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Jabber is lying on his bed, belly up and with his head hanging from the side, when he realizes he has a problem.
See, Jabber doesn't have a great attention span. He can concentrate, but only on things he really enjoys. Fighting, cooking up new toxins, and gardening are usually the only things his mind goes back to: the thrill of battle, blood, and pain; the highs and lows of experimentation, which may make him suffer or arouse him out put him to sleep or keep him awake for days on end; and of course his plants, all of them which are poisonous but not the reason he keeps them. His plants are his babies, some pretty and some deadly, but regardless of whether their effects are useful or not, he keeps them. Cares for them.
His little family, along with Mankira, the literal manifestation of his soul.
However, today has been a full day. He beat the shit out of some Cleaners, and then got his ass absolutely rocked by Mr. Bad Attitude for it, because apparently they were just on a recon mission, something easy for the newbies that Jabber absolutely fucking ruined for them. Oops. Then he crawled his way back to the Raiders’ base—Cthoni refuses to pick him up from the messes he starts himself—and watered all his children, making sure their soil was all nice and breathable and their leaves lively and standing high. Finally, he had gotten high, something to deepen the sting of his injuries as he disinfected and bandaged them.
By all means, his mind should be quieter, thoughts looping in ordered hoops around the way Zanka Nijiku had speared the sharp side of his staff through Jabber's leg, piercing skin, muscle, and bone in a single devastating blow that made Jabber see stars. He should be thinking about how to mix up his Castor Beam and Red-Eyed Shew, given the disappointing results of his last attempt. He should drag his ass out of bed and check which pots he should replace with a size bigger before his babies’ roots overgrew them.
But he wasn't doing any of that. Instead, he was wriggling and twisting, tracing the pads of his fingers over the bandages on his legs, already spotted red and throbbing in pain. It was incredible: his skin was on fire, the ache so deep and all encompassing, Jabber was sure he would feel it for weeks. It may be permanent, a sharp reminder of the beating he had taken, forever changing his step, his mobility, his quality of life.
He bites down on his lower lip, the coppery taste of blood sweet on his mouth. He's grinning.
The problem: it's not the injury itself that pleases him, or the fight he acquired it in. What Jabber's mind reproduces while he gropes the injury is not the crack of his bones or the tear of his muscles; it's not the jolt of pain that brought him to his knees, that slowed his reaction speed, and sent him careening through a wall. It's not the prick of his pain-numbing neurotoxin piercing his skin and the following hiss of metal as Mankira clashed against Lovely Asistaff, Zanka not giving him an inch as he batted away the swipes of his claws, venom oozing from the tips and never managing to graze him.
Or maybe it's a little bit all of that, but also—Zanka's face when he forced Jabber to jump back, retreating briefly. How his icy glare had sharpened, and the serious set of his mouth had splintered into a wide, savage grin, all teeth showing. Zanka had looked cruel and wild as he chased Jabber. Had been cruel and wild, not giving him a second of respite, piling injuries on his body like Jabber was a training dummy instead of a person. The Cleaner had followed each landed blow of his staff with a heavy kick or a packed punch, and laughed when Jabber coughed up blood; he had caught his dreads in a sure fist when Jabber tried to twirl away and brought his face clashing down on his knee.
And when Jabber had finally dropped down, physically unable to move anymore, Zanka had crouched next to him, grinning widely. His robes were trashed, sliced, and singed all over, but his skin was untouched, the actual body armour underneath a dark blue to match Lovely Asistaff. Jabber, paralyzed, had watched with hazy eyes as the man shredded his upper clothes, showing him the skin-tight protections with wicked pride.
“Designed it myself,” Zanka told him. “August wasn' pleased, but I know ya best, don' I? Couldn' explain’ ta anyone else ‘xactly how vicious yer little claws are, or how familiar I be with ‘em, else they would start askin’ questions neither of us wanna give answers ta, mm?” His fingers had graced over Mankira then, a slow drag of his thumb over the warmed silver of the base of her claws, skin burning a path over Jabber's. Zanka hummed, and then, boldly, leaned down, palms on the ground on either side of Jabber's head and mouth against his ear, making Jabber shiver in something that had little to do with the devastation caused to his body. “Yer gonna hav’ ta try harder da next time if ya wanna put yer hands on me, Dreads.”
