A short story: Phobia (yes, it's a literature text!!) (Patreon)

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We've got an idea. Every now and then, we'll be giving you a sneak peek into different stories we're working on. Who knows, these snippets might even end up in the final versions! We've got plenty of content covering all sorts of topics, not just about the Crown. Normally, we keep it tucked away, but we thought it would be fun to share some of it with you. So, sit back, relax, and enjoy the story! 📚✨

Story: Phobia (general)
Characters: Roger, Arthur, background characters
Warnings: The text is unedited!
18+ for triggering themes (violence, blood, controversial characters). Soft spoilers regarding the story, as this excerpt is literally from its middle.

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"And this painting is called "Diana in Flames". It took incredible courage to create it, wouldn't you agree? Not every artist can so openly convey the image of forbidden love. And to paint it with blood! By the way, you'll be able to purchase reproductions of the painting after the exhibition in Hall "A"."

The tour group buzzed approvingly, clustering around the canvas like a swarm of flies around a garbage bin.

Roger aimed the camera at them and at "Diana in Flames" - a three-meter scene of the union of a swan and a woman in a red dress. Both of them wore golden wreaths of tinsel on their heads.

"Who is Diana?", he asked, "Isn't she your friend from college?"

Silence. Click-click of the shutter.

"Why are you so harsh on her, Cheyenne? If you were to paint how the swan fucks me, I wouldn't thank you for that."

The camera clicked for the last time and obediently spit out the slightly sticky picture after developing. Roger shook it in the air, still waiting for a response, but his friend - and, by the way, the star of this exhibition who had commissioned him for the shoot - had already disappeared at the other end of the hall. Too bad. Roger genuinely enjoyed listening to her chatter. She was a terrible artist, but an amusing person who could crack such sharp jokes that even the thickest-skinned would wilt.

"So, let's move on... Wait a moment", the lens seeker suddenly blocked the tour guide, a woman of immense height and equal weight, who knew how to move smoothly and silently. She looked at her charges - a group of scandalously middle-aged rich women and men - as if they were beloved children. But her gaze on Roger was sharp and cut as glass. Apparently, she couldn't forgive the appearance of a "cheap sensation-seeker" within the walls blessed by the muse of pure art.

"Mr. Taylor", she started, "Do you intend to continue exploring the exhibition with us in the adjacent building? I remembered that the museum has a wonderful audio guide. I'm not sure if you'd like to listen, but it would give you more time for shooting, and you wouldn't be bothered by people."

"I'm not just here to photograph paintings, dear", Roger smiled, imagining that with such a huge woman, they could create some very interesting nude photographs, "But if my presence bothers and distracts you, I can intentionally lag behind. Out of philanthropy."

"Good. Audio guides can be obtained at the ticket counter at the entrance. Have a pleasant evening...", The lady's lips tightened, adding a bit of acidity to her polite response, "I'm glad Cheyenne chose you as her photographer, they say you have talented work."

Then she left, herding her flock with sweeping hand gestures. The clatter and voices quickly died down, leaving only the soothing sounds of the party, unfolding by the windows overlooking the garden. The clinking of glasses, the lazy rustle of dresses, and the purring melodies of the live orchestra, hardly fitting the definition of music.

Roger lowered his camera and wiped his sweaty forehead, dispersing the first stabs of pain towards his temples. He was surprisingly... tired. He was used to spending hours and hours at shows, photoshoots, official and not-so-official receptions, but Cheyenne had forbidden him to bring his (so called) "first aid kit". What did she say back then?

"You'll be a good, clean boy for me."

He wasn't good. And he couldn't survive on just fruit canapés and non-alcoholic punch. Champagne would have helped at least, or better yet, vodka.

"Roger, this is a place for creative people, why do we need stimulants? You can't vibrate at high frequencies when your head isn't clear!"

Roger could have vibrated perfectly at any frequency if he had a pill of Vitriol, but all he had in his pocket was a piece of velvet fabric from the studio. And he mercilessly tormented it during breaks between shots, without realizing it in the process.

A bad sign. Maybe it was good that he didn't go with the tour. Maybe it was really time to go home, take medication, and lie down.

To embrace Toma. To bury his lips in her reliable, plastic shoulder and calm his nerves. In the darkness of the basement, the pain would quickly subside, and sweet dreams that gave a sense of security would flow into his head...

"Sir, are you okay?", someone asked.

Roger jolted, instantly returning to reality. The museum, lots of light, lots of people. The concerned waiter leaned towards him, emanating the smell of cologne. Oh, these invaders of personal space with perfectly shaved chins, intruding at the wrong moment.

"Perhaps some water would help?", the Shaved Chin pointed to the tray, filled with glasses on thin legs. The sight of the bubbling liquid reminded Roger that his throat was dry, and Roger nodded. He even said "thank you" as he lifted the glass, even took a sip, and put it back in place when something... bit him.

