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“How long are you going to lie there for?”
Cthoni’s voice cuts through the deafening sound of blood rushing past Jabber’s ears. He doesn’t remember when she’d gotten here, much less how he’d ended up collapsed on the floor.
“So cold, Cthoni,”
He whines, even when his words are slurred, and he’s not sure if she’s managed to even parse out what he’d just said.
“Boss wants you,”
Levering himself up off the ground rocks the world around him, and suddenly Jabber is keeling over - heaving up everything he’d eaten in the past 36 hours. Admittedly? Not much.
He sobers up pretty quickly, and with his newfound clarity he is starkly reminded of the reason he’d gotten high in the first place. The world is quiet, quiet in a way that sets Jabber’s teeth on edge - quiet in that violently intense way, making the sky and ground close in on Jabber. He wants to rip his skin from his bones, just to try and save himself from drowning in the silence.
He needs to feel something.
That’s the thought that runs through his head as he slices his skin with Mankira’s claws; Cthoni’s gaze is biting, but the high hasn’t hit yet and Jabber can’t bring himself to care. The quiet attacks him in waves: buzzing underneath his skin, clawing at his nailbeds, gnawing at his gums. The world is dull, and his mind is the loudest it’s ever been.
The boss’ lair (it’s fun to think of it as a lair, but he’s sure Zodyl does not think of the area with the same word), is as drab as always. The small TV in the middle shows nothing but static, and Jabber’s eyes burn even as the imagery lies solely in his peripherals. There’s the crunch of glass beneath Jabber’s shoes, and Zodyl’s neck twitches.
He doesn’t look over to Jabber.
“There’s a Giver, I suspect they own an Instrument from the Watchman Series,” Zodyl’s voice rings throughout Jabber’s head - the room pulses in time with his words.
///
That’s the last thing Jabber remembers.
///
He tilts his head to the left, coming face to face with the dead Giver. His eyes are glazed over, with blood bubbling from his mouth. Mankira’s claws had cleaved through the man’s torso, and Jabber’s eyes are drawn to the way his intestines spill onto the floor - leaving behind a macabre painting of gore and blood.
Zodyl was wrong. No Watchman Series Instrument in sight. The idea forces a pained laugh from Jabber’s chest, and he relishes in how his wounds come to life at the movement.
The world is spinning around Jabber, and he can feel blood caked onto his teeth. He can’t bring himself to lever off of the ground, so instead he rolls his head back to face the ceiling. His fingers are no longer itching to bleed, and his chest stutters with each breath he takes. He can finally settle in his own skin without the mutedness of the world threatening to overwhelm him.
Jabber can’t remember when he’d started relying on drugs - when he’d started making them to be able to drive away the silence, rather than to experiment for fun.
Somedays, he thinks he’s become just like her. He forgets how she was in the end - skeletal, barely thinking, barely feeling. He remembers her highs, how she’d told him her love for him was eternal. He can’t remember that house anymore, and he can’t remember her face.
Her voice, though, lives in his mind - as strong as when she was alive. He remembers how she’d twist his hair, and how she’d have him rewind that music box every time the song played out. Even when her hands shook too much, when her body was too weak - she always tried.
His mother only exists as a figment of his imagination now.
Jabber hadn’t realised his eyes had slid closed at some point, only noticing once he felt shallow breaths on his face. It can’t be that Giver, the man is long dead now.
“You look pathetic, like this,”
Jabber’s eyes blink open, and he stares into an all too familiar face.
“Zan-Zan,”
He laughs breathlessly, watching as Zanka crouches over him, examining Jabber as if he were already a corpse.
“You let someone do this to you?” Zanka’s tone is derisive, and he’s digging his fingers into one of the wounds that litter Jabber’s chest. Jabber’s gasp of pain makes Zanka’s eyes widen, and they darken minutely.
Jabber can’t pinpoint the emotion that flashes across Zanka’s face, but it makes his heart beat loudly in his chest.
“You jealous?”
A laugh bubbles from his throat, and Jabber can feel blood trail from his lips to his chin. Zanka’s eyes are locked onto that one bead of blood, and Jabber’s mouth stretches into a grin. His laughs are weak, and it hurts to move - but it’s fun to see Zanka squirm.
“Don’t be, just needed ta’ feel something, you know you’re my favourite,”
Zanka glares down at Jabber, and it looks as if he’s about to refute him, but then his eyes zero in on Jabber’s throat. There are hands mercilessly tugging Jabber’s head up, and Zanka leans over him more.
“He got close enough to choke you,” It’s methodic, the way Zanka looks at the bruises that adorn Jabber’s neck. He actually remembers that one; the man had two hands around Jabber’s throat - pressing down hard enough that he could feel his breath stop.
He’d let it go on for longer than necessary, he’d enjoyed the feeling.
