

“You’re fine. I just want you to stop thinkin’ for a second and take a fucking bite. We clear?”

He nodded, unable to fight.

“Good.”

____________________

It was approximately four hours later when Jabber left to get lunch with Fu, and Zanka found himself paralysed on the bathroom floor.

Okay, paralysed was dragging it, but moving was out of the question for now.

He’d managed to eat the toast, might as well have said table grace with how relieved his body felt for that sole half an hour of having something — until that, of course, like everything else, went away.

The nausea came back, worse this time, and so did the turmoil in his head.

Zanka was used to fighting with Jabber, seriously. 

They were both hotheaded and competitive, often finding themselves caught up in scoffs and sarcastic remarks until eventually one of them made the mature choice to leave, though that usually took quite the while.

Being used to the fighting also meant that it didn’t leave that large of an imprint on his heart, if even any. 

It was how they were — and they prided themselves in being a happy couple, because they were, but that didn’t remove the toxic aspects of each their personalities. Neither of them wished for that, either, since that was what had brought them together in the first place. Fighting.

Which was why Zanka couldn’t figure out why, why his throat felt so tight, each time he swallowed it was around a lump of bile.

Zanka didn’t have an eating disorder.

He just sometimes got sick.

So here he sat, hunched close between the sink and bath to feel scrunched by his own bad choices. Jabber, admittedly, was… right. Maybe.

Zanka in general hated saying that, even if it sometimes ( more than often ) happened to be the truth. He hated losing arguments and hated admitting to his wrongs, though right now he could only sigh and think ‘he has a right to be mad.’

‘But so do I.’

His point was as correct as Jabber’s perhaps was — he couldn’t avoid food, it was something he needed by general human nature yet he was irrational and it scared him. That made him one thing and one thing alone, broken. Putting it simply, as least.

Jabber too had a decent perspective, but Zanka found himself too angry ( and somehow also too guilt ridden ) to go through that right now. 

Instead, he landed on his other source of comfort. 

Zanka did not have an eating disorder.

Some foods just made him feel like the world was ending.

“Yo,” clicked the phone in his hand, the line connecting before he even processed the ringing itself despite having been the initiating one, “What’s up?”

“Hey.” He sighed, running a hand down his face, “Do you mind?”

There was some shuffling on the other end, “Nah, no biggie. Lemme go to my room real quick,” Riyo hummed, her footsteps soundly making their way. A door clicked shut, and a loud flop of sheets rumbled, “Alright, what’s up? You good?”

In the silence of his bathroom, Zanka tapped idly on his knee, trying to formulate his thoughts into words.

“We fought.” He went with — it seemed like the easiest explanation to start with, something that was usual and not hard to admit.

He could practically see her blank blinking as static ran through his head. “Ooooo-kay. Like, bad? You don’t usually get weird about fighting.”

A groan, “I know.”

“So. What’s new?”

“He– I just, it was— ugh-!”

“Yo, Zanka.” She interrupted his horrible attempt at being a normal functioning person and just talking, his voice completely failing him and instead stuttering through half finished words. “Seriously, calm down. What happened?”

Taking a deep breath to regulate, he opened his eyes to stare at the floor tiles.

“I haven’t been eating.”

Zanka was capable of telling his sister that because she’s seen the meltdowns before, the panic attacks too — frankly, she’s the one he’s most able to talk to about it because she doesn’t lower her voice with worry and concern.

He knows she feels it, knows that Enjin will be informed because she worries about as much as he does if not more, but she has a strange talent for not making Zanka feel guilty, which is why he can do this.

“Okay,” she said calmly, her voice only gone from worried that he was panicking to calm understanding, no pity shit she knew he didn’t need, “Why?”

“I don’t know. Bad day.” Great explanation, Zanka, good job! Fucking idiot.

“Uh-huh. Could you elaborate on that? Jabber usually seems pretty decent at handling the bad days, don’t see why you guys would fight over that now.” 

He cringed at the word ‘handling’, like he was a child who people had to work around to not set off.

He also knew it wasn’t meant that way.

“He made noodles.” Zanka started simple, trying to make his way through his memories. “I thought I could eat them. Couldn’t.”

Zanka didn’t have an eating disorder.

He just sometimes couldn’t eat.

“Huh, that’s a first.”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, so you couldn’t eat the noodles.”

