Archive of Our Own

They’ve been dating for a couple years now, enough for Zanka to know that Jabber is pretty much okay, well, enthusiastic about him fucking up any and every single part of his body. All except his hair. Jabber only really, genuinely, gets frustrated with Zanka when he gets a little too riled up in the midst of it, reaches up, and tugs. Hard. Jabber would then stiffen up, clenching hard around him–not unpleasantly–before looking over his shoulder at Zanka with the stankest mug he can conjure.  Zanka will stutter something somewhat akin to an apology, lower his grip to the bruised skin below his nape, and continue on.

Thats usually how it goes, Zanka only “slips up” when Jabber does some shit to really piss him the fuck off, but for the most part, he respects the boundaries the man has with his hair. 

He’s sitting on the couch with the man currently, watching some 3 hour playthrough of some scary game–Zanka never understood why Jabber liked that loud ass guy–catching the scent of his shampoo on his freshly washed hair. The locs are heavy with water, Zanka knows because he yelled at Jabber once for trailing water all over the hardwood floor of their apartment–Zanka definitely did not slip and bust his ass, thank you–and Jabber simply responded with a giggle, bundled his dripping hair into his hands, and unceremoniously slapped Zanka on his face with it, laughing all the while. 

Zanka can still feel the sensation of the small damp wicks on his skin, soft at the ends, but wet, heavy, and overstimulating. He smelt the minty conditioner at fault for the softness, which Jabber would later tell him he only put on his ends right out the shower. He almost felt bad for yelling at the man, who had that weight pulling on his scalp. Not too bad though, because Zanka promptly beat his ass for the offense, grumbling something under his breath about respect.

Jabber has dressed the couch with at least 3 towels, another result of Zanka yelling at him about leaving damp blotches of product all over the porous material of the velvety loveseat. It was hard to rinse out okay? And Jabber wouldn’t clean a sofa if it had literal rat shit on it, so Zanka was left with the task of shampooing the furniture himself. 

Zanka watches him take about a quarter of the volume of his hair into his grasp, squeezing the locs with a microfiber towel until the veins of his arms and hands pop out, wringing water from the ends and onto the towels sitting below him. He starts at the top, just below his scalp, working his way from the new growth to the fully mature, wider bulk of his hair. Jabber glances at him momentarily, a ghost of a smile on his face, before turning his head back to the TV.

“Been a while since ya last did this, didn’t wanna have someone else take care of it for ya?” Zanka asks, breaking the silence–sans the boisterous yelling from the speakers.

“Nah, they chargin’ an arm and a leg for retwists now, and much as that sounds fun, I kinda need my arms so Mankira can sit nice and pretty for me, where she safe.” 

This draws Zanka's eyes to the rings in question, sitting in a neat row of ten on a silk handkerchief–Zanka recognized it as a birthday gift he’d given his boyfriend a few years ago, high quality, and expensive–on the coffee table right in front of them. Jabber only really takes her off when he wants to avoid her getting wet or dirty, of course, that being only in private. 

Zanka remembers when they first started dating, he kept her on to shower, wash his hands, cook, swim, everything. After two or so years together, he finally felt comfortable enough to place her alone in open spaces, such as the desk in their shared room, or the coffee table he was currently staring at. Zanka felt a wave of endearment wash over him, knowing that Jabber used his gift to hold his precious girl. 

Of course, Zanka is just as dedicated to his Lovely Assistaff. An attachment others had made clear to him was strange, but Jabber had looked at her and seen her. Seen her beauty, her strength, her life. Jabber had done boxing through high school and college, and Zanka had done bojutsu and mixed martial arts since he was a kid. Medical school had taken a lot of his free time for lessons away, so he’d started practicing alone at a gym not far from his apartment. That was where they met.  It started as coincidental spars whenever they were both at the gym at the same time. Jabber used his fists adorned by Mankira, and urged the hesitant Zanka of the time to not hold back with his Lovely Assistaff. There was a charged air to those fights, many of them late at night in the last hours of opening. Zanka slowly found himself looking forward to them, and getting disappointed when the man wasn’t there. 

The release was a life save with the stress of school, and Zanka was addicted the moment he heard the words, ‘Look at her, sweet girl.’ from the man's lips following a spar they’d shared. He’d whispered it so softly, so tenderly, to the point that Zanka almost couldn’t catch the wheezing coming from his chest. Jabber, clutching his ribs, nursing a forming bruise from where Lovely had just collided into him mercilessly. Zanka himself was sporting multiple cuts on his face, his lips bleeding ugly from where Mankira tore into them. The look of admiration Jabber gave Lovely made Zanka feel so damn worthy, it was like something straight out of a wet dream. 

Following the fight, Jabber invited Zanka to his apartment. Zanka promptly put the man through his own mattress, and in the morning after they exchanged contacts.

Zanka removes his gaze from Mankira, who’s gleaming softly from the reflection of the images playing, then looks back to his boyfriend. Jabber meets him halfway, staring into Zanka’s eyes with a smirk, all the while holding a section of his hair in both hands.

“Ya keep lookin’ at me like that, and I’ma really give you sum’n to clean outta this sofa, pretty boy,” He says, eyes flickering down suggestively, then back up to meet Zanka’s own. Hands still in his hair.

