Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

– ( Two years back, Freshman year.)

The campus buzzed with the chaotic energy of orientation week, a whirlwind of wide-eyed freshmen hauling boxes up stairwells, upperclassmen lounging on lawns with plastic cups in hand, and the faint scent of freshly cut grass mingling with the exhaust from idling moving vans. Tamsy Caines stepped out of Riyo's beat-up sedan, slinging a duffel bag over his shoulder with a casual grace that turned heads without effort. His sharp features, high cheekbones, piercing gold eyes framed by long lashes, and hair of a striking blonde that fell in perfectly tousled waves, made him look like he'd wandered off the set of some indie film. He adjusted his black leather jacket, the one that hugged his lean frame just right, and scanned the dorm building with mild disinterest.

Riyo, hopped out from the driver's side, her wild curls bouncing as she slammed the door. She was shorter, with warm tan skin, freckles dusting her nose, and a perpetual grin that lit up her round face. "Come on, Tams! This place is gonna be epic. Zanka's gonna be jealous when we tell him about what he's missing."

Tamsy smirked faintly, his voice smooth and low, like velvet over steel. "Zanka's stuck at that stuffy college his family picked. Poor guy. At least we get to have fun without him hovering." Their friend group had always included Zanka, reliable, intense Zanka with his dark hair and brooding eyes, but family obligations had shipped him off to a different school across the state. It felt weird without him, like a puzzle missing a piece, but Tamsy wasn't one to dwell on sentiment.

They lugged their stuff inside, navigating the crowded hallways where laughter echoed off cinderblock walls and posters advertised club fairs and welcome mixers. As they turned a corner, Tamsy nearly collided with someone, a tall figure with long dreads swaying like dark ropes down his back, skin a deep, rich brown that glowed under the fluorescent lights. The guy was lanky but built, wearing a simple gray hoodie and jeans that hung low on his hips, a backpack slung over one shoulder. His face was striking. full lips, sharp jawline, eyes a warm amber that widened slightly in surprise.

"Whoa, sorry 'bout that," the guy said, his voice carrying a lazy drawl, stepping back with a half-grin that revealed a glimpse of white teeth. But his eyes lingered on Tamsy a beat too long, something flickering in them, admiration, maybe hunger. Jabber wasn't the talk of the campus yet, not the campus legend he'd become with his art and charisma pulling crowds. Back then, he was just another freshman, talented but unpolished, his dreads not as long, his confidence still budding.

Tamsy raised an eyebrow, amusement curling his lips. The guy was intriguing, tall, with an effortless vibe that screamed potential. But Tamsy didn't say a word, just nodded coolly and stepped aside.

"JABBER" Riyo squealed, breaking the moment as she launched herself at him for a hug. "Oh my god, I haven't seen you since middle school! You got so tall!"

Jabber laughed, hugging her back with genuine warmth, his dreads brushing her shoulder. "Riyo? No way! Yeah, it's been forever.”

They fell into easy chatter, catching up on lives diverged: Riyo babbling about high school drama, Jabber mentioning his move from the city and his hopes for the model program. Tamsy stood back, arms crossed, watching with detached interest. Jabber stole glances his way, trying to play it cool, but Tamsy could see the spark, the way Jabber's gaze traced his features like he was memorizing a masterpiece. Gorgeous, Jabber thought, heart skipping. He'd never seen someone so effortlessly stunning, like a storm cloud personified.

Eventually, they parted ways, Jabber heading to his dorm with a wave, Riyo dragging Tamsy along. "That was Jabber Wonger," she explained breathlessly. "We were buddies back in the day. Cool guy, super talented." Tamsy hummed noncommittally. Amusing, he thought. Nothing more.

Later that week, the invitation came. Riyo burst into their shared dorm, eyes sparkling. "Party tonight! Freshman welcome bash at the frat house. You have to come, Tams. It'll be fun. music, drinks, no parents breathing down our necks."

Tamsy lounged on his bed, flipping through a textbook with feigned interest. Parties? A waste. Crowds of sweaty idiots grinding to bad music, spilling beer everywhere. "Pass. I'd rather study."

Riyo pouted, plopping down beside him. "Come onnn. Live a little! It's our first weeeeek, let's make memories."

He resisted for a while, but Riyo's persistence wore him down. Fine. One party. What could go wrong?

–

The house was packed, bass thumping through the walls like a heartbeat, red solo cups littering every surface. Tamsy leaned against a wall in the living room, nursing a beer that tasted like watered-down regret. Bored. Nothing here held his interest. the giggling groups of girls, the guys shouting over beer pong. Just noise.

Then the door swung open, and Jabber walked in. Heads turned subtly, he had that pull even then, his long dreads swinging as he greeted a few people with fist bumps. He made a beeline for the kitchen, grabbing a drink without hesitation, downing half in one go like he needed the liquid courage.

Their eyes met across the room. Jabber froze mid sip, then grinned that lopsided smile. Tamsy felt a flicker of intrigue. The guy was bolder here, loosened by the atmosphere. Jabber sauntered over, cup in hand. "Hey. You're Riyo's friend, right?”

Tamsy nodded, sipping his beer. " Small world."

They talked, awkward at first, surface-level stuff about classes and hometowns. But drinks flowed, and walls crumbled. Jabber's laugh was infectious, his stories painted with vivid detail. Tamsy found himself leaning in, the boredom evaporating. Jabber's eyes kept drifting to Tamsy's lips, his neck, like he couldn't help it.

Hours blurred. More drinks. The party thinned, but they didn't notice, tucked in a corner trading secrets. Jabber wasn't the type to blurt feelings, guarded, always playing it cool. But alcohol loosened his tongue. "You know," he slurred, leaning close, breath warm against Tamsy's ear, "Random..but are you into men?”

Tamsy's pulse quickened. He grabbed Jabber's hand, pulling him toward the bathroom without a word. The door locked with a click, the music muffled. Jabber's back hit the wall, eyes wide but eager. This was his first time even getting this close to another, His nerves buzzing under his skin.

Tamsy took the lead, pressing close, lips crashing into Jabber's with a hunger that surprised even him. Hands roamed, Jabber's hoodie shoved up, Tamsy's jacket discarded. pants down, bodies aligning. Jabber bottomed, gasping at the new sensations, his body tense but willing. Tamsy moved slowly at first, whispering instructions, guiding him through the overwhelm.

But when Tamsy paused, brushing a tender kiss along Jabber's jaw, fingers tracing his cheek with unexpected softness, Jabber froze. Affection? Real, gentle touch? He wasn't used to it, grew up in a world where love was conditional, touch a weapon or a transaction. His breath hitched, eyes glazing with something vulnerable.

"Hey," Tamsy murmured, cupping his face, thumbs stroking. "It's okay. Feel it. Let yourself feel good. You deserve it."

Jabber shuddered, nodding, tears pricking his eyes as he melted into it. Tamsy taught him in whispers and touches that affection wasn't a trap, that pleasure could come with care. They didn't leave the bathroom for a long time, emerging rumpled and changed, stumbling back to Jabber's dorm together. That night marked the start, drunk hookups turning into something tangled, something Tamsy would twist into control, planting seeds of trauma that Jabber wouldn't recognize until much later.

–

The morning after the party dawned with a hazy glow filtering through the thin curtains of Jabber's dorm room. Jabber woke first, his head pounding from the hangover, but a strange warmth settled in his chest as he glanced at the figure beside him. Tamsy lay sprawled on his back, silver hair fanned across the pillow, his sharp features softened in sleep. The sheets were tangled around their legs, evidence of the night's passion still lingering in the air, a mix of sweat, cologne, and something indefinably intimate.

Jabber propped himself on one elbow, watching Tamsy breathe. Last night was a revelation. Not just the physicality, but the way Tamsy had coaxed him through his fears, whispering assurances that made affection feel safe for the first time. He reached out tentatively, tracing a finger along Tamsy's arm. Tamsy stirred, green eyes fluttering open, and a slow smile spread across his face.

"Morning, gorgeous," Tamsy murmured, voice rough with sleep. He pulled Jabber down for a lazy kiss, deepening it until Jabber's pulse raced again. "Last night was... intense. You okay?"

Jabber nodded, cheeks flushing. "Yeah. Better than okay. I didn't know it could feel like that."

They lingered in bed for a while, trading soft touches and quiet laughs, before hunger drove them to get up. Jabber threw on a pair of sweatpants and a hoodie, his dreads a messy cascade down his back, while Tamsy slipped into his clothes from the night before. As they scavenged the mini-fridge for breakfast, stale cereal and milk. They started talking, really talking.

Over bowls of soggy flakes at the small desk, Jabber opened up first. It started small, with stories about his art classes, but Tamsy's attentive gaze pulled more out of him. "You know," Jabber said, stirring his cereal absentmindedly, "I wasn't always this... put together. Me and my sister, Cythoni..we got kicked out by our bio parents when we were kids. I was like five or six, she was seven. (SIH SEVEEHHHHHH) They just... didn't want us anymore. Too much trouble, I guess."

Tamsy's spoon paused mid-air, his expression shifting to one of quiet concern. " That's rough, What happened after?"

Jabber shrugged, trying to play it cool, but his voice cracked a little. "We survived on the streets for a couple years. Begging, scavenging. Got abused by random assholes. people who thought they could push us around 'cause we were small. Cythoni protected me a lot. Took the hits, made sure I ate first. Until one day, this old creep was throwing her around, trying to... I don't know. I snapped. Stood up to him, yelling, fighting back. Some couple saw it happen, intervened. They adopted us both. Been taking care of us ever since. Therapy, school, all that. But yeah, that's why affection freaks me out sometimes. Feels like a trick."

Tamsy reached across the table, covering Jabber's hand with his own. "Hey. You're not broken for that. And last night? That was real. I showed you 'cause you deserve to feel loved, Properly."

Jabber's eyes stung, but he blinked it away, squeezing Tamsy's hand. "Your turn. What's your story? You seem like you've got it all figured out."

Tamsy leaned back, a faint smile playing on his lips. "Me? Lived a pretty cushy life. Good family, no real drama. Parents are supportive. dad's a lawyer, mom's an artist. Grew up with everything I needed. But it's boring sometimes. That's why I like you, you're real. Got layers."

They spent the afternoon wandering campus, grabbing coffee from a food truck and sitting on a bench under a sprawling oak tree. Conversations flowed easily, Jabber sketching quick portraits of passersby while Tamsy critiqued them with playful jabs. "That one's nose is too big. Make it sexier." Jabber laughed, erasing and redrawing. By evening, they were back in Jabber's dorm, ordering pizza and watching bad horror movies on his laptop.

As weeks turned into months, their bond deepened in secret. Not even Riyo knew. she just assumed they were tight friends, often inviting them both to group hangs. "You two are inseparable lately," she'd tease at lunch in the cafeteria, her curls bouncing as she stole fries from Jabber's plate. "Bromance goals."

Jabber and Tamsy would exchange knowing glances, knees brushing under the table. They'd sneak away for stolen moments, kisses in empty lecture halls, late-night walks where Tamsy would pin Jabber against a tree, whispering promises. One random afternoon in the art studio, after a class on figure drawing, Tamsy cornered Jabber by the easels. "You should start a porn account," he said half-jokingly, eyes gleaming with mischief. "For shits and giggles. You're attractive, people would eat it up."

Jabber laughed it off at first. "Nah, that's crazy." But the idea lingered. A few days later, buzzed on cheap beer in Tamsy's dorm, he set up an anonymous profile, not official, just testing the waters with blurry selfies and teasing captions. Tamsy cheered him on, snapping photos himself. He even convinced him he should split his tongue one day. "See? Told you. You're a natural."

Random plots wove into their routine, A weekend road trip to a nearby beach, where they built sandcastles like kids and shared a joint under the stars, talking about dreams, Jabber's art gallery aspirations, Tamsy's vague plans for a psych major. Or the time they volunteered at a campus charity event, painting faces for kids, and Tamsy smeared paint on Jabber's cheek, leading to a playful chase that ended in a heated makeout behind the booths. Life felt electric, full of promise.

But shadows crept in slowly. One evening, Jabber's roommate was out at a study group, leaving the dorm empty. Tamsy showed up with a bottle of wine, his grin predatory. "Missed you," he growled, pushing Jabber onto the bed. Clothes came off in a frenzy, Tamsy's hands everywhere. "My angel," he whispered, lips trailing down Jabber's chest. "So sweet, so perfect. But sometimes I want you dirty, yeah? My little slut."

Jabber shivered, aroused by the mix of tenderness and edge. They moved together, Tamsy on top, riding him with rhythmic intensity. But then Tamsy leaned in, hand wrapping around Jabber's throat. "Wanna try something new," he murmured, squeezing just enough to make stars dance in Jabber's vision. "Bored of the same old foreplay."

Jabber gasped, panic flaring at first, the pressure too much, air thinning. "H–hey... wait–" But as Tamsy eased up slightly, pleasure flooded in, a dizzying rush. He relaxed into it, moaning, convincing himself it was exciting, not scary.

It escalated from there. Sessions grew rougher. Tamsy would slap Jabber's thigh during foreplay, leaving red marks. "You like that, angel? Shows you're mine." Jabber nodded, ignoring the sting, equating pain with passion. One night, edging turned torturous, Tamsy bringing him to the brink over and over, denying release until Jabber begged, tears streaming. "This is love," Tamsy cooed, finally allowing it. "I control you 'cause I care."

The bruises accumulated. A split lip from a "playful" bite gone wrong. Scars from nails digging too deep. One terrifying evening, Tamsy's chokehold tightened too long, Jabber blacking out briefly. He woke to Tamsy hovering, apologetic. "Sorry, got carried away. You're okay, right? My sweet boy." Jabber smiled weakly, believing it, thinking this was normal, that love meant enduring.

–

The drive to Jabber's family home was quiet, the kind of quiet that felt loaded rather than peaceful. Tamsy sat in the passenger seat of Jabber's beat-up hatchback, one leg propped against the dash, blonde hair catching the late-afternoon sun through the window. Jabber's hands gripped the wheel a little too tight, dreads tied back loosely, a nervous energy humming under his skin he tried to hide behind casual playlists and small talk.

"You sure they're cool with me coming over?" Tamsy asked, glancing sideways. His voice was smooth, almost too calm. like he already knew the answer but wanted to hear it anyway.

Jabber shrugged, eyes on the road. "Yeah. Cythoni's been asking about you forever. Mom and Dad just want to meet the guy who's been 'stealing all my time.'" He forced a laugh. "They're chill. Promise."

They pulled into the driveway of a modest two-story house in a quiet suburb, freshly mowed lawn, flower boxes under the windows, the kind of place that screamed stability after years of nothing. Jabber killed the engine and sat there for a second, breathing deep.

Tamsy reached over, squeezing his thigh once. "Relax, angel. I'm charming when I want to be."

Inside, the smell of roasted chicken and garlic hit them immediately. Jabber's mom—a warm Black woman with laugh lines and a quick hug—pulled him into her arms the second the door opened. "There's my baby! And this must be Tamsy." She stepped back, sizing him up with kind but appraising eyes. "Handsome. Come in, come in—dinner's almost ready."

Jabber's dad appeared from the kitchen, apron tied around his waist, offering a firm handshake and a nod. "Good to finally put a face to the name. Jab’ talks about you nonstop."

Cythoni was last,leaning against the stair railing, arms crossed, watching everything with sharp amber eyes that mirrored Jabber's. She was taller than most people expected, dreads pulled into a high bun, wearing an oversized hoodie and ripped jeans. Protective big-sister energy radiated off her in waves. She didn't smile right away.

"So," she said, voice even, "you're the boyfriend."

Tamsy turned on the charm instantly, easy smile, polite nod. "That's me. Nice to finally meet you, Cythoni. Jabber's told me a lot about you. Said you're the one who kept him alive back when things were rough."

Her expression softened just a fraction. "Someone had to." She studied him another beat, then jerked her head toward the living room. "Come sit. Don't just stand there looking pretty."

Dinner was loud in the best way. plates clattering, stories flying. Jabber's mom asked Tamsy about his major, his family, and his plans. Tamsy answered smoothly, laughing at the right moments, complimenting the food, asking questions that made everyone feel seen. Jabber relaxed inch by inch, knee pressed against Tamsy's under the table.

Cythoni stayed mostly quiet at first, observing. But as the night wore on, she thawed. When Jabber told an old story about them surviving on stolen bread and canned soup, Tamsy reached over and brushed a thumb across Jabber's knuckles, gentle, affectionate. Cythoni watched the gesture, then finally spoke.

"You treat him good?" It wasn't accusatory, just direct.

Tamsy's green eyes met hers without flinching. "Better than good. He's my angel. I make sure he knows it every day."

She held his gaze a long moment, then nodded once. "Alright. You're in."

Jabber exhaled like he'd been holding his breath for months.

After dessert, homemade peach cobbler, they moved to the living room. Jabber's parents disappeared to clean up, leaving the three of them on the couch watching some mindless reality show. Jabber leaned into Tamsy's side, content, drowsy from food and relief.

Tamsy murmured something low in Jabber's ear, too quiet for Cythoni to catch the words, but she saw Jabber flush, laugh softly, then playfully shove Tamsy's shoulder. Tamsy grinned, grabbed Jabber's wrist, and quick as a whip, backhanded him across the cheek. Not hard enough to bruise, but sharp enough to crack like a whip in the quiet room. Jabber yelped, more startled than hurt, hand flying to his face.

Cythoni was on her feet in an instant. "What the fuck?"

Tamsy raised both hands immediately, expression shifting to sheepish apology. "Whoa, sorry—play fighting. Got carried away. You okay, babe?"

Jabber rubbed his cheek, already laughing it off. "Yeah, yeah, I'm fine. I asked for it—told him to hit me harder earlier. Was just messing around."

Cythoni's eyes narrowed to slits. "You asked to get hit?"

Jabber nodded quickly, reaching for Tamsy's hand. "It's not like that. We're just... intense sometimes. It's consensual. Please don't make it weird."

She stared between them, jaw tight. The room felt suddenly smaller, colder. "Get out," she said to Tamsy, voice low and final. "Now."

"Cy—" Jabber started.

"No." She pointed at the door. "You don't put hands on my brother in my house. Not even if he 'asks.' Out."

Tamsy stood slowly, calm as ever. "I respect that. I'll go." He leaned down, kissed Jabber's temple softly. "Text me later, angel." Then he walked out without another word, the door clicking shut behind him.

Jabber shot to his feet. "Why'd you do that? He didn't mean it!"

Cythoni rounded on him, eyes blazing. "I saw the way he looked at you when he did it. That wasn't play. That was control. And you're defending it?"

"He's not—he loves me. He just... gets carried away sometimes. I like it rough. You don't get it."

She stepped closer, voice dropping. "I get that you've been through hell, I protected you from creeps on the street, from foster assholes, from our own parents. But this? This is different. He's turning you into someone who thinks pain equals love. And now you're…acting differently. chasing anything that moves, sleeping around, letting people call you a playboy like it's a badge. You used to be careful. Now you act like you can fuck or get fucked by whoever whenever, like it doesn't touch you. That's not freedom. That's damage."

Jabber flinched. "That's not fair. I'm just... exploring. Having fun."

"You're numbing," she said quietly. "And he's the one who taught you how. Every time he calls you 'angel' while he leaves marks, you're learning that love hurts. And now you're out there giving pieces of yourself to anyone who asks because you think that's all you're worth unless it's intense, unless it stings a little."

Tears pricked Jabber's eyes. "I love him,”

"Then love yourself more," she said. "Because I won't watch him break you and smile while he does it."

Jabber sank back onto the couch, head in his hands. The house felt too quiet now, the warmth from dinner gone. Outside, Tamsy was already pulling away.

That night marked a shift. Jabber kept seeing Tamsy in secret, but the seed of doubt had been planted. Cythoni never warmed to him again. Every visit after that was tense, watched. And slowly, painfully, the truth started seeping in: the playboy reputation wasn't just confidence. It was armor. Tamsy had wired him to crave intensity, roughness, validation through bodies and bruises, because real, gentle affection still terrified him.

