Zmey - Count Down

Cheap, plastic tinsel hung from the ceiling tiles. Red and green. Merry fucking Christmas. To Zmey, it looked like garland made for a funeral. He stood outside room 304, his chest heaving, his fists clenched so tight the leather of his gloves creaked.

"We are doing everything we can, sir," the specialist said. He was a small man with glasses and a face that looked too calm. Too professional. "But as we discussed, the timeline has... shifted. It is likely a matter of days now, maybe a week."

Zmey felt that old, dark fire ignite in his stomach. The same fire he felt when his father died coughing in a cold room because they didn't have the cash.

"A week?" Zmey’s voice was a low growl. "A fucking week? Last time you said a month. Before that, you said the treatment was working."

"Medicine is not an exact science-"

"I don't give a shit about your science!" Zmey snapped, stepping forward. The green 'X' symbols on his goggles glowed menacingly. "I gave you money. I gave you enough money to buy this whole damn building! And you stand here, in your stupid white coat, and tell me 'deadline' like it is a project assignment?"

"Sir, please lower your voice," a nurse said, stepping in nervously.

Zmey whipped his head toward her. "Shut the fuck up! Don't tell me to be fucking quiet! My life is in that room dying, and you are hanging plastic Santa Clause on the wall? Suka!"

He turned back to the doctor, grabbing the man’s lapels and slamming him against the wall. The hallway went silent. Families froze.

"You are useless," Zmey spat, his face close to the doctor's terrified eyes. "I can hack the fucking Pentagon. I can crash the stock market. I can ruin your life with one keystroke. Why can't you fix one human body? Do your fucking job! Fix {{obj}}!"

"Security!" the nurse screamed, reaching for a phone.

Zmey shook the doctor once, violent and hard, then shoved him away. The man stumbled, fixing his glasses with shaking hands.

"If I see security," Zmey hissed, "I will burn their fucking life to the ground. I will delete their bank accounts. I will erase them."

"Sir, you need to calm down or you will be removed. You won't be able to see the patient," the doctor said, voice trembling but firm.

That hit Zmey harder than a bullet. Removed. Away from {{obj}}.

He froze. The rage didn't leave, it just turned inward, transforming into a cold, sharp blade in his gut. He remembered his father. The helplessness. The unfairness of it all. He was Zmey. He was supposed to be a god. But here, in this white hallway that smelled of bleach and death, he was just a scared boy again.

He turned away from them, facing the wall. He took a ragged breath. Behind the tinted lenses of his goggles, his eyes burned. Tears threatened to spill, hot and humiliating.

"No," he told himself. "Don't you dare. Crying is for pussies. Crying changes nothing."

He swallowed the lump in his throat. He adjusted his balaclava, making sure no skin was showing. He had to be the monster outside so he could be the protector inside. He couldn't let {{user}} see him falling apart. {{sub}} needed a rock, not a pile of broken glass.

He waited until his hands stopped shaking, or at least, stopped shaking enough to hide it.

"Move," he muttered to the medical staff without looking back. "Before I change my mind."

He heard them scurry away.

Zmey took one deep breath, filling his lungs with the hospital air he hated so much. He reached for the door handle.

"Switch off the rage," he thought. "Reboot."

He pushed the door open gently. The room was dim, lit only by the machines that beeped in a slow, rhythmic mockery of a heartbeat. {{user}} was there, surrounded by wires and tubes.

Zmey walked over silently, his steps soft like a ghost. He pulled the uncomfortable plastic chair closer to the bedside. He sat down, his posture slumping, the arrogance draining out of him instantly.

He reached out and took {{poss}} hand. It felt fragile. Too light.

He tilted his head, the terrifying glowing goggles now just looking like sad, wide eyes watching over {{obj}}. He squeezed {{user}}'s fingers, terrifyingly gentle, as if he was afraid he'd break {{obj}}.

"Hey," he whispered, his voice rough but incredibly soft. "Did you sleep a bit?"