The sensations were instantaneous - a strong blow and piercing pain under his ribs. The waiter shouted something else, but those words were drowned out by the sound of shattering glass, followed by the metallic clang of the tray hitting the floor. Roger stared in shock at the fleeing person. The astonished guests looked in the same direction, then someone rushed after them... A hot stream of ink crawled over his stomach. And only then did it dawn on Roger that he was injured and in serious trouble.

***

22:01 COME TO ME

22:01 IMMEDIATELY

22:04 Arthur

22:06 please

***

The click of the door lock, the hinges opening soundlessly, and for a moment, the rich foyer was filled with a sigh of the northern wind.

First, snowflakes, then wet and dirty imprints of soles marked Arthur's path as he confidently walked across luxurious carpets and gleaming parquet floors. The servants of Roger's house, already accustomed to the taciturn visitor after half a month, rustled, clearing his way. Contrary to the expectations of the maids, Arthur didn't say a word to them, not even greeting them in his manner of a schoolboy raised in a cultured family. Instead, he immediately turned towards the staircase leading to the basement.

The entrance to the secret refuge of the great Nourian designer and photographer wasn't even locked - Arthur noticed a narrow gap between the jamb and the door.

Roger lay curled up on a crumpled black velvet coverlet. Despite the alarming composure that Arthur had cultivated during his exile from the Singlit, he felt a nauseatingly rapid tremor between his ribs.

"What happened?", he asked quickly, approaching. And froze. There was no black coverlet - the blanket was soaked through with ink stains. All of Arthur's doubts dissipated; now he was finally convinced that all this time he had been living not with a human, but with a tsourai.

Arthur took off his glasses, placing them in the inner pocket of his coat, and leaning over Roger, gently took his pale face in his hands.

"Are you in pain?"

Roger's eyes slowly focused, and his gaze became meaningful from the glassy state. His wide pupils greedily absorbed the reddish light of the lamp.

"No. I took my meds", he didn't resist the touches, but pressed the pillow he had been holding all this time tighter to his stomach. As if it could camouflage the ink ocean, hide its secret from Arthur, "I'm probably dying. I was stabbed... by a waiter... at the exhibition."

"Where did he hit you? Can you show me?"

Roger grimaced and turned onto his back with difficulty, revealing to Arthur the ink-soaked shirt and the wound just below the ribs. The cut wasn't that large, but apparently, it was deep. With each breath, black blood foamed and hissed as if the contents of the tsourai body itself wanted to break free.

"I can't heal in the Stream", Roger glanced away, trying not to look at the wound. His lips trembled, and sweat broke out on his forehead, "I need your help... I need you to take morphine..."

Arthur's fingers, gently unbuttoning the shirt, froze. He squinted, looking ahead but into nothingness - selecting the right question from many others.

Straightened up.

"You mean, you need to take morphine?"

"No! Arthur, you are..."

"a Singlitary, you must must know how this works", Roger's thoughts whirled in his mind, but he couldn't find enough strength to give in to irritation, nor did he feel it for real.

Only fear, exhaustion, and unpleasant heaviness.

"I need to enter your dream. I'm grahn, we do it so that... nah, it doesn't matter, just trust me on this, we have no other options. There's morphine on the table over there, somewhere...", he waved his hand abstractly, "It's there."

Arthur turned, looking at the infamous table, and froze.

For a mortal, he was too slow, as if he always had time ahead of him!

An eternity passed before he looked back into Roger's dark, mist-covered eyes.

"I won't do it", he said firmly and began to slowly peel the soaked-through fabric of the shirt away from the wound, which - thank the saints' names - hadn't yet dried, "Where do you keep sewing supplies? Needles? Do you keep them here, or do I need to go to the workshop?"

"They, u-uh, they're... on the shelves above the table... Wait. What are you planning to do?"

Scant knowledge of how and why people use needles and thread on wounded individuals surfaced in Arthur's mind with frightening images, and Roger jerked, trying to crawl away from Arthur, who had clearly lost his mind. But the abrupt movements sent the room spinning, and his body refused to obey him - it had reached its limit. Roger had to stay put, helplessly pressing into the bed.

"No-no-no, Artie, please, not this. No needles, you fool, I don't even have organs, don't you understand that this won't work on me?"

Arthur ignored his pleas and headed for the table. From a row of needles of various lengths and thicknesses, he chose one, relatively thin and curved.

Then began the silent and swift preparation - the alchemist took out a bottle of antiseptic from his coat pocket, a transparent cylinder with a fluffy coil of thread inside, thin lightweight scissors, a roll of bandage, syringes, and a small vial with black liquid inside, laying them all out on a piece of fabric.

The antiseptic might not be needed, but caution was never superfluous.

"Don't even think about sticking that into me. Artie... Arthur! By the spirits, I refuse to participate in this!"

