Archive of Our Own

i.

See, the problem is that Zanka isn’t sure how they got here.

He can recollect everything before just fine. He has every single detail imprinted in his head, remembers getting dressed this morning, remembers getting saddled with showing Rudo around after his training, because Riyo’s a bit of an ass, losing said shit stain and instead finding Jabber. Jabber who Zanka just fought a week ago, whose venom is still throbbing under his skin at night, Jabber who makes Zanka chase him through the alleys by taking his damn jinki, cackling and shrieking the whole time, until Zanka’s legs burn, and his chest is heaving in breaths that do little to inflate his, sadly, deflated lungs.

He needs to lock in and better his stamina with how things are going.

He has all these details down to an art but none of them really explains how he got here, in the middle of nowhere, on top of Jabber, the stupid guy's dick pressing against his thigh, his face a flaming shade of red that he also can’t explain.

“Kha-ha! Look at you! Mr. Bad Attitude can sit pretty when he wants to,” Jabber giggles, grinning up at him. It sounds less like a giggle and more like a laugh that gets stuck in his throat. “Forward aren’t ya, my friend?” 

Zanka needs the flush on his cheeks to go away. He blinks, leaning back, but he can’t go anywhere with Jabber’s hands tightening on his waist. “I ain’t being forward with ya; let go asshole!”

And of all things he could’ve done, Jabber pouts. “C’mon, Zan-zan…don’t get all cold on me now. You know I like it when you get riled up.”

Zanka’s lips curl in disgust. Weirdo. Why is he surrounded by weirdos?! “Get offa me!”

“Zanka, my friend…why you actin’ shy when you’re sittin’ on me like that? You ain’t gotta hide it anymore.”

“I ain’t hiding anythi—!”

He doesn’t get to finish his sentence before Jabber digs his fingers into his waist, spinning him around so fast Zanka doesn’t even get a chance to clock any of it before his head is being slammed backwards into the hard concrete, Jabber’s ringed hands pushing his head back, sinking into his hair, his thigh coming to push between Zanka’s—

The only thing worse than the pain that flares in his sides and the back of his head is the pleasure that climbs up his spine.

The only thing worse than that is the fucking sound that leaves his lips, a mortifying whine, that in the quiet (because of course Jabber choses now to be quiet)  resounds around them.

There’s a split second of silence before Jabber leans his head back and shrieks, so loud that Zanka’s pretty damn sure the stupid laugh’s never getting out his ears, “I knew you was a sadist!”

Zanka stammers, “What?! Just because you get off on men fighting you and breaking yer ribs doesn’t mean I do!” And he doesn’t. Zanka resolutely does not have any sort of sadism kink. He might be an…unexperienced virgin but that doesn’t take away from who he is and isn’t. And he isn’t a sadist.

“C’mon Mr. Bad Attitude just admit it; that your dick stands up all proud and giddy when I hurt you! Admit it and I’ll even suck you off after we fight! I promise!”

Zanka gawks, his face going red from all the blood rushing up (and the rest going down but he’ll never in a million years admit to that). What the hell was this guy on? “I don’t want ya to suck me off you creep!” 

“Zan-zan, you’re killing me—this is better than getting punched in the face!” And then when Jabber laughs, as if to say of course you would want me to suck you off, Zanka takes it as his opportunity to thrust his leg forward, directly into Jabber’s dick.

Zanka knows it hurts, because Jabber practically howls, falling backwards to clutch at his pearls, Zanka knows it hurts because he can see the pain etched into Jabber’s face, but worse is that Zanka knows the freak likes it because his eyes are rolled back and through his screams he’s cackling, almost moaning.

Zanka doesn’t miss a beat; he grabs his jinki and then bolts, ignores Jabber’s laughter following him through all the twists and turns of the alley, his voice screaming that he’ll be here for Zanka next time and when Rudo sees him and blinks, all Zanka can do is roll his eyes—not fondly, definitely not fondly—at the sugar dusting the corners of his lips (because of course the kid went to go get candy) and brush off Rudo’s questions.

“I’m fine, worry about yerself; I’m not the one who gained twenty pounds since we last saw each other,” he mutters, snorting as Rudo’s jaw drops in outrage, pointing a finger and insisting otherwise.

The rest of the night goes on as normal, despite the pain in the back of his head, and Zanka absolutely does not buy Rudo the box of chocolates he’d been eying—he’d somehow wasted all the money he’d brought on trash and candies—because that would be absurd.

(And it would be even more absurd if Zanka woke up in the middle of the night, with a picture of Jabber in his head, eyes rolled back, arching, rambling and howling nonsense as Zanka—

Absurd.)

ii.

Except, the real problem is that that’s not the only time that that happens.

Because of all things it happens a second time, and Zanka’s no more sure of the how then he was the first time.

They’re going out tomorrow, to Canvas Town and then soon after into the pits of literal hell to help Rudo find a way back into the sphere. Zanka doesn’t think it's possible; you’d have to grow wings to go all the way there.

And Zanka, a fallen cherub of sorts, a levitical abomination, knows much about falling from above and very little about climbing back up.

He thinks of his siblings, he thinks of becoming a cleaner, he thinks of the Hell Guard and then decides he needs to go on a walk. Needs to clear his mind before the whirlwind that he knows tomorrow will be. It doesn’t help that he’s never been able to sleep much. A habit that’s proved useful over the years; the extra hours of training are nothing he’d ever give up.

It also doesn’t help that he hasn’t bothered to change out of the hoodie Enjin had haphazardly given to him years ago when he’d first joined the cleaners, and that he has to slip by the party of sorts the rest of team Akuta seem to be having. He hadn’t really declined Riyo’s offer, but he hadn’t accepted it either. 

He feels something in the pit of his stomach at the laughter thundering through the rest of HQ, thinks it might be annoyance, but it’s a little too soft and warm for it to be that. Feels too much like jealousy for it to be want, and then reconsiders because those two go hand in hand.

Regardless, Zanka vehemently ignores it, giving Semiu a nod when he walks past her reading her improper magazines, and then strides out the door.

The cool air is something Zanka expects, it threads though his hair, and expands in his lungs like ice, and he could almost get high off it. Except he doesn’t, and instead he roams uselessly through the city, doesn’t really talk to anyone, isn’t sure what’s making anxiety crawl rampant in his veins. It’s making him a little sick. He hopes he doesn’t look sick; he must already look stupid with the oversized hoodie draping over him.

He must look absurd walking into the alley he last saw Jabber in.

