Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

“We’ve been asked to help out at the old folk’s facility down the road this Saturday afternoon, so write that down somewhere. If you don't show up, you’ll be known as the cleaner who doesn’t help the elderly for the rest of the semester.”

Enjin’s comment gets a chuckle out of a few students scattered throughout the room. The club advisor’s statement, coupled with him gathering his belongings off the desk, prompts a chain reaction. Students begin fragmenting off into their own groups, chattering amongst themselves, some retreat to their phones, others leave. 

“I helped out there a few months ago for a sewing project,” Riyo begins as she turns towards the others at her table. 

August quips, “What’d it smell like–?” 

“–Why are you even asking me that?” Riyo immediately retorts, rolling her eyes to distract from the slight smirk on her face.

Eishia pouts at the joke from the other side of the table, while Zanka and Rudo both snicker quietly to themselves. As the group begins to tear down their area, pens click shut, laptops are shoved into cases, and backpack zippers take over the sound of conversation.

The siblings and Rudo peel off with waves of goodbye, leaving the other two lingering behind.

“Head out now?” Riyo prompts.

She’s met with a friendly nod as they leave the lecture hall, the motion-detecting lights click off as the room’s left empty.

“I have to finish this project for my sport’s nutrition class before we get swamped in volunteer work.” Zanka admits with a sigh, thinking about the brief outline he wrote this morning. “I don't think I can get away with doing homework on the job again.”

“Yeah, our clientele don't normally like when we multitask with unrelated things.” Riyo laughs, giving him a soft punch on the shoulder as they walk down the building’s corridor. 

The student union hall was in the middle of campus, its location being some sort of metaphor for the college community and whatnot. It held the meeting spots of multiple clubs, The Cleaners being no exception. They’re a 3R organization who specialized in recycling and sustainability initiatives, and sometimes volunteer work when they were asked by others in the surrounding city.

It’s led by Enjin, a young adult who’s foul mouth and kind heart attracts students of all sorts of types to join and find the significance of the club’s cause. He needed to advise some sort of school organization as mandated for all staff members by the college president. The Cleaners have had a strong identity on Giver University’s campus for quite some time now. 

Riyo begins to fork off in the other direction, making Zanka pause their original route back home. 

“Where ya going?”

“There’s a track meet happening in 15 minutes on the athletic field.” She points with her thumb behind her.

“Since when’re you interested in track?” Zanka tilts his head, eyebrows rising in question. 

“Never,” She snorts, “but this girl I met in my 3-D Fashion Design class is on it. She’s cool and I want her to like me, so I said I’d go.” Riyo isn't shy in her honesty.

“On a Tuesday?” Zanka asks.

“Yeah–I don't know! I don't make the schedule.” She laughs in response, shrugging. “You coming with or no?”

Zanka thinks back to the project he mentioned 2 minutes ago. He also thinks back to the time Enjin had a one-on-one mentoring session with him at the beginning of the semester and politely grilled him for not socializing beyond cleaner’s meetings. 

He relents without saying anything outloud. 

“View this as studying!” Riyo chirps as they're side by side once again, this time heading towards the northern edge of campus where all the athletic facilities were.

“I do Nutrition, not sports.” 

“Well sporty people need to eat, so same thing.” 

Zanka just crinkles his nose in response.

________

The loud crack of the starting gun makes Zanka’s eyes instinctively twitch each time a new race begins. Their team is going against a neighboring school with a lot more students than they have. The benches on the outside of the track are full of opposing colors, maroon and gold specifically, not that any of them were particularly catching his eye.

“What’re our sports teams called again?” Zanka questions, observing the deep purple and white of his fellow student’s uniforms.

“The Raiders.” Riyo answers the should-be obvious answer with a huff, which earns a silent ‘Oh’ from him. 

The two of them are sitting on the bleachers, butts placed over a blanket Riyo stashed in her bag earlier. It was late February, so the metal of the seats still kept a frosty chill. There was a sizable crowd surrounding them, given it was one of the first meets in the season.

Riyo begins pointing frantically at one of the girls, “That’s her! The one from my class, in the middle.”

Zanka follows her finger and lands on a taller girl with tanned skin and long blonde hair pulled into a high pony. Her and the other athletes next to her were about to run straight for these high hurdles littered throughout the track.

“Noerde,” Riyo answers before he can even ask for the name.

Zanka notices the smile on his friend’s face. It puts a smile on his own. Before he can probe any further, his gaze is immediately stolen by an unsuspecting student who’s off to the side of the track, clearly preparing for his next event.

He’s tall, taller than the other guys around him, and has a strong yet lean frame. His hair is styled into locs and hanging freely around his shoulders despite everyone else's choice to tie up their own. He stands out, both in his appearance and in the way his general aura lights up the room–which is difficult, considering they're outside. 

Zanka was well aware that attractive people existed around him. He knew when someone was pretty or handsome, but never felt anything beyond that. When his friends began talking about the concept of dating, his answer always revolved around coming to school to get a degree, not a partner. But for the first time in his almost two years of being here, Zanka suddenly understood the innate feeling of infatuation.

He wanted to know who he was, his favorite food, what he watches late at night, where he goes on long school breaks. The swift need to know all the answers made his head hurt.

The burning sensation in his eyes was the only indication to Zanka that he’s been staring without so much as a single blink. As well as the voice beginning to pierce its way into his awareness.

“...ka, Zanka! Hellooo?” Riyo is drawing out her voice. “What are you even–?” She looks back and forth between Zanka and the potential scapegoat.

“It’s Wonger isn't it.” She says frankly. Riyo, aware of his usual lack of interest in dating, tries not to make it sound like a big deal, out of fear of scaring Zanka off from talking about it.

Zanka didn't even notice the bright white paper bib safety-pinned to the man’s jersey.

Jabber Wonger

“Who is he?” Zanka doesn't even feign innocence. 

“I don't know him,” She answers with a squint in her eye, focusing on the athlete’s face, “I can ask Noerde afterwards.”

The crowd suddenly erupts into cheers. The people in front of Riyo and Zanka stand up in triumph, blocking their view. Riyo stays seated, but Zanka is immediately to his feet to see the cause of the commotion. 

Despite being a few seconds late, it's clear that there was a great deal of distance between Jabber and the rest of the athletes, both literally and athletically. Some still hadn't even crossed the line yet, while he’s already running off to his teammates in celebration. Even while he isn't racing, the thick cord of muscle on his quads lengthen and contract noticeably with each step.

There's a mixture of high fives, fist bumps, and even a few of the female athletes on the team go in for sweaty hugs, which Jabber reciprocates promptly. It sends a zing of annoyance through Zanka’s being. 

Zanka urgently plops back down in his seat, the quick motion causing a metallic sound to ring out as he retreats back to his closed off demeanor. His arms are crossed around his body, a slight pout on his face.

“Dont worry about it,” He jeers, “Casanova’s probably a prick anyway.”

Riyo laughs in bewilderment, feet stomping up and down as she leans over herself.

“What the fuck just happened in the span of 20 seconds that made you immediately change your mind?” She questions loudly. Tucking a piece of her bright red hair out of her eyes, she sniffles as the lingering fits of laughter threaten to escape her.

“Just chill,” Riyo prompts, slightly disappointed in the other’s seemingly failed prospect.

The two of them sit there and continue to watch the rest of the meet play out. They chit chat, point out people they know both down on the track and in surrounding bleachers, and occasionally retreat to their phones for a few seconds of scrolling during down time. 

The end of the meet clearly arrives once everyone starts to make their way off the risers and either spill into the track or start heading back to the main campus.

Zanka tries to copy the latter, but is stopped by Riyo’s small hand snatching the collar of his jacket. She pulls on it and leads them towards where the athletes are, with much protest from Zanka.

“Don’t ya have class with this girl? You’ll see her later…” He whines, not prepared for the onslaught of socialization Riyo wanted to thrust upon them. 

“Oh come on,” She scoffs. “Be a good sport and congratulate our school team.”

Zanka’s head rattles with each heavy step of his boots on the metal steps. 

As the crowd begins to congregate with their athlete of choice, Riyo’s own direction becomes clear. The blonde girl from before is waiting with a towel around her neck, smiling at Riyo’s surprise appearance.

Zanka doesn't comprehend the conversation between the girls that follows suit due to Romeo suddenly being on full display only a few yards away. He’s still talking to his teammates, but is interrupted sporadically by what appears to be advice from the head coach.

Zanka is standing there, posture still reserved to himself, watching the interaction through the gaps of people that keep passing by. His gloved fingers are digging themselves into his own biceps as he continuously goes back and forth on his opinion of the guy. 

Okay Mr. Popular, with your stupid long hair and nice face, just suck up all the attention you clearly crave–

Zanka’s thoughts are interrupted when the other’s magenta eyes suddenly lock on to him. Other students are still trying to talk to Jabber, but the man’s gaze is securely focused on Zanka.

A wide, toothy grin breaks out on Jabber’s face. Without warning, he begins walking towards the trio that Zanka is abruptly aware that he is a part of.

“Hey, there’s Jabber.” Zanka hears Noerde speak up, clearly in response to something that Riyo had just asked. He was so distracted by the other’s appearance that he had no autonomy or ounce of knowledge of whatever Riyo had revealed to her classmate.

“I’ve gotta get some work done at home. Nice to meet you, Noerde. Good job today. See ya later Riyo.” Zanka spits out a string of monotone niceties and excuses himself right before Jabber can reach them. 

Zanka turns quickly on his heel and heads straight for the exit gate, holding onto his bag’s strap to ground him. He’s gone before anyone can respond, small puffs of condensation trailing behind him as he picks up speed.

“What’s with Mr. Bad Attitude?” Jabber asks the two ladies, smirk across his face as he watches the ash-brunette hurry out. He lazily places the spout of a water bottle in between his lips and drinks, eyes following Zanka until he’s officially out of sight.

Chapter Text

why’d you leave so fast?! you just missed jabber

I told you I wasn't interested

bullshit, your brain just made up an excuse to make you think that

Well it's working!

whateverrrr

Zanka throws his phone towards the foot of the bed with a huff. He didn't need Riyo jumping down his throat about his love life again, especially over such a miniscule thing.

The dorm room was dark, both windows’ curtains drawn close to shield what little sunlight was left in the early spring sky. With the semester just beginning a few weeks ago, coursework was still on the lighter side. Students had time to catch up with friends they missed over the long winter break before hunkering down for midterms. Zanka stayed on campus during the break, he felt no need to explore campus any further.

Long, slender fingers tap lightly over his laptop's keyboard. Zanka’s eyes are staring more through the screen than at it, his head is slightly preoccupied with unfamiliar thoughts. He’s tucked mostly under the twin bed’s comforter, getting rid of the final bits of coldness that lingered in his body from spending the afternoon outside.

Another body wouldn't even fit on this bed, how do these students even– Zanka eliminates the idea immediately. With a groan, the sophomore slaps both of his hands on his face and leans into them.

His hands still have some chill to them, making the warmth of his cheeks even more apparent. That fact alone makes him feel worse.

“You alright?”

Zanka jumps at the sudden voice despite its soft spoken tone. He was so lost in thought he didn't notice the arrival of his roommate.

“Shit, Tamsy, you scared me,” Zanka huffs out, his hands dragging down his face until they settle comfortably crossed under his armpits. “Yeah, I'm fine. Just thinking about classes.”

Tamsy Caines was Zanka’s randomly assigned roommate. The 4th year history major rarely spent his free time in their dorm room, but he just so happened to also participate in The Cleaners.

The two didn't talk much, but they got along with each other just fine and had many unspoken agreements about the way they liked to room. Neither had to remind the other to tidy up the space, nor were rules like lights-out-time and guests in need of much discussion.

It was a perfectly predictable structure, exactly how Zanka preferred his life to run.

“There’s some sort of fundraising bake sale happening in the dining hall till the end of the week in case you were interested.” Tamsy waved a small packaged cookie in hand before tossing it on his own desk.

Zanka grins and nods in response, the other’s casual demeanor helping him to feel more like himself.

The rest of the night, to Zanka’s satisfaction, ended just as normally as any other day. He went to bed that night thinking about nothing other than his schedule for the rest of the week, where everything went exactly to plan.

________

And to plan it went. The days leading up to the weekend played out perfectly. The Cleaner’s planned their timeline for the volunteer project happening Saturday, Zanka was able to finish his studies ahead of schedule, and the weather was approaching something resembling spring more each day.

Zanka arrives at the dining hall, the annoying emptiness in his stomach urging him to get a meal in before his last class of the week. It’s lunch time, so most students on campus have similar plans to him.

He climbs his way up the stairs before he’s stopped by a crowd holding up the usual quick speed in which the facility operated. Zanka cocks his head as he attempts to see what the holdup is. His view is too blocked.

“Hey, Zanka!” His investigation is interrupted by a call heard behind him.

Riyo and Rudo are making their way up the stairs as well, joining alongside him. 

The two of them, like most of the people in Zanka’s life, also met in The Cleaners. Rudo was essentially forced into joining the club when Enjin heard about his email to the first-year dorm’s RA asking about composting programs–they certainly have one now.

Riyo was already a part of the club when Zanka had joined last year. They became friends pretty much instantly and the rest was history.

“Dont usually see you here,” Rudo comments, habitually going in to fist bump him.

“You here for the bake sale too?” Riyo’s finger points up the stairs.

“Ahh, that’s why it's so busy right now.” Zanka hums in realization, recalling Tamsy’s comment from Tuesday. “I just wanted lunch.”

“Well now you get lunch and dessert!” She sings-songs as she claps her hands together, clearly just as excited as everyone else in line.

The line moves faster than the trio expected. It takes only a few more minutes before they're face to face with the foldable table set up right before the actual dining hall's meals are served.

There’s a myriad of desserts spread all along the top, from cookies to brownies. No wonder it garnered a crowd.

Zanka can't entirely read the banner pinned across the front, just drawn pictures of baked goods and the signature school colors slathered everywhere. It isn’t until the three of them are directly in front of the students running the fundraiser that Zanka realizes.

“Well, well, well! Didn’t think i’d get to bump into you so soon.”

Fuck

Zanka feels Riyo sandwich him right in between her and Rudo’s shoulders, trapping him from exiting. Whether Rudo knows what's going on is unbeknownst to him, but the confused look on his face as Riyo keeps them all in place is telling.

“I don't know what makes you think we’d bump into each other at all.” Zanka retorts, lips pursed together as he looks anywhere else but straight ahead.

Jabber and a few other track athletes are standing behind a table. Some of them are organizing cash into a safe, others are handing out plastic-wrapped goods, waving hello and giving out thank-you smiles.

“Well if the looks you were giving me out on the field earlier this week tell me anything, I’d think you w–” Jabber's confession is cut short by a frantic waving of Zanka’s hand in his face. While his left hand is ceasing any more words from the taller man, his right is frantically digging in his jacket pocket for spare change—wanting to end the interaction before it can go on any longer.

Zanka throws undoubtedly too much cash down in front of Jabber, “Here! Three of… whatever you’re selling!”

Riyo is snickering through her tightened lips while Rudo watches the exchange with furrowed brows. Zanka prays he doesn't feel the need to ask questions later.

With a smirk, Jabber–and the teammate next to him–are putting an assortment of treats into a brown paper bag for the trio. He reaches over and grabs one more cookie, and instead of bagging it, tucks it nicely into Zanka’s unsuspecting hand.

“Here–A special one just for you, on the house.” Jabber’s fingers linger just long enough on Zanka’s palm for the sensation to burn permanently. The cool metal of his silver rings on each finger heighten the temperature difference.

The man had the ability to heat Zanka up, while subsequently giving him just what he needed to cool back down. Not that the latter has actually happened yet, but the prospect of it was tantalizing.

Without looking at it, Zanka wraps his fingers around it instinctively and uses the adrenaline to finally escape out of Riyo and Rudo’s grasp. He’s stomping away from the table toward the rest of the dining hall, while Riyo whistles out a ‘thank you’ to the track students as she grabs their goodie bag. Rudo follows along blindly, nodding a thanks as well.

Jabber chuckles, unaffected by the other’s demeanor. He watches Zanka shuffle away like a kid throwing a tantrum. His temperament only makes Jabber want to push his buttons further.

The other two catch up to Zanka, huffing slightly at the surprising distance he gained just in those few seconds. Realizing they all were out of Raider territory, Zanka’s steps halt and he stands there silently.

Riyo, studying his demeanor, recognizes Zanka’s embarrassment. His posture is closed off and and his hands fidget with each other. She smiles kindly and takes pity on him, deciding not to press him any further just yet.

“Come on, let’s grab some lunch before we sit down.” Riyo nods and leads by example, approaching the nearest food station.

____

The three of them sit at a table in the back corner of the dining hall seating area. There aren't as many students actually eating there as the bake sale line would have you believe. The privacy finally takes the edge off of Zanka.

Rudo and Riyo sit on the same side of the table, feeding off the food on their plates. They both look at Zanka and take notice of his distinct lack of plate. The only thing sitting in front of him is their brown paper bag full of treats.

Rudo looks at the red head with a look in his eye, not willing to call out the other for his choices, or habit, as he quickly learns.

“You can't just eat the snacks and not any real lunch food again.” Riyo points out boldly. “I’ve never taken any of your classes, but I'm pretty sure that’s like nutrition science 101.”

“Last time I checked, I wasn't doing a food tracking assignment,” Zanka murmurs, undoing the wrapping on the cookie Jabber handed him personally. Despite its nefarious delivery, he wasn't about to waste it, lest he rebuke the whole meaning of The Cleaner’s club.

Riyo scoffs in annoyance, shoving a piece of broccoli in her mouth. “I hope you remember that I didn't actually drag you here this time, it all just fell into line perfectly by accident.” She points her fork at him defensively. “I would've had a lot more tact.”

Rudo finally chimes in to the conversation, demanding answers. “Is someone going to fill me in or what?”

“Zanka has a crush.” Riyo answers straightforwardly, hoping her bluntness would rub off on the other and get some more explanation out of him.

“Since when does Zanka have crushes?” Rudo challenges. For the 5 months he’s known Riyo and Zanka, he’s picked up on a few personality traits–and that wasn't one of them. Rudo’s been a part of conversations regarding some of The Cleaner’s love lives, and despite the buzz the topic normally brings, Zanka isn't one of the ones chiming in.

“Never! That’s why this is so special and we have to capitalize off it ASAP.” She jokes.

Rudo chews as he listens, but notices Zanka’s lack of participation in the conversation solely about him. He tries to prompt the other, feeling strange about it.

“Dude?” He calls out, with no response.

Zanka’s face is covered by his bangs as his head hangs low, making his expression unreadable.

Riyo notices and immediately feels apologetic. “Hey, I didn't mean to tease you about it, I’m sorry if you don't want me talking about it.”

Zanka’s shoulders begin to tremble slightly, which incite alarm in both of his friends.

“Woah, woah–Zanka, I don't care about that stuff. I promise I won't tell anyone.” Rudo tries to console him, his gloved hands held up defensively, trying to show the other he had no ill-will.

“I…” Zanka begins, head finally rising, revealing the completely flushed humiliation spread across his features. His teeth are grit together.

“--I’m gonna kill him!” Zanka throws the unwrapped cookie onto the table. It slides right in front of the other two, coming into view. Surrounded by a few crumbs from the impact lays a purple and white heart-shaped sugar cookie. An edible printed photo is in the middle of it, and there lies an athletic headshot of Jabber, wide smile and all.

Chapter Text

“Rudo, Riyo, Zanka–You’re on cans. Tamsy, Delmon, and Amo–You’ve got plastic. August and Eishia–Paper.” Enjin delegates each team to their separation pile. The nursing home down the main road requested volunteer help from The Cleaners with their recycling program. They’d put in the effort to start one, but didn't necessarily know where to go once their common room was filled with boxes of clean, unsorted goods.

It wasn't a difficult project to tackle, especially on a rainy Saturday morning when you didn't want to be anywhere else on campus anyway.

“Whoever collects the most cans wins?” Rudo prompts the other two, interested in a bit of friendly competition. He pats the bottom of the plastic crates they were given to carry their material.

Riyo and Zanka grin in response, already beginning to like this project.

“You’re on,” They answer in unison, chuckling at the natural harmony between them.

They all get into a starting position, computing the best course of action.

“Ready… go!” Rudo swiftly cheers, breaking out into a sprint towards any glimmer of metal he can find. The other two follow suit in their own directions, determined to achieve the distinct lack of prize they forgot to choose.

The three student’s childlike charm brought more energy to the room, prompting every one to have a bit more pep in their step. The Cleaner’s fed off each other's energy. They had to–In a world that didn't place much value in their cause, they had no one to inspire them more but each other.

The initial mountain of goods were eventually separated into 3 neat piles, stacked nicely in everyone’s crates. The project finished a lot faster than Enjin had expected.

“How come you all don't work this fast every time?” Enjin pokes fun at the students, his own shoes propped up on a chair, entertaining any old lady who decided to stop by and thank them for their charity.

His amusement is interrupted by the trio arguing in the corner.

“Hey, my pile is totally taller!” Rudo screeches.

Riyo fights back. “Yeah, but mine has more numerically, right Zanka!?” 

“I ain't counting all that.”

“It literally towers above you, Rudo! you’re lucky it isn't coming alive and turning into some sort of trash beast.” 

Enjin claps his hands together loudly, gathering the attention of everyone in the room. “Yeah, yeah… We’re all winners for helping people in need, yay!” He cheers sarcastically, hoisting himself off his chair. “Let’s go back to campus now before it gets dark.”

Rudo and Riyo are sticking their tongues out at each other in playful discontent as they all gather their things and head out. Zanka tags alongside them, confidently nodding to himself as he eyes his own pile of cans one last time from across the room.

Yeah, mine definitely has the most.

_____

Riyo and Zanka are sitting across from each other in soft, pillowy bean-bag chairs on the first floor of the library. Zanka suggested an impromptu study session after they both stopped at the connected cafe, reason being ‘we’re already here’. 

Riyo’s busy fiddling with a tape measure, not exactly interested in preparing for her first History of Fashion exam of the semester. She drags the long, yellow blade out of its sheath and lets it snap loudly into place.

The silence between them is comfortable, nothing they aren't normally used to. It’s nice to see Zanka act like his usual self as well, in spite of his current conundrum–not that anyone else besides him would classify it as that.

“Noerde told me the track team is throwing a St. Patricks day party in 2 weeks. It’s gonna be at the north athletic dorm.” Riyo's head is resting on her own shoulder lazily.

“Yeah? Have fun.” Zanka mumbles around the pen in between his teeth, not bothering to look up from his notebook. He chose shades of yellow for this particular class's notes and it wasn't speaking to him. He couldn't focus on the material until he figured out what was throwing it off.

“Yes. You and I’ll have a great time.” She drones, matching the other’s monotone response, hoping to slip by Zanka’s conscious brain and subliminally plant her plans in it.

Zanka simply hums in response, fiddling with the edge of his paper, itching to rip it out and start anew.

Success! Riyo cheers internally.

“Wait, what?” Zanka finally computes the conversation and crinkles his nose at her.

Dammit… Her mind corrects herself.

“I don't wanna go. When do I ever go to those types of things?” He pouts, arms folding across lap. 

“Exactly, never, so come with me finally. You didn't tag along to a single party last year, and as an innocent little first year, I took offense to that.”

“I was also a first year!” 

“And now we’re second years, yay! Let’s party.” She raises her arms to give Zanka a weak set of jazz-hands.

“Even if I suddenly wanted to go with you, what makes you think I want to go to The Raider’s dorm?!” Zanka’s objection has a hushed tone to it, not wanting to disturb the other students. The athletic dorms tend not to have the best reputation, known for their parties and occasional policy breaking. It’s the sort of place to go when you want to do beer kegs with bros and dance with scantily clad women. Neither of those things have ever crossed Zanka’s mind.

“Besides, I wouldn't want to get in the way of your girl time.” He throws in.

“As nice as that sounds, I see her in class multiple times a week, so it’s not like you're interrupting anything.” Riyo laughs at Zanka’s attempts to be considerate. “You and I can wear green together and drink weirdly milky alcohol. Look, there's so many firsts for you in store!"

Zanka sighs, picking up on her fighting spirit.

“First party, first time drinking, first kiss,” Riyo starts rattling off, counting on her fingers as she lists Zanka’s fate.

“Alright, you're not even studying! Go back to your dorm.” Zanka interrupts her from listing any further, chewing on his pen again to divert his thoughts away from the conversation. “You’re distracting me.” He moans.

“Wah wah, I know–I'm ruining your chance at a perfect GPA.” Riyo spits out sarcastically. “Luckily for you, I wanted to be done ages ago!” She pushes herself off the bean bag and throws her things haphazardly into her tote. “I hope you know you're coming with me to the party though! Byeee, Zan-zan.” The red head sings out as she leaves Zanka behind, waving goodbye before she turns the corner.

It’s quiet again. Zanka finally decides to rip out the page of his notes and start from scratch, using a purple pen color instead. The sentences he writes are finally comprehensible in his head, calming his nervous system down slightly.

He sighs gently and leans his head back against his chair, grounding himself in his surroundings. He can see other students chattering amongst each other, mechanical keyboards tapping feverishly on the shared computers, there’s a slight breeze from the large fans circulating the air above him.

Without looking, Zanka sits up and reaches for his drink from the cafe on the floor next to him. He blinks curiously as his hand feels nothing. Looking to his left, he reaches again before he realizes the distinct lack of cup.

“Huh?” He squeaks out confusedly. The boy looks around in a frenzy, fearful of the possibility of losing his mind.

Zanka suddenly hears a bleh sound come from behind him. 

“I thought you'd be into black coffee or something–this is so sweet.”

The familiar voice immediately reverberates through Zanka’s body. He turns around fast enough to give himself whiplash, just in time to see Jabber standing there drinking from his cup

He’s dressed casually for the first time in Zanka’s presence, wearing dark eggplant colored khakis that taper at the ankle, and a tan oversized hoodie. His bag of choice is a gray satchel draped across his body, silver loops and buckles hanging off of it, giving it more character.

Finally taking action, Zanka’s arm shoots up and takes his cup back, just barely able to reach. He holds it to his chest protectively, face sullen to convey his shock at Jabber’s actions.

“It’s a chai latte,” he mumbles, looking down at it in his hands. “And what if I had a disease or something, you can’t just drink from a stranger's cup!” he remembers to reprimand the other.