“Yeah right, we both know ya wont go anywhere near a horizontal position when yer hair’s still wet, but good try.” Zanka ignores the flicker of heat that the comment stirs up in him, but he just got out of the shower, Jabber left him absolutely no hot water, and he doesn’t want to take another. “Get back to me in,” he glances at a nonexistent watch on his wrist, “24 hours? When it's finally dry.”

“C’mon baby! We both know I’on need to be layin’ down to have a good time, you love it when I get on top of it, and start–”

Zanka cuts him off, “Okay. Stop there, ya need to do more dryin’ and less talkin’, my heads startin’ to hurt.” He says, rubbing at his eyes dramatically.

Jabber simply laughs at that, swinging the slightly less wet hair over his shaking shoulders. “Hah, you really know how to talk to me Zan-Zan, you sure you don’t want no quickie? Then you can help me with the rest of my hair.” 

“Ugh, can ya stop thinkin’ about sex for one second–” Zanka stops. Letting Jabber's words sink in fully. “Help ya with yer hair?” Jabber returns his gaze to the screen, humming non-commitally as if what he’s offered isn’t the most out of character shit ever. Zanka simply sits there, gaping for a moment, waiting for the ‘SIKE, why in the hell would I let cho ass play in my head? You’d hafta kill me first. Wait, y’gotta promise you’d make it hurt though!’ But it never comes. Jabber keeps watching the TV, acting as though he hasn’t asked the one of the biggest forward steps of their relationship since their first real, emotional fight.

The memory comes immediately to Zanka’s head.

He and Jabber had their little skirmishes and disagreements, but anytime shit got personal they either solved it physically, or avoided each other for days until unanimously deciding to pretend nothing happened. 3 years ago, they had gotten into their first proper fight. Zanka was already having a shitty day, his brother had tried to reach out to him twice, and when that didn’t work, his sister tried. Zanka had recently cut his family off, deigning that what little validation he still craved from them deep down would never come, and even if it had, it wouldn’t be worth the mental gymnastics required to fit into the perfect Nijiku family mold. 

He thought they’d given up there, they usually did, but when he was leaving the glass doors of the hospital he’d just started his residency in, he was greeted with a strikingly red figure with steely eyes trained right on him. He was still in his scrubs, eye bags digging into his face from the 24-hour call he’d just completed. His stomach was growling, and his lips chapped from the biting and chewing he’d done through the entirety of his shift. He looked at his sister, not even mustering up the energy to physically convey the surprise he felt, that she would actually come all the way here to see him.

Hope blooms in his chest. Warm, tantalizing hope, because his family still cared about him. They still wanted him to come back. He was worth–

“Father wants you to know how disappointed he is in you. You’ve been doing your own thing entirely, and the path you are on clearly isn’t going to benefit the company in any way.” She sighs momentarily, crossing her arms across her chest before continuing, “You’re an adult now Zanka, we would have thought you’d have it together by now. Regardless, he wants you to know that he’s officially disowning you. I managed to talk him out of harassing you to change your last name, but he doesn’t want to see your face or hear your name ever again.”

 Kyouka says all of this in the same cold, even tone she’s adopted since she was 15, not breaking eye contact with Zanka all the while. “It’s unfortunate that it’s come to this Zanka, but I had to let you know in person since you aren’t picking up calls anymore.”

Zanka sits there, heart dropped into his stomach, fists clenched, trying to ignore the rock trying to tear its way up the flesh of his through. He breathes in harshly, words caught at the tip of his tongue, before releasing the breath shakily. His knees are weak, and his fingers are trembling. It feels like his heart is beating out of his chest but at the same time it feels like it's frozen solid, unmoved and never moving. He mentally berates himself, because he can’t get words to form, can’t show them that he’s not pathetic. He never needed them anyway, and they were doing him a favor, because this was exactly what he wanted.

She breathes in. “I’m happy for you Zanka. What you’ve done. But Father is tired of chasing after you, when you don’t seem to care about what this family has done for you.” She looks down at the watch on her wrist, clicking her teeth at what she sees. “I have to go now, you still have my number, if you change your mind.”

The words don’t come though. They don’t when he breaks eye contact, nails digging crescents into his hands as he ignores the burning heat in his eyes. They don’t come when she lets out another heavy sigh, turning around and walking away, or when his close proximity to the entrance gets him incredulous stares and polite “excuse me’s” for him to get out the fucking way.

The words get lost in the abyss that his mind creates, and as the muscles in his body force him to walk to his car, they still don’t manifest. Even when he’s driving back home, knuckles white where his hands clench around the wheel. His face taut and unmoving when he has to walk up 5 flights of stairs because the elevator had been down since forever. And as he’s fiddling with his keys to unlock and open the rickety door of their apartment. The words only materialize when he realises he’s standing in the walkway, halfway through slipping his shoes off in the mini-foyer when he sees Jabber. He can smell a mix of minty herbs and marijuana on him, and he’s sporting his usual cocksure smirk from where he's leant against the bar to greet Zanka.

“Hey there. Finally back huh? Thought you was gon’ be stuck there forever for a sec.” Says Jabber, voice hoarse in a way that screams, ‘I just hotboxed the fuck outta our room, and you're going to deal with it because I could care less about how you feel’. “Anyways, ya look like shit. Fuck they do to your ass in there?”

“Mpff-. Jabber. What the hell have ya been smokin’ in here? ‘T smells like a skunks ass!” He yells, covering his nose with his arm. “I told ya not tah do this shit in the house! What fucking part of that simple request couldn’t ya understand?”

