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“I'm your moon
You're my star
We can't be
Here we are
(Never gonna happen, never gonna happen)
Need every bit of you
Babe, you know I want your video!”
I Want Your Video - Djo
Almost a year of fun has taught Jabber that comparison is the best purifier for Zanka’s hesitance.
It’s hot, hot, hot, his temper, and burns away most of Zanka’s boring ass self-doubt if stoked juuuuust right. Leaving him singed and honest. Truthful enough for him to hit like he really means it.
Which is all to say that Zanka’s big mad! Yippee!
Swhing! Pretty Ms. Lovely Assistaff parts the air right by Jabber’s face in a violent strike. Her glowing blue anima pulses in time with what Jabber assumes is Zanka’s heartbeat.
He swears he can hear it as he ducks away from the next swing, and the next, and the next - all in rapid succession. Boom! Boom! BOOM!
Now this is a fight! And it only took a teeny-tiny-itty-bitty-little push today.
Or, well, maybe saying Zodyl could fuck me better in his sleep! was a bit more of a shove. Womp womp! It did what it needed to do. His boy is on POINT today!
Get it? Point? Like, the spikes on his girl?
Jabber laughs to himself. Partially from the joke, mostly from the excitement he feels. Today, Zanka’s landed most of his hits (Jabber’s ankle is so fucked!), and is about to land this one too.
Words tumble out from Jabber’s mouth in some kinda order he doesn’t really care to control. Praise? Taunts? Both? He has no idea and he doesn’t care either.
He’s hyper focussed on the fun they’re having, which is composed almost entirely of him being tossed around like the Ground’s most participatory sack of potatoes. Exhibit A: right now!
Boom! A kick with a truly delicious amount of power behind it sends Jabber flying across the trash field they’re in. He’s right back up on his feet in a matter of seconds, Mankira’s claws poised to strike.
Bounding up stretches his hip right where he was kicked and feels like someone’s started a bonfire deep within the crevice of his hip bones.
He takes an experimental step forward and the residual pain it elicits feels like breathing. Zanka locks eyes with Jabber from across the field, and the weight of his gaze is like physical caress.
A sigh of pleasure leaves Jabber’s lips (from his attention, from his hurt, from him) and Zanka’s smile grows cleaver-sharp. Look at his boy, having so much fun!
Y’know, it’s times like this that make Jabber soooooo glad that he gave Zanka another chance. No one else goes outta their way to play with Jabber, and they certainly don’t enjoy it this much. No one else is really strong enough.
And Mr. Bad Attitude’s not quite there yet either, but he’s got the stomach for it. Shit, he’s starving for it, practically foaming at the mouth for the tiniest sliver of victory. Losing so much will do that to you, Jabber supposes.
Funny. Not tee-hee funny, but funny. Out of everything that Jabber has at his disposal, nothing gets him quite as high as Zanka’s sheer hatred for him. It’s so fresh, so sharp, the way Zanka can’t stand him and yet, can’t go a week without seeing him.
He wants his head on a platter and he wants it now! Their little dates won’t stop until one of them winds up dead and Zanka has made it abundantly clear that he’ll make sure it’ll be Jabber.
Isn’t his boy just the sweetest?
And so determined, too! He’s grown leaps and bounds in just mere months. Like, just look at him go!
Zanka stops a short distance away from Jabber, raises Lovely Assistaff up (one-handed!), and, and
Jabber twirls out of the way, weaving to the left and, and,
Zanka gives chase, dropping to a crouch to strike at Jabber’s legs, and! And!
Jabber prepares to meet him head on, Mankira singing with energy on his fingers. And!
And…! He meets resistance? A sharp tug on Jabber's scalp sends a tingle up his spine that very loudly says NO. All at once, he’s cut loose from his focus, adrift in an ocean of discomfort.
Who the fuck is touching his hair?
Jabber whips his head around, eyes scanning furiously for the problem for a moment before he finds it: the hair cuff on one of his locs is stuck on a stray metal hook sticking out of a tall trash pile.
Must’ve got caught when he moved outta the way. He reaches backwards to try gently shaking his wick to pull it free, but it won’t budge. Crap.
Mankira slithers back into her rings with a quiet hiss while Jabber steps back to find the hook. Once he gets his hands on it, he attempts to disentangle the cuff.
No dice. Something, or someone moves in his periphery and Jabber remembers that he’s in the middle of a fight. Uh-oh.
