Chapter Text
Thursday night. 2am, so technically Friday morning, but whatever. Jabber is sprawled out in bed, scrolling his phone.
The radiator clicks. Condensation frosts the window. He has the blankets tucked in on either side of his body, but he’s still shivering intermittently. His roommate had a little space heater that went home with the guy over break. Christmas is in a week. Jabber plans to spend it with a carton of eggnog and a totally-legally-obtained 750-milliliter bottle of Captain Morgan spiced rum. Right now, though, he really wants something else to put in his mouth.
He opens an app.
It’s the eyes that got him, he’ll think, later, on Friday afternoon, when he’s getting dressed to go to the cafe two blocks from his dorm, tucking a scarf around his collarbones, working clumpy drugstore mascara through his lashes. The rest of the picture was great, too, hot guy, no shirt, promising bulge in those exercise shorts. But it’s the eyes he’s most excited to see. They were looking right into the camera, right at him, with downturned corners that should have made them look gentle. Blue like concentrated ink in a bottle. The rest of the face was smiling, but the eyes were flat. Watching. Waiting, maybe. He wonders if they’ll look like that in person, too.
—
They do.
The guy’s name is Zanka. When Jabber walks in, five minutes late, he stops five feet from the door because he feels it, the weight of someone watching him. When he turns in that direction, he sees his date waiting with a coffee cup.
A second hangs in the air, both of them watching each other. Is this awkward? Jabber wonders.
Then Zanka smiles and gives him a little wave.
He grins back, tension rolling away like water off a duck’s feathers. “Hey,” he says, bounding over.
“Hey,” says Zanka.
Nice voice.
“Sorry I’m late,” says Jabber. “Kinda walked the wrong way a little, my bad.”
“Don’t worry about it,” says Zanka. “You hungry?”
They go up to the counter together. Jabber chews the inside of his lip, wondering if he wants soup or a sandwich. He checked his bank before he left—he can get a half portion of either, but not the combo, or he won’t be able to pick up his meds tomorrow. For a second he contemplates saying fuck it and rawdogging the rest of winter term—then he thinks about his fuckass scholarship and his fuckass GPA and picks the sandwich. Soup is hot, but bread will keep him fuller for longer.
“Any drink?” asks the cashier.
“Nope,” says Jabber.
Zanka, standing to his right in front of the pastry display case, looks at him sidelong. Did I see him move, or did I just feel his eyes on me? “Sure?” he says, making a subtle motion with his hand.
Jabber glances down. He’s holding a black credit card between two fingers.
“Yeah so actually I wanted the combo,” says Jabber to the cashier. “An’ gimme a extra-large white chocolate mocha wit’ whipped cream. Hot.”
—
“Hey, thanks,” he says to Zanka, when they sit down.
“‘Course,” says Zanka. “My invitation, my treat.” Smiles. “Hey, so, I googled you earlier this mornin’. Pretty impressive stuff. What gotcha so interested in physics?”
“You googled me?” says Jabber, laughing. “I shoulda googled you. Who the fuck shows up to a regular-ass cafe wit’ a black card? You shoulda taken me out to, like, one of those fancy brunch places or somethin’.”
Zanka smiles, pleasantly enough, but what he says is, “I think I asked you a question.”
Oh, this guy is a dick, huh? Jabber can roll with that. The hot coffee has him in a great mood, and an attitude like that is promising for later. “Simple,” he says, shrugging. “I ain’t. I jus’ happened to impress some judges, is all.”
“Really,” says Zanka, kind of slowly. Well, not really slowly, it’s normal, it’s just… slower than he’s been talking, is all. “So how long did it take ya to do that project?”
“Eh,” Jabber scratches the back of his neck, “forty-eight hours? I dunno. I was kinda blasted that week. I think I finished, like, twenty minutes before the competition.” He grins. “Man, you shoulda seen my sponsor’s face—he was pissed!”
For a split second, Zanka’s face- Naw, he’s just smiling. “I bet!” he says with a laugh. “Guess it’s true what they say, then—genius really does work on its own schedule, huh?”
“Yo, that’s what I said!” says Jabber.
Was that what he said? He doesn’t remember. He knows he was hungover, he knows the lights on the stage gave him such a bad headache he almost puked before they could hand him the award thingy. Remembers curling up into a little ball on the flight back, as tight as he could make himself, like if he just scrunched up enough, everything inside him would stop trying to squirm out. He doesn’t say any of that to Zanka, though. He just keeps talking, making it up as he goes, not really even paying attention to what’s coming out of his mouth, but it’s working, ‘cause he gets another laugh. And before he knows it, their plates are empty.
