Archive of Our Own

“Mommy loves you, Jabber.”

He’d heard that every day since he’d been brought into the world, and yet it always warmed his chest like it was the first time.

“I love you too, Mama.”

____________________

Jabber’s life in itself was a paradox, but the main issue laid within his pain receptors, he’d assume.

Roads that crossed each other and slowly turned to a labyrinth no one knew how to navigate, when it came to how his thoughts worked — how his pain and pleasure mixed together in a wonderful blend of erotic bliss.

A mind break that could shatter his never-ending pain like glass dropped on warm asphalt.

Sometimes a hand would wrap around his throat, and as his eyes watered, Jabber excused himself the relief that came with it. When he became so awfully overstimulated by roaming hands and lack of logic within his mushy brain, that a sob would tear. 

On those occasions he received nothing but a cruel smile back at him, a loose fist around his aching cock even as the world got as blurry as his head felt — it was what he liked. 

Jabber enjoyed a fuck that made him into nothing but an useless object, the pure pleasure that came with getting thrown around for the sake of being someone else’s relief. So he sobbed, and no gentle hands wiped away his tears, instead they left a red mark in the shape of a palm on his face, telling him to be good and suck it up.

He had never used a safe word, never even cared to make one up, regardless of his lover for the night.

Usually he found the sort of men that edged dangerously close to an edge he didn’t completely mind crossing — the sort of older guys who took great enjoyment in fucking a young adult who cried through the widest grin the world had seen. 

Jabber never faltered on his smile, no matter the tears or noises that escaped him, because this was how he was meant to live.

But the paradox had started early on, from before Jabber even tried any of those things, when he was a premature teen who fantasized about dying while coming his brains out, taking his last breath as a rough cock grazed his prostate. 

He’d heard someone once say that hard kinks can easily be a trauma response, a lot of survivors cope with hypersexuality, and he had snorted at the idea of someone getting traumatised by something and then go seeking for it. 

If he had been traumatised by the sickness that ran in his bloodline, he’d seek out older women with kind hands and sweet words — which was occasional, but his main five-course meal was calloused palms wrapping around his throat, a hand between his shoulder blades that forced him down into the mattress while he got the soul fucked out of him.

But alas, Jabber was no such thing as traumatised. 

Trauma was for people who’d been hurt, and he’d only ever been loved so, so very deeply.

Back to the paradox; Jabber shared a dorm, once.

He shared a dorm with a sharp-tongued, bad attitude, son of a bitch bastard. A guy who seriously needed to get his shit rocked, and Jabber wasn’t one to not deliver the requirements — before they shared a dorm, the two exchanged more punches than necessary in the world, and he fucking loved it. 

Because Zanka enjoyed getting a hit on Jabber, and Jabber’s eyes would roll back and his mouth would drop in a drool when his head started ringing from the sheer power in that right hook. Damn, he was good.

Regardless, a dorm was shared a year after the two met, and then joints were shared as well, followed by secrets and confessions driven either by anger or love, it much depended on the day. Zanka’s biggest secret had been thrown out in a fit of rage because Jabber had gone too close to the sun with his so called flirting, while Jabber’s had been quietly whispered while fingers passed a joint back and forth.

Zanka was his paradox because at some point, his rough and mean hands became so awfully gentle, and Jabber loved it almost more than he loved getting his face wrecked by those same fists.

He loved when Zanka found him curled up in the corner and held him — he loved when the two shared late night conversations after a few hours without communication and those slender arms would wrap around his shoulders — he loved the way Zanka looked at him as if he’d burn the fucking world for him.

Jabber was no different.

If Zanka Nijiku requested the very doom of humanity as a whole, Jabber Wonger would kill everyone and himself to grant that wish.

It was borderline obsession bordering on unhealthy codependency.

Best friends who were more than soulmates, less than lovers. 

Jabber’s eternal paradox was the fact that his pleasure only came from pain, yet Zanka gave him both sweet words and rough gazes, and they served the same amount of satisfaction in Jabber’s hurt heart.

____________________

“Zanka?” His mother hummed, looking up from her food at the table, “the Nijiku kid?”

____________________

ZANKA NIJIKU

It wasn’t unusual for Jabber to come home deep into the night.

Sometimes it was because he’d been out and just having fun, whether that be smoking with some of the friends they’d had back at school, or raving with the other circles Zanka didn’t know much about.

Other times it were hook-ups, like tonight.

In fact, it wasn’t just usual — it was out of character the nights he did stay out.

Zanka understood it when he did, because sometimes the clock dragged on very late and even though his best friend was a piece of shit, he knew Zanka valued his vulnerable sleep hours, so he didn’t get in the way of those. If he was out of a session after 3 o’clock in the night, Jabber stayed out.

He preferred to come home though, usually crawling into Zanka’s bed like a kitten demanding attention, but regardless, none of that was the point.

What was unusual was Jabber coming home before midnight.

He’d left at six, saying he was gonna have a late dinner with today’s experiment before they got to it — he much enjoyed coming home and blabbering about the older ones, because they had more experience in the scene Jabber fucked around in.

Zanka argued he had more knowledge than they had experience, but he supposed that wasn’t the point.

Him and Jabber fucked around every now and then after the first time. He knew his best friend and could tell his ticks and tales, which meant Zanka was also very efficient in bed, apparently. It also meant he knew that Jabber preferred him over anybody — but Zanka very rarely got in that mood, and Jabber was respectful of that, so when he needed relief and his best friend was unavailable, Jabber went out.

The clock was 10PM when Zanka heard the door click open as he stood in the kitchen, calmly making the tea he reserved for meditating.

He cocked an eyebrow, and padded out of the kitchen to find Jabber in their doorway, pushing his shoes off with an aggregated grunt.

“J?” Zanka tilted his head, leaning against the wall, “Didn’t think you’d be home this early.”

Sharing an apartment led him to know most of Jabber’s in-and-out routines, and as previously established, he did not usually come home before midnight.

Sessions in general could drag on forever, with the shit he was into, Zanka had experienced that first-hand, so .. why in the world was he home already?

He got no answers whatsoever, as Jabber straightened up to peel his jacket off, not even sparing a Zanka a glance.

That was what made alarm bells ring in his head — because Jabber took any opportunity to stare at Zanka until his eyes would melt away under his own gaze, he never avoided Zanka’s fiery blue.

“Bad lay?” The boy tried, only to continuously be met with silence. Zanka clocked his tongue in displeasure, then kissed his teeth, trying not to immediately fall into a fit of rage. It was natural for them, getting angry and fighting over stuff, had always been — but something seemed seriously off.

“Jabber.” He huffed, taking a step forward, which finally made his flatmate snap his own head up, wide eyes boring into blue ones.

They blinked at each other for several seconds before Jabber let out a deep exhale, buried deep within his chest, like he hadn’t taken a genuine breath for hours.

He ran a hand down his face, then used both his palms to rub away his shocked expression, returning with his usual too-much smile. It felt strained, like it did when he got unhealthily jealous, or sickeningly protective.

Which made something twitch in Zanka’s brain.

Perhaps he should be the one wearing that smile right now.

“What happ-“

“You know!” Jabber huffed out loudly, the awkward smile still glued to his face, “That guy was actually a total dunce, who would’ve thought. Don’t think I’ll see him again. What a bummer.” He shrugged, brushing past Zanka to head into the kitchen.

Zanka was right on his tail, following behind.

“Why, what’d he do?” He tried to ask, faux-casually, because it was so so rare for Jabber to be put off by .. anything. Zanka knew of one line, and one line only, obviously excluding the unheard of scenario of Jabber using a safeword and not being respected.

That was something other than just a boundary, that bordered on a whole different territory,

So Zanka put that thought away for now to not actually drag himself across the fucking world to hunt that man down.

“Ah,” Jabber waved dismissively, without looking at Zanka. Without looking at Zanka. And crouched down to rummage their drawer where Zanka hid the snacks he thought Jabber didn’t know about — like he was on a scavenger hunt. “His vibe was just off.”

Zanka didn’t believe that for a fucking second.

“Don’t bullshit me.” he snorted, unbelievable, and crossed his arms, leaning his hip against the counter.

Now listen, Zanka didn’t mean to push Jabber, because they had a fairly mutual understanding that sometimes, people just ain’t wanna talk, and that’s to be respected.

So he could admit he let worry cloud his judgement this once. 

“M’literally not.” Jabber mumbled through a handful of chips, still crouched down in the middle of the kitchen. “Am I not ‘llowed to ditch a guy for not matchin’ my freak? Like damn, let me be picky, Z.”

But Jabber wasn’t picky, was the thing. He’d never been.

He had preferences, and Zanka had learned by now that no one ever came up on his level, but regardless of that, Jabber would jump on it if a man gave him the pain he needed.

Except for one thing.

Except for one fucking thing.

“Did he call you somethin–“

“He did nothing!” Jabber snapped, hand running down his paled face in frustration, “he did fucking nothin’, can ya hear me? Have ya gone downright fuckin’ deaf in the few hours I was out? Is that it?” He stood up, clearly pissed off, chip bag abandoned on the floor and drawer left open.

Zanka stared at the mess for half a second in an urge to clean it up until fingers snapped before his eyes, bringing his focus back to the world.

“Answer me!”

“Fuck are ya yellin’ for? Zanka sighed, not yet in a clear headspace to realize this was a big red warning sign telling him to back off. “What’s gotten into you?”

For a second which dragged onto millennia, Jabber’s furious magenta eyes stared at Zanka’s ones, until he took a deep breath and slowly schooled his expression back to normal, raising a hand to swipe his locks back out of his face, drying his forehead of the building sweat in the meantime.

“Phew,” he chuckled, “got heated for a second there.”

Zanka swallowed, “Jab–“

“I’m gonna..” another drained chuckle, “m’gonna turn in early, ‘kay? Not feelin’ on top of my game since I’m left all high ‘n dry, y’dig?”

Silence stretched in between the two bodies of people who knew each other better than they knew their own skin, who’d remember each other’s names before their own, who loved each other, who protected each other.

So he swallowed again, and nodded with defeat.

“Yeah, okay. Just— my door’s open.”

“It always is, ain’t it?” Jabber brushed him off, a pat on the shoulder as he walked past him, “Night, Z.”

“.. Night, J.”

When their kitchen was left dark and empty, Zanka sighed once more, and crouched down to pick up the damned bag.

____________________

“You’ll always be mommy’s little boy, won’t you baby?”

Jabber huffed, leaning back into the fingers that gently braided his hair, “Noo, mama. ‘M a big boy now.”

“Awe,” she chuckled sweetly, the way she always did when she thought he was being adorable. “But what’s mommy gonna do when you’re all grown up then?”

A nasty feeling rang through his heart, something that threaded towards territory he didnt recognize, a minefield he’d never mention to his mom because he loved her so much, so she couldn’t know that sometimes Jabber was excited to grow up and see more of the world, learn about the things that adult deemed him too young for.

Behind him, the fingers stilled, not content with the silence.

“You’ll always be mommy’s boy, right, Jabber?” 

He swallowed, and nodded with that big smile of his, the one that made his cheeks hurt and eyes shut close, he didn’t want to see her face in the mirror when she sounded like that.

“Yes, Mama.”

____________________

Zanka turned in bed, biting at his nail anxiously before sitting up, grabbing his phone and scrolling through whatever app could distract him from his never-ending racing thoughts.

He could bet on them, watching them compete in hope of being the winner, of reaching past the finish line and hearing loud uproars until the announcer yelled “And we have a winner! The thought to keep Zanka Nijiku awake tonight isssss—“

There were so many of them tonight.

But one was picking at his very skin, making him itch like cockroaches had crawled beneath the surface layer and invaded his veins, begging for attention and infection.

Zanka bit hard into his nail, far down enough to get skin with and he hissed as he pulled it away from his face, shaking his hand in pain.

The announcer inside his brain dragged on the anticipation, everybody at the stadium waiting for the reveal.

The boy himself did too.

It could be one of so many ..

Had Jabber actually said no, and then been downright raped?

That one was a very rare possibility because Jabber simply did not say no. He didn’t safe word out of it, even if he was in a situation where he likely should. Not only was he a masochist, but he was a sick-and-twisted mentally unstable one, a masochist who revelled in the pain until the mirroring one in his head dimmed down.

He put that one aside for now, just in hope of staying rational and not quite literally go paint a town red — an ocean too, maybe. Fuck it, he’d become the damn Christ if this was the case just so he could have the man’s fate in his hands, watch him on his knees begging for forgiveness, a chance to repent until Zanka shook his head and pointed towards Satan himself, who was more than happy to drag the man down with him.

He’d listen to him scream and cry, and he’d enjoy knowing he’d put a monster like him to the eternal flames. Torture like he’d never known.

Speaking of monsters.

Another thought gnawed at Zanka, the loudest one, the one that manifested physically like bugs invading his personal space.

The announcer asked for drums, slowly rising to gain everyone’s utmost attention.

There was no person that Zanka hated like that woman.

And he hated, he was a spiteful person, he could 

admit so much. He didn’t hate everyone and everything, but it didn’t take a lot to make Zanka hold a grudge. He didn’t hate his family as much as he wanted to, but that was natural primal instincts that he could brush off on the excuse of logic. He hated one woman very much though.

Zanka stared at his phone, the doomscrolling no longer anything to distract him as the cold sweat started breaking out, fueled by pure rage.

