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He feels a body slam into his shoulder, hard, and completely redirect him off his path. Jabber’s first instinct is to side eye this motherfucker, check whoever wasn’t paying attention and impeded on his personal space. But he reminds himself. It’s a function, drunk guys get rowdy, no biggie. There’s a spliff burning a hole in his pants he's more focused on anyways. He keeps walking.
A voice stops him in his tracks.
“Hey!”
Jabber turns his head back ever so slightly but keeps his body straight. His eyes glide apathetically over the other guy.
It’s some rando. He’s taller than Jabber, but skinnier somehow. White skin, mousy brown hair. A wholly average nobody, but the scrunch of his face makes it obvious he thinks differently of that. There's a cute girl holding his hand who looks nervously between the two men.
“Huh,” Jabber responds, kind of late.
“You just pushed me and my girl, jackass! Maybe say sorry??” Nobody moves his hands around wildly, pulling his girl around in the process.
Jabber lolls his head to the side, like he’s bored, but he can’t stop a smirk from spreading on his face. Because if this guy wants to throw hands? Oh, that’s better than a joint! His fingers twitch at his side.
“I mean, I wasn’t trippin’ but you can if you want.” Jabber turns fully to face Nobody, idly picking his ear with his pinky before instinctively fiddling with his industrial. He should change it back to hoops soon. The guy’s just standing there. “Well?”
“What,” Nobody clips. He's getting antsy. Something like a giddiness bubbles in Jabber’s chest.
“I thought you was tryna’ say sorry.” Jabber frowns mockingly.
The girl tries to grasp his arm, but Nobody’s too quick, snatching his hand from hers and stepping up to Jabber. A few people around them begin to glance in their direction, wary.
“What the fuck would I have to say sorry for?!” He yells. A little circle forms around them as bystanders start backing up.
“Um, hello?” Jabber smiles. “Beatbox catchin’ up to you or sumn’? You bumped into me, bruh.”
Nobody curses and begins to advance at him. Jabber’s fully giggling now, his hands clenching into fists and his fingers tingling with the coolness of his rings.
Just then, Jabber sees a flash of blue in the corner of his eye. The guy stops just short of shoving into him. Jabber flinches at the lack of contact and his locs hit something behind him.
His body freezes as he takes in his surroundings. Two male strangers all up in his space, one pressing against his back that he can’t see, can’t predict. A crowd full of people looking at him, enclosing him. Phone cameras point in his direction as flashlights gleam into his line of sight. He's cornered. Jabber’s heart leaps out his chest as his hand automatically migrates to his left pocket where he keeps his pocket knife.
The guy behind him steps up to his right side and a warm palm on his lower back makes Jabber pause. Jabber turns his head to watch two navy blue earrings flap around.
“Do we have a problem?” Zanka’s voice is stern, commanding, as sharp as his gaze that he directs solely at Nobody. His right hand, at the center of Nobody’s chest, holds him still. Jabber lets his own hand rest against his side.
“Let’s just go, Oscar,” The girl speaks up meekly. She pulls at the back of Nobody’s shirt, but he doesn’t budge.
“No! This asshole knocked us over and he needs to apologize before I make him!” He pushes against Zanka’s hand but there’s not much give.
“I think ya needa listen ta yer girl, Oscar,” Zanka says, eyes steely. The hell. He hasn't spared even a glance at Jabber's direction yet.
Nobody looks Zanka up and down and scoffs. “Who the fuck are you anyway?”
Zanka grits his teeth, the veins in his neck straining. Oh, this guy’s asking to get his ass belted. Jabber can practically see the smoke coming out his ears.
Jabber laughs. “It's cool, Z. Guy's jus tryna impress his girl by bein’ all macho. But he not gon’ do nothin’ forreal,” Jabber grins. “Most pussy ass bitches don’t.”
The reaction is immediate. Jabber hears a series of “oooo”’s from the crowd. The girl grimaces and steps away miniscully. Someone yells You just gon’ take that, bro?
So, the force he feels when two palms shove at his chest is expected. Welcomed, actually. Jabber lets himself stumble back a bit for dramatics but he’s got two fists in front of him before he knows it and he's ready to hit, strike, bleed.
The guy’s slumped on the floor before he gets a chance.
“Oh my God!” His girl gasps, before rushing to the ground next to him. There’s some shouts of shock, a few groans of annoyance at such a short lived fight. If it can even be categorized as one.
Jabber lets his arms hang limp. Zanka’s face is pulled up in a wince as he shakes out his hand. Jabber gapes at the younger man.
“You deadass right now?” He just did this guy in Saitama-style and he’s acting like he got a paper cut!
