Chapter Text
Zanka didn’t want to be here.
He wanted to be in his bed, literacy homework spread across his lap, and chamomile tea steaming on the nightstand with its faint taste still lingering on his tongue. He wanted quiet. Predictability. Instead he’s here, at a house party that he didn’t want to be at in the first place.
The music was deafening, the bass rattling through him as if it were a second heartbeat. The room was crowded with people—bodies packed shoulder to shoulder on the dancefloor with no sense of personal space. The scent of alcohol, sweat, and cheap cologne burned his nostrils with every breath he took. The air was foggy with the smoke of weed, the smell creating a potent concoction in the air, one that almost had Zanka gagging. There was a humidity to the room that only amplified the stench. It was suffocating.
Instinctively, Zanka found himself gravitating to a relatively empty corner. The air still reeked and the floor was slightly sticky beneath his feet, but at least he wasn’t being bumped into every two seconds. Sweat dripped from his forehead, the room too humid and hot for his liking. At least it was better in the corner—with less people, everything dialed down.
With his back to the wall and his body facing towards the crowd, he swirled the stale beer in his cup, watching as the liquid sloshed around. He didn’t drink it, he just watched. Zanka knew better than to drink these frat parties beer as the substance was likely spiked with some sort of drug or roofie. Still, he held the plastic in his hands, letting himself fade into the background of the obnoxious party.
People danced all around him, bodies grinding against one another as hands roamed freely. Skin against skin, mouths against mouths. It was disgusting, really. Zanka had never understood how college students could be so relentlessly horny. It was vile and utterly sickening, but then again, everything about this place was. The house reeked of sex, alcohol, and weed. It’s a lethal combination, one that slithers into Zanka’s stomach and stirs up the bile that threatens to rise.
Zanka's gaze catches on a couple seated on the couch nearest to him. They were tangled together as if, in their minds, they were the only people in the room. The girl was blonde, her skirt so short that it almost leaves nothing to the imagination. Her hips were grinding against the man's crotch, his own hips rolling up to meet hers. His fingers dug into her sides and Zanka wondered if the strength of his grip would leave bruises on her soft skin. They were absorbed with one another, lost in each other's movements and taste. Zanka wouldn’t have been surprised if they got so lost in each other that they started fucking right then and there.
Revolting.
It’s not like Zanka’s never had sex: he’s had his fair share of one-night stands with forgettable girls that would be gone by the morning. The sex was fine, though nothing special. It’s not something he ever really found himself needing. Sex is an obsession that people his age crave above all else for reasons he doesn’t understand. He doesn’t get the appeal. If anything, it’s not worth the risks. These people are probably walking STD factories and Zanka had zero interest in catching one of those.
So instead he watches in quiet disgust as the couple continues their escapade, rolling his eyes whenever the girl lets out an exaggerated moan that cuts through the music.
Bullshit. He thinks as he shakes his head.
People are so performative, always putting on a show to pretend it feels better than it actually does. It made him wonder what he’s even doing here–in a place filled with the type of people he can’t stand. His mind wanders back to two hours ago, when he had been peacefully sitting at Enjin’s kitchen counter. He’d been eating a toasted bagel, the cream cheese adding the perfect chill to the warmth of the bread. He had already been planning his quiet evening.
Until Riyo came in and shattered that illusion.
“What are your plans for tonight?” Riyo asked as she strolled into the kitchen and leaned onto the counter opposite of Zanka. She propped her elbows on the surface, leaning her head on her left palm. She smelled faintly of coffee and sugar, having just gotten back from a study group for her biology class.
Zanka raised a brow, already having an idea of where this is going. “I’m busy,” he replied with a deadpanned tone, trying to shut the idea down before it even began.
“Busy?” she rolled her eyes and scoffed, “Doing what? Rotting in your room all day? I don’t think so. We’re going out.” It wasn’t a question or an offer, it was a statement, one that left no room for argument.
Riyo liked to party. She liked to go out drinking, dancing, and whatever her definition of “fun” entailed. Most of the time she dragged Rudo out with her, but Zanka vaguely remembers him saying that he was going to hang out with Amo tonight. Great. Just great.
