Work Text:
Since that day, you're all I think about.
It's a slippery slope, the line between affection and obsession and want and need. The way interest slips through the fingers, maybe. The way 'I like you, funny guy', slips, somewhere between a punch to broken ribs and a dance on broken ankles, to 'I wanna bite you in half'.
And that's it, in its entirety. Jabber wants to bite the sentence in half. Not to pretend, he's not going to front with his curiosity, but because it sounds so mushy. Soft and squishy. The words are wet dirt under Jabber's heels, squeezing in the cracks. Something people write in heartfelt little letters, or say with gleaming teary eyes before they throw themselves off of a bridge.
And that just…ain't Jabber.
Still.
There it is. There Zanka is. Again, he comes with his silly fair hair and silly shoulder pads. A calloused, white knuckled grip on his stick. Standing over Jabber and looking down like he's shit on his shoe and, somehow, taking up the whole, entire skyline.
Stupid little sparks erupt. And, fuck, Jabber can't help it. Can't control his face when he looks at this crazy, violent little freak like he hung the sparks in the sky. Make's 'em clearer through the pollution with nothing but a bad attitude and a sadist streak.
Thought you were impossible 'til now.
Zanka's always been a tough nut to crack. An impossible, stubborn bastard with silly, boring things like schedules and responsibilities and a moral compass. Ignorant, deliberately ignorant, off all his ugly parts. Pretending he's not an ugly, ugly boy when he's got blood in his teeth. Pretending that mouth doesn't spit nasty things when backed into a corner or presented with something the attitude can't quite be ignorant of.
Oh, Zanka.
Like somebody looked at all the interesting parts of a person and decided to lock them in a cage.
But now? Oh, now he's breaking. Sitting in a middle ground where he's straining against the bars. He'll grow stronger when he lets go. When the complex slips. When he stops being a sorry, confusing asshole and kick's teeth in.
Jabber reaches up both long wiry arms above him, avoids Assistaff where Zanka's pinned him with her. And frames Zanka's image with his fingers. Capturing that confused, feral expression like an artist composing the skyline.
And I can't rewind, baby.
It becomes an issue. Of course, it does. Jabber's a tad unhinged, a tad trigger-happy, but he's not stupid. He knows every part of himself in painfully intimate detail. And it's with that he knows this obsession will build. And he'll fixate. Won't stop thinking about it. Keep poking and prodding like a bad habit. Like fingernails under a scab.
Was there a time before this? Jabber lounges in some alley in the early morning hours. Dirt in his clothes. Some reasonably safe concoction in his system as he blinks lethargically at the sky. Bored without action. Jabber wants to do nothing. To rot into the ground. But he also wants to claw his skin off. To get into a fist fight. To clean Mankira. To run his hands over his hair-
Was there a time before he knew the shape of Zanka's stance? Before he knew which shoulder tweaks from Assistaff resting on it? Before he knew what Zanka looked like with Jabber's blood in his mouth?
Can't rewind.
A tackle in another alleyway brawl. And the distance between them evaporates, fading into thin air with the world around them.
Direct, scathing eye contact. Zanka hates him. Jabber can tell. Zanka hates him and wants him so bad it makes him stupid. Zanka looks at him like he's going to kill him and kiss him. They inspire the same kind of passion. Jabber likes not knowing. Will teeth or tongue be loose in his mouth tonight?
Jabber's grin spreads wide, tight, violent. And his heart kicks hard in his chest. Whoop, there it is.
And then he thinks: fuck it.
I'm best when I'm next to you.
It's a disgusting thought to have in their grand mal seizure of a relationship. They roll about on the floor. Jerking and writhing and yelling as Jabber tries to poison Zanka and then himself, and Zanka tries to break him for his trouble.
What does it even mean? To be at his best? Jabber can't categorize it. He's never found another that makes him tick quite like Zanka does. Next to him doing what? Fighting? Bleeding? Kissing? Getting slammed into walls?
Probably.
Jabber cackles as he's slammed violently into a-
Maybe that's the problem. Jabber's just living through the biproduct of a stimulus starved mind. Nobody else hits right. Nobody else gets angry right. Nobody else looks at him like they're trying to solve and strangle him simultaniously.
Jabber's been hurt, sure, it's an ugly world.
Jabber's been eyed, too. Seen as some deranged young man with a piece from the bigger puzzle absent.
But both? Oh, oh-ho-
Cause I'm heating up, are you reading my mind?
Jabber wants Zanka. Jabber wants Zanka so bad it makes him stupid.
He lives for the thrill of chasing that heat. That electric feeling under his skin. It's coming, right now. Is it excitement? Arousal? Fear? Possibly everything in one. Pressure building behind his eyes and his teeth. His mind simultaneously scatters in every direction and locks in on one. Guy. Only.
Zanka's mouth is moving. Probably a threat. Probably some nasty string of words thrown together in that gritty accent. Jabber doesn't listen because, if the stab wound in Zanka's ribs is anything to go by, they'll be hearing colors soon enough.
Instead, he watches. Always. Always. Zanka shifts his weight into a trained stance, feet flat and shoulders squared as he pins Jabber down. His jaw twitches, and a vein in his forehead pops in anger and annoyance and anticipation.
Don't blink when I'm watching you.
And Jabber thinks, if he does. If he looks away right now. Zanka might disappear and he'll have to go out searching and yearning and obsessing all over.
Maybe the worst part is that he would. Again and again. Every alley and every street and every fist in his jaw that isn't Zanka's. Jabber's suddenly struck by the realization that somewhere along the line the chase stopped being optional. And he's so caught up in the thrill, in this euphoric feeling, that Jabber's isn't as bothered by that as he should be.
Zanka closes the distance. Reaches out where Jabber's lying flat on the floor. One hand cupping his rib wound while the other reaches down and fists the front of Jabber's shirt. Lifting him up partially with the strength in one bicep. Jabber says 'wee' as he flies, arms opening out like he's greeting a lover, an old friend, an executioner. It doesn't matter because they're all one and the same.
Zanka stands him up on wobbly, stringy legs. Resume the fight before they're both choking on spit in the following trip to come. Not one to leave a job half-done, his Zanka.
Smack!
And I can't rewind, baby.
Good. Good. Good. Good. Good-