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It isn't a holiday in the traditional sense.
Mentioning it to Zayne, in the past, had only resulted in some variations on a theme: a confused stare, a slow blink, and a non-committal "Ah."
He isn't quite sure why you still celebrate it. While he would never say it aloud, at risk of hurting your feelings, you know he thinks it is childish. The thought brings a faint smile to your face as you adjust the bow on the box.
That's what you like most about him, you think. His unshakeable resolve to please others, to be of service. He may not understand, but he humors you, and accepts your small celebrations every year, just to make you happy.
That is what you admire most about him. What draws you to him so desperately, and has since you were children.
Even before he was devastatingly attractive, back when he was lanky and awkward with clunky braces and a terrible bowl-cut. When you and Caleb would tease him relentlessly. When his intelligence was still a cute quirk, but hadn't blossomed into the force of nature that it is today.
Now he is a man grown, tall and broad, dark hair and piercing eyes that seem to look right through you. He is the same well of knowledge he was when you were kids, but now, he is also painfully, excruciatingly beautiful. He doesn't seem to know it, either. Or at the very least, doesn't care.
From the outside, it may look like he doesn't care about much, at all.
But you know better. You know the man beneath the mask, and you cherish him.
You haven't quite admitted to yourself yet that's why you still celebrate your childish "friendship-versary". Because it gives you an excuse to spoil him. To give him things he would never think to get for himself. To make him feel even an ounce of the joy he gives you, every single day.
And, perhaps, because it makes you feel like he belongs to you, even just for a day. Even if it's all in your head.
Your smile turns sullen, and you stop your incessant fussing over the ribbon.
Because that's the real reason for the gift, isn't it? A plea for him to look at you, to see you, as the woman you've become. Not the little girl he used to patch up after she scraped her knee. Always helping, always healing, even as a kid.
You could never admit it to him, not now. He's never seen you that way. You have a hard time believing he's ever seen anyone that way. While Caleb always had some new girl hanging off his arm in school, and you always had your little passing crushes, Zayne was always aloof, detached. He never seemed to notice anyone that wasn't you or Caleb—content with his little group of close friends, and nothing else.
Your smile disappears completely, and you feel yourself deflate.
You suppose it's for the best, really. If he had any interest in anyone else, you'd be crushed. You're not sure you could entirely stomach watching him fall in love with another girl, and leave you behind.
But you can't help but wonder what it would be like to be loved by him. To be treasured, like the gifts you give him every year. To be his first, last, and only. To be the one to heal his heart, as he has healed yours so many times, both in his office, and outside.
You have to force yourself to stop your spiraling thoughts, shaking your head. It does you no good to wish for the impossible. It never has.
You know you're pathetic. Pathetic enough that even Caleb has seen it, and he's about as observant as a brick wall. He had cornered you one evening, after Zayne's birthday party last year—if 'party' it could be called, with about five people and one disinterested cat—and given you a pep talk.
You can still remember how it went:
"I don't get it," Caleb had said, slumping into a barstool at the kitchen counter as the guests began to disperse. Zayne was hidden away in the den, likely already starting on work just moments after unwrapping his gifts. Caleb had reached over the counter and plucked a beer from the fridge, twisting the cap off and taking a deep drink.
"What?" you asked, stacking dirty plates and utensils together.
"Why do you keep doing this to yourself?"
"Doing what?" you asked, trying to feign innocence, even though you knew exactly what he was talking about.
Caleb leveled you with a look, and you knew it was pointless. You had been found out.
"This is getting ridiculous, pips. I'm tired of you mopin' around after him. Don't you have any self-respect?" he teased.
You grumbled. "I do not 'mope'."
"Bullshit," he snarked, taking another sip. "If I weren't such an incredible brother and a perfect best friend, I'd tell him myself."
You froze, and glared at him.
"Don't. You. Dare."
Caleb held his hands up, laughing. "I'm not gonna. Relax, pips. But I am serious. You gotta get a grip."
