Chapter Text
“It burns! Ah! Fuck! Why?!”
Zanka, bug repellant in hand, chases after the floating, pink, screaming thing, heart in his throat—bubbling with about two days worth of caffeine and scratched raw from shrieking as loud as the night could carry. Yeah, he’s about 97% sure this is nothing but a dream, spun thickly raw after pushing himself to the limits these past few days, but 97% is not 100; those wings, by god, look real as fucking rain.
The thing—the freak—the man—the bird, evades the second onslaught of spray, only barely, by sticking himself flat against the ceiling. When Zanka takes aim again, he yells:
“Goddamn, will you relax?! I'm not a bug! I’m a person! Well, sort of—”
“Get the hell out of my apartment!” Zanka screams. He fumbles behind him while maintaining eye contact, trying to reach the drawer where he keeps the racket zapper. “Whatever the hell you are! You said you’re a—a—a fairy?”
“An angel, is what I said I am,” he—it—glowers down at him, hovering near the silver-spun lights, pressed against the flat white of his ceiling like deco on a wedding cake. And—despite all the smoke pouring out his brain—Zanka can see it; he’s got a face that could part the Milky Way, eyes the colour of late-hour passion, and pearly canines that take on a crazed, pleased look as Zanka takes aim with his new weapon. His clothing is pale and long and undulating with a gravity of its own, and above his head hovers the most brilliant disc of gold Zanka’s ever seen.
And, stretched out from two slits in his back, are two enormous, milky wings, pale as a virgin moon, spread out the wideness of nearly two metres, shedding feathers that evaporate into dusty twinklebells under the artificial light of Zanka’s kitchen.
“… I'm dreaming. Yep. Yes,” Zanka’s shoulder sags as the adrenaline wanes; he breathes out through his nose and slides away the racket. A surge of peace steadies his ocean; he makes a three-sixty and returns to his room, untouched after he had woken up from midnight thirst and found a winged stranger bathed in moonlight on his kitchen counter.
Zanka slides into his toasty bed and closes his eyes; the mattress dips deliciously as his head sinks into the pillow and the melatonin circles through his lungs like dandelion seeds. This’ll be a hilarious story to tell Riyo and Rudo tomorrow.
His chest feels heavy.
When he opens his eyes, the world is purple. His blue eyes meet the angel’s head on—literally, nose-to-nose, forehead-to-forehead—with his dark locs spread out like tendrils across the checkered pillow.
Zanka struggles but finds himself trapped in a grip of steel.
“Will you listen to me now?”
Scowling, Zanka shakes his head. When he had, twenty minutes prior, gotten over the initial shock of a stranger in cosplay hijacking his kitchen, his first course of action was to call 911. That is, it would have been, if the phone hadn’t gone poof in a ridiculous sparkle of pink glitter at the snap of the angel’s fingers. And then he, phoneless and delirious, was subject to an insane monologue about cupids and assigments and heavenly ruling that was cut short as Zanka grabbed the pesticide.
“Ah, well, too bad!” The angel’s smile stretches wide. “I’m gonna have to give you a whole run down of The Rules again, cause I have a sense you weren’t listening last time.” He clears his throat. “Zanka Nijiku, it pains me to say this… but you've pissed off the Angel of Love big time. Any idea why?”
Zanka couldn’t answer if he wanted to. The angel’s hand smothering his mouth doesn't retract even when he bites it.
“Lemme tell you. It's because you, my dude, put dishonour on his name and everything he’s built his life on. What’s your philosophy? I was given a whole debrief—Zanka Nijiku, nihilist, pessimist, misanthropist—who is of the opinion that love is a load of bullshit. Or, in your words, nothing but ‘bouts of primitive passion’ that interfere with the symmetry of an otherwise right-angled world. What a fucking downer, bleugh, is what I thought. Do you turn your nose up at big-eyed puppies and milk chocolate and children in frog bucket-hats? That’s miserable, man, a miserable way to live. Good old Tamsy thought so too; that’s why he sent me.”
Zanka glares at him.
