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Zayne should’ve known when they came tumbling into his life once more, things would change.
Their re-entrance into his life was seemingly nothing– patients came in and out of his office, naturally. He had assumed that was all it would be. Somehow, it wasn't. He had thought they were too far apart for it to even matter. Neither of them are the children they once were. That childhood friendship had faded quickly when Zayne was forced away. They are a hunter now, part of an elite group that risks their lives everyday to save civilians. He is a doctor, a surgeon with the increasing weight of the sick, the hurt on his shoulders. They’re both busy people. He thought that was the end of it. Perhaps he would still have some fondness for them left over from hazy childhood memories, but that would be all.
As time went on, he began to see them more and more. The amount of times they visited the hospital on top of their frequent check ups were alarming, yes, but he’s aware that it was the frequency that allowed them to refamiliarize. A curse and a blessing, wrapped into the chaotic form of a certain hunter. He could talk to them for longer moments without the urgency of their job taking them away— he was their primary care provider, after all— but it was at the expense of their own well-being, nasty bruises and gashes littered across expanses of already-scarred skin. After their checkups (or hospital release, if they were unfortunate), they would both get lunch and talk. They would take walks. Dinner, if they were lucky enough. And on the rare occasions they could match their schedules, the hunter would drag him to the arcade to win yet another toy.
He’s not quite sure what to make of it. Of this.
His actions have been… uncharacteristic of himself. He changed the ringtone for their contact, something bright and chirpy compared to the monotonous default ring. He finds himself checking his phone more and more often, glancing to see if he’s gotten a text from them. He leaves the hospital at more reasonable times and heads to the nearby café with the thought that they might not have had dinner yet. He cheats and uses his evol when the claw at the arcade doesn’t quite close around the awkwardly-shaped plushie correctly, just to see the smile on their face. He even lets them swap hands with him again and again in kitty cards so they can win. He allows them to pose him in frankly ridiculous ways at the photobooth, letting them grab him this way and that to get what they claim to be the best photos.
He’s not stupid— it’s affection, at the very least. But there’s something more to it, something foreign and incomprehensible even to a supposed genius like himself. Affection. He hums and tries it out, tasting the feel on his tongue. No, it’s not just that. Affection is bubbly, affection is soft and peppers his senses with little pops of fondness. Fondness— could that be it? But that also seems far too shallow.
Whatever it is, it wells in his stomach, deep and low. It rolls and begins to heat despite how ice-cold he tends to run. It is fervent, it burns in him.
It’s over dinner that he settles with fondness. He tells them as much, and they blink at him owlishly before scowling, shooting a deadpan glare.
“You! You could've waited until I wasn't stuffing my face,” they groan. They look off to the side, before responding, “... I’m fond of you too.”
Dinner concludes on a light note, conversation flowing easily between them. He drives them home, and he waits patiently. Recent dinners have come with the offer to come in for just a bit, and then they watch a movie on the couch together. His intuition is proven correct when their face turns a little sly.
“Dr. Zayne is busy, but surely he can spare the time for a house call?”
Like a blur, he finds himself hanging his coat and placing his shoes neatly on the shoe rack. He ignores the slight tinge of satisfaction at the sight of his shoes and theirs lined up neatly next to each other. He undoes his tie and drops it to the side, allowing himself the indulgence of popping the first two buttons of his dress shirt. He sinks into the plush couch, eyes closing briefly. He hears the hunter pad into the room, feels the dip of the couch as they recline. He opens his eyes to see them turn on some movie that they both know they won't watch. His breath hitches when they come closer to him, and his arm wraps around their shoulder as they lean in, soft hair falling into frame.
It’s nice. They begin to relax against him in a sure sign of their sleepiness, and he lets them drift off in his hold as he contemplates his uncharacteristic behavior once again.
After long days at the hospital, they open their arms and he willingly lets his head drop into them. There are days where they come over to his apartment and they hover around him, as if they cannot bear to leave yet not quite sure what they want. He begins to indulge them more and more, and he even finds himself dipping into his never-used vacation days to take them on longer day-trips. He invites them to come along to his business trips since they ‘might find it interesting,’ despite knowing full well that the stuffy and overly professional presentations bore them half to death.
What is it that drives this unknown reaction?
