Chapter Text
College parties are probably one of Jabber’s least favorite places to find fun. Mostly, because the people who go to them aren’t any fun. They’re all far too concerned with looking hot, getting drunk, and listening to the worst music they can find on their richest friend's Spotify playlist.
All that being said, they’re a great place to find a fight.
“Dude, I’m sorry but I can’t let you in.”
Jabber gives the guy at the door his widest smile, making sure he can feel the stretch in his cheeks, “and why’s that?”
“You’re Jabber, right?” The guy shifts slightly on his feet, looking like he’d rather be talking to anyone else at that moment.
Jabber leans in, hands folded behind his back in the picture of innocence, "and what’s that gotta do with anything?”
The guy lifts his backwards cap, running a hand through sweaty hair and looking around again like someone can save him from the conversation. Jabber feels himself leaning further.
“Look,” Door Guy says, placing a gentle hand on Jabber’s shoulder to push him back slightly, “this is Ferhan’s party and you kinda broke his dad’s wrist on Tuesday so he’s not happy with you-”
Jabber can’t stop the cackle that bubbles up in his mouth, “holy shit!” He wheezes, “that lame, weak-ass, old, crazy dude was someone’s dad?!”
Door Guy’s jaw drops as Jabber continues to laugh, lips flapping like a fish that forgot it can’t breathe on land.
Jabber slaps him on the shoulder a few times, “did you tell Ferhan that his dad was my Grindr hookup that night?”
Finally, Door Guy seems to snap out of it, eyebrows finally furrowing below the strap of his stupid backwards cap. Raising an eyebrow in response, Jabber waits for his words to sink in, a slow smirk spreading across his face.
“Is that supposed to be a joke?” Door Guy slaps Jabber’s arm away this time, and Jabber revels in the sting of it, eyes wide in anticipation of what comes next. “Just beat it, dude. You’re not getting in.”
Jabber leans to the side slightly, trying to get a look into the house, “how many guys you got in there, anyway?”
“Enough to fuck you up if you don’t listen and get out of here.” Two fingers push against the center of Jabber’s ribs.
A shiver travels across Jabber’s skin from the threat, and he finds himself biting a finger to calm down, “you promise?”
Door Guy flinches back in disgust, “the fuck?!” Both of his hands go up, like even touching Jabber by accident would be too disgusting for him.
A slight hint of metal clicks against Jabber’s teeth as he swallows. His lower back, if he concentrates on it, still aches from being pierced earlier in the day. Theres a guy staring him down like he’s more grotesque than the sticky floors inside the house.
The pill Jabber popped on the way to the door is kicking in.
“I’ll let you guys run a train on me if you let me in.”
The first punch is thrown before Jabber has time to take his finger out of his mouth. His ring clips his lip as he goes down, and the heavy metallic taste of blood coats his tongue like a chaser after a particularly potent shot.
“Again,” Jabber raises his fists, both sets of rings glinting in the flashing lights dancing within the house.
It’s exhilarating.
“Jabber, this has to stop.” Cthoni dabs a cotton ball lightly under his nose and sighs.
She has him sat on the sofa at a measly 11 P.M. He’d only been out an hour.
Pushing her hand away, Jabber huffs, “it ain’t even broken, stop bein’ weird.”
Trashing the bloodied cotton, Cthoni leans back in her crouched position and assesses the rest of his injuries. There aren’t many this time, since the fight was over pretty quickly. True to his word, Ferhan wasn’t happy that Jabber was at the party, but instead of joining his friend in beating Jabber up, the guy simply dragged a battered Door Guy away and slammed the door in Jabber’s face. Incredibly boring.
It was by pure coincidence that Cthoni called him in that moment, heard his clogged-up voice from the bloody nose, and made the decision to pick him up.
“I’m not being weird,” Cthoni stands, fetching a glass of water from the table and handing it over with two painkillers, “I’m doing my due diligence.”
“I’m not takin’ these and you know it.” Jabber gives her the flattest look he can manage. He feels stuck. Trapped. Cornered in. Whichever description it is that gives you the feeling of wanting to peel off all your skin just to have the freedom to stretch your muscles out.
The pill he’d taken wore off quickly, not even being strong enough for him to figure out what it was. His nose isn’t broken, and Door Guy had hardly been strong enough to bruise his ribs when he kicked them. The split lip isn’t even that enjoyable; the cut barely qualifying as such. It just bled a lot. Boring.
Jabber eyes the glass of water with nothing more than pure apathy. He feels his tongue twitch, the metal barbell resting hot against the roof of his mouth. His lower back throbs from being thrown to the ground.
He smirks, wondering if the two studs there will survive the healing process, now that they’ve been irritated so much. Jabber has always been more hardy than other people, he’s sure they’ll be fine. He should probably clean them, though.
He’s seeing Zanka tomorrow, after all.
“At least drink the water,” Cthoni argues through gritted teeth, stressing the syllables yet still not raising her voice.
He does, giving Cthoni the nastiest expression he can manage while gulping down the cold water. The icy liquid shocks cold the metal in his tongue, causing Jabber to shiver a little as it does down. Once he’s finished, he slams the glass down on the coffee table and stands, looming over Cthoni with contempt.
“Am I free to go now?” Jabber crosses his arms, tilting his head with a sarcastic smile.
“As long as it’s to your room,” Cthoni mirrors his pose but scowls in response.
Groaning, Jabber throws his arms out in exasperation, “I’m a grown ass man, you can’t ground me,” but still, he starts making his way to the stairs. It’s not like he intended to go back out after this anyway. His night was basically ruined the moment he picked up Cthoni’s call.
Not like he’d ever intentionally ignore her calls.
“Grown ass man who bitches like a kid when he has to do laundry.” Momoa catches him off guard at the top of the stairs, smiling ruefully at his unimpressed glare.
Jabber clicks his tongue, “no one likes laundry. It’s a fact of life,” he makes no comment as she follows him into bathroom, just plucks the sterile saline spray from the cabinet and turns his back to the mirror, hiking up his tank top to see the two small gems in the dimples of his back. Jabber ghosts the fingertip bruises next to them with his own hands, the one mark on his body not left from the fight.
“Most people’s clothes don’t reek of burnt skin and deep fryers,” Momoa perches on the edge of the bathtub, watching him with a sharp curiosity and eyeing his back. “Those are new,” she comments.
“That is the sweet smell of formaldehyde,” Jabber corrects, eyeing the spray bottle briefly before sticking out his tongue and shooting some of the saline directly onto it, “bleh,” - he gags and places the bottle back in the cabinet - “and it’s a great smell. Means shit’s clean.” He pointedly ignores her observation about the dermals.