“I’m sure little Zanka is clean, I'd bet on it.” Jabber’s mouth quirks, relaxing into his stance.

Zanka ignores the innuendo and turns back around to his original position, intending to return to his homework, but the other walks around him and sits exactly where Riyo was just 10 mins prior. 

Jabber is easily 6ft or taller, so he groans slightly at the distance it takes for him to plop down in the seat.

“Wait, how do you know my name?” Zanka yells louder than he intended to.

“It's written on your cup, genius.”

Zanka winces at the obvious answer, wrapping his hands around the cup even more in case it magically decides to leak any more of his personal information.

“Is there a reason you keep showing up to the exact same places as me?” Zanka apprehends him, not understanding why the other was joining him in his study spot.

Jabber cocks his head to the side, raising an eyebrow at the other's accusation. He hums and holds up his fingers, counting on them as he recalls. “First it was my track meet, then my team bake sale, and now the public library.” He smirks and crosses his arms. “Not too sure that’s my fault. Maybe it’s just fate.” Shrugging his shoulders, he pulls out his phone, and scrolls on it absently.

Zanka just stares at him. Everything he says makes him feel stupid, gullible, or both. He wasn't used to feeling like the one at a loss for words. These types of situations weren't studyable, they weren't teachable by some internet post, and he sure as hell didn't have any prior experience with such assholes.

Was Jabber even being an asshole? Or was Zanka just not used to being on the receiving end of such attention. He couldn't tell if the warmth in his stomach was from the shame of inferiority, or maybe just plain fluster. A mix of the two was most likely.

Zanka’s swirling his beverage around in his hold as he’s distracted by his inner thoughts. The gentle, beige-colored whirlpool he's creating in the cup is comforting, until it begins to lose momentum, creating a sort of oblong pattern. He frowns, looking away from it.

Jabber notices the quietness from him. He can assume based on a few physical clues alone that Zanka is normally the quiet type, but the pensive look on the other’s face invokes a certain unease.

He kicks out a foot, nudging the other’s much smaller one, trying to get his attention.

“You good, man?” Jabber asks, peering at him with a tender look. A look Zanka didn't know someone like him was capable of–or someone like himself was even worthy of receiving. The thought is uncomfortable, and he pushes it away with a dig.

“Why’re you even here? I can't imagine your run time getting any better by sitting in a library.” He mutters, lips on the edge of his drink. It definitely was sweet, but that’s exactly how he liked it.

Jabber throws his head back and guffaws at the insinuation. His laughter rocks through his body as he gives the other a chastised look. “You know athletes still have majors ‘n shit, right? We don't just graduate with a bachelors in, like, sports.” He’s still laughing at the idea.

Zanka isn't. There’s a slight pout to his lips as he looks away. He actually didn't know that. Pushing his assumptions to the forefront, he just thought all athletes came to school to kick around balls and drink.

He wonders what it could possibly be that Jabber studies. Psychology? No… too inquisitive. Maybe pre-med? No, you definitely wouldn't have time to balance that and sports.

“Exercise Science,” It’s like Jabber could read his mind. “It goes hand in hand with the track stuff, so it works out.”

It also goes hand in hand with Zanka’s major–that fact isn't lost on him.

“You gonna tell me yours?” Zanka really should respond at this point.

“Nutrition and Food Science.”

“Should you really be showing up to bake sales and drinking chai lattes then?”

“Sugar is overly demonized. A healthy adult can safely consume up to 10% of their total caloric intake.”

Jabber’s face twists into a smirk. He enjoys getting to hear some of Zanka’s personality finally shine through his cold exterior. This conversation feels like a win in his book.

“Why’re you looking at me like that?” Zanka’s thrown off by the silence. He sips from his cup, distracting himself from the energy between them.

“You’re cute.”

Zanka chokes, the air expelling from his nose causes him to spill some of his drink across his chest. He squeaks out a few coughs as he jumps at the sudden sensation of warm liquid seeping through his shirt and settling across his skin. Looking down, he whines at the uncomfortable feeling, already forgetting the comment that instigated the whole ordeal.

“Oh shit–” Jabber pushes himself out from his seat and kneels over to the other in need. 

He gently grabs the cup from Zanka's hand and sets it to the side, away from causing any more trouble. There's a box of tissues sitting on the table off to the side–Jabber pulls a few out in quick succession and pats the wet spot hastily, hoping to remedy the issue as fast as possible.

Zanka’s sitting back in his bean bag, as if the beaded material inside the sack was swallowing him whole. Jabber is leaning over him, their legs essentially straddling each other’s. The moment is insanely intimate and does nothing to calm Zanka’s nerves down. He hasn't said a thing, in shock.

He’s squirming as Jabber’s large hand comes in contact with his chest. The whole situation has only lasted a few moments, but each second that passes by ties a knot in Zanka’s stomach tighter and tighter.

“You’re alright,” Jabber says gently as he finishes up, his deep voice so close in proximity. He wasn't asking Zanka if he was okay, he was telling him he was.

The unfamiliar domesticity of it all causes something in Zanka to snap. He tries to back up, using his feet to push him over the seat until he has the strength to push himself upright. It’s uncoordinated and clumsy, but he snatches his bag from the floor next to him, grabbing his notebook and pen in one fell swoop.

Zanka rapidly walks away, his entire appearance and demeanor disheveled. In a few long strides, he’s gone.

Jabber watches in surprise as the other escapes faster than he was able to gauge. He’s left sitting on his knees, wet tissues balled up in his hands. He lets out a single breathy chuckle, running a hand through his locs, pushing them out of his face. It didn't take a rocket scientist to recognize the pure humiliation on Zanka’s face.

Cheeks red, eyes wide, bottom lip seized tightly by his teeth. Something deep inside Jabber wanted to see it all again.

Chapter Text

Coach Zodyl drags on long and hard as he explains the new drills the track team were testing out today. Warm up this, box drill that… Giver University was a Division 2 school, meaning The Raiders weren't bad by any means, but they also weren't on top of the world either. The coach was extremely obsessed with trying new things and analyzing the effects of them.

The sun only had a few more hours left in the sky to provide the athletes with a semblance of warmth. Most of them are layered up and continue to slip on sleeves and other gear instead of listening.

Jabber is no exception. He’s sitting on the metal bench in between Noerde and Cthoni, both of them on their phones. He glances at the blonde and nudges her arm with his elbow. “Pst,” he whispers, trying to get her attention.

Noerde doesn't look up, muttering a quiet “what?” in response.

“Give me Zanka’s number.” 

“Make me want to.”

“You’re so good at hurdles and school and you're perfect and if you did this you'd be such a great friend.” Jabber taunts, a sarcastic tone slipping through despite the truth behind the words.

“Thank you.” She replies flatly.

She isn't moving. Jabber cocks his head at her lazily, getting impatient as their practice draws closer to starting. He clears his throat noisily, asking for his prize.

“Right–I totally would if I knew who the fuck Zanka was.” She laughs dryly, finally looking up at her neighbor.

“Bruh,” He sighs. “The kid who’s always hanging out with your new red headed friend. Blue eyes, ash-brown hair, skinny.” He lists off his characteristics, holding off on the ones he really wants to say.

“Ohh,” Noerde looks up in remembrance, recalling there always being a plus one whenever she sees Riyo outside of class. “I’ll ask her for it now and send it to you.” 

She’s tapping her fingers across the screen quickly, much to Jabber’s delight.

He smiles at the sound of a notification ringing from his gym bag. Just in time for Zodyl to clap his hands together, motioning for all the athletes to get up and begin. Suddenly Jabber is ecstatic to get through practice as quickly as possible. 

It’s been a week since his last encounter with Zanka at the library, and the memories he made there weren't enough to quench his cravings. He actively looked for the younger man around campus all week to no avail, as if he was purposefully hiding from him.

Unfortunately for Zanka, there was no use trying to out run a track star.

_____

The familiar walls of Zanka’s dorm room were beginning to get old. He’s holed himself away as much as he could in between classes. It was clear to him that he had no right being a regular member of society with his recent string of bad luck.

Today in particular has been an awfully quiet one. He had no classes to attend and no one who was expecting his presence, which provided the perfect opportunity to rot in his room even further. It gave him a chance to read ahead for the next unit’s topic in his research methods class.

Zanka peels open a hardback textbook as he sits at the dimly lit desk. Just as he's located his chapter of choice, his phone buzzes loudly next to him, alerting him of a call. Enjin’s face fills the screen.

“Hello?” Zanka picks up lazily.

“Oy, tell your buddy Rudo to stop leaving the Cleaner’s club room unlocked. Not that I think anyone's going to steal anything, but I’m worried I might get sneak attacked one day.” 

Enjin speaks loudly into the speaker, a soft wind sound poking through sporadically. Zanka wonders if he’s currently checking his surroundings and using the phone call as a way to make him feel safer. The thought makes him huff out air in amusement.

“I’ll get on that right away,” Zanka lies, reaching for the hang up button, used to these nonsensical calls from their club advisor.

The room is plunged once again into silence. Zanka takes a breath and returns to his readings. The topic isn't particularly interesting, especially during a day with little to no external stimulation, but he carries on.

He’s 5 pages deep before his phone buzzes again, this time Riyo’s face pops up.

“Zanka! I’m out shopping, and I found this sweater that I think you’d look so cute in for the party next week.”

“The party I’m not going to? Right.” He clarifies monotonously.

“It's green and beige and argyle patterned, and I’m buying it for you so you actually have to come as a way to return the favor. I’ll send you a picture later! Bye bye~”

Riyo hangs up for him. Zanka’s staring at his phone with a slight glare in his eye. He pushes it further away from him on the desk top, hoping the distance will magically stop making other people think of him.

The rest of the chapter goes on without a hitch, but Zanka pulls out his laptop, hoping to find some review videos to clarify a few topics. He clicks around, adding a few to his youtube folder full of videos he’s found helpful in the past.

Zanka wasn't able to attend his lectures and absorb everything immediately. In high school he would proudly speak about the numerous honors and AP classes he was in, finding every opportunity he could to make his future resume desirable. It wasn't until graduation, when a list of the class rankings were made public, that Zanka realized his skills weren't all they chalked up to be.

He was still ranked very high, don't get him wrong, but a few other student’s higher placements and a couple less than perfect final test grades destroyed his self confidence. 

The realization wasn't entirely self produced. It was the whispered comments from his parents and blatant statements from his prestigious older siblings that put the final nail in the coffin.

Moving on to college didn't help his cause even further, where Zanka realized that the ceiling of excellence grew even taller as high achieving students from all over the country gathered in one common area.

Discussions of inferiority and the deep desire to strive for greatness had been discussed with a random advisor, Enjin, who ended up becoming the entire reason he joined the Cleaners.

After that, Zanka studied hard. He’s the student who attends office hours, asks questions, reads and re-reads the material until it's drilled in his head. It’s exhausting, but anything less than top-notch wasn’t an option for him.

Zanka’s video pauses as the screen fills up with a facetime call from his roommate, Tamsy. The man acts like an old man sometimes, calling to tell Zanka things instead of shooting him a text. 

The distractions are beginning to irk Zanka, but he clicks on the green button, knowing it would take less than 5 seconds.

“What’s up.” He prompts him.

“I’m having some people come over tonight to talk about a project for the club. It’ll only be a few hours.” Tamsy says, looking straight into the camera as he walks somewhere outside.

“Okay, that’s fine.”

“Cool, see ya later.”

Zanka’s video auto plays and he hits the back button a few times to regain his train of thought. He’s bouncing his pencil on the desk, the thrumming against the wood keeping his brain in-line.

Not 5 seconds later is Riyo texting him a string of photos, some were pictures of the sweater she found, others are random things throughout her day that piqued her interest. Every photo has a short explanation following it in rapid succession. The incessant ding noise makes Zanka groan in frustration.

“Okay, okay, yes thank you!” He complains sarcastically, swiping them off his home screen so he can view them at a later time. The video is still playing in the background, and Zanka has to rewind again to return to his original timestamp.

He takes a deep, grounding breath and straightens his posture in the chair, recentering his focus.

The phone rings again, Zanka is flabbergasted. Without looking at the screen, he answers and grips it tightly as he raises his voice in frustration.

“‘M busy tryna focus right now! Call ya back later! Good-bye!”

He smashes the power button on the side to forcefully end the call. As the screen fades to black, a glimpse of the number catches Zanka’s attention. Everyone he knows has at least some sort of name or nickname to their contact. The distinct lack of one makes Zanka panic.

“Oh fuck,” He immediately opens the phone and heedlessly searches for the most recent call section. What if it was someone important, like a job offer (Zanka has applied nowhere), or someone from law enforcement looking for him (The worst thing he’s done is eat a grape off the vine before paying for it).

Zanka finds the number and calls back, it picks up after half a ring. 

“I’m so sorry, who is this?” He probes nervously, biting at his finger tips as he waits for a response.

A recognizable chortle is the first sound coming out of the speaker. Zanka’s face falls in annoyance.

“Your accent gets so thick when you’re pissed off.” Is all Jabber says.

Zanka ignores the observation. “Who gave you my number?”

“I can't give away my secrets, man! Not the time to be burnin’ bridges.” He laughs.

Riyo… Zanka assumes immediately. He’ll have to chew her out later.

Jabber speaks up again. “Whatcha so busy tryin’ to focus on? Me?” He’s sitting in his own dorm room, feet propped up the wall as he lays with the phone next to his ear.

“You wish.” Zanka scoffs. “I’m just doing school work, y’know, the whole reason we’re all here.”

“Okay, bookworm, I’m sure a curved exam hates to see you coming.”

“‘M not that good, I just try hard.” Zanka doesn't exactly understand why he continues to get caught up in casual conversation with the other. He’s loud, unabashed, popular, arrogant–all qualities that Zanka doesn't want to concern himself with. Yet here they are, for a second time, talking as if they were friends.

It's clear the adversarial relationship only operates one way. That fact alone confuses Zanka. He continues to push away his advances, speaks dryly, and shows no signs of reaching out, yet Jabber keeps coming back, just as cunningly as the first time. 

“It’s good to do things other than study,” Jabber tuts. “You even leave the dorm at all today?”

Zanka looks over at the clock on Tamsy’s bedside table–its just about to be the evening. He sticks his lips out in a regretful sort of oh damn way. He turns back to his workspace, grasping how much work he really did do today.

“No, I haven't. Got caught up in it all.” He says honestly, not that he thinks the other deserves it.

“What!? I hope that means you've got food stashed away in your fridge, then.”

Zanka doesn't need to turn around to know that neither him nor Tamsy brought a mini fridge to their dorm.

“My roommate brought me lunch from the dining hall.” Zanka hums, a slight smirk on his face.

“No cap? What’d the dining hall serve today, then?”

“Grilled chick–”

“You’re such a fuckin’ liar.”

“I told you I was busy!” Zanka defends himself, rocking slightly in his chair.

“Yeah? Busy studying one test, for one class, during one semester out of the what–4 more you have left? I promise it ain't that serious, dude.”

Zanka starts to get bothered by the lecture. Jabber is clearly good at what he does. He must be smart enough to balance school work on top of a sport–he wouldn't understand where Zanka’s coming from, someone who actually has to put in effort to get desirable results.

He stays quiet, not in the mood to respond. He hears Jabber sigh on the other end.

“Look, I don't know much, but they do teach us some things about food in my program. Carbs fuel the brain or whatever. No carbs equals no learning. If you’re gonna sacrifice anything, make it be like, showering or something.”

There's another beat of silence.

Zanka can't help but laugh. A gentle, breathy laugh that makes his face crinkle. The sound makes Jabber tilt his head to the side in confusion before he indulges in a smile of his own.

“You’re stupid.” Zanka finally says, small giggles poking through his words.

“You’re one to talk.” Jabber scoffs back. “Hey, I’ve gotta run, but I’ll hit you up later.”

“No you wont–I’m blocking your number, creep.” He dismisses him, entirely serious.

“Sure you are.” Jabber rolls his eyes and groans as he rolls off his bed. He hangs up before the younger can throw in any more insults.

The end-call's beeps echo in Zanka’s ears. He pulls back his phone and stares at the screen, mind blank. Why did any of that just happen? Jabber has to be some sort of masochist to continually put up with his bullshit. 

Zanka doesn't want to think about it any longer. He puts his phone on do-not-disturb before tossing it out of reach.

With a yawn and a stretch, he glances over at the textbook before reaching for it. He stuffs it into one of his desk drawers and looks back at his computer tabs.

Just one more video and then I'll be done, he thinks.

The video is one giant review of the topic, even throwing in concepts his class hasn't discussed. It's nearly 6 o'clock by the time he finishes. He shuts his laptop close with a tired groan.

He stands to his feet, feeling the blood reach his stiff limbs. The tingly feeling makes him shake his legs out. He jumps at a gentle knocking sound coming from the door. 

It’s about time for Tamsy to get home, so Zanka assumes it must be one of his buddies coming to work on the project. Maybe Tamsy even forgot his keycard. He pads over to the door and opens it slowly, peeking his head to see who it is.

No one.

“Huh?” Zanka squeaks. He opens the door wider to see absolutely no one. He hums in annoyance at the prospect of it being a prank. He goes to close it before something on the ground catches his eye. Leaning down, his stomach begins to twist.

It's a styrofoam container, no note or anything. Zanka reaches for it, acknowledges how heavy it is, and peers inside. He’s greeted by the sight of beef chuck over a bed of rice and vegetables, stuffed to the brim.

He looks left, then right, down the dorm hallway, wondering if its deliverer was still nearby. It’s completely silent. Zanka’s lips purse into a slight pout, for reasons he decides not to explore. He backs up into the room and shoves the door closed with his hips, leaning against it. 

Zanka sighs and whispers to himself. “Jabber–you asshole.”

Chapter Text

Zanka tosses over an extra pack of glue sticks on request from Riyo, who doesn't catch it in time. He’s sitting at a nearby table, engrossed in his own doom scrolling.

“Your aim sucks,” Riyo taunts. She reaches down to collect them off the floor of one of the apparel design workshop rooms.

“Sorry, my mom never signed me up for baseball.” Zanka replies sarcastically, not glancing her way. The sight of her work station gave him the heebie-jeebies. This time around, it was covered in shades of green fabric, scissors, hole punchers, a sewing machine. Not exactly his idea of zen.

“I promise, I'm almost done!” Riyo touts over a piece of lace hanging from her mouth.

“You said that 30 minutes ago,” Zanka laughs, “I’d rather you not say anything at all than keep lying to me!” He rests his chin in the palm of his hand, puffing air into his cheeks to give him some stimulation beyond his phone.

When Riyo had delivered Zanka’s outfit for the party, he was dragged into sitting with her while she created her own. Riyo was a gifted design student, enjoying her craft so much to the point of constructing garments outside of class and assigned projects without hesitation.

She worked diligently on her outfit, designing it to fit the color scheme, but in her own unique way. Layers, grungy patterns, short skirts, and leg warmers–it was all perfectly tailored to her.

Zanka admired the ability to create something out of nothing. He respected her career goals, and didn't mind sitting in on the process every once in a while. Enjoying the change of scenery, mess be damned.

“I’m happy you're coming with me this weekend.” Riyo says unprompted, smiling at the other.

It took days and days of convincing Zanka to finally give in to the idea. ‘Give in’ itself was an over statement. With a few promises set in place like, “You can leave whenever” and “You’ll know at least a handful of people there”, he begrudgingly agreed to attend. Even if he was there for 5 minutes, he knew he had done his part.

Zanka just hums in response, not wanting to ruin her excitement around going.

“You think you'll hang out with Jabber?” She breaks the silence again.

“No, I’ve talked to him enough these past few weeks.” Zanka mutters. Of course she would bring him up. His twitter feed runs out of new content at the worst moment.

“What!? Since when have you talked?” She wails in surprise.

Zanka finally puts his phone down and leans back in his chair, head falling over the top of it dramatically.

“Considering you gave him my phone number, I think that should be obvious at this point!” He waves an accusatory hand in her direction.

“Huh! I did not give your number to him,” She crosses her arms defiantly. “I gave it to Noerde.”

“And why the fuck would she want my number? You bonehead.”

Riyo’s angry facade is broken as a string of ugly chuckles bursts through. Zanka was right, she really should have assumed Noerde had her own plans considering she’d never shown any interest in him before.

“Okay, I’m sorry! I really didn’t think that one through.” She laughs, leaning on the edge of her work station.

“Ya think” Zanka scoffs. He’s looking at her from across the room, his bangs drooping upside down off his forehead as he continues to tip his chair back.

“Wait, so you talked?” Riyo returns the focus.

“It’s the second time already–He keeps finding ways to talk to me.” Zanka decides to leave out the point that Jabber had already made about it. He refuses to indulge in the lie that he’s the one seeking the older boy out.

Riyo smiles to herself, cutting up the last few pieces of fabric. “And?”

“And nothing. He’s annoying and I wish he’d stop.” Something in Zanka’s chest feels tight as he speaks. Visions of Jabber cleaning up his spilled drink in the library, leaving food at his doorstep… it was burned into his eyelids.

Truthfully, Jabber wasn't being as pushy or stalkerish as Zanka made it out to be. He hadn't been following him, didn't approach him whenever they caught sight of each other across campus, hell–he hasn't even texted Zanka since the last time they talked on the phone.

Jabber was doing everything right, so why was Zanka pushing this agenda so hard?

He didn't want to feel like he was the problem, but he didn't know how else to act.

Riyo peeked over as a result of the other’s silence and could see the gears spinning in his head. As much as she was afraid of him receding into his little corner, refusing to let anyone he cared about in on his thought process, Riyo wanted to try.

“Tell me what you're thinking,” She prompts, gently.

Zanka chews on his lip, afraid. Afraid of hearing it outloud, afraid of speaking it into existence by some form of sick manifestation.

“What if I continue to push away everyone who tries to come into my life?”

“Well, what would happen if you did?” She flips the question around, hoping Zanka will de-catastrophize it for himself.

“More people wouldn't be exposed to my true character–How painfully average I actually am, how this perception most people have of me is made-up and I don't do anything to stop them from thinking it.”

“Have you stopped to think that maybe people do see you for who you really are? And that's exactly why they like you?” Riyo continues to work while she speaks, not wanting the concentrated attention to overwhelm him.

She continues, “As your best friend, I have to tell you that the walls you put up aren't as opaque as you think they are.”

Zanka plays with the skin on his fingers, prodding and pulling at any part he can. His inner thoughts are trying to negate anything Riyo is telling him. 

“I don't wanna disappoint anyone anymore.” Zanka admits. 

“It’s not your job to control the way people choose to view you. It’s your job to surround yourself with the ones who choose to see the good in you regardless of any stupid flaw you think you may have.” 

Riyo finishes up her outfit by placing it on the cloth mannequin off to the side. She stands back and puts her hands on her hips, looking at it with a big grin.

“I like what I made! And I can't wait to show everyone at the party something that's unabashedly me.”

Zanka looks up at the outfit she assembled.

He understands the point she’s secretly trying to make with that comment. 

“Thanks, Riyo.” He smiles.

______

It's officially 1 hour until the party starts for them. Actually, the party started 30 minutes ago, but Zanka learned quickly that showing up on time to an event like this was a big no-no in the college world, according to Riyo.

“Isnt it rude to the hosts?” Zanka’s sitting cross-legged on Riyo’s dorm carpet. He’d already gotten ready long before, but she was just beginning.

“Dude, it's an athletic dorm. As long as you close the door behind you, you’re probably treating the space 10 times better than any student living there.” She scoffs, face inches away from a mirror, applying makeup.

Zanka just sighs–there’s a lot of unspoken rules he’s learning about tonight.

“How are you feeling?” She asks candidly.

There’s music playing from a small green speaker on the top of her dresser. It’s late-Already later than Zanka normally would stay up even during the weekend, but the energy inside the dorm room is thankfully calm.

Zanka leans back on his hands, head lolling to his right shoulder in thought.

“Right now, I’m okay. But as soon as we leave this room, I'm sure I'm gonna have to puke.”

“Oh, please! It’s just a fun little holiday. Most people will probably be too drunk to remember anything or anyone by the morning–if they wake up.”

Zanka widens his eyes in horror. He knew St. Patrick's Day was diluted into a party holiday, but the prospect of death happening as a result wasn't really on his bucket list of things to witness.

“Are we supposed to be bringing anything?” Zanka asks, realizing he’s a clueless plus one.

“I had August pick up some drinks for me earlier today.” She motions behind her to a clear plastic bag hanging off her bed post.

Zanka pushes himself off the ground to inspect it. Inside is a large bottle of Hennessey and a case of beers. “Huh.” He says matter-of-factly, not having a lick of knowledge to comment on her choices.

The time passes by way too slowly for Zanka’s tastes. It’s like every tick of the minute hand is advancing in slow motion, each movement making the lump in his throat growing bigger and bigger.

Uncharacteristically, he did not make a single game plan for tonight. No exit strategy, no social one-liners, not even a bottle of water in his bag for later. He was raw-dogging the experience to the max, simply for the sake of not having to think about it longer than he wanted to. Dumb, really.

Zanka’s thoughts are brought back to reality with the loud snap of a makeup palette closing.

“Ready!” Riyo calls out loudly, a fist pumping into the air.

Zanka gulps quietly, holding a weary thumbs up in response. 

“Come on, loser.” Riyo says affectionately, swiping up the drinks, her bag, and Zanka on the way out of the dorm.

____

The walk to north campus is frigid. Both Zanka and Riyo have their arms wrapped around themselves to shield the wind. With no sun to warm up the air, it feels just like the winter season they finally said goodbye to.

“Why aren't we wearing coats?” Zanka asks, frowning.

“Because coats hide your cute party outfit, you don't wanna ruin the vibe.”

Zanka looks down at himself. He’s wearing the sweater Riyo had gifted him alongside a black pair of slacks and regular white sneakers. He didn't think that rule really applied to him, but there was no changing the outcome now.

“We’re almost there anyway, it's right up there.” Riyo points. 

It's hard to miss the large two story dorm with the bottom floors’ windows full of flashing lights. There were large groups of people filtering in and out the front door, some staying inside for the rest of the night, while others took their spots on the lawn area, chatting or smoking. 

Zanka hadn't even stepped through the front door yet and he already felt completely out of his league. It felt as if his entry would cause a music-stopping record scratch and every one inside would turn to look at him, pointing and laughing. Even his compulsively obsessed mind knew that was extremely unlikely, but it didn't make the feeling feel any less real.

“Can we just wait a second outside before we go in?” Zanka asks as they reach the lawn of the dorm. 