Zanka’s not sure what is leading him here, it doesn’t make any sense at all, and he’s not even sure what he gets from coming here. Nothing. He doesn’t get satisfaction, he knows Jabber was just playing with his mind when he said he’d be here when—

Except that can’t be the case, because there Jabber is, laying against the brittle and crumbling concrete of a building, a spliff in between his fore thumb and finger being rolled idly. Zanka’s sure he’s got to be greening out, with how sickly greenish pale his skin is, and the sweat rolling down his skin, but Jabber either likes it that way or doesn’t care because he raises the thing to his lips and takes a deep breath in.

In a manner very unlike Jabber, the dreadhead doesn’t perk up when he sees Zanka standing awkwardly at the entrance. He squints his eyes, smiles blearily and doesn’t move.

It’s almost eerie how calm he is. Zanka can almost feel the anxiety from earlier make its way to his throat and sit there. It’s heavy. Zanka can’t do much about it except raise an eyebrow at Jabber, “Yo, what are ya doing?”

In turn, Jabber raises one back, “What’s it look like, my friend?”

Hesitantly, Zanka takes a step forward. Hesitantly because every part of him is screaming at him to turn the fuck away, to leave, becasue he’s not stronger then Jabber and the shame he feels at that is terrifying in it’s own right. Because Jabber is a genius in his own right.

(Because Zanka feels his own insignificance here like a cherub to a seriphium, like the way an angel flutters its way to heaven, and he can’t even keep his place in the Hell’s Guard. Because this, that he feels, is jealousy and it’s want and nothing like the soft and warm annoyance he felt earlier.)

Zanka does not walk away. He should; Jabber’s an enemy, his enemy, but nothing stops him from settling down opposite him and laying his staff next to him.

It’s nothing like what happened last time, but it feels a whole lot like it.

Jabber blows a puff of smoke into the air. Zanka tries hard not to think about how a piece of Jabber is sitting in his lungs. “I knew you’d swing back around.”

Zanka scoffs, “I ain’t swinging around. I was—” He doesn't really know what he was doing. A night walk that coincidentally led him here? Yeah, right. Like he’d ever admit that.  He straightens his shoulders, chin tilting up, “I was just takin’ a damn walk, alright? Ain’t my fault you’re lurkin’ out here like some stray dog waitin’ for scraps.”

“If I’m a stray dog, then why you keep wanderin’ back to my doorstep, huh, Mr. Bad Attitude?” 

Zanka’s nose points upwards at the words. “Didn’t think you lived in a damn alley.”

Jabber snorts, and it’s an ugly sound, like a pig, and it’s a little like music to his ears; a lot like discord. He doesn’t say anything after that, content to hum under his breath and take deep breaths of the spliff. He’s looking worse for wear by the minute, and Zanka noticing really doesn’t mean he cares.

Jabber blinks at Zanka, his gaze tracing from him back to the spliff. “Ya wanna hit, Zan-zan?” Zanka must make a face because Jabber adds, “C’mon, my man. You look wound up. Take a drag or two…won’t kill ya.”

Zanka’s eye twitches.  “Don’t go offerin’ me shit you put your mouth on,” he mutters, but his eyes never leave the stupid thing. “That’s nasty.”

Jabber’s eyes seem to light up, almost imperceptibly, as he pushes himself forward, crossing his feet, “Hah, I get it! You ain’t ever tried to hit before! That’s why ya eyeing it like candy!”

Zanka can’t really stop his lips from curling into a grimace. “I ain’t starin’ ’cause I ain’t tried it. I’ve had a hit before, dumbass. Just ain’t keen on sharin’ spit with you.” And it’s not a lie, living down on the ground has given Zanka more than ample situations to try all sorts of things. Cigars, weed, alcohol. He’s not particularly keen on any of them; hates the feeling of not being in control, doesn’t like the feeling afterward, particularly dislikes how much of a light weight he is.

Jabber scooches forward, a giddy grin on his face, “Ya want me to roll ya one then? C’mon man, I know ya want it. Yer staring at mine real damn bad. It’ll be like fighting but with these!”

And Zanka’s not stupid, he should say no, he doesn’t even like any of that shit, is pretty sure Jabber don’t either, but his mouth is still falling open, and his words are falling out in a garbled confident mess he doesn’t mean, “Quit actin’ like you’re doin’ me some favor. You already smokin’ it, right? So pass it here and stop fussin’ and I’ll show you that I’ve taken a damn hit before.” 

If Jabber’s grin was giddy before, then Zanka’s not sure how to describe it now. He throws the spliff over, uncaring of the flickering embers or burning Zanka.

It’s stupid. It’s beyond stupid, it’s so reckless, and Zanka’s not intoxicated, has nothing to blame his rash decisions on, there could be who knows what inside of it, it’s Jabber, he could die, he really, fucking shouldn’t—

Zanka’s lips wrap around the spliff, taking a deep breath in, and if he couldn’t stop himself from breathing in Jabber, then it’s impossible for him to think about anything but the indirect kiss, Jabber’s spit coated in the thing, coating his tongue, and the moment the smoke hits his lungs he coughs, feels like they’re on fire, his eyes watering, and Jabber is watching entertained, eyes fixated on where Zanka’s lips are still around the stupid thing.

His heart is pounding in his chest. It’s probably from whatever was in it; Zanka knows it’s from the taste of Jabber on his tongue.

“It’s the good shit!” Jabber says proudly.

Zanka doesn’t bother to dignify that with a response. He just takes another drag of the spiff, lets it sit deep in his chest before blowing it out. He doesn’t particularly like the feeling, but the rush of euphoria he can feel building is worth it. He doesn't throw it back to Jabber until the rush of it all is enough to make him feel dizzy. He’s not sure how Jabber’s eye to hand coordination was good enough to pass it without missing by a mile like Zanka. It lands a few feet away from both of them.

If he hadn’t been high he wonders if he’d have been jealous of that too. All he does now is snort. And Jabber snorts back, slumping on the ground in some strange way of trying to reach for the spliff, his fingers stretching to try and grab it. He huffs, and then whines, but Jabber is insistent as he schooches his way over to the spliff.

Can he call it a spliff if Zanka has no clue what’s rolled up in there? Does it matter? 

“Yo,” Jabber mumbles, dragging out the syllables. Zanka hums blearily, forcing his gaze back, “this dirt’s real soft. Like—stupid soft. Holy shit. Zanka, lay down. Lay down right now. You gotta feel this dirt, man.”

Zanka giggles, “‘hat shit’s fuckin’ concrete you idiot. It can’t be soft.”

