tani shikari

⸺⸺⸺⸺

The rest of Zayne’s morning is taken up by risk stratification analysis for tomorrow’s valve replacement, reviewing the protocol for post-operative monitoring, and an extensive collection of clinical errata. Monotony can be made of miracles, in medicine. It is an aspect of the field he’s grateful for. Assisting in revolutionary advancements becoming mundane is a life-long goal of his.

That doesn’t stop his dopamine pathways from experiencing what must be comparable to a melodramatic actor performing a tragic, arduous death.

Zayne moves the final unread email into the appropriate folder, and stares at his empty inbox. Around now is when he’d attend to whatever messages you’d sent him, but… his phone hasn’t buzzed. He pulls it from his pocket. 

97%, full bars of reception, and no notifications. No reply. He checks Do Not Disturb still has you as an exception—it does. He opens your conversation to be sure—yes, no reply.

Perhaps the Association issued you last-minute overtime, or you decided to attempt another Trial; if at a social occasion, you’d text him pictures by now.

He scrolls up to see the one sent three days ago: you and Tara at the claw machine arcade. The two of you glare accusatorily at a snowman plush leaned on the chute's edge.

Zayne smiles once again, and slips his phone into his pocket. His eyes start to drift—permissible—and land on the bleeding glory-bower you placed by the window.

A deep verdant green, all slender stems and heart-shaped leaves. Its vines are draped loosely around a small wire trellis; apparently they’ll soon burst to bloom, with specific care instructions: Miss Hunter’s Watering Water, hand-delivered weekly.

⸺⸺⸺⸺

At 6 o’clock, Zayne leaves work. Nalo’s closes at 8, and stubborn, insistent you wouldn’t to clock off until Dr. Zayne did so first.

It’d make perfect sense to remain in his office at the hospital (close to Nalo’s) while you travelled from the Association HQ (additionally, it’s raining; Zayne parks a fair distance from the entrance and would be better off waiting for it to pass.) But he knows what you’re like and it’s very endearing for whatever reason and so yes, for your hypothetical convenience and pleasure, he lets himself get soaked through.

Zayne also knows you enjoy his hair when wet and/or mussed. 

You’ve quite the satisfying evening ahead, my love, your drenched doctor thinks drily, affixing the phone to his handsfree. Your contact photo fills his screen: the capture of a penguin plush on your first try, featuring your resultant, adorable smile. 

0:00… 0:01…

Zayne waits, and waits, and waits…

Zayne watches the windshield wipers. 

Zayne watches the windshield wipers while he listens to the tinny, automated voice warble about your unavailability and what to do after the—

Beeeeeeeeeeep.

“I called to follow up on the dinner invitation,” he drones, peering through the windshield. The cloudcover is dismal, it may have affected your mood… “I’d like to see you tonight, if you have time. It doesn’t need to be dinner. If you’d like, we could eat while on video call again. I hope your day went well. Goodbye for now.”

Boop.

Goodbye for now? Zayne’s expression borders on glum and mortified as he turns the ignition. That came out wrong. No. I said it wrong. 

His mental drift proceeded unchecked, resulting in an aloof tone. It’d be better if he was the type to throw ‘love you!’ on the end of—

No. Zayne would feel better if you felt a certain way. Overt affection from him could spur that feeling on, as well as you expressing it. It’s not in Zayne’s nature to toss such declarations so carelessly. It likely never will be. Regardless, he couldn’t have done it just now. You need to know he loves you, first.

⸺⸺⸺⸺

Proper sleep hygiene requires adherence to relatively straightforward principles: cessation of food intake at least a few hours beforehand, removal of light sources, and avoidance of screens.

Tonight Zayne disrespects the latter. He pulls his phone off the bedside charger and checks the hospital admissions records, the news, and Moments, to ensure there’s no reason to presume you’re injured. The irony that his attempt to alleviate worry may further sabotage his circadian rhythm is not lost.

Zayne returns his phone to the charger and glances at the clock. 22:30. Barely twenty-four hours without contact, yet evidently enough to feel physical longing. His chest feels… too light, despite the fact it objectively isn’t. His heart insists it belongs tucked between your shoulderblades or snug beneath your cheek.

Would it be overbearing to suggest set days you’ll likely sleep by his side? Requesting near-guarantees of when he can hold you? Is she committed to living alone? he wonders, smoothing his hand over the side of the bed you prefer. The sheet is cold beneath his palm. ‘Miss Hot Water Bottle,’ he mumbled to you one morning, delirious with adoration.

Not for the first time and most certainly not for the last, Zayne desperately wishes to hold you.

Juvenile as it is to wonder and wish, he allows himself this rare indulgence; thoughts of you pass through his mind like shooting stars, showering a pitch-black sky, counted until sleep.

⸺ 30 days ago.

“My unique perspective and skills are benefits I bring to the world. My contributions matter. I am enough, exactly as I am.”

Zayne slams the dryer shut and hoists up the clothesbasket. 

One day there will be an affirmation audio including, ‘there is no need to cringe at the idea of anyone discovering what I’m listening to; repeated exposure to positive self-statements results in measurable improvements in mood regulation, stress response, and executive functioning.’ 