He hated—

“Jabber’s mother!” 

A genuine groan left his throat at the fucking thought of her. He despised her like he despised no other, because she was a monster worse than those from fairy tales and horror stories.

 “Am I ever gonna get to meet yer parents?” Zanka asked, gently inhaling the delicious smoke. 

It burned down his throat, curling around his lungs as he let his head rest against the wall. He waited it out until it became cough-worthy and exhaled, then turned his hand slightly so Jabber could grab it.

It was their weekly substance-abuse-meeting. 

That was the best way to describe it, at least. 

It had started as early as sharing a dorm. It had been an uneventful night, but Jabber was downing some mysterious alcohol and Zanka, for once almost giving a fuck about the damn guy, sat down and waited until the bottle was tipped towards him.

The two quickly realised that they ( Zanka, mainly ) became significantly more talkative when intoxicated or high, so it became somewhat of a ritual.

If one was feeling down, they’d smoke a damn joint, and then occasionally if they felt they needed a moment to just sit down and talk to one another, best friends and all, they shared some alcohol.

It was their own little way of therapy, their own coping mechanisms blending into each other, but it got them closer, made them understand each other more when it was needed, even if they could likely guess the other’s amount of individual hair strands had they been asked.

So, that was where they were at.

Jabber had one of his nightmares — the ones that had him curled up in a corner, wailing like a child who saw things straight out of a war zone.

His best friend, the love of his life probably, the one man who fucking understood him like no other, never knew what the damned nightmares were about. 

But he started keeping his door open.

Zanka, the light sleeper he was, always woke up when it happened. And so he was there, and sometimes he held him, sometimes he shushed him back to sleep, sometimes they shared a joint.

Tonight was a share-a-joint night.

Besides him, their heads pressed up against each other as they both laid with their backs on the mattress in opposite directions, the body stilled.

Jabber let out a strained little chuckle, grabbing the joint and inhaling like his fucking life depended on it.

“Why’da ask? Wan’ be introduced?”

Well, yes, sort of. 

They weren’t dating, everybody knew that, them most certainly as well. Zanka wasn’t Jabber’s boyfriend but he was the closest thing that came, and the closest anybody would ever get. That was his soulmate through and through, just because he didn’t feel the same sort of romantic attraction normal folks did didn’t mean he didn’t love Zanka with every fiber of his being.

Which was also why that led Zanka to wonder how he had never met the damn parents. They’d known each other for multiple years and going, surely it should’ve happened even at coincidence. 

“I guess.”

Jabber hummed quietly, playing with his rings on one hand, his thumb rolling them back and forth while the other one brought the joint back down to his lips.

“I don’t talk to them anymore.”

That wasn’t very surprising, but Zanka turned his head anyway, “Why not?”

A thoughtful sound escaped Jabber, and his eyebrows furrowed slightly.

“My dad’s dead.” He shrugged, “wasn’t a big deal, was a total druggie, y’know? Didn’t even really know the guy, was closer with my ma- mom. She didn’t really like my dad hangin’ around me because of the using, I think.”

Zanka nodded. That seemed reasonable, but—

“Shouldn’t I have met your mother by now, then?”

“Mm…” the boy stared at the ceiling, passing the toxic smoke back to Zanka in hope of stretching time as he picked his words out carefully. Zanka was safe, Zanka had always been safe. He was the one who held Jabber on these shitty fucking nights. “I don’t think she likes me much anymore.”

A confused look crossed his best friend's face,  but Jabber refused to turn his own, scared of pussying out.

He was threading close now, either it was gonna be done now or never — or maybe it would at some other point. Regardless, he wanted it over with, if it had to happen.

“How come?”

Jabber kept his gaze fixated on the ceiling that hogged all their exhaled smoke, fogging up a cloud that was thicker than his own throat at the moment.

“Well,” he sighed, happy to have the joint handed back to him, instantly taking a drag that was hopefully big enough to make him brave. So, so very brave, for once in his life. Jabber wasn’t brave because he never feared anything — except for this, except for people thinking his mother was a monster when all she was, was a little sick. “I started screwing around.”

Seconds dragged on with silence, and he knew why. He wasn’t making any sense. Yet. 

“Was she like— religious? Celibate?”

“No, no.” He shook his head, almost wanting to laugh. His mother, celibate? Ahh, what a joke. “She was just sick.”

Zanka blinked, turning over to lay on his stomach, forearms propping him up so he could watch Jabber’s upside-down face, magenta eyes never leaving the white ceiling. 

“Sick.” He echoed, barely a question, but a request to continue listening at least.

“Yup.” Jabber nodded, popping the P.

“….”

He cleared his throat, listening to the wrap burn as he closed his eyes, another deep inhale. Breathe, Jabber. Zanka would understand — he’d know she was just sick. He wouldn’t villainise her like some other people had. Those who threatened to go to the police but were ultimately too scared to do so when faced with the threatening fury that was Jabber Wonger.

“She got angry at me ‘cause I was ‘pposed to be mommy’s boy, y’know?”

Zanka swallowed, eyes digging through Jabber’s very soul as he waited.

“Mothers get weird when their sons date, or fuck. It’s like.. a whole thing, apparently.” He chuckled, wiping a hand down his face once, cleared his throat, and continued. “Mama was a bit more upset than most, probably.”

“She– she hit you?” Zanka assumed, and clearly hated himself for talking. Jabber was supposed to take this at his own pace, but luckily no offense was taken.

“Nah, my mama would never hurt me like that.”

She did, though. Didn’t she?”

“She just.. wanted me to stay with her. She was scared of me growing up and leaving her, so I came home once with like, a hickey. ‘N she sort of lost it,” he smiled, because if he didn’t he was terrified something else might happen. “Actually she flipped. Mama didn’t really get angry a lot,” he inhaled the smoke, allowed it to burn and rot his insides, exhaled. “But she did that one time. Because..”

Because she wanted to be the only one.

“J.”

Jabber cleared his throat again, he had to or the lump would never get swallowed down, and slightly adjusted his head more backwards to catch Zanka’s eyes.

They held an emotion he had never seen on that beautiful face before.

Raw anger, mixed with concern deeper than any, and then unexplainable amounts of sadness.

Zanka didn’t need to be angry, nor concerned, and he sure as hell didn’t need to be sad for Jabber.

“What did she do to you?”

It was a valid question, one that Jabber had to blink multiple times over in order to regulate until he chuckled, reaching over with a lazy arm to flick some of the joint's burnt butt off.

“My mama loved me a lot.”

So, Zanka hated that woman with a burning passion.

And part of him hated Jabber. He hated Jabber for thinking she was just sick, for thinking it completely unreasonable to be angry or disgusted with what that woman had done to him. To think that she loved him.

And maybe she did, maybe she felt some sort of sick, twisted love, because Zanka did believe that she was sick. Of course she was, she had to be, but that didn’t make it okay. Sickness doesn’t excuse abuse, not of any kind, but especially not this fucking kind.

He hated himself for the way Jabber’s face dropped when he realised Zanka, too, saw her a villain. 

But however could he not? It just.. there were so many fucking reasons to see her as the piece of shit she was, and yet Jabber would smile and say that his mom loved him.

That was how Zanka learned about The Line.

“Get the fuck out of my fucking apartment!”

Zanka, who had been sitting with their cat, Lovely, in his lap, and meditating just as well, was brought out of the zone when a loud yell was thrown through their flat.

He furrowed his brows, the hand that had been petting his gorgeous girl pausing, to listen for a moment, to prepare for a fight if the need arose.

“Chill- what the fuck? What’re you so fuckin’ riled up for?” The man he’d brought home huffed, clearly getting pushed out. Jabber was strong, had always been, and he carried his strength through his body no matter what emotion he was in. Really, the guy should already be out.

But he was not.

Jabber screeched, “I said get t’fuck out! Ya piece of shit— one thing, one fuckin’ thing! Why do ya perverted sick fucks always have to cross that, huh? You get off on it? Fucking pedophile! Go die in a ditch and GET OUT!”

Yeah, that definitely warranted action.

Zanka quickly got up, opening his door and hurrying out, finding a very unstable Jabber with arms around himself, no longer attempting to push the man away, instead creating distance while his entire body shook.

The man huffed and puffed, annoyed and inconvenienced as he tried to pull his pants up.

“Yo, pretty sure yer were told to get out, so what in heaven’s name are you still doin’ in my damn apartment?” Zanka asked, arms crossed as he came to stand besides Jabber. He had learnt to put all his intimidation into his voice when he was with his flatmate, because he had quite the inches on him so he was naturally more scary to look at.

Right now, Jabber sort of just looked like a lost kid. A terribly afraid one at that.

The man glared, trying to buckle his belt, “Listen man, I was just tryna blow off some damn steam, ain’t my fault this wuss suddenly decided to—“

“This ‘wuss’,” Zanka echoed, taking a step closer, “very fucking clearly drew a line that you crossed, idiot or not, I’m gonna assume you’re not braindead or else you wouldn’t have been able to get those eyes on you in the first place, but if you don’t get out of my door in one second, I will tear your cock off your body. I don’t know what your issue is, but mine is you, so why don’t you solve that for us before I have to clean my floor from whatever fluid fuels your brain.”

The man gaped, caught off guard at being told off so harshly, but eventually scoffed as he finally managed the belt, pulling his T-shirt on with rapid speed, and slammed the door shut.

“What a fuckin’ dunce.” Zanka exhaled heavily, shaking his head. “They never get it, I don’t understand why you keep—“ he paused at the shallow breathing coming from behind him, instantly turning around.

Jabber stood shaking, eyes unfocused and his chest bare, sweatpants obviously quickly thrown on when whatever happened had occurred and he decided he needed this man out. 

What happened?

Zanka wondered, but it wasn’t the time to ask that.

“J, hey.” He moved forwards, hands hovering. He had no idea if now was a smart time to touch, but Jabber let out a noise that sounded nothing like him, instead closer to the child he looked like when Zanka found him in his corner deep into the night.

“He- he said– why the fuck would he say that? It’s the one thing I- I always say- before we start I tell them the one thing they can’t say because- because that’s hers and I’m not- that’s not fair that’s not fucking fair so why the fuck would he say that—“

“Jabber, baby. You’re totally spirallin’, and you’re gon’ pass out if you keep breathing like this, okay?”

Jabber shook his head frantically, “you don’t get it he said- he asked, he asked—“ he put deep meaning into that word, “if I was—“ 

A gag shuddered through his body, causing him to double over. Zanka worked quick, grabbing ahold of those shoulders and pulling the boy with him to the safest place he knew; Zanka’s bed. 

Jabber went willingly as his frame shook with every empty breath.

“One thing is calling himself daddy, like- like okay fine, fuck, a buncha pervs get off on that and I can fuck around with it but— then he asks if I’m his—“ another gag, which made Zanka gently pull Jabber’s seemingly smaller body into his lap, head on his collarbone so he could thread fingers through his hair. “His little boy.”

Ah.

Zanka did recall that Jabber had said something along the lines of his mother always worrying about him growing up, asking if he’d keep being her little boy. Mommy’s boy.

He felt sick, so, so utterly sick.

He felt dirty, too.

No idea as to why, not quite, but Zanka felt dirtied all over as he shushed reassurances into Jabber’s hair, pressing a kiss here and there and treating him as the child his headspace sometimes could slip away to.

It worked, it always did.

It was how Zanka solved the night terror induced panic attacks — but he wondered. He wondered if the reason it worked … 

Maybe she had whispered sweet words to him, kissed his head and rocked him back and forth.

So Zanka felt dirty as they came, but he knew he couldn’t pull away, because if he did, all hell would break loose. In these sort of instances, Jabber practically turned into a spiralling toddler, and any little thing could trigger the worst of outcomes — he clung to Zanka like a lifeline, so he wouldn’t let go. He couldn’t let Jabber lose his footing, let the earth shake apart under him and have him lose the one link he had back to safety.

“M’not,” Jabber sobbed, hysterically, “m’not his little boy— because, because..”

Even when his brain turned on him, as much as he convinced himself that his mother was only sick, Jabber was never able to side with her when it came to his own emotions.

He’d defend her, but he didn’t reciprocate.

It was always, “she was just sick,” and never “I was mommy’s boy, y’know?”

It was always “mama loved me a lot,” and never “I loved her.”

It was never about him, because Jabber couldn’t cope that way. He coped by saying it was out of love, just her own kind — he coped by blaming the psychiatric wards and nurses for letting her go without medication — he blamed his dad for choosing drugs when his own child was hidden behind a closed door and thick covers.

So that was The Line.

When Jabber hooked up with new people, he made it very fucking clear that they were absolutely not to call him some perverted shit like “little boy” and to never stake claim on him.

Zanka knew he didn’t elaborate why, but neither did he have to. Some people had sexual boundaries for no reason, and that still didn’t make it okay to cross them.

So he was scared, downright terrified that down the hallway, Jabber was sitting in his bed, plagued by memories of a man who had spoken words too close to home.

He didn’t have to worry for long, because eventually, while he was driving himself nauseous with what ifs and what can I do, his open door was knocked on, waiting for permission rather than opening with a creak as usual.

Zanka sat up straight, “Yeah, J. I’m up.”

Jabber took that as the invitation it was and opened the door slightly, standing like a guilty toddler in the doorway.

