Chapter Text
—January 9th—
The rain started sometime after midnight.
By two in the morning, the entire lower sector of the Pit smelled like wet metal, rotting trash, and blood. Zanka Nijiku stood beneath the flickering overhang of a half-collapsed mechanic shop with his arms crossed tightly over his chest, watching water pour through broken pipes overhead in steady streams. His patience had already run out thirty minutes ago.
“Five more minutes,” he muttered.
The old mechanic wisely pretended not to hear him. Somewhere deeper in the shop, machinery clanked loudly against rusted flooring. Sparks flashed intermittently through the darkness. The lights buzzed overhead with the weak hum of generators barely holding themselves together. Zanka clicked his tongue irritably. The bastard was late.
Again.
Not that he had expected anything else. Being late implied a person actually cared about arriving in the first place. And Jabber Wonger rarely cared about anything. Especially not schedules. Zanka shifted slightly against the wall, wincing as bruised ribs pulled sharply beneath the bandages wrapped around his torso. The mission from yesterday had gone badly. Not disastrous. But close enough to leave everyone pissed off. Three Cleaners injured. One missing shipment. Far too many hostiles. And, somehow, Jabber had managed to turn an already terrible situation worse by provoking a fight with them.
Because of course he did.
Zanka still remembered the look on his face in the middle of the chaos, grinning wildly with blood smeared across his teeth while half the damn warehouse burned around him.
Idiot.
Absolute idiot.
Footsteps splashed suddenly through puddles outside. Slow and unhurried. Zanka didn’t look up immediately. He already knew who they belonged to. A familiar voice drifted lazily through the rain.
“You waiting for me?”
“No,” Zanka answered flatly.
Jabber stepped beneath the overhang anyway. He was completely soaked. Water dripped steadily from strands of dark hair hanging messily into his eyes. His jacket was half unzipped, stained dark with rainwater and something suspiciously close to blood. Fresh bruising shadowed one side of his throat. Zanka’s eyes narrowed immediately.
“You got into another fight.”
Jabber blinked innocently.
“Maybe.”
“You promised not to.”
“I promised I’d try not to.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“Close enough.”
Zanka exhaled slowly through his nose. Every conversation with Jabber felt like being dragged across broken glass. The worst part? Jabber enjoyed it. The mechanic glanced nervously between them before abruptly deciding he had somewhere else to be.
Coward.
Jabber wandered closer. Too close. Always too close. He leaned lazily beside Zanka against the wall, shoulders brushing briefly.
“You look annoyed.”
“I wonder why.”
“Hm.”
Jabber grinned sideways at him. His lip was split again. Zanka stared at it for a second too long, and Jabber noticed immediately.
“What?”
“You look like shit.”
“You say the sweetest things to me.”
“Who hit you?”
“Some guy.”
“What guy?”
“No idea.”
“You fought someone without knowing why?”
Jabber tilted his head slightly.
“He was rude.”
“You are unbelievable.”
“That’s what makes me charming.”
Zanka snorted quietly despite himself. That tiny sound seemed to genuinely delight Jabber. It was a dangerous mistake. Encouragement only made him worse. Rain hammered loudly outside the shop now, drowning the streets in endless static noise. For several moments neither of them spoke. Jabber slid gradually further down the wall until he was half slouched beside Zanka with his hands shoved into his pockets.
“You hurt?” he asked eventually.
Zanka frowned slightly.
“You asking seriously?”
“Maybe.”
The answer should not have sounded softer than usual. And yet, Zanka looked away first.
“Ribs,” he admitted reluctantly.
Jabber hummed quietly.
“That bad?”
“I’ve had worse.”
“Lemme see.”
“No.”
“C’mon.”
“No.”
Jabber turned fully toward him now, grinning again, but there was something sharper beneath it this time. Something attentive.
“You bleeding through the bandages?”
“I said no.”
“So yes.”
Zanka shoved him hard by the forehead. Jabber laughed immediately. There it was. That loud, reckless laugh that always sounded too wild for enclosed spaces. The mechanic cursed somewhere in the back room. Jabber ignored him completely.
“You’re cranky tonight.”
“You make it difficult not to be.”
“Aww.”
“Shut up.”
Still laughing softly, Jabber leaned his head back against the wall beside him. For a while, they simply stood there listening to the rain. It was strange how normal this had become. A year ago, Zanka would’ve rather broken his own jaw than willingly spend time alone with Jabber. Actually, that wasn’t entirely true. The first time they met, Zanka had wanted to kill him almost immediately. Jabber had seemed thrilled by that fact. Maybe that should have been warning enough. Instead, somehow, things had spiralled into this awful in-between state where they fought together, argued constantly, disappeared for days, then inevitably found each other again like magnets with damaged polarity.
Nobody else understood it.
Zanka barely understood it himself.
All he knew was that Jabber got under his skin in ways that felt permanent. And worse, Zanka had started letting him. A loud crash echoed from outside suddenly. Both of them snapped alert instantly. Zanka’s hand moved automatically toward Assistaff at his side. Voices drifted faintly through the rain. Angry and far too close. The mechanic swore under his breath.
“Oh hell no.”
Another crash. Then shouting. Zanka clicked his tongue sharply.
“Sounds like your ‘some guy’ found you again.”
Jabber grinned slowly.
“You think?”
“You’re smiling.”
“Maybe I missed him.”
“You are genuinely sick in the head.”
“Yeah.”
No shame whatsoever.
The front shutter rattled violently. Someone outside slammed against the metal hard enough to shake the entire storefront.
“WONGER!” a voice screamed through the rain.
Jabber visibly brightened.
“Oh, definitely him.”
Zanka pinched the bridge of his nose. This man was truly unbelievable. The shutter shook again.
“COME OUT HERE, YOU PSYCHO—”
Jabber immediately started toward the entrance. Zanka grabbed the back of his jacket before he could move more than two steps.
“You are not starting another fight.”
“I’m not starting it.”
“You know what I mean.”
“They came to me.”
“You attract violence like a disease.”
Jabber glanced back over his shoulder. Blood-red eyes glittered brightly beneath the flickering lights.
“You coming with me?”
The bastard already knew the answer. That irritated Zanka most. Another violent slam hit the shutter.
“WONGER!”
Zanka sighed heavily.
“I hate you.”
“Liar.”
Then Jabber grinned, and Zanka’s stomach did something deeply annoying.
————
The fight lasted twelve minutes. Zanka counted. Mostly because focusing on numbers kept him from focusing on Jabber. Which was becoming increasingly necessary. Rain poured violently through the streets as they fought. Everything was slippery. Water mixed with blood beneath their boots. Metal pipes clanged loudly against concrete walls while distant neon reflected across puddles in fractured colours. There were eight attackers total. Nine if counting the idiot currently unconscious face-first in a drainage ditch. Jabber moved through the chaos like he’d been born for it. Laughing. Always laughing. Zanka hated how good he looked doing this. That thought alone nearly got him punched. He blocked a rusted blade at the last second before driving his elbow hard into the attacker’s throat. Beside him, Jabber barked another delighted laugh while slamming someone headfirst into a wall.
“Behind you!”
Zanka ducked instantly.
A chain whipped over his head. Jabber caught the attacker by the wrist before they could recover and twisted hard enough to break bone. The scream vanished beneath thunder.
“You okay?” Jabber shouted over the noise.
“I was fine before you distracted me!”
“You looked hot though!”
“WHAT?”