And as if that wasn't enough, before quite literally leaving Jabber bleeding out in an abandoned building, he had run his nails from Jabber's throat to his chest, skin catching and ripping in places until five bloody tracks were left behind.
It was hot as fuck.
Jabber can't stop thinking about it, giggles escaping his mouth and pillow pressed to his chest as he cuddles it close, fingers digging into his leg or his own nails picking at the scabs on his front. Zanka had been brutal, entirely merciless. It was not the first time he let go, or that he beat Jabber—he had been getting better for years now, steadily and unstoppably, regardless of winning or losing. Faster and stronger and smarter, every single time. Zanka worked hard and endlessly, and was already ready to check how much further he had gotten against the goalpost that was Jabber’s existence. And Jabber loved to fight him, every encounter more dangerous as he lost ground, as the gap between them got smaller and smaller right up until there was no gap at all, until he was fighting tooth and claw for every win.
But today had been more. Today Zanka had taunted him, mocked him, and kicked him while he was down. He hadn't held anything back, least of all the terrible monster Jabber had long since peeked at hiding behind his icy eyes.
Jabber wanted him. He had been wanting him for years, watching and waiting as Zanka’s controlled exterior crumbled, as the monster behind revealed itself more and more, growing and worsening at the same time.
He wanted those eyes glaring at him, analyzing him, dissecting him like a bug under a microscope. He wanted his hands, no matter if they were wrapped tight around Jabber's throat, ripping chunks out of his body, or pulling on his hair like it was a leash. He wanted his body, weighing down on him as he pressed Lovely against his jugular, colliding against him with enough force to loosen his bones.
He wanted Zanka's undivided, intense attention; his unrestrained, searing violence. He wanted his feet stepping down on him, his teeth tearing at his flesh, his nails digging at his body. He wanted everything, right now, forever. And finally, finally it was in his grasp, the open wounds on his body an open invitation for more, a card marked yes with his own blood.
Jabber had known; he had always known they were made for each other, hand in unlovable hand, irredeemable and doomed. But now it was time, surely. That fucking Cleaner was his other half, and Jabber was never, ever going to let him go.
Zanka Nijiku was his, now more than ever, because the fucker had claimed Jabber, too.
At long last, it was over.
And so, gloriously, it could start.
Zanka's nails are trimmed short. This is a habit he has kept for a long time: short nails are better for sparring, for chores, for aesthetics. You don't want your nails to dig into your skin as your closed fist makes a bone-breaking impact against someone's body; you don't want them warped from warm water, breaking in a jolt of white pain that will bother you for longer than it would have taken to cut them; and they are clean and professional, matching the Nijiku's usual way.
Zanka is not quite a Nijiku anymore. They have let him wander around with the name, and he has kept his tassel earrings and his kimonos for leisure time, and his short nails—but his family is unlikely to ever take him back.
Even if they were willing… Zanka is not sure he would go.
He has grown to like the Cleaners. Maybe even—love them. Not all of them, of course, but. But.
Enjin, who is safe and easy and who believes in Zanka, praising him and cheering him on and being proud of him even when he gets his ass handed to him. Enjin, who never tells him much, but who is always there, who supports him and steadies him and eases him into things that make him happy, even if he weaponizes his praise to do so. Enjin, whom Zanka trusts with his hope, and who has kept it safe for years now.
Riyo, who touches him familiarly and understands him with a glance. Riyo, who is also an outsider, but who tries and tries and tries. Riyo, who has been there from the start, who trusted him with her story and her back and the real extent of her abilities, who is always willing to be violent with him, whether it's sparring or just straight up beating each other to hell and back, hand to hand and knee to kidney. Riyo, whose bloody hands feel safe threading through his hair, who goes gooey with ease in the unworthy circle of Zanka's arms.
And—Rudo. Rudo, who is new and strange and a problem, but who is also a kid and kind and a wonder. Rudo, who is quick to anger and to apologize, who can't sleep or smile properly, but who fights like it's as easy to him as breathing. Rudo, who bluescreens when petted and tries to bash his head into a wall when frustrated. Rudo, who is alone in a world he doesn't understand, and who Zanka is in charge of despite being his lesser.
