Doctor Zayne

He doesn’t have to be angry at himself. He doesn’t have to sit in his childhood bedroom and reassemble every second in Colorado. He doesn’t have to decide whether Sylus had handled it badly or kindly or badly enough in a kind way. He doesn’t have to decide anything. 

There are enough people around to interrupt him before his thoughts get out of hand, anyway. 

Caleb already does this naturally by existing. Mila does it more gently. Asks if he wants tea. How he slept. If he wants to come with them to the store later, because Caleb claims they need snacks and coffee that isn’t the strong wake-the-dead kind his parents had brought back from Guatemala. 

Sweet Potato has developed the habit of using a wooden spoon as a weapon, which Zayne’s parents don’t seem to think much of—and no matter how many times Zayne or Caleb hide it, the more the monkey thinks it’s a game to find it and launch it at them. 

By early afternoon, the house has settled into that strange pre-holidays rhythm where everyone is technically doing something, but no one is moving with any real urgency. Caleb gets sucked into some errand with his father that will test both of their patience. Mila is in the kitchen with her sleeves pushed up, washing something by hand even though the dishwasher works perfectly well. 

Zayne takes this as an opportunity to have a shower. It's an odd hour to be taking one, but due to the holiday it's easier to justify doing something simply because he feels like it. And there's nothing else going on, he decides he might as well before his dad and Caleb decide tonight is going to be balmy enough to justify a campfire. 

Taking his shirt off in the mirror, Zayne is confronted with the fact that, yes, he is most definitely covered in various love bites still. Over his chest, abdomen, the hollow of his throat, his shoulders, which are apparently Sylus' favorite place to bite down. And he finds that his only regret about having them is that some of them are beginning to fade, and he doesn't know when he'll be given more.

The isolation in the heat and steam is nice. A moment of pure quiet where he briefly stops worrying about whether his loved ones are talking about him while he isn't in the room. As he's scrubbing his hair, he hears his phone buzzing on the counter. It isn't until he gets out that he finds it's a text from Sylus, because who else would it be?

Zayne is rubbing his head with a towel when he opens it, and can't help huffing a small laugh. 

What are you wearing?

Straight to the point, no context, no explanation. Just a request. 

And feeling a little cheeky, he swipes open the camera, holding it up to make it very clear that the answer is nothing. Towel over one shoulder, still soft and flushed and dripping water.

He takes the photo and sends it off without anything else attached, then sets down his phone and sets about the task of shaving his face clean.

On the counter, his phone vibrates three times in quick succession, but Zayne ignores it. Once he's dressed, he takes a glance and sees the words ‘naughty’, ‘kitten’, and ‘lesson.’ 

They go unanswered.

Outside, the sun is still up, barely hanging low enough to make the afternoon feel like the beginning of the evening. Zayne notices at the top of the landing as he glances out the window.

He opens the door to his bedroom and stops. Not because his mother is standing in the middle of the room, no. 

It’s because she has a shirt held up between her hands. And for a second, Zayne’s brain refuses to connect the image. His suitcases sit open on the floor, clothes he had not yet folded gone from a lump on the bed into piles. Some are his. Some are very clearly things he would have not owned a month ago. 

His mother turns at the sound of the door. 

“Oh,” she says, as if he has interrupted her doing something perfectly ordinary and not coming up with conclusions in her head. “There you are.” 

“What are you doing?”

“You didn’t put your clothes away when you got home.” She gives him the look she has given him since he was twelve and apparently incapable of putting anything where she believed it belonged. “They’ll wrinkle.” 

His mother smooths the shirt across her forearm, thumb catching briefly on the tag still tucked along the seam. Her expression shifts. Not much. 

“Where did you get this, Zaynie?” 

Zayne’s pulse gives one hard, stupid knock. His mouth twists into a frown from her use of the nickname. “It’s just a shirt.” 

“I can see that. It’s a little small for you, don’t you think?” 

“I can put my own clothes away.” 

“I know you can.” His mother smooths the front of the shirt with her thumb. “I was just helping.” She looks at him. Not sharply. Not yet. Just with the mild surprise of someone who has known him too long. 

“Well, they were on my bed.” As if that helps the argument any further. Not that he ever had much of the nerve to argue with either of his parents. 

“Zayne.” His mother exhales through her nose, then lifts the shirt a little higher, looking at the price tag again, flipping it over. “All I did was ask where you got this…four hundred dollar Ralph Lauren shirt.” She blinks at the tag, and then shakes her head slightly as if she can’t imagine a piece of linen costing so much. 

He crosses the room and reaches for it. “Mom.” 