They’ve got a strict no time-outs policy and as pissed as Zanka is, he wouldn’t accept one anyway. And he’s also nowhere to be found. Where the hell did he go?
Off goes Jabber’s heart, racing for an entirely different reason than earlier. Zanka’s got a perfect opening and if he hits him, he’ll definitely damage his hair in some way.
Huff, huff, Jabber’s breath starts coming quicker as he comes closer to untangle his hair as gently as possible. It’s still fucking stuck. Are those saxophones???
Nerves sink their teeth into Jabber. He’s vulnerable and exposed with a very angry person stalking around with a big stick and a rounded total of one eyebrow. This is so not fun!
His fingers tremble with adrenaline as he fumbles,
Pushes,
And finally gets his hair free.
Phew! Jabber lets out a relieved breath, gently inspecting the errant wick in his hands. It looks fine, the actual hair unscathed. Good. Should probably tie it up.
Jabber fishes around in his pockets. Gum… gum wrapper…. another gum wrapper… found it! Triumphantly, Jabber proffers a large scrunchie from his pocket. He knew it was one in there!
He’s so caught up in his fussing that it takes him a full 10 seconds to realize that Zanka is right next to him. Wait. Zanka is right next to him???
Jabber looks up in confusion, catching Zanka staring. Zanka, well…
He’s got this… look on his face. Like if concern and annoyance had an ugly baby. It’s a little unnerving, honestly! He’s just standing there… menacingly! Holding his girl, but not saying or doing anything, just looking.
“Like what’cha see?”
Zanka scoffs. “As if.”
“Coulda fooled me, the way you starin’.”
“‘Scuse me. Thought you’d want me to wait ‘til ya were done fussing with your hair, princess.”
Oh. Zanka waited. On purpose. Huh.
“Awwwww. You such a dumbass, Z.”
Jabber feels a bit unsure as he finishes tying his ponytail. His hands are barely out of his head before Zanka’s on him like rust on iron and they’re back into their fight like nothing ever happened.
It ends in a draw (more ties lately, progress!), they make out a little (or a lot), Zanka curses his entire bloodline, business as usual.
Honestly, Jabber forgets about the whole ordeal. He’s a busy guy! He’s got stuff to do, like assess the toxicity of random puddles of gross on the way home; narrowly avoid falling into random puddles of gross; ponder about the usefulness of creating his own puddle of gross.
Important shit, obviously.
It isn’t until he gets home that his mind starts racing on its track again. Something about the quietness of his apartment, maybe. Which is a real odd thought, because his apartment has never been quiet. The creak of floorboards and groan of his cabinets were roomates long before he moved in. They’re a trio now, he and the racket of old wood and borrowed time.
And yet, there’s a silence that, for all his moving, is never quite banished. It’s quiet here.
So, so, quiet.
It provokes an ache in Jabber for something that has no name. An itch that demands to be scratched.
He finds it in the scuff he’s currently trying to buff off one of his hair cuffs. When you have as much fun as Jabber, you gotta be reeeeeeeeal stringent with keeping everything clean. So, pretty much every day, Mankira and all of his bling gets a wipe down and tuck in - which includes his hair jewelry!
At first, the scuff on his hair cuff perplexes him - where the hell did that come from? Then he remembers. Hair getting caught, the anxiety, the sickening rush. Oh, the rush. And surprisingly, the wait.
Zanka waiting. What a concept.
The mental picture sticks to his eyelids, and with it, a question: why? Mr. Bad Attitude is famously impatient.
That’s why they click so well: Jabber spares no time for small talk and Zanka’s zero-bullshit approach lets them get straight to work. He’s got no patience. No filter, either. And he’s soooooo mean.
Jabber lets out a dreamy sigh. What was he thinking about, again?
Oh yeah. Waiting.
Shiny gold reflects Jabber’s contemplation in burnished copper. He swipes his cloth over it and he’s gone. Pulls back his rag and there he is.
The thought has the same kinda permanence to it. Temporarily hidden, as his mind cycles onto others things, but revealed in repetitive motions. He thinks about it as he sets the rest of his jewelry aside. Brushes his teeth. Tucks his hair into his bonnet for bed.
Before he drifts off to sleep, Jabber kisses each ring of Mankira and cradles her close to his chest. Her cold lips remind him of his hair cuffs.