Enjin, Riyo, and Rudo. The core components of team Akuta, and the closest Zanka has ever had to a family that loves him.
Enjin, Riyo, and Rudo, who lay around him in the sunken centre of their recreational room, tangled together with Enjin in the middle, all asleep. It's a precarious balance: Zanka is on his mentor's side, snuggled close by one of Enjins's arms, the other which is thrown over both Riyo (her head on Enjins' chest, hair tickling Zanka's nose), and Rudo (cuddled to Riyo’s side in a tight, uneasy ball, forehead pressed against Enjins’ ribcage). One of Zanka's hands is squished between his and Enjin's body, and the other is deep in Rudo's pale hair, likely the only reason the kid hasn't startled awake yet.
Zanka, who has a strict sleep schedule and is unlikely to fall asleep before midnight proper, keeps messing up the kid's hair, detangling it softly when he finds a knot and running his nails lightly against his scalp every time Rudo's eyes twitch violently. It immediately eases him back into deep slumber.
The problem: Zanka has just noticed that there is blood crusted under his nails. His short nails. Which shouldn't be able to store blood at all.
And the problem is not just about the blood itself.
He has wanted this week to be over since it started, the Hell’s Guard having visited the Cleaners HQ early on, and Riyo not having gotten to him early enough to stop Zanka from crossing paths with his older sister. The look in Kyouka’s eyes, cold and uncaring, like she was looking at a stranger, had haunted Zanka from that moment on. He had felt sick, ashamed, clutching Lovely close, unwrapping and rewrapping her in a clumsy attempt to settle himself. It had failed. Enjin had taken him to Canvas Town for a meal and some booze, then shoved Remlin at him, the kid having grown strangely attached to him since that one time they pranked Zanka. And despite drawing and painting with Remlin and spending time with his mentor, he still hadn’t felt better.
Riyo had dragged him out to spar, and so they had gone at it every morning and every night, for hours. Until Zanka could no longer move and Riyo was unsteady on her feet, eyes unfocused. She had invited him to her room, offering respite from the great, yawning maw of loneliness ripping him apart in the form of unlimited hugs, taking only the promise of letting her give him a makeover in the future in exchange. Rudo, on the other hand, had taken longer to place what was unsettling him, trailing after him with unsure eyes, his gloved hands clinging to Zanka’s sleeves like he was a toddler instead of a teenager. He had brought Zanka gifts: flowers made of scrap metal, quilts made of several different discarded blankets, and, to Zanka’s mounting dread, a new pair of mismatched earrings, one shaped like his Lovely Asistaff, and the other in an honestly impressive recreation of the Cleaner’s ensign.
Bless the kid’s good intentions: it had actually made him feel worse.
The days had passed in that manner, Zanka feeling like invisible hands were closing around his throat, a great weight in his chest settling deeper and deeper until he could barely breathe. The notice had gone past Team Akuta, clearly, with Bro Santa inviting him to a training session with Team Child, Delmon asking for his help taking care of his garden, and even Semiu sending him off with the newbies left and right, insisting he “showed them the ropes”. Clear attempts at distraction, and good attempts at that, and yet all unsuccessful.
In Zanka’s mind, his sister’s neutral stare was seared like a brand, the hot-white pain of it impossible to ignore, making everything painful and uncomfortable, making him feel helpless, vulnerable, brittle as ice.
Until that afternoon.
The recon mission had been simple, and the newbies weren’t unpleasant. Enjin had told them Zanka was currently one of the leading experts in Vital Instruments, which was merely a rumour. He knew so much theory because he had been the top student in the Academy, and it was only a casual interest that had him studying every Vital Instrument he could get his hands on. Basic understanding of them was a mere result of his honest admiration for them, which was the least they deserved. And his intimate knowledge of Lovely Asistaff, as well as his carefully curated and rigid care routine for her, was a given. Lovely was his girl: she deserved all the pampering and attention in the world.
That he sometimes could hear her talk to him, low, raspy whispers pleasant on his ears, was probably a result of too many hits to the head. That even fewer times he could hear other people's Vital Instruments was no doubt pure delusion, even if the times R3 started fuzzing coincided with times Rudo admitted his hands hurt.
