m2wto

⩇⩇:⩇⩇

7:09

You weren’t sure normal days really existed. They felt like a rumor, something other people talked about.

You wake because it’s too warm.

Not blanket-warm. Not summer-warm.

Body-warm.

Your eyes crack open, slow and reluctant, your thoughts lagging behind sensation. Weight presses into you before your mind catches up,an arm draped heavy across your middle, a knee hooked against your thigh. Breathing brushes your shoulder, deep and steady and very much not yours.

Jabber is sprawled across your bed like it belongs to him.

His dark hair fans messily across your pillow, one cheek mashed into the mattress, mouth parted just enough that each exhale fogs the fabric of your shirt. He’s dead asleep, boneless and unguarded in a way you’ve never seen him before.

You shift an inch.

Immediately, his grip tightens. Fingers curl into your shirt on instinct, a low grumble vibrating against your chest as if he might wake, then doesn’t.

You stare at the ceiling.

“How did you even get in here,” you murmur.

“Window was unlocked,” he answers, voice thick with sleep.

That explains nothing.

You try to move again. He follows without opening his eyes, drifting closer until his forehead brushes your collarbone. Warm. Solid. Too close for someone who used to avoid your gaze entirely.

“You’re in my bed,” you point out.

“Mm.” Agreement, not apology.

A quiet beat passes.

“…You snore,” he adds.

You sigh through your nose. “You could’ve used literally any other bed.”

He hums, as if considering this deeply despite being half unconscious. “Yours is better.”

“Get off,” you say, lacking any real bite.

He doesn’t.

Instead, he settles in more comfortably, weight redistributing, breath evening out again.

You close your eyes, resignation soft and tired. Whatever. Sleep is already tugging at you, heavy and persuasive.

Five more minutes..

13:46

"Jabber, put it on." That blank stare and your too toneless voice should have been enough warning for him. Suddenly you wish you had slept more.

No response other than hot pink eyes staring back into yours. A slow blink of innocence accompanying. Acting like he had no idea of what you were talking about, the information just not going through his head.

"The mask. Oxygen mask. Put it on." You repeat again, knowingly wasting breath. Maybe you foolishly hoped that one day he would listen to words.

"Huh?" He echoed himself.

You were going to kill him. Fast and clean. Any other way he would probably enjoy.

"I'm giving you three seconds."

“I don’t know nothin’ ’bout—"

The next line of his words was completely unintelligible, set mask attempting to accommodate in his face. Accordingly to trying to put a cat on whatever, Jabber moved erratically, swinging wildly. A vain attempt to get out of the stronger arms holding him down.

"Get that outta my face" The giver managed to grunt out while you two moved around the whole place. A mess of grabbing and thrashing all over.

"You need this fucking mask!" You spat out back, managing to keep both of still for a moment. "Are you trying to give Eisha more of a work overload?!"

From the looks of it, no one would guess that you are trying to get him to wear the mask supposed to keep him alive more than five minutes in the trash zone.

At a very safe distance, the other three supporters watched the whole scene unfold right in their eyes.

".. Do you think we should help?”

“Are you insane?”

“I think they got it handled.”

By the time the others scatter, the mask is on. Incorrectly.

The straps are twisted, one sitting too low against his jaw, the seal imperfect—but it’s there. Functioning enough. You let it be for now.

Jabber squats on a pile of broken plating like nothing happened, elbows resting on his knees, pink eyes flicking lazily across the trash zone haze. He scratches the spot where the mask touches his cheek.

“…This thing stinks” he says.

“You fought me for two minutes over it.”

“Yeah,” he hums. “Worth it.”

You move closer despite yourself, reaching up to adjust the strap. Thankfully so, he doesn’t scramble away. He just watches you through the mask.

Your fingers brush his cheek—warm, scarred, solid. The seal tightens with a soft click.

20:00

It’s late enough that the common area has thinned out.