–

He confided in Fu one day, his old high school buddy, over coffee in the quad. Fu was lanky, with wild blue hair and piercings, always scowling but loyal. "Dude, these marks... Tamsy's been rough lately. But it's just intense sex, right? Means he loves me."

Fu's eyes widened, setting his cup down hard. "that's not right… Bruises every day…? Choking till you pass out? Isn't that just… abuse?”

Jabber frowned, defensive. "Nah, it's fine. He's teaching me—"

Before he could finish, Tamsy appeared, sliding into the booth with a charming smile. "Hey, boys. Mind if I borrow this one for a sec?" He didn't wait for an answer, pulling Jabber outside. Around the corner, in a blind spot with no cameras, Tamsy slammed him against the brick wall, hand fisting Jabber's shirt. “ Talking to another guy about us? You belong to me. Only me. No one else gets to hear our shit."

Jabber winced, pain shooting through his back. "I-I was just—"

Tamsy's face twisted in rage, then softened abruptly. "Shit, did I hurt you? Come here." He pulled Jabber into a hug, stroking his hair. "I'm sorry, angel. I just get jealous 'cause I love you so much."

It became a pattern, outbursts followed by sympathy. Jabber started isolating, losing touch with friends. Riyo worried, "You okay, Jabber? You look tired." He'd brush it off with a laugh. Black eyes hidden under makeup, marks under long sleeves. The porn account grew, but it felt hollow now, Tamsy's idea turning into another control tool.

–

Until one rainy afternoon in the library, Jabber hit his breaking point. Tamsy had yelled at him again for texting a classmate about a group project. "We're done," Jabber said, voice steady despite the fear. "I can't do this anymore."

Tamsy paused, then shrugged casually. "Fine. If that's what you want." But as Jabber turned to leave, Tamsy's voice dropped low, chilling. "You know what happens when you try to leave me, right?"

Jabber froze, a shiver running down his spine. It wasn't over. Not by a long shot.

The breakup didn't end things cleanly. it was more like a fracture in a bone that never quite healed, leaving Jabber with a constant ache. Tamsy didn't explode or beg; his casual shrug masked the storm brewing beneath. But that parting line, "You know what happens when you try to leave me" hung over Jabber like a noose, tightening in subtle ways. They kept it private, a toxic secret buried under layers of campus normalcy. No dramatic scenes in the quad, no mutual friends picking sides. To the outside world, they were just two guys who'd drifted apart after being "buddies."

But Tamsy made Jabber's life a quiet hell. It started small, insidious. Jabber would feel eyes on him in lectures, turning to catch Tamsy's green gaze from across the room, unblinking, like a predator sizing up prey. Notes slipped into his backpack: ‘Miss me yet, angel?’ Or worse, blurry shots of Jabber walking alone at night, timestamped. "Just checking in," Tamsy would whisper if they passed in the halls, his smile all teeth. Jabber deleted them, blocked numbers, but new ones appeared. He stopped going to parties, fearing Tamsy would corner him in a dark room, that velvet voice turning sharp.

Meanwhile, Tamsy and Riyo landed jobs at the campus cafeteria, slinging trays of mystery meat and overcooked pasta. Riyo loved it, chatting up customers, sneaking extra fries for friends. Tamsy was efficient, charming the managers with his polished demeanor, but his eyes scanned the lines for Jabber. If Jabber came in, Tamsy would "accidentally" spill sauce on his tray or serve him the smallest portion. "Oops," he'd say with a wink. Jabber started eating off-campus, his appetite waning anyway from the stress.

Fu became Jabber's lifeline. They'd reconnected after the breakup, Fu noticing the fresh bruises fading into old ones. "You look like shit. Let me help." Fu was experienced with makeup from his theater days, blending concealers over black eyes and hickeys that looked too much like fingerprints. "Keep that account going," Fu urged one afternoon in his dorm, dabbing foundation on Jabber's jaw. "You're making bank now, subscribers love your stuff. Don't let that asshole ruin your hustle." Jabber nodded, forcing a grin. The account had blown up, anonymous fans tipping for custom content. It was empowering, a reclaiming of his body, but hiding the marks made shoots a ritual of deception. "Thanks, man. You're a pro at this."

Tamsy spectated from afar, never confronting directly at first. He'd linger outside Jabber's classes, "bumping" into mutual acquaintances to fish for info. "Heard Jabber's been busy lately," he'd say casually. Then, as months dragged on, the harassment ebbed. Tamsy stopped the notes, the stares. Jabber breathed easier, thinking maybe it was over. He started rebuilding—hanging with Fu more, sketching in public again. But Tamsy was patient, a shadow waiting.

(Present Day – Beginning of the Semester, Tamsy's POV)

The housing mix-up email pinged on Tamsy's phone during a slow shift at the coffee shop, he'd moved from the cafeteria to barista gigs with Riyo. Zanka Nijiku transferring in? Their old high school buddy, finally ditching that family-mandated college for this one. Tamsy smirked, wiping down the counter. Interesting timing.

That evening, Riyo called a group chat, her, Tamsy, Zanka, and Rudo. "ZANKKAAAA!" Riyo squealed. Zanka's voice crackled through, laughing about the dorm screw-up. Then, in the background, teasing banter: "That'll be a nice gas station nickname. " Tamsy's hand froze on his mug. That drawl, lazy and confident—Jabber. He acted nonchalant, muting his mic briefly. "Is that him?" he asked casually, as if he didn't recognize the voice that still echoed in his nightmares and fantasies.

"Yeah," Zanka replied, oblivious.

Tamsy leaned back, green eyes narrowing. Jabber. As Zanka's roommate. The game was back on.

The next day, Zanka's first shift at the shop. Tamsy played it cool, training him on the espresso machine with Riyo. "Good to have you here, man. Been too long." But his mind raced, Jabber would cross paths soon.

Sure enough, after Zanka's shift, heading to class, Jabber trailed him like a shadow. They bumped into Riyo and Tamsy in the hallway, Riyo hugging Zanka, chattering excitedly. Jabber side-eyed Tamsy, dreads swaying as he nodded politely. "Hey." No recognition, just cold detachment. Tamsy mirrored it, that signature smile plastered on, warm to outsiders, icy underneath. "New faces, huh?" But inside, heat simmered. Jabber looked good taller, more filled out, scars hidden but Tamsy knew where they were.

From then on, tension crackled everywhere. Tamsy "accidentally" scheduled overlapping shifts with Zanka, probing for dorm stories. Jabber avoided the shop, but whispers reached him—rumors Tamsy spread subtly: "Heard Jabber's into some shady online stuff." The air between them was electric, a silent war with Zanka unwittingly in the middle.

–

(Flashback: Mid-Semester, Fu and Jabber's Arrangement)

Fu and Jabber's friends-with-benefits deal started innocently, a rebound for Jabber, stress relief for Fu. Late nights in Fu's room, hair tousled, piercings glinting in low light. "This is just fun, right?" Fu would say, post-hookup, sharing a smoke. Jabber agreed, but Tamsy found out.

One evening, Tamsy cornered Fu in the alley behind the gym—no cameras, just shadows. "End it with Jabber," Tamsy ordered, voice low and lethal. "Cut ties completely. And pivot, get Zanka to like you. Seduce him, whatever it takes. Kiss him, see if it sticks."

Fu scowled, fists clenching. "Why should I—"

"Because if you don't," Tamsy stepped closer, green eyes flashing, "I'll make sure those little secrets of yours go public. Your family's dirt, your own messes. And Jabber? He'll suffer more. Accidents happen, Fu. Don't test me."

Fu swallowed hard, nodding reluctantly. "...Okay."

The next day, during the project with Zanka,library stacks, notes scattered, Fu made his move. "Hey, Zank... wanna try something? Just to see." He leaned in, pressing a kiss to Zanka's lips. It was awkward, forced. Zanka pulled back, confused. "What the—Fu, no. That's not... us."

Fu forced a laugh. "Yeah, figured. Just testing." They finished the project in tense silence. Fu left, heart pounding, and reported back to Tamsy in that same alley.

"It didn't work," Fu said, glaring. "He wasn't into it."

Tamsy's smile vanished. "Useless." Without warning, he slammed Fu against the wall, fist connecting with his gut. Pain exploded—Fu doubled over, gasping. "That's for failing. And remember—stay away from Jabber. Or next time, it's worse."

Fu nodded, clutching his side, the threat sealing his silence.

– (to the present)

The first rays of morning light slipped through the half-closed blinds in slanted gold bars, painting thin stripes across the tangled sheets and the two bodies still wrapped in them. Jabber's dorm room smelled like sex and soap, clean skin, faint traces of the citrus body wash they'd shared in the shower last night, and the musky aftermath that clung to everything. Zanka woke slowly, awareness creeping in piece by piece: the heavy arm draped across his waist, the steady rise and fall of a broad chest pressed to his back, the soft puffs of breath against the nape of his neck.

Jabber.

His first time.

The memory hit like a slow wave, Jabber's careful hands, the way he'd paused every few seconds to check in, murmuring "You good?" against Zanka's lips until Zanka had finally growled "Shut up and keep going." It had been messy and tender and overwhelming in the best way. No pain, just heat and fullness and Jabber looking at him like he was something holy even when Zanka was cursing and clawing at his shoulders.

Zanka shifted slightly, testing. His body ached in places he hadn't known could ache—thighs sore, lower back tender, a faint throb between his legs that made his face heat just thinking about it. But it wasn't bad. It felt… claimed. In a way that didn't scare him.

Jabber stirred behind him, arm tightening reflexively. A low, sleepy rumble vibrated against Zanka's spine.

"Mmm. Mornin', pretty boy."

Zanka huffed a quiet laugh despite himself. "Don't start."

"Too late." Jabber nuzzled into the crook of Zanka's neck, pressing a lazy open-mouthed kiss there. "You smell like me. Like us." His voice was gravel-rough, still thick with sleep. "Fuckin' love it."

Zanka's heart did something stupid, tripped over itself, then settled into a faster rhythm. He rolled onto his back so he could see Jabber's face. The dreads were a wild halo around his head, half of them still damp from the shower they'd taken at 3 a.m. to clean up. Jabber's eyes were heavy-lidded, amber warm in the soft light, and that crooked grin was already in place.

"You always this clingy after?" Zanka asked, trying for dry but failing when his voice came out softer than intended.

Jabber propped himself on one elbow, looking down at him like he was memorizing every detail. "Only when it's real." He reached out, brushed a thumb along Zanka's cheekbone. "You okay? Like… really okay?"

Zanka swallowed. Nodded once. "Yeah. I'm good." A beat. "Better than good."

Jabber's grin softened into something almost shy. "Good. 'Cause I don't think I could handle it if you regretted it."

"I don't." Zanka lifted a hand, traced the line of Jabber's jaw.

The words hung there, simple and honest, and Jabber's expression cracked open—raw, unguarded joy flashing across his face before he ducked down and kissed Zanka slow and deep. No urgency this time. Just morning mouths and lazy tongues and the kind of kiss that said ‘we have time’.

When they broke apart, Jabber rested his forehead against Zanka's. "Stay a little longer?"

"Can't." Zanka sighed, already regretting it. "Shift starts at ten. Riyo's gonna kill me if I'm late again."

Jabber groaned dramatically, flopping onto his back and dragging Zanka with him so he ended up half-sprawled across Jabber's chest. "Call out. Tell 'em you pulled a muscle."

Zanka snorted. "In my ass?"

Jabber barked a laugh, the sound rumbling under Zanka's ear. "Exactly. Worker's comp claim: sex injury."

"You're ridiculous." But Zanka didn't move. Not yet. He let himself listen to Jabber's heartbeat steady, strong, while Jabber's fingers carded gently through his hair.

After a few minutes of comfortable silence, Jabber spoke again, quieter. "Last night… you were perfect. You know that, right?"

Zanka's face heated. "Stop."

"Nah. You were brave as hell. Let me in. Let me take care of you." Jabber tilted Zanka's chin up so their eyes met. "I don't take that shit lightly."

Zanka searched his face, looking for the joke, the tease. It wasn't there. Just sincerity. Something in his chest cracked open a little wider.

"I know," he whispered.

Jabber kissed his forehead. "Go shower. I'll make coffee. Then I'll walk you to work like a gentleman."

Zanka rolled his eyes but smiled despite himself. "You're not walking me anywhere. People will talk."

"Let 'em." Jabber's grin turned wicked. "I want the whole campus to know you're mine now."

Zanka's breath caught. "Yours, huh?"

"Yeah." Jabber's hand slid down to rest possessively over the small of Zanka's back, right where he'd gripped hard enough last night to leave faint fingerprints. "Problem?"

Zanka considered it for half a second.

Then he leaned in and kissed Jabber again, harder this time, claiming.

"No problem," he murmured against Jabber's lips. "None at all."

They eventually disentangled. Zanka showered alone this time (Jabber's "help" would definitely make him late), while Jabber threw on boxers and a hoodie and shuffled to the tiny kitchenette to brew coffee. When Zanka emerged in fresh clothes—jeans, a plain black tee, hair still damp—Jabber handed him a travel mug and stole one last kiss at the door.

"Text me when your shift ends," Jabber said, voice low. "Got plans for tonight."

Zanka raised a brow. "Oh?"

"Mmhm." Jabber's eyes sparkled. "Date. Sunset. Picnic. The whole cheesy thing. And maybe… I'll ask you to be my boyfriend properly. If you're into that."

Zanka's heart stuttered. He tried to play it cool. Failed.

"I'm into that," he said quietly.

Jabber's smile could have lit the whole damn hallway

"See you later, pretty boy."

Zanka stepped out, coffee warm in his hand, body still humming with afterglow, and for the first time in a long time the future didn't feel like something to brace against.

It felt like something to run toward.

The dorm hallway was still quiet at 9:15 AM, most students either in early classes or sleeping off whatever Friday night had done to them. Zanka stepped out of Dorm 67 with Jabber's travel mug warm against his palm and the ghost of Jabber's last kiss still tingling on his lips. He felt… different. Not lighter, exactly, but steadier. Like something that had been knotted inside him for years had finally loosened.

He walked to the coffee shop with purpose, the campus paths already filling with the usual morning rush: earbuds in, backpacks slung low, someone yelling about a missed shuttle. Zanka kept his head down, replaying last night in flashes, Jabber's careful fingers, the way he'd whispered ‘you're safe, I've got you’ when Zanka tensed, the slow slide of bodies finally giving in. His cheeks burned again. He adjusted the collar of his hoodie like it could hide the flush.

By the time he pushed through the glass door of the campus coffee shop, the familiar smell of roasted beans and steamed milk hit him like a reset button. Riyo was already behind the register, her wild curls pulled into a messy bun, apron tied crooked. She spotted him immediately and lit up.

"There he is! Late again, Nijiku? What, did your new roommate keep you up all night?" She waggled her eyebrows, completely innocent.

Zanka rolled his eyes and ducked under the counter to grab his apron. "Something like that."

Riyo laughed, handing him a sharpie to write names on cups. "Well, you're glowing, so it must've been a good something. Spill later?"

"Maybe." He tied the apron strings, avoiding her gaze. He wasn't ready to say it out loud yet, not the sex, not the feelings, not the way Jabber had looked at him like he was the only thing that mattered.

Tamsy emerged from the back carrying a tray of clean pitchers, silver hair catching the overhead lights. He paused when he saw Zanka, green eyes flicking over him once, quick, assessing, before his face settled into that easy, practiced smile.

"Morning, Zanka. You look… rested."

The word landed like a pinprick. Zanka met his eyes for half a second, then looked away, busying himself with the espresso grinder. "Yeah. Slept fine."

Tamsy set the tray down, voice dropping just enough that only Zanka could hear. "About last night at the party… I was out of line. Dumping my baggage on you like that. I'm sorry. Really. I was being selfish."

Zanka's hands stilled on the portafilter. He didn't turn around. "You already said sorry."

"I meant it." Tamsy leaned a hip against the counter, casual, like they were just coworkers shooting the shit. "Jabber and I have… history. Messy history. But that's not your problem. I shouldn't have tried to make it yours. Truce?"

Zanka finally looked at him. Tamsy's expression was open, almost vulnerable, those sharp features softened, green eyes earnest. It looked genuine. Felt genuine. But something in Zanka's gut twisted anyway.

"Fine," he said after a beat. "Truce."

Tamsy nodded once, relieved. "Thanks. Means a lot." He squeezed Zanka's shoulder lightly, friendly, brotherly, before moving to the milk steamer.

The shift passed in a blur of lattes, cappuccinos, and the usual mid-morning rush. Zanka kept busy, kept his distance from Tamsy without making it obvious. Riyo chattered nonstop about weekend plans, oblivious to the undercurrent. Every time the bell above the door jingled, Zanka's pulse jumped, half-expecting Jabber to walk in with that lazy grin and a "hey, pretty boy." He didn't.

When the clock finally hit 2:00 PM, Zanka untied his apron with a quiet exhale. Freedom.

"See you guys tomorrow," he called, already halfway to the door.

Riyo waved. "Have fun with your future!"

Tamsy just smiled, small, knowing, and said nothing.

History was in the big lecture hall on the east side of campus. Zanka slipped in five minutes early, scanning for seats. Jabber was already there, sprawled in the back row, long legs stretched out, dreads loose over one shoulder. He'd saved the seat next to him with his backpack. When he saw Zanka, his whole face changed, softened, brightened like the sun breaking through clouds.

Zanka dropped into the seat, their thighs brushing immediately. Jabber leaned over, voice low and warm against his ear.

"Missed you.”

"It's been four hours."

"Four hours too long." Jabber's hand found his under the fold-down desk, fingers sliding between his, thumb stroking slow circles over Zanka's knuckles. "You smell like coffee and me. Dangerous combination."

Zanka bit the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling too wide. "Focus. Lecture's starting."

The professor droned on about chiaroscuro and emotional contrast in Caravaggio. Zanka barely heard a word. Jabber kept up the subtle torture, thumb tracing patterns, pinky hooking his, occasional squeeze that sent heat straight to Zanka's gut. Halfway through, Jabber's phone buzzed against the wood. He ignored it. Then Zanka's buzzed.

Jabber's text lit up the screen:

My stalker☆: Date tonight. 7pm. Wear something you don't mind getting grass stains on. Sunset picnic. No backing out.

Zanka glanced sideways. Jabber was watching him, eyes sparkling with mischief and something softer underneath.

Zanka typed back one-handed:

Zanka: Bossy.

You love it.

Zanka huffed a quiet laugh.

Zanka: Maybe.

The rest of the lecture passed in a haze of warmth and stolen glances. When it ended, Jabber stood first, slinging his bag over one shoulder and offering Zanka a hand up like it was the most natural thing in the world.

"Walk you back to the dorm?" Jabber asked, voice casual for anyone listening, but his eyes said I want every second with you I can get.

Zanka took his hand. "Yeah. Walk me back."

They left the lecture hall side by side, shoulders brushing, fingers still linked. Outside, the afternoon sun was golden and forgiving. For once, Zanka didn't feel the weight of eyes on him, didn't feel the need to look over his shoulder.

He felt safe. He felt wanted. And for the first time in forever, he let himself believe he might actually deserve it.

Later that afternoon, in a shadowed alley behind the gym, no cameras, just brick and silence. Tamsy leaned against the wall, arms crossed, green eyes cold. Fu stood in front of him, blue hair messy, piercings glinting, arms folded tight like armor. The conversation was short. Sharp. Final.

"End it," Tamsy said quietly. "All of it. No more hookups, no more 'helping' with makeup, no more anything. And get close to Zanka. Kiss him. See if it sticks."

Fu's jaw clenched. "I told you—it didn't work last time. He pulled away like I was radioactive."

Tamsy's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Then try harder. Or don't. Your choice. But if you don't…" He stepped closer, voice dropping to a whisper. "I know where your little sister goes to school now. I know her schedule. Accidents happen, Fu. Don't make me prove it."