She lets him take it, but not before turning the tag between her fingers again. 

Zayne knew she had the right to question the strangeness of it all, if not only for the fact her husband has worn the same Toronto sweater for over twenty years. She seemed even more confused now that her son hasn’t given her the straight to the point answers she was used to. 

In Aspen, the store itself was absurd. Even if he was already used to being told “get whatever you want.” Zayne remembered looking over to Luke, and something on his face must have betrayed him, for he had never seen another person spring into action so fast and pull something random off the rack with barely a glance. 

He finds a hanger quickly and shoves the shirt into the nearly empty closet, sliding the door shut even with the other things that still needed to be put away. He doesn’t turn back right away, mostly because he knows his mothers face is dangerously neutral. It isn’t even something he has to to guess. But he doesn’t want her to look at his face anymore just yet. 

“It was a gift,” he starts, not exactly a lie, but enough of one that makes him not want to look while he says it. “Rafayel gave it to me.”

“An expensive gift, isn’t it?”

Zayne bites the inside of his cheek, refusing to inhale sharply and give his increasing impatience away. Forcing his face to relax, he turns, not quite yet looking his mother in the eye and pushing his glasses up his nose instead. 

“Money doesn’t matter like that to some people,” he says. “He bought it because he liked it and it didn’t fit. That’s all. There’s nothing special about it.”

It's a strange sort of nostalgia, getting used to the dark again. The way the sun would already be setting as the three of them walked home from school. How the neighborhood kids would always start playing night games on the street right after dinner. How all the adults always got tired so early. 

But it's light enough, and the street is familiar and safe enough that it doesn't seem strange when Mila asks to go on a walk with him. The mere implication of going out with her alone is really the only thing that gives him pause. 

“You don't want to bring Caleb along?” Zayne asks, and blinks when she shakes her head.

“He has an assignment he still needs to finish before the break is over. We have some time.”

Zayne doesn't know what that means exactly, but it makes him nervous. He tells his mother that they'll be back later, and she nods but doesn't look at him, which is foreboding. There's a sinking feeling in his stomach that he's really not fooling anyone in his life that something is different, and sooner or later he will have to give them answers. 

It's quiet as he follows Mila outside and trails half a step behind. Little wisps of hair stick out from the beanie she shoved over her head, hands in both pockets of her coat.

It feels too much like those years ago, when everything was easier. And really, that time wasn't even that long ago. Just 3, 4 earlier and they would be walking down this very same street. Caleb and Zayne quietly fighting for her attention, and she would notice but wouldn't say anything about it. 

The night before they all left for school, spent at the park just around the corner. Mila on the swings, Caleb pushing her, Zayne besides them with his toes in the ground and his eyes low while they reminisced and anticipated a new start. It had been a happy night, a celebration, because they would all still be together. There were no sad goodbyes. The three of them were all they needed. 

Caleb had brought a six pack, and they each had two. The hours crept by unnoticed, because it was always dark here anyway, and besides, they were too busy teasing each other about the times they embarrassed themselves. 

He remembers, vividly, watching her that night. How her skin glowed a rosy pink from the alcohol, how bright and carefree her laugh was. He remembers falling in love with her all over again in that moment. How lucky he felt, to be one of the two people she counted as hers. That was something Mila always made clear to the two of them: they weren't going to be able to get rid of her. As if either of them would ever want to be anywhere but by her side.

It makes this moment, in the here and now feel all the more melancholy. Makes him feel more guilty for the way he's acted since Josephine passed away, since she finally made her choice and it wasn't him.

When exactly did he stop trusting her with himself? Was it then? When she burned brighter with Caleb by her side, and Zayne was alone in his room, selling himself for strangers to enjoy?

Perhaps that's part of the reason he agreed to start doing the live streams in the first place, after Rafayel mentioned it almost as a joke. If he wasn't saving himself for Mila anymore, then what worth did his body really have? 

A few hundred bucks a month, as it turns out. Over a period of seven months the average cost of himself is exactly $345.86 per month. Though he hasn't done the math since Sylus began donating, and that's sure to skew the numbers by a sizable margin. 

There is one thing being home is already showing him, though. He's being unfair to those who have been everything to him his entire life. Avoiding them because he is afraid of his own inadequacy, afraid to admit he has been selfish with his own feelings. Because he can't handle the idea of being alone, that he's never bothered to imagine what he would do if he couldn't have Mila. And yet when the time came, he was a coward. He has been a coward for so long, of course she would choose Caleb. 

Caleb knows what he wants and he doesn't hesitate to reach for it. Zayne had been waiting for her to reach for him.