Riyo was absolutely freezing, but the look on her friend's face was enough to make her be able to bear it just a few moments more. His eyes darted around, not able to focus on a single face due to the constant unfamiliarity. 

They stopped, standing close together just a few feet from the door. Zanka took a breath, steadying himself with slight success.

“It’ll be fun! I promise nothing bad’ll happ–”

A loud shriek rings from the entrance, followed by more girly squeals and clapping.

Riyo and Zanka jump at the noise, turning to see what all the uproar was about.

“You made it!” The girl in front of the group in the doorway yells out, waving a hand motioning to come here.

The pair follow the girl’s line of sight to see a singular female student making her way up the path. She was average height, wearing highwaisted skinny jeans and an athletic zip up on top. Her hair was long, black, and around her neck sat a large pair of headphones.

“Sorry, sorry–Practice went a little crazy at the conservatory.” She says. Zanka noticed her voice had a deeper tone to it, a cherry on top of the already cool aura she had surrounding her. 

Him and Riyo are both watching the interaction for no apparent reason beside it pulling their attention.

“Momoa!” Another voice pushes through the crowd, joining the group. “Guess what, guess what?” She leans closer to her and whispers–quite loudly given her levels of intoxication.

With the prospect of a secret, Riyo and Zanka continue to listen in. They look at each other and smirk, not being able to help themselves at the hands of good gossip. 

Riyo holds a finger to her lips with a giggle, urging Zanka to not say a word. He nods with a smile, rolling his eyes.

“Jabber’s here, obvi,” The girl starts.

Riyo’s mouth opens in a silent gasp, poking Zanka in the stomach. He hits her on the shoulder playfully, begging her to stop. They listen in again.

“--and you know, ever since you guys hooked up, I’m pretty sure he hasn't talked to anyone else. Tonight could be your chance to rekindle something.” She giggles, causing other gasps and strings of ‘oh my gods’ from the group.

Momoa just laughs, leading them all inside, their conversation blurs into the loud rumble of the party.

Riyo’s biting her lip as she watches their backs disappear. She doesn't move, afraid to look back at Zanka after the unexpected piece of information. Her brain moves at 100 miles a minute trying to think of what to say to him to fix it. She takes the gamble, and her eyes slowly return to Zanka’s face.

And his face reads…

Nothing.

His expression is blank while his eyes look to where the conversation was, but the little signs aren't lost on Riyo. She sees the swift rise and fall of his chest and his hands tightly gripping the extra length of his sleeves. An even closer look reveals the near-missable tightness of his jaw clenched shut.

Riyo’s heart hurts. She reaches out a hand, going to comfort him with a touch of sympathy or anything, but she’s interrupted by his unfathomably cheery voice.

“Alright! It’s getting pretty chilly, huh? We should probably head in now.” Zanka smiles at her, head cocked to the side.

Riyo pauses in action before returning her arms to her side. She didn't understand what was going on, but had no chance to inquire before he began making his way inside the door.

“Wait, wait–dont go in without me!” She yells after him, jumping into gear.

The door shuts loudly, containing inside it the deep bass of music, bubbling conversation, and a myriad of complicated feelings.

Chapter Text

If there was anything else the athletes knew how to do, it was how to throw a party.

There’s folding tables along the edges of the common room, lined with some snacks brought by different students, but mostly alcohol. Rows and rows of alcohol.

On the walls are properly themed decorations, LED lights, and the reverberation of music coming from the speakers. It’s playing a mix of songs, catering to anyone who walks in.

“Do they have a budget for this or something?” Zanka asks, astounded by the set up.

“The RAs usually get some funds for social events.” Riyo nods, more used to this type of environment than he was.

Zanka thinks back to his own dorm building. He recalls their RA putting out cookies in the lounge every once in a while. The stark contrast in effort makes him laugh under his breath.

His hand is suddenly cold as Riyo shoves an opened beer into it.

“Here,” Riyo smiles, “Happy St. Patty’s Day!” She’s laughing as she cheers him with her own bottle. “Here to have a good time, yeah?” 

Zanka looks at her for a second–a real smile spreads out on his face for the first time since they’ve arrived. The sight makes Riyo relax, hoping to push aside any traces of negativity for the time being.

Riyo looks behind him as a group of familiar faces enter the room. “Look! Friends are here.” 

Zanka goes to follow her lead, taking a sip of the beer in the process. His face contorts slightly at the taste. It’s apple flavored, but the usual sweetness is buried under something warm and sour. He clears his throat and internally agrees to take small sips until it becomes more recognizable to his taste buds.

Amo, Eishia, and August greet them with hugs and fist bumps. They all claim an area on one of the couches off to the side so they can talk. Amo tells them about her classes in early childhood education, August tells them snippets of his week in between singing loudly to the music, and Eishia just pantomimes along, chiming in here and there to add context.

The conversation between friends put Zanka at ease, helping him realize this was just another place to hangout, albeit a loud one. He thinks he could probably join in on more social events with them all.

The group had their own stack of bottles and plastic shot cups piling up after multiple group-led cheers. By the third one, they were running out of things to toast to. 

Riyo turns to him and leans in tenderly, “Not so bad, huh?” 

Zanka doesn't know whether she’s referring to the party, the drinks, or their conversation, but he nods regardless.

“Could’ve done better with some board games or something,” He jokes. Looking around the room reveals the myriad of games going on, from drinking games, to spin the bottle, to the TV in the corner playing some sort of sporting event. None of those things were really up their alley.

A set of arms is suddenly in Zanka’s view as they wrap around Riyo’s shoulders. She looks up in curiosity of the perpetrator and first sees Noerde’s characteristic long blonde hair coming from behind the couch.

“Riyooo,” She calls out loudly, “So glad you came!” 

“When have I ever turned down an invitation?” Riyo scoffs, tightening the original embrace as a form of hello.

“Come introduce yourself to some of the other girls on the team, we’re over in the kitchen.” Noerde insists, straightening her posture.

Riyo turns back towards Zanka with a guilty look. “Do you mind if I go chat with them real quick?” She rubs the back of her head sheepishly, “You can text or come grab me if you end up needing me.” 

There's a pleading look in her eye that Zanka’s not going to ruin. She’s here to have fun too, not be his guardian for the night.

He shoos a limp hand at her, rolling his eyes sarcastically. “Permission granted, just go already.” He chuckles, confident in his ability to hold his own for the time being.

She smiles at him before pushing herself off the steep cushion and follows the taller girl off to another area of the first floor. As Zanka’s eyes follow her, they land unintentionally on the face of the girl from earlier.

Momoa, if he recalls correctly.

Lo and behold, she's leaning against the wall, cup in hand, stupidly cool smile on her face as she talks to Jabber.

He’s dressed in a pair of loose, sage green slacks and a near-matching color-blocked sweater on top. It's effortlessly sleek and a good representation of how he normally dresses.

They laugh at each other, conversation flowing naturally and quickly.

Zanka scowls and turns back quickly to his original position. The heat in his chest from alcohol and the nauseating lump in his throat mix into one. He looks down at his shoes, scuffing his heels onto the hardwood floor in annoyance.

To think that just a few days prior, he was talking to Riyo about opening up to the other. Finally letting someone into his bubble, no emotional barriers, or at least not as strong as he usually would.

The sight of Momoa and Jabber talking to each other, most likely flirting or discussing about leaving together, solidified the bubble, turning it into rock solid stone.

He felt stupid for thinking that trying anything new would lead to some desirable outcome. But then the guilt hit him. Why would Jabber even be exclusive in the first place? It’s not like either of them had even discussed their obvious attraction to the other, let alone set in place boundaries.

They weren't close enough to be deemed friends–shit, Zanka didn’t even speak to him in any way short of an enemy. 

He takes a shaky breath and realizes the absolute stupidity of it all. He looks back at the borderline couple, unable to peel his eyes away in some sort of self sabotage. It was merely the consequences of his own actions, he thought.

Zanka hasn't been a part of his friends' conversation for many minutes at this point, so he doesn't feel bad standing up from the couch and making his way over to the makeshift bar.

Everything’s been opened by this time of night, so there’s no clues to help Zanka piece together what’s the best concoction to make. He recognizes a short-bodied, long-necked bottle of Hennessy that Riyo had placed on the table when they arrived.

He reaches for it and pours it into a plastic cup, filling it about halfway. He didn't know the serving size of anything here and he wasn't about to look it up. The liquid is extremely bitter and almost makes his throat feel cold and hot at the same time.

He shakes his head at the feeling, tongue slightly hanging out of his mouth in detestation.

“Mind pouring me some of that?”

Zanka turns, startled at the unknown voice. Standing next to him is a male student he’s never met, let alone seen, before. He’s holding out a plastic shot glass, motioning to the glass bottle resting in Zanka’s other hand with a smile.

“Oh–yeah, no problem.” Zanka’s lips flatten as he goes to pour him some. Feeling uncoordinated from over an hour of drinking, he miscalculates the speed in which the liquid came out and overfills the shot, sticky liquid spilling onto the stranger’s hand.

“Woah, woah–” He laughs, taking a quick step back to avoid the spill landing on his shoes.

“Fuck, shit, I’m so sorry.” Zanka clenches his teeth in embarrassment, he sets the bottle back down and holds up a hand, unsure of what to do.

“It’s totally fine,” He waves off. “A bit heavy handed, huh?” He smiles before bringing his wet hand up to his mouth, licking off the excess so he can wipe it dry on a napkin he finds on the table’s edge.

The sight makes Zanka’s eyes widen in shock. He immediately takes a large gulp of his drink, welcoming the distracting burn this time around. The decreasing of his senses helps too.

The man is an inch or two taller than Zanka. He’s dressed in athleisure wear and has the appearance of those stereotypical college sports guys–tan skin, dark tousled hair, and muscles that didn't need any introduction.

“I don't recognize you. This your first time coming ‘round here?” 

Zanka’s ears perk up for the first time at the accent. 

“You sound like me.” He replies, cringing inwardly at himself for the airhead-sounding comment.

“Ohh, cute and perceptive. I like it.” The stranger relishes.

Zanka’s stomach caves in on itself in bashful surprise. The first time another man comes on to him and it has to be at this location at this exact time. It feels like some sort of prank.

“I- uhm, this is my first time coming here.” Zanka finally responds to his original question, “My friend brought me along.”

Mr. Stranger looks around performatively, eyes looking for said someone. “I don't see anyone here, who in their right mind would abandon someone like you?” He teases. “My room’s on the second floor if you wanna get away from the noise for a while.”

Zanka laughs nervously, unsure of how to respond. Did stranger danger still apply if you went to the same school? He’s about to form some semblance of a sentence after taking a swig of his drink, before he’s interrupted by the feeling of something on his hips.

He looks down in fright to see a pair of dark hands snaking their way from behind him. Each finger is covered in the recognizable shine of silver rings. 

Zanka quickly swallows the burning liquid in his mouth to stop himself from choking. He tries to turn around, but is blocked by a head full of locs resting itself on his shoulder.

“Don’t worry, big man. He’s all taken care of.” Jabber says underhandedly to the stranger, who immediately decides the track star isn't worth starting trouble with. He’s gone without so much as a goodbye, but Jabber’s waving his hand condescendingly as he departs.

The scorching heat on every place that Jabber is touching him isn't enough to distract him from the anger he feels.

Zanka rips away from him and glares. He’s drunk enough to throw all his usual reserves out the window, to the point of forgetting they were in public.

“What the fuck is your problem?” Zanka spits out, eyebrows furrowed together.

Jabber just makes a face, confused at the other’s malice. “You’re welcome?” He tries, laughing slightly on defense.

“For what!?” He screeches. “For pushing yourself into my business and ruining the first chance I have?” 

Zanka is walking away mid sentence, heading towards a door that he can only assume leads towards the basement area, giving him the alone time that he desperately needs.

Jabber gripes out a loud huh before following the other.

Zanka is pounding his way down the stairs. The sound of footsteps are doubled as Jabber follows close behind. His height makes closing the distance slightly easier.

“Wait, what’re you talking about?” Jabber pesters him. “You mean to tell me you wanted him to talk to you like that?”

The basement floor, much to Zanka’s relief, was not a true continuation of the party upstairs. It’s dimly lit, but had a seating area and a pool table in the main room, and a few private study rooms branched off to the side.

There were a few people talking on one of the couches and some else on their phone against a wall on the opposite end, but all of them scrambled to get out at the clear irritation that suddenly entered the room.

“Why d’ya sound so surprised?” Zanka whips back around, standing in the center of the room. “It’s not like you weren't doing the exact same thing with someone else!”

“What the hell? Who-? Are you being for real right now?” 

“Suck it up!

The glances between them were paralyzing, the tension strung tight. Zanka’s words slurred slightly. Jabber’s own intoxication wasn't too far behind. An idea of who Zanka was referring to finally pops into his mind.

“Are you deadass? That’s what you're mad about?” 

Zanka walks away towards the pool table, not wanting to look at the other, especially if he was going to trivialize the whole thing. 

“Dont act stupid! She was all over you, and it looked like you didn't plan on putting any stops to it.” He spins on his heel to yell at the other. He leans against the edge of the table, arms folded across his chest. “Just go fuck around with your other hook up of the month.” Zanka flicks out his arm, motioning towards the door.

“My– what?” Jabber's mouth hangs open in disbelief.

“I heard her and her friends talking about it, you don't have to pretend.”

“Christ, Zanka–Okay, we used to talk, but that was awhile ago!”

Zanka rolls his eyes.

“I wasn't flirting with her at all.” 

“Looked like it to me.” Zanka mumbles under his breath.

Jabber steps forward and they stare at each other, air thick with energy.

“Why are you searching for a reason to push me away?”

Zanka’s breathing is quick, his throat tightening at the accusation. “So what, you're a psychologist now?”

“It don’t take a degree to see the way you refuse to listen to yourself.”

“Can you stop acting like you give a shit?” Zanka yells, hands gripping the edge of the table.

“You think I don't care?” Jabber is standing one foot away from the other, face twisted with annoyance.

“I don't know.” Zanka admits.

“I care a lot more than you realize.” 

“Prove it.”

It was silent, except for the bass that leaked through the floor from upstairs. It was hard to decipher it from Zanka’s own heartbeat.

They both stood there, frozen. The dim lighting and humid air from the basement was vibrating, their charged breaths overtook the room.

“You piss me off.” Was all Jabber whispered as he took the one step needed to close the gap between them.

It wasn't gentle nor was it romantic. 

Jabber’s mouth slammed into Zanka’s–a mixture of saliva, alcohol, and teeth. Their hips collided, causing the shorter male’s weight to bang into the side of the table painfully.

Zanka tries to steady himself along the edge, arms scrambling to find purchase along the wood. 

One of Jabber’s hands held on to the back of Zanka’s neck while the other gripped his face, fingers digging into the softness of his cheek. 

He moved his hand up until it reached soft, ash-brown hair and gripped it tightly, pulling his head back.

Zanka whines into the grip, at the mercy of Jabber’s hold. His throat is exposed completely to the sharp teeth in front of him.

Jabber licks a hot stripe up the side of Zanka’s neck before sinking his teeth into the pale flesh. He cries out in pleasure, biting his lip hard to keep his voice down.

Without stopping, Jabber moves both of his hands down to Zanka’s waist. They circle around it feverishly, fingertips almost reaching each other due to its small circumference. He motions to Zanka to let him lift him up.

Zanka’s weight is being pulled off the floor and shoved on top of the pool table this time, his legs wrapping around Jabber’s torso.

Their mouths return to each other, breathy moans escaping both of them as their hips grind into each other. Zanka’s crying out as Jabber moves himself aimlessly in between his legs. It's hard, and it’s unbearably hot, and his mind is a complete blur as he arches further into the touch.

“Fuck.” Jabber sighs.

The younger one bites down on Jabber’s bottom lip, pulling out a deep groan from him. He returns the favor, sucking and pulling on Zanka’s lips until he shudders in his embrace.

Suddenly, the metallic taste of blood fills Jabber’s mouth. The jarring flavor causes him to stop and pull back a few inches. When he focuses, Zanka’s face is pathetic.

His eyes are teary and unfocused, cheeks flushed a deeper red than he’s ever seen, and his lips are swollen. In the center of his bottom lip is a small cut, blood beading out of it and mixing with saliva.

The sight is jarring. It’s not the expression on Zanka’s face that frightens him, but the way he wants to see it more–worse.

Jabber takes a step back, the lack of stability causing Zanka to slide clumsily onto his own two feet with a grunt.

They both stand there, chests heaving and pants tight. The few moments apart allow them to stare at each other, realization slowly seeping into their clouded minds.

The weight of the situation hits them both at the same time.

Chapter Text

Zanka’s forehead leans on the cold tile wall of the dorm’s bathroom. The shower’s warmth is cascading down his body. The soft, white-noise of water isn’t as soothing as it should be after such a long night at the party. Its volume pales in comparison to the bustle of the party, but nothing takes the cake more than the roar of blood that circulated through his body just hours ago.

He bangs his head against the wall once, not hard, but enough to clear his brain. It only lasts a moment before the images are back in full definition.

The memory of the aftermath keeps snaking its way in too. 

The way they stared at each other in silence, the sudden awareness of the sting on his split open lip, the hand Jabber reached out to him before the men from the track team burst through the basement door, too drunk to understand what they walked in on. 

They put their arms around Jabber and in all their noisy, clumsy glory, pulled him into a game of pool, leaving Zanka to stand there alone. Zanka eventually turned on his foot to leave, his face and body language displaying signs of shock more than anything else, but he didn't miss the way Jabber tried to watch him through the gaps of his teammates, a certain look to his face.

His legs felt like lead with each step he took, up the stairs, through the dorm, and eventually back to his own building. He shot Riyo a quick text, letting her know he wasn't feeling well and was heading home, and left it at that.

Now, Zanka was standing here, arms sprawled in front of him to hold his weight against the wall. He looks up and lets the showerhead waterboard him until he desperately needs to breathe again.

This was a turning point, no? He thinks to himself. A sort of barrier that can't be uncrossed once it's been breached. 

Zanka unintentionally unmasked a lot of the feelings he’d been keeping under wraps from the other. 

“It don’t take a degree to see the way you refuse to listen to yourself.”

Maybe they were never that hidden to begin with.

Zanka turns off the water and makes his way back to his dorm. If staying in the bathroom meant dwelling all night, then he was ready to move on.

He kept videos auto-playing through his headphones all night, knowing he’d be unable to sleep without some external distraction. The noise, the lull of crickets outside his window, and the soft breathing of Tamsy in his bed across the room cause Zanka’s head to spin in circles.

“Im so fucked.” He whispers into the night.

______

The next few days drag on at a glacial pace. At this point, Zanka wishes he could get rid of all of his five senses. Every corner he walks around he’s presented with something that reminds him of Jabber.

A scent that’s vaguely familiar, a school email with photos and updates about their best sports teams, someone with long dark hair from across the quad, a magenta colored water bottle from someone in his lecture hall.

The reminders eventually are so recurrent that Zanka can't do anything but snap. The lack of Jabber’s actual being is the cherry on top.

“I can't take this anymore!” Zanka yells into his hands, making Riyo jump at the sudden noise.

“What!” She shrieks instinctually, “What happened?”

They're both sitting on Zanka’s bed, backs leaning against the wall as they tap away on their laptops.

He slams his shut and buries his face into his knees. Riyo gives him a second, but her eyes are wide at the variety of possible emergencies that are running through her mind.

“I lied to you.” He says bluntly, voice muffled into his pants.

Riyo closes her computer and turns to the other, confusion written across her features.

“About what?”

“Leaving the party… I wasn't sick.”

Riyo scoffs playfully, “I mean, I assumed that much already. What, you just wanted to go home?”

Zanka, face still buried, shakes his head.

The red head just peers at him, trying to calculate what he was conveying. Suddenly, it hits her, and a loud gasp leaves her lips.

“Oh my god, you didn't."

Zanka nods.

“You really did?!”

He finally turns his head to look at her, mouth pressed tightly into a thin line.

“You slept with Jabber!” Riyo laughs and claps her hands twice in a celebratory fashion.

Zanka chokes and sits up fully, causing Riyo’s joy to pause.

“What! No no–oh my god. We kissed, that's it, nothing more.” He clears the air as fast as he can, hoping no one could suddenly hear them from the hallway.

Riyo feels safe to giggle again and gives Zanka a hard pat on the shoulder. “Dude, that’s still a big deal! When? Where? Okay you don't have to tell me everything, but–” 

There's a sudden softness in her tone. She smiles at Zanka, ensuring that she was free of judgment, “How did it make you feel?” 

He looks off to the side, heart rate increasing as he attempts to vocalize his thoughts for the first time. He takes a moment to speak up again.

“It was–” Zanka begins, before his hands come up and slap themselves on his face. He snorts a laugh. “It was really good.”

Riyo joins the snickering, grabbing Zanka by the arm and shaking him in unadulterated glee. He lets her man-handle him.

They sit there for another hour, talking about the experience and the complicated emotions. Zanka comes to the realization that he needs to stop pushing his wants and needs to the side. If giving in could give him half the pleasure that he felt that night, then who was he to keep pumping the breaks.

Just that small taste made him feel stir crazy. Like a pet dog whose first bite of human food derails any and all sense of obedience and training. 

He yearned to hear from him again, see him, feel his hands explore him.

Zanka never understood the concept of teenage male hormones and the unbridled amount of horniness that his classmates in high school would bark about afterhours–Until now. 

It was like an itch that you’re afraid to scratch in fear of it getting worse. But scratch or not, Zanka could feel the need spread to the corners of his mind. 

____

A foot taps incessantly on the leg of his desk. A pencil spins back and forth in his grasp, while his knee bounces rapidly. Jabber is a ball of energy, and it's stopping him from completing any of his assignments. 

He throws his head back and groans in annoyance.

A pile of papers sits in front of him, questions delving into different muscle fibers and anatomical naming. Normally, his athletic experience would have him flying through his homework, finding the material borderline childish at points, but the images that kept popping into his head were not only the correct muscle groups, they were muscles attached to a certain someone.

Every detail and moment of pondering carried with it a name–Zanka–like it was hacking into his brain and blocking him from focusing.

Each time he furrows his brows in slight irritation.

Jabber has had plenty of experience. The nature of his role on campus and his popularity on the team lends him privy to both men and women. He was never one to make something complicated out of a concept so simple. 

But it's the moments where he thinks back to the look on Zanka’s face, the way he completely unraveled after no more than a minute or two of intimacy, and pulled out feelings of possessiveness and a yearning for more, that throw him for a loop.

He catches himself checking his phone more often, overlooking the texts and notifications from endless other students, hoping that the other didn't seriously block him like he said he would.

Normally, the attraction Jabber has for casual hook ups or a flirty message from someone who follows him on social media goes no further than that–just attraction.

But this was different, unfamiliar.

Of course, in the beginning, Jabber was treating Zanka no differently than anyone else he could tell was looking at him. He would tease him, push his buttons, and laugh at his expense. 

But the parts of their interaction that exceeded anything beyond his normal demeanor finally made themselves present, like a low-grade fever.

The way he would push the other then reel him back in so he could coddle and comfort him. Beginning to go out of his way to make sure Zanka was taken care of. Those things were beyond the scope of his normal attraction, and they were 100% innate.

The words he spoke to Zanka that night about pushing him away and refusing to see the message behind his actions were completely unprompted. He had never thought those things to himself, so why they suddenly reared their head in front of the other were unbeknownst to him. 

But they weren't a lie.

Jabber likes the challenge that the other presents to him. He likes the way he needs to work to get through to him, through a front that no other person has ever put up in Jabber’s way. 

It's all so stimulating and enticing. An opponent who finally feels worthy. It's a rush that no one even on the track has been able to pull from him. You’d be mistaken if you thought Jabber wasn't going to catch him and keep him just for himself.

He pulls out his phone again and opens up his social media. Thankfully, the few mutual friends between them allow him to find Zanka’s profile rather easily. It's not as empty as he expected it to be, with a few photos and tagged posts he can dig through.

Zanka is rarely at the forefront of any of them, clearly not one to be taking selfies, with the exception of his profile picture. Jabber could only laugh on the assumption that one of Zanka’s friends forced him to pose for a photo, probably claiming something like, ‘you need at least one good picture of yourself’.

Maximizing it, Jabber lingered over it in thought. He wouldn't deny in a heartbeat that the other was cute. He had a softness to his appearance that paired perfectly with his tougher personality. Of course, he'd already seen the cracks in the protective persona, but that detail made Zanka all the more interesting.

There'd be no thrill in chasing something without a little bit of struggle. 

Jabber is not the type to sit and brood forever. He rocks in his chair slightly, mind calculating, but he acts purely on instinct. He pulls open his messages and starts to tap away, grinning in the process.

J: didn't take you for the ghosting type

Suspiciously, the text is immediately noted as read. Jabber lifts his eyebrows in amusement.

Z: Didn’t take you for the texting type.

J: i get bored lol

Z: Then go find someone else to bother.

J: seems hard to do when the one person i want to bother is right here

The three dots indicating Zanka typing keep appearing and disappearing.

Z: Is that the line you tell everyone?

J: no, only when its true

Z: Liar. I’m sure your back pocket is full of stupid shit you like to pull on people.

J: your distrust in me makes it more fun

There's a pause in the conversation’s flow, but Jabber’s eyes stay glued to the screen.

Z: You never give up, huh?

J: why would i? 

Z: You make no sense.

J: neither did what happened at the party this weekend, but who am i to complain

Jabber relaxes in his chair. It was already late at night, the day full of nonsense thoughts and attempting to work on school. The intriguing banter was turning his mood around.

Z: Don't.

J: scared? dont wanna think about it?

Z: I’ve thought about it enough.

J: yeah?

Z: Don't get cocky.

J: too late :)

Z: Figured as much.

Jabber doesn't ignore the energy of the messages. He shifts in his position, relieving the slight pressure beginning to form in his pants.

To his surprise, Zanka texts again.

Z: You talk big game for someone who just wants to run fast for a living.

J: LOL is that all i am to you? a dude who runs around and pisses you off occasionally?

Z: Exactly.

J: aww, you hurt my feelings

Z: You’re too much.

J: and thats what you like about me?

Z: That’s debatable.

J: you wouldnt still be replying if it was

The three dots jump around again. Jabber runs a hand through his hair, pushing it off his face. Playing around with someone isnt normally this entertaining.

Z: Maybe I like the challenge?