“And then, ugh, I woke up at like- I don’t even know, 5 AM? Maybe? Earlier? Don’t remember, but it hurt so fucking bad, so I– y’know, went to get food.”

“Sure.”

“Found a chocolate bar.”

“You’re usually good at those.”

“Yeah well, guess not. It was melted and— it’s not even- it’s pathetic, it’s not like some melted chocolate is a problem but I was just.. I was so fucking overwhelmed already so I lost my shit and just- in the kitchen–“

“You’re riling yourself up, take a breather, dude.”

Nodding, Zanka took a deep breath.

“Better?”

“Mhm.”

“Right, so what, you had a meltdown?”

He hummed another affirmative noise.

“And he.. didn’t take that well? Was that what caused the argument?”

“No,” he sighed, “he made toast.”

“…. Okay. Toast.”

“He called Enjin.”

In his head, that seemed fairly self-explanatory. Jabber shouldn’t have called Enjin, he shouldn’t have had to.

“…”

Zanka rolled his eyes at the silence, “I got mad. I guess.”

“Because he called someone who knows how to deal with it?”

“No–! Because, because I- I don’t want to, like. I don’t-“

“Is this about your whole ‘oh no I’m burdening everybody’ thing again? Zanka, the guy was probably just unsure on what to do and—“

“Well that’s it! He doesn’t know, you know he’s- he’s not equipped to deal with me.”

“He’s your boyfriend.”

“Exactly, not my dad.”

“‘S not like you let your dad take much more care of you, is it?”

He sighed once more, exhaustion wearing him down as he rubbed at his tired face. “We just- we fought. That’s it.”

On the other side, Riyo reciprocated his exhaustion and let out a weary sigh of her own. “Are you okay?” Regardless of her obvious tiredness, her question was as genuine as it could get.

“Yeah.” He mumbled, then repeated it more firmly, “Yeah, I am. I just needed..” he trailed off, hand waving in gesture in the air despite Riyo not being able to see, yet it seemed she got the message somehow anyway.

“I know, I get it. Have you thought about calling Enjin, though? Like for real, I know you’re not always about doing that but if you’re really struggling with it, it might be your best bet.”

She was right, yet there wasn’t an ounce of him that wanted to agree to that. 

“I’ll.. maybe, I don’t know.” He replied quietly, unsure. “I’ll, yeah.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He lied.

“‘Kay, that’s good. You want me to stay on the line?”

God, what was he, a child? A toddler on the helpline? He wasn’t.. Christ.

“No, no it’s fine. Thanks.” I just needed to feel at home again.

“Sure, always. Are you coming to visit home soon?” His sister asked, like she could read his mind even worlds apart. Well, a fifteen minute car ride apart. I wish, he thought regardless.

Clenching his fist, Zanka tried very, very hard to keep a whimper in — to his credit, he was fairly sure the noise that escaped was small enough for Riyo not to catch it.

He was being dumb. 

What was he even crying over this time? His own lack of understanding? Guilt? Homesickness? He didn’t know, god he had no idea.

“Mhm.” He nodded, raking a hand through his hair, “This weekend?”

“That sounds good. See you then, Zanka. Love you.”

His shoulders shook as he dragged on his eyebags, “love you, too.” Mumbled he, barely even aware of it before he placed the phone front-facing down to the floor.

Fuck, he was pathetic. This was pathetic, all of it.

The worst problem was that a part of him just really wanted to pick up his phone again and ask Jabber to come home, because god was his nausea bad, and Zanka was honestly no less terrified of throwing up than of food itself.

Not that he particularly wanted Jabber to see him in that state, but he wished even less to be alone with it.

He glanced down at his phone, momentarily considering calling Enjin like Riyo had suggested. He had technically said he would but.. well, it just— he couldn’t. He’d already pissed Jabber off, and he was used to that yet he felt like pure shit right now, he couldn’t risk making it worse by possibly annoying Enjin and spiralling over that as well. 

Even if there was a faint but loud childish voice in his head that knocked against his skull.

I want dad.

In the deepest pit of his stomach, he felt it turn and squirm, his gut wishing to spill from his very body.

A groan which came out more as a pathetic whimper clawed its way up his throat, and he spread his knees from each other even though it ruined his perfected folded form.

