Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

RINNNGGGGGGGG.

His phone rings loudly in the stillness of his bedroom, clouded by smoke and too much incense. The obnoxious noise of Tiktok’s being played, one after another, a mukbanger chomping down on random foods, a lady narrating a tutorial on barrel twists, the loud, annoying sound of the skyrim skeleton, reverberates in Zanka’s tired ears. He would complain, but the one responsible for both the smoke and the noise pollution, was sprawled across his chest, cheek smushed against his peck and reddish brown eyes reflecting a rare state of relaxation. The satin of Jabber’s bonnet rubs pleasantly against his nipple, as he snickers at presumably another meme appearing across his screen, this one louder and somehow more annoying than the previous ones. This was about as silent as it ever got with Jabber, their post-fuck bliss still evident on the both of them, from the sweat that was still drying on the back of his neck, and the errant glint of Jabber’s loc jewelry scattered across the pillows, that at this point, had been accumulating in Zanka’s room for the past year. 

He shouldn’t complain. A word out his mouth and Jabber would begin speaking, a terrible terrible concept, that manifested itself repeatedly and daily, in proximity to Zanka’s ears. It pissed off Zanka most of the time, but by now he had gotten used to it. Jabber couldn’t go anywhere without making noise. At this point Zanka could hear a bomb go off from his bedroom and he probably wouldn’t go to check on him. Immediately. The phone rang again. And again. Zanka sighed when he felt Jabber stir. So much for silence. 

“Answer the fucking phone Z, the sounds driving me up the wall,” he begins complaining, never looking up from his phone. 

RINGGGGGGGGGGG.

Zanka grits his teeth. “That sound is driving you up the wall? Imagine what my life has been like ever since you lost your airpods!” 

“That’s cause you wasn’t tryna let me use yours--”

RIINNNGGGGG

“Why the fuck would I-,” he begins, before the sound of his phone interrupts him interrupting his stupid fucking--whatever they were. He shifts towards the night stand and Jabber's head is smushed in his arm pit, his bonnet causing him to slip and slide across the expanse of his chest. A blunt is still smoking in a disastrously handmade ashtray, a gift from Rudo after he attempted to take an arts and craft class with some convincing from Guita. 

Jabber makes grabby hands at the joint, and Zanka picks it up from the ashtray and presses it to his lips at the same time he picks it up. If his voice comes out rough on the other line it has nothing to do with the feeling he gets watching Jabber suck at what’s left of the joint, his eyes lidded and a small smirk unfolding over his full lips after he blows a cloud into Zanka’s face. A nuisance. He doesn’t understand why he keeps him around. 

“Hello,” he asks, not bothering to check for caller ID. 

“Zankannnnn,” Enjin singsongs from the other end, very obviously drunk and in a crowded place by the sounds of it. He thinks if he strains his ears hard enough, he can see Seimu and a few others laughing loudly. 

“Enjin,” he perks up a smile unfolding across his face. “Good to hear from you.” 

“gOoD tO hEaR fRoM yOu,” Jabber mocks from the spot on his chest and Zanka mouths several expletives while Enjin begins chatting him up about stopping by the co-op and teaching some of the kids martial arts and self defense. Jabber mocks that too, scrunching up his face in an imitation of Zanka, his elegant and controlled expressions of frustrations now morphed into goofy frowns on Jabber’s face. He hates him. 

“When are you coming around to the house? We haven’t seen you in like…,” Enjin trails off, obviously distracted by whoever else is there before continuing, “...like two months at this point! Are classes kicking your ass that bad?”

“That and then some,” he replied, drumming his fingers where they rested a little below Jabber’s shoulders. “Life in general has been kicking my ass.” 

It was true. Jabber’s jealousy aside, Zanka hadn’t had much time to pick up phone calls from Enjin, who loved going on and on regarding long updates about the working of his community co-opt, a project Enjin had spoke about on multiple occasions when Zanka had first gotten to know him, now brought to reality in his post-grad life. In his freshman year, Zanka hadn’t expected to become friends with so many seniors, but after being homesick from a whopping three years spent on American soil and then transitioning into American college, he had taken the risk of taking a Japanese art class and had wound up befriending Enjin there. It wasn’t everyday you met an fashionable, art and graffiti obsessed, white, eco-activist studying Japanese, but Zanka supposes that it was relatively normal compared to the entirety of his experiences with living in America. 

Plus, he thinks, watching Jabber hyperfixate on a video of a lady making a bomb, his canines peeking out as he chewed on his lip in interest, becoming a member of an undercover eco-terroist group is probably the least crazy thing.

Zanka switches to Japanese just to see the way Jabber’s brow furrows when he has deprived him of another way to access him. He was so obvious. Zanka even laughs a little on the end of the phone line, just to play it up, and he can see the way Jabber’s hands are moving quickly away from Tiktok and towards Google Translate. Sneaky fucker.

“I’ll be over in a few days to help, so don’t miss me too bad. I’m busy right now but I’ll call you later. Sounds like you’ll be occupied this whole night too.” 

“Okay,” Enjin responds, joyfully, his attention probably already grabbed by the people Zanka hears over the line. Jabber has the translator app open. Too late. “See you laterrrrrr!” The line goes dead. 

Zanka isn’t even granted a moment of silence. 

“You forgot to ask him if he wanted to try my homemade rat poison that’s been a hit in our chemistry teacher’s classroom. I’m sure he would love the taste!” 

Zanka ignores the obvious ragebait. He won’t fall for it. 

“Why would our chemistry teacher risk the safety of everyone in the classroom by using the shit you’ve made when you were on acid?” 

“You wouldn’t get how locked in we are! You ain’t even score as high as me on our last exam, or the one before that, so she doesn’t talk to you after class like she does with me.” 

He falls for it. 

If you asked Zanka he couldn’t tell you how it started. 

Okay, maybe that was a lie. Maybe it was from the very second that he decided to leave the chicken coop that had been his country's boring and rather lavish lifestyle in Kanto, right in the middle of high school after one too many fights with his father. That was a big one. Zanka had thought himself pretty smart at the time, playing good hands with his grandmother about the benefits of living abroad in the West, where their disappointing son could finally learn some work ethic. It had been a bit self-deprecating, almost entirely humiliating, but it was the least of Zanka’s distress at the time; his dropping grades in school and roaring anxiety from the pressure of his family was pushing him to bad places. Really bad places. The kind of places that have you standing on the edge of a rooftop building and becoming a statistic that Americans like to quote when they’re confronted with the edge of East Asian culture that is not cute drinks and adorable figurines. 

Zanka hated to admit that it was too much for him, that he was not like his siblings or even his star classmates, the geniuses who could fight, train, and fly through school with little to no effort. It had been hard for him and even worse, the culture of it, the normalcy of that soul-draining grind to succeed, he thought, at the time, were unique to his desolate situation, so he set sail to new horizons. He had good English, enough money, and decent enough grades, and so in his head, the transition would be seamless, providing everything his previous life lacked. 

He was right in some ways. A Japanese failure made him an American super-student. His grandmother had hired someone to do the research for him and he was placed in New York, with a respectable, rich branch of his family he hadn’t been privy to, despite their lack of fondness for him. He flew through homework easily, got home early from every class to sit down with his extended family, who hammered in the very same expectations over dinner that he had hoped to escape from. 

But it was hard in every other way and those at times felt even more overwhelming than before. His English education, while precise, wholly underprepared him for the fucking avalanche that was American high school. Everyone had accents. There were four different words for the same thing and those words also weren't English. There were social cues and facial expressions, and correct ways of doing that were not his way of living. Zanka had to clean his ass every day with just tissue paper and shuddered in revulsion at how far he had fallen from grace. 

And most importantly, there was a divide, a clear divide that Zanka hadn’t even begun to think of until he came to America. Back home, Zanka didn’t think he was that Japanese or that it held that much relevance. Rich, yes? Spoiled, true. Disappointing and mediocre, unfailingly. In America, everything and everyone else never failed to remind him of the oddity his culture made him. 

If he hadn’t met Riyo, a bright, scruffy force who had ridden in on a scholarship to the bullshit preppy academy they both attended, Zanka was sure he would’ve succumbed to that petrifying loneliness. The situation would have been even more dire if they hadn’t both made a pact to graduate a year early and attend the same college, both agreeing that they would be staying in state to keep their cash in their pockets. Riyo, more than Zanka, but still, he too wanted to be liberated finally from the financial constraints of his family, and college was the first step. 

So that might’ve been an option. Zanka loves blaming everything on one thing when it’s entirely convenient for him, whether that be himself, Riyo, Jabber, or America. But more accurately, he probably had been doomed the moment he had signed up to attend Brighter University, its attendants colloquially referred to by the local population as The Cleaners, people who typically graduated and dedicated their lives to correcting the ongoing issues that seemed to relevant to the urban landscape. Many politicians also passed through the University, a good and bad mix, who sometimes used their reputation as a way to cover up their moral degeneracy. Riyo had explained to him the multitude of controversial figures who were Cleaners, and Zanka had done his own research. 

What many years back home and abroad had taught him was that an institution was an institution. Good and bad. Him and Riyo had made the choice long ago on the kind of people they wanted to be, and Brighter University, plopped in the center of the city, seemed like their best bet. Both Riyo and Zanka secured scholarships, him for his academic prowess and sharp scoring paired with community service and Riyo for her brilliant talent for craftsmanship and collaging, which had landed her in quite a few flattering articles and connected her with some stunning artists in the city. 

Zanka, though naive, felt like he had his future set out for him. #RedemptionArc, he had thought embarrassingly. The new start made him feel super secure, insanely woke and intensely rebellious for rejecting the sounds of his grandmother over the phone screaming for him to go to an Ivy League or be shunned for generations. He even got his ears pierced. Riyo called him a dork, but then admitted later they made him look super cool and sophisticated. He felt cool and sophisticated, and them both being a hair too young in an environment of eighteen and twenty-somethings made him feel enlightened. That must’ve been how it started. With his head up his fucking ass.

But as rebellious as Zanka was, he fundamentally hadn’t changed or understood how change worked. It was ongoing. It was endless. And his need to be the best, to be the only, to be number one had only been intensified despite it being redirected towards nobler goals of helping others. Not as woke or as confident as he made himself out to be. Jabber was a collision to all that bravado he had been falsely putting on. 

Zanka had first met him in his biochemistry class. 

His head had already been four sizes big by the fact that he had accrued enough credits throughout high school to be a sophomore standing as a freshman. His scores on both the ACT and SAT, put him in math and biology classes that actually counted towards his major, something most freshman couldn’t say stuck with completing their prerequisites. Zanka had no need for prerequisites. 

These thoughts filled his brain up until the moment the lecture started and Zanka realized that he did, in fact, need those prerequisites. Why shitty American college didn’t prepare him for really fucking hard American university was beyond him, but he quickly learned that it did not, and this reward of assumed superiority was quickly becoming a punishment. 

It was about fifteen minutes of frantic scribbling from him and the mousy girl next to him who looked equally sick at the thought of polyprotic acids, when Jabber walked into the classroom and let the door slam behind him. 

“Name,” his professor paused in his lecture/torture session, raking his eyes down the painfully late student. 

Zanka’s eyes immediately glued himself onto the newcomer and was shocked and a bit disturbed with the strength of attraction that moved through him that he almost didn’t hear his name. 

“Jabber Wonger,” Zanka’s now consistent headache, but then mysterious student, had named himself. 

Zanka watched him walk to his seat so closely and for so long, that even many minutes after the teacher wrapped up the lecture and outlined the next discussion, he was still turning over the sight of Jabber in his head. 

