Chapter Text
It wasn’t a sweet, fleeting moment, nor an intrigue meant to last a few lonely, cold nights where their hot bodies would intertwine in the most elaborate positions.
There were only merciless fights, in which the most horrible sides of their personalities were unleashed. Where every single cell of the body underwent a painful transformation into a true monster that craved flesh and blood. There were no unnecessary feelings there, no pointless conversations—nothing but screams, Jabber’s laughter, and Zanka’s threatening hiss.
That might have been how it all started, but long ago they could no longer deny the obvious. It began to take shape in unexpected late-night calls and conversations about nothing after everything was over; it lived in those simple “gifts” that were thrown straight into each other’s faces during yet another meeting that inevitably turned into a much-needed argument, and then into a fight.
Every encounter was like a storm and madness mixed with grains of sadism and masochism into the most perverted cocktail—one that could ignite and explode right in their faces at any moment. Every glance, every touch, every word was like a silent promise that, with time, there would only be more of those inexplicable feelings that boiled inside them like water on an uncontrollable fire.
But it didn’t bring agony, suspicion, or paranoia. In all of it, they felt only an endless flow of new, completely unexplored emotions—so intense it made one want to twist into a knot and think with overwhelming excitement about the bloody outcome of the next “sparring match.”
Either way, they rushed into battle as usual, without bothering their heads with trivialities.
Jabber’s fingers tried to reach the thin, milky skin hidden beneath layers of clothing as quickly as possible, eager to feel the pleasant warmth that heated his eternally cold hands. The sight of Zanka’s dark crimson blood on the Manquira sent every nerve into ecstasy, often making him ready to drop to his knees and beg for more. But most of all, he delighted in the ever-growing number of bruises left on his body by Nijiku’s will. Wagner took joy in it—he only wanted Zan-Zan to hit him harder, as dangerously as possible.
Zanka merely tightened his grip on his staff and allowed himself more and more cruelty with every passing moment. He knew Wonger would only welcome fiercer movements and strikes that could shatter his bones if they landed right. He needed—physically needed—to see Jabber’s face turn into a red-and-blue mess solely by his own effort. All it took was a single moan of pain from that twisted mouth of the psychopath to push his desire to maim to an entirely new level.
They didn’t even try to restrain themselves, instead eagerly continuing to leave bruises, fractures, and open wounds from which thick blood oozed. But when the dust settled and exhaustion overtook them, Zanka would take the first-aid kit and tend to their injuries. He wasn’t gentle—but neither of them had any intention of doing anything about it. The yellowed bandages that moments ago had been tossed amid the chaos of medical supplies now landed with practiced speed on their treated skin. Jabber loved watching the work of those slender, careful fingers—only to tease him afterward by kissing their tips and inevitably earning another blow to his battered face.
These fights had gone on for far too long for them to even consider giving up this addiction.
And these were not the kind of relationships written about in clichéd novels, where everyone lives happily ever after without quarrels or fights, surrounded by endless fields of flowers and butterflies. Nor were they like ordinary relationships, where everyone strives to be so gentle and overly considerate toward their other half that it becomes nauseating. They weren’t even strictly professional relationships. At least, Zanka wouldn’t have called them that—especially considering Jabber’s attempt to propose.
And the most interesting part of all this was that, at the time, Zanka didn’t even know they were dating.
For an entire year.
He had no idea… honestly.
But whatever it was, it happened. There was no romance, no beautiful words or promises—rather, it reminded Zanka of their usual exchange of utterly useless trinkets that ended up neatly placed on the shelves of his bookcase.
As usual, they had fought, and now lay bloodied and exhausted in the dirt, black spots dancing before their eyes. It was horribly uncomfortable, and Nijiku had already cursed himself and the restless Jabber for the hundredth time in his head—his clothes weren’t just torn to shreds, they were also smeared with sticky, foul-smelling trash.
He wanted to swear loudly and bolt straight to the bath, but no matter how hard he tried to rise, he didn’t even have the strength to lift his head.
Zanka was breathing heavily and muttering curses when a wretched little wooden box flew straight into his face. Inside, he found a ring.
At that moment, he didn’t fully understand what was happening yet, but an anxious tightness had already begun to press against his chest with familiar force.
They had always seemed to have an unspoken rule that neither of them ever crossed—no jewelry as gifts. Zanka never had a problem with that. He believed Jabber didn’t deserve anything more expensive than a stupid plush toy bought for pennies, one that strongly resembled the brainless chatterbox with its bulging eyes and overly wide grin. Or a yellowed, tattered book on medicinal plants (knowing full well that Wonger cared only about poisons), filled with more wortless illustrations than words. That was the whole point, really—to find something so stupid and useless that it would drive the other mad.
But apparently, somewhere along the way, he had made a mistake.
That day, the only thing he said in response was a loud,
“Explain yourself, you fucking psychopath!!!”
It probably took them far too long to come to a mutual understanding of the situation, but the outcome was—as always—obvious only to the vandal. Because no matter how much Zanka tried to deny his own feelings, Jabber could always draw him into a stupid argument, during which the ring eventually ended up on Nijiku’s finger.
No matter how much Zanka grumbled afterward, lightly tracing the deep wounds on the enemy’s body left by his Beautiful Assistant, the ring still remained with him.
After that, little changed between them—except for the kisses and the now absolutely possessive way they held each other.
That’s how Zanka would have put it.
In reality, with each passing day they grew more and more attached to one another. They didn’t go on classic dates like most people did, but the way their souls opened up before each other was far more important than meaningless hours spent in restaurants discussing awful menus, or hopeless attempts at tenderness after watching a movie.
If anyone eventually noticed something new in their behavior, they preferred to chalk it up to maturity.
“I thought your friends were much smarter…” Jabber muttered one day, resting his head on Zanka’s lap. “You’ve been married to a lunatic for two years now, and they still haven’t figured it out.”
The fingers that had been weaving new blue and violet beads into his dreads froze for a moment. Jabber instantly went still, waiting.
For several agonizingly long minutes, they sat in cozy silence beneath the quiet hum of the TV and the barely audible ticking of the wall clock, until Zanka finally resumed.
“Actually,” he began, his tone lazy and unhurried, as if he were still deciding whether he should say anything at all, “Riyo might suspect that I have someone, but she respects my personal space too much to ask directly. And the others don’t pay much attention to my absence—I’m not a little boy anymore.”
His palms, the silver ring on his ring finger glinting faintly, began absentmindedly tugging at the long dreads. Feeling the pleasant pull against his scalp, Jabber lifted his head to better see the face of his husband—the man who stubbornly refused to officially take his surname.
Zanka’s eyes were fixed on the monotonously playing TV, which was already looping the same commercial for the third time. His nose occasionally wrinkled, as if the smell of Jabber’s latest experiments from their basement had once again reached his nostrils.
On one hand, Wonger found it incredibly endearing. On the other, curiosity—and a bit of concern—began to tear at him.
“And? Anything else?” Jabber blurted out impatiently, immediately feeling a sharp tug as Zanka yanked his head.
“There’s nothing that should worry you,” Zanka cut in at once, resuming the stroking. “Nothing—except that my family has also remembered my age.”
Watching his face closely, Jabber noticed his brows knit together. One didn’t need to be a genius to understand that this wasn’t the end of the story.
“They sent me a letter demanding that I finally grow up and repay my debt to the family. Meaning—marry some rich bastard’s daughter!” He practically spat the words, with such hatred and disgust that Jabber almost wanted to whistle in admiration—until a wave of fury hit him as well.
“What the fuck did they say?!”