Enjin’s out tonight too, though God knows where he is. Enjin tends to come and go without much explanation. This time, the only thing he left was a note that read “Going out. Be back in the morning. Byeeeee ;)” in scribbled handwriting.
With both of them gone, that only left one target.
He stared at her for a moment before his attention drifted back to his bagel, “No.”
Obviously Riyo hadn’t taken “no” for an answer, considering that Zanka’s here now. He doesn’t even actually know where Riyo had gone—probably off making out with some girl. Who knows, maybe they’ll go home together and Zanka can finally leave.
That leaves him here, in his vacant corner, alone.
He was suddenly yanked from his thoughts when someone knocked into him, spilling his drink onto the front of Zanka’s shirt. The beer was cold as it seeped into his shirt and plastered it to his stomach.
“Woah, my bad man,” the culprit said, smiling lazily. He had dreads that were tied up into a bun, gold rings woven into the thick strands that flashed under the strobe lights. His dark skin was covered by a black tank top paired with a cropped, patchwork purple hoodie over top of it that ended just above his chest. Dark purple baggy jeans pooled at his ankles, covering thick black combat boots.
But what caught Zanka’s attention most was the rings. Ten of them, one for each finger. They were silver, contrasting the rings in his hair, and they hugged his slender fingers as if they belonged there.
Zanka snapped out of his daze, his eyes narrowing as he processed what had happened. His skin crawled with discomfort from the wet fabric against his stomach and chest. He felt anger creep up inside him, his hand dropping the now empty cup onto the ground. “Watch where you’re going, Dreads,” he spits out, venom lacing his words.
The dreadheaded man seemed unaffected. “Yo, Mr. Bad Attitude, I said I was sorry,” he replied with a smooth tone, “Just got a little carried away with the music, ya feel?”
Ya feel? Zanka repeated in his head, Mr. Bad Attitude?
That only pissed Zanka off more. “Whatever, just get out of my way.” he all but growled before shoving past the man.
“What’s his problem?” Zanka heard from behind him—probably the guy the dreadhead was dancing with. He didn’t stick around long enough to hear the reply. Instead, he headed straight for the bathroom.
Zanka slammed the door shut behind him, bracing himself on the counter as he took deep breaths. He needed to calm down. Normally he wouldn’t be this upset, but his plans for a relaxing night were already ruined and he doesn’t need some jackass making it worse. He looked up, taking in his appearance.
His face was glistening with a thin sheet of sweat, his hair falling messily into his face. His white shirt was now stained with alcohol.
“Fuck,” Zanka muttered, gritting his teeth and trying not to let his anger rise again. With a hand on his chest, he took steady breaths to settle the anger. It’s no big deal…it’s not like that guy meant to knock into me…just be calm… he repeated the affirmation to himself until his shoulders relaxed.
Once he was sure that he was calm, he shucked off his blue jacket, hanging it on the back of the bathroom door. He then turned on the sink and held the stained portion of his shirt under the cold water. “You’ve got to be shitting me,” he muttered to himself as he squeezed the water out. The stain didn’t budge.
Zanka looked around the bathroom for a towel, his eyes landing on a linen closet next to the door. He sighed in relief as he opened the door and stepped into the closet. It was surprisingly roomy, but given the size of the bathroom, Zanka really shouldn’t be all that shocked. Unlike the rest of the house, the closet smelled like detergent. It was refreshing and a part of him wanted to just wait out the rest of the party in this closet.
Then the bathroom door flung open.
Like dominoes, the bathroom door slammed into the closet door. The force shoved Zanka into the closet, trapping him inside.
Zanka’s heart leapt into his throat. He hadn’t locked the bathroom door…
You…have got to be fucking kidding me… Zanka thought as he got ready to explode. He reached for the handle, preparing to give the unwanted guests a piece of his mind.
That is…until he heard the voices. “Fuck, Jabber…” the voice from earlier moaned—the one that had asked what Zanka’s problem was. But if that’s his voice…then that means…
“Shhhh…” The dreadheaded man, who Zanka can safely assume is named Jabber, hushed back. He heard the soft thud of the bathroom door closing again followed by the click of the lock. Through the thin wall of the closet, Zanka could make out the sound of a body slamming against the porcelain sink. Plastic clattered onto the tile floor, likely falling from the impact.