Jabber shakes his head hard, and then lets his head fall down, groaning, arms splayed apart as his cheek digs into the ground. “Nah man, it’s soft right now. You’re just sittin’ on the wrong part. Gotta find the tender spot. Like bruised fruit.”

Slowly, Zanka makes his way towards Jabber and then lets himself fall to his knees, can’t tell if the pain is dulled or if he just can’t feel it at all or if maybe the floor is soft, and then collapses onto the ground.

Jabber grins, holding the spliff in his hand and taking a deep breath—Zanka doesn’t know when he got it back—long enough for Zanka to squint his eyes, and wonder if constantly poisoning himself makes him immune to the thing, before Jabber pushes it harshly into his open mouth, keeps it there long enough that Zanka starts to wonder if Jabber really did poison it, before he grins.

Zanka doesn’t think he’s ever been this close to someone before. Physically, at least. His arm is draped over Jabber, their legs tangled, if he shifts closer, their noses will touch; and if he’s stupid enough to move even closer, he can let their lips touch fleetingly, he can drag his mouth over Jabber’s, taste the sweet-bitter burn on his tongue, can swipe his tongue over Jabber’s, nip those chapped lips.

He wonders what would happen if he did.

Wonders if Jabber would lick the taste of him like poison, if he’d laugh and drag them closer, scratch all the skin he could reach with his jinki until Zanka’s wailing in agony beneath him. Wonders if he’d kiss him sweet after, the pain and pleasure building in a garbled mess of hatred.

And if Zanka thinks about it longer than he should, lets the thought sit warm and dangerous in his chest, then it’s just the high talking. And if he takes the spliff to his lips once more, it’s only to pretend they’re Jabber’s lips against his, warm and volatile, familiar—

Like an ouroboros, too far gone to understand the shape of the circle.

(Like the levitical abomination that he is, or the seriphium that Jabber is; like Cain meeting his reflection.)

Tantalizingly slow, and Zanka thinks it might be the high doing this to him, he brings his hand into the dreads of Jabber’s hair, shivers when his hand brushes against the cold golden bands, continues his messy mapping until Jabber’s own hand reaches for his hair and tugs, hard enough to sting, but not enough for it to be Jabber. He can’t tell if he’s reading too much into it. 

“How do ya maintain all of that,” he asks, but his mouth feels heavy, and it’s hard to move his lips against the ground, so it’s a bit of a miracle that Jabber understands his question at all, much less when he begins to answer.

(And Zanka’s not sure how long they stay here, isn’t sure how long it takes for Jabber to explain how he takes care of his wicks, is too out of it to listen, and Jabber must ask him something, or get irritated when all Zanka does is giggle because his hand tightens in Zanka’s hair again and tugs, and Zanka can’t really feel it. Can’t really hear what Jabber says, but it might be something along the lines of jealousy, because he digs around his pocket, pulls out drugs Zanka wouldn’t recognize sober, wonders if there’s poison in there, if there was in the one he was given, watches curiously as Jabber struggles to cut it into lines, but it has to have been an hour before they’re both cackling, and there’s tears falling down his cheeks in streaks, but he can’t stop laughing—)

Zanka’s even less sure of how he made his way back to HQ, he can barely stand straight, every step he takes threatens to send him to his knees.

He has no clue how he’s supposed to walk in without anyone batting an eye at him. Knowing team Akuta there isn’t a chance in hell they’ve gone to bed. They’ll party until at least three in the morning, even though they have places to be tomorrow. He hasn’t gotten to look in the mirror yet, but he can feel his dishevelled hair, knows he’s definitely caked in sweat and pale as a damn sucker. And if all of that isn’t a dead give away to what he was up to, then his red eyes will definitely be what land him in an hour long session in Corvus’ office, the guy smiling wryly as he asks questions.

Zanka really doesn’t want to explain, isn’t sure that he could anyways. He supposes it’s always possible for him to climb up the side of the building until he reaches his window. It might take a while with the headache making his head pound, and the high that hasn’t even begun to wear off.

Sure he’d had a lot of hits, but it shouldn’t make him feel this nauseous, should it? Should he be worried Jabber poisoned him? How is he even supposed to tell Eisha how the drugs got in his system? Would she be able to get it out of him? Does Zanka want it out of him—

It’s just his rotten luck that the front doors open before he can even decide how he's going to sneak in, revealing Zanka in all his holy glory to The Enjin.

Zanka’s heart hasn’t stopped beating against his chest since the first hit, but he thinks this is the closest it’s gotten to stopping, dropping into the pit of his stomach. 

Enjin’s not entirely surprised by the sight he sees, or at least Zanka doesn’t think he is. If he was, his eyes would've narrowed in confusion. Enjin walked out as if he was perfectly aware that Zanka would be standing here. He pulls out a lighter from his baggy pyjama pants, fiddles with it as he tries to light his cigarette. “Yo, Zanka. Aren’t you cold out there?”

He’s not cold in the slightest. He’s the complete opposite. He shakes his head quickly, ignores how dizzy he feels doing it.

Enjin snorts, taking a drag of his cigarette, groaning as he bends over to slump against a concrete pillar, his legs spread in front of him and his head leaning back. Wordlessly, he urges for Zanka to sit down next to him with a haphazard kick of his leg.

Zanka’s throat bobs, but he complies without question, settling down against the startling cold, far enough away from Enjin that the smell of cannabis won’t sell him away.

“Ha!” Enjin guffaws, loud and sudden enough that Zanka jumps. He pushes himself forward, sniggering as he looks at Zanka. “Ain’t that the hoodie I gave you?”

Zanka blinks, looking down. He swallows. “Uh..yeah?”

“I didn’t think you’d ever keep that ratty thing,” Enjin chuckles, looking at Zanka with an expression he can’t explain. It looks like fondness but that makes no sense at all. Why would he look at Zanka with fondness? “Least of all wear it.”

Zanka shrugs, trying to seem as uncaring as he can. Except it's not really a shrug and it’s more like his shoulders float upwards and then drop much too late.  “It was…comfy,” he begins, feeling the words clump in his mouth. “And I didn’t feel like throwing it out.” He can’t say that he sleeps with it every night because it’s from Enjin, he can’t embarrass himself like that but his mouth is already falling open— “And cuz’ ‘s yours,” he mumbles.

Enjin raises an eyebrow, biting the inside of his mouth as if to keep from laughing again. “Dude, but it’s so ugly; you’d be better off wearing the Christmas sweaters Corvus gets us.”