Fu's face paled. He looked away, throat working. "You're sick."

"Maybe." Tamsy shrugged. "But I'm patient. Cut ties with Jabber. Get me what I want. Or watch everything burn."

Fu nodded once. stiff, defeated, and walked away without another word. Tamsy stayed in the alley a moment longer, staring at nothing. Then he smiled—small, private, satisfied.

The pieces were moving again. And this time, he intended to win.

—

The hill Jabber chose overlooked the city like a private balcony carved from the edge of the world. It wasn’t one of the crowded lookout points with railings and tourist signs; it was tucked behind an old maintenance road, half-hidden by pines, the kind of place only locals knew about. The sun was already bleeding orange and rose across the skyline when they arrived—7:03 p.m., just late enough for the light to turn cinematic.

Jabber spread out a thick plaid blanket he’d stolen from his closet, then set down the wicker basket with exaggerated care, like he was handling priceless artifacts. Inside: turkey-and-avocado sandwiches wrapped in parchment, a small container of cut strawberries, two plastic cups, a bottle of cheap rosé he’d chilled in the dorm mini-fridge, and a square of chocolate cake he’d “borrowed” from the campus bakery display case earlier that afternoon.

Zanka watched him fuss, arms crossed, fighting a smile. “You really went all out.”

Jabber glanced up, dreads slipping over one shoulder. “First real date. Gotta set the bar high so you never leave me.” He patted the blanket beside him. “Sit, pretty boy. Before the bugs claim it.”

Zanka dropped down cross-legged, knees brushing Jabber’s. The air smelled like pine resin and distant rain. Below them, the city lights were just starting to flicker on, tiny diamonds against the deepening purple sky. Jabber poured the wine, handed Zanka a cup, then clinked theirs together.

“To shitty first impressions,” Jabber said, voice soft, “and the best second chances.”

Zanka’s throat tightened. He took a sip, sweet, a little too sweet, and murmured, “Yeah.”

They ate slowly. Jabber fed Zanka a strawberry, laughing when juice dribbled down his chin. Zanka retaliated by smearing a bit of frosting from the cake across Jabber’s cheek, then leaning in to lick it off. The kiss that followed tasted like chocolate and wine and summer evenings that hadn’t quite ended yet.

As the sun dipped lower, turning the clouds into molten gold, Jabber grew quieter. His usual easy teasing faded into something more serious. He set his cup aside, turned to face Zanka fully, and took both of his hands.

“Okay,” he said, exhaling like he was steadying himself for a jump. “I rehearsed this in my head like ten times on the drive up here, and it still sounds cheesy as hell, but… fuck it.”

Zanka’s pulse kicked up. He didn’t pull away.

Jabber’s thumbs stroked over Zanka’s knuckles. “I’ve spent a long time thinking I didn’t deserve anything soft. That real shit—trust, care, someone looking at me like I’m not just a good time— wasn’t for me. Then you walked into that dorm room looking like you wanted to bolt, and I thought, ‘Shit, maybe I can be the reason someone stays.’”

He swallowed, eyes locked on Zanka’s. “I’m in love with you, Zanka. Already. Maybe too fast, maybe too much, but it’s real. And I want to do this right. So… will you be my boyfriend? Officially. Exclusively. All the cringe labels and everything.”

The sunset chose that exact moment to crest the horizon in a final blaze of pink and violet. It was almost too perfect, too movie-like. Zanka felt his chest crack open—warm, aching, terrifying in the best way.

He laughed once, soft and shaky. “You’re such a sap.”

Jabber’s grin wobbled. “Yeah. Your sap, if you’ll have me.”

Zanka leaned forward, cupped Jabber’s face with both hands, and kissed him—slow, deliberate, pouring every unsaid thing into it. When he pulled back just enough to speak, their foreheads stayed pressed together.

“Yes,” he whispered. “Yes, Jabber. Boyfriend. Yours.”

Jabber let out a shaky breath that sounded suspiciously like relief mixed with a laugh. He wrapped his arms around Zanka, pulling him down onto the blanket until they were half-lying, half-sitting, tangled together as the last sliver of sun vanished.

They stayed like that for a long time—kissing lazily, whispering stupid promises, fingers tracing collarbones and jawlines. The city lights twinkled below like they were celebrating too.

Neither of them noticed the faint rustle in the thick line of bushes twenty feet away.

Something—someone—crouched low among the branches, barely breathing. Dark clothing blended with the deepening shadows; only the occasional glint of metal from a small earpiece betrayed any presence at all. The figure remained statue-still, eyes fixed on the two boys wrapped in each other on the blanket. Not with malice. Not with hunger. With something closer to quiet, grim determination.

A tiny voice crackled in the earpiece—low, smooth, unmistakable.

“Anything?”

The figure in the bushes pressed one finger to the earpiece, voice barely a whisper. “No. Just them. Talking. Kissing. Sunset shit. Nothing out of the ordinary.”

A pause. Then the voice again, colder now. “Keep watching. He’s slippery. If Jabber so much as looks like he’s about to spill anything—”

“I know,” the watcher cut in, quieter still. “I’ve got it.”

“Don’t fuck this up.”

The line went silent.

The figure in the bushes didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just watched—Zanka laughing at something Jabber said, Jabber pulling him closer, the way their hands stayed linked even when they weren’t kissing.

The watcher’s jaw tightened. Not tonight, he thought. Not while they’re like this. But the night was young. And some shadows didn’t need light to see.

The drive back from the hill was quiet in the best way—windows cracked, cool night air rushing in, Jabber’s hand resting high on Zanka’s thigh the whole way, thumb tracing absent circles over denim. Neither of them spoke much. They didn’t need to. Every few red lights, Jabber would glance over, catch Zanka’s eye, and grin like he’d just won something irreplaceable. Zanka would roll his eyes, but the smile tugging at his mouth gave him away every time.

When they stepped into the dorm, the space felt different already. Smaller, warmer, theirs. Jabber kicked the door shut behind them, locked it with a decisive click, then turned and backed Zanka gently against it. No rush. Just a long, slow kiss that tasted like rosé and strawberries and promises. When they finally broke apart, foreheads pressed together, Jabber murmured against his lips,

“Boyfriend.”

Zanka huffed a soft laugh, hands sliding up Jabber’s chest. “Boyfriend.”

Jabber’s grin turned blinding. “Fuck, I like how that sounds coming from you.”

They migrated to the shared lounge area without really deciding to—shoes kicked off, lights dimmed to just the string lights Jabber had strung along the wall weeks ago. Jabber grabbed the remote and flopped onto the couch first, patting the space between his legs.

“C’mere. Movie night. Your pick.”

Zanka hesitated for half a second—old instincts still whispering *don’t get too comfortable*—then climbed onto the couch and settled back against Jabber’s chest. Jabber’s arms came around him immediately, one hand splayed possessively over Zanka’s stomach, the other threading lazily through his hair.

Zanka scrolled through the streaming options, pretending to deliberate. “Horror? Action? Rom-com to match your cheesy-ass sunset confession?”

Jabber laughed low, breath warm against Zanka’s ear. “Horror. I wanna feel you jump so I have an excuse to hold you tighter.”

“Predictable.” Zanka selected some low-budget slasher flick neither of them had seen. “If I scream, it’s your fault.”

“If you scream, I’m kissing you quiet.”

The movie started—dark cabin, ominous music, predictable jump scares—but neither of them paid much attention. Jabber kept pressing lazy kisses to the side of Zanka’s neck, murmuring nonsense between them.

“You smell like outside,” he said after a while. “Like pine and sunset and me.”

“You’re so weird,” Zanka muttered, but he tilted his head to give Jabber better access.

“Admit it. You love it.”

“…Maybe.”

Jabber’s hand slipped under Zanka’s shirt, fingers tracing idle patterns over bare skin. Not sexual—just intimate. Possessive in the softest way. “You were so fucking beautiful up there tonight. When you said yes? Thought my heart was gonna explode.”

Zanka’s cheeks heated. He turned his face into Jabber’s neck, hiding. “Shut up.”

“Nope.” Jabber’s voice dropped, softer now. “I mean it. I’ve never asked anyone that before. Never wanted to. You’re the first person who made me want forever shit.”

Zanka swallowed hard. “You’re gonna make me cry on our first night as boyfriends. That’s embarrassing.”

Jabber chuckled, pressing a kiss to his temple. “Cry if you want. I’ll kiss the tears away.”

They stayed like that through the entire movie—half-watching, mostly talking in murmurs. Jabber asked about Zanka’s favorite childhood memory (building blanket forts with his cousin during summer storms). Zanka asked about Jabber’s sister (Cythoni’s currently road-tripping across the country, sending him daily photos of weird roadside attractions). They traded stories about high school disasters, first crushes, dumb teenage decisions. Every once in a while one of them would laugh so hard the other had to pause and just watch—memorizing the sound, the way it lit up their face.

When the credits rolled, Jabber stretched, arms flexing around Zanka. “Shower?”

Zanka nodded. “Together?”

“Thought you’d never ask.”

The bathroom was tiny—barely room for both of them—but they made it work. Steam filled the space fast. Jabber undressed Zanka slowly, reverently, kissing every new inch of skin revealed. Zanka did the same, fingers tracing the long lines of Jabber’s dreads, the curve of his shoulders, the faint scars he knew better than to ask about yet.

Under the spray, they washed each other like it was a ritual. Jabber massaged shampoo into Zanka’s hair until he was practically purring. Zanka soaped Jabber’s back, thumbs digging into tense muscles, earning a low groan.

“Fuck, your hands are magic.”

“You’re easy.”

“Only for you.”

They kissed under the water until it started to run cold—lazy, wet, unhurried. No urgency to escalate. Just touching, breathing each other in, celebrating the new label in the quietest, most intimate way.

When they finally stepped out, Jabber wrapped Zanka in the biggest towel first, then himself. They brushed their teeth side by side, elbows bumping, catching each other’s eyes in the mirror and grinning like idiots.

Jabber’s bedroom was darker than Zanka’s—string lights looped around the headboard, a half-finished sketch taped to the wall, plushies shoved into a corner like they were embarrassed to be seen. Jabber pulled back the covers.

“Stay here tonight?”

Zanka didn’t even pretend to think about it. “Yeah.”

They climbed in naked—skin still warm from the shower, bodies slotting together like puzzle pieces. Jabber spooned up behind Zanka, one arm under his head, the other wrapped securely around his waist. Zanka tangled their legs, back pressed to Jabber’s chest, feeling every steady heartbeat.

Jabber nuzzled into the nape of Zanka’s neck. “This okay? Not too clingy?”

Zanka reached back, found Jabber’s hand, and laced their fingers. “I like clingy. From you.”

A soft exhale against his skin—relief, happiness, something deeper. “Good. ‘Cause I’m not planning on letting go anytime soon.”

They lay in silence for a while, just breathing together. Then Jabber spoke again, voice barely above a whisper.

“You know what I kept thinking on the hill? When you said yes?”

Zanka hummed.

“I thought… this is it. This is the moment everything changes. And it didn’t scare me. It felt right.”

Zanka turned in Jabber’s arms until they were face-to-face in the dim light. “It felt right for me too.”

Jabber’s thumb brushed Zanka’s cheek. “I love you.”

The words landed soft, certain. No hesitation.

Zanka’s breath hitched. He leaned in, kissed Jabber slow and deep, then pulled back just enough to whisper against his lips,

“I love you too.”

Jabber’s eyes fluttered closed like the words were a physical touch. He pulled Zanka impossibly closer, burying his face in the crook of his neck.

“Say it again.”

“I love you, Jabber.”

A shaky laugh. “Fuck. I’m never gonna get tired of hearing that.”

They fell asleep like that—tangled, warm, safe. The world outside the dorm could wait. The shadows in the bushes, the voices in earpieces, the old wounds still healing—they could all wait.

Tonight was just them. Boyfriends. Finally, fully, irrevocably.

The first real morning as boyfriends started with the shrill vibration of Jabber’s phone against the nightstand at 6:47 a.m.

Zanka didn’t stir—curled on his side, face half-buried in Jabber’s pillow, one leg thrown possessively over the sheets where Jabber had been moments before. His breathing stayed slow, deep, the kind of sleep that only comes after exhaustion and safety collide.

Jabber, already half-awake (old habits from years of early art deadlines), fumbled for the phone without opening his eyes fully. He squinted at the screen.

Cythoni calling

He answered on the third ring, voice gravelly and hushed. “Hey, Cy. Early even for you.”

Her voice came through sharp and immediate, no preamble. “You alive? Haven’t heard from you in three days. Thought maybe your roommate finally snapped and buried you under all those plushies.”

Jabber huffed a quiet laugh, rolling onto his back so he could stare at the ceiling string lights. “Still breathing. Better than breathing, actually.”

A pause. Suspicious. “Better how?”

He glanced over at Zanka—still out cold, hair a dark mess across the pillow, lips slightly parted. Something warm and stupidly happy bloomed in Jabber’s chest.

“I’ve got a boyfriend now,” he said, soft but proud. “Like… official. Asked him last night at sunset. He said yes.”

Silence on the other end. Then a long exhale. “You’re serious.”

“Dead serious.”

Cythoni’s tone shifted—half protective mama-bear, half cautious big sister who’d seen too much. “This the roommate? The one you kept texting me about because he ‘looked at you funny’ that first day?”

“Yeah. Zanka.” Jabber’s voice softened even more on the name. “He’s… he’s good, Cy. Real good. Patient. Doesn’t push. Lets me be soft without making me feel weak.”

Another beat. “You sound different.”

“I feel different.”

She sighed again, this time softer. “When do I get to meet him? Vet him. Make sure he’s not gonna break my baby brother’s heart.”

Jabber smiled into the dark. “Thanksgiving break’s in like… two and a half weeks. I was thinking of bringing him home. If he’s down. Mom and Dad already know I’m seeing someone—dropped hints last call. They’re excited.”

“They’re always excited when you’re happy,” she said. Then quieter: “I’m happy for you, Jab. Really. But if he hurts you—even a little—I’m driving up there myself and dragging him out by his ears.”

Jabber chuckled low. “Noted. He won’t. Promise.”

“You better be right.” She paused. “Send me a picture of him sleeping or something. I need visual confirmation he exists and isn’t a hallucination from all the edibles you ate freshman year.”

“Creep,” Jabber muttered fondly. “Maybe later. He’s still knocked out. Wore him out last night.”

“Gross. TMI. Call me when you’re both awake and not disgusting. Love you, idiot.”

“Love you too, Cy.”

He hung up, set the phone on silent, and just watched Zanka sleep for a minute—chest rising slow, peaceful. Then he slipped out of bed carefully, pulled on boxers and an old band tee, and padded to the kitchenette.

He wanted to do something nice. Breakfast in bed. Boyfriend shit.

Bad idea.

Twenty minutes later the dorm smelled like slightly charred bacon, slightly less charred eggs, and a whole lot of smoke.

Zanka woke to the bed empty and the faint crackle of something burning.

He sat up slowly, rubbing his eyes, sheets pooling around his waist. “Jab?”

A muffled curse from the kitchen. “Shit—fuck—hold on!”

Zanka swung his legs over the side, still naked, and padded out barefoot. Jabber stood in front of the tiny stove in nothing but boxers and the tee, waving a dish towel at the smoke detector like it personally offended him. A pan smoked gently on the burner; what might have once been scrambled eggs were now mostly black with yellow flecks.

Jabber turned, caught sight of Zanka, and immediately looked sheepish. “Morning, boyfriend.”

Zanka leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, fighting a grin. “You trying to burn the dorm down on our first official day?”

“I was trying to make breakfast.” Jabber gestured helplessly at the pan. “Found this recipe online. ‘Fluffy cloud eggs.’ Looked easy. Clearly lied.”

Zanka walked over, peered into the pan, then up at Jabber. “You’re cute when you fail.”

Jabber groaned, but he was smiling. “Shut up and help me salvage this.”

They ended up eating slightly singed bacon, untoasted toast, and instant coffee on the couch—Zanka in one of Jabber’s oversized hoodies, legs draped over Jabber’s lap. Jabber kept stealing bites from Zanka’s plate just to make him swat at his hand.

Between mouthfuls, Jabber’s expression turned sly. “So… about that collab idea from last week.”

Zanka raised a brow. “The one where you wanted to film something ‘spicy’ for your account?”

“Yeah.” Jabber set his mug down, hand sliding up Zanka’s calf. “I was thinking… this week? Now that you’re officially mine. Could be fun. Tasteful. Just us. No faces if you don’t want. But I’d love to have something that’s ours. Something hot we can watch back later.”

Zanka considered it, heat creeping up his neck. “You really want to film us fucking?”

“Only if you do.” Jabber’s thumb circled his ankle. “No pressure. But yeah… I do. You look so goddamn good when you fall apart. I want to keep that forever.”

Zanka swallowed. Thought about it. Then nodded slowly. “This week. But we talk boundaries first. And if I say stop filming, we stop.”

“Deal.” Jabber leaned in, kissed him slow and grateful. “You’re perfect, you know that?”

“Flattery will get you everywhere.”

“Good. ‘Cause I’ve got plans.”

Later that afternoon Jabber had to head out—August (one of his fashion-major friends) needed him to model some new streetwear pieces for a portfolio shoot. “Two, maybe three hours max,” Jabber promised, kissing Zanka deep at the door. “Don’t miss me too much.”

“Impossible,” Zanka muttered against his lips.

Once Jabber was gone, Zanka settled at his desk—laptop open, notes spread out, determined to catch up on the backlog of readings he’d ignored while wrapped up in new-relationship bliss.

He was twenty minutes into annotating when a knock came at the door.

He opened it to find a guy standing there—shorter than Jabber, messy brown hair falling over goggles perched on his forehead, tool belt slung low, expression somewhere between nervous and overly friendly.

“Hey. Uh… is Jabber here?”

Zanka shook his head. “He’s out modeling for a friend. Should be back later.”

“Oh. Damn.” The guy rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m Follo. We’ve got… mutual friends. Thought I’d say hi. You’re the new roommate, right? Zanka?”

“Yeah.” Zanka stepped aside. “Come in if you want. He’ll probably be a while.”

Follo hesitated, then stepped inside, eyes flicking around the dorm like he was cataloging details. “Cool place. You two seem… close already.”

Zanka shrugged, closing the door. “We are. Actually… we started dating. Officially. Last night.”

Follo’s expression flickered—something quick, unreadable—then he smiled. “That’s awesome, man. Congrats. Jabber deserves someone solid.”

They ended up on the couch. Follo was easy to talk to—asked about classes, the transfer, campus life. Zanka relaxed into it, laughing at Follo’s stories about failed engineering projects and exploding 3D printers. Time slipped by.

Eventually Follo stood. “Mind if I use the bathroom real quick?”

“Go for it.”

Follo disappeared down the hall.

He didn’t just use the bathroom.

He slipped into Jabber’s room first—quiet, quick. The streaming setup was easy to spot: ring light angled just so, camera on a tripod, laptop open but asleep. Follo’s fingers moved fast—nudged the tripod leg slightly off-center, loosened one of the clamp screws so it would wobble next time weight was put on it, unplugged a secondary mic cable and tucked it behind the desk so it looked accidental. Nothing obvious. Nothing that screamed sabotage. Just enough to cause frustration, glitches, maybe a failed stream.

He did the same in Zanka’s room—nothing major, just moved a couple of books on the desk so they’d topple if touched, shifted the laptop charger cord so it hung precariously.

Then he flushed the toilet for cover, washed his hands, and strolled back out like nothing happened.

Zanka glanced up from his notes. “All good?”

“Yeah. Thanks.” Follo checked his phone. “Shit, gotta run. Tell Jabber I stopped by?”

“Sure.”

Follo left in a hurry—door clicking shut behind him.

Minutes later, Jabber walked in, arms full of fabric swatches and a grin. “Miss me?”