“The pain distracts, Zanka,”
He laughs again, the sound maniacal this time even as he closes his eyes and leans further into Zanka’s hold on his face.
“Distracts from what?”
Zanka’s voice lights Jabber’s blood on fire, and his breath ghosts over Jabber’s lips. It’s violent - the way Jabber feels. He wonders, only for a moment, if Zanka feels the same kind of violence under his skin. Even now, Zanka’s nails are pressed so tight against Jabber’s skin that they threaten to draw blood.
It’s addictive.
“The quiet,”
Zanka’s head lowers, lowers and lowers until his teeth graze against the bruises that darken Jabber’s skin. He whispers into the hollow of Jabber’s throat, and he can feel the words more than hear them.
“Is it quiet now, Jabber?”
He bites down before Jabber can form a reply.
Jabber’s vision goes white, and his mouth parts in a silent shout. His back arches up from the ground, and the movement sets all his other injuries alight. No, no it’s not quiet, not anymore. Not with Zanka. Jabber rips himself away from Zanka, he hears flesh tear against teeth. His fist collides with Zanka’s face, and Jabber jumps to his feet.
He’s unsteady, and the pain makes it hard to think.
How fun.
Lovely Assistaff has Jabber pinned to the wall by his throat before he can so much as blink. There’s a cut at Zanka’s cheekbone, and blood stains his teeth. He’s just out of reach, but also close enough for Jabber to see the way his chest rises and falls erratically.
“Got me trapped here- it’s turning me on,” Jabber rolls his tongue in his mouth. His gums still feel like chalk. “Wanted to see how you looked with my blood in your mouth,”
Jabber’s neck holds the indent of Zanka’s bite, and he sees the way Zanka isn’t even meeting his eyes. He’s just looking at that fucking puncture wound. Zanka’s hand flexes on Lovely Assistaff, and Jabber’s gaze locks onto the slight movement. He wants that hand on him - holding, hitting, anything.
“Hm, and what’d you think?”
And- well, Jabber knows Zanka’s competitive. Anyone who’s spent more than five minutes with the guy knows he’s competitive. That’s why Jabber lifts his head, tilting it a little so as to stretch the bite mark. Blood drips to his collarbone.
“You could do better,”
Lovely Assistaff grazes him, just barely, as Zanka puts her away in a millisecond. He leaves a fleeting kiss at her handle, but his eyes bore into Jabber the whole time. He feels like a bug under a microscope, his limbs pinned and his every flaw displayed just to be taken apart. He wants that, he wants it so bad.
Zanka’s on him in the next second, hands fisted in Jabber’s clothing and his teeth embedded into Jabber’s collar. His eyes had been trailing the blood he’d left behind. What a freak.
Jabber’s hands are tight on Zanka’s shoulders - he wants to leave bruises behind. He wants his presence to be marked on Zanka’s body like a brand, like something he couldn’t get rid of unless he scrubbed away at his skin until he hit bone. Then, Jabber would leave a mark behind on his skeleton.
“You’re getting distracted,” Zanka hisses in his ear. He’s mad - needs to prove himself. Even if proving himself just means that he removes all other senses from Jabber apart from the pain he inflicts.
“Feels like that’s your fault, Mr Bad Attitude,”
There’s gnawing at his lips, then, and fingers digging into the bitemarks as if they were handholds. When Jabber’s mouth opens for a gasp to crawl out, Zanka’s teeth crash into his. It tastes like blood, and skin. He kisses just like how he fights.
Like he’s trying to win.
“You trying to bite my tongue off, man?” Jabber mumbles against Zanka’s mouth, his lips curving into a smile.
“Not distracted now, are ya?”
Jabber doesn’t respond, he presses harder against Zanka - moving away from the wall for only a brief second before Zanka’s eyes snap open and he shoves Jabber back against it. He needs to be in control right now. The pain that sparks throughout Jabber’s body is enough for him to let that slide, for now.
“You’re being too gentle - I’m losing interest,” It’s a lie, they both know it. The quiet moans that leave Jabber’s mouth are proof enough. Zanka’s still angered by the mere idea of it. Maybe it’s also because nothing Jabber does is quiet. He hates it too much.
No. Hate is too weak a word. The quiet doesn’t hurt, it doesn’t maim, it doesn’t leave physical scars for him to pick at over and over again so it can’t ever heal. It was quiet the day he found her, blood and saliva leaking from her lips. Quiet, quiet, qui-
“Zanka,” His fingers flex at the nape of Zanka’s neck, and he can feel Zanka’s lips move against his own.
“I need to get high,”
Suddenly he’s on the floor, and Zanka’s got him pinned as he tears into the flesh of Jabber’s shoulder. When had Zanka moved his clothes out of the way? Blood. He can see it coat Zanka’s chin and lips. When Zanka meets his eyes he looks ravenous, and Jabber can see how his hand clenches into a fist.