He was tall and striking, a captivating form made up of fawn brown skin accessorized in layers of stylish clothing that made Zanka feel overdressed and snooty. A cropped leather jacket somehow put over top of a tank top that clung to all his best bits--and god there were so many good bits of him-- his lean form and trim waist, and unfairly, thought horrified to himself at his own shamelessness, a bit of his collarbone, his muscled chest, and long neck was revealed for everyone to see. Every bit of skin showing seemed to possess some flash of gold, a thick gold necklace resting itself between his pecks and at where the skin of his wrists were revealed decked out in bronze bangles. And his hair, long locs he had placed in an almost artful half up and down, trailed all the way down to his chest and was possessed jewelry as well, gold and glinting in the light even as he gave a sly smile to the teacher and headed to his seat. Flashes of light caught the long line of his lashes, his dark wide eyes, and terribly attractive and vaguely androgynous profile adorned with piercings through his nose, lips and eyebrow.

He felt like a Victorian man encountering an exposed ankle. A boisterous church lady confronted with the sight of a pornagraphic magazine. A teenage girl reading her first yaoi novel. It was that much of a revelation, Jabber’s side profile haunting him throughout class, making him feel warm, even in the flowy sleeves of a shirt he put on this morning. If he had given it more thought he would’ve known that this attraction was not one of foreign curiosity, something more than slight intrigue over a person who had looked different than every single person Zanka had grown up with. There was just one small, little, miniscule problem in Zanka’s freshman year of college: he had never dated anyone. Or more accurately, he hadn’t given it much of a thought while he had been navigating the hellscape of highschool. Embarrassing makeouts and a few awkward sessions of groping and touching made up the majority of his experiences,  and none of them had stuck with him long enough to make an impression. Up until first Jabber interrupted his mental breakdown over polytropic acids, Zanka thought those things would come eventually, and maybe naturally like all things he would fall for some eclectic woman with dyed hair, who had a niche in something vaguely popular but underground enough. Girls liked that lined the streets of New York and Zanka assumed like every slightly woke muscular guy with pierced ears and a budding interest in activism, the standards would be low enough that he would get snagged. 

That was not happening. 

But Zanka could not possibly think about possibly having a crush on someone, navigating his college life, cutting ties with his family and having to pass his biochemistry class. 

So he buried it in the back of the mind and pretended on Mondays and Wednesdays when he had lectures that he didn’t have a staring problem. 

Whoever lived down the hall from them was an evil, evil person with little to no regard for human life and the needs of sleep-deprived college students. Zanka stirred from his mattress immediately, throwing aside his covers and ripping off his sheets in a pure move of deranged anger. He had just been about to go to sleep!

“We can’t say their music taste is terrible,” Riyo laughs, peaking down at his fuming form from the top bunk, her eyes bags looking like they were attempting to rival him, as Nola bounce could be heard in the hallway. How no one else had complained about this was a mystery. “I prefer a little more punk rock in the playlist though, for late nights.”

“How the fuck has no one reported this? It’s almost every day at this point. I haven’t gone a single night without hearing music shake through the hallways!”

“It’s Thursday, probably so everyone’s out drinking. We could be too y’know? There’s a house show three blocks away from our dorm and my friend in my geopolitics class told me that the moshpit and the artists there are the best.”

“Not my scene,” Zanka replied curtly, a rare attempt for him to curb his blatant dislike of all the house shows Riyo had taken him to. Really, it wasn’t her fault. 

Riyo loved punk and techno, and the opposite of all the slow R&B and jazz Zanka liked to play in his headphones while studying or working out in the gym. The house that Riyo took him to was not like that at all. Too many sweaty people and everyone pushing each other and not wearing enough deodorant. The first time Zanka had gone to one and had sweat smeared across his face from a tall guy’s armpit he almost threw up in his mouth. After that, he limited the number of parties he agreed to accompany Riyo to and told her to turn on her location and text him when she was coming back. He could tell she was slightly disappointed about it, but could already see her being pulled in the direction of the new friends she was making, equally as eager and uncaring as her, and in all the ways Zanka was beginning to realize he wasn’t.

Same old, wasn’t it? Leaving home just to realize he carried it all inside of him, every single thing he was trying to run away from living inside of him. Traditional. Boring. Restrained.

Three 6 Mafia, interrupts his thoughts, the staccato and bass of the music like needles to his skull. Three fucking AM. Zanka was going to annihilate whoever had decided to disrupt his sleep schedule. 

“You still have your eye mask and headband on, Zanka,” Riyo warned as she watched him put on his slippers and grab a robe from his closet. A gag gift from Riyo consisting of floppy bunny ears on the hood and a short, poofy tale in the back. He looked absurd in it, his biceps stretching the fabric taught and the robe cutting right above his knee, obviously designed for a slimmer feminine form than Zanka’s stocky physique. Fucking great. 

“Doesn’t matter at this point,” he murmurs, too sleep-deprived to think of the implications and embarrassment of someone seeing him in his most vulnerable state, skincare products stuck to his skin with Riyo’s stupid robe on him. As long as his nipples weren't out he was fine. 

Zanka stomps across the hallway, the mind numbingly bright lights of the dorm hallway adding to his sleep-derived delirium. At the end of the hallway, a group of five girls, obviously drunk and barely standing up, sing along to the next verse that’s emanating from the room responsible for his ire. 

“We g-gotta stay f-lyyyyyyyy,” they begin to sing before one girl slumps against the wall. Zanka snorts, but too loudly, so one of them affixes their eyes on him, and Zanka now realizes that he will not only have to neutralize the threat of an increasingly vibey playlist, but drunk women as well.

“Heyyyy,” she begins, smiling dopily in his direction, her appearance plain and non-descript. “I like this headband thing, it's super cute.”

Zanka nods absently, a fake smile plastered across his face, hoping to avoid all conversation and continue his way to the offending dorm with little interruption. When Zanka figures out who his RA is, he will be skinning them alive! 

Finally at the door of the room, Zanka knocks aggressively not expecting the music-demon to hear him over the sound of their hellish speaker.

A wet dream opens the door. 

Or more accurately, his worst nightmare, and threat to maintenance of his manufactured heterosexuality, and the absolute worst thing he could encounter on no sleep and little to no thoughts in his head. 

Jabber is barely wearing any clothing. His hair that had been toppled on his head when Zanka had first seen him now hangs a little past his shoulders. There’s a sheen of sweat covering the entirety of him, his chest and neck dripping with condensation that seems to bead down his body and drop to the ground. And he has piercings. Everywhere. Both his dark nipples have gold bars through them, their general existence threatening whatever Zanka shred of sanity he thought he had remaining in his body. His belly button is also pierced, the stretch of muscle unfairly flat and hairy in a way that turns Zanka’s stomach with a heat that he is entirely unfamiliar with.  There is no way he is wearing underwear, Zanka thinks, seeing the outline of Jabber’s privates pressed against his thigh. 

Someone whistles in the hallway, and Zanka's head immediately turns accusingly towards the gaggle of girls who are now giggling behind their hands. The same girl who had heckled him earlier was now raining a finger to point and laugh at him. Bitch, he thinks childishly, don’t you see me internally battling my social awkwardness and horniness right now.

“He’s talking to youuuuuu,” she shouts at him, and it takes Zanka a minute to process what she’s saying, horniness making his head cloudy. His head whips immediately back to Jabber who is indeed talking to him, his wide lips stretched over a smile that shows the unfortunately, charming crookedness of his incisors.

Right. When people are talking to you, look at their face and not their dick. Face not dick. His eyes meet dark brown ones. It’s almost worse what he finds there. Pure amusement and glee, and a tad bit of knowingness bounce around in Jabber’s unwavering gaze.

“I can’t hear you,” Zanka says horrifyingly, out of his body and completely embarrassed at his blatant perusal of his half-naked hallmate, who is fucking Jabber from biochemistry! “The music is too loud.” 

He pats himself on the back for the save and for the sight of Jabber’s elegant back and ass turning from him, and presumably turning down a speaker that Satan himself had to have produced. Zanka can see his armpit hair as he reaches far for where it must be. Jabber must never shave anything ever. Zanka finds himself horrified at how excited the thought makes him and tries to remember the disgust he felt when confronted with sweaty armpits at the mosh pit. It doesn’t work. There is nothing but pure want in him. It’s terrible.

The girls are still giggling in the hallway calling out to him. He flips them the bird out of sheer angered embarrassment and they peel into another round of laughter that leaves one girl gasping on the floor. Zanka is super glad that his suffering is making everyone’s night. He’s probably gonna kill himself graphically after this and dedicate his suicude letter to them. And Jabber. Maybe especially Jabber.

He’s made his way back to the doorway, which is great because his Zanka can end this embarrassing interaction and schedule a cold shower in the morning that will freeze him to death. He opens his mouth to speak—

“Hey, I know it’s late but I’m here to ask that you—“

“You’re in my biochemistry class! Man, you’re intense as hell! Last class, I saw you staring at me from across the room and wanted to talk to you but our professor was on my ass. We should sit next to each other next time!” 

Zanka currently cannot form thoughts. The idea that Jabber was aware of his shameless staring might actually kill him. He’ll never recover. 

To his own surprise, he declines, “Well, I’m not sure if that’s the best idea. I already have a hard time focusing-” 

Jabber does not seem to be impacted by any of his words. “Nah, it's cool! I need to go over some stuff in there too so we can both lock in together! Plus I like your vibe,” he comments, motioning towards Zanka’s form. He looks down at the bunny robe and knows that his headband is pushing back his forehead.  

“Oh,” he hears himself say. “Alright then.” 

“I stalked your Instagram right after class, but you had all your shit on private, Zanka,” Jabber says, his name rolling off his tongue as if he owns it. Like what Jabber just said to him was perfectly normal and they’re familiar with one another. “Guess it’s not a big deal though now that I know we live in the same hall. You can just give it to me now,” he finishes, making unflinching eye contact with Zanka, brown eyes pinpointed onto him like he’s some kind’ve museum painting. 

This is our first meeting, he reminds himself. I don’t know this asshole. I do not have to be nice to him. He is an evil sleep-disruptor. He is late to every single class. 

“I-”

“Do you have a lab partner yet?” Jabber does not wait for him to answer. “We should link up and study together. Hold up, lemme get my phone,” he says, disappearing from the doorway and grabbing his phone. 

“Phone,” he asks Jabber as he returns to the door. 

“Yeah put your phone number in and I’ll text you after class so we can study.” 

“Study,” Zanka asks as he takes Jabber’s phone, because apparently he cannot process anything and is just repeating Jabber’s words back to him. 

“Or,” Jabber takes a step closer, till he’s so near Zanka that he can feel his body heat attempting to melt all of Zanka’s inhibitions away, “I could get to know you better know…we could do other things besides studying…”

He watches the way Jabber tongue goes over the sharp points of his teeth and then over his lips while he looks at Zanka and has to take a step back from Jabber just so he’s able to think through his next sentence. 

“We will just be studying,” he clarifies, feigning a confidence that he’s lacked this entire interaction. “And show up to class on time! I always have to get there early so I can get all the notes. And,” he adds, taking a step closer, refusing to be intimidated by Jabber’s teasing, “Turn your music down on weekdays! None of us can sleep with it playing that loud.” 

Jabber doesn’t even flinch at the harshness of Zanka’s tone, instead taking it as an invitation to drag his eyes up and down his robe-clad form, their path stopping directly at his neck where Zanka knew his collarbones were visible. 

