Chapter 9: Breaking Point
The ragged sobs tore through Ling, raw and wet, each one shuddering his entire frame. The massive swell of his belly quivered with the force of it, the stretched skin gleaming pale and vulnerable in the dim lamplight. Tears streamed unchecked down his temples, soaking into the black silk pillowcase. He couldn’t stop. The crushing pressure inside, the terrifying tenderness in Ashur’s voice, the utter helplessness – it had broken something loose, a floodgate of pure, panicked despair.
Ashur froze. The sinful smirk vanished, replaced by something utterly alien on his usually composed face: wide-eyed alarm. His golden gaze snapped from the strained curve of his creation to Ling’s tear-streaked, agonized expression. The possessive hand that had been pressing down on Ling’s belly jerked back as if burned. "Ling? Little Bird?" His voice was tight, stripped of its usual low purr. "Shit. Shh, shh…" The command was instinctive, but the roughness was edged with real panic. "I've got you. Breathe. Just breathe."
His movements became swift, almost clumsy. He scrambled off the bed, bare feet slapping the hardwood. Ling, through the blur of tears, saw Ashur lunge not towards the humming fridge, but towards the cluttered dresser on the far wall. He yanked open a drawer, rummaging frantically past discarded t-shirts and sketchbooks. Something clattered. Ashur cursed under his breath, pulling out a small, smooth river stone, then another. He’d mocked them yesterday when Ling had shyly unpacked them – ‘New Age nonsense, Little Bird. Real pain needs real handling.’ Now, Ashur snatched them up and darted into the ensuite bathroom. The sound of running water, scalding hot, filled the sudden silence punctuated only by Ling’s hiccupping breaths.
Ashur returned moments later, the stones steaming faintly in his large hands. He climbed back onto the bed, his movements uncharacteristically careful. Kneeling beside Ling’s trembling form, he hesitated for only a second. "Gonna put these where it hurts," he murmured, his voice gruff but softer now, lacking its usual calculated edge. "Warmth helps the ache." He didn’t wait for permission. Gently, cautiously, he placed one heated stone low on the left side of Ling’s swollen belly, where the cramp seemed to have anchored itself. The heat was instant, penetrating the taut skin. Ling gasped, flinching despite himself.
"Too hot?" Ashur asked quickly, his hand hovering.
Ling squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head slightly. A choked whimper escaped him. It was hot, almost too much, but the deep, radiating warmth did battle with the agonizing internal pressure. It wasn't relief, not yet, but it was a different kind of intensity, pulling focus. Ashur carefully placed the second stone lower, near the distended curve just above Ling’s pelvis. The warmth seeped in, a counterpoint to the sickening fullness.
Ashur stayed kneeling beside him. His tattooed hands, usually so confident, so possessive, hovered uncertainly for a moment before settling lightly on Ling’s ribs, avoiding the heated stones and the worst of the swell. His touch was tentative, almost reverent. "Easy," he breathed, his voice a low rumble near Ling’s ear. "Just let the heat work. Slow breaths. In… out…" He mimicked the rhythm softly. His thumb brushed away a fresh tear tracking down Ling’s temple. The gesture was startling in its gentleness.
Ling tried to obey, sucking in a shaky breath that hitched painfully. He focused on the heat on his skin, the unfamiliar softness in Ashur’s voice. The violent sobs subsided into shuddering tremors, then quiet, exhausted crying. He felt fragile, utterly spent, like shattered glass held together by the warmth of the stones and Ashur’s unexpectedly careful hands. Ashur remained silent for a long moment, his head bowed slightly, his breath stirring Ling’s sweat-damp hair. The scent of sandalwood incense was suddenly overwhelmed by something else – sharp, medicinal, vaguely familiar. Tiger balm. Ashur must have rubbed some onto his hands. The cool, tingling sensation followed the path of his thumbs as they began to trace slow, incredibly gentle circles on Ling’s upper belly, above the stones. It was a massage unlike any he’d ever given – not demanding, not claiming, but purely… soothing.
"Too much, too fast," Ashur murmured, the words barely audible, spoken directly into the crown of Ling’s head. An apology, unheard in its specifics but clear in its tone. "Stupid. Pushed too hard." His fingers paused, then resumed their careful circles. "That gym… the harness…" He trailed off, the sentence unfinished, but the unspoken admission hung heavy in the incense-thick air: It was too much. His thumb brushed the sensitive skin just below Ling’s ribs. "Just rest now. Let the heat sink in. Just rest." The words were soft, repetitive, almost a lullaby.