The echo of teeth clashing together mixed with soft moans coming from the random guy. “Mmm…gentle…” he muttered between rough kisses.
Are they…there’s no fucking way they’re actually going to fuck in the damn bathroom, Zanka thinks, his mind immediately sending signals of disgust throughout his body. Do they even realize how unsanitary bathrooms are? This is a frat house too, so who knows what disgusting germs and diseases cover the surfaces of the room. Zanka wouldn’t even sit on the toilet, let alone fuck a girl in here.
Zanka eases the door open, trying to be as silent as possible.
And that’s when he freezes…
Jabber had the other man pressed against the sink, his hand wrapped around his throat. His rings pressed into the man's throat while Jabber devoured his mouth. It’s not like Zanka didn’t know that gay men existed. Hell, he’s about 90% sure Enjin’s gay for Gris. He’s just…he’s never really seen…well…this.
He watched through that little crack as Jabber’s hands expertly unzipped the other man's pants as he moved down to cover his neck in hickeys. Zanka fixated on the way Jabber’s lips nipped at the man's neck. I wonder what that would feel like. They left dark purple marks in their wake. All of a sudden, the man yelped and Zanka saw a trickle of blood roll down the side of his neck. He couldn’t quite place the feeling he felt when he saw Jabber run his tongue along the open flesh. As Jabber snaked his hands into the man's now open pants, he let out a small whimper and pushed his hips up to grind against Jabber’s hand.
Zanka would usually be disgusted by now. He knows he should stop watching—that he should tear his eyes away, walk out, and tell them to get a fucking room. He waits for the urge to come, the urge to vomit at the sight of them.
But it never does.
Instead, Zanka’s body betrays him. His eyes remain on the erotic disgusting sight. He can’t move his body. He remains frozen in his position, his fingers curling around the closet doorknob tighter. He watched in horror fascination as Jabber sank to his knees in front of the man, dragging his tongue down his chest as he went. Jabber used his teeth to pull down the man's underwear and lick up and down the length.
Zanka could feel his pants getting tighter…why were his pants getting tighter? Zanka rarely got hard, even on a good day. He’s been with plenty of girls before, but they really have to work to get it up.
It’s probably nothing. It’s probably just because he’s a little tipsy and his emotions are all over the place from the shitty night he’s had. Yea, that has to be it. This wouldn’t turn him on, he’s straight. He leaned against the wall, getting as close to the crack as he could. Jabber was sliding the man's dick into his mouth. “Jabber…Jabber, fuck, I can’t…I c-can’t…” the man panted, his legs wobbling. Jabber started sucking, the sound filling the small space.
Zanka bit his lip as he watched, his hand itching to create some friction on his erection. His mouth felt unusually dry, his skin hotter than it had been before. What did he need the towel for again? He couldn’t remember. The only thing on his mind was the scene happening right in front of him.
“Jabber…” the man moaned, closing his eyes and leaning his head back. He rolled his hips into Jabber’s face, pushing his cock deeper into Jabber’s mouth. Jabber gagged and slurped, only getting more into it. Jabber took the man down all the way to the hilt, burying his nose into the bush at the base of his cock. The man’s legs shook violently from the pleasure, but Jabber gripped his thighs to keep him up.
“Don’t give out on me now,” Jabber cooed around the tip of his dick.
Suddenly, there was a harsh knock on the bathroom door, spooking both Zanka and the random man.
Jabber, however, seemed relatively calm. He pulled off of the man, letting the string of saliva connect his bottom lip to the tip. “Man, always ruining the fun,” he pouted, “C’mon, let’s get out of here.”
He rose from his knees as the man hastily pulled up his pants, the denim rasping loudly as he jerked the zipper shut. His shoulders were hunched as he fumbled with the button of his jeans, trying to piece himself back together. Jabber, on the other hand, leaned against the counter with an unbothered expression. His palms were braced behind him on either side, those silver rings reflecting the dim bathroom light. Jabber didn’t bother fixing himself at all, his dreads now down and his crop top a bit off center.
