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Zanka's thoughts sink down just as his body does. They crash, unhindered, to the ground with him, scatter about in his mind the way his limbs seem to do so. It's so frustrating to see the result of his training be for naught when Jabber wipes the floor with him with such ease. Petulantly, he thinks that this is not fair. The gap between them is so unfair, and Zanka hates it— he hates that it exists still, in spite of his efforts, he hates that he is reminded of his days at the Hell Guard Academy, always falling behind Hyo.
He hates that it seems like it's never enough.
Like he isn't ever enough.
He hates how those emotions drown him, dangerously drag his thoughts to the bottom, to a place he refuses to ever be holed up again. A chill runs through him at the desperation that clings against his skin, cold and uncomfortable. It's a slimy sensation, something that makes Zanka want to recoil, something he can't escape when his shortcomings are so clear in his defeat. In Jabber's triumph.
Jabber towers above him, not only in height, unfortunately. His image looks so remote, so far removed from Zanka's level. And Zanka, who is against the ground, feels so small. So insignificant.
"Are you done, Jabber?" Momoa pipes up. She stands from where she'd taken seat, deeming the battle done. Briefly, she looks at the Cleaner Jabber had insisted on fighting before they left. Her nose scrunches up, and she huffs, "I don't know what you see in him. He is weak."
Zanka bites the inside of his cheek hard, holding his breath. He is weak, he knows, can't begin to fight the statement when his struggle to catch up to Jabber was a losing battle. Zanka knows he still isn't good enough, but it still hurts to hear it. It hurts that other people can see his weakness so easily. His eyes move to Jabber's face, and the smile he'd been showing so far has disappeared.
His eyes lock path with Zanka's, and Zanka's heart sinks. The joy of the fight's left him, clearly, and Momoa's words ring in his mind, all too clear and sharp, all too loud for the headache and heartache that he feels coming. The idea of Jabber's attention being taken away shakes him to his core —because if Jabber, who sought fights against strong people, were to turn away from Zanka... if he were to deny Zanka another chance to prove himself...
"Let's go, Jabber. Leave the trash behind."
... where does that leave him?
Zanka wants to beg. An unreasonable, emotional part of him wants to ask Jabber to stay. Because, crazy as it is, the thought of Jabber deeming him weak is more devastating than it ought to be. His lower lip trembles. It scares him.
"Don't call him trash." Jabber interjects, deadpan. His eyes still are focused on Zanka. He hasn't budged from his spot. Underneath the apparent calmness, Zanka can see the inkling of anger behind his eyes.
Momoa doesn't, not from where she stands. "He is no better than bugs, Jabber." Zanka believes her, he truly does so at the moment. His grip around Lovely Assistaff tightens, a habit whenever he sought comfort. "He is pathetic, just look at him. I thought you didn't like weaklings?"
Zanka feels the intensity in his gaze, something heavy and dangerous. A simmering anger that looks far more intimidating than the boisterous blood-thirst. Jabber opens his mouth and Zanka fears the words that will be spoken out loud.
"Are you weak, Zanka?"
What?
Zanka's vision swims at the question. It feels like a mockery to be asked such thing, when the result of the battle spoke for itself. Surely Jabber intends to twist the knife before leaving him behind, forgotten and ignored. Surely Jabber is feeling for something more intimate that he could use against Zanka. The answer is obviously yes, so why does Jabber want to—
"I asked if you are weak, Zanka." Jabber's anger does not bleed on the question, and his tone sounds earnest, firm, no trace of accusation nor judgement towards Zanka. His expression is so open that Zanka second guesses the response that hangs from the tip of his tongue. "I don't like weaklings, that is true. So, are you weak, Zanka?" Jabber's lips finally twitch towards the twisted smirk Zanka's come to known, and Zanka recognizes the affable nature of it.
Jabber's teasing him, he recognizes, prodding Zanka's temper the way he does when he wants to elicit a reaction out of him.
It's freeing, to know Jabber's anger is not at Zanka's weakness.
It's worrisome, how much weight Jabber's opinion holds.
Zanka laughs, short and breathy. "No, I'm not." He pushes himself, forces his body to move, to rise again and make one more stand. The satisfied grin of Jabber, full of evident pride and joy, serves as Zanka's goal.
He will not fall short to Jabber's expectations. He will come back time and time again, he would give it his all until his bones broke. Until he finally succeeded, until he finally showed that Jabber's genius was comparable to his own efforts. Until he finally lived up to Jabber's vision of his true strength.
"Go on ahead, Momoa." Jabber says, eyes still focused on Zanka. And Zanka mentally shakes himself, tells himself that he would never waver again if Jabber was looking at him, he would never doubt himself so long as Jabber's attention was on him. "I will catch up."
"We'll see about that." It's fake bravado that he puts forward, a confidence he knows he has no right to, but Zanka clings onto it regardless, emboldened by the way Jabber's eyes wrinkle at the corners, at the joy that returns to his expression.
Zanka might never live up to the expectations he has for himself, but he can live with that. Failing Jabber's, on the other hand, is something he does not think he can live with.
He'd chase after Jabber, the way he chased after strength.