“Dessert?” asks Zanka.
“I’m down,” says Jabber, smiling.
“The lemon meringue pie looks pretty good, but I’m kinda full for a whole slice,” says Zanka. “Wanna split some with me?”
“Sure,” says Jabber, “but,” he glances downwards, at where Zanka’s body disappears under the table, “that ain’t really what I meant.”
—
Zanka fucks his face in a hotel bathroom. One hand in his hair, the other wrapped lightly around his throat as that massive cock chokes him so hard he sees stars. His knees slip against the tile, and Zanka drags him up by the scalp, keeping him right where he is, the corner of his mouth quirking up like it’s funny to watch Jabber scramble.
Jabber moans, sucking for all he’s worth. Slips a hand between his legs. He isn’t even really gonna jerk off, just wants to relieve some of the pressure, but Zanka tisks sharply like he’s scolding a dog. Jabber moans again and settles that hand back on Zanka’s hip. The shower is still running in the background, steaming up the room. Zanka was gonna use it, something about how he came from the gym, but Jabber got impatient.
“Good,” says Zanka. He pulls out, lets Jabber catch his breath, and then shoves it right back in, squeezing Jabber’s throat like he’s jerking himself off through Jabber’s neck. So tight Jabber nearly passes out. He claws a little at Zanka’s wrist, but otherwise stays limp, and their eyes meet, melted pink to fathomless blue.
I’m gonna run out of air, Jabber thinks. I’m gonna die.
Zanka hums once, consideringly.
“Fine,” he says, almost a sigh. His hand releases.
Blood rushes back into Jabber’s brain like water through a dam. He shivers all up and down his spine, swallowing convulsively. Zanka’s cock is so big in his throat. His eyes flutter shut, and he sinks, lost. If there was any more to swallow, he’d take it. He’d take anything.
Zanka trails a hand down his cheek and gives him his shoe to hump.
Afterwards, he sends Jabber home in an Uber. If they exchange any parting words, Jabber doesn’t remember them. Just holds a hand to his throat, legs drawn up in the backseat like if he curls up tight enough, he’ll stay warm all the way through to the morning.
—
Christmas is mostly stomach acid. Jabber scores something off a guy in the square and trip-dreams swallowing all his teeth. Two lab reports get done somehow. Back in high school, he used to forget to write his name on his work all the time. He’s glad the electronic submission stuff takes care of that for him now, ‘cause he sure as hell don’t remember what he’s called when he turns that shit in.
—
Two Saturdays into January, somebody says, “Hey.”
“Hey,” says Jabber. Who the fuck am I talking to? What the fuck is happening right now? What fucking time is it? The sun is up, shining in through his window, too pale to be noon, too bright to be dawn. He curls his fingers and discovers he’s holding his phone. “Uh…”
“Sorry. I wake ya?”
“Eyup,” Jabber confirms. Blinks a couple times, stretches out. “Who…?”
“This is Zanka.”
“Zan… ka?”
“We, uh, we went out a couple weeks ago? Met at a cafe, stopped by a hotel…”
“OH,” says Jabber. “You! Yeah, yeah, I remember you. Wassup? Wanna fuck my face again?”
Silence.
“‘Cause I am so down for that,” says Jabber. “After last time, I don’t think I could talk for, like, three days. I mean, not that I had any talkin’ to do. My throat was real sore, though. I kinda thought I had a cold. But also I knew that wasn’t it, ‘cause I never get sick, so it must’ve been you, big daddy. Oh, yeah, that reminds me. Next time can you step on my dick? Or you can kick me. You could totally make me come if you kicked me in the dick after you fucked my face. But, like, make sure your dick ain’t still in there, ‘cause I kinda bite down when I get kicked in the nuts- I mean, unless you into that-”
Something rasps against the mic on the other end. An exhale, maybe. It’s hard to tell.
“Text me your address.”
“Huh? Okay.” Jabber opens his navigation app, takes a screenshot of his current location, and sends it. “So… is that a yes?”
“Get dressed. I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”
Thirty minutes later, Zanka rolls up in a fucking Bentley. Jabber barely remembers what he looked like, but he remembers the soup and sandwich, so when he sees that car parked at the curb, he knows immediately who’s inside. When he walks up, Zanka rolls down the window and smiles at him. And then Jabber remembers—the eyes.
“Hi,” he says, giving Zanka a little wave.
“Hi,” says Zanka. “You look good.”
He’s lying. Now, Jabber is hot, but right now Jabber is rocking a random assortment of clothes from his “clean enough” pile, no makeup, and three different kinds of morning after, squinting at the day. Zanka keeps smiling, but those eyes are cold. Why are you here? Jabber wonders. Was my mouth that good? The passenger side door unlocks, and he slides in. New car smell.
