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Jabber Wonger is floating. He’s disconnected from the world, from his own body, from whatever could possibly ground him. The sheets under him are soft, the sweat on his skin chills him, but his head is up in the clouds, making everything feel far away.
He stares blankly at the ceiling, this satisfied little smile on his face. The ceiling has this popcorn texture to it and Jabber can hear springs squeaking in the room next door. The hotel is cheap, but what can he do about it? Being a raider doesn’t pay well, but it seems the same is true for being a Cleaner. Oh, well.
He doesn’t care about the quality of the hotel. He cares about the person he’s sharing the room with—but, to be honest, right now, he doesn’t care about much at all.
His head feels so fuzzy.
After everything was said and done, Jabber must’ve taken a little cat nap. He can remember what happened pretty clearly; being held down on the sheets, face pressed into the pillow, rocking with the thrusts into him. A hoarse voice, his hoarse voice, begging for more, faster, harder, deeper, until he tipped over the edge and shook with it, drifting off as he came down. Now, here he is, in bed alone, hazy and unfocused. His hook up is nowhere to be seen.
Jabber is sure he left, but then he catches sight of a jacket slung over the back of a chair, pants and shirt folded neatly on the seat. He strains his ears and he can hear the shower running in the bathroom. He giggles a little. How could he forget that Zanka Nijiku would never leave right after sex, no matter how desperate he is to get away? He would just bitch and moan about being all sweaty and sticky the whole time and he’d be too self conscious that anyone would be able to look at him and know he just fucked Jabber, his dirty little secret.
Such a silly guy, he is.
Jabber should probably get up and get dressed and get out of here before Zanka gets out of the shower. Now, he’d love to stick around and engage in some pointless banter before he inevitably pisses Zanka off, leading to him storming off, but Jabber feels good right now and he doesn’t really wanna wreck it. He usually gets all stupid and tongue tied like this too, so he would hardly be a good opponent in a battle of words. It’s Zanka’s fault that he’s all sex stupid, anyway.
The thing with this is that, lately, when Zanka storms off, Jabber feels… cold. Weird. Odd. Bad. He’s not sure how exactly he feels, he’s never been really good with that, but he knows the feeling is bad. It settles in his chest, weighs him down, and makes him want to curl up under some blankets and sleep until the feeling goes away.
But it lingers. It lingers for minutes, hours, maybe a day or so. Jabber doesn’t get it, doesn’t like it, and, most importantly, it’s not fun.
It sucks. It’s probably connected to Zanka, seeing as how it only happens after he sees him, so the logical thing to do would be to stop sneaking around with Zanka like this, to only see him when the raiders and Cleaners clash and when they beat the shit out of each other, right?
That sucks even more, though. When Jabber thinks about that, his chest gets all tight, and he gets even colder than before.
He’s lost in hazy, soupy thoughts that cause the chill in his chest to start to spread when a billow of steam from the opening bathroom door warms him back up. He’s stupidly spread on the wet sheets, but he pushes himself up to his elbows, watching as Zanka leaves the bathroom, naked as the day he was born save for a towel around his shoulders that he dries his hair with. That, too, though, drops to the ground before long.
Zanka is beautiful. This isn’t a rare thought for Jabber to have. He’s gorgeous, all thin and long limbs, lithe and graceful like an elf, in a way. So pretty that he hurts to look at sometimes. His eyes are wide and dark, doe eyes on a fox of a guy. He looks even prettier like this, pale skin flushed from a hot shower, hair mused, standing above Jabber and just looking down at him. Jabber can’t read his expression but he so rarely can, so it’s not much different than usual.
Zanka steps closer and Jabber watches him, wetting his lips with a tongue. Maybe they’re not done? His chest warms up. He won’t be cold for a while, if that’s the case.
A warm hand splays on the center of his chest and he’s gently pushed back down. He goes down willingly, staring up at Zanka, letting him do whatever he pleases. Whatever he wants, he can have. Whatever he wants to do to Jabber, Jabber will let him. Whatever makes him happy. Whatever keeps him here longer.
Something wet and warm touches Jabber’s stomach. Furrowing his eyebrows, he lifts up to look down, and he sees a rag he didn’t notice Zanka was carrying. Zanka isn't meeting his eyes, moving to kneel on the bed, cleaning his stomach and lower. He glances up at him through his lashes before he leans down and presses a kiss to the soft skin of his stomach.
