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Like this, Jabber was certain he could never get tired of anything. Not the way the drugs pulsed through his body like a refreshing drink down his parched throat, nor the way he struggled to keep his mind online and his eyes open as if he’d been up for days on end. He might as well have done just that what with the ache thrumming in his bones, but who was he to care? Certainly not Jabber Wonger. Certainly not. Like this, body filled to the brim with substances he couldn’t name in this state, he couldn’t feel any more and/or less like himself if he tried. Thank god nobody else was here to witness it.
“’re ya done with that yet? I’m bein’ reaaaal sweet ‘n patient over here.”
Well, there was always him.
“Wait your fuckin’ turn, man.” Jabber wasn’t angry, not really. He just wants to sit in this feeling a little longer before they get down to the good part. It’s supposed to feel good, it’s usually good, but he’s not so sure right now. Usually, when he and Zanka sneak off to meet up outside of their fights, it’s for this. Usually, it’s good. It’s great, even. Jabber doesn’t know why he feels so small and wrong now. He takes another hit to will the sensation away, ignoring how it hardly does anything in his favor.
He wishes Zanka were a little more patient. Zanka’s impatient to become a better combatant, too, but why is Jabber even complaining? At least Zanka’s trying, going out of his way for Jabber of all people. He admires it, really, craves that more than anything else, but he’s not in the fucking mood right now. He flicks the joint over to Zanka, irritation itching up his skin and begging him to just lose this battle.
“And you say I’ve got the bad attitude.” Zanka lights it, takes a hit. Jabber scratches absently at his wrists, closes his eyes.
He’s not sure how much time passes before Zanka speaks again.
“If yer just gonna pout over there like a big baby I can give it back,” his words are a little slurred, so Jabber knows he’s higher than he was last time he spoke. A few minutes, then. “’r I can give you some myself, c’mere.” Before Jabber can hum in either protest or affirmation, Zanka is already clambering over to the older, legs swinging over Jabber’s hips and depositing himself in his lap. Zanka greets him with a shit-eating grin, and Jabber finds he actually quite loves him like this. The word is gross and jagged in Jabber’s mind, it’s setting off alarms that are all kinds of wrong and loud, but he’s felt that way all day, so it hardly makes a difference.
Zanka takes a long drag of the joint—“Say aaa—mmph!”—and is promptly cut off by Jabber taking initiative. He feels more than he hears Zanka laugh into the kiss, the smoke swirling between their mouths as Zanka shotguns him. Jabber holds onto Zanka’s hips, if only to hold onto anything, but it hardly works to tether him back down from where he’s been floating. Zanka’s hands brush over Jabber’s chest, fingers splayed out over his scars, and the older immediately feels worse. It’s fine. He’ll manage. Zanka’s hips start to move over his own as his lips latch onto the bruised column of Jabber’s throat, and it’s fine. It’s fine. Jabber’s pulse is stuttering in his chest and it’s because of the drugs, because he wants Zanka, and because of nothing else. Not because he’s been struggling to feel like a person all day, and now that Zanka is on him, and not by any fault of Zanka’s own, it’s bringing a lot of bitter, buried sentiments to the front.
If Zanka notices the way Jabber starts to tense and shake in the bad way, he doesn’t show it. Maybe he doesn’t notice at all, because it’s all in Jabber’s head. He wishes in this moment that Zanka would just choke him a little. Maybe scratch him up a bit, y’know? He could even continue kissing up the length of Jabber’s neck if he’d add some teeth, chew him up and spit him out just enough for Jabber to feel anything other than this unrelenting wrongness and hollowness. He hopes he doesn’t fuck this up. It’s been so long since he’s felt so bad and it’s never ever been in front of Zanka. The younger man is a piece of work and a lot of other unsavory remarks could be made about him, but Jabber knows how they feel about each other at the very least. It’s stable, it’s solid and real and he would hate for that to change all because he couldn’t get out of his head for one evening. His limbs feel heavy, but he’s got sense enough to maneuver a hand around to Zanka’s front and start palming him through his pants. His attire is loose, thin and Jabber can feel the younger’s want pulsing in his palm, hears him groan into his throat as one of Zanka’s hands finds his to hold. He wants it, too. It’s fine, it’s fine.
