Work Text:
Zanka didn’t make a habit of keeping count, but if he did, he’d assume it to be somewhere around five. Five times finding Jabber dead asleep in places no sane person would close their eyes: alleyways, rooftops, dumpsters. The extent of his narcoleptic tendencies would be impressive if it wasn’t so damn irritating.
I.
Tonight wasn’t an outlier. Cleanup was finished, the air thick with that burnt-rubber stench trashbeasts always seem to make linger, the musk of it worming its way into your nose and residing there like a bad aftertaste. Trudging his way through the streets of a nearby town, Zanka’s boots scuffed against the damp concrete, his shoulders slumped heavy with the fatigue that always followed a completed mission. He decided upon cutting through a side alley to speed up his return, when a shadowed figure caught his eye, breaking the rhythm of his steps. Cautiously, he slowed and gripped his staff tighter. Every instinct screamed that this was a trap – or at the very least, a mess waiting to transpire. He edged his way to the figure, until he recognised the hair sprawled out amongst the piles of trash in the cluttered, dented dumpster. The tension drained into exasperation with such speed it almost made him dizzy.
‘’Ya gotta be kidding me,’’ he muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose.
Of course it was Jabber, curled up on the bags of waste, mouth fanning open with rumbles, and limbs wrapped firm around a singular bag. One stray loc fell over his eyes, and even in this grotesque tableau, there was something almost comical in the way he clutched that bag like a lifeline. The blond gave a hearty sigh before he stepped closer, the soles of his boots scraping fragmented glass. He raised his staff – he would rather die than make any form of definitive contact with such filth – and gave the resting man’s thigh a few pokes, however this only earned a grumble and Jabber gripping the welting trashbag tighter. The cleaner’s hand twitched; a crushed soda can rolled off the pile beside him. Zanka jabbed once more, now pressing against Jabber’s ribs, and with another soft groan, there was a fleeting consideration of breaking one of them in order to rouse Jabber awake. Finally, a well-aimed shot earned a lazy grunt and shifting. One eye cracked open and the other boy pushed himself up in a sluggish manner, rubbing sleep away with the same hands that had been squished into filth only moments ago. Zanka cringed.
After a moment, Jabber, face sluggish with sleep and eyes slow to focus, squinted at Zanka’s mildly irritated expression before his own tiresome one shifted with recognition. Then, a soft grin cracked across his mouth – the kind far too smug for a guy who had just been cuddling refuse a moment ago.
‘’Didn’t expect to run into you here, man.’’ He chirped, giving a flimsy wave.
‘’Yeah, ‘magine that,’’ Zanka replied flatly, glancing around the alley with an arched brow. ‘’What’re you doin’ sleeping in the dumpster anyway.’’ His brows furrowed with realisation and consequently raised his staff to the cheeky smirk of Jabber. ‘’Where’re the other Raiders? They here?’’ His interrogative tone went ignored, if the salacious gleam in Jabber’s crinkled eyes and the sliver of drool from his mouth meant anything. Zanka kicked the dumpster.
Jabber startled slightly, then waved a hand, ‘’They ain’t anywhere, Zanka~ Jus’ me, so calm down, aight?’’ He glanced back down to the staff before looking up at the Cleaner through lidded eyes. ‘’Or don’t. That’s fine too!’’
Zanka clicked his tongue. ‘’You’re unbelievable.’’
Jabber leaned his chin onto one hand, elbow propped on his knee, ‘’Aww, c’mon, ya missed me, admit it!’’ He purred the last bit, wriggling his pointer finger at the younger.
He scoffed. ‘’In your dreams, you freak,’’ he muttered, turning as the faint crackle of static buzzed in his choker. A voice came through – muffled, but a bit urgent.
‘’Zanka, where the hell are you?’’ Enjin’s familiar voice inquired.
He pressed a hand to his wrist, straightening instinctively.