(There likely won’t be, but perhaps if he keeps telling himself it’ll happen, then it will.) 

The clothesbasket is upturned onto the bed. Sweatpants are folded vertically before being rolled horizontally, socks are tucked into each other, a pale lilac… sweatshirt… Zayne stops folding.

“Challenges help me to grow. I can solve all challenges that come my way,” croons the audio, right before Zayne taps an earbud to pause it. His hand trails over the butter-soft fabric. A sweatshirt you called a sleepshirt, part of a pajama set you pulled out of your backpack last week when asked how many episodes of God of War, Zhao Yun you’d like to watch.

The matching bralette and sweatpants would be home with you; ostensibly, a complete set. The sweatshirt was abandoned on his couch after—

It’s now folded and tucked under the pillow on your side of the bed. Nothing else is pertinent.

More socks, sweatpants, actual sweatshirts, the few t-shirts Zayne has, one he shouldn’t. HAVEN FOR HEARTS 2046. A patchy orange logo ironed onto grey cotton and worn away, wash after wash. You’d stolen this shirt months ago. You slept in it sometimes, another sleepshirt. Given it ended up in his laundry… no, obviously, you left it behind. 

Perhaps to return it. 

Dread curls around his ribs, and squeezes. Zayne loosens his jaw, having tightened it without noticing—so too had his thoughts slipped the leash. He catastrophised. Knowledge of cognitive distortions is not protection from them. 

He slips his phone out of his pocket. Thumb hovering over the play button, he…

… knows there is no good reason to assume the intent behind these clothes being left behind. If any exists. But it would be mutually beneficial for him to discover what you’d like done with them.

Zayne swipes off the paused audio and brings up your text conversation.

Sent before he can overthink it further.

Ah, no, you may worry he’s irritated with you. He can follow it up with a flirtation. He’d like to do so anyway. Zayne taps the phone’s edge as he considers. Less weight, less pressure, more… inviting. 

He sends it, puts the phone aside, and continues folding everything away.

⸺ 29 days ago.

You may find yourself constructing elaborate scenarios where Zayne’s silence indicates a fundamental shift in sentiment—that whatever prompted him to reach out initially since dissolved into indifference, or worse, aversion.

Though reluctant to validate this, as reassuring unfounded concerns often serves only to reinforce them...

Zayne would like to hear from you.

⸺ 27 days ago.

Zayne smiles at the screen. He nudges his hands under his glasses to pinch between his eyes—unsanitary, but his tear troughs require pressure, else relief will overtake him. There is no time for that.

To: [email protected] From: [email protected] Subject: 24-Hour Post-Operative Status: Synthetic Protocore Valve Implantation Director Li, Attached are the results following yesterday’s procedure…

The report is remarkably promising. 

Once composed, he replies to confirm the next procedure can go ahead as well, sorts the email into the appropriate folder, and moves to the next. He tries his utmost to keep his mind focused on his work, and not the phone in his pocket. Even if you were sure to answer, this is not news he can share. Much as he wishes to.

⸺⸺⸺⸺

Poor sleep quality affects one’s judgement; when offered a glass of champagne by the associate director, Zayne accepted. It will cost him $30. He has been granted the gift of foresight in this one regard, because in the morning, he will find a ticket on his car’s windshield.

He had to leave it in the parking lot and take the subway home.

He’s drunk. You could’ve guessed that the moment he said, ‘I had a glass of champagne’; well, no, you couldn’t have, as he hasn’t said it to you. Maybe he will when you’re back. It cannot be predicted now, ask again later; Zayne’s head rolls around and up once the train reaches his stop.

The walk home is a merciful straight line five minutes long. He smushes the correct numbers on the keypad, eventually in the correct order, and locks the gate and door behind him, double-checking that they’re locked while he locks them (they are) and is sure they are (he double-checked).

Safety assured, Zayne allows himself leniency: he collapses onto the couch and is smacked in the face by his phone. Somehow.

It takes a few minutes for his head and stomach to stop spinning.

Once it does, he leans down and clumsily plucks his phone from the carpet. He opens his camera roll.

(Sublimation of the desire to open your conversation.)

Any photos you send are saved automatically—due to a Messages setting, presumably, one there's no need to toggle.The few photos he's taken (cloakroom tickets, mostly) and those you’ve shared with him. Prospective outfits laid flat on your bed, restaurants you thought he’d like from signage alone, food, drinks, your desk, you. 

Scrolling through his camera roll means being surprised every few rows by an exceptionally beautiful girl, reflected in a shop window or facing the front camera, pouting with her chin on her hand or doing a peace sign or hiding half her face.

Not a single one of Zayne’s responses ever contained the word ‘beautiful’. What astounding restraint he’s had over the months, because you are beautiful, he thinks fervently, tapping to enlarge a selfie taken in his bed. Sleep-mussed hair, morning sun reflected in your eyes…  

Heat begins to pool between his legs. 

