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Jabber feels like a grimy, twisted rag, leaving a trail of crimson drops as he drags his feet, his arms hanging at his sides. The side of his face throbs, his stomach feels sunken from the number of blows he's endured, and the only thing preventing his lips from completely cracking is the blood on them, from the moment he bit his own tongue.
The pain, however, is more than welcome — intoxicatingly pleasurable, in fact — and he wears a wild smile on his face, his eyes glassy and throbbing, as he finally reaches the doorknob and turns it. It is, as always, unlocked.
He's used to showing up whenever he pleases, making himself comfortable in that apartment that's already as familiar to him as his own. No matter how much Zanka scolds him about his sudden visits and his propensity to disturb him, he never truly tries to shoo him out.
And, above all, he always leaves the door unlocked, as if he knew exactly when Jabber would come and was, albeit reluctantly, willing to let him in and stay as long as he wanted.
There's something unstable, unnameable, and unresolved between them, a shapeless intimacy that neither of them knows how to name without completely distorting it. They've never touched on the subject explicitly, nor do they seem inclined to do so; the bond exists better in the unspoken, in the subtext and in the silences laden with something that neither of them has the slightest courage — or the good sense — to dissect.
But Jabber prefers inconstancy to stability.
It's late afternoon, and the light scattered across the floor of Zanka's apartment has already acquired a faint orange hue, making its brief appearance before disappearing along with the sun.
Jabber spots a beam of dull brown interspersed with black, and his eyes fix on the graceful curve of Zanka's shoulders as he prepares a cup of coffee. He gives no sign of acknowledging his presence, but Jabber knows that he knows. Because Zanka always knows.
"Don't forget to close the damn door again," Zanka grumbles, confirming Jabber's thoughts, whose smile only widens.
He closes the door behind him, locking it, and as soon as he turns around, he finds Zanka already looking at him. Zanka wears a ridiculously soft blue robe, his slender arms emerging with two steaming cups between his fingers, his bare feet contrasting against the cold pavement.
"Aw, for me? How thoughtful!" Jabber intones energetically, making a move to finally get his hands on his coffee — which is certainly on the perfect threshold between sweetness and bitterness, because Zanka is already used enough to it to know its preferences and adapt to them — when he is stopped.
Zanka has his hand raised and his brow furrowed as much as possible, staring at him intently.
“Don’t ya fuckin’ dare take another step. You’ll stain my carpet with blood, and that shit is hard as hell to clean.”
Jabber then remembers his own state: his clothes stained with soot, his knuckles scraped, and the redness running down Mankira. He snorts.
“And how exactly do ya expect me to get my coffee from distance, Zan-Zan?”
“Ya won’t.” His face is closed. “Yer going to take a shower before ya get within an inch of me. Do ya have any idea how badly ya smell right now? I cleaned this whole apartment yesterday, Jabber."
An exaggerated eye roll is the response, though Jabber’s smile never fades.
"Yer so fuckin’ uptight it disgusts me, ya know?"
"I'm not uptight. I just don't want my apartment to look like a fuckin’ murder case, which is perfectly plausible," he retorts, setting one of the cups back down on the counter with a soft thud. Jabber's eyes slide toward it, longing, but Zanka snaps his fingers in front of him to keep him focused. "Go. There's an extra towel in the bathroom for ya on the sink."
Jabber bows in an exaggerated reverence, eliciting a discreet snort from Zanka, and heads to the bathroom as requested, because he really wants that coffee. His taste buds desperately crave a few drops of caffeine.
The clear, greenish tiles stare at him as he enters, and as he inhales, the scent of soap and essential oils fills his nostrils.
Jabber spots a neatly folded purple towel on the sink, and something ignites within him, a brief, dangerously warm flash, but he quickly extinguishes it before it spreads out of control. Instead, he busies himself undressing, each piece of clothing triggering a distinct sting along his body.
It was quite a fight.
When finished, he moves the bloodied pile to a separate corner, careful not to mix it with the rest of Zanka's dirty clothes, and then slides under the hot shower stream. He washes away all his weariness until it drains away, and the swirling water at his feet takes on a rosy hue, the tone intensifying each time he rubs the soap into his skin, as if it would never end.
He leaves the bathroom equipped only with a towel around his waist and a pleasant scent of sandalwood clinging to his skin. He heads to Zanka's room, imagining that he must have set aside a change of clothes for himself, but the scene he finds is quite different:
Zanka himself, sitting on the edge of the bed with a first-aid kit open before his eyes, as grumpy as ever — if not more so.
"Come ‘ere," he calls, in a tone that is much closer to an order than a request, but Zanka has never been one to ask for anything. When he wants something, he simply takes it, just like Jabber.
Perhaps that's why they fit together so well; crooked and dysfunctional beyond measure, yes, but still converging in their own mess.
Caught off guard, Jabber hesitates to react, staring at him in silence for what seems like an eternity, until Zanka growls:
"Come sit the fuck down before something gets infected, stupid."
Jabber laughs, loudly, bubbly and scandalously, but follows him anyway, immediately dropping down beside him without any ceremony.
"Ya sound like a mother hen."
Zanka grabs his arm in a brusque movement, giving him a sharp look.
"Say that again and I'll send ya packing with just this towel on yer back."
"Ya wouldn't dare. Yer night would be too boring without me."
"That’s what ya think.”
His actions, however, contradict the bitterness of his words, because he continues to disinfect the wounds scattered along his hand, from his knuckles to his palm. He is neither gentle nor complacent in doing so; Zanka's fingers pressed harshly against his skin, moving his arm from side to side in an almost punitive manner, but it wasn't as if Jabber would complain.
(Especially since it was precisely Zanka's caustic brutality that had sparked his fascination in the first place.)
"Ya idiot," Zanka muttered at one point, rubbing the cut across Jabber's shoulder with renewed aggression. "Ya could have actually died this time."
Amethyst eyes wandered over him, mapping him with almost contemplative curiosity. Jabber tilted his head to the side, biting a sardonic smile. His lips throbbed, and his tongue emerged for a moment to collect the dried blood that had accumulated in the corner of his mouth.
"So what? Since when do ya care?"
For an abrupt moment, Zanka's movements ceased.
He doesn't dare raise his head, leading Jabber to conclude that either his expression is too shameful to show, or he simply doesn't have the courage to look him in the eye.
Both possibilities are immensely satisfying.
When Jabber concludes he will be left without an answer, he hears, in a harsh and ill-humored whisper:
"I don't."
And that is, unequivocally and overwhelmingly, the biggest lie Jabber has ever heard come out of his mouth.
His chest expands around the unspoken words, which seem more like a scream, and any other sensation becomes irrelevant, as if Mankira had pierced his sternum and lodged itself directly in his heart.
Instead of verbalizing the feeling that has just shaken him to his very core, Jabber allows it all to leak out in another way, laughter overflowing his chest, and he laughs, and laughs, and laughs.
Zanka's frown never leaves his face, not even for a second, but the corner of his lips wavers, betraying the hint of a smile he fails to contain.
“Yer fuckin’ sick in the head.”