He is brought to his days in college. A chemical reaction becomes spontaneous if the total free energy of the products is less than the reactants. Enthalpy, entropy, temperature. A negative enthalpy is favorable, a positive entropy is favorable. Perhaps it is this simple principle that drives his baffling reaction, he thinks amusedly. He hears it echo in his mind, long gone days of his lecturer patiently teaching.
Enthalpy, a change in heat. Is it not true that he has melted, that warmth has been put into his life? So, it is unfavorable (he wonders, then, what it means for the warmth in his life to be unfavorable). But then, he considers the entropy— disorder, uncertainty— that they have brought to his life. Overwhelming in nature. They have disrupted his already disordered life, taking and demanding the space they have. And the temperature— it is no doubt searing to the touch, though touch isn't a particularly accurate measure of heat.
The conclusion? He shifts over to grab the remote, careful not to awaken the sleeping hunter in his arms. He turns down the volume, and tears his eyes away from the vulnerable softness that sleep brings them. He puts on something calming, with no bright or quick flashes. He settles in, all of the tension gone from his shoulders. The thermodynamic approach was fruitless. After all, he already knew.
It is them who drives this mysterious reaction.
“I’m certain my black tie is at your place,” Zayne says. On the other side, he hears a crisp puff, a gentle laugh. His eyes slide past the multitude of ties he has left in his office closet— most of them black anyways. Even the one he wears now is black. The hunter mercilessly teases him and their words make his ears heat.
“The tie is upset because you didn’t leave your other clothes behind,” they say mournfully. His voice catches in his throat at the implication. If they can hear the way his voice hitches to a stop, they ignore it as they continue,“It was so lonely.”
The corner of his mouth ticks up— uncharacteristic, he thinks. A gentle joke falls from his lips to counter that shameless statement (uncharacteristic, he thinks again, and wonders if the frequency of his uncharacteristic behavior actually points to these behaviors becoming part of his character instead): “It seems my tie isn’t familiar with your place. The ones I usually bring over don’t complain like that… They make themselves at home.”
The rest of the call continues on, and his mouth begins to curve more and more. He only has this short break for now. Though he would normally spend this free time doing reports, looking over case files, he finds that this phone call seems to be just as important to him.
”Won’t I look like Zayne if I wear a white shirt and black tie?”
What a dangerous thought. Instead of wearing a shirt from their own closet, his mind immediately jumps to an image of…
”In that case, your resemblance rate with him will be at 85%. To obtain the remaining 15%, you need to switch your shirt with Zayne’s.” He teases into the phone, holding the faux-informational tone steady as his voice dips lower. It wouldn’t be the first time they have worn his clothing— far from it, in truth. Has he not given them his gloves, his scarf, his coat before? But he has to admit that the idea of them wearing his shirt is much different. By no means is he a small man. They could easily slide their arms into the sleeves. The fabric that is tight around his body would hang loose off their frame, the fabric draping around them. It’s appealing. It shouldn’t be appealing. If it were anyone else, the idea makes him sour. He would never give his gloves to Grayson. He would never lend his coat to Yvonne, nor give a scarf to the secretary.
”Oh, that’s easy,” the hunter responds easily. Their voice is mischievous. Too mischievous. “When you stop by later, I’ll just take your shirt.”
“… That’s smart,” Zayne manages. The implication that they’ll simply strip him of his shirt, to keep and wear is a pin-prick to him that he cannot stop thinking of. His mouth is dry as he tries to continue thinking rationally, to counter with a joke. “You already surpassed the original Zayne.”
The call continues from there, and he promises to buy snacks on the way over after his shift before it finally ends.
Once it finishes, he crosses his office with long strides, settling into his chair as his thoughts race. He braces his elbows on the desk, and lets himself drop his face into his hands.
He can’t stop thinking about them.
The curve of their smile. The slope of their shoulders. Their warmth. The way they like to lean into his side as the movie progresses, the way they boldly pull on his tie and in the same moment, shyly trace along his chest with clever fingers.
They truly…
“Come in,” Zayne says, eyes not leaving his computer. He looks at his digital calendar and frowns. His next appointment is scheduled two hours from now. There shouldn’t be any patients that he needs to see, he’s already made his rounds. Like everyday, it’s busy.