‘’On my way back,’’ his gaze flickered to the sudden movement of the other boy who had begun to stretch his upper body, spine curving much like a feline and letting out an odd, squirming noise before slipping off the dumpster and standing. At the quiet staring from the Cleaner, Jabber cocked his head and gestured to the calling from the choker. Zanka’s tongue stumbled, ‘’...Got distracted but I’m heading back now.’’
“Make it quick. We’re regrouping in ten.” The line went dead with a sharp click of static.
Zanka exhaled through his nose, rolling his shoulders as he turned back to Jabber — who was now rocking back and forth in place, looking far too pleased with himself.
II.
By the time Zanka had found him again, dawn had already crawled its pale fingers over the rooftops. He’d been sent to check the perimeter, though ‘‘check’’ mostly meant make sure Jabber hadn’t slashed anyone. Enjin’s orders were clipped and laced with the same impatience they always carried whenever the clawed Raider was involved. However, the underlying threat was minimal considering the man had given the orders face down in a pillow, mumbling, with his eyes rolling back after.
The other boy’s trail wasn’t particularly difficult to follow: empty, spicy snack wrappers, muddy footprints on a half-collapsed fence, and the faint stench of motor oil led Zanka to the outskirts of an abandoned scrapyard. Every step was a careful calculation, boots crunching against rusted metal and shattered glass, each sound echoing across the hollowed husk of the lot
He found Jabber in the carcass of a bus.
But there he was – sprawled in impossible angles across the front seat of a rusted truck, the window fractured down enough that Zanka expected he smashed and crawled through it, and one leg hanging out that same entry point. Thick locs casted an opaque veil over his face, but it didn’t take a genius to decipher he was currently unconscious. The sunlight glinted off the fractured glass, scattering sharp light across the interior, making Jabber look as if he were a portrait framed by ruin. Zanka stopped at the driver’s side, peering in over the cracked glass. Jabber’s mouth was obviously open, soft snores escaping between shallow breaths. The glass beside him had spiderwebbed, each fracture glinting faintly as the sun crawled higher – his breathing a slow rise and fall of his chest. A scraping noise alerted his gaze upward to a cat perched on the roof above him, tilting its head curiously at the sight. He tried the door. It resisted, swollen with rust. After a shove and a groan of protesting metal, it swung open with a scream that split the morning quiet. Jabber didn’t wake.
Zanka leaned an elbow against the doorframe, looking down at him. He contemplated for a moment before deciding on yanking at the Raider’s hair; earnestly childish, he was well aware. A lesser man would feel guilt for even thinking it, but the familiarity of their routine outweighed it.
“...five more minutes,” came the muffled response, somewhere between a sigh and a whine.
He flicked the end of his staff against Jabber’s boot. “Get up, Jabber.” The raider stirred, face scrunching as if the morning offended him personally. When his magenta eyes opened, cloudy and unfocused, they met Zanka’s . A sluggish grin spread across his face.
“Oh. It’s just you.” He sat up halfway, rubbing his eyes with the back of his wrist. “Thought I was getting jumped again.”
“Not yet,” Zanka quipped.
Jabber yawned, stretching until his spine popped audibly, shoulders rolling back with feline looseness. “You always wake me up so gentle,” he said, voice still hoarse with sleep. “Starting to think you like having me half-dead when you find me.”
Zanka huffed, straightening. “If I did, you’d be in luck.”
The Raider laughed quietly at that — a low, ragged sound that lingered too long in the still morning air. He swung his legs out of the truck and stood, bones creaking. Zanka instinctively tightened his grip on Lovely Assistaff, tracking the other’s movements before loosening his hold.
Jabber noticed. Of course he did. He always noticed the little hesitations — the half-second delay before Zanka turned away, the subtle downward pull of his mouth when he saw him bleeding or asleep somewhere stupid again. Jabber thrived on those flickers, little cracks he could wedge himself into.
“Enjin send you?” Jabber asked, tone dipping to something quieter, less taunting.