The combination of the penetrating warmth from the stones, the cool tingle of the balm, the rhythmic, gentle pressure of Ashur’s fingers, and the sheer exhaustion finally began to take effect. The agonizing tightness in Ling’s belly didn't vanish, but it dulled, receding from a sharp scream to a deep, manageable throb. The panic ebbed, leaving behind a hollowed-out weariness. His breathing gradually evened out, becoming slower, less ragged. The tears slowed, then stopped, leaving his face tacky and his eyes swollen.
He felt Ashur shift beside him. The hands lifted from his ribs. Ling tensed instinctively, a flicker of fear returning. But Ashur didn’t move away. Instead, he carefully lifted one of the stones, testing its temperature with his fingertips. Finding it cooler, he dipped off the bed again. Ling heard the tap run briefly in the bathroom. Ashur returned, replacing the stone with a freshly heated one, the warmth blooming anew against Ling’s skin. He repeated the process with the second stone, his movements precise, focused solely on the task.
Once both stones were renewed, Ashur settled back onto his knees. He didn’t resume the massage immediately. Instead, he just watched Ling. His golden eyes, usually gleaming with mischief or dark possession, were shadowed, unreadable. The sinful smirk was long gone. He reached out once more, not to press or claim, but to gently tuck a strand of Ling’s sweat-damp black hair behind his ear. The touch lingered for a second, feather-light.
The persistent hum of the fridge in the kitchenette beyond the bedroom door suddenly seemed louder. Ashur’s gaze flickered towards the closed door, a muscle tightening in his jaw. The conflict was brief but visible – the predator momentarily checked. He looked back down at Ling, at the pale, exhausted face, the massively swollen belly rising and falling with shallow breaths under the heated stones. The hunger in his eyes didn’t vanish, but it was overlaid with something else – a dawning, unsettling realization of the line he’d crossed, and the fragile creature lying shattered before him.
He didn’t move towards the fridge. He stayed kneeling on the rumpled silk sheets, bathed in the dim lamplight, one hand resting lightly on the bed near Ling’s hip, the scent of tiger balm and incense mingling as Ling finally, mercifully, drifted into an uneasy, heat-soaked sleep. Ashur watched him breathe, his own breath catching slightly as he traced the outline of the immense curve with his eyes, a silent war raging behind his golden gaze. The fridge hummed its relentless promise into the quiet sanctuary of shadows.
The fridge’s hum vibrated through the floorboards, a low thrumming counterpoint to Ling’s shallow breaths. Ashur remained motionless, kneeling beside the bed, the warm stones slowly leaching heat into Ling’s strained skin. The tiger balm’s sharp scent cut through the sandalwood. He watched the immense curve of Ling’s belly rise and fall, each breath visibly labored even in sleep. The digital memory of that gym scale – 150.0 – flashed behind his eyes, followed by the image of the harness straps biting into soft flesh, the funnel forcing sludge down a protesting throat. His golden gaze hardened.
A muscle jumped in Ashur’s jaw. He reached out, not touching, just hovering his palm over the exposed swell. He could feel the radiating heat, the unnatural tightness beneath. Ling whimpered in his sleep, a small, broken sound. Ashur flinched. He pulled his hand back like it stung. The possessive thrill, the dark satisfaction of seeing Ling strain and fill – it curdled in his gut, replaced by a cold, unfamiliar dread. That fragile frame couldn’t contain this. He’d pushed too far. Way too far.
He moved silently. Off the bed. Across the cool hardwood. His bare feet made no sound. He snatched his phone from the cluttered dresser, his tattoos stark in the dim lamplight. The screen glowed unnaturally bright in the shadowed room. He hesitated for only a second, thumb hovering over the keypad. His eyes flicked back to the bed, to the vulnerable shape swallowed by silk and pain. He punched in the numbers decisively.
