Work Text:
There are certain things in this world that are not meant to be tampered with. That had been something drilled into Jabber's head ever since he was old enough to understand words.
Mamá was a well-known curandera. Their home had been filled with candles, incense, herbs, crystals, altars. He knew how to read tarot before he knew how to read words. There was always an red-stringed ojo bracelet on his wrist, a saint's medallion pinned to his clothes, an amethyst hanging from his neck.
Jabber loved to watch her work. And when he got older, he loved working with her.
He'd taken over for her after she'd passed, still using her tarot cards, still using her incantations, cleansings, and crystals. Everything he knew, he knew because of her.
And one of the things she had taught him was not to fuck with toloache. Anything that messes with free will was not meant to be messed with, not if Jabber wanted to maintain karmic balance and avoid the repercussions if it backfired. Mamá specialized in cleansings. In clarity and strength. She never touched toloache. Neither had Jabber.
But not everybody followed that code.
Jabber had instantly gotten a soft spot for the pretty blue-eyed Asian man who had moved in across the street. He'd stood out like a sore thumb in the neighborhood, the only guerito in the whole barrio. More than once, Jabber had found him looking curiously at his little house, a mix of curiousity and unease in his eyes, in the downward tug of his lips. One day, Jabber decided to step outside as the guy stared at his home, and he seemed to startle and step back.
He cleared his throat. "Did ya sense me or somethin'?" he asked with a touch of a Southern twang mixed with the cadence of another language.
Jabber had tilted his head and stared long enough to see his pale cheeks turn scarlet. Then he grinned. "No. I was making popcorn and you set off the motion sensor on my security camera." Somehow, he turned even redder. "You set it off a lot."
"Sorry."
He went down the porch steps, letting his screen door slam shut behind him. "Neighborhood talks, I know. Curious about me?"
The guy took a breath, seeming to steel his resolve before standing straighter, more confident. "Heard yer a witch."
Jabber scoffed. "Not quite." When he failed to elaborate further, the guy's brows furrowed together in confusion, nose flaring in a bit of agitation. It was amusing. It was adorable. "What's your name, man?" Jabber asked with a lighthearted smile.
After a moment of deliberation, he answered, "Zanka."
"Zanka. I'm Jabber. Wanna come in?"
At that, Zanka tensed and swallowed thickly. "To… read my future?"
He couldn't help it; he burst into loud laughter. "Nah. I'm about to watch a movie. If you wanna join me."
Maybe it was the shock of such a simple thing, maybe the guy was lonely and needed a friend, or maybe he just wanted to see the inside of Jabber's house. Whatever the case, he nodded, shoulders relaxing, and walked in with him.
"It's… normal."
Jabber snorted. "What'd'ya expect? Blacklights and incense foggin' up the whole place, and voodoo dolls?" Zanka only blinked at him. "I ain't a voodoo witch. I'm a curandero. Mamá was born in Mexico."
Zanka looked around and nodded. "Okay."
He could worry about educating him later. At the moment, they had a movie to watch.
He was awkward the first couple times he stepped into Jabber's home. But each visit made him relax a little. Over that time, they'd go get coffee or lunch together. Jabber introduced him to the others in the neighborhood. He told Zanka about Mamá and his craft and how he'd known nearly every person on the block since he was a child. And he learned a little about Zanka over time too, though it was a lot harder to get him to open up.
He was Japanese. He was studying in college, and had lived with his brother until he couldn't anymore. That was how he ended up in a random barrio too far from his college— it was the cheapest living place he could find. He had an older sister too. A father and mother who were both distant and while rich and well-off, fully expected each of their kids to make their own wealth. He didn't talk about the past too much, but with the way he spoke about his family, the look in his eyes, the general vibe around them when it came up…. Jabber didn't need to be tapped into spiritual energy to know there was something dark and fucked up there. Especially if Zanka chose a tiny house with chipped paint and broken windows over whatever living arrangements his lawyer brother had.