“So where we goin’?” he asks, running his fingers over the leather interior.
“Brunch,” says Zanka. His eyes trace over the length of Jabber’s body from head to toe. Is that what he looks like when he wants to fuck me? Did he look at me like that in the bathroom? “My treat.”
When was the last time I ate? Jabber wonders. His mouth waters, visions of pancakes and bacon swimming behind his eyes.
“Ooh, mimosas,” he says, looking at the menu later. The laminate wobbles in his hand. He glances over, and Zanka’s eyes flick up to meet his, away from Jabber’s trembling wrist.
“Let’s get the blood orange,” he says. “An’ we can get some bruschetta to start, how’s that? I come here a lot, it’s one of my favorites. Actually, there’s a buncha stuff I like to get. If you want, I’ll order a spread.”
“Sure,” says Jabber, who does not know what bruschetta is. Zanka has some kinda accent going on, makes all his words run into each other. Wunna-ma-fav’rits. It’s charming. He’s charmed. It’s been a few days since he hung out with somebody- Few weeks, maybe- He doesn’t really have friends, he has people he hangs around, but he kinda doesn’t remember half their names. They drink with him, sometimes smoke, but they’re precious about that stuff, don’t share it as easily. And anyway they all went home for winter break. It’s nice, sitting here and hearing about Zanka’s favorites. He doesn’t care, of course, but it still makes him smile. Zanka has a nice voice. He listens to Zanka order, rattling off a long list of items without looking at the menu. Watches him flash a smile at the waiter. “You, uh, you live around here?”
“Not far,” says Zanka. “You’re from Portland, right? How’re ya likin’ the East Coast?”
There’s something weird about the way he says you’re. It’s like he’s trying too hard to pronounce it. But it’s subtle. Jabber probably only notices because he does that with some words, too. “I’m actually from Atlanta, I jus’ lived in Portland for a while,” he says. Grins. “It’s too cold here, man. Every time I gotta walk through the snow, my toes turn into icicles. Must be nice drivin’ everywhere.”
“Yeah, it’s convenient for haulin’ stuff, too. Can suck, trying to park, though,” says Zanka. Tryinna park. “If you hate the cold so much, how come you didn’t go home for the break?”
Okay, so, Jabber doesn’t actually hate the cold—he just lied to make small talk. But that’s fine, Zanka doesn’t need to know that. Now if he can just think of what to say now. “Uh…”
“Oh, sorry,” says Zanka. “Didn’t mean to pry.”
“S’okay,” says Jabber automatically, and then he’s immediately distracted by the first of the food arriving. Zanka pours their drinks and passes Jabber the first glass. Oh, this guy is a gentleman, huh? Okay, Jabber can roll with that. Bruschetta turns out to be little toast crackers with stuff on top, and they’re crispy and good. The mimosa is good, too. Blood oranges taste nothing like blood. They taste like the idea of blood he had as a kid, rich and tangy and sweet. The trembling in his wrist goes away, and the lighting in the restaurant turns warm. Maybe it was warm the whole time. He couldn’t say.
What am I doing here? he wonders. Everything slips sideways. Zanka is asking him questions about his major. Jabber opens his mouth and lets it run. He gets passed little plates of bite-sized stuff, and all of it is good. If he’s not talking, he’s eating, and if he’s not eating, he’s talking. Zanka watches him the whole time, those dark blue eyes. Is he listening to me? Jabber wonders. Even me ain’t listening to me.
But it’s so nice. He can just say whatever. Have whatever. And Zanka is here, and warm, and he smells good, and his dick feels good when he fucks Jabber with it in the back of his stupid Bentley. Afterwards, Zanka kisses him. They didn’t do that last time, at least not that Jabber remembers.
“This was a lotta fun,” says Zanka. “Can I see you again?”
“You got my number,” says Jabber. His legs are still wrapped around Zanka’s hips. Zanka pulled out a little, but not all the way. When he does, there’s gonna be a mess. They didn’t have a condom, didn’t have lube, just a little tube of fancy hand lotion Zanka dug out of the console, and it hurt, Jabber made sure. He barely let Zanka stretch him at all. But Zanka didn’t seem to care much about that. He was moving his fingers all gentle, but when Jabber bit his lip and said, put it in, he exhaled slightly like he was amused and didn’t hesitate at all.
“I’ll call you,” says Zanka.
“Okay,” says Jabber, kind of distractedly, as he surreptitiously tries to work himself back onto Zanka’s cock.
