Episode 17

"Everything is in order, young Bley. You're advised to rest and avoid any sudden movements for a week."

He nodded in agreement with what the doctor advised after examining his leg.

His father had called for him, so he was being thoroughly checked. He hadn't expected it to be broken or anything of the sort, but the discomfort was somewhat intense, making walking a bit challenging. He had wanted to ignore it until the pain began to worsen with each passing minute, leaving him no choice but to notify and seek his father's assistance.

He sighed as he took one of the prescribed medicines and lay in bed, watching as his father left the room with the man.

Curled up in bed, he pondered how returning to Russia was becoming a torment. He didn't want to close his eyes immediately because troubling memories would assail him without hesitation. He hugged the stuffed animal he always kept by his side, the only memento of his mother. He knew he was no longer a child by any means. He was aware that he was over twenty years old and that sleeping with a stuffed animal was considered childish, but it didn't matter much to him because it was the only way to feel close to her.

He had no idea what would've happened if his mother were still alive; he was not a fortune-teller or anything like that, but he liked to imagine they were happy, that she was present at all of his dance performances, and that she told him she loved him every day without fail.

He sighed as tears streamed down his cheeks, and he closed his eyes. He didn't want to fall asleep, didn't wish to be thrust into a dream that might cause more fear than he already had. Nevertheless, he couldn't resist the sedative the doctor had given him. He couldn't keep his eyes open for long as everything started to blur, and his eyelids became heavy until there was nothing but the profound sleep into which he was sinking deeply.

He had no idea how much time had passed, nor whether he was dreaming or not, but he rose slowly to his feet.

There was no doubt it was his home. Everything was as usual, yet at the same time, everything felt drastically different in huge amounts he couldn't quite define. He took a tentative step, feeling a strange warmth beginning to emanate from his fingertips.

He paused, unsure because of everything he was feeling. He looked behind him, noting that all was the same, and proceeded to walk slowly.

Reaching the door of his bedroom, he detected a scent. It was an aroma he had never encountered before, causing him to swallow hard. He couldn't immediately name it or place a specific smell, so when he touched the handle and felt it burn, he jerked his hand away, experiencing a sharp sting from the burned touch, yet observing no sign of injury.

His body craved more, though. It yearned for more heat, more fire, more of that burning sensation.

Stretching out his hand, he grasped the handle to turn it and stepped out into the hallway.

Everything was empty. No sounds, no sights, but his body knew there was something on the first floor eagerly waiting for him. His legs made the decision to advance. With each rapid step, the scent of smoke grew stronger, and the sound of crackling flames filled the air.

His desperation and need were so great that he rushed downstairs, disregarding the pain in his leg. At the bottom, he was thirsty, his body sweaty, and his breath ragged.

He couldn't recall when he had last felt such heat or sweat so profusely, but now he was. Moving around, he scanned the surroundings trying to locate what was summoning him, stopping dead when he saw it.

His gaze fixed on what lay before him—it wasn't a person at all. He didn't know how to react or process what was happening. The only thing pulling him was a flame burning right in front of him, undulating with palpable heat. The tip was a tempting shade of near-orange.

It stood in the center of the space, casting light around, and Bley felt both drawn and mesmerized, just like a deer caught in headlights, knowing the danger and yet unable to save itself.

He observed the flame, for it appeared beautiful. Reaching out to touch it, he felt the heat take over with intensity, provoking sensations he'd never before experienced. His eyes closed, savoring the comforting warmth that calmed his heart, then suddenly sent it racing. He exhaled a long breath, and footsteps echoed in his ears. His eyes snapped open, but he had no chance to move or think as the presence behind him drew closer.

He felt a hot breath on his ear, raising goosebumps on his skin. Fingers trailed slowly up his right arm as a chest pressed against his back and whispered in his ear:

"Bley…"

Jolting awake, he sat up almost frantically in bed.

His breathing was erratic, his heart worse, and he struggled with which to calm first to stave off a panic attack or cardiac arrest.

"What kind of dream was that?" he wondered, wiping his face and feeling sweat on his brow.

He combed his hair back behind his ears and took a deep breath.

"It was just a dream, wasn't it?"

There was no one to answer or clear his doubt. What was worse wasn't the lack of a response. The worst of it, that voice, he recognized. It was intimidating, seductive, dominant, and belonged to someone with hair the same color as the flame he had seen in his dream.

"Since when do I dream about people I don't even talk to?"

He blinked a few times, baffled. It would have been normal if it were someone he always talked to or even liked, but dreaming about the red-haired bodyguard who had treated him terribly seemed ludicrous.

He stood up to take a shower, unclear on the time and not willing to waste seconds checking.

He started disrobing mid-way and turned on the shower, setting it to a normal temperature. He didn't want it too hot, to avoid getting lost in that dream, but not too cold to risk catching a cold, so he chose lukewarm. Closing his eyes, he tried to clear his mind, feeling his hair stick to his back as it became wet.

He cleaned himself thoroughly, using his usual soaps. He regretted not having a candy in his mouth to suck on during the shower, which would keep him occupied and his mind off other thoughts.

He sighed as he exited the shower, donning a cotton robe and his bare feet.

Leaving his room, he made a thorough check to ensure reality wasn't just another dream, gradually calming down as he noticed the housemaids going about their usual chores.

He breathed easily and headed to the kitchen to try and prepare something to eat. He was famished, and as he walked there, he enjoyed a lollipop in his mouth. It was round with a small stick to hold it.

And quickly, he started to forget everything.

He heard his father talking somewhere in the house, though he didn't pay much attention, but could discern it was a phone call, not conversation with any of the guards or bodyguards.

As he cooked what he wanted, the food's aroma increased his hunger. Pancakes were simple, but simplicity didn't detract from their deliciousness or make them any less finger-licking good. He hummed a tune while preparing a few. Having made three, he aimed to cook three more to satisfy his appetite fully.

Glancing out the window, he saw the snow still falling. Not heavily enough to bury the roads but enough for some fun making snow angels.

He smiled, promising to take a walk later, as the surroundings were always secure.

Looking out, his gaze caught a flash of red hair. He watched him walking with Camilo. From a distance, he noted one speaking while the other remained silent, merely walking. He couldn't tear his gaze away. They weren't too far nor too close, but from the outside, the inside was clearly visible.

Thus, the red-haired man glanced in his direction, observing him as he continued walking.

Bley could feel his stare as if he were right in front of him. A nervousness and intimidation washed over him as he could clearly see the black in his eyes. He couldn't even blink until he smelt burning and averted his gaze to see that one of his pancakes was scorching.

"Oh no, and it was the biggest one," he lamented, trying to flip it, but it was too late; one side was charred black.

He sighed and looked back to see the walkers gone, probably moved elsewhere.

Refocusing on his task, instead of six pancakes, he settled for five, which he took back to his room and ate contentedly and calmly. They were good, which buoyed his mood with the thought that only good things could happen that day.

His leg was nearly pain-free, and he decided to head to his usual dance practice space in the house.

He remembered the doctor's warnings against exercise but saw no harm in stretching just a bit to keep the muscles from losing their agility.

Comfortable attire was a must, so he slipped into a sporty tracksuit.

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