He looked…hot disheveled.
Jabber waited for the other man to adjust himself, his eyes half lidded and focused on the bulge that still tented the man's jeans. After a moment, his gaze shifted. Those piercing eyes landed on the blue jacket still hung on the back of the door. A small, barely there, smirk crept onto his face. His gaze drifted again, finally landing on the slightly ajar linen closet.
Zanka felt their eyes connect for half a second, if that, before he jerked back out of sight. Heat surged up his neck as adrenaline pumped into his system.
“Hmmmmm,” he heard Jabber hum.
The sound slid under Zanka’s skin, burning itself into his mind.
His heart slammed against his ribs, as if it was trying to slam its way out of him. The muted sound of the music outside suddenly became too intense as his heart pounded in his ears. It was like the music was trying to crush his head from all sides.
Jabber saw him, there’s no way he didn’t. He’d felt his eyes boring into him, even if only for a moment. There was a hint of…something in the way Jabber hummed. Was it thought? Amusement? Challenge? Or was it something else entirely? Something that Zanka couldn’t grasp, something that made Zanka’s stomach twist and his palms go slick with sweat.
Why am I freaking out over this? He squeezed his eyes shut, pushing his back into the shelves behind him until they dug into his skin. I’ve walked in on people by mistake before…this shouldn’t be any different. If anything, this is their fault for not checking the bathroom beforehand. He rationalize in his head. Zanka was probably just nervous of their encounter earlier. Surely that’s it. He clung to that thought, repeating it over and over until he convinced himself. He was just rattled from earlier. Nothing more.
It’s fine. It’s not fine.
He waited with shallow breaths and tense muscles for the inevitable. For Jabber’s hand to yank the door open, to bring his humiliation to light.
But that never came.
Instead, Jabber hummed again, though this time it was softer. “C’mon,” he said easily, his voice warm with promise, “We can go to my place, yea?”
Zanka could no longer see what they were doing, too scared to be seen through the crack again. He remained perfectly still in the shadows, trying to will himself somewhere else–at home, in his bed, in the quiet night that he had wanted in the first place.
The man must’ve agreed because Zanka heard the sound of the bathroom door creaking open and hallway noise filled the small space.
“Sorry about that, man,” Jabber apologized in an insincere tone, “Bathroom’s all yours.” ‘
There was a muffled, incoherent grumble before heavy footsteps walked in. The door was shut again and the lock clicked once more. The newcomer sounded annoyed, muttering curses under his breath as he relieved himself.
“Fucking asshole. Can’t keep his dick in his pants,” he grumbled.
Zanka grimaced. The man finished quickly and left without even turning on the sink. No running water. No soap. The sound alone made Zanka’s stomach lurch.
Fucking disgusting.
As the door finally shut again, Zanka waited several seconds before he peaked out of the closet, making sure no one else was there. He eyed the knob, holding in a gag as he turned it with the bottom of his shirt.
Finally he slipped out, shoulders tight and on guard. He scanned the hallway for any sign of dreadlocks or that infuriatingly smooth voice. Once he realized that Jabber and the man were indeed nowhere to be found, he relaxed.
He walked around until he found Riyo a few minutes later, hidden away in a corner with her tongue down some girls throat. Zanka rolled his eyes at the scene—it was exactly what he expected. Riyo’s pretty; she always finds someone.
“Hey,” he said flatly, “I’m headed out, you coming or not?” He kept a deliberate distance, eyeing her in disinterest.
“Mmm…just…go home…without me…’kay?” Riyo said in between kisses. She barely even took her mouth off of the other to reply, causing her words to be slightly slurred.
Zanka only sighed, not bothering to respond before turning around and melting back into the crowd. All of this could’ve been avoided if he had just stayed home. He hated this. He hated the noise, the mess, the people—he hated every part of this night.
And yet, as he made his way through the crowd, his eyes still scanned for any flicker of gold against the lighting.
For that particular set of dreadlocks.
That was what he hated most.
What he didn’t know yet was that his hate wouldn’t fade—it would rot, deepen, and twist itself into something far more complex. Something that Zanka wouldn’t know what to do with.