Gvami/Corpse

With someone’s poor, south Asian parent’s vintage bong in his hand — zooted out of his goddamned mind — Jabber still, immediately, heard that distinguished click on the hardwood flooring of this — frankly oversized — three story house and bolted up right in his seat on the couch. It could so easily have been mistaken for a high-heeled shoe of some preppy, suburban raised, probably blond, white girlfriend of one of the guys, way below her league, that he was taking turns sharing a smoke with, but Jabber was dumb, not stupid. that exact, clear thunk couldn't have been from anyone else but Zanka.

Looking around really didn't give him much of a clue on where or how far he was — all a messy watercolour blur of motion — until he spotted that bright, bright red hair. Next to her must’ve been the man he promised to avoid, but fuck him, he wouldn't have been able to see jackshit that far if his life depended on it at the moment, especially that dark brute that refused to wear anything even slightly eye catching. ‘If i wanted to get attention, this cane would already be doing enough heavy lifting for me.’ – Zanka's words, not Jabber's.

The harsh thrashes of his head caught up to him soon enough. The dizziness and the headache wouldn't’ve been unwelcome by him at any other given time, but, right now, it felt like his personal hell. Head in his hands, he took — the very much needed — heaving breaths. he looked through the gaps in his fingers, he could feel his pupils shaking and the blood pulsing in his fingers, piercings, his temples bursting like his brain was too big for his skull suit. A tug or two on his hair didn't even register before his world got turned quite literally upside down and he was greeted by the blonde from his wet dreams.

“Get–… eed to–… !” was all he heard over the music blasting in his ears that already clogged up by the high.

“… Huh??” was the only thing his mind could conserve the energy for, the lights around the room working against Jabber's favour when it comes to overwhelming his psyche.

Zanka leaned down next to his face, a nonyielding iron grip on his wicks. “Get up! We need to talk!” was yelled into Jabber's ear but he mustered a few, slow, agonizing blinks until he understood what the Mr. bad attitude wanted from him.

The whole room spun as he tried getting up only to miserably fail and fold over the coffee table; knocking over the bong. There might've been a few guys that laughed and cursed, but he honestly didn't have enough conscious thoughts to care. He stumbled over someone's leg or two but he made it far enough to be grabbed by Zanka and walked from there. He felt — and probably looked — like a puppy learning to walk properly on slippery floor, though, the floor was anything but slippery right now; quite sticky with spilled drinks, actually.

The fresh, cold air slapped Jabber across the face like freedom, but it also froze his eyes and dried them out instantly. He'd been stuck in that humid, boiling house for god knows how long at this point, packed like sardines with at least two hundred other people there. Zanka didn't seem even a bit bothered by the chill as he studies Jabber's fit, leaning so handsomely against his ebony cane. Jabber could gladly stare and admire his face all day, everyday. If only he wasn't shitting bricks right now at the mere thought of why this man — who told him to go fuck himself like, what, two, three weeks ago(?) — suddenly wanted to talk to him one on one at a party, knowing he'd be high off his rockers.

“God, you're a lost cause.” Zanka sighed, walking to the balcony railing and looking over the backyard. The house was build on a slope, with a pool — now covered — in the backyard, an old tire swing they kept to look civilized and not-so-rich, five chaise lounges that were slightly off white, just enough to seem used — though, jabbed doubted anyone had touched those in the last 7 years, judging by the non-existent wear and tear and sun discoloration, — and at last, and finally least, a glass coffee table with basket-like woven legs. Yeesh, he'd be wondering how it lasted so long, but the answer was obvious.

Jabber tried to dig out the cigarette pack from the front pocket of his well-worn crust jeans, taking him miserable few attempts before he manages to liberate it and take his last remaining, upside down stick in the box. He waddles over next to Zanka with the grace and elegance of rope walking goose, his lighter refusing to cooperate — but it could just as well have been him embarrassing himself yet again.

Nijiku took the lighter from him, burning his finger when touching the spark wheel, which rewarded his ears with the blonde cussing under his breath in Japanese. Nonetheless, he lit it on his first try, an elbow resting atop of his cane as he uses his other hand to cup the flame. He really was Jabber's soulmate, it's obvious. Jabber hummed in appreciation of the warmth fuelling his lungs with cancer thanks to Zanka, and so he blew it out directed towards him.

“Stop that.” He immediately commanded, turning his body back towards the view after tucking the lighter into Jabber's pocket.

“I thought someone said they liked secondhand smoke?” Jabber retorted.

“I usually do. Not right now.”

“Is it ‘cause ya mad at me?”

“what would i be mad at you for?” Zanka glanced at Jabber but his gaze didn't last long enough for it to mean anything.

“I don’ know, ‘cause ya ain't specifying it any time I ask.” he stuck the cigarette in the corner of his mouth that faces Zanka, dragging the heels of his hands up and down his face and finally rubbing them into his eyes to put some pressure on the pain.

“Yer irritate me, that's all.” the sigh that left Zanka’s lungs wasn't much but he heard it loud as day.

“why did you bring me out here, anyways?'“ He looked towards the blond. His eyes shone so much brighter from the lights below, he hadn't stared at them in so long he almost forgot how tired they always look.

