Hit me harder (II)
Sylus x Zayne / SnowCrow / AU Sylus is a boxer and Zayne his medic.
Synopsis: From broken noses to broken rules, the champion boxer Sylus “The Crow” crosses paths with his stoic ringside doctor, Zayne. As Sylus fights for his fifth title in the ring, Zayne wrestles with his own past fights. Blood, bandages, and something dangerously close to love.
Genre: romance, slow burn, angst, description of blood and broken bones, no major character death, grief, smut
Words: 7.6k // Reading Time: 30min // AO3
Navigator: Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3 - Final
Taglist: @darkeskye @beaconsxd @kaeyasfuturewife @moon335000 @qqnanaqq @bbzaynie @athesists @hirostrvw @blessdunrest @treeteaofversailles @treeteaofversailles @n109zine @sweetcalebb @authorsoso @leaderincrows @silver--47 @hwaberrylemonade @yippie-bug @solemnlyshatteredvagrant @toopolite @sweatybonkhumanoidranch @ultraviolettefan @hwangintakswifey @thechaoticarchivist @potatughpudding @ultraviolettefan @s-viljoen @ceceoboro
(2) Dinner & Wounds
🔊 Opening BGM
Shoving his hands into his coat pockets, Sylus walked past the gates. The silence of the place settled immediately. Willow trees bowed low over narrow paths, their long, sweeping branches swaying gently in the faint, mournful breeze like dark green drapery. Stone markers rose on either side, endless rows carved with names and dates.
He didn’t know exactly where he was supposed to look. Zayne, in all their intense, adversarial sessions, had never spoken a single personal detail. Was he visiting family? Or an old friend? Sylus remembered, vaguely, that Zayne had served in the military, perhaps he was here for a fallen comrade.
Gravel crunched under Sylus’s boots as he walked slowly along the narrow path. A cold wave of self-reproach washed over Sylus as he took in the sheer scale of the cemetery. He realized how little he truly knew about the man who now occupied so much of his mind. So many years of professional interaction, and yet, he felt a sting of guilt for not caring earlier. He had, perhaps, noticed Zayne in some moments, more reserved and icier than ever. His hand inside his coat pocket slowly curled into a fist. Friend? He could start there. He had to start somewhere. The vast, quiet field of the dead seemed to demand that he approach the living with more depth and sincerity.
Sylus looked around the quiet, hallowed grounds. He had never had someone to grieve for here. Even with his life constantly displayed on every gossip magazine and sports column, few people knew the quiet endurance he had practiced, the silent struggles he had before Lev finally took him under his wing. In this vast place dedicated to loss, Sylus felt a strange, quiet solitude. He turned a corner, the rows of markers stretching endlessly ahead.
Sylus slowed, then stopped a short distance away. The familiar, rigid figure standing before a headstone. Zayne was dressed entirely in black and a small, neat bundle of white flowers resting at the base of the grave. Unwilling to intrude on such a private moment of grief, Sylus stayed where he was. He could see Zayne’s lips moving as they formed a faint, heartbreaking smile. It was only after that private, ghostly expression faded that Zayne seemed to return to the present. He straightened his shoulders, and as if sensing another presence. Zayne’s eyes lifted from the inscription on the stone. They traveled across the peaceful cemetery grounds and landed, directly on Sylus. The faint, sad smile vanished as if it had never been there. In its place was the familiar, cold mask Sylus knew so well.
The silence of the cemetery followed them back to the parking lot. Two cans clattered into the tray of the vending machine. Zayne handed one over without looking, the metal warm against Sylus’s palm. They stood side by side, steam curling into the cool air.
“Then,” Zayne said at last, his voice low but steady, “what were you doing here?”
Sylus took a slow sip, letting the heat linger on his tongue. He glanced sideways at Zayne. “Nothing special.”
The lie hung between them. Zayne exhaled, the sigh carrying more weight than the steam rising from his coffee can. “That girl should’ve kept her mouth shut…” His tone was flat, but the edge of irritation was unmistakable. He knew Sylus was here because he was looking for him. “Will you not ask why I’m here?” Sylus gaze moved on the hill beyond the parking lot, where the willows bent low over. The late evening breeze tugged faintly at his hair.
“No,” he said calmly, Sylus finally turned, meeting his gaze for the first time since they’d left the graves behind. “She said you might need a friend. So, I’m here.”
“You’re a terrible choice for a friend.” Sylus huffed, the corner of his mouth twitching into a smirk.
“Probably,” he admitted.
The silence stretched. Zayne shifted his weight, his eyes fixed also on the dark shapes of the trees beyond. He felt the familiar, painful tug-of-war: the need to keep the wall up, and the unsettling comfort of Sylus’s presence right beside him. Zayne took another long breath. “I was visiting my former fiancée…”
Sylus straightened a little, the casual warmth from the coffee leaving him. The silence that followed was laced with genuine sorrow. Zayne didn’t look at him, staring straight ahead into the gray afternoon light. “Life was… effortless with her,” he continued with a brittle tone. “She made it easy. She was everything that I, regrettably, am not. However, I was incapable of providing her what she needed the most. We got into a terrible fight and she ended the engagement. She left, hurt and angry. And I… I went back to the hospital to work…” His jaw tightened so hard the muscles jumped beneath his skin. “Hours later… he was involved in a traffic accident and passed away.”