Zanka blinked up to the weak light of their bathroom when he noticed his own breathing pattern, ragged and too quick for what it was supposed to.

Why? He didn’t know.

Did he ever know anything?

Despite being awfully aware of how not good he felt, it wasn’t the same sense of panic that’d make him spiral, or sadness deep enough to break him down, so something else was wrong. His body had an issue his brain had yet to catch up on.

His fingers crawled their way down to the cold tiles, feeling the calming temperature as his own slowly rose with a rapid pace.

Was he having a heart attack?

The sweat started gathering on his forehead, but frankly he couldn’t tell right from left anymore — Zanka had no way of knowing whether the sweat was due to the anxiety building inside of him or due to his body’s already-placed problem that he didn’t know of.

Like a secret that he wasn’t being let in on.

Your body is a temple, or whatever the fuck the saying was, and Zanka wasn’t allowed to even look inside the stupid fucking temple.

A small peak would be helpful, but no, nothing.

A familiar feeling tucked him in, and in spite of how uncomfortable it was, he let out a sigh of relief at being able to know what one thing meant, at the very least. That high-strung, sickening pull that made his chest oh so very tight.

Reality, however, still seemed to be slipping from in between his fingertips, leaving his world blurry and uncoordinated.

It was only at the very last second, when his mouth started filling with enough saliva that he’d possibly gag and choke on it, that Zanka thought, ah, that’s right.

Fuck.

____________________

“Babe!” Jabber called out as he clicked the door shut, leaning behind to get his shoe off, “M’home!”

He didn’t think too much of the silence, getting his other shoe off and heading towards the kitchen for a glass of water.

He was dying of thirst.

“I know it’s early,” He grabbed a glass, moving smoothly towards the sink in the same way his movements always were, like liquid in a wave, “Riyo texted me.”

Still nothing? Pfft, he was probably pissed at his sister. Fair enough. Zanka didn’t like the little system his family had when it came to his eating habits, Jabber could sympathise.

Swallowing down the cold water and feeling refreshed from having ( admittedly ) hurried home, he glanced up from the sink — he didn’t want to seem worried, that wasn’t his style, but Riyo had a way of making his heart beat to an unusual rhythm.

Three quick beats, three long beats, three quick beats.

• •• — — — •••

    S. O. S 

“Z?” Jabber called out, but the apartment seemed empty in a way it never did, like not only had Zanka left it but his soul with him. Weird. 

Now, Jabber Wonger wasn’t a guy who quote on quote ‘freaked out’, he had a talent for keeping a cool head because of his carefree nature, but the one thing that could make alarm bells ring in his head was Zanka fucking Nijiku.

A suicidal knows a suicidal.

Which meant that in a moment of silence, the what if’s started to arise. What if, what if, what if.

What if… Jesus, no. Come on, get real, Jabber. 

But even then, what if?

He sighed, making his way out from the kitchen to head towards their bedroom, “Still pissed from the fight?” An awful attempt at getting Zanka to speak, but riling him up was better than.. silence, really, “Be as pissed as you wanna, Zan, but we have a fuckin’ deal ‘bout that silent shit.”

Nothing.

Nothing.

Jabber was gonna fucking kill him for making him anxious over nothing, fuck.

Riyo hadn’t even seemed worried, just a meaningless “Zanka’s being weird, go home.” — and he wasn’t one to follow orders either, but when family of his boyfriend told him to go home, well Jabber was gonna go the fuck home.

“Jesus.” He cursed, opening their bedroom door. Unexpectedly, Zanka was not there.

Had he seriously left the apartment? Oh that dick.

Thinking that just because they fought he gets to run? Sure, Jabber had gone out, but that was a previously planned lunch! He shouldn’t be expected to cancel his plans just because they fought, if anything they both agreed on taking time and space to themselves to cool down.

If he was gonna leave, he could’ve left a fucking message at leas-

“Gn-ugh..”

Jabber paused, and for the smallest second his blood ran as cold as it could, practically giving him goosebumps as his head snapped towards the bathroom where the pained and weak cough came from.

Oh, that was bad. That was a bad sign. Probably.

A second, more firm but nonetheless still weak cough surfaced. If he had to put it into words, Jabber would say it sounded almost.. gurgling, as if choking. Oh, choking, okay, shit.

His fingers twitched, feeling the denim of his pants and momentarily going over whether he should have Riyo or Enjin on the line in case– okay.