Jabber only laughed harder. Idiot. Another attacker lunged toward Jabber from the side. Zanka moved before thinking. His fist collided hard with the man’s jaw, bones cracking loudly. The attacker dropped instantly. Jabber blinked at him. Then grinned slowly.
“You saved me.”
“Don’t make it weird.”
“Too late.”
Zanka ignored him aggressively. Unfortunately, ignoring Jabber rarely worked. Especially during fights. Because violence seemed to instigate him. Make him reckless. Make him feel alive. There was something terrifyingly beautiful about the way Jabber moved when adrenaline hit him fully. Not graceful, but raw. Animalistic. Like he fought entirely on instinct and somehow trusted his body to survive anyway. And every time Zanka saw it, every single damn time, something twisted hot beneath his ribs.
The realisation annoyed him endlessly.
Jabber was infuriating. Loud. Chaotic. Violent in ways that bordered on masochism. But fighting beside him felt easy. Natural. Dangerous. An attacker grabbed Zanka suddenly from behind. Strong arms locked around his chest painfully.
“Got you—”
Before Zanka could break free, Jabber saw. His demeanour immediately changed. His grin vanished instantly. His expression sharpened into something colder. More possessive. Violent. And entirely wrong.
“Oh,” Jabber said softly.
The attacker visibly hesitated, but it was too late. Jabber pierced him hard enough to send all three of them crashing sideways through a stack of rusted crates. Wood splintered violently. Zanka barely had time to regain balance before Jabber grabbed the attacker by the face and smashed his skull against the concrete once. Twice. Three times. Blood smeared across Jabber’s knuckles.
Zanka grabbed his wrist before he could do it again.
“That’s enough.”
Jabber breathed hard through gritted teeth. Rainwater dripped steadily from his lashes. For one strange second, he looked genuinely feral. Then his eyes flicked upward toward Zanka and softened. Only slightly. But enough.
“You hurt?” Jabber asked immediately.
Zanka stared at him.
“You nearly killed him.”
“He touched you.”
The answer came too fast. Too honest. Something uncomfortable shifted heavily beneath Zanka’s ribs. Jabber seemed to realise what he’d said a second later. But he didn’t seem all that embarrassed by it. The rain thundered loudly around them. Bodies groaned across the street nearby. Neither moved. Then, Jabber slowly glanced downward toward Zanka’s hands. His knuckles had reopened during the fight. Blood mixed with rainwater across split skin. Jabber stared. Zanka’s pulse jumped unpleasantly.
“Don’t,” he warned immediately.
Jabber grinned faintly.
“I didn’t even do anything.”
“You were thinking about it.”
“Maybe.”
“You’re insane.”
“Probably.”
Still, he stepped closer anyway. Close enough that Zanka could feel heat radiating from his soaked clothes despite the cold rain. Close enough that their breathing almost overlapped. Jabber reached out slowly. This time, Zanka let him. Which felt like a worse decision. His fingers wrapped loosely around Zanka’s wrist. Warm and weirdly careful. Completely at odds with the blood covering both of them. Jabber turned Zanka’s hand slightly beneath the dim neon light. His expression changed again. It was less wild now. Almost as though he was looking at something important.
“You always wreck your hands this bad?” he murmured.
“Occupational hazard.”
“Hm.”
Jabber’s thumb brushed lightly across torn skin. Zanka inhaled sharply despite himself. Jabber noticed instantly. Of course he did. A slow grin spread across his face.
“There it is.”
“Shut up.”
“You get all tense when I touch you.”
“That’s because you bite people.”
“I bite lots of things.”
“Not helping your case.”
Jabber laughed softly.
Then, before Zanka could fully prepare himself, he lowered his head, pressing his mouth against Zanka’s bloodied knuckles. Warm and slow, but far from gentle. Deliberate enough to send something violent through Zanka’s entire nervous system. The world narrowed instantly. Rain. Neon. Thunder. It was all gone.
Only Jabber remained.
The heat of his mouth against split skin. The rough scrape of his breath. The absolutely unhinged intimacy of the gesture. It felt wrong. Wrong enough to make Zanka’s stomach twist sharply. His heartbeat slammed hard against his ribs. Jabber lingered for one terrible second too long before finally pulling back slightly. Rainwater slid slowly down his face. His eyes remained fixed upward on Zanka’s. Dark and hungry. Zanka grabbed him violently by the front of his soaked jacket and shoved him hard against the nearest wall. Metal rattled loudly behind Jabber.
“What the hell is wrong with you?”
Jabber laughed breathlessly.
“You tell me.”
Zanka’s grip tightened.
“You keep doing shit like that—”
“Like what?”
“Kissing me during fights!”
“I kissed your hand.”
“You know what I mean.”
Jabber’s grin widened slowly.
“You hate it?”
The worst part, the absolute worst part, was that Zanka genuinely didn’t know anymore. Jabber tilted his head slightly against the wall. Rain dripped from his hair across his throat.
“You could hit me,” he murmured softly.
“I’m considering it.”
“But you won’t.”
That certainty snapped something loose inside Zanka instantly.
He kissed him hard enough to bruise.
Jabber made a sharp sound low in his throat before immediately grabbing Zanka by the collar and dragging him closer. Teeth collided. Breathing turned ragged instantly. Everything about kissing Jabber felt aggressive. Messy. Like fighting with mouths instead of fists. Jabber kissed like he did everything else, recklessly, greedily, like he wanted to consume the experience whole before it disappeared. Zanka hated how much he liked it. Hated the way adrenaline and heat tangled violently beneath his skin every time Jabber touched him. Hated the way Jabber always managed to make him lose control first. Jabber bit his lower lip suddenly, a little too hard. Zanka hissed sharply. Jabber grinned against his mouth.
“There you are.”
“Keep talking and I’ll break your jaw.”
“You’ve said that before.”
“And?”
“You never do it.”
That was true too.
Another deeply irritating realisation.
Zanka shoved him harder against the wall instead. Jabber laughed breathlessly again. God. That sound alone was becoming dangerous. The rain poured endlessly around them while they stood half-hidden between rusted buildings kissing like they were trying to start another fight. Maybe they were. With them, the line had blurred long ago. Jabber’s hands slid downward slowly, gripping Zanka’s waist through soaked fabric. Possessive. Zanka’s pulse jumped sharply again.
Jabber noticed.
He always did.
“You’re shaking.”
“It’s cold.”
“Liar.”
Zanka bit him again for that. Jabber looked delighted by the pain. Of course he did. When they finally pulled apart, both of them were breathing hard. Rainwater dripped steadily between them. Jabber rested his forehead briefly against Zanka’s shoulder. A strangely quiet gesture. Almost soft. That felt somehow more intimate than the kissing. Zanka went still instinctively. Jabber rarely slowed down enough for softness, which meant this mattered. The realisation sat strangely heavy inside his chest.
“You’re staring again,” Jabber murmured tiredly.
“You’re weird.”
“You still kissed me.”
“Unfortunately.”
Jabber laughed quietly into his shoulder. The sound vibrated warm through Zanka’s chest. Dangerous. Everything about this was dangerous. But neither of them stepped away. And somewhere deep down, Zanka already knew neither of them were going to.