“I'm not gonna lie, I only agreed cause the pay check was fat as hell and I’d even get a cherub servant for a week. I should have realised—high rewards, high risk, amiright? You’re ruthless!” When Zanka still doesn’t reply, the angel chuckles and sinks down until he's straddling Zanka completely. “So that’s what I am. I’m Jabber, by the way. AKA your cupid. Sent down from the green gardens up above with the sole purpose of getting you cozied up with someone and hop off poor Venus’s back. Now I’m gonna remove my hand… don’t crash out again, kay?”
Slowly, extremely, Jabber removes his hand. Zanka stares up at him, in the thick silence needled with the ticking of his bedside clock. The room is awash with the silver moon’s hue like the butterfly light of an aquarium.
Zanka kicks him off. Or he tries to. Jabber leaps into the air at the last second, caught by those wings whose cloud-spun flapping sends down a baby breeze that plays with Zanka’s hair and pillow sheets.
“You can’t be serious,” Zanka snaps.
“As a heart attack!”
“Yeah, no. Absolutely not. I don’t consent to any of this,” Zanka clenches his fists. “So you can go and tell your boss I don't need any wingman—”
“Tamsy ain’t my boss.”
“What the fuck is a Tamsy.”
“That's the name of the angel paying me to get you laid. My boss is Zodyl of the underworld. But I feel I may be stretching out my NDA I say anymore, heh…”
Those words part the confusion and the fear and the anger as Zanka’s curiosity perks its ears. “I thought you said you were an angel.”
“Oh, I am. But it’s a lot more complicated than that,” Jabber flashes his canines at him. “Not that it matters to you. Zanka, my guy, here’s our plan moving forward: I, Jabber Wonger, your faithful cupid for the foreseeable future, promises that, by the end of our time together—cross my heart and hope to die—you’ll have someone to call your own. No more spending your Fridays at bingo night with the old crones, or eating instant bento boxes alone at the convenience store. You’ll be cured. Got it? Any questions?”
Zanka stares past Jabber, to the moon contained in his window, hung pale like a bloodless eye, “You have no right to change my lifestyle. It's none of your business. Heaven shouldn’t interfere.”
This makes Jabber laugh, “oh, believe me, baby, Heaven shouldn’t be doing a lot of things. But there’s nothing you can do. I want that pay check, yep, and I’ll be damned if I don’t get it. So you’d better be up, up, bright and early tomorrow and ready to face the day! So sleep well right now, you’ll need it.”
“You expect me to sleep after all of this?”
“Hm. Fair point,” Jabber tilts his head and reaches into the pocket of his robe. He's pulls out a fistful of rosy shimmering powder, brings it up to his lips and blows, sending it flurrying down an glittery cloud over Zanka.
“What the hell are you doing?! Don’t go casting weird heavenly spells without my conse—” Zanka passes out.
Humming, Jabber pulls the blanket over the boy’s shoulders. This should keep him in lalaland for at least eight hours. And then it's time to hit the the whiteboard.
˚ʚ♡ɞ˚
“Alright, class of ‘26!” Jabber claps his hands, having materialised just as Zanka was pouring his coffee, sending his heart crawling out through his throat and wishing the sky would part to swallow up this asshole. Even two weeks later, he still can’t come to terms with it all—that heaven is real, that love is apparently the be-all end-all, and that it turns out angels are really, really fucking annoying.
Two weeks. It’s been two weeks, and Jabber’s kept faithful to every word, sticking to Zanka’s side like a feathered barnacle. Their first order of business was 'education’. Zanka was made to blow half of his week’s wage on popcorn and instant nachos as Jabber forced them to binge through CainesFlix, Heaven’s knockoff archive for everything racy and romantic.
“So you’ve been on top of your homework, right?” Jabber, hands on hips, grins at him, “You watched The Flightanic, Eden School Musical and Fifty Shades of Gold?”
“Yes,” Zanka takes a long sip of his coffee and relishes the burn down his throat. “Yes, I watched them all. They felt awfully familiar.”
Jabber claps his hands, “Perfect! We’ve finally completed curriculum A. You know what that means, don’t you?”
“A quiz?”
“Good call. I’ll whip one up for next time. We can move on, is what I meant,” Jabber clears his throat and uses his wings to wipe the whiteboard clean; then he pulls out a pink marker and writes in swirly, sloping letters: flirtation techniques.
“Nope,” Zanka slams his coffee down on the table and makes a move for the door. “Not happening. No way in hell. I am not gonna get coached on how to flirt by a fucking cupid.”