His arms trembled, torn to complete shreds to stand designer matched with the blood under his nails, paired with the stylistic choice of hair that had been tugged and clawed in.

“Hey.” Zanka said gently, hoping to come off the way he felt. Concerned, but safe as he always was.

Jabber stood still for a second, then sniffled, his tense shoulders giving up with defeat as he blinked at the ceiling to will the tears away, “I don’t know what to fucking do.”

His voice came out broken in a way Zanka had never heard, full of so much pain and vulnerability he had yet to see, even as the one that was always on the receiving end of Jabber’s emotions.

“You can start by coming here.”

The boy let out a snort that muffled into a tiny sob, his face could not hold onto that smile that Zanka had managed to bring out for just a second, and he grimaced in overwhelming feelings. Jabber nodded and walked over, crawling into bed but not touching Zanka at all like he usually would, clinging to him like he was the last person on planet earth.

“Touch good or should I screw off?”

Jabber sniffled, a small nod.

Zanka smiled despite himself, his hand reaching out to softly card through messed up locks — the motion was meant to bring comfort, but instead, his best friend let out a gutwrenching sob.

“He said it.”

Yeah, Zanka had guessed as much, but that didn’t make his anger die down any more.

“We can go slit his throat if yer up for it. Maybe burn his damn house down, I’m ready ‘n packed.”

No snort or laugh came like usual — this was a rare occurrence, but had happened here and there while the two lived together, so Zanka had mostly learned how to deal with it, and his main tactics weren’t going great for him today.

Jabber laid still for a second, trying to keep it in, and failed pathetically.

One sob broke the damn, and he became a messy puddle of a shaking body and excessive amounts of liquid release from his eyes.

He turned his face to the mattress, hiding away from Zanka even though he never had to. Snot and tears smeared under him, but Zanka cared not for that either, instead he just adjusted to sit cross legged beside Jabber and pulled him in.

Lanky but muscular trembling arms wrapped around his waist, and a wet sobbing face pressed into his stomach, dampening his black tank top. Paying no mind to that, Zanka stayed silent this once. 

“M’sorry,” Jabber gasped, sounding in pain through his very throat, “m’so fuckin’ sorry Z, I’m sorry I’m—“ another sob cut him short.

Zanka’s blood ran cold, however.

Because Jabber just so rarely apologised for real.

Sarcastically, yes — and he did apologize in the event of his words accidentally cutting deep and hitting territory in Zanka’s heart they weren’t meant to. But here he was, just blatantly word-vomiting apologies out like it was the only word left before he went entirely mute.

“Don’t be sorry, J. Ain’t your fault at all, y’know that, dumbfuck. Yer fine.” He whispered sweetly, in contrast to his slightly harsh words.

The boy shook his head repetitively, a wail tearing through his scratched up throat as he hiccuped through incoherent apologies and pleas, some for forgiveness, some for understanding, they were all irrational in the face of his panic. 

Jabber knew Zanka had nothing to forgive, and already understood everything, but he was losing his composure after the events of tonight.

Zanka himself didn’t know why it was so much worse than usual this time around — Jabber always freaked out when a man, or a woman, crossed that specific line. He trembled and he cried and he screamed out in rage at the bastards but he didn’t fall apart like this. 

He broke things, he tore himself to shreds which seemed to be a step he hadn’t missed this time around either, he screamed and screamed and screamed until he’d have lost his voice the next day, tears always fell but rarely in a wail.

Yet now, he had been reduced to all but anger, just pure, unarmed, hurt.

Jabber was hurting as if the thorns of roses dragged up his arms, leaving him bleeding out like Aurora in her sleep because he’d made one stupid mistake in a mindless situation. He’d needed relief so he went out in order to find it, only to come back like an abandoned and abused kitten.

It wasn’t like Zanka ever judged him.

He had once, when the two didn’t know each other like they did know, called him things like an addicted masochist who could go rot — and to be fair, Jabber’s relationship to substances wasn’t normal, and neither was he not a masochist, so Zanka wasn’t wrong when he had spat those spiteful insults. It was natural for the two of them to go head to head and dance on a thin line of violence, but the longer they spent together, the more Zanka got to learn.

It was all just badly concealed coping on Jabber’s part.

Zanka wouldn’t deem himself mentally stable, or well in general, but it took one glance at that manic grin and unhinged laughter to click that Jabber had probably been in and out of a few wards. He hadn’t, because no one ever admitted him and he had no care to admit himself — but had the circumstances been different, he might still be locked up in white comfortable clothes and under the gaze of nurses who specialised in the mentally ill.

His point was that an intoxicated, hurt Jabber, was usually his best version.

Not because sober Jabber was bad, but because Sober Jabber was usually Angry Jabber.

For no particular reason. Zanka at least hadn’t caught on to any, he just knew that if Jabber didn’t at the very least have a few drags of weed in him, his movements became rough and laggy instead of smooth waves in an ocean. His voice got snappier in contrast to the laughing sing-songy tone he always used.

Nonetheless, Zanka didn’t judge Jabber’s habit of having blow in his system, of letting the occasional tab dissolve on his tongue or rotting his lungs with an everyday fix ( he didn’t get the real fixs, the sort of shit that had him pushing a needle into his vein and poisoning his blood with diamorphine, because Zanka had made it clear that upon use of heroin, he’d be gone. ) — because that was just Jabber.

Zanka loved Jabber for who he was, and that was an idiotic man who had idiotic coping mechanisms. So he stayed through that, without judgement, and concealed worry. 

“M’so fuckin’ stupid, I should’ve killed myself when I had the chance, I have no idea what m’doing.” 

The world narrowed down to the venomous tongue that flickered with heart-wrenching words. Ironic as it was, Jabber’s filthy tongue resembled a snake with the metal bar pierced through the tip. It was a dangerous piercing, but Jabber had never cared for dangers. It suited who he was as a person, a slithering snake — and his mouth with glistening snake eyes.

Jabber had never tried to kill himself, he just didn’t have any regards for his life before.

That was to say, Zanka understood what he meant when he said “when I had the chance” because Jabber was in no position to take his own life after meeting his best friend.

Unstable the two might be, but with whatever shit they had going on between them, no space was left to leave. It would be betrayal like no other — so now they were both left to suffer in the pain that came with being alive, except they at the very least had each other. Suffering was horrible, but they didn’t do it alone.

He had his chances, though.

Given the drug use and scenes he fucked around in, it was almost a surprise Jabber wasn’t dead and buried already.

“Then I never would’a gotten to beat yer sorry ass, though.” Zanka said calmly, trying not to drown in the fact that this was the first time Jabber had brought up suicide in years.

He used to frequently, was the type of guy who’d think of suicide as the first logical solution to boredom — Zanka was the same in that matter, except his solution was for when he was angry, not bored. He just didn’t speak loud about it, and it was never a plan, just the sort of fantasies that had him zoning out, daydreaming about a train wreck or a car accident that would have the hell guards picking up the news papers, and hum a “ah, so he finally lost it, huh?”

But Jabber had gradually stopped with the comments. The threats, really.

They felt like threats.

Zanka knew they weren’t, they were outbursts coming from someone who used humor as a coping mechanism and therefore didn’t mind spitting a “I’m gonna fuckin’ shoot myself, my dude.” as if it didn’t send a shudder down Zanka’s spine, each numb turning cold as his back arched in discomfort.

He had a vague and creeping suspicion that the reason Jabber stopped was because he realised it upset Zanka.

Yet here he was, saying those things with so much self-hatred and contempt.

It wasn’t often that Jabber was vulnerable — Zanka was aware he’d made it sound like that over the course of everything, mentioning the nightmares and the coping mechanisms, the incidents and the tears, but those were situations that had piled up through five years of knowing Jabber Wonger. In result and total, they were less than a mere handful of memories

Which was why tonight was especially getting under his skin.

Everything was screaming wrong wrong wrong.

The first strike was Jabber coming home early.

The second was the way he’d treated Zanka, avoiding his eyes and snapping easier than usual when Zanka knew for a fact he had something in his system, maybe a line before leaving or some alcohol from dinner — he wasn’t fully sober, so he shouldn’t be snappy.

The third was this.

This heartbreaking and downright nauseating wailing that erupted from Jabber’s body.

Fourth and final strike — he said he should’ve killed himself.

“M’such an idiot,” Jabber giggled maniacally, wet and thick with wide eyes full of panic, “How does it keep happening, Z?”

Zanka swallowed, and helped Jabber up to sit in the space between spread thighs, a head full of locks placed gently on his collarbone. “I don’t know, Jabs. ‘Cause people suck.”

“But you don’t suck.” He sniffled genuinely, another little giggle escaping him, “you’re the only person in this whole fuckin’ world who don’t suck ‘n yet I keep leavin’ the flat for people who do this to me.”

True, but for good reasons. Zanka could only say as much.

“Sure,” he nodded, leaning back on one palm while keeping the other gently caressing the unhurt spaces of Jabber’s bare arm, “you leave ‘cause I can’t give ya all ya want, and that’s ‘aight. You need frequent sex ‘cause yer a bit of a pervert—“ he’d avoided saying something like that in fear of triggering the sobbing mess if it wasn’t Jabber in his lap, “— and m’not always available.”

Jabber swallowed a thick breath, nuzzling into Zanka’s shoulder.

“Everybody fuckin’ hurts me but you.” He whispered.

Not true, yet the most honest thing he’d ever said.

Zanka hurt him often, always had. They were rivals once, and that would forever stay with them, their way of fighting. It was a relief thing, a bonding thing other times, occasionally a sex thing — regardless, Zanka hurt him. When they sparred, when they fucked, when they got angry.

Sometimes with punches, sometimes with words.

Zanka Nijiku didn’t deserve to be excluded from all the bastards in the world who hurt Jabber.

And yet.

Yet.

It was all the more different.

They both knew that.

“Then it’s damn good I’m not goin’ anywhere.”

Jabber chuckled weakly, his smile still ever-present, though softer now, even as it started to fade into that ugly grimace that came with his tears. He hiccuped, wiping at his face all child-like, his hands practically in juvenile fists.

“I’need a shower,” he sighed, drained of all he had, though the tears never stopped, dropping away like rain on a winter night, “I feel dirty.”

Dirty, oh, so dirty.

Zanka got the sentiment. He felt dirty just being skin-contact with Jabber when he knew the reason behind his cries — he felt like he, in some way, was contributing to all those dirty hands. Logically he knew he didn’t, but no logic was strong enough in the face of concern carried by a man who loved. 

However, if he felt dirty, he could only imagine what Jabber felt.

“Do you want help?” Zanka whispered softly, not knowing which answer to expect. 

Both answers were relatively possible — given that Jabber might not want hands all over his naked body at the current moment, which would be more than fair ( it would be fair at any point in between space and time ), but he could also be in need of having Zanka close. That was a common outcome for these kind of nights too.

Jabber nodded with a sniffle, not moving out of his safe-space just yet.

Five more minutes, then.

___________________

“Here,” Zanka grunted as he heavily sat down on their balcony, black railing digging into his back when he leaned against it, having gotten up to retrieve a lighter from the living room. Jabber sat opposite from him, their knees bumping into each other and their legs tangled.

He, too, leaned against the black railing, but his magenta eyes found no fiery blue ones, instead his head tilted towards the night sky full of all the stars the universe held.

“J.” Zanka carefully nudged his ankle with his own, watching as the focused eyes finally slowly rolled down to him. 

One body leaned over, a hand outstretched with a red worn lighter in its grip. 

Jabber’s eyes fell heavy and droopy, staring at it for a second in complete silence before he grabbed it, then with a sigh reached for the joint placed beside him on the ashtray.

Not a word passed between the two friends while Zanka remained transfixed on the sight of Jabber, his Jabber, bringing the joint to his lips, letting it dangle weakly there for a second as he made a cup with one palm, keeping the air away from the lighter.

It clicked multiple times, little small flickers that weren't nearly enough to do anything, until a small flame enlightened.

The fire cast a gentle glow to Jabber’s exhausted features, yet it was a sight for sore eyes.

He was so beautiful.

Zanka thought him more ethereal than that of old legends, of gods whose entire title fell upon their beauty — of women whose long hair would gently sweep over the the cup of their breasts, ending by the gentle bulge of their tummy — of the sky he’d once considered the most gorgeous thing to be seen by the human eye.

A naive kid he had been, thinking the stars could compare to Jabber.

The lighter shut down once more and was cast to the side, the man in front of him taking a deep inhale and sighing in pure sweet relief.

“Fuck, I needed that.” Jabber groaned, running a trembling hand through his hair as his previously closed eyes opened to gaze at the moon again.  He thought of saying the moon is beautiful tonight and Zanka thought of replying yeah, gorgeous while never looking away from Jabber.

They were cliche through and through, but by god did they fucking love each other.

“Don’t hog,” Zanka complained, his arm that was placed on his bent up knee gestured to hand the joint over.  He never cared much for weed — but he liked the intimate act that came with sharing a rolled toxin. He liked the feeling of Jabber gently tilting his head and holding his mouth open by the jaw so he could transfer the cannabis in an almost kiss. Shotgunning was partly why he hadn’t stopped agreeing when Jabber knocked on his door, grinning and pleading for a companion.

It was addicting, was all.

All of Jabber was addictive — he had an addictive personality in the sense of him easily getting addicted, but also in the sense of Zanka needing his presence like a personal drug.

Obsession, again. It was their nature.