Momoa continues to watch as Jabber pokes at his nose and lip in the mirror. He catches his own eyes for a moment and they look... empty. This is why he hates when his nights are cut short. Without the high, the passing out, and the waking up with only marks for memories, none of it even seems worth it. Lifting a finger, Jabber pulls slightly at the bags under his eyes, one of them marred by bruising. It’s so good in the moment, why does this feel like shit right now?
“Okay, my turn,” Momoa bullies Jabber out the way, grabbing the bottle for herself, and sprays her nose slightly with the saline.
He leans against the door as she rustles around in the cabinet and takes the offered toothbrush without complaint. The two brush their teeth together in comfortable silence, like they have since they were kids, in many different array of bathrooms. Most of them far worse than this one. None of them better.
Jabber’s phone chimes from his back pocket, miraculously still functioning. He intends to ignore it but before the sound can slide from his mind, several more chimes follow in quick succession. Sliding it out to read the notification, he nearly spits his toothpaste from snorting.
11:22 The Stabber: Hey, I just realized I never told you what time to be at Hole Town tomorrow.
11:22 The Stabber: Will 11am work for you?
11:22 The Stabber: I’m the one asking you for a favor here, so let me know if that doesn’t work. I’m flexible.
11:23 The Stabber: This is Zanka, by the way. In case you didn’t save my number earlier.
Momoa spits her toothpaste, lifting an eyebrow at Jabber through the mirror, “wow, double texter, much?”
Giggling, Jabber nods, “this guy is beyond neurotic,” he grins around his toothbrush, holding it between his teeth while he types a reply.
11:24 Me: damn u really left that til the last second
11:24 Me: what if i wasnt awake?11:24 The Stabber: There’s no way someone like you would be asleep before midnight on a Saturday.
11:24 The Stabber: Now, answer the question.
Coming up next to him, Momoa cranes her neck to see his screen. After briefly scanning the exchange, her thick eyebrows raise dramatically.
“Is that...”
“The guy from the piercing shop?” Jabber asks for her, “yup!”
“Why’s he asking you for a favor?” The look she shoots him is skeptical at best, accusatory at worst, “is this why you have those things on your back? What did you do?”
Elbowing past her, both for space and to spit into the sink, Jabber cackles with delight, “damn, you nosy as hell!” He hardly pays attention as he shoots a quick text back to confirm, so has no defenses for Momoa swiping the phone from his hand and typing her own text to the piercer. “The fuck!” He screeches, snatching it back and quickly scanning the exchange.
11:26 Me: ya ill be there
11:26 Me: and what do u mean ‘someone like me’
The question from Momoa is fine, but not Jabber’s style at all. He looks up from the message to her, ‘really?’ written all over his face. Jabber has never once cared about what someone thought of him. ‘Someone like him’ could mean literally anything, and it wouldn’t matter. Jabber will still be himself, regardless. Zanka can think whatever the fuck he wants. Better question. Why does Momoa care?
To her credit, Momoa doesn't smirk or smile in response, simply responds with her own ‘really.’ written all over her features. For some reason, she’s serious about this.
The phone chimes once, and then again, and the two huddle together to see the replies. Inexplicably, Jabber feels his heart racing a little.
11:27 The Stabber: I just meant you seem like a social person.
11:27 The Stabber: I’ll see you tomorrow.
“This guy has no friends,” Momoa passively observes with a nod, “don't get murdered,” she waves a hand, exiting the bathroom and making her way to her room.
“Hah?!” Jabber barks a laugh, following her, “what’s that supposed to mean? You think this guy’s gonna kill me?”
He pictures Zanka, toned muscle hidden under loose shirts, gripping him hard by the neck and squeezing. That harsh yet slightly flustered look on his face, wondering if it’s okay to enjoy it.
“No,” Momoa sighs, “I think you have a talent for making people want to kill you,” her hand slides against the door frame as she pauses, “you seemed excited to text him.”
Static fills Jabber’s shoes, climbing his calves and dusting his fingertips.
“It ain’t like that.”
“Okay,” Momoa nods and the door to her room clicks shut.
The table rattles with the bouncing of Zanka’s knee. He checks the time on his phone for a third time. The screen reads 11:13, just as it had twenty seconds ago.
Taking another sip of his matcha, Zanka scowls down at his notes. The fact he even stayed up last night to make them is pissing him off, and the audacity of Jabber to be late after agreeing the meeting time isn't helping.
Just as Zanka is about to text Jabber for the man’s whereabouts, the door to the cafe jingles, and in he walks. Zanka tracks the casual way he slumps into the chair opposite him with a grimace.
Jabber leans over the table with a smile, resting his chin on his hand, “sorry I’m late,” he doesn’t sound all that sorry, “I got off a stop early by accident.”
Zanka raises an eyebrow, “you don’t have a car?”
“My license got revoked,”
“Of course it did.”
Zanka looks Jabber up and down, cataloguing the new and equally fashionable outfit he’s wearing. Today, however, his accessories seem to be limited to only his rings, his hair cuffs, and the several new bruises littering his face.
Making the executive decision not to ask about that, Zanka instead turns his attention to Jabber’s lack of... anything.
“I asked ya to bring a notebook.”
“I can do a whole ass degree without one,” Jabber rolls his eyes, “I think whatever you got for me is gonna be fine.”
“Yer doin a degree without writin’ shit down?” Zanka can’t fathom the audacity of it, “the fuck’re you studying?” It's got to be a mostly practical subject, like art or fashion. There’s no way someone could-
“Toxicology,” Jabber’s simpering smile makes Zanka’s heartrate spike with agitation.
“Damn geniuses...” he mutters, flipping back to the first relevant page of his notes. Jabber’s ability to be distracting seems to extend beyond the studio; Zanka is already getting off track.
Reading back through his notes with Jabber in front of him, Zanka suddenly gets the urge to call this whole thing off. He’d said it best when Riyo first suggested it; the most this plan will do is get him disowned again. The least it’ll do is humiliate him in front of a bunch of people whose opinions still, somehow, matter to him. It’s a terrible idea through and through, and dragging someone else down with him is almost downright cruel.
Zanka raises his eyes to meet Jabber, considering.
“So... you gon’ tell me what you want or not?” Jabber asks, already clearly bored, “’cause I know what I’m gettin’ out of this whole deal.”
