Archive of Our Own

There was one thing that never changed when Zanka Nijuku and Jabber Wonger hooked up.

One single underlying question—unspoken, unacknowledged—that lingered beneath everything they did. Neither of them ever voiced it, never admitted how often it crossed their minds. And neither of them ever considered that the other might be asking the same thing.

Zanka didn’t dare ask Jabber: Will this be the last time I see you? Will I bore you, in the end? Could you ever truly love me, the way I do?

Jabber didn’t dare ask Zanka: Will this be the last time I see you? Will you realize there is nothing I can give you? Could I ever change the monster I am, for you?

They were, despite themselves, tangled in every string that came with it. Tangled in violent dances on the battlefield, tangled limbs in a too-small bed, tangled in thoughts that neither of them knew how to untangle once they started pulling.

Jabber could pretend all he wanted that he wasn’t obsessed, but lying had never really been his style. He could look Zanka dead in the eye and tell him he wanted nothing more than to have him sitting atop of him like that for the rest of his life, but the real problem was that Zanka wouldn’t believe him. He’d brush it off, assume it was another joke, another layer of teasing. Another game.

And maybe it was.

Who knows.

All Jabber knew was that he’d never been addicted to anything the way he was to Zanka.

Addicted to the feel of his skin, to the way Zanka’s sadistic side slipped out as he was getting close, to the constant push and pull between them.

Jabber let out a quiet laugh at the memory, a wide, lazy grin spreading across his face as he worked the blade of his dear Mankira against the whetstone. Back and forth, steady and rhythmic, sharpening the dull edges with practiced ease.

The harsh scrape of metal against ceramic filled the space, a grating, uneven sound that should’ve been irritating—but instead, it gave him something to focus on while his thoughts wandered right back where they shouldn’t.

Back to that question.

Was the last time he saw Zanka the last?

If it was, Jabber could admit—at least to himself—that it’d probably be his fault. He had walked out halfway through, after all.

But what was he supposed to do?

When Zanka had asked him to slow down—to make it gentler, softer than usual—Jabber had felt something slip. Not obvious, not dramatic. Just enough for him to lose his grip on whatever careful distance he kept between himself and… that.

Okay, maybe Zanka hadn’t said ‘make love’, exactly like Jabber was convinced he did. Maybe he’d just asked for something less rough, something without the usual bite to it.

Still.

It had been too close.

Too close to something real. Something that didn’t belong to them.

And that kind of thing?

That kind of thing had never ended well for Jabber.

He wished he could just go busy himself with something. Anything! Go pick a fight with some random idiot, go hunt down a pack of hallucinogens, go do something that didn’t involve sitting still with his own thoughts.

But it seemed his luck had finally run out.

Jabber was stuck.

Properly stuck.

Buried in the basement of some half-collapsed warehouse, concrete and rusted beams hemming him in on all sides like the place had decided to die right on top of him. There was no signal, no easy way out, and definitely no guarantee he could just brute-force his way through without bringing the rest of the structure down on his head. He’d already tried
that—recklessly, obviously—and nearly paid for it with a limb a few hours ago.

So now he was left with nothing.

No distractions.

No movement.

Just time.

And boredom.

And boredom meant thinking.

And thinking meant Zanka.

Which, frankly, was the worst possible outcome.

Jabber let out a slow breath through his nose, dragging his fingers along the back of his neck before letting his hand fall, idly pushing dirt around beside him. His face felt… warm. Warmer than it should’ve been, considering the damp chill clinging to the air down here.

God.

He was hopeless, wasn’t he?

Because really—out of everything he could be thinking about, everything he should be thinking about—he kept circling back to that.

To him.

To how stupidly beautiful Zanka looked when he was irritated. To the way his expression shifted when he got serious. To the way he—

Jabber groaned quietly, dropping his head back against the ground in front of him.

The things he’d do just to be stuck down here with that man instead.

That thought hit harder than expected.

He stared up at the cracked ceiling, jaw tightening faintly as something uncomfortable settled in his chest.

…Yeah.

No.

He didn’t like that.

Didn’t like what it implied.

Didn’t like how quickly his mind followed it up with something worse.

He didn’t think he could handle the idea of a last time with Zanka. Not really. Not when it came down to it.

And that—

That was new.

Why now?

Why, after weeks of distance—after walking away like it hadn’t mattered—was this the moment his brain decided to drag him back into it?

When he couldn’t even do anything about it?

“…Ugh,” Jabber muttered under his breath, scrunching his face before abruptly flopping back fully onto the ground with a dramatic groan. “This friggin’ sucks!”

He squirmed a little where he lay, frustration bleeding straight into motion as he kicked his feet against the floor and raked his fingers through his hair like a particularly agitated cat. A quiet, undignified little tantrum, but there was no one around to see it—

Which, frankly, made it worse.

“Are ya done, ya sicko?”

Jabber froze.

The voice cut clean through the space—familiar, unmistakable.

For a second, he didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

Then, slowly, he tilted his head back, peering behind him upside down from where he was sprawled.

And there—

There he was.

Zanka.

Leaning casually against one of the only beams in the entire basement that looked like it might actually hold, posture loose, expression unreadable in that way that always made Jabber want to poke at it just to see what would change.

Jabber blinked once.

Then twice.

“…Haah?!” He shot upright so fast it almost looked like a glitch, a grin splitting across his face before he could even think to contain it. “Dude, I’ve gotta get a damn lotto ticket!”

He laughed, bright and disbelieving, eyes locked onto him like he might disappear if he looked away for even a second.

“No way you’s here right now—”

And just like that, JAbber moved.

Fast.

Too fast.

In one sharp motion, Jabber dropped low and launched forward, hands and feet hitting the ground with a feral kind of precision before he lunged straight at Zanka. Claws flashed, aimed clean for his center—

Zanka reacted on instinct alone.

He shifted, deflecting just enough—

—and Jabber’s claws slammed into the beam on either side of him instead.

Wood splintered.

The impact echoed.

And suddenly, there was no space left between them.

Jabber paused there, close—very close—his arms braced on either side of Zanka’s head, claws embedded deep into the beam behind him.

For a second, neither of them spoke.

Jabber’s grin lingered, but something else flickered beneath it now—something sharper, quieter.

“…Man,” he murmured, tilting his head slightly as he looked down at him, voice dropping just a touch. “You’s got some real good timing, Zanka.”

Zanka didn’t move.

Didn’t even flinch.

But his eyes narrowed just slightly, gaze flicking briefly to the claws buried beside him before returning to Jabber’s face.

“…Ya done trying to impale me,” he said flatly, “or is this yer way of saying hi now?”

Jabber huffed a soft laugh.

“I dunno,” he said. “Don’t think much has changed. ‘Less you’s gonna complain the whole time?”

Zanka scoffed—but he didn’t push him away.

And that?

That didn’t go unnoticed.

Especially not by Jabber, whose heart gave a subtle, traitorous hitch at the realization. Not pushed away. Not even moved to the side. Zanka just stood there, pinned between him and splintered wood like this was normal—like they were normal.

Dangerous.

Jabber liked it.

“So, are ya gonna explain what yer doin’ down here?” Zanka said, his accent thickening in that way Jabber remembered all too well. It hit just right—familiar, grounding, irritatingly endearing. For a fleeting second, Jabber found himself wondering what it’d sound like if it was the only voice he heard for the rest of his life.

…Yeah. Dangerous.

“‘Could be askin’ you the same thing, mister,” Jabber mused, dragging it out as he finally started pulling Mankira free from the beam. The claws came loose with a sharp crack of splintering wood, one side, then the other, like he was in no rush whatsoever. “Was just here ’cause the boss man told me to check the place out. Some kinda inspection. Apparently there’s somethin’ worth pokin’ around for.”