Zayne had fallen madly in love with that sweet woman, in a way he never thought himself capable of. The first time their eyes met was in the little pastry shop where he picked up his weekly order: macarons, cookies and the special tart of the week. That winter afternoon, the entire shop seemed to shift when she walked in. The cold melted away beneath the warmth of her smile. The boxes of sweets in his hands suddenly seemed far less appetizing compared to the brightness standing across from him. It was love at first sight, though he hardly dared admit it. Seeing the hesitation in his eyes, she smiled again, softer this time, and wished him a good afternoon after picking up her order.
By some twist of fortune, their paths began to cross more often. Chance meetings turned into short conversations, short conversations into lingering moments, until slowly, carefully, they became friends. And then, inevitably into lovers. For the first time in his life, Zayne allowed himself to live in a dream. To come home to laughter, to warmth, to the tender gravity of being loved. Being with her filled a part of him he hadn’t known was empty. But fairy tales never last forever. As time passed, cracks appeared in the perfect picture. Long shifts at the hospital turned into longer nights. Incompatible schedules wore thin. Days blurred into weeks where he barely came home at all. The sweetness faded. And so did she.
Sylus remained speechless for a long, silent moment, entirely unprepared for the sudden vulnerability Zayne had laid bare. Sylus tightened his grip on the coffee can, choosing his words with care. “I am profoundly sorry to hear that.”
Zayne shook his head immediately, a sharp, dismissive motion. “Don’t be,” he stated, devoid of emotion but heavy with conviction. “It was my fault.”
Sylus frowned, crimson eyes narrowing. “How…?”
“I couldn’t save her.” The confession fell like a weight between them. Sylus studied him for a long moment, while Zayne hesitated to talk about that day or not, while he replayed it for a million times in his mind.
Zayne had been doing his ordinary rounds that day, though nothing about him felt ordinary. His chest was still hollow from the fight, from the ugly sound the suitcase made clattering through the hall as she stormed out. How had things gone so wrong?
“I hate you.”
He’d stood there frozen, hands trembling, unable to breathe. There had been so many things he wanted to say — don’t go, I didn’t mean it, please — but his voice had abandoned him, like she had. The words cut him into a million pieces, and yet he had remained composed, on the outside at least. He sighed, bracing himself against the sterile corridor wall. This was going to be the hardest shift of his life. He knew in his state he shouldn’t be anywhere near an operating table. But in the hospital, there was no room for heartbreak. He exhaled shakily, forcing himself to move. Patients still needed him.
Now the hospital lights burned too bright, and every sound grated against his nerves. The laughter from the nurses’ station felt cruel. The smell of disinfectant made him nauseous. He finished his last patient with automatic words, not hearing himself speak.
He walked into his office, for a long moment, he just stood there — staring at the empty chair across the room, the one she used to sit in when she waited for him to finish paperwork. He thought he’d known pain before. This was different.
A soft knock broke the silence, before a familiar figure came into the office. “Zayne? I haven’t seen you in the meeting. Everything okay?” Dr. Greyson’s voice carried a mix of concern and kind of surprise. Zayne looked up from the monitor, his eyes unfocused, the blue glow washing his face pale. For a second, he didn’t even understand the question.
“Which—?” He blinked. Then it hit him. The meeting. He’d completely missed it. He exhaled slowly, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Shit… the department meeting.”
Greyson stepped into the room. “You look pale.”
“Thanks,” Zayne muttered, forcing a dry laugh that didn’t sound like him. “Guess I forgot.”
“Forgot?” Greyson frowned, studying him. “You never forget anything.”
Zayne leaned back in his chair, eyes darting to the corner of the room where her jacket used to hang. “Yeah. There’s a first time for everything.”
Greyson hesitated, the tension heavy in the air. “You sure you’re alright?”
Zayne’s throat worked before he answered. “Yeah.” The word came out rough, hollow. “Just tired.”
Greyson didn’t buy it. “You look worse than tired, Zayne. Did something happen with—”
“Don’t.” He cut in. Zayne pushed back his chair, moving fast. “I’m going to the ER,” he said. “They probably need some help.”
“Zayne…” But he was already walking past him. Greyson stood there for a moment.
The ER was loud, like always. Zayne kept his focus tight, clinging to the motions like they were the only thing keeping him upright. He moved from station to station, answering nurses, checking vitals, stitching a gash on a teenager’s eyebrow.
“Got into a fight,” the nurse murmured beside him.
“Yeah,” Zayne replied absently, voice flat. “Looks like he lost.” He smiled faintly at the kid but his hands trembled for half a second before he steadied them. The boy winced as the needle went in. Another siren wailed in the distance until it stopped nearby. “Ambulance incoming,” someone called out. Zayne finished the stitches, and left the boy in the nurse’s hand. He stripped off his gloves, tossed them aside, and grabbed a new pair. Moments later, the double doors burst open. Paramedics rushed in, their voices overlapping.
“Child, female, seven years old! Broken femur, unconscious!” The Paramedics pushed through with a small body on the stretcher, monitors beeping wildly. “A car accident. Another victim is coming in.”