Jabber’s eyes on him felt like hands. Like he was sliding a finger in the divots where his pupils rested, and Zanka realized that he needed distance between the two of them quickly or he would do something stupid. Zanka didn’t realize someone could look at him like that, clever and curious but also slightly hungry. It makes him feel like he’s hungry too. Like if he doesn’t devour every flash of skin that Jabber reveals in this moment, and burn it into his brain he’ll be left wanting and wondering. 

Terrible, he thinks. Terrible, terrible, indeed.

He takes two steps back and a tiny third step just to feel secure. 

Jabber just smiles strangely at him, like his grin is more akin to showing teeth rather than friendliness. Zanka notes the uniqueness of his teeth, the incisors poking and crowding at the front of his mouth, making him a bit feline-like. He leans his lithe body against the door, and Zanka can see the way his armpit hair sneaks out of the crevices and presses against his pecs. Every part of Jabber is probably rough against the skin, he thinks. 

“Aye aye, captain. Anything else? Can I offer you a foot massage? Essential oils? Sometimes I do a little hair on the side when--” 

“Goodnight, Jabber,” he says, abruptly, turning away and walking all the way back to his room. 

He does not turn his back to see if Jabber is watching him. He can feel it all the way until he is back in the darkness of his room, the lights still dim, and Riyo blinking sleepily at him. 

“How’d it’d go,” she asks, already yawning and snuggling into her sheets. 

“Great,” he says, weakly and then clears his throat again. “Great.” He takes his dumbass bunny robe off and places it back on its hook. 

“Guess you can finally go to sleep now.” 

Zanka thinks of Jabber's eyes glued to his exposed neck and shudders. All of his body hair, making every line invisible, harsher and real. 

“I’m not sure if I’ll be getting much sleep.” 

Jabber is surprisingly on time. Better than on time, actually, since he is seated in their class laboratory and in full gear before Zanka, who hightails his ass out of bed every morning just to get there fifteen minutes early. He stares in shock at the sight of Jabber, notes out, and lab coat crisply buttoned to the top, with his hair in a tight bun, the shorter locs that hang as bangs clipped back by large and colorful hair clips. The sparkly pink one glitters in the light when Jabber tilts his head in Zanka’s direction, but he doesn’t look up from what must be their lab notes, writing in a seemingly steady pace in his notebook. 

“Didn’t realize you’d be beating me to the lab this morning,” Zanka says awkwardly, sliding in the seat next to Jabber. “I usually come early to go over my notes a few times, and review the prelab,” he says, feeling slightly ashamed as he peeks over at the set of notes that Jabber has. 

His handwriting sprawls across the page like it tries to run away from his hand, dense and organized with some set of rules that Zanka can’t catch.  He can see long equations are layered atop the page with sticky notes. 

The sheer density of notes in Jabber’s notebook makes his stomach drop. Zanka’s own notes are filled with question marks and streaks from his eraser wearing holes into the page, his scrawl half Japanese and English, as confusing to look at as Zanka had felt, rereading the procedure. 

“Most of that shit is jargon and science word vomit,” Jabber says, pausing his writing to face his body towards Zanka. There are rings across each one of his fingers, bronze and expensive-looking, like they were crafted exactly to be worn by him. Like he senses a line of tension through Zanka, his affect changes to one of amusement.

 “I prefer to let chemical bonds and the sound of the Bunsen burners seduce me into a new creation,” Jabber sighs, like he's talking about a class crush rather than an inanimate object. 

“Please pause your lust for the scientific process for now. I hardly understand the lab as is,” Zanka groans, already irritated at Jabber.

“Why are you already irritated? I turned my music down last night and everything. Super considerate of me to let you get your beauty sleep.”

“I don’t-I don’t even know what beauty sleep is,” Zanka said honestly, turning over the phrase in his head before giving up. English was a lost battle. “And you still were up all night. I heard you laughing on the phone from like three doors down.” 

Zanka is only half-lying. The echoes of Jabber’s enthusiastic phone conversation combined with the cycles of drunk students stumbling down the hallway had kept Zanka up all night as he went back and forth between doing his homework and solving the equations, all the while the noise continued outside. But a part of him enjoyed the way Jabber’s face moved into an expression between awe, mischievousness, and anticipation, like every time Zanka talked, he was already thinking on how to answer him.

“Beauty sleep is when you put on that cute little robe and those eye patches on so you can look pretty for me in the lab the next day.”

“The robe was a gag gift and is not a true reflection of my personality at all,” Zanka hisses, refusing to engage with Jabber’s…flirtations. 

“Obviously not. It’d probably make more sense if you showed up in plague doctor fit or somethin. Or something boringer. You look like you would eat up a matching PJ set. Maybe even a little button up to bed,” Jabber pauses between writing like he’s actually imagining it before he resumes writing. How many fucking notes is he taking? 

“It’s amazing how much thought you’ve put into what I wear to bed and not actually doing anything to help me with actually sleeping.” 

Zanka regrets his wording before he even finishes his sentence. He can see Jabber already forming a response, most likely incredibly flirtatious and witty but is saved by the loud noise of the door cracking open and their classes teaching assistant unlocking the door. Jabber just wiggles his eyebrows at Zanka, and to preserve his dignity Zanka ignores him, trying to reel his traitorous heart back in, that is beating like he ran a marathon.

It only gets more embarrassing from there as more of his classmates funnel in and their lab groups are cemented. Zanka and Jabber are placed in the same group, and Jabber grins at his side, satisfied that his initial proposition was coming to fruition. A large, burly, blond boy named Evan gets placed in their group, and a booger of epic proportions hangs out of his nose. Him and a mousy haired girl, Jamie whisper quietly back and forth to one another, giggling about one thing or the other. He pays them no mind. Next to him, the heat of Jabber’s body is more prevalent than it was before, and Zanka wonders if he had moved his chair closer during their short conversation just to drive him insane. He tries to ignore it. 

Zanka gets so immersed in trying to not notice Jabber, that in the first few minutes of their class, the TA firing off instructions, he misses all of the hints she had graciously provided to their sullen class. He ends up having to recheck his math twice before the entire ordeal and by the time he’s certain he has the correct answer, or as close to a correct answer as a hypothesis can be, Jabber has already brought their tools out from the classes cabinet; pipettes laid out neatly, the refractometer placed off to the side, and the beakers they need. Evan and Jamie do not bother helping him at all; instead, their chatter rises from its quiet tone to something conversational and amused.

“I could’ve gotten that myself,” Zanka finds himself saying, instead of thank you and you didn’t have to do that. 

Jabber doesn’t even pretend to act as if he cares about Zanka’s obvious rising panic and terrible attitude with his own math, and smiles. “You also could’ve said thank you but I’m not one to start making demands.” 

“I was checking over my math to make sure--”

Jabber moves closer to Zanka, the full height of him curling inwards towards his notebook, his arm braced over the table as he reads over Zanka’s shoulders. 

“Well this math is wrong,” he says, and his pencil, an archaic, chewed gross looking thing, taps over the harsh lines of Zanka’s own handwriting, circling where he saw fault. There were lots, apparently. “You rounded the intermediate values way too early so half of your numbers are probably not in the range you want them to be. Also you only needed two significant figures for your, but there’s three here, cause you mixed it up with concentration.” 

Zanka can immediately feel himself flush in humiliation, going quiet and very still. Jabber is standing beside him, his body creating a shadow over where he leans besides Zanka, lower half bent and arms braced beside him on the table. Whatever fragrance he uses is wiggling its way into Zanka’s lungs, and he breathes one shaky breath in before exhaling. Annoying. 

Jabber’s help is unwarranted, annoying, and makes him feel like he should re-enroll in AP Chemistry, but he is right. Zanka erases the equation, beginning to rewrite the equation, mummering loud enough for Jabber to hear and begrudgingly allowing himself to be interrupted anytime Jabber chewed up pen to correct his stream of consciousness. 

Jamie chimes in like Jabber’s corrections had roused her from her conversation. She has a certain glint in her eye that Zanka is not sure what to do with, but for the most part chalks it up to her desire to show him some friendly comfort. 

“Actually, Zanka I got something similar to you as well, so I wouldn’t sweat about it. The pre-lab is a hypothetical that doesn’t really matter, since it’s not really related to what we’re doing today,” she says, eyes fixed on Zanka, like Jabber is invisible beside him. 

“Well then you’re wrong as well,” Jabber comments with a shrug, the same smile on his face but different now, sharper, lacking all of his amusement. His voice is different as well when he talks to Jamie Zanka notices, the bitten off edges of how he usually speaks now harsh and defined, like every word makes air cut through his teeth. “Rounding imprecisely is going to create the wrong calculation, and even if it’s close it won’t be at the level of preciseness needed for a lab report. And the pre-lab is preparation for the procedures we’re actually about to do, so if you get that wrong then you’ll get the actual lab wrong too.” 

Jamie rolls her eyes but at the frankness of Jabber’s tone backs off. But even without her speaking the tension between the two of them continues. No matter what Jabber says in terms of carrying out the procedure, yelling out the numbers, and switching out the beakers, Jamie doesn’t seem to take anything he says seriously until she does it herself. It could be chalked up to a simple personality difference, Jabber’s brash and upfront nature with Zanka irritating the sensibilities of this girl who might’ve thought herself to be more well mannered or polite. 

But then there was this thing. 

This tension in the shoulders of Jabber when she would ignore him or the subtle way Jamie would carry back the numbers and double check them with Evan and Zanka before she felt comfortable writing them down on her own paper. Or the way that Jabber’s usual twang settled into something stiffer and entirely foreign to how Zanka knew his voice to sound so far, smooth, rolling and meloiodic. It was off but Zanka didn’t have the language for what it might’ve meant or even what Jabber felt about the entire thing and instead focused on what he knew he could accomplish. Eventually, Zanka knew that to just say the numbers himself after Jabber

“It should be 00.00975 ml and then we can finish up this last chart and finish class," Zanka told Jamie, who was now frantically writing across their lab sheet, eager to get out as the rest of them. Zanka saved his snarky comments. They could’ve probably been out by now if she hadn’t been intent on bickering with Jabber. He stood beside her watching her frantically finish out her notes.

“Yeah I’m going to be leaving soon. I, unfortunately, have an event for another organization to head to after this so I’ll be leaving a few minutes early,” directing the comment mostly at Jamie, his back turned towards him. Zanka wants to dispel whatever has happened in this two hour class to make Jabber so curt. He doesn’t say anything. He avoids his eyes and watches Jamie write.

“Did you already talk to Professor Samuel about it,” Jamie questions, and before Zanka can speak in his defense, their TA, Janae, sweeps over, her destination clear as she steps into the space next to Jabber. 

“Yes he did! He’ll actually be doing a project for our department’s yearly Toxicology Research Olympics! If you guys are interested you should definitely look into it! We fund a couple of scholars to create their own antidotes to sample venoms the university is still studying!” 

“Isn’t that program usually for juniors,” Evan asks, sniffling and refusing to grab a tissue. 

“Usually yes, but there are always exceptions. You can ask Jabber! He’s the youngest person to have ever done it in the time of the program’s history,” she says beaming down at the lot of them. 

Zanka can’t conceal his surprise, thinking of the little he knows of Jabber being the fact that he lives on the same floor as Zanka and somehow maintains a schedule of pure nocturnal behavior, despite his seemingly heightened understanding of the material. 

“Really,” Jamie questions rather rudely, aloud. 

“Yes,” answers Janae with a wide smile. “Considering some of your hypotheses in your last essay about your findings with Professor Lincoln’s venom samples were weakly supported Jamie, I think it would be a great opportunity for you to build up your lab and research skills! But it’s just a suggestion!” 