Grimacing, Zayne unbuttons his slacks to alleviate the friction. Mitigate temptation. The last thing he wants to do is pleasure himself. He merely wants to look at you. You are missed, and beautiful. He’s a more shallow man for having met you, it seems. You’re so beautiful.

Click. Zayne lets his locked phone thud back to the carpet. 

It’s a security measure. Who knows what he might do. He’s never felt like this before. (He should’ve told you that when you were here, it was true then, as well.) The lack of you is paradoxically additive; never before has there been a swelling ache behind his sternum of yearning for someone. And he must not text you anything alarming or dramatic or that which he’d rather say in person. 

Tonight would be so perfect if you were here… or if you’d been present, earlier, you wouldn’t need to come home with him, he’d… take you out to celebrate. Without telling you what for, but regardless. If you didn’t want to go out, he… would then ask if you’d like to go home with him. The two of you could’ve finished God of War, Zhao Yun.

You could’ve tried to, at least, because he would’ve kissed you all over the couch. Again.

By some miraculous feat of bodily autopilot, Zayne manages to ascend the stairs to his bedroom, wash his face, undress, type out his schedule for tomorrow in his notes app, and put his phone on the bedside charger before passing out, under the sheets.

He wakes to pain spearing through his eardrums. Silencing his phone’s alarm does little to abate it—and presents additional agony. Mortifying, bone-deep embarrassment.

⸺ 22 days ago.

Jet lag cures nightmares. Zayne will notify the relevant somnologists upon his return to Linkon. Once in his hotel, he sleeps as solidly as the hotel’s mattress—possibly the firmest he’s ever lain upon. (In a room comped by the hospital board, a fact that quashes any piddling complaints from his mind before purchase is found.)

The bed is fine. The conference itself is fine. The panels are… of variable interest, but all the speakers are qualified and polite. Zayne learns a great deal over the weekend.

Technically, he forgets all about you. For hours at a time, you don’t cross his mind. Then he’ll pull his phone out to add a new acquaintance to its contacts, or to take a photo of the booklets, or… to check his messages.

He’d managed to nip the habit in the bud over the last few days, yet communicating with Greyson requires walking through the consequent cuttings. The text conversation with you sits neglected, second on the list, superceded by: 

⸺ 21 days ago.

The airport’s evening travellers are quiet talkers and slow walkers. Zayne’s temper benefits from the eerie quietude, he decides to surrender to the sticky wheel on his carry-on. It’s carried under one arm as he makes his way to a corner coffee kiosk.

“How are you doin’ today?” chirps the young girl behind the counter, honey-brown hair tucked under a green cap.

“I’m well, thank you. And yourself?”

“I’m good! What can I get you?”

Pleasantries accomplished, Zayne orders a small, sweetened matcha, and turns away from the girl while she putters. His eyes skim the hubbub. They catch on a Hunter uniform, dark against the bright duty-free advertisements. Same height, same posture, same hair—

“Nine yuan fifty!” 

Airport baristas are not paid enough at all, let alone enough to endure depersonalising patrons, so Zayne swiftly turns back to face her and digs his wallet from his pocket. From that, a ten yuan bill. 50 fēn as a tip, extraordinary generosity!

He continues rifling until he’s scooped another three yuan out to hand the girl. In the event of you having walked away already, he’ll catch up. To safely increase his pace, he can toss the drink in the bin to his left, out of the barista’s sight.

Zayne hands the barista the money, she bows, as does he, then he turns, and you—the Hunter is still there. Checking her phone with her head tilted down and away.

Same height, same posture, though her shoulders roll further forward when—wrong laugh. 

Wrong phone, how did he not notice that first?! The girl slides it into her pocket and wipes a smile from her mouth and spins on her heel and isn’t you. Unsurprisingly.

The recurrent ache behind Zayne’s sternum narrows, tightens; it tugs as he walks, like a suture pulled too tight. But a suture therefore sewn. At least that can be of comfort, not a pinprick of pining for you will spill out onto the linoleum. 

Zayne sips the matcha (tasteless) and hoists his carry-on (light as air) and makes his way to the exit, where he’ll (pay the exorbitant parking fee and) drive himself home and go to sleep (alone) (again) (again)

⸺⸺⸺⸺

No nightmares await.  

Maddeningly, Zayne dreams about you instead. With great vividity.

When he wakes, the lingering images are tactile to the point of torturous: the plush of your thigh under his hand; the short distance at which you like to hold your mouth away, bidding his to chase; warmth and weight on his shoulders, your hands slid forward so you could rest your arms. Your eyes, so close he can memorise the fracture pattern around your iris. Your beautiful face before you tucked it down and out of view. Your smile, shy against his shoulder. The contagious contentment of you, snug, and in Zayne’s arms. 

It is tremendously difficult to wake from such a dream, alone yet whole in one’s own home, and not feel incomplete.

⸺ 19 days ago.

⸺ When and where reveries crystallise, only to evaporate upon waking; how the frost hungered, what hard chill is wrought upon flesh exposed, willing.

A terracotta pot patchy with damp, stuffed with snow, glassy with rime. Within dwells a plant of wax, rejecting water, reflecting light, around and down the mountain pass.