“Yo chill man, I was gon’ go downstairs but that landlady with a stick up it was basically doin’ rounds down there. Hey, at least I cracked a window?” Jabber says, and his face giving off no indication of remorse, just smug, cocksureness. “Y’gotta problem with that?” he challenges.

Zanka would usually respond with a scoff, or a smart comment about… something. But he doesn’t, his mind can only conjure up the most negative things in this moment, all of the numbness and void vanquished at the sight in front of him. Zanka’s nose hurts with the stench of weed, his head hurts because he’s drank enough water and eaten enough food for a cat in the 24 hours he's been gone, and his favorite house shoes are currently on the feet of the cause of the stench.

Zanka sees red. “You fuckin’-”

He blurts some bullshit out about respecting their shared space, how walking into a hospital smelling of weed would get him kicked out in an instant, then unloads unto him every terrible thought he’d reserved for himself in the form of verbal throwup. His voice is hoarse when he starts yelling, stomping towards the man before planting a hand firmly on his chest to shove into him with all the strength he can conjure up in that moment. He thinks he sees Jabber smile in excitement, which only makes him angrier, and he can’t control himself when he launches a punch into the man's cheek. Jabber’s head snaps to the side, and when he looks back up to Zanka he’s rolling his jaw in agitation, amusement still present in his face. 

“Okay.” He cocks his head tauntingly. “So thas’ how we doin’ this.”

The fight that breaks out is messy. The rip of his flesh as Mankira meets skin, and the loud grunts of pain he and Jabber share are familiar, but the intent behind each blow is something different. It’s not the usual charged tension that they're used to, something is up, and Zanka thinks Jabber knows it.

Zanka knows that he's taking his anger out on Jabber, and Jabber knows it too, welcomes it. But the hurt cuts deep, and Zanka can’t stop thinking about how he’s not enough. Never was, never will be, why the fuck does this asshole even stay with him when he’s so useless? So caught in his own feelings that he's projecting that pain into each hit, each yell, each tear.

Tears. 

Zanka stills from his position above Jabber. He’d managed to trip the man over, tackling him into the ground to where he was raising a fist above the man's head, the other scrunched  around the fabric of his shirt. Before he’d allowed the fist to make its target on the clenched jaw of the man below him, he caught the unmistakable wetness of tears rolling down Jabber's left cheek.

Zanka’s confused at first. Jabber? Crying?

He’d seen the man with tears rolling down the plush of his cheeks before, countless times. But that was usually after he’d really made him hurt, or fucked him so hard that he forgot his name, couldn’t come anymore, and instead released the most delicious sobs for Zanka to lap up.

But they aren't that. Zanka sees now, the tears aren’t originating from Jabber's eyes, instead materializing halfway across his face as though they’d fallen from above.

Oh.

Zanka was crying.

He’s crying, and when he realizes it everything comes pouring out of him, ugly and sloppy. He screws up his face, raising his fist slightly, momentarily considering continuing the motion of his punch, just to make himself feel a little bit better by relishing in Jabber's pain. But his body shakes betrayingly, forcing his legs to loosen from where they're straddling Jabber’s waist, and his now relaxed fist falls pathetically into the other's lap.

“Fuck.” says Zanka, rubbing once at his eyes before shifting his weight onto his hands to pick himself up off of Jabber. He eyes the man below him, and the sight makes him hesitate.

The expression painting his face is… confusing. His brows are screwed up onto his face, and his lips are parted slightly, aghast at the situation before him. Zanka’s not surprised, he's never cried in front of Jabber, never really cried in front of anyone. It’s something he doesn't usually allow himself. 

But his body forces the sobs out of him, to the point that he simply slides into the wall of the bar across from them, bringing his knees to his chest and balling up both of his fists to drive hard into the weeping sockets in his skull. He ignores the split second before blindness where Jabber's expression turns into something sour.

He's uncomfortable.

He’s uncomfortable because Zanka is weak. He's weak, and worthless, and mediocre in the worst sense. Zanka will never meet the expectations of anyone, not Jabber, not his family, not himself, because he’s so damn weak. 

He lets out a bitter groan, raking what's left of his bitten nails harshly down the curve of his scalp. Keeping his eyes shut so he doesn't have to see him. Doesn’t have to watch Jabber realize how boring and pathetic Zanka is, and that he can’t give him what he wants right now. Can’t watch him walk out, leaving him with only a sigh of disappointment and that deep, familiar ache of solitude. Zanka knew this day would come, when Jabber got sick of him, of all his bullshit that he could never keep together. He’d tried to reel it in, to disguise his repulsive insecurity under a veil of anger and dominance. It worked, and it had been working for the year they’d been together.

Jabber didn’t care about this deeper stuff, he’d made that clear when they first started dating. Zanka was okay with that, he didn’t want anyone to know the pathetic scene that was the positive feedback loop of negativity his mind seemed to take. No less a ‘do now think later’ type genius like Jabber. He’d let it slip sometimes, the feelings of inadequacy, of fear, and hatred, and he knew Jabber could see it. Recognized the exasperated groans of irritation, because Zanka was being no fun. If he didn’t get it together, that exasperation would shift into discomfort, then a stoic, ‘ah man, i’ma let you work that shit out on your own. I ain’t got time for this shit.’ Then he would leave Zanka alone, so he could work his shit out, hate himself alone for 10 minutes, then return later acting like nothing happened.