He shrugged loosely, like the whole thing bored him.

Which, okay, maybe he was being a little too casual about sharing that with someone who would absolutely use it against him under normal circumstances. But right now? Right now, he had Zanka cornered, close enough to feel the heat coming off him, close enough to watch every flicker of expression in real time.

Worth it.

Even then, he didn’t really know why he was here. He wasn’t exactly listening in meetings. He had something– someone– else on his mind.

And either way, he got what he wanted.

Zanka being all pleased with new information, and Zodyl giving him a heart-pumping beating.

“Hm. That checks out,” Zanka muttered, crossing his arms as he watched Jabber take his time. “I’m only ’ere ’cause we got a tip ya raiders were gonna show up too.”

Jabber’s grin sharpened slightly at that.

“Aw,” he said, finally stepping back just enough to give Zanka space—barely. “So you came lookin’ for me? Lil ol’ me?”

Zanka rolled his eyes immediately.

“Don’t flatter yerself.”

“Too late.”

The beam creaked faintly behind them, a soft, ominous groan that didn’t quite belong to either of them. Dust shifted from somewhere above, trickling down in a thin, lazy stream.
Jabber glanced up, Mankira finally freed.

Then back at Zanka.

“…Y’know,” he added casually, though his tone dipped just a fraction, “place ain’t exactly stable.”

Zanka replied dryly. “Ya jus’ realizing that now?”

“Hey, I was busy.”

“Throwin’ a tantrum on the floor?”

Jabber paused.

Then snorted.

“…You saw that?”

“Hard not to.”

“Wow,” Jabber muttered, dragging a hand through his hair. “Real glad my dignity survived that.”

“It didn’t.”

“Yeah, figured.”

Another creak echoed through the space—louder this time.

Both of them went still.

Not tense, not panicked—just… aware.

Jabber tilted his head slightly, listening.

“…So,” he said after a beat, glancing back at Zanka with a crooked grin that didn’t quite hide the edge underneath, “we can either keep standin’ here arguin’—”

The ground shifted faintly under their feet.

“—or,” he continued, unfazed, “we figure out how to get outta here before the whole place decides to finish collapsing.”

Zanka’s gaze flicked upward briefly, assessing, calculating.

Then back to him.

“…And ya expect me to work with ya?”

Jabber’s grin softened—just a touch.

“C’mon,” he said, echoing something from earlier, voice quieter now. “We’s both stuck here, ain’t we?”

A pause.

Dust drifted between them, catching in the low light.

“…Temporary truce?” Jabber offered, lifting one hand slightly.

Zanka stared at it.

Then at him.

Another creak sounded—closer.

Zanka clicked his tongue under his breath.

“…Fine,” he muttered. “But if ya slow me down, I’m leavin’ ya behind.”

Jabber’s grin came back full force.

“Wouldn’t expect anythin’ less from you, Mr. Bad-Attitude.”

And just like that—

They moved.

Not very far, of course.

Zanka explained that he’d come from the passage Jabber hadn’t bothered exploring, and that there was no exit from where he’d come from. Just a dead end, choked with debris and collapsed stone. No way through unless they felt like digging their own graves.

Which, admittedly, felt a little too on brand for both of them.

That only left two options.

The room Jabber had already been wasting time in—

And the one behind the closed door.

Jabber glanced at it, then back at Zanka, lips twitching faintly. “After you.”

Zanka scoffed, already moving. “Ya wish.”

The door resisted at first, swollen from damp and age, but with a bit of force—and a well-placed shove from both of them—it gave way with a groan that echoed a little too loudly through the basement. Dust stirred in the air as they stepped inside, both instinctively scanning the space.

It was… underwhelming.

Smaller than expected. Bare. A few rusted shelves lined the walls, half-collapsed under the weight of nothing in particular. Old crates sat scattered around, most already broken open, their contents either rotted away or long gone. The air was stale, thick with the scent of mildew and time.

Jabber clicked his tongue, nudging one of the crates with his foot. “Wow. Real jackpot.”

Zanka ignored him, checking corners, running a quick, practiced sweep of the room like there might be something hidden if he looked hard enough.

There wasn’t.

After a few minutes, it became obvious.

No exits. No hidden passages. No miracle solution waiting for them if they just tried a little harder.

Just walls.

And time.

Zanka let out a quiet breath, rolling his shoulders back as he stepped away from the far wall. “…That’s it.”

“Yeah,” Jabber muttered, dragging a hand through his hair. “Figured.”

A faint rumble echoed somewhere above them, followed by the distant shift of debris.

Neither of them commented on it.

They didn’t need to.

Zanka glanced back toward the doorway, then at Jabber, his expression settling into something more resigned than frustrated. “…Reinforcements’ll come eventually.”

Jabber shrugged, leaning back against one of the less-questionable walls. “Long as your people don’t take their sweet time.”

“They won’t.”

“…Good,” Jabber said, though his tone was lighter than the situation deserved.

A pause settled between them.

Then, with a quiet exhale, Zanka slid down the wall to sit, stretching his legs out in front of him.

Jabber watched him for a second—

Then mirrored the motion on the opposite side.

And just like that—

They were stuck.

Together.

With nothing to do but wait.

“Seems you’s stuck with me for a good long while then, pretty,” Jabber mumbled, the flirt slipping out as easily as breathing. It wasn’t even subtle—there was a clear edge to it, something intentional in the way he let the word linger.

Zanka, unfortunately, seemed to understand exactly what he meant.

A faint flush crept across his cheeks, barely there but noticeable enough that Jabber caught it immediately. “Looks like it,” Zanka muttered, eyes dropping for half a second before he forced them back up. “And don’t call me that.”

Jabber’s grin tugged wider.

“Why not? Fits you.”

“It doesn’t.”

“Mm. Debatable.”

Zanka huffed quietly, shifting where he sat, like he couldn’t quite get comfortable anymore. Or maybe like he was suddenly too aware of the space between them—and how little of it there actually was.

“Call me that again and I’m leavin’ ya here,” he added, though the threat didn’t carry much weight considering their situation.

Jabber snorted.

“Yeah? With all these exits?” he gestured lazily around the room. “Good luck with that.”

Zanka shot him a look, but it lacked its usual bite.

Silence settled again—but it wasn’t the same as before. Not heavy, not tense in that suffocating way. Just… close. The kind of quiet that stretched between two people who didn’t quite know what to do with each other when there was nothing else demanding their attention.

Jabber let his head tip back against the wall, eyes drifting shut for a moment.

“…Y’know,” he said after a beat, voice quieter now, “kinda funny.”

Zanka glanced at him. “What is.”

Jabber cracked one eye open, looking over at him.

“Outta all the places we coulda ended up stuck together,” he said, a lazy sort of amusement threading through his tone, “it’s this dump.”

Zanka hummed faintly.

“Could be worse.”

“Yeah?”

“We could be stuck somewhere smaller.”

Jabber’s grin returned immediately.

“Oh? You complainin’ about the space now?”

Zanka didn’t miss a beat. “I’m complainin’ about who I’m stuck with.”

“Ouch.”

Jabber huffed out a quiet laugh, shaking his head slightly before his gaze settled on Zanka again—longer this time. Not as sharp as before. Not as teasing.

Just… looking.

Zanka felt it.

Of course he did.

“…What,” he muttered, already defensive.

“Nothin’,” Jabber said easily.

“Then stop starin’.”

“Can’t.”

Zanka frowned. “Why not.”

Jabber tilted his head slightly, like he was considering how honest he felt like being.