His boy grinned, white teeth flashing Zanka in the face as he was handed the joint and got his first drag of the night.

“Y’know.” Jabber hummed, idly tapping his fingers against his thigh, “I’ve been thinking.”

Zanka smiled, “oh?” and inhaled until his lungs felt sore and his chest full. “Not your usual style but m’listening.”

Opposite of him, Jabber gave him a rough nudge to reprimand.

“I’ve been thinking,” he repeated more firmly, “about like, the world.”

A snort erupted from Zanka, who ended up coughing a few times and handed the joint over to distance himself from it in the midst of a fit, “I’m not gonna listen to one of yer stupid smoke talks. Y’know I don’t fuck with your hypotheticals and wonders about the universe.”

He would listen, though. Always would.

Jabber shook his head, wide grin fading into a gentle one, head lolling to the side and eyes gazing at the night sky.

“Nah, nah. I ain’t mean like that, more just.. ‘bout people. I think.”

Silence filled the space between their bodies while the rest of the world lived on, cars underneath them gently driving through the night, streetlamps that hummed with electricity, the occasional bark of a badly tamed dog who didn’t understand the rest of the world was meant to be asleep.

Zanka waited him out while Jabber took a calm drag, then passed it over again. He took it easily.

“People?” He asked, lifting the joint to his own lips — a little indirect kiss of theirs.

“Yeah. ‘Bout why we act the way we do, eh?”

“I think I’m following, yeah.”

“Mm.. I’ve heard the bullshit over ‘n over again, y’know the infamous “why do we love those who hurt us” but ain’t nobody ever spin the damned question. Why do we hurt them we love, ‘s what I’m fucking wonderin’.”

He swallowed, thumb playing with a ring.

Zanka said nothing.

“Because the first one is easy.”

At that, Zanka perked up, peeking over the joint until he lowered it, flicking it once and tilting his head, “You think there’s an easy answer to such a complicated question?”

A small chuckle came from Jabber, finally looking towards Zanka. “Duh. Y’don’t gotta be stoned to find a way through the maze. You either know it or you don’t,” he tapped his pointer on his temple twice, “I know it.”

“Okay,” Zanka smiled, “let’s say you do, oh wise one. Do tell.”

“Well, Zan-Zan, ask me the question and I shall answer. Your genius at your service.”

Fair enough.

“Pray tell, Wonger, why do we love those who hurt us?”

“Ah, the wonders of love.” Jabber sighed dramatically, theatrical as usual. Zanka found himself calmed by how he seemed more like himself, after tonight. “Because we cling. To anything that presents itself. Love, sex, drugs — we find something that’s a temporary calm to our brain, and even though we ain’t stupid, even though we know it ain’t actually help shit, that momentary silence is pure bliss.”

Zanka listened.

“Drugs make you sick, they kill you. Sex can be good, sex can be real good, but it can be just as bad. Love is.. y’know in one way it’s totes’ different, then not really at all, y’dig?”

“Not sure.”

“Mm well, sex is the only raw thing we’ve got, drugs are just.. manipulations ‘n shit — but love? That’s the real stuff. So we cling to that harder than motherfuckin’ anything, Zanka. We hold onto that because yeah, an orgasm feels amazing, a fix even better for some, but ain’t nothing like being looked at like you hung the moon.”

Jabber continued, “so obviously we gon love somebody if they give even a fraction of that feeling. Like, sure, punch me in the fuckin’ face, but tell me ya love me after and i'm cured. It’s a pack thing. Nature, ‘n all.”

Zanka counted that a valid reply — and an easy one as well. Cue a point to Jabber for that, he won this round. 

As a reward, the joint was passed back to him.

With a delighted and content hum, and an inhale so deep it could’ve burned the last of the paper, another question surfaced. One Zanka found himself brave enough to ask, perhaps due to the many drags or the late night, regardless.

“Okay, so that one was easy. Then what about the other?”

“That’s what I’m askin’!” Jabber erupted with a wide gesture, arms out in question. 

“Because I can’t find that one. I just can’t. I heard someone ask the same once, some druggie I knew who always fell into all this deep talk shit when he was rotted enough, ‘n he asked our guy the same. Why do we hurt those we love. And y’know what he said?”

Zanka shook his head.

“He said if yer hurtin’ em, ya ain’t even love them from the beginning.”

A painful throb splintered through his heart, realizing with the force of a train wreck where they were going. Hurtling, at the speed of lightning — something Zanka couldn’t stop, and he didn’t quite see why he should either.

It had to happen, at some point.

“But I don’t believe that.”

Zanka didn’t say a word, Zanka didn’t breathe.

“It can’t be true, there’s just no way.” Suddenly, his voice started wavering in the way that came from anger, the sort of anger that was used to hide something much worse.

“I mean, ya hurt me all the fuckin’ time, right?” Contrary to his earlier statement, but that had been a dubious double-edged sword anyway, so Zanka paid that no mind. “You punch me ‘round, given me some of the best bruises of my fucking life and– and you love me.”

“I do.”

“Right, so– so it ain’t true.”

…

“Zanka.”

…

“Zanka, tell me it ain’t fucking true.”

“I hurt you, and I love you.” He agreed easily, “but I hurt you because you love it. If you looked me dead in da eye, ‘n told me to stop hurtin’ ya? My hands would be tied. I would never–“

“No. No that’s– it doesn’t work like that.”

“For me it—“

“No, Zanka. You don’t fuckin’ get it. If you can, then everybody else can too, if your sadistic ass would be able to back off just because I said no then– then why the fuck isn’t everybody else? Why, god help me, do we hurt the ones we love? It can’t be primal evil. Humans suck, but we come in packs, we’re pack animals. We protect, we don’t hunt our own kind.”

Jabber ran a hand down his face, ignoring the welling tears, “so why?”

Zanka didn’t know.

“I don’t know.”

“Did she love me?”

Zanka didn’t know.

“I don’t know, J.”

“She fucking had to.” He whimpered, curling in on himself, “she said she did, and my mama ain’t ever lie to me. Never, not— not once, did she fucking lie to me. She loved me, she loved me, Zanka.”

“I believe you.”

Did he? Zanka didn’t know that either. In a way, he believed Jabber’s endless defense, the belief that she truly was just sick, and she loved her boy down to the bone.

But Zanka also knew love. He knew a mother’s love — his version had been the tough kind. Words that cut straight through his heart and gazes that made him swallow and bow, but he also knew of lullabies and a warm shoulder to sleep on, of scented shampoo and proud smiles. It was contrary to his dad, who favored their siblings and never really gave Zanka the same sort of attention. It wasn’t even the misogyny, because he adored Kyouka — it didn’t matter that Zanka had once been a little girl, his father didn’t think him weak for that.

Zanka was just weak, period.

A weak girl, a weak boy, a weak man.

Jabber also knew of songs and kind eyes — but the difference came where Zanka hadn’t known of gentle hands and reassurances under his covers. He never defended his mother because he had none to defend. Her words were rough, but they motivated him — her gazes sharp, but they calmed him in the face of panic.

So now, when Zanka said he believed that Jabber’s mom loved him, he cursed at himself for not knowing whether that was a lie or not.

“J.” He said, as gentle as possible. “Your mother was a monster.”

Is a monster.

The cunt was still alive, a walking pedophile that deserved to have her throat slit and head detached from her body, but even Semiu, the best detective Zanka had ever known, could find no trace of her.

“No,” he shook his head with another whimper, “she was sick.”

“Two things can be true at once.”

“Like love and selfishness.” He sniffled, looking towards the sky again. “Right?”

“… no. No, not those. Love is selfless, J. I thoroughly believe that.”

It wasn’t entirely selfless, everybody knew that. Humans were selfish creatures, in all genres and topics, no matter the person on the other end — of course love had its selfishness buried too, but agreeing with Jabber’s shield of defense right now would only be worse in the long run.

All at once, Jabber became eerily quiet. His body stopped fidgeting, the shaking itself vanishing into the night like it’d been washed off him, and now laid in a puddle on their balcony, slowly dripping down to the ground beneath them.

His eyes darted back and forth between the stars above, swallowing hard.

Zanka stared at him all the same, taking over the spot that Jabber usually held where his eyes would be the ones glued to a slender waist and ashy blonde hair. 

Jabber’s lips pressed into a thin line, mulling his thoughts over before butting the joint out, standing up, and taking his leave. 

Zanka was smarter than making an attempt at following.

____________________

“You’re mommy’s special boy, aren’t you, baby?”

Jabber giggled, everything upside down as his head hung down the couch, “you’re embarrassing Ma.”

A look of pitiful sadness washed over his mothers face, and she sighed with such awful disappointment.

“I suppose every mother has to let go of her son at some point, doesn’t she?”

“Ma, that wasn’t what I meant.” Jabber huffed, spinning around and flopping onto the floor, “but I ain’t a kid no more, so calling me—“

“You’ll always be my little boy, Jabber.”

____________________

Jabber Wonger didn’t speak to Zanka Nijiku for two entire days.

For a man so obsessed as he was, as codependent as they came, it was awfully worrying that he refused to even spare a glance at Zanka — instead he avoided his very being, only stepping out of his room when he was sure his counterpart had retreated to his own.

Zanka would’ve reached out, would’ve made sure he was okay but …

It was just that Jabber always came himself if he needed it. If it was so bad, he fell into open arms, so him not even caring to as much as look at Zanka’s face was practically the biggest rejection one could have slapped in front of their eyes.

It was until he was mindlessly laying on the couch ( he started spending more time out in the open so Jabber couldn’t run away, but without pressuring him to talk ), scrolling on his phone as some channel played on the tv — he was considering if they had to go grocery shopping yet, and if he should ask whether Jabber would come along, when a heavy body flopped onto him.

The air was knocked out of his chest, and the boy spluttered as he suddenly had to accommodate the new additional weight.

Zanka, to his credit, stayed entirely silent.

He moved just enough to get comfortable with an entire Jabber on him, but didn’t even care to lower his phone, instead placing it between Jabber’s shoulder blades and continuing the doom of the endless internet. 

He was waiting him out.

Listen, years around a man will teach you a few things, years around Jabber Wonger will teach you survival. 

One of the very first things Zanka learned was that if he didn’t wanna talk, he didn’t wanna fucking talk. If he did want to, then it was to be on his own terms, when it happened and how it started — if he did not, asking him wouldn’t matter.

Approximately thirty minutes passed of Jabber simply breathing on top of him, occasionally squirming a little to bury into Zanka’s chest, until he spoke up.

Jabber’s voice came out cold, empty in a way that had him sounding like a corpse speaking through time and space; “I am in so much pain, everyday, Zanka.”

And, well. Yeah. Zanka knew that.

Because nobody who took so many drugs, who seeked out such unhealthy relationships, who had the sort of childhood Jabber did, would live a peaceful life without their brain turning on them. If they did, they wouldn’t have those coping mechanisms. 

It didn’t really make it any easier to hear.

Zanka closed his phone, laying it to the side so he could begin letting his short nails go up and down, up and down, on Jabber’s clothed back.

“I can’t take any more of that.”

Understandable. Zanka himself lived through numerous amounts of self-torture, yet he liked to think he probably couldn’t survive a day inside Jabber’s head.

“M’not delusional, okay? I know ya think I am, that m’lying to myself—“ we both know you are, Jabber. “— but I ain’t. I'm aware. M’just.. only when I’m sober, y’know? If I ain’t got none runnin’ through my system, I start remembering and I start thinking. Y’know I fucking hate thinking.”

That… made an awful lot of sense.

Zanka did know that Jabber hated thinking, and he had also caught onto the fact that the drugs main idea was to stop him from thinking at all. He became impulsive, a body without hesitation or doubt — no space for a chain of thought to wreck into him.

He supposed he hadn’t quite thought of the possibility that the drugs also kept Jabber from thinking about more than just what his next move was, instead of diving head-first in on instinct.

“Are you sober now?” Zanka asked with a small sigh, left unassuming of what the answer may be.

Regardless, he was a little surprised ( though he shouldn’t have been, with how Jabber was acting ) that the man on top of him let out a scoff, “Yeah.”

“… how long have you been sober, J?”

It wasn’t like Jabber was constantly on something, just that.. he kind of was. Not thoroughly, as mentioned — just always at least a little weed, or some painkillers that were stronger than his prescribed ones would’ve been, maybe a few shots, at least a fucking cigarette.

Sober, for them, meant absolutely nothing. 

Obviously cigarettes didn’t go under the realm of drugs, so it shouldn’t count as under the influence or intoxicated when it was just an illusion of a stress reliever that killed your lungs ( Zanka liked to argue they were all illusions, drugs didn’t bring anything real, and Jabber knew as much too — he was just perfectly fine with his feelings being fake and warped by reality if it meant they weren’t painful ) but, regardless, when he asked if Jabber was sober, he included cigarettes in the mental pocket of it.

He wasn’t quite sure whether Jabber knew that, though, even if they were often on the same page.

“Not even cigs?”

“Nope.” Jabber popped the P, sighing and resting his chin on Zanka’s sternum, which hurt a fair amount and would usually have gotten his hair ripped out of his scalp. Zanka let him be this once.

“.. I just,” he sighed, “I need ya to give me some time. Okay? I’ll— I’ll figure it out. Please?”