"Dr. Vance? Yeah. Ashur." His voice was low, tight, stripped of its usual lazy confidence. He kept his back turned to the bed. "Need you to come. Now. Ling’s… bad." A pause. He ran his free hand through his messy golden hair, tugging hard. "Stomach. Distended. Hard as a rock. Can’t… can’t keep anything down? He hasn’t tried. He’s just… full. Pain." Another pause, listening. Ashur’s shoulders tensed. "The harness? Yesterday. Yeah. Funnel-fed a couple gallons of that protein sludge. Then waffles, sausage, chocolate sauce this morning. He begged me to stop." The admission was gritted out. "Just get here." He ended the call abruptly, tossing the phone onto the dresser. It clattered loudly.
He leaned forward, bracing his hands on the dresser top, head bowed. The intricate designs on his back seemed to ripple with suppressed tension. The fridge hummed. Ling shifted with a soft groan. Ashur pushed off, turning back to the bed. He approached slowly this time. He carefully lifted the cooling stones from Ling’s belly, placing them aside on the nightstand. The pale skin beneath was flushed, stretched impossibly taut. Ashur swallowed hard, the sight hitting him anew. He pulled the black silk duvet up, gently covering Ling’s nakedness to the waist, tucking it loosely around the massive swell.
He sank into the armchair near the bed, the leather creaking. He didn’t take his eyes off Ling. Minutes crawled by, measured only by Ling’s shallow breathing and the relentless hum from the kitchen. Ashur didn’t move. He just watched, his expression unreadable, the playful flirt, the possessive feeder, gone. Only stark vigilance remained.
A sharp rap echoed from the front door. Ashur was on his feet instantly, moving swiftly to open the bedroom door. He crossed the living area and yanked the main door open. Dr. Vance stood there, a compact medical bag in hand, his expression professionally neutral but alert. "Ashur," he acknowledged briskly, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation.
"In here," Ashur said, voice clipped. He led the doctor back to the bedroom. The incense seemed suddenly overwhelming. The doctor paused just inside the doorway, taking in the scene: the dimly lit room, the massive bed, the small figure dwarfed by silk and his own swollen abdomen. His gaze swept from Ling’s tear-streaked, sleeping face down to the pronounced mound beneath the duvet. "Get this off him," Vance instructed, already setting his bag down and snapping on latex gloves.
Ashur moved to the bedside. Hesitated only a fraction of a second before carefully pulling the duvet down to Ling’s hips again, exposing the distended belly. Ling stirred, his green eyes fluttering open, hazy with sleep and confusion. He saw the unfamiliar man, the gloves, the bag. Panic flared instantly. "Ashur?" His voice was a thin thread, laced with fear. He instinctively tried to curl in, to hide, but the movement triggered a wave of agony. He gasped, freezing.
"Easy, Xiao." Ashur’s voice was surprisingly low, surprisingly steady near Ling’s ear. He didn’t touch the swollen belly. Just rested his hand lightly on Ling’s shoulder. "Doctor’s here. Just gonna check you. Make it better." The reassurance sounded foreign on his tongue.
Dr. Vance approached. "Hello, Xiao Ling. I’m Dr. Vance." His voice was calm, authoritative. "Ashur’s concerned. Can you tell me where the pain is worst?" He reached out, his gloved fingers cool as they pressed gently but firmly around the circumference of Ling’s abdomen, starting high near the ribs.
Ling flinched violently. "Everywhere," he gasped, tears welling again. "So tight. Can’t… breathe." He looked desperately at Ashur, then back at the doctor. "It hurts."
"Shh," Ashur murmured, his fingers tightening slightly on Ling’s shoulder. "Let him."
Vance’s expression remained focused as he palpated. His touch was probing, clinical. He pressed lower, near the pelvis, where Ashur had placed the stones. Ling cried out, a sharp, involuntary sound. "Here?" Vance asked, his fingers lingering. Ling nodded frantically, biting his lip. "And here?" Vance moved his hands slightly. Another nod, choked sob. The doctor’s lips pressed into a thin line. He gently turned Ling onto his side, one arm supporting him, the other hand palpating Ling’s back. Ashur hovered, jaw clenched, watching every movement, every wince that crossed Ling’s face.
Vance straightened. He pulled a stethoscope from his bag, the metal cold against Ling’s overheated skin. He listened intently over the swollen belly, moving the diaphragm slowly. The silence stretched, filled only by Ling’s ragged breathing and the distant hum Ashur wished he could silence. Vance’s brow furrowed. He moved the stethoscope, listened again, longer this time. His expression darkened significantly.