“Working as hard as ever,” the hunter greets. Zayne’s lips twitch up into a smile, and he looks up to meet their more-than-welcome gaze. They’re dressed comfortably. Their hair looks like it’s only been brushed for a couple of moments, just until decent. They’re wearing the softest pair of pants, soft enough to be pajamas but still appropriate to wear outside. But the sweater… Of course, they’ve joked about taking his clothes many, many times before (he’s reminded of the call from yesterday, the thought of them stealing his dress shirt and tie for no good reason). But this is the first time he’s seen them take, boldly and shamelessly strolling into his office with his clothes on.
Possession, undeniable, curls deep in his gut at the thought of them, enveloped in him. He never shows up to Akso in his casual clothes either— there’s no way that any of his coworkers would have known that it’s his sweater specifically. Did they have a sweet conversation with the receptionist at the front desk, the sleeves falling far past their hands? Did they pass Grayson and greet them kindly as they always do, with Grayson completely unaware that the oversized sweater belongs to the cold Dr. Zayne? Or did they pass by Yvonne, who has always been more observant— did she see them in that sweater, and immediately understand whose it was?
The thought pleases him. He likes that. Before he can analyze it further, the hunter steps even closer to his desk. The sound of a swishing liquid brings him to the present.
“Just for you! Extra extra sweet, no ice. You know, the lady at the counter always makes fun of how sweet I ask for it— of course, she has no idea that the Dr. Zayne has such a sweet tooth!” They lean over his desk, swirling the milk tea enticingly. They idly gossip and talk, handing over both the cup of milk tea and the straw. He quickly takes both, using his evol to create unmelting ice cubes. He sets the drink down, and cups his hand. He quickly creates a chubby penguin sculpture, and carefully draws a smiling face on it. He hands it over to the hunter, and they smile brightly. Of course, they can't help but tease: “You’ve gotten better at sculpting! It’s so cute!”
“Is that a compliment, or an insult? If you don’t like it, you can always throw it away.” He comments dryly. They let out a small affronted gasp, as if offended that he could even ask that. He ignores them and picks up the cup and straw, smoothly puncturing the cup’s seal with the straw. He lifts it to his lips and takes the first sip. The sweetness hits his tongue, and he allows himself to indulge in it.
“I never throw away your gifts,” the hunter pouts. It’s true, Zayne acknowledges. He’s been to their apartment many many times before. The plush snowman he won them is a permanent resident on their couch, usually tucked into the knitted blue blanket he bought on a whim. The cut flower arrangements have been carefully dried and hung up. There’s a framed photo of them together on the wall. And he knows that in their room is a dedicated display case that contains every sculpture he’s made for them— even those misshapen seals from years and years ago.
They sit on his desk brazenly, and he clicks his tongue in disappointment. They laugh at him, as they always seem to do before explaining: “Relax, Zayne. I made sure to move your documents before I sat. I promise, I wouldn’t do anything to your papers.”
“I never said you would,” he replies. He sets his milk tea far from them, and glances down at the desk. “I simply wonder if my desk can support your weight.”
“R-Rude!” The splutter. He barks out a laugh— they’ve always been so easy to rile. His desk is solid wood. It won’t break easily, even if the hunter decided to lay down on it. They put on a look of faux innocence, which immediately has him on edge. It’s a look that always promises the delicious taste of trouble. They lean in, leaning all the way into his personal space. They whisper mischievously: “Why don’t we test that?”
They come closer and closer— he feels almost drunk on them. They’re so close he can’t bear it. Their natural scent is masked by his own, and the sweater slips just a bit and hangs just enough that he can see the edge of their collarbone. He swallows heavily, and he can feel how their gaze follows the movement.
”Dr. Zayne! The patient wants to know—”
The hunter jerks back at the same time as him. They both turn to Grayson bursting in. Zayne’s face tightens and sharpens severely. The hunter jumps away from his desk, face completely red. Grayson blinks, before turning an impressive shade of red (maybe even more red than the hunter) as he backs away.
“Oh— I, I apologize! I didn’t know, uh, that is, I…” He flounders. “Sorry Dr. Zayne! I didn’t know that your part— no, uh, that they were here! I’ll just… I’ll go! Sorry for interrupting…”
And just like that, Grayson runs out just as quickly as he had come in.
“I’ll go too,” the hunter blurts out. Zayne stands, ready to call out for them but it’s too late. They run out of his office, slamming the door shut behind them with a bang.
He skims through the book they had left and feels the frown on his face deepen.