Constellations pulse like malignant cells. Black filaments vein outward beneath his skin.

⸺ Neurotransmitter levels will normalise, acetylcholine will return, hippocampal consolidation will cease. The dream will be forgotten, much as it distresses in the rare moments of lucidity.

I must learn what I did wrong so that I can attempt amendment. She won't tell me what I did wrong. Asking would be disastrous. I may not have done anything wrong at all. Hypothetical transgressions are lesions in his psyche which he continues to aggravate, teething like a child and naming it preemptive excision.

I was whole before her, and need to heal. There would be no space left for you to affect him, then. The happiness rising to meet your sleepy mumbles, kissed to his throat. The slight strain in his stiff muscles as he rolls you to your side. The gooseprickle along his own neck as he tucks his mouth by the velvet-soft skin behind your ear.

Affect me again. Pitiable pleading. He's done this before, in dreams, and...

He recognises himself in nightmares, at least, he’d rather a nightmare, now, thank you. They're a matter of triage. As is everything else so long as you remain in crisis. Where else can he be of use?

⸺ He wakes with the sun and a thought weak as mist.

How could we have been so close and she nowhere near loving me?

Nonsensical melancholy. Pollution from the depths of REM sleep.

Zayne resists scratching at the gunk in his eyes. He needs to wash his hands, clear his mind.

I am not in love with myself. Correct answer. Ten points to Team Li. 

⸺ 12 days ago.

A week passed absent his awareness. Such is the anesthesia of routine.

Or, in words the two of you came to once: Zayne got used to being alone again.

Zayne sleeps and works and eats; waters the plant, feeds Clopridgel and Atorvastatin and Mirtazapine. He doesn’t need you in order to be productive and consistent. Presumably the reverse is also true. A lack of codependence is indicative of healthy relationship. (Though a lack of communication…)

His days are dull. Dulled. The absence of your radiance is undeniable, his desire for it moreso; to compensate for the loss, missing you continues to be additive. His mind clings to more concerns, more wonderings, more hypotheticals and maladaptive maybe’s. 

When his mood sinks and he chooses to wallow in it, he reads past messages between the two of you. Emojis back-and-forth. Selfies (selfies; Zayne Li sent selfies) from his desk, featuring an expression now unrecognisable to him. Sentiments of wanting to grow old with you. Embarrassment is a stone in his stomach. None of it anchored you in any significant way. 

How much did he mean to you? Do you think of him? What do you think of him, who is he, to you? Who did Zayne think he was, that he could have you? What laughable arrogance, what delusional avarice inspired the last few months? 

And so on and so forth.

The longer you’re gone, the more experience Zayne has in dredging himself free. Of late, he barely skims the surface before pulling away.

One hypothetical scenario his heart cannot go near is that of you seeing all his messages at once—having recovered access to your phone, or reception, or something—and seeing that he’d stopped reaching out. You, supposing he gave up… the idea cannot be borne.  

⸺ 10 days ago.

⸺ 8 days ago.

Mirtazapine is an orange bundle of fur half-hidden by shadow and azalea bushes. Sat beneath the bench near the hospital’s east entrance, it chose number eight on their rotation of preferred Spots To Sit.

Zayne crouches with care; the paper bag in his hand crinkles regardless. The bag contains the same brand of cat food as usual, purchased at the convenience store by your apartment. Shredded chicken in gravy must be a delicacy to a stray, if Mirtazapine went unfed in your absence the beast may well have survived on fat stores alone.

Despite such luxuriant offering, it’s typically only when the can has been unpeeled and set down—with Zayne a good ten feet back—that Mirtazapine will approach.

Today, the cat walks forward before he even opens the paper bag. It (he? she?) meows, then looks past him, toward the hospital’s entrance.

Their expression is so easily projected upon that he has to look away. “I’m certain she misses you as well.”

When he returns his gaze to Mirtazapine’s, they blink. Slow and daring, Zayne extends his hand, fingers curled toward the palm. Mirtazapine sniffs, black-dotted nose twitching curiously. They shove their furry cheek along his knuckles. Scent-marking. Affection.

“Hello,” he murmurs, softer than he’s had recent occasion to be.  

Just as slow as he crouched, Zayne stands. He takes the cat food and, tucking the empty bag under his arm, starts to unpeel the can. “Let’s be civilised,” he tells Mirtazapine. Their mouth trembles around a needy meow. He sits on the bench, opened can in hand, and sets it down beside him.

Mirtazapine leaps up and shoves their face into the gravy, back legs braced on his lap. Their claws dig into his thigh. Zayne swallows a wince. It’s unintentional. Cats are incapable of knowing better.

As he watches Mirtazapine work vigorously at the can, half-perched atop his legs, Zayne’s tempted to try fetching his phone. He could capture a photograph, or a video of the purrs rumbling through your now-mutual friend. But his phone is in his back pocket. Jostling a contented cat suddenly seems like the worst thing he could possibly do.