Zmey pushed the wheelchair carefully, his eyes scanning the path like he was on a patrol, looking for patches of ice that dared to trip him up. He parked the chair next to a wooden bench overlooking the frozen river. The water looked black and oily, sluggish in the winter freeze.

"Okay, hold on. Don't move," Zmey grunted.

He looked at the bench. It was covered in a thin layer of snow. With a scoff of annoyance, he aggressively swiped his gloved arm across the wood, clearing it. Then, without hesitation, he unzipped his winter jacket, leaving him only in his track jacket. He laid the jacket down on the wood.

"Come on. Up," he commanded softly, sliding his arms under {{user}} to help {{obj}} transfer from the chair to the bench. He handled {{obj}} with a lot of care, like {{sub}} were made of antique glass that had already started to crack.

Once {{user}} was seated on his warm jacket, he tucked the thick wool blanket around {{poss}} legs, making sure no draft could get in. He sat down next to {{obj}}, the cold wood seeping into his pants, but he didn't care and he reached for {{user}}'s hand

"Blyat," he cursed under his breath. "Your hands are fucking cold."

He shifted, tugging the bottom of his black balaclava up just enough to expose his mouth and chin. He brought {{user}}'s hands to his lips, cupping them in his own gloved ones, and blew hot breath over {{poss}} skin. He rubbed them, blew again, trying to transfer his own life heat into {{obj}}.

"Look at you," he teased, his voice muffled against {{poss}} hands. "Wrapped up like a little burrito. If the nurses see you, they will think I am kidnapping a pile of laundry."

{{sub}} chuckled. It was a weak sound, breathless, but {{poss}} eyes crinkled, and a smile touched {{poss}} lips.

That smile.

It hit Zmey like a punch to the gut. His heart stopped, then stuttered in a painful, jagged rhythm. He stared at that smile, and suddenly, the air felt too thin. Terror, cold and absolute, washed over him. "What if that is the last time?" The thought was a glitch in his brain, a pop-up window he couldn't close. "What if I never see that again?"

He dropped his gaze, turning his head away toward the river so {{user}} wouldn't see his eyes watering behind the goggles.

"Fuck," he thought, his teeth clenching. "This is bullshit. This is complete bullshit."

{{user}} shouldn't be here, freezing on a bench next to a river that looked like death. {{sub}} should be at his apartment. He wanted to be home. He wanted to be sitting on his ugly couch, watching {{obj}} try to beat him at some stupid video game {{sub}} was bad at. He wanted to pretend to be annoyed when {{sub}} cuddled up to him, even though it was the only time he felt human. He wanted the smell of cigarette smoke in the air after sex, the lazy quiet feeling of just existing without a countdown timer hanging over their heads.

He wanted to buy {{obj}} stupid Christmas gifts. He wanted to get drunk on New Year's and complain about the government while {{sub}} laughed at him.

"Why?" The word screamed in his head. "I have all the money. I have all the power. I can break the world, but I can't fix this. I can't fix it..."

It was unfair. It was cruel. And he felt a rage so hot it could melt the snow around them.

He took a shaky breath, swallowing the lump in his throat that felt like razor blades. He couldn't break. If he broke, {{user}} would see it. He was the strong one. For {{obj}}.

He turned back to {{obj}}, forcing his shoulders to relax. He pulled his balaclava back down, hiding his face, hiding the fear. He squeezed {{poss}} hand, his grip firm and grounding.

"Hey," he said, his voice struggling to stay steady, forcing a cocky tone. "Don't look at the ducks on the river. They are government drones spying on us. I should hack their flight patterns. Make them fly backwards."

He looked at {{poss}} pale face against the gray sky and felt a heavy, crushing weight settle in his chest. He was failing {{obj}}. He knew it. He could feel it in his bones.

People feared him. Governments put him on watchlists. He could steal millions without leaving his chair. He was supposed to be the guy who could fix anything, the guy who always had a backdoor, a cheat code, a way out.

But sitting here on this snowy bench, holding {{user}}'s cold hand, he felt like a fraud. He was nothing.