How completely and utterly inaccurate. And yet, he cannot help but turn the page. And turn the page. The medical inaccuracies glare at him, and poke at his conscience. But the plot… It’s harebrained, it’s simple. He could tell from first glance that it’s a piece of writing destined to fade away over time, a cheap fad.
Romance, love and lust. He’s never been fond of those types of books, but this one draws him in. He wonders if it’s because the characters remind him of the hunter that crashed into his life. Or maybe… Ah. He looks down at the page.
Song Jian ran into the doctor’s arms— they knew more than anything, that it should have been the other way around. Was it not a hunter’s job to protect the civilians, to protect the powerless? But Yu Lin was more than a civilian to them.
The hunter’s hands quickly latched onto the doctor’s lapels, the white coat wrinkling under the force.
“Dr. Yu,” Song Jian called out, panic spiked through their words. One hand moved to grab at the doctor’s tie, and the other was pulled even closer. “I… I can’t let you go!”
“You must,” the doctor rebuked. His words, usually so harsh, came out gently. Song Jian frowned heavily, but Yu Lin wouldn’t let up. “It’s my duty as a doctor to treat the wounded, just like how it is your duty as a hunter to save the helpless.”
Their hands loosened. Song Jian knew that the doctor was right. They knew, but they didn’t want to let him go.
“Behave,” Yu Lin scolded gently. A moment of indecision flashed on his features, and he suddenly bent down to press a sweet, soft kiss to the hunter’s cheek. “I love you. I promise that I will be back…”
Zayne is not the most emotionally intelligent. But now that he sees it, it’s obvious. Indifference had become affection, affection gave way to fondness. Fondness had long given way to something more. From fondness, love had made its way into his emotions. It was so gradual that he couldn’t put a name to it.
He loves them. It seems like a statement that should shift his worldview, leave him untethered with its enormity. But rather than leaving him adrift, he only feels a sense of right. Yes, he does love them. It’s more akin to coming to the correct diagnosis. He feels… content. Satisfied. Loving them does not feel like a shock. Loving them seems natural, like this was the only possible conclusion. Inevitable.
Zayne freezes in place when the door swings wide open.
He’s been caught red-handed.
The hunter pauses when they catch sight of the book. They wobble in place, turning red so quickly that it has Zayne setting down the book to cross over to them and steadying the sway of their body.
”What’s wrong?” Zayne asks, any thoughts of the book already thrown out of his mind. He does an informal check of their temperature with a cool hand— not the most reliable of methods, but still useful. “Are you sick? Have you been taking care of yourself?” He guides them to his couch, now fully in doctor mode. “Sit down, I’ll be back.”
He gets up, intending to go grab his medkit. The hunter grabs at him. He stops stock-still.
”Zayne, I’m fine,” they choke out. He raises an eyebrow because it certainly doesn’t seem that way.
“Don’t lie. You were unsteady, your face was red… Let me check your temperature.” His voice gentles halfway through his words. “Stay.”
“It’s not that! I was just surprised by you reading my book,” the hunter blurts out, covering their face with their hands in embarrassment. “You wouldn’t— I didn't think… Agh!” Zayne pauses, and then slowly turns back to them. He comes closer and takes their hand. It’s calloused from hard work and training. Though he’s in front of them, they seem to not want to look in his eyes. “I just forgot it here!”
”You’re embarrassed,” Zayne states simply. “What for? Is it the shame from reading this kind of material or indirectly exposing the kind of stories you read in your free time? Knowing you… It’s both. Of all the media you consume, this might not be the most high-brow, but it was at least mildly amusing.”
”Don't tease,” they scold. “It’s popular! I just wanted… Wait, you were reading it. You said it’s amusing. You don't ever say that, unless… You liked it?” They gawk at him, and the tension melts from their frame. Their eyes are round with curiosity, and Zayne stifles a chuckle. It’s reminiscent of a small animal. Cute, he thinks. “What did you like about it?” Their embarrassment rolls over them quickly, and the questions come out just as fast. “Do you like the plot a lot? Or is it the setting that’s interesting? What did you think of the characters— are they likeable?”
“You’re quite interested to know my opinions despite being embarrassed about me reading it earlier,” Zayne observes. “Do you value my opinion that much?” His eyes narrow. “I’m not naïve.”
He settles on the couch next to the hunter, leaning over them just a bit. Their breath quickens, their eyes dilate. They fumble to brace themselves. Zayne laughs in their face— they make it too obvious.