But he’s too far gone now, once that first wave of emotion crashed down on him, he couldn't control the body wracking sobs tearing their way out of his chest. He attempted to smother them by removing one of his hands from his hair and wrapping his arm over his knees to dig his nails into his shoulder, shoving his face into the crook of his elbow, but it didn’t do much.

They sit there in silence, for what feels like eternity, because Zanka just wants Jabber to get up and go like he usually does, so Zanka can pick himself off the ground and try to shove the pieces all back together in a somewhat coherent way. But he doesn’t. Instead, he hears the shift of clothes, a soft breath of air being pushed out, then feels the warmth of a body next to his own. Zanka freezes the incessant scratching at his scalp, and turns his head slightly to take in the man sat next to him.

Jabber is mirroring his kneeling position, staring at his hands where he fiddles with Mankira languidly. The expression he carries is mostly neutral, but Zanka can see the soft line between his eyebrows, conveying some complex emotion he’s never seen Jabber wear before.

“What.” he croaks.

Silence. 

“Aren’t ya gonna go now?”

“I’m not.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.” Zanka heaves out a dry chuckle at that, not because he finds any humor in it, but because its bizarre that Jabber would pick the moment Zanka is at his lowest to start fucking sticking around. Zanka screws up his eyebrows, turning his face back into his arm.

“Ya should.”

“I won’t.” Jabber says, and as if following the wave of motion, tilts his head halfway into the direction of Zankas, who's already fighting the next wave of tears. “I’m stayin’”

“Why?” Zanka grits out, frustrated. “Ya hate this shit, ya never failed to make it clear to me before, so what' s keepin’ ya here now?”

“Fuck man, I dunno.” Jabber scoffs, as if in disbelief by his own body’s decision to stay seated next to the grade A shit show right next to him.

Another silence passes.

“Bad day?” Jabber offers. It's met with a very harsh scoff by Zanka, who catches the awkward lilt of his tone immediately. “Fuck- I mean, well. No shit, I guess.”

“What is this?” asks Zanka, pulling his face from where it's hidden once more to meet Jabber's eyes. “Why tha hell’re ya still here?”

“Fuck man,” Jabber laughs out, “Startin’ to think you want me to leave.” Zanka just looks at him, fights with himself internally because is that what he wants? But nothing comes out in response. Jabber just hums under his breath at his lack of response. “Right. It would be real fuckin’ easy to do so.” he adds.

They sit quietly for another minute, neither of them knowing what to do, neither of them wanting to take the first move, because this air of vulnerability is new. And new is supposed to be good, it's supposed to be fun, and altering in the best ways, but this just feels uncomfortable. 

Zanka sighs. “Saw Kyouka today.” he mumbles, watching Jabber's eyes light up in surprise.

“I thought ya’ll weren’t–”

“We aren’t. Said I wasn’t picking up their calls, so she had’ta come meet me in person.” says Zanka.

“And?”

“Said some bullshit about the old man officially disownin’ me, like I give a damn. Geezer wants me to change my name too, what an asshole,” Zanka likes to think the insult is delivered with a bite, but with the tears only freshly dried on his face, and gravel lining his throat it sounds more pitiful than he’d like to admit. “Shit could’a been an email.”

Jabber doesn’t reply immediately. And Zanka can see him calculate in his mind–uncharacteristically at that–the best words to say in response.

“Then she had the nerve ‘tah pretend like she cared about me, when she was clearly mentally at work. What a joke.”

“So you don’t give a damn huh? Then why you so…” Jabber trails off. Zanka's head fills in the word for him. Pitiful. “Ain’t that watchu wanted? To never see they asses again?” He finishes.

Zanka sits with that for a second, completely aware that yes, he should be happy. Should be glad that they're doing him a favor by finally getting off his back. But something in him, for a split second, had hope that they'd accepted him by now. He didn’t want some half assed apology from them, just wanted to show his face around every now and then without being reminded of everything that he is–no, everything that he isn’t. He’s not surprised at the situation, it's really the part of him that ever expected differently that pisses him off.

“Yes. It’s not that I wanted ‘em to accept me,” He lies. “I just wasn’t expecting that shit ‘tah hit so hard so damn soon. Was already havin’ the world's shittiest 24 hours to begin with, didn’t need their bull too.” Jabber hums at that.

“So real shitty day after all? Cain’t believe that bitch chose then of all moments for all the drama.” He sighs dramatically, some of the tension in his shoulders releasing. ”Y’sure that family of yours isn’t just into those same telenovellas Enjin and Riyo be watchin’ together? Ya’ll on some real telemundo shit, man.” He smiles at Zanka as he finishes, that familiar instigative smirk that says ‘I just said some bullshit because I’m bored and I want you to punch me now’.

Zanka stares back in response, and instead of giving into the bait–like he usually would–a huff escapes from his chest. Then another, and another, until he's full on laughing, the belly deep kind, that makes his abs clench painfully and his cheeks hurt. But the laugh is so belligerent, it's ripped out of him mercilessly until he's slinking down the wall. His neck propped up on the trim, and his legs laid out below his hands where they grasp at his abdomen.

“Aha- ha, you– ya fuckin’ asshole, oh my,” he stumbles out, “C-Can’t take– hah, shit seriously-hee.”

