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Summary
“I’ve got to get ya a heater. Ya can’t live like this anymore,” Zanka went on, his nose pressed firm against Jabber’s collarbone, his warm breath washing right over the bone.
Jabber went still for just a second, taking in the words, and immediately decided that he hated the idea. He did not say it out loud; instead he stayed quiet, wishing in his head that Zanka would not take that plan seriously, and would not show up one of these days carrying that thing in his arms. He did not want to take the risk. He was not willing, not under any circumstances, to lose the magic of these moments.
For Zanka, Jabber would take every ice-cold bath in the world without a single complaint. And he would keep bearing the lonely weekdays, shivering under piles of heavy blankets and aching for his touch — because he knew that emptiness was exactly what made every reunion feel so right, so perfect. The cold was the perfect excuse, the exact setting that forced Zanka to hold him like this, to cling to him as if his life depended on it.
Jabber still doesn't have hot water.