“So? Which one do you like more?” Zayne asks, hyper-focused on the way their chest heaves with each deep breath they suck in, the way red flushes from their cheeks and spreads so far along their skin he wonders if it even reaches their calloused fingertips. “Do you like Dr. Zayne, or Dr. Yu Lin more?”
“... I like Dr. Yu Lin the most,” the hunter replies slyly. He can see a spark cross their eyes. Trying to provoke him, hm? They really are too mischievous. Zayne moves slowly, and brings a hand to their waist to support them. They tense, and look at him. A brief moment passes, and then they move a hand to grasp at his offered arm before they speak. “Dr. Yu Lin is very admirable. He’s incredibly rich and talented, not to mention how handsome he is. He’s a very strong character and always tries to do what’s right. He seems cold and distant, but he’s actually very soft to the one he loves the most.”
“Is that what you like in a character?” Zayne questions. He moves his other hand to gently grasp their face, stroking the soft skin with his thumb. Their eyes flutter as they lean into his touch. “It sounds more like a list of desired qualities in a lover.” The hunter moves their arms upwards, slinging them around his neck and pulling him dizzyingly close. He chuckles, low and speaks into their ears with a velvet smoothness: “You’re clingy for someone who just said they prefer a fictional character over me. I’m hurt. It’s not Dr. Yu Lin that wins you plushies or lets you cheat in kitty cards, is it?”
“I was wrong,” the hunter admits breathlessly. “How can I make it up to you?”
“I think you know what I want,” Zayne murmurs, his gaze dipping down to their chapped lips (he’ll need to remind them to use lip balm, it’s not good for them to run around with dry lips). “You’re so eager to please. You tease me— are you admitting your faults because I pointed them out, or are you truly sorry? I don’t know if I can trust your words.”
“You’re terrible,” they huff. The hunter shifts their balance, and resettles them so he’s not leaning over them. He obliges easily (as if he could refuse) and they yank on his tie to bring him closer. Right before they close the gap, they speak in a low voice, “Those stupid ties…” A flash of desire burns in their eyes, intense. Their eyes rake over him hungrily as they pull on his tie even more. He follows the movement of their hands, the way their fingers play with the crisp material of the tie, the way they clench it.
“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this.”
The puff of laughter in his throat dies when they finally close that distance. He pauses for a moment, and desire blooms deep in his chest. He surges forward. Despite their bravado, they easily fold to him. He holds them tighter, and they give up trying to support their weight. He focuses on the soft feeling of their lips, the juxtaposition of the heat that radiates from their mouth. They separate after a while, their breaths intermingling. His eyes darken when he sees the glazed look in their eyes, the high flush painting their cheeks.
His self-control… He should be stronger. He should resist. He lets out a sharp breath, and closes his eyes to escape the temptation. The desire that’s in his system threatens to overflow, but he knows better. It’s a kiss for now, and he should not want for more. He doesn’t want to scare them off with the depth of his desire. Instead, he directs his attention elsewhere. He wraps his arms around them tight and ignores the undignified squeal they let out to twist them both, repositioning so that he falls backwards onto the couch. He lets go of them just enough and moves a hand. He finds it falling into the small of their back as if it’s the most natural thing. Maybe it is.
”Zayne!” They push themselves up, fully intending to scold him. Whatever protest they had on their lips dies at the sight of him, and Zayne smirks. He’s the one to elicit that reaction. Seemingly starstruck, they repeat: “Zayne…”
“That’s me,” he teases softly, any bite gone. Sharpness seems long gone from his thoughts, his personality when he’s surrounded by a fluffy warmth. He relaxes fully into the couch and pulls them down again. This time, he lets his other hand land itself in their hair. He plays with the strands. Soft. Their uneven breath puffs against his neck. His hand trails down from their hair. They shudder as his finger moves and traces down the side of their face, down to their carotid artery. He just barely presses there, just to hear the rhythm of their heart. Rabbit quick. Because of him. He knows it. He knows that he has been the one to cause these reactions. Still, the way that they bare that truth to him now is addicting. He doesn’t know if he could ever have enough.
He closes his eyes, and requests gently: “Stay. Just for a little.”
They’re still tense, but as he coaxes them with gentle fingers smoothing circles into the small of their back and a barely-there pressure against their carotid artery, they relax into him. Though it’s beautiful outside, he closes his eyes.
Their heartbeat thrums under his fingertips.