Zanka stood, met him halfway, kissed him hello. “Always.”

Jabber didn’t notice anything off. Yet.

Across campus, in a quiet corner of the library stacks, Follo’s phone buzzed.

Tamsy: Task complete?

Follo typed back, fingers steady.

Follo: Yeah. Setup’s fucked. Should cause problems next stream. Nothing traceable.

Tamsy: Good. Keep eyes on them. I want to know everything.

Follo stared at the screen for a long second. Then he pocketed the phone. And wondered how long he could keep playing both sides before someone got hurt.

The next few days blurred into a strange, syrup-slow rhythm—classes, coffee runs, stolen kisses in empty stairwells, and the constant low hum of something watching from the edges.

Zanka noticed it first in small doses.

Follo started showing up more. Not dramatically—just enough to raise an eyebrow. He’d knock during Zanka’s solo study hours with excuses that sounded rehearsed: “Hey, Jabber around?” (he never was), “Brought extra energy drinks—thought you guys might need ‘em,” or “August said you’re good at color theory, mind looking at this swatch real quick?” Zanka let him in every time. Follo was easy company—goofy stories about exploding prototypes, quick laughs, zero pressure. They’d end up on the couch talking about nothing important: worst professors, campus food hacks, dumb memes. Zanka laughed more than he expected to.

Across campus, Jabber was noticing the opposite pull.

Fu had reappeared like a ghost who forgot he was supposed to stay gone. Lingering after Jabber’s figure-drawing class with “quick questions” about shading techniques, offering to carry his portfolio bag across the quad, texting late-night “you up?” memes that felt too familiar. Jabber kept it light—short replies, polite distance—but Fu didn’t back off. He’d brush shoulders in the hallway, drop casual compliments (“You look good today, man”), linger a beat too long when saying goodbye.

Jabber didn’t say anything to Zanka. Just watched the texts stack up on his phone and felt the old, familiar coil of jealousy twist low in his gut. He told himself it was nothing. Old habits. Old friends. Nothing more.

Zanka didn’t mention Follo’s almost-daily drop-ins either. He told himself it was harmless. Just campus socializing. Neither of them spoke the suspicion aloud.

Yet.

One afternoon after back-to-back lectures, they finally collapsed into the dorm together—Jabber kicking his shoes off at the door, Zanka already peeling his hoodie over his head.

Jabber flopped onto the couch first, pulling Zanka down with him so they ended up tangled sideways, legs overlapping.

“Okay,” Jabber said, voice low and serious despite the playful way his fingers were already tracing Zanka’s hip under his shirt. “We gotta talk about the stream. Rules. Boundaries. Safe words. All the unsexy shit before we get sexy.”

Zanka nodded, shifting so he could face him properly. “Yeah. I want this to feel good for both of us. Not just the audience.”

Jabber’s expression softened. “First—masks. Full face coverage. No exceptions. I’ve got the black ones with the subtle cutouts for mouths. Keeps it anonymous.”

“Agreed.” Zanka exhaled. “No showing tattoos or scars that could ID us. And nothing too… extreme on camera. I’m still figuring out what I like.”

Jabber’s hand stilled on his hip. “We go as slow as you need. You say stop, we stop. No questions. Safe word?”

Zanka thought for a second. “Red. Simple. Yellow if I need to pause or check in.”

“Red and yellow. Got it.” Jabber leaned in, kissed his temple. “What are you curious about trying? Audience interaction is fun—let them vote on toys or positions—but only what you’re comfortable with.”

Zanka’s cheeks warmed. “Light bondage maybe? Wrists tied. Nothing heavy. And… edging. Letting them decide when I get to come.”

Jabber’s pupils dilated instantly. “Fuck. Yeah. I can work with that.” He swallowed. “I like praise. Degradation too, but only if it’s mixed with aftercare. You can call me whatever feels right—just don’t go full silent treatment. That fucks with my head.”

Zanka cupped his jaw. “I won’t. I’ll talk to you the whole time. Tell you how good you feel. How much I want you.”

Jabber groaned softly, forehead dropping to Zanka’s shoulder. “You’re gonna kill me before we even hit record.”

They spent another twenty minutes hashing out details: no blood, no breath play on stream, aftercare mandatory (blankets, water, cuddles), stream limited to ninety minutes max. When they finished, Jabber kissed him slow and deep, like sealing a contract.

“Tonight?” he murmured against Zanka’s lips.

Zanka nodded. “Tonight.”

---

The stream went live at 9:17 p.m.

Both of them wore matte-black masks—simple, elegant, covering from forehead to chin with only mouth and eyes exposed. Jabber’s dreads were pulled into a high knot; Zanka’s hair was tousled forward to help obscure. The ring light cast dramatic shadows. The chat was already exploding before they even touched.

- angelboyz: FUCK YESSSSS they’re back together

- thirsty4dreads: masks are hot af who’s topping tonight

- goodboypls: edge him till he cries pls

- sub4life99: tie his hands!! vote: rope or cuffs?

- daddyissues420: praise the pretty one he looks nervous

- anonymous_tipper: $50 — make him beg on camera

Jabber read the last one aloud, voice low and teasing through the modulator that deepened it just enough to disguise. “Anonymous_tipper says make him beg. Thoughts, baby?”

Zanka—already shirtless, wrists loosely bound behind him with soft black rope—shifted on his knees in front of Jabber. His voice came out breathy but steady. “I can beg.”

Jabber chuckled, fingers tipping Zanka’s masked chin up. “Good boy.” He leaned down, kissed him slow and filthy—tongues sliding, audible for the mic. Chat went feral.

- ropewins: ROPE WINS LET’S GO

- needybottom: he’s so pretty when he’s tied up

- tipjar: $20 — edge him for 10 minutes straight no mercy

Jabber pulled back, eyes glinting behind the mask. “Ten minutes edging. Chat’s orders.”

He pushed Zanka gently onto his back on the bed, wrists still bound. Slow strokes—teasing, never enough. Zanka arched, hips chasing, soft whimpers slipping out.

“Please—”

“Not yet,” Jabber murmured, thumb circling the head of Zanka’s cock. “You’re doing so good for them. Look at the tips rolling in. They love watching you fall apart.”

- goodboypls: he’s leaking already fuck

- maskkink: call him your pretty slut

- $100tip: make him count down from 30 before he can come

Jabber laughed low. “New tip. Count down from thirty, baby. Then maybe I’ll let you.”

Zanka’s voice cracked on the first number. “Thirty…
twenty-nine…”

By fifteen he was shaking, pleading.

Jabber finally gave in—stroked him fast and perfect, whispering filth the whole time: “Come for me, pretty boy. Show them how good you look when you lose it.”

Zanka came hard—back arching, muffled cry behind the mask, ropes digging into his wrists.

Chat lost its mind.

- holyfuck: that was insane

- morepls: round two???

- boyfriendgoals: they’re so in love it hurts

Jabber untied him immediately, pulled him into his lap, kissed his temple through the mask. “You okay?”

Zanka nodded, boneless. “Green. So green.”

They ended the stream with soft aftercare on camera—blanket, water, quiet praise—then went offline.

The second the browser closed, Jabber ripped both masks off, cupped Zanka’s face, and kissed him like he was starving.

“You were fucking perfect,” he breathed. “I love you.”

Zanka smiled against his mouth, exhausted and glowing. “Love you too.”

Outside the dorm window, in the shadow of the hallway light, a silhouette lingered just long enough to watch the light in their room flick to the bedroom.

Then it slipped away.

Unseen.

But not gone.

— (Corvus’s room)

The room was dim, lit mostly by the blue glow of Corvus's dual monitors and a single desk lamp that cast long shadows across the posters of glitch art and vintage synthwave covers tacked haphazardly to the walls. Corvus himself lounged on the unmade bed in nothing but loose gray sweatpants, one arm behind his head, the other scrolling idly through his phone. His dark hair was still damp from an earlier shower, falling in messy strands over his forehead. He looked relaxed on the surface—legs stretched out, bare feet crossed at the ankles—but his eyes kept flicking toward the figure pacing near the window.

Tamsy hadn’t sat down once since he arrived twenty minutes ago.

He stood with his back to the room, silver hair catching the monitor light like liquid metal, thumbs flying across his phone screen. Every few seconds his jaw would tighten, brows drawing together in that sharp, focused way that meant he was either reading bad news or plotting something worse. Corvus had seen the look before. It never ended quietly.

“Yo,” Corvus finally said, voice low and casual, trying to cut through the tension without sounding like he cared too much. “You gonna wear a hole in my floor or what? Put the phone down for five minutes.”

Tamsy didn’t look up. “Busy.”

“Busy stressing yourself into an early grave, looks like.” Corvus sat up slowly, mattress creaking. “Come here.”

Tamsy exhaled through his nose, sharp, impatient—but he did finally lock the screen and toss the phone face-down onto the desk. He turned, green eyes shadowed, expression unreadable.

Corvus patted the space beside him. “C’mere. You look like you’re about to snap someone’s neck. Mine’s closer.”

A ghost of a smirk tugged at Tamsy’s mouth. He crossed the room in three long steps and dropped onto the bed, letting Corvus pull him in until he was half-straddling his lap. Corvus’s hands settled on Tamsy’s hips, firm, grounding.

“Better,” Corvus murmured, leaning up to kiss the corner of Tamsy’s jaw. “Now breathe.”

Tamsy did. slow, controlled, but his fingers were already curling into Corvus’s shoulders, nails digging just enough to sting. Corvus took it as permission. He slid one hand up under Tamsy’s shirt, palm flat against the warm skin of his lower back, and kissed him properly, deep, unhurried, the kind of kiss meant to pull someone out of their own head.

It worked, at first.

Tamsy melted into it, hands sliding into Corvus’s hair, tugging just hard enough to make him groan. Clothes came off in pieces, shirt, sweatpants, briefs, until they were skin to skin. Corvus flipped them so Tamsy was underneath him, wrists pinned loosely above his head, thighs spread around Corvus’s hips. Foreplay stayed slow: open-mouthed kisses down Tamsy’s throat, teeth grazing collarbone, fingers teasing between his legs until Tamsy was arching, breath hitching, whispering “fuck, more” against Corvus’s ear.

Corvus obliged, sliding down, mouth on Tamsy’s cock, taking him deep and slow while two slick fingers worked him open. Tamsy’s head tipped back, silver hair spilling across the pillow, a low moan rumbling out of him.

And then—

“Jabber…”

The name slipped out soft, almost reverent, barely audible.

Corvus froze.

Everything stopped, the rhythm of his fingers, the suction of his mouth, the gentle rock of his hips against the mattress. He pulled off slowly, lips wet and swollen, and looked up.

Tamsy’s eyes were closed. He hadn’t even realized he’d said it.

Corvus stayed perfectly still for three heartbeats.

Then he sat back on his heels, hands resting on Tamsy’s thighs, voice dangerously quiet.

“Where’s your head at?”

Tamsy’s eyes snapped open. The haze cleared fast, too fast. He stared at Corvus like he’d just been caught red-handed.

“Nothing,” he said immediately. Flat. Automatic. “Forget it.”

Corvus didn’t move. Didn’t blink. “You said his name. While I’m sucking you off?”

Tamsy’s jaw clenched. He pushed himself up on his elbows, silver hair falling into his face. “I said forget it.”

Corvus studied him, really studied him. The tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers twitched like he wanted to reach for his phone again, the faint tremor in his lower lip he was trying to hide.

He could leave. Could grab his clothes, walk out, let Tamsy stew in whatever obsessive spiral he was in tonight. It would be the smart thing.

But Corvus didn’t move.

Instead he leaned forward again, slow, deliberate. One hand wrapped around Tamsy’s throat, not choking, just holding, thumb pressing lightly against his pulse.

“You want to pretend?” Corvus’s voice was low, edged with something dark. “Fine.”

Tamsy’s breath hitched.

Corvus didn’t give him time to respond. He shoved Tamsy flat on his back, pinned his wrists hard above his head with one hand, and lined himself up with no more prep than the lube still slick on his fingers. He pushed in, hard, deep, no gentleness left.

Tamsy gasped, back bowing off the mattress.

Corvus didn’t stop. He set a brutal rhythm, fast, punishing, hips snapping with enough force that the headboard thudded against the wall. Every thrust drove the air out of Tamsy in sharp, broken sounds. Corvus’s free hand gripped Tamsy’s hip hard enough to bruise, holding him exactly where he wanted him.

“Say it again,” Corvus growled against his ear. “Say his name while I fuck you like this. See if it helps.”

Tamsy’s nails raked down Corvus’s back, hard enough to draw blood. “Fuck—you—”

Corvus angled deeper, hitting that spot that made Tamsy’s whole body jerk.

“Say it.”

Tamsy’s head thrashed once, twice, then he broke.

“Jabber—fuck—Jabber—”

Corvus’s rhythm faltered for half a second, something raw flashing across his face, then he doubled down. Harder. Faster. One hand left Tamsy’s wrists to wrap around his throat again, squeezing just enough to make stars burst behind Tamsy’s eyes.

“You’re not with him,” Corvus snarled. “You’re here. With me. And you’re gonna come screaming my name, not his.”

Tamsy’s body obeyed before his mind could catch up—back arching, thighs shaking, a choked-off cry ripping out of him as he came untouched, spilling between them.

Corvus followed seconds later—deep, grinding, spilling inside him with a low, guttural groan.

They stayed like that for a long moment—sweaty, panting, Corvus’s forehead pressed to Tamsy’s shoulder.

Then Corvus pulled out slowly, rolled off to the side, and stared at the ceiling.

Tamsy didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Corvus finally broke the silence, voice rough.

“You gonna tell me what the fuck that was about?”

Tamsy closed his eyes. “No.”

Corvus laughed once—short, humorless. “Figured.”

He didn’t push. He just reached over, grabbed the blanket from the foot of the bed, and threw it over both of them. Then he turned off the lamp. In the dark, Tamsy’s phone buzzed once on the desk. He didn’t reach for it.

Not yet.

The next morning broke gray and cold, the kind of early-winter Dallas weather that made the campus feel smaller, tighter, like the sky itself was pressing down. Tamsy was already awake when the first weak sunlight slipped through the slats of the abandoned lecture hall in the oldest wing of the arts building—one of those forgotten rooms with peeling paint, rows of empty tiered seats, and a single flickering fluorescent bulb that nobody had bothered to report.

He sat in the very back row, legs crossed at the ankle, phone balanced on one knee. Fu and Follo stood awkwardly in front of him like schoolboys summoned to the principal’s office. Fu’s blue hair was messier than usual, goggles pushed up into it like a headband, arms folded so tight the leather of his jacket creaked. Follo kept shifting his weight, tool belt clinking softly, eyes darting to the door every few seconds as though expecting someone to burst in.

Tamsy didn’t look up from his screen right away. He scrolled slowly—through what, neither of them could see—then finally spoke without lifting his head.

“Two weeks.”

Fu’s jaw ticked. “What?”

Tamsy’s green eyes flicked up at last. Flat. Cold. The same look he’d worn when he’d first cornered them months ago.

“Two weeks,” he repeated, voice quiet enough that it forced them to lean in. “That’s how long you have to make them crack. Jealousy. Fights. Doubt. Whatever works. I don’t care how. Just make Zanka pull away. Make Jabber spiral. By Thanksgiving break they’re done—or I start removing obstacles.”

Follo swallowed audibly. “You mean—”

“I mean exactly what you think I mean.” Tamsy finally pocketed the phone and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I’ve been patient. I’ve let them play house. I’ve watched Jabber smile at someone else like he used to smile at me. That ends now. If I have to get blood on my hands to remind him who he belongs to, I will. And if either of you become part of the problem instead of the solution…” He let the sentence hang, let the silence finish it.

Fu’s fists clenched at his sides. “You’re talking about murder, Tamsy. Actual fucking murder.”

Tamsy’s smile was small, almost gentle. “I’m talking about consequences. You two already know what happens when people disappoint me. Don’t pretend you don’t.”

Follo’s voice came out thin. “We’ve already done what you asked. The stream setup’s fucked—next time he tries to go live it’ll glitch out, lag, maybe crash entirely. Looks like user error. And I’ve been… hanging around Zanka. Planting little seeds. Telling him stories about Jabber’s old reputation, how he used to be with everyone, how he’s probably just using Zanka to feel wanted again. He listens. He doesn’t say much, but he listens.”

Tamsy tilted his head. “Good. Keep going. Push harder. Make him question every time Jabber’s phone buzzes. Make him wonder why Fu’s suddenly so interested in being Jabber’s ‘friend’ again.”

Fu flinched at his own name. “I’m doing what you told me. Texting him. Showing up after class. He’s polite, but he’s shutting me down. Keeps bringing up Zanka like it’s a shield.”

“Then break the shield,” Tamsy said simply. “Tell him you miss the old days. Remind him how easy it used to be between you two. Plant the idea that Zanka’s too vanilla, too new, too… safe. Jabber’s always chased intensity. Remind him what he’s missing.”

Fu looked sick. “You really think he’ll go back to you after everything? After what you did to him?”

Tamsy’s expression didn’t change, but something dark and hungry flickered behind his eyes.

“He already says my name when he’s getting fucked by someone else,” he said quietly. “He just doesn’t know it’s still me in his head. Not yet.”

Silence stretched, thick and ugly.

Follo finally spoke, voice cracking. “And if we can’t do it in two weeks?”

Tamsy stood slowly. Walked down the two steps that separated the back row from them. Stopped close enough that both men had to tilt their heads up slightly to meet his gaze.

“Then I stop asking nicely,” he said. “And I start cleaning house. Starting with whichever one of you disappoints me first.”

He reached out, almost tenderly, and straightened the collar of Fu’s jacket. Then did the same to Follo’s hoodie zipper.

“Two weeks,” he repeated, soft as a lullaby. “Don’t make me come find you again.”

He turned and walked out without looking back. The door clicked shut behind him. Fu and Follo stood frozen in the flickering light for a long time after he was gone. Neither of them spoke. They didn’t need to. The threat was already in the room with them, breathing the same stale air.

— (Jankas dorm)

Zanka was sprawled on the couch with a textbook open on his lap, highlighter forgotten in his hand, when Jabber walked in from his last class. The second the door closed Jabber’s eyes went straight to him—hungry, soft, possessive in that way that still made Zanka’s stomach flip.

“Hey, boyfriend,” Jabber drawled, dropping his bag and crossing the room in three strides.

Zanka barely had time to close the book before Jabber was on him—straddling his lap, hands framing his face, kissing him deep and slow like they’d been apart for days instead of hours.

When they broke apart Zanka was breathing hard. “Miss me that much?”

“Always.” Jabber rested his forehead against Zanka’s. “How was your day?”

Zanka hesitated—just a fraction of a second. “Fine. Follo stopped by again. Brought coffee. We talked about… nothing, really.”

Jabber’s smile didn’t falter, but something tightened around his eyes. “He’s been around a lot lately.”

“Yeah.” Zanka shrugged, trying to sound casual. “Guess he’s just friendly.”

Jabber hummed. Didn’t push. Just kissed him again—slower this time, like he was staking a claim.

Zanka didn’t mention that Fu had texted Jabber three times during lunch, or that Jabber had replied to exactly zero of them. They both let the silence sit. Heavy. Unspoken. Two weeks. The clock was ticking.

The next morning in Corvus’s dorm room smelled like cold coffee and last night’s sweat. Tamsy had stayed the night—something he rarely did—curled on his side facing the wall, silver hair spilling across the pillow like spilled mercury. Corvus woke first, the gray light filtering through the blinds painting stripes across Tamsy’s bare back. The bruises from last night’s rough handling were already blooming dark along his hips and throat, fingerprints Corvus had left without apology.

Corvus propped himself on one elbow, studying the tension still knotted in Tamsy’s shoulders even in sleep. He reached out, brushed a strand of hair from Tamsy’s face. Tamsy stirred but didn’t open his eyes.

“You didn’t sleep,” Corvus said quietly. Not a question.