—March 16th—
Rain tapped steadily against the motel windows in soft, uneven rhythms. Somewhere beyond the thin walls, pipes groaned loudly through the building. Water hissed through old radiators. A television murmured indistinctly in another room before abruptly cutting into static. The entire motel sounded half alive. Zanka woke slowly beneath dim amber light with the lingering ache of bad sleep still heavy behind his eyes. For several long seconds, he didn’t move. The room smelled like cigarette smoke, rainwater, old sheets, and Jabber. That realisation hit before consciousness fully settled. Annoying. Zanka frowned slightly into the darkness and turned his head toward the other side of the bed.
It was empty, but still warm. Something unpleasant twisted immediately beneath his ribs. He hated that feeling. Hated how quickly his body had learned to notice Jabber’s absence. The bathroom light glowed faintly through the cracked door across the room. Water ran softly inside. Zanka exhaled sharply through his nose before dragging himself upright. The motel blanket slid heavily from his waist. Bruises pulled painfully across his ribs as he stood, old injuries protesting immediately.
His shirt from yesterday lay abandoned near the edge of the bed beside Jabber’s jacket. The sight settled strangely in his chest. It was too domestic. Too familiar.
Dangerous.
Rain hammered harder outside as Zanka crossed the room barefoot, exhaustion still dragging heavily through his limbs. The bathroom door creaked softly beneath his hand. Then opened. Jabber sat on the cracked bathroom counter beneath ugly fluorescent lighting with one knee drawn loosely upward and a cigarette balanced between his fingers. The small window above the sink was half open. Rain-cooled air drifted slowly inside. Jabber looked up immediately at the sound of the door. Not startled. Just watchful. His shirt hung half unbuttoned, exposing bruised skin beneath pale fluorescent light. Dark marks crossed his collarbone from older fights. His dark hair looked damp and sleep-mussed, strands falling loosely into his eyes.
He looked dangerous even exhausted.
Especially exhausted.
Zanka leaned silently against the doorway.
“You disappeared.”
Jabber took another drag from the cigarette.
“You were asleep.”
“That wasn’t my point.”
A grin flickered faintly across Jabber’s mouth. Weak compared to his usual ones.
“You looked comfortable,” he murmured.
Zanka hated the way that sentence landed inside his chest. The bathroom fell quiet again except for the dripping faucet and rain tapping outside the window. Jabber glanced back toward the storm. Smoke curled slowly around him beneath the flickering fluorescent light. Something about the sight felt strangely intimate. Wrong in the same way all of this felt wrong. Whatever this was, neither of them had named it. Probably because naming it would make it real.
And real things in the Pit rarely survived.
“You’re being weird,” Zanka muttered eventually.
Jabber hummed softly.
“Am I?”
“You’re quiet.”
“That bothering you?”
“A little.”
That earned him another faint grin. There he was. Jabber tapped ash lazily into the stained sink before speaking again.
“Couldn’t sleep.”
“Why?”
A pause.
Then: “You were breathing weird.”
The answer hit harder than expected. Zanka’s eyes narrowed slightly.
“You were awake listening to me sleep?”
Jabber shrugged one shoulder carelessly.
“You move around a lot.”
“That’s creepy.”
“Eh.”
No shame. Zanka didn’t think he’d ever felt shame. Still, something warm crawled unpleasantly beneath Zanka’s skin anyway. Jabber noticed everything. Always had. Tiny things nobody else paid attention to. The way Zanka’s hands shook after bad fights. The difference between irritated silence and exhausted silence. How he slept lighter after difficult missions. Jabber observed people like a predator. But somehow, with Zanka, it felt less like hunting and more like memorising. That thought unsettled him deeply.
Zanka stepped further into the bathroom before he could think too hard about it. The space immediately shrank around them. Too warm from the shower Jabber had apparently run earlier. He stopped directly between Jabber’s knees without fully meaning to. Jabber looked up at him slowly. Zanka reached out automatically and plucked the cigarette from between his fingers. Jabber’s hands settled instinctively against his waist. Warm and heavy. Familiar enough now that Zanka didn’t even tense immediately. That realisation felt dangerous too. He took a drag from the cigarette mostly to avoid looking directly at Jabber. Smoke burned harshly down his throat.
“You’re staring,” he muttered.
“Can you blame me?”
“Yes.”
“Nope.”
Zanka rolled his eyes slightly and leaned back against the sink beside him. The fluorescent light overhead buzzed loudly for a second before stabilising again. Jabber’s fingers moved absently against his waist. Small movements. Thoughtless. The kind that only happened when Jabber stopped performing for a minute. Zanka noticed those moments more than he should. Jabber’s gaze drifted downward suddenly. Toward Zanka’s throat. His expression changed immediately.
Zanka frowned slightly.
“What?”
Jabber sat up straighter on the counter.
“Who grabbed you?”
“What?”
“The bruises.”
Zanka blinked once before realising what he meant. Dark fingerprints shadowed faintly along one side of his throat from yesterday’s mission. He’d forgotten about them entirely. Jabber reached up before he could respond. His fingers curled lightly against Zanka’s jaw, tilting his head sideways beneath the harsh bathroom light. The movement should not have sent heat down Zanka’s spine.
And yet.
Jabber stared silently at the bruises for several long seconds. Too long. Something ugly moved slowly behind his eyes.
“Who did this?” he asked quietly.
Zanka exhaled smoke toward the ceiling.
“Why do you care?”
Jabber’s thumb pressed slowly against one darkening bruise. Not hard enough to hurt, but just enough to be irritating.
“Because I’m looking at it.”
The answer came immediately. Simple and honest. Completely unhinged. Zanka’s pulse stumbled hard beneath his skin. Jabber felt it instantly beneath his fingertips. His eyes flicked upward.
“There it is.”
“Don’t start.”
“You get all shaky when I touch you.”
“You act like a damn animal.”
A grin finally appeared again.
“Yeah?”
“Yes.”
“And you still keep coming back here.”
That landed too close. Zanka looked away first, but that was a mistake. Jabber caught his chin immediately and dragged his attention back.
“No,” he murmured softly. “Look at me.”
The command wrapped hot around Zanka’s spine. God, he hated that. Hated how Jabber could say the simplest things and still make them sound dangerous. Their faces were too close now. Close enough for Zanka to feel the warmth of his breath. Close enough to count every bruise beneath fluorescent light. Rain rattled softly against the window behind them. The cigarette burned slowly between Zanka’s fingers. Neither moved. Jabber’s thumb brushed once more across the bruises on his throat. His expression tightened again.
“You keep letting people hurt you.”
Zanka laughed softly at that.
“You hurt me constantly.”
Silence.
Jabber stared at him for one long second. Then smiled faintly. Soft enough to almost look sad.
“Yeah,” he murmured. “But you always come back.”
The room went painfully still.
Because the worst part was that he was right.
Every time.
Zanka should’ve walked away months ago. The first time Jabber kissed his bloody knuckles. The first time he showed up outside Zanka’s apartment at four in the morning bleeding from six different places and grinning like he’d won something. The first time Zanka realised he knew the sound of Jabber’s footsteps instinctively.
But instead, here he was.
Standing between Jabber’s knees in a rundown motel bathroom at nearly three in the morning while rain poured endlessly outside. Still here. Still letting this happen. Jabber watched realisation move across his face slowly. Then smiled wider.
“I like watching your brain work,” he whispered.
Zanka kissed him immediately just to shut him up.