Zanka desperately wished to know what had occurred a few nights ago, because The Line being crossed didn’t cause this. It didn’t cause Jabber to think about killing himself again, it didn’t make him start thinking, it only ever made him panic. It didn’t make him ask please.

More had happened, and as much as Zanka wanted to know, he feared slightly for the world itself if he were to find out what that man had said. What he’d done.

“Yeah. Yeah, J. Course.”

____________________

“What in the world happened to you?” His mother shrieked, gasping at the sight of her giggling son, soaked by the front door. It was much too late to be out, and he hadn’t picked up her calls — Jabber knew it was a bad idea, but he was in the age where rebelling became a test, a test to see how far he’d have to go before she broke.

Before she started hating him.

Enough to stop.

So he swayed while peeling his wet jacket off, sniffling slightly as the cold from outside tore through his body.

The rain was louder than usual — the kind that pounded on the windows like an uninvited guest trying to force its way in.

“I was out with Aya.” He smiled, satisfied with the ill tone her voice carried. 

“Who?”

Jabber blinked, turning to his mother with a tilt of head, “Ayaka. Guy from my class? Seriously, Ma. You’ve met him like, three times.”

She didn’t seem as satisfied with his tone as he did his, and the stare that could’ve frozen his already wet frame forced a shudder through him, though easily hidden.

“You were out screwing around with some boy?” She sighed in disappointment, but also in relief — her version of screwing around was innocent, meaning they were running around and playing tag or some shit in the rain, but Jabber’s version and the real version of screwing around meant something else entirely. 

So, she was spot on, she just didn’t know that.

Jabber’s mother never really came to know he wasn’t only interested in girls before this night, because he didn’t want to break her heart, much as a rebel he was.

So when she stalked over, he was ready to apologize, because he’d argue he had gotten his fix of ‘piss mama off’ drug for the day. Small victories.

But she paused short of reaching him, standing still while he bent down to take his shoes off.

When Jabber came up to stand again, her eyes were zeroed in on his neck.

Awe, shit.

“Baby, what is that?”

He sighed, bringing an unsteady hand up and rubbing at the side of his throat, “Aya was just playin’ ‘round, Ma. It wasn’t—“

A thumb pressed into the prominent hickey, and the boy whimpered at the unpleasant sting. It hurt, she was hurting him. Did she know?

Did she ever really know?

“… Jabber.”

____________________

JABBER WONGER

Jabber’s first thought upon waking up was; holy shit, I wanna kill myself.

The second thought that followed was a plain image of Zanka’s face, which was usually first to the finish-line regarding Jabber’s morning thoughts.

After thinking of Zanka, Jabber thought about how he wanted to kill himself a little bit more.

Not because thinking of his one and only particularly made him want to be dead, but because Jabber Wonger was a stubborn prick, and thinking of Zanka reminded him that he could no longer be dead, which made him want it just that much more.

Like when you’re looking at something you don’t necessarily yearn for, yet when it’s stripped out of your hands and you’re told ‘no’, suddenly it becomes your life mission to achieve that thing and that thing alone.

So, a bad morning, probably.

Most mornings had been bad recently.

Jabber didn’t really want to get up, but fuck did he want something in his blood, literally anything he could reach first. He’d love to let a tab dissolve on his tongue and let his brain become acidic, or to lean down and sniff to have some blow in the system, or to fucking drink, or just smoke a fucking cigarette.

Fuck! He’d take damn normal painkillers right now! 

Like, full on ibuprofen shit and all.

But no, no. He had to think. He had to think because some fucking bastard told him ( god forbid ) that he got off on it.

On fucking —

“Yeah? Does that feel good, baby?”

Jabber hummed quietly, simply soaking into the delicious feeling of having his breath taken away. Literally.

The buzzing inside his head was the kind that forced the rest of the world out when nothing else could, and god was it fucking drool-worthy.

Well, one other thing could always make the world quiet, but Jabber couldn’t come to Zanka every time he felt like his edges were splintering. He had to be in control, and his way of being in control was giving control. Alas, here he was.

Hands wrapped around his throat, cock so far up inside of him he wondered if it would leave a permanent shape.

It was nice, much as anything without Zanka could ever be. 

“Such a good boy, so good for Daddy.”

Yuck.

In contrast to popular belief, Jabber really didn’t fuck much around with the whole daddy thing. He understood that some men got off on it, and played along because some of them made it work, but if they were gonna do it they could at the fucking least degrade him.

Jabber hated being praised more than anything.

If it wasn’t Zanka, that is.

Praise from Zanka was something that made him feel like he was floating, jumping on cloud nine and trying to reach the pearly gates of heaven.

When other people did it, it just felt a bit nauseating, so he ignored the question and arched into the man, trying to focus on the monster splitting him open.

“Answer me, boy.”

Jabber groaned and opened his eyes, big manic grin on his face as he wrapped his long arms around the man’s upper body, gasping when air was finally let back through him, tears welling just from sheer relief. 

He shouldn’t be calling him that, but Jabber wasn’t really the sort of guy who backed out from a nasty fuck unless they actually crossed The Line.

He was steering dangerously close, though.

“Yeah? Daddy thinks I’m good? Maybe daddy is a fucking idiot for not getting the move on.”

“Ah, what a brat.” The older huffed a short laugh, leaning on one palm to grip thick dreads with the other, “Don’t be a whore, m’trynna blow some steam, just listen and be good, alright? I’m being nice.”

Jabber didn’t fucking like nice.

Zanka was nice so Zanka was the only one who got to be nice.

“Ya don’t wanna just fuck me? Maybe make me choke on your cock until I vomit—“

“Get it through your head, kid. I’m doing this at my pace.”

“Just—“

Before he had a chance at getting real annoyed, the bastard leaned down, kissing around his face and his neck. Which, yeah okay. He could fuck with that, if it meant less talk and more fuck, he could fuck with that real good.

He could’ve, at least.

“Shh, my boy, my little boy. Daddy’s gonna make you feel good.”

Jabber’s blood ran cold in direct contrast to the flaming hot fury blasting through his veins — hot and cold merging together into something incomprehensible, only the understanding to get the fuck out.

Right. Now.

“Get the fuck off me.”

“Calm down, baby. I just wanted to test you a little, yeah? You said you like having your boundaries pushed…”

No, he didn’t. He said he liked being pushed, period. Because sometimes he cried ‘no’ in overstimulation, or ‘stop’ out of pure primal instinct to pain, but he didn’t mean it. That’s why safewords existed, even if he never gave a shit enough to use them.

He very fucking specifically stated that the one thing they could not do, was stake any claim on him because only two specific people could do that, and they could not, under any circumstances, call him some pedophilic shit like ‘little boy’.

It was the one thing he wouldn’t negotiate on, and yet, people seemed to be braindead nowadays. Thinking with nothing but their dicks, and yeah, Jabber could sympathise, empathise even, hell he fucking related! But he didn’t do shit like this. He wouldn’t cross an openly stated boundary because he may be a dick but he is not a fucking— “are ya trynna rape me right now, you fuckin’ piece of shit? Think I can’t get you off me, huh?”

“Kid, be quiet. God, such a loudmouth.” He sighed, thrusting into Jabber, and not even the faint sense of pleasure could serve to cover up the phantom hands crawling down his body, oh, no there were indeed hands running down him. Just big, old man hands, not the delicate fingers of his mother.

“I know you get off on it, baby. ‘Course you do, isn’t that why you told me, hm? Because you knew I’d do it, and you like being pushed, isn’t that right? My little boy, sweet little boy. Let daddy play—“

“Red– red, red fucking RED!”

Jabber didn’t establish safewords with most of his hook ups because, admittedly, he didn’t practice safe sex.

He liked getting used, and yeah he liked getting pushed around, he liked being disrespected but not— there were limits. There was a Line. 

He had a safeword only with Zanka, and that was because he had been the one to say they needed it, wanting to make sure he had a word that would instantly snap him out of anything, even if he knew he’d never hurt Zanka.

Safety measures.

Safety he was only willing to insure for the one person who meant the world itself to him, safety he wasn’t willing to make for himself because it defeated the purpose of his kinks.

Well, you get what you get and you don’t throw a fit.

Practice what you preach.

Karma’s gonna come collect your debt, Cody Carson once sang. 

And fuck was Jabber indebted, financially fucking ruined.

“Is that a weak attempt at a safeword? Baby, you said you didn’t need one, let’s not try to be impulsive now.”

“Stop, stop. I’m so fucking serious man I will rip your guts out if you don’t—“

“Such crude language for such a sweet little boy—“

Jabber had used the unconscious man’s sink to wash the blood off of his trembling hands before he left. He didn’t kill him, and really, he should have.

But, Jabber tried not to get into legal trouble that wasn’t drugs anymore, because he lived with and loved the number one Mr. suck-up of the city, whose eyes shined at any praise given, posture faltered at any form of scolding.

So he tried not to get himself in situations because the likelihood that he’d somehow drag Zanka along was a little too strong for his liking.

Still, except for drugs.

But no drugs now, because Jabber had to think.

“I know you get off on it, baby.”

Did he?

No, no. Jabber didn’t get off on being called the thing his mother called him, that would make him as sick as she was and he wasn’t. Jabber wasn’t sick like that, he may be delusional in many ways, but Zanka had asked something once.

He was trying to prove a point.

“She was sick.”

“Sure she was, that doesn’t make it okay.” Zanka countered, like a bitch, like the bitch he was.

“I’m not saying that it’s okay, I’m saying she had— she had like, issues, Zanka. Mental issues.”

“Pedophilia is a medically recognized disorder.”

“That’s not what I mean!” Jabber shot up, eyes wide in fury and shock that he dared be so.. straight with it. People weren’t supposed to do that, they were supposed to be uncomfortable and recoil. “Something else was wrong. I don’t know what, nobody would tell me but it was fuckin’ obvious. It made her confused, she forgot things.”

“You don’t have to defend her, J.”

“She wasn’t doing anything wr- she didn’t know she was doing anything wrong!”

Zanka tilted his head, eyes narrowing a little, “Jabber, would you ever?”

It wasn’t curiosity, because Zanka knew just as well as Jabber did that, no. No, he wouldn’t. Of course he fucking wouldn’t.

Which he was gonna say, ( well, he was gonna say ‘no, I’m not sick she like was’ ) but the question itself had his guts turning inside out, and he’d puked the contents of his stomach all over their bathroom floor. 

Zanka apologised profusely and, thankfully, never brought up Jabber’s mother unless he did first.

Jabber didn’t.

Not often, anyway.

The thing was that he wasn’t sick, he didn’t get off on things that reminded him of children getting their dignity stripped from them, even if that child was himself. He never had, he just didn’t understand. 

How was he supposed to know?

Didn’t everybody’s mother kiss them goodnight?

But, well. She was sick.

She was. 

He didn’t know what it was, if it was a mental disorder that wasn’t a paraphilia, or something physical that clawed at her organs and turned her brain against her. Maybe she didn’t want to. She loved Jabber, if she had known she was hurting him, she wouldn’t.. she wouldn’t have.

He was sure of it.

“Ma, it hurts.”

“I know baby, just breathe.”

“Mom–“

“Shhh.”

Zanka’s question had been stupid because of fucking course he wouldn’t, but it wasn’t the same because he wasn’t sick and she was. If he wanted to prove a point with that question, Jabber should’ve been touched by a filthy old man who looked at illegal porn on his greasy computer until the police busted his door down and shot him in the fucking neck.

Not a woman whose voice sounded like the song of angels, a woman who sang Jabber lullabies when he couldn’t sleep, a woman who wasn’t filthy but beautiful. 

It didn’t work like that. Not for him.

It just.. it just. Didn’t.

So that man assuming he got off on it, was an equally idiotic assumption. Because of course he didn’t.

But Jabber couldn’t help thinking, couldn’t help forcing himself to stay awake to search through the database inside his brain of every time he’d cried mommy at some woman who was real nice in bed ( he didn’t get off on that either, sweet women scared him and sometimes, sometimes that meant his brain got smaller, awfully so, and he slipped somewhere else than the sweet bliss he was meant to be in. They didn’t realise, obviously. They just assumed it to be some kink that came from the usual dose of mommy issues. And, well. Yeah. But no. That specific headspace was the least sexual state Jabber could possibly be in, after all, he was but a mere child. ) — it terrified him.

For once in his life, Jabber felt so genuinely fucking terrified.

Because he was a hyper man, a hypersexual man, who’d let anything inside him and put his dick in anything that led him in.

Because he had sex in the most unsafe ways solely because he didn’t believe there was a point in giving himself an out, he’d never had one anyway. 

Because he didn’t say when it hurt, which he knew never worked.

Because Jabber seeked out people who made him feel small and unsafe.

Because it was familiar.

Because the softness scared him so much, oh, so terribly much. He thought it was scary when it was some soft-spoken older woman, but he hadn’t known real terror until he’d been kissing Zanka and the boy hummed contently, tilting his head to let Jabber do as he pleased.

Until Zanka’s eyes would search his face when he cried a little too loud after a hit, immediately asking if he was okay.

Until Zanka would hold him after, when his body was sore and his eyes dried out, throat scratchy from moaning and screaming.

Until Zanka made him feel safe.

Jabber was scared of safety because he didn’t understand it, he didn’t understand why it was there when Zanka’s pleasure came from making Jabber feel good, and not himself. He didn’t understand.