Tamsy’s voice came out flat, distant. “Didn’t need to.”

Corvus sighed, sliding closer until his chest pressed to Tamsy’s back. He wrapped an arm around his waist, palm flat over the fresh bruises like he could soothe them away with touch alone. “You said his name again. Twice. In your sleep.”

Tamsy went rigid. “Drop it.”

“I’m not dropping shit.” Corvus pressed a kiss to the nape of his neck, soft this time. “You’re not here, Tams. Not really. Your body’s in my bed but your head’s still in that fucking dorm with him.” He nipped lightly at the shell of Tamsy’s ear. “Let me bring you back.”

Tamsy exhaled shakily, but he didn’t pull away. Corvus took that as permission. He rolled Tamsy onto his back, settled between his thighs, and kissed him slow and deep—trying to coax him back into the present with tongue and teeth and the steady weight of his body. Tamsy kissed back, hands sliding into Corvus’s hair, but there was no heat in it. Just mechanical response. His eyes stayed half-lidded, unfocused, staring at the ceiling like he could see through it to whatever scene was playing behind his eyelids.

Corvus noticed. He always noticed.

He moved lower—kissing down Tamsy’s chest, sucking marks over the old ones, fingers sliding between his legs to open him up again. Tamsy made the right sounds, arched the right way, but when Corvus finally pushed inside him, slow and careful this time, Tamsy’s moan fractured halfway through.

“Jab—”

Corvus froze mid-thrust.

Tamsy’s eyes snapped open, horror flashing across his face for a split second before the mask slammed back down. “Don’t stop.”

Corvus didn’t move. “Tell me where your head is right now.”

Tamsy’s throat worked. He turned his face to the side. “Nowhere. Keep going.”

Corvus stayed buried inside him, hips still, one hand cupping Tamsy’s jaw and forcing him to look back. “You’re thinking about him while I’m fucking you. Again.”

Tamsy’s laugh was hollow. “What do you want me to say? That I’m over it? That I don’t still feel him every time someone touches me? Fine. I’m not. Happy?”

Corvus’s eyes darkened. He pulled out slowly, then slammed back in—hard, punishing, the gentleness gone. Tamsy gasped, nails raking down his back.

“You want him so bad?” Corvus growled, snapping his hips again and again. “Then feel me instead. Feel how much deeper I can get. How much harder I can fuck the memory out of you.”

Tamsy’s head fell back, a broken sound escaping him. Corvus didn’t let up—rough, relentless, one hand wrapped around Tamsy’s throat, the other pinning his hip so hard the bones creaked. It wasn’t lovemaking anymore. It was exorcism. Punishment. Tamsy came with Jabber’s name still trapped behind clenched teeth, body shaking so hard Corvus had to hold him through it.

After, they lay in silence, Corvus’s arm heavy across Tamsy’s chest like an anchor.

Tamsy stared at the ceiling, phone already buzzing on the nightstand with new messages from Fu and Follo. He didn’t reach for it. Not yet.

—

The afternoon sky had turned the color of old steel by the time Zanka left the dorm with the reusable grocery bags slung over his shoulder. Jabber had a late critique session for his figure-drawing class, so Zanka had volunteered to restock the fridge—milk, eggs, actual vegetables instead of the sad beer-and-grape-juice situation they’d been surviving on. He walked the familiar route to the campus grocery annex, earbuds in, playlist on low, trying not to think too hard about how often Follo had been “just passing by” lately.

He didn’t have to think about it for long.

Follo appeared at the produce aisle like he’d been waiting, tool belt swapped for a hoodie and jeans, goggles perched on his head.

“Zanka! Need a hand?”

Zanka blinked. “You… shop here?”

“Sometimes.” Follo grinned, grabbing a basket. “August needed more fabric dye. Figured I’d stock up on snacks while I’m here. Here—let me carry the heavy stuff.”

Before Zanka could protest, Follo was already loading bags with milk and bread, chatting easily about a failed robotics project that had set off the fire alarm last week. Zanka found himself laughing despite the faint itch at the back of his mind. Follo was harmless. Friendly. Helpful. He even paid for the extra energy drinks “as a roommate tax.”

They walked back together, Follo balancing two bags like they weighed nothing, still talking. “So you and Jabber, huh? Official now? That’s awesome, man. He seems happier lately.”

“Yeah,” Zanka said, adjusting his own bags. “He is.”

Follo nudged his shoulder. “You two are cute together. Real cute. Just… watch out for the old crowd, yeah? Jabber used to run pretty wild before you showed up.”

Zanka’s steps faltered for half a second. “What’s that mean?”

“Nothing bad,” Follo said quickly, too quickly. “Just… people talk. You know how it is.”

They reached the dorm door just as Jabber was coming up the path from the opposite direction, sketchbook tucked under his arm. Jabber’s easy smile froze when he saw Follo holding two of Zanka’s grocery bags, the two of them standing close enough that their shoulders brushed.

“Follo,” Jabber said, voice perfectly pleasant. Too pleasant. “Helping with groceries?”

Follo shrugged, handing the bags over with a grin. “Just being neighborly. See you around, Zanka.”

He left with a wave.

Jabber took the bags without a word, but Zanka caught the way his jaw tightened, the way his eyes lingered on the spot where Follo’s hand had brushed Zanka’s arm.

Inside, Jabber set the bags on the counter a little harder than necessary.

“You two seemed cozy,” he said lightly, unpacking milk like it had personally offended him.

Zanka raised a brow. “He offered to help. You jealous?”

Jabber snorted, but the sound was off. “Nah. Just… didn’t know you two were that close already.”

Zanka didn’t push. He remembered the first week—Follo coming over for that group project, Zanka flirting a little too easily because he’d been nervous and Jabber had been shirtless and dripping from the shower. Jabber had noticed then too. Apparently he still did.

Neither of them said anything more about it.

—

Later that evening, the plan had been simple: dinner at the little ramen place off-campus, then back to the dorm for whatever trouble they could get into before the stream schedule.

Zanka waited outside the library at 6:45 like they’d agreed. Jabber never showed.

He checked his phone—no texts. No “running late.” Just radio silence.

Frowning, Zanka pushed through the heavy double doors. The main floor was quiet, only a few students hunched over laptops. He headed toward the back stacks where Jabber sometimes sketched when he needed quiet.

He heard the voices before he saw them.

Low. Urgent. One familiar and teasing, the other—Fu’s—soft and insistent

Zanka rounded the corner.

Fu had Jabber pressed against the shelves, one hand fisted in Jabber’s hoodie, the other cupping the back of his neck. Their mouths were inches apart—Fu leaning in, trying to close the distance, Jabber’s hands on Fu’s chest like he was about to push him away.

“Fu—stop—”

Fu didn’t. He surged forward, kissing Jabber hard, desperate, like if he just tried hard enough the old spark would reignite.

Zanka’s grocery bags hit the floor with a soft thud.

Jabber jerked back instantly, eyes wide behind the dreads that had fallen loose. “Zanka—”

Fu turned, face pale. “Shit. It’s not—”

Zanka didn’t wait to hear the rest.

He turned and walked out—fast, chest tight, vision blurring at the edges.

In the shadows between two tall shelves, just out of the overhead light, Tamsy stood perfectly still. Silver hair tucked under a black hoodie, green eyes tracking Zanka’s retreating figure with predatory focus.

He waited until Zanka was almost at the exit doors.

Then he stepped out of the shadows, voice soft, concerned, perfectly timed.

“Zanka? Hey… you okay?”

Zanka stopped, shoulders stiff. Turned slowly.

Tamsy’s face was the picture of worried-friend: brows drawn, mouth soft, arms already half-open like he was ready to offer a hug.

“Come on,” Tamsy said gently, stepping closer. “Talk to me. Whatever it is… I’ve got you.”

Behind him, in the stacks, Jabber’s voice called
out—panicked, desperate—but Zanka didn’t hear it.

He was already walking toward Tamsy.

Straight into the trap that had been waiting since the first day.

Tamsy kept his steps measured as he closed the distance to Zanka outside the library doors. The night air was crisp, carrying the faint metallic bite of impending rain, and the campus lamps cast long, overlapping shadows across the concrete path. Zanka stood frozen just beyond the threshold, shoulders rigid, hands clenched at his sides like he was holding himself together by force of will alone.

“Hey,” Tamsy said again, softer this time, voice pitched to carry concern without crowding. “Zanka. Talk to me.”

Zanka didn’t turn immediately. His head was down, dark hair falling forward to hide his face. When he finally looked up, his eyes were glassy—not quite crying, but dangerously close. The raw hurt there made something warm and satisfied uncoil in Tamsy’s chest, though his face showed nothing but worried empathy.

“I saw,” Tamsy continued, stopping a careful three feet away. Close enough to seem supportive, far enough to look non-threatening. “Fu and Jabber. I’m sorry you had to walk in on that.”

Zanka let out a short, bitter laugh that cracked at the edges. “Yeah. Me too.”

Tamsy took one small step closer. “You don’t have to go back in there right now. Come sit with me for a minute. There’s a bench around the side, no one’s around. Just breathe.”

Zanka hesitated, glancing back toward the library doors once. Jabber’s voice was still echoing faintly from inside, calling his name, panicked. but the sound felt distant, muffled by the blood rushing in Zanka’s ears. He nodded once, jerky.

They walked in silence to the low stone bench tucked against the building’s side, half-hidden by an overgrown yew hedge. Tamsy sat first, leaving plenty of space. Zanka dropped down beside him like his legs had given out.

For a long minute neither spoke.

Then Tamsy leaned forward, elbows on his knees, voice gentle. “Want to tell me what happened?”

Zanka stared at his hands. “Fu kissed him. Jabber… he didn’t push him away fast enough. Or maybe he didn’t push at all. I don’t know. I just—” His voice broke. “I turned around and walked out.”

Tamsy nodded slowly, like he was processing something painful on Zanka’s behalf. “That’s rough. Really rough. Especially after how things have been going between you two.” He paused, letting the silence stretch just long enough to feel supportive. “You’ve only been official a couple days. It’s normal to feel… shaken.”

Zanka’s laugh was hollow. “Normal. Right.”

Tamsy angled his body toward him slightly. “Look, I’m not gonna pretend I don’t have my own history with Jabber. You know that. But I’m not here to say ‘I told you so.’ I’m here because you look like you’re about to fall apart, and I don’t want you to do it alone.”

Zanka finally met his eyes. “Why do you even care?”

“Because we’re friends,” Tamsy said simply. “Or at least—I’d like to think we could be. I know I fucked up at the party, coming on too strong about him. I was jealous. Old wounds. But that doesn’t mean I don’t care about you, Zanka. You’re a good guy. You don’t deserve to be blindsided like that.”

Zanka looked away again, swallowing hard. “I thought… I thought he was different. With me.”

“He might be,” Tamsy said carefully. “Or he might not. People fall back into old patterns when they’re scared. Or when someone reminds them what used to feel familiar.” He let the implication hang without naming Fu outright. “Give yourself time to feel this. Don’t rush back in there tonight. You deserve space to think.”

Zanka nodded slowly, like the words were sinking in through layers of hurt.

Tamsy reached over, slow, telegraphing the movement—
, and rested a light hand on Zanka’s shoulder. “If you need to crash somewhere tonight, my room’s open. Couch pulls out. No pressure. Just… somewhere quiet.”

Zanka didn’t answer right away. He stared at the ground, breathing uneven.

Then, quietly: “Maybe. Just for tonight.”

Tamsy’s expression softened into something almost tender. “Okay. Let’s get out of here before he comes looking.”

They stood. Zanka didn’t look back at the library doors.

Tamsy walked beside him, keeping just enough distance to seem respectful, close enough to feel protective.

Inside the stacks, Jabber was still calling Zanka’s name. voice cracking with panic, while Fu stood frozen, guilt written across every line of his face.

Neither of them saw Tamsy guide Zanka around the corner of the building, out of sight.

Out of reach.

—

The next morning dawned colder still, the sky a flat, oppressive gray that made the whole campus feel muted.

Zanka woke on Tamsy’s couch, blanket pulled up to his chin, head pounding from crying himself out in the small hours. Tamsy was already up, moving quietly in the tiny kitchenette, brewing coffee. He looked calm, almost domestic, silver hair tied back, sleeves rolled to his elbows.

“Morning,” he said softly when Zanka stirred. “Coffee’s almost ready. Black, right?”

Zanka sat up slowly, rubbing his face. “Yeah. Thanks.”

Tamsy handed him a mug, then sat on the coffee table across from him, close but not crowding. “You sleep okay?”

“Not really.” Zanka stared into the black liquid. “Kept replaying it.”

Tamsy nodded. “That’s normal. It’ll hurt for a while.” He paused, voice gentle. “You don’t have to go back to the dorm today if you’re not ready. I can grab your stuff later. Or we can just… stay here. Watch something stupid. Eat junk. Whatever you need.”

Zanka looked at him, really looked. Tamsy’s gold eyes were steady, patient. No judgment. No gloating.

For the first time since the library, Zanka felt like he could breathe.

“Okay,” he said quietly. “Just for today.”

Tamsy smiled, small, careful, reassuring.

“Deal.”

Across campus, Jabber hadn’t slept at all.

He sat on the edge of his bed in Dorm 67(😏), phone clutched in both hands, staring at the string of unanswered texts he’d sent Zanka last night:

The lock to my key<3: Zanka please.

The lock to my key<3: It wasn’t what it looked like

The lock to my key<3: I pushed him away I swear

The lock to my key<3: Come back I’m sorry

The lock to my key<3: Please just tell me you’re safe

No read receipts. No reply.

The dorm felt hollow without Zanka’s quiet presencec his books still open on the desk, his hoodie slung over the chair, the faint scent of his shampoo lingering on the pillow Jabber had buried his face in at 4 a.m.

Jabber’s phone buzzed once, Fu’s name flashing across the screen.

He didn’t answer.

He just stared at the door, willing it to open, willing Zanka to walk through and let him explain.

But the door stayed closed.

And somewhere across campus, Tamsy poured Zanka a second cup of coffee, sat a little closer on the couch, and waited, patient, calculating, perfectly in control.

The threads were pulling tighter.

And soon, one of them would snap.

Tamsy lingered in the hallway outside his own dorm for a long moment after Zanka finally agreed to come inside. He kept his posture open, shoulders relaxed, hands loose at his sides. every line of his body screaming safe harbor while his mind ran cold calculations. Zanka walked ahead of him now, steps heavy, head still bowed like the weight of what he’d seen in the library was physically pressing down on his spine.

Inside, Tamsy closed the door with a soft click that sounded too final in the quiet room. He didn’t lock it. Not yet. No need to make Zanka feel trapped when the real cage was already closing around his heart.

“Sit,” Tamsy said gently, nodding toward the small couch. “I’ll grab you water. Or tea? I’ve got chamomile if you want something warm.”

Zanka dropped onto the cushions without answering, elbows on his knees, face buried in his hands. The silence stretched, thick, suffocating. Tamsy let it. He moved to the kitchenette with deliberate slowness, filling a glass from the filtered pitcher, the soft clink of ice cubes the only sound for nearly thirty seconds.

When he returned, he sat on the coffee table directly in front of Zanka instead of beside him, close enough to feel intimate, far enough to keep the illusion of space. He set the glass on the wood between them.

“You don’t have to talk yet,” he said quietly. “Just breathe. In through your nose, out through your mouth. Like that.”

Zanka obeyed without thinking, chest rising, falling, shaky. Tamsy watched the rhythm, cataloging every hitch, every tremor. He waited until Zanka’s breathing steadied just enough that his shoulders dropped a fraction.

Then, softer still: “I know it hurts like hell right now. Like someone reached inside your chest and twisted. I’ve been there. With him.”

Zanka’s head jerked up at that, eyes red-rimmed, searching Tamsy’s face for mockery. He found none.

Tamsy held his gaze. “I’m not saying this to make it worse. I’m saying it because I know how easy it is to look at Jabber and believe he’s changed. That this time it’s different. That you’re the exception.” A small, self-deprecating smile touched his lips. “I believed it too. For a long time.”

Zanka’s throat worked. “Then why… why would he—”

“Because he’s scared,” Tamsy said, voice barely above a whisper. “Scared of being seen. Really seen. The way you see him. The way I used to. So when someone like Fu shows up, someone who already knows the broken parts, who doesn’t ask questions, he falls back. It’s reflex. Not choice.”

Zanka looked away, jaw tight. A single tear escaped, tracking silently down his cheek. He swiped at it angrily.

Tamsy reached out, slow, careful, and caught Zanka’s wrist before he could pull away. Not restraining. Just holding. Thumb brushing once over the pulse point there, light as breath.

“You’re allowed to be angry,” he murmured. “You’re allowed to hurt. You don’t have to forgive him tonight. Or tomorrow. Or ever, if that’s what you decide.”

Zanka’s breath shuddered out. “I thought… I thought he loved me.”

The words cracked like thin ice.

Tamsy’s grip tightened, just enough to feel grounding. “He probably does. In his own fucked-up way. But love isn’t enough if it comes with conditions. If it comes with someone else’s mouth on his when you turn your back.”

Zanka flinched.

Tamsy leaned closer, voice dropping to something intimate, almost confessional. “You deserve someone who doesn’t make you question every silence. Someone who doesn’t leave you standing outside a library wondering if you’re enough.”

Zanka’s eyes flicked up—raw, searching. “And you think that’s you?”

Tamsy didn’t flinch. Didn’t smile. Just held the gaze.

“I think you deserve to find out what it feels like to be chosen. Every day. Without having to fight for it.”

The room felt suddenly smaller. The air heavier.

Zanka didn’t pull his wrist away.

Tamsy let the silence sit another beat, long enough for the words to sink deep. then released his hold and sat back slightly, giving Zanka room to breathe, to think, to feel the absence of touch like a physical thing.

“I’m not asking for anything tonight,” he said quietly. “Just… stay. Let me take care of you for once. No strings. No expectations. Just rest.”

Zanka stared at him for a long, trembling moment.

Then, so softly it was almost lost:

“Okay.”

Tamsy nodded once. Stood. Offered his hand.

Zanka took it.

—

Meanwhile, Jabber was unraveling.

He hadn’t left the dorm since Zanka walked out. The room smelled faintly of the groceries they’d never unpacked—milk warming on the counter, bread going stale in the bag. Jabber sat on the floor with his back against Zanka’s bed, knees drawn up, phone clutched so tightly the screen had gone dark ten minutes ago.

He kept replaying it: Fu’s mouth crashing into his, the split-second shock before he shoved him away, the thud of grocery bags hitting the floor, Zanka’s face, open, trusting, shattered.

He’d run after him. Called his name until his throat was raw. Searched every path between the library and the dorm. Nothing.

Now the silence was deafening.

His phone buzzed again, Fu, for the sixth time.

Fu: Jabber please let me explain

Fu: I fucked up I know I fucked up

Fu: I didn’t mean to hurt him

Fu: I’m sorry :(

Jabber stared at the messages until the words blurred.

He didn’t reply.

Instead he opened his chat with Zanka, two hundred and seventeen unread messages since last night. His own desperation laid bare in every line.

Jabber dropped the phone between his knees and buried his face in his arms.

He didn’t cry, not yet.

But the sound that escaped him was close enough.

—

The next morning Tamsy woke early.

Zanka was still asleep on the couch, blanket tucked around his shoulders, face slack with exhaustion. Tamsy watched him for a long minute, chest rising slow, lashes dark against pale cheeks, then slipped out of bed without making a sound.

He padded to the kitchenette, started coffee, then stepped onto the tiny balcony overlooking the quad. The air was sharp, waking him fully.

He pulled out his phone.

Three new messages from Follo.

Follo: Jabber hasn’t left the dorm since last night. Looks like shit. Keeps checking his phone.

Follo: Fu’s a wreck too. Keeps texting him. No reply.

Follo: What now?

Tamsy’s thumb hovered over the screen.

Then he typed back.