Jabber made a low approving sound against his mouth and grabbed him tighter by the waist, dragging him forward until Zanka was pressed fully between his knees. The cigarette nearly burned down to the filter unnoticed between Zanka’s fingers. Jabber kissed lazily compared to usual. Still rough. Still messy. But slower now. Sleep-heavy. Like he was savouring it. Zanka’s hands slid instinctively into his hair. Jabber shuddered visibly beneath him.
Interesting.
Very interesting.
Jabber pulled back just enough to breathe.
“You do that on purpose.”
“What?”
“The hair thing.”
“You’re being dramatic.”
“You like it too.”
Zanka bit lightly at his lower lip for that. Jabber laughed softly. The sound vibrated warm through the tiny bathroom. Then, suddenly, teeth. Jabber bit sharply at the inside of Zanka’s wrist. Not enough to injure. Just enough to shock. Zanka jerked violently backward.
“You feral asshole—”
Jabber nearly doubled over laughing. Actually laughing. Bright and loud and entirely too pleased with himself. Zanka shoved him hard enough that he almost slipped off the counter.
“You’re unbelievable.”
“You love me.”
The words slipped out casually. Thoughtlessly. And the second they landed, silence enveloped the room. Heavy and immediate. Jabber froze. Zanka stared at him. Rain hammered violently outside. The fluorescent light buzzed overhead. Neither moved. Then slowly, very slowly, Jabber grinned again. Smaller this time. Less certain.
“…That scared you,” he teased softly.
Zanka grabbed the dying cigarette from the sink and crushed it violently beneath his heel.
“Go to sleep, Jabber.”
Jabber’s laughter followed him all the way back to bed.
—May 21st—
The bar was too hot.
Smoke clung thickly to the air beneath flickering red neon while bodies pressed shoulder-to-shoulder around gambling tables and cheap drinks. Music rattled through damaged speakers overhead loud enough to make the walls vibrate faintly beneath the grime. Somewhere near the back, someone shouted after losing money. Nobody cared. Zanka sat alone in the farthest booth with one arm stretched along the cracked vinyl seat behind him and a drink untouched near his hand. He looked deeply irritated already. Mostly because he was waiting. And because the person he was waiting for was late.
Again.
Rain streaked steadily down the windows beside the booth, turning the neon outside into smeared rivers of red and gold. Zanka glanced once more toward the entrance. Nothing. He clicked his tongue softly. A waitress drifted toward his table carrying two drinks balanced carefully against one hip. She was pretty in the exhausted way most people in the Pit were pretty, sharp eyeliner, tired eyes, bruises hidden beneath jewellery.
She slowed near the booth.
“You alone tonight?”
Zanka looked up briefly.
“Yes.”
“Shame.”
Her smile curled slightly at the edges.
“You usually sit back here when you’re waiting for someone.”
Observant.
Zanka reached for his drink.
“Maybe I got tired of company.”
“I doubt that.”
She leaned one elbow lightly against the edge of the booth. Too comfortable already.
“You look less angry when you’ve got somebody bothering you.”
Zanka stared at her flatly.
“I always look angry.”
“That’s fair.”
She laughed softly. Then her gaze dragged slowly across his shoulders, the scars crossing his forearms, the sharp line of his jaw. She was definitely flirting. Zanka noticed immediately. Unfortunately, so did the person suddenly sliding into the booth beside him.
“Aw,” Jabber sighed dramatically, soaking wet from the rain and grinning like a disaster. “You started without me.”
The waitress startled hard enough to nearly spill the drinks. Jabber had a talent for appearing places like a threat materialising from smoke. He leaned directly into Zanka’s side immediately, all damp clothes and restless energy.
“You’re late,” Zanka muttered.
“You missed me?”
“No.”
“Liar.”
Jabber stole Zanka’s drink without asking and took a long sip while the waitress looked uncertainly between them. Jabber noticed her attention instantly. Of course he did. His grin sharpened.
“Oh,” he said brightly. “Were you flirting with him?”
The waitress blinked.
“I—”
“You were,” Jabber answered himself.
Then he turned toward Zanka with entirely too much delight.
“You’re popular tonight.”
Zanka already felt a headache forming.
“Jabber.”
“What?”
“You’re being irritating.”
“I just got here.”
“You started talking.”
“That’s true.”
The waitress laughed awkwardly. Jabber immediately focused on her again. That was another dangerous mistake.
“You want him?” he asked casually.
Zanka nearly choked on his drink. The waitress looked absolutely horrified.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Zanka snapped.
Jabber looked genuinely thoughtful.
“Lots of things, probably.”
Then he tilted his head toward the waitress.
“You should know he bites when he’s annoyed.”
“I do not bite people.”
Jabber stared at him.
Then: “That’s totally false.”
The waitress snorted unexpectedly. Zanka glared at both of them. This was unbelievable. Jabber sprawled deeper into the booth beside him now like an overgrown stray cat claiming territory. One leg stretched carelessly beneath the table while he continued drinking Zanka’s alcohol like he owned it. The waitress looked between them again. Understanding slowly dawned across her face.
Oh.
Jabber saw the realisation happen in real time and looked absolutely delighted by it.
“You figured it out,” he said brightly.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You thought it loud.”
Zanka grabbed the back of Jabber’s collar suddenly and shoved him sideways hard enough that his shoulder hit the booth wall.
“Sit down and shut up.”
The waitress visibly reconsidered every life choice that brought her here. Smart. Zanka released Jabber’s collar with a low curse beneath his breath.
“You done?”
“Not even close.”
“Fantastic.”
The waitress finally escaped toward another table, though not before glancing back once toward Zanka with visible amusement. Jabber watched her go. Then immediately leaned halfway across the booth toward him.
“She was definitely flirting.”
“I noticed.”
“You should’ve flirted back.”
Zanka looked at him blankly.
“You would’ve started a fight.”
“Yeah I would’ve.”
“At least you’re self aware.”
Jabber grinned wider. Then stole another drink.
“You look good tonight, by the way.”
Zanka went still briefly. This was annoying. Jabber had a habit of saying things like that too casually. Like they didn’t matter. Like he didn’t realise how directly they landed. Jabber kept talking before Zanka could answer.
“Meaner than usual too.”
“There’s a reason for that.”
“Missed me that bad?”
“You are genuinely insufferable.”
“Still here though.”
The words slipped out softer. Quieter. Zanka’s chest tightened unpleasantly, and Jabber noticed immediately. Always. His grin faded slightly around the edges. Not gone, just smaller now. More focused. The noise of the bar blurred strangely beneath the heavy pulse suddenly building in Zanka’s ears. Jabber shifted closer beside him. Their knees knocked together beneath the table. Once. Twice. It was intentional. Then Jabber stretched his legs wider carelessly, crowding into Zanka’s space like he physically couldn’t stop himself.
“You’re restless,” Zanka muttered.
“Hm?”
“You keep staring at people.”
“Maybe I’m bored.”
“You tracked me across the city.”
“Yeah.”
“That’s not boredom.”
Jabber’s eyes flicked toward him sideways. Sharp beneath the neon light.
“Maybe not.”
Something hot twisted low in Zanka’s stomach. This was a dangerous conversation. Jabber leaned back again, draping one arm lazily behind Zanka along the booth. Not touching. Worse. Close enough to feel the heat. A group near the gambling tables started laughing loudly. Jabber immediately looked over. He looked too interested. One of the men noticed and frowned. There it was again. The beginning of another problem. Zanka sighed heavily.
Then, beneath the table, he grabbed Jabber hard by the knee.
A warning.
“Behave.”