You huffed and continued loading dishes. "It's not that easy, Caleb."
His expression had softened slightly, and the tone of the conversation shifted. "Listen, pipsqueak, I know the guy can be difficult. But… he's a good person. You wouldn't ruin anything with him by telling him, you know? He's not that type of guy."
You went silent, mulling over his words. Of course he didn't even dare to offer the possibility Zayne would feel the same. That would be ridiculous. In almost two decades, neither of you had ever seen him look twice at a girl.
The only reassurance you could get, in truth, was that he wouldn't shut you out. That's the best you would ever hope for, in the end.
You nodded. "I know."
"Just promise me you'll at least consider it. Maybe not today, but you know? When the timing's right."
You had given him a weak smile, and promised him.
But you never followed through. You had never felt 'the right time'.
Now, as you stare at the wrapped box in front of you, you realize the right time might never come. And you've been making peace with that, slowly. Every friendship-versary is just another attempt to fill something inside yourself. To be close to him. To have his undivided attention, even if only for a few moments.
This is your coping mechanism, you say. Because you'd rather have him in your life as a friend, than lose him forever by being too bold.
You let out a long sigh.
You stand and gather the box into your arms. You make your way downstairs and grab your car keys, then head out to the car. You put the box on the passenger seat and slide in behind the wheel.
As you drive, your mind wanders, and you wonder what it would be like to have the strength. To be as confident and carefree as Caleb, who always knows exactly what he wants, and goes after it. He has no doubts, no fears. He's a little selfish, sure, but that's part of his charm.
It's hard not to be envious. He's been a popular playboy your whole lives. Everyone in school loved him.
But you always went unnoticed. Just the great and powerful Caleb Xia's little sister. The only reason anyone noticed you, is because they wanted to use you as a way into Caleb's social circle.
But Zayne liked you for you.
You huff and pull into his driveway, grabbing the box and shutting the car door behind you. You walk to his front porch and ring the doorbell, shifting the box from one arm to the other.
When he doesn't answer, you knock instead, hoping his doorbell is just broken and he can't hear you.
He doesn't come out. You furrow your brow, craning your neck around the side of the house. His car is here. He must be home.
You take a deep breath and steel yourself, then push open the front door. It's unlocked, so you walk inside, calling out his name. He's always let you and Caleb come and go as you please, anyway. It's no real issue, when you've been best friends practically since birth.
The living room is empty, so you set the box down on the couch and move into the kitchen. It's as pristine as always, nothing left out or dirty. He has a dishwasher, but rarely uses it, preferring to hand-wash everything himself. He doesn't trust dishwashers to excise all the bacteria, he says. It's better if he can clean up to his own high standards.
You roll your eyes.
"Zayne?" you call out again. Still no response.
You turn and head back through the living room, and pause. The door to his office is closed tight, as usual. You've only ever been inside once or twice, and only briefly. It would be just like him to be working already, so early in the day.
You walk to the door and rap your knuckles on the wood, softly, so as not to startle him.
"Zayne, it's me."
Still nothing.
You grab the knob. It's freezing cold, practically burning your skin. You push the door open by the wood, and peer inside.
Your heart jumps into your throat when you see him. He's slumped over beside his desk, ice crawling up his hands, neck, and face. The sight of the crystals on his skin makes your breath catch in your chest, and the blood drains from your face.
The office is freezing, frost clinging to the window panes and the computer monitor. It climbs up the walls and blankets the floor, and your boots crunch on a patch of snow forming on the carpet.
"Oh, God. Zayne!" you cry out.
You push the door open further, but he raises his hand. He throws an ice crystal at the doorway, and the door pushes back against you. You hold fast to keep it ajar.
"Stay away!" he rasps, his voice sounding weak and hoarse.
"No, no! Zayne, it's me! Let me help you!"
"I can't stop it! Go! Get out of here!" he says, his voice more desperate.