Behind her Jabber was wearing a grin of increasing smugness, his lab coat now off but the pink and glittery hair pieces still attached to his bangs. He was wearing another one of those outfits that was disastrously put together and still somehow made him seem as if he’s just walked off of a streetwear magazine. 

Jamie looks stuck between doing something absolutely horrifying like crying and blurting out something at him as he sticks out his tongue at her from behind their TA’s head. Zanka takes the initiative to begin packing his stuff, already annoyed at the idea of what his hair is gonna look like once he takes the goggles off and heads back to his dorm. Jabber is by his side before he can even blink, leaning in close enough that his voice is a vibrating murmur in Zanka’s ear. 

“I’ll stop by your room to study in a few and you can explain to me why you’re so shitty at doing basic math and chemistry.” 

Zanka can feel his face flush hot with anger and something else that he absolutely does not have the energy to address. 

“What- Wait, I don’t even need-” 

“Should I bring the speaker or are you one of those psychos that actually study in complete silence? Snacks too? My homie made Rice Krispies-”

“Just,” he starts, but realizes he has no idea where the sentence is going. “Just knock, okay. And try not to come around too late, my roommate is kind of strict,” Zanka lies easily. Riyo is actually the opposite of strict. He’s entirely sure the only thing preventing her from turning their room into a party is the sheer respect she has for Zanka and his bottom bunk. 

“Got you, Z,” he says and does this odd little salute that makes Zanka shake his head in irritation. “Imma head to this thing and by the time I’m finished, you better be ready!”

“How are people so perfect,” groans Riyo, her body sweaty and heavy against his as they share a booth in their crowded dining hall, picking away at the dry vegetables and chicken with too much sauce. 

They had both just come from the gym, Zanka arms and legs aching from the pressure of the weights. His body had changed drastically in his time living in America, everything containing more calories and preservatives than any meal that Zanka had consumed in his entire time living in Japan. 

The constant lull that had been sports in high school and now in the first few months of college a rigorous gym routine kept the depressive fog away for short moments and forced him to tone down the extra weight he had picked up. He had been feeling heavy for awhile, though. He knew at this point it wasn’t just the weight. 

“What do you mean,” Zanka asks, shoving another bite of veggie and chicken into his mouth. 

“I mean it’s like there are people who go to class and get good grades and eat healthy and dress like insanely fucking fashinably and wake up and then like paint a thousand things and have a regular fucking job that they do and get along with all their coworkers on the job and then still manage to clean their asses twice a day and smell nice.”

“You don’t clean your ass twice a day?”

“Oh my god stop being judgemental,” she says with a roll of her eyes. “I cleaned it enough! But it’s just crazy cause it’s like everyone in the art department is having a fucking niche-off all the time and of top of that all of them are insanely talented and rich and--”

“Is this about your new group of friends,” Zanka questions, turning over food that felt like much in his mouth. 

Riyo had been hanging out with a gaggle of what Zanka could only describe to be the exact kind’ve people he always knew she would be around when they went to college: headstrong, eclectic and insanely talented. One of the girls, Noerde, had come to pick Riyo up from their dorm one night, and she was unbelievably beautiful, tall, and impeccably dressed. He could tell Riyo had been trying to impress her, cutting her usual curse filled quips, with a fragile feminine tone that Zanka believed didn’t suit her. He kept quiet though. 

Zanka had already become aware of the gap growing between them. The longer they stayed in college, the larger Riyo’s circle grew, her weekends spent almost entirely outside the dorm, surfing on peoples couches and laughing with friends she had met this week, carpooling to parties. She had invited Zanka a couple of times but the outcome was always the same and Zanka didn’t want to continue holding her back from being with people who made her happy just because he could hardly hold a conversation. He wanted her to be happy. 

He wishes his brain knew that as well. 

Jealousy was becoming a common, ugly thing within him and instead of reaching out it made him want to retreat farther away from Riyo, build the distance wider between them. It was unfair towards her and it was hurting him. He knew this. 

But he always liked to press the wound. 

“No my friends are cool! I mean I do think it can get kinda complicated because I’m not always sure if I can match their sheer level of coolness and artistic talent, but that’s how being an artist is sometimes! And I think college is the first time I’ve been around so many different people like me, so it’s been super fun…it’s just like sometimes, I don’t even know who I am.” 

Zanka wonders. Is that how college is supposed to be? A place teeming with loads of people like you, who you got along well with and tried out new things together? 

Zanka had found none of that so far and most of the blame lay entirely on his shoulders. Even with his college having lesser diversity to some of the local universities there were plenty of people who looked like him in his department, some even being foreign exchange students from Japan here to participate in the fierce STEM programs. It was a stark contrast to high school and yet Zanka could not take advantage of it, to be lost in grinding out assignment after assignment in hopes that could correct whatever despair had been clinging to him since the second week of school ended. I’ll make friends after I submit this essay, he had told himself. Friends would come after he completed his project. After he finished the pre-lab. After he submitted those equations. After after after after after. He had been realizing lately that there was no after. Just his own insecurity eating away at every opportunity. 

“I’m not sure I know who I am either,” he tells Riyo, shoveling another mouthful of food into himself, ignoring how hard it was to swallow. “This semester’s been a bit disappointing.” 

Riyo instantly refocuses her attention onto him and he can see her scrutinizing his face, probably already aware of the loneliness that Zanka had been feeling. 

“Have you met anyone yet?”

“No,” he says grumpily, slurping from his drink, a mix of too many sodas.

“You go to the gym like every fucking day and have a million boring biology classes, how have you not met someone?” 

“Well actually,” he says then hesitates before continuing. “There is this guy in one of my classes and he happens to be the super fucking annoying guy next door who blasts music on weekends and talks to a million people on the phone per day.”

“Oh Mr. 360 Mafia on Thursdays, Paramore on Fridays, and Brownstone on Saturdays? I love that guy! Banger playlist,” she says between bites of food, spittle flying out of her mouth.  

“You would like him,” he murmurs underneath his breath, tossing a napkin at her and hopes the Riyo gets the hint. She only wipes half of her face while the other is still covered in barbecue sauce. 

“What about him,” she asks.

“Well he’s actually coming over to study today…maybe. I don’t know he just- invited himself over to our room to study,” he groans in frustration, trying to not let his nervousness peak through at the prospect of having alone time with Jabber. 

Riyo squints her eyes at him which somehow makes her look, impressively, more stupid than she usually does when she’s trying to get on Zanka’s nerves. 

“Are you like…blushing at the idea of this guy coming over to our dorm study?”

“Literally no, I’m not blushing, it is one hundred percent impossible for me to blush, and it's going to be a normal, completely boring studious session between prospective chemistry students!”

She squints again. 

“Is studying like a new code for fucking? Cause if you need me to leave the room so you guys can go at it I can. We don’t have to do the code stuff- I mean unless you want to like we could try some stuff out like -”

“Riyo, I would literally pay good money for a sniper to blow your head off right now, stop talking. We will just be studying!” 

“Okay cool. No more questions about the study sesh,” she puts study sesh in air quotes and Zanka wants to wring her fucking neck. “But can I at least get their IG? Tiny sneak peak. A little morsel for mama to chew on in art class when the fucking emos in the corners are plotting how to outdo me.” 

“Fine,” he responds back in irritation, overwhelmed once again at her pure talent of misusing the English language. “It’s jab underscore dontblab and he has a profile pic of a capybara holding up a peace sign. It’s the dumbest shit ever.” 

“Oh my god, you memorized his handle, Zanka! Literally, tell me right now when the wedding is right now. I swear to god I won’t wear anything you’ll hate but I can’t promise you anything if there’s an afterparty!” 

“I sincerely despise you from my very core.” 

“Oh my god, he’s hot! Zanka. I could cry real tears for you and they would come out of my vagina because of how smoking this guy is. Wow. Look at that. Oh my god, I’m taking notes right now, this Instagram is artfully obscure and mysterious.” 

Zanka is entirely sure she’s going on for the next few minutes just to see how many veins in his forehead she can get to pulse in anger. Riyo has very little interest in men, nonexistent actually considering that Zanka had assumed her to be a lesbian since they met in high school, so he’s entirely sure she’s just bugging him for the sport. By the time they finish their dinner, Riyo has put every topic related to studying in air quotes and Zanka genuinely feels like he might vomit at the prospect of Jabber knocking on his door. 

To make matters worse, Riyo ditches him right after dinner to hang out with some people for an art project she’s doing so Zanka has no choice but to drag himself to his dorm and gruel through his soul-sucking STEM homework waiting on the knock. It’s around when 10PM when he guesses that Jabber entirely forgot about his promise and Zanka decides that he needs to get a grip on his fucking life and make some friends since he’s worked up over getting a knock from someone he obviously way too interested in. He takes a shower, cleans the floor of their cluttered room, 

And of course, at the ridiculous time of 1AM, Zanka rolls out of bed, grabs his stupid fucking robe, and opens the door to pause the incessant knocking of Jabber Wonger, decked out in a full fit and holding a pan of Rice Krsispie treats. 

“Studying time,” he singsongs, pushing past Zanka’s half awake form, and flicking on the lights on his way to Riyo and Zanka’s combined desk. “What should we cover first? Your weak ass understanding of polytropic acids or your weak ass understanding of rounding? We can cover both but I’m really considering a pay-by-hour kind’ve situation.”

“What. The. Fuck” 

Chapter Text

Zanka realizes he’s in love with Jabber right between the wig and shampoo section of the beauty supply store haphazardly organized and messy. 

Jabber’s on the other end of the phone bickering with him about choosing the wrong store, and about how they never have the right gel, and that this is most likely all of Zanka’s fault for knocking over his homemade container when there was a national shea butter shortage cause of all the recent importation laws, and Zanka is half-assedly disagreeing, riling him up as he fills the basket with the only brand of loc jewelry large enough for Jabber’s thick locs, the correct gel, that expensive Brigeo shampoo Jabber raves about and a faux silk scar, since the last one got burned by Jabber latest experiments, and Zanka stops when he thinks he spots Jabber’s loctician frowning at two containers of bobbles, remembering Jabber complaining about her being booked up and meets her in the aisle, phone between his shoulder and ear as his basket of products unbalances him. 

“Hold on, hold on, I think your loctician is actually in the store right now-“

“Then why the fuck am I still talking to you, man, hand her the phone-”

And Zanka hands her the phone, a nice lady, named Anushka, with two adorable children that always giggle at him when he arrives on the steps of the salon, and he can hear the both of them going back and forth, Jabber asking where her appointment slots went, Anushka laughing and saying she had a few left for her favorite customer, and eventually his phone gets back to him while he’s checking out at the register, the teenager at the front chewing her gum as she scans item after item, and Zanka swipes his card without thinking, Anushka hands the phone to him laughing, saying-“

“Jabber, you should let your man choose your style this time so we don’t have to spend thirty minutes consulting.”

And before she can even propose something else, Jabber is  shouting over the phone on speaker, “I don’t give a rat’s ass what style he likes-” but his voice might as well be under water.

All Zanka can hear is Anushka’s voice saying your man and it repeats in his head, all the way to the walk back to his car, where he shoves Jabber’s bag of products in the back, and it sits with him till he’s in the front seat and realizes that he is in love with Jabber Wonger and possibly wants to be his man forever, for the rest of time. And all the way through his drive to their apartment he repeats the phrase out loud, realizing how true it is, how being defined as Jabber’s man makes the previous emptiness of speaking an honorific-less language subside. The possibility of having that title added on, Zanka, Jabber’s man and not the harsher, heavier drag of his last name weighing him down with responsibility, is so liberating he almost laughs his entire drive home. 