Deep breath, nothing was wrong.

“Zanka?” He called out this time, his steps slower no matter how badly he wished to run towards that fucking bathroom. “Baby, everythin’ good?”

A cough, a heave and a gag.

Mmmmm… okay.

He could so do this, obviously Zanka was– he was fucking fine, in no world would he randomly overdose in their bathroom, Jabber knew his boyfriend.

Down to every cell and twitch of his body, which meant he knew that 1. Zanka wouldn’t kill himself  in their apartment, and 2. He wouldn’t swallow a shitton of pills. He’d– fucking hang himself, or jump from a bridge, he didn’t do pills.

Finally, he reached the door, even if it felt like ages had gone by, and part of him wanted to leave the apartment.

Jabber wanted to turn tail and never look back, because the what ifs were a bit too grand this time around. The what if was one he’d rather run from, but alas, he could not.

So, he opened the fucking door.

“Za- oh, h-holy fucking shit,” he stammered ( when did he ever stammer? ) out, staring at the display. 

On the floor, lay Zanka. 

That was one thing, if it wasn’t for the absolute pool of vomit he was drowning in, jesus fuck. 

Part of it was in his hair, his fingers lay twitching and covered in puke, while the strings of drool running down his mouth was no less full of bile. How— how could he even throw up this sickening amount? He hadn’t fucking eaten.

“Zan, what the fuck,” Jabber whispered with wide eyes. Panic panic panic rising in his throat, and he almost doubled over to add to the mess.

He was used to vomit, being a recurring drug user who hung around the same kinda people — he was used to vomit because Jabber himself had woken up in a pool of it from his own attempt years ago.

This was different, something was different, Zanka hadn’t tried to kill himself.

Then why? 

Jabber knelt down, uncaring of the squelch and how his knees soaked in warm sick, and he reached out to the trembling body. 

His finger which barely felt like his own gently tucked Zanka’s hair away from his face in hope of seeing his eyes and gathering how bad this was. He let out the loudest sigh of relief he’d ever heard himself make when weakly and shakingly, Zanka’s eyes lifted to meet his.

Conscious, then. Okay.

“Hey, babe.” He choked a little, fuck this was scary. Jabber had never been scared before, not after his mom died — would this feel like that? He couldn’t deal with that again, he wouldn’t.

Jabber had detached himself from any attachment after his mom died because he refused to ever, ever go through that again, but the world had different plans when Zanka stumbled into his life, and he knew Zanka was as suicidal as Jabber himself was, if not more, but— he hadn’t.. shit.

But this wasn’t an attempt, Jabber knew that, how? That he didn’t know, but his radars hadn’t gone off. 

“Can you hear me?” He tried, because that seemed like his best bet at the moment. If Zanka couldn’t, then he’d dial a fucking ambulance. If he could, then he’d figure it out from there. Fine, it was all fine.

Keep a calm head, Jabber. You know how to do that.

Zanka’d had such a bad few days, not being able to eat, having a meltdown, and then they fought and now — fuck, why’d they even fight? Why do they ever fucking fight?

Glassy eyes blinked, and for a terrifying second Jabber thought he was going under, but they opened again. That didn’t help as much as he wished it would.

Paralyzation, maybe?

“M’gonna grab your hand,” he warned, gently squeezing around a hand as wet with puke as his own, and before he could instruct his way through this, the hand squeezed back. Thank god.

“Yeah? Y’can hear?”

Squeeze.

He could fucking cry with the relief that stormed through him.

“Okay, that’s good..” Jabber sighed, and while he didn’t think so ( knew so ), he really had to ask. “Did’ya take anything?”

…

“No?”

Squeeze.

He nodded, running a hand down his face, the one that wasn’t covered in vomit. Not that he cared at the moment, but the smell was quite overpowering, there was so much.

What was he supposed to ask?

‘Did you throw up?’ Boo, no shit Jabber.

So not that.

“Can you move?” Yeah, that seemed better. Probably. He didn’t fucking know anymore.

…

Sure, sure. Deep breaths.

“Okay.” Jabber nodded, trying to unravel his own panic calmly to not startle Zanka who was.. in some state, he didn’t know, how coherent was he? Was he in a childlike space? Or maybe he was in that floaty state, or- or maybe he was panicking but couldn’t show it because of his incapacity to move.