Tamsy: Keep watching. Don’t interfere yet.

Tamsy: Let him break a little more.

He pocketed the phone.

Turned back toward the couch where Zanka still slept, peaceful, vulnerable, trusting. Tamsy’s expression softened into something almost tender. Almost.

He walked back inside, closed the sliding door quietly, and crouched beside the couch.

“Hey,” he whispered, brushing a stray lock of hair from Zanka’s forehead. “Coffee’s ready when you are.”

Zanka stirred. Blinked up at him, eyes still swollen, still uncertain. But he didn’t pull away. Tamsy smiled. small, careful, perfectly calibrated.

“Take your time,” he said softly. “I’m not going anywhere.”

And in that moment, with Zanka looking up at him like he was the only safe thing left in the world, Tamsy knew: The break was coming. And when it did, Jabber would be alone. Completely. Utterly. Alone.

Tamsy slipped out of his dorm with a quiet “I’ll be right back. need to grab something from the corner store,” murmured over his shoulder so softly Zanka barely stirred from the couch. The lie rolled off his tongue smooth as silk; Zanka only nodded, eyes heavy, already drifting again under the weight of last night’s betrayal and the fragile safety Tamsy had wrapped around him like a blanket.

The moment the door clicked shut behind him, Tamsy’s posture changed. Shoulders squared. Steps lengthened. The gentle concern melted away, replaced by something sharper, hungrier. He didn’t go to any store. He went straight to Dorm 67.

The hallway was empty at this hour, mid-morning classes in full swing. Tamsy didn’t knock. He tried the handle first.

Unlocked.

Of course it was.

He stepped inside like he still belonged there.

The room smelled like stale coffee and unwashed sheets and the faint ghost of Zanka’s shampoo. Jabber was on the floor, back against Zanka’s bed, knees drawn up, staring blankly at the wall. His phone lay discarded beside him, screen dark. He looked wrecked—eyes bloodshot, dreads half-loose, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands like armor that had already failed.

The door’s soft click made Jabber’s head snap up.

For one heartbeat hope flared bright across his face.

“Zanka—”

Then he saw who it really was.

The hope guttered out like a candle in wind.

Tamsy closed the door behind him with deliberate care. Locked it this time.

Jabber pushed to his feet in one fluid motion, body coiled tight. “Get out.”

Tamsy didn’t move. Just leaned back against the wood, arms crossed, green eyes drinking in every line of exhaustion and pain on Jabber’s face like it was fine wine.

“You look like shit, angel,” he said softly. Almost tenderly. “Haven’t slept, have you?”

“Don’t call me that.” Jabber’s voice cracked on the last word. “I said get out.”

Tamsy tilted his head. “You really think I’m here to hurt you?” A small, sad smile. “I’m here because you’re falling apart. And the one person who should be holding you together just walked away with *me* last night.”

Jabber flinched like he’d been slapped.

Tamsy took one slow step forward. Then another.

“You always did this,” he murmured. “When things got hard, when someone got too close, you’d reach for the easiest escape. Fu was easy. Familiar. No questions. No expectations. Just like freshman year.”

“Stop.”

“You used to beg for it, remember?” Tamsy’s voice dropped lower, velvet over steel. “Used to crawl into my lap and whisper how much you needed me to hurt you just right. How no one else could make you feel alive like I did. You belonged to me then. You still do.”

Jabber’s back hit the wall beside Zanka’s desk. Nowhere left to retreat.

Tamsy closed the distance until they were chest-to-chest, close enough that Jabber could smell the faint citrus of his cologne, the same one he used to wear back then. Tamsy lifted a hand, slow, telegraphing every movement, and brushed the backs of his knuckles down Jabber’s cheek.

“You’re shaking,” he whispered. “Still so responsive.”

Jabber grabbed Tamsy’s wrist. hard, but didn’t shove him away. Not yet.

“Don’t,” Jabber rasped. “I’m not like that anymore.”

Tamsy’s thumb traced the corner of Jabber’s mouth. “You’re exactly that kid. Scared. Needy. Running from anything real because it might actually mean something.” He leaned in until their lips were a breath apart. “Let me remind you who you belong to. One kiss. That’s all it’ll take.”

Jabber’s breath hitched—once, violently.

And then something inside him snapped straight.

He shoved Tamsy back with both hands, hard enough that Tamsy stumbled, shoulder hitting the doorframe.

“No,” Jabber said. Voice low. Steady for the first time in hours. “I’m not yours. I haven’t been yours since the night I told you we were done.”

Tamsy’s eyes narrowed, but the smile stayed, sharper now, colder.

“You think that little transfer boy is going to keep you?” he asked softly. “He’s already in my bed, Jabber. Curled up on my couch like a lost puppy. He thinks I’m the only one who understands how much you hurt him.”

Jabber’s face crumpled for half a second pure, raw agony. Then hardened again.

“You don’t get to use him against me,” he said. “Not anymore.”

He shoved past Tamsy, shoulder-checking him hard enough to make him grunt, and yanked the door open. Tamsy caught his arm. Jabber spun, eyes blazing.

“Touch me again,” he said, voice deadly quiet, “and I’ll break every finger you’ve got left.”

Tamsy studied him for a long moment—searching for the crack, the weakness, the boy who used to fold under pressure.

He didn’t find it.

Slowly, deliberately, he let go. Jabber didn’t wait for another word. He ran. Down the hall. Down the stairs. Across the quad. Breath ragged, chest burning, heart slamming against his ribs like it wanted out. He didn’t stop until he reached Tamsy’s building. He didn’t knock. He pounded.

The door flew open almost immediately.

Zanka stood there, still in yesterday’s clothes, eyes swollen, hair a mess—looking like he hadn’t slept more than an hour.

Jabber froze. Zanka stared back. For one endless heartbeat neither moved. Then Jabber broke first.

He stepped forward, slow, careful, hands raised like he was approaching something wild and wounded.

“Zanka,” he whispered. Voice cracked open. “Please.”

Zanka’s lip trembled.

Jabber took another step. And another.

Until they were close enough to feel each other’s heat.

“I didn’t kiss him,” Jabber said, words tumbling out fast and raw. “I pushed him away. I swear on everything I’ve got left—I pushed him away. I’ve been trying to tell you since last night. I love you. Only you. I’m so fucking sorry I let it get this far.”

Zanka’s breath hitchedz once, twice.

Jabber didn’t move closer. Didn’t reach. Just stood there, shaking, waiting for judgment.

From inside the apartment, Tamsy appeared in the doorway behind Zanka—silent, watchful, expression unreadable.

Zanka didn’t look back at him.

He looked only at Jabber.

And in that moment, raw, stripped bare, both of them trembling on the edge of breaking, he took one step forward.

Then another.

Until his forehead rested against Jabber’s chest.

Jabber’s arms came around him instantly. careful, reverent, like he was afraid Zanka would vanish if he held too tight.

“I’m sorry,” Jabber whispered into his hair. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

Zanka’s hands fisted in the front of Jabber’s hoodie.

“Don’t ever do that again,” he choked out. “Don’t ever make me think—”

“I won’t,” Jabber swore. “Never. I swear.”

Behind them, Tamsy watched, face blank, eyes burning.

He didn’t speak.

He didn’t need to.

The door was still open.

And the game wasn’t over.

Not yet.

Tamsy didn’t waste time.

The second Jabber and Zanka disappeared down the hall, Zanka’s face buried in Jabber’s hoodie, Jabber’s arms locked around him like he’d never let go, Tamsy slipped out of his dorm and headed straight for the old utility shed behind the engineering building. No one ever went there. Perfect for this.

Fu and Follo were already waiting, exactly as ordered. Fu paced in tight circles, blue hair wild, piercings catching the weak afternoon light. Follo leaned against the rusted wall, tool belt gone for once, arms crossed so tight his knuckles were white.

Tamsy closed the door behind him with a soft click that sounded like a gunshot in the small space.

Fu spun immediately. “It wasn’t my fault—”

“Shut up.”

Tamsy’s voice was ice. He didn’t raise it. He didn’t need to. The temperature in the shed seemed to drop ten degrees.

He walked forward slowly, hands in his pockets, silver hair falling over one eye. “I told you exactly how it was supposed to go. Zanka walks in. Sees a moment of weakness. Sees Jabber hesitate just long enough to plant the seed. Not you throwing yourself at him like a desperate slut in a bad porno.”

Fu flinched. “I panicked! Jabber kept pushing me off, I thought if I just—”

“You thought.” Tamsy stopped inches away. “That’s the problem. You thought. You were supposed to make it look natural. A slip. A moment. Not a fucking ambush that screamed setup the second Zanka opened the door.”

Follo shifted uncomfortably. “I told him to wait—”

Tamsy’s head snapped toward him. “And you. You were supposed to keep Zanka distracted longer. Walk slower. Make him late. Instead he gets there early and sees your idiot friend mauling Jabber like a starving dog. Now Zanka’s back in Jabber’s arms crying about how ‘it wasn’t what it looked like’ and they’re probably fucking it out as we speak.”

Follo swallowed hard. “I tried. He just… he wanted to get back fast.”

Tamsy laughed once—short, humorless, terrifying. “You tried.” He stepped closer to Follo, voice dropping to a whisper. “I gave you one job. One. Keep Zanka away until the kiss landed right. And you couldn’t even do that.”

He turned back to Fu, eyes flat. “And you. You almost ruined months of work because you got greedy. You wanted him back so bad you forgot the plan. You made it look staged. Zanka’s not stupid. He saw right through it.”

Fu’s voice cracked. “I’m sorry—”

“Sorry doesn’t fix it.” Tamsy’s hand shot out, grabbing Fu by the front of his jacket and slamming him back against the metal wall. The clang echoed. “I told you what would happen if you fucked this up. I told both of you.”

Follo stepped forward instinctively. “Tamsy, wait—”

Tamsy’s free hand whipped out, backhanding Follo hard across the face. The crack of skin on skin was sharp. Follo stumbled, hand flying to his cheek, eyes wide with shock and fear.

“Stay out of this,” Tamsy hissed. Then back to Fu, voice deadly calm again. “You have forty-eight hours to fix what you broke. Make Jabber doubt Zanka. Make Zanka doubt himself. Plant the idea that Jabber’s only with him out of guilt. I don’t care how. Use the porn account. Use old texts. Use whatever pathetic scraps of his attention you still have. Do it right this time.”

He released Fu’s jacket, smoothing the fabric almost gently.

“Or next time I won’t stop at a slap.”

Fu nodded frantically, breathing shallow. “I will. I swear.”

Tamsy turned to Follo, who was still cradling his reddening cheek.

“You’re slower than I thought,” Tamsy said softly. “I need eyes on them every second. Not every few hours. Every second. If Zanka so much as looks at Jabber like he’s reconsidering, you text me. If Jabber smiles at him too long, you text me. If they fuck, you tell me how loud Zanka moans his name. Understood?”

Follo nodded quickly, voice small. “Understood.”

Tamsy stepped back, adjusting his hoodie like nothing had happened. “Good. Now get out of my sight. Both of you. And don’t disappoint me again.”

They left without another word—Fu first, practically running, Follo trailing after, head down.

Tamsy stayed in the shed a moment longer, breathing slow and even until the rage settled back into something cold and controlled.

Then he pulled out his phone and opened the group chat with Fu and Follo.

Tamsy: 48 hours. Clock’s ticking.

Tamsy: Make it hurt.

—

Later that evening, Tamsy let himself into Corvus’s dorm without knocking. He’d texted first—‘missed you today’—something soft and needy he never usually sent. Corvus had replied with a single heart. That was all the invitation Tamsy needed.

Corvus was on his bed when Tamsy walked in, laptop open, headphones half-on. He looked up, surprised but pleased.

“You’re early.”

Tamsy kicked the door shut and crossed the room in three strides, climbing straight into Corvus’s lap like he belonged there. He cupped Corvus’s face with both hands, thumbs stroking his cheekbones.

“I couldn’t wait,” he murmured, voice pitched low and sweet. “Been thinking about you all day.”

Corvus’s brows lifted, but he smiled—slow, a little wary after last night. “Yeah?”

“Mhm.” Tamsy leaned in, kissing him soft and lingering, then pulled back just enough to rest their foreheads together. “I was an asshole last night. I know I was. My head was… somewhere else. I’m sorry.”

Corvus searched his face. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to,” Tamsy cut in, pressing another kiss to the corner of his mouth. “You’ve been so good to me. Patient. Even when I don’t deserve it.” He nuzzled into Corvus’s neck, voice dropping to a whisper. “Let me make it up to you. Please?”

Corvus’s hands settled on Tamsy’s waist, tentative. “You sure you’re okay?”

Tamsy pulled back just enough to look him in the eyes—wide, earnest, almost pleading. “I’m sure. I want you. Only you. Right now.”

He kissed Corvus again—deeper this time, slower, pouring every ounce of calculated affection into it. Hands sliding under Corvus’s shirt, nails grazing skin just enough to tease. Whispers between kisses: “You feel so good,” “I missed this,” “No one else makes me feel like you do.”

Corvus melted under the attention, because of course he did. Tamsy was giving him exactly what he’d been starving for: the version of Tamsy that chose him, needed him, acted like no one else existed.

Tamsy straddled him fully, grinding down slow and deliberate, murmuring praise against his lips. “You’re so good to me… I don’t deserve you… but I want to. Let me show you.”

Corvus groaned, hands tightening on Tamsy’s hips. “Fuck..”

Tamsy smiled against his mouth, soft, sweet, perfect.

Inside, the calculations never stopped.

But for tonight, Corvus would get the pick-me boyfriend he’d always wanted.

And Tamsy would get the control he needed.

Everyone won.

Except the ones who didn’t matter anymore.

—-

The old utility shed behind the engineering building smelled of rust and damp concrete. Tamsy had chosen it deliberately—windowless, soundproof enough, far enough from any foot traffic that no one would stumble upon them. He stood in the center under the single bare bulb, silver hair glowing like a halo around something far darker. Fu and Follo stood against the far wall like prisoners awaiting sentencing.

Tamsy’s voice was soft, almost conversationak

“Forty-eight hours was generous. I’m cutting it to twenty-four.”

Fu’s face drained of color. “Tamsy—”

“Shut your mouth.” Tamsy didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to. “You nearly ruined everything because you couldn’t keep your hands to yourself. Zanka was supposed to see hesitation. Doubt. Not you trying to swallow Jabber’s tongue like a starving animal. Now they’re back together, playing house again, and I have to fix your mess.”

Follo shifted, voice small. “I tried to slow Zanka down. I really did. He was in a hurry to get back to Jabber—”

Tamsy’s head snapped toward him. “Then try harder. Or next time I won’t just slap you. I’ll make sure your little sister never makes it home from school one day. Do you understand me?”

Follo’s breath hitched. He nodded frantically.

Tamsy turned back to Fu. “And you. You’re going to go to Jabber tonight. Tell him Zanka’s been confiding in me. Tell him Zanka’s scared. Tell him whatever you have to so he starts doubting. Make him spiral. Make him push Zanka away. If you fail again…” Tamsy stepped closer, voice dropping to a deadly whisper. “I’ll make sure the next person who touches you isn’t me. It’ll be someone who doesn’t stop when you beg.”

Fu swallowed hard, eyes glistening. “I’ll do it. I swear.”

Outside the shed, hidden in the narrow gap between the building and a row of dumpsters, Jabber stood frozen.

He had come looking for Follo, wanted to ask why the guy had been hovering around Zanka so much. but the voices drifting through the thin metal wall had stopped him cold.

Every word.

Every threat.

Every calculated move.

Tamsy’s voice cut through him like glass.

Make him spiral. Make him push Zanka away..

Jabber’s hands shook. His vision tunneled. The world narrowed to one single, burning truth:

Tamsy had never stopped.

He had been orchestrating everything—Fu, Follo, the kiss, the comfort, the slow poisoning of Zanka’s trust.

Jabber didn’t think.

He kicked the shed door open so hard the metal screamed.

All three men inside whipped around.

Tamsy’s eyes widened, just for a fraction of a second—before his face smoothed into perfect, calculated calm.

“Jabber,” he said softly. “This isn’t—”

Jabber lunged.

He slammed into Tamsy, hands wrapping around his throat, slamming him back against the far wall with enough force that the metal rattled. Tamsy’s back hit hard. His head snapped back. Jabber’s fingers dug in, thumbs pressing against his windpipe.

“You fucking monster,” Jabber snarled, voice raw, tears of pure rage burning in his eyes. “You did this. All of it. Fu. Follo. The kiss. Zanka running to you. You planned every second of it.”

Tamsy’s hands came up, clawing at Jabber’s wrists, but he didn’t fight back. He gasped for air, eyes wide, playing the victim perfectly.

“J-Jabber—stop—please—”

Fu and Follo stood frozen.

Jabber squeezed harder. “You threatened them. You threatened his sister. You tried to take him from me. I should kill you right here.”

Tamsy’s face was turning red, but his eyes flicked past Jabber’s shoulder—just once.

Zanka stood in the open doorway.

He had come looking for Jabber after getting a vague, worried text from Follo saying “something’s wrong at the shed.” He had run the whole way.

And now he saw everything:

Jabber, his boyfriend. choking Tamsy against the wall, face twisted in fury.

Tamsy—gasping, terrified, tears already slipping down his cheeks.

Fu and Follo—standing there, wide-eyed, doing nothing.

Zanka’s world tilted.

“Jabber!” he shouted, voice cracking. “What the hell are you doing?!”

Jabber’s head snapped around. His grip loosened—just slightly—but he didn’t let go.

“Zanka—this isn’t what it looks like—he’s been manipulating everything—”

Tamsy coughed, voice hoarse and broken. “He… he heard us talking… I tried to explain… he just attacked me…”

Fu stepped forward on cue, voice shaky but convincing. “Jabber, man, let him go. You’re scaring him.”

Follo nodded quickly, eyes darting to Tamsy in silent terror. “Yeah… he’s not breathing right…”

Zanka rushed forward, grabbing Jabber’s arm. “Let him go! Right now!”

Jabber looked at Zanka—really looked—and saw the horror in his eyes. The belief that Jabber was the monster here.

His hands fell away from Tamsy’s throat. Tamsy slid down the wall, coughing, one hand at his neck, tears streaming. He looked small. Fragile. Perfectly broken. Zanka dropped to his knees beside him instantly, hands hovering like he was afraid to touch but couldn’t stop himself.

“Are you okay?” Zanka whispered, voice thick. “Did he hurt you?”

Tamsy shook his head, coughing again, playing it masterfully. “I’m… I’m fine. He just… lost it when he heard us talking about the plan to help you see the truth…”

Jabber staggered back a step. “Zanka, listen to me—he’s lying. He’s been using Fu and Follo to break us up. He threatened them. He—”

Zanka looked up at him, eyes filled with betrayal and pain so sharp it felt like a knife twisting in Jabber’s chest.

“I saw you choking him,” Zanka said, voice trembling. “I saw it with my own eyes. You were going to kill him.”

Jabber’s mouth opened, but no sound came out.

Tamsy leaned into Zanka’s side, shaking. “Please… just take me back to my room. I don’t want to be here anymore.”

Fu and Follo moved in silently, helping Tamsy to his feet, playing their parts under the invisible gun to their heads.

Zanka stood, supporting Tamsy’s weight, and looked at Jabber one last time.

“I can’t do this right now,” he whispered. “I need space. From you.”

Then he turnef and walked out, Tamsy leaning on him, Fu and Follo flanking them like loyal guards.

Jabber didn’t follow.

He just stood there in the shed, chest heaving, the echo of Zanka’s words ringing in his ears.

He had lost him.

Completely.

—

Later that night, back in Dorm 67(😖), Zanka stood in the middle of the room with his arms wrapped around himself. Jabber sat on the edge of the bed, eyes red, waiting. The silence was unbearable.

Zanka finally spoke, voice hoarse.

“I want to break up.”