Most of the combatants have already eaten and gone. A handful of supporters linger at the long tables, voices kept low as they pick at leftovers. Overhead, the lights hum, casting everything in that dull, end-of-day haze where exhaustion blurs the edges of things.

You sit with a single plate between you.

Jabber never bothered getting his own.

Instead, he leans over your shoulder, close enough that his chin nearly brushes you as he steals from your plate. You don’t even look at him anymore when he does it, just nudge the dish an inch closer so he doesn’t spill anything.

“…You’re gonna run out,” he says lazily.

“Then stop eating it.”

He grins and takes another bite.

“…I’m serious,” someone says, far too loud for the quiet room. “Supporters shouldn’t even be down here. What’re they gonna do if something goes wrong, stand around and watch?”

You keep eating.

Jabber chews slowly, eyes half-lidded, gaze drifting toward the far wall as if the voice doesn’t exist.

“They’re dead weight,” the cleaner goes on. “If you can’t fight, you shouldn’t be on missions. Especially not with someone like—”

Jabber’s hand stills above your plate.

He doesn’t look at the speaker. Doesn’t tense. Doesn’t smile. He simply reaches down, scoops up a spoonful of something soft and greasy, and flicks his wrist.

The food hits the other cleaner square in the chest. A wet splat breaks the room’s quiet.

“What the hell—?” The cleaner jerks halfway to his feet. “You got a problem?”

Jabber finally looks at him. Calm. Bored. A faint grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“…Huh?” he says, head tilting. “You sound kinda upset.”

The cleaner stiffens. “You throwing food at me now?”

Jabber glances down at his fingers, sticky with sauce. Studies them like they’re the most interesting thing in the world.

“Oh. Yeah,” he says mildly. “Guess I did.”

A beat.

Then, softer, almost pleasant, touched with curiosity: “You gonna cry about it?”

You snort before you can stop yourself, lifting your cup to hide it.

That’s when the cleaner really bristles. “Watch your mouth. You’re real brave when your boss ain’t around.”

Jabber’s eyes flick to you for half a second. You shrug, unbothered, still eating. He looks back at the cleaner.

“Man,” Jabber sighs. “You’re lashin’ out.”

“You talk big for someone who needs supporters to clean up after you,” the cleaner snaps.

Jabber hums, clearly amused now. Definitely smiling.

“Nah,” he says. “I just don’t like loud people.”

He leans in closer, resting his chin against your shoulder again, comfortable as ever.

“And you’re bein’ real loud,” he adds lightly. “Lil bit of mess bothers ya? Wouldn’t’ve guessed you were a cleaner.”

The cleaner looks like he’s about to say something else. You can almost see it forming, jaw tight, shoulders squared, pride scrambling for a second wind.

Before he can embarrass himself further, someone at his table reaches out and yanks him back down into his seat. Low, urgent murmurs follow. Let it go. Not worth it. Drop it.

He resists for half a second, eyes locked on Jabber, then finally looks away. His chair scrapes loudly as he sits back down, anger simmering but contained.

The tension lingers anyway, stretched thin across the room. Forks resume their quiet clinking. Conversation picks back up in hesitant murmurs.

You return your attention to your food.

Jabber does too, eventually. He steals another bite like nothing happened, posture loose, weight settled comfortably against you.

A few minutes pass in silence.

“Not funny, for the record,” you say suddenly.

Your tone is flat, deliberate, like you didn’t have to bite back a laugh moments ago. Your face stays serious as you keep eating.

Jabber, meanwhile, looks thrilled.

He leans in again, chin settling over your shoulder. “Could’ve sworn I saw you giggling and shit.”

“Mhm,” you say. “Don’t remember that.”

He snorts, a sharp, unrestrained sound, shoulders shaking slightly as he laughs into your neck.

You nudge your plate a fraction farther away from him. “You’re gonna get yourself into a fight one of these days.”

It’s not a scolding. More like an afterthought. A small, practical concern tacked on at the end.