“M’gonna wash you up, ‘kay Z? You’re covered in puke, ‘s a fuckin’ mess, really.” Then, because he should probably make sure, “Anything hurts?”

Zanka weakly whimpered, something that sounded so effortless with how empty and barely-there it was, yet he looked as if it took all the energy he had left.

“Yeah, I bet.” 

Jabber knew that Zanka had an eating disorder.

Has known, for years now.

He didn’t remember when the thought first crossed his mind, not really — it took him a while to even give a shit about Zanka on more than a ‘shit he’s hot, wonder if he can take me in a fight’ surface level.

Then the guy outright fainted, and yeah, one can faint for many reasons, but it didn’t take a genius to find out.

Especially not when Enjin told Jabber like it was the most normal thing in the world. 

‘He has a food thing, doesn’t eat sometimes.’

‘What, like that anorexia shit? Have I been fighting a starvin’ guy?’

‘No, no. It’s a sensory thing.’

Jabber also knew that Zanka didn’t think he had an eating disorder.

The hand in his squeezed with as much strength as possible, which was barely any, but he appreciated the effort. 

Zanka didn’t think he had an eating disorder because he’d always linked those labels up with bodily image issues, sticking fingers down your throat and counting calories.

And well, sure, those are as much eating disorders as any — quite frankly the most known too, but he refused to see how despising certain sensations to the point of starving for days, to the point of throwing up, could possibly circle back to him having an eating disorder.

Not like Jabber ever gave a fuck about those things, he didn’t struggle with food, nobody he knew did either, so he had no reason what so ever to care.

Until he, somehow, magically, unbelievably, managed to do the impossible.

Jabber Wonger fell in love with Zanka Nijiku.

How? No idea. Why? No idea either. When? Absolutely no idea.

But regardless, he was a committed man, as much as his boyfriend was a stubborn one — which led to their current predicament. A relationship.

Which led to the actual current situation, see also; Zanka in a pool of his own vomit.

An outrageous amount too, seriously. He’d eaten a toast, nobody on such an empty stomach should scientifically be capable of throwing up like they’d devoured a fucking feast.

To his credit, it was more wet than full, and more clear than not. His lack of intake was clear, even if the amount of liquid his body had thrown up seemed unlikely.

“Bet ya feelin’ like shit, huh? Come on.” He sighed, slipping an arm under Zanka and ignoring how wet everything was. His other arm gently crawled in under his knees, hoisting the boy up with ease. 

Zanka had always been so awfully light, despite his muscle. Practically all his bodily fat was muscle, none to just .. be. An unhealthy ratio, but he wasn’t medically endangered. 

“There ya go,” Jabber hummed carefully, letting out a little grunt as he stepped forward, he freed one hand and adjusted Zanka to rummage the cupboard over their sink. They had cloths in there, surely. “Shutdowns ain’t ever funny, but while throwin’ up? Yikes.”

After wetting the found cloth and letting out another deep sigh, he sat down on the closed toilet lid, a lap-full of Zanka with him. 

Gently, he started wiping away the sick. “Let me know when yer a bit more.. here, I guess.”

____________________

Zanka didn’t have an eating disorder.

He just sometimes didn’t eat until he fainted.

Zanka did not have an eating disorder.

He just sometimes threw up because of how repulsive it felt to be full.

But,

But.

____________________

Zanka came about feeling like the very fucking world had exploded inside the small space of his head.

Everything would’ve spun, had he had near the energy needed to open his eyes. He could feel it, like he was in a boat stuck in a typhoon, rocking back and forth until he became sea sick and doubled over.

That seriously couldn’t be healthy — had he died? Was he dying? 

“Guh..,” he grunted weakly, unable to make sense of anything due to the throbbing headache that quite literally clouded his vision, making him see milk-white clouds in place of the dark room he actually was in when he finally managed to open his eyes, if even just a little.

Somewhere far away, he could recognise the pitter-patter sound of raindrops, though the sound remained as if through glass, perhaps even an ocean away.

An ocean where he could breathe, where he could stick his head up above the surface and take a deep inhale before diving under again.

“—th me?”

“Hm?” Zanka hummed in question at the voice that managed to cut through the fog, if only slightly. 

“You with me, Z?”

It was as familiar as ever — he racked his hurting brain through memories to place the voice, blurred images of something magenta, something purple…

.