Jabber stopped moving instantly. The shift was immediate enough to feel physical. His attention snapped back toward Zanka completely. The noise of the bar seemed to fade strangely around them. Red neon flickered across Jabber’s face, catching against the sharp edge of his grin. But he wasn’t smiling fully anymore. Just staring. Focused in that awful intense way that always made Zanka feel like prey being watched by something dangerous. Zanka’s hand remained tight around his knee beneath the table. Jabber glanced downward once. Then back up slowly.
“I like it when you’re bossy,” he murmured.
God.
That voice.
Low enough to disappear beneath the music. Zanka tightened his grip slightly.
“You’re unbearable.”
Jabber inhaled softly through his nose. Not quite a laugh, but something warmer.
“You only grab me like this when you’re irritated.”
“You’re always irritating.”
“Yeah,” Jabber said quietly. “But you’re still holding on.”
The words settled heavy beneath Zanka’s ribs. And suddenly, Zanka realised that Jabber had gone completely still beneath his hand. No longer provoking. No longer fidgeting. No longer chasing attention from strangers. Just sitting there quietly while Zanka held him in place. Like this was what he’d wanted all along. That realisation hit hard enough to almost hurt. Jabber’s gaze dragged slowly across his face. Then downward toward his mouth briefly before lifting again. Zanka’s pulse stumbled once.
A slow grin spread across Jabber’s face.
“Your reactions are fascinating.”
“Shut up.”
“Nope.”
Still, he leaned subtly further into the touch beneath the table anyway.
—July 10th—
Rain crashed violently through the broken overpass. It poured from the rusted beams overhead in heavy sheets, hammering against concrete hard enough to drown out half the noise of the Pit below. Water streamed through cracks in the road and spilled over the edges into the darkness beneath. Zanka found him standing directly in the middle of it. Of course he was. Jabber balanced carelessly atop the rusted divider running along the overpass edge, boots slick with rainwater, Mankira hanging loose from his fingers while the city glowed sickly beneath him. Like he couldn’t fall. Like he wanted to. Blood streaked darkly across one side of his throat.
Jabber spotted him immediately and grinned.
“There you are.”
Zanka’s grip tightened painfully around Assistaff.
“You hit a Cleaner convoy.”
Jabber tilted his head. Rainwater slid slowly down his face.
“Yeah.”
There was no hesitation in his answer. No denial. That somehow made it worse.
“People got hurt.”
“People always get hurt.”
The answer came easy. Like discussing the weather. Zanka felt something hot twist violently beneath his ribs. Jabber noticed instantly. His grin sharpened.
“Oh,” he breathed. “You’re pissed.”
“Shut up.”
“But you are.” Jabber laughed softly. “You came all the way out here angry.”
The sound echoed strangely beneath the overpass. Entirely wrong and too delighted. Like Zanka’s anger itself was something precious.
“You knew Cleaners would be there.”
“I knew you wouldn’t.”
Silence.
Jabber saw the hit land. Saw it happen in real time. And the bastard smiled even wider.
“There it is.”
Assistaff cracked through the air. Jabber moved forward as it did. Straight at him like a lunatic. The weapon missed his head by inches and exploded through the divider behind him instead, concrete erupting violently into rainwater and sparks. Jabber laughed. Actually laughed. Bright and sharp and completely fucking unhinged.
“Let’s get rockin'!”
Zanka swung again immediately. Jabber blocked with Mankira at the last second, metal shrieking violently against metal. Sparks exploded between them. Jabber shoved forward instead of retreating. Always too close. Always worse up close. Mankira carved sideways through the rain in a vicious arc that should have been elegant in somebody else’s hands. In Jabber’s? It looked rabid. Like a feral animal swinging a blade with enough force to break its own arms. He overextended every strike. Used too much momentum. Got too reckless. And somehow, that made him terrifying. Because nothing about him was predictable. Jabber leapt onto the rusted railing beside them, balanced there for one impossible second while rain hammered down around him, then launched himself directly at Zanka.
No strategy.
Just pure instinct.
Mankira slammed downward hard enough to crack concrete when Zanka blocked. The impact jolted violently through his shoulders.
“You’re acting insane,” Zanka snapped.
Jabber barked another laugh.
“You only notice me when I disappear!”
Assistaff slammed into Jabber’s ribs. The sound echoed wetly beneath the overpass. Jabber staggered sideways, then grinned through the pain. Blood glimmered suddenly between his teeth. It looked entirely wrong. Zanka’s stomach twisted sharply. Jabber wiped blood from his mouth with the back of his hand while staring at him with pupils blown huge beneath the rain.
“Again.”
The word came out breathless. Almost excited. Like he wanted more. Zanka attacked harder. Assistaff crashed forward in brutal sweeping strikes that forced Jabber backward across the slick concrete. But Jabber kept laughing. Even while blocking. Even while bleeding. Like getting hit by Zanka specifically was the greatest thing he’d ever experienced.
“You should see your face right now,” Jabber gasped between blows. “God, you only look at me like this when you’re furious.”
“Maybe because you’re impossible!”
“Yeah?”
Mankira hooked suddenly around Assistaff with vicious force. Jabber yanked hard enough to drag Zanka off balance before slamming his forehead directly into his face.
CRACK.
Pain exploded across Zanka’s nose. Jabber looked thrilled.
“You’ve gotten better!”
Zanka snapped. Assistaff slammed into Jabber’s stomach hard enough to send him crashing backward into one of the overpass support beams. Metal groaned loudly. Jabber coughed violently. Then immediately lunged again. Like pain only made him faster. Rain streamed down his face while Mankira flashed wildly through the dark in sharp brutal arcs. He moved like somebody trying to crawl directly beneath Zanka’s skin. Too close. Too fast. Too reckless. Zanka blocked another strike. Then another. Then another. Jabber never stopped smiling. Not once. Even when Assistaff clipped his shoulder hard enough to nearly dislocate it. Even when sparks exploded into his face. Even when blood ran openly down his chin now.
He looked alive like this.
More alive than anywhere else.
“You’re fucking crazy,” Zanka snarled.
Jabber’s grin widened impossibly further.
“Hell yeah!”
Zanka shoved him violently backward.
“You think this is funny?”
“I think you care.”
Assistaff slammed into Mankira so hard the impact exploded through the overpass like gunfire. They locked together chest-to-chest. Breathing hard. Rain pouring off both of them. Jabber’s face was inches away now. Too close. His lip had split fully open at some point. Blood mixed with rainwater across his teeth while he grinned directly into Zanka’s fury like he wanted to drown in it.
“You were worried,” Jabber breathed.
Not teasing, but knowing. Zanka hated that the most. The certainty. Like Jabber had already clawed his way beneath every defence he had.
“You disappearing like that makes me feel insane,” Zanka snapped.
The words ripped out raw. Too honest. For the first time all night, Jabber stopped moving completely. Rain hammered around them. Mankira loosened slightly in his grip. And Zanka watched the realisation happen in real time behind Jabber’s eyes. Not amusement. Not teasing. Something worse. Something almost soft beneath all the madness.
Then slowly, very slowly, Jabber smiled again. Smaller now. But somehow more dangerous.
“So that’s why,” he whispered.
Zanka slammed him hard against the support beam immediately. The entire overpass rattled. Jabber laughed again anyway. Of course he did. He was completely fucking feral. The impact should have knocked the grin off his face, but it didn’t. Jabber hit the support beam hard enough to rattle the rusted metal beneath the overpass, rainwater cascading violently around both of them, and still laughed. Breathless now. A little wild around the edges. But laughing. Zanka wanted to throttle him. Assistaff remained jammed hard across Jabber’s chest, pinning him roughly against the beam while rain poured down their faces in cold sheets.