He straightened, peeling off the stethoscope. "Okay." He looked directly at Ashur, then at Ling, his voice grave. "This is serious." He gestured towards Ling’s belly. "Severe gastric distension. Likely due to acute overloading and delayed emptying. The protein concentrate yesterday, Ashur?" Ashur gave a stiff, silent nod, unable to meet Ling’s terrified eyes. "That sludge is incredibly dense. Difficult to digest even in small amounts." He looked back at Ling. "Then adding the heavy, greasy breakfast…" He shook his head slightly. "The bowel sounds are severely diminished. There’s a real risk of ischemia or even perforation." He paused, letting the medical terms hang heavy in the incense-laden air. "We need imaging. Now. Hospital."
Ling’s breath hitched, a terrified whimper escaping. Hospital. The word echoed, stark and terrifying. He looked wildly at Ashur, seeking… something. Reassurance? Blame? Ashur’s face was pale beneath his tan, his golden eyes wide, fixed on the doctor. The predatory confidence was utterly gone, replaced by something raw and unfamiliar. Shock. Fear. His fingers tightened on Ling’s shoulder, grounding them both.
"Pack a bag, Ashur," Vance said, already reaching for his phone. "Essential items only. He goes by ambulance. No arguments." He started dialing. "This isn't waiting."
The word hospital hung like a shard of ice in the thick, incense-laden air. Ling’s gasp was a ragged scrape, his green eyes darting wildly from Dr. Vance’s grave expression to Ashur’s suddenly bloodless face. "Hospital?" The syllable cracked. His hand fluttered towards his swollen belly, a futile shield against the word, against the tightening vise of fear in his chest that mirrored the agony below.
"Immediately, Xiao Ling," Vance reiterated, phone already pressed to his ear, his voice clipped and authoritative, brooking no argument. "Ambulance is en route. Ashur, pack essentials. Now." He rattled off details into the phone: address, symptoms, the ominous terms – gastric distension, diminished bowel sounds, potential ischemia.
Ashur stood frozen for a heartbeat, the intricate tattoos on his chest stark against his pallor. The predator was gone, replaced by stark, primal fear. His golden eyes, usually sharp with amusement or dark intent, were wide, darting between Ling’s tear-streaked panic and the doctor’s urgent efficiency. The hum of the fridge now sounded like a mocking countdown. He moved abruptly, lunging for the dresser, yanking open drawers with trembling hands.
"Don't... leave," Ling choked out, watching Ashur’s frantic movements, the fear of abandonment suddenly sharper than the physical pain. His fingers clawed weakly at the silk sheet, trying to push himself up, but the monumental weight in his abdomen pinned him, stealing his breath in a sharp gasp.
"I'm right here, Little Bird," Ashur rasped, his voice thick, unfamiliar. He flung a worn duffel bag onto the bed beside Ling, not looking at him, stuffing things in blindly: the discarded oversized sleep shirt smelling faintly of his cologne, Ling’s phone charger tangled like a snake, a hairbrush. His movements were jerky, fueled by adrenaline and fear. "Not leaving you. Ever." The words lacked his usual smooth assurance; they were raw, scraped from somewhere deep.
The distant wail of a siren sliced through the apartment’s heavy silence, growing rapidly louder, closer. Panic flared brighter in Ling’s eyes. Outside, red and blue lights pulsed against the drawn curtains, casting flickering, nightmarish shadows on the rock band posters. Heavy footsteps pounded up the exterior stairs. A sharp, demanding knock rattled the front door.
Vance moved swiftly. "I'll get it. Stay with him." He vanished into the living area. Ashur abandoned the half-packed bag, dropping to his knees beside the bed, his large hands hovering over Ling, wanting to touch, to comfort, but afraid to cause more pain. "It's okay," he breathed, the words a shaky attempt. "They’re gonna help. Make it stop. Just breathe."
The bedroom door swung open. Two paramedics, crisp uniforms smelling faintly of antiseptic and rain, followed Vance inside, their gazes instantly locking onto the small figure dwarfed by the massive bed and his own swollen abdomen. Their professional calm was a jarring counterpoint to the room's lingering scent of sandalwood and terror. "Xiao Ling?" the lead paramedic, a woman with sharp eyes and a no-nonsense demeanor, asked, already pulling out equipment.