Eventually, Zanka got the confidence to ask about tarot and cleansings and the amulets. Zanka was a very logic-driven person, so he could tell that it took a lot for him to swallow everything Jabber said about energy and spirits and wards. But he listened and he learned, whether or not he believed.
Until one day, as Jabber put away new herbs he'd gotten at the market, Zanka asked, "Do ya ever use datura?"
"Why do you know what that is?" Jabber asked.
"Research."
He looked over at him, but Zanka had busied himself with an incense stick. It had been one of Zanka's favorite scents, and Jabber had started buying more of it.
"I don't do love potions," he said firmly.
Zanka hummed. "Why not? Easiest way to build clientele."
"I ain't lookin' for clientele." He crossed his arms and regarded him. "The hell you need a love potion for?"
"Didn't say it was fer me," Zanka mumbled. But his jaw was set, and he wouldn't meet Jabber's eyes.
He walked toward Zanka and turned him by the shoulders so they would face each other. "I call it toloache. And I don't fuck with it. Removal of free will ain't somethin' to fuck with, Zan."
His eyes crystalline blue eyes looked forlorn and defeated as he skimmed Jabber's face. "Yeah. 'Course."
Although his stomach twisted, Jabber grabbed a rose quartz from one of his drawers and pressed it into Zanka's palm. "If you wanna invite some sorta love in your life, take this. Don't go messin' with love potions."
That should've been the end of it. But there was a nagging sensation in the back of his mind. The rings on his fingers, inherited from his Mamá, felt heavier. The back of his neck felt cold, like fingers were prodding at him. When Zanka left later that day, Jabber sat at his dining table, laid out a cloth, and held his cards in his palms.
He didn't like doing readings on people without them knowing. But his hands were heavy, his chest hurt, and he felt like he needed to do it for Zanka.
He thought of him as he shuffled. Blue eyes, ashy blond hair, the bored expression on his face that made him seem standoffish, the crinkle in his eyes when he smiled and laughed. Cards began to flip out, and Jabber waited until it felt right to open his eyes.
Three cards.
The ten of wands. The moon. The seven of swords.
A burden, secrecy, deception. All having to do with himself.
What the hell did that have to do with a love potion? With toloache?
It would be fine. Jabber wouldn't give him any. Hell, he didn't even have it. There was no way Zanka could manage to get it.
It wasn't brought up again. Not the toloache, not the love potions. They kept having lunch and watching movies and going to the neighbors' carne asadas. Zanka asked about his herbs and the meanings of cards.
There was a shift in his life. He was away from home more often, and would come back telling Jabber about new friends from college. His family had begun to call him more, and instead of that putting him in a bad mood, he was almost excited to answer. He started up some martial arts classes. He had a sort of glow about him.
Then came the kiss.
It had been a pretty regular day. Jabber had no clients, no readings to do, and Zanka had finished midterms, aced them with flying colors. Jabber couldn't even remember what they'd been talking about. So many of their conversations could be about nothing at all, and still filled with laughter.
But at some point, Zanka had pulled the rose quartz from his pocket and pulled Jabber's hand toward him. He placed the crystal into his palm and closed Jabber's fingers over it with a peaceful smile. His eyes flitted to Jabber, bright and hopeful, and full of a sort of stubbornness that was so intrinsic to Zanka.
"'S that how this works?" he asked with a smug little smile.
"Not even close," Jabber answered.
Zanka grinned, fierce and full of life. "Oh? Sure about that?" He was closer then. Noses nearly touching. Every soft word a distant kiss that made Jabber ache with hunger.
"Thought you ain't believe in this."
Zanka shrugged. "Maybe it's got some merit after all."
"Don't need a crystal to make me feel this way, Zanka," Jabber whispered. Something flashed in Zanka's eyes, and for a moment, his smile dropped, but before Jabber could even think to question it or read further into it, the space between them was gone.
It was hard to explain what kissing Zanka felt like. The cosmos aligned, the stars shone brighter, his soul felt cleansed, he was in another plane of existence, it transcended lifetimes, it… was everything. It was perfect.