“Why do you keep laughing?” Zanka snarled.
Jabber looked up at him through his dreadlocks.
“You finally admitted it.”
Zanka shoved him harder against the metal.
“I’m serious.”
“I know.”
That was the problem. Jabber’s pupils looked enormous in the dark. Every time lightning flashed somewhere beyond the Pit, it illuminated the expression on his face for half a second at a time: the blood on his mouth, the rain running down his throat, the grin twitching at the corners, his eyes locked onto Zanka like he’d found religion there. It made something ugly crawl beneath Zanka’s ribs. Jabber tilted his head slightly against the beam despite the weapon crushing against his chest.
“You were worried,” he repeated softly.
“Don’t.”
“You were.”
“Jabber.”
“You thought I died.”
Zanka’s jaw tightened hard enough to ache.
Because yes.
He had.
For twelve straight days. Twelve days of checking Raider territory despite knowing better. Twelve days of picking fights with the other Cleaners because the adrenaline drowned out the feeling for a few minutes. Twelve days of imagining Jabber’s body somewhere beneath the trash heaps of the Pit with that stupid grin finally gone. And the worst part? He’d realised halfway through that he would never stop looking.
Jabber saw the answer anyway.
Of course he did.
His grin changed. Not wider. Just warmer in a way. Like he was pleased by something he shouldn’t be.
“You’re cute like this,” he whispered.
Zanka snapped. Assistaff clattered loudly against the concrete as he grabbed Jabber by the front of his soaked jacket instead, slamming him fully against the beam with enough force to shake rust loose overhead.
“You don’t get to do this to me.”
The words came out rougher than intended. More honest. Jabber went very still. Rainwater streamed slowly down his face while he stared back at Zanka with that awful sharp attention.
“Do what?”
“Disappear,” Zanka’s grip tightened violently. “Act like none of it matters.”
Jabber blinked once. Then laughed again. Quieter this time. Almost disbelieving.
“Oh,” he breathed.
That sound alone made Zanka angrier.
“What?”
“You really don’t get it.”
“I’m about to hit you again.”
“You keep talking like I left for fun.”
Zanka froze slightly. It was a tiny movement, but Jabber noticed instantly. The grin faded around the edges. Not gone. But weaker now. More tired.
“You think Raiders get choices all the time?” Jabber muttered.
Rain hammered loudly around them. For the first time since the fight started, his voice sounded genuinely irritated.
“I go where they tell me,” he shrugged one shoulder slightly against the beam. “Sometimes jobs go bad.”
“You could’ve contacted someone.”
Jabber barked a sharp laugh.
“Who? The Cleaners?”
“You know what I mean.”
Silence.
Jabber looked at him for a long moment.
Then: “You wanted me to contact you?”
The question landed like a blade sliding between ribs. Because suddenly Zanka realised that yes. He had. The admission sat ugly and exposed between them. Jabber stared up at him while rainwater dripped steadily from both their faces. Then slowly, his expression softened into something genuinely dangerous. Not violence. Not chaos. Something far more terrifying on Jabber.
Affection.
“You’re really messed up about me, huh?”
Zanka shoved him again immediately.
“Shut up.”
Jabber only laughed harder. His head tipped briefly back against the beam while rain slid down his throat.
“You should see yourself right now,” he murmured.
“You should shut your mouth.”
“But then you’d stop looking at me like this.”
That line hit hard enough to make Zanka’s stomach twist. Because Jabber was right again. Violence had become the only time Zanka stopped pretending around him. The only time he grabbed him openly. Yelled honestly. Touched without hesitation. Jabber noticed everything. And somehow that made him even more feral. Jabber suddenly leaned forward despite being pinned, close enough that Zanka could feel his breath beneath the rain.
“You know what the funny part is?”
“I’m going to regret asking.”
“You’d be boring if you didn’t care.”
Zanka stared at him. Jabber grinned bloodily.
“And you’re not boring.”
Then, because he was completely fucking insane, Jabber dragged his mouth briefly across the blood smeared along Zanka’s knuckles from the fight. Zanka’s entire body locked up instantly.
“Jabber—”
Jabber looked delighted by the reaction.
“Like I said, you’re cute like this.”
Zanka slammed him back against the beam so hard the metal screamed beneath them.
—September 1st—
The vending machine flickered like it was about to die. One weak fluorescent bulb buzzed unevenly behind cracked plastic while rainwater dripped steadily from the rusted awning overhead. The entire street was nearly empty, washed silver by rain and dim neon leaking from signs deeper in the Pit. Zanka stared at the vending machine with visible hatred. Then kicked it hard enough to shake the entire thing.
Nothing came out.
Zanka narrowed his eyes slowly.
“You’re kidding.”
The machine hummed softly in response. Like mockery. Rain slid coldly down the back of his neck while distant generators groaned somewhere beneath the city streets. Most shops had closed hours ago. The sector was practically dead. Which was exactly why he came here after missions. Quiet. Food. No people. Instead, he was currently losing a fight against a vending machine. Zanka shoved money into it again. The machine immediately ate it.
Silence.
Then, from somewhere above him: “Oh, that’s embarrassing.”
Zanka froze, and slowly looked upward. He immediately regretted it. Jabber crouched on top of the vending machine like some kind of rain-soaked cryptic. No explanation. Just there. Dreadlocks plastered damply across his forehead. Boots balanced carelessly against the machine’s edge. One arm draped loosely over his knees while he chewed loudly on stolen chips and stared down at Zanka with obvious delight.
“How long have you been there?” Zanka asked flatly.
Jabber tilted his head thoughtfully.
“Long enough to watch you threaten an appliance.”
“I wasn’t threatening it.”
“You called it a ‘piece of shit.’”
“It stole my money.”
Jabber gasped dramatically.
“Oh, now it’s personal.”
Zanka sighed heavily through his nose.
“You appear out of nowhere like a disease.”
“Yeah.”
“That’s not a compliment.”
Jabber grinned.
“I know.”
Rainwater dripped steadily from the edge of the machine beside his face while he continued staring at Zanka without blinking nearly enough. Zanka recognised that look. Jabber swung one leg lazily over the edge of the vending machine.
“You look tired.”
“You look feral.”
“I am feral.”
That answer came immediately. No hesitation whatsoever. Zanka rubbed one hand briefly down his face. Jabber leaned lower suddenly, chin resting atop folded arms while staring at him with sharp bright eyes beneath the rain.
“You’ve been fighting.”
“So have you.”
“Yeah,” Jabber said cheerfully. “But mine was probably more fun.”
Of course it was.
Zanka turned back toward the vending machine aggressively before this conversation got worse, but that was a mistake. Because now Jabber became interested.
“Oh my god,” he breathed softly. “You’re actually trying again.”
Zanka shoved another button, but nothing happened. Jabber nearly folded over laughing.
“There’s no way.”
“Shut up.”
“It hates you.”
“I hate you.”
“Nah.”
Jabber grinned wider.
“You like me more than this machine.”
“That’s not a high bar.”
“Still counts.”
Zanka kicked the machine again. Jabber watched with visible fascination. Not amusement anymore. Fascination. Like he was observing an animal in the wild.