Zanka blinks. Blinks one too many times when the world doesn’t stop looking hazy and then he looks down at it; a gray, worn out hoodie, still too big for him, with an imprinted picture of a dog. Zanka frowns down at the hoodie, then looks back up at Enjin with a tiny pout. “It ain’t… that ugly,” he says. “It’s…y’know. Nice. Got…charm.”

His response only serves to make Enjin’s lips press harder and his eyes water. Zanka wonders if maybe Enjin’s also high. He shakes his head, sighing, “Well it suits you; kinda cute. Gives this…puppy vibe.”

Cute? Enjin thinks he’s cute? There’s no way he’s not bright red right now. “Puppy? Man, ‘ion got that—” His voice cracks embarrassingly. “Don’t call me cute I ain’t…ain’t…” He’s not cute. He waves his hand, misses whatever point he tries to make as he slumps against the pillar again. His face is so hot he can almost feel it. “I’m cool, so cool. I ain’t cute.”

It’s as if whatever was holding Enjin back from laughing had torn cleanly in half, because he leans forward, cackling loudly, his fist slamming into his thigh as he does. “Oh, fuck, this shit is golden!” He sniggers, and when Zanka’s lips jut into another pout, he bursts into snorts and giggles all over again, “You’re killing me man, fuck. You’re so out of it.”

“I ain’t out of it.” He says confidently. It comes out much more jumbled than he’d like.

“Sure you ain’t man,” Enjin agrees sarcastically, shaking his head, “I mean, I also did this shit at your age. Just didn’t expect you to get into it,” he shrugs, tapping his cigarette against the ground to knock off the last clinging flecks of ash. 

There isn’t disappointment in his voice, not really, not at all, just something that Zanka’s weed-addled mind likes to liken to softness. There’s no disappointment when he takes another drag of his cigarette and his gaze doesn’t leave Zanka’s red rimmed eyes and somehow the lack of judgement stings more than a scolding might’ve and—

And it’s not really disappointment but Zanka hears it all the same.

(He hears everything he should’ve been doing instead—training, improving, becoming the version of himself people expect. He hears every second he wasted. Hears it resounding in his brain in its own silent ostentatious way. Zanka never stops fucking hearing it, but with Jabber it’s a little louder, somehow a little quieter, with Jabber it’s there but it feels different—)

Zanka’s always been told he’s mature, responsible, put-together. He knows he isn’t.

And he knows Enjin doesn’t understand why he did this, because Zanka barely understands it himself.

(Even though he’s already craving it—

Him.)

He sniffles, quietly, tries to brush it off as nothing but Enjin notices it all the same, his eyebrows furrowing in concern confusion. Zanka turns his head away, or at least tries too, but he finds himself leaning away from the pillar, feels the far away feeling of panic skittering in his chest, as he falls backwards, not into the harsh concrete, but into soft arms that hoist him up, and it should be mortifying, but instead it isn’t, it’s so soft, and warm, wonders if this is what it feels like to be cradled by a father.

“Alright, man…c’mon. You’re fried. Time to get your ass to bed before you melt into the pavement,” and his words are so light, but they scatter softly against Zanka’s skin like dandelions in the wind.

He nods senselessly against Enjin’s chest, curls up tighter to feel the warmth bleed in, and there’s the expression on Enjin’s face Zanka really doesn’t understand. Soft, and a little fond, A hand reaches up to adjust Zanka more comfortably as he pushes open the doors with his back. It’s fatherly, maybe, though Zanka’s never had a real reference for that word. It sits wrong on his tongue even in thought, makes no sense at all, and because he has no place in his mind where that kind of look should fit, he decides it has to be the high, because what else could it possibly be?

(And when Enjin puts him on his bed, he pulls the covers over Zanka, tucks him in, brushes a strand of hair out of his face, looks at him longer then should be needed, and Zanka has to be crazy, has to blame it on the high, because nothing can really explain why someone like Enjin would care so much about someone like him.

It’s absurd.

And it’s even more absurd when he lets his fingers drift over his lips, tries to imagine the taste of Jabber there and frowns when he knows it’s long been swallowed down.

Absurdest of all when he considers sneaking back out and pushing their lips together.)

iii.

Zanka wakes up with his head pounding.

It’s not a particularly nice feeling to wake up too, and neither are the memories of last night rushing into his head.

He blinks once, blearily taking in his surroundings, then buries his face inside his pillow and shrieks, loud enough that he wouldn’t be surprised if all of HQ heard him, and only after that does he roll over to stare at the roof. He needs to get out, but he can’t find the strength in him to do anything more than rot in his bed until it swallows him whole. His body is so damn heavy.

It’d certainly be better than facing Enjin after all the shit he’d said yesterday.

Is it possible to live down the embarrassment? Zanka doesn’t think so. He groans, kicking his foot uselessly in the air, in some pathetic attempt at rebellion and anger. It does nothing to soothe him, but he repeats the motion anyway. It’s not until he sees a puff of white hair poking out from the door that he pushes himself up.

Zanka blinks in confusion. Rudo? What was he doing in Zanka’s room? There was no way that Zanka was late, right?

“Uh,” Rudo begins uselessly, letting the door swing all the way open. He stands awkwardly in the middle of the doorway staring at Zanka before wincing, and Zanka knows he looks bad right now but he doesn’t need the reminder.

“Hell ya lookin’ at, weirdo,” Zanka snaps, frowning.

As if taken out of his trance, Rudo shakes his head, bringing his hands forward from where they’d been behind his back. In his gloved hands lies what Zanka assumes to be some sort of chocolate. Rudo clears his throat, looking away from Zanka as he mutters, “Riyo told me you liked dark chocolate, and you didn't show yesterday, so, y’know, I thought you’d want some?” His words grow quieter as he goes on and by the end he’s basically whispering, fidgeting anxiously.

Zanka’s not sure how to break it to the kid that he hates all types of bitter food, especially dark chocolate, and that he’s not going to eat that thing.

But then Rudo’s lips split open in a horrifying rendition of what Zanka’s learned is the boy’s attempts at a smile, and he looks down at the chocolate, licks his lips, but doesn’t back down and, well, Zanka doesn’t have it in him to do anything more than sigh and make a come hither motion with his hand. 

Rudo’s eyes practically gleam as he hands the chocolate to Zanka, and Zanka likes to pretend that’s not why he takes a bite of the horrible thing.

The taste is immediate, spreading over his tongue and even swallowing it doesn't do anything. He feels like gagging, but Rudo is waiting expectantly in front of him, with an expression that’s thinly veiled excitement so he mutters weakly, “Thanks, Rudo. It was real sweet of ya.”