Then, with a small shrug—

“Got nothin’ better to look at.”

Zanka scoffed, rolling his eyes—but the faint color on his face didn’t fade.

“Yer insufferable.”

“Yeah,” Jabber murmured, softer this time. “You keep sayin’ that.”

Another pause.

Longer.

The distant creak of the building shifted above them again, but neither of them moved this time.

They just sat there.

Closer than before.

And neither of them bothered to fix it.

“How ’bout we get to some fighting then? Get some ‘training’ in, you feel me?” Jabber proposed, letting Mankira appear once more, her blades clicking lightly against the cool concrete beneath them.

Zanka shot him a look immediately. “Getting injured is the last thing we need down here, Jabber.”

God.

The way Zanka said his name—sharp, annoyed, like it tasted bad—did something stupid to him. Made something low in his chest twist in a way he absolutely refused to unpack… Nah, who was he kidding. He owned the masochism like it was his own skin.

Jabber stretched the moment out, dragging his lower lip between his teeth in an exaggerated pout.

“…You’re no fun,” he muttered.

Silence settled again, thick but not entirely uncomfortable. Jabber let Mankira fade away with a soft flick of his wrist, resting his head back against the wall as he stared up at the cracked ceiling.

A beat passed.

Then another.

Then—

“…Aight,” Jabber said suddenly, voice lighter, like he’d just come up with something better. “If we can’t fight…”

Zanka didn’t look at him. “We ain’t.”

“…Then we improvise.”

That got his attention—barely.

Zanka’s eyes slid over. “…What does that mean.”

Jabber didn’t answer right away. Instead, he reached into his pocket, rummaging for a second before pulling something out—small, loosely wrapped, already half-prepared.

He held it up between his fingers.

Zanka stared.

“…Is that a joint.”

Jabber grinned.

“Depends,” he said. “You a cop?”

Zanka blinked once, unimpressed. “…That’s yer second option? We’re stuck in an abandoned building, might I remind ya.”

“Exactly,” Jabber shot back. “Prime relaxin’ conditions.”

Zanka snorted under his breath, shaking his head. “Yer just unbelievable.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Jabber waved him off, already leaning forward slightly, tapping the end of it against his palm. “C’mon. Ain’t like we got much else to do while we wait.”

Zanka hesitated.

And that hesitation was all Jabber needed.

“Ain’t even that strong,” he added casually, though the glint in his eye said otherwise. “Might help you loosen up a bit.”

“I don’t need to loosen up.”

“Coulda fooled me.”

Zanka shot him a glare—but it didn’t land as hard as it usually did.

Jabber leaned a little closer, lowering his voice just a fraction.

“C’mon,” he murmured. “You’s stuck here anyway. Might as well make it tolerable.”

Zanka’s gaze flicked from the joint… to Jabber… then back again.

A quiet exhale.

“…If I say yes,” he said slowly, “yer gonna be annoying about it.”

Jabber’s grin widened. “Oh, absolutely.”

“…And if I say no?”

“I’m gonna be annoying anyway.”

Zanka paused.

Then huffed.

“…Yer annoying.”

“Yeah.”

Another beat.

Then—

“…Fine.”

Jabber blinked.

“…Yeah?”

“Don’t make me regret it.”

Jabber’s grin turned downright delighted.

“No promises.”

He leaned in closer, close enough now that the space between them felt almost nonexistent again, one hand cupping around the end as he sparked it to life. The faint glow lit up between them, briefly illuminating the sharp lines of his face before dimming again.

He took the first drag, slow and easy, before glancing at Zanka through the thin curl of smoke.

Then, without breaking eye contact—

He held it out to him.

“Try not to die,” he said lightly.

Zanka rolled his eyes—but he took it anyway.

Jabber watched with an almost unsettling level of focus as Zanka held the joint, pinched awkwardly between his thumb and index like it might bite him. Not exactly graceful. Not exactly practiced.

But—yeah.

Definitely the cutest thing he’d seen all day.

“Relax your hand,” Jabber muttered, leaning in just enough to nudge his wrist slightly. “You holdin’ it like it owes you money.”

Zanka shot him a look. “Shut up.”

“Just sayin’. You’s makin’ it nervous, man.”

Zanka scoffed under his breath but adjusted his grip anyway, albeit stiffly. Jabber snorted quietly, then gave him a quick, half-assed rundown—how to inhale, don’t overdo it, don’t try to prove anything stupid.

And, against his better judgment—

“Take like, one or two hits,” he added. “Don’t go gettin’ ambitious.”

Zanka raised a brow. “Ya worried ‘bout me?”

“Ain’t anything like that,” Jabber shot back immediately. “Just don’t wanna deal with you passin’ out on me.”

Zanka hummed faintly, unconvinced—but he followed the instructions anyway.

The first inhale was… rough.

Jabber saw it coming a second before it happened.

The slight hesitation. The too-deep breath.

And then—

Zanka choked.

Hard.

It hit all at once, coughing ripping through him as he doubled forward slightly, one hand coming up to his chest like that might somehow help. The joint wobbled dangerously in his other hand before Jabber quickly leaned in and plucked it from his fingers with a laugh.

“—Oh, that’s rough,” Jabber grinned, not even trying to hide how entertained he was. “You good, pretty?”

Zanka tried to respond.

He really did.

But it came out as another fit of coughing instead, sharp and relentless.

Jabber lost it.

A loud, unrestrained cackle echoed through the small room, bouncing off the walls as he leaned back, clearly enjoying himself far too much.

“Man—!” he wheezed between laughs. “You sound like you’re dyin’!”

Zanka swatted at him blindly, still coughing, the hit lacking any real aim—but Jabber dodged most of them easily, shifting just out of reach each time.

“Shut—” Zanka tried, voice wrecked, only to immediately break into another cough.

“Yeah, yeah, take your time,” Jabber waved him off, still grinning as he took another drag himself, far more composed. “Real smooth, by the way. Very impressive.”

Zanka finally managed to suck in a proper breath, glaring at him through slightly watery eyes.

“…You did that on purpose.”

Jabber blinked innocently. “Did what?”

“That—” Zanka gestured vaguely, still catching his breath. “Ya knew that’d happen.”

Jabber tilted his head, pretending to think about it.

“…Maybe.”

Zanka scowled.

“Yer an ass.”

“Yeah,” Jabber said easily, exhaling a thin stream of smoke to the side. “But you still listened to me.”

Zanka opened his mouth to argue—

Then stopped.

Then narrowed his eyes.

“…Don’t get used to it.”

Jabber’s grin softened just slightly, something quieter slipping in beneath it.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

He leaned back again, passing the joint back over without looking this time—closer now, easier, like the space between them had shrunk without either of them noticing.

Zanka hesitated only a second before taking it again.

This time, a little more careful.

Jabber watched anyway, like he couldn’t tear his eyes away, even if he wasn’t rewarded with a coughing fit this time. Unfortunately.

“When’s it supposed ta hit?” Zanka asked, passing the joint back to Jabber who promptly took many more hits. It wasn’t like he was immune to weed at this point, but he certainly had quite the tolerance. If he could at least finish the rest of the joint, he’d be as buzzed as Zanka. Hopefully.

“Few minutes.” Jabber said plainly, pressing the rest of the joint into the concrete a few reaches away after having his fill. “Just don’t go gettin’ all freaked out. You’s fine, no matter what.”

And Zanka would be fine, Jabber supposed. He probably wasn’t the best trip sitter, but at least he knew his stuff in case things went wrong.

But from the look on Zanka’s face, seems Jabber was about to find out now if this was going to be fun or not.

Well, seeing Zanka on a bad trip would be fun, too, but probably not for Zanka himself.