Jabber hums, clearly pleased by the idea.

“Aw, man,” he says, grinning wide enough to show teeth. “I wish.”

ᝰ.ᐟ

⩇⩇:⩇⩇

".. is this one really waterproof?"

The words of the very nervous Fu came out warped against the pressure of your fingertips on his cheeks. Hands trapped beneath his legs to stop himself from fidgeting.

"Totally, this is the one." You answered absently, your attention narrowed to the task at hand. The black marker sat tight between your fingers, your tongue tucked between your teeth as you concentrated on painting those two perfect circles around his eyes.

"it won't smudge?" "it won't."

Fu's worries didn't came from nothing. He cried, a lot. Sweated even more. The paint on his face had to be extra resistant to survive well placed and not get in his eyes.

"Trust me, I tested this one beforehand, it's perfect." You were confident of this, painting over one of his eyelids with extreme care. Not even noticing the way you subconsciously squeezed his cheek.

Fu, however, could already feel heat rising in his face at the soft pressure of your fingertips against his cheeks.

“Hold still, okay? this part is tricky.”

Fu stiffened, though he tried to play it off as obeying instructions. His eyes flicked upward, following the marker tip like it was a weapon instead of a harmless pen. “I am holding still.”

“Mm. Still-ish.” You nudged his cheek again, absent and gentle.

He swallowed hard, feeling the warmth in his face spike. “It’s..uh..kind of hard when you’re poking my face like that…”

“Sorry,” you said, but you didn’t move your hand, thumb brushing over the edge of his jaw in a soothing, grounding gesture you probably didn’t even notice. “You’re almost done. Just one more circle.”

“One more circle,” he repeated under his breath, as if psyching himself up for battle.

You leaned in closer to get the right angle, breath brushing his skin. Fu’s eyes widened, his hands twitched under his legs, like they were begging for freedom just to have something to do.

“Don’t move,” you warned.

“I’m not moving!” he whispered back, voice cracking from the effort of staying statue-still.

Finally, you drew the last line with a slow, confident stroke. Then you leaned back, lowering the marker. “And… done. Perfect.”

“It’s… done?” He was honestly excited, lightly poking his own face where the brush of the marker was touching just seconds ago.

“Hey, don’t touch it yet,” you scolded gently, catching his wrist before he could smudge your work. Your fingers wrapped around him without thought, warm and steady. “Give it a second to dry.”

Fu froze again, this time because you were holding his hand. “Right. Drying. Okay.” His voice was thin, almost squeaky.

You pulled his hand down from his face but didn’t quite let go. His pulse jumped under your touch, and you only noticed when his fingers twitched. “Sorry,” you murmured, releasing him with an awkward little pat. “Force of habit.”

Fu shook out his hands like he had to manually restart them, immediately missing the touch. He wanted it back. So words flew before he could even think about it.

“No wait! I mean… it’s uh, it’s nice. I like your hands. Wait, no, I mean—”

You laughed under your breath, the sound embarrassingly warm in the tiny space between you. “It’s okay, Fu. I knew what you meant.”

His mouth snapped shut. He looked everywhere but at you, then finally risked a shy glance upward. “You… did?”

“Mm-hm.” You reached up, gently nudging his cheek again, on purpose this time. “And for what it’s worth… I don’t mind holding your hand."

“Oh,” he whispered, ears bright red. “...Okay. Um. You can do that. Whenever.”

You let his fingertips settle against yours, neither of you quite holding on yet, but not pulling away either.

“Whenever, huh?” you murmured, the smile in your voice impossible to hide.

Fu nodded once—tiny, stiff, but absolutely delighted. A smile that mirrored your own growing on his face. “Yeah. I mean… if you want.”

You threaded your fingers fully through his, slow enough to give him every chance to change his mind. He didn’t. If anything, he leaned closer.

