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Jabber had always considered himself a jealous person.
Not the kind of jealousy that fades after a conversation, but the kind that settles into your bones and sleeps there, waiting.
Because, deep down, if he was there, why the hell would anyone else be needed?
He liked knowing he owned something. It was a matter of internal logic.
That was why he loved Mankira so much.
Mankira, with its smooth edges, polished from so much friction, from that almost sick care Jabber devoted to it every night while watching some stupid YouTube video or waiting for Zanka to reply to his messages.
Mankira, with its unbreakable loyalty, always there, always his.
When his nerves started gnawing at his fingers and he needed something to fidget with, when the withdrawal hit so hard that a simple joint wasn’t enough anymore and he could feel the void calling him with that sweet voice whispering “just one more time,” when he found himself in difficult situations thanks to one very specific someone…
Mankira was there.
Silent. His.
Just like Zanka was supposed to be his.
Because Zanka was his man. His other half. The sadist to his masochism.
The only one who could put him in his place with a well-landed punch and make him beg for more.
The only one who understood, without explanations, that sometimes Jabber needed to be reminded who was in charge. That sometimes he needed it to hurt.
They met during Zanka’s first year of university. Coincidences of life, at the chemistry faculty.
Jabber was running away from his first class of the day (and therefore from Cthoni, because that woman had a radar to locate him and drag him back to academic hell) when he ran straight into the guy who, two weeks earlier, had beaten the life out of him at a party.
It’s worth clarifying that Jabber had been high as hell that night.
But the memory of those blows, precise and brutal, had stayed etched into his skin like tattoos.
Just thinking about Zanka’s knuckles against his stomach, against his jaw, against any available part of his body, made him hard.
God, how he loved his man.
Zanka recognized him instantly. Jabber saw his expression shift from surprise to alertness, body tensing, ready for another round. And though Jabber would have loved to take more hits from that drop-dead gorgeous Japanese guy, he had a priority mission: escaping Cthoni.
(Spoiler: Cthoni would have caught him even if he’d been fleeing on a damn steroid-pumped donkey. So no, he didn’t escape. Not from her, not from the tedious organic biochemistry class waiting for him.)
Because of life (and the survival instinct of a cornered addict), Jabber ended up glued to Zanka like a limpet, trying to hide between him and the two friends walking with him.
Unfortunately, Zanka’s redheaded friend (whom Jabber mentally nicknamed pew pew, though he later learned her name was Riyo) happened to know Noerde, who was friends with Cthoni.
Connections. Damn social connections.
When Cthoni passed by like she was chasing a rainbow-vomiting unicorn playing the ukulele terribly (yes, Jabber was stoned, don’t judge him), pew pew had the brilliant idea of greeting her.
Jabber didn’t escape that one.
But he did get a solid hit from Zanka when he tried to cling to him harder, seeking refuge in the only body that felt solid in the chaos.
God. That hit.
Straight to the ribs.
Jabber let go only to press harder against the sore spot, a stupidly satisfied smile threatening to spread across his face. That punch sent him through the roof.
Did he mention he loved the hits he got from his man? No? Well, now you know.
Over time, Jabber and Zanka clicked.
It was strange, considering they’d started with a fight and continued with shoves and murderous looks in the hallways.
But Zanka had something.
An intensity.
A way of looking at Jabber like he was a problem to solve, and Jabber had always wanted to be solved by him.
They became a couple.
Well, Zanka didn’t particularly like that term (something about his family, about being a genius, about expectations). Jabber didn’t fully understand it, but he didn’t care either.
Even if Zanka took a decade to admit their relationship out loud, Jabber would still be there.
Because Zanka wouldn’t have anyone else besides Jabber.
He would make sure of that himself.
Zanka didn’t need anyone else but Jabber.
Jabber was his only one. His other half. The perfect match, even if Zanka never admitted it.
Zanka wasn’t allowed to be with anyone else.
Not even if Jabber died. If that ever happened, Jabber already had contacts, ways to make sure Zanka wouldn’t look for anyone new.
It was a twisted idea from his warped mind.
That’s why, when Jabber saw the scene, something inside him cracked.
He was on campus, looking for Zanka so they could eat together, when he spotted him at the end of the hallway leading to the labs.
And he wasn’t alone.
There was someone else.
A guy with a damn closed umbrella tucked under his arm despite the blazing sun, smiling with that yogurt-commercial kindness.
Enjin. Jabber knew who he was. He knew he existed.
So why did Zanka look so embarrassed, with that adorable and characteristic blush, smiling at something that cheap Mary Poppins knockoff had said?
What the hell?
Why had Jabber never realized how close those two were?
Sure, Zanka preferred to keep Jabber separate from most of his other acquaintances—privacy or something like that—but everyone knew about Jabber and Jabber knew about everyone.