Zanka kind of just watches him squirm for a moment, with this look Jabber knows from somewhere. His dick is really big, and it never went fully soft. It swells up again as Jabber moves, gets harder, and suddenly Jabber realizes how sore he is, how much it hurts, that huge, hot thing in his battered boy cunt. He makes a noise, a little whine. And when Zanka hears it, he digs his nails into Jabber’s hips and thrusts all the way back in.
“Fuuuuck yeah,” Jabber sobs. It’s wetter now that Zanka came in him, but it’s like Zanka is fucking him twice as hard to compensate. It feels like he’s being ripped open. Like Zanka has him pinned down, stabbing him over and over again. He hopes he’s bleeding. Zanka bites his chest and leaves an imprint of his teeth.
Lions. That’s where that look is from. Discovery channel. Lions. Looking through the grass at a lone wildebeest.
—
Winter term ends. His roommate comes back, and so does his usual crowd. Nobody asks what he did over break. One of them, the blonde one with the Ariana Grande ponytail, disappeared or something; he asks once and somebody grunts. Jabber starts doing someone’s weekly quizzes and they start rolling his blunts. He hangs around in the room while everyone smokes. Nobody looks at him when he’s talking.
A couple of weeks later, Zanka calls him. And again, a week after that. They go to a sushi place. A bistro. A tapas bar. Afterwards, Zanka fucks him, either in the car or a hotel nearby, or sometimes both. He doesn’t show up at the dorm again. Instead, he calls Jabber a ride. Sends him home that way, too. Maybe he doesn’t want people to know he’s banging a college student. But ever since brunch, he always gives Jabber a kiss goodbye.
Are we dating? Jabber asks himself one morning, staring at the mirror with his fistful of pills. He opens his hand. I don’t want these. But if he doesn’t keep a 4.0, he loses his housing. And he can’t keep a 4.0 if he stops being able to focus and starts picking fights again all the time.
So he takes his pills and goes to class. After class, he does shots with the crew until he stops shaking. The itch in his skin calms down, and the ceiling starts to swirl, the room heating up. But then he starts to think about Zanka, tearing him up between his legs, squeezing bruises into his throat—last time Zanka made him ride it, and Jabber came too soon, angle too good, couldn’t help himself, and Zanka’s eyes got dark and he slapped Jabber’s cock with the back of his hand. It hurt so bad, like being whipped there, and Jabber locked up tight and came even harder, and when Zanka noticed, he slapped it again, and again, and again, until Jabber just couldn’t come anymore and collapsed onto Zanka’s chest. Then Zanka put him on all fours, wrapped his dreads around one wrist, yanked his head up, and pounded him into the mattress.
He’s still sore from that. He wants it again. If Zanka fucks him every day, he’ll never heal, he’ll be sore and hurt forever. And every time Zanka fucks him, it’ll get even worse. He squirms. He’s on a loveseat somewhere, someone’s apartment, it doesn’t matter. He wants it.
It’s cold out on the balcony. Didn’t I text him first? Jabber remembers. The picture in the app. The eyes. He opens the chat, scrolls up, sees, hey sexy what that 🍆 do 👅💦💦 sent two months ago. Closes the app, dials the number.
Zanka picks up on the third ring. “Jabber?” There’s a weird mechanical sound in the background.
Jabber kind of expects him to say something else, but he doesn’t. The machine noise fades out until there’s silence on the line.
“Hey,” he says, suddenly nervous. “Uh. I was thinkin’… Can you, like,” he swallows.
“I’m kinda busy right now.” Zanka’s tone is even. Jabber can’t tell if he’s annoyed.
“Don’t gotta be today,” he says. “I jus’, I, I like it when it hurts.”
Not really what he meant to say, but it’ll get the point across. He hopes.
Waits.
“I know, baby.”
Baby?
“Can you do Tuesday? Evening?”
Tuesday? What day is it now? It’s Sunday. Tuesday is class, 6pm. “Yeah, I can do that,” says Jabber.
“Okay. I’ll send you a ride.”
—
Tuesday, he tosses his pills over his shoulder.
The Uber driver keeps glancing at him in the rearview mirror. He’s not sure if it’s because of the cold sweat, the tremors, or because he can’t stop grinning, fiddling with the seat belt he hasn’t buckled.
The car stops outside a restaurant, and Jabber doesn’t know whether he should or shouldn’t be surprised. It’s an Italian place. He goes in. The host looks at him funny, maybe because he’s in ripped jeans and a humongous oversized graphic tee over a skin-tight turtleneck—it’s cold and he wanted to give Zanka something to rip off of him—and this is, like, a button-up and slacks kinda place. Or maybe because he’s clammy and shivering. She doesn’t say anything, though, and when he asks for Zanka, she leads him to the right booth.