“You know,” Jabber said thoughtfully, “if you threaten it harder, it might get scared.”
“It’s a vending machine.”
“Everything gets scared eventually.”
That sounded way too genuine. Zanka slowly looked back up at him, and Jabber smiled immediately. He abruptly dropped from the top of the vending machine and landed in a crouch directly beside Zanka with a loud splash of rainwater and immediately leaned too close.
“What’d you want from it?”
“Food.”
“Hm.”
Jabber stared at the vending machine. Then lightly knocked against the glass with one knuckle.
“Give him the food.”
Silence.
Nothing happened. Jabber looked highly offended.
“Okay, now I’m pissed too.”
“You cannot be serious.”
Jabber suddenly crouched in front of the machine like he was negotiating with it.
“This is your last warning.”
Zanka stared at him blankly.
Rain dripped steadily around them. Jabber narrowed his eyes at the vending machine. Then, very calmly said: “I’ve killed people for less.”
Zanka barked out an involuntary laugh before he could stop himself. The sound slipped free sharp and unexpected into the empty street. Jabber’s head snapped toward him instantly.
Silence.
Then slowly, his expression changed.
Like he’d just seen something rare.
“I’ve never heard you laugh like that before,” he said softly.
Zanka immediately looked away, but Jabber had seen his expression already.
“Oh, you’re embarrassed now.”
“I’m leaving.”
“No you’re not.”
“You’re threatening machinery.”
“And you laughed.”
“That was an accident.”
“Mm.”
Jabber looked entirely too pleased with himself. Then suddenly kicked the vending machine hard enough to make the entire thing rattle violently. Sparks burst briefly from inside. Zanka blinked. Jabber blinked back. Then both of them looked toward the machine.
Thunk.
A single canned drink fell into the tray. Jabber turned slowly toward him with the wild triumphant expression of someone who’d just conquered nature itself.
“Oh my god.”
“You’re insane.”
“It WORKED.”
“That should not have worked.”
Jabber immediately grabbed Zanka by both shoulders.
“I scared it.”
“You did not scare—”
“I established dominance.”
“You need psychiatric help.”
Jabber laughed loudly enough for it to echo through the empty street. God, that laugh. Always too sharp. Too alive. Like he was one bad day away from biting someone. Probably because he was. Jabber snatched the drink from the tray and cracked it open immediately. Then handed it directly to Zanka without even taking a sip first. The gesture was so automatic that Zanka froze briefly.
Jabber noticed.
“What?”
“…Nothing.”
“You looked weird.”
“You handed it to me.”
“Yeah.”
Jabber stared at him for a second too long. Then shrugged one shoulder carelessly.
“You wanted it more.”
The answer landed strangely hard. Because Jabber almost never gave things up willingly. Especially not after fighting for them. Zanka took the drink slowly. Cold metal pressed against bruised knuckles. Rain tapped steadily against the awning overhead. Jabber leaned sideways suddenly against his shoulder. He was like an overgrown dangerous animal deciding to rest against somebody for five seconds before biting them again.
Zanka stiffened immediately.
“You’re wet.”
“Yeah.”
“You smell like blood.”
“Yeah.”
“…You’re bleeding again.”
Jabber looked down at himself vaguely.
“Oh.”
There was a fresh cut running along one side of his hand. He didn’t seem remotely bothered by it. Zanka grabbed his wrist automatically before he could think about it. Jabber went completely still. That happened every time. Every single time Zanka touched him first. Like somebody had pressed pause on all the chaos inside him for half a second. Rainwater slid slowly from Jabber’s hair down across his face while he watched Zanka inspect the cut. Too quiet now. Too attentive.
“You’re an idiot,” Zanka muttered.
Jabber’s gaze flicked slowly from the cut to Zanka’s face.
Then stayed there.
“You always patch me up after fights.”
“That’s because you keep getting injured.”
“You notice all of them.”
Zanka clicked his tongue softly and released his wrist. Rain dripped steadily from the rusted awning overhead. The vending machine buzzed weakly beside them, one fluorescent light flickering on and off in uneven intervals while puddles reflected fractured neon across the empty street. Rain had soaked completely through Jabber’s clothes. Dark hair clung damply across his forehead and into his eyes while fresh blood still streaked faintly across one side of his hand from whatever fight he’d gotten into earlier. And despite all of it, he looked weirdly pleased just standing here beside a broken vending machine at three in the morning.
Like this counted as quality time.
“You know, you kind of blush when you laugh,” Jabber said softly.
Zanka stared at him flatly.
“No I don’t.”
“You do.”
“That’s stupid.”
“There it is again.”
“What?”
“That face.”
Zanka frowned slightly. Jabber looked genuinely fascinated now. Like he’d spotted something rare. Then suddenly, without warning, Jabber grabbed the front of his jacket and kissed him. Fast, direct, and completely insane. Zanka froze instantly. Jabber’s mouth tasted like rainwater and stolen soda and the faint metallic trace of blood. The kiss only lasted a second. Maybe less. But it hit like getting punched directly through the ribs. Because it wasn’t soft. It wasn’t careful. It felt instinctive. Like Jabber saw something he wanted and immediately sank his teeth into it before somebody could stop him.
When he pulled back, he stayed way too close.
Their noses nearly brushed. Rainwater slid slowly down Jabber’s face while his eyes glittered with obvious satisfaction. Then he glanced sideways toward the vending machine and said casually: “Now the vending machine knows you’re mine.”
Silence.
Absolute silence.
Zanka stared at him. Jabber looked entirely serious. Which somehow made it so much worse. Heat exploded violently across Zanka’s face before he could stop it. Jabber froze entirely. Then his eyes widened slightly.
“Oh my god.”
Zanka immediately shoved him backward.
“Shut up.”
“You’re blushing.”
“I’m going to kill you.”
“You’re ACTUALLY blushing.”
Jabber sounded delighted. No, worse than delighted. Obsessed. Like he’d just discovered fire. Zanka turned away instantly and grabbed the canned drink off the vending machine just to avoid looking directly at him. Behind him, Jabber started laughing. Loud and uncontrolled. The kind of laughter that bent him nearly double.
“You’re so funny!” he gasped between laughs.
“Jabber.”
“And you’re embarrassed!”
“You are never speaking again.”
“Oh, this is the best day of my life.”
Zanka cracked the soda open aggressively.
“You kissed me because of a vending machine.”
“Yeah.”
“That’s psychotic.”
“You liked it though.”
Zanka nearly choked on the drink. Jabber looked seconds away from dying of happiness.
“There it is again!”
“I hate you.”
“No you don’t.”
Jabber leaned lazily back against the vending machine beside him, still grinning like a complete lunatic while rain poured steadily around them. Then quieter, still smiling, he added: “It’s cute.”
—November 28th—
Rain fell hard enough to hurt.
It slammed through the broken sector in silver sheets, pouring from rusted fire escapes and shattered rooftops while neon signs buzzed weakly against the dark. Water rushed through gutters thick with ash and oil and blood, turning the streets of the Pit into rivers of reflected colour. The city smelled like wet metal. Like smoke. Like something dying. Jabber moved through it laughing softly to himself. Not loudly. Just under his breath. Still riding the high of violence.
There was blood drying sticky beneath his fingernails. His shoulder ached pleasantly from a knife wound he’d ignored an hour ago. Somewhere behind him, Raiders were probably still tearing through the remains of the district fight.
Jabber didn’t care.