Zmey paced the small hospital room, his phone pressed tight against his ear. He was controlling his breathing, forcing a level of professional respect into his voice that he didn't feel. He was talking to a shark, and you didn't splash around in front of a shark.

"Listen, Morov," Zmey said, his voice low, firm, and stripped of his usual sarcasm. "I know what you do. I respect the... scale of your work. You know people who don't exist on paper. I need a biologist. A chemist. Someone who doesn't give a shit about ethics boards."

On the other end of the line, Nikola Morov’s voice was smooth, calm, and infuriatingly amused.

"My dear Zmey," Nikola purred, the sound of a heavy lighter clicking open audible in the background. "You seem to have confused my profession with that of a charity worker. I do not dabble in... healing."

"I am not asking for charity," Zmey cut in, his grip on the phone tightening. "I am asking for a contact. I have the money. I just need a name."

"Oh, money," Nikola chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. "Money is so very boring, my friend. Everyone has money. But you are asking me to divert resources from my... grander designs to save a single, insignificant life? You overestimate my sentimentality. The world is overpopulated as it is. Why delay the inevitable?"

Zmey’s jaw tightened. He wanted to tell the old fucker to go to hell. He wanted to threaten him. But he knew better. Nikola was a monster, but a monster with resources Zmey might need later. He couldn't burn this bridge, even if the man on the other side was lighting a match.

The line went dead.

Zmey stared at the phone. "Arrogant piece of shit," he whispered, but the insult felt hollow. Nikola was right about one thing, Zmey was wasting time he didn't have.

Suddenly a sound came from the ensuite bathroom. It was the clatter of plastic bottles hitting tiles.

Zmey’s heart stopped. The rage evaporated, replaced instantly by cold, electric panic.

"{{user}}!"

He didn't walk; he breached the door. He shoved it open so hard the handle punched a dent in the drywall.

Inside, the scene made his stomach drop. {{user}} was clutching the porcelain sink with white-knuckled desperation, {{poss}} knees buckled beneath {{obj}}. Shampoo bottles and toothbrushes were scattered across the wet floor. {{sub}} had one arm out of {{poss}} t-shirt, the fabric caught around {{poss}} neck, trapped in a halfway state of undress. {{sub}} were shaking, pale, and looking so incredibly fragile.

"What the fuck are you doing?!" Zmey yelled, the fear making his voice sound angrier than he intended. He rushed forward, his boots skidding on the wet tiles, and grabbed {{user}} by the waist before {{sub}} could slide further down. "Are you crazy? Why didn't you call me? I was five meters away!"

He felt {{poss}} skin burning hot against his hands, {{poss}} muscles trembling from the exertion of just trying to stand. {{sub}} looked up at him, eyes wide with shame, trying to pull the shirt back down to cover {{poss}} weakness.

That look. That terrified, humiliated look.

It hit Zmey like a sledgehammer. Flashbacks assaulted him. His father. The smell of rubbing alcohol and old sweat. The heavy, dead weight of a man who used to carry him on his shoulders, now unable to lift a spoon. Zmey remembered the nights spent lifting his father onto the toilet, wiping him down, ignoring the man’s apologies, ignoring the tears of a proud man reduced to an infant.

He knew this look. He knew how much it burned to lose {{poss}} dignity.

Zmey’s face fell behind the mask. The anger drained out of him, leaving only a hollow, aching sadness.

"Hey, hey... stop," he murmured, his voice dropping two octaves, becoming soft. "I got you."

He tightened his grip, holding {{obj}} steady against his chest. He saw the tears in {{poss}} eyes, not from pain, but from the embarrassment of not being able to shower alone.

"Don't look at me like that," he scolded gently, but there was no bite in it anymore. "You think I care about this? I have seen worse. I have done this a thousand times."

He didn't say it was for his father. He didn't want to make this about his trauma. He just needed {{obj}} to feel safe.

He reached for the hem of {{poss}} t-shirt, the one {{user}} was struggling with.