“Yer so fuckin’ pretty like this,” Zanka breathes out, “’s a shame the looks had to be wasted on such a bratty little thing.”
And, okay. In any other scenario, preferably one where they could’ve set the scene or been on the same wavelength from the start like they usually are, Jabber would’ve bit back with a witty retort. He’d probably have pushed Zanka to say more and be meaner until it got physical, probably would’ve giggled through the punishments until it pissed Zanka off even more and then they really started having fun. This is not that scenario.
“’m sorry,” Jabber mumbles. He almost doesn’t even catch himself saying it, and it keeps tumbling out even when he does. “Sorry. Sorry ZanZan, ’m sorry. I can be better. Sorry.”
Fuck.
This is exactly what he didn’t want. This is what the weed and, frankly, the abuse of Mankira were supposed to avoid! But oh, it’s too late now. He feels something hot on his cheeks and he’s sure it’s just the flush of the toxins in his system until he registers a wet sensation too. So he’s crying, and this is decidedly not fine.
“Fuck, move,” he struggles out, but Zanka’s still as stone on top of him, gawking at him like he’s some idiot. He’s not. He’s not. “Get off’a me.” What’s wrong with him? Why can’t he stop crying? Why couldn’t he chase this feeling down and away earlier? “Please.”
“Hey, no,” Zanka sounds a lot more sober than he did half a minute ago. It twists something up inside of Jabber. “What’s wrong? We don’t h—I don’t want to do anything if...” he trails off, as if searching for the right words, and all Jabber can think about is how he’s managed to fuck this up even more. Of course, the one person he wanted to keep around for genuine reasons would push him away, too. Why not!
As if reading what’s decipherable through Jabber’s jumbled thoughts, Zanka continues, “dunno what’s wrong with ya, but ’m not gonna just leave you like this.” It comes out stilted, because this is new territory for the both of them, and for a split second Jabber thinks he’s just digging a deeper grave and making Zanka even more uncomfortable. It’s bad enough Zanka has to witness his freakout, but apparently he’s making such a pitiful display of himself that now the guy feels like he has to stay and what, make it better? All Jabber can register, though, is that the hand that was palming the younger is being moved into Zanka’s free one, and now both of his hands are in Zanka’s, and it’s doing a better job than anything else has all day at grounding him. Zanka starts to roll them over, presumably to lie them down face-to-face, but Jabber flinches and shakes his head at the movement. Zanka’s weight on top of him is so comfortable, so sturdy. He needs this, he thinks, and he gestures for Zanka to lay right on top of him instead.
“Are ya sure?” Zanka asks. His eyes flit down to Jabber’s chest, as if to ask another quieter, more sensitive question. Before Jabber can make a fool of himself by crossing his own boundaries at the expense and request of nobody but himself, Zanka moves. “Hold on.” His hands are out of Jabber’s in a flash, and Jabber feels as if he’s been submerged in ice cold water. Jabber’s resumed downwards spiral lasts only a moment as Zanka removes his own shirt and very gently clothes Jabber with it. Jabber doesn’t like this, being treated like glass. Like he’s something precious. It makes him feel vicious and sharp inside, unsafe above all things, his teeth aching to bite down and provoke a fight out of whoever’s touching him like that.
Zanka’s safe, though, right? His hands are back in Jabber’s in an instant, his bare chest pressed against Jabber’s freshly clothed one, and this is safe, right? Distantly, Jabber recalls how Zanka seldom took off his shirt when they did this, didn’t even really let Jabber look on the rare occasions they showered together after. He was offering up this vulnerable piece of himself as if to let Jabber know that whatever bullshit is swimming through his brain right now isn’t fine, not really, but it’s okay with him and, well. It’s a lot. If he crosses his eyes and looks down just enough, he can make out the flush on Zanka’s ears that are definitely not drug-induced.
“Ya wanna tell me what’s wrong? Can ya even do that right now, pretty?” Zanka asks the question real soft-like, as if talking to a scared cat. Jabber thinks that’s fair. The tone is doing a lot to soothe him, though he’d be loathe to admit it in any other setting. He does his best to shake his head and then, despite his internal screaming, releases Zanka’s hands to find a more comfortable placement. He settles for the small of Zanka’s back, pinching and squeezing, and shivers in delight when Zanka’s hands find the base of his collarbones, dancing up and down the structure. This is good, too.