He’s in love with Jabber all the way to the the turn on the intersection, pushing his shitty Mazda over pot holes and streets in desperate need of refilling, and is in love with him after he runs a red light to get to their apartment, and is in love with him in the mail room, where he has to sort out the envelopes with his name on them and the much larger portion of Jabber’s, who has companies begging for him to sign with them, because he is actually, quite possibly, the smartest person he knows, even though Zanka will never admit it. When he enters through the backdoor, laden with bags and too much mail, smoke has obscured their living room. He can see Jabber with the fire extinguisher and a line of beakers that should absolutely not be on their kitchen counter and he is in love with him even then, as the smoke alarm goes off. The sprinklers release and Zanka is soaked from head to toe in his love with Jabber, so much so that he does not know what to do with it besides to do with what he has always done: hide it close to him and hope it doesn’t grow into a knife. 

“I thought we agreed that we were keeping all experiments in the campus’ lab or in the basement,” Zanka says with feigned sternness, placing the bags down just to distract himself from the way his hands shake. 

Jabber’s voice is loud, attempting to go beyond the hiss of the fire extinguisher as it puts out whatever chemical flame had been sparked by his careless experimentation. Zanka wonders if the fire department will force them both to scrounge up some money to replace the extinguisher, it being the third in the last three months. Will he still  love Jabber then, after he’s 300$ down? The answer greets him at the same time Jabber turns, his hair wrapped in what he calls his lab scarf, a white silk headscarf, he uses to match the blunt white of his labcoat and mask, his smile slightly too wide and goofy looking. 

Ah there it is, Zanka thinks. His love for him, banging against his skull, hanging in the very hinge of Jabber’s smile and wiggly eyebrows. Immature, Zanka tries to think when he almost trips over Jabber’s shoes to reach the kitchen. Annoying, he attempts to think, as he grabs a rag from underneath the counter, and begins swiping away at the white powder. He wants to squash this fondness in his chest like a bug but it doesn’t work. He still loves him. Even worse, he thinks he might grow to love him more as time passes. 

“Me and you both. But the fucking basement was taken up by Karen and her bad ass little kids who decided they wanted to play hide and seek down there and I wasn’t gonna catch a case if one of them decided to touch some my lab work.” 

“So you decided to do it in the kitchen instead of taking the bus to campus and using the lab,” he answers, sighing in exasperation as he wrings the rag out again. The powder was being stubborn. 

“Cthoni was supposed to drive me but she’s busyyyyy,” Jabber whines, forgoing helping Zanka entirely, and sitting on the clean edge of the counter, swinging his feet like a little kid. “And you were obviously playing around in the beauty supply, instead of making it home, so—”

Zanka throws the rag in his direction, satisfied when it lands with a harsh thwack in Jabber’s face, who makes a choked out sound of disgruntlement. Zanka’s heart feels like it’s beating in his cheek and he gnaws on it, in hopes that the pain will go away. Jabber’s already hopping off the counter, that mischievous glint in his eye, and Zanka readies himself, hoping that his recent realization isn’t written all over his voice, spelling out for his love Jabber’s hardheaded ass. 

When Jabber hops on him and knocks him both to the floor, covering them of the remnants of the powder and the gross feeling of whatever vinegar Jabber has disinfected the entire area with, and making the entire situation worse and messier— there is no reason for Zanka to laugh but he does. Jabber is laughing too, but he is far less melodic than Zanka, coming out in short, gremlin-like bursts, as he attempts to put Zanka into a headlock and fails. Zanka ends up on his back as Jabber holds both his hands above his head, immobile and with a slight headache from the roughhousing. 

Jabber is worse for wear, hair officially freed from its scarf now loose around his neck, and a slight trail of blood coming out of his nose where Zanka must have got him in their powder covered struggle. The frizz of new growth makes his locs puff out slightly from his scalp, the pieces framing his face in something akin to a mane. He smells disgusting, a mix of chemicals, alcohol, vinegar, and the charred edge of something burnt, and yet when he leans forward, the weight of him grinding against the bones of Zanka’s wrist, Zanka can’t help but lean in, chasing his lips, hoping for a kiss, for anything to calm whatever has been breaking down inside of him.

“This is it? If this is the best fight you can put up then it’s guaranteed that you’ll be kidnapped by the end of the semester. You know they say it takes like 72 hours before you're gone forever? I’m not sure I’ll have enough materials to make enough bombs for the culprits so you need to be on your Jackie Chan shit.” 

“It’s always impressive how often you have weird, delusional perverted fantasies about scenarios that will never happen.” Zanka leans up again. He wants to kiss him. Jabber leans in for a second too, smiling, before pulling away. Their lips brush and Zanka tries to get closer again but Jabber moves away, peppering small kisses on Zanka’s jaw. “You smell like shit,” Zanka informs him. 

“That ain’t stop you from tryna kiss me though,” he says, smug now and a tinge of an expression Zanka usually sees before they fuck. Jabber’s horniness is always hilariously obvious.  Blown pupils. Body leaning towards Zanka like they have a magnet between them. He’s lovely. Zanka will never tell him. 

“I lost my mind. Moment of insanity,” mummers against Jabber’s hot skin. 

“I get those sometimes. But like- more frequently.” 

Zanka snorts and Jabber giggles in that offputting way that Zanka is not supposed to be fond of and then they’re kissing again, Zanka’s fingers caught in the thick thatch of hair that is Jabber’s undercut, and Jabber’s longer and elegant fingers, find their way onto the back of Zanka’s neck. Their freshly manicured, their curved sharp shape the work of one of Jabber’s many homegirls who did this and that and the third- according to him - and the feeling of them resting against Zanka’s chest and thighs makes him groan out a sound of pure want. 

They don’t usually linger on this part, the intimacy of it too slow and revealing for the both of them, but today, when Jabber pulls away and the tickle of his long fingernails rake their way down Zanka, his brain flatlines and he feels a neediness well up in him that is so overwhelming he can feel it vibrating in his teeth.

He flips them over, Jabber’s back hitting the ground with a harsh thump, the heavier weight of Zanka pinning him down. Jabber’s locs spread around him like a halo, eyes wide and big but excited, already leaning into the pain of Zanka’s touch, like he can’t help himself, like Zanka is a flame the Jabber is too eager to touch despite knowing how it will burn. 

It feels that way anyway when Zanka manages to sink his teeth into the soft skin of Jabber’s neck like an animal, their dicks pressed against each other through the confines of their pants, Jabber making those low-pitches sounds in the back of his throat like he’s so easy for Zanka, even when it hurts. 

It feels like they’re burning. Like Zanka is being set aflame.

Back to the Past...

Two Hours After Zanka and Jabber’s Class ⇣ 4:30PM

“Jesus Jermaine fucking Christ, Janae these samples are amazing! The purity of this venom is actually unbelievable, I see why three people died trying to deliver this. I’m a thousand percent sure this thing resembles spider venom more than the snake it was taken from! Amazing.” 

“Hard agree, but lowkey feel free to not disclose that information out loud. The university is kind’ve still under a lawsuit over that,” she replies, her voice slightly muffled underneath her mask.

Janae sits in the corner of the lab examining a sample herself, her cute loose curls tucked underneath the tight tie of a white bandana, and the skin around her eyes red and indented from being pressed against the harshness of the microscope. The lab environment was harsh against the skin, most of the rooms temperature monitored and humidity modified, to the point that most people left with dry skin and in Jabber’s case, he was left ashy and cracked over his elbows and knees after so much time in there. Jabber had passive aggressively joked to the director of the department to start putting lotion in the bathrooms but the director was so ancient and stark white that the only time he would be putting on moisturizer was when the coroner would be preparing him to be put in a casket. 

The clock in the corner, analog and most likely a million years old, continues to tick away as Jabber immerses himself in a rare sense of relaxation that he only gets when he’s left alone to work. 

“So about Jamie…,”  Janae begins, cutting through any semblance of silence he was indulging in.

“Yo, I’m actually in a wonderful mood right now so if we can please save the Jamie-talk till after I’m done examining this sample, she’s an extreme intellectual and emotional vibe-killer. “ 

“Yeah, I fucking know, lemme finish dummy,” Janae says, rolling her chair over till she bumped into Jabber’s side sharply, and his focus is immediately shattered. 

He lifts his face from the where it was chemically bonded to the microscope, and squints at Janae in irritation. She’s put those performative blue-light blocking glasses back on her face which gives her this really quirky, bisexual STEM girl look Jabber’s pretty sure she’s been cultivating with her oddly shaped earrings and the thousands of bracelets on her wrist. The nicheness of aesthetic is unfortunately neutralized by the fact that they live in New York and there are actually six other racially ambiguous girls with the exact same style as her, but Jabber finds himself fond of her regardless. Except for moments like these where she seeks to transcend the barrier of their cordial mentor-mentee relationship and provoke complex thought out of him in the middle of his venom time. 

“I know I’m your TA in that class but in real life, I'm actually your friend, and a friend can’t just watch another friend get racially microagressed in class without doing something. So how do you feel about me switching your group around?”

Jabber doesn’t bother commenting on how debatable that friend term is, considering that they exclusively talk in the context of him begging her to ignore legal and institutional barriers so he can study the university's venom stock at home. 

“Absolutely not,” he says without giving her concerns a thought and pressing his face back into the microscope. “And I can’t understand the metabolic profiling of this sample if you keep talking to me about things that don’t matter.” 

“Um newsflash, this does matter, that girl is a freaking bitch, and her stupid ass is gonna impede you from actually completing your labs in the set time period.” 

“Janae, the only reason I’m in that class is because I was too hungover to take the placement test and then the My Little Pony movie came out the day after so I had to go see that instead of taking the make-up.”

“You're telling me you missed all the dates to re-take? Jabber there were literally four different dates for you to switch classes and allow the department to re-test you and one of them was literally last week!” 

“My grandma fixed some pot roast on that day though, so I had to go over to her house and then it was a whole thing cause I also had to go to church and then Pastor Micheal decided that the gospel and three hours of prayer wasn’t enough for all of us, which is fucking insane because I don’t even subscribe to that Jesus shit but it was almost kind’ve worth it because my plug was also there and wait—” he adjusts over the microscope and pulls the sample out from underneath the metal plate that is holding it. “Have you seen this? There’s some freaky shit going on with how this is looking so maybe it’s about time for fluorescence microscopy or maybe just some live cell imaging so I can actually see what we're working with here.” 

“Number one, that's gonna cost a shit ton of money, and number two, I cannot in good conscience watch you get disrespected by that group of imbeciles, whether or not you care about that class or not! You’re here at this university for your education, your the youngest person in the history of the department to be on a research team of this scale, and you're also the department’s first, black,” she whispers, the word black like it might bite her, “scholar to receive the Outstanding Biochemical Research and Reframing Award. You shouldn’t be getting treated like an idiot by a girl who is a direct legacy-admit and who probably hires someone to do her homework for her!” 

The analog clock ticks again. 

“What time is it,” he asks her, trying to scheme a way to get this venom sample back to his dorm and in his refrigerator. “I got a NSBE thing at like 6:30 and Antoine told me that they’re catering Puerto Rican food from Paula’s this time.” 

“Jabber,” she practically shrieks, ripping off her mask to properly yell at him. “Why the hell are you being so difficult about this! You have literally never once since I’ve known you cared about being given less problems.”