.

.

Jabber.

“J?”

“Yeah.” Sighed the man in pure relief, “Jesus fuckin’ christ, ‘bout time.”

Time seemed to have slowed to a snail’s pace, almost unbearable with the sheer quietness of it all, the only thing Zanka could still hear other than his boyfriend breathing was— “is it raining?”

“Hm?” Jabber looked down, Zanka’s head resting limply on his shoulder, “Oh, nah. I found one of those uh- the audio shit, that sometimes helps when ya can’t sleep. I thought it’d be like.. relaxin’, or whatever.”

A small, not-even-really present smile spread on his face, and his body fell even more unusable. “S’nice.”

“Yeah? Das’ good. ‘S good. Yeah.”

With the strength that he, fairly, did not possess, Zanka tilted his head up to find Jabber no longer having his gaze on him, instead zoning towards a blank spot in the wall. His fingers idly stroked up along the skin of Zanka’s arm, but no thought was put into it, as if merely mindless fidgeting.

“J?”

“Hm?”

“Y’good?” He asked hoarsely, trying and failing to blink away the sleep and plain exhaustion dragging on his eyelids.

Zanka still sort of felt as if he was carrying the sun on his back, the moon on his shoulder. He was gonna fall over in a second, truly much too weak to carry such weights.

But, feeling like death wasn’t gonna distract him from making sure.

Jabber hummed non-committedly again, “Yeah. Yeah m’just– yeah. Sorry, what?”

Okay, that didn’t seem quite great — likely wasn’t. He seemed almost entirely out of it which.. no, sure, that wasn’t unusual, when he was on something. Jabber was prone to losing hours of time in his head, had he been smoking or sniffing, but Zanka had a hunch he had in fact not been doing either of those in the time he was .. passed out? Had he passed out?

For how long?

He shook the thought off.

“I asked if you’re fine.” It came out more firm this time, but didn’t quite escape the hurt of his throat. Ow.

“Oh.” Jabber nodded, not answering for a few seconds. The time stretch wasn’t in intent, he wasn’t purposefully ignoring the question — he just completely lost it the second it had been asked. “Yeah.”

Right, okay.

He would’ve groaned, had it not come out wrong if he did, but seriously, dragging his body up felt like he was entering an active war zone.

Everything was so sore.

“Jab,” Zanka tried again, “Did– ah. Did I—“

“Nah, no. No no.” Jabber shook his head, interrupting, but his eyes stayed in place. Zanka couldn’t tell if the too-quick reply was because he knew what his question was gonna be, or if he didn’t wanna find out. “You didn’t do anythin’, Z. Nothing at all.” 

The latter, then.

“I was gonna ask if I scared you, fucker.”

…

“Nothing scares me.”

It was a weak defense, Jabber was well aware of that. He hadn’t even attempted to make it believable, the statement coming out whispered and empty. Nonetheless, he couldn’t find it in himself to swallow his pride and nod, ‘yes. I was terrified.’ 

Partly it was because he was more than knowledgeable on the fact that he was being completely irrational. He had known Zanka wasn’t trying to kill himself, he had been conscious and his pulse had been steady.

But.

But.

There had been that one moment when Jabber opened the door, and his gaze snapped to Zanka’s limp body, soaking up his own vomit and practically drowning in it — the drool down his face, his eyes too covered to find any life in .. and Jabber had thought,

Not again.

Surely he had some rationality in having been terrified. Had he not been, and Zanka was actually in life-threatening danger, wouldn’t that have been worse?

Being scared in a situation that doesn’t call for it, is significantly better than not caring in a situation of danger.

Regardless, he couldn’t look down at Zanka and admit that for a weak moment, Jabber had sort of wanted to fall to his knees and sob like a toddler who’d found his mom done over by pills.

That he for a moment wanted to scream like a teenager who had tried to follow in her footsteps, but failed unlike her.

For a moment, like an adult who was about to lose the love of his life like he’d lost everybody else.

So what? He was scared, sue him.

“I don’t know. I’d be pretty freaked if the roles were reversed.” Zanka said, wanting to shut up the part of his boyfriend’s brain that convinced him being scared was an unusual reaction to this. “Don’t even ‘emember w’happened.” He mumbled, rubbing at his face but still leaning into Jabber’s open frame.