That night, he dreams of being impaled on a hook.
Bzzzz. Bzzzz.
Seriously? Another call? Does no one know what Day Off means or…?
Zanka picks up his bracelet with a huff, holding down on the button to answer the call.
Mentally, he’s bracing himself for Rudo’s annoying voice, chomping at the bit to ask him another one of the top ten dumbest questions ever (Wait, so I can’t eat the wrapper too?), so the sound of Evil Incarnate’s even more agitating voice leaves him surprised just long enough for him to finish saying
“Hiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii.”
before Zanka lets go of the button and tosses his bracelet across the room. Nope. Not today.
But of course, determined to keep his title of Most Annoying Scuzzball To Ever Exist, Jabber keeps calling.
Bzzzz.
And calling.
Bzzzz.
Annnnnnnnnd calling.
Willpower can only grant him the strength to not grind his teeth for about three minutes. How does this keep happening? Zanka keeps trying to lose his connection, he swears!
He’s gotten, like, five new chokers since they started… doing whatever they’re doing. And yet, SOMEHOW, Jabber’s blood always ends up in it. It’s a wonder how he even has any left, what with the way he’s always spilling it somewhere.
Maybe that’s why he’s so damn insufferable - total lack of blood flow anywhere in his body. Except for his eternal pain boner.
No, Zanka is NOT thinking about Jabber’s eternal pain boner.
Bzzzzz. Ugh. Reluctantly, Zanka hits the button on his choker.
“What?”
“Hello to you too, sunshine! Meet me at the outskirts in, likeeeeeeeee…” taptaptap comes over the line as Jabber presumably raps his nails on something while he thinks.
It makes Zanka a little sick to think about the fact that he’s familiar enough with Jabber to know his habits, so he pointedly Does Not Think About It.
“20 minutes!” chirps Jabber, who apparently remembered he was speaking.
“No.”
“Noooo?” Jabber asks, curiously. Like storm clouds rolling in on a smoggy afternoon, an image of his face clouds Zanka’s eyes: thin, slit eyebrows raised slightly, a light, mocking smile playing on his full lips.
No. Audacious motherfucker. What is he, his bitch? He doesn’t just come when called. Y’know, he’s got some real nerve, bothering Zanka on one of his only days off, expecting him to be at his beck and call. Well, too bad. He’s not going to give in.
And also, he’s got, like, 10 minutes before he has to wash his hair dye out.
It takes a lot of work to maintain this shade of ash blond, and there’s no way that Zanka is about to risk over-processing his hair for Jabber Wonger of all people.
So a firm “No.” is all he gets.
“Aww. Really?”
Really! Zanka is not going out in the middle of the day with hair dye processing in his hair!
“Not even if we make out afterwards?”
30 minutes later, Zanka is in the middle of nowhere with damp hair. He washed out his color first, of course. He's not desperate.
Just stupid.
Hell must be melting because Jabber is actually there waiting for him, instead of being 40 minutes late like usual. To be fair, Zanka is the late one today - and it feels incredible to make him wait. Long black nails pull at a thread on Jabber's cloth tail, visibly bored, before he looks up.
A quick moment of self-correction is dedicated to stamping down the excitement he feels at the way Jabber’s face lights up at the sight of him. It’s a subtle thing, surprisingly, resigned mostly to the slightest twitch of his mouth.
But what really pulls Zanka in is the way Jabber’s eyes focus on him. Like he’s looking right at him instead of through him like he does everything else that disinterests him. He can’t help but bask in it a little, stand just a tad bit straighter.
It took him weeks to get Jabber to notice him again after he disappointed him in the flying trash beast. Pointless scuffles in back alleys to rebuild his interest, brick by miserable brick. He’s earned that attention.
“Finally! You took forever.”
Jabber cocks his head to the side.
“You look different.”
He squints, pink eyes scrutinizing Zanka for a long moment. Tap. Tap. Tap. Mankira glints off of slender fingers, ominously shiny as ever. Lovely vibrates on his back. He gets it, he really does. She’s so pretty. And so dangerous.
Jabber’s sudden snap derails his train of thought. Ew. He’s still here.
“I know! You finally dyed your raggedy ass roots!”
“Bitch!”
Conflicted is the name of this feeling. On one hand, Zanka is almost 100% certain he can physically feel his blood pressure rising the longer he stands here. Raggedy?