Zanka looks up from the napkin he’s folding. A smile flickers over his mouth. “You look good,” he says.
He always says that. “No the fuck I don’t,” says Jabber, sliding in across from him. “I look like shit.”
Zanka looks good. His hair is combed to the side, showing off his million-dollar skincare routine, his weird-but-cool eyebrows, his steel-blue stare. He wears a little bit of eyeliner and mascara in a soft brown color, Jabber’s noticed. It makes his eyes look more striking, more intense. His cream-colored shirt is pressed perfect. He’s in warm grey high-waisted slacks with a thick waistband, Jabber saw his legs from the side when he was walking up to the table. Not every guy can pull that off, but Zanka can. He’s hot. Tapered waist, great ass. Hot, young, and rich. Why is he dating Jabber? Sure, he’s cruel in bed, and outside of that he’s kinda got a personality like an empty picture frame, but there’s still hordes of cute little sluts in the world who’d line up to suck that dick. For the weirdly good bread they serve at these kinds of places, if nothing else.
These thoughts flit by in milliseconds as Zanka watches him. Something in his gaze gets colder.
“Yeah,” he says. “You look like garbage.”
It’s the flat way he says it that makes Jabber shiver. And it’s the way he keeps staring that turns on the lightbulb in Jabber’s head.
“You like me ‘cause I’m pathetic,” he says. “You bring me to these joints ‘cause you like seein’ me look all sad ‘n’ broke.”
“No. I bring you to these places ‘cause I don’t wanna have a shit meal,” says Zanka. “If it was about our tax brackets, I’d buy ya, like, silk stockings, ‘n’ stuff ‘em with hundred-dollar bills while I made ya ride a diamond dildo or somethin’ ridiculous like that.” His eyes are hard, glittering. His fingers pluck at the napkin. A couple of weeks ago, they plucked at Jabber’s skin, his nipples, the insides of his thighs, the sensitive spot under the head of his cock. He’d just come, and the shock of it had him trying to curl in on himself, but Zanka held him down and just did it to him. Jabber remembers his smile. Wants to see it again.
The server drops off some of that nice, warm bread and a dish of seasoned olive oil. Zanka orders wine. He usually orders some stuff for the table when they go out, Jabber realizes, and he also realizes Zanka probably wasn’t lying earlier about why they go to these restaurants—he really does just have stuff he likes. Probably tunes Jabber out the whole time, ‘cause it’s always Jabber talking, never Zanka, he maybe asks a question or two or makes a polite comment but mostly just eats quietly—sonuvabitch, he really is just having dinner. But he looks at Jabber. Watches him. Maybe thinks about what they’re gonna do later.
Jabber dunks some bread in the oil and stuffs it into his mouth. Zanka does the same, more gracefully. He’s looking at Jabber, but doesn’t ask anything.
“You know what it is I like about you?” he says, eventually.
“What?” says Jabber.
“You don’t lie,” says Zanka.
“Huh?” says Jabber. “Yes the fuck I do. I lie all the time, man.” He sips his wine. Oh shit that’s good. Top shelf. Fuck. He’s glad he likes the burn of the cheap stuff, or he’d never be able to drink it again, not after the stuff Zanka plies him with. “I think I lie to you every time we go out. You ask me stuff, an’ I jus’ start sayin’ shit.”
“Oh, yeah, that’s obvious,” says Zanka with a snort. “You contradict yourself basically every time I ask you a similar question. You’ve changed your major three times since I met you, and you’re from Atlanta, except you’re also from Sacramento, except you also lived in South Africa until you were eight. You’re a Republican, except you also vote blue, but you also don’t vote at all anymore ‘cause you lost your real driver’s license six months after you got it and you can’t bring a fake ID to the poll. Except you’d never be at the poll to begin with, ‘cause even if you somehow registered to vote, knew where your polling place was, and noticed it was voting day, you jus’ don’t care. You didn’t tell me that, by the way, I guessed. Am I right?”
Shit, he remembers stuff I say. Like, remembers remembers. The fuck? “Yeah, spot on. So what the fuck do you mean, then?” says Jabber, giggling. “I lie, but I don’t lie?”
Zanka nods. “Yeah,” he says. “You tell lies, but you do it ‘cause that’s jus’ what ya do. You go out lookin’ like trash ‘cause you are trash.” Jabber shivers. “You don’t hide it,” Zanka continues. His face is all twisted up into this weird-ass expression, half smile, half sneer of disgust, eyes wide open and lit up from within, like he might start yelling, or he might laugh. His tone doesn’t change, staying perfectly calm and even. “You could dress up, use concealer, google the salad fork, keep track of whatever persona you wanted to use with me, but you don’t. An’ then you beg me to fuck you like a whore, ‘cause that’s what ya want. You don’t ever try to be somethin’ you ain’t. That’s what I like about you.”