“You shoulda moved over,” he says, tone soft, accent gruff. It washes over Jabber, like waves over sun warmed sand. His stomach quivers under the touch of his lips. “Yer layin’ in a wet spot. That can’t be comfortable.”
Jabber swallows and forces a laugh. “It isn’t.”
Zanka looks up at him and steals his breath away. “Scoot over.”
Jabber scoots. Zanka follows. He ends up kneeling on that wet spot. Jabber focuses on that—he just took a shower and now he’s gonna get all dirty again. That makes his stomach feel… weird.
But not cold. He doesn’t feel cold at all.
Zanka’s hand moves down, continuing to clean Jabber up. His hand slides between his legs and Jabber twitches. He’s oversensitive, over aware, and Zanka notices, keeping his touches light. Jabber just watches him, something like fascination on his face, or, maybe, it’s more like confusion. What is Zanka doing?
Zanka glances up at him and then back down. He catches his bottom lip between his teeth, worrying it red. Jabber’s heart feels odd in his chest, like it’s beating fast, too fast for his own good. Zanka looks up again.
“How are you?” He asks, hand stilling for a moment. “Are you okay?”
Jabber breathes, and it sounds more like a gasp. What is going on? Why is he so warm? Has he ever felt this warm before? “I’m… I, uh… I’m okay…”
Zanka nods, looking back down. He leans down and kisses the inside of Jabber’s thigh, and it’s hot and sexy and charged, of course, but, above all, it’s intimate. They don’t do intimate. Jabber isn’t even sure he knows how to be intimate. He twitches, and he spreads his legs open. He’s a little overwhelmed, but this, this he can do. Sex, he knows. Fucking, he knows. That doesn’t confuse him.
Zanka takes advantage of his spread legs to clean him more thoroughly, giving care to that spot between his legs, the spot Jabber sometimes tries to forget about himself, the spot that’s only useful when he falls into bed with his favorite Cleaner. The way Zanka touches him, touches him there…
It makes him feel less… dirty. Less broken, perhaps.
Oh, Jabber is not okay.
“I’ve been, uh… I’ve been lookin’ stuff up, ya’know?” Zanka wipes down his leg, kisses following the trail of the rag, and Jabber feels warmer and warmer with each kiss, as if he’s not naked, as if the air conditioner isn’t on, as if he’s bundled up in the warmest blanket possible. “We’ve been, ya’know, doin’ more intense stuff, and you always, ya’know, get all floaty n’ shit, so… I wanted to know how to take care of ya.”
Zanka’s all pouty and red, as if Jabber’s going to make fun of him, but Jabber can’t even put together enough thoughts to imagine making fun of him. His voice is a croak when he speaks, dry, cracking.
“T-take care of me?” Jabber blinks, trying to clear his vision. Why is it so blurry? Zanka looks up at him, his pout falling, but a frown still on his face. Why is he frowning? Did Jabber do something wrong? “You… you want to…”
Zanka lets the rag drop to the bed and he crawls up, sidles up next to Jabber, and his hand comes up to Jabber’s cheek. His skin is soft and warm, so warm, and Jabber’s breath shudders out of him. He leans his cheek into his hand, eyes closing.
“‘Course I do,” Zanka responds after a moment, voice low, almost a little unsure. “I’m—I’m sorry I didn’t before. Didn’t know how. Didn’t know I was supposed—nah, no, that’s not the right word, I mean, uh…” Jabber opens his eyes and looks at him. Zanka’s not meeting his eyes. “Wasn’t sure whether you were in some headspace, or, like, sex stupid, or somethin’. Guess it’s both? Somethin’, somethin’, subspace. You would drop, right? God, I’m such a dick. I’m sorry, man.”
Jabber doesn’t know what he’s talking about. He blinks at him, blankly, and Zanka looks back at him. He rubs his thumb over his cheek.
“D’ya even know what I’m talkin’ ‘bout, babe?” Jabber’s lashes flutter again. Zanka basically never uses pet names, they’re more Jabber’s thing, but the way they sound from Zanka’s mouth, rolling off his tongue, with his accent… Jabber’s going to melt under all of this heat. “No, ya don’t, do ya? That’s a’ight. You don’t gotta know.”