The basement stayed quiet.

Not the comfortable kind, either — the heavy, stale kind that clung to the damp concrete walls and the low ceiling. Somewhere deeper in the building, pipes ticked faintly as they cooled, the sound echoing hollow through the empty space. Dust hung in the air, barely visible in the weak beam of a single flashlight lying on its side a few feet away.

Zanka hadn’t moved much. Elbows on his knees, hands loosely clasped, gaze fixed somewhere on the floor. He didn’t look tense, exactly — just still.
Jabber kept sneaking glances at him, waiting.

Nothing.

No coughing. No paranoia. No ‘oh god I’m dying.’ Just Zanka sitting there like he always did, except maybe a little less rigid around the shoulders. Hard to tell.

A minute passed. Then another.

Jabber nudged a loose pebble with his shoe, the scrape loud in the quiet. “You feelin’ anythin’ yet?”

Zanka took a second before answering. “…Not really.”

“Man.” Jabber leaned back against the wall. “You might be broken.”

Silence again.

Zanka shifted slightly, rolling one shoulder, then the other, like he was testing how his body felt. His head tipped back against the concrete behind him. The motion was slow, unhurried.

A few more minutes slipped by.

The faint smell of smoke still lingered, mixing with damp and old wood. Somewhere above them, something creaked — probably the building settling — but neither of them reacted.

Jabber tilted his head, studying him. “You look different.”

Zanka didn’t open his eyes. “How.”

“Less… stuck-up.”

That earned the faintest twitch at the corner of Zanka’s mouth, gone almost immediately.

“Oh, I saw that,” Jabber said quickly, grin spreading across his face.

“You didn’t.”

“You almost smiled.”

Zanka exhaled slowly through his nose, not bothering to argue further. His foot shifted, heel dragging idly against the gritty floor in a lazy, absent rhythm. The movement didn’t stop.

Jabber watched it. Watched how relaxed his hands looked now, fingers loose instead of curled tight.

“You sure you ain’t feelin’ it?”

“…Maybe.”

“Yeah?”

“Everything’s… slower.” Zanka paused, like he was checking that statement before committing to it. “Not in a bad way.”

“Huh.”

Another long stretch of quiet.

Jabber’s gaze wandered, then landed on an old metal shelf across the room. One leg was bent, making the whole thing tilt slightly. Every now and then, it gave a faint, uneven tick as it settled.

He smirked. “That shelf lookin’ like it’s ‘boutta give up on life.”

Zanka followed his gaze, eyes lingering on it. The shelf wobbled faintly again, letting out another soft metallic click.

“…It’s trying,” Zanka murmured.

“Tryin’ to fall over, yeah.”

They watched it for a moment longer. The shelf didn’t collapse — just leaned, stubbornly holding itself together despite clearly being past its prime.

Jabber nudged his shoe lightly against Zanka’s. “That’s you.”

Zanka glanced sideways. “…What.”

“All held together, barely functional, one wrong move and you topple.”

There was a beat.

Zanka’s shoulders dipped slightly, and a quiet sound slipped out — a short, low laugh he didn’t seem to plan.

Jabber froze.

“…You just laughed.”

Zanka rubbed a hand over his mouth, like he could take it back. “That wasn’t—”

“That was absolutely a laugh.”

“It was a breath.”

“Yeah? Since when breaths got humor?”

Zanka shook his head, but the faint softness in his expression hadn’t fully disappeared. His gaze drifted back to the crooked shelf.

“I was laughing at how stupid ya sounded, nothing else.” Zanka defended, the playful lilt to his voice sticking as he spoke. Like he was, undeniably, about to laugh.

Another pause.

The shelf gave another tiny metallic tick.

Zanka huffed again — then actually laughed, a little clearer this time. Still quiet, still brief, but unmistakable. His head dipped forward slightly before he caught himself.

Jabber stared at him like he’d just witnessed a miracle.

“No way,” he muttered. “Weed made you funny.”

“… No, weed made you finally funny,” Zanka replied, but his voice was softer now.

“Mm. Sure. Worth it.”

Zanka didn’t argue. He leaned back against the wall again, posture loose, eyes half-lidded as he kept watching the crooked shelf like it was the most interesting thing in the room — and, for once, the faint trace of amusement lingered.

“Zanka.” Jabber called out.

He didn’t know why. Maybe he was already high, too, if the aloofness of his whole body was any indicator. He also didn’t know where the urge came from. Maybe seeing Zanka laugh so freely, so honestly, had been a breaking point. It was certainly something he never thought he’d get to see.

“Hm?”

Jabber turned to him, body staying put, but neck fully craned towards Zanka.

Zanka mirrored him when he noticed, both of their eyes now locked onto each other’s.

Either they were too dazed to look away, or simply yearned to look into each other’s eyes.

Their irises were so wildly different– but don’t we all crave what we don’t have in ourselves? Isn’t it natural for them to be mesmerized by icy blues or magenta hues?

“Know what feels real good when you’s high?” Jabber mumbled, the flicker of his gaze to Zanka’s lips ratting out his intentions.

Zanka caught it. His eyes dipped for just a second—quick, almost shy—before shifting off to the side like he hadn’t. As if he hadn’t noticed at all.

“What is it?” he asked anyway, voice quieter now.

Jabber didn’t answer right away.

Didn’t make a joke.

Didn’t deflect.

For once, he just… looked at him.

Really looked.

At the way Zanka’s lashes sat heavier than usual, at the slight flush still clinging to his cheeks, at the way his lips parted just enough like he was already expecting something—even if he wouldn’t admit it.

Jabber leaned in.

Slowly.

Not their usual pace.

No sharp movements, no teasing feints, no sudden grabs meant to provoke a reaction. Just a careful shift forward, like he was giving Zanka every chance to pull away.

Zanka didn’t.

He stayed right where he was, back against the wall, breath catching just slightly as Jabber closed the distance between them.

Close enough to feel it.

That heat.

That tension.

Close enough that the air between them felt too thin.

Jabber hesitated—just for a fraction of a second.

Which, for him, was saying something.

Then he closed the gap.

The kiss wasn’t rough.

Not this time.

It was slower than anything they’d shared before—almost cautious, like he wasn’t entirely sure what he was doing. Or maybe like he was entirely aware. The thought scared him more. His hand came up, not gripping, not forcing, just brushing lightly against Zanka’s jaw like he needed something to ground himself.

Zanka froze at first.

Just for a heartbeat.

Then he melted into it.

Subtle, but there.

His shoulders eased, his hand shifting slightly against the floor as he leaned in just a fraction more, like he was meeting him halfway without even realizing it.

The world outside the moment seemed to disappear.

No creaking beams.
No dust.
No waiting.

Just—

This.

Jabber pulled back first, but not far. Just enough to look at him, their faces still close, breaths uneven in a way that had nothing to do with the smoke.

For once, he didn’t have anything clever to say.

Didn’t have a joke ready.

His gaze flicked between Zanka’s eyes, searching for something—approval, maybe. Or confirmation that he hadn’t just imagined all of that.

Zanka looked just as thrown.

Just as quiet.

His lips parted slightly, like he was about to say something—

Then stopped.

“…That,” Jabber muttered finally, voice lower than before, a faint, almost disbelieving edge to it. “That’s what feels good.”

Zanka blinked once.

Then huffed softly, though there was no real bite to it.

“…Idiot,” he murmured.

But he didn’t move away.

And neither did Jabber.

“...Do it again.”

Jabber certainly didn’t need to be asked twice.

The moment the words left his lips, Jabber moved—quick, instinctive—shifting closer, slotting himself right in front of him like distance had suddenly become intolerable. Like even that small space between them had been too much.