"Zayne, what's happening?" you ask, tears springing to your eyes. "Talk to me. Please."
He groans, and pushes his hands onto his desk, sending cracks shooting across the wooden surface. The wood splinters, ice crystals creeping up the legs and the walls.
"Please," he croaks. "I can't stop it. I don't want to hurt you."
"It's okay," you say, keeping your voice low. "You won't."
You take a deep breath, then step through the threshold. The icy floor crunches beneath your feet, and you feel the frigid air bite at your skin.
"Please," he says again. "Don't come closer."
"I'm not leaving you like this," you insist. "We'll figure this out together. Just calm down."
"Calm down?" he asks, his voice cracking. "I'm a monster. I could kill someone!"
"You won't," you say. "You wouldn't."
You inch forward slowly, reaching your hand out. You keep it open, non-threatening, and move toward him.
He's sitting on the floor, his legs tucked under him. You can see the ice climbing up his neck and jaw, the blueish tint spreading over his face and hands.
"I'll hurt you," he chokes out. "Stop."
You ignore him, and continue moving toward him. You sit on the floor, crossing your legs, and reach out for him.
His skin is cool to the touch, and he jerks back from your hand. You can feel the frost emanating from him.
"Hey, hey," you say, keeping your voice quiet. "It's okay. I'm here."
"Don't. Please," he begs, and a tear falls from his eye.
It freezes in the air, and lands with a small 'clink' on the floor.
"Not you. Anyone but you," he pleads.
You startle. You can count the times you've seen Zayne cry on one hand. He's always been so stoic. So reserved. So careful to keep his feelings in check, never showing weakness.
But his face is twisted into a grimace, and his brows are knit together in despair. He looks terrified.
"Zayne," you say, scooting closer. "Look at me."
You take his face into your hands. His skin is cool and dry, the ice crystals sharp on his cheeks. You brush them away with your thumb, and they fall onto the carpet.
"It's alright. I'm here. I won't let you hurt me," you say, trying to sound convincing.
Truthfully, you have no idea what to do. You've never seen him like this. His Evol has been out of control before, yes. But never to this extent. Never to the point he's so upset.
"Please," he breathes. "I can't hurt you. Not you, never you."
You feel a warmth bloom in your chest, and a lump rises in your throat. It's always been you that's depended on him, trusted him, relied on him. As a patient, and as a friend.
It's about time you finally saved him, too.
"You won't," you repeat, more certain this time. "Let me help you. Just try to relax."
He takes a deep, shuddering breath. You lay your hand on his, channeling your Evol. It hurts your head to focus so hard, and you wince, but the ice retreats from his hands, slowly. It melts off his skin, and you feel the warmth return to his fingers. It soaks his sleeve all the way through, but his color returns. You take his other hand and repeat the process, melting the ice on his fingers.
You look into his eyes. He doesn't meet yours.
You reach up to take his face in your hands, but the moment you pull away, the frost creeps back up toward his wrist.
"Damnit," you mutter. "Hold on. We can fix this."
"I can't," he whispers.
You take his hand again, focusing intently, and it melts once more. Your brow furrows in concentration, and the ice retreats a bit further, this time.
But you can feel the exhaustion taking over, and a throbbing pain builds at the back of your skull. You shake it off.
"Don't push yourself," Zayne says.
You remove your hand, but the ice creeps back. You huff in frustration, and grab his wrist again, concentrating.
"You're going to hurt yourself," he insists.
"So will you," you snap. "I won't let you freeze to death."
You pull away, but the frost creeps back once again. You can't gain any ground without losing more.
Scrunching your face up in frustration, you put your hands back onto his face, ignoring the ache building behind your eyes. You pull him into your chest, holding onto him tightly with your entire body. You squeeze him close, concentrating.
"You need to let go," Zayne whispers, his breath tickling the hair on the back of your neck. "You're going to pass out."
"I don't care," you grit out. "Just try and relax."