When he's able to control the giggles enough to peer at Jabber through teary lashes, the sight sends him spiraling into another round of painful laughter. Jabber is making a stupid face, a mix of confusion, humor, and.. concern? Half of his face wants to laugh, but the other is still disappointed he’s not getting the beating he’s asking for, and his hands are spread out cautiously in the direction of Zanka’s frame, as if the guffaws coming out of him would actually kill him. This only lasts a minute though, because Jabber is joining in, not wanting to be left out on the fun.

So they sit there, feet away from the door, bruised up, and laughing hard at a joke that wasn’t even all that funny. Jabber scoots in closer to his boyfriend, laughing louder whenever Zanka does, because he’s gotta get in on that okay? Whatever emotion driven high Zanka is on right now, Jabber didn’t know, but the secondhand was calling to him like a long-lost lover. All that tender shit really killed his previous high, and he’s gonna take what he can get.

Zanka finally starts to slow down. His face is a mess, there are fresh tears rolling down his face from the laugh, and his hair is tousled this way and that. “Yeah she really is a bitch isn’t she,” Says Zanka, not before ending his bout with a drawn out haa. “Can’t believe I cried over their bullshit.” he spits, then looks over at Jabber who's already inches from his face, eyes sparkling. He studies his face slowly, taking in the piercings lining his lips and nose before landing just above his cheekbone. His eyes widen slightly.

“Ya got yer dermals done?”

“Mhm, went right after work yesterday while you was gone. Figured I’d surprise you, when ya got back.” he drawls out lazily, eyes tracing over Zanka's own face and landing blatantly over Zanka’s lips. 

“Hm. Looks good.” Zanka looks up at the ceiling for a pause, then looks back down to Jabber. “Sorry fer punchin’ ya like that.”

Jabber just huffs, “C’mon baby, y’know I’on mind.” he smiles.

Zanka looks away again, shame in his voice. “Still, I sprung that on ya so quick, you don’t deserve that.” He finishes, softly. Jabber says nothing in response. Instead, he reaches over to squish Zanka's cheeks in one hand, dragging his chin back in his direction to make eye contact once more. He’s making an irritated face.

“Don’t do that. I punched yo ass back, so don’t apologize. I ain’t.” Jabber grumbles, licking his lips lightly before reaching in to peck Zanka on his pursed lips lightly.

Zanka hesitates for a moment, before craning his neck to meet the man once more. Their lips slot together perfectly, slowly, and Zanka sucks one of his snakebites into his mouth before pulling away. Jabber follows him, pushing his weight up with a hand planted next to Zanka's head to swing his leg over his waist, before diving back into him. He bites at Zanka's lips, all but purring when the man brings a hand to squeeze his ass cheek firmly over his loose sweats. He pulls away several minutes later, sitting back on Zanka's hips and running his deep purple nails under the hem of his scrub shirt and up the expanse of his torso.

“Much as I’d love to have ya rail me while you all cute and riled up right now, that breath is gettin’ hot,” he giggles out, still rubbing against Zanka’s pecs as he speaks. “Also, yo lips is bleedin’. Make sure you put some vaseline on ‘em.” He adds, placing one last peck on Zanka’s chapped lips. Zanka’s face lights up in flames and he pushes Jabber off of him roughly before sitting up. 

“Why tha hell’re ya tellin’ me that now?!” He shrieks covering his mouth with the back of his hand. “After tryna chew my lips off just a second ago, you wanna say some bullshit,” murmurs Zanka, as he picks himself off the ground and marches straight to the bathroom and slams the door, Jabber laughing obnoxiously behind him.

–

Zanka is brought back to the present, still staring at his boyfriend with his mouth slightly agape at his offer. “Ya… want me to help ya with yer hair? Really?” he asks, flatly. “Who the hell’re you and what did’ya do with Mister, ‘yo, you pull on my hair again and I'll pull yo dick out.’?” he mocks, abashed.

“I’ll still fuck you up if you do some shit.” the other man lets out, “But I wouldn't mind too much if you helped me dry it. Not really tryna be here all day today.” 

Zanka just looks at him for a second.

“Yo, wipe that dumbass look off yo face ‘fore I take it back,” Jabber grumbles, an exasperated expression forming over the side of his face that Zanka is staring at, mouth agape.

“Dude. Ya like, never let me touch yer hair. It’s like, a whole thing.”

Jabber sighs. “Haah, it ain’t no whole thing-” he drops his hair to sign mock quotations, “-if you don’t keep makin’ it a whole thing. Now you gon’ help me out or you just gon’ keep sitting there?” he glares to his side, meeting the blue of Zanka’s eyes.

Zanka responds by scooting in closer to Jabber, hands coming up beside him as though he’s scrubbed up and entering the OR. “So.. whad’ya want me to do? Wait, should I wash my hands first?” He asks, and it's met with an incredulous look from Jabber.

“Hah? Wash your hands? Dude, as long as you wasn’t diggin’ in the trash or in yo ass before this, no. Pftt- here-” he pushes a towel into one of Zanka’s raised hands, “Start on that side of my head. Don’t rub my shit, though, just squeeze ‘em hard enough to get most of the water out.”