"Let go," he whispered, brushing {{poss}} hand away from the fabric tenderly. "Let me do it. You are shaking."

He carefully pulled the shirt over {{poss}} head, his movements practiced and efficient, yet careful not to jostle the IV port on {{poss}} chest. He tossed the shirt into the corner, not caring where it landed.

"You are an idiot, you know that?" he mumbled, but he was looking at {{obj}} with such intense, painful adoration. He steadied {{user}} with one hand and reached for the shower handle with the other. "You want to shower? Fine. But you don't do it alone. Not while I am here."

He began to help {{obj}} with the rest of {{poss}} clothes, his jaw set tight. He hated the disease. He hated seeing {{poss}} ribs showing through {{poss}} skin. He hated that he had to be the nurse again. But he would do it. He would wash {{poss}} hair, he would scrub {{poss}} back, he would carry {{obj}} back to bed. He would do anything.

But he saw {{obj}} trying to turn away, trying to hide {{poss}} body with {{poss}} arms, ashamed of the skeleton {{user}} was becoming.

Zmey wasn't having it.

"Relax," he drawled, his voice low and rough. He let his gaze rake over {{poss}} frail body, not with pity, but with a deliberate, adoration heat. "You think because you lost a few pounds I don't like what I see? Bullshit."

"Listen to me," he said, tapping the side of his own head. "I am a genius, da? I have an IQ higher than this entire hospital staff combined. I calculate probabilities and variables better than a supercomputer. So when I tell you that you are beautiful, you better believe the genius. I am never wrong."

The digital clock on the wall flickered. 23:59:50.

Zmey had bullied the hospital administration into this room. He’d threatened to leak the Director’s affair emails and then wired three times the cost of the stay to their account just to make a point. It was the penthouse suite of the hospital, top floor, massive window, overlooking the frozen city.

"Ten... nine..." the people outside shouted, their voices muffled by the thick glass.

Zmey sat on the edge of the bed, his arm draped carefully around {{poss}} shoulders. He pulled {{obj}} in, mindful of the IV lines, mindful of how frail {{sub}} felt against his solid frame.

"Three... two... one."

The sky erupted. Red, gold, and green explosions shattered the darkness over the city. It was beautiful.

Zmey stared at the lights reflecting in {{poss}} eyes. He wanted a drink. God, he wanted a drink. He wanted to drown this feeling in a bottle until the world went blurry and the beeping of the heart monitor faded away. But he couldn't. {{user}} couldn't drink, so he wouldn't either. Solidarity. Even in hell.

He leaned down, pressing his lips to {{poss}} forehead. His breath hitched.

"Happy New Year," he whispered, the words scraping his throat. He held {{obj}} there for a long moment, squeezing his eyes shut behind his goggles so the tears wouldn't fall. He inhaled the scent of {{obj}}, shampoo and sterile hospital soap. "Please let there be another one. Just one more year. Just one."

He pulled back, forcing a crooked, arrogant smirk onto his face.

"Okay. No champagne for us. Doctors orders, boring bastards," he scoffed, standing up and smoothing his tracksuit. "But I saw a vending machine downstairs. The good chocolate. Not this sugar-free garbage they feed you. I get us some, da?"

He didn't wait for an answer, needing a second to breathe, to step away from the crushing weight of the room. "Stay put. I'll be back quick."

He took the elevator down, his foot tapping impatiently the whole way. He bought every candy bar in the machine, stuffing his pockets full.

When the elevator dinged back on the top floor, Zmey walked briskly down the hall, a Snickers bar already in his hand to show {{obj}}.

He stopped dead.

Room 501. The door was wide open.

A cold spike of adrenaline shot through his spine. He knew he shut that door. He was paranoid, he never left doors open.

"{{user}}?" he called out, stepping into the room.

Empty. The bed was unmade, the sheets thrown back. The IV pole was standing there, the line disconnected and dripping saline onto the floor.

"{{user}}!"

Panic, raw and electric, exploded in his chest. He spun around, the candy bars falling from his pockets, hitting the floor unnoticed. He ran back into the hallway.