But on the other hand…
Something with wings flutters around in Zanka’s chest. Jabber noticed him. Not like Zanka cares or anything. But he noticed.
He noticed.
Cool metal pauses any further deliberation as Zanka calls Lovely to awaken fully, settling his thoughts. Her sleek body reflects the giddy smile on the Cleaner's face.
He allows himself another few seconds of it before he locks in.
The smile goes, but the feeling stays.
Gross.
Everything is moving and the walls are whispering into his ear and his stomach feels like it's trying to make a run for it, but Zanka refuses to bother Eisha at this time of night, so he braces himself against the wall and resolves to die like a man.
Dramatic? Maybe. Entirely possible? Also maybe.
All thanks to, you guessed it, Jabber fucking Wonger.
Zanka presses his forehead to the cool porcelain of the bathroom tiles and feels so alight with burning hatred that he's sure the bathroom walls start to sweat. Or maybe that’s him. He’s sticky and dizzy and disoriented, can’t quite tell in from up, down from out.
Weak.
That’s how he feels and what he is.
Weak.
Not for the first time, Zanka wonders at the price tag on something, anything to make this feeling dissipate - or to at least be mutual. Zanka hurt Jabber too, of course he did, but what good is it if he liked it?
Jabber’s not bent over his toilet at fucking 2:00 in the morning, fighting the urge to vomit. Jabber’s not rethinking each and every second of their fight.
Jabber’s not weak.
Zanka’s mind runs and his thoughts give chase, up and around the entirety of his skull, desperately trying to think of the thing that will make him crack. Break. Weak. Not the good kind - as if there even is one. The bad kinda weak.
The weak that Zanka feels 99% of the time he’s in Jabber’s presence.
Turning his head momentarily cools his cheek where it rests against the tile. It also puts the toilet bowl temptingly within sight. Tired blue eyes gaze beyond the rickety plastic seat, into the still water within.
Under the vestiges of whatever Jabber dosed him with earlier, it appears endless. Clear, visible, and yet unknowable. Beyond the pipes lies the dirt of the sewers. Rives of filth, rife with waste and flushed away dreams.
The room spins a bit more so Zanka closes his eyes and imagines dragging Jabber through it. It helps a little.
It would ruin his hair. That helps more.
Outside of the bathroom, time marches forward. The steady beat of its drum sounds with each flicker of electronic numbers on Zanka’s clock. Seconds form divisions into minutes, then minutes rank into hours. Awash in darkness and misery, Zanka remains loyal to the slightly damp embrace of his bathroom wall. It’s gonna be a long night.
In his head, he thinks of the frosty touch of Mankira chilling his fingers as he drags Jabber through the desolate wasteland of his limits and into a new world where they’re both miserable. Together.
The chiming of hair jewelry soundtracks the suffering in the deep recesses of his mind.
Somehow, he finds it in himself to smile.
Don’t say it. Don’t say it. Don’t say it.
Clinkclinkclink. Jabber tilts his head to the side. He smiles, artificial sugar-sweet.
“Yo. Your bangs look stupid as fuck, Z.”
Damn it.
Zanka’s bangs do look stupid as fuck. They wouldn’t cooperate this morning, and they’ve carried their contrary energy into the rest of the day. It’s not like his straightening iron could do much - he refuses to do more than two passes on his hair. Riyo told him that aggressive heat styling is one of the top killers of hair health.
Also, like, malnutrition and stuff, but that’s not his concern.
“Whatever! Still gonna beat your ass.”
“If you can even see me!”
He can see him just fine. Unfortunately. Disconcertingly wide grin and big pink eyes and a whirlwind of hair that is somehow never out of place. If it even has one.
With all of Jabber’s twirling and rocking, Zanka can’t imagine that his hair has any place to be except in motion. And yet, it somehow always looks perfect.
As if to illustrate his point, Jabber tosses his hair over his shoulder, where it sits obediently behind him even as he advances in a quick flash of limbs. He’s gotta kill this guy.
There’s one saving grace for this day: their fight ends in a draw! Zanka still ends up with something in his system, though. Asshole’s rambling on and on about whatever it is, mouth going a mile a minute. Zanka’s listening, partially. He’s just also catching his breath, and maybe, sorta, kinda trying not to throw up.
He refuses. He’s fine. He’s just lying down for a minute. He can get up whenever he wants, okay?