Running a hand through his hair, Zanka sighs and makes his choice, “look, I know I dragged you all the way out here and now I’m about ta tell you-”
“Stop bein’ a bitch and tell me the favor,” Jabber groans as he throws his head back in frustration, “I can decide what I wanna do, y’know. If it’s crazy, then it’s crazy. I don’t give a fuck, just ask already-”
Something in Zanka snaps, “I need you to pretend to be my boyfriend of four years at a dinner so you can piss off my militaristic family that disowned me when I was sixteen and suddenly reached out to me to reconnect,” it’s spat entirely in a single breath, more of a ramble than a real request.
For a moment, Zanka watches as Jabber blinks at him, processing the words.
“Damn,” Jabber whistles, “not what I was expecting, I’ll be real with you.”
Zanka prickles with offence, “it wasn’t my idea, and I’m sayin’ ya don’t have to do it. It’s stupid,” he slams his notebook shut, “you should say no.”
Jabber looks down, “what’s in the notebook?”
“Just some basic information about my family- hey!”
Jabber slides the notebook across to his side of the table, flicking through it to the most recent pages with an eagerness that reminds Zanka of a cat mauling a mouse. Zanka grips the edge of the table in frustration but waits as patiently as he can while Jabber’s eyes scan quickly over his neat handwriting.
“When you said ‘militaristic’ I didn’t think you was bein’ literal,” Jabber giggles, flipping to the next page, “next you’re gonna tell me they’re Catholic, too.”
Zanka clears his throat, looking out the window as he feels his cheeks flush, “they’re Methodists, actually.”
If possible, Jabber seems to get more excited, stomping his feet a little under the table. Zanka scowls, hearing the distinctive slap of flip-flops hitting the wooden floor. Does this guy’s footwear ever match his clothing? He’s wearing a sweater and jeans, for crying out loud.
“Oh, this is perfect,” Jabber’s fingers come up to his lip, “and all I gotta do is piss them off? That sounds easy as hell!”
“Get yer fingers out yer mouth,” Zanka snaps, being unable to think of anything but the germs being introduced to the piercing still healing in Jabber’s tongue. After a second, he processes what Jabber actually said. “Wait, you’ll do it? Why?”
Zanka knew that Jabber was odd, it’s why he even considered him for the task in the first place, but he’d been ready to back out of this as soon as he got here this morning, sure that it would be too far, even for someone as unconventional as the man in front of him. The idea that he’s not only agreeing, but would find it easy? There has to be a catch.
“Uh, because I want you to stab me up all pretty,” Jabber tilts his head like it’s obvious, removing his fingers from his mouth to point at Zanka, “or did you forget?”
“I-” Zanka feels sweat collecting on the back of his neck. In all his preparation last night, he’s ashamed to admit that he did forget this was supposed to be an exchange. Not that he forgot what Jabber was asking of him, just that... it doesn’t seem like an entirely fair trade-off, since Zanka isn't entirely opposed to what Jabber’s asking in the first place. Sure, maybe it’s for a different reason, but having someone truly want to be pierced, for the love of the game, is an opportunity he can’t pass up.
“It just doesn’t seem I’m askin’ you fer somethin’ of equal measure,” he sighs, bringing his notes back over and flipping to the page detailing his siblings, “what you want is no sweat to me, it’s basically my job already. What I want...” the bold and underlined words ‘vocally degrading’ burn his retinas.
“Sounds like a win-win to me,” Jabber cuts in flatly, twisting one of his thumb rings round, “on both counts.”
“Literally how?” Zanka points down to the pages, “you just read all this shit. You know my family is fuckin’ crazy, right?”
Jabber shrugs, “I’ve dealt with worse.”
“Yer actually insane,” Zanka scrubs over his face, then reaches into his bag to get a pen, instantly shifting gears, “okay, we’ve gotta start plannin’ then.”
“What, like a backstory? How we met? All that corny shit?” Jabber snorts, twirling a loc mockingly over his fingers, “oh Zanka, it was love at first sight,” he sighs and bats his eyelashes, “when you saved me from that gang of bodybuilders single-handedly, I knew you were the man for-”
“Don’t be fuckin’ ridiculous,” Zanka scribbles down a few notes, turning the page for Jabber to look over, “we keep it simple an’ realistic. The backstory don’t matter since my family don’t actually give a shit how we met. All they know is that we allegedly went ta high school together.”
Jabber’s eyebrows rise in intrigue, “you went to Penta? I tutor a girl from there!” He smiles, more genuine than anything that Zanka has seen from him so far, “how old are you? Maybe you saw her!”
It’s the simplicity of the question that gives Zanka pause. The reality of this whole situation truly kicks in, and he suddenly wants to rewind the past 24 hours of his life and take back everything he said to Jabber yesterday.
If Zanka is going to do this, and really pull one over on his family, and especially try and lie to Kyouka, he’s going to need to tell Jabber about his life. It’s a little ridiculous, that he didn't realize that before this moment.
A boyfriend of four years is nothing to sneeze at. That is a long, dedicated, committed relationship. Four years is enough time for a lot of people to consider marriage. As Zanka’s apparent boyfriend, Jabber would know a lot about him. Including that he dropped out of high school. Including why he dropped out of high school.
This is a Nijiku family dinner. There is no way they won’t bring it up. That’s likely the whole reason they arranged in the first place; so they can remind him of his failures and drag him back ‘home’. In order for them to not see through the facade, and for Jabber to convincingly play the role of boyfriend (albeit, a shitty, annoying one), Zanka will have to be honest with him about their situation.
And Jabber doesn’t even know how old he is.
“Hello~? Earth to Zan-zan?” Jabber snaps Zanka out of his quiet panic, a flatly curious expression on his face.
“I wouldn’t know ‘er,” Zanka finally replies, taking a deep breath, “I dropped out of high school when I was sixteen.”
He’s expecting some kind of reaction. Jabber is basically a genius, from what he’s gathered so far. Only someone who thinks of themselves as above most forms of grading would act as carefree as Jabber does. Zanka braces himself to be mocked, or laughed at, preparing himself to argue back. He gathers every biting insult to people like Jabber on the very tip of his tongue, ready to set them free at a moment's notice.
“Man, that’s too bad,” Jabber shrugs, “she’s firecracker, I bet you two’d get along.”
Zanka feels his chest practically decompress, surprising himself with how suddenly relieved he is. Caring about Jabber’s opinion of him is kind of the opposite of what this whole thing is meant to be about. Pressing a fist to his forehead, Zanka grinds his teeth in frustration.
“Actually, this ain’t gonna work,” he rips the page from his notes, staring a new list with two sections for answers, “we don’t know shit about each other,” he jots down a few answers on one side of the page, then flips it to Jabber, “here.”
