Shmowder (Alur)
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Collection of the short stories I wrote during the pathologic fest. Five in total.
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Based on the song "Andrew in Drag" by "The Magnetic Fields" except it's Andrey.
It made him feel nothing short of a pervert, the way his eyes drifted to her peeking cleavage whenever she'd lean down. Hands growing clammy inside his leather gloves. The coat heavy on his back, the vest squeezing his torso, the pants uncomfortably tight, the cravat choking his neck. It appears each article of clothing conspired to suffocate him today. His face no doubtly flushed, burning from a mixture of shame and desire, both feeding into each other in a never ending cycle.
The worst of all, the one standing before him on stage, was the most gorgeous woman he's ever laid eyes upon. Ethereal in her beauty. Tall and hard in all the right places like a goddess of retribution gracing him with an audience. Fierce eyes that made him feel weak in the knees, burning through his core, exposing him for the hopeless fool in love he fears he really is deep down.
It would've been too perfect for her to be real.
He's barely recognisable as himself, but so undeniably Andrey.
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God—Saburov thought—even if you took away the ruined clothes, his sinful face completely incriminated him. The usually indifferent tone replaced by a clement one, intimacy residing in each syllable. The somber never-changing facial expression somehow morphed into a hungry lustful look more fitting those barely clothed dancers in the pub.
He's not into men; he can't be. For no other man has ever looked at him like Victor does. No other man ever made his imagination run wild from the simplest of actions. No other man drove him this close to the brink of insanity like the younger Kain.
He has no attraction to men—he justified—for Victor Kain is an outlier amongst men. In fact, Saburov is sure that if he dressed him up in a soft blue nightgown, adorned his cheeks with blush and painted pink across his lips, then surely that'll make any honest man question his orientation.
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But God isn't here. That's what the past two weeks proved to you.
What else remains to do, but escape this paradise-turned-hell town, too. Taking the first train that arrives today, letting the steel rails guide your way.
Her hair was the first thing you noticed.
Trimmed short, extremely so. Even shorter than what's usual for her.
Signature coat carelessly thrown next to her seat. Usually tucked shirt now pulled over her pants, wrist watch turned around to the upper side of her wrist.
Chest... unusually flat.
A roll of bandages peeking out from the pocket of her discarded coat, the glint of metal underneath. The memory of a silver barrel and a leather grip, your shaking fingers on the trigger, her hand steadying yours as her chin rested atop your shoulder, an ear piercing sound followed by the shattering of a glass bottle, your aim is getting better.
"There is no way this plan will work"
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What it says on the tin.