“Box Two!” the ER chief barked. Zayne’s heartbeat blurred into the din of the ward. He watched, detached, as everyone moved with automatic precision, following the standard protocol. Finally some action. A crisis where logic was paramount and personal grief was irrelevant. He could put his mind completely off the fight, off of her, and off of the paralyzing weight of the break-up. He could bury himself entirely in the immediate, desperate work that lay ahead.
“Dr. Zayne…” Dr. Greyson rushed into the ER before he could reach him and the doors flew open again. Another stretcher was pushed in.
“Female, twenty-eight. Tried to save the child from being hit by a car. Severe head trauma, multiple broken bones.” For a breath, he couldn’t move. His vision narrowed, the sterile light overhead tilting, and still the stretcher rolled forward. All he could hear was the echo of her voice from hours earlier.
“I hate you.”
The sound pressed in, unbearable. His chest seized. “Dr. Zayne!” Greyson’s voice sounded distant, muffled, like underwater.
“Dr. Zayne? Doc?” Sylus voice brought Zayne back from these immersive thoughts. “You look pale. Was wrong?”
“Nothing…” Zayne dismiss it.
“Probably you did the best you could.” Zayne’s head turned slightly, his expression shifted hardening in an instance, daring Sylus to repeat that. For a long moment, Zayne’s mind formed a dozen denials that only got caught in his throat. He should argue and correct him. He should tell him that the blood of his beloved was on his hand and clothes that night, every detail of how he tried to save her life. Sylus watched him for a beat, then huffed softly, the corner of his mouth twitching. “You know,” he drawled, tilting his can toward Zayne, “for someone who’s supposed to be my doctor, you’re terrible at following your own advice.”
Zayne’s gaze flicked up, wary. “...?”
Sylus smirked faintly. “You tell me to rest, eat right. Judging by the dark ring under your eyes, you haven't taken care of yourself.” Zayne gave him a flat look, but there wasn’t real opposition to his words. Just the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth, almost a ghost of a smile. Sylus grinned wider, satisfied. There he is.
Zayne gave a faint huff. “Didn’t realize my patient had turned into my mirror.”
“Someone has to hold you accountable, Doctor.” Sylus finished his coffee. “Guess I’ll have to keep an eye on you, too. Even the great Dr. Li needs a babysitter.” Sylus pushed himself off the vending machine, crushing the empty can in his hand before tossing it into the bin. “Come on,” he said. “I invite you to dinner.”
After that night, something between them shifted. The banter and arguments didn’t vanish if anything, they still clashed over every little thing but underneath the sharp words was a soft closeness. Zayne saw past the fighter’s swagger to the thoughtful, surprisingly patient man who collected old music. Sylus, in turn, discovered the dry wit and quiet depth beneath the doctor’s rigid formality.
Sylus knew that passing that cold wall, it would take more than a nice dinner and probably more time but he was willing to wait. There was also no guarantee that Zayne would ever be interested in him in that way, but for now, this hesitant step from “doctor and patient” to “friends” was enough. He was simply happy to be standing closer to the light.
On the calendar, circled in red, was the date of the final match. The countdown had begun. Sylus threw himself back into training with his usual ferocity. Mornings started with runs through the quiet streets, afternoons in the gym hammering heavy bags until his knuckles ached. And the evenings reviewing footage of his own past fights and the movements of the man he’d face in the ring. Every detail mattered and weakness was a weapon.
Coach Lev kept him stocked with the usual reports: reach, footwork, favored punches as Zayne dropped by after nearly every training session or even in the mornings. Sylus would find Zayne already waiting outside ready to jog beside him. Sylus was intensely amused to realize that Zayne was actually better at running than him, setting a brutal, steady pace that left the champion fighting to keep up.
Evenings were warm with the faint crackle of oil from the pan, the smell of garlic and herbs drifting through the apartment. Zayne stood at the stove, with several recipe books open. On the counter, neat containers waited to be filled: grilled salmon rich in omega-3s, steamed broccoli dusted with sesame seeds, and roasted sweet potatoes — slow carbs to fuel endurance. Zayne’s calculated balance of protein, complex carbs, and iron. No sauces. No sugar. High protein. Controlled fats.
“It feels good to be back to training,” Sylus said, his voice loose with satisfaction as he stretched on the mat in the middle of the living room. His arms lifted above his head, joints popping, spine arching before he folded forward with a low exhale.
Zayne gave a noncommittal hum, stirring the pan. “I hope you don’t miss the broken nose,” he said dryly.
Sylus chuckled, dragging a hand along the bridge of his face before touching the tip of his nose lightly. “Don’t worry, Doc. Gonna be careful.”
The words were tossed casually, but Zayne’s eyes lifted all the same. His gaze caught on the long lines of muscle shifting across Sylus’s back; the definition carved by weeks of training, the ripple and flex with every stretch, almost feline. His eyes traveled meticulously the broad arc of those shoulders, the powerful slope of his spine, and the sharp taper of his waist into the low-slung training shorts. Sylus was more than just strong; he was breathtakingly, unfairly beautiful. “Doc,” he drawled, “if you keep staring, dinner’s gonna burn.” His fingers tightened subtly on the spatula before he forced his gaze back to the pan.
