Chapter Text
Everything hurts when Zanka wakes up.
His arms and legs and ribs ache with bruises, his ankle throbs like someone had taken a bat to it, he’s pretty sure that’s dried blood he tastes on his mouth. Probably worst of all is the aggressive pounding in his head.
He has no clue where he is.
He’s sprawled out in the backseat of a car, his head tucked awkwardly against the door, one leg asleep from being overextended against the window. Doesn’t recognize the interior- light brown leather that smells like artificial pine trees.
He bolts upright- neck creaking in protest, leg buzzing to life with a sudden rush of blood- ready to fight whoever had taken him. There was no one. His only company is a massive blue teddy bear plush holding a fat red heart. It sits in the passenger seat- Zanka stares at it for a second. The key is still in the ignition… car seems to have been abandoned in an empty parking garage.
Ok. Well. Zanka supposes there are worse places to randomly wake up- at least he hadn’t been kidnapped. Probably.
He fully sits up, rubbing his head, hoping if he thinks about it hard enough, this stupid fuck headache will go away.
Last thing he remembers: Rudo’s birthday. He was turning 21.
They’d decided to take him to Riyo’s favorite club- they being Zanka, Riyo, Amo, and the Stilzas. Zanka remembers the evening being fun- that being said, he remembers very, very little.
Arriving, mingling, Riyo and August getting Rudo to do shots. Drunk Rudo demanding that Zanka loosen up and do more shots with him, Riyo insisting that he couldn’t say no to the birthday boy.
If Zanka really focuses, he can remember being pulled onto the dance floor. Vaguely, he remembers seeing Riyo drift further and further from where he was in the pile of bodies.
Zanka didn’t go to parties. He wasn’t one for clubbing. When Riyo or Enjin managed to drag him to a bar, he’d have maybe two drinks. And this is exactly why.
He lifts up his hoodie to take a better look at a particularlly painful bruise on his side and freezes. Fuck. This is not his jacket- Whose hoodie is he wearing? Its a sort of fuschia pink and smells like weed, bleach, and sweat. No clue whether that smell’s from him or the rightful owner- all Zanka knows is that he has never seen this jacket in his life.
Zanka goes to grasp at his necklace for comfort. He knows it’ll be there because he always wears it- a blue-ish silver metal pendant shaped like a staff or tuning fork. He knows he’ll be wearing it because it lives around his neck- but its not there. His hand grasps empty space and the mystery hoodie- FUCK.
Now it’s bad.
Zanka tries to find his phone- but that’s nowhere to be found either. Not in any of his pockets- or the pockets of the stupid stupid dumb hoodie of shame- not on the floor, not under the seat.
Now he’s fucked.
“Shit,” He mutters, opening the car door and stepping out of the back seat. He has no clue where he is- this parking garage is underground. Great.
He takes another assessment of himself, hoping his phone will manifest on his person. Obviously, it doesn’t. His left hand catches his attention- it's sporting two unfamiliar familiar peices of jewelry- a braclet and a ring. The bracelet is fat, a bangle made of some dull, black metal. A ring sits on his index finger, shiny and heavy. More interesting to Zanka is the phone number scrawled on the back of his hand. Assumably from the owner of the hoodie- and probably the ring, too.
Zanka closes his eyes, sighing. What the hell had he done last night?
Ok. First order of business: find a phone.
Zanka settles behind the wheel of the car, sending silent prayers to a deity he doesn’t beleive in as he turns the ignition. The car roars to life. Thank god. Hopefully, the owner won’t be too upset he used it if he returns it.
He leaves the parking garage, going up and out. He’d been hoping to know where he was when he left, but no. Never been to this part of town. If he was still in town at all.
Driving’s a nightmare. He’s in too much pain for this; not a single cohesive thought is forming, his head is in so much pain. Not to mention that his ankle screams like a bitch everytime he has to hit the breaks.
There. A 7/11- gas stations usually have pay phones, right?
Zanka parks in front of the store, pocketing the keys. He realizes he was putting them in the mystery hoodie’s pocket. He grunts, frustration flooding him as he yanks the thing off, trowing it onto the giant teddy bear in the passenger seat. Perfect. They belong together.
Zanka rolls his eyes, putting the keys in his jean pockets as he walks away from the car.
The gas station attendent’s eyes widened as he walks in. He must look like shit- but he really can’t help that right now. She takes on a look of vague horror as Zanka approaches the counter. Really? Zanka couldn’t be the worst looking customer she’s gotten, this was a fucking 7/11.
“Can I use the phone?” Zanka asks. Wow. His voice sounds like it had been dunked in gravel before getting beaten to death.
“One moment,” The girl nods tightly, avoiding eye contact as she hurries off to the back of the store.
What is her problem.
Zanka looks around for a mirror, finally catching a glimpse of himself in the tiny mirror on the sunglasses stand.
Well, as suspected, he looks like shit. There’s a purple knot on his forehead, his lip had been split and scabbed over. Not to mention the twenty billion bruises on his neck… wait. Are those hickies?
What in the everloving fuck happened last night?
“Here you go…” The girl’s back; she hands him a positively archaic flip phone.
“Thanks,” Zanka says, grabbing it and heading further into the store.
He stares at the numbers for a moment, trying to conjure up Riyo or Enjin or even Rudo’s number. He does not remember any of them. Who remembers people’s numbers?
Sighing, Zanka plugs in the digits on the back of his hand.
Ring.
Please pick up.
Ring.
Please pick up.
Ring.
Honestly, Zanka never picks up unknown calls unless he’s waiting to hear back about a job or something. It wouldn’t be even slightly suprising if he went to voicemail- and then what would he say? Please call back, I have your car? Assuming that whoever-
“Hello?”