“Wanna just lay here then? Think we’ve both had enough to smoke.” Zanka brings a hand up to caress Jabber’s face and he leans into it, uncharacteristically and greedily. He’ll take this and deny it later. The day has been so unfair to him, so cruel to remind him of his past and every part of himself he keeps trying to run from.
Jabber shakes his head once again, a little twitchy, and sneaks out a quiet “please keep talking” at Zanka’s suggestion to lay in the suffocating silence. He’s been in his head all day. He could stand to focus on something else. It’s what he’d been trying to do earlier, but.
“M’kay,” Zanka starts. “Well, ’m not sure what’s all uh, goin’ on with ya right now. But thanks fer... trusting me enough with it.” Silence stretches between the two as Zanka parses through his next thoughts, fingers absentmindedly scratching at Jabber’s scalp and the older practically purrs into it, feeling his body ease at the touch. “I like what we have goin’ on. Figure you do too or you’d’a killed me already, so. I mean, if this is part of it now, keepin’ you together sometimes, ’s nothin’ wrong with that.” Jabber pinches down a little too hard and Zanka bites down a sound of displeasure, shuffling around a bit on top of the older.
“Maybe there’s not a next time, but next time just tell me. We can just get straight to this an’ skip the part where ya look like yer relivin’ the worst of it,” there’s a heap of sadness in Zanka’s voice that he can’t seem to mask or swallow down, and Jabber doesn’t know how to approach that. Maybe next time he will.
“’sides, can’t have you gettin’ lost in that pretty lil head of yers too much anyhow. Need ya to focus on taking me down, ’r else how am I s’posed to get good enough to kill ya, huh?” It’s the first thing to earn a somewhat verbal reaction from Jabber, and it comes in the shape of a small exhale of a laugh.
They lay there for a while after that, breathing the other in, too unsure if they should move and shatter the bubble around them. Eventually, Zanka,
“Want anything? Water? It’ll only be a second.”
Jabber had wrapped his arms all the way around Zanka’s waist at this point, and was comfortably falling into a nice, dreamy state of mind. For the first time all day, his head was silent in a way that betrayed none of his trauma, none of his deeply-buried insecurities. It was more refreshing than any glass of water could have promised to be, but now that Zanka mentioned it, Jabber was startlingly parched. He nodded his head and untangled himself from the younger, prepared to curl in on himself and will away the thoughts that would inevitably start creeping back in, now given the chance. Zanka didn’t even give his mind the chance to wander, instead pressing a kiss to the back of Jabber’s hand, prompting a faint blush to stamp itself on Jabber’s face at the foreign act of tenderness. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he’d wished for it again. Zanka was back with the water in a flash, and Jabber drank it down like his life depended on it.
“Turn over, we’ll go to sleep together. D’ya wanna keep holding me, or can I wrap you up?” Zanka was straightening things out, making it easier for them to leave and part ways later on, but Jabber didn’t want to think about that. He was finally starting to feel okay. He reached an arm out for the other man and pulled him down towards himself, lips meeting in an uncharacteristically soft kiss. Zanka smiled into it before peppering smaller, more playful kisses on Jabber’s unsuspecting face, stopping only when Jabber began to push him away, flushed all the way down to his neck. He shuffled himself into Zanka’s hold, back pressed against the blonde’s front, and held his arms in his own.
In the morning, they’d have to part ways. Jabber knows that, usually, one of them is out of there before the other and that, usually, that’s him. He doesn’t think that’ll work this time around. It’s just not what they do—heart-to-hearts, check-ins, sappy shit like that. They fight to the damn near death and take out their frustrations on each other, they patch the other up just enough to get by until next time, and they keep it pushing.
But, maybe, there could be something else. Something more, that they won’t have to name, that won’t have to change anything. Maybe they could have all of that, and maybe, maybe, a little bit of this, too. They’ll talk about it in the morning. It’s only fair. For now, though, Jabber shuffles himself closer to Zanka at the thought, and he files away the feeling of Zanka squeezing him tighter in response.