“Touched a nerve, did I?” Jabber soars over to block the door.
“Move.”
“Your friend Riyo,” says Jabber, with the wickedest gleam in his angel’s eye. “She’s been trying to set you up with people too, hasn’t she?”
“Really did your research, huh?” Zanka folds his arms. Jabber sprawls against the doorway like a brilliant curtain, his wings parted to collect the sunlight in platinum waves.
“Well, she’d better throw a party when she finds out the big news.”
“What big news?”
“You have a date next Friday!”
“What.”
And Jabber pulls out Zanka’s cell phone. The one he was told was ‘irretrievable’ and forced him to tap into his vacation savings for a replacement.
“You've had my phone the whole fucking time?!” Zanka makes a reach for it but Jabber holds it out of reach. He doesn’t even need his wings to have a good couple of inches on Zanka, which leaves a sour taste in his mouth. Zanka, on the tips of his toes and breathing down Jabber’s neck—
“I’ve been doing you a service, relax!” The man chuckles, pushing Zanka away with his wings. “I got you signed up for a dating app. Take a look.”
Jabber flips the phone around and holds it inches away from Zabber’s nose, who squints and takes a skim and—
“What. The. Fuck.”
ABOUT ME: Hi there 👋! The name’s Nijiku, Zanka, single and more than ready to mingle 😜. In terms of hobbies, I guess you could call me sort of a mixed bag. I studied martial arts as a kid and am now a full-time trainer as an adult 💪 ! I care a lot about my physique as a somewhat gym-rat (minus the stench, ofc!), and my mental wellbeing as well. I tend to prefer a partner who’s talkative, carefree and able to give as much as much as they get emotionally. Some may think i’m a real stickler for rules, but I think they couldn’t be more wrong (proud jaywalker, and sometimes… I double dip 😧).
Anyway, if you’re ready to dive into—well, me—hit me up on my email: [email protected]
Zanka drops the phone, and even the icy cracking sound as it meets tile is lost on him. He sinks down into a chair and buries his head in his hands.
“Pretty good, huhhh? I curated the info from all your social media,” Jabber says. When Zanka doesn't reply, he floats closer, leaning in. A loc falls loose and brushes Zanka’s cheek. “Yo, Zanka, did you hear m—”
Zanka grabs his hair with one hand and his wing with the other and punts that feathered freak over the table and against the dishwasher.
“What did you just create in my name?! It sounds—it sounds like it was fucking AI generated!”
Jabber’s dizzy smile drops hard, “Serously? You think my hard work is nothing but AI slop? That’s a low blow. No, it was entirely my effort, doing you a favour by getting your miserable ass onto the dating scene! At least thank me!”
“Thank you?!” Zanka shrieks and shoves the phone in his face, “I sound like a guy who wears tie-dye and enjoys weekend hikes! And what the hell is that profile picture?!”
Jabber squints at the profile picture of a beautiful, chiselled, stock photo-ed specimen of man, with a strong nose and a ghost of stubble shadowing half of his face, of which Zanka’s hair, eyes and earrings have been photoshopped sloppily on top.
“Oh, come on, you think no one else lies about their appearance on these apps?” Jabber folds his arms, still floored and leaning against the dishwasher. “I mean, if it were up to me, I personally wouldn’t change a thing about your face—but human beauty standards are weird and I figured we shouldn’t take any chances. Either way, it worked—you got your first date!”
Ears burning, Zanka points at the screen: “That is not me! I object!”
Jabber rolls his eyes and stands up, dusting off his clothes and plucking the phone out of Zanka’s hands as he approaches full boil. He types away for a bit before flipping it over to reveal a smiling, dark-haired young man. “This dude is who you’ll be meeting on Friday. The name’s Follo Tunito and he—”
Zanka punches him in the face.
˚ʚ♡ɞ˚
Zanka conceded soon enough, after a brawl that would have lasted longer if Jabber didn't seem like he was enjoying the blows a little too much. He drew a hard line through the flirting lessons, though—but agreed to at least meet this Follo guy in hopes that he could fakeout attraction enough to convince the angel to get lost.