So did Jabber really know so little about how close Zanka was to his friends?
And why did Zanka look so comfortable, so hopeful, with Mr. Umbrella?
Jabber felt the ground open beneath his feet.
Why? Why with him and not me? Why do I never see him like that?
The heavy, cumbersome feeling of jealousy boiled inside Jabber like an Erlenmeyer flask over a Bunsen burner. The more he watched their interaction, the worse it became.
Jabber’s fist tightened around Mankira. The edges, softened by years of obsessive care, pressed into his skin.
An anchor. A reminder.
“Easy, Mankira,” he muttered, not taking his eyes off them. “I know, I know. It’s bullshit.”
Because Zanka didn’t need anyone else. That was the deal.
The unwritten agreement Jabber had signed in his head the moment he decided Zanka would be his. Zanka had him.
He was enough. He had to be enough.
But there was that Mary Poppins knockoff, stealing something that didn’t belong to him.
Jabber stopped playing with the ring.
His feet were already moving before his brain finished processing the decision.
When he was close enough, he didn’t hesitate.
His arms wrapped around Zanka’s waist from behind, pressing his chest to his back and resting his chin on his shoulder. The contact was immediate, electric.
Jabber buried his nose in Zanka’s neck, inhaling that scent of coffee and, strangely, effort.
Him. His.
“Zan Zan,” he murmured, voice stickier than candy left out in the sun.
Zanka’s body tensed completely. Jabber felt it.
The way his muscles prepared for impact, his elbow beginning to pull back to drive into some vital organ.
But then Zanka must have recognized the tone of voice, the texture of the arms, the possessive shape of the embrace, because the blow never came.
Instead, Zanka tried to pull away.
Not violently. Not with the roughness he used when he truly wanted someone gone.
It was an awkward movement, like he wanted to create distance without seeming rude.
As if Jabber’s presence there, hugging him, was something to be ashamed of.
“Jabber.” Zanka’s voice was tense. “Let me go.”
Jabber looked up. Enjin was watching them with a surprised expression, though that kind Mary Poppins smile never left his face.
Jabber shifted his gaze to Zanka.
And realized Zanka wasn’t looking at him.
Zanka was looking at Enjin.
As if he were more important than the person he was supposedly dating. Searching his face for something.
Approval. Explanation. Permission, maybe.
The walking time bomb of jealousy that was Jabber detonated.
For a moment, the idea flashed through his mind: maybe kidnapping Zanka, drugging him just enough so he wouldn’t be fully aware but would still be himself (just softer, more manageable, more his) wasn’t such a bad idea.
It would spare him moments like this.
That way Zanka wouldn’t have anyone else to look at.
Jabber tightened his grip, fingers hooking into the fitted shirt Zanka wore under his jacket.
“But you’re so soft, Zan Zan,” his tone remained syrupy, but there was something underneath, something sharp. Possessiveness. “And I’m just a poor needy man.”
He locked eyes with Enjin. Direct. Challenging.
He could feel Zanka’s stare on his face, probably giving him that usual look. Brow furrowed, pure disdain, as if saying, you’re a complete idiot, I can’t stand you.
Normally he loved that look. It turned him on like crazy.
Not today. Today it only fed the jealousy.
It also left a small splinter under his skin. He was hurt. But that didn’t matter. Not now.
“Oh hey, dude.” He made a small pout, squinting as if trying to remember. “Didn’t see you there, uh… enjanm?”
“Enjin,” Zanka corrected through clenched teeth, shooting him a deadly glare. “Enjin, you damn lunatic.”
But the man in question didn’t let his smile falter for even a second. Enjin held Jabber’s gaze with a calmness that was almost insulting. As if watching a toddler throw a tantrum.
“Hey, kid,” he said softly, shifting his posture slightly.
The silence that followed was tense, heavy.
Zanka broke it quickly, apologizing on Jabber’s behalf. Enjin waved a hand dismissively.
“Don’t worry, Zanka. Sometimes it’s hard to remember.” His eyes flicked back to Jabber for a second, and there, just for a second, Jabber saw something. Amusement? Warning? “Well, I’ll get going. You know, Semiu’s waiting for me.”
He turned and walked away the way he’d come, waving without looking back.
Mission accomplished. Enemy eliminated.
Jabber couldn’t help the smug smile as he loosened his grip slightly, burying his nose in Zanka’s two-toned hair.
Being practically the same height helped—they fit perfectly.
His satisfaction lasted about three seconds.
Zanka pulled away in one sharp movement, turning to face him. His fists were clenched at his sides and his jaw so tight Jabber could almost hear his teeth grinding.
