21+/ lads/ bl / writing / boring as heck / demipan / can't find my vape / my left tit hurts . i love old web and coding and long naps in a temperature of no more or less than 68 degrees. ask me about my headcannons.
i am currently writing:
A Matter of Context (Love and Deepspace AU) 🗪. ݁✉︎˚˖𓍢ִ໋❀
started: 2/5/2025
finished: ONGOING
⊘ 18+ minors do not engage→this story features sexual content⊘
» rating: explicit
» pairing: zayne / sylus
» category: m/m (some m/f)
» status: ongoing
» chapters: 16/?
» warnings: sexual content, period-typical homophobia*, organized crime, drug use/recreational drug use, alcohol use, violence, trauma, emotional trauma, police corruption, power imbalance, closeted characters*, missing persons, emotional repression, unsafe situations, moral ambiguity, sexual themes, sensory overload*
» setting: 1997 real world AU
» tags: noir, organized crime, sex hotline, hotline operator au, slow burn, power imbalance, emotional repression, asd, trauma, 1997, 90s phone sex operator zayne, voice kink, zayne has control issues, sylus has control issues, private investigator xavier
» summary: it’s 1997. zayne works nights on a sex line. one caller keeps coming back. xavier is a private investigator who has spent years chasing a pattern that never seems to resolve into proof. sylus—better known as skye—keeps his world of neon-lit clubs and quiet fronts running on rules no one says out loud. some things are easier to say at night. Some things are easier to hide there too.
→ read this chapter on ao3 ←
LAST CALL : 15:00:00 // MASTERPOST // NEXT CALL : --:--:--
16 Summer Storm
Out in the living room, the television plays muted Fourth of July coverage from a city that looks too happy to be real. Celebrations continue throughout the weekend. A newscaster with a smile. No murders, thankfully.
He is not going because he wants to see Sylus.
That's what Zayne tells himself as he stands in front of the bathroom mirror, buttoning his shirt with more attention than the task requires.
He is going because the situation requires clarity. Because Sylus involved him in something dangerous from the moment he entered his space.
He is going because ending something in person is more precise.
And because Caleb is apparently not blind. Picking him up at the airport had only proven Zayne wasn't as unreadable as he made himself out to be. Or maybe Caleb has known him long enough to pick up on subtle clues when he himself wasn't subtle. He had simply leaned back in the passenger seat, one arm loose over the door, and asked, "So, who is he?"
It was said as if it was a diagnostic category. Something written in a chart. An order for testing.
Zayne hadn't answered him. Not with the truth, anyway. He had deflected.
Back in the living room he turns the television off before turning towards the phone. Thinks about calling again. He has already listened to the answering machine enough times to hate it personally.
This is Skye. Leave a message.
And then the pause and the beep. Then nothing. It's started to sound less like a man and more like a parrot trained to deny him access. Mocking him.
Zayne can organize every part of this situation into categories. Possible. Unknown. Unsafe. He can draw lines between them. He can take the facts and remove the feeling (most of the time) easily in order to look at a problem.
Not the sex, though the sex is a problem. Not the mouth, though the mouth is also a problem. Not even the dead guy, which should be the largest problem that proves Zayne's internal hierarchy is currently compromised.
By the time he finds parking downtown, he is already irritated.
Outside, the rain has softened into a steady drizzle. The kind that looks harmless until you've been walking in it for twenty minutes.
And by the time he reaches Neon Saint, it's worse—having walked three blocks because the nearest spot was not close at all. His socks are damp. Every parked car shines along the hood and roof.
The line outside the club wraps from the front doors, along the brick, around the corner onto the next stretch of sidewalk beneath a canopy of umbrellas. The sign burns pink over the entrance, smeared by rain. Water runs from the edge of the awning in a steady bright line.
Zayne stops beneath the shallow shelter of a closed storefront and looks at the line. Barely moving. He exhales. "Well," he says under his breath. "Shit."
He should leave. But the thought of the answering machine one more time makes something behind his eyelid twitch.
Zayne wipes the rain from his glasses on the shirt under his windbreaker and puts them back on. Then he sees the alley.
Not fully. Just the cut between Neon Saint and the building he currently stands in front of. Shadowed but not dark. A narrow awning extends over a side door, keeping the rain off two men smoking, leaning against brick.
One is narrow and black-clad under a coat too heavy for July. The other is taller, broad through the shoulders, with dark-red brown hair catching a strange color from the sign. Amber-eyed in the neon spill.
Zayne looks from them to the line. Then back.
The sensible thing would be to just join the line and wait.
The sensible thing would also be to leave.
Zayne steps into the alley. Both men look at him. Not startled. He stops just outside the awning they are under. Rain rolls off onto his hair, his shoulders, the back of his neck. "You work here?"
The black-clad one studies him. All beady-eyed, like a bird watching from a windowsill. "Why?"
"Because you're standing beside a staff door."
