Chapter Text
By the time they reached the car, Rafayel was leaning slightly on Zayne, the faint scent of perfume and champagne lingering around him. His shoulder nudged Zayne’s with every step — intentionally or not, Zayne couldn’t tell.”
“I should warn you,” Rafayel murmured, words softened by exhaustion, “I get poetic when I’m tired. Sometimes I say things I actually mean.”
Zayne opened the passenger door, steadying the artist by the elbow.
“Then let’s hope you fall asleep quickly,” he said, leaning in to buckle Rafayel's seatbelt.
For a brief moment, their faces were too close — close enough for Rafayel to trace the faint crease between Zayne’s brows, to notice the quiet focus in his eyes.
Zayne felt the artist’s gaze linger — hazy, soft, unfocused from the alcohol — and made the mistake of meeting it. The air between them tightened; Rafayel’s breath brushed his cheek, warm and faintly sweet, and Zayne could see the slow flutter of his lashes up close.
Too close.
His fingers hesitated on the buckle before he clicked it into place.
"Why are you doing this?" Rafayel asked after a pause, his voice low and unguarded. "I could’ve gone with Marcus, you know. It’s been ages since I had a… horizontal collaboration." He added, voice light, almost careless — though his eyes flicked up, just long enough to catch the doctor’s reaction.
Zayne’s jaw tightened. “I said _I’m_ taking you home. End of discussion.”
Rafayel let out a quiet, amused hum, resting his head against the seat. Through half-lidded eyes, he watched as Zayne circled the car and slipped into the driver’s seat. There was a tension in the doctor’s shoulders — sharp, unmistakable — and it made Rafayel’s lips curve into a knowing smile.
"You care about me," Rafayel said, half-amused, half-awed, his tone lingering on the words like they were a secret he’d just uncovered.
“I’m just making sure the university doesn’t start its week with a hungover art professor scandal.” he said, adjusting the mirror with unnecessary precision.
Rafayel smiled faintly, not opening his eyes. “So it’s professional concern then?”
“ Yes.” Zayne replied.
“Mhm. You’re terrible at lying, Doctor Li.”
Zayne didn’t answer, he simply started the car. He pulled out of the gallery’s parking lot, headlights cutting through the quiet street. The city had already softened into its late-hour hush — all blurred lights and reflections on wet pavement. By the time they passed the second intersection, Rafayel had completely surrendered to sleep.
Zayne kept his eyes on the lane, his grip steady on the wheel — but every few seconds, his gaze flicked sideways.
Rafayel’s head had tilted slightly toward him, violet curls brushing his cheek, his lips parted in sleep.
He looked… softer like this. Unmasked. No teasing grin, no biting wit — just a fragile calm, as if the world had finally stopped demanding something from him.
“What am I doing..." Zayne muttered to himself.
The drive wasn’t long, thankfully. But finding keys in someone else’s coat pocket, and half-carrying a six-foot-tall artist through a dimly lit lobby proved more complicated than anticipated.
Zayne had never set foot in an artist’s home before — let alone one belonging to someone like Rafayel. ( Because who lives all alone on an island, far away from everything? )
He wasn’t sure what he expected, perhaps something sleek and meticulously curated like the man himself. But as he pushed open the door and stepped inside, he was met with glorious, chaotic beauty.
Paintings leaned against every wall. Some were framed. Most weren’t. Sketches littered the side tables, layered like leaves after a storm. There were palettes half-filled with hardened oils, open journals scrawled with handwriting and symbols he couldn’t place, and several mannequins draped with half-finished fabric art.
It was a mess.
It was... stunning.
No. He wasn’t here for sightseeing, he reminded himself. Just get Rafayel to bed and leave. Nothing more, nothing less. Simple.
He shifted Rafayel more firmly in his arms and carried him through the living room toward the only closed door — the bedroom.
The space was calmer here, yet still thoroughly alive with creativity. Palettes with streaks of oil paint rested on the table, alongside jars of brushes, pencils, and small sculptures in various stages of completion. The bed was unmade, linens rumpled, a careless elegance that seemed perfectly at home amidst the artistic chaos.
Zayne laid Rafayel down on the bed as carefully as he could, but the artist whimpered softly and grabbed his shirt as he tried to pull away.
“Stay." Rafayel murmured, not quite awake.
Zayne halted mid-motion.
"You’re drunk.”
“M’not.”
“You’re very drunk.”
Rafayel opened one eye and smiled sleepily. "Puh-leasee?"
Before Zayne could argue, Rafayel’s hand slid up his chest, clumsy but determined, and tugged him down. The pull was small but enough—Zayne stumbled, lost his balance, and the next thing he knew, they were tangled on the bed, his weight half over Rafayel’s.
Rafayel’s breath hitched, eyes half-lidded but startlingly clear when they met his.
For a heartbeat, neither of them moved. The air between them thickened.
“Rafayel..." Zayne started, voice taut, as if he could hold back the storm threatening to break between them.
But Rafayel only smiled — lazy, flushed, and deliciously reckless. His fingers curled into Zayne’s shirt like ivy, tugging him impossibly closer. "Mmm you smell so incredibly good, Doctor Li.” he whispered, and then pressed his face into the hollow of Zayne’s neck, nuzzling against him with a soft, almost needy warmth.
Zayne froze, pulse spiking. He could feel the subtle heat of Rafayel against him, the faint scent of paint and champagne lingering in his hair, and every nerve in his body screamed in alarm and… something else.
"Rafayel...you're not thinking crearly right now" Zayne’s voice faltered as Rafayel’s lips brushed his neck—soft, teasing, impossibly gentle. His breath ghosted over Zayne’s skin, hot and unsteady.