“Janaeeeeee,” he mocks back at her, beginning to take off his lab coat and throws it in the garbage can they keep for the laundry service to pick up and sanitize properly. “If I needed you to save me from every single microaggression I received in class at this university, then you would literally need to intercept every single conversation I’ve had with all living human beings I attend this university with. You’re not Superwoman, or a member of the Black Panther Party or my grandma. If you want to help stop microagressions then you need to actually show up to the protests the black cultural center organizes every week against this university,” she opens her mouth to speak, but Jabber holds up a hand, already checking his phone to see where their going to hold the next meeting, “And if you want to be my friend, keep doing what you did today, and let me handle the rest. And please save your comments about being an ally to the black community for someone who actually gives a fuck, thanks.” 

Jabber loves Janae, she’s sweet, holds wonderfully boring conversation during his monthly check ups with the director of the Toxiocology Olympics and has made many (failed) attempts to invite him over to her artsy white girlfriend’s apartment to eat cheese or whatever the fuck white people do instead of making actual food for parties. But unfortunately, her complex is going to prevent him from getting to sink his teeth into the frighteningly laviscous muscles of Zanka’s biceps and forearms and Jabber actually is a man on a mission who can’t afford to be ruined by his overzealous colleague. He’s already reeled in at least seventy percent of his usual stalkerish and obsessive tendencies but if he doesn’t manage to find a way to fluster that man enough to get him to abandon his tight-lipped and polite bullshit, and really give Jabber the nasty, tension filled situationship he’s been feigning for then he’ll actually be bombing the department as his next research project. 

He sighs when he opens Instagram and once again sees not a singular post nor story from Zanka’s absolutely bland and scarce profile. He doesn’t even bother to correct the rudeness of Janae sulking at least six feet away from him and instead goes to Zanka’s tagged to see if there’s anything that could possibly give him insight as to who the man is, besides the completely invasive background check he had Cthoni do on him a few days ago and the looking at every corner of his childhood home on Zillow (that guy is fucking loaded). There’s nothing but pictures of him with a girl named Riyo, who has half her midriff exposed in every photo and her hands all over his hot chemistry loser soon-to-be-lover that doesn’t even bother to follow him back on Instagram! It’s so unfair. Jabber supposes he has no choice but to absolutely make an insanely life-changing impression on Zanka during their study session today and hope for the best.

Next to him, he can hear Janae scooting her chair back and forth and shoots her a glance. She looks as if she’s going to physically combust if she doesn’t get to speak. Jabber wants to groan in frustration. It’s always the people he’s not shooting for to like him that end up wanting his attention. 

“Permission to speak?” 

He thinks about it. 

“Permission granted.” 

“I’m sorry, please forgive me, you know I only want the best for you,” Janae bursts out.

“Forgiven, Janae. Don’t switch the groups, I’ll be fine.” 

“Okay, roger won’t do that and just so you know, if you’re free this weekend Andy, my girlfriend, I’m not sure if you remember, she’s having a little cheese and cracker game night so if you want to come-“

“Oh shit, Janae I actually have to get to this meeting but maybe, we’ll see-” 

And then he promptly walks out the door without waiting for her to finish. 

Because Jabber is God’s favorite and has an absolute stellar streak of luck, the food is just being opened by the time he sprints halfway across campus to make it to the Black Cultural Center. Antoine is already there, legs kicked back and wearing some ridiculously formal get up, a collared, leather situation with tailored slacks that kind’ve make him look like he has the capability of contacting the Men in Black or Beyonce, depending on one's perspective. His hair is in new configuration of braids than from the last time Jabber had seen him, a heart stitch-braided on the side of his head, and his septum piercing is actually flipped down today, which means he probably isn’t coming back from his parents house like he usually is when they have a meeting. There’s two studded diamond earrings in his ears that stand out like beacons. They compliment the rich tone of his skin, a warm umber. When he sees Jabber his face does this hilarious thing where he is obviously trying to prevent himself from being happy over seeing him but his eyes glitter in this odd light. Natural aegyo, Jabber thinks before sitting down. How refreshing. 

“Oh you’re actually early! Thank God! But also not thank god,” Anntoine rolls his eyes and pulls out his phone. The ding sound of Apple Pay goes off and he pockets his device with annoyance. “Cthoni’s outlook calendar thing must’ve actually worked.” 

“What? The meetings not at 6:30? What the hell am I here for then? I was entangled in a delicious session with the sexy snake venom Janae brought in today!”  

“Cthoni changed all of the dates in your calendar to show up an hour earlier so you would actually show up. I told her you would forget because you usually would be high by now, but look at you! Sober and present for the day which means I owe her twenty bucks. As punishment, we might actually make use of you today!” 

“Oh my god, what the fuck, you people are pyschotic. I’m poisoning the next round of food you cater and I ain’t providing the antidote!” He walks over to the food and begins to pull off the lids on the aluminum trays already irritated at what he sees. 

“You can’t make those kind’ve jokes when you’re capable of carrying them out,” Antoine warns, sending Jabber a look of reprimand. 

“I know, I wasn’t joking.” 

“You are allowed three more sentences that would get you sent to the psych ward and then I’m calling Chthoni to come and get you.”

Jabber rolls his eyes at the threat and continues his perusal of the catered food, piping hot at the front of the room. As he opens more and more containers he begins to get frustrated at what he’s finding. 

“Oh my god, everyone is pissing me off today. Who the fuck ordered empanadillas, habichuelas, and mofongo with no fucking lechon! Where is the pork, oh my god, Antoine, if you ordered Paula’s without getting any mothafucking pork-” 

“We’re trying to be more inclusive,” Antoine says all smug, stretching out inclusive like he knows it irritates Jabber. “There are Muslim students who show up to these meetings! Like, fucking me, Jabber! Wait- Why are you pulling a vial out of your backpack?! Okay I was just joking, the trays of pork are underneath the table!” 

Jabber retracts the vial of spider venom he swindled from Dr. Lincoln’s collection he keeps in his office and looks underneath the table and is met with the wondrous sight of three trays of food, two with lechon written on them and the last container having pernil at the base of its container. He puts both containers on the table and finally begins the process of loading up his plate, pairing rice with the soupy goodness of habichuelas, and grabbing a mix of tostones, empanadillas and the perfectly cooked lechon, the skin still crunchy and salty when he digs in next to Antoine. 

“So you’re quicker to threaten the general population with immediate death, today more than usual,” Antoine asks, shoveling food in his mouth from his own plate, which noticeably lacks pork. “Something wrong?”

Jabber sighs, finally content enough with his food to talk and opens his mouth to speak. Before he can even get the word out Antoine interrupts. 

“Wait before you speak, don't feel pressured to include any graphic details that you would usually include like explicit discussion of sex, violence, gore or poison.” 

“What if I feel very pressured to speak on those exact topics in graphic detail?” 

Antoine is somehow able to release a sigh of pure exhaustion of someone who has been tired of someone for a long time despite the fact that he and Jabber have only been friends for a singular year, nine months of them being in high school and now four months in college. 

“I’ve known you since you were in high school and not once in that time have you decided to mature and gain normal people's interests or hobbies.”

“Oh didn’t realize you was Mr. Censorship now, Antoine! Mr. Mothafucking Normal Ass! What the hell am I supposed to chat about now? There ain’t even that much explicit detail in what I’m ‘bout to tell you,” he shoves a humongous portion of monfongo in his mouth and pouts at the ceiling for extra emphasis. Antoine is absolutely terrible with silence, always has been, afraid it meant that he said the wrong thing, so Jabber gives his pouting approximately thirty seconds before Antoine explodes and tells him-

“Fine, fine. Go ahead.” 

Wow. So easy to read. 

“Well, okay thank you, so basically there’s this guy in my class that I’m absolutely down tremendous for, like sweet Jesus, I would allow him to tie me up and beat the fuck outta me-,” he notes Antoine’s warning glance and continues, “ and if it makes matters better we’re currently turning the dials up on our enthralling romance, he’s absolutely obsessed with me, I’m absolutely obsessed with him, translation we go together real bad and he’ll be my tenderoni by next week, but unfortunately there just seems to be this constant communication problem with him because he’s just so brooding and mysterious and I can’t seem to get him out of his shell to speak with me. And you know today is our study sesh together, and everybody and their ma knows that a study sesh means a couple is getting freak-nasty but I’m super afraid that he’s so closed off that we won’t get freak-nasty and that I’ll actually have to teach his dumbass the nuances of biochemistry.” 

Antoine nods his head enthusiastically, like one of those cats at the front of a Chinese restaurant and when Jabber finishes he actually seems to give Jabber’s problems a few seconds of thought before speaking. Jabber’s actually surprised. Antoine is almost as much of an insensitive and annoying asshole as Jabber is, so when he’s not it’s commendable. 

“Okay so just to translate half of this into what I’m assuming to have actually happened and is not just a deranged version of events retold by you: You have a guy that you really like, that I’m sure knowing you, you have taken extra steps to get to know, whether those steps are legal or not is concerning, but I digress,” he pauses to chew through another bite of his food before continuing.

“But when it comes to engaging in actual typical human interactions, which you so lack the skills to engage in but do so enthusiastically, you notice this guy is kind’ve closed off and doesn’t really talk that much. And somehow,” he tilts his head at Jabber like he’s really difficult to look at, which makes him look insane, “You’ve managed to create a situation where you’re going to be alone with this guy for a prolonged period of time but you’re starting to realize that the outcome you’re looking for, which I’m also assuming involves a form of sexual gratification, is not going to occur because you lack the actual social skills to make this come into fruition and this guy also lacks the social skills to make this happen.” 

“Correct, minus all of your bitchass assumptions,” Jabber responds even though all Antoine’s bitchass assumptions are correct.  

“And you’re positive this guy is into you,” Antoine asks, leaning back and checking his watch. 

“Oh, he’s absolutely down bad for me. If this were the nineties there would literally be fourteen R&B songs written about me by this exact guy. Like George Michael level hits and equally as DL.” 

“Okay without inserting odd references and fantastical details, cause we have about thirty minutes till this meeting starts, tell me how you know this guy is attracted to you.” 

“Okay well one he’s always looking at me like this,” Jabber sits up and leans towards Antoine, imitating those same wide intense and slightly odd eyes that Zanka’s made at him the last three times they’ve interacted. 

“Well based on this look alone I’m not sure if you’re actually safe around this man.” 

“I know right,” he purrs, leaning back and collapsing in his chair dramatically, letting out a lovesick sigh. “God, I’m so fucking unsafe and in danger cause he needs me so bad,” he bites his lip trying to imagine it. “Oh and imagine the measures he’s going to take to get to me, I could fucking drool-” 

“Okay what else?” 

“Oh and he always makes dumb excuses to knock on my door because he just needs to see me. Like, he’ll tell me to turn my music down, but he’ll be blushing and stuff. And he’s done this at least like six other times this week by leaving notes on the door and stuff.” The more he speaks, the more joy it brings Jabber and he can’t help but burst out into a jingle that he knows will effectively annoy Antoine and simultaneously captures his whimsy.

“He want me, he want me, he really really want me-”

“Okay this is actually more compelling but you’re also a terrible neighbor, so what if he’s just absolutely completely enraged by your lack of tact?”

“Well he probably is but he also wants me, he watches me every day in class like a little odd Joe-Goldberg stalker boy. He’ll pick a seat that puts him at the exact angle for him to watch me and then he’ll just sit there pretending he’s doing his work and look at me from far away.” 