Zanka’s gaze flicked toward him. “Said to check the perimeter.” A pause. “And to make sure you didn’t gut anyone.”
Jabber’s grin sharpened. “I didn’t. Not yet.”
“That supposed to make me feel better?”
“Guess it depends how much you care.”
Zanka sighed through his nose, exasperation curling the edge of his voice. “Don’t start.”
“Start what?” Jabber’s eyes gleamed with faint amusement. “We both know if I wanted to start something, you’d already be bleeding.”
The air between them stilled. The morning, for all its pale calm, suddenly felt like it was holding its breath.
Zanka’s hand drifted toward his staff, a reflex more than a threat. “You really wanna test that right now?”
Jabber tilted his head, grin fading into something almost wistful. “Mmm…Nah. Not today…” He stepped closer, until the space between them was barely enough for air. “Would ruin the quiet.”
For a long moment, neither of them said anything. Just the buzz of flies, the wind rattling through scrap metal, the soft rasp of Jabber’s breathing — unsteady, almost human in its rhythm.
Zanka’s eyes lingered on him — the bruises, the dried blood, the soft red imprint of scratches marking his collarbone. Something about it felt infuriatingly familiar.
“Get back to your side before Enjin decides you’re worth killing,” Zanka muttered finally.
Jabber’s grin returned, tired and feral all at once.
Zanka turned, walking off without another word — though his hand twitched at his side, as if resisting the urge to hit him. Behind him, Jabber called out, voice echoing through the scrapyard: “Next time, Zan-Zan— try waking me up nicer. Maybe with a kiss!”
Zanka didn’t turn around, but his ears went red. Jabber’s ecstatic, high laughter sent him off.
III.
The rain began sometime after midnight and hadn’t stopped since. By dawn, the streets were cluttered under a film of trash, and people streamed out of their homes in a crowd of shovels and bags. Zanka found him beneath the overhang of a forgotten vending stall — a sagging structure clinging stubbornly to one working bulb. The bulb flickered intermittently, casting jittery shadows over his slumped form, making his limbs seem more exaggerated than they actually were. Jabber was there, as usual, fast asleep in the most inconvenient position imaginable. One leg stretched out, the other bent awkwardly beneath him, head tilted back against the metal wall. A half-eaten skewer dangled from his fingers. He couldn’t even be surprised this time.
He crouched down, elbows resting on his knees, and studied the other boy’s face. Jabber looked softer like this: less of the wild-eyed brawler he usually was — hair framing his face, breaths slow and even, lashes clumped with wet. The last observation made the blond stir with unease. The skewer slipped from his grip and hit the ground with a soft squelch. Zanka’s eyes followed it automatically, half expecting it to roll and create a miniature splash, which it did, perfectly audible against the quiet hum of their surroundings.
He should really just leave the Raider here; turn on his toes and walk back, but his hand found its way to cup his shoulder and shake rough. Jabber stirred, muttering in coherent nonsense, letting out a whine in protest to the insistent rough treatment before cracking one bleary eye open.
‘’Up,’’ Zanka, voice flat. ‘’Ya shouldn’t be here.’’ Jabber only blinked at him dumbly, taking a chance to look around and consequently, an odd expression crossed his features. He turned back to the Cleaner who had now stood up and dusting himself off over him. The two made eye contact – questioning navy pitted against a tiresome magenta.
Jabber blinked at him through a curtain of damp locs. “Zanka?” he rasped, voice lilting. Then, with a crooked grin: “You look like shit.’’
Zanka exhaled through his nose. “You smell like cheap meat.” This earned a pout from the other boy.
‘’So romantic…’’ Jabber murmured, stretching his arms above his head– a movement Zanka was irritated to confess he was getting familiar with – with a lazy groan and stood up himself.
Yuck.
IV.
The shop was much warmer than he expected.
