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tap, tap. tap, tap.
That was the first red flag for Zanka. Not that Jabber was outside his window in the middle of the night, staring at him from the other side of the glass. That was normal, really. They’d been doing this for months now— approaching a year, maybe. Jabber loved showing up at Zankas window, waiting eagerly for Zanka to open up and let him inside. It was typical, routine even.
There were a few differences in Jabbers behavior, though. Ones Zanka felt obsessive for even noticing— but he’d subconsciously studied Jabber so much (and Jabber had done the same to him,) that he could tell when things were off.
One, Jabber didn’t tap. He knocked. Zanka’d hissed at him more than a few times to quiet down, and find some other way to get Zankas attention that wouldn’t alert the others that he was here. Jabber had only snickered, saying that it worked, so what was the big deal. Zanka could hardly believe that Jabber was so good at stealth when he wanted to be.
Two, Jabber’s face was all wrong. Jabber always smiled seeing Zanka through his window, grin either huge and ecstatic, or small and anticipating. Jabber had no smile today— in fact, he looked a little dead, big rouge eyes peering into Zankas as he tapped his finger into the glass. Tap, tap, tap.
His posture was slumped, hair covering his face that left a harsh shadow over his features. His taps came inconsistently, the pattern never the same each time. Zanka only realized he’d been staring when Jabber tilted his head, silently asking why Zanka hadn’t opened the window yet.
Zanka shuffled out of bed, mumbling a sorry he wasn’t sure Jabber could hear, and opened the window. Jabber hopped inside, not saying anything to Zanka, and sat on his bed criss-crossed. In the past, Zanka would’ve made some joke about him being rude, asking when he of all people became so quiet. But something was wrong, very, very wrong.
“Jab?” Zanka questioned, moving to sit on the bed next to him. Jabber hummed in response, not looking at Zanka, too busy staring at the window. He pulled his legs to his chest, humming some sort of tune Zanka couldn’t recognize. Knowing Jabber, he’d probably made it up on the spot.
“Jab, what’s up? Yer worryin’ me.” Zanka tried again, carefully putting a hand on Jabbers shoulder. Jabber looked at him then, only barely, a weak grin plastered on his face. He looked away again, shaking his head.
“Zodyl’s mad.” He answered, “Real mad. Yeah, he can’t stand me right now.”
Zanka froze, letting the words roll over in his mind. Jabber had been talking more and more about Zodyl as of late. Kept talking about how Zodyl was pissed, how he needed to prove himself as useful before Zodyl kicked him to the curb. His tone had always been playful, as if he never saw it as a real possibility, but there was always something underneath the surface.
They both knew Zodyl didn’t take kindly to those who didn’t impress him. Fu was a prime example, having been left by Zodyl for failing to meet expectations. Zanka had always thought about how the Cleaners never left anyone behind, how they were patient with each other. He remembers bringing it up to Jabber, months after Fu had already became settled with the Cleaners, and he remember Jabber laughing and saying ‘He got off easy.’
“Man, I fucked up bad, Zan-Zan.” Jabber laughed dryly, no humor in his tone. “Ol’ Jabber tried his best, but he just couldn’t get the mission right!”
Jabber shook his head, a far off look in his eye. Zanka had seen it a few times. Whenever Jabber would talk about his past, (always fights, always poisons, never his childhood. certainly never his parents.) whenever they were panting, reeling from the aftershocks of a heated fight, whenever Zanka would look at him like he mattered.
“So, what?” Zanka asked, trying to not sound as thrown off as he felt. “Won’t he just— y’know, beat yer ass like usual?”
The words didn’t exactly feel right on Zankas tongue. He knew Zodyl beat Jabber, Jabber had told him rather openly during their second fight. Even so, the reality of it never left a good taste in Zankas mouth.
It was different than when Jabber and Zanka fought. They were equals when they clashed, their jaws tight and their vital instruments blazing with determination. They would both bleed for the same goal: Zanka becoming stronger, each fight building closer and closer to the climax, Zanka finally unlocking his true strength. They were the same, two sides of the same coin.
Whenever Jabber would come back from his fights with Zodyl, it was never the same as the outcomes of his fights with Zanka. There wasn’t the same share of pain, an equal distribution of wants and needs— it was as simple as a one-sided beat down, and it never felt quite right to Zanka.
He wasn’t jealous, as Jabber had brought up once. Zanka knew Jabber fought other people, he was a Raider, it was obvious. And Jabber was never shy on insisting that his fights with others were nowhere near the same category as he and Zankas exchanges. No one could even compare— he’d said once.