And so, come Friday, the two hail a cab—Zanka, smartly dressed and smelling like an airport’s luxury duty-free, alongside an invisible angel companion quizzing him on last minute Tips & Tricks on HTB (How To Bag). The agreed location is a classy, pricy Italian place, with chandeliers that look like the chipped skin of stars hung in execution under a gaudy painted ceiling, looking over a communion of white-clothed tables crested by a single vased rose.
Zanka’s first thought meeting Follo is that he looks exactly like his profile picture; he feels a curdling jolt of mortification as the boy looks visibly taken aback by Zanka, before graciously choosing to let it slide. He shakes his hand, smiles, and their ensuing conversation is easygoing.
Turns out Follo is a cop in training, siblingless, with a passion for justice and the law and making their city of sordid stars a nicer place to live. It’s naive and noble and Zanka finds himself unable to hate the guy even if Jabber was the one who fished him out. Jabber, who floats behind Follo’s head like a sea turtle, sending winks Zanka’s way and unsolicited advice that makes him wanna punch a hole in the wall.
“Well, don’t let me chew your ear out,” Follo chuckles after a story about one of his coworkers, Gris. “Tell me, Zanka, how do you keep yourself entertained? Binging anything lately? Films?”
“Blink, my dude, you've been staring unendingly at this guy like you're mentally undressing him,” Jabber chirps.
“How I chose to direct my attention is none of your business, pervert,” Zanka mutters. Follo stops short, wineglass paused below his lips—Jabber cackles, of course, while Zanka tries to smile and salvage: “Uh, I prefer watching documentaries or, I guess, shitty sitcoms. Humor so bad it's good, that sort of thing.”
“A-Ah, right,” Follo laughs tightly.
“Oh, man! Zanka, you’re worse than I thought!” Jabber clutches his stomach, snickering. “Yeah, you need a push in the right direction. Luckily, it should come riiiight about now—”
“Your fettuccine alfredo, Sirs,” an old, wispy-haired waiter slides a silver plate between them.
Follo stares at it like it’s a dish of tentacles, “Uh, we ordered two, not one?”
“You did not, Sir, but if you’d insist, we can bring another—”
Catching the frenzied hand signs Jabber’s sending his direction, Zanka sighs through his nose and shakes his head at the waiter. “There’s no need for that. We can share.”
The man nods and leaves.
“Um, are you sure?” Follo stammers, “I don’t mind waiting for another dish—”
“It’ll take forever to come, and I don’t want to eat alone. Besides, this plate is huge, I definitely won’t be able to finish,” Zanka smiles. “So let’s dig in together.”
It takes a lot more etiquette tennis, but eventually Follo agrees. They sink their forks into the creamy pasta and dig in. It’s delicious, really, but Zanka’s finding it hard to appreciate the flavour—Jabber has stuck his hands into the food and seems to be trying to connect a long piece of fettuccine between him and Follo’s fork.
(“Just like in the movies!”)
When Follo frowns as he notices the strange squelching sounds coming from an otherwise un-sentient pasta, Zanka clears his throat: “So, uh, I have to ask. Why did you choose me, Follo? I’m guessing I wasn’t at all what you expected, huh? Disappointed?”
“What, when we matched?” Follo laughs; it’s an amiable, sturdy sound. “Well, it was your bio that drew me in. Looks aren't everything, of course, but you sure do look… different than what I expect. But a good different, I guess?” Follo leans forward with a gleam in his eye. “I mean, I prefer you this way. Between you and me, that photoshop made you look like a football player’s cologne ad.”
Zanka laughs the first genuine laugh this whole date. “Ah, yeah… don’t ask why I did that. I was drunk as hell and thought it would be funny.”
“Oh, it was, don't worry.”
Drawing back, Jabber gives Zanka a parsley-stained thumbs up. So Zanka lifts the fork to his lips and chews slowly. Follo does the same. Bait, successful.
As their stared string of pasta grows smaller and taut, they’re forced to lean closer into each other, with Jabber hovering above with eager eyes—
Follo, finally noticing with alarm, cuts the pasta free with his knife and continues eating.
“… Are you kidding me?!” Jabber cries.
Zanka hides his smile behind his sip of wine. He tries to tune into whatever Follo’s saying now, but his angel is having one glorious crash out behind the scenes.
“Well, there’s nothing left to do, Zanka. Kiss him.”
