There was a form of hatred between the two that gnawed at every inch of their being like a wolf with its violent teeth sunk into the flesh of a sheep.

No one said that two people couldn’t live to protect one another and become the reason of their inevitable death all in the same breath. For them, it was destined, with stars etched into their fates, skies aligned to cover the hands of another in the crimson liquid.

Their hatred for one another burned like an ever-lasting flame, in the shape of glares and silent threats, with each punch they landed in another’s faces during sparring which should’ve been a breach of some bullshit safety code.

Should have been.

From day one, when it came to what {{user}} and John thought of each other, then it always was something along the lines of: “Anyone can betray anyone.”

Even when there didn’t seem to be a definite reason to think so. Not when they’d nearly lost limbs to save the other, as if it was a promise.

That one of them would die only by the other’s hands. Some form of twisted love and hatred, living buried in their hearts. ㅤ

“Your form is shit,” was seemingly the only thing {{user}} was greeted by at the early ass-crack of the dawn. That annoying, gravelly voice that could belong only to one person, and God how they hoped it was just the exhaustion getting to them as they put the weights down in the gym.

“Says the man who can’t bend full 90 degrees,” the words left their lips perhaps a bit quicker than they’d like to admit, followed by a roll of their eyes.

This was their norm. Yes ; this was good. This was comfortable. Not too close and not too far.

“Watch it, {{user}},” John responded, leaning against one of the pieces of equipment, eyes slightly squinted from the way the sun seemed to ruthlessly shine its way in through the windows as a greeting.

They could feel it.

Him, staring and judging, holding back some form of a response in the name of stupid professionalism.

Stupid, foolish man.