He wants payback for the right hook Jabber had landed on him earlier. Good.
Jabber’s face snaps to the side, and he barely registers the crack of bone before he’s flipping their positions. The blood from his nose drips onto Zanka’s face, onto his clothes. Jabber wants- he wants-
Jabber’s hand shakes as he traces the cut he’d left on Zanka’s cheek. He licks the wound - watching Zanka wince on instinct, but he doesn’t move. They stay like that, frozen in time for barely a moment - Jabber hovering over Zanka as he waits for the tension to snap like a frayed string.
Zanka brings his leg up, knocking the wind out of Jabber on the second kick. He can tell that pisses him off, and Jabber laughs soundlessly through the pain. Jabber’s fists come down on Zanka’s chest, and Zanka bares his teeth in a growl. They’re still stained with Jabber’s blood. He has the sudden need to lick it off, to see if Zanka will bite down if he does.
There’s a ringing throughout Jabber’s head, and his body lurches forward on instinct when Zanka slams his head to the ground.
“Do you still need a high?” Zanka’s voice is harsh against Jabber’s ear, and his hands are tight on Jabber's neck. Like he doesn’t want to let go. “Or is this it? You don’t need drugs so long as you’re bleeding,”
Jabber’s eyes slide closed, and his world narrows to a pinpoint. Zanka’s warm breaths against his ear, the hands that climb from his throat to his face. The hands frame his face for just a millisecond, before moving to his broken nose.
A strangled whine escapes Jabber when Zanka sets his nose, and his hips buck up on instinct - Zanka doesn’t budge.
His hands come up to pry Zanka’s lips apart, Jabber’s tongue traces the blood that stains Zanka’s teeth. He can feel the guy’s jaw twitch under his fingers, but he doesn’t do more than graze.
Jabber pulls away, his breath still heavy on Zanka’s mouth.
“Wanted to see if you’d bite,” his lips move against Zanka’s, and he’s not even sure if Zanka could make out what he said. Not with the way he’s trying to chase Jabber’s taste again.
“You disappointed I didn’t?” Zanka doesn’t wait for an answer, pressing forward with the urge to kiss, to make bleed. His nose knocks against Jabber’s, and the hiss of pain is swallowed in the haze.
“Not gonna get high, not with you here. You’re the most- interesting thing about being sober,” Jabber’s words spill out unbidden, pressed messily against Zanka’s lips. Hands snake under Jabber’s clothes, scratching at the planes of his stomach and chest.
“I’ll leave soon, then you’ll be sober and alone,”
“You’ll come back-” Jabber moans, arching his back as Zanka presses against bruises and cuts alike. “This isn’t enough for you- I’m too weak right now, you need to prove yourself,” Jabber’s breathing is heavy as he grips Zanka’s waist. “You need to prove that you’re stronger,”
Zanka slams Jabber against the floor again, biting at his neck and chest, leaving behind kisses smeared with blood. He’s not gentle, but Jabber would kill him if he ever tried to be.
“How do you know I’ll come back?” Zanka’s words reverberate in Jabber’s chest, and he tilts his head just enough to bare the unmarked skin of his neck for Zanka.
“You’re just like me,”
A sting, the sound of flesh ripping, a tongue laving against the wound Zanka left. Open mouthed kisses pressed along the column of his throat - not as an apology, just to see how far Jabber will let him go. Jabber would let him do anything, is the issue.
“You can’t run from a fight, and you won’t stop until you beat me,”
Zanka pauses, and he lifts his head up to make eye contact with Jabber again. Jabber uses that moment to flip them, straddling Zanka’s waist and leaning his head forwards so his hair curtains them both - hiding them from view.
“Ain’t that right?”
He presses a hard kiss to Zanka’s mouth, stealing the air from his lungs, mapping the corners of his mouth with his tongue. It’s almost as if he were trying to mesh them together, so no one would ever be able to tell the two apart. Even now, Zanka’s still trying to gain back control, his fingers are tight against the back of Jabber’s neck - sure to leave bruises.
Jabber parts their lips, pressing one last kiss to Zanka’s mouth before pushing away. Zanka doesn’t let him get too far before he bites kisses into Jabber’s neck, and Jabber lets his moans ring out.
“You can leave. Walk away, and go back to your shitty Raider Headquarter’s. Then you can explain why it looks like you’ve been fucked,” The words are harsh, whispered against his lips as a final bid goodbye. Jabber’s lips stretch into a grin, he knows what Zanka wants.
“Next time, I’ll come to you. Didn’t think you’d be so possessive,”
In the next moment, the alleyway is deserted.
All that is left is a dead man, with nothing to show as evidence for what had happened.