Zanka’s expression morphs into confusion when he finally, finally looks at Jabber. “What?” He says.
What? What?
“What? Fuck you mean ‘what’?”
“What!” Like a broken record. This guy right here.
Jabber storms off, heading for the back porch of whoever's house this is like he originally intended. He hears Zanka calling out for him but he doesn’t slow down. Now, he definitely needs a smoke.
Mr. Bad Attitude over here, his self-proclaimed enemy, beating up the guy he was supposed to fight in one punch. Like, okay, Captain Save-a-Hoe. Jabber feels his blood pressure rising with every step.
The plastic backdoor slams open. Cool air hits Jabber’s face like whiplash, a stark difference to the suffocating heat of a crowded house party filled with high school teens. He walks closer to the wooden fence but stays by the wall of the house so he can still hear the music. PinkPantheress bumps low through tan brick. Momoa must be on aux.
Jabber puts the joint in his mouth, rummaging through his pockets for a lighter.
Zanka always does this. If Jabber gets in a fight and he’s around, he can’t help but to step in. When they’re in school, aight, he's got an okay excuse. It don't look right if the class president just lets people duke it out in the middle of the hallway.
This, though. This is supposed to be Jabber’s space. Zanka doesn't go to parties. He goes to school, and tutoring and Kendo lessons. He doesn’t do parties.
Jabber feels a small piece of metal in his back pocket and makes a tiny fist pump in the air. Riyo probably dragged him out this one time.
He’s lighting up when he hears the music get loud. Pink sings It starts with you, ooh, starts with you, ooh just as the door slams back closed.
“Fuck out my face, Zanka,” he mumbles around the spliff, before taking a deep breath in.
“I hit a random stranger fer ya and this is the thanks I get?” He moves closer to Jabber, waving his arms around.
“Who asked you to do that, though?” Zanka rolls his eyes and looks down, kicking grass with his converses. “Right. I beat your ass how many times? And you still wanna fight my battles.”
“He was disrespectin’ us both.”
“You wasn’t even ‘posed to be there.” Jabber inhales again, a fat one this time. He holds it. One, two. Exhales through his nose.
His tolerance is almost impenetrable by now so he knows he’s not high yet. Maybe it’s the placebo effect or something. Shit, maybe it’s standing here with Zanka, just the two of them with the chill wind between. A chorus of happy shrieks seep out the house as Fetty Wap begins to play. What the fuck is he mad about anyways?
Zanka sighs. He stuffs his hands into his jean pockets. He’s got a Radiohead shirt on over a white long sleeve.
"Everybody's gonna have that video by Monday, huh?”
Jabber cackles, loud and disjointed in the quiet night.
“Don’t sell yourself short, class prez. It’s only Friday. Who’s to say it's not all over snapchat by tomorrow morning?”
“Fuuuckk.” Zanka gazes long sufferingly into the sky. Probably thinking about what Enjin will think, or his reputation or something else irrelevant.
Jabber licks his lips, his tongue poking at his snake bites. Slouched back against the fence, he looks up at Zanka through long lashes.
“Z.” His eyes snap back on Jabber quickly. “Don’t lie to me. Why'd you do that?” Zanka is quiet for a moment.
He’s not sure why he asks. It’s been like this since they were kids. Jabber already knows why. He guesses he wonders if Zanka knows too.
Zanka looks off to the side for a second before speaking.
“I don’t like when ya fight with other people.”
Huh.
“But you don't like me.”
“I don’t. S’not about whether I like ya’r not. I’m the only one that can handle ya. If they like their life no one else should even try.” It’s a half truth, maybe, but that’s more than he expected.
Jabber bites his lip and he thinks on this. He wants Zanka to clarify. Who’d kill them, and why, why? Why don’t you like me? Why do you want me all to yourself? Why don’t you tell me everything?
He doesn't press it, though.
Jabber holds out the burning joint for Zanka to take, shaking it a bit between his fingers when he hesitates. “C’mon, man.”
Zanka looks skeptical. “How I know ya didn't lace this?”
“You don’t!” Jabber beams, his dimple piercings glinting. “But you know what they say! Keep your enemies close and allat!” He wiggles the joint in the air. Zanka’s upper lip curls but he takes it anyway.
As soon as Zanka places it between his lips, Jabber straightens himself up from the wall. He takes two wide steps forward. Cool rings and long, slender fingers bracket ruddy cheeks.
A quick peck is planted on the tip of Zanka’s nose.
“Thanks, Zan-zan.” Jabber smiles so big his eyes close. Zanka stays stock still. “I’ll see you, yeah?”
Jabber leaves Zanka with $5 worth of weed for free.