He closes his eyes, instead. Fallen leaves move along the cement, he can hear the skid-flutter-twirl. The wind pricks a chill along his neck. An ambulance siren ‘bloops’ and peaks into wails.

Untroubled, Mirtazapine paws at him idly. 

⸺⸺⸺⸺

That evening, Zayne indulges in a few lies of omission.

⸺ 1 day ago.

The Hunter’s Association is a glass fortress, a watery mirage against the greying sky. Breath out of rhythm, throat dry, Zayne lets his feet carry him across the street, to a convenience store. The water bottle strapped to his belt requires refilling. And Mirzapine’s cat food may be stocked here.

It isn’t. 

Bottled water is.

A convenience store not stocking five different brands of bottled water would be the foremost indicator of environmental collapse. 

The sun-browned, freckled clerk—a muscular man himself—stares at Zayne’s heaving chest through the entire transaction.

Once outside, Zayne pours the bottled water into his thermos and takes a few steadied sips, eyes sweeping over the Hunter’s Association HQ. The plaza is covered with hunters, returning from something? Without his glasses, he has no hope of making any features out. The third-floor windows hold nothing but stormclouds, reflected.

“You training for something?” 

Zayne swallows without choking from the startle and spins the lid back onto his water bottle. He turns to see the store clerk leaned against the doorway, tan arms folded over his chest like two strips of worn leather. 

“Yes. The October marathon on Guangming.”

“Tough course. Ran it last autumn.”

The clerk then launches into an outline of the various minute elevation changes. Slightly obnoxious; sincerely experienced. From the clerk’s description, it sounds like the route from Zayne’s workplace to yours, then to his home, is not comparable to the route for the October marathon. Zayne already knew that.

Guangming is a main street. It would be easier to run down Guangming on the way back from work than to detour onto Fánróng like a stalker.

Or a egotist, hoping you’ll catch sight of him in his running gear; if Zayne is either, it’s the latter. Which is still far worse than the man he was before you.

Is it?  “Thank you,” he says, interrupting the clerk mid-sentence, “but I need to continue... going this way, while I still have momentum.”

One foot in front of the other. One. Two. One. Two. One, two. One, two. One, two; one, two—one two one two one two one two breath in, one two one two, out, one two one two. A meditative metronome to guide his feet. He may slip back, but he will always continue forward. Forward.

Away from the Association, away from the amicable store clerk he slighted, away from everywhere he paid special attention to simply because you were there, or could be, or had been, once.

⸺⸺⸺⸺

Zayne turns on the shower, and steps in, thinking.

You’re not dead. If you were, as your primary care physician, he would’ve been informed. And Deepspace Tunnel explorations require medical authorisation.

(Is he your emergency contact as well? Or did you change it to Caleb, all the way up in Skyhaven?)

All that being said, disappearing from social media is considerably out of character and of concern; in the morning Zayne will call the Association and enquire as to your punctuality. That’s within the bounds of confidentiality. If, for whatever reason, they haven’t heard from you, he’ll go to your apartment. Better him than the police.

And unless you’ve had a change of heart and abandoned your dream career of being a Hunter, you have to come by for your quarterly checkup in October. He can return your clothes then. He’ll ask what you’d like him to do with the plant; surely it will have bloomed by then, you may be able to enjoy the sight. Some flowers will be burgundy, some a gentle white.

Zayne looked up bleeding glory-bowers online last week, spoiled the surprise, but he wanted to know what you had planned. It’ll look lovely in his office. You chose well. Thoughtfully.

He turns up the temperature and tries to… 

… It’s difficult to think kind words about himself when he’s trapped himself in a state of yearning, over a girl he dated for... not even a year. Yet the only person he can fathom ever wanting to date.

Dating is not something Zayne Li does, but taking anything you see fit to grant, like the greedy lovesick wretch he is and has for so long been, yes, that seemed to come naturally.

Romantic melodrama aside. He feels he’s lost a friend, because it’s likely that he has. You’re his closest friend, in fact; what a dreadful realisation to have about the sole person avoiding him.

Zayne turns off the shower, and steps out, shivering.

At some point, he washed and rinsed himself; the steam-filled air smells of soap. His eyes and scars both ache.

Once sufficiently dry, Zayne tosses his towel into the laundry basket by the door, and begins to apply his body lotion. As he does, he stares through the doorway, and to his bed.

‘Morning Zayne’ made it impeccably. Charcoal duvet tucked beneath the mattress, army-style; bedsheet folded similarly. Box corners, hospital corners, military corners; it’s how he’s made his bed for years, and these last few days. You’d complain—

A schlip later, he notices what an aggressive affair he’s made of applying lotion. He slows the pass of his hand. 

Enough of this. He won’t waste another night ruminating in a house he owns, believing it a prison. It’s a comfortable, well-designed home, in a city full of such privileges. For example: the 24/7 cafe a few blocks away.

