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The bar buzzes with life— people chat and drink, cracking jokes and smiles as lively music blares from the jukebox sitting behind the counter. Jabber was merely here for a good time, that is, until he saw a familiar head of ash-blond hair.
Zanka? Didn’t take him for the type to drink. It was undoubtedly the Cleaners’ golden boy, with his grime crusted uniform and steadfast stick leaned carefully beside him. Several empty shot glasses stood guard in front of him dutifully, like sentries waiting in line.
His usually gelled hair was much more… rumpled today, having been ruffled one time too many. One of his hands absentmindedly traced along the wood grains of his stick, as the other acted as a cushion for his head, propping it up.
Interest piqued, Jabber approached, attracted like a moth to a light. He plopped unceremoniously into the barstool next to Zanka, making no effort to hide his presence.
After all, he was just here to let loose after a day’s work, not do overtime for the Raiders by picking fights with Cleaners outside office hours. At least not deadly ones… if he plays his cards right.
“What’s yer problem, shithead?” Zanka’s voice came out tired and slurred. Clearly the drinks had gotten to him. Jabber wonders what Zanka’s face looks like now. Zanka isn’t even looking at him, face burrowed into the crook of his elbow, hair fanning out messily around him.
A mischievous thought pops into Jabber’s head— what would happen if he pushed Zanka’s buttons now? Would he fight back? Wrap his bony fingers around his neck and choke him for all he’s worth? Knock his lights out with a swift punch in the teeth?
Jabber is something of a scientist, and he’d just found the subject of a new experiment. The mere notion makes his spine tingle with excitement.
“Dude can’t even get drinks in town without bein’ cursed out any more, huh..I see how it is, Mr. Bad Attitude…” Jabber smirks. “Besides, ain’t you too young to be drinking? Don’t tell me Mr Goody Two Shoes over here is a shameless law breaker..”
Zanka tenses. It’s tiny, almost imperceptible, but it was there. Had Jabber not been waiting intently for a reaction, he’d have totally missed it.
“Just fuck off, dude..” Something akin to desperation seeps into Zanka’s tired voice. His patience is clearly stretched thin, like a string pulled taut waiting to snap.
Zanka’s literally right there, Jabber can feel it. Just one more push… and Zanka’s going to absolutely lose his shit. he’s this close to hitting the jackpot (aka. stirring shit with Zanka again). But even if all roads lead to Rome, he sure as hell wants to pick a scenic one.
Jabber reaches out a finger, and pokes Zanka’s arm. Repeatedly. Poke, poke, poke. Zanka’s arm is squishy, like jelly with less give, honestly. Thought he’d be bonier, but life’s full of surprises.
Zanka whips his head towards him, face twisted with fury, clearly reaching the end of his already short fuse. He shoots upright, slamming his fist onto the counter. “What’s yer fucking problem? Can’t you leave me the hell alone? For fucks sake!” Wow. There she blows.
“Just wanna spend some quality time with my favourite Cleaner,” Jabber purrs sweetly, laying it on thick as he bats his eyes at Zanka, whose glare intensifies. Zanka’s face is dusted with a deep blush— clearly unaccustomed to the effects of alcohol.
It’s kinda cute, Jabber muses. Dark circles sit beneath his eyes, giving him an expression verging on manic. Unexpected for someone usually so put together, honestly.
Jabber lets out a breath. “So,” he begins conversationally, as if Zanka isn’t one snide comment from taking him to the nether realm, “This a part of your training? Alcohol tolerance? Training to out drink the trash beasts for the Cleaners’ dignity, are ya?”
“It’s got nothing to do with training.” Zanka snaps at him. An actual answer— surprising. “I should be training, since I keep fucking losing fights even if I already train a lot, but it’s clearly not enough when—“ Zanka stops himself with a groan, cutting off his tirade.
——————————————————————-
“Do go on Zan-zan, I was invested in that heart-to-heart we had goin’ on,” Jabber pouts. What does this Raider even want from him? Zanka just wanted a quiet place to get his shit together after a mission gone horribly wrong, and even fate decides he has to deal with his nemesis in a bar, in the middle of nowhere, seven shots deep? What is he even doing with his life?
Zanka laughs darkly. “You know what? Why am I even talking to you about this? Yer just some fucking Raider genius who just hates my guts and wants to fucking push my buttons and get a rise out of me and make my life a fucking living hell, as if it wasn’t already bloody hard enough being mediocre at what ya do no matter how hard you try cause yer just not—“
Good enough.
No matter how hard Zanka trains, how many techniques he learns, he won’t be good enough.
There would always, always be some genius out there who would leave him choking on their dust.
Zanka’s so tired. He really is. His life is nothing but a series of fuck-ups, he’s practically disowned by his biological family, and he can’t even be of any use to the people he actually cares for. He just can’t do it anymore.
Kyouka was right. The realisation makes him sick to the stomach. They had been right all along. He should’ve just stayed with the Hell Guard and trained harder, and actually made something useful out of himself, not whatever this was.
A dependent who cared for a damned stick so much, his soul had connected with it.
But even so, what then? If he stayed, he’d still never beat Hyo. He’d never get to sit on the golden throne and he would still be the disgrace of the family. His face burns, and the skin on his face suddenly feels cloying. Restrictive. He needs it off— he needs it off now—
His throat burns with the unsaid admission, a scorching heat licking at his insides.
Everything hurts. It all hurts so damn bad, his chest feels like it’s being ripped apart, fibre from fibre and his innards are spilling out, staining the floor and his hands and his very being.
Icy hands tighten in his hair, supplying a grounding pain. Vaguely, he registers a sob. Is that him? It better not be. He’s never going to live it down if he started fucking crying in front of the Jabber Wonger. The hands tighten, pulling harshly at his roots before shifting to his face, clawing at the skin.