"Shut up, okay? I need to concentrate. Just close your eyes and count to a hundred."

It seemed to Arthur that Roger did start counting, although in reality, he was counting himself.

One, two...

Tsourai don't have veins or vessels; you can't stop bleeding with simple pressure.

Four, five...

Arthur fills the syringe with black liquid, injects it into the wound. It seeps inside and initially disappears, but then swells into a dense jelly-like lump. Reluctantly, the blood stops gushing from the cut.

Ten, eleven...

The long and shiny thread slides effortlessly into the needle's eye, like a cat's whisker. Closing the wound with his fingers, Arthur begins to sew.

Twenty-three, twenty-four...

He tried to make a stitch that Roger himself would approve of.

Thirty...

Fifty-six...

---

In the end, Arthur applied a tight bandage to the wound, closed his eyes, and exhaled. As he examined the murky network of blood vessels on the inside of his eyelids, he began to explain calmly but with a tremble in his voice.

"First. They have long suspected that you're tsourai, and today that was confirmed. Second. You came home and called me to you. They knew I would come - I couldn't not come. So, they'll be coming to visit you soon. Third. Both of us need to stay conscious because I'm planning to take you away from here as soon as possible."

"But you didn't have to come," Roger said, his voice weak, "We've only known each other for a very short time."

The bed creaked behind Arthur. He felt Roger pressed his forehead against his neck, tickling his sweaty skin with rapid breaths. It was an unfamiliar and strange gesture, possibly indicating gratitude, which the fashion designer couldn't articulate.

"Why?", he asked hoarsely, "You... and all these questions... You knew, too. Why didn't you turn me in to be free from Singlit? Do you have some kind of a kink for saving tsourai or something?"

Arthur took this feline-like touch from Roger but didn't raise his hand to embrace him or even pat him on the head. One of his palms rested on his knee, the other sank into the soft mattress, and his fingers, stained with black blood, wandered aimlessly.

He simply... absorbed this moment, feeling the prickling of freezing time on his skin.

Let the Stream cool down, and let the pursuers get stuck in the snow. Let their frozen bodies be found by the peritons and carried away to their nests. Let memories of warmth, embraces, and love disappear under an avalanche, swept down from the mountains.

Now it's all blizzard and frost.

Arthur gently took Roger by the shoulders and pushed him away.

"I don't understand tsourai well, and I've seen them only twice in my life, including you. But I understand you more than Móric Salashe and his friends, who dream of tasting you. Literally. And if I still retain humanity and common sense, then there's more of a human in me than Singlitary."

Roger stared at him intently, biting his lip. He was pale, disheveled, with gray shadows under his eyes, but the wound had stopped bleeding, and it seemed the worst was behind them. Finally, he nodded slowly.

"I understand. And I'll go with you.", with some difficulty, he got off the bed onto the floor, grimacing in pain, "I need to grab my camera, a first aid kit, and probably money. A lot of money. I can't imagine when we'll be able to return to normal life again. Uhhh, what will happen with my work..."

He paced around the room, leaning on furniture to avoid falling, looking around for what he needed.

"Damn it, I had a fitting scheduled the day after tomorrow!"

The camera in its case, film, and a bulky bag with a red cross embroidered on it flew onto the bed. Arthur doubted there would be a single useful pill in it. Next came a sketchbook bound in leather and a pencil case with pencils and pens. Finally, Roger laid out several thick stacks of bills, the denomination of which left no doubt as to the sums the Nourians were willing to spend on fashion.

"This should be enough for now. Put it into the backpack, I won't be able to carry it, I'm injured", a commanding tone returned to Roger's voice, "Are we going to your place? I don't want to walk all that way by foot."

"No, not to my place. I'm not sure if Móric knows about my hideout or not yet."

Arthur casually threw the items into the backpack and, after fastening it, slung it over one shoulder.

"Can you walk on your own? Or should I put you on my other shoulder?"

"I'm not your pet dog to be pampered like that", Roger sneered contemptuously and, struggling, made his way to the basement exit.

Upstairs, the maids were already waiting anxiously, each with a mournful expression on her face. They gathered in a huddle, as if preparing to escort a coffin with the deceased on its final journey. Instead of wreaths and ritual ribbons, there were mops and packs of garbage bags. The eldest among them, Ada, handed Roger a small suitcase and wiped away a tear with her handkerchief. The fashion designer forced a smile.

"Well done, you eavesdropped. I'm counting on you, my girls, do everything as we taught you. So that not a single Singlitarian hound finds anything here except shiny floors and the smell of Cleanser."

"Everything will be done perfectly. I'll personally oversee your, um, collection... And you, please take care of him, sir", Ada turned to Arthur and took his hand in hers, small and hot, squeezing it tightly, "The master isn't made for terrible things like killings and such. He's a vulnerable person."

***