“So you have a crush on a socially reclusive freakshow, which is bad because you're also a freakshow. This seems like a terrible combination. And that’s if he likes you. What if he’s just staring cause he’s weird?” 

“He’s not weird, don’t say that, that’s offensive, it’s genuinely a slur in California.” 

“Offensive? Five minutes ago you were willing to poison every single member of NSBE because we didn’t order pork. And we actually did order pork so you were gonna kill us all for no reason!” 

“Whatever.” 

“No, not whatever, I bring up a valid concern. Are you the only black person in your class?” 

“Yes, but that’s not the point,” Jabber says, shifting grumpily and laying his head down between his arms to glare at Antoine. 

“Well that could be the point. Do you know how many people stare at me in my classes?” 

“It’s not a i’ve never seen a black person stare, it’s a, wow i’m so obsessed with you and want to crawl into your skin stare. Like the stares you give Ayana at parties after she’s finished strolling and you don’t have the bravery to actually go up to her.” 

“Oh my god, do not bring Ayana into this at all,” Antoine whisper-hisses and Jabber begins laughing maniacally.  

“Oh, I’m bringing her into this and giving her a seat at the table! By your standards, staring weirdly, being socially reclusive, and acting odd make my guy weird but you do that all the time around Ayana!” 

“No, I don’t,” and Jabber shoots him a look of pure judgement. "Okay, maybe, sometimes, after she’s come from the stroll line or when she’s at a party I get nervous talking to her but I am one hundred percent capable of talking to Ayana when it’s necessary-” he begins babbling, but is interrupted soon after.

“What about me?” questions a deeper, distinctly feminine voice and Jabber turns his head to be blessed with sight of one of the most beautiful women he’s had the privilege to meet his freshman year. 

Ayana, sophomore electrical aerospace engineer, love of his life - second to only Cthoni -  and one of the few people in the school who actually has an understanding of putting together an outfit, strolls into the Black Cultural Center looking impeccable as she always does. Her hair is in a wonderful claw clip updo, half of her teeny tiny braids trailing down her back where they bounce into a dainty French curl, and the other half is tossed up on her head, which she somehow manages to make look artfully messy and elegant. There are pearls on her everywhere, a pearl necklace resting on the long line of her swan neck, and two large pearl studs in her ears, complemented by pearls in her bracelets on both wrists and a sexy little pearl anklet that makes her look unbelievably chic. She’s dressed head to toe in white, her blouse a lacy, silk thing that does wonders in emphasizing the smallness of her waist, and ends adorably in a ruffle. It perfectly offsets the skin-tight pencil skirt of a thick, luxurious material that outlines every inch of her curvy shape and ends right above her knees, showing off her beautiful calves without a hint of ash on them, the same coffee brown as the rest of her. Her white heels make a click, click, click sound as she struts over to where the two of them are sitting, forgoing sitting next to Antoine and making her way to Jabber’s side, where he can feel her beautiful, soft form settle against his back, her delicate heart shaped faced resting atop his head. 

“Long time no see, Jabber! We’ve missed having you at the meetings, physically. Zoom just isn’t the same, and seeing your face through that little screen isn’t as good as the real deal. And I’m missing our sessions. Let me know if I can squeeze you in soon!”

When Jabber goes out of his seat to pull her into a tight, proper hug, resting his hands on the bend in her narrow waist, and enjoying the feeling of her leaning in back, her jasmine-vanilla scent invading his nostrils, he swears to God Antoine chokes on his food. He ignores whatever seething pit of rage Antoine has probably turned into within the three seconds Jabber has had Ayana in his arms, and reaches for her hands. 

“I’m missing our sessions too, considering you’re the only nail tech in the entire city worth your salt. Look at these! They’re cunty and cutie as fuck,” he says turning her delicate hands over in his much larger ones, admiring her craftsmanship and showing them off to Antoine who has been sitting there like an absolute invalid blinking dumbly at Ayana. Long, square acrylic nails with a multitude of colorful designs contrast the more muted tones of Ayana’s outfit, with polka dots, paisley and chrome swirling together to make a magical effect outfitted with a variety of tastefully charms. “And you look gorgeous, are you coming from a sorority thing?” 

“Yes actually,” and her thin eyebrows and adorable bell pepper nose squinched in irritation, the corners of her eyes crinkling. “It was as annoying as I thought it’d be and now I’m gonna hardly have time for my homework tonight,” she turns to him and rests her silken cheek against the skin peeking out from some flowy, purple blouse he pulled out his dresser this morning that Cthoni told him made him look like a rip-off Lenny Kravitz. “ Jabber, honey, since you’re here are you able to actually do some of my fluid dynamics homework? I can make you a set as long and as sharp as you want in exchange, free of charge.” 

“When you look at me like that, baby, I can make anything happen,” he says, giving her a saucy wink, and her giggles vibrate pleasantly against his chest. He swears he can hear Antoine’s teeth grinding against each other from three feet away. 

“Antoine, how are you doing today? I heard you talking about me outside,” she says, and her voice loses all traces of sacchariness, now looking at Antoine like she’s bored. Her manipulation of her face is actually insanely inspiring and Jabber vows to be able to do this the next time he’s faced with Zanka’s handsomely rage tinged frown. 

“Only good things, Ayana, only good things. Except for the fact that you still haven’t submitted that grant proposal, so we’re still on the fence about making that trip over to Chicago.” 

“Oh goodness, you’re not in a good mood,” she says, detaching herself from Jabber and going over to the line of trays to make herself a plate. “Jabber, do you know what’s wrong with him?”

Antoine mouths something at him that kind’ve looks like, “if you say anything about the conversation we just had I’ll fucking kill you and sell your body parts to a fetish dealer” but Jabber is not incredibly good at reading lips so he just wiggles his eyebrows in response and turns back to Ayana who examines their catered food.

“Apparently, he’s been having a lot flatulence issues lately-” 

“Considering that Jabber was willing to kill all of us at least twenty minutes ago by pouring a sample of venom into our food, I’m entirely sure as to why you trust his opinion on anything-”

She ignores both of their bickering in favor of making her plate, which she chooses with a level of precision befitting someone hacking the Pentagon. Ayana plops down by his side and Antoine complains about it as if it’s Jabber's fault that his own crush doesn’t like him.

“Where y’all get this from,” she says, pausing over the pork and looking over at both of them  from underneath her lashes. “I don’t eat just anybody’s food.” 

“Antoine got it catered from Paula’s, I’m pretty sure.” 

Ayana makes a sound of approval and begins digging in. Jabber makes a head motion to Antoine, which means, talk to her, you fucking hypocrite, and Antoine shakes his head, in a way that means, no I’m not ready, and Jabber rolls his eyes, and genuinely can’t believe he was asking this guy love advice three seconds ago. He fucking sucks. 

Jabber pulls out his phone to text Antoine, noting that they only have a few minutes before the meeting starts, and he doesn’t seem willing to talk to Jabber anytime soon with Ayana around. 

Jabber: k so what happened to you saying you wasn’t on weeny hut junior shit and as soon as a bad bitty walk in the room u on mute now 👀 

Antoine: ur one of the worst people i know and im gonna get my get back 4 this 

Jabber: gif of tokyo toni shaking her butt in a pair of palazzo pants

Antoine: no clue what this means get help soon 

Jabber: your were supposed to be giving me advice on how to acquire my lil shyt (˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶) .ᐟ.ᐟ

Antoine: bruh just be normal and talk to him tf? why should i have tell you that? skip all your weirdo shit, and hold a normal convo with him

Jabber: this is terrible advice, thanks atoine 

Jabber: sends gif of Kakeguri groping her own breasts

Antoine: dislikes gif

Jabber: i genuinely shouldnt even take advice from someone who just in real time fumbled in front of me 

Antoine: she was only touching on you cause you’re fruity asl wtf all girls do that

Jabber: we not talking about all girls we talking about ur girl fn and rn she on me like red beans be on rice

Jabber: *sends an image of red beans and rice* 

“Jabber, honey, can you go grab me a napkin,” Ayana asks, placing a soft hand on his shoulder. 

“Of course, Ayana,” he says, dragging her name out and grinning till his fucking mouth hurts at Antoine, who has a vein bulging from his forehead in anger. He gets the napkin and places it in Ayana's hand, who pats him on the cheek tenderly. 

Antoine: im never speaking to u again kys

Jabber: i aint even do nothin ◝(ᵔᗜᵔ)◜

Jabber: wait i meant (╥﹏╥)

Jabber: (ᵕ—ᴗ—) antoine 

Jabber: wait man text me back when ur not angry anymore 

“When’s the meeting starting,” asks Ayana, her question directed more so at Antoine than at Jabber. 

“In five minutes. I think there may be a few people coming in right now, I’ll let them in,” he says, his voice tight and he gets up walking away from the two of them.

“Whatever you two were arguing about over text, leave it there, because there’s some new people coming to this meeting and we want to make a good impression. And throw this away for me, honey.” 

“Yes ma’am, yes ma’am,” says Jabber with a faux salute and deposits Ayana plate in the trash because his grandmother raised him to respect women and not give a fuck about anything else. 

More people are filing in and sitting down and Jabber reluctantly pulls his nametag out of his bag and puts it on, already affiliated with the organization by the time he graduated highschool, unlike most of the freshman walking in. On it, his name and majors are listed: Jabber Wonger, Freshman, Toxicology, Chemical Engineering and Pharmaceuticals with minors in Data Science and Biology. He was the first person in the university to major in all three and would probably die at the early age of fifty from the amount of homework assigned to him everyday. Oh, well. The sacrifices you have to make to be given access to highly dangerous chemicals, poisons and drugs. 

As the meeting begins to settle in more he sends a quick text to Cthoni. 

Jabber: lemme know wya im in the bcc for a nsbe ｡𖦹°‧meeting  

Cthoni replies immediately to Jabber's surprise. 

Cthoni: im in latine cultural center upstairs in a meeting 2 so don’t rush 

Jabber: kk be out in a few (๑ᵔ⤙ᵔ๑)

Five Hours After Zanka and Jabber’s Class ⇣ 7:30PM

“That genuinely took forever and I’m starving all over again.” 

“No facts,” Antoine moans in agreement, the meeting seemingly draining of all the anger he had directed towards Jabber. “But I’m too broke to use my own money to buy anything so I guess it’s leftover potato chips for me then. I spent my last twenty dollars anyway.” 

“Times is that hard?” Ayana questions as she packs up her stuff, looking ragged herself, her beautiful hair now wrapped in a tight, unforgiving bun. “Come out with me and Jabber, I’ll treat you guys to get a boba.” 

“Ooooh boba,” he says, already plotting out how many toppings he can realistically fit into one drink. “Can Cthoni come? I already texted her to come down a couple minutes ago.” 

“Oh of course! What she doing here, I’ve never seen her in the multi-cultural center before!” 

“Apparently the Dominican Student Association also had a meeting today so we were all suffering through bureaucratic shit together.”

"Cthoni's Dominican?" Antoine and Ayana both question, rasing eyebrows in shock. 

“Yup, Mom, Chinese-Dominican and Dad, American-Greek, a true New York love story,” he says, looking around for her. “Oh there she is!” 

He runs over to greet her, arms already wide open for a hug. 

“CTHONIIIIII,” he screams, enveloping her small form in his arms. She’s so short that she only comes up to his chest so Jabber has to be careful to not suffocate her. 

“Jabber,” she says, less enthusiastically, but Jabber swears he can pick up the notes of fondness in her tone. “How was the NSBE thing? Oh, hey Ayana, Antoine.” 