Zanka just needs to calm down.
Everything is fine and life is fine and he is— a fucking disappointment. Always has been. His throat closes in on itself, heart pounding like doldrums in his ears.
He really is the worst. Trying so hard only to ever get nowhere, wanting nothing but to get stronger and better and always, always falling short.
Will he ever catch up to those geniuses? Can he even catch up? He should just cut his losses at this point— just throw himself out the window or find a bullet to put through his head. There’ll be nothing left to prove once he’s dead and gone, anyways.
“Zan—“
He honestly doesn’t even deserve the luxury, to get to take the easy way out, to just leave others behind to deal with his issues. It’s just plain cowardice. What about Enjin? And Riyo? And all the other Cleaners who do care for him, want to see him succeed, and all he wants to do is give up?
Please. Even murderers give better excuses for their unjustifiable actions.
Hands grab at his shoulders, shaking him roughly.
In the back of Zanka’s mind, he probably wouldn’t actually kill himself. It’s far too selfish, too cowardly, too wretched an act to commit against those who’ve treated him with nothing but kindness.
He doesn’t even want to have the urge to kill himself. It’s just there, and fuck does his throat burn. It feels like a cactus was stuffed down his throat, thorns leaving bloody trails in its wake.
He isn’t even mad that Jabber came in here to rile him up, just mad that he rose to the bait. He always does. Jabber’s probably weirded the fuck out, even as a masochist at this point.
He doesn’t want Jabber to see him like this. Doesn’t want to be seen, be perceived, doesn’t want to exist. He wishes he could sink into nothingness and it could all just be over and he would go about his day, seething and swearing and pretending that this never happened.
Zanka gets that he has a short temper, that he’s easily flustered and reactive— a prime target for pranks or teasing.
What he doesn’t get is how he’s feeling. Why does everything fucking hurt? Where’s the anger, the sharp tongue that cuts when he needs it? Where did it all go?
There’s none of it to be found now, only a suffocating sadness.
“You’re kinda freaking me out, dude,”
Faintly, a voice cuts through his spiral.
Fuchsia eyes bore into his. He could vaguely feel a sob tear through him, emptying out his chest and stomach, ripping into the meat of his throat, all seen by the man he least wants bear witness to it.
He’s honestly going to be sick. A shaky breath, then two, then a hiccup. Nope, no-he doesn’t got it. Another sob wrenches itself from his throat, wet and pathetic.
Zanka’s face is sticky and wet with a gross mixture of snot and tears and—
“Zanka. You here with me?” Jabber’s voice is unsure. The bar floor slowly comes into focus in his hazy vision.
Zanka nods shakily, sniffling, even as tears continue streaming down his face in hot rivulets.
——————————————————————
What the actual fuck is Jabber doing, honestly? After Zanka snapped and went on a tirade, he just started fucking sobbing and he wouldn’t stop. Jabber wasn’t just uncomfortable, he was full on panicking— cause what the fuck man?
How was he to expect that Zanka, who swore like a sailor, with a bottomless reservoir of rage, would start bawling in front of him in a bar, no less? He’d never seen that side of him before, and quite frankly, he’d rather not see it again.
So, he’s gotta say something to fix it— quick. But how? He was the kinda guy you come to for fights— the kind that you don’t come back from— not a fucking board certified therapist!
“Uh,” He starts eloquently, “I’m sorry.”
Zanka whimpers, and it doesn’t feel like him at all. That noise was the last thing Jabber would’ve expected to come out of Zanka’s mouth.
Even after having his shin sliced with Mankira and dosed with neurotoxins, Zanka didn’t whimper.
Zanka was strong and resolute and a good fighter. Someone who fought tooth and nail, to the very end, cursing and swearing as he went. To hear whimpers coming from him was trippy at best and slightly terrifying at worst.
“It’s okay, Zanka, you’re okay. No worries. I shouldn’t have started just now,” Jabber shushes him, pulling him into an awkward hug, arms hovering around Zanka, unready to fully commit.
His only response was a whine. Zanka’s arms tightened around him, head nuzzling into the crook of his neck as fresh tears wet Jabber’s hoodie.
Now what?
Oh, right! Mama had always traced comforting circles down his back whenever he was sad as a kid. Maybe that would help Zanka too.
Jabber softly rubs a circle into Zanka’s back, shushing him. He traces the circles over and over wordlessly, for minutes on end as Zanka’s sobs and whimpers tapered off, finally reduced to occasional sharp double inhales, followed by a slow exhale and a sniffle.
Pulling back, Jabber asks, “Alright,
you feelin’ better now? All good between ol’ Jabs and you?”
“…Yeah— ‘m sorry for the trouble. Don’t know what just happened.” Zanka buries his face in his hands, a flush peeking out from his cheeks.
“Zanka,” Jabber looks at him, serious for once. “You’re a really, really good fighter, an’ you’re not weak at all. So don’t be pulling that ‘I’m not good enough’ shit, when everyone already sees your worth, a’ight? And I don’t hate you. But it’s just part of our job scopes to fight— and that it’s kinda fun.”
“…I know.”
“Sure didn’t look like it when you were drunkenly sobbing your eyes out, like, two seconds ago.” He points out.
“Yeah, I know that but sometimes it just doesn’t feel like it.” Zanka groans.
“Yeah, yeah, I get you. Like you know the drug’s side effects but the hallucinations just feel so dang real!”
“Well, that’s one way to put it,” Zanka deadpans.
“Okay, but seriously, that’s on me for pushing your buttons… I was curious how you’d react.”
Zanka just sighs in resignation. He wasn’t even surprised at this point.
“Al-righty! Now that you’re done sobbing— and I’m done playing therapist for the day… Wanna grab some grub?”
“Sure.”