The bell overhead gave a soft chime as Zanka stepped in, the air inside was thick with sugar – fried dough, caramel, syrups – all melting together in a haze that clung to the back of his throat. The interior was aged but well loved: yellowed wallpaper, cloudy glassware lined across the counter, each filled with some kind of candy that hadn’t been fashionable in ages. A clock clicked and hummed above the register. He was only here as Rudo had ‘offhandedly’ mentioned craving something sweet – and Dear, in his usual silent but intimidating way, had seconded it. No one else volunteered, and Zanka, against his better judgement, offered to go. It was easier than listening to Semiu chastise Enjin about his failure to restock supplies on time.
The woman at the counter looked up as he approached. She was dressed in muted tones and thick gloves, grey hair coiled in a shaggy bun, with her features crinkling in recognition of Zanka’s uniform. “The usual?’’ Zanka nodded and took it upon himself to look around as the woman disappeared behind a set of doors. He glanced around. The store was nearly empty, the only other occupant a hooded figure slumped over in one of the corner booths. They sat alone by the fogged-up window, head resting on folded arms, one knee propped up on the seat. The shape of them tugged faintly at something in his chest — a sense of recognition that came before reason. He frowned. The squeak of a janky doorhinge alerted Zanka’s attention back to the front, with the woman making her way over to him.
‘’The final batch is still out cooling, it should just be another 5 minutes.’’ She informed with a smile, dusting her hands off in her patched apron.
Zanka reciprocated her expression, ‘’That’s fine. I can wait.’’ The short silence drew his view back to the hunched figure from before. The woman followed his gaze, humming to herself.
“He’s been there since last night, poor dear. Said he just needed a place to sit out the short trash storm. Haven’t had the heart to wake him. Comes by every now and then… quiet boy. Always leaves a few coins on the table.’’
Zanka’s brow twitched with suspicion.
A shrill tune of a timer went off and the owner hustled back to her kitchen, Zanka watched before letting his eyes drift that steady pull toward the corner booth. Irritating, familiar. The same feeling he got right before the start of a fight when his blood pumped and thudded in his ears. Eventually, he gave in to the impulse and walked toward the booth.
They were out cold, if the slow rise and fall of their hooded back paired with soft snores indicated anything. Zanka bent at the waist to snag a look at the sliver of face visible: tanned skin and a split brow. And when he looked below, he noticed dreadlocks laid upon the stranger’s lap. His face couldn’t choose between warping in shock, amusement or irritation. It was Jabber, because of course it was. And for some reason beyond him, he found himself sliding into the seat across from him, setting his elbows on the table and perching his chin on his hands. The booth creaked softly under his weight. From here, Jabber didn’t look dangerous; didn’t look like the boy who laughed his way through fights, who thrived on pain, who never seemed to understand the concept of restraint. He looked… sweet. Almost peaceful. What Riyo would coo over and call ‘cute’ while pinching at his ear, much like she’d done with Rudo many times.
Zanka’s head throbbed.
In an attempt to distract himself from whatever weird shit his brain was pulling, he chose to wander his gaze around the dozing Raider, taking notice of a few candy wrappers scattered by his slightly outstretched hand. Had he fallen asleep while eating? Zanka felt a huff of laughter bubble in his throat before he forced it down like he would bile. The absurdity of it all made his pulse kick against his esophagus. Zanka exhaled sharply through his nose, rubbing at his temple as though that would chase off the thought. One of the wrappers, less destructed than the others, he noticed was the spicy variety, with its signature reddened syrup glistening under the pale lights of the bakery. The owner eventually shuffled out from behind the counter, her apron dusted in sugar and her voice soft as the chime above the door. Zanka straightened, the distant scent of honey and butter trailing her as she placed a large paper bag before him.
“Here you go, dear,” she said, sliding the receipt across the counter. “Your friend’s been here a few times before. He always asks me for those little spicy candies—” her gaze flicked toward the booth, her tone carrying a quiet fondness “—then falls asleep right where he sits. Poor thing must be tired.”
Zanka’s eyes followed her glance. Jabber hadn’t stirred, still folded into the seat like he belonged there, face stuffed into folded arms and hunched. The sight tugged at something that felt a little too much like guilt and a little too much like tenderness, and he didn’t like either.