Zayne stiffened almost imperceptibly. “I was making sure you don’t tear a muscle,” he replied evenly. Sylus’s lips parted in a lazy grin. Without a word, he crossed to the counter stealing one of the steam broccoli from the container. Zayne just shook his head smiling for himself. Sylus plucked a bottle of red from the rack, and uncorked it with practiced ease. The liquid poured a dark ribbon into two glasses. “You shouldn’t drink,” Zayne said, not looking up as he prepared the two plates with their dinner.
“Just a bit,” Sylus replied smoothly. “Not going to get drunk. Besides,” he added, moving closer to Zayne caging him casually against the counter with his body, as he whispered. “I’ve got someone here to keep an eye on me, don’t I?” Zayne finally glanced up, turning his head to see Sylus over his shoulder. Sylus caught the flicker in those green eyes.
“I don’t drink.” Zayne stated.
“Is that so?” Sylus smirked, stepping back just enough to allow Zayne room to maneuver. “A shame. It’s actually very good.” He set both glasses on the table anyway. “I’m going to change.” Zayne watched Sylus walk away, his gaze tracking the athletic line of the boxer’s back. When Sylus disappeared in his room, Zayne let out a breath. He could feel his heart rate had perceptibly increased. Sylus surely was playing with his mind like always, using that effortless charm and sheer physical presence, likely just to torture him for no good reason at all.
In any case, even if Zayne would have entertained the simple idea that Sylus was actually trying to flirt with him, he wouldn't have gotten it. Zayne was definitely not good at this. Even back then, with his late fiancée, it had taken several months of overt signals and patient explanation for Zayne to finally take the hint that she was interested in him romantically.
Zayne placed the arranged dinner plates absently on the table, his mind still caught in the proximity and heat of the moment before.
“Missed me?” Sylus whispered right behind Zayne’s ear. The doctor jumped mentally, but his years of surgical training instantly clamped down, allowing him to place a flawless poker face over his panic. “No,” he stated flatly, sitting down.
“Huh... that”s unfortunate,” Sylus replied, his amusement palpable even before he took his seat across from Zayne.
Dinner passed in the steady rhythm of conversation. Zayne mostly listened, something that came naturally to him, but he had to admit, Sylus was far more cultivated than he’d assumed at the beginning. The man who swaggered through press conferences and sparring rings alike could quote philosophers, discuss market shifts, or deconstruct the moral decay of corporate systems. All with the same easy charm he used to provoke him during checkups.
Zayne found himself responding more, matching his pace, throwing in questions. Sometimes Sylus’s phrasing was playful, dangerously so, words layered with double meanings that made Zayne’s pulse skip before he could disguise it behind a dry remark.
By now, Zayne has realized that his own apartment felt sterile, almost impersonal but Sylus’s place, though… felt like a home. Soft lighting. The flicker of candles. A cozy sofa that seemed to swallow you whole. Stacks of books and half-finished notebooks resting on the table. Even the faint scent of coffee, spicy and leather clinging to the air gave the place a strange comfort.
“You read Kafka?” Sylus asked, lips curving around the question like he already knew the answer.
“A few times,” Zayne replied, sipping his water to hide his smirk. “Didn’t know boxers were into existentialism.”
Sylus’s grin widened. “I like challenges.” Zayne’s eyes lifted, catching the weight behind the words. Sylus leaned back, savoring the last of his wine while Zayne took out a small box from the fridge. Inside sat a lemon tart, golden, delicate, and perfectly arranged picked up from his favorite patisserie on the way to Sylus place. Special of the week, written neatly on the sticker. “Doc…” Sylus set down his glass. “Isn’t it unfair to eat that in front of me?”
Zayne didn’t even spare him a glance. This was the moment of the week. “I don’t think so,” he said flatly, already cutting a precise slice with his fork.
Sylus hummed, leaning forward, elbows on the table. “Actually, you’re quite the sweet tooth, aren’t you?”
“I just enjoy good patisserie,” Zayne replied as a faint smile ghosted his lips. The fork touched his tongue, the glorious taste of the lemon tart’s sweetness and acid eased every tension in his body. Sylus caught the rare softness flicker across his face like sunlight through glass. Zayne’s fork moved and cut the tart into perfect, even pieces. It was such a Zayne thing to do. When the doctor lifted another bite to his lips, Sylus snatched the fork out his hand and stole the bite. Zayne froze mid-motion.
“Mmh.” Sylus chewed, smirking and then he blinked once, twice, his expression twisting. “Is really sweet.”
Zayne straightened, flush rising along his neck slightly coloring his ears. “It’s not that sweet,” he said defensively. What Sylus didn’t know was that the patisserie-shop made Zayne’s tarts a little differently, a private arrangement. Weekly order, Dr. Li. Extra sugar, just as you like it. Sylus licked the rest of the custard from his lips. Zayne went back to eating, trying to ignore the amused glint in Sylus’s crimson eyes.
“You measure protein to the milligram, but you drown yourself in sugar.”
Zayne’s fork paused halfway to his mouth. “Sugar is a simple carbohydrate that is metabolized rapidly, supplying necessary glucose for optimal cerebral function. I’m simply maintaining cognitive efficiency to perform my duties.”
“I can see that,” Sylus murmured. He leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand. “I don't think I’ve ever met someone so dedicated to the balance of the human body, only to maintain such a perfectly unbalanced life themselves. It’s actually kind of beautifully ironic.”