" Stop thinking, doctor” He said softly, his lips brushing Zayne’s throat. “Just feel.”
Oh God...
Zayne's whole body tensed.
He didn't move.
Didn’t breathe.
Rafayel used that reaction like a door left ajar and he leaned up slowly—so slowly it made Zayne’s pulse jump—and brushed his lips over Zayne’s, barely a whisper of a kiss. Just the faintest taste. Then he pulled back just far enough to look into Zayne’s eyes.
Zayne stared at him. His eyes widened, shock flaring through him as his lips parted—ready to say something, anything, to end this before it spiraled further out of control.
But Rafayel didn’t give him the chance.
The moment he saw the faint parting of Zayne’s mouth, he leaned in again, deeper this time. Their lips met—soft, deliberate, lingering—and the protest in Zayne’s throat dissolved into a low, helpless sound. His eyes fluttered shut as the world tilted, his breath catching in a single, shuddering sigh against Rafayel’s mouth. His hands clenched in the bedsheets.
Rafayel’s mouth tasted like champagne and desire, heady and luxurious. His body was warm beneath Zayne, flush from drink, the faintest sheen of heat blooming along his cheekbones. His fingers slipped into Zayne’s hair with practiced ease, curling behind his neck to pull him closer and gasped softly against his mouth—that was the moment Zayne stopped resisting.
He kissed back.
Not carefully. Not half-heartedly.
Hungrily.
Their mouths moved together in a rhythm that felt inevitable, like music they had always known the notes to. Zayne’s hand slid down to Rafayel’s waist, fingers curling into the soft fabric of his shirt. Their bodies aligned instinctively, and suddenly Zayne was fully against him, pressed from chest to thigh.
Rafayel moaned—sweet and breathy—and arched up into the kiss, his hips lifting in a slow, deliberate grind that made Zayne shudder. Their groins pressed together, the friction igniting a spark that raced down Zayne’s spine.
When Zayne tried to pull back for air, Rafayel followed, breathless, chasing the kiss like it was oxygen.
“Hahh… more… I need more, Zayne,"he whispered, the sound half-plea, half-moan, his hands fisting weakly in Zayne’s shirt as if to pull him closer, deeper, anywhere.
God, Zayne wanted him even more when he made those beautiful sounds. His hands ached to touch him — to trace every line to see if the warmth of him is real. He looked utterly irresistible beneath him, every breath shallow and ragged. He didn’t just want Zayne — he needed him, the way he pressed closer, fingers clutching, a quiet, almost pleading invitation to touch. It was impossible not to notice how his body trembled with anticipation under Zayne’s.
And then Rafayel did it again.
A needy roll of his hips — intimate, pleading — and Zayne felt the hard line straining in his pants.
And Zayne?
Lord help him, he wanted to bury himself inside him, deep, until Rafayel was nothing but a breathless, trembling mess beneath him.
This was too much.
Too real.
Too dangerous.
His breath caught, and his mouth froze against Rafayel’s. For a moment he didn’t move, just hung there, staring down at him, stunned by how far they'd gone—how quickly, how easily.
He hadn’t meant for this to happen.
He’d meant to be the responsible one.
With a ragged breath, Zayne tore his mouth away. For a moment, the only sound in the room was the uneven rhythm of their breathing.
"This isn't right.” Zayne whispered, as if speaking too loudly might shatter the fragile control he barely held.
" Mmm, but I want you,” Rafayel whispered, his voice low and pleading. “Please… just touch me.” His other hand slid down, unhurried, long fingers working at the buttons of Zayne’s shirt. One. Then another.
Zayne’s heart slammed hard against his ribs.
"No," Pressing his palm flat against the mattress beside Rafayel’s head, he pushed himself upright, breaking the fragile gravity between them.
Rafayel’s hand slipped from his shirt, fingers falling limp against the sheets. His lashes fluttered, confusion flickering across his face before it settled into something softer.
Disappointment.
"No?" He blinked up at him, pupils wide, lips kiss-bruised, and violet hair in disarray. For a moment, he looked genuinely hurt.
"We should stop...” Zayne said hoarsely. “You’ve been drinking.”
“Oh, now you grow a conscience?” Rafayel muttered, voice sharp with wounded pride. "I know exactly what I’m doing, thank you very much.” He tried to sit up, reaching for him again — but Zayne was already on his feet, running a hand through his hair.
“No, you don't and I’m not taking advantage of someone who can’t consent properly!"
“I didn’t ask for a lecture, Doctor.”
“This isn’t a—” He stopped himself, and took a deep breath“ You should rest now.”
He turned toward the door. But before he could take a step, Rafayel’s voice — quiet, trembling, but sharp enough to cut — stopped him.
"Wait!"
Zayne didn’t turn, but his shoulders tensed.He didn’t dare look back. Because if he did… he wasn’t sure he’d be able to walk away.
“Look at me,” Rafayel said, sharper now. “Go on, Doctor. Turn around and and tell me you don’t want this — that it’s just because you think I'm not thinking clearly! That the kiss meant nothing to you!"
No answer.
Rafayel rose from the bed, his voice lowering but his words cutting like glass.
“You think walking away makes you decent? Responsible?” He took a step closer; the floor creaked. “Oh no...It just makes you a coward!”
That one landed.
Zayne froze mid-step but still didn’t turn.
The silence stretched—heavy, suffocating.
" Still won't answer me, huh?" Rafayel let out a broken little laugh, soft and bitter all at once. “Fine,” he whispered. “Don’t worry. I won’t come looking for you again.”
Zayne’s jaw clenched. For a second, it looked like he might turn — might say something — but instead, he opened the door. The click of it closing was soft. Too soft for the storm that followed behind it.
"Good bye Zayne Li."