The silence stretched and stretched so long he forgot people were screaming inside, even over the obnoxious music. Or maybe Jabber was too out of it to manage time at the normal pace.

“I didn't want to be out here alone.” Jabber got a small hum out as a vague response, blowing smoke over the railing. Jabber honestly forgot time was even a concept for a good while as he gazed at the garden, unmoving. The feeling of the cigarette being plucked from his fingers was so insignificant to him now that he couldn't care. “Don’t let the lucky one burn without reason.” Zanka stubbed it out on the square steel of the railing and held out the half-a-stick.

It ain’t like it’ll bring any luck, though. Jabber thought about replying but the words died in his head as soon as they came. He never was much of a delusional, spiritual one, but he would've never guessed Zanka was. If it was the last shred of hope he wanted to believe in, he'd let him have that.

The gut wrenching urge to stab himself and then throw his body at Zanka and see his reaction was powerful, but he settled for drifting his gaze from his eyes to his nose, to his mouth, and back up again. The grin on his face and the girlish giggling must've annoyed Zanka, because he rolled his eyes and scoffed, leaving the cigarette on the railing for Jabber to pick up again.

“Zan-Zan~ you’s wearin’ the fit I made ya the other day!” He had noticed about 10 minutes ago but he didn't take a mental note of it in midst of his clouded state. Now seemed like the appropriate time to point it out as to not let the conversation die and the chance to get back on Zanka's good side — if Jabber was ever on his good side, — not go to waste.

“Riyo wouldn't let me leave if i didn't. And she declared me staying wasn't really an option either.” he shrugged, his head dropping into his hands. He threaded his fingers through his hairline, massaging his scalp. Oh, how Jabber wished those calloused hands would just close over his throat already and hurt him every way possible physically. His Mankira would look drop dead good on his elegant, roughened fingers. If only Zanka ever let down his guard enough, he'd be all Jabber's. “Quit staring, freak.”

Though, there was that irritated edge to Zanka's tone he knew he didn't mean, or Jabber just didn't care enough to think he meant it. The haze must’ve been fading by now, but he knew better, the numbness in his arms and the pressure at the back of his head were telltale signs that either a different phase would set in soon or it would be mellowing out. He honestly had zero clue of what he smoked back there, it wasn’t nicotine — nicotine’s too lightweight for him by now — best bet would’ve been cannabis or a mix of something, where they got it from is none of his business. He groaned loudly — more like a whine actually, — licking his lips and smacking his mouth like a snake yawning to readjust its jaw after a good, fulfilling meal. He’d be so down for a Habu Sake right now; he had never actually tasted the, uh, Okiwan? Okikawa? Hubushi? Eh, whatever that Japanese snake wine is called but he imagined it would be divine. Would Zanka’s family own some? They seemed like the bougie type. He wondered what kind of house they owned. He’d only met his brother, Goka(?), once, and it wasn't a pleasant encounter, to say the least. He was caught by him selling shit in an alley but he dodged a sentence by never letting him see his face in the first place. He only knew it was Zanka's brother because of the undeniable resemblance. Though, if he had to guess, Zanka was probably the runt of their litter.

Jabber rubbed his neck, his back was so stiff it cracked like fresh firewood burning up in the dead of winter — felt like it too, so warm, like his fever’s high. It was probably weed in the bong. He stretched, barely, ultimately draping himself over the high barrier on the edge of the balcony.

“Can you even hear me?” the voice is like a melody to Jabber, though, he realized he must've been tuning Zanka out this whole time. He accomplished to redirect his eyes towards the man that was frustrated with him. “Yer eyes are bloodshot to all hell.” he's talking sounded like slow mo to him.

“Ya eyes are like… they low key remind me of them Furbies fur colour. But I ain't talking about 90s i mean like y2k type shit.” He blabbered on, giggling to himself. Zanka seemed heavily confused by whatever Jabber wanted to insinuate by that comment; he felt very neutral about that statement, couldn't feel offended nor pleased. Zanka already looked tired by the time Jabber started his second sentence.

“there's really no hope for you.” Zanka shook his head and pinched his nose bridge. It didn't take long before he felt a weight leaning onto him, followed by arms lazily roping around his torso looping up with the hands gripping his shoulders. The nose sniffed at Zanka's neck.

“Yer hair manages to smell like flowers all the time. Do ya just carry it with you or sum?” he chuckled.

Zanka stumbled back at unexpected bulk, his cane slipping up on polished floor when stabbed at an angle. His hand was fast enough — thankfully — to catch the metal next to him, but his joints throbbed at the thought of hanging on this any longer. The long haired psycho nuzzled into his neck, practically sleeping on him. The hot breath leaving his nose tickled at the small hairs on the side of his throat; a pleasant feeling if it wasn't for him standing with aching knees, hips, and a binder choking his lungs, at a party hosted by someone he'd never met, and on a balcony, nonetheless. “Get off me, you parasite!”

Jabber grumbled like a lazy sack of lard, clinging on stronger. “Give a sec.”