Picking up the offered pen, Jabber’s eyes widen in amused delight, “ooh, twenty questions!” He scribbles a few answers, right next to Zanka’s own, tongue poking out of this mouth slightly in concentration.
The glint of the barbell catches Zanka’s eye, and he finds himself analyzing the piercing. It’s only been a few days, but the swelling seems to have gone down a lot, as is expected. Zanka doesn’t know how pink Jabber’s tongue is normally (he’s lying to himself, he does, he remembers piercing it in acute detail), but it doesn’t look irritated beyond the normal amount for the healing process.
Zanka’s eyes track the movement when Jabber’s tongue switches sides, the metal ball at the end sliding smoothly over his top lip. Inside Jabber’s mouth, Zanka can tell the exact moment that the bottom of the barbell catches on his teeth, making Jabber’s mouth part slightly to adjust it as he sucks in a breath. It must have hurt, ever so slightly.
“Like what you see?”
Zanka jolts, eyes snapping up to meet Jabber’s, the man’s irises shadowed by thick eyelashes as he remains hunched over the paper. They hold eye contact for what feels like forever, to Zanka, until Jabber’s phone chimes, breaking the moment.
Snapping his head away, Zanka leans forward, hand over his mouth, “I was just makin’ sure it wasn’t infected.”
Jabber snorts, “sure you were, Mr. Bad Attitude,” he slides his answers over to Zanka, along with the pen.
Jabber pulls his phone from his pocket while Zanka looks over the answers. Some of it, he knew already, other answers are... surprising. The questions themselves are pretty basic; easy things that any couple would know about each other within the first month of dating.
“Yer favorite flower is foxglove?” Zanka asks as Jabber types away on his phone.
“Uh, yeah,” he doesn’t look up, but seems happy enough to answer, “they’ve got cardiac glycosides in ‘em.”
“I don’t know what that means,” Zanka stares at him, unimpressed. Damn geniuses, thinking everyone knows everything they do. Showing off.
“It fucks up your heart, basically,” Jabber grins, putting his phone down to wave his hands around as he explains, “but ironically they’re also where digoxin comes from which is like, an outdated heart medication” - he scratches his head slightly in thought - “actually, maybe not so ironic since it ain’t used that much anymore ‘cause digoxin has a pretty narrow therapeutic index and a high toxicity risk, and if your kidneys decline in function you’re absolutely fucked-”
Zanka feels his jaw drop lower the longer Jabber continues, rattling off facts about foxglove, old medicines, and cardiac deficiencies like he’s reading straight from a Wikipedia article. It’s, quite mortifyingly, impressive. And also slightly frustrating. Zanka feels his gut churn.
“Do ya have a damn medical textbook in yer head?!” He can’t help but interrupt Jabber’s rant, far too overwhelmed with the information.
“No. I have a toxicology textbook in my head,” Jabber informs him, casually leaning back in his seat, “so... your favorite flowers are forget-me-nots? Kinda basic.”
“I know it’s basic,” Zanka folds his arms, “that’s why I like ‘em.”
“Hah? That makes no sense,” Jabber leans back in, mouth pulled into a rictus smile, “that can’t be the only reason.”
Jabber’s phone chimes again, face up on the table. They both ignore it.
“They’re popular, but underappreciated,” Zanka justifies, feeling his chest tighten a little. He’s never really explained this kind of thing before. Most people don’t even have a favorite flower, and when they hear his, they simply accept it and move on, “most people who say it’s their favorite don’t even know why they’re called what they are. And even fewer people call ‘em by their other name.”
Jabber’s eyes crinkle slightly at the corner in a way Zanka struggles not to identify as endearing, “what’s their other name?”
Zanka clears his throat, suddenly aware that the conversation has veered far off topic. Still, he finds himself compelled to answer, “Scorpion-grass.”
Giggling a little at the answer, Jabber nods his head, “yeah, that makes sense for you.”
“What’s that supposed ta mean?” Zanka bristles.
“Whatever you want it to mean,” he smiles in a way that on anyone else, would come across affable. On Jabber, it looks dangerous.
The silence is abruptly broken by Jabber’s blaring ringtone. Some sparkle-pop-bubbly nonsense that honestly compliments Jabber’s personality better than expected. Zanka isn’t able to catch the contact name before Jabber’s swiping the phone up with a frustrated grunt and jamming his finger onto the screen.
“Cthoni, hop off my dick!” Jabber answers with little fanfare, causing Zanka to flinch back slightly from the rapid change in tone. “I told you I’m out, mind your business, I ain’t-”
Zanka watches as Jabber rolls his eyes dramatically at being cut off by whoever ‘Cthoni’ is and finds himself feeling completely lost. Yet another reason Zanka’s whole plan is a bad idea; he has no idea who ‘Cthoni’ is, just like Jabber has no idea who anyone in Zanka’s life is. Oh god, what if Cthoni is his girlfriend. Zanka didn’t even ask if Jabber was in a relationship before the guy agreed to pretend-date him. What if Zanka’s the cause of a breakup? He barely knows the guy, but he doesn’t want to be in someone else’s relationship drama, that’s way beyond his ability to fix. Or really care about, if he’s honest.
“No, I’m sober right now, promise,” Jabber whines, sliding his elbows forward on the table to tug on Zanka’s sleeve, mouthing ‘help me’ as whoever’s on the line continues to rant.
Tugging his arm free with a shake of his head, Zanka mouths ‘help yerself’ back at him. This is Jabber’s mess, Zanka doesn’t wanna know how he’s going to dig himself out of it. Also, why would he need to specify he’s sober in the middle of the day?
“Yes, I’m- Cthoni you aint’ listenin’, I told you-” Jabber’s eyes wonder around, catching on the notebook in front of him, and Zanka sees the moment he gets what is bound to be a terrible idea, “actually, yeah I can prove it, I’m with my boyfriend right now!”
The ‘what?’ that echoes down the phone is almost drowned out by Zanka’s own. Because really-
“What?!” He hisses, eyes widening imploringly at Jabber’s smirk.
Something else gets said, and Zanka gets the distinct feeling of a stone settling in his stomach when Jabber sits up, biting his finger again to stop a giggle.
“Yeah, I’ll put him on the phone, just a sec,” he mutes the microphone on his screen, “Cthoni says she-”
“Who the fuck is Cthoni and why did you say I’m yer boyfriend and why the fuck do I have’ta talk to ‘er?!” Zanka grips Jabber’s wrist to prevent him from passing the phone over, shaking him slightly as he seethes.