“Yeah!” He says excitedly, and then probably realising he’s vibrating, clears his throat, looking away embarrassedly, “I mean, sure thing,” He says, and then takes a step back, waving towards Zanka. “I’ll be down; Enjin wanted me to tell you that we’re leaving an hour later!”

Zanka wonders if it’s for him that they’re leaving later; but that would be absurd. He waves back to Rudo, rolls his eyes when he hears a muffled scream of ‘I did it right!’ behind the door and then as soon as he hears Rudo’s footsteps echo down the hall, he rushes to his feet, ignores how badly his head pounds and how his body protests at the movement, and spits it all out into the sink, gagging. He cups water in his hand, rinses his mouth until he can’t taste the stupid thing on his tongue.

“Fuck,” he mutters. Riyo was going to get a beating from him later.

He’s still mumbling curses to himself when he walks over to his room and notices the small little pill and the cup of water next to it on his bedside table where he hadn’t yet noticed.

Was that…from Enjin? He picks up the pill, rolls it between his forefinger and thumb and feels his cheeks flush in happiness. Whatever anger had been tainting his mind flows out of him in a stream.

Enjin brought this for him. Enjin. He downs the cup and the pill, can’t stop smiling as he does, takes a quick shower, dresses up even quicker, and then when he sees Enjin leaning against Seimu’s desk, considers saying thank you, or something, but all he does is shrug when Enjin waves towards him.

(He’s horrible.)

He’s quiet the whole car ride, Riyo asking questions, even Tamsy speaking up and asking him if he’s fine. Which he is, he doesn’t talk much on car rides anyway, so why are they so pushy?

(It’s horrible; he can’t help but find all of their worries and concerns flattering, and it’s horrible, terrible, perfect, good, everything Zanka’s ever wanted.

He’s horrible.)

And then they reach Canvas Town, and it’s just as vibrant as it’s always been, full of life in every corner—

Except that it’s really not, because Gob is dead. Zanka can’t tell if it’s the remnants of whatever he took yesterday numbing his emotions or if it’s something else.

(He's horrible. Guilt eats away at him all the same, for yesterday, for not knowing Gob well enough to really feel anything else but pity for the little kid sobbing in the corner.

He wonders if this is how his siblings feel when they see him; empathy for the kid who can never really do anything.)

Zanka can’t find it in him to stay in that room any longer. He excuses himself quietly, giving the kid a small smile that he hopes does something, knows does nothing.

He doesn’t have any particular mind for where he’s headed, simply puts one leg in front of the other, eyes tracing all the art etched around him. It’s calming in one way, and surprisingly addictive in another. Zanka’s never been particularly good at art, but he finds he’s itching to be able to join all the painters spraying cans of paint into the walls with bright grins.

Which is maybe why a man taps his shoulder and offers him a can. Zanka can’t see his face with the angle. “Hey, hey; ya wanna paint?”

His voice is familiar; like Jabber’s. Smooth and somehow cracked. Deep enough to make goosebumps rise over his back. But Zanka knows it’s his mind playing dirty tricks on him, taunting him as it watches Zanka struggle to mutter, “I mean, if ya don’t mind?”

The guy throws the can in his face without another word, snorting when Zanka almost drops it. He picks up his own can, running wildly and spraying the wall without any rhyme or rhythm that Zanka can see, but there are wicks poking out of the hood the guys has thrown, and he’s not Jabber, because he can’t be, but it’s all Zanka can see.

(It’s all Zanka wishes he could see.)

He swallows down the anxiety crawling in his chest, ignores the headache, and hesitantly raises his own can and squints his eyes when he sprays it against the wall. 

He has no clue what he’s doing. He’s pretty aware that it looks that way too, but it’s freeing to simply do whatever it is he wants with the can, spray it freely until a few guys clap and whoop for him when they walk by, and it makes a blush rise to his cheeks, a strange feeling of pride, and the man who offered him to paint is still jumping around, and the more he looks at it, the more it feels like art—

Feels like Jabber.

“Kha-ha! You ain’t got the slightest clue what you’re doin’, do ya?” the dreadhead chirps, looking over Zanka’s shoulder.

Zanka startles, frowning at the guy but shrugs. “Ain’t matter, does it?”

The response clearly thrills him, because he cackles, and Zanka can feel his grin against his shoulder blades. “Ahh, there he is. My Mr. Bad Attitude. Say stuff like that and you make this real fun for me!”

There’s a moment where Zanka doesn’t dare move—

(It was Jabber, it was Jabber, it was Jabber, it was Jabber, it was Jabber, it was Jabber, it was Jabber, it was Jabber, it was Jabber, it was Jabber, it was Jabber—)

And then Zanka’s throat goes dry, feels his pulse skitter horribly in his chest, his eyes widening, his hands freezing, feels panic so strong in his bones he can’t fucking breathe—

Because it’s Jabber, Jabber behind him in broad daylight, pretending to blend in, and it's the third time they’ve met and Jabber hasn’t tried to kill him in any of them, and it scares him because this has to be it—

He doesn’t miss a beat before he reaches for his jinki, the spray can clattering to the ground, but Jabber’s already out of his sight before he can do anything.

(And it scares him that he recognizes Jabber before he even sees his face, that there is something ugly inside of him that knows, instinctively, that it’s Jabber, and that same ugly little thing flutters timidly in his chest, so small and trembling, and it’s that small, timid, ugly thing scares Zanka like nothing has before—

And it curls around his ribs, struts its crooked wings and it is nothing like the cherub Zanka is.)

iv.

He doesn’t have time to think about Jabber when they find Amo. He’s a little thankful that he doesn’t have to deal with the memories of that bastard, that he can focus his mind on something else, even if it is that crazy cow.

“We should talk about the types of boys and girls we like!” She says again, after hitting Enjin, acting as if nothing has happened and he absolutely doesn’t think about Jabber when she asks her question.

Zanka can deal with her, can deal with his teammates turning on them and can wonder why Tamsy says it smells like fire, and it instead smells a little like bullets, a lot like weed. Wonders why he can feel things he hasn’t thought of in a while resurfacing, and things that haven’t left his mind just yet but then—

But then Amo tells them how her power works and it clicks, and it sounds more like a gruesome, mortifying shifting of gears in his head then a soft click because—

(He doesn’t think about Jabber, but somehow Jabber never really leaves his head.

And deliriously, he wonders if it’s the love scent that’s doing this to him but that’s beyond absurd. The meanings attached to that are things Zanka never wants to touch.)