Zanka slowly maneuvered himself, Jabber dragging after him as he stumbled over his own feet. At the end he was panting and leaning his back against the wall, now he could push Jabber with more confidence — without the fear of losing his footing. His hands clasped Jabber's forearms, forcing him back only for him to pull himself back in again. “why do you have so much strength when you're intoxicated?!” he complained, Jabber giggling in his ear. “I feel we like some times you want to get hit!”

“By you? definitely.” Jabber knew Zanka could feel him grinning and cackling by the way his body language didn't change. Usually he needed a second to understand if sober Jabber was being serious or fucking with him, but he never took drugged up Jabber for his word unless he's expression was deadpan — because it never was.

“Oh, fuck off.”

______

Across the room he could see Zanka alone again, bouncing his leg with a cup of cheap slightly sweet Red wine next to him on the couch’s armrest, watered down by some soda the guys brought in about twenty minutes ago as a refill.

Jabber's high was long gone, he could feel the ache and the need to throw up set in since about eleven — god knows it was already well past midnight. He could swear weed took much longer to shake off, though, he couldn't just not wonder what he smoked.

He could tell a few girls he saw at the beginning of the function were set on a mission of finding someone to toy with. Now, he wouldn't care about that usually, — it was actually quite fun to lay back and watch the show — except for the fact they were heading towards his Zanka. He could feel something stir in his stomach; and it wasn't the nausea. Jabber leaned back in his seat his hands clenched in his lap.

At first, the girls just sat down next to him, talked to other people, almost like baiting him into a conversation. Zanka wasn't the one to start conversations, though, so tough luck to them. He would be surprised on why they even set their sights on him, but it was not that taboo for girls to like the ‘I can fix him’, unapproachable guy archetype. They eventually did come around, trying to start small talk, Zanka giving them a tight-knit smile out of politeness, nodding mechanically and unenthusiastically much like Jabber's grandma used to when she didn't have the heart to tell him that she didn't care about his little discoveries. Though, he was in no place to judge right now as he was also doing the same to the man yapping his ear off.

Jabber subconsciously played with the rings on his fingers, watching with an interest of a hawk to prey. The itch to join the others and get busted up in a friendly fight or get drugged up and watch the people get busted up was growing stronger by a snail’s pace, but it was growing nonetheless. He was biting and chewing on his lip piercings before he even realized. The girls were getting awfully too annoying from afar, Zanka was on his fifth round of Kalimotxo — Riyo must've asked him to try and be nice to people since she most likely wanted to spend as much time hitting on Noerde without interruption as possible.

“Imma smoke and brb.” Jabber excused himself from his own conversation, making a beeline towards the front lawn balcony, bumping into multiple different guys on the way like his hunting without as much as glancing at them. Out there he could breath better, but he still couldn't take his eyes off of the group on the couch, not even bothering to look at the cigarette before he lit it. The half seemed to almost hate the idea of burning any faster.

He was staring at Zanka, but that doesn't mean he was focused — he was actually quite zoned out. He didn't notice anything until Zanka was right at his nose, eyeing him up and down.

“So ya can experience emotions other than utter giddy and malicious joy.” Zanka’s lips had the slightest display of a smirk, but his eyes looked droopy. His cheeks and ears were very faintly flushed, but his nose was especially tinted. Other than all that, Zanka didn’t look at all drunk.

His mouth stretches open into a yawn, his weight leaning heavily onto his cane, making it slip once again against the polished floor, recovering easily enough, though. His hand clamped around Jabber’s limp wrist by his hip, tugging him out of the sight of the windows. When they were out of earshot as well Zanka practically collapsed, pulling himself together just enough to sit his ass down on the small, decorative chair that creaked like skiing gear from the rough fabric it was made of.

With a big toothy grin on his face Jabber sat on the metal interior keeping it all together and felt the blonde’s head lean onto him. Looking over, his eyes fell on Zanka's hands, draped over his cane that was stuck between his thighs. He could swear his fingers look long and elegant from here, but he knew how Zanka's palms felt, they were unlike what anyone would expect — anything but gentle. He reached over to take one, — surprisingly to Jabber, drunken Zanka wasn't opposed to anything, — He pressed his right palm to Zanka's left, lining them up. Even though Jabber's stature is just slightly taller, Zanka's fingers were a smidge lengthier; always was.

Jabber turned their hands around, his palm up, Zanka's palm down, admiring how smooth and nice they looked.

“Can ya stop starin’ like a fuckin’ nut-job?” Zanka prompted, starting to move his arm back to its original position; though he didn't get far as Jabber intertwined his fingers into the blond's.

“C’mon, Mr. Bad attitude. God forbid guy wanna check sum out.”

“Ya got a hand fetish or somethin’, guy?” Zanka quirked an eyebrow at Jabber, half-playfully swatting at his hand to let go — but Jabber doesn't.

“Jus’ thought rings would look good on ya, ya jackass.” He braces his free hand against the back of the decorative chair, ending up leaned over Zanka — in an oddly charged atmosphere.

A long silence settled between them as they held the intense eye contact, the cigarette’s filter burning Jabber's fingers long forgotten.