Amidst the concentration of taking in breath - of normal depth! - he spares a look up at Jabber.
His lip is busted, nose bleeding, and his left eye is swollen shut. Not to mention everything else happening below the neck. Beyond below the neck. Then Zanka looks at his hair. Still unruffled. Still perfect.
Zanka’s, on the other hand, is mussed from the movement and wind. And also, Jabber’s fingers raking through it.
It’s not gentle, or affectionate. It’s sorta demeaning, actually, less a caress and more a pet. Like Zanka’s a dog or something. Asshole. He’ll tell him to stop. In a minute.
Before Zanka can curse his entire bloodline - again - Jabber upends everything by asking
“How do you keep your hair so shiny?”
A powerful wave of pride washes over Zanka. He’s not vain by any stretch of the imagination.
But.
It is a lot of work to keep up with his hair. It feels nice to have it acknowledged.
He’s almost even tempted to talk about it, his strict routine of conditioner; hair mask twice a week; gloss treatment every three weeks; leave in; oil nightly to lock in moisture.
Then he remembers who’s asking him.
Zanka shrugs. Then winces at the pull on his injured shoulder. Then shrugs again, forcing his face into neutral territory.
“Genetics.”
Jabber snickers. “Bullshit! I just know a bottle of Olaplex hates to see you comin’.”
Zanka scoffs. “No clue what you’re talkin’ ‘bout.”
“Sureeeee, Z.”
A silence falls upon them.
Thinness conducts the composition of the clouds tonight, all the way out in the middle of nowhere, in a way that masquerades the moon but does not obscure it. Its outline is almost visible, light seeping through the cover of darkness. Calm could be tonight’s name.
But no such thing should exist in any situation where he’s within biting distance of Jabber Wonger. So, Zanka stares into the fair night and resolves to leave off its name. Undecided. Indescribable, he could even say. Like the creature that lives in the space between him and Jabber.
“Why’d you wait?”
Zanka does not turn his head, blinking into the eyes of drifting night.
“The other day,” Jabber clarifies, the tone of his voice unreadable, “when my hair got caught. Why’d you wait?”
Zanka shrugs (no wince this time).
“Dunno. Probably shouldn’t have.”
“Nope!” Jabber chirps, tone four miles south of light. He says nothing more after that. It takes Zanka a moment to realize that he’s waiting for him to say more.
He really doesn’t know. It certainly wasn’t to be nice. He had an easy victory. For all of his Cleaner training, the dog that the Hell Guard raised still barks, especially when Jabber’s around. He could’ve really, really hurt him.
He wanted to. He still wants to. But…
It just didn’t feel right. In that moment, watching Jabber frantically try to disentangle his hair, something about it gave him pause. It seemed strangely vulnerable. If it’s anything that Zanka understands, a fierce protectiveness over your hair is definitely one thing.
Besides, if Zanka’s going to win, he wants to do it on his own merit. Not because of some random bullshit. He will win. Just not like that.
“I don’t need an accident to win.” is all Zanka will give him.
Silence.
“Thank you.” is what he gets in return.
Finally, Zanka turns his head, looking into Jabber’s eyes. Did he hear him right?
There’s something in them that's difficult to read.
“You’re sweet,” Jabber coos, apparently going for mocking but landing almost accusatory. You’re sweet, with a question-mark left off at the last minute. Skeptical.
He looks at him with scrutiny. Jabber has very pretty eyes. Zanka wonders what lives behind them.
Is that what Jabber really considers sweet? The bare minimum? Zanka hopes so. The thought is comfortingly pathetic.
Jabber’s lips curl in a smile that should make his blood run cold but instead makes Zanka’s stupid idiot dumb heart skip a beat. Up close, he looks…
Young.
Ironic, since Jabber's older than he is - probably. Somewhere right between his ribs, Zanka itches to know what it is that makes Jabber, well, Jabber.
Just what is happening in that demented mind of his? Why does he want to know? Where’s the nearest building so he can throw himself off it?
It’s a beloved joke in the miserable stand up set that is Zanka’s life that the person who gets him the most is his worst enemy. But equally funny is the fact that - completely against his will! - Zanka is also building an understanding of him.
Zanka sees Jabber gently inspect each loc of hair and sees intention.
Zanka watches Jabber caress his hair dazedly whenever he’s in one of his quieter moods and sees vulnerability.