Zayne shifted uncomfortably. “I don’t think so,” he deflected quickly, pushing his glasses up his nose. “It’s hardly anything to praise.”
“You think so? Umm… In my eyes it is,” Sylus were practically staring at Zayne. The silence stretched as Sylus’ expression shifted. “You know…” Sylus began, almost lazily. Zayne looked up, wary, chewing the cake slowly. “I like you. A lot.”
Zayne froze, mid-bite, then choked violently, the piece of cake halfway down the wrong pipe. He coughed, eyes watering, grabbing the nearest glass and downing it in a single, desperate gulp. When Zayne finally lowered the glass, clearing his throat, realization flickered across his face, the faint sweetness on his tongue, the unmistakable taste of wine.
“Well, well… look at that.” Sylus tilted his head, smirk deepening. He nodded toward the empty glass. “Was it good?”
“I don’t think that’s a wise choice,” Zayne said finally, wiping the corner of his mouth with a napkin. “I’m not that likable.”
“Don’t underestimate yourself,” he murmured. Sylus didn’t let Zayne off the hook, he leaned forward slightly. “If I like you, I like you. It’s simple.”
Zayne’s jaw tightened. “Nothing about it is simple.”
Sylus didn't back down. He kept the intensity steady, pushing gently but firmly for the truth. “Then enlighten me,” he said softly. “Why isn’t it?”
“Because you and I operate from fundamentally different premises. Also I think you confuse fascination with genuine attachment. What you perceive as liking is merely the novelty of something outside your usual scope. You’ll get tired of it.”
Sylus let out a soft breath that might have been a laugh. “Novelty fades? Fascination is fleeting. But curiosity about the true nature of a person is the hallmark of sincere interest,” Sylus countered smoothly. “And if I were merely intrigued, Doctor, I wouldn’t be sharing even a meal with you. Besides,” Sylus lifted his chin, his crimson eyes holding Zayne’s with an unnerving tenderness, “even if you’re the man of logic, I suspect you understand the illogical heart better than you let on.”
The faint, persistent color that had been creeping up Zayn’s neck finally reached his cheeks, dusting them with a soft, reluctant blush. He cleared his throat and for several minutes, Zayne deflected and the two continued their argument, or rather, their dance of push and pull. With every minute, the alcohol worked on Zayne, making him progressively drunk and increasingly funny to watch. Sylus were highly entertained as the man unraveled before his eyes. His words came slower, his sentences tripped over themselves, tangling in the wrong order as though he’d downed the entire bottle instead of a single glass. One moment he was rambling about some complicated medical procedure, the next he was muttering about childhood winters and his grandfather’s garden. Sylus slid a glass of water across the table every so often just to keep Zayne from collapsing outright.
“You’re adorable like this, Doc,” Sylus drawled, enjoying the undeniable victory in their verbal sparring. However Zayne, the empty water glass dangling almost lazily from his fingers, turned toward fully and blinked with those slightly unfocused green eyes. The formality had slipped, replaced by a sudden, devastating honesty.
“You are so secure about liking me, Sylus. If you feel so much, why do you still call me Doc? We knew each other for so long, and still you are the one who keeps the distance.” His words cracked visibly on the last part. Zayne’s lips parted again, his expression tightening, instantly regretting the vulnerable admission and desperately wanting to take the words back. In that exact instant, Sylus’s eyes widened and softened. Sylus saw Zayne who was fighting against his own feelings, exposed and slightly clumsy. He is so adorable.
Sylus propped his elbow on the table, resting his check on his head. This man is going to kill him at his rate, and as if it was a spell he said:
“Zayne…”
The doctor didn’t answer, only met his gaze through the haze of warmth and wine, his eyes glassy but clear enough to show everything he couldn’t put into words. It made Sylus rise from his seat without even realizing it. He took in every detail, drinking it in: the faint pink spread across Zayne’s cheeks, the slight slack in his posture, the way the hard edges of his face had melted, and his eyelids were hanging lower. All from a single glass of wine. Illegal, Sylus thought, that expression should be illegal. No one else should see Zayne like this. He’d make damn sure of it.
The thought burned through him and before he could think twice, his hand lifted and tilted Zayne’s chin upward. Sylus bent, closing the distance in a single heartbeat, and pressed his mouth to Zayne’s. The kiss landed soft but scorching, tasting the richness of red wine, the rough notes of fruits and incredibly sweet lemon note on Zayne lips. Zayne inhaled sharply against him but Sylus didn’t pull back. He pressed closer, tilting Zayne’s chin even higher. Zayne’s hand went up uncertain at first, finding the fabric of Sylus’s shirt.
Sylus’s pulse leapt. The teasing smirk he’d worn earlier was gone. The doctor’s lips parted under his, breaths mingling in a heated rush, and suddenly the distance they had guarded so carefully collapsed like it had never been there at all. Zayne raised to his feed. Sylus’s mouth curved into a slow, dangerous smirk. His thumb brushed along Zayne’s jaw as he leaned closer. “I’ve never seen you lose control…” His words lingered against his skin before his teeth caught Zayne’s lower lip, biting just enough to draw a sharp breath from him.