He muttered a thanks, took the bag, and turned to leave. But before he did, his steps slowed. He hesitated, then reached into the bag, pulled out one of the cookies, round, golden, flecked with powdered sugar, and placed it carefully on a napkin in front of Jabber.
It felt stupid, but he did it anyway.
Zanka stood there for a moment longer, watching the way the lamplight hit the curve of the boy’s rings, how the crumbs from half-eaten sweets littered the table like a half-forgotten offering. Then he exhaled through his nose, low and quiet, and turned for the door.
The bell rang softly as he left.
V.
The dunes stretched endless, a warm haze warping them further with every slow, tired blink. Gris’ hands gripped the wheel with effortless control, eyes calm and sharp. Enjin lounged in the passenger seat, fast asleep and looking half dead in his usual manner with rhythmic snores being wrestled out of him that the other Cleaners blocked out with practiced ease. Zanka sat in the back beside Rudo and Riyo – who were fighting off fatigue of their own – with his gloved hands folded loosely between his knees, watching the endless expanse roll by. Every few minutes, the Supporter would glance in the rearview mirror, just to ascertain the safety of the teenagers; they had just fought off a few larger-scale trashbeasts in all fairness. Riyo had her boots up on the center console, entirely unbothered by the bruises lining her jaw, lazily flicking bits of sand off her sleeve (aiming far too well at Zanka’s hair for it to be a mistake) and smirking at whatever half-banter Rudo tossed her way. Likewise, Rudo sat between the both of them with a typical sour expression on his face and arms crossed in defiance of Riyo’s fingers prodding at his scratched face. Zanka didn’t join in, feeling a bit sluggish himself. He let their noise wash over him, grounding him in a way silence never could.
Outside, the dunes rolled endlessly, waves of pale gold spilling into one another until they blurred into the sky. Heat shimmered off the sand, turning the horizon into liquid light. His eyes wandered — scanning, unfocused — until something caught.
A shape, dark and small, lying too still against the slope.
At first, it could’ve been drift, a collapsed crate, maybe, or scrap torn loose from a crawler. But the longer he looked, the more his chest tightened. There was a wrongness to it. A stillness that didn’t belong in the desert. He leaned forward, nose pressing up against the glass, squinting at the glare and ignoring the dewy fogginess that came with it.
Human. The thought struck cold. Before he even realised he’d spoken, Gris was glancing over, one eyebrow raised. The truck began to slow, sand crunching beneath the tires. The chatter in the back faded into questions, shapes of sound Zanka didn’t fully register. He pushed the door open before the vehicle had fully stopped. Heat hit him like a wall as he stepped out, boots sinking into the sand. The figure was closer now — the shape of a body half-buried in the dune. His breath stilled.
It was Jabber.
Face hidden by his arm, skin looking almost grey under the grit, lips cracked and dry. His chest moved faintly – barely. The sight did something strange to Zanka’s gut, like the air itself had dropped a few degrees. He knelt beside him without thinking, brushing sand from his shoulder, fingers brushing the edge of a torn, sewn vest. The fabric was still warm. That was something.
Behind him, voices rose — confusion, protest, the shuffle of boots. ‘’Zanka! Why’d you rush out like that?’’ It was Gris, standing a couple steps away, voice taut with both confusion and worry. Zanka could only look up with a troubled frown and the blond’s brows softened in understanding.
‘’We’re taking him with us.’’
Gris appeared stumped for a moment before humming. ‘’You’re absolutely sure about this?’’ Zanka couldn’t find it in himself to work his jaw, so he only gave a short nod and looked back down to the unconscious boy before him. He gave another frown before repeating what had been engrained to him: roll him to the side, bend his legs at the knees, before grabbing him and from there, underneath the far shoulder before finally pulling him taut against your hip.