Zanka chokes on his wine. After a worried Follo calls for a glass of water and the burn is doused away, Jabber continues:
“You already know what to do. Look straight into his eyes like they’re a goddamn crystal ball, and then at his lips for exactly two and a half seconds—that’s when you make the lean. If he still isn't responsive, brush against his knee. Guys love that. Don’t look at me like that, I need you to work with me, man!”
“You are insane!” Zanka hisses.
“What, you’re not gonna do it? Come on, dude, get a backbone. If you don’t wanna go all in yet, at least kickstart it with seduction. How about you get up and drop something. Then, when you bend over to pick it up, give him a nice view—yeah—and then… snap! Bend, and snap, got it? That’s gamechanging advice, believe me, straight from our movie Illegally Brunette—”
Zanka wipes his mouth with a napkin and pushes the plate away. He nods and smiles at Follo’s spiel about his preference of hummus to garlic mayo, while murmuring behind gritted teeth: “Can you stop citing your shitty mockbusters and let me deal with this myself?! The date is going fine!”
“Fine? My guy, he's doing all the talking! You look like you can’t stand the sight of him! I can see why Tamsy sent me down here. You need help, man. You’re a pussy, scared to make the first move.”
Zanka scowls; the words strike a chord that rings needle-clear, barbed black and red from some ancient scab. If Jabber meant to goad him on, it works all too well. Zanka turns to Follo, not taking in a single word as he inches his chair closer.
“In terms of relationships, I do prefer the gradual approach,” Follo’s saying. “I just feel intimacy is something that should be earned, you know? Wh—what are you doing?”
Zanka puckers up. The clamour of the restaurant is reduced to the low sensual music trickling in from the ceiling and Jabber’s breathing too close for comfort. His heart is in his throat. He’s never kissed anyone before. He has no idea where to angle his nose, place his hands, what it’ll taste like—the wine and the cream from the pasta?
That’s… gross. Zanka’s stomach does origami acrobatics and his head spins. He hopes it’ll be over quick—
It is. But not because their lips touch. A firm hand pushes his chest away. When he opens his fluttering eyes, he sees Follo, sheepish and dusty-cheeked.
The boy rattles off excuses—that this going a little too fast, that it’s only a first date, that they’re in public—but they’re not the reason for the piping mortification peeling Zanka’s organs apart. Jabber floats, horizontal like a corpse, cackling towards the twinkling chandeliers.
“You! What the hell was that?! You should have seen yourself, Zanka, oh man, I wish I recorded it. Have you really never kissed anyone before?! Not even a family member?! You puckered up like a fish!”
Face burning with all the blood lost in his arms and feet, Zanka grips his fork until his knuckles turn white: “shut the fuck up, asshole.”
Follo tries to smile, “Please don’t be upset. I’m sorry if what I said was unreasonable but—”
“Heh, you’re lucky this Follo is a decent guy. He’s sparing you the embarrassment,” Jabber wipes a tear from the corner of his eye, “but, oh man, you shouldn’t have declined the lessons, Zan. I’d have taught you how to work those pink kissers of yours, with tongue…”
Zanka grabs the pasta bowl and throws it.
Of course, the second it leaves his hands Zanka realises he had caved, that he is fucked, that revenge had been perpetually out of reach cause Jabber has wings and wouldn’t have been hit anyway—
When his vision comes back, he sees Follo, drenched in pasta sauce; he sees Jabber, upside down and shrieking with laughter; and a whole restaurant of silent staring faces.
˚ʚ♡ɞ˚
Zanka apologised twenty times, but Follo’s smile never came out of its tight shell, and he knew the second he waved the cab off that the date was a bust. Not that it mattered; Follo was a decent guy, but vanilla was Zanka’s least favourite flavour, and the boy was kind and cute and boring.
That doesn’t mean he’s happy with the way it turned out though.
Once home, Jabber and him sit opposite each other under the warm kitchen light, the leftovers dished out in a bowl for former.
“Hopeless,” Jabber mumbles happily, stabbing his fork through the pasta and taking a huge bite. Away from the eyes of other humans, and with the permission of ‘his’ mortal, he’s able to enjoy the human food to his heart’s content.
