Work Text:
For a man whose Evol is pure, frigid, pristine ice, Zayne is surprisingly warm.
You first make this realization one winter evening, as you laze on his comfortable yet firm sectional, tucked within layers and layers of blankets. The last of the credits dissolve from the screen, definitively marking the end of your movie night. The movie was nothing remarkable, a typical action flick with a neat bow-on-top ending that set it up perfectly for its inevitable sequel, but you still wouldn’t trade a night like this one for the world.
As if on cue, a yawn creeps up on you, and Zayne catches the tail end of it as he returns to the living room, two mugs of Valerian herbal tea in hand. His pajamas, loose as they are, still frame his chiseled form; a simple white long sleeve, the memory of its soft cotton touch still on your skin, and equally plain heather grey pants. His lips upturn slightly as he pauses halfway through the room.
“We should head to bed,” he proposes as tendrils of vapor escape the mugs he holds. ‘We.’ It’s not even ‘Are you staying the night?’ anymore. As the stray thought passes, you can’t help but notice how ethereal he looks under the dim overheads and misty steam.
You stretch, muscles lax and languid, toes curling into the warmth of your blanket cocoon. “Mmh, you can go ahead. You have an early morning tomorrow, right? I’ll join you in a second.”
Zayne hums as though he doesn’t believe you. You stifle a chuckle. It isn’t that you’re not tired, but the enticing warmth that envelops you is making it difficult to even think about braving the cool air that awaits you, even in the short walk between the living room and the bedroom. You’re pretty sure you’ve also forgotten your slippers God knows where, and you’re not exactly looking forward to walking on icy hardwood.
“Sure,” Zayne says before disappearing into the hallway. You curl into yourself, knowing very well it will only get harder and harder to escape your soon-to-be blanket prison. But the promise of warm, soothing Valerian returns to the forefront of your mind, and you half-sit up.
“Ah,” you call out. “You forgot to bring me my t–”
Zayne reemerges, empty-handed. Your lips curve into a smile as he slowly walks towards you, his expression mirroring your own, untold mischief dancing in his hazel eyes.
“I didn’t forget. Come to bed,” he gently insists. “Your neck’s going to hurt if you sleep here.”
You giggle as you curl back into your blankets. “S’not my fault your couch is so comfy.”
Zayne lets out an over-dramatic sigh. “I’ll make sure to buy a stiffer couch, then. Just for you.” At this, you laugh unabated.
“But in the meantime…” he continues as he closes the distance to you. And in a swift movement, you’re extricated from your toasty haven, its warmth but a memory. But before you can muster a protest, his arms curl under your body and you find yourself lifted against his chest. And the warmth returns, blossoming tenfold in your chest.
You don’t find the energy or desire to protest as Zayne carries you to the bedroom, your hand resting on the soft cotton of his shirt, taking in the warm energy of his heartbeat, steadfast and unyielding as the midday sun shining on even the coldest of winter days.
“You’re warm,” you mumble, a small smile coloring your words.
“Is that a bad thing?” His voice rumbles pleasantly through his chest, spreading a suffused, invisible, yet palpable glow through your relaxed body.
“Not at all,” you reply, letting your head rest against his chest as your eyes flutter shut. And in that moment, you find yourself hoping that this year’s winter will persist, so that you might relish in Zayne’s warmth longer. This time, your voice is barely above a whisper. “Not at all.”
***
The winter market has become a yearly tradition for you and Zayne, partly because you’ve dragged him there enough times to make it an inevitable habit, but mostly because of the food.
Carts and stands line the pedestrian street, filling the air with a mixture of delectable scents — warm and toasty and sweet and nutty all at once. Suspended lights illuminate the bustling paths, banishing the untimely darkness that characterizes the colder months, as families, friends, and couples trickle up and down the busy street.
You both hold the spoils of your expedition in your hands as you walk through the crowd — Zayne dual-wields a variety of skewered fried treats and rice cakes, while you brandish a skewer of red bean paste-filled rice balls, steam still escaping the sweet treats.
You glance at Zayne, and the sight of him, inextricably focused on the too-hot snacks, makes you smile wide. You lightly bump him with your elbow, which finally pulls his attention. “Making use of that surgeon's dexterity, Dr. Zayne?”
A slight flush blooms on his ears, one that he can’t chalk up to the cold. “Only for the important things.”