Jabber blinks. Swallows. “So, I’m hard now,” he says.
“Yeah, I know,” says Zanka. He looks at Jabber like a particularly interesting worm he found clinging to his shoe. “Slut. Get yer order ready. The waitress is coming.”
Uh-huh, thinks Jabber, swallowing the spit in his mouth. He has no idea what he wants, so Zanka picks something for him. Jabber doesn’t even hear what he says, too busy thinking. He’s been watching me. He’s been watching me watching me. He shifts his thighs; his briefs are probably damp at the front. He’s been paying attention this whole time. And I-
This is the most Zanka has ever spoken on one of their dates.
I don’t know a damn thing about him.
Jabber pulls out his phone.
Zanka’s eyes narrow. “Put that away,” he says.
“In a minute,” says Jabber. “I’m pullin’ up your profile.”
“Why?”
“‘Cause I wanna see how old you are.”
“You could, I dunno, ask me,” says Zanka, raising an eyebrow.
“Yeah,” says Jabber, “but I wanna see some other stuff, too.” Wow, this profile is fucking barren. Zanka is twenty-six years old (six years older than Jabber), 5’10” (two inches shorter than Jabber—aww), 180 pounds (damn), and “experienced.” His photos were all taken at some rich people gym. There’s something weird about them. It’s definitely Zanka, it’s not photoshopped or anything, he really is that shredded when he flexes and there’s those two moles he has on the right side under his ribs, but Jabber can’t shake the feeling that the guy in these pictures is a different guy than the one sitting across from him right now. For one, that guy is a top, but some of these photos… Zanka is kinda pretty. He’s all lean and trim, thin waist, thick ass. And there’s that brown liner, so subtle Jabber wouldn’t notice if he didn’t know. Why didn’t he specify he’s a top in his bio?
Curiosity piqued, Jabber exits the app, opens his browser, and starts typing “Zanka” into the search bar (there wasn’t a last name listed), but before he can hit “go,” real Zanka reaches across the table and grabs his wrist, none-too-gently.
“I said, put that away.”
“Okay. Sorry,” says Jabber, cheerfully not meaning it at all. Zanka lets him go, and he slips his phone back into his pocket. “Hey, how come you so fuckin’ loaded, anyway? What’s your job?”
Zanka sighs. “I’m a CFO,” he says. “It’s kinda like bein’ a CEO, except you actually gotta do work, and you don’t really get to make decisions.”
“Yo. At twenty-six?” says Jabber, eyes widening a little.
Zanka grimaces. “Ugh, don’t look at me like that. I’m a nepo hire.” The corner of his mouth quirks up. “You know, I’d offer you a job, but somethin’ tells me you don’t wanna work at an office.”
Jabber snorts. “Hell no I don’t. Man, nine to five everyday? I’d rather blow up the building. Wit’ me inside.” He’s thought about this extensively. Sometimes those thoughts include the actual design of the bomb. That’s when he’s really bored, which is usually in class. He drinks more wine. The shaking is starting to get on his nerves.
“So what’s the plan after college? Gonna move back in with your parents?” asks Zanka.
“What parents?” says Jabber.
Zanka nods. “Yeah,” he says. “I kinda thought so. You got any family? Anyone?”
“Not unless you count the headstones,” says Jabber.
“Friends?”
“Kind of.”
“Anyone know about me?”
“Naw.” Jabber grins. “With the exception of anybody who walked by your car while we was, y’know.”
“The windows are tinted,” says Zanka, but he looks pleased. “You seein’ anyone else?”
“Nope,” says Jabber. “You?”
Zanka tips his head sideways. Blinks, once.
“Not really,” he says.
Okay, thinks Jabber, as the waitress returns with their pasta.
It’s good. He likes it. Of course he does; Zanka picked it for him, and apparently Zanka has been quietly absorbing information about him for the last month or so like a sexy sponge. His insides squirm, all tingly and confused. The last person who really knew shit about him died a long time ago. What’s this guy’s deal? he wonders. Everything Zanka said earlier, was that all true? Would that explain it? I dunno. I couldn’t tell. I don’t know him at all.
—
The car turns down unfamiliar streets. They’re in a neighborhood with houses, tall ones, some of them with their Christmas lights still up. It’s quiet in this part of town. Zanka isn’t using his phone to navigate.
They slow down. Jabber’s heart rate picks up. Then the car pulls into a driveway.