Still, knowing very well why Enjin had fed them that particular morsel of hearsay, Zanka had indulged them, sharing with the kids what he knew and theorizing on what he didn’t. It had made for a relatively painless afternoon, their Vital Instruments’ murmurs getting clearer as he got to know the newbies. Which surely meant nothing.
And then: Jabber Wonger.
Zanka had taken one of the kids aside to check for himself exactly what his cup Vital Instrument could do (pocket dimension, the answer was pocket dimension, why was Zanka saddled with all the natural geniuses?) when he had heard the panicked screaming and the barely-contained giggles that made up a song he knew by heart.
For the first time since being face-to-face with Kyouka, Zanka had felt like a person. Alive. With purpose.
So he had gone and done what he did best: fight the Raider’s pain junkie until one of them dropped half-dead.
Fighting Jabber was different from anyone else. Not saying that people like Riyo or Delmon were delicate, because they absolutely weren't, but they were normal about injuries. Spars among Cleaners had rules, limits, and safety codes. Which was good, because Zanka didn’t want to injure his people.
But he did want to injure people, sometimes.
Most of the time, that people was a singular individual.
And it was Jabber.
Jabber liked it when Zanka went too far. More than that: if Zanka went as far as piercing his body all the way through, Jabber asked for him to twist Lovely. If he broke his bones, he wanted Zanka to go back and make sure they shattered. Jabber wanted his fingers pressing against every bruise and digging into every cut. It was insane, unsafe, and disgusting.
Jabber loved it to the point that he got off on it.
And Zanka—
Zanka was the same.
Worse, even. Because he liked doing it. He enjoyed making a bloody mess out of the Raider, feeling his ribs crunching under his hands and his veins popping against Lovely’s sharp spikes.
Today, he had hit Jabber with enough force to cause permanent damage. He had lingered just to taunt him, to trace bloody paths into his skin and mock him. And he has wanted to stay. To pick a knife and make the trails of his nails into proper carvings, to put the bloody metal against Jabber's throat as he slid his fingers inside, maybe deep enough to reach his heart and own it.
He hadn't, of course. Two of the newbies were in need of medical attention, and though Zanka wasn't their mentor—at least not officially, not yet, though he suspected that if his mood didn't improve, he was going to get an intervention in the form of at least one fresh-faced baby clinging to him for the next year—he was still charged with their safety. He could be careless with his own, but the kids were to be returned to HQ in one piece and as little mentally scarred as possible.
So Zanka had left, leaving a shivering, drooling Jabber behind, the afterimage of his flushed face and dilated pupils burned into his mind and making him itchy on his own skin for hours afterwards. He had driven back with his hands gripping the wheel hard enough to choke, if it had been a slender, scarred neck instead. He herded the kids to medical with his feet feeling too light, wanting to fall hard over skin and bones, and instead being forced to step normally into a beige, tiled floor.
He had been so out of it that Enjin had ordered him to change into his pyjamas ASAP, calling for a movie evening and plying them all with pizza and fries until they were dropping. Then the man had pulled them all in, blankets over their bodies, and told them about their next mission until he himself was out.
Zanka's hands had ended up in Rudo's hair not too long after, both because he needed to move, to do something, but he was reluctant to give up the—honestly not that rare—comfort of Enjins's embrace and Riyo's closeness, and because the kid had started to shift uneasily almost immediately. It was routine, really. Both Rudo and Riyo often slipped into his room and bed at night, sometimes just to sleep and sometimes earlier, Riyo demanding Zanka to brush the tangles in her hair and Rudo offering up his hands and a roll of bandages for Zanka to rewrap his old injuries. All three of them had grown up in the last few years, but somehow only became clingier and closer with it.
If someone had told him he would come to love the little scuzzball who threw literal shit at him so much—ot at all—three years ago, he would have called them batshit insane.
And now Zanka found himself freaking out, because he had put blood on Rudo's hair. Small flakes of it, a rusty red against the Spherite's shock of white curls. Jabber's blood, there because Zanka was a freak that wanted to relieve the other man of his organs and crawl inside his chest instead. There because Zanka's family—his only family, the one that chose him—had tried their absolute best to cheer him up, and the thing that had finally managed it was not comfort or love or safety but plastering the worst guy he knew into the floor until he was barely conscious.