J: dangerous game to play with me

He smirks.

Z: Mhm

J: and yet, here you are, brave as ever

Jabber passes his phone to his left hand.

Z: I know how to make decisions for myself

J: do you?

Z: Oh please

J: just thought i’d ask

His right hand hovers over his groin. Jabber’s eyes glance down lazily, the outline dense as it pushes against the fabric of his pants.

Z: You never ask 

J: you still thinkin about it?

Z: About what

J: i know youre smart, dont act silly

Z: Maybe I am

J: thats all i wanted to hear

Jabber lets out a breath, strokes himself a few times before taking his hand away and returning it to the phone. Refusing to relieve himself from the aching heat between his legs is arguably more pleasurable than indulging in it.

Zanka doesn't reply to him any further, and it's up to Jabber’s imagination to fill in the reason as to why. The way the other is finally letting up on his restraint is captivating.

Jabber doesn't mind the verbal tug-of-war, he only wants more.

Chapter Text

Zanka doesn't anticipate running into Jabber in the days after their conversation, or maybe he subconsciously anticipated nothing but. Regardless, it's difficult for him to not ruminate over the memories when he thinks of seeing the other in the flesh. 

The realness of their situation is a surprise each time he’s faced with it. It’s new–exciting even. 

Zanka knows he’s giving in to himself slowly, but the trickle is steady. When he dwells on the concept too long, he feels himself wanting to abort the mission, but he thinks back to Riyo’s excitement at their advancements. He can’t quite tell if it's encouraging or scares him off.

It’s evening, and Zanka was on his way to the campus cafe, in need of a post-dinner snack. With the weather still brisk, there aren't many students choosing to hang outside. The silence, cool breeze, and soft glow of street lamps along the path all lend themselves to Zanka’s contentment. He smiles into the warm scarf wrapped around his neck.

Before he knows it, the soft sound of marching begins to crescendo behind him. It’s almost perfectly in sync, a rhythm he can only assume is a group of runners.

Zanka’s stomach flutters for a quick moment.

He shakes his head in dissatisfaction at himself, telling himself internally to get a grip. He actively makes a nauseous face at the way he’s acting like a school-girl.

Right as his mind begins to wander off into unrelated business, a fist is punching itself playfully into his shoulder, knocking him off his balance.

“Woah, hey–” The large hands grab him immediately and steady him. “You’re gonna get kidnapped if you walk around outside this deep in thought.” Jabber laughs, slightly out of breath,

Zanka’s ears warm up in the presence of his voice. He tries not to look at him, but even with his eyes on the ground, the chiseled legs that lead up into shorts way too short for this weather are alluring. 

There's approximately 5 seconds of restraint before he fails; he settles for looking at the design on the other’s sweater.

Jabber can read him. Of course he can. The mischievous grin that spreads across his face is indicative enough.

“I was ignoring you on purpose,” comes Zanka’s excuse.

“You’re funny,” Jabber mocks him.

Zanka notices the rest of the track team boys are waiting 20 feet ahead, all taking the opportunity to rest. They're huffing, bent over with their hands on their knees.

“Ya probably shouldn’t make them wait.” Zanka motions to the group with his head. His hands are glued to his jacket pockets, refusing to unnecessarily introduce them to the cold air.

“Nah, they suck. They need the break.” Jabber rolls his eyes, his tone recognizably difficult to interpret.

Zanka swallows, shifting the tote back further up his shoulder with a quick one-armed shrug. “Was just grabbing a snack before I locked myself in for the night.”

“I’m glad I don't have to be the one to feed you this time.” Jabber teases. 

The comment makes Zanka’s mind immediately picture it way too literally. He blinks it away, fearful the other will suddenly be able to read his thoughts.

Zanka looks off to the side, face subtly burying itself into the scarf as a sort of self preservation. He mumbles under the fabric. “Ya don't have to keep babying me.”

Jabber smiles in a way that's different from his usual cocky facade. It’s gentle, and domestic. 

“You’d hate it if I stopped.” It's more of a blatant statement than a question. 

Zanka’s large eyes return to lock with Jabber’s for the first time that night. 

“Yeah, maybe.” The admission shocks him. He didn't mean to say it, but it’s not like it's particularly untrue either. Zanka’s about to say something else to cover before someone from the track group yells out at the pair.

“Oy–Jabber! Come on, man!” The unknown teammate is waving an arm simultaneously, trying to get his attention.

Jabber makes a guttural sound of irritation. Knowing he really should return doesn't trump over the way his chest tightened at the sudden declaration. Regardless, it’s out of his hands.

“Alright, gotta go,” he begins to turn on his heel, but gives him a quick once over, a glint in his eye. “Stop dressing like that in public, by the way. That’ll also get your ass kidnapped.”

Zanka’s face twists in shock and he looks down at himself. He’s wearing a long gray jacket, slacks, and winter gear–absolutely nothing of interest. When he looks back up to defend himself, the other is already gone, back in the mix of runners.

The lengthening distance between them feels like a magnet’s pull stretching thin.

____

By this point, Zanka is starting to believe in the power of karma. What he did to deserve it–he wasn’t entirely sure.

The class announcement had been posted that morning:

Midterm project is now open for viewing. Please read over criteria and be aware of due dates. Pairs have already been assigned.

Zanka, still half asleep, skimmed the PDF. Athletic Meal Plan Consultation Project was written across the top. Scrolling down further, the outline of the project is simple enough. To evaluate your athletes weekly meal plan, and make adjustments when you see fit to properly maintain health and their athletic goals.

Zanka yawned. Overall, it wasn't super surprising, the whole basis of the class seemed to prepare them for a project like this. 

He wasn't looking forward to seeing which classmate he had to work on this project with. Despite all of them learning the same material, there were definitely people in his class who were still unfit to be providing advice–Fake-athlete’s meal plan be damned.

Suddenly, the tiredness left in his body flew out the window. He sits up slightly in bed, scrolling frantically down the list attached to the bottom of the assignment.

Student-Athlete Pairs:

Zanka Nijiku & Jabber Wonger (3rd year, Track & Field)

It most certainly was not a fake athlete. The name posted next to his was very real. His mouth gaped open in disbelief, before groaning into his pillow. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

He immediately tapped away until Jabber’s texts were bright on his screen. He ignored the bubbles from their previous conversation deliberately.

J: You knew this would happen didn't you

Z: ;D

Zanka didn't even have to explain what he was talking about. The response was short, to the point, but he needed to know more.

Z: What did you do

J: i heard there was a volunteer opportunity, so i sent a few emails to make sure i’d get the most out of it! sue me :P

Zanka threw his head back, hitting the headboard on accident. He didn't move, and let the wood reverberate his skull.

Now–Sitting at one of the tables in the library, Zanka’s knee is bouncing up and down under the table in annoyance. Riyo was laughing at him, being entirely too loud despite their placement on the first floor.

Riyo was only passing by, on her way somewhere else, but couldn't pass on the opportunity once she saw the other motioning for her to come over. 

“The universe is trying to help you!” She smiles. 

“The universe doesn't know what I want.” He mumbles back, chin resting on both palms of his hands.

“Yeah? Maybe that’s because you don't know what you want. At least she’s taking chances.” Riyo points to the ceiling in reference to whatever celestial being is watching over them all.

She was still snickering even after their quick goodbyes.

Zanka checks the time on his phone. Jabber, of course, is five minutes late.

He cocks his head slightly as his thoughts wander. His type A personality really contends with the other’s type B. The phrase, opposites attract, flashes a few times in his brain but he ignores it. He never likes waiting behind the slow person in a shopping aisle, or conversing with someone who can't quite get their words out. So why is Jabber’s carelessness pulling on him?

He’s about to start drafting bits and pieces of the project before that damn familiar voice starts behind him.

“I should've known you’d be here early.” 

Without looking, Zanka replies in annoyance. “I’m not early, you're late.”

Jabber laughs softly and slides into the chair right beside Zanka as opposed to the one across the table.

“Hmm, no hello?” He murmurs.

“‘M just here to work on this with you.” Zanka mutters, eyes still glued to his laptop.

“Suit yourself," Jabber teases. He leans back in his chair and stretches out his long legs. His foot accidentally brushes against Zanka’s; then he does it again on purpose.

Zanka finally looks at him and glares. “Jabber.” His tone is hushed, clearly embarrassed by the other’s public displays of whatever.

“Sorry, sorry–” Jabber’s usual grin is lazy, but there’s something subtle in his gaze. Tiredness? No, more like distraction. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

“I’m not avoiding ya, there just haven't been any moments where we run into each other. Besides–ive been busy, too.”

“With what?”

“Stuff that isn't you.”

Jabber smirks, though it doesn't quite reach his ears.

A silence stretches through them, but there's something different to it. The sound of library chatter and pages turning fills the air. Zanka types away on his laptop, trying to focus so they can begin working together.

Jabber leans in, lowering his voice to a volume he knows Zanka won't panic over.

“Did you mean it?” He asks.

Zanka glances at him, brows furrowed. “Mean what?”

“What you said the other day–outside.” Jabber’s demeanor is suddenly lacking his usual playfulness.

Zanka pauses, thinking about their last encounter, but he doesn't know entirely what he's referring to. “Why does it matter?” 

A hum is the only thing that comes from Jabber in response. His finger traces along the edges of the textbook he stole from Zanka’s bag a few minutes prior. He brings a fist up to his face and coughs once, forcefully stifling the emotional proximity his question brought.

Zanka turns toward him and eyes him over. For a moment, he doesn't recognize him–Not the version he’s used to, anyway. There's no smugness waiting under his words, no toothy grin, or joke that’s meant to fluster him.

 It's all honest vulnerability.

Zanka’s chest tightens before he can help it. The sight unnerves him. He suddenly yearns for their usual push and pull game. That’s the only way he’s learned to interact with him. 

But this moment felt like a rug about to be yanked from under him. 

For the first time ever, he realizes there's a possible ending out there where his personality and lack of conversation makes Jabber stop trying.

Before he knows it, Zanka is internally doubling over, and grabbing onto the edge of that rug, hard. He thinks, if he keeps acting this way, Jabber will begin to believe he doesn't care. He’ll stop looking at him in the way he likes.

He suddenly realizes what Jabber was referring to.

“You’d hate it if I stopped.” 

“Yeah, maybe.” 

Zanka cracks a little.

He kicks a foot into Jabber’s ankle a few times as a shy smile spreads over him.

His voice is quiet, meek, but full of sincerity, hoping it will pull Jabber out of whatever hole Zanka unintentionally started to dig for him.

“I meant it.”

Jabber’s eyes widen slightly before looking back at him. He hooks his ankle around Zanka’s smaller one in return. He beams at the younger’s lack of usual reluctance to the affection.

Chapter Text

Despite sitting on a blanket (it’s Jabber’s coat), Zanka can still feel the chill of the bleachers through his pants. It had rained in the early morning, but with the lack of direct sun, some of the water still sat in puddles around the track. 

Zanka’s fingers have been dragging nonsensically over his laptop keyboard for the past 10 minutes. There are a few sentences on his document, along with random words he wants to expand on at a later time. If there’s one thing he can know for certain, it's that Jabber makes focusing an impossible task.

Jabber is running laps around the track. Watching him was like watching a professional. Not that Zanka had any knowledge about what makes a track star, but this felt damn near close if he had to guess.

His pace is clean, his strides are efficient, and the sound of his breathing when he’s close enough for Zanka to hear is calculated, precise. 

Zanka knows he’s supposed to be analyzing Jabber’s training style so he can better plan for the nutrient timing and caloric intake portion of his project, but his thoughts have been nothing related to education. It annoys him.

Jabber’s making his way around the track again, and their eyes meet for just a split second before Zanka pretends he was looking somewhere else. Jabber grins and shakes his head to himself.

Instead of another lap, Jabber decides to mosey his way on over to the bleachers, bouncing a little in his steps as the blood pumping in his muscles slow down.

He makes a fake telephone shape with his hand and holds it up to his ear, “911? Yeah–There’s this guy who won't stop watching me. Think I’mma need a restraining order–stat.”

Zanka sticks out a leg to kick Jabber away from him. “Stop, you're so dumb.”

Jabber, unphased, shoves it to the side as he climbs up the steps. He brings his collar up to wipe the sweat off his face. “So, what's the verdict, coach?”

Zanka clears his throat and looks at his computer. There’s nothing of substance to show the other, so he slowly attempts to close it.

“Nah, lemme see,” Jabber notices the other’s guilty face and goes to peer at the screen. Before it’s shut completely, he sees the mostly blank page and snorts loudly.

“You’ve written nothing!” He cackles, doubling over himself as he takes a step back.

Zanka’s cheeks turn a shade of pink different from what the chilly air would cause. He shoves the laptop into his bag protectively. “Brain can't focus, s’too cold.” He mumbles in defense, pouting slightly.

Jabber pads over to the seat next to Zanka, hoping the heat emitting from his body could act as a radiator. 

“You’re supposed to keep training.” Zanka crosses his legs as he finally has a chance to look at the expanse of the field without anyone on it. The afternoon brightness balances the colors of the track’s surface nicely. He thinks he should walk on it sometime in the future.

“Right, so you can keep writing–Got it.” Jabber quips sarcastically. He grabs a bottle from his duffle underneath the seat, replenishing everything he’s lost in the past 20 minutes. 

Jabber mutters in between gulps of water. “Maybe you’d get better data if you ran a few laps with me. Maybe even a race or two.” 

Zanka leans back so he can stare at him, unimpressed. “Hell no.”

“Oh, c’mon,” Jabber whines. “Just one race then, y’know, for science.”

“I’ve seen ya win first place multiple times, why would I even attempt?”

“I’ll give you a head start,” Jabber smiles at him, wiggling his pinky finger in the air. “I promise!”

“You’re so full of yourself.”

“Maybe, but you know you wanna try it.”

Whether it's the mischievous grin plastered across his face or the way he’s willing to go a little easy on him, it makes Zanka want to give in. Even more, it's the growing exhaustion of having to abide by his own made up rules surrounding their… situation.

“Fine.”

“Ayy, that’s my man” Jabber claps him on the back hard, making Zanka wince. “But don't go writin’ anything mean about me in your paper if you lose, that’s sore-loser behavior.”

Zanka goes to stand up, taking his gloves and coat off and tossing them on the bench. “Yeah, like, ‘athlete appears to lack portion control’.”

Jabber scoffs in light hearted offense, waving the comment off. He’s already down in the track, skipping in place to warm up his legs again, but mostly because he’s brimming with excitement.

“What do I actually get if I win?” Zanka prompts, making his way down the metal stairs.

“I’ll buy you those stupid chai lattes for a week.” 

Zanka, whose face was previously neutral, is now beaming at the concept. “And if I lose?” He’s afraid to ask, but he does anyway.

“Youuu,” Jabber drawls out in thought, taking his place right beside the other at the starting line. He laughs for a moment, clearly feeling cheeky at his own idea. He leans in, close enough for Zanka to smell the salt drying on his skin. 

“You have to stop pretending.”

Jabber doesn't go into detail about what exactly, because the both of them already know. Zanka’s heart skips a beat at the unexpected answer.

“Fuck you.”

“I’ll take that as a deal then.” Jabber smirks. He faces forward towards the track and begins to stretch into his usual starting formation. He points at a fence post, marking the 100 meter line. 

“That’ll be our finish line. I’ll give you a 5 second head start, alright?”

Zanka doesn't know how fast he’s supposed to be able to finish a 100 meter sprint, but he assumes that’s probably a fair advantage. He nods in agreement when the other looks at him.

“Sick. Three, two, one–go!” Jabber yells. Normally, his eyes would be laser focused on the track, but instead he’s watching the other.

He laughs under his breath at the sight. His form is terrible to his trained eye, but he’s moving faster than he expected him to. He’s swift and focused on the end goal. Zanka is making good distance.

Jabber’s internal clock signals him to take off, and with a small bounce in his deep crouch, he’s gone.

The sound of shoes hitting the track fills the silence, and as Jabber immediately begins to close the distance between them, he can hear the huff and puff coming from Zanka. 

Zanka turns his head to look at him. His hair is disheveled from the wind and disbelief is written all over his face. “Youre already here!?” He screeches out.

Jabber laughs boisterously, enjoying the shock that can be translated into a compliment. He could easily return to being light on his feet and zoom past the other, but he’s enjoying the spatial connection between them.

For a few more glorious seconds, they’re making eye contact, side by side, putting effort into something Jabber spends most of his time and effort into. It’s nice–sharing his hobby and Zanka indulging him. 

The air is light, they’re both giggling through the harsh breaths that sprinting requires, and then Jabber sees it.

A puddle.

He had seen it a few times during his earlier laps, but his trained senses knew how to avoid it. Track was a spring sport afterall–you get used to the after-effects of a rain shower.

It was right where Zanka was heading, only milliseconds away. It wasn't deep by any means, but when running this fast, coupled with Zanka’s lack of proper footwear, it was an accident waiting to happen.

Jabber’s instincts jump into action faster than he could think, and he reaches out an arm and snatches Zanka by the front of his sweater. Fisting the material into his hand, he pulls the boy towards him, hard.

The momentum of suddenly pivoting off course, along with the yanking of his shirt, causes Zanka to yelp once in panic.

Jabber is willing to take the chance of whatever falling this hard on the synthetic rubber will do than the for-certain sprained ankle or worse.

Despite how quickly the action happens, it feels like slow motion to them.

Zanka holds out both of his arms in front of him, instinctively trying to avoid collision. Jabber is more concerned with breaking the fall for Zanka as best he can and wraps his arms around his torso.

The fall is hard and painful. 

They slide a little on the ground after making solid contact with it. Zanka ends up on top of Jabber, his legs straddling either side of him. Meanwhile, Jabber is flat on his back.

The younger groans slightly as his brain catches up. He holds his hands up to his line of sight and hisses. The skin on his palms is shredded from scraping against the track. The prickling of blood is making its way out in an organized pattern on the fleshy parts of them. He grimaces at the dirt and dust mixed in it.

He finally goes to look at the man underneath him. Jabber’s left arm is still around Zanka, but his backside and right elbow clearly took the brunt of the fall. The athlete’s face is also strewn a little tight as he lifts his right arm and sees the giant patch of skin missing on the underside.

Jabber lets his head rest on the ground with a loud sigh of relief.

Zanka know’s Jabber enough to understand that he wouldn’t do this on purpose. The puddle of water sitting just a mere foot away from them, clearly in Zanka’s previous path, is all he needs to answer his question.

“Damn, that was close!” Jabber whoops, voice filled with adrenaline. He uses his good arm to drape it over his sweat soaked forehead. Both of their breathing is labored as they come down from the height of the situation.

Zanka bites his lip, from the pain, but also at the realization that Jabber had essentially saved his ass, but by injuring himself in the process. He reprimands the other.

“Ya stupid, annoying, idiot!” Zanka yelps out, shoving the side of his hand into Jabber’s chest to make a point. “Ya should've just let me trip, athletes can't afford to get hurt!”

Jabber breathily laughs at the statement. He can tell by peeking at him through his squinted eyes that he’s embarrassed and feeling bad. Through the month they’ve known each other, he’s starting to learn the intricacies and hidden meanings in Zanka’s language and expressions.

Jabber would attempt to get up off the ground, but that meant compromising their current position–and bloodied limbs or not, he wasn’t going to ruin a good thing.

“You alright?” He croaks out.

Zanka’s defensive body language eases up a bit. He shifts in his position, and the movement makes him realize the dull throb in his left knee, which apparently also helped break the fall. The idea is solidified when he looks down and sees the tear in his pants.

“Nothing’s broken,” Zanka answers honestly. “I’m not even going to ask if you're fine, we need to bandage and wrap you up.” His voice wavers slightly.

“Oh, ho–I didn't think you’d be into that type of stuff.” Jabber makes a jab, causing the other to glare at him. Zanka’s worrying doesn't dissipate from his features though.

“No, stop–’M being serious.” Zanka grumbles in response.

Jabber just looks at him softly. He removes his left forearm from his face and returns it to Zanka’s hip, grasping it with enough pressure to help ground and reassure the other.

“As much as I’d hate to move you off me, you're right.” Jabber sighs in frustration. “I’ve got some first aid shit in my room. Let's go patch up?”

Zanka’s mouth presses into a thin smile as he nods, not much energy left in him to refute Jabber’s first statement.

They both begin to push themselves up from the ground, groans and gripes quietly coming from both of their mouths. Finally to their feet, there's a beat of silence between them, before Jabber looks at the other and smirks.

“So I lowkey won, right?”

Zanka reprimands him for the entire walk to the dorm.

Chapter Text

“Who says ya won?!” Zanka yells as the door to Jabber’s dorm closes behind him. There’s a playfulness to his voice, despite his entirely real disbelief.

Jabber turns on his feet, sneakers squeaking against the linoleum floor. He holds his arms out and makes a face that screams ‘isn't it obvious?’.

“You’re in my room,” He deadpans and points to himself. “Winner.”

The nicety makes Zanka zip his mouth. Whether it’s because he wants to argue back or accept it is still up in the air. He leans against the closed door. His scrapped up hands are hanging by his side instead of across his chest where he naturally enjoys to keep them.

Jabber lets the silence hang in the air with a triumphant grin. He moves to his closet, where he then pulls out a hefty first aid kit. As he opens it on his desk, Zanka notices it's filled with a myriad of ointments and medicines, some open already.

“This ain't your first rodeo, then?” Zanka asks.

“Nah, shit happens all the time.” 

He takes the opportunity to look around the room. It’s a single dorm, so there was no roommate he had to be weary of introducing himself to. He remembers when he’d first found out the college grants athletes with their own private rooms. It had made him consider joining some sort of sport just for the peace and quiet of it all;that thought lasted 3 seconds.

It’s cleaner than he thought it would be, but perfectly lived in at the same time. A pile of laundry here, a stack of textbooks there. It felt strangely intimate–a glance into the other’s private life.

“Sit,” Zanka’s mind is interrupted by Jabber's instruction, his finger pointing to a small couch along the wall. “Doctor’s orders.”

Jabber had pulled out a few bandages, wipes, and antibiotic salves.

“You’re no doctor,” Zanka scoffs, but he sits anyway, wincing when his knee bends fully.

“Hey–I happen to know a few things. I’m still here and breathing, aren't I?” Jabber raises an eyebrow at him as he kneels in front of Zanka, close enough for him to feel a few degrees warmer.

Jabber rolls the pant leg over his injured knee carefully. It’s only a minor scrape, so a simple bandaid does the trick just fine.

“Sorry, can’t fix the hole in your pants, though.” 

Zanka looks down at it and waves a dismissive hand. “My friend Riyo can help patch it up, it’s fine.” 

“She sews?”

“Apparel design major, so yeah.”

Jabber reaches for an antiseptic wipe and tuts. “Alright, this is the part that might suck.”

Zanka knows what he’s referring to and turns his palms upwards. The cuts are shallow, but they're raw and still have dust clinging to them. He purses his lips, not looking forward to it.

“You really don't have to–” Zanka starts.

“You scared?” Jabber interrupts, looking up at him with a smirk.

“Well–I’m just saying–Your injury is worse so we should probably do yours first.” Zanka blabbers, definitely a little nervous.

Jabber scoffs and rotates his arm. The wound is dried at this point, the blood sticking to the skin like paint. “It ain't even hurt, focus on yourself.” He laughs. They’re both attempting to play the hero role.

Jabber holds Zanka by the wrist and wipes the other down. Both the injury and the subtle touch of Jabber’s fingers burn. He’s being as gentle as he can, each movement intentional and chock full of concentration.

With the wounds clean, Jabber wraps a cloth bandage a few times around Zanka’s palms and secures them with a piece of medical tape. The quiet between them while he focused was comfortable, domestic.

“Y’know you do that alot.”

Zanka looks up from his hands in confusion.

Jabber laughs and uses a finger to poke him once on the cheek before he pushes himself up, back to the first aid box on the desk. 

“Pout.” Jabber clarifies. “It’s cute.” 

Zanka looks away in full self awareness and tries to relax his facial muscles. It was entirely innate for him, and he made a mental note to be aware of his face from here on out.

He pushes himself to his feet once he notices Jabber begin to attend his own elbow. “Wait–Let me help. It’s only fair.”

Before Jabber has time to say anything, Zanka is already moving to stand behind him, grabbing antiseptic and reporting to duty. Jabber lets him with no reservations. 

It takes multiple wipes before the blood is finally cleaned away. They begin to pile up on the desk in a biohazardous heap.

“Jesus, Jabber.” He sucks in a breath, stomach turning at the sight. His tan skin is rubbed almost clean off into streaks of pink and beige. Zanka tries to hide his shudder out of respect.

“It looks worse than it is.” Jabber assures him, pulling down his sleeve.

“It really doesn't hurt?”

“Only bothers me when you stop.” 

Zanka’s hands freeze mid-motion at Jabber’s response. 

With the threat of injury finally behind them, the flirting is finally back, alive and well. The air between them thickens. 

They make eye contact over top of Jabber’s shoulder. No one had turned the light switch on, so the sun from the dorm’s window shines at them from the side. The angle makes Jabber’s eyes shine brighter than normal.

Zanka doesn't like the way his heartbeat feels in his throat. He clears it, and continues to fix the bandage on the other’s arm.

“Dont say weird stuff like that,” Zanka whispers, barely audible.

“You agreed earlier that I won, right?” Jabber says, matching the other’s volume.

Zanka rolls his eyes, crinkling the leftover bandaid wrappers in his grasp as he goes to stuff them in his pocket. “Sure, whatever makes ya happy.”

“Then you’ll have to hold up our deal too, remember?”

The words reverberate in Zanka’s skull as he suddenly recalls.

“You have to stop pretending.”

“I don't even know what that was about.” Zanka lies. He starts to turn away, putting everything back into the first aid kit.

Jabber moves to corner him into the desk, the position irrefutably similar to that night at the party a few weeks ago. Except this time, Zanka’s back is facing the other.

He hovers over the desk to some extent, weight leaning into both of his hands. The pressure on his injuries stings, and he slightly bows his head. He wasn't expecting that to be brought up, but at the same time he knew it would.

Jabber’s body is only inches behind him, moving slowly as to give Zanka the chance to back out if that’s what he really wanted. Based on his lack of escape, he knows it's safe to approach.

The older student snakes his hands over top of Zanka’s, enveloping most of his body through mimicry of his position. He rests his chin in the space between Zanka’s shoulder and neck and hums lowly.