He was thinking about Zanka.
Thinking about the expression he got whenever Jabber pushed him too far. That furious stare. Those rough hands grabbing his collar. The way he said his name like a threat. Jabber grinned wider to himself beneath the rain. Maybe he’d go find him. Maybe Zanka would hit him again.The thought warmed him straight through the ribs.
Then the smell hit him.
Blood.
Fresh.
Too much.
Jabber slowed.
Something strange twisted beneath his skin.
The alley ahead sat half drowned in darkness except for one flickering neon sign buzzing weakly overhead. Rainwater cascaded from the fire escape above in violent streams.
And there he found a body.
It was collapsed awkwardly against the concrete. Far too still. Jabber’s grin disappeared.
No.
He moved instantly. Boots splashing hard through puddles as adrenaline exploded viciously through his bloodstream.
No no no no—
Then he reached him.
And the world went wrong.
Zanka lay twisted on the pavement beneath the rain with blood spilling steadily beneath him in dark spreading rivers. It was too much blood. Way too much. Assistaff had fallen several feet away. One of his hands twitched weakly against the concrete like his body was trying to remember how to move. Jabber dropped to his knees so hard pain cracked through them.
“Zanka.”
Nothing.
Rain hammered violently against both of them. Jabber grabbed him by the jaw immediately. His skin was cold and wet. There was blood everywhere.
“Hey.”
His voice sounded wrong. Too sharp. Too high. Zanka’s head lolled weakly beneath his hand. That’s when Jabber saw the wound. Something inside him split open. A deep stab wound low in the abdomen, blood pouring steadily through torn fabric and running hot between the cracks in the pavement.
Jabber stared at it.
Then laughed.
A sharp broken sound tore out of him before he could stop it. It wasn’t amusement. It was something worse. Panic wearing laughter’s skin.
“No,” he breathed, laughing again shakily. “No no no no, what the fuck—”
His hands slammed over the wound instantly. Blood soaked his hands in seconds. It was warm. So fucking warm. The feeling made hysteria climb violently through his chest. Jabber laughed again. Too loud now. Too sharp.
“Jesus Christ, Zanka.”
Rainwater streamed down his face and into his mouth while blood flooded steadily between his fingers. Zanka made a weak sound then. It was tiny. Barely conscious. Jabber’s entire body jerked at the noise.
“There you are,” he whispered frantically.
His hands were shaking violently. That almost never happened.
“Hey,” another broken laugh. “Hey, don’t do this.”
Zanka’s eyes fluttered weakly open. Unfocused and dark with pain. Blood stained one corner of his mouth. Jabber felt something hot and animalistic rip straight through his chest at the sight. This was wrong. This was so wrong. Zanka was supposed to shove him into walls, glare at him, punch him for saying insane things, breathe hard against his mouth in motel rooms. Not lie here bleeding open beneath the rain. Jabber pressed harder against the wound desperately. Blood spilled faster between his fingers.
“Stop that,” he snapped hysterically. “Stop bleeding.”
Another laugh escaped him. Feral and breathless. He sounded insane even to himself. His free hand immediately started tearing through his coat pockets searching for something, anything, poisons, powders, stimulants, most of what he carried was designed to kill people.
Not survive.
“Come on—come on—”
Glass vials clattered uselessly across the pavement.
Nothing.
He had nothing useful.
Jabber laughed again. Louder this time. The sound echoed violently through the alley while panic clawed its way beneath his ribs.
“Oh, this is bad,” he gasped. “This is really fucking bad.”
Zanka stirred weakly beneath him. Jabber grabbed his face harder.
“Stay awake.”
Rainwater ran down Zanka’s throat in silver streams. His breathing sounded wet and uneven.
Call it ironic, call it bad timing, but Jabber suddenly remembered their shared nights in motel rooms. Warm yellow light spilling softly across tangled sheets. Zanka half asleep beneath thin blankets with his hair falling into his eyes while rain tapped gently against cracked windows. Alive. Beautiful. Breathing. Jabber suddenly remembered rough hands grabbing his jaw, bruised knuckles against his mouth, Zanka blushing, the look Zanka got right before kissing him, the weight of him breathing beside him in the dark.
Alive.
Alive.
Alive.
Jabber looked back down at the blood spreading endlessly beneath them. And something inside him went completely feral. A hysterical noise ripped out of his throat somewhere between laughter and a scream.
“No,” he said again desperately. “No no no—you don’t get to fucking die.”
His fingers steeped in blood while trying to hold the wound closed. Jabber laughed again. Sharp. Panicked. Completely unhinged.
“You’d hate that,” he babbled frantically. “You’d hate dying, you’d complain the whole time—”
Zanka’s head rolled weakly toward him. He was half-conscious. Jabber grabbed him harder.
“Look at me.”
His voice cracked violently.
“Look at me.”
Somewhere nearby, he heard voices, Cleaner voices, shouting through the rain.
Jabber froze.
He recognised one of them. It was that Rudo kid. The one with the Watchman gloves. He recognised the voice instantly. The Cleaners were nearby. Probably searching for Zanka. Jabber looked toward the alley entrance automatically.
Run.
That was his instinct.
He knew that if they found him here kneeling over a dying Cleaner covered in blood, this could become catastrophic. His body was already preparing to move. Then Zanka coughed weakly beneath him. Blood spilled from the corner of his mouth. And Jabber remembered the motel room again. Zanka asleep beside him. Calm for once. Warm for once. Alive. The memory hit so hard it physically hurt. Jabber stared down at him in horror. Then laughed again. It was a terrible sound.
He could not leave him here.
He just couldn’t.
The thought itself felt impossible.
Like trying to tear his own ribs open.
The Cleaner voices were closer now. Jabber’s chest heaved violently.
Then suddenly, he screamed.
“HE’S HERE!”
The alley echoed with it. Rain crashing around him.
“HE NEEDS HELP!”
Silence beyond the alley. Then rapid footsteps followed. Jabber immediately bent back over Zanka again, both bloody hands pressing desperately against the wound while his breathing came sharp and uneven.
“You hear me?” Another frantic laugh. “You are NOT dying before I kill you myself.”
Zanka made another weak sound. Still breathing. Still alive. The footsteps reached the alley entrance. Their weapons were drawn. Cleaners flooded into view, and stopped dead in their tracks. Because the sight before them made no sense.
Jabber Wonger.
Covered in blood.
Laughing hysterically in the rain while desperately trying to keep Zanka alive.
Rudo stared at him. Rainwater streamed heavily down everybody’s faces. Nobody moved. Then, a tall man with blonde hair and tattoos saw the wound and swore loudly. Everything exploded into motion after that.
“Move!”
Jabber looked up wildly. Nobody attacked him. Nobody pointed weapons. Rudo shoved forward immediately toward Zanka instead.
“MOVE!”
Jabber obeyed automatically. The second his hands lifted away, blood poured faster from the wound. Jabber made another horrible laughing noise under his breath.
“No no no—”
Bandages appeared. They put pressure on the wound. Their voices overlapping urgently. Zanka groaned weakly as they lifted him. Still alive. Still breathing. Jabber sat back hard against the alley wall staring at the blood covering both his hands. His laughter finally died. Leaving something far uglier behind. Rudo paused beside him briefly while the others carried Zanka away into the rain. For one long second, neither spoke.
Then, quietly: “You found him.”
Jabber looked down at the blood on his hands.
And for the first time in years, he’d actually felt afraid.