For a while it stayed perfect. Sunkissed dates and midnight discoveries and a sort of melding of their lives that just made sense. Zanka became known as el guerito de Jabber. El curandero y su guerito. He met Zanka's friends, his family.
It was strange. They were nothing like the people Jabber had grown up with. They seemed to like him well enough though, and that made Zanka beam.
Beneath the moonlight one night, Zanka murmured confessions against his heated skin.
I love you.
I'm so lucky I met you.
Everythin's perfect now.
Never been so happy.
I'd do anythin' fer ya.
It was Jabber's favorite lullaby. That night, he dreamt of his Mamá. She held his hands, brows furrowed, and spoke in a language he couldn't decipher, but her tone was a warning. She pressed his hands to his heart insistently, and it hurt as though someone were doing compressions on him. He felt a heavy weight on his back, the sting of blades against his arms, the cold of the moon above them.
Mamá kissed his forehead then leaned in close to his ear.
Despierta.
Jabber opened his eyes with a gasp and reached out for Zanka's warmth. But he wasn't there. The cold feeling of fingers at the back of his neck returned, and it pushed him out of bed. He walked down the hall. His cameras had been triggered. He leaned in to the video. Zanka was standing outside with someone. Jabber glanced out the window.
He recognized the man. The bizarre way his hair stuck out on either side of him and the obnoxious glasses he wore even in the dead of night gave him away. Jabber had heard of him, all cautionary tales. That was someone who had no qualms with dark magic. There was a rumor he had sold his soul to have such free reign of the world's balance, to protect him from things returning to him.
What the fuck was he doing meeting Zanka? And right outside his home?
Mymo took a payment and stalked back down the street. Zanka held a pouch close and started for his house across the street. A few moments later, the front door opened slowly and Zanka tiptoed inside. He started for the hallway, but Jabber spoke before he could go far.
"What the fuck you buyin' from that guy?"
Zanka jumped and turned around, fumbling for a light. Jabber stared at him, the cold feeling at the back of his neck spreading. "What?"
"Don't act dumb. We both know you ain't."
His cheeks colored, but he didn't speak. His breaths came faster, his eyes shifted to the rest of the room, and Jabber felt the answer whispered somewhere in the depths of his soul.
"Zanka. Look at me and tell me it wasn't the fuckin' toloache."
Zanka looked at him. But he didn't speak.
Jabber felt his heart shatter. "You… used toloache on me?"
Zanka's eyes widened, and it was like he'd suddenly found his voice. "No! No, I didn't!"
But Jabber could only think of all the shared meals, the coffee runs, the beers shared. His Mamá's warnings in his dream.
"Get out."
"No, Jabber, ya gotta believe me, I wouldn't—"
"Get out!" Jabber shouted, throwing the door open. "Before I throw you on your ass."
"Ya can't…. No, ya can't leave me. I worked so hard, I did everythin', I love you—"
"I don't," Jabber spat out. Zanka went silent. Even the heaving breaths halted. "I don't love you." He might as well have been breaking his own ribs one by one with how much it hurt to say those words.
It was strange. For all the panic and passion Zanka exuded just moments earlier, he was… nothing now. Lifeless and hollow. Silent. His eyes went dim, unseeing. He stood there, motionless. It was unnerving. Because for all of the emotions he had seen Zanka go through, none of them were ever dull. His anger, his pain, his tears, his joy, his excitement, it was all loud and big. The perfect bored composure was only for those who didn't know him.
Even then, this wasn't that. This was boredom. Complacency. Composure. It was nothing. He was empty.
But Jabber was pissed. He didn't want to indulge him. He felt betrayed. So he grabbed Zanka by the arm and shoved him out of the door, dragging him down the steps. "I told you not to fuck with that plant."
He went back into his home without looking back and locked the door.