Undeterred by this, Jabber keeps his hand exactly where it is, extended between them, “I thought you wanted me to pretend we’re dating?”
“Yes, to my family,” Zanka stresses, pressing his fingertips harder into the soft skin of Jabber’s wrist, feeling the indents from long-healed atrophic scars “not- not everybody!”
“You said your favor didn’t feel like equal measure, right?” Jabber’s voice becomes suddenly flat, where before it was dancing, his dark magenta eyes boring into Zanka’s own with a sharp concentration he hasn’t seen from him before, “well, how’s about we even it out a little more?”
Zanka loosens his grip a little and pulls his hand back; Jabber’s hand leans forward, maintaining the pressure. The phone sits aloft between them, muted.
“Cthoni’s kinda like... my-uh... she looks out for me, or somethin’, right?” Jabber's explanation offers almost no information, “I just need you to get her off my back. Put on your goody-two-shoes act I know you got on the back burner.”
“I ain’t actin’,” Zanka argues, but takes the phone regardless.
“Great, then it’ll be easy for you,” Jabber’s light mood returns, like a switch flipped back on in a room Zanka didn’t even realize had gone dark.
He unmutes the phone, bringing it to his ear and cupping it with both hands, like he’s afraid he’ll drop it. It’s been a while since he’s tested his acting skills (at least since high school), but this could be good practice for the dinner on Friday.
Being polite isn’t something he’s ever struggled with, and Zanka can’t imagine that Jabber’s taste in men usually skews in his direction, so acting out the role of ‘nice, shiny, new boyfriend that's bound to get dumped soon’ should be a breeze.
“Uh, hello? This is... Zanka speakin’,” Zanka looks at Jabber, who shoots him an unhelpful thumbs-up.
“Zanka what?” The voice on the other end asks, cold and interrogative.
“Nijiku,” Zanka switches gear instantly, used to this kind of interaction. If it’s a cut and dry questioning they want, he can deliver. It’s almost reliving; he’s not sure how he could have played into a concerned parental archetype, having never really interacted with one before. He supposes it makes sense though, someone like Jabber likely wouldn’t respond well to coddling.
“Pass the phone back to Jabber,” an exasperated sigh crackles the line.
Zanka passes it back with a raised eyebrow and a shrug.
“See? Exactly like I told-” Jabber splutters suddenly, “I’m not threatening him, Cthoni, have more faith in me! Ask Momoa, she’ll back me up!”
It’s then that Jabber hangs up without so much as a goodbye, tossing the already cracked phone onto the table with a grumble.
Zanka cocks his head, “will Momoa actually back you up?” From what he remembers, Momoa seemed pretty laid back when she came into the studio. Though, she was also completely unphased by Jabber’s... everything. Maybe she has more of a mischievous side than Zanka thought.
“Sure she will,” Jabber smiles serenely, “if she finds it interesting, she’ll go along with pretty much anythin’ I say,” he pouts, “I’ll prob’ly end up owin’ her though.”
“Right...” Zanka looks back down to the sheet of questions, scanning it for the answer he’s looking for, “and you live with them? Cthoni and Momoa?”
Jabber hums an affirmation, “and you used live with the tattoo guy from your job?”
“Yeah, Enjin is-” eyes widening, Zanka flicks through his notes, “how’d you know he has tattoos?” He doesn’t list descriptions anywhere, just names and his relationship to them.
“Tiktok.”
Immediately, Zanka covers his face to hide the flush he knows is settling there, “tell me you didn’t watch-”
“The entire series of that kid prankin’ the shit outta you?” Jabber’s mirth is palpable even without Zanka seeing his face, “of course I watched ‘em all. Favourited ‘em too.”
“Fer fuck’s sake...” Zanka sinks low in his chair, but he can’t fight the smile that threatens to overtake his features.
He doesn’t hate that their studio has a social media presence, it’s a crucial part of the job in today’s market, but most of the videos actually on there have nothing to do with piercings and tattoos at all.
‘Building a rapport with potential clients’ says Corvus. Mostly, Zanka just thinks he and Gob have a soft spot for Remlin, who loves nothing more than causing Zanka moderate amounts of grief.
Truly though, as much as he fronts for the camera, Zanka is more than happy to be included in the pranks. It’s not something anyone would have thought to do to him, back in high school, and if it lets Remlin drum up hype for the studio, who is he to complain?
But for some reason, the thought of Jabber having seen them is mortifying. All Zanka does in those videos is shout, scowl, and swear. It’s a far cry from any level of professionalism he’s being trying to show, and lightyears away from the type of personality he’ll no doubt adopt (reapply) for the dinner on Friday.
It’s on public social media for anyone to see, yet oddly, Zanka feels like Jabber has stumbled across something vulnerable.
“I especially like the one where glasses lady hid your gloves,” Jabber continues, sending Zanka down an even deeper spiral, “it was real cute watchin’ you freak out about cross con- conti-” Zanka peeks at a struggling Jabber through his fingers, just in time to see the flash of metal as he sticks out his tongue in frustration, “contamination.”
“Okay, okay, I get it,” Zanka continues to hide his smile, “you like makin’ fun of me.”
“I like gettin’ a reaction outta you,” Jabber corrects, leaning forward with a smirk.
“You like gettin’ reactions out of a lot of people, it seems,” Zanka gestures to the bruises and split lip decorating Jabber’s face, finally giving in to his curiosity. He’d only seen Jabber yesterday, it’s a little suspicious he’s managed to rack up new injuries so quickly.
Jabber huffs, leaning back with despondence, “this ain’t shit,” he spits, “I’m never goin’ to another college party again. Didn’t even hurt.”
“You want to get beat up?” Zanka questions incredulously.
“I want ‘em to beat me in a fight, there’s a difference,”
“There really ain’t,” he deadpans, “if they beat you then you’re gettin’ beat up either way.”
Jabber’s head tilts, “yeah but they gotta beat me first.”
Zanka clicks his tongue, “this is just gonna go in circles.”
In some ways, though he’d never admit it, Zanka understands what Jabber means. He’s looking for the thrill of being overpowered, not giving up just for the sake of it. Zanka would even say it makes sense, if the guy weren’t pulling up to random strangers looking for a fight. That part, he doesn’t understand at all.
Sometimes, he misses his extracurriculars. Not ROTC... never that. But the other stuff. The martial arts. The sports. The competitions. Winning.
He stopped doing a lot of that in the lead up to dropping out. Winning, that is.
“God, there's so much stuff ta go over before Friday,” Zanka laments, scanning down the list of basic information they’ve listed about themselves. Is this even enough to be convincingly in a relationship?