Hands shaking, Zanka picks the flecks out and then rubs the underside of his nails with the inside of his shirt until he's sure they are clean, then sinks them back in Rudo's curls, the weight of his hands making his eyes stop spinning so wildly behind his closed eyelids.
Still, the problem remains. Zanka is surrounded and entangled with all his favorite people, and yet he wishes it were Jabber Wonger's guts his hands were sinking into instead. His hair would be fine, too; he has never not enjoyed the feeling of his own fingers wrapped tight around the soft ropes of Jabber’s dreads, pulling him where Zanka wanted to. It wasn’t like he couldn’t just sink his—
No.
He was so not going to think about that right now.
But he doesn’t want to think about anything else, either. Not about the empty eyes of the woman who once taught him how to write his name, his handwriting forever matching hers, loopy and curling in the ends; and not about the hollowness that had haunted him this week, making him feel cold and lost no matter how many people reached out to him, how much effort they put into seeing him happy again. What does it say about him, that he has all he had ever wanted and he still longs for more? That the more he longs for is the bloodthirsty, cruel kind?
Zanka had had blood in his hands. He had wanted it there. He still wanted it there.
He does not want it near his family.
Doesn't he?
He wants—
“Hey, bad boy!”
Jabber.
Zanka’s eyes widen, hands flying to muffle the sound of his choker.
“Shaddap,” he whispers furiously into the thing, and then he’s slowly extricating himself from the cuddle pile, guiding Enjin’s now free hand to Rudo’s head and pressing a light kiss on Riyo’s forehead.
Then he darts out, heart in his throat as he wraps an outer robe around him, grabbing Lovely from the little pile where she had been resting along with The Ripper and Umbreaker. She crackles in his hands, half a complaint and half a question. Comfortable! She seems to whine, pouty. And then, like a light rising behind Zanka’s heart, sparks flying from her shaft. Who? Kira?
“Yes,” Zanka whispers back, making sure there is no one around to catch him in the questionable act of talking at his Vital Instrument. He feels it too, the acidic buzz of Mankira’s presence nearby. “Kira, and Jabs.”
Jabber was here, he was sure. It would not be the first time, Shikage long since having been bribed into letting the Raiders in. Some Raiders, at least. Zanka certainly noticed Semiu looking more relaxed in the days he thought he could hear the low rumble of Manhole complaining about the amount of light in the HQ, and he was pretty sure that the soft waves he felt from time to time in the hallway outside of Riyo’s room came from no other than Asyl.
Quick! Lovely demands, eager. Zanka speeds up to his room, then opens the door, the feeling of sharp bubbles popping against his skin welcoming him in along with the scent of lavender, bleach, and blood.
Yes! Lovely thrills.
Home yes hi hello hi again home safe home comes the heaving, shrill voice Zanka associates with Mankira, and indeed there she is, catching the blue light of Zanka’s lava lamp, her blades over Jabber’s crossed legs as the Raider sat on his bed.
“Haven’ ya had ‘nough of me ta’day?” Zanka wonders out loud, sliding off his sandals and closing the door behind him with a click.
Jabber’s shoes are crammed under the window, no stain of dirt in Zanka’s multiple, mismatched blue carpets.
“Never,” Jabber purrs, leaning forward. “Especially not today, Zan-zan.”
Zanka doesn’t frown, the tips of his fingers itching to hook on Jabber’s shirt and pull it down, revealing the gouges he’s sure he left behind. He has taken off the body armor that stopped Mankira today, but he admits he missed the sting of her diving into his flesh. What did she have stored right now? As long as it wasn’t a paralytic or anything too deadly, maybe Jabber could—
“Duly noted,” Zanka scowls, stalking forward. “Watcha’ here fer, Freak?”
Zanka stops before him, and Jabber grins, dropping his feet into the covered floor and boxing Zanka between his legs, wrapping his hands (warm and wide and soft, perfect) around his waist. Mankira’s sharp tips meet and pass each other on the small of his back with a satisfied hiss, and Zanka allows Lovely to land with a soft tap, the supple wood of her meeting the edges of their wild girl with a pleased hum. Hello beauty hello missed you stay stay stay, his sweet girl croons, and Zanka feels her longing in his chest: to have Mankira around her spikes, slotted together like puzzle pieces; to clash against her over and over again, batting her away like a particularly deadly mosquito.