Time feels both incredibly slow and too fast at the same time.

Jabber breathes in. “You’re a liar.” 

Zanka mumbles. “You’re infuriating.”

“You’re turned on.”

“And who’s fault is that?”

And just like that, that’s the only confirmation Jabber needs to close the distance between his lips and Zanka's neck. 

Like before, the tension between them is always there, but the physical intimacy is sudden and wastes no time with a spark, instead bursting into flames.

Zanka tilts his head back on to the other’s shoulder as he hugs Zanka from behind. His mouth falls open into a sigh, melting into the touch. The lips are familiar as they suck hungrily on his skin. Each kiss leaves behind a wet hot trail before they're replaced with new ones.

Jabber's fingers travel over Zanka before he brings his arms up, pulling the younger man deeper into his chest. The hold is tight and possessive. His left hand moves up Zanka’s neck, taking his chin into its grasp and keeping him further locked into position.

The grip Jabber has on him, coupled with being pinned against the edge of the desk, makes Zanka’s body run extremely hot. It must be noticeable, because Jabber chuckles softly against his skin. 

He pets him, voice low and just for him to hear. “You’re shaking.”

Zanka didn't notice, but as he becomes more intune with himself, the vibration from his head to his toes is embarrassingly obvious. He isn't sure why, and delves into defense both from the other and himself.

“Shut up,” Zanka swallows. 

Jabber obeys him without a hitch, licking a stripe from his neck to his ear.

Every word that wants to leave Zanka’s mouth stays trapped somewhere in his throat, a jumbled mess of nerves and something else unfamiliar.

The lingering bits of hesitation are obvious to Jabber. Some of it he chalks it up to just his personality, but the rest he knows is able to be undone. Like a rubberband wanting to snap simply for release. Patience isn't necessarily Jabber’s strong suit, but he’s willing to wait if it means having Zanka to himself in the end.

Jabber pauses on his neck and leans his cheek against it. Their heart beats match in pace with each other. 

His hands are still exploring slowly, but they wrap around Zanka’s waist in order to steady him. God how he loves the way he feels in his hands, like a puzzle piece he’s been searching for all this time. He wants to claim it.

He opens his mouth and sinks his sharp teeth into the flesh; The raw whimper that leaves the younger’s throat only encourages him to bite down harder.

As much as he wants to, he doesn't try to draw blood–They’ve seen plenty for today and the purple mark he sucks into the skin is enough of a reminder.

Zanka’s hands are gripping tightly on any part of Jabber that he can. His breath is hurried, filling the room.

Jabber yearns for more and trails his hand down. His finger tips dip slightly below the other’s waistband. The skin is warm and velvety soft. Zanka jolts, but the subtleness of the action causes it to be mistaken for something else.

The hand plunges further until it makes contact with Zanka’s half-hard member, wrapping around it expertly. The movement is more intense than anything Zanka has ever experienced before and the panic fills his nervous system–His senses on overdrive.

“Wait–” He exhales sharply and turns around, palms pressing against Jabber’s chest.

Jabber freezes, lust filled eyes flicker into something else, a mix of confusion and painful restraint.

They both stand there, flushed and breathless–Waiting.

Zanka is starting to find the words he didn't realize he felt. The making out was one thing, they'd already reached that stage before, but anything beyond that left a pit in his stomach.

“I–I can't do that,” He stutters, unsure of himself. “I don't want this to just be a game, or–Or another box you can check.” He gestures vaguely between them, mind running a thousand miles a minute as his brain flashes him images of people he doesn't want to be reminded of. Momoa, the girls and guys that throw themselves at Jabber.

“I don't want to be like them.” Zanka isn't specific at all, but something shifting in Jabber’s expression tells him he doesn't need to be.

When he finally looks up at him, Zanka feels a flood of anxiety. His hands retreat off of Jabber’s chest slowly as he slightly curls in on himself. It feels like his words cut somewhere without meaning to.

Chapter Text

For a moment, neither of them speak. The air isn't thick with tension though, it's more of an uncertainty–a desperation for some sort of clarity that neither of them are eager to give.

For the first time that afternoon, none of the injuries on Zanka’s hands or knee ached. 

Jabber’s face doesn't deviate much at first, but on the inside his pulse is increasing in tempo as he thinks of what to say. I don't want to be like them echoes in his mind. It’s the first time Zanka’s said anything to indicate genuine distaste and interest.

At first, Zanka takes Jabber’s lack of expression as anger or the beginning of some bitter end. He wants to regret saying anything, but he doesn't. There’s an inkling of guilt, but it's shoved to the side for the sake of his pride. He’s not afraid of confrontation if it means putting his foot down on his morals.

Zanka isn't lying. He doesn't want to be like anyone else–A hookup, a joke, or a low stakes fling that’ll end as soon as it gets too real. As the weeks have flown by, Zanka’s awareness and goals have slowly begun to shift.

Not that he was expecting any sort of physical intimacy to begin with, he begins to realize that that's not all he wants. If he wanted to get off to some other person, it wouldn't be that hard to go out and find it–they’re on a college campus.

But Zanka isn't the type to do that. So he sure as hell wasn't going to act like he was now. He ignores the image of the night at the party, drunk and grinding on each other, that flashes briefly in his head.

That was different.

Jabber finally moves, and it comes from the clenching of his jaw and curling of his fists. Zanka, ready to just walk out if the other wasn't going to understand his point of view, is standing on guard for whatever smart remark or deflection he thinks will come from the other.

But to his surprise, nothing like that does.

Instead, Jabber’s magenta gaze settles on Zanka. It actually feels like it's digging through him if he analyzes it too long. Regardless, Zanka’s defensiveness starts to wane. Clearly he doesn't know Jabber as much as he thinks he does.

“I know you have this preconceived notion about me.” Jabber’s voice is low, but it's void of the teasing and anger that Zanka initially expected. “I don't know exactly what it is, but I have an idea and who am I to even say that it's wrong.”

Zanka’s lips part slightly, but Jabber cuts him off from saying anything. "But I promise you're not just a box to check.”

The rawness in his voice seems like uncharted territory; Zanka can assume that not many other people on this planet have gotten the chance to hear it. He stands still, almost paralyzed by it. 

At least if Jabber would've gotten pissed, deflected Zanka’s feelings and thrown him out the room, he’d know how to deal with it, probably. But once again, Jabber was throwing his usual calculations and routine out the window. God, it pissed him off.

Jabber takes a deep breath, chest expanding at the motion. He doesn't move either, but more from his concentration on verbalizing his thoughts than out of fear.

“Thing is, I’ve actually been trying to figure out why not. Why aren't you just like everyone else who I can play around with then leave at that. Clearly you see it in me–I get bored easily.”

He swallows. Zanka does too. 

“I’ve hooked up with people and forgotten peoples names, or hell, never even bothered to learn them at all.” There's a twinge of sourness to Jabber’s voice, as if saying that outloud is making him realize how crummy it actually is.

“But you–” He’s looking at Zanka again, who’s wide eyed and hasn't moved an inch since he started talking. “You won't leave. Even if I tried, and I did for a second, you won't get out of my head.”

The air between them is foreign, but Zanka’s chest feels weird, almost painful.

Jabber keeps going, laughter cutting through his next words desperately–not humorously. “And damn, man. It's so annoying.”

Zanka blinks.

“I cant fuckin’ focus. I'm training and you're there. I'm studying and you're there. I'm emailing professors about who I’d like to pair up with for a damn mid term project that really doesn't benefit my grade at all.” He runs a hand through his hair, his eyes darting around as he speaks.

When his gaze returns, there is a sharpness to it. It's not anger, but focus, possession, a hunger both for Zanka and for the mess in his brain to sort itself out.

“You drive me insane, dude. You show up and act like you don't care, but then you look at me with those–” He motions clumsily at him, “--eyes.” He takes a step closer unintentionally, Zanka’s breath catches and they’re back to being a foot apart.

It’s clear there's more Jabber could probably say, but he’s been uncharacteristically vulnerable enough for one day and the feeling of tiredness in the air is evident enough. 

Zanka expects him to do what he always does–Close the space between them, brush the tension away by distracting him with physicality instead. But instead, Jabber takes a step back again, slow and intentional this time. 

“Alright, I got it. You don't want to be like them, well I've got good news for you then. I already don't think of you like them.” Jabber finally admits.

They're both being careful. It's obvious something between them has shifted. 

Zanka flickers his eyes down, the first time he’s been able to tear them off the other. Jabber does the same. They both stare at the ground, as if they're afraid of what more unraveling’ll happen if they let it.

The younger swallows hard. He’s suddenly aware of the dryness in his throat.

“I didnt… I didnt mean to make it sound like...” Zanka trails off, words slurring together in guilt. The volume is quieter than he means it to be, but Jabber can hear him just fine.

He doesn't know how he even wants to end that sentence. He doesn't want to apologize. It’s not as if his accusations were founded upon nothing, even Jabber acknowledged that. It was affirming in a way.

Zanka shifts his weight, the movement makes him realize how much his stomach is churning. “Didn’t have to say all that, ya know.” His voice wavers slightly. “The stuff about not being able to focus.”

Jabber’s mouth twitches into a slight smirk, of course that’s what he would focus on. “I’on know, I think you needed to hear it.” He says honestly. “How else am I supposed to convince you?” It's a rhetorical question, he knows the blatant admission is the only way Zanka will start to understand him, despite the others great intuition.

The first iterations of light heartedness in Jabber’s tone finally makes Zanka’s chest loosen its grip on his lungs, but only slightly. 

He’s standing across from someone who just spilled more of their guts to him than anyone else has ever done. It’s confusing and he doesn't have the experience to know how to deal with it. A part of him wishes this were a conversation over text so he could consult the internet, maybe even phone a friend.

Zanka lets out a breath he didn't know he’d been holding, letting the anxiety melt off him bit by bit. 

Each time they're together, it feels like the start of something, like he’s running away from something tracking him down. But this time around it really feels like something caught him.

______

The week following their exchange is quieter, but not in the way that feels distant, it's in a way that feels recharged yet unspoken.

When they meet to work on their project, they don't talk about that conversation. There’s no need.

Zanka catches himself doing more and more stupid things. Staring too long at Jabber when he's talking, or losing his train of thought mid-sentence. He tries to blame it on lack of sleep, midterm stress, or anything besides what it actually is.

He isn't the only one off his game though, Jabber seems different too. He’s back to his teasing, boisterous self, but there's a sense of softness in the quieter moments. He’ll look up from his work and watch Zanka, not ashamed to do so. It makes Zanka lose his fine motor skills and google whether he’s showing symptoms of something neurological.

They laugh together, as opposed to before where it was usually one or the other.

The small gestures become more and more apparent. When Zanka passes him a notebook, their fingers brush for a second too long. When they arrive at the library it's a contest for who gets to hold open the door. 

Zanka wants to retreat to himself all over again once he realizes other people are starting to notice.

“Yo, you two are gettin’ real domestic over there,” one of Jabber’s teammates teases from across the library.

Jabber scoffs playfully and quips back. “I’m surprised you even know what that is! I haven't heard your phone get any tinder matches since freshman year.”

Zanka punches Jabber in the shoulder, muttering about professionalism and keeping your voice down.

Even some of the Cleaners start to mention it to Zanka. He brushes them off, explaining that it's a research partnership, and they brush him off in disbelief. He doesn't believe himself either.

Riyo demands updates every time she and Zanka meet up like it was her daily paper. She’s the only person Zanka feels safe enough to tell everything to, besides the more intimate parts, of course.

For someone who’s supposed to be studying Jabber’s training habits and nutritional intake, he sure is focused on things not related to that, like Jabber’s handwriting, his laugh, what type of drink he orders from the cafe.

He could potentially claim that last point as on-topic.

By the time the sun sinks below the horizon, their corner of the study hall begins to clear out. The two of them are left alone, basking in the golden rays that peak through the windows. Zanka looks at his half finished spreadsheet lazily, Jabber stretches back in his chair and yawns.

“Aye, a couple of us from the team are doing a movie night thing this weekend at the dorm.” Jabber mentions casually, but if you looked close enough you’d see he’s testing the waters.

Zanka looks up from his laptop, eyes just peeking over the top. “Oh, yeah?”

“Mhm. Nothing crazy, probably just gonna cook in the communal kitchen then put on something to watch.” He hesitates for a second, something he rarely does. “You should come.”

Zanka chews on his lips. It sounds casual from the outside, but their distinct lack of hanging out besides working together reveals it as something more. It’s a special invitation.

Jabber notices his lack of answer and raises an eyebrow, smirking. “Relax, nerd. It’s not just you and me alone. Unless you want it to be, I'll kick em all out.” He teases.

Zanka scoffs and returns his focus back to his screen. “Youre so insufferable.”

“I didn't hear a no!”

“‘Cause it's not a no.”

Jabber grins and shakes his head at the other’s usual demeanor. For the first time, their bond was extending outside of the classroom.

Chapter Text

The reminder text had been short, to the point.

J: 7pm, you know where ;)

Maybe it wasn't exactly to the point, but Zanka, after an eyeroll, had understood its meaning nonetheless.

He isn't entirely sure what to expect when he shows up. This isn't like the times where he can prepare ahead of schedule, like finding a menu online or looking at photos of the parking situation.

Much to his delight, it wasn't far off from his guess. The lounge of the athletic dorm wasn't too crowded, and there were enough familiar faces at this point for Zanka to give little head nods in acknowledgment to a few of them.

Athletes were sprawled across couches and bean bag chairs, the smell of popcorn and body spray intertwined with the sound of chatter. The lights were off, preparing the atmosphere ahead of time, with the only glow coming from the hallway and the television screen.

Jabber is already there, half-slouched on one side of the couch with an arm draping over the backrest. Noticing Zanka, his attention cuts through anything else he could have noticed in the room.

“Ayee,” Jabber touts. “You came!”

Zanka furrows his brows light heartedly, the sound of the other's voice for the first time today hitting something in his chest. “You invited me.”

“Yeah, but you overthink everything,” Jabber shoots back with a knowing grin. “Wasn't sure you’d survive the internal debate you probably had on the way here.”

Ignoring him, Zanka makes his way over to sit, before realizing there’s only a small sliver of space between Jabber and the random student next to him. He hesitates, and Jabber notices.

“Oy–scooch.” Is all the older student says, pushing his teammate further down the couch with his leg. With enough room now, he pats the cushion, smiling up at Zanka.

He obliges, causing Jabber to shift slightly, enough that their knees brush. The physical contact is light, maybe entirely accidental, but neither of them move away.

For a while, they watch the movie in silence, stark against the constant murmuring of everyone else in the room. Zanka pays attention, or at least he pretends to. Jabber’s presence next to him is too loud. Every inch of movement draws his eyes–the way his ringed fingers flex against the arm of the couch, the bounce of his knee, the faint smell of his laundry detergent.

It’s not until Jabber whispers to him that he remembers to take a breath, “This movie’s ass.”

“Who picked it?” Zanka mutters back.

“Me,” Jabber stands up, “And I regret it. Come on.”

He blinks once, twice, “Huh?”

“Let’s make something to eat in the kitchen. The snacks here suck.”

Zanka doesn't argue. He actually liked the snacks, but that was the last thing on his mind.

The kitchen is dim; it’s one room off of the lounge. It's quieter, with the low buzz of the fridge and overhead lights buzzing against the walls. He can hear the faint echo of the movie from around the corner. Jabber, clearly familiar with the place, is rummaging through cabinets.

He turns around with an item in each hand. Ramen in his left, and a bag of salad mix in his right.

“Which one?” Jabber prompts, fully serious.

“Those are two very different food groups” Zanka puts the back of his hand to his mouth, trying not to burst into laughter.

“What can I say, I’m tryna give you options.” Jabber smirks.

“Well considering you just took a bag of produce out of an unrefrigerated cabinet, I’m gonna have to go with ramen.” Zanka shakes his head and snickers, grabbing the salad mix and tossing it promptly into the trash.

They start to make some improvised version of it, boiling water in a cheap dorm pot, and finding random things in the fridge to accompany it. They work together, talking and giggling through the whole process.

The conversation drifts naturally, as if it were waiting for them to have some alone time.

Zanka, curious, asks him a question, “Do you ever get… tired of it?”

“Of what?”

“Competing. Being watched by hundreds of eyes all the time.”

Jabber stirs the pot of water with some chopsticks he stole from the drawer. “No, not competing. I like the thrill.” He admits.

He doesn't usually talk about his mindset with anyone except his coach.

“The expectation to be fast, strong, continuously improving. I like finding people who challenge me. Makes me feel like there’s always something to work towards, y’know? More to prove.”

He shoots Zanka a look, it's charged and lingers a second too long. “That’s what you are, by the way.”

Zanka tilts his head to the side. “A challenge?”

Jabber nods once. “You’re not easy to win. I like it.”

Zanka looks down and scoffs. He leans against the adjacent counter top and crosses his arms, avoiding the other’s gaze. “You’re such a masochist.”

Jabber does nothing but chuckle.

“I hate not knowing what I’m doing,” Zanka admits after a moment. “If I can't control it, it eats at me. I start organizing things or breaking it apart in my head–anything to feel like I can predict it.”

Jabber looks at him and nods, not willing to put a name to it if Zanka doesn't want him to. He hums, “Makes sense. You plan your life like it’s a lab report.”

“Better than speed running it like it’s a dare.”

Jabber laughs at the jab, loud and bright, and it eases the weight of vulnerability in the room–until someone walks through the doorway.

Momoa steps in, her jacket slung over one shoulder, expression lighting up when she sees Jabber. “Didn’t expect you to be here!” She says, voice like honey. “Are you ditching the movie night to cook?”

“Somethin’ like that,” Jabber says, his tone polite but a little distant.

Her gaze flicks to Zanka. “Ahh, and you brought company.”

Zanka’s body stiffens slightly. The background noise of the room fades to near silence as he fills with a sort of unease that he’s almost starting to get accustomed to in her presence. He doesn't respond to her.

Momoa leans against the counter, talking to Jabber with ease like they're best friends. She touches his arm, casually, but it reads as claiming to him. Zanka stops watching them as his mind starts to jumble. All those hours he spent convincing himself that he doesn't care that much about the other starting to crack open instantly.

Jabber notices.

The way Zanka’s eyes dart to the floor, his shoulders sitting higher on his frame as he fumbles with whatever food he’s holding. Something ugly twists in Jabber’s stomach.

He’s not going to let her think this is anything but what it is.

Jabber abandons her and steps close to Zanka, their sides practically glued together. His voice drops low, meant for Zanka but obviously loud enough for Momoa to hear. “Y’good, babe?”

Zanka freezes completely, head shooting up in Jabber’s direction. The word, in all its unfamiliarity, is warm against his ears.

Momoa’s eyebrows shoot up in confusion. “Babe?” She mimics.

Jabber doesn't look at her. He just reaches over for the piece of carrot in Zanka’s hands and tosses it into the boiling pot of water. He leans in, head resting on his shoulder. “I think we’ve made enough toppings for it, yeah?” 

It’s almost too much–or it already is. Zanka isn't sure. From the proximity and scent of him, to the utter possessiveness that drips from Jabber’s every movement.

Momoa lingers for a few seconds longer, her face souring before she mutters something about not being hungry anyway, and leaves.

Silence is all that follows–thick and palpable.

Zanka finally exhales a breath he didn't know he was holding and it makes his head spin. He lowers his hands to the top of the counter he’s facing and notices the slight tremor in them. He's not shaking from fear, or anger, but from the adrenaline coursing through his veins. It felt weirdly good.

He doesn't move when Jabber takes a step back, his voice has a twinge of remorse to it. “Sorry. That was probably too much.”

Zanka swallows hard. “No.”

Jabber blinks. “No?” 

Zanka shakes his head. “It worked, didn't it?”

Something in Jabber’s expression softens into something besides his usual smug satisfaction. It's fond.

When they finally return to the lounge with their bowl of ramen, the movie is still going. The air between them still hums when they make their way back into their seats. Neither says a word, but their steps are in sync.

The others are glued to the movie, either half asleep, chatting, or on their phones. None of them have a clue as to what changed between the duo. They’ve crossed into something new without meaning to, and whatever line they've been toeing isn't so blurred anymore.

The couch beneath them feels smaller now. Every shift in movement brings them closer. Zanka tries to piece together the scenes from the movie that they've missed, but he's hyper aware of the warmth radiating off Jabber.

Jabber relaxes into their position, but his pulse is still slightly elevated from earlier. The way Momoa had smiled at him, and the way Zanka flinched at the interaction like it physically hurt him. That look on his face had done something to him, cracked something open in him that he didn't realize was there, but he had an inkling of.

He turns his head towards Zanka, who’s watching the screen, chewing on his bite of food, but his gaze is clearly unfocused. 

“You okay?” Jabber whispers, so no one else can hear.

Zanka’s caught off guard. “Hm?”

“You were being quiet.”

“Yeah, cause I’m watching a movie.” 

Jabber smirks softly at his usual quip, surprisingly making him feel better. “Not that, I mean back there. In the kitchen.”

Zanka fidgets with the utensils in his hands. “Yeah, I don't know. Sometimes my brain just… shuts down.”

Jabber hums low. “That’s why you didn't say anything when she came in?”

Zanka hesitates to tell him anything else about his stupid brain, already feeling as if he’s exposed enough of his shortcomings today. “I just… didn't know what to do.” He decides.

Jabber lets out a huff of air, still whispering. “You don't have to do anything. Just trust me.”

That catches Zanka off guard and he finally turns a little to look at him, eyes flickering. “Why?”

“‘Cause I know what's best for you.”

The words hang heavy between them. A pounding echoes in Zanka’s ears as his heart thrums against his ribcage. He swallows, trying to push down the warmth. He doesn't know what to say. Part of him wants to push back, call Jabber weird, and claim he's being unnecessary–but another part of him, the one he’s been trying to silence, likes it too much to tell a lie.

So he says nothing. 

Jabber shifts closer, couch springs creaking beneath them as he’s careful not to knock over the bowl in Zanka’s lap. His hand drapes over the backrest again, close enough to Zanka’s head that he can feel the ghost of it against his hair.

The movie flashes bright, lighting up their faces. Jabber’s expression holds something between curiosity and restraint.

“You’re not mad, right?” He asks.

Zanka shakes his head. “No.”

“Good,” Jabber grins, cheekily. He leans back again, comfort finally finding itself in his body. “‘Cause I don't think I could've stopped myself anyway.”

Zanka chokes a little on his last bite, soft coughs coming out of his chest. Jabber simply chuckles and pats him a few times on the back, giddy at the familiarity of this moment.

The rest of the movie blurs together. Zanka never got around to figuring out the plot, but it feels trivial compared to the small admission sparked between them.

When the credits finally roll, most of the dorm has either fallen asleep or bids their goodbyes on the way to their rooms. 

Zanka glances over, and Jabber's eyes are looking at the screen. He doesn't miss the boyish smile pulling the corners of his mouth though.

“Thanks for coming,” Jabber says, still looking forward.

Zanka huffs a laugh, “You make it sound like I did you a favor or something.”

“You did, you showed up.” Jabber finally looks at him.

Zanka doesn't respond, not knowing what to say. 

“You need a ride back?”

“I live 5 minutes away from you by foot.”

“Then I’ll walk you back.”

Zanka opens his mouth to argue, but the look Jabber gives him, half domestic, half challenge, stops him. So he nods, and packs up his things, ignoring the flutter in his chest.

They leave the dorm together, the night air is cold and almost silent as most of the campus falls asleep. Their hands brush once during the walk, just barely.

It wasn't a date–not yet at least, but when Zanka returned to the comfort of his own bed that night, he lies awake replaying every second. There’s no going back now.

Chapter Text

The week after movie night doesn't exactly feel how Zanka expected it to.

At first, Zanka assumes Jabber’s just tired. The track team is in the middle of planning their spring break intensive, some weeklong bootcamp far from campus, and Jabber was put in charge of organizing it with other senior athletes on the team. He’d mentioned it in passing to him.

But still, Zanka wasn't expecting radio silence.

Their texts are short, maybe even dry in some spots. They still joke, but it's fewer and far between compared to their usual cadence. And even though he tells himself, he’s busy, it's fine, don't be weird about it, Zanka still finds himself checking his phone more often than he’d like to admit.

He catches himself occasionally analyzing the gaps between messages and plotting the data in his brain and it pisses him off.

Two hours on Tuesday.

Five hours on Wednesday.

A whole day on Thursday.

By Friday, something in him had settled into restlessness and something familiar. The kind of quiet nervousness he gets when he knows the outcome is out of his control.

So when Riyo shows up to his dorm unannounced, it's both a relief and a nuisance to him. She pushes the door open before he can even question her, holding two bubble teas and wearing a look on her face that says, I know you're spiraling.

“I don't like the way you look.” She says, settling on his bed while he makes his way back to his desk.

“Damn, good to see ya too,” He mumbles, chair spinning around to face her. “‘M fine.”

“Mhm.” She pushes one of the drinks into his lap and kicks her shoes off. “That’s why you're in full study goblin mode with your hood up indoors.”

Zanka sighs and rubs the back of his hand on his face, getting some feeling back in the muscles. “I’m working on midterms.”

“We both know you're way ahead of schedule with midterms. I can view your calendar on my phone, remember.” Riyo sticks her tongue out.

He finally gives in. “Alright, I'm a little stressed.”

“Yay, progress!” She pumps her arms into the air. “So what's wrong? School? Sleep? Or is it a certain athlete who’s gone MIA?”

Zanka pauses the sip of his drink to peer at her, wondering how she knows that, but she seems to know a lot of things before he tells her.

“He’s not MIA, he’s just… busy.”

“Busy, huh?” Riyo lifts her brows at him.

“He’s helping plan the spring break bootcamp thing, which ya probably know about already–”

Riyo nods.

“--and it's a lot of logistics and time consuming, apparently.”

She hums, “Yeah, Noerde told me about it. But he can't text while planning?”

Zanka glares a little, “I don't want to be that person–the clingy one.”

“You just wanna know what’s up, nothin’ clingy ‘bout it.” She smiles, knowing in her soul Zanka was totally clingy, as much as he wanted to pretend he wasn't.

He exhales, chewing slowly. “I told him I didn't want to be another hook up, and he told me I wasn't. But if this is him realizing he’s not actually into… whatever this is, then fine. I’ll just deal with it and go on with my life. I just don't want to look stupid.”