Despite his exhaustion, despite the hour, Jabber cleansed himself. It was a quicker ritual, more of a precaution, because he always had other forms of protection for himself. Just to calm his mind. He slept on the couch, unable to stomach the idea of the bed he'd gotten used to sharing with Zanka.
He woke up to frantic knocking. He groaned and put a pillow over his head, not wanting to deal with a more lucid Zanka first thing in the morning.
Then he heard the voice.
"Tu guero! Algo le paso! Anda, abre la puerta!"
Jabber sat up and rushed to the door, opening it to one of his neighbors, usually so calm and cheerful. She was frantic, terrified. She pointed. "Miralo!"
Jabber's gaze shifted to the bottom of his steps where Zanka sat. Motionless, unresponsive to the people calling his name and shaking him by the shoulder. Jabber hurried down the steps, hand at Zanka's cheek to meet his gaze. But there was nothing. Jabber had never seen such a void in a person. It wasn't normal. This was something else.
"Zanka? Hey, can you hear me?" His head lolled in his hands, his blinking slow. He hadn't moved from there since Jabber had put him out. There were ants crawling up his legs. Irritated red bumps on his arms from mosquitoes littered his arms, and even that didn't seem to jolt him. His hair was matted to his forehead and neck from the humid heat, but he seemed utterly unfazed. "What the fuck…?" He hauled Zanka up and pulled him up the stairs and back inside.
He waved his neighbors away and dunked him into a cold bath in hopes of getting him to snap out of it, but even that did nothing.
He dried and dressed him before sitting him down at the table. With an ache in his chest, he pulled his cards out and began to shuffle, eyes never leaving Zanka.
Cards flew out like a frantic warning, and as Jabber revealed the faces, each one felt like a death sentence.
The wheel of fortune reversed. The devil. The chariot reversed. The tower. At the bottom of the deck was the three of hearts.
Jabber's heart raced in his chest.
He tried everything. Every cleansing from the simplest, to the most complex. He gave him teas. He had never been good with sigils, but he tried. Nothing worked. Nothing snapped Zanka out of it.
He went into his house and found a pouch sitting on the kitchen counter. He opened it, and sure enough, he found the white petals of toloache. He scowled and tossed it aside, looking through the rest of the house. There had to be something. Someone else had hurt him. Jabber would have to find something— an object of his wrapped in foreign hair, a tied up package under the floorboards or deep in the cupboards, an animal bone, some malignant symbol drawn into his things, sewn into his clothes. But he didn't find anything.
He did find a worn journal. Jabber had never seen it before, but it was sticking out from under the matress like a secret. He pulled it out and let it fall open.
6 drops into green tea
5 drops into salad dressing
up dose again?
kyouka called first today!
professor named me outstanding student
jabber played with my hair
10 drops into black coffee
sensei named me top sudent
Jabber frowned. He flipped to the very front of the journal.
intentions:
with this moonflower, I will become someone worthy of my name. I will be better than the mediocrity I've allowed myself to be. I will love the life I live. I will be worthy of my siblings' affections. My parents' praise. I will make friends who care. I might be enough for the boy across the street. I will love who I am. I will love life. This moonflower will make me someone great. With each drop, I set this intention.
The toloache had never been for Jabber. It had been for Zanka. He'd been dosing himself.
He stumbled back across the street to his home, and found Zanka still laying on the bed where Jabber had left him, staring listlessly at the wall.
He pulled him into a sitting position and pulled his face between his hands. There was no fire in his eyes. No passion, no love, nothing.
"Que hiciste?" Jabber pressed their foreheads together. "Que hiciste? Why? You were perfect." He kissed unresponsive lips. "You were perfect before it." Zanka blinked. Jabber leaned against his shoulder, cradling the back of his head. "Never needed you to change. Never needed you to be better."
One of the many reasons Jabber had been taught to avoid toloache was the fact that its effects were irreversible. If Zanka was upping his own doses, taking more than he'd been told…. The cleansings would never work.
"You never needed it, Zanka…. Pretty sure I loved you the moment I first saw you outside my house."
If Zanka heard him, he didn't show it.