Zanka thumbs at Jabber’s bottom lip and Jabber kisses the pad of his thumb, looking at him. He bites, lightly, and kisses it again, soothing the bite.
“Kiss me?” He asks, almost choking on the words. Zanka’s breath catches and he leans down, kissing him sweetly. It’s not fevered, like their kisses usually are, but just sweet, soft, affectionate. Intimacy, intimacy, confusion, confusion.
It’s over far too soon. Zanka pulls back, pressing another kiss to the corner of Jabber’s mouth, and then lifts up, looking over the room.
“I gotta clean up. The strap’s still on the floor and the sheets are gross. Gotta put some lotion on you, too, huh? Bet yer ass is sore, you masochist,” Zanka teases, thumb rubbing over Jabber’s cheekbone. He leans down, kissing the tip of his nose. “D’ya wanna shower?”
“Dunno,” Jabber responds, back in his floaty daze, blinking slowly up at Zanka. He makes a grabby hand, slinging it around his neck, pulling him down. “Don’t care. Hold me.”
“Clingy,” Zanka teases, again, and Jabber nearly releases him. Before he can do that, Zanka is laying down, pulling Jabber close, making him rest his head on his chest. Jabber can hear his heart fluttering under his ear, pounding hard, and it makes his heart race all the same. “Yer a cuddler?”
“Dunno,” Jabber says again, snuggling into Zanka, warm, warm, warm. Zanka wraps his arms around him, holding him tight, and even pressing a kiss to the top of his head.
Jabber didn’t know it was possible to feel this warm after everything. He just thought feeling cold was a byproduct of sex, going from rocking bodies and sweaty promises to stillness and distance just makes sense to cause some chill. Like how every drug has its come down, its shakes, its withdrawal.
This is nice. This is good. Jabber isn’t sure if he’s ever felt this good before.
“You gonna sleep?” Zanka asks, and his voice is like honey, or maybe that’s just what Jabber’s brain feels like, all slow and thick, taking a while to process everything. Zanka’s hand is rubbing up and down his back, leaving burning trails in its wake, and Jabber nuzzles his cheek into his chest.
“Yeah,” he drawls, speech slow. He closes his ears, focusing on the ba-thump, ba-thump, ba-thump under his ear. Steady, consistent, grounding. He’s coming back to his body, the sheets are soft, the ceiling still has a popcorn texture, and the bed has stopped squeaking next door. Maybe they’re cuddling too. Zanka is warm and solid and beautiful and strong and he’s holding Jabber like he’s something worth holding, and maybe, just maybe, he thinks Jabber is warm and solid and beautiful and strong too.
Jabber doesn’t know. He’s not sure. He won’t ask. He won’t let Zanka know that he wants him to think he’s all those things. There’s no possibility of being let down if he keeps a little secret, if he indulges in being held like this and pretends he knows what it’s about, pretends Zanka wants this, that he doesn’t just feel obligated to do this.
He did say he wanted to, though. Maybe he isn’t lying.
“Sleep,” Zanka responds, and Jabber drifts. “We’ll eat somethin’ when you wake up.”
“‘Kay.” Jabber presses in closer, his leg between Zanka’s. “I… like this.”
Zanka’s heart stutters. “Y-yeah?”
“Yeah.”
Zanka is quiet for a moment. “I… like this too.”
Jabber doesn’t feel much like himself, but that’s okay. Zanka has him.
“Did you… like everything?” He asks before he can think better of it. Zanka draws random shapes on his back.
“Yeah. You always make me feel real good, Jabber,” Zanka replies, and something settles in Jabber’s stomach. He squeezes his eyes closed tighter and curls into Zanka.
“Good, I try my hardest,” he responds, a bit more clarity in his voice, and Zanka’s chest rises with a soft laugh. Jabber drifts more.
As he’s being pulled under, pulled out to sea, off the sun warmed sand, he murmurs words into Zanka’s chest.
“I really like you.”
Ba-thump ba-thump ba-thump ba-thump—
Jabber is pulled out to sea. He doesn’t hear the words spoken into his hair. Maybe those words aren’t meant for him to hear at all.
“I love you more than I should.”