She frowns, “Aww, Zan…”

He shakes his head, telling her to not press further into it, as well as clearing his own mind. “Like I said, it’s fine. Don't worry about it.”

Riyo looks at him for a moment, studying. Her voice is softer now, “You know, I’ve never seen you like this. The overthinking? No, that's all the time,” She giggles. “But the way you care about him, it’s new.”

“Yeah,” He mutters, "That's the scary part.”

______

Jabber’s still at the athletic center long after practice ends that day. He’s crouched over a whiteboard with two other teammates. There's a scrawled mess of travel times, training rotations, and meal plans that look like a code only they can decipher.

“Coach said if we mess up the timing for these drills, we’re running extra laps.” Cthoni groans.

“Then don’t mess it up,” Noerde deadpans, erasing a line with her sleeve.

Jabber is running on three hours of sleep and enough caffeine to kill a horse, but he doesn't complain. They were hand picked by the coach for this, and he welcomed the challenge. The bootcamp means something to him. It's a chance to prove he’s not just a genius of raw talent and performance–that he can lead.

But it’s eating his time up like nothing else. Between meetings, training, and midterms, his messages to a certain someone keep getting pushed later and later, until there’s nothing to send but a quick

J: yo, sorry. crazy day

He hates it.

He catches himself rereading Zanka’s last message.

Z: Good luck with planning. Don’t stress too much.

It’s short, sweet. And polite. Too polite… the kind that feels like distance.

He sighs, closing his phone and standing to his feet. “I’m taking a break, guys.”

_____

Riyo spots him the next day outside the student center. He’s slumped on a bench, hood pulled up as he looks more tired than anything else for once.

“Hey!” She calls out, stepping over the curb to approach him. “Jabber, right?”

He lifts his head, blinking as he tries to place a name to the face. “Riyo?”

“One and only. Zanka’s bestie.”

He cracks a grin. “Yeah, got that.”

“You look like death.” She notes, sitting beside him.

“Track intensive prep,” he says, gesturing vaguely, energy drink in hand. “Think my brain’s running on pure luck at this point.”

“I’ll keep it short, then,” She says. “Zanka’s losing his mind.”

He blinks. “What?”

“Not in like, a bad way,” She clarifies quickly. “Just in the way someone does when they like someone and don't know that it's legal now.”

Jabber stares at her for a moment, words computing slowly in his sleep deprived head.

She leans forward, legs crossed at the knee. “He told me he’s scared you're losing interest, or will eventually.”

“What? No, that's–” Jabber grunts, exhaling deeply. “That’s not even close to what’s happening.”

“I know,” Riyo says with a smile. “But he doesn't."

Jabber’s chest tightens, and for the first time it's not from being overworked. He feels guilt and frustration tangling together. “I thought I was giving him space. To not scare him off, or distract him during midterms.”

“He doesn't want space, Jabber. He wants your reassurance, I promise.”

That sticks into him, hard.

He nods once, decisive and clear headed. “Thanks, Riyo.”

She smirks, "Don't make me regret playing matchmaker now!” They talk for the next 30 minutes about their mutual friend.

____

By the time Jabber makes it to Zanka’s dorm that night, the campus and surrounding city is quiet. It’s just before midnight, and he's not even sure the other will be awake. The hallway lights cast a soft glow along the wall as he pads his way around. He doesn't even text first, he just knocks.

When Zanka opens the door after a pause, the light from the hallway seeps into the room behind him and slightly illuminates another body, sleeping in a bed.

“Oh shit–” Jabber whispers, taking a step back so Zanka could close the door behind him. “You have a roommate. I forgot.”

When he finally looks at Zanka, he’s wearing loose, warm pajamas. His eyes are tired, but they're sharp.

“Hey,” Jabber finally says to him.

Zanka, initially caught off guard by his presence, settles against the closed door behind him now. “It’s late.” Is all he says.

“Yeah, sorry. Didn't wanna wait ‘til tomorrow.”

It’s dead silent in the hallway.

“I wanted to check in,” Jabber finally says. “You’ve been quiet.”

Zanka folds his arms, a defensive kick to them. “You’ve been busy.”

“I know,” Jabber admits. “This track shit s’been chaos. I didn't realize how much time it’d actually eat.”

Zanka just shrugs, looking away. “It’s fine, ya don't have to explain yourself.”

“I want to,” Jabber says, stepping closer. “‘Cause I don't want you thinking I'm ignoring you. I'm not.”

Zanka’s expression flickers. It’s clear that irritation and relief are fighting with each other. “You don't owe me anything. It's whatever.”

“See, that right there,” Jabber says softly. “Thats where you're wrong.”

Zanka opens his mouth, but no words come out.

Jabber sighs at himself, “I’m not good at this.” He continues, tone still soft, “I don't always say what I should, or when I should. But I swear to you, I’ve been thinking about you every damn day this week.”

Zanka looks down at his hands, voice quiet. “Could've said that sooner.”

“Yeah,” Jabber agrees. “I just needed a little reminder from someone.”

Zanka cocks his head before furrowing his brows, "Don't tell me you talked to Riyo.”

“She threatened me a little, I won't lie.” He laughs.

Zanka groans and rubs a hand down his face, “She’s so dead.”

“She’s a good friend. And she’s right.”

“About what?” Zanka blinks up at him, something hopeful and hesitant stirring in his expression.

Jabber takes a slow breath. “That I like you. Like, really like you.”

Silence stretches, filling their lungs with air.

“You’re serious?” Zanka can hear his pulse in his ears again.

“Wouldnt be here if I wasn't."

Zanka swallows hard. “I just don't want to be someone who entertains you until you find someone else to latch on to.”

As much as the sentiment hurts Jabber, he takes Zanka’s feelings into account. “You’re not.”

He steps closer, enough that Zanka has to lift his head up to meet his eyes.

“You’re the first person I’ve slowed down for,” Jabber tells him. “That’s saying a lot.”

Zanka lets out a shaky laugh. “Youre terrible at reassurance.”

Jabber smirks faintly. “Maybe, but at least I'm honest.”

That earns him a soft laugh. The tension shifts between them, less brittle and more enticing. Zanka doesn't move when Jabber’s hand lifts, fingers brushing the sleeve of his sleep shirt.

Jabber’s gaze flickers towards the door. “I was hoping I could come in.” He says, knowing full well that wasn't possible anymore with Zanka’s roommate.

Zanka bites the inside of his cheek, “Sorry. Not all of us get the luxury of having our own rooms.” He quips.

Jabber smiles, close enough that Zanka can feel his breath on his skin. “What if I kept it 100% PG?” He teases.

“PG doesn't exist around you,” Zanka mutters.

Jabber chuckles, and the sound hums through the little space between them. His hand drifts higher, cupping the side of Zanka’s face with a tenderness that catches them both off guard. It holds a myriad of meanings in it; apology, reassurance, promise.

Zanka doesn't pull away. If anything, he leans into it, breath caught in his chest.

And then–

The door his back is leaning against swings open.

Both of them almost fall into Zanka’s dorm room, shock ringing through them like they've been electrocuted. Jabber’s reflexes hold him against the frame of the door, and Zanka grabs onto the front of Jabber’s shirt for purchase.

Tamsy, half asleep and wiping the sleep from his eyes, squints at the sight of them, taking a step back so they both can rise to their feet again.

“Uh… am I interrupting something?”

Zanka freezes, mortified. “No! You’re… we… I mean…”

Jabber grits his jaw as he flushes the surprise out of his system. “Sorry, bro. We’re chill, just some friendly conversation.”

Tamsy stares a second longer, muttering something like “Okay, whatever.,” and closes the door again.

Silence follows before Jabber snorts loudly.

Zanka glares up at him, face on fire. “Dont. Laugh.” He threatens.

It only makes Jabber laugh harder, the sound bubbling out of him until Zanka’s own mortification finally cracks and he falls into a fit of giggles too.

When it finally fades, Jabber wipes at his eyes and exhales. “Guess I should go before I cause a scandal.”

Zanka’s still blushing, but a smile tugs at his lips. “You already did.”

“Worth it.”

Jabber grins softly, voice dropping back into something quieter. “Text me tomorrow, yeah? Or, yell at me if I don't respond fast enough.”

Zanka looks at him, words hovering on his tongue before he just nods.

“And Zanka?”

“Yeah?”

“I don't think you're stupid, so stop worrying about looking like it.”

Zanka’s caught off guard by the statement. He realizes that Riyo must've told him more than Jabber let off, and he pouts. She totally was going to get a stern talking to tomorrow.

Before Zanka can respond, Jabber’s giving his hand one last squeeze before his footsteps fade around the corner. Zanka’s left leaning against the doorframe, pulse racing and a stupid grin trying to force its way on his face.

He turns around to open the door, and with a pause, realizes he left his ID card inside the room.

“Fuck.”

He knocks his fist against the wood, embarrassed and whispering Tamsy’s name into the quiet of the night.

Chapter Text

After that night at Zanka’s dorm, the thing between them unravels even further. It feels like it's approaching something waiting to happen. The messages come back faster now, no longer short, as if Jabber took to heart Zanka’s concerns. He doesn't count the hours between them anymore.

Then come the visits.

Sometimes Jabber stops by the library, sliding into the seat across from Zanka with a grin and a protein bar he “accidentally bought too many of.” Other times, Zanka finds himself walking past the athletic fields, pretending he didn't know what time track practice was.

Neither of them say they’re dating. 

But the nights stretch long and easy, and they're both okay with that.

_______

One night, Jabber’s dorm smells faintly of laundry detergent and cinnamon when Zanka ends up there after study hall. He had yelled at the other when he told him about the small magnet he puts in the door frame to stop the room from locking completely, but now he was grateful for it.

The track team's practice had run late, so it's already past ten when Jabber walks in, sweat glinting at his temples.

“Hey, genius,” Jabber says, toeing off his shoes. “You still awake?”

Zanka shrugs from the corner of the bed, eye twitching once at the nickname. “Ya said you’d be done an hour ago.”

“I said around an hour ago. Dumb meeting.”

“‘Bout what?”

Jabber collapses into the chair across from him, rolling his shoulders. “Bootcamp prep. Again. We’re finalizing rosters and meals. Cthoni’s spreadsheet crashed and we lost, like, half a day’s work.”

“Tragic.”

“Probably the worst thing I’ve ever experienced.” Jabber says sarcastically. “You’ve ever seen three athletes cry over an excel file before?”

Zanka snorts, hiding the smile behind his hand. “You’d probably just yell at the computer until it worked again. Or maybe try and cast a spell.”

“You know me so well,” Jabber chuckles, leaning back and closing his eyes. “Wanna switch lives for a day? You can deal with my team’s chaos and I'll do your little lab reports.”

Zanka laughs. “My brain would implode in your body within ten minutes.”

“Fair,” Jabber mumbles, voice dropping as he half dozes in his seat. “But then you’d be able to calculate my protein and shit for me.”

“I already do that. Just read my midterm paper when it's finished.” Zanka says lightly, nudging the other’s knee with his foot. “I'm surprised ya hadn't died before meeting me, and my expert advice.”

Jabber peeks one eye open and grins. “You worried about me, doc?”

“Only from a clinical standpoint,” Zanka’s mouth twitches.

Jabber laughs, low and satisfied.

Zanka ends up stretched across Jabber’s bed a few minutes later, textbook forgotten beside him. Jabber joins him without asking, lying close enough that their arms brush. Neither of them budge.

Zanka can feel the exhaustion pulling at his eyelids, but he stays awake because Jabber’s heart beat is steadily beating beside him.

“You should sleep,” Zanka murmurs.

“You’re here. I’m good,” Jabber replies.

“You’re impossible.”

“I’ve been called worse.”

Zanka exhales softly, head resting against the edge of a pillow they’re now sharing. “You’re really leaving next week, then?”

“Coach’s orders.” Jabber hums, shifting slightly to look at him. “You stayin’ here?”

Zanka hesitates. “Yeah. No reason to go home.”

Something in Jabber’s tone changes, quieter now. “Don’t wanna see your family?”

Zanka stares at the ceiling for a beat. “Nah.”

Jabber doesn't pry, though curiosity flickers in his eyes. Instead, he just says, “Then I’ll call you. Everyday. Even if I'm half asleep.” He reaches out a hand and pushes an ash-brunette strand of Zanka’s bangs off to the side.

Zanka turns his head toward him. “You don't have to do all that.”

I know,” Jabber smiles. “But I want to.”

It's simple, but it lands heavy in Zanka’s chest–heavier than anything else could have.

He doesn't trust his voice enough to reply, so he just hums, soft, but the warmth spreading in his chest lets him know all he needs to know.

_____

By midweek, they've fallen into a rhythm.

They share lunches in the quad, exchange playlists, and argue about the correct way to cook eggs. (Zanka likes them runny, Jabber prefers well done)

Jabber calls him a different nickname every time they meet, but he falls into “Zan” more than anything else, definitely stolen from Riyo. Zanka pretends it doesn't make his stomach flip every time.

In retaliation, Zanka starts calling him silly nicknames too. “Jabby,” when he’s feeling particularly vindictive.

It's theirs.

Sometimes, when Jabber’s not looking, Zanka studies him the way he’d study his data–taking in the way he talks with his hands, how his loud laughter fills a room before his voice does. He learns that Jabber drinks tea instead of coffee, only adding a little bit of sugar, that he taps out beats on the table when he’s thinking, and that he always stands on the side of the sidewalk next to the street when they walk together.

They're stupid things, but they start collecting in Zanka’s mind like points he can't quite forget.

And Jabber notices things too. That Zanka chews on his bottom lip when he’s lost in thought, he walks way too fast even when there’s nowhere to be, and he doesn't like listening to music while studying. Once during a group lunch, Jabber quietly slides the slices off his sandwich and onto Zanka’s plate without saying a word, because he knows Zanka likes them. He doesn't think anyone notices, but Zanka does.

Evenings become their favorite time. The stretch of day where everything softens. Jabber points out the sunset behind the campus’ buildings, highlighting the purple and blue hues mixing together.

One afternoon, Jabber drags him out to the track in between classes. The stands are half empty, a few teammates jogging laps as the sun burns warm in the distance.

Zanka sits in the bleachers, laptop open but untouched, half studying half watching Jabber as he stretches below.

When the whistle of a teammate blows, Jabber bolts forward with his teammates, fast and clean, every stride cutting through air like it owes him something. Zanka watches without meaning to, the sheer power in his movements making something twist deep in his gut.

He looks away too late.

Jabber’s grin is instant and smug. He cups his hands around his mouth and shouts, “You fallin’ for me or just studying my form?”

Zanka waves his hands in an embarrassed fashion, resorting to flipping him off once he hears laughter coming from around him. “Your form’s mid.” He raises his voice back.

“That’s a fuckin’ lie and you know it!” Jabber laughs, jogging toward him to spare him further from the public spectacle.

By the time he reaches the stands, he's still grinning, chest heaving, sweat shining down his neck. “You’re terrible at lying.”

Zanka crosses his arms, pretending to be unbothered. “And you're terrible at humility.”

“That’s why we work”. Jabber laughs again, bright and unrestrained.

______

The next few days blur together in the best way–study sessions that turn into naps, cafe runs that feel like accidental dates, jokes that melt into soft looks neither of them acknowledge out loud.

Zanka still insists it's not dating. Jabber doesn't argue, but he looks at him like it is.

When they finish the midterm project, Zanka turns it in at midnight, and sends Jabber a text.

Z: Done. Finally.

J: us!?

Z: Shut up. I turned in the project.

J: congrats nerdy boy :)

Zanka rolls his eyes, but smiles anyway.

The next morning, Jabber’s bags are packed. The bootcamp bus leaves at dawn, and he's got his duffel slung over one shoulder when Zanka finds himself outside the athletic dorm.

“I'm impressed you’re awake this early,” Jabber says, groggily.

“I wanted to make sure you didn't sneak away or something.”

“Appreciate the faith," Jabber teases.

He sets his bag down, glancing around at the team gathering in clusters nearby. “You gonna survive without me?”

Zanka raises a sleepy eyebrow. “It’s a week, not forever.”

Jabber grins. “Still. I’ll keep in touch.”

“Focus on your training,” Zanka says, but his voice is tender.

Jabber leans in, close enough that their foreheads almost touch. “Dont miss me too much, Zan-Zan.”

“Wouldnt dream of it.”

He says it easily, but his throat is tighter than usual.

“Still overthinking?”

Zanka blinks, caught off guard. “No, you're projecting.”

Jabber chuckles. He hesitates, hand twitching like he wants to reach out, but he decides against it. “I’ll see you again soon.”

When the bus door hisses open, Jabber climbs aboard, turning once before he disappears inside. His smile lingers, lazy and kind.

Zanka stands there until the bus pulls away, hands in his pocket when he isn't waving goodbye. His heart is drumming a rhythm he’s starting to get used to.

_____

The next few days pass in bursts of sound and silence.

Zanka keeps himself semi busy, but it's difficult when 80% of campus is gone for the week. Luckily, Riyo was staying back too. Without her, Zanka thinks he’d probably die of boredom.

Every now and then, a text from Jabber lights up his screen–usually about quick updates from the camp, short clips of the teams training in their facility, or selfies with a sweat-slick grin. He sends half faced selfies back, his eye barely peeking over the edge of the screen.

Z: You look like you haven't slept in forever.

J: ugh. i have but 8 hours doesnt feel like enough

Z: I'm reporting your coach to OSHA

J: ayee, snitches get stitches

It's easy. Playful. Steady.

Until Friday night.

Zanka’s just finished dinner when his phone buzzes. He expects another meme, maybe a tired selfie.

But it's not Jabber, it's an unknown number.

?: Hey, it's Noerde. Just letting you know, Jabber took a bad fall during drills today. He’s fine, but they're taking him to urgent care to check his knee. Don't freak out.

Zanka reads the message twice, heartbeat quickening with each pass.

Urgent care. Bad fall.

But he’s fine?

He grabs his jacket without thinking, pushing his chair in loudly. His hands are shaking before he even realizes it. Riyo looks up from her plate.

“What happened?”

Zanka swallows hard. “Jabber got hurt.”

“How bad?”

“I–I don't know. They said he’s fine, but–why would they need urgent care if he’s fine?” His voice cracks slightly, betraying the panic he’s trying to keep down.

Riyo stands quickly, hand on his arm. “Hey, breathe.”

He nods, but his lungs feel way too tight.

“Text them again,” she urges. “Ask for more details.”

Zanka does, but the typing bubble from Noerde never appears. His mind spirals. She’s probably too busy digging a burial grave for Jabber to text him back. Or the police confiscated everyone’s phones due to it becoming a murder scene.

By 8 o'clock, he’s still staring at his phone, waiting for something, anything, to show up. But nothing does. All he can think about is the sound of Jabber’s laugh, his easy confidence, his promise–I’ll take it easy, I promise.

Zanka fishes the mostly unused set of car keys from his desk and practically runs to the student parking lot.

Chapter Text

The drive is a blur.

Zanka doesn't remember if he even left the light on in their dorm, doesn't remember walking across the cold pavement or fumbling with the keys that have nothing else hanging from them except a little keychain Riyo gifted him. He only remembers the way his pulse spikes every time he imagines Jabber–his laughing, cocky, loud-mouthed Jabber–lying somewhere in a hospital bed.

He keeps one hand on the wheel and one pressed so tightly against his thigh it hurts. His knuckles whiten every time the GPS speaks to him. 4 hours left, 3 and a half, 2. Thank god he had looked up the facility when Jabber told him about it.

The sky is dark in the rearview mirror, dawn both far and near. Every now and then, Riyo texts him in all caps.

R: U ALIVE???

R: DONT CRASH OR I’LL KILL YOU

R: PLEASE UPDATE ME WHEN U GET THERE

Zanka just answers once, not intending to die either.

Z: I will.

After that, he can't think about anything except Jabber.

Every possible outcome is playing in his head. Broken? Cast, surgery, crutches? Oh god, amputation? His stomach twists with every mile; it's almost embarrassing how worried he is. He pushes buttons on the radio to help distract him.

_______

The fluorescent lights buzz overhead.

Jabber hates this part. The waiting. The stiffness in his knee. The knowledge that a drill he’s done a thousand times went awry because he landed half a second too early. 

He tries not to replay the fall–the sharp, knee buckling moment. His teammates hovering over him, their energy was too tense and too quiet. Noerde was on her phone–calling, texting, muttering to herself.

Jabber keeps telling them, “I’m fine. It’s just a sprain, chill.”

But the ache is deep and sharp nonetheless.

And his phone, he realizes only after they loaded him into a car that someone from the team said they’d grab his stuff. He has nothing now.

Of course.

He imagines Zanka seeing radio silence and scoffs to himself. “Damn, he’s gonna kill me.”

But even imagining Zanka’s annoyance warms him up just a little. Enough to keep his mind occupied until doctors can help patch him up.

______

By the time the car pulls into the adjacent clinic next to the training facility, dawn is just barely painting the sky. It’s dark, but streaks of gold peak over the horizon.

Zanka slams the door shut and almost sprints inside. The receptionist startles at the sight of him, sweaty and wide-eyed, wearing a jacket over the same shirt he studied in the night before.

“Uhm,” He clears his throat and takes a breath, “Jabber Wonger? Admitted last night?” Zanka says, words tumbling out of his mouth.

The receptionist blinks and looks at the papers below her. She doesn't question whether he’s family, and for that he’s grateful.

“Room 12, down the hall on the right.” She nods, softening.

He swallows with a “Thank you,” and trots down the hall. His hand trembles when he reaches for the door handle.

Jabber is half-asleep when the door clicks open. His knee is wrapped, elevated. His hair is pulled back, his face on clear display. There’s an ice pack melting in his lap. He’s expecting a nurse, so when it's Zanka he gets–eyes bloodshot, fingers clenched at his sides and chest rising like he forgot how to breathe–he straightens instantly.

“Zanka–?”

“You asshole.”

Zanka crosses the room in three fast steps and stops inches from the foot of the bed, staring at him and crossing off all his mental checks.

“That’s fair,” Jabber says quietly, his fingers twitching under the blanket.

“Ya didn't answer. Ya didnt–Noerde only sent me one message. How could she just–” Zanka’s breath catches. “Are you okay?”

And Jabber, who never cracks, never lets anyone see too deep into him looks down at his bandaged knee. “Yeah, just a sprain. Grade two though. Gonna be off the track for a few weeks. Could've been worse, but I promise I’m okay."

Zanka exhales like he’s been holding his breath for hours. Then Jabber finally notices.

“Did you… drive here?”

“Five hours,” Zanka mutters, rubbing his palm against his face, the realization hitting him. “Yeah, I don't know why I did that.”

Finally, Jabber smiles. The soft, warm, unguarded kind Zanka only sees when they're alone. It finally looks like him. “I think I know why,” he teases.

Zanka glares at him, because he absolutely cannot deal with that right now, not when it felt like his entire world was crashing around him just minutes prior.

“Ya look like shit,” he mutters, lying mostly.

“So do you, doc.”

Zanka’s lip twitches. Jabber reaches out, hesitates, then taps the chair next to him with two fingers. “C’mere?”

Zanka doesn't think, he just sinks into it, elbows on his knees, and head bowed as Jabber's hand slides to the back of his neck.

“Didn’t mean to scare you,” Jabber says, voice low.

Zanka closes his eyes. “You did.”

The air between them is fragile, honest. 

Jabber squeezes his neck gently. “I’m sorry.” 

Zanka leans into the touch, letting the warmth from his hand seep into the muscles that were nothing but rock solid the entire way here. He sighs, a bit of relief finally settling in.

_______

By early morning, Jabber is released with a pair of crutches and a brace on his knee, with instructions to rest for at least 3-6 weeks. His team is already packing up camp, and Noerde apologizes for the text not going through to Zanka–bad service apparently.

Zanka barely listens though. He hovers. He holds Jabber’s backpack, his water bottle, pushes every door they walk through open like Jabber’s made of glass.

Jabber pretends he’s annoyed, but every time Zanka adjusts an ice pack or steadies him by the elbow, he’s secretly delighted. Thrilled beyond belief actually.

“Stop starin’ at me,” Zanka mutters once, guiding Jabber into the passenger seat of his car.

“Hard when you look like a pissed-off guardian angel,” Jabber smirks.

“Shut up.” Zanka groans, buckling his seatbelt for him anyway.

The drive back is slow, comfortable. Jabber drifts in and out of sleep, every exhale softening something inside Zanka that he didn't know he needed.

Jabber mumbles, “You really drove 5 hours for me?”

“Stop reminding me,” Zanka grumbles, “I’m running on zero hours of sleep and ‘m coming down from an adrenaline high, so if ya don't want me to crash this car I suggest you zip-it.” 

He blushes regardless.

____

Back on campus, Zanka doesn't leave Jabber’s side. Well, after he crashed on Jabber’s couch and slept through the entire afternoon. Luckily, Jabber had no complaints and did the same in his bed.

The next day though, Zanka helps him up and down stairs. He fixes his bandage, and glares at him every time he tries to stand without support.

“Sit down,” Zanka snaps for the fourth time that day.

“I’m built different!”

“Sit!”

Jabber snorts, laughing loudly for the first time since they've gotten home. “Youre so bossy.”

“Youre injured.”

“You like bossing me around?”

Zanka goes red. “Shut up.”

He makes Jabber food, and brings him back stuff from the dining hall throughout the day. He fusses when Jabber doesn't finish it all.

When Jabber has a moment, just one, where the worry hits him slightly, he stares at his wrapped knee and whispers. “What if I lose my edge?”

Zanka sits beside him on the bed, laptop on his thighs as he taps away at an assignment that isn't due. “You won't," he says simply. “You could never.”

Jabber nods, smile returning after a brief moment. It makes Zanka look off to the side.

When the next weekend hits, already a week back from break, they’ve fallen into a rhythm. Zanka internally questions everything as Jabber really does seem to be recovering quickly. No where near healed, but certainly more eager to move around than anyone else would be with the same injury.

He can put some pressure on his knee again, but Zanka doesn't let him give up the crutches just yet. Plus, it gives him an excuse to keep by his side. 

This version of Jabber was one Zanka had an inkling existed, but it was real this time. It’s a crack in his otherwise picture perfect facade–the genius Zanka chalked him up to be. 

And don't get him wrong, Jabber will always be insanely, naturally talented. 

But this blip in the road has revealed that he isn't as untouchable as Zanka thought. It makes him smile. It makes him feel things that he hadn't felt before–a deeper, more complex sort of appreciation and admiration.