⸺⸺⸺⸺

He orders a lavender latte (linalyl acetate and linalool promote relaxation) and attempts to relax into the chair by the window. The research paper he pulls up is a simplistic one, basics about Protocore-infused synthetic implants, but possibly helpful for Grayson’s citations… 

How Zayne steadily sinks back into the chair may have nothing to do with the matcha and more to to do with the cafe’s atmosphere. (And his abysmal sleep routine, admittedly.) The longer he stares at the monochrome print, the more it appears glaringly out of place. The laptop, too, sleek and silver on the polished oak, shouldn’t be here.

There is no ‘should’ or state of hypothetical belonging. It’s a laptop in a cafe with Wi-Fi.

Zayne exercises his eyes by letting them wander over the cognac-brown walls, the dim yellow lampshades, the bell above the door, polished and golden. The cafe’s ambience glazes his skin to honey, his dark slacks to molasses. It’s cozy, suspension in amber.

His thick reverie is displaced by a clink. Porcelain on wood. A purple saucer, a purple cup to match its contents, a thick swirl of cream. 

“Thank you,” he says, blinking rapidly as the server walks away, wordless.  A touch to the rim proves the latte too hot to drink right away, so Zayne returns to reading. 

“… fragments within a polymer matrix, resulting in improved neural conductivity and reduced rejection rates compared to conventional…”

Displeasure begins to tug his mouth to a frown.

“… during high-energy Wanderer engagements, likely due to the implants’ ability to resonate with ambient Protocore fields present in contaminated zones…”

It need not be this difficult!

Every sentence is treacle because he’s polluting his mind with ‘and she would—’ ‘would she—’ ‘and for her—’. Medical school was several years of not thinking of you, effortlessly! I can reach that point again, and will, since we…

Longing has congealed in his throat, he realises; it’s going to choke him. He swallows. 

Untouched, the cream atop his latte has melted into swirls; slow gusts of snow on a twilight aurora.

If what the two of us shared had its time, and is now done, it’s best I don’t think of her unnecessarily. 

Zayne’s eyes slide from his latte back to the laptop, and off the PDF entirely. On his taskbar is the Messaging application. (Installed for you, as he’d so often keep his phone in a drawer all day, and miss your ‘urgent’ messages. It was healthier than how he is now.) He tabs over to it.

Message after message from him, pushing yours up and away. 

Whenever Zayne saw a stack of messages from you, for all his light mockery, it never failed to set a flutter in his chest. (There was so much you wanted to share with him.) You feeling similarly seems unlikely, looking at this woeful display. Especially the most recent...

(Guilt stirs over not texting you for a week, again… Zayne would laugh, had he the temperament.)

Intent soured to regret soon after he sent it. If baiting a response, why not do so through an expression of affection, or a mention of him having commented on all your Moments he previously missed? Asking whether you liked his new icon, or whether he should change it back, and what would you like it to be?

He did feel as if Mirtazapine missed you, but made it sound as if they’d gone unfed all this time… Would true sincerity not have been preferable by any measure?

I have no way of knowing. Such suppositions are nothing more than his mind toying with his feelings; a wildcat playing with prey. This could be a boon, one I do not yet understand. That is a healthier ‘maybe’ than any other.

Zayne uninstalls the application. He’ll send a final message at some point.

‘As I don’t wish to pressure—’

No.

‘Hearing from you would be more than welcome at any point in the future,’ yes, that would be a good start. ‘Thank you for the past—’

He blinks, hard. Inhales, exhales. Takes a scalding sip of the latte, its flavour indiscernable as it sears his tongue. Firms his jaw. Loosens it. Inhales. Exhales. Doesn’t need to send you a final message today. Inhales, exhales; steadies his breathing. He doesn’t need to do anything, but will sleep better if he knows he put in an effort to connect with you. Akso’s patients need Dr. Z—Akso’s patients need Dr. Li well-rested. 

Zayne pulls his phone from his pocket. After a few more breaths, his mind clears completely, and he types, near-thoughtless, “I passed by your workplace on my way home. The entrance is always crowded.”

Adequate. It’s a recounting of events. A cue only if you want it to be; you can share the woes of how troublesome it is to get in the building, as Zayne can now sympathise. Is that what you need? To vent a little? Sublimate?

He sends it and continues typing.

Would you recognise the implication, ‘I’ve continued to go out of my way enough for it to be unconscious’?

Sent, regardless; a supposition you could correct. Zayne puts his phone back in his pocket.

Perhaps you were part of the returning group of Hunters. Perhaps you were at your desk, or working from home, or sick at home, or here in this very coffee shop, or Skyhaven for all he knows; you could be on a merry-go-round with Caleb. Zayne will respect your boundaries, of course he will, what else would he do?!

Somewhere in the world, you are or aren’t missing the frightened fool in love with you.

It wouldn’t have made a difference. Zayne squeezes his eyes shut and pinches between his brows, beneath his glasses. If she knew, she’d still…

Lying to himself must be avoided. It may indeed have made a difference. There is no sure way of predicting your behaviour. Clearly. After all, you seemed truly interested in…

…

Did I bore her? 

When did I start to…

Inhale inhale exhale inhale exhale; inhale exhale, inhale, exhale.

I am safe, I am content. Inhale, exhale. My emotions are mine to control, I choose to be calm. Inhale, exhale. I am in public. A pinch of pressure against his tear ducts. Inhale, exhale.