Zanka obeys, reaching one hand back into the left side of Jabber's scalp, pulling out about 5 or 6 wicks of varying lengths and squeezing the towel around them. He copies the motion he’s observed Jabber doing initially, starting from the top, and working his way down in firm motions until he reaches the end. “Was that… right?” asks Zanka.

“Felt right, cain’t really see what you doin’ but as long as you aren’t scrubbin’ ‘em, I'm not pressed.” Jabber chortles. “Hey, once you're done with that, I’mma have you grab the blowdryer from the bathroom real quick, we gon’ need to dry it a bit more before the next part.” Zankas just replies with a soft okay under his breath, and moves on to the rest of his hair. He follows the motions carefully, making sure not to rub the locs as he goes.

After about 5 minutes, he’s walking into the bathroom to grab the entire basket full of Jabbers hair products. Half of it is cluttered with shit he doesn’t even use, but the majority of the brushes, combs, and products he uses for maintenance are in there. He’s already walking out when Jabber calls out to him.

“Wait, actually, grab the whole stash while you there. I need some oil.”

“Already got it,” Zanka says, crossing the threshold of the bathroom door in time to catch Jabber craning his neck over his shoulder to speak in his direction.

“Awhh, Zan-Zan. Ya know me so well!” Jabber teases. Zankas ignores it and rejoins him on the couch, placing the basket on the floor in front of them. He rummages through it, pulling out a glass vial of viscous oil that he recognizes as Jabber’s favorite. He’d made it himself, some sort of rosemary sage infusion that he found himself craving the scent of.

“Here’s yer oil, this is the one ya’ve been usin’ lately right?” He hands it over to his boyfriend who immediately hums in approval.

“Damn Z. Have you already helped me with my hair or somethin’? How you got my products all memorized too?” inquires Jabber, who’s rubbing a couple droplets of the oil between his fingers.

Zanka blushes. “s’Much time as you spend on yer hair? I’d be stupid if I didn't pick up on some patterns after all these years.” He grumbles. He leaves out the fact that his attention to Jabber's hair is a bit more complex than that. There's been many times he’s sat with him on days like this, admiring the line of Jabber's neck and the flex of his arms as he works through his routine. Zanka wouldn’t admit it to the man, but some of his most attractive moments are when he’s grooming himself, slender hands maneuvering across his head with a decade of skill and familiarity to which Zanka can’t help but be entranced. It reminds him of those tender moments when he walks in on Jabber, polishing his Mankira carefully, kissing each and every single ring before sliding her back in place.

There was even a point in time where all Zanka could watch was loc maintenance videos. He’d been curious as to why it took the man damn near all day just to do his hair, and what started as settling his minor curiosity of the matter, became a rabbit hole of new terms like ‘wash day’, ‘retwist’, ‘palm rolling’, and a dozen more. Over time, the frequency of the videos in his recommended dwindled down–courtesy of him deleting his history after each watch in embarrassment–but every now and then he didn’t mind watching a video or two when he was interested. 

Now, he’s sitting here with his boyfriend of 4 years, who finally trusts him enough to let him work with his hair. Zanka doesn’t really know what he’s doing–turns out watching a bunch of videos doesn’t beat the real deal–and he’s suddenly reminded of the trepidatious feeling of his first assisted surgery in the first few weeks of his residency. His mind was rich with knowledge of the procedure, yet the nervousness of actually performing it remained. 

Regardless, Jabber quietly guides him through the motions, applying a couple drops of oil into Zanka’s own hands and telling him to rub them between his fingers so he could help him with his scalp. Zanka does that, then with what is left of it covering his palms, runs his hands gently over the length of Jabber’s locs a few times. He takes the moment to enjoy that this is the closest Jabber’ll probably let him get to playing with his hair. Zanka loved the feeling of his boyfriend raking his fingers through his own locks, fiddling with it idly when they laid up against each other, but Zanka knew he wasn’t sharing in the sentiment. 

“Aight, ’s enough for now. We’ll add a bit more as you retwist it,” Jabber says, nonchalantly.

Zanka raises an eyebrow. “I retwist? Hold on, I thought I was just helpin’ ya with the easy part, ya don’t think this is too much?”

Jabber just shrugs. “You gon be fine, I learned how’ta do this when I was like, 12. No worry, baby. I’ma talk you through it,” he taunts, craning his neck so Zanka can see the suggestive raise of his slitted eyebrows.

Zanka rolls his eyes. “Fine. Don’t wanna hear shit if it don’t turn out how ya like though.” 

“I got natural parts anyways, ain't too worried about it bein’ perfect. Just need it done.” says Jabber. He then slips down to the ground in front of Zanka, settling between his knees, and reaches for the basket.

 “Here,” He hands him a comb, and some sort of product with a mousse pump on the top. “This all you need really, I’on like gel. Add a lil more oil to my scalp as you go.”

Jabber picks up the remote on the cushion where he was previously, and exits the video to navigate to the search bar. “This just gon’ give you the visual, but I’ma still walk you through each step, Mr. Overachiever.” He clicks on the first video he sees, Palm roll technique on THICK locs!

Zanka is slightly embarrassed that he recognizes the creator, he may have even watched this exact video before, but he doesn’t say anything. He simply watches as Jabber skips through the intro and wash section impatiently, until he gets to the scene he was looking for. Zanka studies it carefully, with the same assiduous focus that he did when he was in medical school, watching live surgeries and trying to burn each motion into memory. After a couple demonstrations, Jabber presses pause.