His breath hitched momentarily, but he was quick to cough it off.

“Y’passed out. After throwing up.”

“Ugh..” Zanka groaned in mild disgust, he could recall the throwing up part, but his brain had cut off after that. The sensation still crawled in his throat. “S’fucking disgusting.”

“A bit.” Jabber replied mindlessly. “Didn’t matter.”

Silence spared them a moment of thinking, each on their own part. 

Had Jabber cleaned him up? Had he been sitting here for hours on end, waiting for Zanka to be okay again?

“I was—“

“Why were you throwin’ up?”

…. “Huh?”

“Were you— what was– why? Why were you pukin’ your fuckin’ guts out, Zanka?”

He blinked, completely blank. “Uh– I don’t.. know? I was… nauseous, I guess?”

Jabber sighed loudly, closing his eyes shut and clenching his jaw in clear frustration before he opened them again, tilting his head down to see Zanka still in his arms, in between his spread thighs.

“You were nauseous, you guess.” He echoed, “maybe because you hadn’t eaten a fuckin’ thing, think about that?”

Zanka’s brows furrowed uncomfortably, the smallest hint of anger flaring up in his chest again at the rough tone. “I did eat.”

“Oh yeah, a toast. Means you got all yer fuckin’ nutritions and— ‘n full, was your belly full, huh? Felt full?”

“I did.”

“Bullshit, y’cant feel full on a piece of toast.”

“I did, that was why I threw up!” Well, not really — but if he would shut up for just a moment and listen-

“Oh— so you willingly made yourself throw up?” Jabber snapped, like he’d hit the point he was aiming at. Ah. He was coaxing answers out of Zanka by making him mad, by cornering him until he had to defend himself. Alright.

“No, J. I don’t do that. I was- the- I,” He sighed, breathing to regulate again for a moment, “I was freaking out, and then I threw up. It was some- anxiety response.”

Jabber narrowed his eyes, as if trying to figure out how truthful he was being.

To Zanka’s credit, he was genuinely telling the truth.

He did throw up sometimes because feeling full was frankly the worst feeling in the world, but that was his body’s automatic response. He didn’t stick two saliva-slick fingers down his throat and gag until he spilled — when his stomach felt uncomfortably filled to the brim, he merely had to let his knees buckle, and he’d be heaving over the toilet.

It was horrible, he’d even argue that throwing up almost felt worse than the full feeling. Anything unsanitary made Zanka’s eye twitch, and throwing up especially.

Which, yeah. Sometimes he avoided food because he was scared of throwing up.

That didn’t mean he had an eating disorder.

Zanka didn’t have an eating disorder.

He just didn’t like throwing up.

But he didn’t like feeling full either, and sometimes you simply had to pick your battles. But even if all of that was true, today had been none of that — his body had thrown up to have an outlet from his anxiety. It was either that, or a full blown panic attack.

Again, pick your battles.

“Alright, yeah– sorry, fuck.” Jabber rubbed at his face, still frustrated but picking up that his reason for lashing out was invalidated. “I just— I wasn’t there.”

Zanka stayed silent for a moment before opening his mouth, closing it, opening it again. “I’m not a toddler, I don’t need to be on a watchlist. I don’t need a babysitter.”

A laugh, manic and wet, bubbled out of Jabber. “But the second you aren’t, you puke and pass the fuck out! What am I supposed to take from that if not to keep a fuckin’ eye on’ya?”

He bit his lip, his cheek, his tongue. A familiar metallic taste started flowing in his mouth, and Zanka swallowed his guilt with it.

“I woke up, didn’t I? It was fine.”

“It wasn’t- isn’t fine. You can’t— it’s not, that’s not fuckin’ fair, Z. You don’t get to- to- I don’t even.. you just.. what if you died or- or choked in yer own vomit, ‘n I didn’t come home soon enough or—“

“Jabber.”

“I wasn’t there.”

“And I’m fine.”

“But you weren’t.” 

Jabber’s face did something it never had before, it sort of.. it had this odd sense of crumpling, the same look of someone about to burst into tears but he was, in fact, not. Jabber didn’t cry, not really, yet this might be the closest thing Zanka had seen him come to it.

“J. Babe. Seriously, everything is okay. I’m okay.” Zanka said, generously softer than his tone had been before. “I’m sorry.”

