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Jabber picks at his hangnails as he waits for Zanka in a dingy back alleyway. He likes to think it's their spot. Their own little world of maniac laughter and primal instinct. The kiss of a punch landing square on his cheek. Oh, just the thought of Zanka, all bloodied and ragged breath, hitting him with his vital instrument is enough for his eyes to roll back in pleasure. It's been too long since Jabber had a proper fight. Too long since he'd had fun. Too many missions that couldn't satisfy the hunger clawing at his chest. But, he's back now. Back to Zanka.
However, Jabber starts to grow impatient. Leg bouncing up and down. Hurry up.
A certain ash blond Cleaner starts to emerge from his peripheral. Jabber practically jumps, ready to start their fight as soon as possible. His blood already singing.
Zanka seems to be holding something. Jabber's eyes gravitating towards it. It's cake.
“Had to finish the icing, took too damn long tryin' to–,” Zanka begins before being interrupted by the Raider.
“The fuck?”
Zanka hesitates. “It's yer birthday, right? Could've sworn it was…”
He looks sheepish, swaying side to side a bit, as if he doesn't know how to act. Zanka looks genuine.
Jabber's heart lurches.
He wants to share the cake with Zanka. Wants to reach out and touch him. No intended violence behind the action, a simple touch just to feel his skin. He wants to feel with him. He wants to–
Oh.
Oh no. No. No. No.
Jabber's shoulders start going up. Hands clamy and it's starting to get hard to swallow. He's panicking. Red sirens blasting through his head. He feels like a deer in headlights. Watching a car speed up as he stands frozen in place. Danger. Well, Jabber is not a deer. He won't let this car that is Zanka ruin him. Hurt him first.
Any lingering adrenaline and warmth fizzling out, instead, ice cold anger replacing it all.
They're not friends. Enemies. Zanka is Jabber's entertainment and guinea pig. Jabber won't let Zanka fucking Nijiku hold his heart and leave once he realizes what happens if you stick by him for too long. He'll discard Zanka first before he even thinks about leaving Jabber.
Jabber knocks the small cake from Zanka's grasp. The pair watches as it smashes into the dirty alleyway ground. Zanka's eyes flick from the cake back to Jabber. Jabber hopes it'll spark at least a bit of anger.
We're nothing. Nothing. Don't do this again.
Jabber can't let Zanka get too close. He can't bear to feel that softness—that vulnerability. It would never end well. He needs that anger. Hate. Zanka can't like him; he refuses. He waits for a punch, beating Jabber up till they're both black and blue for the shit he'd just done.
He hates how Zanka makes him feel sometimes. Hates the way his heart clenches when Zanka deals a particularly powerful blow. Then, Zanka started to hesitate. Where there used to be anger, there is now softness. His punches are softer. His strikes are softer. His hits are softer. Softer. Softer.
Softer.
Jabber can't stand it.
So he pokes and prods and pushes all of Zanka's buttons, trying to get some sort of reaction, some sort of anger, but it never works.
But now.
He can see the way Zanka's jaw tightens, hands clenching around Lovely Assistaff, and yes, that fire that has rekindled behind his eyes. Jabber's lips twitch upward, his own hand itching to draw out Mankira. Waiting to fall back into their usual dance of blood and bruises. Jabber waits for Zanka's next move. Come on.
Make your move. Hit me. Hit me.
Zanka takes one last look at the cake before turning around. He starts walking out of the alleyway.
What.
Jabber's eyes widened a fraction. No, this isn't how it's supposed to go. They should be exchanging blows. Zanka spinning Lovely Assistaff as he cracks Jabber's ribs. Poison is flying from Mankira as Jabber rides off the high. They should be fighting. Not this. Not Jabber watching Zanka disappear into the crowd.
Jabber stills his hand before he does something stupid like reach out. If Zanka doesn't want to fight, then fine. Zanka is a coward. And Jabber doesn't waste his time with cowards who can't entertain him.
He looks at the cake.
Ants have started crawling all over. That doesn't stop Jabbed from snagging a tiny piece and licking it from his fingers. It's a homemade vanilla cake. The cake itself is soft, and the cream is sweet. Zanka must've taken his time baking it after finding out it was Jabber's birthday.
It should be perfect.
And yet, it tastes like ash in his mouth.
Jabber doesn't quite understand.