He doesn't respond, but lets out a shaky sigh. His hands move from his sides to rest on your back, and you feel him melt into you. The frost crawls up your legs, and you shiver, but push the feeling away.
"Focus," you murmur. "Relax."
He shudders in your arms, and his muscles go slack. He presses his face into the crook of your neck, and takes another deep breath.
"That's it," you breathe. "Good."
Your resonance slowly pushes his Evol back to equilibrium, and you feel the temperature begin to rise. You hold him in the embrace, the two of you silent, but for the sound of his breathing. Your clothes feel wet, the water soaking through and cooling on your skin. You ignore it, and focus instead on the man in your arms. You climb onto his lap and settle in, pulling him even tighter against you. You've never had to push your resonance so far before, and you can feel yourself shaking with the effort.
"Don't," he whispers.
"I'm not stopping," you say. "I can do this. Just give me a moment."
He doesn't respond, and his arms tighten around you, pressing you into him.
The temperature continues to rise. His hand comes up and cups the back of your head, cradling you gently, and you sigh. You lift your head and look at him, watching the last of the ice slowly melt off his face.
He stares back, his piercing eyes locking with yours. You feel breathless, and you're not sure if it's the effort, or him.
"Thank you," he breathes, his voice barely a whisper.
"Don't scare me like that again," you say, keeping your own voice quiet.
"I'm sorry."
You sigh, and rest your head against his shoulder.
"It's alright."
He runs his fingers through your hair, and you shiver.
"Let's get you out of those clothes. You're freezing."
You flush, and stammer, "N-no, I'm fine."
"Don't argue," he says.
He pulls back from you, and looks at his hands. You can't read the expression on his face.
"What happened?" you ask, quietly.
"I got upset," he answers, his voice even and level.
You're surprised at how quickly he's managed to regain his composure, after nearly losing control completely.
"What happened?" you ask.
"Doesn't matter. I've got it under control now."
You furrow your brow. "Zayne…"
"You should go home," he says. "Before Caleb starts to worry."
You stare at him, incredulous. "Are you serious? Did you forget I just watched you turn into an icicle? What was that about?"
"It's fine," he says, his voice stern. "It happens. Sometimes."
"Sometimes? Zayne, has this happened before?"
"Go home, please."
"Not until you tell me the truth," you say, your own voice rising in frustration. "I won't leave until I know you're okay."
"I can't control it," he says, turning his gaze back on you. He doesn't raise his voice—he never raises his voice—but his words are clipped and tense. "I get emotional and I hurt people. I hurt you. So please, go."
"You didn't hurt me," you say, grabbing his hands in yours. "Not a scratch. You didn't hurt me. It's alright."
"It's not. It's not alright."
You're shocked by the pain in his voice. His tone is flat, but his eyes are desperate, and pained.
"You've never hidden anything from me before, Zayne. Why start now?"
"I'm a monster, that's why. I'll only hurt you."
You shake your head. "You'd never."
He turns away, and pulls his hands from yours. He stands and walks toward his desk, avoiding your eyes. You blink back tears, and follow him.
"Zayne, listen," you say, your voice pleading. "You don't have to push me away. Not me. You're my best friend. I've trusted you with everything. Why can't you trust me?"
He still won't look at you. "Because I can't risk losing you."
You pause, staring at him. Your heart races in your chest, and you're not sure if the pounding in your ears is from the effort of resonating with him, or something else.
"You won't," you say, after a moment.
"You don't know that."
You swallow hard, and step toward him. You rest a hand on his arm, and his muscles tighten, but he doesn't pull away.
"I do," you say, trying to keep your voice level. "I've known you since we were children. I know you. You've never hurt anyone. You're a good person. If you ever hurt me, I know you don't mean it. I would always forgive you. Always."
He takes a deep, shaking breath, and closes his eyes. He rests his hand over yours, and holds onto your fingers tightly.
"I'll stay, if you want me to," you offer.
He doesn't say anything for a long moment, and when he finally does, his voice is quiet and resigned.