And then Amo begins spouting bullshit about love, that Zanka knows can never be true, and he rolls his eyes, “Sometimes the people we wanna kill are those we love,” he says, and then he thinks of Jabber—can’t stop thinking of Jabber—

(He doesn’t think about Jabber, but Jabber has never really left his head, ever, ever, ever, ever—)

v.

They go out and they have dinner after.

It’s fairly simple, Zanka orders what he always does, they teach Rudo more about the different types of cleaners, and like normal something goes wrong to fuck them up, and they’re seperated—not once, but twice—and then, and then, and fucking then—

Zanka’s heart skips a beat in his chest, and it feels like the ugly, timid thing in his ribs is chewing it alive—

“Been a minute,” Jabber grins, as if they hadn’t seen each other today, as if his hands aren’t still stained in spray paint, “You ain’t excited for this, Mr. Bad Attitude?! ‘Cus I’m mad hyped for this! We ain’t thrown down in forever—only reason we didn’t last time’s ’cause Boss told me I had to chill!”

And though he hates to admit it, he’s hyped too, whatever plan there was, if there was any, Zanka can't find it in him to care, because all that matters is the blood rushing through him—

(and he's a little disappointed to hear the only reason Jabber didn't fight him was because he wasn't allowed because, because Zanka has no such reason, because the small ugly timid thing inside of him was hoping for something else, because Zanka is a fool who despite it all wants nothing more then to beat the shit out of Jabber.)

—pounding, air threading through his hair, into his lungs, all he can think is kill, kill, kill—

It’s what makes all their encounters worth it, makes the hatred in his veins so much stronger, until he’s drunk and dizzy off of it, and he knows it’s exactly what Jabber’s feeling because he can see it reflected in the twisted pull of Jabber’s lips, and the narrowed glee in his eyes, and it’s like looking at himself, but it’s not.

Their fight is brutal, every part of Zanka aches, they both have matching burns, and he feels pleasure, mortifying pleasure, climb up his back when he feels Jabber’s ribs shatter, something like glee in himself when Jabber moans at the feeling of Zanka hitting the same spot (and it feels like a metaphor for something so much more obscene and filthy that Zanka feels dizzy). And then, for a moment, in that moment, Zanka thinks he might just win this battle, remembers Hyo, in all her holy glory, thinks—feels a surge of confidence so deep he can taste it—

But he’s already a mess on the ground.

(And he’s a little disappointed, when their fight ends, and nothing more really happens but thats—

That’s absurd. Because he can still feel doubt eating him alive, because he lost, and somehow he’s still mourning the wrong damn thing.)

It feels horrible. His body is in searing pain, every fibre of his being is on fire, he’s going to retch, and he can feel his heart rattles in his chest, and it feels like greening out without the high, it reminds him of last time, somehow this time is worse, because he doesn’t even get to feel bad with Jabber’s spit over his tongue, but there’s already so much wrong with him, Zanka loathes to add this to the list.

It’s a lot like last time, with Jabber laying down next to him so that they’re both laughing, cackling and howling, until there’s tears streaming down Zanka’s cheeks, and his eyes are red rimmed for reasons so different to last time that it hurts.

(And it’s a lot like every time because Zanka is still no better than ever, because this is glaring proof of his worth, shoved into his face, that he’ll always, always fall short. He can feel it burn into his stomach, the thought like a mantra in his head, and it’s always there, but it’s never been so ostentatiously fucking loud and it’s all Jabber’s fault.

And that thought alone is enough to make him want to claw the ugly little thing in his chest out with his bare hands—but it flutters anyway, trembling, hungry, horrible, reaching for Jabber like it doesn’t know any better.

Like it never will.

Like an ouroboros snake too stupid to know it’s eating its own tail.)

"You wanna know something, Zanka," Jabber mutters, and theres something about the way he drags out the syllables of his name that tugs something taut in him. He drags the pointed nails of Mankira over Zanka’s skin. "I ain't even like drugs. Matter of fact, that shit don't even work on me. But I couldn't just jack you full with poison just yet; it would've killed ya!" He snorts. "So when ya showed up in that alley I switched out the shit, gave you one without the poison. But you're just like me aren't ya, Zanka? You don’t like drugs either. So I wonder why you came back, hm?"

He's lifted up over Jabber's shoulders, and the jostling hurts, especially where Jabber’s shoulder blade dogs into his stomach.

"Youre just like me, Zan-zan!" He says again, "So maybe next time we can test my poisons together, yeah?"

Zanka is too deep in his head to hear it. The crooked thing in his chest aches.

vi.

Zanka wakes up in a hospital bed two days after their fight. The pain is still sharp when he moves, and in a way it’s both a reminder of his weakness and of Jabber.

He doesn’t want to think of either, but there’s nothing else he can think of, nothing he can even do. Eisha had made it abundantly clear that if he moves too much he’d rip his stitches a second time. 

(The first time had been when he’d woken up screaming, the sound of gunshots echoing in his ears, and he swears it was real, he swears his brother was there, shooting bullets, but he’s told that it’s just Riyo and he…isn’t sure if he’s being lied too.

It doesn’t matter; the look Eisha gives him already makes him wilt. It might be pity, but it feels like something else too.)

He’s pretty aware that at some point Enjin and Riyo must’ve come by because there’s a handful of get well letters that are simultaneously half assed and caring. Zanka’s not too sure what to do with them, so he keeps them on the bed side table and rereads them when the boredom gets particularly strong.

It’s easier to deal with the boredom when Enjin and Rudo come in. Partially because it’s funny watching Rudo awkwardly hand over flowers, and partially because Enjin is carrying a bag as well and it’s all Zanka can think about.

Very meekly, without looking at his face, Rudo shoves up a bouquet of artificial flowers, a pretty lot of daisies and other flowers he doesn’t recognize, muttering something that Zanka can’t hear.

He raises an eyebrow, squinting as he reaches to grab the flowers, “Uh…the hell’s this mean?” He glances at Rudo again, genuinely thrown. “You ain’t—…you ain’t tryin’ to court me or nothin’...right?” 

Enjin turns his face away, clearly trying his hardest not to laugh. All the same, a couple of barley contained snorts slip out.

Rudo’s mouth drops, in a mixture of shock and horror, “H–huh!?” He shrieks, taking a step back and pointing an accusing finger at Zanka. “What’s wrong with you?! Why the hell would I try courting you?!”

Zanka’s face screws up as he frowns, “Hey, you’re the one handin’ out flowers like some lovesick idiot! How’m I supposed to know what goes on in that tiny-ass brain’a yours?!”

