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For some reason, Zanka’s just realized that Jabber and him have two very different definitions of “fun”. He’s not too sure why he hadn’t realized this sooner.
“Go fuck yourself, ” Zanka growls. “Seriously, don’t you raiders have better things to do? I haven’t seen your ugly mug in weeks, and I was actually starting to enjoy my peace and quiet for a while.”
“This is better things, bad boy!” Jabber’s annoying fingers climb all over his own, trying to pry his window open. He just won’t quit.
“Your ragtag group of scuzzballs you’ve been spending weeks with, are just, what, chopped liver now?”
“Hm.” Jabber pretends to think about it, one hand letting go of the window. “You still don’t get it, do you, Zanka. Nothing beats fun. Now lemme inside! Let's play. No ill intentions, promise. Wait—”
Jabber pauses, then blinks in realization. He croons. “Aww. Don’t tell me someone was feeling jealous.”
At that, Zanka’s hands slip, and his fingers nearly get crushed alive by his window. “Now who said anything about that?”
“Don’t worry, Zanka. You’re my favorite playmate, aside from the boss. The raiders might have been taking up my schedule these past weeks, but you’re always in my head, yeah?”
“Okay,” Zanka hisses, pulling his window down, “if I’m your favorite, why don’t you let me go to sleep. Look at the time!”
“Don’t be like that, Zan-Zan,” Jabber chides as he tries to force the window open. “You don’t wanna play?”
“Oh hell no,” Zanka grimaces. “Not now— And don’t call me that!”
Jabber grins. “So you don’t want to play now? So you’ll play later? Aww. I knew you liked having fun with me.”
Jabbers fingers won’t budge— seriously, what’s with this dude’s grip strength? Zanka’s arms outclass Jabber’s in strength, easily, but this guy’s grip strength is something else. It’s gotten stronger since he’s last seen him. What shit did he shoot up in himself before coming here?
Thankfully, Zanka is equally as stubborn. He’s going to close this window, go to sleep, and wake up tomorrow morning and eat some good breakfast. He doesn’t have time for this nonsense.
“We’re not doing this at all, period.”
Jabber frowns. “Don’t be so uptight, Mr. Bad Attitude. I said I wanted to play! I’m not being serious. Now open up.”
“Shouldn’t you be sleeping? It’s fucking—” Zanka pauses. Now why is he taking Jabber seriously? Why is he trying to reason with him? Right. Jabber’s voice rings in his head. Not being serious. His palms are sweating. Is he really that weak, that he won’t rise up to a good challenge? He freezes. Consider his options. He isn’t above the temptation of a good ruse. His grip on the window falters slightly. Just once won’t hurt. It’s fun, like Jabber said. His palms are sweaty. He feels light headed. Low stakes, high intensity— as long as they don’t bother anyone, and they keep quiet, and nobody on his floor finds out that they’re—.
His hands slip. He lets go. The window rises all the way up. Jabber just smiles knowingly. Zanka wants to punch, kiss, wipe it off his infuriatingly handsome face. “Well,” he quips, hopping through the windowsill, patting the ledge, “don’t mind if I do.” He hoists himself up, gear clacking against each other noisily all over Zanka’s room.
“Keep it down,” Zanka hisses sternly, “or I’m kicking you out.”
“Awe. Don’t talk sweet to me like that. I’ll die, seriously. You’re too cute, Zan-Zan.”
At that, a fist is thrown. The sound of flesh against flesh explodes ceremoniously in the room. It echoes. Someone laughs, is laughing— Zanka can’t tell whether it’s coming out of Jabber’s ugly mouth or his own. He crowds him against his bed, reaches for Jabber's wrists, grip tight, and then: “Hey, hey,” Jabber sings. “No instruments, ‘kay?” He opens and closes his palms. All of a sudden, the usual ten rings that were adorning the space above his knuckles are gone. Jabber fishes his fist in his pocket and pulls out a ring. “My party trick! Ta da. She’s taking a backseat for tonight.”
Another pause.
Jabber looks at Zanka’s hands, and then the bed behind him.
“Deadass?” Jabber deadpans.
Zanka drops his wrists. Feels his head go dizzy in embarrassment. “Don’t judge, fucker.”
“You sleep beside fucking Lovely Assiststaff?” Jabber topples over laughing. “Sorry, it’s just— you even tucked her in— fuck—.”
It’s an opening. Zanka doesn’t waste time. He gives the raider what he wants and lunges, the collision sending them off the bed and onto the floor. Jabber acts reactively, earnestly. As expected, he tanks the hit like a champ. Is he having fun? Zanka hopes he is.
They’re tussling around the floor now. Zanka’s knees are digging into Jabber’s stomach: he goes for the ears and hits hard, trying to throw Jabber off balance. Jabber tries to gut him in the stomach, someone’s back hits the end of the bedpost, both of their ankles are entwined against each other now, it’s hard to tell where one ends and the other begins, and again, the room is decorated in breathy laughter and the sound of skin meeting bones.