A stone archway with lanterns. White steps leading up to the porch. Zanka leads him in through the front door into a grand foyer with marble floors. Big, fancy house, big, fancy ceilings, tall windows on the second level you can’t even see out of unless you’re on the stairs. Zanka takes him past them, underneath into the living room, and then rounds a corner into a little hallway with some doors. He waits for Jabber to catch up. All the little hairs raise on the back of Jabber’s neck. Zanka grabs his shoulder, smiles real wide, and rams a knee into his balls.
Jabber crashes to the carpet, gasping. His nails drag lines down Zanka’s front. “What,” he wheezes, and Zanka kicks him in the side. He looks up in shock, and Zanka looks down at him, smiling even wider, starbright glee in those predator eyes. Jabber shivers all over and feels the spit well up under his tongue. Zanka kicks him around the floor like a soccer ball, and when he’s done watching Jabber try to scramble away, try to curl up to protect himself, drooling all over the fancy carpet, crying out with every hit, he gets down and scoops Jabber up and over his shoulder.
Zanka carries him through a door and dumps him onto a bed. Pulls his boots off, rips his jeans off, looks up and down his bare legs while he tries to regain his breath, pushes the hem of his oversized shirt up over his hip to expose his tented briefs. Grabs the waistband and tears the worn-out elastic like paper. “What the fuck,” says Jabber, and then moans in pain as Zanka squeezes his balls, whole body freezing, lights exploding behind his eyes.
A drawer opens, something whacks him in the hip. He reaches down, patting around blindly, meets silicone. Flared base.
Zanka is standing by the bedside table with something in his hand. He looks at Jabber, head cocked like he’s thinking, and pockets the item. Jabber finally sucks in a full breath. Meets those eyes. Spreads his legs.
“Yeah?” says Zanka, laughing. His pupils are huge. He crawls over Jabber and pushes his leg up, then puts the head of the plug to Jabber’s hole.
Jabber’s breath stutters and he clenches, ears popping. He’s not wet, not open at all, there’s been no prep, he didn’t even finger himself in the shower- He howls as the dry, blunt head pushes in, gripping Zanka’s shoulders, shocked tears pooling in his eyes. It burns. It feels like it’s tearing him. Zanka grins with all his teeth and forces in every last inch.
Then he slips his hand into his pocket, and the thing starts to vibrate.
“ZANKA!” Jabber claws his shoulders. “Zanka- Aah- agh- nnh-” He’s writhing on the bed, but Zanka is pinning him down, sinking teeth into his neck. The sharp pain grounds him for just a moment before suddenly the vibration intensifies, and all his nerves scatter like marbles. The drawer rattles. Something else clicks on, another humming noise. Jabber’s eyes fly open, and he starts to fight, and Zanka’s hand closes around the head of his cock and he’s holding another toy that he presses right up against the slit and Jabber screams, thrashing, but he can’t get away, and he comes all over himself, soaking his tee, belly clenching so tight it cramps. Then Zanka turns everything up another notch.
He doesn’t know how long Zanka makes him take it. He doesn’t know how many times he comes. It hurts to fight and it hurts to breathe and it hurts to go limp, too, because then he’s not doing anything and his only choice is to feel it. He cries and claws up Zanka’s back, leaving chips of his nail polish in the weave of Zanka’s shirt. Zanka bites around his collar, and it hurts so cold and sweet. When they kiss, he has Jabber’s blood in his mouth.
Zanka’s hand lets go. The thing goes away. Jabber shudders all over and tenses, sobbing, and when he finally falls slack, Zanka pulls the plug out of his ass. It thumps to the floor, still buzzing. Fingers wipe through the mess on Jabber’s belly. Something hot and blunt presses against Jabber’s sore, fluttering hole.
“Hey,” snaps Zanka, and slaps him across the face. “Look at me.”
“Hnn?” Jabber gasps, pants, blinking, trying to make his eyes focus.
Zanka’s handsome face comes into view. It splits into a cruel smile. His teeth are red. His cock pushes forward, not quite in, but enough that Jabber feels it starting to stretch his swollen, bruised rim. “Say, ‘please.’”
It’s gonna hurt. It’s gonna hurt so bad.
“Please,” Jabber whispers.
His hole clenches. Zanka laughs, wild, and skewers it.
Too fucked-out to fight anymore, too exhausted to even tremble, Jabber just lies there and takes it. Zanka’s cock is too big, bigger than the plug, and it’s so warm, just body-heat but it feels like it almost burns, too much, too cruel. Jabber’s limp, spent dick weeps strings of clear fluid. He doesn’t want to come anymore, but Zanka finds his prostate and bullies it until he’s leaking, soaking himself with something clear and slippery, pushed out of him with every merciless thrust. Noises come out of his throat, low, rough, and ruined. He won’t be able to walk.