And perhaps that's what has drawn him so deeply into Sylus' world. It fulfills his pathetic desire to be pursued, to be wanted. It's unfair of him, to avoid his friends for something he doesn't even know is real.

Aspen should be a wake up call for him that he will never really belong in Sylus' world. He may exist as a shadow, a secret, cared for in the dark, but never out in the open. 

Never in the way he'd always dreamed of bringing Mila home and being able to introduce her as his girlfriend. Of driving up the mountains for the view just to spend the whole time kissing her. Of proposing to her on top of that very same mountain. 

Idle dreams. Pointless, in the end. The same as any dream would be with Sylus, if he thinks about it for too long. He doesn't dream of romancing Sylus, of courting him. He dreams of the things Sylus could do to him. Of being treated roughly, pinned down by a warm, heavy body. Of the filthy things he likes to say.

Before long, he knows exactly where they're going. Up a hill at the end of the road that technically belongs to one of the neighbors, but who never cared that the kids always came here to watch the aurora at night. It's far enough away from the rest of the houses that it becomes pitch black. Possibly dangerous, but at least there's always plenty of snow to catch a fall.

There's no telling whether they'll see one tonight, but there's always a chance. Benefits of living in a small rural area. 

Neither of them speak until they get to the top of the hill. Someone, or more likely someones have taken the time to build up a little bench made out of densely packed snow. Mila sits, and looks up at him when he hesitates, patting the spot beside her. Zayne acquiesces. 

“So.” She begins, but does not continue.

“So?” Zayne pushes up his glasses and zips his coat higher. Any conversation that starts with ‘so’ tends to indicate it will be going on for some time.

He sees a puff of breath in his periphery and turns to see her frowning at him. Like he should know why they're both here. He doesn't, only because he doesn't know which of several possibilities she wants to talk about. 

Mila looks like she's chewing on her words too, trying to decide how to start. Her brows are pulled together, and her shoulders hunched the way they get when she's upset about something. 

Eventually, she apparently decides that subtly is not the name of the evening, “I'm not an idiot, you know. Not like Caleb is.”

Outwardly, Zayne is calm, but he feels his heart rate pick up. “I know.”

“You've been distant.” 

A tap of his thumb on his thigh, and he finds he can't quite meet her gaze, pretending there's a hangnail on one of his fingers. 

“I know.” Softer, this time. Really, he doesn't even know where to begin if this is the route she wants to go down. 

There's another heavy breath beside him, and she's quiet for a bit longer. Zayne imagines it must be frustrating to talk to himself. 

“Ever since we started dating, you've been pulling away.”

Ah. There it is. He can hear his pulse in his ears now. 

This is not a conversation he wants to have, has ever wanted to have. The only consolation is that by the way her eyes finally drop into her own lap, fingers tangled together, he knows that she doesn't either. It heralds only one thing: heartbreak on both sides.

Zayne can't meet her eyes.

But he can smell her perfume as she leans closer to still his fidgeting hands. It's sweet and sugary, probably called something like ‘christmas cookie’. It's a familiar smell, and doesn't that just make it worse?

“Mila…” His voice is apprehensive, “we don't have to talk about this.”

“Yes we do, Zayne. We do have to talk about this, because you're my best friend, and I love you, and I feel like…” There's a tightness in his chest as he hears her voice grow thicker, “I feel like I'm losing you right now.”

“I'm right here.” He says, but it's unconvincing to even his own ears.

“Zayne. Look at me.” Her cold hand lands on his cheek and turns him towards her so he can't look away.

Mila looks at him with maybe the worst expression she could be: pity. 

He hates that.

Every bit of him feels useless. Homeless, in a way. Halfway a part of everyone's lives, belonging nowhere. None of them know everything. And the thought of being honest with her is terrifying.

“What do you want me to say?” Zayne asks, feeling helpless under her penetrating gaze. 

“The truth.” 

“You already know. What good will saying out loud do?” 

She shakes her head, an almost imperceptible movement, “I don't know, but I need to hear it and I think you need to say it.” 

As always, Mila is perceptive and sensitive, and once she has her mind set to something, there is no getting away from it. 

The problem is that he isn't sure he has the strength to say those words. Isn't sure he is selfish enough to give that old desire a name. 

“Zayne…” she says again, and strokes his cheek with her thumb. His eyes drift closed at the feeling. “Please.”

When he opens them again, his throat feels thick and there's a burning at the back of his eyes. He knows this is the moment, the only question is how long it takes him to work up the courage to say it. 

Before he can stop himself, he's mirroring her, his own chilled fingers caressing a rosy cheek, dotted with freckles. Their foreheads press together, cushioned by their beanies, and his shaky breath fills the air between them.