You giggle, then return your focus to your own treat. You lightly blow on the steaming hot skewer — a fruitless endeavor, you realize, but the sooner you can gulp down the sweets, the sooner you can return your freezing hands to your pockets. You decide to risk it all and finish off the skewer in one bite, finding it much cooler than expected. You briefly break away from Zayne, tossing your empty skewer into a nearby trashcan, then return to his side, palms rubbing vigorously against each other.
As you’re about to seek refuge in your coat pockets, Zayne wordlessly extends a black glove towards you.
“Take it,” he says before biting into one of the three rice cakes he now balances in a single hand, on top of the skewers nestled between his fingers.
“It’s alright, I should’ve brought my own.”
Zayne’s brow furrows, but his expression is rendered a bit less stern by the way his cheeks are puffed as he’s shoved who knows how many fried goods in his mouth to free his hand.
“Doctor’s orders,” he mumbles between two bites. With a laugh, you graciously accept the glove, wearing it on your left hand. And then it’s your turn to furrow a concerned brow.
“Wait, you only brought one glove?”
“No, but this is far more efficient.”
Zayne swiftly brings your hand into his coat pocket, his large palm engulfing your own, his touch never leaving you. You inch closer to him in response, nerve endings in your almost-frozen fingers sighing in relief as the warmth of his hand and the softness of his wool coat warm them — far better than the slick nylon of your puffer would have done.
You smile, almost incredulous, as you meet his gaze. Even in the biting cold of the dead of winter, Zayne’s hands somehow manage to be warm. And even more impressive, he’s somehow managed to balance a small child’s weekly portion of snacks and treats into a single hand as he bites at a skewer, not even close to dropping a single crumb.
“Ok, now you’re just bragging,” you tease, lightly laying your head against his shoulder.
Zayne chuckles warmly. “Like I said. Only for the important things.”
***
Over the years, Zayne has grown accustomed to your every little whim and habit, even those you haven’t noticed yourself — just as you’ve grown wise to his own. And as quietly as you’ve always tried to do it, he’s noticed that you often get up in the middle of the night.
Tonight, as you slither out from the bathroom and into the kitchen, your arms instinctively wrap around your body, desperately clinging to the warmth you’ve left behind in your shared bed. You don’t need to turn the lights on as muscle memory and familiarity carry you through the motions of grabbing a cup from the cupboard and the pitcher of water from the counter. But when you tip the pitcher and it almost flies up, weightless and clearly empty, you sigh.
Forgot to fill it again.
The chill seeps into your bones as you fill the pitcher as quietly as possible, opening the faucet only slightly, which unfortunately makes the task much slower. You fill it halfway, wait for it to filter, and fill your cup not-so-carefully before proceeding to down the whole thing in three gulps.
You rush back to the bedroom, slippers softly sliding against the floor, and the sight that greets your darkness-accustomed eyes draws a smile from your lips. Sprawled across the entire length of the bed is Zayne, softly snoring as though he doesn’t have a care in the world. Far too cold to continue to admire the sight, you gently nudge yourself into bed next to him, ducking under the covers in the meager space he’s left for you.
He stirs, and you take the opportunity to slide under his arm, burying your face into his chest and draping a chilly leg over his own. You inhale his scent, already feeling yourself warming up again. Zayne’s arms curl around you like second nature as he sighs deeply, and he gently shifts you both away from the precarious edge of the bed. He covers your shoulders with the soft duvet, and you feel yourself almost melting into the warmth that cocoons you.
“Didn’t know you were such a bed hog,” you murmur into his chest, already feeling yourself relax in his arms.
Zayne lightly chuckles, low and gravelly, as his grip around you tightens. “I’m not. I was fulfilling my duty as a certain someone’s personal bed heater, but she took so long that I fell asleep.”
A contented hum leaves your lips. “Were you now?”
“Mmhm…” Zayne says, voice laced with sleep. “Why do you think your side’s always warm after your nightly escapades?”
You’ve never noticed it, but that’s the whole point, isn’t it? Your shared bed has always been a place of warmth and comfort, and only now do you realize that the man who holds you in his arms is, as always, at the centre of it all.
It feels like floating — being so comfortable and so safe and so warm, so much so that words elude you as you melt into Zayne’s embrace. You’ll remember to thank him tomorrow. For now, as the throes of slumber threaten to pull you under, your only wish is to bask in Zayne’s warm comfort, to cling to it, to inhale it and let it bloom inside you. To remain right here, forever.