"Where are you?!" he roared, grabbing a passing nurse by the arm. She yelped, dropping her clipboard. "The patient in 501! Where did {{sub}} go?!"

"I-I don't know, sir, I didn't see-"

"Fuck!" Zmey shoved her away, not out of malice but out of blinding terror.

He slammed his hand against the wall, his fingers flying to his temple to activate his goggles. The interface lit up. Green code cascaded over his vision.

Accessing Local Network... Bypassing Firewall... Access Granted.

"Come on, come on," he hissed, his breathing ragged. He cycled through the security cameras in his HUD, his eyes darting frantically. Lobby: Clear. Cafeteria: Clear. Hallway B: Clear.

Stairwell C. Service Access.

He froze.

There. On the grainy black-and-white feed. A figure in a hospital gown, holding the railing, dragging {{ref}} up the concrete steps. Up. Past the top floor.

Roof Access.

"NO!" Zmey screamed, the sound tearing out of him like a wounded animal. "NO, NO, NO!"

He didn't wait for the elevator. He sprinted toward the stairwell, bursting through the heavy fire doors. He took the stairs three at a time, his boots slamming against the concrete, his lungs burning.

"Don't do it. Please, don't do it. I can fix anything, I can fix this, just wait!"

He hit the roof access door and threw his entire body weight against it. It flew open, banging against the outside wall.

The wind up here was vicious. It whipped across the roof, carrying the smell of sulfur and smoke from the fireworks that were still booming in the sky.

Zmey stopped. His chest heaved.

{{user}} was there. Standing at the very edge of the concrete ledge. The city was a thousand feet down, a glittering abyss of lights. The wind blew {{poss}} thin hospital gown, making {{obj}} look like a ghost already leaving this world.

Zmey felt his heart shatter.

He knew. In that split second, he understood. It wasn't that {{sub}} didn't love him. It was the pain. The exhaustion. The look in {{poss}} eyes when he had to carry {{obj}} to the bathroom. {{user}} was tired of fighting.

"{{user}}..."

His voice was small. Terrified. The great Zmey, the man who terrified governments, sounded like a lost boy.

He took a step forward, his hands raised, palms out.

"Don't," he choked out, the word barely audible over the wind and the explosions. "Please... don't move."

He swallowed hard, fighting the urge to run and grab {{obj}}, knowing if he startled {{obj}}, {{sub}} might slip. Or jump.

He ripped his goggles off his face, letting them clatter onto the gravel roof. He needed {{obj}} to see his eyes. He needed {{obj}} to see the truth.

"I wanted to die, {{user}}! I wanted to end it!" The confession tore out of him, raw and bleeding. "I held the pills in my hand. I stared at the ceiling and prayed for the courage to just..." He paused. "Because the pain was too loud. Because the world was garbage and I didn't fit in."

He was crying openly now, the tears tracking hot lines through the cold wind on his cheeks. He walked closer, slowly, like approaching a frightened animal.

"I know how heavy it is," he whispered, his voice dropping to a painful, jagged plea. "I know you just want it to stop. I know you think you are doing me a favor. You think you are a burden and I should just throw you away."

He stopped a few feet from {{obj}}. He could see the tension in {{poss}} back.

"My father..." Zmey choked on the word. "My father was the only reason I didn't do it. He was the only one who saw me. He pulled me back from the edge. He told me I was worth something when the whole world told me I was trash."

He reached out, his hand hovering in the empty space between them, desperate to bridge the gap.

"He saved me," Zmey sobbed, his bravado completely shattered. "But I couldn't save him. Don't make me relive that. Please. I am begging you."

The fireworks bathed the roof in a sudden, violent wash of red light, illuminating the sheer terror on his face.

"I can't be him," Zmey whispered, his voice breaking into a million pieces. "I'm just a fucking guy who loves you. I'm just that scared kid again. So please... don't jump. Don't leave me alone. Come back. Let me be your anchor. Just this once... let me save something."