"Thank you, for helping me and all." The ease that settled in him was noticeable in the way he stopped fidgeting, talking without stuttering.

You squeezed his hand lightly. “You don’t have to thank me.”

Fu swallowed, his throat bobbing. “I know. I just… wanted to.”

The sincerity caught you off guard. You felt your smile tug wider, warmth creeping up your neck. “Well,” you murmured, “you’re welcome.”

Fu’s eyes drifted downward, another question lingering in his head.

“Do I… look scary?” he asked hopefully.

You bit back a grin. “Terrifying.”

“Really?” He perked up.

“Absolutely petrifying.”

⩇⩇:⩇⩇

“Hey girl, I just finished here. I’ll be back asap.”

You answered through the choker, swallowing a yawn, the call barely a ring in before you picked up. Had to be Semiu. She had a freakish sense for how long a mission should take—always pinged you right after you were done, like clockwork, just to make sure you were still breathing.

“Sleepy already? Sun ain’t even down yet.”

You froze mid-step, nearly stumbling with your own feet. The voice crackled through the line—too low, too lazy to be Semiu’s.

Your pulse spiked. Who the hell—?

But you knew. That voice was all too clear to not be recognized. Too rough, annoyingly playful. You knew. But it just didn’t processed in your brain, didn’t connected the dots out of the absurdity of it.

“Who the fuck—?” You say, almost instantly after straightening yourself.

“Forgot ‘bout me already? C’mon now… I know you remember me, yeah? Need a lil’ something to jog your memory?”

Of course it was him, the fucking lunatic.

“Jabber, how the hell are you calling me?” You say the first in a flood of questions crowding your head. How? Why? What? Mostly followed by a holy amount of fuck.

“Well hun, look—chokers be linkin by blood, yeah? So—”

“I know how chokers fucking work.” You spat out, voice elevating just a tinge. Enough for your supporters that were waiting for you in the car to notice, not close enough to hear you thankfully. But certainly to see your expressions.

“What I want to know is how—” You words slipped faster that you could hold them, but only when you were about to ask yet again is that things clicked. Interrupting yourself with your own line of thought. Right, blood on the choker, fighting that spills blood..

Jabber seemed to have noticed, snorting at your own realization.

“Things got real bloody last time we fought, huh? Was fun. We gon’ do it again sometime, aight?”

“No—”

A single beat of static came out of the choker, stopping you from even starting your own not very pleasant answer.

Did he just—

The motherfucker hung up on you.

────────────

After your very traumatic event with the unmentionable caller, you were very much on the edge. Wincing every time your choker rang. As useful as they were, they didn’t exactly announced the name of the person calling out loud.. Thank god they didn't, would be an uncomfortable conversation to explain to the rest of the cleaners mid meeting why is a raider calling you.

You had initially fought upbringing with the classic—if you don’t know who is calling, just don't pick up. Which of course, didn’t lasted. As when you rejected a call from Semiu of all people, you got a very long, through scolding on why not to reject calls of the receptionist. And in all fairness, she was very scary when she wanted to be.

So you started picking up calls again. Admittedly, the first few were received with a lot of guard. You were ready to to hung up —and first this time—if you heard that nightmare voice again.

But you had incredibly lucky ass, it seemed like Jabber had wanted to bother as a one time thing. So a month later after that first event and you hadn’t received a single call from him again. You were in the clear.

Except you weren’t.

“Can you get me another one of these?” You slid your glass to the bartender. Resting your crossed arms over the table.

The laughs of your coworkers could be heard on the whole restaurant. A whole lot of the cleaners —including supporters— were having a night out. An eat and drink all you can. From team Akuta, child, front, even some of eager were here. It was quite the crowded reunion.

But this reunions were not for nothing. A night for themselves kept them relaxed, too much tension and stress wasn’t good on the long run. You could say you were feeling comfortable in the warmth of the ambient, being out of the uniform wasn’t all bad neither.