Another chuckle, weak and disoriented, escaped Jabber with no attempt to hold it back. “Sorry for what?”

“For scaring you.” He replied, no hesitation what-so-ever.

Jabber clenched his jaw once more, eyes zeroing in on the spot on the drywall, using that as an anchor to his own emotions. You didn’t scare me, he wanted to say. 

I wasn’t scared.

But he was though, wasn’t he? Terribly so.

“I know.” He replied instead.

Zanka nodded, leaning forward again to nuzzle into Jabber’s neck — and screw him if it didn’t tear down his walls immediately. Zanka knew that as well as Jabber did. Cheater.

“I just want you to eat, Zan.”

“I know.” Zanka echoed his words back to him.

“You didn’t eat yesterday and y’threw up what ya did eat today. You gotta.”

“I know.”

Zanka Nijiku didn’t have an eating disorder.

He just sometimes worried everybody who cared about him.

“Okay.” Jabber nodded, threading his fingers through Zanka’s hair. “Let’s get ya some water. A painkiller, maybe. How’s yer head?” The anger hadn’t faded completely, but the concern was overpowering the part of him that wanted to continue screaming

Zanka shook his head, “Fucking horrible. Throbbing.”

“I bet.” He sighed, pressing a kiss to the apparently painful temple of his boyfriend. “Food?”

Food didn’t at all sound appealing at the moment, much less appetising. Zanka didn’t want to eat, had zero desire in his body or mind to claw down on a feast at the moment, yet he couldn’t quite ignore the painful rumble that wrapped around his stomach.

He was hungry. Even if he didn’t wish to eat.

But god, was it so, so difficult. He had just thrown up, and now he was supposed to trust himself with food yet again? What if he threw up once more, or the food felt wrong on his tongue?

As irrational as it was, true terror shuddered through his body at the thought.

“Baby.” Jabber called out to him, a sigh, “I get it, y’know I do. But nothin’ is gon’happen. And if it does, then m’here, or we can call Smokeshow.”

He was right, Zanka knew that, but.. but. What if. 

Yes, Jabber was here, but what would he do? What could he do? 

Yes, they could call Enjin. They could call Riyo, they could call Rudo, Gris, anybody in the fucking world but what could they do? Even Enjin, who usually knew what to do based on years of experience, still struggled when Zanka was throwing up, because really, what could he do?

Was Zanka panicking, he could calm him down.

Was he refusing to eat, he could convince him.

But those were all mental, something that could be controlled — if Zanka was throwing up, nothing was to be done. And he was frankly horrified by the thought. 

“Zan, nothing’s gonna happen.”

“But—“

“You threw up today because of anxiety, ‘Kay? If you work thru’ it, ‘n don’t eat until you feel sick, ya won’t throw up.”

Jabber, once again, the self-proclaimed genius he was, was right.

If Zanka didn’t eat until his stomach felt like it was gonna explode, even if it only took a very small amount to get there, his body wouldn’t throw up automatically — and if he did not freak out, his mind wouldn’t force his panic out through his mouth.

He was capable, he had to be, because the fatigue from two days with nothing was making his head spin, making the world blurry and his emotions out of control.

Zanka hated what starving did to him.

And yet, he couldn’t stop, could he?

“You’re gonna be fine.”

Was he?… yeah, maybe. Probably. From experience, the eating was barely even ever the problem, it was always how his mind ran — oh, I feel so full. God, this taste is nauseating. Fuck, m’gonna throw up. 

Eating wasn’t an issue, his brain was. 

But that wasn’t quite true either, because the texture and the scent played its own role just as much as his awful thoughts did, so he had no place in blaming it all on himself. Eating was a two-player game, and instead of teaming up, Zanka had been born on a different field.

However, he had no food left in him as of now, and he was too tired to panic.

No food meant that it took significantly longer, more effort, for him to feel so full that nausea creeped up on him uninvited — being too tired to panic meant that his brain had no business making him throw his guts up either.

So, yeah. Zanka would be okay. It was gonna be okay.

“Baby.”

“Mm.”

“I love you, Z. S’gonna be fine, just a few bites, aight? Please.”

Please.

“Yeah.” Just a few bites. That was manageable. “Yeah, I love you, too.”

Zanka Nijiku did not have an eating disorder.

But if he did .. he’d manage it, probably.