Ling shrank back, trying to pull the duvet higher, a futile attempt to hide the obscene evidence of Ashur’s obsession. Shame washed over him, hot and prickling, mingling with the fear. He couldn't look at them. Couldn't look at Ashur. The enormity of the situation crushed him.
"Severe abdominal distension," Vance supplied tersely. "Acute overload. Diminished bowel sounds. History includes forced high-volume protein intake yesterday followed by heavy breakfast this morning." Ashur flinched visibly at the clinical summary, his hand finally settling on Ling’s trembling forearm, a desperate anchor.
The paramedic nodded, her focus purely on Ling. "Okay, Xiao Ling, we need to get you on the gurney. Can you tell me where the pain is? Scale of one to ten?" Her gloved hands were already moving, gently palpating his abdomen with expert precision, avoiding the worst of the visible tension near his pelvis. The cool touch made him gasp.
"Ten," Ling whispered, tears spilling anew. "Everywhere. Ten." The pressure was immense, unrelenting, stealing his breath with every shallow inhale. The simple act of her touch felt like knives scraping his insides. "Can't... breathe... deep."
"Okay, deep as you can manage," she instructed calmly, placing a pulse oximeter on his finger. The machine beeped, displaying numbers that made her exchange a quick glance with her partner. "We’re going to move you carefully. On three." Her partner positioned a sturdy folding gurney beside the bed. "Ashur, support his shoulders. Gently."
Ashur’s hands slid under Ling’s shoulders, his touch surprisingly careful, belying the frantic energy vibrating through him. "Got you," he murmured, his face close to Ling’s damp hair. The scent of tiger balm from his earlier ministrations was still faint on his skin. "Just like the stones. Gotta move." The memory of those warm stones, his unexpected tenderness, felt like a lifetime ago.
"One… two… three." They lifted. Ling cried out, a sharp, animal sound of agony as his distended belly shifted, the internal pressure spiking white-hot. The world tilted sickeningly as he was transferred onto the firm, unforgiving pad of the gurney. Straps were secured snugly across his chest and thighs. Helpless. Exposed. The paramedic swiftly covered him with a thin blanket, but it did nothing to hide the pronounced mound beneath.
"IV started en route for fluids and pain management," the lead paramedic announced, already preparing a needle. The sharp prick in the back of his hand was a minor sting compared to the agony in his core, but the sight of the needle piercing his pale skin made him whimper. Ashur hovered beside the gurney, his hand gripping the railing, knuckles white.
"Riding with him?" the second paramedic asked Ashur, already wheeling the gurney towards the door. The apartment felt like it was collapsing in on them.
Ashur didn't hesitate. "Yes." He grabbed the half-packed duffel bag, his gaze fixed on Ling’s pale face. Vance fell into step beside him. "I'll follow in my car. Text me the hospital."
The gurney bumped over the threshold into the living room, the sterile red and blue lights from outside flashing through the windows. The cool night air, thick with impending rain, rushed in as the front door was opened. The siren's wail was deafening up close. Ling squeezed his eyes shut against the glare, against the sheer, overwhelming intrusion of the world.
As they descended the exterior stairs, the gurney jostling, Ashur kept pace, one hand resting lightly on Ling’s blanket-covered arm. His face, illuminated by the pulsing emergency lights, was etched with a fear Ling had never seen before – stripped bare, raw, terrifyingly real. The carefully constructed persona of the teasing, possessive feeder was obliterated.
The back doors of the ambulance yawned open. The paramedics lifted the gurney smoothly inside. Ashur climbed in after, folding himself onto the small jump seat beside Ling’s head, the duffel bag clutched in his lap. The doors slammed shut with a heavy finality. The siren kicked up to a deafening scream. The ambulance lurched forward.
Inside the vibrating metal box, smelling of disinfectant and plastic, Ling stared up at the blinking interior lights. Ashur’s hand found his, lacing their fingers together. His grip was almost painfully tight. "Hang on, Little Bird," Ashur breathed, his voice barely audible over the siren. The endearment sounded cracked, stripped of its usual dark affection. "Just hang on." Outside, the city lights blurred into streaks as they raced through the wet streets, carrying them towards the stark, fluorescent-lit unknown. The crushing weight in Ling's belly pulsed in time with the siren's wail.