Once again, Jabber’s phone blares his incredibly obnoxious ringtone. This time, Jabber’s face lights up and he’s answering before Zanka even has time to ask who it is. Clearly not Cthoni, if the slight excited flush on Jabber’s face is anything to go by.
“Zodyl! Hey~” Jabber leans into the phone like he’s trying to lay his head on an invisible shoulder.
For the second time in an hour, Zanka bristles at the idea that Jabber might already be in a relationship. He’d still neglected to ask that very important fact. Based on his lie to Cthoni, it’s safe to assume that she hadn’t known about anything that Jabber’s been up to in that regard, but what if Jabber’s already talking to someone else?
Again. Zanka really doesn’t want this whole stupid plan to get in the way of any real life, personal bullshit. Ideally, the worst affected by this whole ordeal will be the intended targets. The Nijikus. If he can make this as clinical as possible, he’ll consider the whole mission a success.
“What, right now?” Jabber blinks, looking at Zanka with a blank expression, “I’m kinda...”
Zanka can’t really tell because of the speaker’s distortion, but Zodyl sounds like an incredibly serious person. Making a questioning face, Zanka tries to get more information, but Jabber is suddenly a closed book.
“Will you play with me after?” Jabber bounces in his seat in time with Zanka’s increased heart rate. Just as soon, Jabber’s expression drops, “booo, boring.”
But Zanka’s heart is still pounding.
“Sorry Zan-zan, but I gotta bounce,” Jabber is already standing from the table, eager to leave, “my second job just called on me.”
Instantly, Zanka’s expression turns sour and he gathers his things, following Jabber from the cafe, “second job?” he jogs slightly to catch up with Jabber’s casual stroll on the sidewalk, “you didn’t put a second job down in the book?”
Hands in his pockets, Jabber comes to a stop, looming over Zanka slightly, “because it ain’t official,” he grins, “Zodyl just asks favors sometimes.”
“Yeah? And what kind of ‘favors’ is Zodyl askin’, huh?” Zanka scoffs, folding his arms, “same kinda ones yer askin’ me?”
He can feel his face heat up as he says it, barely taking in his own implications before asking. But, he finds it rings true... partially. It- It's not strictly sexual; asking someone for play piercings, right?
It isn’t for Zanka, at least.
He needs to do some more research.
Jabber throws his head back with a cackle, wicks splaying out and jewelry clinking together, “nah, it ain’t like that!” he doubles over, clutching his stomach, “damn, you really possessive!”
“I-I’m not- I didn’t mean-” Zanka splutters, sweat steadily building on his neck, “you asked him ta play with ya, I thought-” growling with frustration, Zanka shakes his head, “it don’t matter, ya can do what you want, obviously! I just thought ya wanted me ta... pierce... you,” he practically slaps a hand over his mouth, seeing Jabber’s elated expression.
“He ain’t stabbin’ me Zanka, that’s all you,” Jabber rocks back on his feet, “Zodyl just says I got good perception of people, likes me to check out new clients for his jewelry business.”
“You’re on call for a jewelry sales pitch?” His heart is calming down some, but the embarrassment is sticking with the sweat.
“It’s expensive jewelry,” Jabber shrugs, not seeming like he really cares to know any more than that. Or, he isn’t up for sharing. Zanka supposes it’s not really any of his business.
Zanka nods to himself, which Jabber seems to take as a dismissal, raising a hand in a lazy salute.
“Well, gotta dip, Zan-zan!” He turns on his heel, “see ya Friday!”
“I’ll pick you up!” Zanka calls to Jabber’s retreating figure, “text me yer address!”
Giving an ‘okay’ sign with his hand, Jabber slinks around the next corner, leaving Zanka alone on the sidewalk. He grips the notebook in one hand, the strap of his bag in the other, and sighs.
“Time ta study up, I guess,” then, he frowns, “fucker didn’t even take a picture of the page...”
Zanka pales slightly, still standing halfway down the street. He grips his hair slightly in frustration.
“Fuck... What the fuck have I done,” he hisses to himself, “I’m gonna have ta tell Riyo. Goddamnit.”
It’s late afternoon when Jabber returns home, instantly heading to his room to flop face-first down on his bed. He gathers a few moments of comfort, before the door is being opened by an unimpressed Cthoni holding her bulky laptop with one hand.
“Zanka Nijiku,” she caustically reads off the screen, “one year younger than you, high school dropout, emancipated at sixteen after a brief stint in-”
“Cthoni,” Jabber groans into his flat pillow, sits up, and promptly throws it at her.
She dodges easily, hardly looking away from her ThinkPad, “currently working at Clean Vitals Studio, which is where you two met, I’m assuming,” she continues rattling off information, paying no heed to Jabber’s whines, “previously had an impressive array of extracurriculars, including Aikido, fencing, track, ROTC-” Cthoni’s eyes widen a fraction, “you’re dating a military fanatic?”
“Nah, that's just how his family is,” Jabber rolls his eyes, “he ain’t seem like a boot licker to me.”
Involuntarily, his mind flashes with an image of Zanka in shiny black leather boots, polished to the nines, looking down at him with a sharp and intense glare. Jabber’s never considered himself an ally to pigs, police and military alike... but the feeling of rubber crushing his chest suddenly sounds pretty appealing.
“Where’d you even find this shit?!” Jabber exclaims, somewhat entertained by Cthoni’s overprotectiveness. Normally, he hates the way she hovers, but he can’t escape his excitement when she turns to borderline illegal shit just to get her way. She’s normally so uptight he can’t help but find the juxtaposition entertaining.
“I’m not telling you that,” she shuts down, closing the lid of her laptop with finality, “you’d turn into a stalker.”
“Don’t that shit make you a stalker?” He shoots back. There’s a second of silence as she ignores him. “Your little background check make you feel better?” Jabber teases, falling backwards onto his bed.
Instantly, he hisses, rolling over to his side. The dermals on his lower back sting with the friction of his movements. He tries hard to ignore it, but the more he moves, the more the flesh seems to tug at itself, intensifying the irritating throb of pain.
At this point with the piercings he used to give himself, Jabber would just remove them. The healing process never really appealed to him, and the jewelry wasn’t what he was into the process for. But, for some reason, he can’t find it in himself to take these out.
For starters, he likes the way they look. Two identical pink gemstones surrounded by silvery titanium, sitting pretty in the dimples of his back. If Jabber strains just enough, he can see the way they make his back look in the mirror. It’s pretty.