“What the hell was that supposed to be, Jabber?” Zanka muttered, furious.
“I don’t know what you mean, Zan Zan.” Jabber opened his arms, trying to step closer again, to reclaim the warmth.
Zanka took a step back.
The physical rejection hurt more than Jabber expected.
“Yes, you do. You show up while I’m talking to Enjin and act like we’re… like we’re…” Zanka’s voice trailed off. He didn’t want to finish the sentence.
He didn’t want to say out loud whatever he was thinking.
That hesitation hurt.
It burned like a sudden strike to a weak spot. But Jabber chose not to push, not to hear the full sentence.
“Zan Zan, come on, dude,” he tried to sound light, carefree, affectionate. “I just wanted to spend some time with you. I didn’t know that Enj—whatever was there.”
“It’s Enjin,” Zanka corrected, rubbing the bridge of his nose like he had a headache. “And you know I don’t like you getting that close to my acquaintances. It’s… weird. And…”
“Is it because you don’t want them to know you’re dating me?”
The interruption was involuntary. The words slipped out before he could bite them back.
“It’s not that, and we’re not even—”
“It always feels like you don’t want them to know,” Jabber cut in again, and this time his voice had lost all lightness. “You know, Zan Zan, I don’t like secrets.”
Silence.
A thick, uncomfortable silence that Jabber tried to break by stepping closer again.
This time Zanka didn’t step back.
He let him wrap his arms around him with false gentleness, tuck a strand of hair behind his ear, take his hand. But Zanka looked at the ground, biting his lip. Thoughtful.
“I think this is as far as we go, Jabber,” he finally said, pulling free. “I don’t think this is what we want.”
What?
What he wants? What did Zanka know about what he wanted?
Jabber knew exactly what he wanted. He wanted Zanka.
Zanka with his difficult personality. Zanka with his punches. Zanka glaring at him. Zanka with his sadism. Zanka stalking him on social media and showing up at random places “by coincidence.” Zanka, who matched his equally twisted mind, because deep down they were both just as messed up.
Zanka, Zanka, Zanka.
Jabber needed Zanka.
Like he needed air. Like he needed Mankira. Like he needed that dose of pain and love only the Japanese man knew how to give him.
And Zanka needed Jabber. He had to. How else?
Before Zanka could take another step away, Jabber dropped to his knees.
His knees hit the pavement with a dull crack. He felt the fabric of his jeans tear slightly against the ground, the skin beneath protesting. He didn’t care.
He crawled a few inches toward Zanka and wrapped both hands around his strong thighs, resting his head against the bone of his hip.
“Come on, sweetheart,” he murmured, looking up at him. “Don’t do this to me. You know we need each other.”
Zanka looked down at him. Frozen. His cheeks—that characteristic blush Jabber adored—were beginning to tint again.
And in his eyes… Jabber saw something. A spark.
Satisfaction.
“We complement each other so well, Zan Zan,” Jabber continued, tightening his hold. “There’s no one better for either of us. You know that.”
“Jabber…”
“Zanka, sweetheart, my man…” Jabber pressed a soft kiss to the jut of his hip, never breaking eye contact. The fabric of Zanka’s pants separated his lips from skin, but it didn’t matter. It was the gesture. The offering.
“I won’t let you be with anyone else,” he whispered, and now his voice trembled slightly. “You’re mine, Zanka. And I’m yours. If anyone dares to try something with you, I’ll kill them. If you try something with someone… I’ll kill them too.”
The words spilled out unfiltered, one after another.
His hands slid slowly, possessively up Zanka’s thighs to his lower back. He gently pulled him closer, pressing another kiss, now against his clothed stomach.
“I need you, Zanka.”
And he stayed there. On his knees. Clinging to him. Begging.
Zanka watched him from above, and Jabber could see the flush spreading over his cheeks, his ears, down his neck.
His eyes shone with something Jabber knew well, though he rarely saw it so clearly.
Charm. Satisfaction. The feeling a cat gets when the mouse walks right into its paws.
That a genius, someone as attractive as Jabber, would kneel and beg for him in the middle of the street, declaring his love with that mixture of devotion and threat… it inflated Zanka’s ego in a sick way. It made him feel powerful.
It made him feel needed.
Maybe he should make Jabber jealous on purpose more often.
Zanka extended a hand and rested it on Jabber’s head. His fingers tangled in the dreadlocks, stroking with a softness that contrasted with everything that had just happened.
“You’re a mess,” he said, but his voice had lost all its previous tension.
Jabber looked up at him, eyes shining.
Relief hit him like a wave. He tightened his embrace, hiding his face against Zanka’s stomach.
They would think about the rest later.
Right now, all that mattered was that Zanka was his.
And he was Zanka’s.
Forever. In this life and the next.