Zayne’s response was immediate. He caught Sylus’s mouth again, and a harsh deep whimper came from Zayne as he tangled his tongue with Sylus’s one. When he pulled back, his voice was hoarse, eyes burning with a clarity that cut through the haze of wine. “You wanted to see me like this?” Sylus laughed softly against him, pleased, before swallowing his mouth in another hungry kiss. The clink of glass echoed over the table as one of them knocked a glass down.
They stumbled toward the sofa until Sylus pushed Zayne down against the cushions, pinning him with the weight of his body. The hard length pressed against him through the thin barrier of their pants made Sylus hiss, his own cock straining, throbbing with every shift of their bodies. He palmed Zayne through the fabric, savoring the way the doctor arched against the touch, breath ragged, all his rigid composure shattered under him.
“Fuck…” Sylus muttered, biting at Zayne’s jaw. Zayne groaned as their hips ground together. Sylus drank it greedily the sound of Zayne unraveling beneath him. He could feel the edge of surrender in every movement, every gasp, and it only drove him harder, hungrier, ready to take him further…
And then the shrill buzz of a phone shattered the moment. The vibration rattled across the coffee table, the screen lighting up with the hospital’s insignia. Sylus broke the kiss with a sharp tsk, forehead pressing to Zayne’s as his crimson eyes burned with frustration. The phone rattled again, insistent. Zayne shoved Sylus light away and snatched the phone off the table.
“Dr. Li.” Zayne stood near the window with hair disheveled, shirt half untucked, still breathing but his tone dropped instantly into its usual clipped precision. Sylus leaned back on the sofa, licking the taste of Zayne on his lips. The call dragged on, ten… maybe twenty minutes. Sylus lost count. Zayne paced the length of the living room, phone pressed to his ear. His Instructions rattled off like clockwork: medications, schedules, protocols. When he finally ended the consultation he let out a long sigh, shoulders sagging as he lowered the phone. Sylus tilted his head. What a fucking ability to mask. Sylus smirked faintly to himself. Was he even drunk? Or does he just choose when to be? Either way, it only made him want him more.
“I should leave,” he said quietly.
“Stay...” The silence stretched. “I’m not going to bite you…” he drawled playful. “Not unless you want me to.” The tease cut through the heaviness, but it didn’t erase it. If anything, it twisted the tension tighter. Zayne’s lips pressed into a line. Sylus tilted his head, as he added softly, “So? What’s it gonna be?”
Zayne’s lips curved, not quite a smile, more the ghost of one. He shook his head slowly, exhaling through his nose. “You never know when to quit,” he said, his voice dry.
Sylus’s grin widened, satisfaction glinting over his face. “Why would I,” he murmured, “when I’m finally getting somewhere?”
The soft rustle of clothes with the rough edge of breath, faster, heavier, until there was nothing left but heat and closeness. Bodies pressed together, mouths meeting in hungry, uneven rhythm. Sylus wasn’t sure if Zayne had ever laid with a man before but from the way he kissed, the way his hands gripped and pulled, it seemed to be very much to his liking. So Sylus took the lead. Guiding him through the haze, coaxing the doctor past hesitation until Zayne’s breath broke in a gasp.
Sylus tugged his own shirt open, the snap of buttons echoing faintly in the room as he pulled the fabric down and off, shirtless his hands immediately found the few buttons Zayne had left undone on his own dress shirt during the frantic exchange. Sylus slipped his fingers inside the starched cotton, deftly pushing the material down Zayne’s shoulders. Revealing the pale, sensitive skin of Zayne’s collarbone and the delicate curve of his neck. Sylus lowered his head and began to press hot, seeking kisses along the newly exposed skin.
For Zayne, Sylus’s touch was terrifying, the warmth in it, the softness even when the kisses were so demanding. A kind of tenderness he hadn’t let himself believe in for years. He knew why he was letting it go this far. He knew the danger of it. The fear clawed at him, whispering warnings from the corners of his mind, but another part of him didn’t want to stop.
Sylus’s fingers moved down, passing the open pants and boxer, closing around Zayne’s hard cock. The world narrowed to that single, breathtaking point of contact. Zayne let out a strangled sound, half-gasp, half-sob, as Sylus’s thumb brushed the sensitive tip. This heat, this terrifying, all-consuming heat, was exactly what Zayne wanted, needed to burn away the cold, quiet guilt that lived perpetually in his chest. He arched his back, pressing himself fully into Sylus’s palm. He felt the familiar, frantic rhythm of his desire escalating, pushing him toward the edge. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to let the raw sensation override the relentless whisper of memory.
Sylus leaned in, his lips brushing Zayne’s ear. “Let go, Zayne. Let me have you.” The words were an irresistible demand, echoing in the empty chamber of Zayne’s own perceived unworthiness. He didn’t deserve this release, this pleasure, this new chance at a warmth he’d destroyed once before.
You’re incapable of love.
The adrenaline of panic flooded his system, the cold reality of his past sins rushing in to meet the promise of his current joy. Zayne gasped, his whole body going rigid, the rising heat of his arousal instantly replaced by a paralyzing, icy fear. He pushed up with a sudden, panicked strength, catching Sylus off guard.
“Stop!” He shoved against Sylus’s chest, his own hands trembling as they scrambled to pull up his shirt and clumsily push his trousers back up over his exposed, desperate body. Sylus recoiled, utterly confused, his eyes wide and full of shock. He was still half-over Zayne, his own desire visible, straining against the confines of his pants.