Eventually, Zayne’s heart stops trying to thud its way out the door. When he opens his eyes, the cafe’s mellow ambience is a muddy haze. A few regulating blinks, and he can see clearly. He forces his eyes to refocus on the PDF, and straightens his posture.

”… long-term effects of prolonged Protocore exposure on neural pathways, with 12%…”

Zayne keeps his head down when the entryway bell chimes; his traitorous heart leaps in its direction. An instinct that will fade, given time, whereas discipline is beaten strong as steel around the core of who he is. That core, however—his soul… He can scarcely believe the intensity with which his soul mourns this loss. As when observing a field that rolls over the horizon, he can see no end to it.

Zayne keeps his head down.

⸺ 1 a.m.

Curled in Zayne’s embrace, you couldn’t say who is warmer or cooler of the two of you if there was money on it. He hasn’t let you out of his arms for the last two hours. First he slid his arms around your waist at the door, quietly asking if you remembered the keypad code or not. Then he became a human vice when you tried to squirm free in indignation, because obviously you do.

Once you got inside, there… was a long period of time where you didn’t feel your body at all, actually, due to being pressed against the wall so hard you genuinely worried you might break something. 

But, even though it’s bananas how ferociously Zayne sets upon you, sometimes, he never hurts you. Not even a lovebite. 

He got close tonight, though; your teeth clacked together a few times and you begged him to mark you and he wouldn’t, something something blood clots, and his intensity eventually ebbed. Back to Boyfriend Zayne, carrying you like a koala, up to the bedroom. 

Now he’s at your back, and almost spooning you. One hand at your hip, the other tucked under your pillow. The room’s almost pitch-black because he nudged you away from the lights in favour of getting you onto the bed. 

You can’t feel his breath on your skin, but your back is right against his chest, but… It’s a sliver of distance that does feel like too much. 

“I missed you,” you say quietly. You’ve spent all night cycling through that and other… what did he call them… Truisms. “I really did miss you.”

“I know.”

Zayne slides his hand away from yours. It curves beneath your waist and around, under your shirt, and he walks his slender fingers across your stomach. Up toward your breast. Up toward your breast. Taken firmly, and squeezed.

You barely hear yourself gasp, your brain’s too fuzzed up—you didn’t think he’d actually do that. The gasp turns into giggling, nerves, fuck, said-like-you’re-in-combat ‘that needs cover’...

“So you missed me?” you tease.

His reply is immediate. “To even ask has me suspect in your absence, you became clueless or cruel.” 

Ooh, er, “Zayne…”

He kisses the back of your neck. “Forgive me.” You open your mouth to do so, but he swipes a thumb over your nipple, and you bite back a moan instead. “You don’t deserve to be teased in return. You missed me.” 

“Ye-es.” The word stretches to a whine as Zayne’s hand travels up to your throat, gently tipping your head onto his shoulder. 

“Or perhaps you shouldn’t be indulged,” he whispers. “Satisfaction of all that longing could be inadvisable, considering the circumstances.”

“M’sorry. I don’t—maybe I am clueless, actually.”

“You might idealise reunion.”

Zayne tilts your head to the side, stopping well short of straining your neck. You strain it a little just so you can face him better. In the darkness, you can just barely make out the planes of his face, and the light in his eyes from the moon. Those lights vanish when he dips his head toward yours, and speaks right into your stuttering breath. 

“We can only miss what we have lost, no? I do not wish to lose this, ever again.”

Affection blooms in your chest before his lips even meet yours. When they do, your body struggles to contain all your giddy awe; you have to reach behind your head and tuck your fingers through his hair and squeeze. The kisses grow in fervency, breathier, hungrier. Warmth stirs between your legs and sparks every time Zayne’s tongue slides inside you. Fuck. That’s all you want right now: him, inside you. Too soon. Maybe you don’t deserve it. Does he even want it?

He pulls back, panting. Your body apparently lacks respiratory instinct because all you can do is whine breathlessly.

Zayne’s words are a warm mist over your mouth: “Would you like for me to show you how much I missed you?” 

“Mhm.” You swallow, and gasp, trying to steady your breath. “If you want to.”

What is then pressed to your back is obscenely fucking hard. It could be a brick he’s tucked above your ass and you’d not notice a difference. You wiggle until your backside is snug to Zayne’s erection.

He chuckles! You’re pressing yourself against his cock and he’s chuckling?!

With a frustrated huff, you shift your hips even further back. As your ass knocks against his crotch, Zayne slips the hand not already groping you over your hip, to cup you over your underwear. Firm as if you’d genuinely try to get away.

“Would you like to prove how much you missed me?” 

He has to be able to feel the pulse of your cunt. 

He must, because he’s getting harder, how—?!

