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There's a rhythm to it, almost.
Yeah, uh-
A snap, or a spark, maybe. The slowing of the universe before it hurts.
Zanka laughs when Jabber hits him. Or maybe Jabber is the one laughing. It doesn't matter, anyway. The sounds are interchangeable under breath, bone, and hysteria: the only fluent language between them.
Jabber spits his name like it's one of a series of hurts in his entourage. Sometimes, he'll drag it out slow, or spit it out fast, or break it up with strange, out of pocket endearments. Only ever when the fight grows thick, only ever when Zanka is losing his mind with want, need-something. Like he's testing how far Zanka's mind will warp underwater pressure bloat before it snaps. Then, and only then, it's baby-boy, it's sweetheart. Each one a different key on the piano keys Jabber insists on slamming his hands all over. Worse, maybe, is that they all sound the same when Zanka's too high to care, too lost to notice the way the muscles in his cheeks ache from the grin he sports too often.
The part that ruins him? Jabber doesn't treat him like he's fragile.
No-
Jabber doesn't treat him like he's anything at all.
The Cleaners handle Zanka like he's capable, needed, a friend, a weapon you like enough to name. Zanka handles himself like he's trash, guilt, and grime and second-guesses. A drooling mix of inferiority-god complex. The perfect oxymoron. Like the way blood curdles with saliva when you spit.
But Jabber?
Jabber just laughs. Is laughter.
Looks right through him, down to the bone marrow. Sometimes at him, perhaps. A junkie. A joke. A real good fight. A better fuck. An object of strange amusement on a slow day.
Either way, when Jabber's eyes land, Zanka feels it like a spotlight, a throne. Not warmth, no, not acknowledgement, just raw illumination. The kindred spirit born of those who get off when they bleed. A promise, carved into ribs: there's not a single fuckin' thing in this world Jabber can say that Zanka hasn't already said to himself but, fuck it, he'll still try.
Zanka: strong enough to be destroyed properly.
He thinks about Jabber.
Always him.
Weight, teeth, grin, laughter.
Zanka isn't jealous of him, no-
He is.
Zanka isn't obsessed with him, he-
He is.
Zanka isn't less. He's not less. He's not less.
He is.
When the toxin fades and the smoke clears and the high ebbs, Zanka feels empty. A half-full glass, swirled and spat. Zanka begins to count the ways he's smaller, bigger, worse, better than Jabber in all the ways that matter. In confidence, cruelty, and control. See, there's a sick beauty in the way Jabber 'likes what he likes, man' In the unapologetic masochism that is his whole existence, wired down to the nerves, a body that rewards the suffering. Then, there's the deliberate sadism he peppers on top, because a meal like that deserves to be seasoned. That's art. That's choice. That's where the fun begins.
Zanka watches, half-jealous, half starved.
Zanka can’t remember what started it.
Only how it felt-
How it felt to be looked at.
To have ugly parts bared.
Sometimes he wakes up with his palms still curled like he's holding Jabber down.
Sometimes he dreams Jabber is the one pinning him down instead.
Sometimes he can't tell which one he wants more.
And…ha-hA-HA-
That's where it gets confusing, doesn't it? Where Zanka's brain does little somersaults. The beauty in a secret third thing. Certain dreams where the act of pinning is unquestionable, but what happens after is a negotiable mess of blurry heat.
Maybe fighting is better than sex. Maybe wet dreams are the ones you get beaten bloody in.
Fighting. Fucking. Blurring together into one, long continuous 'f' sound that lingers in the background of his dreams like a fly on the wall. An omnipresent buzz while he's hot, wet, heavy-
Your gums bleed when you fight, and you taste the blood on your lips when you kiss…except you don't kiss. You just ache. You bruise each other until something inside you cracks wide open enough to feel alive again.
Slim fingers' thread through his hair. It catches on the rings. Jabber's laughter pops wetly in his throat, half-delight, half-raw static. Could be the textual input or the thrill of control. No use unpacking it, with him.
Zanka's is bleeding. He's bleeding, and his mouth is full. He's sober, unencumbered, but Jabber's closeness is a different kind of toxin. Zanka breathes him in when he sucks his cock. And Jabber ranges between moans, humiliation rituals, and plain, bewildered amusement. Jabber places both of his hands either side of Zanka's head and fucks his throat in three quick, choking snaps, then slows down entirely and let's Zanka bob his head. Because Jabber is not off-beat so much as a chooser of his own beat entirely. He's a crazy, weirdo fuck, sure. Can't quite decide his own rhythm, so rages between several experimentation phases with no real 'fuck's to give'. It's beautiful, ugly, free. Zanka swallows and his belly is warm with something akin to dull, aroused realization.
Jabber calls Zanka 'sweetheart' once, mid-fight, almost fond. Spit between 'ugly motherfucker' and 'real bad-attitude'. Zanka flinches like he's been blessed and cursed at the same time. Tripping balls, man, he's too messed up for this. Jabber knows that. He's not dumb. He knows to mess with Zanka 'til his brain is scrambled goo and then dig the knife in, deep, and, oh-ho, twist that shit. And, fuck, Zanka's predicatable, he's wanting, he's chasing. Zanka will chase that word for weeks, maybe forever, maybe always.
Zanka will tell himself, when his hands stop shaking and he's wiping the spit from his chin, that he'll stop. Stop chasing fights. Stop chasing highs. Stop wanting him.
Jabber will appear again, grin splitting his face wide, eye's glinting in that ugly-mysterious way that tell Zanka they’ve already forgiven him for wanting it this bad.
And, scene.
Don't laugh. Don't laugh. Don't laugh.
Hate is the name Zanka gives for wanting.
Violence is the excuse Zanka gives for needing.
Maybe it's true. Maybe it's just another word. Hate a label for a thing that makes you feel too much.
Zanka is Zanka. And he can't stop licking the wound Jabber keeps stretching wider.
Cycles reset. Breaths catch. Worlds narrow.
Somewhere between want and fear and worship and high, Zanka might convince himself that, if jabber looks at him, one last time, he'll matter. And then, finally, he can kill him.
The world slows back to its predictable rhythm.
Somewhere in the static, Zanka laughs.