Things between them constantly evolve and pass thresholds that can't be undone, but this time feels like a book being closed, and a sequel opening.

It’s well past midnight when the quiet changes. 

They’re in Jabber’s room, sitting shoulder to shoulder against the headboard. The lamp casts a warm halo around them. Jabber’s knee is propped up on a small pillow, but his arm drapes over the pillow behind Zanka, lazy and natural as he scrolls on his phone with the other hand.

He looks up at Zanka, and he side-eyes him back. It’s been a long week, and it finally feels quiet now.

Zanka doesn't move. He can't.

Not when Jabber is watching him like that, slow and soft. Like he's memorizing every detail on his face.

“You scared me,” Zanka whispers, finally referencing last weekend. They hadn't actually talked about it.

“We’re okay,” is all Jabber says, whispering back. His eyes don't know which part of Zanka’s face to look at. Each square inch fights for his attention equally. Except maybe his eyes.

They're downturned, and a dark blue that almost looked black if you didn't look close enough. It was a stormy sea he didn't mind getting lost at. They make his stomach feel loopy too, like waves would.

Zanka turns on his side and Jabber does the same, to the best of his ability. Their knees are touching, legs moving slowly to overlap each other. They entangle like puzzle pieces.

Zanka swallows hard. The side of his face sinks into the too-soft pillow. “I should probably head back home. It’s late.”

“You don't want to, though.”

Zanka hates how easily Jabber can read him now. Or maybe he just lets him more than before.

Jabber reaches out, fingertips brushing against Zanka’s jaw, then his bangs, pushing them out of the way. He’s gentle and cautious, like he’s still giving him the option to leave if he really wanted to.

Zanka breathes, but his chest instinctively takes a deep breath, filling his lungs with fresh air.

His hand lifts, without entirely meaning to, and fists into the front of Jabber’s sweater. He continuously grabs and lets go of it, his delicate fingers playing with the embroidered lettering on the front. He can feel the solid chest underneath it.

There’s no tension or question between them anymore, just the unescapable pull of gravity. The kind of magnetism that hurts to go against.

Jabber’s forehead meets his.

“Zan,” he whispers.

And Zanka, before Jabber can ask him anything, leans in.

The kiss starts slowly, careful. They’d already kissed once before, at the party a few months ago, but this was entirely different. Where that was charged, and certainly not sober, this one is full of longing and answers.

Jabber is surprised at the other’s advancement, but he welcomes it after a moment's hesitation. He doesn't want to use him.

Zanka’s hand trembles in Jabber’s shirt, and Jabber cups the back of his head, afraid he’ll get cold feet and vanish.

By the time they pull apart, their breaths are uneven and their heart beats are audible from the other side of the room.

“I promise you're not like the rest.” Jabber says low.

Zanka bites his lip and nods once. “I know,” he whispers.

Their heart beats sound in sync now. 

“D’you want to?”

Zanka closes his eyes and exhales shakily. When he opens them again, deep blue meets magenta and it feels correct. “Yeah.”

Jabber’s hand slides down the fabric along his spine, gentle and sure.

“Stay.” 

Zanka feels a twinge of something in his lower belly.

“Then make me.”

That’s all it takes for them to close the distance not only between their mouths, but the entirety of their bodies. They're both fully clothed, but the connection between their chests, hips, and intertwined legs is electrifying.

Zanka makes sure to be careful with Jabber’s knee. It takes more focus than he thinks he has.

What feels like weeks of built up pressure finally explodes between them, and Jabber, although surprised, couldn't be any more grateful.

Zanka pushes forward and grabs onto Jabber’s bottom lip with his teeth. It's obvious he’s never done something like this before, it's tentative and uncoordinated, but that makes it all the more endearing.

Jabber fights back, sliding his tongue into his mouth and holding his jaw steady as he leans on top of him. The sound of breathing between them is jagged and harsh, and it heats up the room more than any school sanctioned boiler room could.

Zanka struggles to keep up. His hands grasp aimlessly wherever they can. 

Jabber notices and every few moments gives him half a second to recuperate before he’s diving back in, hungry for more.

Despite them just kissing, the sensation is so overwhelming. It’s not just his lips, but it's also the hands on his face and in his hair, the grinding of hips, the entrapment of his lower limbs. Zanka can't help but whine into the other’s mouth. Jabber swallows it whole, like the noises Zanka makes are his and his only.

Needing a proper breath, Zanka finally pushes a hand solidly into Jabber’s chest, giving him a few inches of space. Both of them are unimaginably flushed, lips wet and eyes glossy. 

“You okay?” Jabber pants.

Zanka just nods, swallowing the overflow of saliva in his mouth.

Wanting to capitalize on the heat of the moment, Zanka shoves Jabber so that he’s flat on his back again and starts to crawl on top. His legs straddle both sides of him, embarrassingly familiar to the time out on the track.

Jabber, eyes wide but smiling, doesn't interrupt him. Zanka moves his hands over Jabber’s sweater, pushing it up slowly until the other gets the memo. Jabber pulls it over his head before reaching for the hem of Zanka’s own hoodie. Zanka stops him though, shaking his head a couple of times. 

“Hah,” Jabber laughs, “No fair.” But he doesn't push.

Zanka doesn't reply and simply reaches for the zipper of his own pants, letting Jabber take them off for him. He grabs the edge of his boxers on the way down, letting Zanka slowly pull himself out of each leg’s cloth-prison. 

Zanka’s left sitting on top of Jabber’s torso in nothing but his hoodie and tall socks. The shield over his dick helps dampen the embarrassment, but it's short lived as Jabber reaches for it. 

It feels like jumping into a cold pool.

The flushed pink color on his tip contrasts nicely against the light blue fabric, but Jabber’s grasp envelopes it completely.

The hot press of skin causes Zanka to shudder, curling in on himself as Jabber strokes him tauntingly. It takes everything in him not to thrust his hips into the touch. His hands fist the ends of his sleeves for purchase.

Between the look on Zanka’s face and his weeping member, Jabber doesn't know where to focus. “Fuck, you’re so wet,” he groans, low as he can't help but buck into Zanka’s weight, making him bounce slightly. 

Jabber holds tightly onto the skin of his hip with his free hand, keeping him steady as he humps into him.

Zanka shakes his head, not wanting to hear words like that, or at least that's what he tells himself. The sensation between his legs is overwhelming, and it takes everything in him to signal to the other that he wants something else, something more.

The body language grabs Jabber’s attention, and he smirks. 

“Use your words.”

Zanka glares at him in frustration. He doesn't want to talk. He wants Jabber to read him like an open book and do everything he knows the other wants. He gives in anyway.

“Stop teasing. Do it already.” 

It's the first thing he’s said since they’ve started. They haven't gone beyond a handjob and his voice is already wrecked. He feels even more shame when Jabber laughs.

“Oh you sweet thing, we can't just go straight into it. We’ve gotta get you ready, first.”

Zanka has no time to respond before the fingers on Jabber’s free hand plunge themselves into his mouth. If it were any other time, Zanka would be disgusted. But he can't help but pant around the digits as they play with his tongue, pressing on it forcefully, drawing hot breaths from his throat. They push into him, stretching his jaw wide.

“I don't wanna hurt you, so you’ve gotta suck.” Jabber finally directs him.

It’s easy to close his mouth around the fingers once Jabber starts to stroke him again, faster than before. He sucks on them, coating them in a gross, hot, sheen of saliva. 

He tries not to think about it, but before he can, both of Jabber's hands are off of him and quickly pushing him down onto his back.

Careful with his knee, Jabber lays on his side next to Zanka. He gives his sweaty cheek a quick peck before his wet fingers are suddenly between Zanka’s legs, urging him to spread them.

“Tell me if I need to stop.” Jabber whispers into Zanka’s ear moments before his middle finger starts to push at his entrance. 

The sensation is completely foreign and causes his eyebrows to furrow together. Jabber watches him intently, looking for cues. When Zanka’s face softens, he takes that as the go ahead to push further, dragging his finger in and out. 

The saliva makes the intrusion easier. Jabber kisses along Zanka’s face and neck, coaxing him to relax–it does just that. 

The whole ordeal takes longer than Zanka expected, his muscles taking multiple minutes to finally ease up completely. But when it's time, Jabber kisses him and asks for permission one last time with his eyes. Zanka nods, biting his lip as the nerves start to creep up again.

“I’m sorry I can't move around as easily right now.” Jabber apologizes as he starts to roll Zanka on to his side, his backside flush against Jabber’s hips. “This isn't my first choice of position, but we’ll make it work.”

Zanka just snorts as he watches an arm reach over his head and into the bedside drawer. Jabber grabs a condom and a bottle of lube and starts to pull down his own shorts.

The sight of the bottle makes him pause and look back at the other.

“You mean to tell me you had that the whole time, but you put your fingers in my mouth instead?” He croaks out, annoyed.

Jabber snickers, giving Zanka’s bare ass a quick slap. 

“Sorry, you have a pretty mouth and it was the only way I could use it.”

Zanka wants to argue further, but is interrupted by the cold press of Jabber’s cock along his bottom. He can tell the other is signaling to him before he pushes in slightly.

The tip is all it takes for Zanka’s breath to catch in his throat, eyes shut tight. Jabber, spooning him from behind, drapes an arm over Zanka’s chest and buries his face into his hair.

Zanka grabs on to the arm tightly, nails digging into the skin.

“God, you're tight.” Jabber shudders, hips stuttering as he tries not to press himself entirely inside at once. It feels like some sort of psychological experiment.

Zanka can't do anything but grit his teeth and whine at the intrusion. He lets Jabber take full control of the pace, and after a minute of small advances, his cock is finally fully sheathed in the other.

The hot press of hips against his backside make Zanka sigh with pleasure. He’s still holding on to Jabber’s arm like a safety bar.

“Move already,” Zanka groans, mostly adjusted to the large size.

“Okay, bossy,” Jabber grins. He brings his arm down and grabs onto Zanka’s clothed side, giving himself the leverage he needs to thrust into him. It’s rough, but rhythmic in a way that helps Zanka acclimate to the speed.

Without anything to grab onto anymore, his fingers curl into the sheets, gripping them tightly. Each thrust punches a moan out of both of them. Jabber’s breath is hot against his neck. His grasp is so strong it's bruising his side, deep red patches already blooming on the skin.

He forgets that Jabber has neighbors, and whines loudly at the heat pooling in his belly.

Jabber bites into his neck, sucking and teasing in a way that was way too much for the both of them. It was obvious their limit was quickly approaching. Neither of them felt shame from it though. It wasn't a hook up or quick fix, it had meaning and answered long held questions between them.

“Just a little more. You can take that, can’t you?” Jabber hisses.

The question makes Zanka push his hips back, meeting Jabber halfway at each thrust. The move deepens Jabber’s reach inside him.

 “Ahh, fuck–dont stop,” Zanka cries.

“So good. You’re so good for me,” Jabber grinds into him hard, breath starting to stutter. “You have no idea how long I’ve thought about having you like this.”

Zanka isn't going to tell him ‘me too,’ even though it's true.

Jabber’s voice doesn't help him hold on to the last bit of sanity he has left. The clenching of his hole makes that obvious enough, and Jabber reaches forward, taking Zanka’s cock into his hold again.

“I’m so close. Finish with me,” Jabber whispers hot and heavy into Zanka’s ear. 

He doesn't have to tell him twice, the command pulling everything out of him that had been building up for the last 15 minutes.

“Mmf–fuck…” Zanka chokes on his own words as his cum shoots out in thick ropes along the front of his hoodie. He doesn't have the capacity to care though when Jabber’s hips snap one last time into him, his dick throbbing inside him. 

Jabber's arm had slid underneath Zanka and pulled him tightly into a hug. A few final pulses from Jabber cause the remainder of his seed to spill over the fingers tightly wound around him.

They're panting, harder and louder than any race could've caused. It's hot, sticky, and every movement is over stimulating for Zanka. He doesn't attempt to move from Jabber’s embrace, though, and neither does the other.

His bangs stick to his wet forehead as the heaving of his chest finally starts to slow down. He can feel Jabber softening inside him, forcefully sliding out in the process. The feeling makes him groan, it's raw and the bodily fluidness of it all starts to seep into his brain, but so does exhaustion.

He closes his eyes, basking in the emotion of it all.

Chapter Text

Zanka wakes slowly, like his body’s surfacing from a vat of warm water.

For one disorienting moment, he can't figure out why his cheek is pressed to someone’s bare chest, or why there’s a heavy arm over his waist, or why he feels… unusually calm. Then he hears a quiet snore, with a cadence that's low and familiar.

And then it all hits him at once–the long week of caretaking, the exhaustion, last night. 

The way the atmosphere between them cracked open and poured out something neither of them wanted to clean up.

Their bodies pressed against each other, the shared breath, the chorus of moans and gasps. And then they’d fallen asleep, Zanka’s cheek resting on Jabber’s shoulder like it was molded perfectly to fit him.

Zanka tenses instinctively, but Jabber doesn't budge for even a second. His arm tightens around him, like his body could make decisions all on its own.

Zanka’s heart does a weird flip.

He should move, get up, create distance, restore the logic and order of their friendship. But he doesn't. Instead, he stares at the soft fabric of Jabber’s pajama shirt bunched at his waist and feels something terrifyingly gentle bloom inside him.

He doesn't get to sit with the feelings for long before Jabber is groaning himself awake, voice rough with sleep.

“Zan?”

Zanka freezes. “Yeah.”

Jabber shifts just enough to look at him. His eyes are half lidded but warm, with the kind of vulnerability he’d never show to anyone else. “You okay?”

Zanka swallows. “Are you okay?”

Jabber’s mouth curves into a lazy smirk. “I mean… knee hurts like a bitch, but other than that, I’d say I'm more than okay.”

The implication hangs heavy in the air. It really did happen.

Jabber speaks up again, pushing himself up to his elbows. “Okay now you answer the question.”

Zanka’s laying flat on his back now, feeling permanently attached to the soft warm bed. He glances downwards. “My stomach aches.”

Jabber purses his lips to stop himself from making any sort of self-satisfactory comments. Instead, he rolls to his side and places a palm on Zanka’s clothed abdomen. He drags it slowly down, feeling the hills and valleys between his hipbones, until his fingers pause right above the waistband on his sweatpants.

“It’ll go away, probably.” Jabber whispers.

It feels more intimate than sex itself, and Zanka feels his stomach twist before he pushes himself completely up to a sitting position, legs hanging off the side of the bed now. “We should get up, I think,” he murmurs.

Jabber hums in agreement, though he makes zero effort.

As Zanka’s socks reach the tile of the floor, his breath stumbles. He’s not ready for this conversation. Not while Jabber is laying there and his heart’s still beating like it's trying to break out of his ribs.

The trash can to the side of the bed catches his attention, and sitting on top are two condoms, tied in a knot and filled with something he’d rather not look too hard at. 

“Oh God,” Zanka groans quietly and puts his hands on his face, burying it completely from the world.

That’s what makes Jabber finally move, sitting up and scooting over to sit next to him on the edge. He wraps an arm around the other, squeezing him into his side. “About last night…”

Instant panic spikes through Zanka’s veins. “You don’t–you don't have to say anything. I know it wasn’t–I mean, we were both tired and it's been a long week, and–”

“Hey.” Jabber cuts him off gently, they both face each other. “Nothing that happened was because of something. I wanted to be close to you.”

Zanka’s throat tightens. He wants to say “Me too”, because it's true, but he keeps it to himself, face twisted into an unintentional pout.

Jabber reaches out, brushing Zanka’s cheek bone before letting his arm fall and rest on his shoulders. It’s warm and tender.

“I’ve been thinkin’ a lot this week,’ Jabber mutters. “Especially after the fall, and seeing you at the hospital like you were 5 seconds from clocking everyone around you.”

“I was not–”

“Well it looked like you were,” Jabber insists with a small chuckle. “But Zanka… you drove five hours for me.”

Zank clenches his jaw. “You were hurt.”

“Yeah,” Jabber says, eyes steady on him. “But you came for me. Not for the athlete or the midterm project partner. Me.”

Zanka has no idea how to hold all of that. It feels too big, too true, too close.

He tries to retreat into logic. “I just–I panicked. It was impulsive.”

“Maybe,” Jabber says. “But you don't do impulsive. Unless you care.”

Zanka flinches like he's been caught under a spotlight.

Jabber lowers his voice. “You can pretend you don't. You can pretend it was nothing, but I’m not going to.”

Zanka’s breath trembles slightly. “Jabber…”

And then he hears it. A voice from last night right before dozing off, echoing in his memory.

“I didn't realize how much it’d kill me if something happened to you.”

Zanka hadn't meant to say it aloud then, but it was late and emotions were running high.

Jabber is quiet now, watching him, waiting.

Zanka tries to escape the moment, like he always does. “We… we shouldn't talk about this while you’re injured. It’ll complicate things.”

Jabber huffs out a small laugh. “Zanka, everything's already complicated. Has been for a while.”

Zanka looks down. “I don't want to make any mistakes.”

“Then trust me,” Jabber says, voice steady. “At least just this once.”

Zanka’s heart aches. “I don't know how.”

Jabber leans in just slightly, not touching, not assuming. “Then let me go first.”

The kiss is soft, barely a brush. It isn't demanding or greedy, just real.

Zanka makes a tiny sound and he hates himself for it. He feels Jabber smile against his mouth for half a second, like he wasn't expecting Zanka to melt that fast.

Zanka doesn't think. He doesn't plan. He just leans forward and kisses him back.

It’s gentle, and for once it isn't hesitant.

When they break apart, both of their breathing just slightly elevated, Jabber’s hands are holding onto Zanka’s wrists.

Jabber whispers, eyes locked on to him. “Did’ya feel it?” It's not really a question.

Zanka’s voice hardly comes out. “I felt it.”

Jabber exhales, like a new cycle of breath has finally been filtered in. “Good. That’s all I need to hear.”

Zanka looks away again, overwhelmed, but Jabber keeps him close, and grounded.

He could panic, or run, or shut back down. But he stays. Which is how they end up side by side again, leaning into one another, the morning settling warm around them. It’s not like either of them had anywhere to be anyway.

They don't talk about labels. They don't talk about what happens next. But neither of them want to go their separate ways anymore. And that’s enough for now.

They stay tangled together longer than they probably should. Eventually, Jabber needs to change the bandage on his knee, and Zanka claims he needs to get his life together, but neither of them move until it feels borderline embarrassing.

Zanka’s the one who cracks first. “I need a shower,” he announces, which would sound much firmer if his voice weren't doing that breathy wobble thing it does when he’s flustered.

Jabber grins like a cat. “Yeah, you kinda do.”

Zanka whips around, eyes wide with offense. “Huh!? I do not.” He goes back on his own word.

“You definitely do,” Jabber snorts, rubbing his hair out of his face. “We were sweaty as hell last night.”

Zanka sputters out a retort, mortified. “You’re sweaty.”

Jabber shrugs with a smirk. “And yet you were all over me.”

Zanka makes a noise that might actually be a strangled whine, grabs the nearest pillow and whacks him with it. Jabber barely even reacts. He just clutches his sides, laughing before trying to tug Zanka closer.

“Relax,” Jabber says softly. 

Zanka, who was beginning to let himself be pulled in, snatches his hand away with realization and pads over to his belongings on the couch. His face is burning so bad he could provide central heating for the entire dorm.

He escapes to the bathroom, stealing Jabber’s towel off the door before he can say one more thing.

When he steps under the hot water, he presses both palms to the tile and just stands there. It's not shame, or regret. It's not even confusion.

It’s the weight of something good–too good. Whatever’s brewing in his stomach is fragile and annoyingly precious, and he has no manual for how to deal with it.

When he finally emerges, towel around his neck, he finds Jabber sitting on the floor stretching his knee with all the enthusiasm of a man on the execution block.

“You alright?” Zanka asks, suddenly worried.

Jabber looks up. “Define ‘alright’.”

Zanka walks over and crouches next to him, hair slightly fluffed from the warm steam prior. “You’re making a face.”

“This is my normal face.”

“That’s the problem.” Zanka jokes.

Jabber snorts, but the pain flashes in his eyes. Zanka gently reaches forward, and hesitantly lays a hand above Jabber’s kneecap, thumb brushing the skin. It’s barely anything, but Jabber’s breath stutters.

Zanka proceeds gently, pushing his fingers into the surrounding muscles. “I’m stimulating blood flow, it’ll help promote healing.” He explains.

Jabber leans back on his hands, looking up at the ceiling, trying not to make any snarky comments.

“Does it hurt more today?”

“Just a little.” Jabber pauses. “Probably because someone rode me like a drunk college girl on a mechanical bull.” He couldn't help himself.

Zanka jerks his hand away so fast ne nearly falls backward. “Jabber!”

Jabber cackles, grabbing Zanka’s arm so he doesn't fully topple over. “I'm kidding! I’m kidding.”

“You can’t say stuff like that,” Zanka hisses.

“Oh, but I very much can.”

Zanka’s ears are glowing. Jabber leans in, voice dropping into something warm. “Your face gets all scrunched up when you’re embarrassed.”

“It doesn't–"

“It does. Especially when, y’know…” Jabber gestures vaguely with his eyes. 

Zanka wants the floor to swallow him whole and never spit him out. “‘M leaving.” He doesn't actually move, though.

Jabber hooks two fingers into the collar on Zanka’s clean shirt (Jabber’s shirt). “Don’t even worry. I like it.”

The room goes quiet.

“You like… my face?”

“I like you,” Jabber says simply.

Zanka finally sits his bottom down on the floor next to him, because crouching on his ankles suddenly feels too unstable.

For a moment, they don’t talk. They just sit there, backs against the side of the bed, their legs stretched out in front of them. It’s domestic. There’s no point in pretending they don't want to be near each other.

Zanka glances over, voice low. “So… this is… what, exactly?”

Jabber doesn't make a joke. He just leans his shoulder against Zanka’s. “Whatever you want it to be.”

Zanka looks forward again, chewing on the inside of his cheek. “I don't know how to do this.”

“That’s fine,” Jabber says, honestly. “We’ll just figure it out.”

Zanka presses a hand to his face for a second, trying to hide the smile he definitely isn't supposed to have yet. “Youre too calm about this.”

“And you’re too dramatic about literally everything,” Jabber says. Then softer, “It works out.”

Zanka rolls his eyes, but nudges his knee lightly against Jabber’s good one.

At some point, Jabber reaches over and fixes a strand of Zanka’s hair that’s sticking up. Zanka doesn't pull away and Jabber seems quietly delighted by it.

Finally, Jabber says, “I’m starvin’. Breakfast?”

Zanka nods, smiling. “I thought you’d never ask.”

Jabber squeezes his hand once. It’s small, but Zanka feels it like a spark all the way up his spine.

Zanka doesn't over think it. After pushing himself up, he looks down and extends his hand for Jabber to take. Jabber accepts it without hesitation.

That’s their whole morning. Soft, awkward, careful. But very much in motion.

Chapter Text

The dorm’s communal kitchen smells like chai and burnt toast.

Zanka sits on the kitchen counter top, head resting on his own shoulder as he crosses his arms and watches Jabber make breakfast like he’s both a master chef and a teen left home alone for the first time. He’s in a faded tank top and sweats, hair pulled back into a bun. He moves well on his knee by this point, but it's still wrapped tight as he hums under his breath.

Zanka isn't pretending to not stare anymore. The warm latte in his hands (courtesy of the school cafe, not Jabber) can only distract him for seconds at a time from watching the other move about. 

Every so often, Jabber glances back at him with a glint in his eye, not willing to call Zanka out in fear he’ll stop.

When Jabber finally plates their slices of toast, he leans one hip against the counter beside Zanka and slides a paper plate into his lap. “Bon appetite.”

Zanka gives him a flat look. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Yeah, but I gave you the less burnt ones,” Jabber says, smirking. “And you skipped dinner last night so they're mandatory.”

Zanka opens his mouth to argue, but Jabber’s already tucking a strand of his hair behind his ear, like it’s a reflex he doesn't have to think about. The gesture lands somewhere between affection and ownership, and it makes Zanka’s pulse skip a beat.

He picks up a piece of buttered toast, crumbs gently falling off. “You’re so bossy in the mornings.”

“Only when you don't take care of yourself.” Jabber grins, but it softens quickly. “Can’t have my partner starving.”

Zanka blinks. “Partner?” He chews and swallows the bite of bread in his mouth slowly.

Jabber raises a teasing eyebrow. “Project partner. What else would it mean?”

Zanka’s about to scoff when Jabber reaches for his wrist. His hand wraps around it easily, thumb pressing into the fleshy spot right in between the bones. It grounds him.

“Relax, Zanka,” he says quietly. “You’re jumpy this morning.”

“I’m not,” Zanka says, but it sounds unconvincing even to himself.

Jabber doesn't push. He just holds on a moment longer, thumb tracing lazy circles against the skin. Any one from the outside looking in could see they’ve both been dancing around a similar edge for weeks.

“My professor is turning in midterm grades for the project we worked on today. I'm nervous.” Zanka admits, reminding himself all over again.

“Ya think?” Jabber jokes with a smile. 

Zanka rolls his eyes, “Stop noticing things, it’s pissing me off.”

“You’ll have to steal my eyes for that to happen.”

Jabber leans closer, so close that Zanka can feel his breath against his temple. 

“Jabber…” Zanka starts, voice too soft.

“Mm?” Jabber pulls back slightly, hearing the hesitation on Zanka’s voice. He looks at him with all the adoration in the world, hoping he’ll get the cue that he can tell him anything.

“I don't know what this is,” Zanka admits, dark blue meeting pink. “Or what to label it… I guess.”

Jabber’s gaze lingers on him, unreadable at first, then sharp in the way he gets when he’s about to be honest. He sucks in a fresh breath of air. “Maybe you don't have to.”

Zanka frowns, unsure if that's comforting or terrifying.

Jabber drags his hand up, resting it on top of Zanka’s thigh. His fingers spread just slightly. 

It's a slow, claiming sort of touch, one that makes Zanka even more confused. He looks down at it and traces the shape with his eyes while Jabber ponders.

“I’ve been thinking,” Jabber says quietly. “I’ve never really done this–I mean I have, technically… but it hasn't ever felt like this.”

“This?”

“Caring about someone and really not wanting to screw it up.” Jabber laughs softly, like he’s suddenly worried about sounding corny. “Usually, I just… do whatever feels good. Win the game, move on. But you make me want to pay attention, dig deeper.”