“What’s wrong?” Sylus moved aside to let Zayne breathe. His crimson eyes caught the light, worry flickering through the fire.
Zayne’s hands were shaking too violently to properly fasten his trousers, and he didn’t care. He needed distance. He needed air. He needed to be anywhere but under the scrutiny of those demanding eyes. “I can’t. I…” His breath hitched, the simple effort of speaking agonizing. He avoided Sylus’s concerned gaze, looking instead at the door, the only escape route. “This... this is inappropriate. This is a complete violation of… every boundary.” The words were rote, the clinical phrases of a professional drowning out the desperate cries of the man beneath.
“Zayne, you’re trembling. Look at me.” He reached out, but Zayne flinched violently away. “Okay, I won’t…”
“I shouldn’t have allowed it to go this far. I…” Zayne’s voice broke. He couldn’t articulate the truth, that the terror of feeling something again was too great a price to pay for this temporary, stolen pleasure. He reached for the door handle.
“Zayne, wait!” Sylus’s voice was sharp, his face etched with confusion, hurt, and a simmering anger. “Talk to me” Zayne met his eyes for a split second, and in that moment, the ancient guilt of the man who thought he deserved nothing was laid bare.
“You should look for another doctor,” he whispered. He pulled the door open and bolted leaving Sylus completely stunned. For a few seconds, Zayne just stood there in the hallway before he walked fast out. He fumbled with the lobby door, finally bursting out onto the street and into the immediate, cold shock of the rain. Heavy downpour that instantly plastered his shirt to his back and soaked the hair he’d just run his hands through.
His heartbeat thundered in his ears, the remnants of Sylus’s touch still ghosting over his skin. He pressed a hand to his chest. It did nothing to steady the pounding beneath it. His lungs refused to cooperate, dragging in shallow, stuttering gasps that only made it worse. Breathe. You know how to fix this. In. Out. But his own training slipped right through his fingers. He loosened the collar of his shirt, trying to get air, but it didn’t help. His chest still felt too tight, like the air wasn’t reaching deep enough.
What had he done? Zayne walked fast, almost stumbling, his vision swam, narrowed down to a tunnel of light and pavement. He stopped abruptly beneath a streetlight. Water droplets slid down from the metal awning above, splashing against his shoes.
A piercing, steady piiiiiiiiii filled his ears, drowning everything else. His previous, terrible thought of “finally some action” returned with devastating clarity. How could he have thought like that? The sound pressed in, unbearable. His chest seized. “Dr. Zayne!” Greyson’s voice sounded distant, muffled, like underwater. “Zayne!”
They wheeled her in fast, the gurney streaked with red. His gaze locked onto the silver chain nestled amidst the dark blood on her neck: the necklace, the one he’d bought for her last Christmas. Blood matted her hair, ran in dark rivulets down her temple, soaking into the collar of her coat. Her face was barely recognizable beneath the swelling and lacerations, glass still glittering in the wounds. Her body was broken in too many places at once. His lungs dragged in air unevenly, before something in him snapped back into place.
“Box One,” he ordered sharply. His voice didn’t betray the storm clawing up his throat. His hands, though, shook just faintly from the effort of holding them still. “I’m taking her.”
Greyson grabbed his arm, voice urgent. “Zayne—no. You can’t—”
“How long has she been down?” Zayne cut him off, releasing himself from Greyson’s grip. “Call neurology. She’ll need a CT immediately. Also someone from Trauma. NOW!”
And with that, he pushed through, refusing to let the weight of recognition slow him down. The room was chaotic. Alarms wailed, the noisy piiiiiii of the monitor cutting through every order shouted across the sterile air. Nurses rushed to prep lines, to press gauze, to suction. Zayne pressed gloved hands to her chest, the fabric beneath already soaked scarlet, and began compressions with relentless precision.
“She’s still bleeding too much. Where is Neurology?” Zayne’s voice cut through the din, steady but clipped, his hands moving with mechanical precision as he clamped down on the wound.
Greyson shoved in behind him, voice sharp. “Zayne, leave. You can’t attend her—”
“I’m doing my job,” Zayne snapped, already stripping his gloves off and snapping on a fresh pair. His voice was flat, almost eerily calm, but his eyes burned.
Greyson grabbed his arm again. “This isn’t just a patient, and you know it—”
Zayne ripped free. “Help me or get out, Dr. Greyson.” The room froze for half a second, the weight of the words hanging heavy under the shriek of the monitor. Nurses exchanged tense glances, waiting for orders, their hands trembling above trays of instruments. His gaze was locked on the mangled face before him, the blood pooling too fast, the oxygen mask fogging shallowly against her lips. Greyson exhaled sharply, frustration cutting through his restraint. “Fine.”
And the chaos surged forward once more. Time bent. Stretched. Every second dragged like an eternity. Zayne’s world narrowed to the rise and fall beneath his hands, to the rhythm of compressions, to the endless rotation of gauze and clamps slick with blood. The monitor shrieked one last time, the jagged green line stuttering, then flattening into a steady, merciless tone. Piiiiiiiiiiiii.