Which led to him being terrified that maybe, maybe he did get off on it. Not on the unsafe aspects, not on the pain, not on the name-calling, but the memories.

The—

Jabber heard himself crash to the floor, palms hitting the carpet before his face could — and he vaguely registered the noise of his own retching, followed by the distinct smell that always came with vomit.

The specific scent that reminded one of a dead body, of something rotten.

It wasn’t too far off, he thought.

Jabber was rotten.

Dirty.

But he wasn’t sick. He didn’t get off on the memories, he was just scared of the unknown, okay? He was scared. Sue him, ‘fucks sake. 

His limbs shook as his mouth was forced open a second time, just to not have to bear the taste for longer than necessary, holding it in the closed confinements behind his teeth, on his tongue.

All of the shame coursing through his body came out, becoming a puddle beneath his drooling lips and wet eyes. There was snot trailing down from his nose, puke mixed with spit dripping from his mouth, and the fattest fucking tears of the century drowning him in his own room.

The taste was horrid, the smell even worse.

Jabber threw up a third time.

It felt as if his body was trying to flip itself around like a sleeve, or like a plushie being emptied of all its filling, left only as a lifeless shell of soft fur that had long since gone hard from years of grease and touch.

A sob escaped him, very much not out of his own free will, and unwilling to listen to that of all things, he slapped a hand over his mouth.

It was disgusting, because his hand had been bathed in vomit, and his mouth had been the reason behind it, so the two connecting with a slick little squelch made his stomach churn again.

But he wouldn’t let up.

He didn’t wanna wake Zanka.

So he kept his hand there, his entire frame shaking as the overpowering smell of sick filled the room, his knees soaking in the puddle he’d made for himself like a pathetic child finding some water to splash around in.

He felt like a child.

He was a child, really.

And then there was a click on the other side of the hall, a faint yawn that very obviously came from someone who’d been woken up unnaturally, and probably wished to go back to bed.

So Jabber stayed quiet.

He always did.

He never said when it hurt, because he was supposed to be quiet.

Knock knock, “J, you up? I heard sum.. just wanna make sure yer fine.” A second yawn came through, making the last of Zanka’s sentence almost incoherent and slobby.

Jabber was crying, he knew he was, but fuck if he didn’t want Zanka to know. So he stayed, stayed silently sobbing and shaking like the fucking toddler he was until he heard footsteps retreat. 

It wasn’t really his fault, the thought of Zanka leaving was just overwhelming, even if it was what he thought he wanted.

So, Jabber threw up in his mouth.

He tried to bear the mouthful of puke suffocating him until he couldn’t, and coughed, hand still pressing tight over his lips. The vomit seeped out, spilling all over his hands and wetly falling to the floor, to his hair, to his knees. He was so, so filthy.

“Jabber!”

Well. Shit.

His door was opened. Fair play.

“J— Christ, what in the..?” Zanka blinked, covering the lower half of the face, overwhelmed by the rotting stench that came with Jabber’s rotten self. The evidence of it was poured on the floor, that Jabber was filthy, with deceased insides and a barely working coked up brain. 

He hated himself. 

But Zanka might hate him more. He wouldn’t hold it over his head after seeing this, not really. Jabber hated most people, he’d probably hate anyone who was as pathetic and weak as this. It seemed only logical, yet the only thing that crossed Zanka’s face was very sudden but very deep horror.

“You’re— that’s a lot of puke, did, did you, you didn’t—“

Jabber shook his head, slowly gazing down at the mess he’d made.

Great. 

Zanka let out a breath of relief at that, because if this was all just because of Jabber being a pathetic little bitch, he could probably deal with that. He didn’t know how to deal with an attempt. Didn’t know what to do if Jabber had already thrown up every last bit of pill he might’ve swallowed.

He wished he’d chomped down some pills, anything was better than the shame that still coursed through him despite it all seeping into his carpet at the same moment.

Zanka came over, crouching down just out of reach of the vomit Jabber was sitting in, having moved up to sit on the back of his legs. 

His knees felt wet.

Icky.

A hand was used to swipe away at the dreads framing his face, and he really just couldn’t help the sob that came out despite his restraint. 

“God, this is a lot.” Yeah, no shit, Zanka.

“Okay,” he nodded to himself as Jabber stayed quiet, staring at his misery, only for it to suddenly slip further away, and he was pulled up to stand. “Let’s wash up, come on.”

____________________

Jabber doesn’t speak while Zanka cleans.

Neither does he when he’s brought into Zanka’s room.

It felt like he didn’t speak for years, having stopped the first time he was shushed. How long had that been? Jabber didn’t remember. He didn’t know a lot of things, in all honesty. Reality was slipping from him actively, both the adult version of his life, and the delusions he’d let bleed into what he knew as logic.

Nothing made sense.

Well, other than the blue eyes across from him, sitting on the edge of the bed while Jabber had his arms curled around his legs, back against the headboard, chin on his knees.

“I’m sorry.” He started with, because it was something he could say in any timeline, no matter which space or time he occupied, he probably had something to be sorry for.

He didn’t apologize often, but there was a tugging in his heart that told him he had to.

Zanka disagreed.

“Don’t be. I’m glad you’re talking again.”

Had he stopped?

When did he stop?

Jabber didn’t know. 

.. he was talking again? What did he say? He couldn’t remember.

“I’m sorry.” He apologized, not knowing whether it was because he had no memory of his prior words that he’d apparently spoken, or because Zanka spoke so softly that it made him feel guilty for not talking. 

Jabber didn’t feel guilty as an adult a lot, but it had been different when he was a kid. He was practically a walking vessel for the feeling of guilt, becoming the physical embodiment, the eighth sin, the tenth circle of hell. 

“It’s okay.” Zanka said. He didn’t smile.

Jabber couldn’t remember if Zanka smiled a lot. A hunch told him that in comparison, he probably didn’t.

“I’don know was’happenin’.” He admitted, gathering saliva in his mouth and swallowing it. It scraped its way down his throat, awfully dry.

“It’s an episode, you have those sometimes.”

Did he? He didn’t remember.

“I don’t remember.”

Zanka smiled at that, but it looked sad. The sort of sad that adults tried to hide from children that didn’t yet have to know about the horrors of the world. It was small and pitiful, much like Jabber himself.

“I know, J. You don’t usually remember a lot.”

“Oh.” He nodded, “I’m sorry.”

A snort came from the older ( older? ) man, which made Jabber’s eyes look up at him. He couldn’t quite figure out what was funny about the amount of misery inside of him right now, way too much for a child like himself. It felt like it was spilling out of him, like a lid trying to keep something inside of its jar, but failing miserably.

“Sorry,” Zanka smiled, running a hand through his hair, “It’s just a bit uncanny. Y’know, the apologies. Makes me feel a bit odd, don’t mind me. Take your time.”

He couldn’t remember why, but something about the way Zanka was acting was so off.

It felt too sweet, too gentle for what Jabber assumed he was usually like. Huh, guess these episodes didn’t only affect him. Take that, sucker.

“M’fine.” He mumbled angrily when he remembered Zanka’s stupid choice of words. ‘Take your time’, Zanka could take him damn dick. 

The man who carried severe bad attitude energy shifted a little on the bed, still polite as ever, which. Seriously, knock it off. Regardless, he cleared his throat, scratched the back of his nape and stared at Jabber, “Y’know I can’t trust ya on that when this happens.” Before Jabber could open his mouth, Zanka answered his next comeback without having heard it. Psycho. “I know you don’t remember, give it a few minutes and you will again, the episodes makes you disoriented as fuck, Jabber. I’ve been through this enough times know what to do, so just trust me.”

“That’s hypocritical as fuck.” He mocked back.

“Yeah, well. Sucks to suck, I guess. You get to trust me, I don’t get to trust you. Maybe you should work on that.”

“Or maybe ya have trust issues,” bad attitude alright. What a cunt. “I don’t even remem—“

“That’s a lie. You’ve tried that enough times, I know you remember me. Your memories are just hazy, overshadowed by your past, it’s a whole thing.”

“Sounds like you got it from a shrink.”

“A shrink you desperately need.”

“Damn, low blow.”

“Jabber,” Zanka groaned in annoyance, shifting again to sit cross legged with his face in his palms. “Can we speedrun this? Can you just talk to me? Please?”

“You just said to take my time.”

“Yeah, because I thought you were freaking out. But right now you’re just being a brat.”

Brat.

Brat.

“Ah, what a brat.”

The memory crashed into Jabber harder than an oncoming train would of, and it felt as if all seven seas were dumped on top of his head, making him straighten up and gasp, arms tightening around himself.

Shit, yeah. He always forgets that happens.

He can’t help it, he’s gonna forget again. 

“Z—“ he called out in sudden desperation, arm flinging out to find those pale fingers hopefully wrapping around his, panic clouding his fogged vision.

Thankfully, ( he’d thank every deity ever recorded in the books ) Zanka came up besides him.

“Okay, okay. I’m here, J. You’re fine. Right here.”

But Jabber gasped through the sudden realization, unable to understand why. Did he always react like this after? He didn’t see any reason to. Sure, getting doused back into reality after losing sense of the universe itself for a little was scary for anybody, but it couldn’t possibly warrant this amount of panic. It clawed at his throat like a monster trying to possess his body, splitting him open and crawling in through his gasping mouth.

He whimpered, hands tugging at the man beside him until his curled form was sat between two legs, his frantic head placed on a sharp collarbone.

Stuttering breaths turned into choking sobs, a faint tremor turning into an earth shattering quake of his body. 

“I know.” Zanka sympathised, apathetic as he sounded. But it was him,  it was grounding, it was— it was something to hold onto when all that Jabber could see was dark agony. “Hold on to me.”

By fuck was he holding.

The last days had been nothing but blatant torture, from the moment he stepped outside the apartment and left Zanka’s natural warmth that always came with him, that kept Jabber from falling off the deep end into a cold winter, till now. 

Through a douchebag who couldn’t respect boundaries, through 2 days of being sober, through nightmares and episodes and sickness and misery. 

He just wanted it to end, really. 

Just for a little bit, a moment of silence in his sober brain.

“Zan— Zanka.”

“Yeah, Baby?”

Jabber almost gagged again.

Baby was such a reserved word, not particularly when it came from Jabber’s mouth, but from Zanka. 

In the last five years of knowing him, Jabber had only heard that specific petname slip here and there, less than he could count on one hand. Zanka just.. didn’t really use them, even in moments of affection he’d throw out insults, laughing a ‘dumbass’ or grimacing a ‘skuzzball’ while fighting and Jabber let his mouth run freely.

He didn’t do all that honey-sweet shit.

Not baby, not love or darling, so in the rare instances where it dropped from his mouth, Jabber dropped just as hard.

He sobbed much as possible, given how much air his lungs were currently lacking, and nuzzled his wet face into Zanka’s neck, needing the scent of him to overwhelm what was happening to his body. He needed Zanka’s presence and aroma like he needed drugs to shut down his thoughts, it was his only remedy.

“M’scared,” he gasped out, because scared was the only word that made sense in the sudden frantic state of his brain, the only one he could point at and go ‘that one.’

Zanka made a noise of sympathy, a little whine of his own that didn’t sound remotely as disoriented as Jabber’s continuous ones did.

“Yeah, yeah I know.” He sighed, pressing a kiss to Jabber’s damp forehead. God he was cold, downright freezing in the state of his own shock. “It’ll pass, just breathe.”

“I can’t fucking— it’s like, hah, like somethin’ is fuckin’ blockin’ ma throat,” he whimpered, hand coming up to wrap around the sore neck, hoping it would somehow against all odds save him some grace and ease air into him.

It did not.

Neither did clawing at his chest.

“Then don’t try to talk, y’idiot.” 

A whine tore from his ragged throat, followed by a full body shudder.

So cold.

“…” Zanka remained silent after that, silently comforting in the way he knew how, with gentle touches and his own deep breathing made for Jabber to reciprocate. No words neither of them really understood all that well, just a physical presence.

In the midst of it all, Jabber started to slip. 

To somewhere he couldn’t quite name, a fantasy land with no name, somewhere that felt familiar and nostalgic yet lost within the core of his soul.

After that, he didn’t register a lot.

He registered Lovely at one point jumping up on the bed, occupying the space of Jabber’s chest ( when had he laid down? ) and purring, having a cuddly moment of her own.

Jabber fell asleep at one point, he’d guess, but he didn’t really notice waking up either.

___________________

“What are you talking about?”

Jabber would’ve appreciated to be more coherent, a little bit more present, to discover just how venomous the comforting voice of his mother could become.

It would’ve been bone-chilling deep, had he been able to feel his body at all.

“Jabber.”

Delicate fingers, rough in their wakening, grabbed ahold of his chin to pry his eyes from the ceiling and onto reciprocated magenta ones. 

He’d always been so proud of looking just like his Mama.

“Answer me.”

Lazy eyes with no real vision blinked, and one thing that he could thank the shit in his system for, was the fact that his body didn’t seem to realise danger when it was staring him in the face. Doped up as the sixteen year old was, he lost all of his survival instincts, becoming prey to his main predator.

“I said..” he mumbled, rubbing at his face and swatting the claws holding him away, “I wan’ move into th’ dorms.”

The current year was coming to an end, which meant that he’d be able to move in soon, and knowing the ways his teachers had been never-endingly attempting to get him to get along with a certain ashy blonde, Jabber had an idea how they’d deal with the room arrangements.