He kissed him again.

Not rushed—not exactly.

But intent.

Like he didn’t want to risk losing it this time. Like if he stopped, even for a second, the moment would slip through his fingers and disappear into something they’d both pretend never happened.

His hand came up again, steadier now, fingers pressing a little more firmly along Zanka’s jaw, thumb brushing just beneath his cheekbone. He leaned in closer, angling himself so there was no space left between them, no reason to pull away.

Zanka responded immediately this time.

No hesitation.
No pause.

He met him fully, leaning forward into it, one hand bracing lightly against Jabber’s side as if to keep him there—like he had any intention of leaving in the first place.

For a few seconds, it felt… easy.

Too easy.

And that was the problem.

Because somewhere in the back of Jabber’s mind, something shifted.

That same thought.

Is this the last time?

It hit harder now.

Sharper.

Because this didn’t feel like their usual game. There was no edge of mockery, no push-and-pull, no distraction to hide behind. Just this quiet, steady closeness that he didn’t know what to do with.

Didn’t know how to keep.

His grip faltered—just slightly.

The kiss slowed.

Not because he wanted it to.

But because something in his chest tightened, that familiar instinct clawing its way up—telling him to pull back, to break it before it became something he couldn’t control.

Something that could leave.

Something that could end.

Jabber forced himself to stay.

Forced his hand to remain where it was, even if the pressure softened, even if his breath hitched just a little against Zanka’s.

He didn’t pull away.

Didn’t run.

Not this time.

It felt… odd.

Unfamiliar.

But he stayed anyway, because no matter how strange it might’ve felt, not once did it ever feel wrong.

And when he finally did ease back, it wasn’t far—just enough to look at him again, his forehead hovering close to Zanka’s, their breaths still uneven, still shared.

There was something quieter in his expression now.

Less sharp.

Less guarded.

“…You’s gonna make this a problem for me, aint’cha?,” he muttered, voice low, almost more to himself than anything else.

Zanka frowned faintly, still close enough that their noses nearly brushed. “What’s that s’posed to mean?”

Jabber let out a slow breath, eyes flicking away for just a second before returning to him.

“It means…” he paused, jaw tightening briefly, like the words didn’t sit right in his mouth. “I don’t usually stick around for this part.”

The admission hung there.

Bare.
Uncomfortable.
But real.

His gaze dropped—briefly—to Zanka’s lips again.

“…But I ain’t movin’,” he added, quieter, almost stubborn now. “So don’t go thinkin’ this is a one-time thing just ’cause I said that.”

It wasn’t quite reassurance.

Wasn’t quite a promise either.

But it was the closest Jabber had ever gotten.

And, for once—

He didn’t take it back.

“Zanka,” Jabber muttered breathlessly, his gaze dragging from Zanka’s lips to his neck, then lower, like he couldn’t settle—like he didn’t know where to focus without wanting all of it at once.

“Jabber,” Zanka murmured back—and that edge, that usual bite in his tone, had softened into something almost unrecognizable. It wasn’t sharp anymore. It wasn’t a challenge.
It sounded like a plea.

“My… my offer still stands, ya know.”

Jabber leaned in, lips brushing along Zanka’s jaw, slower than usual, more deliberate. For a second, he didn’t process the words—too caught up in the warmth under his mouth, the way Zanka’s breath shifted, the way his hands didn’t push him away.

An offer?

“Whaddya mean, pretty?” he asked quietly, voice low as he shifted closer, guiding Zanka back against the wall. He moved almost on instinct, lifting Zanka’s legs slightly over his own just to settle in, to keep him there, to stay close.

But he caught it then.

That hesitation.

That flicker across Zanka’s face before he spoke again.

“…’Bout that gentle stuff.”

Jabber stilled.

It wasn’t dramatic—just a subtle pause, a tightening that passed through him before he could stop it. But Zanka felt it. Saw it.

And he pulled back.

Just enough to put space between them again.

That was all it took.

Jabber exhaled slowly, his forehead dropping forward for a second like he was trying to collect himself, like something in his chest had been knocked loose and he didn’t quite know where it landed.

Gentle.

That word again.

Too close to something real. Too close to something that didn’t fit the version of himself he’d gotten comfortable being.

His hands flexed slightly where they rested, like he wasn’t sure whether to pull away completely or close the distance again.

“…You really ain’t making this easy, you know,” he muttered, but there wasn’t any bite to it.

Zanka frowned faintly, searching his face. “Didn’t say ya had to—”

“I know,” Jabber cut in, quieter this time.

That was the problem.

Zanka wasn’t forcing him.

Wasn’t pushing.

Just… offering.

And for some reason, that made it worse.

Jabber lifted his head again, eyes finding Zanka’s—less sharp now, less guarded than usual. There was something uneasy there, sure, but underneath it… something steadier.

Something that didn’t immediately run.

“…Ion do that,” he admitted, voice low, like saying it too loud might make it more real. “Not really.”

Zanka didn’t move this time.

Didn’t pull away further.

“Didn’t say ya had to be good at it,” he said after a moment, softer now. “Just… try.”

That landed.

Jabber huffed out a quiet breath, something almost like a laugh slipping through—but it was thinner, uncertain. Of course Zanka asked now : it was perfect. Neither of them could just up and run.

“…You’s got some real bad timing, y’know that?”

“Yeah,” Zanka muttered. “Ain’t worse than yers.”

A pause.

Then—

Jabber shifted again.

Not away.

Closer.

Slower this time. Careful.

Like he was testing something unfamiliar, something he wasn’t entirely sure he could hold onto without breaking.

His hand came up again, but instead of gripping, it settled lightly against Zanka’s side—steady, grounding. His thumb brushed once, absent-minded, like he didn’t even realize he was doing it.

“…Aight,” he murmured, more to himself than anything. “I’ll try.”

Zanka’s breath caught—just slightly.

Jabber leaned in again, pressing a softer kiss to his mouth this time. No rush, no urgency pushing it forward. Just something quieter, something that lingered longer than it needed to.

It felt different.

Unsteady.

A little terrifying.

But he didn’t pull away.

Didn’t rush it.

Didn’t turn it into something easier just to avoid what it meant.

And maybe that was the most dangerous part of all.

Because this time—

Jabber stayed.

But the words on his lips, itching and scratching to come out, were getting harder to contain.

Because it was one thing to pretend this was just some passing indulgence. Some fantasy Zanka wanted to try. Something soft, something different, something they could brush off after and never talk about again.

That would’ve been easy.

Safe.

But their usual sex—rough, biting, relentless—was already good. More than good. It worked. It didn’t ask questions. It didn’t leave space for anything uncomfortable to settle in.

So there was no real reason to change their steady rhythm.

Which meant—

Zanka wanted this change for a reason.

And whatever that reason was, it sat heavy in Jabber’s chest, pressing against something he’d spent a long time keeping buried.

“Why..?”

The crack, the roughness, the rawness. It all poured into the question. Like the purest, youngest form of himself was asking. Like it came from a voice Jabber had long since buried.

Jabber felt it the moment it left his mouth—felt the shift, the exposure of it—and his hand tightened slightly at Zanka’s waist, instinctively bracing.

But he didn’t pull away.

Didn’t take it back.

He just waited.

The silence stretched, thick and loud, filled with the faint echo of breath and heartbeat in the small, enclosed space. Zanka’s chest rose and fell unevenly, his face flushed deeper now, his lip catching briefly between his teeth like he wasn’t sure how to say it.

Jabber noticed everything.

The hesitation.

The nerves.

The fact that Zanka didn’t look away this time.

When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter.