Rudo’s eye twitches, his mouth opening comically large to snap back before he forces it shut. Zanka can almost hear his teeth grinding, before he opens his mouth and mutters, “It’s a get well soon gift. On the sphere at least. So, y’know, I got you some.”

Zanka narrows his eyes, looking Rudo up and down as if to make sure that the kid really means what he says (which some part of Zanka already knows he does), and then looks towards Enjin where he’s still avoiding eye contact. After a beat, Zanka sighs. Not fondly. “I didn’t know people did that,” he admits, giving Rudo a small smile, “So, uh, thanks.”

Rudo blinks, mouth opening and closing around his words before he mutters something so fast that Zanka isn’t at all sure what it could be. He looks back at the flowers, feels something warm and honeyed inside of him, and promptly looks away, poking fun at Rudo instead.

(He’s not sure how to feel about how fond he’s grown of Rudo, how easily the kid’s wormed his way under his skin. It’s strange, and a little embarrassing, and maybe a little good.

Good in the way small kindnesses always are—gentle in places Zanka doesn’t know how to protect, frightening in ways he can’t name.)

He doesn’t get a chance to see what Enjin got him before Remlin and Gnomulas show up, spouting apologies that Zanka doesn’t understand, until the kid explains what they’d done.

“I’m sorry, Zanka,” they murmur, chewing anxiously on their lips, fiddling with their hands, worry and genuineness bleeding into their voice, Rudo and Enjin sharing nervous glances—

And all Zanka can do is lean back and laugh, and laugh, and laugh, until his sides burn (it’s a lot like last time—)

“Hah, sorry,” he finally gets out, wiping away the tears in the corner of his eyes, “I just never met nobody who’d attempt something like that on me.”

Remlin looks even more anxious then they did before, “...huh? Why…why are you laughing? It’s my fault you got hurt so bad…”

Their answer is almost enough to send Zanka into another spiral. He smiles weekly, wonders if it’s comforting or if it looks like Rudo’s attempts. He reassures the little kid, and he knows it works because there’s nothing but genuity in his voice because whose fault is it but his?

(His for being unable to ever win, his for only ever falling, his for proving—over and over and over again—that he’ll never be good enough. And the mantra is still as loud as ever, sinking its teeth in, still ostentatious in its own way, and really it’s never been louder and more pretentious, blending in with the sound of crooked beating wings, holding hands with the timid ugly thing in his ribs—

Zanka has never felt worse and it’s because of Jabber, because of himself, because it’s always been Zanka’s fault—)

“I just ain’t good enough,” he says, smiling widely, ignores how much the statement hurts, shoos off Gnomulas’ attempts to pay him back, and awkwardly hugs Remlin back when the kid jumps at him. He fights with Rudo when he gives him a weird look, almost strangles him until his stitches threatening to rip open beg otherwise and—

And it’s just like normal. And he doesn’t think of Jabber, or the flowers, or the ugly timid thing in his ribs. And he’s excited when Enjin gives him his gift, and it’s really just like normal—

(And he’s not sure if it’s normal when he limps out of his room, scoffs at Enjin’s sleeping form, and offers Rudo advice he has no business giving—because him, comforting people, because him, him?— Zanka isn’t made for that type of thing, Zanka’s not really made for anything—him pretending he knows anything about gentleness? It’s ridiculous. Absurd. And he isn’t sure why he opened his mouth in the first place, but then he remembers the flowers—those stupid daisies next to his bed—and the horribly warm feeling blooming where the ugly little thing in his ribs usually hides, and suddenly he feels sick about Rudo growing up wanting nothing but revenge, feels sick about himself, feels sick about everything, feels sick about Jabber, so—

So he chalks it up as absurd and watches Rudo fumble through a conversation with Remlin, paper in hand, voice cracking, and he smiles like an idiot.)

The flowers don’t need watering, they don’t need anything at all, they’re nothing like him, and it’ll make no difference whether he crushes them up, throws them away, gives them to some kid on the street but, but, but he really can’t get Rudo's expression out of his face. Can’t get his and Enjin’s talk out of his head.

So he can’t find it in him to throw them away even after he’s discharged. He holds them tightly in his hand, and holds the memory of Rudo’s face even tighter, and somehow Jabber’s face is still there.

They’ll never wilt, or die, he thinks, raising them up, they’ll only ever stay, so it’s fine.

(It’s absurd. It’s absurd. It’s absurd—

Because nothing stays for Zanka except the mantra that he’s never enough, except the memory of Jabber’s crooked wings beating their rhythm into his skull, except the ugly thing in his ribs that only ever trembles and reaches for the wrong fucking people—)

He doesn’t have much space in his room but he places them in a pot and keeps them next to the hoodie.

.

.

.

.

“Is your tooth chipped?” Riyo asks, squinting her eyes mid conversation.

Zanka blinks, subconsciously raising a hand to his teeth. He has no clue what she’s talking about. “The hell?”

She snickers, “Here, silly,” and then she reaches forward and flicks her fingers against a tooth.

While Zanka is used to her bad manners and even stranger personality, he still blinks in shock, a light flush coming to his neck. He ignores it, running his tongue over his teeth before he feels it catch on something.

It’s his bottom tooth, to the left of his canine, that’s vaguely chipped.

Riyo tilts her head, making herself comfortable on his bed, spread out in nothing but a shirt. Zanka politely lifts his gaze when she shifts. “How did that happen?”

Zanka’s honestly not sure. He’s been on a strict diet of broths, which he thoroughly enjoys, and can’t remember any moment where—

(On his back, with his heart rattling in his chest, and his chest heaving, Jabber above him, like a seriphium, his jinki in Zanka’s mouth, his teeth biting it to stop himself from dying.)

Oh. Zanka looks away from Riyo, chewing anxiously on his lip. “Must’ve gotten it from my fight with Jabber.”

Riyo snorts, rolling over. “How’d you manage to get a hit on your tooth?”

Zanka shrugs, “I ain’t got a clue.” He’s a bad liar. He’s a bad fighter. He shouldn't have had to reach a moment where his tooth could’ve gotten chipped. He should be better.

Riyo clicks her tongue, flopping onto her back again, “Laaame. If you’re gonna chip a tooth, at least make it from something cool. Like biting someone.” She waves a hand dismissively. “Jabber’s just embarrassing.”

Zanka glares, but she’s already rolling onto her stomach, chin in her hands. It’s not like he doesn’t already know that. 

“Anyway,” she goes on, completely ignoring his suffering, “you better show up to the party tomorrow.”

Zanka blinks. “Didn’t y’all just throw a damn party? Like—two nights ago?”