“You wanna move out?” His mother spat, and Jabber swore he could see her teeth become sharp and her pupils become small, like a monster in itself.

He sort of wished she’d always looked like a monster, instead of the kind-hearted woman she carried the skin of.

“Met a…” he licked his teeth, gathering saliva and swallowing it, “met a boy, y’know?”

Not for the first time ever, the boy watched his mother’s face go rigid, lose all semblance of control and love previously hidden under the anger. It was like the hickey, only about five hundred times worse. 

You get what you get, and you don’t throw a fit.

“Zanka.” He smiled, a bubbly little giggle as he sunk into the couch, a demon looming over him. He’d told his mother about Zanka before, but not on any level deeper than ‘yeah, the rich one’, because he preferred not to talk people with his mama. He’d told all his friends about Zanka, though.  “Real prissy, but he’s cute. Gets angry a lot, mnn.. think I like ‘im,  Mama.”

Probably not in the way some people did, with the idea of all icky things like marriage and a relationship, but in the way that Zanka understood him like a lot of others didn’t. He could tell, even when they fought, because they were always on wavelength. It was what made him such a good opponent.

Jabber knew he’d dug his own grave, but he’d just wanted to tell someone.

Anyone.

Even the monster hiding under the bed.

“Oh, baby.” The honey-sweet voice filtered through to his brain, and he vaguely registered having been replaced to somewhere else, somewhere softer. “You don’t like him, sweetie. Okay?”

“No, no Ma, I do.”

“Shh. Jabber.” His name came out firm in contrast to the softly whispered prior words, so the boy closed his mouth and swallowed again as he stared at the ceiling of his mother’s bedroom.

There was a little spot he was pretty sure had a dent from the time he’d spent staring at it over the years.

A little dent that held all of his suffering.

But Jabber didn’t suffer, because he was so loved. Other people suffered, those whose parents hit them, or neglected them, screamed at them and all. No, Jabber’s mom loved him so dearly, he had no right to call that suffering.

“He’s just a boy. It’ll pass, okay baby? Mommy will always be here, I promise. You don’t need anybody else.”

His survival instincts kicked back in when he started being able to feel his body again, because the first thing he felt was not his own body but instead a larger, thinner one. 

And survival instincts reminded him, that he could never disagree with his mom if she was showing him this much love.

Because some monsters only acted when they’d been provoked, and while Jabber was one for the thrill, this was a monster he didn’t wish to awaken.

“Yes, Mama.”

Jabber moved into the dorms next year, regardless. His mother had felt bad for how she’d acted, because at some point along the night, Jabber had been crying. He didn’t recall, but she seemed distraught, even though it was far from the first time.

Jabber moved into the dorms and always stayed aware of Zanka.

Jabber moved into the dorms and learnt that Zanka’s parents didn’t seem to love him very much.

Jabber moved into the dorms and learnt that he loved Zanka very much.

___________________

The next time the chains of his consciousness dragged him back up to the surface, a late attempt at getting oxygen after ??? time spent at the bottom of the ocean, the first thing he registered was a soothing hand gently scratching his head.

The world started to become a little less blurry, but the ringing in his ears didn’t seem to have any wish whatsoever for stopping anytime soon.

Beggars can’t be choosers, he supposed. Zanka said that a lot.

“—not true!” a familiar voice rang out through the haze, but Jabber didn’t care enough to let that open his eyes, remaining still wherever he was placed. “I aced that thing!”

“You did not ace anything, all the points you scored was because I helped you for hours.”

“Uh, nuh uh. I passed, that counts as acing.”

“Does being an orphan come with the side effect of reduced braincells?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know!!”

Jabber groaned, propping his eyes weakly open and dragging a hand down his face — it felt very numb, almost as if he had been paralyzed in between the hours ( days? ) that he had lost to a haze. He didn’t quite feel like getting up, his head feeling nice whenever it was, so he simple stayed. 

“Y’guys are so loud…” 

Silence.

It was like all the sound had been cut from the world, a pencil drop would sound like a nuclear attack in the deafening empty space of no sound waves. 

He didn’t think they’d take it to heart that bad.

“Baby? You awake?”

Yeah, duh, he wanted to say, but the words didn’t make it further than the back of his throat, not even the tip of his tongue, so Jabber just nodded.

And finally realised where he was — his head was on Zanka’s lap, the rest of his body spilled loosely over the couch.

Being awake ( which wasn’t quite right, because Jabber had been awake for hours (?) now, he just hadn’t been quite present ) didn’t help the fog around his brain. It was less, enough for him to just barely be able to make out his surroundings and remember the voice of his best friend, but it wasn’t nearly enough for him to sit up and have anything resembling a conversation.

It felt like agony had manifested itself into a shield from the outside world, now keeping him tightly stuck within the confines of his own consciousness. 

Which he could fuck around with — it wasn’t like he didn’t know why this was happening either, he was too fucking sober, which made him too fucking sad.

It made him so sad that it became nothing, that he became nothing, just a floating shell of a body with no gravity to keep him tied to earth as he drifted towards outer space.

Jabber could barely feel his body, but even less could he feel his brain, the emotions he was sure had to be somewhere, just somewhere hidden far away from him. A place he was too weak to reach without the mania or hyper nerves that came with poisoning his blood.

“—ppened before, yeah.” Zanka’s voice filtered in once more, which was what brought Jabber back to the surface with the realization he’d gone under again. How long had passed this time? He didn’t know. This was better than the forget-everything-and-then-freak-out-when-you-remember sessions that had already gone too far for him to recall. 

They sucked, they were scary and he forgot about them which meant that every time, he was thrown into the unknown with only Zanka to hold on to.

That seemed to be a recurring theme in Jabber’s life, he’d drown and Zanka would be the sun to show him which way to swim towards, he’d drift and Zanka would be his anchor. 

A theme he could appreciate, in contrast to all the other ones.

“M’sorry..” he mumbled, for the unknown time he’d spent away in his head again, nuzzling into Zanka’s soft hoodie. “Wh’he’e?”

“Hm?” 

“Who.. h’re?” 

“Oh,” Zanka huffed, humming to himself a second, “Ru’s here, Riyo too.”

That made sense, though usually if they were having some gathering, Follo and the siblings would’a come along, and if it was a family thing then Smokeshow should’ve been here too — but to Jabber’s credit, he had half the mind to think of any of that right now.

“M’kay.”

“.. I’ll get you some food in a bit, okay?”

“Mm.”

____________________

“Here, baby. Look at me.”

Baby, Jabber hummed quietly to himself, within the reins of his brain where he could frolic in the fields and jump like gravity had nothing on him, maybe he could float to the sun and melt until he became a puddle in the ground.

That’d probably be nice.

Hm, what?

“Jabber, baby.”

Baby, Jabber giggled, it sounded so sweet coming from that familiar voice he couldn’t quite place — sweet like honey. Somewhere inside his dreamland, Jabber registered that that voice didn’t usually whisper baby unless he was doing bad. But he wasn’t doing bad, he was having a damn party.

“Please.”

“Mn..?” His blurry vision stopped being just splurts of color that he couldn’t make out at the plea, instead focusing on the pop of blue. Pretty. 

So very pretty.

“Pretty.” Jabber slurred, then smiled ( he thought, he couldn’t quite feel his face, so who was to say? ) — but the compliment didn’t necessarily seem to make his companion much happier.

Worth a try.

“.. thank you, J.” The voice sighed, and then Jabber could just barely feel how his face was twisted to the side, a hand ( wet? ) on his cheek to hold him from falling. Why was he falling? “I’d say you too, but yer quite the mess, y’know? Givin’ me a hell lot’a clean up work.”

Well, that hadn’t been his intention, not at all.

“M’sorry..” he mumbled, his mouth tasted god awful.

As if a bird had crawled in there and then stuck its beak through its own heart, deceased and using his mouth as a make-shift grave, rotting until the taste overwhelmed his entire being.

Or maybe just like puke. Shit, had he thrown up?

“Z?” He tried, not quite sure whether that was right, but it felt right enough for him to lean into the hand with purpose rather than his own weight threatening to plummet to the floor.

The hand that was doing something on his face, he wasn’t quite sure what, stilled.

“Yeah?” Whispered the honey-sweet voice back. Jabber wanted to drown in it, and with all context given, he really just might. Soak down to the bottom of the ocean and allow his lungs to burn, fill with water, and let his only remaining sense be his ability to hear. Listen to Zanka for the rest of—

“Zanka.”

Relief swarmed through his body at being able to recall just a glimpse of his life, at remembering who was here with him, through everything. His everything, really. 

“Hey.” Zanka just scoffed, half a laugh, like he was playing off emotion too heavy for his own good. “Gave me a fuckin’ scare. Now come on, open your eyes.”

Oh, Jabber hadn’t realised he’d closed them again.

When he opened them, the world wasn’t so blurry — maybe it was behind Zanka, but that wasn’t the part he focused on. No, instead, Jabber’s magenta eyes immediately stared at Zanka’s fiery blue, at the way he had a little headband on that pushed his hair out of his face because he hated hair touching any skin when he was overstimulated, even with how long it had gotten. At how he wasn’t wearing a shirt, at the baggy sweatpants, at how purely beautiful he was.

“You’re beautiful.” Jabber murmured, choosing to speak his mind.

A small smile creeped onto Zanka’s face, and he hummed silently, wiping something from Jabber’s mouth. “You tell that to everyone you take home?”

Ah, there it was.

Jabber reciprocated the smile with one of his own, happy to remember the familiar jest when everything else was too far out of reach, “Y’know I don’, Z. Ain’t nobo’y beau’iful li’e you.” 

It was a usual back and forth they had, something he could find momentary peace in for now — a reality to grab ahold of.

“You’re an idiot.” Zanka smiled, pulling the wet cloth down from Jabber’s face, which had him finally realising where they were. 

The bathroom.

On the floor.

He blinked, drowsy and heavy, slowly gathering all the information currently at access — the door was open, and he could see a window at the end of the hallway just barely. It was night, a clouded one, no stars to be seen, just pure darkness.

Okay then.

Then he looked towards the disregarded shirt on the toilet lid, crumpled up and.. yeah, definitely full of puke. 

He glanced back at Zanka. 

Newly washed hair, sweatpants, and his skin had definitely gotten some of that cream before bed.

“Di’ I thro’ up whi’e sleepin’?” 

Jabber watched as Zanka’s smile fell an awful amount, probably because he remembered why they were on the forsaken floor in the first place — ah well, nothing new, nothing new. Didn’t make Jabber feel jackshit better about it, though.

The ( gorgeous ) blonde sighed, putting the cloth down and resting his arms on his bent knees, he was crouching on his toes. That had to be uncomfortable.. matter of fact, Jabber’s back hurt a little. 

“Yeah– no, I don’t know. I don’t really know when you’re.. awake these days.”

Days. How many days were there? 

How much was it? How long had it been?

“Just..” Zanka waved a dismissive hand, “I woke up ‘n ya were throwin’ up everywhere. Didn’t think you’d come see the world now, but hi. Good to see you, or something.”

Jabber scoffed, “wow, real sweet of ya.”

“I’m tired and wiping away yer vomit, you get nice treatment, not nice words. Beggars can’t be choosers.”

“I don’t beg, though.”

“Sure.”

“I’ont.”

“We’ll go back to bed, just gotta make sure you won’t get sick again.”

“… I’on even know why I go’ sick. Why?”

Zanka stared at him for a moment, gently caressing his cheek. So sweet, Zanka was so sweet. If Jabber was one for marriage, he had put a ring on that finger already, or if he was one for romance, he’d scream out to the world how much he loved Zanka Nijiku. He wasn’t, though — he wasn’t like most people, and he certainly wasn’t a hopeless romantic. Not even a romantic at all. He posted Zanka all the time, in fact most of his posts had a little Z Cameo, and he’d probably just about lose his shit if Zanka started screwing around like he did ( unfair, but if Zanka told him to stop, he would. ) but Jabber really just preferred loving him in private.

Like now.

In the safety of their shared, small bathroom — with Zanka wiping puke off him and Jabber feeling like he was higher than he’d been in years despite being more sober than he’d been since he was fifteen.

“You haven’t been eating a lot.” Zanka whispered honestly, his eyes switching back and forth between Jabber’s as he glanced up and grabbed the cloth again, wiping his fingers this time, opting to have somewhere else to look for a second. “It’s not yer fault. Just haven’t been very present, hard to get food into you.”

Jabber wanted to apologize again, but he was starting to feel out of his element.

This was routine, this happened. Jabber had episodes, episodes of mania, episodes of depression, episodes of everything in between, and Zanka was there to help him through it every time. In return, Jabber would be there to help when Zanka couldn’t eat, when Zanka had panic attacks, when he had depressive episodes.

An ill knows the sick, and the sick knows illness. 

They understood each other that way, knew how to circle and balance their axis — they’d orbit each other like the moon and earth, and they helped each other.

Which was also why they didn’t do the sorry shit, because yeah, maybe Jabber was going through shit ( he wasn’t, not really ) but then next week, Zanka would crash and fall apart and they’d be even. It was like a system, give and take, pull and tug — be there and have someone here in return. 

Jabber sniffled, humming as he leaned forward to rest his head against Zanka’s collarbone, smiling to himself as the boy sat down completely to accommodate Jabber and Jabber alone. How lucky he was. 