“…Because…”

He swallowed.

“’Cause I want it to mean something.”

Jabber didn’t move.

Didn’t interrupt.

Zanka’s gaze flickered, but he forced it back, holding it there like it mattered.

Like Jabber wasn’t the only one having a hard time being this exposed.

“Want us to be somethin’.”

That hit harder than anything else had.

Jabber’s breath stalled for a second, something tight pulling low in his chest, unfamiliar and sharp in a way he didn’t have a name for. His first instinct—the old one—was to deflect. Laugh it off. Turn it into a joke, something easy, something that wouldn’t stick.

But it didn’t come.

For once, nothing did.

Instead, his grip loosened.

Just slightly.

Not letting go—just… changing.

His hand shifted from something possessive into something steadier, thumb brushing once,
almost absent-minded, against Zanka’s side. Like he needed to feel that he was still there. Still real.

His gaze dropped for a second, not in avoidance—but in thought.

Then, slowly—

He leaned in again.

Not urgent.
Not overwhelming.

Just close.

His forehead rested lightly against Zanka’s, breath uneven as he lingered there for a moment longer than necessary, like he was trying to decide something without putting it into words.

And then he kissed him again.

Softer this time.

Careful.

Not because he didn’t know how to be anything else—but because he was choosing it.

Choosing to stay in that space Zanka had opened, even if it felt unfamiliar, even if it made something in him twist with the weight of it.

His hand slid slightly higher along Zanka’s side, not gripping—just holding, grounding, like he was anchoring himself there.

He didn’t say anything.

Didn’t promise anything.

But he didn’t pull away either.

And for Jabber—

That was as close as he’d ever gotten.

He felt something, in that moment, swell up in his chest. He couldn’t quite name the feeling, couldn’t recall ever feeling it before. He couldn’t tell if he loved or hated it, either.

All he knew was that he needed Zanka. Immediately. Desperately.

Wanted to touch him, hold him, fuck him. Have all that Zanka was under his fingertips. Have Zanka be his. Consummate whatever the underlying tenderness between them was.

Jabber's hand trembled slightly as it moved from Zanka's side to his chest, fingers spreading over the fabric of his shirt. He could feel Zanka's heartbeat beneath his palm—fast, unsteady, matching his own.

"Can I—" The words caught in his throat, unfamiliar. He never asked. Never waited for permission.

But this was different.

Zanka's eyes met his, dark and hazy from the weed but clear enough to understand. He nodded, just barely, and that small gesture hit Jabber harder than any punch ever had.

He kissed Zanka again as his fingers found the hem of his shirt, pulling it up slowly, giving him every chance to stop this. But Zanka lifted his arms, helping, and Jabber had to pause just to breathe through the weight of it—the trust, the surrender, the wanting.

The shirt came off, and Jabber's hands were on bare skin, warm and real beneath his touch. He traced the lines of Zanka's ribs, his collarbone, mapping him like he was something precious instead of something to consume.

Gentle, he reminded himself, even as every instinct screamed to grab, to claim, to take.

"Yer shakin'," Zanka murmured, and there was no mockery in it—just observation, maybe even concern.

"Ain't important," Jabber breathed, but there was no bite to it. His hands were shaking. He was shaking, because this mattered in a way nothing else ever had, and he didn't know how to do this without breaking it.

Zanka's hand came up to cup his jaw, thumb brushing over his cheek. "Hey. It's just us. Just me."

Just you, Jabber thought wildly. That's the whole fuckin' problem.

But he leaned into the touch anyway, turning his head to press a kiss to Zanka's palm before pulling back enough to strip off his own shirt. The cool basement air hit his skin, raising goosebumps, but Zanka's gaze was warm enough to burn.

They came together again, skin to skin this time, and Jabber had to bite back a sound at the contact. Zanka was solid and warm against him, and when their mouths met again it was deeper, hungrier, but still careful—still soft in a way that made Jabber's chest ache.

His hands roamed lower, fingers hooking into Zanka's waistband, and he paused again, waiting. Zanka's breath hitched, but he nodded, and Jabber worked the fastenings open with more patience than he knew he possessed.

He eased Zanka's pants down, taking his underwear with them, and had to stop just to look—at the lean lines of him, the way his cock was already hard and flushed, the way he was laid out like an offering Jabber didn't deserve.

"Ya gonna stare all night, or—" Zanka started, but his voice cracked when Jabber wrapped a hand around him, slow and deliberate.

"Might," Jabber said, watching Zanka's face as he stroked him carefully, learning what made his breath catch, what made his hips shift. "Might just look at ya forever."

Zanka's laugh was breathless, cut off by a moan when Jabber's thumb swept over the head of his cock, gathering the wetness there. "Yer—fuck—yer different.. like this."

"Yeah?" Jabber's voice was rough, his own arousal straining against his pants, but he ignored it. This wasn't about him. Not yet. "Good different or bad different?"

"Good," Zanka gasped, and that single word gave Jabber permission to keep going.

He worked Zanka's pants the rest of the way off, tossing them aside, then settled between his legs. The concrete floor was cold and unforgiving beneath his knees, biting through the denim still bunched around his thighs, but he didn't care. All he cared about was the way Zanka was looking at him : vulnerable and wanting and trusting.

Jabber ran his hands up Zanka's thighs, feeling the muscle beneath warm skin, the fine tremor that ran through him. He could smell the faint musk of sweat and arousal, could feel the heat radiating off Zanka's body in the cool basement air. His own cock throbbed insistently against his zipper, but he pushed the sensation aside.

Not yet. Make it good for him first.

"Tell me if I—" Jabber started, but Zanka cut him off.

"Just touch me, Jabber."

And Jabber did.

He leaned down and took Zanka into his mouth, slow and careful, savoring the weight of him on his tongue, the salt-bitter taste, the way Zanka's whole body went taut. The metal of his tongue piercing was cool against heated flesh, and he heard Zanka's sharp intake of breath at the sensation. He kept his hands gentle on Zanka's hips, holding him steady but not pinning him down, even though every instinct screamed to grip harder, to bruise, to claim.

Gentle, he reminded himself, and focused on making it good—on the slide of his mouth, the pressure of his tongue and the deliberate roll of the piercing against the underside of Zanka's cock, the rhythm that had Zanka gasping above him.

"Jabber—" Zanka's hand found his hair, not pulling, just holding, fingers threading through the locs. "Fuck, that's—the piercing, it's—"

Jabber hummed around him in response, and Zanka's hips jerked involuntarily, pushing deeper. Jabber relaxed his throat, taking him further, and the broken sound Zanka made went straight to his own neglected cock.

He worked him like that for long minutes, learning the taste and feel of him, cataloging every gasp and moan. Zanka's thighs trembled on either side of his head, and Jabber could feel him getting close by the tension coiling tighter in his body, by the way his breathing went ragged and desperate.

But then Zanka tugged at his hair, pulling him off with a wet sound. "Wait—wait, I want—"

Jabber pulled back, lips slick and swollen, breathing hard. A string of saliva connected his mouth to Zanka's cock for a moment before breaking. "What? What d'ya want?"

Zanka's face was flushed, his pupils blown wide, eyes dark and desperate. Still, it took him a few shy glances to the side and the fumble of his initial words. "You. Inside me. I want—" He swallowed hard, Adam's apple bobbing. "I want all of it."

And fuck, if that didn't nearly undo Jabber right there.

He kissed Zanka again, messy and urgent, letting Zanka get a taste of himself on his tongue. Jabber's hands were everywhere—cupping Zanka's face, sliding down his sides, gripping his hips—like he couldn't decide where to touch, like he wanted to touch everywhere at once.