“It was great but it went on for soooooo longggg,” he whines, draping himself over her like she's a human coat rack. “And all the freshman were asking me questions like I wasn’t also freshman, it was so freaking annoying.” 

“Well to be fair you could graduate next year since you came in with at least eighty credits so that’s not surprising,” Ayana comments, her bag now in Antoine’s hands who looks like he’s honored to breathe in the same space as her. Thank god. Within those three hours he actually developed the backbone to at least be chivalrous. “And you major in at least forty different things so it’s good for them to be curious.” 

“Anything to keep membership up,” says Antoine, managing to somehow still look irritated. “Everyone at this school has a time commitment problem because they think they’re too good for anything. Exhibit A,” he says pointing at Jabber and Cthoni snickers quietly. 

“Don’t laugh at his jokes, it’s not funny! And I really don’t appreciate the outlook calendar thing, that genuinely is a humongous violation of privacy!” 

“Start coming to things on time,” Antoine and Cthoni say at the same time in differing levels of volume. 

“You guys suck! I’m going back to my dorm.” 

Seven Hours After Zanka and Jabber’s Class ⇣ 9:30PM

Jabber does not make it back to the dorm, delaying his study session with Zanka once more. After drinking his weight in boba that Cthoni insists on paying for, he gets dragged back to Ayana’s beige and camel brown room scented like vanilla to do her homework and for her to begin his new set of nails that she promises will be sharp enough to slice fruit with. Cthoni tags along too adding just the right amount of emoness and quiet presence to him and Ayana’s interaction that mostly consists of Ayana allowing on Jabber to go on long tangents and him asking her about miscellaneous things like class and fashion while she builds his nails up with gel. 

“Am I going to be able to wipe my ass with these,” he asks, as he types in the answers into Ayana’ homework portal with his left hand, her squishy pink keyboard making ASMR-like sounds. 

Cthoni is softly snoring on Ayana’s fluffy white couch outfitted with a thousand different pillows. Above it she has her sorority paddle drilled into the wall and a variety of cutesy and tasteful posters hung up. The entire dorm looks like it was renovated by a professional and Jabber is entirely unsure how his room and her room can be in the same university, when his resembles a chemistry lab in the basement of a prison rather than a dorm room. 

“Hopefully, you should be able to but maybe be careful these first few days. They’ll dull down once you start going in and out of your day-to-day tasks.” 

Ayana has effectively transitioned into her nighttime clothes, her hair now wrapped in a silk scarf and her feet outfitted in some fuzzy white slippers. Seeing her so cozy reminds him of Zanka’s ridiculous ill-fitted bunny robe that looked like it was about to burst at the seams. The contrast of such an obviously feminine outfit with her serious and blase facial expressions were enough to have Jabber giggling. Once again, he begins to check the time on Ayana’s computer, letting out a slight groan of frustration when he realizes that figuring out these equations is going to take another thirty minutes. A weird sweat seems to overtake him when he realizes that in a few hours he’s gonna show up to Zanka’s door and possibly be sexually gratified as Antoine put it, and he begins chewing the skin of his lip off.

“Somewhere you need to be,” Ayana asks curiously, a nail file now going over to shape the gel she laid down on Jabber’s hands. 

“I told this guy that I have a humongous crush on that I was gonna stop by his room to study but now I’m getting this weird feeling in my stomach because eventually I’m gonna have to knock on his door. It’s probably nothing, but I don’t know why I’m feeling so keyed up.” 

“Sounds like you’re just nervous, honey,” Ayana says, turning his large hands over so she can press the file to the side of his thumb, her hands moving fast. “I wouldn’t freak out too much over it, if you really like him then you should just take it slow.” 

“Oh I don't really like him like that,” Jabber instantly deflects, typing another answer into the program that is checked off with a little check mark when he gets it correct. “I’m not looking to be in a relationship or anything I’d be fine just hooking up or something,” he says but Ayanaa just stays silent letting him talk. “I mean I wouldn’t even say that he likes me that much, most of the time when I see him he’s super annoyed with me and you know Antoine was saying that he’s probably just weird-”

“You would have sex with him even though you think he doesn’t like you?” 

“I mean, yeah, that's not even a big deal, right? People do it all the time; they just hook up and go their separate ways. Plus I’m not looking for any lovey-dovey shit, I just want something specific and I think this guy can give it to me. I’m not some take-on-a-date type, you know? And it wouldn’t be any kind’ve typical stuff. I just want someone to hurt me a little, do some stuff with, and then leave. ” 

“So you think because you wouldn’t want to engage in traditional sexual dynamics that that means you also don’t want emotional intimacy?” 

“Isn’t that exactly what that means?” 

Ayana blinks at him several times, her lashes fluttering in shock and Jabber blinks back unsure on why she’s stumped.

“Okay, honey, I don’t mean anything by this when I ask it, but how old are you again,” Ayana questions, and there’s this worried little frown between her eyebrows. 

“Eighteen.”

“Okay, and how many relationships have you been in?”

“None.”

“And what about sex? Have you ever had sex before?”

He’s silent while clicking away at Ayana’s screen before answering. 

“No. But I know what I want.”

“Okay,” she says softly, and places her nail file down briefly to look at him with her large, imploring eyes. “Well I’ll give you a piece of advice here and you don’t have to take it from me but it’s just something I’ve been learning. I’m in my second year of college at this point, and I entered my freshman year when I was nineteen because I couldn’t afford to go in straight after high school. And so before that and during that time I accrued a whopping total of three boyfriends, and if we’re being honest, I was only really in love with one of those guys.” 

“Which one,” he asks, now alert and silent after admitting to her that he was a virgin. 

“The second boyfriend was the one I was head over heels for. The other one kind’ve felt like something I just did to learn about myself, but I couldn’t admit it at the time. The second guy was someone I thought I’d never go for but the first guy was this smooth-talking, pretty boy I had got to know from one of my classes and I was sooooo nervous around him. I tried to play it off like I wasn’t but I was absolutely going for him and at the time I never had had sex with anyone, but I was considering being vulnerable with this guy in that way, y’know?”

Jabber hums in affirmation, his hands now paused over the keyboard, enraptured in her story. 

“But it was sort’ve awkward too because I was also super attracted to him. In a way that I had never been to anyone ever. And he was also attracted to me, in a way that I had assumed no one could ever feel towards me.” 

Jabber scoffs in disbelief. “But you’re like the hottest cutest person ever.” 

“I know,” Ayana says in agreement, picking back up her nail file and  reworking Jabber’s pointer and index finger. “But I kind've didn’t know that at the time because I was nineteen and was a humongous airhead who assumed that because I wasn’t insecure that I had everything figured out. I was like, oh since I don't hate my body or my face then I’m confident and ready to do this adult-sex stuff  but what I failed to realize is that I still had to give my own self-image a lot of thought even if I wasn’t insecure like some of my friends were. But at the time, I thought I knew everything so I pursued a relationship with this guy and didn’t think twice about it. 

And somewhere down the line it was hard to distinguish whether I wanted to have sex with him because I was in love with him or if I was just so attracted to this guy that I wanted to do it with him and be done. For me, I couldn’t distinguish between attraction, love and experimentation so I just rushed in head first without thinking about it. But after I had my first time with him and it didn’t turn out the way I wanted it to I got in my head about a lot of stuff and realized I didn’t know how I felt at all and made a lot of dumb decisions, when I probably just could’ve saved myself the trouble by taking things slow and figuring out my emotions and feeling on things before taking action.” 

“Okay, I can see where this is going but I don’t like it,” Jabber frowns at her and she gives him a rare smile, a genuine thing that sits on her face oddly, and pulls at one corner of her lips more than the other. “I mean what if it took you actually doing the thing for you to figure how you felt.”

“There’s some truth to that of course, I did learn a lot about by getting with this first guy. But when I was in the process of taking action, a lot of times I was being dishonest on how I felt or refusing to check in with myself on why I was feeling how I was feeling.” 

Jabber lets out a frustrated sigh. “I lowkey don’t understand the lesson here.” 

“Okay, honey listen closely, and, again, if you don’t take my advice that’s up to you but here’s all I’m saying. You’re telling me that you’re not the kind’ve person who wants to get taken on dates by this guy and you’re purely looking to have sex, but we’ve also just established that you're eighteen years old and you’ve never been in a relationship or had sex. All I’m saying is that going on pretending you already know what you want is how you start getting confused and hurt. If you go in telling yourself that you only want sex with this guy, and then you guys end up having sex but it’s not enough for you, then you’re in for a rude awakening. And if you’re not in the place in your life where you can be honest with yourself about what you want, then a relationship of any kind will be difficult.” 

“This is exactly what I don’t want to hear and I’ll be ignoring your advice for the time being,” Jabber exhales, rubbing at his eyes tiredly. “I’m too sober for this. Do you have a cart or something? I have to be sober on days when I do my toxicology research or else all the shit underneath the microscope reminds me of food but that means I couldn’t get in a smoke sesh this week.” 

Ayana, shakes her head at him, but then turns her shoulder to look at Cthoni who was still snoring on her couch. 

“Cthoni? Cthoni, wake up darling.” 

Cthoni’s snoring pauses and she arises from Ayana’s couch like a vampire would, back straight and eyes wide.

“Can you reach in that trunk beside you and hand Jabber those edibles? They should be underneath a blanket in a yellow bag.” 

She turns back to him and frowns at his hands like they’ve personally offended him. 

“If I move fast I can finish these in an hour and half, but your right hand will be pressed on instead of gel.” 

“Fine by me,” he says, turning back to the screen but not before taking the edibles from Cthoni who promptly falls back asleep once she’s completed Ayana’s request. “Fuck, I still have to make those Rice Krispies for him before it’s too late.” 

“Good god,” Ayana murmurs underneath her breath. “Don’t say I didn’t try to warn you.” 

Jabber pretends he doesn’t hear her. 

Ten Hours After Zanka and Jabber’s Class ⇣ 12:45 AM

Jabber somehow manages to make a pan of Rice Krispy treats high out of his mind because apparently Ayana isn’t just talented at painting nails, but also at securing some shit that would make Snoop Dogg go comatose. He burns his hands at least seven times trying to mix marshmallows with butter, and then scratches his own arms with his new nails. It’s nearly one when he makes his way out of the dorm kitchen and finds himself standing outside of Zanka’s dorm room. 

Antoine and Ayana’s voices are running through his head like flight announcements, and Jabber’s body is under the impression that he is in danger, about to be flown headfirst into the ocean, even though he’s just about to talk to the biggest loser he’s ever met aside from Antoine, of course. 

Before he can even think about it he knocks on the door aggressively, each wrap of his knuckles against the door sounding like a gong in his ears. An odd quiet shuffle is heard on the other end of the door and then Zanka appears, the exact same robe on only this time not closed, revealing his well tones chest and pale freckly skin. Jabber gives himself approximately three seconds to admire that smooth expanse of skin before pushing past him, channeling his inner Ayana and not even giving Zanka the chance to speak before he’s inside. 

“Studyyyinngggg time,” he sings obnoxiously, hitting some classy operatic notes to really set the tone for the evening. “What should we cover first? Your weak ass understanding of polytropic acids or your weak ass understanding of rounding? We can cover both but I’m really considering a pay-by-hour kind’ve situation.”

“What. The. Fuck,” Zanka exclaims, turning red from either embarrassment or anger, Jabber’s not sure. He turns a rather flattering dusky pink, himself when he’s flustered. 

What the fuck, indeed, he thinks admiring the trail of dark hair dancing across Zanka’s rigid stomach. I’m in so much trouble.