Second... they’re a reminder of what happened to get them. Of who gave them to him. Jabber hadn’t really chosen the piercing itself, choosing from a list at random. He hadn’t chosen the placement, leaving that up to the opinion of a professional. But, most importantly, he hadn’t even chosen the jewelry. Zanka had.
Everything about those two, pretty, pink gemstones was almost entirely out of Jabber’s control. The bruises next to them are already in the process of healing, and soon they’ll fade. The metal stays.
So no, he won’t be taking them out any time soon. Which means he probably should be taking better care of them. Maybe then Zanka will reward him with more, play piercing favor notwithstanding.
“It did make me feel better, actually,” Cthoni eyes him up and down, “I’m not so concerned for his wellbeing anymore.”
Jabber snorts, which turns into a cackle, “his wellbeing? Not mine?!”
“No, I think this could be good for you, actually,” she doesn’t elaborate any further, simply leaves Jabber to laugh to himself in his room.
He’s not really sure what she means by that, but he’s also not one to analyze what she says too deeply. Whatever she meant, it means that his plan, or rather Momoa’s plan, ended up working. Jabber now has a free excuse to do whatever he wants, so long as he can drop Zanka’s name into the mix.
This can only work out well for him.
Jabber’s phone chimes in a series of consecutive notifications. He slides his phone from his back pocket, kicking his feet in delight at the contact.
05:03 The Stabber: You tutor Amo?
05:03 The Stabber: The same Amo that Rudo knows?
05:03 The Stabber: Rudo as in my pseudo-little brother who I KNOW you read on that list I gave you?
Jabber bites his finger in delight. Honestly, he had barely skimmed the list of information that Zanka passed over to him, preferring to just write in his own answers and memorize the most interesting stuff. Who cares what Zanka’s backstory is? All Jabber needs are the cheat codes to pissing of four particular people and he’s golden.
05:05 Me: i didn’t read it ^-^
05:05 The Stabber: [Reacted ❓ to your message]
05:06 The Stabber: [Sent 4 pictures]
05:06 The Stabber: Here’s the notes. Read them this time.
05:07 The Stabber: And send me your address.
After sending over the details, Jabber rolls over in bed, rolling the beads of metal over in his mouth in contemplation. A sly smile stretches over his face and he quickly switches over to the few Instagram pages he’d gathered in the days between seeing Zanka.
Roving his tongue over his bottom lip, Jabber gathers several appealing screenshots of models-made-pincushions, and sends them over.
05:12 Me: [Sent 3 pictures]
05:12 Me: inspo for after dinner ;D
Zanka slams the door open to Enjin’s place with a frenzy, immediately racing up the stairs to where he knows Riyo will be. It’s a Sunday afternoon, and Riyo only has one friend (aside from him).
At the top of the stairs, he crashes into Rudo.
“Watch it!” Rudo yelps, nearly falling back from the force of Zanka’s entire body weight slamming into him, readjusting his weighted hoodie, “why’re you even here?!”
“Don’t be so rude, brat,” he shoots back without thinking, falling back into old habits, “out the way, I gotta talk ta Riyo ‘bout somethin’.”
Just as he goes to sidestep the teen, Rudo grabs his arm with a scowl.
“Riyo isn’t in, she’s helping Eishia with some project for nursing school,” Rudo slides his hood down, peering closely into Zanka’s eyes, “are you okay?”
Sliding a hand down his face, Zanka sighs, “yes, yeah, I’m good,” it comes out a little rushed. He’s out of breath, having booked it down the drive and up the stairs, he really needs to get back in shape, “I just need to tell her... somethin’.”
“You keep saying ‘something’ and its frustratingly vague.”
“It’s purposefully vague, since it ain’t yer business,” Zanka grits out, dislodging his arm and stomping back down the stairs, “it’s whatever, I’ll call ‘er later, I guess.” He runs a hand through his hair, a move he’d been repeating a lot on the drive over.
Rudo tamps down the steps after him, a reluctant shadow with a perplexed expression, “are you sure you’re okay?”
“Yes, Rudo,” Zanka gets to the door, fumbling his keys a few times in the lock. His hands are shaking a little, causing him to drop them, “Fuck!” Picking them up and trying again, Zanka finally gets the key in the lock, “I just made a stupid, mildly premeditated decision, which I’m regrettin’ a little,” he turns the key and is about to leave, when Rudo pipes up.
“I’m gonna ask you something and you can’t get mad!” Rudo looks awkward when Zanka turns to face him, but genuine in whatever version of worry he’s putting forward.
“What.”
“And you can’t lie either,” Rudo tacks on as an afterthought, pouting like he thinks Zanka would even bother to lie to him.
“What.” Zanka stresses, grip still firm on the key.
“Did you...” Rudo pulls on his hoodie strings a little, avoiding looking at Zanka and scowling at the floor, “hurt yourself?”
The key slips to the floor again, thunking harsh against the wood of the hallway.
“What?!” Zanka yelps, jaw dropping as he splutters, “what made ya think that?!”
Rudo flails, flushing as his voice cracks “I-I don’t know?! You came in all frantic and disheveled and stuff talking about doing stupid shit, and after last time-” his gloved hands ball into fists, “are you doing drugs?!”
“Drugs?!” Zanka yells. He can feel a vein bulging in his neck, “that’s yer next guess?!” The only ‘drugs’ Zanka has ever done are prescription. He’s still on them and Rudo knows that.
“Well, what else is so bad that you can tell Riyo but not me!” Rudo shouts back, growl seeping into his voice with frustration.
And that’s just it, Zanka can’t tell anyone but Riyo, because it was her idea to begin with. Only she would truly understand why he did it, and only she would understand why Zanka is freaking out about it. He’s already digging himself into a hole by having this argument.
Not only that, but Rudo can’t keep a secret for shit. If Rudo knows something, it’s as good as telling Enjin, which is completely off the table.
Only a few days ago, Enjin had been praising Zanka for his mature decision to leave Kyouka’s email unanswered. Zanka isn’t about to betray that trust by letting Enjin know he’d almost immediately gone back on that decision. For petty revenge, no less!
Scrambling for an answer, Zanka throws out the easiest and most immediate lie he can think of. The one Jabber had told.
“I went on a date!” He spits.
“Oh.” Rudo’s anger drains almost immediately.
Zanka’s doesn’t. It twists into something even more ugly. Shame. He’d only wanted to lie to the Nijikus, who shouldn’t matter. Lying to his family, his real family, isn’t something Zanka likes to do. But it’s too late now. It’s this, or the alternative, which is to tell the truth and lose their respect anyway.
Rudo shifts awkwardly, “with... who?”
