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The rain against the window of the cramped apartment sounded like stones hitting a glass coffin. Inside, the only light came from the neon sign of the convenience store across the street, illuminating several band posters hung against the wall, and casting long, bleeding streaks of pink and blue across Jabber Wonger’s bedroom floor.
Zanka Nijiku sat on the edge of the mattress, his spine perfectly, rigidly straight. His hands were clasped at his chest, holding the silver cross that hung from his neck and stung in his hand like thorns.
"You're doing it again," Jabber said. He was lying flat on his back, his head propped up by a single, flattened pillow, watching Zanka through hooded eyes. His sharp grin was softer than usual, but the chaotic, energy that always surrounded him hadn't faded.
"I am praying," Zanka whispered, his voice hoarse.
"You're suffocating yourself," Jabber corrected. He sat up, the mattress creaking under his weight. He reached out, his calloused fingers brushing against Zanka’s chin. "Come here."
Zanka flinched, but he didn't pull away. He couldn't. He was his greatest weakness. Every sermon his sister Kyouka had ever shouted into the drafty living room of their childhood home echoed in his ears. You are the template, Zanka.You carry the family’s purity. If you fall, they all fall. His siblings had built a barrier of expectations around him, mending his faith into a weapon meant to keep him grounded, clean, and entirely under their control. They had taught him that every action, every step, every breath belonged to God, and to diverge ment being a disappointment.
But Jabber wasn’t like him. He had no god to belive in. He hadn’t had to carry the same weight as Zanka, and some part of him envied his freedom.
"Jabber..." Zanka breathed, his voice sounding more like a plea than a warning.
Jabber didn't listen. He leaned in, closing the distance until his lips brushed against Zanka’s. The heat of it burned. With a sudden, desperate movement, Zanka tore his hands apart. His thumb caught the clasp of the cross necklace, unhooking it frantically, begging for the weight to go away as he let it slip off onto the soft mattress. So the symbol wouldn't have to bear witness to his corruption. His disgusting acts.
He leaned forward, burying his fingers into Jabber’s jacket, pulling the other man into a hard, devastating kiss. It was clumsy, fueled with a starvation and desperation that he never let himself have. Jabber met him instantly, his arms wrapping around Zanka’s waist, pushing him down against the bed. Jabber tasted like cheap energy drinks and cold air, entirely untouched by the concept of sin. To Jabber, this wasn't a transgression. it was just Zanka. It was just love.
Zanka pulled back slightly to catch his breath, his eyes tracing Jabbers's lips in need.
"I'm a sinner," Zanka whispered inbetween Jabbers kisses. Silent tears gathering in his eyes, threatening to fall. "I'm going to hell. I'm dragging my family down with me. God, please... I'm disgusting…" Despite all this, Zanka still couldn’t bring himself to pull away completely, begging for the man to silence his thoughts
"Hey," Jabber muttered, his voice dropping an octave. He didn't look angry; he just looked patient. He gently grabbed the side of Zankas face, forcing him to look up at him. "Look at me. You're not disgusting."
"I am," Zanka chocked out, his head pressing into the crook of Jabber’s neck as his tears finally spilled. The guilt was a physical weight, crushing his lungs, making it impossible to breathe. He felt dirty, stained by the very joy he had just tasted. He pictured his siblings' faces, their disappointment, the absolute certainty that he was broken. "I can't stop. I promise myself I won't come back here, and then I... I take it off. Im nothing but a waste of space." He chocked out, sobs now violently flowing out of him as he mumbled useless sermons and pleas for forgiveness.
Jabber rubbed a hand firmly up and down Zanka’s back, feeling the sharp ridges of his spine. Jabber didn't believe in heaven, or hell, or the heavy silver piece now sitting on the foot of his bed. He didn't care about the rules Zanka’s family used as handcuffs. But he cared about the boy currently shaking to pieces in his arms.
"Then take it off," Jabber whispered against his hair, his grip tightening, offering a solid anchor in the middle of Zanka's storm. "Every single time. I'll hold it for you. Just cry it out, Zanka. I've got you."
Zanka clutched at the back of Jabber's shirt, drowning in a sea of his own desire, entirely trapped between the family he couldn't disappoint and the boy he couldn't leave behind.