Jabber’s head jerked up. “Zanka—”

“No.” Zanka’s voice cracked but stayed firm. “I saw what I saw. You almost killed him. And everything he said… about how you’ve been lying, about how you’re still the same person who hurt him before… I believe him. I can’t be with someone who would do that.”

Jabber stood slowly, hands shaking. “Please. Just let me explain—”

“You’ve explained enough,” Zanka cut in, tears slipping down his face. “I’m staying with Tamsy tonight. I’ll come get my stuff tomorrow.”

He turned toward the door.

Jabber’s voice broke behind him. “I love you.”

Zanka paused, hand on the doorknob.

“I loved you too,” he whispered.

Then he walked out.

The door clicked shut.

And in the empty dorm, Jabber sank to his knees on the floor, the weight of everything finally crushing him.

Tamsy had won.

For now..

—

Jabber sat on the floor exactly where Zanka had left him, back against the side of the bed, knees drawn to his chest. The groceries from earlier still sat on the counter—milk warm, bread stale, a single strawberry rolling slowly across the floor where it had fallen from an open container. The string lights Jabber had hung for Zanka glowed softly overhead, mocking him with their gentle warmth.

His phone lay beside him, screen cracked from where he’d thrown it earlier. Twenty-three missed calls from Zanka’s number. All from Tamsy’s phone now. No new message. Just silence.

Jabber’s eyes were dry. He had cried until there was nothing left. Now there was only the hollow ache where his heart used to be.

A soft knock came at the door.

Jabber didn’t move.

The knock came again—three measured taps.

Then the door opened anyway. Tamsy stepped inside like he still had every right to be there. He closed the door quietly behind him, locked it, and leaned against it, silver hair catching the string lights like a crown.

“Jabber.”

Jabber’s head lifted slowly. His voice was raw, scraped down to nothing.

“Get the fuck out.”

Tamsy didn’t move. He studied Jabber for a long moment—taking in the red eyes, the trembling hands, the way his shoulders curled inward like he was trying to disappear.

“I came to give you a choice,” Tamsy said quietly. “A real one.”

Jabber laughed once—broken, humorless. “You don’t give choices. You take them.”

Tamsy pushed off the door and walked closer, stopping just out of reach. “This time I am. Because I still love you. Even after everything. Even after you tried to choke the life out of me in front of him.”

Jabber’s jaw clenched so hard it creaked.

Tamsy crouched down in front of him, green eyes soft, almost gentle. “Here’s the offer. Come back to me. Fully. No more hiding. No more Zanka. Be mine again—like freshman year. Let me remind you how good it feels when someone really knows you. When someone isn’t afraid of the dark parts.”

Jabber stared at him, chest heaving. “You’re insane.”

Tamsy’s smile was small, sad. “Maybe. But I’m also the only one who’s ever loved all of you. The broken kid from the streets. The one who needs pain to feel safe. The one who still whispers my name when someone else fucks him.”

Jabber flinched like he’d been struck.

Tamsy continued, voice dropping to a whisper. “If you say yes… Zanka walks away unharmed. He thinks you’re dangerous now anyway. He’ll heal. He’ll move on. And you and I… we can start over. I’ll be good to you this time. I swear.”

Jabber’s hands shook. “And if I say no?”

Tamsy’s expression didn’t change, but the warmth drained from his eyes until they were cold glass.

“Then Zanka dies.”

The words landed like a blade between the ribs.

Jabber’s breath stopped.

Tamsy leaned in closer, voice barely audible. “I have people watching him right now. Fu. Follo. Others you don’t even know about. One word from me and he has an ‘accident’ on the way back from class tomorrow. Car. Fall. Overdose. Whatever looks cleanest. I don’t want to do it, Jabber. I really don’t. But I will. Because if I can’t have you, no one else gets to keep you either.”

Jabber lunged.

He grabbed Tamsy by the front of his hoodie and slammed him onto his back on the floor, straddling him, fist raised.

Tamsy didn’t fight back. He just looked up at him—calm, almost peaceful.

“Do it,” he whispered. “Kill me right now. Then Zanka dies anyway. My instructions are already set. If I don’t check in by morning… he’s gone.”

Jabber’s fist trembled in the air.

Tears spilled down his cheeks.

Tamsy reached up slowly, cupped Jabber’s face with both hands, thumbs brushing away the tears.

“I love you,” he said softly. “I’ve always loved you. Come home, angel. Choose me. Save him.”

Jabber stayed frozen above him for what felt like forever—fist raised, heart shattering.

Then, slowly, painfully, he lowered his arm.

Tamsy smiled—small, victorious, tender.

“Good boy.”

—

The next morning, the sky was the color of ash.

Zanka woke in Tamsy’s dorm on the couch again, blanket tucked around him with careful hands. Tamsy was already in the kitchenette making toast, humming softly like nothing in the world was wrong.

Zanka sat up slowly, head pounding. “Did you… sleep at all?”

Tamsy glanced over, smile gentle. “A little. I was more worried about you.”

Zanka rubbed his face. The image of Jabber’s hands around Tamsy’s throat kept flashing behind his eyes. The fear. The betrayal.

“I broke up with him last night,” he said quietly.

Tamsy set the plate of toast in front of him and sat on the coffee table, knees brushing Zanka’s. “I know. He texted me this morning. Begging me to tell you he’s sorry.” He reached out, squeezed Zanka’s hand. “You did the right thing. He’s dangerous when he loses control. I’ve seen it before.”

Zanka nodded numbly, but something in his chest still twisted.

Tamsy leaned closer, voice soft and reassuring. “You’re safe here. With me. I’ll make sure he doesn’t come near you again.”

Zanka looked at him—really looked.

Tamsy’s eyes were warm. Protective. Everything Jabber’s weren’t supposed to be.

For the first time since the library, Zanka let himself lean into it.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

Tamsy smiled, brushing a thumb across Zanka’s knuckles.

“Always.”

Across campus, Jabber stood at the window of Dorm 67, staring at nothing.

His phone buzzed once.

A single text from an unknown number.

Unknown: 24 hours left.

Unknown: Choose.

Jabber closed his eyes.

The choice was already tearing him apart.

And somewhere in the gray morning light, Tamsy was smiling.

Because he knew exactly which way Jabber would fall.

Thanksgiving break arrived like a blade wrapped in gold foil—pretty on the outside, sharp enough to cut straight through whatever was left of Jabber’s heart.

He took the bus alone.

The seat beside him stayed empty the entire four-hour ride, the empty space louder than any argument they’d never had. Jabber stared out the window at the flat Texas fields blurring past, dreads tied back tight, hoodie pulled low over his eyes so no one would see how red they still were. His phone stayed on silent in his pocket. No texts from Zanka. No calls. Just the single message from Tamsy two nights ago that he still hadn’t deleted:

Tamsy: 24 hours left. Choose.

He hadn’t chosen.

Not yet.

The bus dropped him at the edge of the quiet suburb at dusk. The house looked exactly the same—warm porch light, flower boxes still blooming defiantly against the coming winter, Cythoni’s beat-up motorcycle parked in the driveway. Jabber stood on the sidewalk for a long minute, suitcase heavy in his hand, before he forced himself up the steps.

Cythoni opened the door before he could knock.

She took one look at him—hollow eyes, slumped shoulders, the absence of the boy who was supposed to be standing beside him—and her face hardened.

“Where’s Zanka?”

Jabber’s throat closed. “He… couldn’t make it.”

Cythoni’s eyes narrowed. “Bullshit. You’ve been talking about bringing him home for weeks. What happened?”

Jabber stepped past her into the house, the familiar smell of roasted turkey and sweet potato pie hitting him like a punch. “We broke up.”

The words tasted like ash.

Cythoni shut the door behind him, arms crossing. “You broke up. Or he did?”

“Does it matter?”

“It does when you look like someone ripped your soul out through your ribs.” She grabbed his suitcase from his hand and set it by the stairs. “Dinner’s almost ready. Mom’s been asking about him all day. You better have a story ready that doesn’t make her cry.”

—

The dining room table was set the way it always was—mismatched plates, real cloth napkins Cythoni had ironed herself, the good silverware that only came out for holidays. Jabber’s mom hugged him so tight he almost couldn’t breathe. His dad clapped him on the back, eyes warm but tired.

“Glad you’re home, son.”

They sat. Passed the turkey. The stuffing. The cranberry sauce. Normal sounds. Normal smiles.

Until the question came.

“So,” his mom said, spooning more green beans onto her plate, “how’s that boyfriend of yours? Zanka, right? You two still going strong?”

Jabber’s fork froze halfway to his mouth.

Cythoni shot their mom a warning look. “Ma—”

“No, it’s fine,” Jabber said, voice flat. “We… broke up. A couple days ago.”

The table went quiet.

His dad set his glass down slowly. “What happened?”

Jabber stared at his plate. “It just… didn’t work out.”

Cythoni’s eyes bored into him. She knew. She always knew.

His mom reached across the table and squeezed his hand. “Oh, baby. I’m so sorry. He seemed so sweet in those pictures you sent.”

“He was,” Jabber whispered.

The silence stretched again.

Then his dad cleared his throat, trying to steer the conversation somewhere lighter. “Well… you’ll find someone else. Someone who treats you right. Not like that last one—Tamsy, was it? The one who put you through hell back in freshman year.”

Cythoni’s fork clattered against her plate. “Dad. Not now.”

But it was too late.

Jabber’s head snapped up. “What do you mean ‘the one who put me through hell’?”

His mom’s smile faltered. She glanced at Cythoni, then back at Jabber. “We just… we remember how hard that time was for you. The bruises. The way you’d come home with that look in your eyes. We never liked him. But you’re past that now. You’re doing so much better.”

Jabber’s stomach dropped.

Cythoni tried to cut in. “Mom, drop it—”

“No,” Jabber said, voice rising. “What bruises? What look? You knew?”

His dad sighed, rubbing his temple. “We knew enough. Cythoni told us some things. We didn’t push because you were finally smiling again after everything with your birth parents. We thought… we thought if we stayed out of it, you’d heal.”

Jabber’s hands were shaking so hard his water glass rattled against the table.

His mom reached for him again. “Sweetheart, please—”

“And now?” Jabber cut in, voice cracking. “Now that I finally had someone good—someone who made me feel safe—you’re all just… happy I’m back to being alone?”

His mom opened her mouth, then closed it. Her eyes flicked to his dad.

The silence that followed was unbearable.

Then his mom spoke again—soft, hesitant, like she was confessing something she’d been carrying for years.

“Jabber… the reason we were able to adopt you and Cythoni… the reason we could afford the therapy, the house, the new start… it wasn’t just luck.”

Jabber froze.

His dad looked down at his plate.

His mom continued, voice trembling. “We took out loans. Big ones. From… influential families. The Nijiku family. They helped us when no one else would. But the interest… it’s been compounding. We’re behind. Deeply behind. We didn’t want you to worry. We thought we could handle it. But with the economy the way it is—”

Jabber’s chair scraped back so hard it almost tipped over.

“The Nijiku family?” His voice was barely a whisper. “Zanka’s family?”

His mom nodded, eyes wet. “We never told you because we didn’t want you to feel like you owed anyone anything. Especially not after you finally found someone who made you happy.”

Jabber laughed—sharp, broken, disbelieving.

“You’re telling me my family is in debt to the family of the boy I just lost?” He stood, hands braced on the table. “The boy whose father is probably the one holding the knife to your throat right now?”

Cythoni reached for him. “Jabber—”

He backed away. “I need air.”

He left the table without another word, the front door slamming behind him hard enough to rattle the windows.

Outside, the night air was cold. Jabber sank down on the porch steps, head in his hands, the weight of every secret finally crushing him.

—

Across the state, in the sprawling Nijiku family estate, Zanka sat at the opposite end of a long, polished mahogany table that could seat twenty.

He was alone at his end.

His father sat at the head like a king, silver at his temples, suit still impeccable even at a family dinner. His older sister Kyouka—poised, perfect, already running half the family’s overseas accounts—sat to his right, scrolling through her phone between bites. His older brother Goka, broad shouldered, charming, the golden son who had never disappointed anyone, sat to his left, laughing at something their father had said.

Zanka poked at his turkey, appetite long gone. His father’s voice cut through the conversation like a blade. “Your grades this semester, Zanka. They’ve slipped.”

Zanka’s fork stilled. “I’ve been adjusting to the transfer—”

“Adjusting is not an excuse.” His father set his wine glass down with a soft clink. “Kyouka had a 4.0 through her entire sophomore year while managing three internships. Goka was captain of the debate team and still graduated summa cum laude. You’re twenty and still acting like a lost child.”

Kyouka didn’t look up from her phone, but her voice was gentle. “Dad, he’s doing fine. The transfer was hard on him.”

“Fine is not enough,” his father replied. “Not for this family. Not when we need the next generation to be stronger than the last.” His eyes pinned Zanka. “You’ll be twenty-one soon. It’s time to think about marriage. A proper match. Someone who can help strengthen our alliances. Grow the tree.”

Zanka’s stomach twisted. He thought of Jabber—his laugh, his hands, the way he’d whispered “I love you” under string lights—and felt the lie he’d told his father in high school rise like bile in his throat.

“I’m not into men anymore.”

He’d said it to survive. To stop the disgust in his father’s eyes. To keep the peace.

Now the words were a cage. He couldn’t mention Jabber. Couldn’t even say his name. So he just nodded, throat tight.

“Yes, sir.”

His father smiled—small, satisfied.

“Good boy.”

Zanka stared at his plate, the food blurring.

—

He had no idea that the debt his own family held over Jabber’s was the same chain that had kept Jabber’s family afloat for years. He had no idea that the boy he’d just walked away from was currently sitting on his porch steps, learning the truth in real time. He only knew that everything hurt.

And that he didn’t know how to make it stop.

The Nijiku family estate felt colder than the gray Texas sky outside. Zanka had retreated to his old childhood bedroom after dinner, the long mahogany table and his father’s clipped disappointment still echoing in his skull. The room hadn’t changed much—same dark wood furniture, same neatly made bed with the navy comforter, same shelf of untouched trophies from debate club and track that his father liked to point out as “what potential looks like.”

He sat on the edge of the bed, phone heavy in his hands, screen dark. The breakup text he’d sent Jabber days ago still sat unread in his own sent folder. Or maybe read and ignored. He didn’t know anymore.

Zanka exhaled slowly, rubbing his temples. The image of Jabber’s hands around Tamsy’s throat kept flashing behind his eyes, but it was starting to blur at the edges. In its place crept softer things—unwanted, insistent.

He missed him.

Not the version from the shed. The real one. The one who had made him breakfast (burnt or not), who had whispered “boyfriend” like it was sacred, who had looked at him during that sunset picnic like Zanka was the only thing worth anchoring to in the entire world.

His thumb hovered over the call button. He didn’t press it.

Instead, his mind drifted back to the beginning—how everything had started in that cramped dorm room when the housing office screwed up the assignments.

—

Across the state, in the modest suburban house that had once felt like salvation, Jabber sat cross-legged on his childhood bed. The room was smaller than the dorm, walls covered in old posters from high school art shows and faded photos of him and Cythoni as kids—grimy street clothes giving way to clean hoodies and cautious smiles.

A small, fluffy white dog. some kind of Bichon-poodle mix named Kira—curled in his lap, her curly fur soft under his fingers. She’d been his sister’s dog originally, but Mochi had decided years ago that Jabber’s lap was prime real estate. Right now she was snoring softly, one paw twitching as Jabber stroked her ears in slow, repetitive motions.

His phone lay on the comforter beside him, screen facing up. The last text from Zanka—the breakup one—still burned in his notifications.

Jabber wanted to call. He wanted to hear Zanka’s voice, even if it was angry or cold. He wanted to explain everything: the shed, Tamsy’s threats, the debt his family owed the Nijikus, the way he’d chosen silence to keep Zanka breathing.

But calling felt too raw. Too immediate. What if Zanka hung up? What if he sounded relieved it was over?

Instead, Jabber picked up the phone with his free hand and typed a single, dry message. Nothing vulnerable. Nothing that would beg.

Jabber: You make it home okay?

He hit send before he could overthink it, then set the phone face-down on the bed. Mochi stirred, lifting her head to lick his wrist once, as if sensing the tension. Jabber scratched under her chin, forcing a small smile.

“Yeah, I know, girl. I’m an idiot.”

The message sat there, delivered but unread.

Jabber kept petting Mochi, the rhythmic motion the only thing keeping his hands from shaking. He thought about the picnic on the hill—the rosé, the chocolate cake, the way Zanka had said “yes” with the sunset painting everything gold. He thought about the shower afterward, slow and reverent, no masks, no audience, just them. He thought about burnt breakfast and string lights and the way Zanka’s rare, genuine laugh had started to feel like home.

His throat tightened.

Mochi whined softly and nudged his hand, demanding more pets. Jabber obliged, eyes stinging.

“Come on, Zanka,” he whispered to the quiet room. “Just… answer. Even if it’s ‘fuck off.’”

The phone stayed silent.

—

Back in his bedroom at the estate, Zanka’s phone buzzed once on the nightstand.

He glanced at it, heart lurching when he saw Jabber’s name.

Jabber: You make it home okay?

Simple. Dry. No emojis, no pet names, no “pretty boy.”

Zanka stared at the message for a long time. His thumb hovered over the keyboard. He could reply “yeah” and leave it. Or he could say nothing and let the silence stretch longer. Part of him wanted to type everything—the confusion, the missing, the way the memory of Jabber’s hands around Tamsy’s throat still made his stomach twist even as the softer memories pushed back against it.

But the hurt was still too fresh. The image too sharp.

He typed back a single word, equally dry, and hit send before he could delete it.

Zanka: Yeah.

Then he locked the phone and set it face-down, lying back on the bed to stare at the ceiling.

The memories didn’t stop coming.

He remembered the first time Jabber had called him “pretty boy” in that lazy drawl—half teasing, half sincere—and how Zanka had flushed and told him to shut up while secretly liking it. He remembered the way Jabber had been so careful their first night together, checking in every few seconds until Zanka had growled at him to keep going. He remembered the stream, the masks, the way Jabber had looked at him afterward like he was the only thing that mattered.

Zanka closed his eyes.

He missed him so much it hurt.

But he didn’t pick the phone back up.

—

In his room, Jabber’s phone lit up with the reply.

Zanka: Yeah.

Short. Flat. No questions back. No opening.

Jabber let out a slow breath, thumb tracing the edge of the screen. Mochi had fallen back asleep in his lap, warm and trusting. He kept petting her, the motion steady even as his chest felt like it was caving in.

At least Zanka was safe. At least he’d answered.

For now, that had to be enough.

The slow burn of doubt, love, old trauma, and new threats continued to smolder beneath the surface—neither of them ready to name it, neither willing to let go completely.

Thanksgiving break had only just begun.

And the threads Tamsy had woven were still pulling, quiet and patient, waiting for the next fracture.

—.

Zanka turned off the light but didn’t sleep. Jabber stayed up with Mochi, phone in hand, staring at that single “Yeah” like it might rewrite itself into something softer if he looked long enough.

Neither reached out again that night.

But the memories kept them both company in the dark—sweet, painful, and impossible to ignore.

The slow unraveling had only paused.

It hadn’t ended.

—

The next morning at the Nijiku estate dawned gray and heavy, the kind of Texas November light that filtered through the tall windows like diluted milk. Zanka had barely slept. He’d tossed under the navy comforter until the sky outside bled from black to slate, replaying the shed in fragments: Jabber’s hands around Tamsy’s throat, the raw panic in Jabber’s eyes, Tamsy’s broken gasps. But underneath it all, like a second track on a scratched record, were the softer memories that refused to stay buried—the way Jabber’s voice had gone velvet-soft when he called him “pretty boy,” the burn of his fingers tracing slow circles on Zanka’s hip during that first awkward movie night on the dorm couch, the quiet “you good?” whispered against his neck after every single time they touched.

He missed him. God, he missed him so much it felt like a bruise under his ribs that wouldn’t stop aching.