Which is why when your choker ringed, you naively didn’t suspected anything. Even if pretty much everyone that you had connection with was here.

“Thanks.” You nodded to the bartender that passed you your drink. At the same time your finger reached your choker, tapping it softly to answer.

“Aye, been missin’ me?”

You nearly chocked on your drink.

It was embarrassing really, you should stop getting this surprised. You left your half spilled drink on the table and ran —very discreetly— to the bathroom. Luckily empty as you locked yourself on one of the stalls.

“Jabber what the fuck.” You whispered. Or well, tried to. Your tone was the description of whispery loud. Useless to not be heard if anyone were to enter the bathroom.

“What? A guy can’t call his friend?” He sounded mildly amused, hidden in that lazy drawl of his.

“Okay first of all, we are not friends.”

“Sure we are.”

“We are not. What even give you that idea—”

“We fought, you beat me up like a damn savage. That make you my friend. Feel me?”

You sighed, loud and exasperated. Hitting your head against the stall’s door hard enough to spook a poor, unknowing costumer.

What is your life? For you to end up arguing with a guy —not just any, a raider, basically the main antagonists of the cleaners— whether you are friends or not? It felt like arguing with a child while being a child yourself.

“That’s not like friends work.” And against your best, reason you kept at it. How can you not win an argument stupid as this one?

“Don’t recall you ever set the rules on how friends work.”

You couldn’t see it, but you knew with certainty that he was smiling. Worst part? You couldn’t think of a single thing to argue back with.

“What do you even want? I won’t be giving you any intel.” You answered with a scoff, resigning to whatever this is. Might as well get it over with, right?

“Now why would I want that shit? Nah, dats not for me.” Not his speciality. Besides, the best intel he could get out of someone was in a fight. That’s when he can really learn about someone.

But talking isn’t bad either.

“Then what?” You repeated. Surprisingly believing —at least halfway— that he wasn’t making your life difficult to learn the secrets of the cleaners.

“I’m bored.”

Your eye twitched.

“How excruciating.”

“I knooow..” he dragged out, the rough of his voice acquiring a whiny edge.

“Booho. Poor you, I pray for your soul. Go inject yourself with neurotoxins or something. Isn’t that your favorite thing?” You rolled your eyes, and while he couldn’t see it. You made it difficult not to imagine it with that tone of yours.

“Naw, my favorite things? Strong givers and strong fighters. But that one right behind ‘em. Anyway—”

You nearly jumped when the door to the bathroom opened. Followed by the call of your name. You had been gone for too long, someone was going to notice.

“Gotta go, and don’t call me.” You forced yourself to actually whisper and hung up right after.

────────────

To your dismay, Jabber did not took your last words to heart. Or maybe he did, but decided they were a challenge.

It had been four times already. Four calls of the raider that you cut short the exact moment that you heard his voice. You were determined to not let this little banter of his become an habit. Surely, if you hung up enough times, he would get the hint.

You let yourself fall back in your bed. Happy to have a moment to do nothing. The life of a cleaner was nothing short of busy. And having come back from yet another mission, you were more than happy to have changed from your uniform into some clean clothes.

You were not sleepy though. So you opened the window next to your bed, the sun shining in your face. Rested your chin in your palm and stared down at the basketball court, where a few of the younger ones were playing around.

That was until the ringing of your choker interrupted your peace yet again. You considering ignoring it, but at the prospect of maybe being something important you answered.

“Ayo, wait no no no, don’t hang up on me. Swear I see you tryna shut it down. Don’t.” His voice came out rushed. Like a race against time, trying to speak a full sentence before you shuted him down again.

The amount of times that Jabber made you roll your eyes with his mere existence was worrying, any more and you might get your eyes stuck.

“You done givin’ me the silent treatment? Man, I’m hurt bad, ow.” He spoke **again once he realized you hadn’t hung up at your usual speed. His voice back to that serpently laziness of his.