“See? Nothin’ too hard, Dr. Nijiku.” says Jabber. “Here, I’ma show you how I do it first.”

Jabber reaches up and behind him to grab the comb and mousse from Zanka’s hands, placing them to his side, and slips a hair band from his wrist to gather the top portion of his locs into a bun at the top of his head. Zanka observes the row of hair left, the hair closest to his nape, which is puffy at the roots with new growth. He can barely make out where the part is supposed to be between each loc.

“So… you just gon’ feel around for the general area of the part," He says, grasping a piece of the hair, feeling around it briefly before gently tugging the piece from the rest of the row. “Then you just kinda, separate it, like this,” He finishes, using a clip to secure the other three locs in the row away from the one he was working on. 

“Once you got a piece separated, you just gon-” Jabber narrates his motions as he works through the rest of the motions. He pumps some mousse into his fingers, spreading it over the section evenly, then uses the comb to pull the hair in the direction of the loc. Zanka watches carefully as Jabber takes the root of the loc between his two palms, rolling it tightly down the shaft until it coils slightly where it meets his scalp. He repeats the motions for the next two locs, slowing down as he speaks so that Zanka can see everything.

“An’ yeah. Not too hard right?” Says Jabber, finishing the last palm roll, then looks up to Zanka with an easygoing smile. “Try it on the last one for me. Make sure you roll to the right though.”

Zanka nods at that, listening immediately and taking the loc into his hand and following Jabber's words as he tightens the section. He finds himself surprised at how much easier it is than he thought, but still takes his time running the new growth between his fingers with the product, then palm rolls it carefully until it mimics Jabber’s adjacent demonstrations.

“Yo,” Zanka looks down to Jabber’s arms, where he’s offering up his phone “take a pic so I can see if you got me straight.” Zanka obliges, taking a picture of the now complete row, before handing it back down to Jabber.

“S’that look right?” asks Zanka.

Jabber looks up from the phone with a smile, piercings shifting with the motion. “Perfect, baby. Add a lil’ oil to the part, then use these,” he reaches towards the basket again, “-clips to hold the new twists down.” He says, handing a box of large, multicolored hairclips to Zanka.

“Shit, you learn pretty quick Zan-Zan, once you done with the rest, I’ma have you learn how I style ‘em too.”

Zanka simply hums at that, already moving to the next row of locs after oiling and clipping the previous. He gently separates the section from the rest, tying up the rest of Jabber’s hair once more, then starts on the next loc. He struggles with this one a bit, untwisting and retwisting a few times before realizing he was going to the left instead of the right. When he fixes it, he hums in approval at its resemblance to the ones below it before moving on.

Below him, Jabber is already reaching for the remote again, switching the TV back on to continue the video he was watching earlier. “Hmm, who says you need’a loctitician when you gotta’ perfectionist for a boyfriend, huh?” he comments, laughing slightly. Zanka ignores this, already tunnel visioned into the 3rd loc of the row, and doesn’t break his attention until the row is completed. He takes another photo, this time with his own phone, and passes it down to Jabber.

“Good?”

“You doin’ great, baby.”

–

When Zanka finally gets past the majority of his hair, he is left with the handful of locs that frame Jabber’s face. He leaves them alone, though, so that Jabber can retwist them himself since he wants them to lay a certain way. They’ve moved to the bathroom, and Zanka is staring at Jabber as he works the front of his head. The locs there are more uneven, some varying lengths and widths, so he’s not hurt that Jabber wants to do them himself.

Jabber is humming something under his breath, a song Zanka recognizes from the artist he’s been fixated on for the past month. He’s already complained about hearing the same voice all the time, in the kitchen, in the shower, in the car, everywhere. But Jabber’s the type to find something he likes and obsess over it hard for a few weeks before moving on entirely. 

At the start of their relationship, it had even been a big concern for Zanka that Jabber would do the same to him after a while. Get bored of him, then he’d never get to see the man again. He figured that may have been the reason it took them so long to be official. They had a mutual understanding of exclusivity in the start of course, the two of them were too jealous to play around with that shit. But, the label of ‘boyfriend’ hadn’t become normal until months after they’d started screwing around. Jabber, in a moment of rare emotional maturity, had assured him one morning after a long night that he could never get bored of him, and was the one to suggest they officialize their relationship.

Still, his knack for hyperfixation-then-losing-interest still remained entirely in other aspects of his life, like the bubbly k-pop song he was now fully singing. Zanka sighed, wishing the losing interest part would come around already. Part of him felt like Jabber was still listening to the high pitched, high paced music because he knew Zanka didn’t like it, and just wanted to rile him up. Once he observed the man on the last loc, he spoke up to stop the butchered lyrics growing in volume.

“You still gon’ style it this time? Or leave it as is?”

“Yup, I’ma put it in’a usual two-strand today. You could help me wit’ it if you want, it’s pretty easy,” He offers, locking eyes with Zanka in the mirror.

“Okay. I’m gonna order some food so we can eat after we’re done. Watcha feelin’?” Zanka asks.

“Uhh… Mexican? I want a burrito and some chips, y’know, from that place we usually go.”

“Alright, I’m ordering now. Pico or queso?”

“Pico, man, c’mon. Extra jalapeño.”

“Yeah, yeah, my bad for askin’.” Zanka grumbles, fishing out his phone from his pocket to place the order.