“Hey-y,” Zanka’s voice cracks so aggressively that he briefly has to cough it out, “Hey. I’m the guy from the bar last night.”
“The one with the blue tassel earrings?”
“I think so, yeah.”
“Ah. Didn’t go well with the other guy?”
Zanka’s taken aback- he pulls the phone away slightly, glancing at it like it had personally offended him.
“I’m sorry, what other guy?”
._.
Follo went to the club, but he didn’t nessicarily like going to the club. He felt like clubbing was a kind of ritual: something you had to do to fully experience your early twenties.
At least, that’s what Alan said. Its what he said every time he forced Follo to go to the bar.
It pissed him off too, because it would always be: “Follo, you have to come, I can’t go alone,” or: “Follo, please, I always have so much fun when we hang out.” Keyword “we.” Because it never ended up being “we;” it ended up being Follo left to fend for himself because Alan was trying to pick up some chick.
Yet Follo always folded, and always found himself at the fucking club. He should really stop being such a push over.
So there he was. Surrounded by bodies moving to shitty EDM while sipping a cocktail. He had eyes on Alan; he was dancing was with some blonde. Hadn’t even talked to Follo since getting there.
Whatever.
He was too sober for this. He waved for the bartender, ordering a martini dry.
“WOOH,” Someone threw themself at the counter next to him, “Can I git m’nother tequila shot?” He shouted at the guy working the bar. He was acknowledged with a wave.
The guy was flushed, his cheeks red, sweat plastering his hair to his forehead.
“It’s so hot in here!” He shouted at Follo.
“Yeah, that happens,” Follo shouted back.
They sat in relative, EDM filled, silence, the new guy panting and grinning. He looked cool- split dye hair, blue tassels as earrings.
“Come here often?” Follo asked.
“No,” They guy yelled, “Its ma brother’s birthday!”
“Cool! Tell your brother I said happy birthday!” Follo offered awkwardly.
“Wait,” The guy seemed to be having some difficulty organizing his thoughts, “He’s ma friend, not ma brother…”
He said more, but Follo couldn’t hear. His voice had gotten quiter than the fuck ass EDM. Follo suddenly registered that the guy was looking at him expectantly.
“I’m sorry, what?” Follo shouted.
“Who are ya, anyway?”
“My name’s Follo!”
“Cool! I’m Zanka!”
The bartender returned with their drinks, and Zanka immediately tried to put down his shot- it took two sips and an aggressive amount of coughing.
“Can’t handle your liquor?” Follo laughed.
“Shud up,” Zanka shoved Follo, “I don’ do dis a lot.”
Follo took the shove as interest. Physical contact usually meant flirting, right?
“Can I give you my number?” Follo yelled.
“Suuuuure,” Zanka grinned, sticking his hand out, “Put ‘er dere.”
Follo thankfully had a pen in his pocket; pulled it out and scrawled his number. He looked up, planning to ask Zanka if he wanted to dance. That’d show Alan. And what exactly Follo was trying to show is up to interpretation.
Apparently, the act of writing that last digit had been a catalyst for doom, because as soon as he pocketed his pen, a new challenger approached.
“Hey there, cutie,” Some guy butted between him and Zanka, resting a ringed hand on Zanka’s wrist.
The newcomer was also really cool, bronze peices glinting in his long wicks, a few piercings on his face and ears. He was also unfortunately pretty, big eyes languidly appraising Zanka.
It was obvious Zanka was into it, too- the way his face grew even redder at the guy’s touch, how he seemed to drink in his presence with his gaze.
Welp. Follo supposed that was it, then.
“Who ya callin’ cutie?” Zanka scowled.
“What a bad attitude,” The guy grinned.
“Gotta prob’m wit dat?” Zanka leaned closer to the guy- close enough that Follo felt uncomfortable watching.
“Only if ya want me to,” The guy laughed, “Wanna dance wit me, Mr. Bad Attitude?”
Great. They already had pet names. Follo rolled his eyes, taking a sip of his martini.
“Fuck you,” Zanka got up, “Le’s go.”
And then they were gone. Follo returned to his wallowing, finding Alan in the crowd. He was still with that one girl.
An indeterminable period of time followed, and Follo mostly spent it watching Alan or contemplating his potential Irish goodbye.
“Follo!” He felt Alan’s arm around his shoulders. Follo glared at him.
“I saw you talking that guy up earlier,” Alan grinned.
“Eh. He wasn’t interested,” Follo shrugged.
“You probably just weren’t trying hard enough,” Alan laughed, pulling him from his chair, “Come on, let’s see if we can go find him now.”
“Dude-” Follo tried to protest, but he was already being yanked into the swarm of people.
He caught a glimpse of Zanka- he was still with that other guy. They were dancing right up next to each other- zero room for the holy spirit or whatever bullshit prudes liked to talk about.
“Alan-” It was too late, they were upon the pair.
“Hey! It’s that guy!” Zanka yelled in Follo’s general direction. “How’s it goin’!”
“Fine!” It was even louder over here, Follo could barely hear. He wanted to leave. Leave and murder Alan.
“We’re about to go!” Zanka shouted.
“Oh? Where you headed?” Alan prompted. Follo was going to murder him.
._.
“And then you guys told us you were headed to the Canvas Club,” Follo tells Zanka.
Zanka wants to die. What the fuck. Never trust Zanka near alcohol, dear lord.
“Alright, thank you so much,” Zanka says, “I’m so sorry you had to see me like that.”
“Don’t worry dude, you’re all good.”
“And… you didn’ happen to end up with a necklace of mine? The pendant sort of looks like a tunin’ fork?”
“No, I don’t think so. Hope you find it.”
“Right. Thanks again.” Zanka hangs up.
Alright. Not great, but it was a start.
So then. Off to the Canvas Club.