Zanka’s breath catches. He opens his mouth again, but closes it. “Am I that much of a challenge?” He settles on playfulness, a page out of Jabber's book, hoping it'll give him as much confidence as him too.

“Maybe you are,” Jabber smirks, “But it’s one I’m not willing to lose.”

Zanka stares at him for a long second, then looks down at their hands, half-tangled now. “You always talk like everything's a sport.”

“That’s just how my brain works,” Jabber says. “But I promise I’m serious.”

Zanka doesn't realize how much his legs are fidgeting until Jabber leans heavier on him. 

Jabber murmurs. “You don't have to say anything, but I just need you to know.”

The quiet stretches out. Zanka feels like he’s running out of room in his brain to hold everything he isn't saying. It also doesn't feel particularly fair. It’s obvious Jabber doesn't exactly enjoy opening up like this either, so who was he to not participate.

“I don't want to lose ya either.” Zanka says eventually.

Jabber’s head dips until his forehead rests completely against Zanka’s temple. He tries to hide his smile. “You won't.”

Zanka exhales shakily, his body betraying him by leaning into the contact. Normally, he would shun the public display of affection, in the dorm kitchen no less. He hates how natural it all feels, though, how right it always feels to rest his weight against Jabber’s side. For a moment, all he can do is think.

Jabber pulls back enough to look at him again, lips still pulled into a smile. He’s reading his mind again. “You’re thinking too much.”

“Can’t help it.”

“I know. That’s why you’ll think less, I’ll think more, and maybe we’ll meet somewhere in the middle.”

Zanka snorts despite himself. “Thats not how balance works. Plus, you're way smarter than anyone gives ya credit for.”

Jabber doesn't have time to respond before a loud buzz emits from Zanka’s pocket. Normally the interruption would subject them to frustration, but they knew what it was. They both jump immediately into action at the familiar notification tone. They’re both giggling nervously as Zanka pulls open the pop-up, only to be met with a big, fat number posted by his professor.

96/100

“Oh my God,” Zanka melts into the counter top, head tilted back in a final display of exhaustion. “We fuckin’ did it.”

It wasn't like Zanka was expecting anything less than near perfect. They had spent weeks on that project. Crafting it from an empty document to a full fledged biography. It almost felt symbolic.

Jabber’s face crinkles with joy; he gives Zanka a playful punch on the shoulder. “I told you there was nothing to worry about, man!”

Zanka grins back, clutching his phone. He realizes he wouldn't have been able to do it without Jabber’s help. “I guess ya were the good luck I needed.” He rolls his eyes, but the corners of his mouth hold sarcasm.

Jabber leans in again, voice low and full of mischief. “You owe me then?”

Zanka raises an eyebrow. “Owe ya what?”

Jabber tilts his head, pretending to think. “Dinner. Or your undivided attention for at least an hour. I haven't decided yet.”

Zanka laughs, really laughs, this time, and Jabber’s smirk softens instantly. He doesn't hear it often, but every time he does it makes something protective in his chest tighten.

“Fine,” Zanka says, shaking his head. “Dinner, but I get to pick the place.”

“Oh, God,” Jabber teases. “Remind me to pack a snack in my bag before we go then.”

Zanka smacks his chest lightly with the back of his hand. “Shut up.”

Jabber catches the wrist before he can pull away. His fingers curl around until they're holding hands officially. Their palms fit together in a way that makes Zanka's stomach turn over.

“It’s a date, then.” Jabber says.

The laughter fades. “Huh?” 

Jabber resituates his stance, gripping Zanka’s hand tighter. “It’ll be our first official date.” He holds his ground.

Zanka just stares at him, eyes wide with hope. “You don't usually say things like that,” he mutters.

“Well, I don't usually mean them like this,” Jabber says. “I was serious about earlier. I like being around you, Zan. I like how you push back. How you don’t care if I'm loud or annoying. You don't hide who you are either. I like the way you get flustered, how you're a part of a recycling club, and how much of yourself you put into everything you do. The good and the bad. I like it all.”

Zanka’s heart is pounding so fast he feels dizzy.

Jabber continues on. “It’s terrifying, but I’d rather tell you and risk looking stupid than try to hide the fact that I'm already half gone for you.”

“Half gone?”

Jabber scoffs, “Okay, a lot more than half.”

Zanka lets out a shaky laugh, a little disbelieving, a little giddy. “You’re so impossible.”

“Yeah,” Jabber says. “But I believe in your capabilities.”

There's a beat of silence where neither of them moves.

“So…” Jabber says, eyes flicking down down to his mouth before returning to his eyes. “I know labels are hard and suck, but can I least call you mine now?”

Zanka swallows. He decides to talk before his brain catches up to tell him otherwise. “Only if I can call you mine, too.”

Jabber's grin turns sharp and victorious, but his voice is soft when he answers. “Deal.”

Then Jabber leans in, pressing his forehead against Zanka’s. He doesn't kiss him, not yet. He just stays there, breathing him in, taking in the quiet hum of the refrigerator and the faint sound of water running from someone's shower down the hall.

Zanka’s hand finds the edge of Jabber’s shirt and tugs him just a little closer, until there's no space left.

“Still bossy,” Jabber huffs.

“Still annoying,” Zanka counters.

They’re both still smiling when they finally close the gap between them. It's slow, and deliberate, the kind of kiss that feels like a sealed deal.

When they pull away, Jabber’s still close enough that his breath skims Zanka’s lips.

“I should've just said that the day we met,” Jabber says, grinning.

“You would've scared me off,” Zanka snorts.

“More than I already did?”

Zanka just laughs once, his smile bright and kind. “That was all mostly my fault.” He admits.

“Well I’m glad you kept trying, regardless.”

They stay like that for a while, finishing the breakfast that had gone cold by this point. The room’s filled with laughter from two idiots who have to pretend the world isn't spinning too fast around them.

_________

Riyo didn’t even blink. “You’re joking.” She says with a smile on her face that reads ‘you better not be playing with me’.

“I’m not joking,” Zanka says, voice calm, hands folded in his lap like he was giving a presentation. “We’re… official. I guess.”

Riyo’s mouth drops open. “Dude, you actually did it! I’m shocked! I thought I was gonna watch you guys dance in circles for the rest of my life.”

Zanka pinches the bridge of his nose. “You’re being dramatic.”

Across the cafe, Jabber was waiting in line for their orders, completely unaware of the verbal sparring match happening in his honor. He waves when he catches them looking, grin wide and stupid as usual. 

Riyo exhales and leans back in her chair, shoes propped up on the wooden coffee table between them. “He really makes you happy, huh?” She feels like she finally gets to relax, like the climax of a really good book is finally resolving.

Zanka didn’t even have to think about it. “Yeah. He does.”

Riyo’s mouth curves into something like a smirk. “Not that I think he ever would, but if he breaks your heart, I’m keying his car.”

“He doesn’t have a car.”

“Then I’m keying his other kneecap.”

“Riyo–”

She winks. “Kidding! Mostly.”

When Jabber comes back with their drinks and plops down next to Zanka, slinging an arm around his shoulder like it was the most natural thing ever, Riyo’s eyes dart between them. It wasn’t flashy or showy. Just real.

Riyo’s voice was lighter now, “Okay, you two are disgustingly cute. I kind of hate it.”

Jabber smirks. “That’s fair. I guess we’re like two peas in a pod.”

Riyo snorts loudly. “Oh my God, the nutrition references, they're spreading.”

Jabber laughs so hard he nearly spills his drink, and Zanka, despite himself, can't stop smiling.

As the weeks went on, Jabber’s dorm space had morphed into their dorm. They’d use the one room they have privacy in as their home base. To the point where Zanka had to reveal a little bit of the news to Tamsy so he’d stop texting him, asking where he was late at night.

It was cozy, and quick to morph into home. Jabber would sprawl across the couch surrounded by protein bars and game controllers whenever he felt like hooking up a little monitor. Zanka would sit at his desk with noise canceling headphones, quietly writing notes and watching Jabber play whenever he got bored. They fit together, in the most unexplainable way.

Every so often, Jabber would wander over and drape himself over Zanka’s shoulders, and mutter something obnoxious like, “Missed my little nerdy boy,” before kissing the side of his neck. And every single time, Zanka would pretend to complain with a, “You’re distracting me,” but he never actually made him stop.

And when Jabber’s knee finally healed, he started running again. Zanka timed his laps, stopwatch in hand, pretending it was for data purposes even though everyone knew he just liked watching him move.

Some nights, when the dorm was quiet and the world felt too big, they’d sit out on the back step, knees brushing, the campus lights reflecting in the glass doors behind them.

Zanka would look out at the stars and say, half-joking, “You’re still kind of infuriating.”

And Jabber would smile, lazy and sure. “Yeah, but you love me anyway.”

The scary part, Zanka had learned, wasn’t admitting it outloud, it was realizing that he really, truly did. He loved him, and he wouldn't hope for it to turn out any other way.

Chapter Text

The restaurant is dark, noisy, but all in a way that's comfortable. Golden lights drape low over every table and the smell of garlic butter and herbs hang in the air.

Zanka tries not to stare at the way Jabber wreaks havoc on his plate of food, as if he was carb-loading up for the Olympic trials. Jabber’s knee is mostly fine now, but Zanka suspects the other still treads the track a few degrees more careful than he used to.

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer,” Jabber quirks, taking a peak at him briefly.

Zanka’s fork pauses mid-air. “‘M not doing anything.”

“For sure.” Jabber twirls his pasta with a look on his face, both threatening and playful. He reaches out a leg and makes contact with Zanka’s knee, bouncing incessantly, just as he expected. It makes Jabber chuckle.

Zanka’s leg instantly stops moving, picking up on the observational experiment the other had just conducted. “Stop being so hypervigilant, it’s a big red flag.” Zanka tries not to smile, but he fails miserably.

They’ve been official for almost two months now. Even now, it's new and warm. Zanka’s still learning the rhythm of it–the way Jabber holds his hand like it's a necessity, the way he leans in close when he talks, the myriad of stupid little nicknames.

Tonight feels different, though. Lighter. In a way that makes the whole ordeal of dating feel so natural and correct.

Jabber’s watching him now. He’s always watching. Whether Zanka acknowledges it or not, he can always feel it prickle across his skin, trailing wherever Jabber’s eyes go.

“What?” Zanka asks, attempting to sound annoyed.

Jabber grins slowly, spreading across his face like a low afternoon sun. “You’re pretty.”

Zanka’s movements stutter, his napkin falling to the way side. “Shut up.”

“Make me.”

Zanka’s pulse jumps. Jabber knows exactly what he’s doing–the bastard. 

“You’re supposed to be eating,” Zanka mutters.

“I am! Just didn't realize it’d be dinner and a show.” Jabber motions towards him with his chin. “This really is a high-quality experience, babe.”

Zanka inhales and looks up at the ceiling like the best choices of dialogue will appear on it, telling him what to say. He digs the heel of his shoe into the ground a little too hard.

Jabber clocks it instantly, because of course he does. His initially cheesy grin softens, goes gentle in the way that always makes Zanka’s stomach flip.

“You okay?” Jabber lowers his voice so only Zanka can hear him. “Too much?”

Zanka shakes his head once.

Jabber twirls his fork around his fingers lazily. “No complaints?”

“No, I’m just…” Zanka tries to find the word, “flustered.”

“Yeah,” Jabber acknowledges, eyes twinkling. “I like it.”

Zanka coughs once into his fist. They finish the rest of their food at an unintentionally faster pace. When the check comes, Jabber steals it immediately.

“Jabber, I told you I wanted it–”

“I know,” Jabber says, stuffing his credit card in the folder. “You can pay next time for something cute, like ice cream.”

Zanka lets out a puff of air, a smile curling one side of his mouth. 

“Thank you,” he doesn't forget his manners, “That’s nice of you.”

“You love me?”

“I tolerate you.”

“Autocorrect?” Jabber is standing up and grabbing his jacket. 

Zanka scoffs before he can annoy him any further, “Let’s go.” 

___

It’s cool outside, the kind of evening breeze that smells like the last few days of spring. The campus buildings glow faintly in the distance and the pathways are quiet. It's a weekday night, decided by both men as a perfect way to beat the crowds.

Jabber walks close enough that their arms brush. Barely, over and over. It makes Zanka smile lightly. He doesn't complain.

“You’re quieter than usual,” Jabber says after a minute.

Zanka shrugs. “Just thinking.”

“‘Bout me?”

Zanka gives him a look, lips pursed into a flat line, but it wavers on the edges. It only encourages the other.

Jabber nudges him with his shoulder, “You can't get shy when you think about me, I wanna hear it!”

“I don't, I get filled with annoyance and rage and a ton of other negative adjectives.” Zanka jokes.

Jabber chuckles and lifts a finger, poking at the other’s red ears. “Sure.” 

Zanka trips for a moment, hands shooting up to envelope the sides of his head like earmuffs. “Stop looking at me.”

Jabber hums thoughtfully. “I’ll think about it.” He takes a few more steps before settling on an answer. He takes a couple wide steps to gain distance in front of the other, “Nah, too late. Already looking.”

With Jabber in the way, Zanka stops in his tracks. A finger hooks under Zanka’s jaw and tilts his face in different directions.

 “Mhm, just as I thought.” He’s making things up to give him an excuse to touch the other.

Zanka’s breath stutters. The thumb brushes over his skin, soft and intentional.

Zanka takes a step back instinctively. Not because he wants distance, but because he wants the opposite so badly that he forcibly has to remove himself.

Jabber doesn't push forward. He just smiles, hands in pockets now, giving Zanka his space even though he could easily invade it.

They start walking again, silent for a minute. Zanka glances at Jabber's hand swinging at his side. He swallows, then reaches out and hooks his pinky around it. 

Jabber grabs his entire hand immediately, not saying a word.

_____

Jabber’s room is dim when they step inside, lit only by a single lamp on the desk.

The door clicks shut behind them. That’s all it takes for the air to shift.

Zanka toes off his shoes, pretending not to be hyperware of how close Jabber’s standing behind him. Jabber shrugs off his jacket, hangs it on the door, and moves with quiet, deliberate steps.

Zanka turns.

He’s already looking at him. Soft, sure–hungry.

“So,” Jabber says, voice low and rocking on his feet slightly. “I had a nice time.”

Zanka chuckles at the obvious. “Because of the food or me?”

“Ahh, don't make me choose!”

Zanka takes one step closer. Jabber’s breath catches, barely noticeable.

“Evidently we both have staring problems tonight.” Zanka says.

“Cant help it,” Jabber murmurs. “I mean look at you.”

Zanka’s breathing stumbles. He breathily laughs, not sure of what to say.

Jabber eases in, closing the gap almost entirely. He’s moving slow enough for Zanka to pull away if he wants to. He lifts a hand, and to Zanka’s surprise, slides his fingers into Zanka’s hair, combing through it gently.

He closes his eyes for a second. Just for one measly second to give in to the sensation without caring.

“You like that,” Jabber whispers.

Zanka opens his eyes half way, “Nuh-uh.”

“Yes.” Jabber corrects him and Zanka doesn't try to deny it again. He laughs quietly, and Jabber looks like he wants to swallow the joyful sound whole. They let the gap between them finally shrink to nothing, their hips pressed flush against each other. 

“You’re annoying.” Zanka lies.

“Maybe, but I'm still yours.”

Zanka’s eyes widen at the statement, not in shock, but charged with energy. Jabber takes note of every single twitch in muscle fiber. There's a stretch of silence before Zanka mutters, not entirely thinking. “Say it again.”

Jabber’s demeanor completely transforms, his eyes darkening. “I’m yours.”

Zanka’s fingers play with the hem of the other’s dress shirt. He tugs on it, insinuating for Jabber to meet him in a kiss. It’s breathless, and doesn't last long, but it's enough confirmation.

Releasing his breath, Jabber relaxes into it. He’s been waiting all night for that. When they part, he keeps Zanka close, foreheads connected.

“Someone’s feeling bold tonight,” Jabber whispers, sounding pleased.

“Guess it’s contagious.” Zanka pulls them towards the couch. Jabber lets himself be dragged, landing on the edge with a surprised laugh. It dissolves into a hungry, low hum when Zanka lowers himself, kneeling between the other’s legs.  

Jabber’s palms slide up and down Zanka’s arms. His fingers bunch into the fabric of the sweater, focusing on the shuffle of noise it makes.

Without waiting for the inevitable question, Zanka lets his stance known. “I want this,” he whispers.

Jabber’s smile turns slow and sharp, “Good. ‘Cause I've been dying to get my hands on you all night.”

Zanka shivers slightly, and he grips onto the man’s quads for balance. The older student lifts a hand and brushes the edge of Zanka’s jaw, light and testing. Zanka tilts his head into the motion just slightly, until a thumb is gently stroking his bottom lip.

He takes it as the go ahead to sit back on his heels, lowering himself between Jabber’s legs until he’s face to face with the zipper of his pants.

Not willing to wait a moment more, Jabber helps undo his belt and button, saving them time best spent elsewhere.

Zanka takes the hint and indulges. He hooks his fingers on to the edge of Jabber’s dress pants and underwear, slipping the materials down far enough to give him exactly what he needs.

The air, although warm in reality, feels cold as it makes contact with Jabber’s now exposed member. The chill is short-lived, though, as Zanka wraps his hand around it. The skin feels flushed and pulled tight, Jabber was hard long before Zanka nestled himself in front of him.

Jabber’s blatant excitement encourages the younger to press forward. His movements are unsure but focused nonetheless. He presses the head of Jabber’s cock flat against his tongue. 

He thinks there mustn't be any wrong way to do this, since every movement ends in Jabber sighing out in pleasure as his head rests back.
Zanka covers the tip with his mouth, sucking and nipping at the skin like a piece of candy. His hand releases its grip and travels to the base, flattening itself on Jabber’s pelvis, giving him room to sink further down.

With Jabber’s size, it wasn't possible to take it completely in his mouth. At least that's what he thought, until said man’s hand fisted itself into Zanka’s hair and instinctively pushed him down. It was clear that Jabber didn't notice his doings until a gagging sound pulled itself from Zanka’s throat.

“Oh fuck–I’m sorry, Zan.” Jabber shudders out, a mix of apology and pleasure. He removes his hand from the other’s hair, not trusting himself to stop from doing it again, especially at the sight that met him.

Zanka’s eyes have tears welled up in the corners, threatening to spill over if Jabber were to buck into him again. A slight glare in his direction was all Jabber needed to keep his hands to himself with a chuckle.

With all external forces out of the way, Zanka returns to his work, taking Jabber in and out of his mouth at a steady pace. The methodical pulling and tugging of his wet lips around Jabber’s heat is hypnotizing. 

Jabber is torn between keeping a laser focus on the act or laying back and welcoming it with blissful ignorance.

Zanka’s breathing audibly increases in tempo, causing a stir in Jabber’s abdomen. He lets the younger bob a few more times, just prior to the point of no return, before reaching forward and cupping his jaw, pausing him.

“I’ll save making a mess all over your face for another time.” Jabber pants out, his body in protest over the decision.

Zanka doesn't complain, nor does he question the hand that latches onto his sweater and pulls him up the couch in one swift motion. He’s laying on his back, Jabber hovering over him as he completely removes his pants.

The pressure his slacks are creating between Zanka’s legs is uncomfortable, and it's clear that Jabber notices, but he doesn't move to relieve him quite yet. Instead, Jabber moves his hands down Zanka’s thighs, his shins, ankles, until they're resting on top of his socked feet.

Jabber rubs his fingers into the soft fabric, feeling the curve of delicate bones and muscles beneath it. He grabs the entirety of Zanka’s feet, swaddling them with the expanse of his hands.

Zanka sits back, head resting on the arm of the couch. He watches with half lidded eyes, not willing to abandon the sight completely.

Jabber continues to poke and prod at him wherever he sees fit. Every square inch of him that a normal person wouldn't bat an eye at looks like pure gold to him.

He leans forward and places his lips on the younger, wanting to see them messy and red again. Zanka moves his mouth aimlessly against his. They have no end goal, only to continue to swallow every part of each other whole.

With his arms draped around Jabber's neck, Zanka pulls him in close. The connection between their lips isn't enough, he needs it everywhere. He closes the distance between their hips, grinding into him at an undulating pace. 

Jabber swallows every gasp and moan that comes from Zanka’s throat.

By this point, they’re both covered in a sheen of sweat, reflecting what little light there is. Thoroughly heated up, they finally move to take off the rest of their clothes.

Their intimacy had fallen into a sort of routine. Enough foreplay to make any participant swoon, a proper amount of time spent on preparing, and taking in every second of the actual moment.

With Zanka prepared, and a spare towel placed under his body, Jabbers ready to give in to him. He glances at the younger, noticing the quiet placidness on his features.

“You seem tired,” He says quietly as he pauses his movements. “You okay?”

Zanka’s eyes travel from the heaviness situated in Jabber’s hand to his face. He wasn’t wrong. From the heaviness of dinner to the late hour on the clock, it was starting to catch up with him. 

Aside from those two factors, though, was the fact that Zanka was simply comfortable. He trusted the man, and knew that whatever Zanka needed would be attended to. He was reliable, dependable. He knew he didn't need to worry when he was in the other’s vicinity, and that gave him a sense of calm that he hasn’t really been able to settle in for quite some time.

Zanka nods in response to the question, truthfully.

It’s not enough though, evident by the slight pursing of Jabber’s lips. He slides the palm of his hand up from Zanka’s hip, flattening it across his soft abdomen. 

“Ah-ah,” Jabber tuts.

Zanka knows full well what he’s implying and opens his mouth to speak, with actual words, “I’m okay, just relaxed.” There’s an edge to his voice, as if he’s annoyed with the other’s probing questions.

Jabber picks up on it and light heartedly rolls his eyes, “Brat.”

He could argue, get Jabber to apologize to him and take it back, but he’s over the theatrics at this point, having waited all night for this moment.

It does the trick, as Jabber finally returns to his previous task at hand. With a steady breath, he slowly sinks into the younger, bracing his core slightly at the sensation. It never gets old. The way his heat envelopes him completely and sucks the air out of his lungs. The pleasure is like a punch to the gut, getting rid of any and all coherent thoughts. 

“Fuck, Zanka.” He shudders, elbows collapsing in on himself just slightly.

It's clear that Zanka feels it too, maybe not as debilitating, as his job doesn't require as much effort. But the way he digs his teeth into his bottom lip and screws his eyes shut indicates Jabber is doing something correct.

“Talk to me, baby,” Jabber gasps as he bottoms out. The feeling of his weight pressing Zanka’s legs into his own chest fills him with a sense of satisfaction.

All Zanka can do is whine in response. Jabber should pressure him for more, but he can't be bothered. The swarm of emotions in his chest let him forget his usual doings.

Unable to hold back a second longer, the pair fall into a rhythm. Jabber grabs on to Zanka’s ankles and threads them over his own shoulders, folding the younger into a startling position.

The arrangement allows Jabber to penetrate deeper, and the force restrains Zanka’s ribcage. Each trust punches a restrained moan out of him, it almost hurts to suck in a breath.

The constricted noises only egg Jabber on further. He knows Zanka can take it.

“Look at you, so flexible for me.” His voice struggles to keep steady. “You’ll let me do whatever I want with you, huh?”

To further his point, he takes one of Zanka’s legs and pulls it back down, effectively separating his legs into a split position, with the other one still pressed up into his chest.

Zanka cries out in pleasure at the movement. He enjoys giving the other full control over him, like some plaything he knows the other would never hurt. It drowns him in some feeling he doesn't know how to articulate. 

It's obvious that Jabber welcomes it, the way he stares into Zanka’s eyes, as if they held all the answers to life's hardest questions. Jabber knew that at that moment in time, it was his duty to savor and provide for Zanka. 

“I’m gonna…” Zanka can only gasp out. His fingers struggle to find purchase on any one particular area of the couch. As soon as he does, Jabber always manages to quicken his pace, rendering his extremities useless for a second. 

Jabber removes one of his hands from Zanka’s upper body and begins to pump him energetically in time with his hips.

As he approaches his finish line, Zanka attempts to place his forearm in front of his face, giving him an ounce of privacy during the whole ordeal. Jabber grabs it and affixes it to the arm of the couch above Zanka’s head, rendering it useless. 

“Let me watch, baby, I wanna see you. So pretty for me.” Jabber prattles on, reaching his own end. All it takes is a few unyielding thrusts for both of them to release. 

The trickle of Jabber’s warm spend inside him causes Zanka to shudder. The way the older man grips his flesh, and drives into him so tight and bruising as to not let a single drop escape. Zanka’s mouth falls open into such a debaucherous moan, that Jabber refuses to look anywhere else but him.

His hips pathetically buck into Zanka’s entrance, the aftershocks ripping through his muscles. Zanka can feel the way Jabber’s cock plunges through his cum. The sound is lewd and wet. It distracts him from the stickiness covering his own stomach.

Both of their chests heave, barely willing to catch their breath. Just as Zanka begins to move a finger, ready to clean up any remnants of the night, Jabber resumes his movements again.

The skin inside Zanka feels raw and overstimulated, and he chokes for a brief moment at the unexpected maneuver.

“Again!?” Is all he can cry out, his muscles stuttering at the onslaught of pleasure taking over his tired body.

Jabber swallows thickly, his eyebrows strewn together as he looks down at the younger. He gasps out in desperation, “You look so good, It never feels like enough. You can handle it, right?”

Zanka knows if his answer were no, Jabber would bite his own lip off in order to stop. The overwhelming buzz in Zanka’s stomach, however, wouldn't let him hesitate a moment longer.

“Yes,” is all Zanka can so much as whimper. He lays back down and lets the other continue. The sensation feels like velvet at this point, and he relishes in it, despite the overall haze.

It doesn't take long for Jabber to finish a second time, his body collapsing on top of Zanka in the process, finally giving out. He uses the last of his strength to turn his head, kissing the younger’s cheek sweetly, over and over, until they both return to the current plane of existence.

With the soft glow of the lamp being the only source of light in the room, it was hard not to succumb to their exhaustion right then and there. Zanka’s hand caressed over the expanse of Jabber’s back, using the smooth skin to ground him as he caught his breath.

“I love you.” Jabber panted into his ear, nuzzling his face in Zanka’s wet hair. 

At the end of it all, Jabber was still his sweet and caring boyfriend. Zanka lazily smiled, with his last bit of energy. 

“Yeah, me too.” He laughed breathily, melting into his embrace. The fight of sleep finally won over him.