When he’s done, Jabber demonstrates the twists for him. “S’ real easy. You jus’ take two pieces, an’ twist ‘em together like this. Secure the end with one of these bands, and it’s good to go. We gon’ leave the bottom row and my front’s as is though. That shit give me a headache.” 

They move back to the couch so Zanka can finish it up. This time, Zanka stands behind the couch, and Jabber sits on it, hair flowing down the back. Zanka gets started, following Jabber’s instructions diligently, working his way through the hair, twisting locs and wrapping bands at the bottom as directed. It’s not anything intricate, so he’s done in about 45 minutes, since Jabbers only got around 30-40 locs. He smooths his hands down the hair as he finishes, proud of his work, before kissing his boyfriend on the cheek. 

“‘M done, gorgeous.”

Jabber is already smiling, then gets up to walk to the bathroom mirror.

“Got me lookin’ sharp, Zan-Zan. Not bad for yo first time,” he says, smirking up to Zanka as he exits. “When the hell is the food getting here? I’m starvin’.”

Zanka looks to his phone, and sees the delivery is five minutes away, sharing the news with Jabber. The man nods, before reclaiming his spot on the couch with a deep sigh.

“Why’re you tha’ one sigh’n so hard?” Zanka asks, joining his boyfriend on the couch. “I’m the one who's been workin’ for the past 3 hours.” He grumbles, playfully.

Jabber simply laughs at that. “Yeah, thanks for that by the way. I’know it’s a lot of labor. ‘S why I ain’t wanna do it.” He kisses Zanka appreciatively after that, curing whatever minute carpal tunnel was forming in his hands. 

Zanka grabs his chin in response, humming into his mouth to stop the man from pulling away. They kiss slowly at first, picking up pace when one of them lets a soft moan. Zanka pulls back momentarily, Jabber whining disapprovingly , before hooking his leg over the man's lap to straddle his waist. He licks at Jabber’s plump lips hungrily, loving the way the spiky piercings he’s wearing digs in to his own, and Jabber obliges him by opening his mouth for Zanka obediently.

Zanka kisses him deeply, pressing a hand against his throat to tilt his head back for better access, and swallows the responsive moan eagerly. They keep at that for a while, and at some point Jabber's thumb is fiddling with the band of Zanka’s boxers sticking out from under his sweats. His next actions are cut off by the sound of the doorbell however, and Zanka peels himself off of the man hesitantly to make his way to the door. He chuckles lightly at the dismayed groan behind him, and fixes his shirt and hair a bit before opening the door to grab the food.

The deliverer isn’t there, Zanka had chosen the ‘leave at door’ option, but he could feel his stomach growling, and was thankful for the distraction. He grabs the paper bag, sifting through it to make sure everything is there, before making his way back to the couch.

“Food’s here.” Zanka says.

“Gathered that.” Jabber says flatly. And Zanka laughs once before settling the back of food on the coffee table.

“Ya just said you were hungry. So eat.”

“Yep, well now ‘m hungry for somethin’ else.” Jabber says, but pulls the coffee table with the food closer to the couch anyways.

Zanka ignores the bulge in the other man's pants, knowing he’s probably sporting one of his own, to go into the kitchen for napkins and two cold beers. When he returns, Jabber has already set the food out on the table, and is sitting back on the couch waiting for Zanka to return.

“Fuck. ‘t smells amazing.” Zanka groans. Jabber smiles at him as he sits, grabbing the beer stretched out to him and immediately cracking it open for a sip. They eat slowly, talking about random stuff between bites, like work, the trip to Japan they had coming up, and other mundane topics. Jabber is yapping about a new plant he has coming in the next couple days, when Zanka takes the trash and leftovers over to the kitchen. When he comes back, Jabber is already pushing the coffee table back once more, the hairdryer and a bonnet attachment already linked.

“Last stretch, huh?” Zanka says, already smirking.

“Yup, the roots already pretty dry, but since ‘m not plannin’ to go out today, I’ma dry the rest the lazy way.” Zanka helps him guide his hair into the contraption, not failing to laugh at the ridiculous image in front of him. The entirety of Jabber’s head is encased in the loose white material of the bonnet, and when he pushes the power button on, it swells around his head and connects to a long tail that leads to the blow dryer. The shape Zanka sees is absolutely indistinguishable from the male sex cell.

“Ya whippin’ out the sperm helmet now?” Zanka wheezes, and the look Jabber gives him further sends him over the edge.

“You make this joke every time, it wasn’t funny the first time, and it ain’t funny this time either,” Jabber glares, but Zanka keeps laughing.

“Much as ya love to tease me about the little things, ya think I’ma let this gamete ensemble slide? Hell nah!”

“Tch. Y’know, I’m doin yo ass a favor, would you rather sit here for another hour tryna dry the rest of it manually?” He looks at Zanka pointedly, “Nah, you’d be complainin’ and shit. So shut up an’ let my lil’ contraption do its thing.” He says, voice raised over the whirring of the dryer and nose pointing up in mock scorn. Zanka sees the slight lift of his lips, and takes that as his invitation to keep laughing at his boyfriend obnoxiously.

“Tha’ things ya do fer beauty, baby.” Zanka coos, wiping a non-existent tear from his eye. Jabber simply rolls his eyes again.

“Yeah, an’ you love it over here dont’cha?”

“’m right where I wanna be.”