Just for his way of speaking, it was easy to forget that he went absolutely manic the moment a good opportunity to get beat up was right before him.

“Oh yes, I’m sure it was heartbreaking. That’s why I did it.” You almost winced internally as soon as you said that. Because why are you joking with the guy now? Seriousness was really dropped out of the window?

“You sadistic, I like that. You should put that energy into whooping me.” He laughed, wild and so uniquely his.

His laugh felt so close that it gave you goosebumps in the back of your neck. Suddenly had you thinking that maybe you should have gotten a wrist choker, having his voice so close to you feel weird to say it nicely.

Of course, not that you had thought about that with any of the cleaners. But you decided to ignore that fact.

“Yeah keep dreaming.” You huffed boringly. At last, after one too many conversations you had been acclimated to his.. choice of words. For the most part.

“I do, but my imagination ain’t cuttin’ it, y’know? Sure as hell ain’t as good as the real thing.” He sighed theatrically. Not a hint of shame on his tone as it’s usual.

You snorted, admittedly entertained, okay maybe he wasn’t a bad chatter. Not that you would say it out loud, ever.

“Have some shame. You really that bored? Your boss isn’t assigning you any new missions?”

“Now who’s tryna leak our information?”

Okay, maybe that wasn’t so slick of your part. But hey, now no one can’t say that you didn’t tried.

“Had to give it a try.”

────────────

You had lost the ability to defend yourself at the fourth call. Or was it the sixth? you had lost count already. Because certainly you couldn’t think of any excuses to give if you were to be found talking to a raider.

And hey, you weren’t trying to betray the cleaners in any way. And you suspected that Jabber didn’t had any intentions of betraying the raiders either. And you two weren’t sharing any vital information. So was it really that bad? You preferred not to give it much thought. Wasn’t that serious.

And you guys didn’t talked that much.

Just some mornings a call would wake you up, followed by a shout with all the energy in the world;

“RISE N’ GRIND SUNSHINE!”

You tended to just hang up after those. But the damage was already done to your poor ears.

But besides that you would get a call every day or two. Meaningless, little things which included a little back and forth, banter here and there. Few freaky bullshit that you were starting to get a little too used to.

“Your voice low-key nice. Cuss me out.”

“What.”

You started to think that maybe this could be affecting your mental health. It couldn’t be healthy to hear this guy’s irritable tone with a maximum of forty-eight hours in between.

Jabber was annoyingly talkative. He would call for absolutely no reason.

“My nose bleeding for no reason.”

“Oh that’s on me, I manifested it.”

“you thinking ‘bout me? Sweet.”

Totally normal conversations you two had. The best influences.

────────────

Maybe the real breaking point of whatever this is started when you called him first.

“Don’t even.” You said the moment the beat of a call starting sounded.

“you just call me? Look at that, we basically best friends now—”

“Shut up.” You regretted calling him almost as soon as he picked up.

“What’s the occasion? You better not be dying.”

“I might as well be.” Now you sounded dramatic, that was new.

“Aw, what’s got you so worked up?” He was overly invested. And you could tell already. You will never leave this down. Not even the topic of the call, just the fact that you called.

You leaned back against some random pillar, watching as your supporters tried very hard —and honestly too patiently— to negotiate with some people of the village you got the call from.

Apparently the cleaners got a call from help from one side of the village who wanted to exterminate a pack of trash beasts that were getting too close. But the other side had some weird religion going on around trash beasts. it’s a whole thing.

“Can’t tell, just know it’s shitty.” You said after a while. You considered just telling the whole story to complain properly, but you didn’t wanted to give him any mission details. Nope.

“Always reekin’ all that positivity, gotta respect it.”

Now you were thinking since when he got so sarcastic. That’s your role.

“Oh go fuck yourself.” You grumble, voice heavy with irritation. Surprisingly not really a Jabber for once, mostly at your own situation.

“Come do it personally, you coward.”

You should seriously rethink your life choices.