Zanka sat up, rubbing his face, and glanced at his phone on the nightstand. No new messages. The single “Yeah” he’d sent last night still sat there like a wall. He opened his contacts, thumb hovering over Jabber’s name, then scrolled past it to Tamsy’s instead. He needed to check on him. Needed to make sure the guy he’d left the library with—the one who’d offered his couch and his quiet concern without asking for anything in return—was okay after what Jabber had done.

He typed a quick text, keeping it neutral.

Zanka: Hey. Just checking in after yesterday. You okay? Neck still hurting?

He hit send before he could second-guess it, then swung his legs out of bed. The house was already stirring downstairs—his mother’s voice carrying faintly from the kitchen, the clink of silverware being set out for a late breakfast. Zanka pulled on a plain black hoodie and sweatpants, the same ones he’d worn the day he and Jabber had filmed their last stream together, and padded downstairs.

The kitchen smelled like fresh coffee and buttered toast. His father sat at the head of the island in a crisp button-down even on a holiday morning, scrolling through emails on his tablet. Kyouka was perched on a stool beside him, perfectly put-together in a silk blouse, typing on her laptop. Goka leaned against the counter, nursing a protein shake and grinning at something on his phone.

“Morning, kid,” Goka called, voice easy. “You look like you fought a bear in your sleep. Rough night?”

Zanka shrugged, grabbing a mug from the cabinet. “Just… thinking.” He poured coffee, black and strong, the way Jabber always teased him for drinking it—like tar, pretty boy, you sure your stomach’s made of steel?

His father didn’t look up. “Thinking won’t fix those slipping grades. Focus on the present, Zanka. The past is just baggage.”

Zanka’s grip tightened on the mug. He wanted to snap back that the past wasn’t baggage—it was a person with dreads and a crooked grin and a way of looking at him like he mattered—but he bit it down. Instead he took his coffee to the breakfast nook by the window, staring out at the manicured lawn while his family’s morning chatter washed over him like background noise.

His phone buzzef.

Tamsy: Hey… yeah, I’m sore. Neck’s bruised pretty bad. Didn’t sleep much. But I’m okay. Thank you for checking. Means a lot after yesterday. I still can’t believe he just… lost it like that.

Zanka’s stomach twisted. He typed back quickly, the kitchen sounds fading as he focused on the screen.

Zanka: I’m sorry you had to go through that. I saw it happen and it was… intense. You need anything? Ice? Painkillers?

The reply came almost immediately.

Tamsy: Ice helped last night. I’m just shaken more than anything. He used to be like that with me too, you know? Back in freshman year. The choking, the control… I thought he’d changed. Guess not. I’m glad you saw it before it got worse for you. You deserve better than someone who snaps like that.

Zanka reread the message twice. Something felt… off. The way Tamsy phrased it—smooth, almost rehearsed, like he was painting a picture Zanka had already half-seen but not quite. The bruises. The history. It lined up with what Tamsy had told him at the bench outside the library, but there was this tiny itch at the back of Zanka’s mind, like a loose thread on a perfectly tailored suit. Why had Jabber looked so desperate when he’d lunged? Why had Fu and Follo just stood there? But the image of Jabber’s hands squeezing, Tamsy’s tears, the raw fear in Tamsy’s voice—it was too vivid. Too real.

He shook it off. Tamsy had been the one there for him when everything fell apart. Not Jabber.

Zanka: I’m really sorry. If you need to talk or anything, I’m here. Just resting at my parents’ for break.

Tamsy: Appreciate it. Really. Stay safe, okay? He’s unpredictable when he doesn’t get what he wants.

Zanka locked the phone and set it down harder than necessary. The itch was still there, faint but nagging, but he pushed it down with another sip of coffee. Believing Tamsy was easier than unpacking the alternative.

—

Across the state in the modest suburban house, Jabber had been up since dawn. Mochi had woken him at six with a cold nose to the cheek and insistent pawing at the blanket until he dragged himself out of bed. Now he sat on the back porch steps in an oversized hoodie and sweatpants, the little white fluffy dog curled in his lap like a living heating pad. The morning air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of his mom’s pumpkin spice candles from inside. Cythoni had already left for a quick run—“Clear my head before Mom starts the interrogation round two,” she’d muttered on her way out—but Jabber had stayed put, Mochi’s soft fur under his fingers the only thing keeping him grounded.

He kept turning the debt over in his mind like a puzzle with missing pieces. The Nijiku family. Zanka’s family. The loans that had pulled his adoptive parents out of the hole after they’d taken in two traumatized kids from the streets. It was such a weird, cosmic coincidence that when Zanka had first said his last name in the dorm that first day—“Nijiku. Zanka Nijiku”—Jabber’s brain had short-circuited for half a second. He’d wanted to talk more, to poke at the edges of it, see if this transfer kid carried the same cold, calculated energy his father’s reputation suggested. The Nijikus were everywhere in certain circles—finance, influence, that quiet power that didn’t need to announce itself.

But Zanka wasn’t like that. Not even close.

Jabber remembered the exact moment it had hit him. They’d been in the dorm, maybe a week after move-in, Zanka sprawled on his bed complaining about some reading assignment while Jabber sketched him from across the room. Zanka had looked up, caught him staring, and flushed that perfect shade of annoyed-pink.

“What?” Zanka had snapped, but there was no real bite.

Jabber had grinned, pencil still moving. “Nothing. Just… you’re not what I expected from a Nijiku.”

Zanka had frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Rich kid stereotype. You know—stuck-up, all about the family name. You’re just… you. Grumpy in the mornings, steal my hoodies, actually laugh at my dumb jokes. Different.”

Zanka had thrown a pillow at him. “Shut up and draw.”

Jabber hadn’t said a word about the debt then. Hadn’t mentioned it once. Not during the late-night talks, not during the picnic, not even when they’d said “I love you” under string lights. It felt too heavy, too much like turning their thing into something transactional. Zanka was different—soft under the armor, careful in a way that had nothing to do with money or power. That was why Jabber had fallen so hard.

But now? With the truth out at his own dinner table last night and Zanka gone, Jabber didn’t know how to tell him without it sounding like an excuse. Or worse—like he’d only gotten close because of some twisted family obligation.

Mochi yawned in his lap, stretching her tiny legs. Jabber scratched behind her ears, voice low and rough from lack of sleep.

“I miss him, Mochi. Like… stupid amounts. But how do I even start that conversation? ‘Hey, remember when you dumped me? Turns out my family owes yours a small fortune and I never mentioned it.’ Yeah. That’ll go great.”

The dog just thumped her tail once, content.

Jabber pulled out his phone. He couldn’t call—not yet. Too raw. But a text… a text was safe. Casual. He could test the water without diving in headfirst.

He typed slowly, avoiding everything that mattered.

Jabber: Morning. Hope the family feast isn’t too painful. Mochi says hi. She’s currently using my lap as a throne.

He hit send, then immediately regretted how light it sounded. But it was out there now. He set the phone on the step beside him and kept petting Mochi, heart thudding like it had during their first awkward dorm conversation.

—

Zanka’s phone buzzed again while he was still in the breakfast nook, staring at his half-empty mug. He glanced down, expecting another message from Tamsy, but it was Jabber’s name that lit up the screen.

His chest did something complicated—tightened and warmed at the same time.

He read the text twice. Mochi. The dog he’d only seen in photos Jabber had sent once, a goofy selfie with the fluffy white puffball mid-zoomies. It was so normal. So Jabber. For a second Zanka’s thumb hovered over a reply that started with “tell her I said hi back,” but the hurt crashed back in like cold water.

He typed blunt, keeping the walls up.

Zanka: Yeah. It’s fine. Family stuff.

Then, before he could stop himself, a slick little jab slipped out.

Zanka: Mochi’s probably better company than some people right now.

He sent it and immediately wanted to unsend. But it was done.

The reply came faster than he expected.

Jabber: Ouch. Fair, I guess. But she doesn’t hog the blankets or burn breakfast like I do. Miss that though. Miss you.

Zanka’s breath caught. He set the phone down for a full minute, staring at the lawn outside, the way the dew still clung to the grass like tiny diamonds. He missed him too. The yearning was a live wire under his skin—every memory from the dorm, the hill, the shower, the way Jabber had looked at him like he was worth staying for.

But he shouldn’t be talking to him. Not after the shed. Not after Tamsy’s bruised neck and the way Jabber had looked ready to kill.

He picked the phone back up anyway.

Zanka: Don’t.

Jabber: Don’t what? Miss you? Too late for that. I’ve been sitting here with Mochi thinking about how the first time you told me your name I thought “Nijiku? Shit, this is gonna be interesting.” Figured you’d be all polished and distant like the family rep. But you weren’t. You’re just… you. Grumpy, real, the guy who steals my hoodies and makes me want to be better. I never said anything about the debt because it didn’t matter. Not to us. You’re nothing like them, Zanka. You’re the best part of every day I had this semester.

Zanka’s eyes stung. He could hear Jabber’s voice in the words—that low, lazy drawl softening around the edges when he got serious. The part about the debt landed like a quiet bomb. He’d had no idea. The Nijiku name carried weight, sure, but debt? To Jabber’s family? It explained the weird tension he’d sometimes caught in Jabber’s eyes when money came up, but Jabber had never pushed it. Never used it.

Still, the walls stayed up.

Zanka: Oh, like how you lied saying Tamsy hurt you back then? Convenient timing on the “you’re different” speech.

Jabber: I didn’t lie. He did hurt me. Still does, in ways I can’t even explain without sounding crazy. But that’s not the point right now. The point is I love you. I’m in love with you, Zanka. The kind where I burn breakfast and still want to make you coffee every morning. The kind where I’d rather fight every shadow in my head than lose you. I pushed Fu away the second it happened. I was trying to get to you. I’m sorry I scared you in the shed. I was protecting you from something bigger. Please just… let me explain in person when break’s over. Or at least don’t shut me out completely.

Zanka’s thumb trembled over the keyboard. He knew he shouldn’t be doing this. Tamsy’s text still sat above Jabber’s in the chain—sore neck, shaken, “he’s unpredictable.” The image of the chokehold flashed again. But so did the picnic. The “I love you” under string lights. The way Jabber’s hand had felt steady on his back during the stream aftercare, whispering “you were perfect” like it was gospel.

He typed slow, the conflict twisting tighter.

**Zanka:** I shouldn’t even be texting you right now. I saw what I saw. And Tamsy… he’s the one who was there when I needed someone. Not you.

He didn’t send it right away. He stared at the words, heart hammering, the yearning and the doubt warring so loud in his head he almost missed his mother calling from the kitchen.

“Zanka? Breakfast is getting cold, honey.”

Zanka locked the phone without hitting send and stood up, leaving the unsent message sitting in the draft like a live grenade.

He walked back into the kitchen, forcing a neutral face, but the ache in his chest only grew. Across the state, Jabber was still on the porch steps with Mochi in his lap, phone in hand, waiting for dots that never came.

The slow burn of missing each other stretched longer, the threads between them frayed but not yet snapped.

Thanksgiving break had hours left to go.

And neither of them was ready to let go.

The days of Thanksgiving break dragged like molasses in the cold Texas air, each one stretching the distance between Zanka and Jabber into something almost tangible—a taut wire humming with unspoken words, old wounds, and the relentless pull of missing someone who had become home in just a few short months.

At the Nijiku estate, the house felt oppressively large. Zanka spent the mornings in his room, headphones on, pretending to review notes for the semester’s end while his mind replayed every quiet moment with Jabber. The way Jabber’s dreads had tickled his shoulder during lazy couch nights. The low rumble of his laugh when Zanka stole yet another hoodie. The careful, reverent way Jabber had touched him during their first time, whispering “you good?” like Zanka’s comfort was the only thing that mattered.

He missed the safety of that dorm room more than he wanted to admit. The string lights. The burnt breakfast attempts. The way Jabber made even the mundane feel electric.

Afternoons brought family obligations—brunch with extended relatives, his father’s pointed questions about “future prospects,” Kyouka’s subtle suggestions for networking events, Goka’s well-meaning but grating jokes about “finally growing up.” Zanka smiled through it all, nodding at the right times, but his phone stayed close, notifications silenced except for the thread with Jabber that he kept refreshing like a compulsion.

Tamsy texted daily, always gentle, always the perfect victim.

Tamsy: Neck’s turning purple today. Looks worse than it feels, I think. Just resting and trying not to think about it. How’s the family time treating you? Don’t let them stress you out.

Zanka replied every time, the guilt and concern mixing with that faint, nagging itch he couldn’t quite name.

Zanka: Sorry it’s bad. Ice and rest. Family’s… family. Loud. You holding up okay alone?

Tamsy: Yeah. Riyo checked on me yesterday. She’s worried too. Said Jabber’s been radio silent with her. Guess he’s licking his wounds. I just keep remembering how he used to apologize after the rough stuff freshman year. “Got carried away, angel.” Feels like a pattern now.

Zanka would stare at those messages until the screen dimmed, the image of Jabber’s hands on Tamsy’s throat clashing violently with the memory of Jabber pinning him gently against the dorm door after a long day, kissing him slow and deep like he was afraid Zanka might disappear. Something felt… constructed about Tamsy’s words. Too polished. Too perfectly timed to keep the wound open. But then Zanka would picture Tamsy sliding down the shed wall, coughing, tears streaming, and the doubt would crumble. He believed him. He had to.

By mid-week, the yearning had settled into a constant ache. Zanka found himself wandering the estate grounds at dusk, phone in hand, rereading old texts from Jabber—the stupid memes, the “miss you already” after a three-hour shift apart, the voice note Jabber had sent once just humming a half-remembered song because “your laugh in the background made it better.”

He almost called. Twice. Both times he locked the phone and shoved it deep into his pocket, whispering to the empty garden path, “I shouldn’t. He almost killed someone. Tamsy’s still bruised because of him.”

But the words felt thinner every day.

—

In the suburban house, Jabber’s week was its own kind of quiet torment.

Mornings started with Mochi demanding walks or belly rubs on the porch. He’d sit there for hours, the little white fluffball in his lap, scrolling through photos on his phone—candid shots of Zanka half-asleep with coffee in hand, the sunset picnic where Zanka had said yes with the sky on fire behind him, the blurry selfie from their first joint shower where steam fogged the mirror and Jabber’s grin was pure, unguarded joy.

Cythoni noticed everything. She cornered him on Day 3 while their parents were out grocery shopping, leaning against the kitchen counter with crossed arms and that protective big-sister glare.

“You look like death warmed over. Spill. What really happened with Zanka? And don’t give me the ‘it didn’t work out’ bullshit.”

Jabber shrugged, stirring a mug of instant coffee that tasted like regret. “I fucked up. Or… someone made it look like I did. There was this guy—my ex, Tamsy. He’s been pulling strings. Set up a kiss with Fu to make Zanka walk in at the worst moment. Then in the shed… I overheard him threatening Fu and Follo. I lost it. Grabbed him by the throat. Zanka walked in right then. Saw me as the monster.”

Cythoni’s eyes narrowed. “And you didn’t explain?”

“Tried. He wouldn’t listen. Now Tamsy’s playing the victim, sending him messages about how I’m ‘unpredictable.’ And there’s the debt thing. Mom and Dad told me at dinner—the loans from the Nijiku family that kept us afloat after the adoption. Zanka’s family basically owns ours. How do I drop that on him without it sounding like I was using him or hiding shit?”

Cythoni exhaled sharply. “Jesus, Jab. That’s a mess. But you can’t just sit here petting Mochi into oblivion. Text him. Call him. Fight for it if you love him like you say.”

Jabber did text. Every day. Careful at first, then bolder as the silence from Zanka’s end stretched.

Jabber: Mochi tried to steal my toast this morning. Reminded me of you stealing my hoodies. Miss your grumpy morning face. Hope the estate isn’t suffocating you too bad.

Zanka’s replies were blunt, laced with those small, sharp comments that cut deeper than silence.

Zanka: Toast is safer with her than with you burning everything. Family’s fine.

Jabber: Ouch. Remember that time I tried cloud eggs? You called me cute when I failed. I’d burn a hundred pans to hear you laugh at me again.

Zanka: Cute only works when you’re not lying about your ex hurting you. Or choking him in front of me.

The exchanges grew longer, more charged. Jabber poured pieces of his heart into the texts, avoiding the full shed confrontation at first, circling the debt without naming it directly.

Jabber: When you first said your last name in the dorm, I froze for a second. Nijiku. Everyone knows the name—powerful family, big reputation. I wanted to talk more just to see if you were like the stories. Cold. Calculating. But you weren’t. You’re real. Grumpy, kind under the armor, the guy who makes me want to sketch forever just to capture how you look when you let yourself smile. I never mentioned the family stuff because it didn’t belong between us. You’re nothing like them. You’re the best thing that happened to me.

Zanka read it in his room late at night, chest tight, thumb tracing the screen. The words landed like balm and acid at once. He missed Jabber’s voice saying them. Missed the way Jabber would pull him close afterward and murmur “pretty boy” against his hair until the world felt smaller and safer.

But the shed memory flared again, Jabber’s face twisted in rage, Tamsy’s tears. Tamsy’s latest text: “Bruises are fading but the fear isn’t. Be careful if he reaches out.”

Zanka replied, voice shaking as he typed.

Zanka: Nice story. But I saw your hands on his throat. Tamsy’s still dealing with the marks. Don’t rewrite history because you miss me.

Jabber: I’m not rewriting anything. I was protecting you. Tamsy’s been manipulating everything. Fu, Follo, the kiss, the comfort he offered you right after. He threatened people. I snapped because I heard him planning to hurt you if I didn’t stay away. I love you, Zanka. The kind that scares me because it’s real. Not the twisted shit he taught me freshman year. I’d rather lose everything than let him touch what we have. Please. When break ends, let me show you. Let me explain face to face. I’m dying here without you.

The text sat unread for hours. Zanka paced his room, heart hammering, the conflict tearing him in two. He knew he shouldn’t be engaging. Knew Tamsy was waiting with quiet concern and fresh bruises. But the yearning was louder now—the slow burn of missing Jabber’s warmth, his steadiness, the way he made Zanka feel seen instead of just another Nijiku expectation.

By the final days of break, the drama crested.

On the last evening before the drive back to campus, Zanka stood on the estate balcony overlooking the grounds, phone clutched tight. Jabber had sent one more message—an audio this time. Zanka pressed play with trembling fingers.

Jabber’s voice filled the night air—rough, exhausted, raw with emotion. “Zanka… pretty boy. I know you’re scared. I know what you saw looked bad. But I’m begging you. don’t let him win. I love you. Not the controlled, painful version Tamsy wired into me. The real one. The one where I burn breakfast and still want to wake up next to you every day. Where I sketch you when you’re not looking because I can’t believe you’re mine. Come back to me. Or at least… talk to me when we’re both on campus again. I’ll wait. I’ll fight every shadow for you. Just don’t disappear on us.”

The recording ended. Silence swallowed the balcony.

Zanka’s eyes burned. He sank onto the stone bench, head in his hands, the week’s weight crashing down—family pressure, Tamsy’s gentle poison, Jabber’s desperate love, the debt he still didn’t fully understand tying their families together in invisible chains.

He typed a single reply, thumb hovering for what felt like forever.

Zanka: I’m coming back tomorrow. We’ll talk. But I don’t know if I can trust this. Or you.

He sent it.

Across the state, Jabber’s phone lit up on the porch. Mochi lifted her head as he read the message, tears slipping down his cheeks for the first time in days. Relief and terror twisted together.

The week ended not with resolution, but with a fragile bridge extended across the chasm—dramatic, trembling, ready to either hold or collapse under the weight of everything still unsaid.

Campus loomed ahead. Tamsy waited in the shadows with fresh calculations. Fu and Follo lingered under threats. And Zanka and Jabber hurtled toward each other once more, the slow burn of their love tested by manipulation, family secrets, and the ghosts of freshman-year trauma that refused to stay buried.

The real storm was only beginning