“Adrenaline!” Zayne barked. He turned to the nurse, hand outstretched. “Now.” The syringe slapped into his palm, the plunger ready. He injected it with practiced speed, his voice hard, controlled. “We’re going to bring her back.” The team moved around him, but every sound was drowned beneath the pounding in his ears. Her face was pale, too pale. “Charge to two hundred,” he ordered, his voice cutting through the noise. “Clear.” The body on the table jolted, lifeless again the moment after. Zayne’s throat tightened, but he didn’t stop. “Charge to three hundred. Again!” Another jolt. Nothing.
“Zayne—” Greyson tried again.
“Pupils fixed,” a nurse whispered, voice small, as though afraid to say it out loud.
Zayne’s chest heaved. “No. Again.”
Greyson’s tone hardened, pressing. “Zayne.”
“Again!” Zayne roared, his voice cracking at the edges, fury and terror bleeding through at once. “She deserves—” His hands shook as he pressed down on the compressions himself, teeth clenched. “Come back. Don't leave me.”
Greyson caught his wrist mid-compression, grip iron-strong. “Enough. She’s gone.”
Zayne’s head snapped toward him, eyes wild. The monitor sang its long, merciless note. Piiiiiiii. Greyson’s glaze softened, almost breaking. Zayne’s hands stopped. He knew it, when he saw that amount of blood… He couldn’t… How couldn’t he…? He failed… twice today…
“Time of death. 21:34.” he stated, with a distant tone, as if the response came out of an automatic confirmation system. He could hear his own blood rushing chaotically through his ears. His gaze was locked downward, fixed on the trauma bay table: the drying blood, the horrifying stillness of her form. A paralyzing wave of guilt and sheer terror washed over him, rushing into every nerve, making him feel like he was dying right there beside her.
For one terrible moment, his knees nearly buckled. He could feel himself falling into a deep void. He wasn’t aware of the nurses efficiently clearing the trauma bay or the Chief stepping away. Only one person remained: Greyson watching him with quiet concern. As one single, perfect tear rolled down Zayne’s cheek, he reached out a trembling hand toward the cold, still body on the table. The pain was pulled out from the deepest, most terrified corner of his heart as he placed a soft kiss on his forehead. And with that his face hardened into the mask he’d wear for years to come.
Zayne saw his reflection in the rain puddles, drops dissolved the vision of her into his own reflection, whispering and piercing his heart with the cold accusation: You killed her. Zayne closed his eyes, his throat burning.
“I know…” Time passed and even after three years, the wound hadn’t closed. Maybe it never would.
“Zayne!” Zayne squeezed his eyes shut. No. Please. Not now. A moment later, Sylus was there, his hair plastered to his forehead, shirt also soaked through. Sylus took two careful steps and stopped, standing a foot away. Zayne could only gasp, a thin, wheezing sound. He shook his head violently, asking almost to be left alone. “Look at me, Zayne.” Sylus insisted, gentle now. Slowly, agonizingly, Zayne lifted his head. His eyes were wide and unfocused, glazed with fear and unshed tears, and Sylus felt a sharp pang of guilt—this was a man who was genuinely terrified. Sylus took a slow step closer, holding his ground. His voice remained gentle. “You don’t need to tell me what’s wrong. You don’t owe me an explanation for anything.” Sylus extended one hand, palm up, in a gesture that was both open and non-threatening. He didn’t reach for Zayne, just offered the hand as an anchor. “But can you trust me in taking care of you right now? Just for the next few minutes. Can you let me help you breathe?” Zayne stared at the outstretched hand, unable to process the offer. Sylus repeated, his voice dropping to a low count. “In… and out. I’ve got you.”
Finally, with a broken sob, Zayne reached out to Sylus’s palm, the heat of his skin was a shocking contrast to the chill of the rain. Sylus, with excruciating slowness, stepped closer until he was right in front of Zayne. Then, with soft purpose, he drew Zayne forward, pulling the doctor's shaking body against his own chest. Sylus wrapped his arms tightly around Zayne, tucking the doctor’s head securely against his shoulder. Zayne crumpled into the solid warmth, letting the last, desperate shakes work their way out of his body.
“Okay. Let’s get you warm,” Sylus murmured into his wet hair.
—
The sun was up when Zayne woke, alone in the room. He lay still for a moment, the memory of the night before. He sat up, finding his trousers and shirt neatly folded on the nightstand, clean and pressed. The fabric was crisp, completely devoid of the night’s dampness. Beside the clothes was a small, neat note. Zayne picked up the note, a soft, wistful smile touching his lips. “He really is…” He trailed off, unable to complete the thought. Kind. Attentive. Too good.
Coffee is in the kitchen. I went out. Take the time you need. S.
Sylus wasn’t going to push nor demand answers or force a confrontation. He was giving Zayne an out, a clean escape. And Zayne, bound by his old wounds and the conviction that he didn’t deserve this unsolicited grace, felt both relief and a profound, aching regret. An hour later, Zayne stood in the kitchen in clean clothes feeling still strange from last night. He left the note exactly where he found it. The apartment remained silent. He walked out, pulling the door shut behind him.
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Taglist is open for the second part, the ones who I already tagged doesn't need to comment :)
See you in part 3! 💌
This was, more or less, what I was imagining during the scene at the cemetery. How many times have Zayne come to that grave, maybe sometime laughing and talking cheerfully over something a patient did. Or sometimes sitting in silence, feeling nothing... Maybe even crying if the day was so hard and...