They moved him to the truck in silence. Even Riyo, usually quick with commentary, stayed quiet as Zanka lifted Jabber inside. He took note of his far too light body, like the heat had stripped him hollow. With no spare room, he resorted to having the Raider perched in his lap; ignoring the raised brow of a now-awake Enjin. Sand fell from his clothes, scattering across the floor like blood. For a long moment, no one spoke. Only the engine idled, a low mechanical heartbeat.
Riyo was the first to break. She let out a low whistle, leaning forward on her knees. “You’re serious?” she quipped. Zanka didn’t answer. He reached for the canteen at his belt, unscrewed it, and tilted it slightly toward Jabber’s cracked lips. A bit of water spilled down his chin, pooling against his collar. Zanka wiped it away with his thumb, ignoring the plush give of them.
‘’He’s injured.’’ He shot back, fiddling with the weird spare fabric wrapped around Jabber’s waist. Would it be childish to think of it as a tail?
‘’He’s a Raider.’’ Rudo protested, teeth gritting with too much fervor at someone not even awake to see it.
Zanka eyed him from the corner of his eye, ‘’He’s unconscious. What’s he going to do, seriously?’’
‘’That didn’t stop him last time!’’ Rudo snapped, pointing an accusatory finger. ‘’You’ve gone soft, you shitface!’’
Zanka opened his mouth, ready to retort.
Sensing an incoming, petty argument, Enjin did what any civil, adult leader would do.
Groan. Loudly, atop the yelling which shut up only seconds later.
‘’Let’s just get Eishia to patch him up then we’ll dump him for the sewer girl to pick up, alright? Alright.’’ He turned back to the windshield, resting his chin on an elbow perched on the sidewindow. ‘’But we will be talking about this later, Zanka, just so you know.’’
Zanka could only hum in response and tighten his hold on Jabber.
— — —
The truck lurched forward again, its tires digging deep tracks into the sand before catching traction. Dust spiraled up behind them in heavy clouds, swallowing the world into a dull, golden blur. Inside the air was thick – heavy with heat, collective sweat and silence. The earlier chatter had died down, leaving only the soft hum of the engine and the rattle of metal over uneven ground. Enjin had slumped back into his seat, fighting off the urge to nap, he wanted to keep tabs on the teenagers in the backseat. Riyo had gone quiet, legs still perched on the center console, wriggling her feet side to side and bouncing them off the arms of the two men up front. Even Rudo had turned away, cheeked pressed against the window with his jaw tight. His eyes shifted back to the unconventional pair every few minutes. Zanka sat still, keeping his breathing slow and steady. Jabber’s weight pressed faintly against his chest — not much, barely there, but enough to remind him the boy was alive. His hair was coarse with sand, (Zanka could imagine him now, yelling in frustration, Jabber had always done so when his locs had gotten too dirty after a fight) his clothes stiff with dust and dried blood. Every now and then, the truck jolted and Jabber’s head would shift against Zanka’s shoulder, a small, involuntary sound leaving his throat. Each time, Zanka’s hand moved automatically, steadying him.
As he traced his eyes over Jabber’s jaw, he was struck with a worrisome thought: What had happened? Why was he all the way out here, far from the usual area Zanka was irritated to confess he’d grown accustomed to seeing him around? And seriously, where the hell were the other Raiders? Did they just have a habit of abandoning their members? Zanka’s mind flickered to Fu, in all his cowardly glory. He thought briefly that he might have to separate the two when they took Jabber back to HQ.
“Zanka.”
Zanka blinked, pulling his gaze back to the reflection of Gris’ calm, watchful stare.
“Next time,” Gris said, “give us a little warning before you leap into the dunes, hm?”
The truck rocked on, swallowed again by the hum of its own movement.
Riyo eventually exhaled, leaning back against the seat. “You know,” she said quietly, eyes gleaming, “you’ve got a really weird way of finding strays.’’
VI.