It wasn’t jealously, and it wasn’t possessiveness (though he had the latter in spades when it came to Jabber), so why did Zodyl ‘fighting’ Jabber make his stomach twist so deeply?
Zanka had brought it up seriously once. Only once.
”Enjin, he’d— he’d never hit me. The Cleaners, we don’t hurt each other.”
Jabbers response?
”Well, we ain’t you n’ Enjin, and the Raiders ain’t the Cleaners, so what’s the problem?”
Zanka didn’t bring it up after that.
“Nah, nah. You’re not remembering it right. Zodyl beats my ass when he’s happy with my work, ‘s a reward, y’know.” He shrugs, tone casual, but Zanka could see as Jabber reached to gnaw on his thumb nail. He hadn’t seen Jabber do it much, other than when he was nervous, which was uncommon for someone like him
“No, no— when he’s mad he jus’ tells me to do better. Sometimes he doesn’t talk to me, but he ain’t a talker anyway, hah.” Jabber shakes his head, and his nail bed begins to bleed with how roughly he’s biting down. “Lately he’s been sayin’ how I’m on thin ice, how I can’t keep messin’ around. And this, this—“
Jabber bites deeply into his finger, blood spurting from beneath the skin. Zanka winces, and Jabber doesn’t, and Jabber wipes the blood onto his Raider uniform like it’s no big deal and keeps talking. Zanka sees that his hand is shaking.
“This was my last chance, man. Actual last chance, no pardons!” Jabber giggles, and it’s some mix of mania and desperation. “I dunno what he’s gonna do, but he was pissed, dude. Said he’s gonna decide tomorrow, well, I guess now it would be in the morning. Kinda waited a few hours before comin’ here.”
Zanka looked out the window, and saw how the night sky was beginning to brighten just slightly. And he remembers how he never saw that shovel raider again, and remembers Riyo and Enjin whispering about severed hands holding vital instruments, stabbing the heart of the trash beast they’d been trapped in. ‘Offerings,’ they’d been called.
He remembers Riyo and Enjin describing the vital instruments that’d been turned into offerings, and he remembers one being described as a small shovel.
“You should leave.” Zanka blurted out, emotions speaking before his brain. Jabbers eyes widened at that, turning to look at Zanka like he’d grown another head. “Y’should, Jabber, really. Ya could—“
“And then what?” Jabbers question had a bit of bite, like the notion itself was stupid. “People don’t just leave the Raiders, Zanka. We aren’t like you softie, friendship is magic ass Cleaners.”
“What’s yer other option? Becoming a sacrifice t’some fucked up Trash Beast—?!” Zanka countered, voice louder than he meant them to be. Jabber flinched, as if surprised Zanka knew that. He shook off the shock quickly, brows furrowing. He put his legs down, gaze staring deeply at nothing,
“I’ve got nowhere else, Zanka.” He admitted, his voice wavering like Zanka’d never heard. Like Jabber would usually never allow. “If I leave the Raiders, I-I’ve got nowhere to go.”
Zanka watches as Jabbers hands twist in the bedsheets, grasping them like a lifeline. Zanka watches as Jabber shakes, only a little, and how he still refuses to look at Zanka, like the very act will break him.
He hears his own heartbeat thumping in his ears, and makes a decision.
“You can stay here.”
Jabber glared at him, avoiding eye contact.
“‘m not becoming a Cleaner, Zanka.”
“Y’don’t have to.” Sphere knows he’d tried to suggest joining the Cleaners to Jabber more times than he could count. It never worked, and at some point, he stopped expecting it to. “Jus’ stay here with us. With me.”
“Zan—“
“I’m not letting ya die, Jabber.”
Silence passed over the room like a dense fog, neither daring to say anything. The simple act of wanting to protect Jabber, and saying that want out loud, felt like a line crossed. Zanka wasn’t sure why, though. Poisons, bloodshed, broken bones, that was always fine. But care, true and honest care— it always felt like too much. Zanka wondered if Jabber felt the absurdity too.
Jabber leaned his head to the side, letting it rest on Zankas shoulder. Zanka let it happen, let Jabber think.
“Yeah,” Jabber mumbled, “Yeah, we can— I’ll try.”
A relief flowed over Zanka, and he let out a breath he wasn’t even aware he was holding. He moved his hand over to Jabbers, resting his palm against the Raiders’ knuckle, the one still twisting into the sheets of the bed. He felt Jabbers muscles tense, and then relax under his touch, crescendoing in him taking Zankas hand in his hold.
The sun began to emerge in the sky more prominently, the night turning to dusk as the two boys sat together.
Somehow, it didn’t scare Zanka quite as much anymore.