"Yes."
You feel your heart soar, and the corners of your mouth quirk up. "Then you better find me a new shirt, Dr. Zayne."
He glances down at you, and his lips twitch upward, briefly. He squeezes your hand, then steps away. You wait in the living room in your wet clothes as he rummages around upstairs in his bedroom. You take the moment to compose yourself, and take a few deep breaths, willing your racing heart to slow down.
The way he'd said it. Not you, never you.
You knew it was nothing, of course. But the words made a little bit of hope spring to life in your chest. It sounded almost like he meant something by it. Something special.
It's probably wishful thinking, though. He's not the type to be sentimental, or open with his emotions. He's always been guarded, especially when it comes to his feelings. You know that.
But the fact he allowed you to see him that vulnerable is something, at least. It's not enough. It will never be enough. But it's something.
He returns with a sweater that's far too big for you, but dry, and warm.
"Thank you," you say.
He nods, and doesn't meet your eyes. When you return from the bathroom with the sweater hanging down to your thighs, his gaze darts anywhere but to you.
He sits on the couch, and you follow, tucking your legs under yourself. You watch him, his profile strong and stoic, his expression closed off. His brows are furrowed, and his jaw is set, and you want so badly to comfort him. To take his face in your hands and force him to look at you, make him see that you're right here, and you're not leaving. But you have no excuse to touch him, now. No reason to be so close.
You huff and put on a smile that you don't quite feel. You reach for the gift and hold it out to him.
"Here," you say. "Open it."
He hesitates.
"Come on," you encourage. "Friendship-versary. Don't tell me you forgot, again."
His expression softens, and he sighs.
"Of course not."
He takes the box from you, and removes the ribbon and paper with meticulous precision. You watch him as he folds the paper carefully, and sets it on the coffee table. He unties the ribbon, and places it on top of the discarded wrapping paper, then pulls the lid off the box.
Inside, a small stuffed polar bear sits on a pile of tissue paper. Its fur is white, and the snout and the pads of its feet are black.
"It reminded me of you," you explain, as he reaches into the box. "Cute, and a bit threatening."
He gives a little huff, that's almost a laugh, and you can't help the smile that spreads across your face.
"Do you like it?"
"Yes," he answers. "Of course I do."
"Good."
He sets the bear beside himself, and rests his elbows on his knees, leaning forward.
"Thank you," he says, quietly.
"You're welcome."
There's a long silence between you, and you watch him, hoping he'll look back at you. But he stares at the floor, and the corners of his mouth tug downward.
You feel the weight of his words from earlier.
"Don't push me away, Zayne," you plead. "You're not a monster."
He doesn't respond.
"Look, I understand you're worried about hurting people," you say. "I can't imagine how much pressure you must feel, carrying that weight. But don't shut me out, too."
"I can't let you get close."
"Too late," you snap.
He turns to look at you, his brow raised in surprise. You've never had any patience for his stubbornness, and you're sick of him holding himself back.
"It's been too late for a long time," you say, trying to keep your voice from shaking. "You're my best friend. I don't care if you hurt me. If it happens, it happens. But don't shut me out because you're afraid."
"I'm not—"
"Yes, you are. And that's fine. But don't lie to me and say you're protecting me, when you're the one who's running scared."
His lips part, and his brows raise. You stare at him, unblinking, trying not to betray your fear. Trying to make him see, that no matter what, no matter how much he pushes, you'll stay.
He turns away from you, and his hands ball into fists. You watch the ice climb up his arms, and you scoot closer to him, your hands hovering over his. You resonate without a second thought, holding his hand tight.
He doesn't speak. Neither do you.
When the ice has retreated, and the air is warm once more, you lean forward and press your forehead against his. You keep your resonance quiet, the connection a dull, soothing hum in the back of your mind. You don't stop, even now that the ice is gone. You hold him at a careful equilibrium, and the two of you stay like that, pressed together, foreheads touching.