Zanka sighs, sounding satisfied, and looks down at him.
“It’s been fun,” he says. And clamps his hand down on Jabber’s throat.
Jabber’s eyes roll back. He feels Zanka come inside him. In his vision, fireflies dance on a dark red field. His head feels swollen. His hands slip from Zanka’s shoulders, down Zanka’s arm, and settle on Zanka’s wrist, not gripping, not pulling, just holding it. With the last of his ability to move, he rubs his thumb over Zanka’s pulse.
Suddenly the pressure is gone.
Gasping, coughing, Jabber shoots back into himself. He can see every color in the universe, feel every molecule around him. Zanka grunts, caught in the sudden too-tight clutch of his body. One last drop of fluid pulses from the head of Jabber’s cock.
Fingers trail over his neck, petting the bruises, the bites. His skin fizzles in their wake. Consciousness ebbs. I think I’m in love.
—
He comes to on the couch, wrapped in a blanket. It’s a big fuzzy throw knit with thick, soft yarn. He’s been cleaned up, and he’s in a new shirt. A basic white cotton undershirt that probably cost a hundred fucking dollars for how nice it feels on his skin. He’s not in his jeans, but he is in something. His arms are inside of the blanket with the rest of him. When he moves to touch his hips, bandages tug at the skin around his neck.
Clink! behind him. He swivels around to look.
There’s a bar in Zanka’s kitchen, and that’s where he’s standing, back to Jabber, in front of a stainless-steel machine that almost looks like a little minifridge, except it opens from the top. He’s reaching into it with a small pair of tongs. Out comes a big cube of perfectly-clear ice. Clink! Zanka drops it into a glass. Short, fancy, the bottom cut with sparkling facets, resting on a wooden tray. There’s another one on the tray just like it that also has a big clear cube of ice. Holy rich people shit, thinks Jabber.
Zanka bends down—nice—to get something from the lower shelves: a big bottle of something brown that looks like it time-traveled here from back when pirates were a thing. He uncorks it and pours some into both glasses, over the ice. Then he puts it away, picks up the tray, and turns.
Jabber worms an arm out of the blanket and waves.
A smile flickers over Zanka’s face. He brings over the tray and sets it down on the coffee table.
“You okay?” he asks.
“Yeah,” Jabber rasps. Omega-rasps. Holy shit. He grins. “Ow.”
Zanka huffs, amused, and passes him a glass. Jabber takes it and clutches it between both hands like squirrels do. Sips it. Ooh. Strong. Whiskey? Bourbon?
“Not like that,” says Zanka. He takes the glass from Jabber, sets it on the tray. Picks up his own, takes a sip, doesn’t swallow. Leans down, tilts Jabber’s face up by the chin. Kisses him. The smooth flavor of the liquor coats their tongues like velvet.
“Mm,” says Jabber, his ruined voice whistling a little.
“Little sips,” says Zanka. “Tastes nicer.”
He sits on the couch next to Jabber, and they drink.
I’m happy, thinks Jabber. The lights in the room are warm. His skin is calm. Head empty. Happy, happy, happy…
He turns to Zanka. “You know,” he says, “you don’t gotta date me to fuck me.”
Zanka blinks.
Jabber shrugs. “I mean, I like it, but. You don’t really gotta take me nowhere, don’t gotta buy me nothin’. You don’t even have to send the car. I’d walk.”
Zanka… laughs.
Really laughs. The corners of his eyes go all crinkly, and he’s hiding his mouth behind his fist. He’s trying to stop, too, not doing great at it. Jabber laughs with him, not really sure why. It’s just a statement, nothing about it is funny. Zanka’s laugh is nice, though. He has a nice voice.
—
sleeping all day go step by step the handle of the dining hall door stings his palm it’s so cold lights too bright make him cringe behind the back of his hand
hurts to swallow stabbing pains behind his eyes shaking and shaking dropped the fork on the ground bending hurts
lady walks by weird look are you okay? he’d have to wave her off can’t speak but she passes by doesn’t say anything
sucking on the rim of the bottle like nursing paint thinner chokes hurts going down nauseous bed too cold
roommate walking in and out doesn’t look at him doesn’t speak
—
Blasting music, red and blue lights. All familiar faces. Red solo cups, a story about something, everyone’s eyes rest on his bandages, but no one asks.
Limps into class, no one asks.
Three assignments this week, turns none of them in. No one asks.
Pills collect dust on the bathroom floor.