Zanka memorizes the intricate painting of Jabber’s face, framed by his hair: his sharp, slightly sunken cheekbones. The dimples of his eternal smile. The creases under his eyes. And he sees something, someone to dig his thumbs into, if he could just grab hold.
Little pieces of Zanka go home with Jabber. His dignity. His confidence. His marks of pain.
He’s a thief, plain and simple.
Zanka looks and looks and looks. And maybe now, he's taking. Does he even want to?
Does it matter? Because he will.
He'll take and chew and dissolve until there's nothing left.
Later, he thinks of it.
You’re sweet.
What a weird conversation.
What a weird feeling in his chest.
What a weird fucking day.
Sweet, huh? Zanka’ll show Jabber just how sweet he can be.
Jeez.
Zanka flits in from wherever he goes, so rapid that he doesn’t even hear Semiu calling after him.
“Zanka!”
He keeps walking. Enjin considers getting up to follow after him. Then decides against it on account of the mighty rule of he doesn’t want to. Eh. He’s probably fine.
“Man. Wonder where he’s in a rush to?”
“Off to go fix those bangs, I hope,” Semiu says, smoothing out the page of her skin mag.
“Hey!” Enjin exclaims, offended on his teammate's behalf, but also not disagreeing. Unfortunately for him, she’s right. His bangs look stupid as hell.
Zanka changed his hair.
Jabber clocks it instantly, ‘cause he’s like, 90% sure Zanka’s fuck-ass emo bangs are glued down to his forehead at this point. So it’s a surprise when Mr. Bad Attitude jumps down from a pile of trash, and comes directly at Jabber with a bare forehead.
Like, a lot of it. Wow!
And yet, it only takes his attention for a moment before the downright hateful expression on Zanka’s face steals it away.
Y’know, Jabber bets if he tries really, really hard, he could make a vital instrument out of Zanka.
He’s already in the process of it. Chipping away at each edge of restraint, going, going, going.
Zanka’s still growing. With his hair pushed back away from his face, all of his soft edges are revealed. The sharp jaw he’s still growing into. The slight plumpness of his cheeks. Maybe that’s why he keeps those fuck-ass bangs in his face all the time.
An if whispers in the youthful flush of his face, a real possibility. If Jabber keeps pushing, he could make something great out of Zanka. Someone great.
Someone to go with and keep going and going and going. Someone who won’t leave. Can’t, because they’ll be too intertwined. Soul and soul-product. Sadist and masochist. Jabber and Zanka.
It’s just taking soooooo looooooong! Ugh.
Mr. Bad Attitude is so stubborn. Doesn’t wanna let go. Doesn’t wanna give Jabber what he wants most just because they both want it. Doesn’t even wanna admit that he wants it. But that’s cool.
Jabber’ll beat it out of him until his hesitance lies motionless on the ground beneath them.
After all, how is Zanka supposed to know he cares if he doesn't make it hurt? Pain has an undeniable truth to it. A realness.
And there's nothing realer than Jabber's desire to be obliterated. So he can be patient a bit longer. It'll be worth it.
When it's all said and done, the dew of night bathes them in its musty embrace. Zanka wipes blood from Jabber's forehead.
This is the weird part. The part where Zanka attempts to put him back together after he breaks him - a little bit. They’ll go all the way one day!
But for now, the gentleness of Zanka’s rough hands as he calmly swipes at Jabber’s forehead is disturbing. More so is the fact that Jabber doesn’t hate it nearly as much as he should.
Carefully, he angles his body away enough so that they’re not making contact. If they do, this crazy weird feeling of loss circulates throughout him when they part. And that’s no fun. None of this is. Which, paradoxically, makes it kinda fun. It’s complicated, okay?
Jabber opts to distract himself by staring intensely at Zanka until he squirms.
A minute twitch in his hand lets him know he’s on the right track.
“What’re ya starin’ at?”
“You.”
Jabber can feel the acute resistance Zanka is putting in to not squirm. Too easy!
“You -”
“Shhh,” Jabber says, holding a finger to his mouth. Zanka furrows his eyebrow(s). “Gotta be real quiet on the creek.”
“This isn’t - nevermind.”
Truly, it smells like 10 cans of bounce that ass out here. Trash pond. Trash water. Trash. But it’s tolerable with Zanka there.
His hair blows gently through the breeze. Yuck.
One day, I’ll make a weapon outta you.