The taller man lowers his cigarette and leans slightly away from the wall to look at the door, as if just realizing it had STAFF ONLY on the front in white letters, wet in the light from the dulling bulb over it.
The black-clad one speaks again. "Could just be standing." He gives a tiny smile that's almost as creepy as the demeanor.
"You aren't." Zayne says.
The smile stays, which makes Zayne even more impatient. He was already annoyed before he left the apartment.
"I need to know if Skye is here."
That changes something. The taller man glances towards the door again. Then he looks Zayne over, slow and impersonal.
"Are you the doctor?" The shorter one asks.
Something surfaces before he can stop it. A hallway that smelled like antiseptic and burnt coffee. A chart with someone else's initials added after his, overriding the plan he'd written at four in the morning. She's stable enough. Foster placement can wait a week. She needs continuity, not another handoff. Nobody had asked what he thought twice.
"No." It's not exactly inaccurate. But it is the truth, in a way.
The man's smile shifts. "Fast answer."
"It was an easy question."
The taller man shakes his head as he exhales smoke, nudging the other on the shoulder as if he finds this all funny. On the outside, Zayne figures it probably does look like that.
"I need to speak with him."
"Do you have an appointment?" The black-clad one crushes his cigarette beneath his boot, pushing away from the wall.
"No."
"A death wish?" The taller one is still amused, which makes Zayne's jaw tighten. He doesn't answer and the man finally laughs.
"Come on," the other says, already moving toward the door. He opens it and holds it open. Music pours into the alley.
"Who are you?" Zayne asks.
"Mephisto."
"That's not a real name."
"And you're not a real doctor," the man says flatly, waiting for Zayne to step through the threshold.
Inside, the corridor is narrow and dim. The door closes behind them, cutting off the rain. The bass from the heart of the building grows thicker. Moves through the walls instead of the air, dull and constant.
The idea is absurd. Zayne follows a man who calls himself Mephisto through the back of a club to find another man who calls himself Skye and break up with him—is that what this was? All because his calls were getting ignored.
Technically it was more than that, but it was the first thing that came to mind.
The music thins slightly once they reach the top of a narrow stairwell. The walls here are dark red, almost brown where smoke has stained the corners. Mephisto slows. That's when he hears the voice through the closed door. Sylus.
"—then you should have had an answer before you walked in here, Viper."
The words are sharp enough to be heard through the wall and over the muffled music from the club. But somehow it isn't shouting. He is speaking like his tone and choice of words have become a weapon.
Another male voice answers just as defensively. "I told you I would look into it."
"No," Sylus says. "You told me you were handling it. Those are different things."
"I can't just pull a name out my ass based on suspicion."
"It would be the smart thing to do."
Viper's voice comes back lower. "Watch your mouth. You know that wasn't me."
Inside the office, Sylus laughs once. Dry. Like the whole thing is amusing—or stupid. Viper says something too low for Zayne to catch. But it's clear Sylus does by the way his voice rises.
"Then you better explain to me how a man with no clearance ended up trying to pawn jewelry from a yacht and killing a guy."
Zayne feels his stomach tighten. His hand curls once at his side. He glances towards Mephisto. The man has one ear angled towards the door, head tilted as if he's focused. A laugh from another room further down the hallway. Loud and drunk and female. Having a much better time getting lost in a spot she wasn't supposed to be in than he was. His fingers dig into the skin of his palm as he remembers the photographs.
Maybe he should ask what they are doing. Maybe he should just leave. Go back out in the rain and back to his car and go home. Forget about it. Call the police. He had already thought about it before, so maybe this was a sign to just do it.
No. He stands there and continues to listen. In a way they almost sound like children fighting over who won a game. A very expensive game. One with bodies.
"You don't want an explanation," Viper says. "You just want someone to be punished to prove a point. I know how this works. You didn't see it coming and now you look stupid because you went down there and dropped that stupid advertisement they found on the guy."
Then it's silent except for the club still moving beneath them. Music through the floor. Rain ticking faintly against some window Zayne cannot see. Mephisto smirks.
Inside, Sylus says, "Stop talking."
Two words. Soft enough that Zayne almost wishes he had raised his voice instead, because then he might have a better idea of what would happen next.
"What?" Viper says. "That's not what this is? Somebody put your little phone ad in a dead man's pocket and suddenly everyone has to bleed because Mr. Skye fucked up and got embarrassed?"
Something hits the door hard enough to make Zayne flinch.
Not a gunshot. A sharp crack against wood, then a clatter as whatever it is drops to the floor inside the office and skids.
Mephisto exhales once through his nose. Then he chuckles quietly. Inside, there is no sound for a second.
Then Sylus says, very clearly, and loud enough to echo without yelling, "Fuck off."
Mephisto is already moving, stepping back and clearing the doorway like he's done this before and knows exactly how much room it needs.
The door swings open. Viper comes through first, already past talking, reaching out to grab a fistful of Mephisto's sleeve and haul him toward the stairwell before the man can get a word in. Neither of them looks at Zayne. Neither of them seems to register he's there at all.