They are very alike, Zanka and his Vital Instrument.
“You,” comes Jabber reply, pulling him forward until his chin is pressed against Zanka’s navel, his magenta eyes pushed into a slim, glowing halo by his black, wide pupils. In them, Zanka can see his reflection almost perfectly. Me, me, me, me, Zanka thinks, somewhat incoherently. Us, us, us, us, Lovely corrects, amused. “Can’t tell me ya weren’t expecting me.”
“Why would I expect ya?” Zanka rolls his eyes. “‘Ts like expectin’ ma paralysis demon ta show up in ma fuckin’ dreams. I be s’re gettin’ da bad feelin’, but I hope I be wron’.”
“Liar.”
Zanka presses his lips together in a grimace, but doesn’t refute the statement. Jabber giggles, nuzzling the fabric of his shirt and then using his claws to bunch up the material, baring a strip of Zanka’s skin to the world.
“Fuck yer doin’ ya weird lil’ motherfu—fuck!” Of course he bit him, the rabid dog. Zanka hisses, hands sinking into Jabber’s (soft, thick, shiny with care) dreads and pulling the bastard away. Of course, the sucker doesn’t actually let go, jaws latched onto Zanka like a vice. “Fine, ya wanna play like that!?” He grumbles, and then uses Jabbers’ hair as leverage to bare his neck, the slender, already scarred curve of it coming easily. A moment before Zanka is leaning down, Jabber’s mouth detaches from his body.
It doesn’t stop Zanka from sinking his own teeth in the crook of Jabber's neck, the side of his mouth flushed against Jabber’s choker, and his canines buried as deep as they can be. Jabber moans, of course, and Zanka can feel the vibrations of the sound on his own jaw, the tremble of his body where one of his hands still holds onto Jabber’s skull.
“Jusssssst like that!” Jabber praises, his movements worsening the tears on his skin. Zanka clenches his jaw. “Ah! Yesssss, yes, yes, yes, yes! Perfe—ack!”
Zanka lets go when Jabber tenses, worried that he tore some important muscle they would have to bother Eishia about, but Jabber doesn't look permanently injured. Just dazed, and a bit—
Ain’t no way.
“Fuckin’ seriously, man?” Zanka mocks. “Jus’ by dat? Yer needy as hell.” Jabber mouth opens and closes a few times before he shakes his head, pulling Zanka onto his (wet) lap with a sudden lurch. “Ew!”
Jabber buries his heated face into Zanka’s neck, hands slipping under his clothes, one up and one down. Mankira, still activated, opens thin, bloody lines over his body, and Zanka immediately feels it all the more keenly, his nerve-endings overloaded in an instant. Ah, that explains it. Well, at least it’s not poison outright.
“Don’t ew me, Mr. Bad Attitude,” Jabber chits, then laps at the column of Zanka’s throat once before biting down harshly. Zanka tenses, but doesn’t flinch away. It makes the pain worse—so he pulls on Jabber's hair as retaliation until the shivers make a comeback. “Ya ar’ just like me. Ya like this as much as I do.”
“I don’t like this,” Zanka argues, his voice strangled but no less firm. Jabber laps at the blood on his neck, grinning. Zanka can feel the outlines of his mouth perfectly, even when it's just grazing him.
"I heard tha’t,” Jabber confirms. “Loud ‘n clear, babygirl.”
“I’m not yer babygirl.”
“Ya ar’ everything.”
Zanka’s hands wrap tightly around Jabber’s shoulders, thinking I want, I want, I want—
But the Cleaners—
Would choose me again, leech attached or not.
His family, who hadn’t turned from him once, not even in his worst, most pathetic moments. Who had showered him in bright acceptance from the start. What had Zanka to fear from the people who knew him best? Nothing at all.
Maybe, finally, he could have—
“Everythin’,” Zanka repeats, then pauses, fingers scraping softly against Jabber's scalp this time, pointedly. And then: “That sounds gay as hell. Ew.”