“Mhm,” Riyo hums, shrugging, “and we won a big fight today, so we deserve another one.” She kicks her feet behind her, “‘Sides, the Boss wants everyone there. And I need someone to help me prank Rudo, sooo,” She wiggles her brows. “You’re drafted.”

Zanka grimaces. “Drafted?” And then he crosses his arms, remembering what she’d done to him. “You ain’t making me do nothing after you told Rudo I liked dark chocolate."

Except Riyo is already skipping toward the door, waving lazily. “Yeah, yeah, cry about it. See ya tomorrow, Puppyboy!”

Zanka throws a pillow at her. It doesn’t even come close. It’s not until she’s gone that her words click into his head and his face turns bright red. 

He wonders who would know where to find a box of toxic cockroaches.

And then, long after she leaves, he steps into his washroom and stares at his reflection, stretches his mouth wide open and drags his finger across the tooth.

(In a way, it’s a little like the flower Rudo gave him; something he’ll never lose. 

In a way, Zanka also cherishes it. 

He pushes the thought deep, deep down, but if he comforts himself by running his tongue over it every now and then, then no one has to know.)

vii.

Zanka considers not going to this party either. 

He doesn’t consider going back to the alley either, but the ugly timid thing inside of him itches all the same. So he goes to the party. He throws on his usual outfit, tries not to limp as he roams the empty halls. When he opens the door to the party there’s more people there already then he expects. He makes his way around, making small talk when the chance arises, rolls his eyes when he finds Rudo and Dear Santa in an eye staring contest atop all the sweets.

(He doesn’t consider going back to the alley.)

He talks with Riyo and Enjin, joins in the party games, wins a few, laughs when Rudo loses another round and insists it’s because the games on the sphere are different, and—

(He doesn’t consider going back to the alley.)

He reluctantly helps Riyo prank Rudo, can’t stop himself from smiling when Rudo shrieks in horror, talks with Fu for the first time, find he doesn’t really mind the kid, even talks with Enjin about how last time went, and jokes around about getting high and he—

(He doesn’t consider going back to the alley.)

Zanka stays at the party until everyone’s either passed out or left to their rooms, until it’s just Enjin talking with Seimu, who rarely attends anyway, in the corner, over something Zanka doesn’t quite catch. He stays until after they leave with a goodbye to him, steps out only to grab a blanket and throw it over Riyo and Rudo and then stays long enough to let himself slump down next to them.

(He doesn’t consider going back to the alley. But he wants nothing more.

And by now, by this point, it’s beyond absurd when he dreams of Jabber, when he has Jabber beneath his hold, when there’s no high to blame his thoughts on, when he curls tighter into Riyo and sniffles, considers going back to the alley, to numb the stupid ugly thing in his ribs, even though it’s a truth that argues with itself, a paradox, and when Riyo throws an arm over him, when he lets his tongue run over his chipped tooth, when he imagines curling his fingers around the ugly, horrible, timid, terrifying thing in his chest that has ruined him, Zanka can only think of going back to the alley.)

He doesn’t ever stop thinking of the alley, of the spliff, of their spit on each others tounge, laughing—

Of Jabber.

(He starts thinking of another world where he could let the ugly timid thing in his chest bloom into something different and somehow, it’s worse, it’s—

Absurd.)

viii.

It’s a week later that he meets Jabber again. It’s a lot like before, because Zanka has no clue how they found each other, because they drift towards one another even when Zanka couldn’t want anything less.

He can always try and explain how he got here, how it started, both of them reaching for their jinki, the horrible, thrilling rush of adrenaline that a hit of a spliff can never give, both of them fighting, dirty, and then Jabber biting harshly at the nape of his neck, cackling, when Zanka holds his hands above him, and Zanka returns the favor—

(But Zanka thinks this all started on that cursed day they first met, when Jabber filled him with his poison, and threw Zanka without another thought.)

And before Zanka knows it, Jabber’s lips are on his, and Zanka’s nipping harshly at his lower lip, a mortifying whine slipping from his lips when Jabber pins him against a wall, thrusting a leg between his leg, hard enough to make Zanka’s eyes roll to the back of his head. The kiss is everything Zanka thought it would be, it's filthy, it’s disgusting, it’s like sharing the spliff, sharing spit, sharing their intoxication, Zanka hates it, he sinks his hand into Jabber’s hair, tugs hard enough that Jabber howls, and fights until it’s Zanka pushing Jabber against the wall.

Jabber moans, his back arching, “Fuck, fuck, Zan-zan, you’re makin’ me so hard,” and his words make something climb up Zanka’s back, especially when a slips a hand under his shirt, throws it over his head, and Zanka’s quick to do the same, and he’s never done this before, but it’s familiar in every way, ignorant in every other. The ugly, timid thing inside of him is wailing, it's fallen down into his gut, it’s screaming with every push of their tongues.

It’s obscene. It’s filthy, in more ways then one, there’s dirt clinging to Zanka’s skin, there’s Jabber’s spit all over him, his own blood dripping down his back in streaks, both of them fighting for dominance, and Zanka’s never felt so good, never wanted to do something again without having done it a first time, even though he can taste bitter regret on his tongue, when he pushes Jabber down, wraps his fingers around Jabber’s neck, feels his pulse rattling against his fingers, matching the pace of the fluttering crooked wings inside of him—

(And like an ouroboros, a snake swallowing its own doomed beginning, Zanka thinks this too means he’s cursed to do it all over again.)

And he does. They meet many more times, Zanka loses track of it, and he hates himself a little more everytime, isn’t sure he can even store that much hate inside, but nothing can keep him from tugging cruelly at Jabber’s hair, thrusting into him as they both cry out—

(Zanka’s not sure he can keep all this hatred from leaking out. He’s not sure if it’s Jabber he hates more or himself.)

Enjin must notice, must see the marks, must see something, but there’s an expression on his face unlike the one Zanka thinks might be fatherly and somehow just like it.

ix.

There is no getting rid of the ugly timid thing, Zanka has learned. It is going to get its way. He’s high out of his mind, he is tangled with Jabber, both of them bloodied and bruised.

They’re still in the alley that started all of this, and Zanka can hate many things but somehow he finds it hard to hate this place. He doesn't consider leaving. He lets Jabber's touch roam around his body, runs his tounge over his chipped tooth, and he knows he's stuck here. There’s drugs in his system, sending jolts of pain and nausea through him, and somehow Zanka finds the feeling exhilarating.

And like an ouroboros snake, this is where it ends and—

x.

—where it never will. Zanka reaches for the spliff.