The ground beneath them was gouged with deep trenches where claws and metal had met wet earth again and again. Zanka’s grip on his staff gave a slight tremble with overuse as he steadied it against his shoulder. His breathing was shallow, each inhale carrying a sting that crept down his ribs. Jabber stood a few paces away, chest rising and falling in quick, uneven bursts, grin wide and shining under the dull wash of sunset.
‘’Come on, Zanka! Hit me with all you got, make it hurt!’’ Jabber shouted with fervor before lunging again. Zanka remembered the blur of movement: the arc of silver claws catching the light, the hiss of air as he twisted too late, and then the sting. It wasn’t pain at first; more like pressure, then warmth, then the sudden, frightening sense of his limbs not obeying him. Now he laid half buried in mud, which was bad enough on its own, with Lovely Assistaff dropped a few feet away. The metallic taste of blood coating the back of his tongue. He tried to push himself up, but the toxin moved faster crawling like frost up his veins. His vision swam, the world swaying in shades of pale amber. Jabber’s shadow crossed over him, his long hair acting as a veil. For a short second of unease, Zanka thought he might dig his claws through his ribs and finish the job – his grin suggested as much - but instead, the Raider crouched down with a crack of his knees and retracted his claws with a mechanical click.
‘’Too easy,’’ Jabber had murmured then, voice low and almost regretful.
Zanka didn’t answer. Couldn’t. He felt the weight of the world tilt, then fade completely as the toxin stole what little strength was left.
– – –
When awareness came back, it was in fragments: the first was heat, the kind that clung to skin like a fever, then the dull ache in his throat, his body sluggish but not entirely gone, and finally, the weight pressed to his chest.
Wait, what?
Zanka opened his eyes. The ruins were quieter now. The sky above had gone from molten gold to bruised violet. The air smelled of rust and rain.
And sprawled across him, like an oversized cat, was Jabber.
The Raider had apparently decided the middle of his chest was a fine place to collapse. His claws were still half-extended, catching dull glints of light, but his breathing was slow and even, head resting just below Zanka’s collarbone. One of his legs was slung carelessly across Zanka’s, the heavy weight of it pinning him down completely.
Zanka stared at the ceiling of dusk above them, forcing himself to breathe through the discomfort — or whatever it was. His heart had no business beating that fast, not when his body was still fighting off poison. He told himself it was the adrenaline, the fading edge of battle. Not… he looked down at him again. His fingers twitched against the sand, instinct begging to shove Jabber off, but he didn’t. The contact was oddly grounding – how weird it was that his body found the compress of the other boy rejuvenating. He exhaled slowly, the sound barely a whisper between them.
A small huff pried his attention again. Up close, Jabber’s face was nothing like it was in battle. The wild grin, the madness, all stripped away. His lashes cast faint shadows on his cheek, and his mouth — the same one that shouted gleeful threats minutes ago — was parted slightly, breath ghosting against Zanka’s collarbone.
“Unbelievable,” Zanka muttered under his breath, the word dragging through his throat. His voice carried no real anger. Just exhaustion sitting under his ribs like an ember.
Jabber shifted faintly at the sound, a low noise leaving him — not quite a word, but then, maybe it was. His hand, still gloved, curled slightly in the fabric of Zanka’s coat.
“Zanka...” he mumbled, voice slurred with sleep.
Zanka went still. The sound of his name, half-mocking, half-affectionate, lodged somewhere between his lungs. He could feel the heat of Jabber’s breath through his shirt, the steady rhythm of his chest. It would’ve been so easy to move him, to shake him off and pretend none of this happened.
But he didn’t.
He just lay there, listening to the slow drag of Jabber’s breathing and the distant hum of wind brushing over sand. His eyelids grew heavier. The neurotoxin still pulsed faintly in his veins, but the sharp edge of it had dulled.
For the first time in a long while, he let himself stop fighting — if only for a few moments.
The dunes sighed around them. Somewhere, the stars began to bloom in the violet sky. And Zanka, against his better judgment, let the world fade to the sound of another’s heartbeat resting steady against his own.