Your chest aches, and your heart thuds against your ribs, and you take a deep, shaking breath. You thread your fingers together and squeeze his hand, and, to your surprise, he squeezes back.
"You won't lose me," you whisper, your voice breaking.
He lifts his other hand, and cradles your face in his palm. You tilt your head into his touch, and he runs his thumb over your cheekbone.
"I don't want to hurt you," he says. "I don't want to hurt anyone. But especially not you."
"It's okay. I can handle it."
When he says nothing once again, you let it linger. You wait.
You've grown used to waiting.
"I care about you," he murmurs, his voice so quiet you almost don't hear it.
"I know you do, Zayne," you reply, trying not to let the desperation show through in your tone. "You've always taken such good care of me."
"It's not the same," he says.
You open your eyes, and pull away slightly. He stares back at you, his brows knit together, and his lips pursed. You stare back, unblinking, and swallow hard. Neither of you speak for a long, tense moment.
Then, he lets out a heavy sigh, and averts his eyes.
"Forgive me."
You open your mouth to respond, but his lips are already on yours. You're too shocked to respond at first, and the kiss is hesitant, his lips soft and barely-there. Then, he pulls away, and looks at you.
He moves to apologize, but before he can speak, you grab his collar and pull him toward you, crashing your lips together once more. He's frozen for a moment, but then, his hands come up and cradle the back of your head, holding you against him.
His lips are cold, and a bit chapped, but his touch is gentle. You lean into him, and he kisses you softly, carefully, his lips moving slowly and deliberately against yours. You press closer, and run your tongue along his bottom lip.
He hesitates, then parts his lips for you. You slip your tongue into his mouth, and run it along the inside of his teeth, and he gives a little shudder. You can feel his restraint, the tension in his arms as he keeps himself from holding you too tight, from kissing you too deeply.
You can't stand it anymore. You're so tired. So tired of waiting for him.
So, you take the leap.
You straddle his lap, and wrap your arms around his neck. You deepen the kiss, pressing your tongue into his mouth, and he makes a noise low in his throat.
He wraps his arms around your waist, and pulls you close, kissing you back. You feel the last of his resolve crumble away, and he kisses you, finally. He kisses you like he means it, like he's wanted this, too. Like he's been waiting, just as long as you have.
His hands are warm on your back, and his tongue is cold, but the sensation sends shivers down your spine. Your fingers tangle in his hair, and the kiss grows desperate, hungry. The ache in your chest becomes overwhelming, and tears prick at the corners of your eyes.
Finally. Finally, finally, finally.
He breaks the kiss, and pulls away. You whine, chasing his lips, but he cups your face in his palms and presses his forehead to yours.
"Tell me no," he breathes, his voice a desperate plea. "Tell me to stop."
You shake your head, and lean forward, brushing his lips with yours. "I can't."
He lets out a shaking breath, and you run your hands down his shoulders and over his chest.
"I've wanted this for so long," you whisper. "I'm not afraid of you, Zayne. Let me in."
He doesn't respond. But, when you kiss him, he kisses back, and it's everything. Everything you've ever wanted.
You don't stop kissing him. His lips are cold and soft, and his skin is smooth and warm. You press into him, and his hands move from your face to your back, holding you flush against him.
"I've wanted you since we were children," he murmurs.
Your heart leaps. "Really?"
He gives a little hum, and nuzzles the side of your neck, pulling you into a tight embrace.
"How could I not?"
You flush, and bury your face in the crook of his neck. He laughs, softly, and it's the most wonderful sound you've ever heard.
"Please," he says, his voice quiet, and low. "Don't leave. Not now."
"I won't," you promise. "Never."
He squeezes you, and nuzzles your neck. You let out a contented sigh, and kiss the top of his head.
"I'm not afraid," you murmur. "Not of you. Never of you."
He sighs lightly and captures your lips once again. You kiss him deeply, and hold him close, your chest aching, your heart swelling.
"That makes one of us."