You scramble blindly to caress one of the arms he has wound around you. It hasn’t been so long that you’ve forgotten the path of unscarred skin you can safely touch. “Yes. And I really… I am sorry, I know you said to stop but—”

And stopped you are, muffled by his mouth on yours, swallowing whatever rambling your subconscious had planned. Zayne kneads at your breast and cunt simultaneously until you can’t think right. Zayne, Zayne, Zayne’s hard, Zayne, Zayne’s hard over me, that’s about it. Sweat’s pricking all over your skin from pleasure, and a little bit of panic—what if you get wetter? Can he feel how wet you are already?!

The grip wound around you is unyielding, solid as the muscled line of his body pressed to yours, solid as...

Your head starts to spin.

When Zayne breaks the kiss this time, it’s with a steadier breath. “You will make it up to me.” The promise is followed by a peck, closed-mouthed, tender. “Another night.”

Given a gentle nudge, you rock your head off Zayne’s shoulder. His hands unwind from where they’d groped you. He shifts his hips away. 

The embrace is a cuddle once more. 

Slowly, proper thoughts ease back into your head. “A-another night? I thought…” 

Zayne just made out with you for half an hour and groped you, didn’t he want to… did he? He changed his mind? That’s fine, but he’s… a statue, suddenly. Stoic, you expect, even in private, but the prospect of Zayne going cold on you hits your insides like an Arctic waterfall. The arousal pooled low in your body chills to dread.

But then his warm mouth nuzzles down the nape of your neck and plants an open-mouthed kiss to your shoulder, and your body simmers with affection all over again. 

Stupid sexy doctor.

“Another night,” he repeats. “I’ve already told you you’re forgiven. We don’t need to rush anything due to imagined...” He sighs—contentedly, you think. “We don’t need to rush. Although we desire the same things, I’m sure.”  

“I didn’t do anything wrong? Just now, I mean.”

“No.” He kisses your shoulder again. “You were perfect. And you are beautiful, distractingly so.” Another kiss. “Unerringly so.”

“Um—”

“Shh.” Another kiss. “I just wanted to express it. There are many things I wanted to tell you while you were gone. So much I wanted to do. We cannot manage it all,” one-two kiss-kiss, “in one night.” A final kiss for emphasis, then Zayne turns his head and rests his cheek on the back of your shoulder. “You’ll have to stay, please.”

Said in his characteristically level tone, but your heart wobbles at the words. Stay, please. 

“Of course.” You pull Zayne’s hand back around your body to nuzzle at his palm; he moves as close as possible without his erection insisting on attention. “I… um. Let me think.” 

In the good minute or so of silence that follows, Zayne continues kissing the back of your neck, lips meeting your skin over and over. Idle tenderness. The ache in your chest that’s grown over the months—practically a second heart by now—can’t be ignored much longer. You won’t get any sleep if you don’t let it have its way.

“I love you,” you say quickly, then press a kiss to his knuckles. He takes a breath and you add, “Don’t respond. I wanted to express it. That’s all. I’m in love with you, Zayne.”

Obediently silent, he instead shifts up a little, and you receive yet another kiss, pressed to the top of your head. Probably the 999th of the night. You want another one.

You’re imagining the sensation of his heart fluttering between your shoulderblades. Zayne’s a solid, assured presence—all of him is, you’re now pretty sure—and that makes the big yearning something in your chest bounce around erratically. 

It’s your love for him. That would make sense. You love him. You love Zayne and you told him so and now that you don’t want to tell him—since you have, and telling him a third time tonight would be a bit weird—what you want is… for him to say it back. 

‘Disobey the explicit boundary set by your girlfriend! Love her so much that you can’t help it!’

Maybe. Kind of. The thing is that you know however Zayne confesses his feelings is always in the most heartmelting context possible. We don’t need to rush.

You fidget by brushing your lips back and forth over his knuckles. “You can speak, generally, just not… about what I said.”

“Mm-mm. Mr. Zayne is quite enjoying his turn of being unresponsive.”

“’Kay.”

Zayne’s fingers uncurl from within your fidgeting grip, and caress along your chin, your jaw. He presses a smile into your hair, nuzzling gently.

That nervous, eager love for him sinks back to sit somewhere in your spine. It’ll collapse one day, just spill through you entirely. You don’t mind. Zayne deserves to have all of you. Not least because you were totally unrespon…

… Hang on. That’s a smirk in your hair! The whole time you were mooning—!

“EX-cuse ME,” you say, trying to turn and face him. (You’re held fast, with his hand pressed flat to your cheek, so you give up immediately because well, hot.) “No bullying your patients!”

“You’re welcome to report me if you can locate the necessary form—ah!” Zayne fakes a wince when you shove your foot on his shin. “I suppose that’s a headstart on your circuit of kicking around the bed for eight hours.”

“Absolutely,” you declare, half-muffled by the pillow. You dig your cheek into it to get comfortable. “There must be justice for your malpractice.”

“I shall add it to our list, ‘things to do another night.’” 

His hand pulls away from your face. Before the cuddle can be broken (more, just in case it’s about to be), you snatch his hand, and tuck it beneath your chin. “No abandoning your patients, either.”

“Of course.” Zayne has the softest voice in the world. “Losing you or leaving you are equally unthinkable.”

⸺⸺⸺⸺

⸺⸺⸺⸺