“I love you.” It isn't easy to force out, but he does, and it feels like there's a boulder in his stomach. “I always have.”

“I know.” Is her simple reply, soft. Her thumb keeps stroking at his cheekbone. 

There's no use pretending to be surprised. They both knew, for quite some time now, she's always been able to read him better than most. It's one of the things that draws him to her. Being understood, despite his strangeness at times. 

“It's been difficult for you. To be around us.” Not a question, a statement. It doesn't need to be asked, only acknowledged. Zayne nods, and feels miserable. 

That is, until her forehead shifts against his own, and then her breath is much closer, warmer. His own catches in his throat as he tilts closer too. A question. Tentative, in this quiet, private moment. The moment feels more like a dream than reality. They move slowly, dancing around it, unsure.

And then the question is answered. Her lips press against his own, featherlight, and because Zayne is terrible and selfish, he meets her. It is not the way he ever wanted his first kiss with her to go. When they were younger he used to imagine it happening under the bleachers, like in movies, or during a school dance. 

This way, it feels more like a goodbye rather than the beginning he wanted it to be. 

And yet, he doesn't know what it means to her, if anything at all. If she ever felt the same. If he ever had a chance. 

Behind them, the sky begins to glow, drawing bright green ribbons between the stars. 

When they part, there are tears in both of their eyes. Not falling, but they make hers glitter. 

“I'm sorry, Zayne.”

His smile is little and sad, “Never apologize for your own happiness.” Whether it hurts him or not, this is exactly what he has been trying to avoid. Pity, or guilt, for feeling like she's taken something from him that never belonged to him in the first place. 

Mila takes a deep, steadying breath and nods, letting his face go so she can scoot closer and lean against his shoulder. 

“There's actually something else I brought you out here for.” She admits after a moment, as they both turn their gaze to the aurora. It is much brighter than it was in Aspen. Funny, how the two moments feel so similar in his heart. 

“Oh dear.” Zayne says, and is pleased to hear Mila laugh at his response. 

“I'm pregnant.”

He goes still again. Whether or not to offer a congratulations he isn't sure, based on her tone.

“Oh.” A beat. “Are you keeping it?” 

A long inhale that he can feel expanding her chest against his shoulder. She takes his fingers and toys with them idly, a habit from when they were children. 

“Yeah. I am.” 

“Congratulations, then. You'll make a wonderful mother.” And he does mean that wholeheartedly. Mila has always been the right blend of gentle and strict, of feisty and protective. She'll teach her children to hold themselves in high regard, and at the same time tell them when they are wrong. 

She squeezes his hand. “Thanks Zayne. That means a lot coming from you.”

“Does Caleb know?” 

“Not yet. I only found out a few days ago, before we left. Kept getting sick in the mornings, so I bought a test. And before you ask, yes, I got three of them, all different brands.” He chuckles, and turns his hand over to squeeze back.

“When are you planning on telling him?” 

“I don't know… would it be weird if I said something on Thanksgiving?”

Zayne hums, “That depends on whether or not you want pregnancy advice from an orthopedic surgeon and a pediatric oncologist.”

Now Mila laughs, “They wouldn't be that bad, would they? It might even be helpful.”

“I know my parents would both be thrilled to hear the news, if you wanted to share it. Maybe it would get them off my back.”

“Oh yeah!” Mila shoots upright, surprising him, and gives him the same look his mom did earlier today. It makes him shrink back. “That reminds me: who’s Sylus?”

Right now, Sylus is the last thing he wants to talk about.

The women in his life are too perceptive. For the first time ever, he finds himself wishing he was surrounded by Caleb's. Zayne rubs at the spot between his eyebrows. 

“No one.”

“No one? Is that why you looked like you were going to throw up in the car yesterday?” She raises a brow. 

Damn.

Zayne sighs, “Someone I met.”

She looks unimpressed by his answer. In fact, she looks almost like his mother, and clearly wants more information than that. But she also knows him, and knows it's impossible to get information out of him before he's ready to offer it. 

“Do you love him?”

No question about his supposed sexuality, no confusion about the fact that he's just admitted that he's in love with her, and has been for the better part of a decade. Just curiosity. 

Does he love Sylus? It's a question he has been avoiding looking in the face, and he does so now as well. 

“I don't know.” He says, as he looks back at the sky. The northern lights begin to fade. Now, more than before he feels the similarity to this moment and that one with Sylus. Can remember the feeling of holding him in his arms, of the soft intimacy of both these moments. 

Maybe there is something magical in the aurora, in the way it reminds you how unimportant so many things really are. 

“Maybe.”