Finally, he pulled back just enough to fumble with his own pants, shoving them down his thighs with shaking hands. His cock sprang free, achingly hard and already leaking, and the relief of finally being touched—even just by the cool basement air—made him shudder.

"Got anything—?" Zanka asked, practical even now, even with his voice wrecked and wanting.

Jabber dug into his discarded pants pocket, producing a small packet of lube he'd carried out of habit more than expectation. His hands shook as he tore it open, slicking his fingers. The sharp chemical smell cut through the musk of sex and sweat.

"Gonna take care of ya," he murmured, more to himself than to Zanka. "Gonna make it good. Gonna—"

"I know," Zanka said softly, and the trust in those two words made Jabber's chest tight.

He worked Zanka open slowly, one finger at first, watching his face for any sign of discomfort. Zanka's breath came in short gasps, his body relaxing into the intrusion, opening for him. The heat was incredible, tight and slick around his finger, and Jabber had to close his eyes for a moment and just breathe through the want.

When he added a second finger, Zanka moaned—low and needy and perfect—and his hips rolled down to meet the penetration.

"More," Zanka breathed. "I can take it."

"Yeah?" Jabber crooked his fingers, searching, and when Zanka's back arched off the concrete with a sharp cry, he knew he'd found it. "There?"

"Fuck—yes, there, right there—"

Jabber worked him open with patient thoroughness, adding a third finger, scissoring them carefully, stretching him. Every time his fingertips brushed that spot inside, Zanka made these desperate little sounds that went straight to Jabber's cock. The sight of him like this—spread open and wanting, taking Jabber's fingers so well, trusting him with this—made something crack wide open in Jabber's chest.

‘He's so fuckin' beautiful. Always has been. Why'd it take me so long to just... look at him like this?’

"You're so fuckin' beautiful," he said aloud, and meant it with every fiber of his being.

Zanka's laugh was shaky, breathless. "Yer high."

"Nah." Jabber withdrew his fingers slowly, and Zanka whimpered at the loss. He slicked himself with the remaining lube, hissing at the sensation of his own touch. "Been thinkin' it sober too. Just never said it."

He positioned himself, the head of his cock pressing against Zanka's entrance, and paused.

The moment felt huge, weighted with meaning he didn't have words for. "You sure?"

"Yeah." Zanka's hand found his, fingers lacing together and squeezing tight. "I'm sure. Want this.” A pause. “Want you."

Jabber pushed in slowly, inch by agonizing inch, fighting every instinct that told him to thrust hard and fast, to take what he wanted. Zanka was tight and hot around him, and the sensation was overwhelming—better than anything he remembered, better than it had any right to be. But he forced himself to go slow, to let Zanka adjust, to make this what he'd asked for—

Gentle. Real. Something that means something.

When he was fully seated, buried to the hilt, he had to stop and just breathe. His forehead pressed to Zanka's shoulder, their joined hands white-knuckled between them, and he could feel Zanka's heartbeat everywhere—against his chest, around his cock, in the pulse point beneath his lips.

"Okay?" he managed, voice strangled.

"Yeah." Zanka's free hand came up to his back, holding him close, fingers digging into muscle. "Yeah, I'm—fuck, you're so deep. Move. Please move."

Jabber did, pulling out slowly before sliding back in, setting a rhythm that was careful and deliberate and nothing like the rough, desperate fucking they'd done before. This was different. This was—

This is making love, some traitorous part of his brain supplied, and he couldn't even argue with it.

He angled his hips, searching, and when Zanka gasped and arched beneath him, nails raking down his back, he knew he'd found it. He kept that angle, that rhythm, watching Zanka's face as pleasure built across his features—the way his mouth fell open, the way his eyes fluttered closed, the way he said Jabber's name like a prayer.

"Look at me," Jabber said, and Zanka's eyes opened, hazy and dark there. "Wanna see ya."

Their gazes locked, and Jabber felt something shift between them—something fundamental and irreversible. This wasn't just physical anymore. This was—

Everything.

They moved together like that for long minutes, finding a rhythm that worked, that built pleasure slowly instead of racing toward the edge. Jabber's thighs started to burn from the angle, from holding himself up, from the careful control he was maintaining, but he didn't care. He'd stay like this forever if Zanka kept looking at him like that.

But then Zanka's hand pressed against his chest, and Jabber froze immediately.

"What—did I hurt—"

"No," Zanka said quickly. "No, just—I wanna—...can we switch?"

Jabber pulled out carefully, both of them hissing at the loss, and looked at Zanka questioningly.

Zanka sat up, then pushed at Jabber's shoulder until he got the hint and lay back on the concrete. The cold stone against his overheated skin made him gasp, but then Zanka was straddling him, and every thought fled his brain.

"Wanna see ya," Zanka said, echoing Jabber's earlier words. "Wanna watch ya."

He reached back, positioning Jabber's cock, and sank down slowly. The new angle was different—deeper somehow, tighter—and Jabber's hands flew to Zanka's hips, gripping hard before he remembered and forced himself to gentle his hold.

Don't bruise. Don't mark. Don't—

But Zanka was moving now, rolling his hips in a slow grind that had Jabber seeing stars. The sight of him like this—taking what he wanted, head thrown back, cock hard and leaking against his stomach—was almost too much.

"Fuck," Jabber breathed. "Fuck, Zanka, you're—"

"What?" Zanka looked down at him, a small smile playing at his lips. "What am I?"

"Perfect," Jabber said helplessly, whining at the power play in Zanka's words. "Fuckin' perfect."

Zanka's smile widened, and he leaned down to kiss him—slow and deep and thorough. When he pulled back, he started to move in earnest, lifting up and sinking back down in a rhythm that had them both gasping.

Jabber let his hands roam—up Zanka's sides, across his chest, thumbs brushing over his nipples and making him shudder. He wanted to memorize this, every detail—the weight of Zanka on top of him, the slick slide of skin on skin, the way the dim basement light caught in Zanka's hair, the sounds he made when Jabber's cock hit that spot inside him just right.

All the things he glossed over before. All the things he'd ignored, or dumbed down. He wanted to know Zanka's body like it was his own.

"Touch yourself," Jabber said, voice rough. "Wanna see you."

Zanka's hand wrapped around his own cock, stroking in time with his movements, and the sight was almost Jabber's undoing. He thrust up to meet Zanka's downward motion, and they found a new rhythm together—harder now, faster, but still careful, still tender in a way that made Jabber's throat tight.

"Jabber," Zanka gasped, and his rhythm was starting to falter, getting erratic. "I'm—I'm close, I'm—"

"Yeah," Jabber encouraged, one hand sliding up to cup Zanka's face. "Yeah, c'mon, wanna see it. Wanna see you come apart."

But Zanka shook his head, slowing down, and Jabber made a frustrated sound.

"Not yet," Zanka panted. "Not—wanna make it last. Wanna—"

He lifted off, and Jabber actually whimpered at the loss, but then Zanka was turning around, presenting his back, and Jabber understood. Reverse cowgirl. A different angle, a different view—Zanka's back, the curve of his spine, the flex of his muscles as he sank back down.

"Fuck," Jabber groaned, hands finding Zanka's hips again. "You's gonna kill me, pretty."

Zanka laughed, breathless and a little wild, as if he too was intoxicated— and not just from the weed. "Good way to go though, yeah?"

And it was—it was perfect and maddening and too much and not enough all at once. Jabber could see where they were joined like this, could watch himself disappear into Zanka's body over and over, and the visual combined with the sensation had him gritting his teeth against the urge to come.

Not yet. Not yet. Make it good for him first.