“I love you.” He said, ignoring the topic of how he hadn’t been present.

How long had it been since he’d reminded Zanka just how much he fucking loved him?

“I know. I love you.” Zanka whispered back, pressing a kiss to Jabber’s damp forehead, “you’ll be okay.”

Jabber wasn’t so sure, but he didn’t wanna dim the hope in Zanka’s voice, the just barely present amount of hope that he always had because essentially, yes, Jabber always came back up, but he always fell back down as well. An endless cycle, what can you do?

“Mm.” He nuzzled into the crook of a cold shoulder which felt warmer than the inner core of earth, “baby.”

A hum came in response, which made the boy smile.

“I love you.”

“You already said that.”

“Yeah, well. I still love you.”

“M’kay.” Jabber could hear the eyeroll from above him, smiling to himself and pressing a kiss to Zanka’s bare collarbone, “I love you.” He finally said back.

Silence stretched on for a few minutes after, and Jabber felt he didn’t really have much of an urge to move, so instead he buried deeper into Zanka, wishing he could claw open his body and tear his organs out to instead make fit for him in there. Sometimes he got a bit intense, thinking about cannibalizing Zanka because that way, he’d always carry him with him — or he could slit his name into his thigh, have it forever engraved with the sacrifice of spilt blood. 

But Jabber tried to love gently, he wasn’t very good at it, not when they fought and punched each other, tore until their scalps were bleeding and they both ended up with black eyes. 

Had they been in a real relationship, some people would’ve looked at it as more concerning than it was, but due to their unnatural nature, most people scoffed it off, which they should. Yes they hurt each other, but they damn right patched each other right back up again, thank you very much.

“How does that one song go?”

Zanka pinched his shoulder, “which one of the five billion fucking songs are you yappin’ about?”

Only a giggle came from Jabber, “the one uh.. fuck. We used to listen to it when we got high, back in school.”

“When you got high.”

“You joined, ya as guilty as I am, mr prissy.”

“Whatever,” Zanka huffed, “uhhh…” he started his train of thought, thinking back to before they moved in together, before they graduated. “I don’t even remember, we used to listen to all that depressin’ shit, like Car Seat and Radiohead.”

“Car seat?”

“Yeah yeah, Car Seat Headrest, you remember them. Man, we really set ourselves up for sadness with those songs, why didn’t we listen to like.. Lady Gaga?”

Jabber snorted, “because not even you’re that gay.”

“Fuck you, I’m just sayin’, of course we got all fucking moody listening to that shit.”

Well, yeah. Sure, but sometimes it was also just so.. calm. Music has a tendency of helping guide your mood specific ways — listening to sad songs won’t help you in a fit of sobs, and that’s common knowledge, yet humans can’t quite seem to put the need away. The need to soak. 

“The second one.” Jabber said.

“The… Radiohead?”

“Bingo.”

“Okay, so a Radiohead song. Sure, which one?”

None of them really listened to the genre that came with Radiohead anymore — Jabber usually found himself relaxing to EDM rather than anything else, and Zanka was the sort of guy who either listened to the most underground, unknown bands in the world, or the most known, famous artists of the earth. He was contradictory in that way, for a man who preferred to go on a singular line.

He hit it down to Queen sometimes, actually.

But they had once been teenagers, teenagers who hated life more than it hated them, teenagers who’d shared a joint and talked about what growing up with shitty families was like, teenagers who listened to Radiohead while hotboxing because it gave them that nostalgic sensation of drowning the world out. Cheers to Thom Yorke, man knew what he was doing.

“Do you remember uh.. tha’ one time,” he giggled, “we kissed.”

Zanka groaned, “it wasn’t a kiss, you were hellbent on teaching me shotgunning and I practically threw up over you with how much I was coughing.”

“Ey, means we’re even, don’t it?”

“Get to the point, skuzzball.”

“Ya remember?”

“… well, yeah. Obviously.”

“Here, you need to tilt your head Zan.”

Zanka rolled his eyes, leaning back on his palms as Jabber crawled over him, or more correctly slithered over him. His body came slow and carefree, joint almost setting fire to the carpet but not quite, his eyes drilling into Zanka’s the entire time.

“Yer actin’ like yer teaching me how to kiss.”

“Well,” Jabber shrugged, “the technique ain’t much different.”

In the background of their shared, small dorm, continued the tune of Thom Yorke singing his blues on OK Computer, a recent CD Zanka had added to his collection after he heard Jabber mention it in passing. They liked laying in their own space, but sharing music they could both drown in — Radiohead happened to be one of those, so Zanka had picked up the album from 1997 in hope of more peaceful individual study sessions.

Instead, predictably, it led to very deep talks fueled by just the right amount of cannabis and sad tunes.

‘The emptiest of feelings, disappointed people clinging onto bottles, when it comes, it’s so, so disappointing.’

Speak your truth, Zanka would say. Ain’t nothing disappointing about some bottles when it got him Jabber Wonger all up in his space, even if he outwardly complained, he sure wasn’t going to internally.

“Open your mouth,” Jabber whispered, lifting the joint to his lips, and Zanka watched as they wrapped around the thin paper, inhaling toxicity only to transfer it to him. A mutual death by shared poison. Seemed pretty romantic to him.

‘Let down and hanging around, 

Crushed like a bug in the ground,

Let down and hanging around’ 

Zanka couldn’t do much but sit patiently until a hand gently cradled his face, tilting it to the side as he hadn’t done what Jabber had told him to do. Oh, whoops. Silly Zanka. 

He did open his mouth though, and Jabber’s lips just barely grazed his, but it sent waves of electricity down his spine away as his lungs were filled with what had previously been Jabber’s.

Zanka Nijiku never cared much for romance, but it had been pretty established that he thought about Jabber. And occasionally, he wondered what kissing Jabber would feel like.

He wasn’t sure if kissing would feel more intimate than this did, though. 

Sharing a poison passionately while they allowed it to rot their brains — a beautiful way to go, he’d believe. 

“Let down?”

“That’s the one!” Jabber giggled, drunk off sobriety and days lost to his subconsciousness.

“What about it?”

“Sing it to me.”

“Absolutely not, I can’t sing, Jabber.”

Which was a lie, by the way. Jabber could attest, he’d heard Zanka quietly singing along to multiple songs over their time spent sharing a room — and every time, he focused more on the silken sound of Zanka’s vocal chords thrumming softly rather than the actual music playing. He was also fairly sure that even if Zanka sang horribly, it’d come out as an Angel’s Song to his ears.

The light above them flickered just the slightest bit, making Jabber smile once more and press a second kiss to Zanka’s collarbone as he interlinked their fingers, a need to always be connected to him through more than skin to skin alone.

To have something tied together, something harder to detangle than a simple pull away.

“Please?”

Zanka clicked his tongue, “I’ll hum.”

“But-“

“Beggars can’t be choosers.” He repeated once more with a shrug, and this time Jabber couldn’t in fact argue that he didn’t beg, so he simply sighed at Zanka’s shrug and took what he could. 

Another thought occurred to him, and Jabber peeked out from his hiding spot to glance at his boy. “How come ya haven’t told me to be quiet yet?”

Zanka kissed his teeth this time, patience thinning out. Again, nothing new there. “Because you haven’t said a word to me since Saturday, alright? Much as I wanna punch yer stupid face for talkin’ too much, I also don’t.. I..” he sighed, swallowed, “I missed you. I miss you.”

Much to his dismay, and also not really, Jabber couldn’t remember what he’d said on Saturday, nor how long it had been since — so he asked.

“Which day ‘sit?” 

“Tuesday.”

“Ah.”

Finally, Zanka had enough of their back to back, and pushed Jabber’s head down to rest comfortably against his bare collarbone once more. It was a bit like cradling a baby, but Jabber couldn’t quite say he minded, in all fairness.

“I’ll tell you to be quiet now, then.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Shh.”

Jabber giggled, relaxing against Zanka, making sure their fingers stayed interlinked as his thumb started making smooth circles on top of Zanka’s pale skin. He loved watching their contrast side by side, he loved everything about Zanka.

“Hmm, hmm,” he started his gentle hum, very faintly rocking him and Jabber along to the soft tune, “hmmm hm,”

Transport, motorways, and tramlines

Starting and then stopping, taking off and landing

The emptiest of feelings, disappointed people

Clinging onto bottles, when it comes, it’s so, so disappointing.

He smiled as he closed his eyes, relaxing completely with the memory of days spent inside, living together and bathing in the music that would play from Zanka’s CD player — endless memories of fights about the volume, about whether or not to shift song, followed by memories of falling asleep in each other’s arms and sharing secrets no one else would ever come to know.

The humming continued, Zanka clearly remembering the entire song despite his act about it. 

To his credit, Jabber had recently overheard him going on a tangent about how Radiohead was now considered mainstream and therefore boring. Zanka didn’t react well to things he loved being watered down just due to deserved popularity, and Jabber had always found that adorable.

Shell smashed, juices flowing, wings twitch

Legs are going, don’t get sentimental

It always ends up drivel

One day, I am gonna grow wings, a chemical reaction

Hysterical and useless, hysterical and

He found himself very quietly humming along with Zanka, even as he started falling under the sweet blanket of sleep, tucked in by the sweetest voice of them all, and the sweetest warmth. 

Jabber had been pretty certain he’d die for Zanka the second it was needed since he was about sixteen, and every year, it only got worse.

An urge to sacrifice yourself for the sake of who you loved, to be of use, to see your loved one happy and alive.

That was all pretty bland, though.

Jabber Wonger’s ideal way to go would be a barrel pressing into his forehead as the one in his hand pointed towards Zanka’s. A kiss and a click, and the two could rot together for all eternity. He didn’t enjoy the idea of being alive without Zanka, nor did he appreciate the thought of Zanka being alive without him. A package deal, is what they were — if one were to die, so was the other, so why not make it easy and kill each other as a final act of devotion?

He’d hold off with that, just for a little.

Just to kiss Zanka a few times more, and just to see his pretty face bleeding after Jabber had suckerpunched him, just to hear him whisper his name late at night again, just to hear his laugh, just to see his smile. 

Just for a little.

And one day, I am gonna grow wings

A chemical reaction (you know where you are)

Hysterical and useless (you know where you are)

Hysterical and (you know where you are)

 Let down, and hanging around

Crushed like a bug in the ground

Let down, and hanging around.

Jabber just barely caught the soft whisper of ‘I love you’ before he completely fell under, but managed to mumble one back in reciprocation.

Tomorrow, he’d take a fat line of coke, roll a thick one, and while he smoked it down to the butt, he’d tell Zanka about how every time he’d told his mother he loved her, his mouth had tasted like vomit.

He’d tell him that every time she said she loved him, he’d have to bite his tongue not to ask ‘do you? Why does Fu say his mother adores him when I know she doesn’t love him like you love me?’

He’d tell him that sometimes when he showered he’d claw at his skin in hope that the cells that were rebuild would be without the touch of his mother, and he could tear himself into a new person who’d never been touched at all.

He’d tell him that he didn’t talk to his mother because she didn't like him that much, anymore, but because she had hated Zanka with a passion upon hearing how smitten Jabber was, and had given him an ultimatum.

He’d tell him that he’d chosen Zanka over the woman who loved him more than anything on earth.

He’d tell him he knew she didn’t love him like she was supposed to.

He’d probably tell him, just to remind him once more, that she was sick. And so maybe she did love Jabber, that he couldn’t quite give up the idea because while he’d cried and said it hurt, there had also been times where he giggled and looked at her like she hung the stars — and he couldn’t make himself forget the sound of his mother’s voice when he had a nightmare, even if he now had Zanka’s soft hum to fix him instead.

Memories played you like that, evil and rotten, never letting you go.

And he’d tell him that sometimes, he thought about texting her again. He thought about having a relationship with his mother where he could bring her flowers on Mother’s Day and not be expected to let her because it was her special day.

He’d then tell him he knew that wouldn’t happen — that either it would never stop, or her love would stop with it when it did. That it already had when he left.

He’d argue that a twisted love was still love, and Zanka would argue back that his family was an example of that, not a pedophile.

He’d tell him not to use that word, because it wasn’t right, and Zanka would ask him what else, then? 

He’d use the word sick again, because he never had anything else.

But it would be progress — because Zanka would know that Jabber knew, sometimes, that something had been wrong. That, the way his mother had loved, wasn’t the correct way to love. And then at some point in the future, maybe Jabber would be able to use another word than sick, and he’d probably throw up, he’d probably plummet to the headspace of a seven year old who didn’t understand why the boys looked at him weird when he bragged about how sweet his mother was when theirs were strict, he’d probably sob until his throat went hoarse. But he’d have Zanka the entire way.

So, tomorrow he’d tell him, and in the future, he’d tell him some more.

But tonight, Jabber would let himself be swallowed in the warm embrace of a boy he loved, and who in return loved him back. Through sickness and health, the sickness he’d gained from a woman he’d call sick and others would call filthy, sickness he’d given himself to forget about it and let himself pretend. 

Zanka loved him in an entirely different way, in a way that made him feel like he could breathe for just a moment, while everything else had suffocated him until he had to grasp at his throat with tears in his eyes.

So Jabber smiled as Zanka rocked them and hummed, because maybe he didn’t quite understand what wasn’t love — but Jabber Wonger knew what it was like to be loved, and he knew what it was like to love.

What more could you want?