He hates this.
“His name’s Jabber,” Zanka grimaces around the answer. He really hopes Rudo doesn’t ask anything more incriminating, like ‘how did you meet?’, or god forbid ‘what do you like about him?’
Rudo’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline, “Jabber... Wonger?” He asks, hesitation clear in his voice.
Fully turning from the door now, Zanka gapes at Rudo once again, “you know him?” He’s already fishing his notes from his bag, ready to scan them for any sign that the two might know each other. Or that Zanka somehow neglected to mention Rudo in his family information, so Jabber never picked up on the connection.
Rest assured, Rudo is listed right next to Enjin and Riyo in his notes.
“Uh... he’s Amo’s chemistry tutor,” Rudo explains, pouting at the floor, “he’s a real weirdo- uh, no offence.”
“Fuckin- Of course he is,” Zanka grips his hair, biting his lip in frustration. It’s not even been a full day, and this is already getting too complicated for him to keep up with. “And none taken, he is a fuckin’ weirdo.”
Giving him a weird look, Rudo tilts his head, “should you be talking about him like that if you’re dating?”
Zanka isn’t about to explain to Rudo that, even if they were actually dating, Zanka could likely say whatever he wanted about Jabber and the man would be into it, so instead, he fishes his key from the floor and goes back to his original mission. Which was to leave.
“Look, I gotta go plan some stuff, so I’ll see ya later,” halfway out the door, Zanka shouts, “don’t tell Enjin yet!”
“Why not-?”
He slams and locks the door before Rudo can fully ask. It’s a futile request, Rudo will end up telling Enjin eventually anyway, but Zanka asking him not to will hopefully delay that relay of information by at least a day. At least until Rudo loses the battle with his own big mouth. Maybe he’ll even be able to make it until after dinner before he has to explain himself.
As soon as Zanka is back in his own apartment, he sinks down into his sofa and brings up Jabber’s contact, shooting off messages in a state of fluster he hasn’t experienced since... Since Wednesday, when Kyouka sent him the email that got him in this situation.
17:03 Me: You tutor Amo?
17:03 Me: The same Amo that Rudo knows?
17:03 Me: Rudo as in my pseudo-little brother who I KNOW you read on that list I gave you?
The two minutes it takes Jabber to respond are excruciating.
17:05 Jabber: i didn’t read it ^-^
“How the fuck is this guy in college,” Zanka’s thumbs fly across the screen, auto-correct doing half the work to keep his sentences legible, “and a tutor on top of it?!”
17:06 Me: [Sent 4 pictures]
17:06 Me: Here’s the notes. Read them this time.
17:07 Me: And send me your address.
If anything, Zanka is grateful that Jabber will do a great job at pissing off the Nijikus. If his own blood pressure is any indication, the dinner will be a disaster. Which is, of course, the desired result.
The hurdle of course, being making their relationship convincing enough that it won’t be turned back around on them. Which would be a lot easier, if Jabber would just cooperate with his planning.
Several more minutes go by after Jabber sends his address, Zanka watching the ‘...’ dance across his screen with simmering rage. Then, his phone vibrates once, twice, three, four times.
17:12 Jabber: [Sent 3 pictures]
17:12 Jabber: inspo for after dinner ;D
Zanka flushes, throws his phone to the other end of the sofa, and screams into his hands. He’d barely caught a glimpse at the images, but even that small sliver of skin and metal was enough to send him reeling.
In the studio, when Jabber had thrust his phone into Zanka’s face, he’d been able to somewhat keep his cool. At work, there's a level of professionalism he works hard to maintain, even if Jabber had managed to crack that facade ever so slightly. But here? In his home? Zanka isn’t ready to see that kind of stuff.
“Don’t be fuckin’ ridiculous,” he leans his head back on the sofa, tilting slightly to look at the offending device, “you gotta see what he wants, it’s part of the deal.”
Slowly steeling himself, Zanka reaches over and turns the screen to face him, feeling the sweat collect on the back of his neck. He taps on the first image.
Immediately, he’s greeted with a close up shot of a woman’s thighs, presented neatly to the camera with a series of rings looping through them. Each loop is threaded together, though not in the corset style that Jabber showed him back in the studio. This time, the ribbons are tied into star-like shapes... or pentagrams, Zanka supposes.
The pale skin on the model’s legs is noticeably red around the piercings; the picture clearly having been taken directly after the setup was completed. Zanka finds himself wondering what the healing looks like, for something like this, since it’s meant to be temporary. Jabber’s mottled bruising springs to mind instantly. Deep brown thighs with 5, perfectly spaced bruises, hidden under those baggy jeans that Jabber likes to wear.
It’s a cute picture, but Zanka finds himself unsatisfied. For as much as the stars are pretty, Zanka has always been most proud of his work when the piercing really matches the client, completing ‘the look’, so to speak. For Jabber, he’d want to do something a little more elaborate.
Not that he’s been giving it too much thought. No more thought than normal.
He flips to the next image.
Zanka brings his phone up closer for a better look, tucking his knees to his chest. This set up is far more detailed, showcasing a model’s entire arm, completely ribbed with needles from shoulder to wrist. Mesmerized, Zanka begins counting, reaching around forty when he has to take a deep breath, realizing he’s been holding it since he first looked at her. The end of each needle is fitted with a feather, giving her the illusion of wings.
“How long...” Zanka whispers, imagining the prep work, the clean up, the dedication... the pain tolerance.
He quickly swipes to the third image and immediately places his phone face down on the sofa, neck and face burning.
A bared neck. Needles sitting just below the surface of the skin, all threaded together, like a collar.
And look. Zanka gets it now. After the last appointment, there’s no way he couldn’t. Yes, Jabber is very plainly and clearly a masochist; someone who enjoys this kind of thing. But really, at the end of it all, he’s met Zanka a total of three times now... does he really have that much trust in Zanka to do this for him?
It's almost overwhelming to think about. Zanka wears the title of ‘professional’ with pride, but can he really deliver on this kind of thing? He’s still technically learning...
‘You never stop learning,’ Enjin’s voice enters his mind unbidden, ‘you just stop being scared to.’
Zanka types out a reply to Jabber, telling him to just be ready for the dinner, then sets his phone aside and pulls his laptop from the coffee table. He has a lot of research to do. If he’s going to deliver on a favor, he’s going to do it right.
After a mind-numbing twenty minutes of being left on read, Jabber’s phone chimes. Once, this time. Setting aside his textbook, Jabber practically squeals at the message.
05:37 The Stabber: I’ll decide what you get. Just be ready.