He reached around, wrapping his hand around Zanka's cock, and Zanka cried out at the touch. Jabber stroked him in time with his movements, and he could feel Zanka getting close again—the way his body tensed, the way his movements got desperate and uncoordinated.

"Jabber," Zanka gasped. "Jabber, I can't—I'm gonna—"

"Do it," Jabber urged. "C'mon, let me feel it."

Zanka came with a broken cry, spilling over Jabber's hand, his body clenching tight around Jabber's cock. The sensation was incredible—the rhythmic pulse, the heat, the way Zanka shook apart above him—but Jabber held on, didn't let himself follow, not yet.

He worked Zanka through it, gentle strokes until Zanka was whimpering from oversensitivity, and then he carefully lifted him off and turned him around.

Zanka looked wrecked—flushed and sweaty and beautiful—and when Jabber pulled him down into a kiss, he could taste the desperation in it.

"Yer turn," Zanka murmured against his lips. "What d'ya want?"

And that was the thing, wasn't it? Jabber could have anything. Could flip Zanka over and fuck him into the concrete, could chase his own pleasure rough and fast like he usually did.

But that wasn't what he wanted.

Not anymore.

"Jus'..," he said quietly, words dying in his throat. Words, tender ones, that he'd never said before. "Just... wanna be close to you. Like this."

He guided Zanka onto his back again, settling between his legs, and pushed back inside. Zanka was loose and slick now, oversensitive, and he gasped at the intrusion, but he wrapped his legs around Jabber's waist and pulled him closer.

"Yeah," Zanka breathed. "Yeah, like this."

Jabber set a slow, deep rhythm, and it wasn't about chasing orgasm anymore—it was about the connection, the intimacy, the way Zanka's hands roamed over his back and shoulders, the way their foreheads pressed together and their breath mingled.

"Never done this before," Jabber admitted quietly, the words pulled from somewhere deep. "Never wanted to. Never... never felt like this."

"Like what?" Zanka's hand cupped his face, thumb brushing over his cheekbone.

"Like I could stay here forever," Jabber said. "Like I don't wanna run. Like I—"

He couldn't finish the sentence. Couldn't say the words that were clawing at his throat.

But Zanka seemed to understand anyway.

"I know," he said softly. "Me too."

They moved together like that, slow and steady, and Jabber felt his orgasm building gradually—not the sharp, sudden edge he usually chased, but a slow wave that built and built until it was all-consuming.

"Zanka," he gasped. "I'm—"

"Yeah," Zanka encouraged, legs tightening around him. "Yeah, c'mon. Wanna feel it."

Jabber buried his face in Zanka's neck and came with a low groan, spilling deep inside him, his whole body shaking with the force of it. It seemed to go on forever, wave after wave of pleasure that left him boneless and gasping.

For a long moment, they just stayed like that—tangled together, breathing hard, hearts pounding in sync. The basement was cold around them, but where their bodies pressed together was warm, almost too warm, slick with sweat and come.

Jabber should pull out. Should move. Should say something sharp and deflecting to break the weight of what just happened.

But he didn't.

He stayed right where he was, face buried in Zanka's neck, breathing in the smell of him—sweat and sex and something uniquely Zanka—and let himself have this.

Just for a moment.

Just for now.

Zanka's hand came up to card through his hair, gentle and grounding. "You okay?"

Jabber huffed a laugh against his skin. "Should be askin' you that."

"I'm good." Zanka's voice was soft, satisfied, with a rough edge from all the sounds he'd made. "Really good. That was—" He paused, seeming to search for words. "That was different."

"Yeah," Jabber agreed quietly. He finally pulled back enough to look at Zanka, and what he saw in his face—the tenderness, the contentment, the lack of regret—made his chest tight. "Good different?"

"Best different," Zanka said, and smiled—small and genuine and just for Jabber.

Jabber carefully withdrew, both of them wincing at the loss and the oversensitivity. He could see his come starting to leak out, and something possessive and primal stirred in his chest at the sight, but he pushed it down.

Not about that. Not this time.

He reached for his discarded shirt and used it to clean them up as best he could—gentle swipes over sensitive skin, careful attention to the mess between Zanka's thighs. Zanka watched him the whole time, something soft and wondering in his expression.

"What?" Jabber asked, suddenly self-conscious.

"Nothin'," Zanka said. "Just... never seen ya like this."

"Like what?"

"Careful," Zanka said. "Gentle. Like ya actually give a shit."

Jabber's hands stilled. "I do," he said quietly. "I do give a shit. About you. Jus'... didn't know how to show it."

Zanka's hand found his, fingers lacing together. "Yer showin' it now."

When they were as clean as they were going to get without actual water, Jabber tossed the ruined shirt aside and lay down beside Zanka on the cold concrete. He pulled Zanka close immediately, needing the contact, needing to know this was real.

Zanka curled into him without hesitation, head on his chest, one leg thrown over his hip. Jabber's arm came around him automatically, holding him there, and his other hand found Zanka's again, fingers lacing together like they belonged that way.

Post coital cuddles weren't unfamiliar territory to them. It was the sole, unspoken tenderness they’d shown each other before today. The only affection they’d let slip past their walls.

The concrete was hard and cold beneath them, and they were both still half-naked, and the basement smelled like sex and dust and old stone. It should have been uncomfortable. Should have been awkward.

But it wasn't.

It was perfect.

"We should probably get dressed," Zanka murmured after a while, but he made no move to pull away. "In case they come to get us out."

"Probably," Jabber agreed, but he didn't move either. "In a minute."

"Yeah," Zanka said. "In a minute."

Neither of them spoke for a long moment. The silence between them was different now—not empty or tense, but full of understanding. Full of something that felt dangerously close to a promise.

"Jabber?" Zanka said quietly, voice meek in a way Jabber had never seen before.

"Yeah?"

"This... this wasn't just the weed, right? This was—"

"Real," Jabber finished. "This was real."

He felt Zanka relax against him, tension he hadn't even noticed draining away.

"Good," Zanka said. "That's... good."

Jabber pressed a kiss to the top of Zanka’s head—soft enough that it almost didn’t feel real, like something he hadn’t quite meant to do, like something that might disappear if either of them acknowledged it.

For a second, he wasn’t even sure it had landed.

It didn’t fit him. Not really. Not the version of himself he knew how to be—the one that kept things sharp, fleeting, easy to walk away from. This felt… quieter than that. Fragile in a way that made his chest tighten, like he’d just stepped into something he didn’t fully understand.

But then—

Zanka’s hand squeezed his.

Just once.

Not tight. Not desperate. Just enough.

Enough to say ‘I felt that’.

Enough to say ‘I’m still here’.

Jabber stilled, something in him going quiet all at once, like the usual noise in his head had been muted without warning. His fingers shifted slightly in Zanka’s grasp, not pulling away, just adjusting—like he was getting used to the shape of it.

Holding on.

Not for control.
Not for balance.

Just… holding.

Is this the last time?

The question had followed him all night, lingering in every glance, every touch, every second that felt like it might slip through his hands before he could decide what to do with it.

It had always been there.

Waiting.

But now—

Now it didn’t press as hard.

Didn’t claw at him the same way.

Because for the first time, Jabber let himself sit in the moment without trying to outrun it. Without bracing for the end before it even came.

His grip steadied, thumb brushing once over Zanka’s knuckles, absent but grounding.

And for once, he didn’t think about leaving.

Didn’t think about what came after.

He just stayed.

And somewhere in that stillness, in the quiet warmth of Zanka’s hand in his, something unfamiliar settled in his chest—not sharp, not fleeting.

Something that lingered.

Maybe it wouldn’t end the way he expected.

Maybe—

It didn’t have to be the last time.