At some point, Jabber’s hands crawl upwards, making their way dangerously towards Zanka’s throat. They’re still tumbling around stupidly, like little schoolboys. Zanka’s never tossed around this much. This is a little fun, he finds himself thinking, and then shakes the thought out of his head, and then someone sticks their thumbs in an open mouth, and—
“Fuck,” Jabber groans, for an entirely different reason this time.
“You and those fucking fingers. Your favorite move these days? You stick them up everyone’s mouth, or just mine?”
For a while, Zanka freezes, unsure of himself for a moment. But Jabber just keeps on going.
“Seriously. You. Them. Drive me crazy.”
They’re forehead to forehead now, Jabber on top and all up in his face, crowding him. “Fuck,” Zanka hisses, nail caught between his teeth. He scoffs in disbelief. “Just like a fucking cat.”
Jabber smiles, straddling Zanka’s hips. “Want me to meow for you?”
His jaw tightens. For some reason, the look on Jabber’s face makes Zanka think he’s being serious this time. Dude. The growing pain in his head throbs. He shouldn’t be thinking about Jabber like this. He shouldn’t be here with him, period— and yet, still, here he is— he should push him away with his hand, he should take his staff and kill him, really, he should be doing anything but letting Jabber all over him like this—
“Shut up,” Zanka grunts, finger still stuck in his mouth, “unless you want to get kicked out for real.” Zanka closes his lips around the digits and time is frozen, for a while. Jabber watches him silently, at first, and then sticks his fingers all the way in and bashes their foreheads together, twists them hard against the floor.
It takes a while for Zanka’s brain to understand that they’re fighting again. “Come on,” Jabber goads, hands out, and Zanka can’t tell whether he’s leaning in to kiss or swing at him. That’s the thing, there’s no dichotomy between their fighting or— whatever this is. Are they still playing? It’s almost humiliating, the way Zanka lets Jabber infect every nook, cranny, and crevice of his mind.
“Off,” Zanka mutters as he pulls against Jabber’s jacket. Zanka kisses Jabber so hard that he lets out a groan. Zanka closes his eyes, half-embarrassed, half-indulgent. It’s all teeth for a moment, all sharp— it always is, with them. Hands are up in hair, pulling, grasping, clutching, and Zanka opens his eyes again, catches contact with Jabber.
“Close your eyes,” he murmurs, and Jabber lets a purr out of his throat. Zanka takes his thumbs and drags his eyelids down himself. “Freak,” Zanka whispers in his mouth, but allows Jabber’s hands to wander up under his shirt anyways.
“Come on,” Jabber frowns, leaning in, “now open up.” It’s nothing like how he delivered that same sentence moments before this. It makes him dizzy: with guilt, with glee. Their tongues glide over each other unharmoniously, and distantly, Zanka finds himself missing the edge of sharp teeth. Licking in each other's mouths. Feeling himself go lightheaded. Jabber’s nails are digging in his skin so deep he’s sure it’ll leave marks. He lets out a choked-out noise like a fucking schoolboy.
“Zanka,” Jabber tuts in disbelief, pulling back, hands still up his shirt, “you play dirty, ya freak! I forgot why we got along so well.”
Zanka isn’t sure whether he’s talking about his fighting or flirting.
“Thought I was a bad boy?” Zanka asks in response. “Why’re you acting surprised now?”
Jabber hums. “Always knew you had some bite in there. Love it when it comes out. Your family know that their youngest son goes around kissing guys like me, like this?”
Something inside him stirs. Zanka’s fist twitches. “You talk too much,” Zanka frowns.
Jabber takes the hint, miraculously. “Aye, aye, Lord Nijiku,” he mocks, and Zanka grabs him by the collar and kisses Jabber shut. Stupid. Jabber preens under this attention and finds purchase around the nape of his neck, thumbs cupping his face intensely. His fingers rub up against the back of his piercings. Okay. Zanka lets himself fall backwards to the floor in exhaustion, and Jabber, still clinging onto him, falls down simultaneously.
He sighs.
Jabber laughs, laughs, and laughs.
Zanka in his shirt pulled up to his sternum, Jabber in his undershirt, top long forgotten. Zanka doesn’t even bother telling Jabber to can it. In the morning, Jabber will leave, and Zanka will wake up alone. Zanka will take any mission given to him by the Cleaners, and Jabber will go back to his crew of Raiders for god knows how long. They shouldn’t be doing this. But they’re only human. And there’s nothing that gets a person going more than fists and catharsis.
Jabber peels himself off of Zanka and plays with the upper cartilage of his ear, humming to himself. He should get up, before Jabber decides to puncture him there and then and give him five more piercings. But his hands are moving to his hair and they’re playing with his strands, and Zanka’s hand is still in Jabber’s. It feels nice, to be held like this. Even nicer to be thrown around and to throw Jabber around. He smiles.
Secretly, to himself, Zanka wishes they could stay like this for a little longer, on the floor of his bedroom, sweaty, exhausted, and elated.
Just complicit, together.