“You’d think this would pale in comparison to the food of heaven,” Zanka mutters behind his cup of chamomile. Yeah, he’s still pissed, but the night took his burning nerves and sent them up to light up the sky. He’s tired now, exhausted, and, in pajamas and a hoodie, he watches quietly as his angel inhales his food like a goddamned slob.
“It’sh pwetty mush the same,” Jabber says through a full bite. He swallows. “You didn’t hear it from me, but the underworld has some good fucking chow once you get used to the bones and texture.”
“Gross. Anyway, I’ve actually been wondering about that,” Zanka props his elbow against the table and rests his cheek on his palm. “You’re an angel of love yet said your boss is the king of the underworld. How does that work? Unless you’re an incubus or something like that. That would explain a lot, actually.”
Jabber shrugs: “It’s a little more complicated than that. I’m both.”
“Both what?”
“Both an angel and a demon. Or—to put it another way, there's actually no such things and ‘angels’ and ‘demons’.”
“I’m not following.”
“Angels and demons are the same thing, Zanka. It just depends on which side of the terretorial sandwich they choose to live. Most choose heaven. I admit, I see appeal. Great vacation spot; I have a villa overlooking the champagne lagoon. Expensive as hell, real estate up in that glory garden is a bitch let me tell you,” he shrugs. “But yeah. Angels and demons are the same species, essentially.”
“That’s impossible.”
Jabber raises an eyebrow and grins, “Oh-ho, challenging the expert, are we?”
Zanka shakes his head, “But I don’t get it. There’s such a huge different between the two of you.”
“What, like the wings and halos and stupid little harps that come with us as a package deal?”
“All of that—yeah!”
Jabber shrugs again, “Yeah, we have all of those things. But, you know, angels are savages as well. They’re made of the stuff that can give even the devil nightmares.”
“And this includes you?”
“Sure it does. I’m a low rank, so you won’t get any of the true blood-curdling, soul-scalping divine wrath, but there’s nothing stopping me from becoming a ‘demon’ as you humans would call us.”
“Then why aren't you one?”
“Ah, depends on my mood. I work for Zodyl and took part in all the fun stuff, but all that screaming and begging and black fire lost its spark after the first millennia or so. So I took a part time job as a cupid. It’s not all love potions and pink arrows, you know. I worked in the factory, weaving millions of ‘tokushins’ aka blue strings of fate to be sent down and tied to the hearts of newborns—” Jabber’s ensuing laugh is cut off violently as he doubles over suddenly, coughing.
Zanka waits it out, thinking he just choked on his food, but when it doesn’t stop, leans over to see his tiles speckled with blood—
Zanka rushes to his feet, “What—!”
“Relax,” Jabber wheezes, wiping the trickle of blood from his lips. He stumbles over to the sink and gargles water. It comes out dark and red but after the seventh go the colour fades. He turns to grin at Zanka: “It’s just the anathema. Can’t reveal too much to a human; whoopsies. Tamsy must be real pissed off right now.”
“… I’m sorry for asking.”
Jabber pauses for a beat too long. Then, laughing again, he floats over to cup Zanka’s cheeks and give them a good, grandmotherly squeeze. “Oh, don’t worry about it, Zan! You know what they say, the first step to building a good relationship is a good apology. Look at us, bonding! Speaking of which—remember what I said at the restaurant? You need big time HTB coaching. It’s time for physical training. Are you ready? Huh?”
Zanka smacks his hands away and scowls, “you’re not gonna teaching me how to kiss.”
“What, physically? Oh, believe me, baby, I couldn’t even if I wanted to,” Jabber purrs, throwing an arm around Zanka’s shoulders and pulling him close. “But see I didn't mean us locking lips. I’ve got equipment for that sort of stuff! There’s a whole line of plushies waiting for you, their Prince Charming, to free them with a magic kiss. It’ll be fun, man!”
Zanka pushes him away and flips him off. He’s not looking forward to any more days in cupid training. He had hoped Follo would be his ticket free, but that’s not gonna happen now. He’s stuck—stuck with this psychopath, and with this strange pit in his chest at those words: I couldn’t kiss you even if I wanted to.
He wants to ask, so badly, what the hell that means, but the image of an angel hunched up and coughing blood, writhing over his sink, stops him.
Zanka clenches his teeth and turns away to go to his room.
It’s none of his business anyway.