Which leaves the doorway open. Sylus standing in it, one hand braced against the frame, chest rising too fast for someone pretending to be composed.
His eyes land on Zayne.
"What—"
He stops there. Whatever was still burning off from the fight with Viper drains out of his face at once, replaced by something far more careful. He presses two fingers to the bridge of his nose, exhales slow. He goes back into the office and doesn't hold the door.
Zayne doesn't follow him in at first. He stands there because it wasn't clear if he was invited in or not. After a moment he follows him anyway, pushing the door open with his palm before it can close on him.
The stapler lies against the baseboard. It's a few feet wide of anything it could have hit. Papers have slid halfway off the desk with it. The music from downstairs comes up thin, off by a beat from what Zayne can still feel in his own chest.
Sylus rights the chair Viper must have kicked back. Doesn't sit in it. Just squares it to the desk and lingers there with his hands on the top of it.
"Go home," he says.
"No."
Zayne stays by the door. His hand finds his sleeve, drags the cuff down over his knuckles. He looks back at the stapler instead of Sylus, and leans over to pick it up. When he finally steps further into the room, it's to gather the loose papers from the floor, stacking them against his knee before standing and setting them on the desk. The stapler goes on top of them.
"You threw a stapler at him." Not a question.
"I should have thrown the letter opener." Sylus reaches for the pack of cigarettes on the desk, and then turns to sit on the edge of it.
It's hard to read his expression. He is staring at the floor like he is focused on something else besides Zayne. Or maybe just ignoring him.
Zayne watches him not-look at him for a second. "That's not funny."
"It wasn't supposed to be." He pulls the cigarette loose but doesn't light it, just turns it between two fingers, and Zayne recognizes the motion now. Hands needing a job, same as his own a minute ago with the papers.
"Why him?" Zayne asks, even though he already had a guess based on what he had heard from the hallway. He's not really sure why he asks—he isn't here to be a therapist. Or maybe Sylus doesn't need one if he's going to throw office supplies to let off steam.
"He said something I didn't like."
"Do you throw things at everyone who says something you don't like?"
Sylus's jaw works once. "Do you want to find out?"
"Do you threaten everyone with the same question?"
Sylus's mouth curves, but it's not warm. "Why are you here?"
Zayne tries his best to keep a straight face. Keeping composed is usually easy for him, but he finds he has to work at it now. His jaw tightens. "This isn't working. I don't want to be involved—"
"You're already involved," Sylus says, before he can finish.
"No, I mean—you have to stop this." His hand finds his sleeve, cuff dragged down over his knuckles. "I won't tell anyone anything. We can forget we even met and move on."
"Move on." Sylus turns the cigarette over again, doesn't look at him. "You say that like it's a phone call. Hang up, dial someone else."
"That's not what I meant."
"You'd have to forget every good decision you made this summer too. Might be a wash." He finally looks up. "Try again."
Zayne opens his mouth. Nothing arrives to fill it.
His hand finds his sleeve. Cuff dragged down hard enough to bunch at the wrist. His other hand curls at his side, nails finding his palm, four points he can locate exactly when nothing else will hold still long enough to be located.
He looks at the stapler on the desk instead of at Sylus. It doesn't ask him anything.
"You were never going to let me walk away in the first place, were you?" he asks. "You’d never let me leave. Because your guy is right. You'll be embarrassed."
Sylus goes still. Not before finally looking over at Zayne, crimson eyes narrowed. It's more of a glance before he sets the cigarette back in the pack. "That's what you think I am."
Not a question. Zayne doesn't answer. He doesn't know how. But that's because he does not know if Sylus is right.
"Get out," Sylus says. Cold. Quiet.
Zayne's throat works. "That easy?"
"You think I'd lock the door on you, and you're asking if it's easy?" Something raw cuts under the edge of his voice now that makes Zayne's skin prickle—not in the good way. "Get out, Zayne. Door's right there. Nobody's stopping you. I don’t know who gave you that idea."
Zayne blinks, and luckily Sylus gives him time to process the words before he understands what they mean. "Don't turn this around on me. You gave me that idea because you keep showing up."
He doesn't wait for a reply. He leans over the desk, and his hand closes around the letter opener sitting near the edge of it. Takes it the way he took the stapler off the floor. Sylus doesn't move to stop him.
Out the door in the smoke-stained, narrow hallway, he doesn't look over his shoulder to see if he's being followed.
a/n: I know it's been like, a long while since I updated and I know it's only this little bit. I really was struggling with something to give you guys, and I was really worried about length/if it even makes sense for the story etc. Telling myself length doesn't matter, and point a & b don't have to be that dramatic EVERY chapter with longer stories kind of helped. I am also still going thru it ™️
I finished this this morning, finally. Enjoy. 💌 lov u
If you like my work and want to support me, feel free to leave a tip on my ko-fi. Not required but always appreciated!
