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Cold sweats and violent shivers. Rage. Tears. Searing throat and crimson-stained fingernails. Then came the hallucinations and night terrors.
Or at least, that’s what the doctors claimed they are. But they didn’t understand. Don’t understand. They never will. That’s the first lesson Yuri learned in the toxically pristine prison. “We’ll help you,” they said. “You’re safe here.” Yeah because the bars on the windows and the detention doors at every turn scream ‘comfort’ and ‘security’. Who are they really protecting? Him? Or themselves?
Yuri’s hated the place since they dragged him through the doors. He was stripped of everything: his clothes, possessions, dignity. Then came the iron bracers, and Yuri was sure he died right then and there. The moment the metal snapped around his wrists, it was like a piece of his soul had been carved out with a rusted, broken scalpel. But he grit his teeth and sat through their mind-melting interrogation before being escorted to his room—like a criminal.
No. Like a witch bound for the stake.
All because he asked him to.
None of this is for Yuri. Yuri doesn’t want to be here! But he made a promise to try, to ‘get better’. It was the only way to save his marriage. His husband cried, begged, dragged his grandfather into this mess. How dare he! But it worked. Yuri gave up, gave in, and now, he’s locked in the modern version of hell without even being gifted the dramatic exit from the world he deserves.
He’d rather actually go up in flames than stare at the never-moving yet ever-encroaching walls closing in on him.
The seconds faded into minutes, minutes oozed into hours, and hours congealed into black tar, bubbling in Yuri’s belly, slowly growing, evolving, crawling up his esophagus to choke him from the inside.
Until Yuri saw him.
Not the man who forced Yuri into the facility wielding love as a weapon. No.
When he first appeared, Yuri didn’t believe he existed. The man’s silent as a ghost, slipping in and out of Yuri’s room with ease, though always when the other staff aren’t around. The first time, Yuri really thought he was hallucinating; with the sheer amount of drugs they practically shove down his throat, anything’s possible. Well, except the one thing he craves more than anything, the one thing he can’t do because of the Godforsaken iron scalding his wrists every time he tries … But what else was he supposed to think? The guy just stood there, outside the window in Yuri’s door, watching him.
Then his phantom started infiltrating the room itself.
They’d stare at each other, not a word spoken because Yuri sure as fuck wasn’t going to open his mouth without a reason. Not after they twisted and violated his confessions during intake and used them against him, gaslighting him into believing, if only for a moment, that maybe he really does deserve to be here. That maybe the power coursing through his blood really is vile, an illness needing a cure. No, if Phantom is real, he might just be one of them, sent in to lower Yuri’s guard, to warp his mind until he’s nothing more than another empty puppet. So they’d stare, study one another until Phantom would just … disappear again.
Yuri’s never seen him do it. It always happens when he’s too tired to keep his eyes open any longer or when the nurses trample into his room to force more chemicals into his system. How is Phantom doing it, though? Is he sliding in and out behind the nurses? Matching their movements so well, they don’t notice his presence? No, that can’t be it because sometimes he shows up without anyone else entering his room.
… Right?
For what must be the hundredth time, the never-answered questions fog and fade as a sharp prick pierces his arm. Yuri shouldn’t miss when Phantom isn’t there and yet, every time he leaves, Yuri can’t reconcile the drop in his gut right before the numbness sets in all over again.
Phantom never stays away for long, though. And now, Yuri’s sure the man isn’t a hallucination.
He collapses in the tall grass of a field several blocks away from the facility, panting, muscles screaming, throat coated with bile. Everything happened so fast, it’s all a blur. Or is it because of the drugs? Yuri isn’t sure anymore.
Except he is. Phantom stopped him from taking the pills weeks ago. Still silent as ever, he’d enter Yuri’s room and hold out a little bucket. The first time, though, Yuri didn’t understand and then the opportunity passed. The medication started spreading through his system as always, and Phantom was gone from one blink to the next. But when it happened again, bucket hovering under his chin, he understood. The contents of his stomach splashed into the container, and there, floating in the sick, were the not yet dissolved drugs. Yuri wasn’t sure how or where Phantom disposed of the evidence every time he left the room, but he didn’t have to understand to know.
Phantom was saving him.
More buckets, more heaving. Yuri was losing a bit of weight, but he couldn’t blame Phantom. He’d been losing weight since the first day trapped in the hellscape. But none of that mattered. The cotton-like haze in his head was finally gone, his resolve was back, even if it was nothing more than a mere flickering, lone flame. And little by little, the structure around him started to crack.
Yuri’s medical team changed. None of the same nurses and doctors were visiting him anymore, the new ones seeming pressed for time, stressed, distracted. They weren’t keeping an eye on him as closely as the previous ones. He heard groaning from the staff that cameras kept dying and computer files were getting corrupted. Security officers kept getting struck with sudden bouts of flu or food poisoning.
Then, tonight, hell broke loose. Literally.
The power shut down, the emergency generator failed. The detention doors were wide open and the staff rushed around in the dark, desperately trying to stop their patients—victims—from escaping. And standing in the gaping doorway to Yuri’s room was … someone. Already on his feet, Yuri froze, squinted, tried to make out who it was until a deep voice said, “Hurry!”
With no plan, no light, no clue who the man was, Yuri didn’t fight when a strong hand clamped around his bicep and dragged him from the room. His feet moved through the dark, trusting the guidance of whoever was behind him. Then, cool, refreshing air embraced him like a lover.
And Yuri ran.
After catching his breath, Yuri finally opens his eyes and looks at his saviour. At his phantom. “Why … how?”
The man’s lips twitch but he doesn’t answer. Instead, he kneels beside Yuri and pulls a key from his pocket. He slots it into the iron bracers. A click. They drop to the ground. And Yuri gasps.
It’s as if he hasn’t been breathing properly for months, but it’s not oxygen flooding him; it’s his birthright. What he craves, needs. Hot tears run down his cheeks, kissed by the gentle late-night breeze as Yuri’s magic swirls inside him, resurrected. He tries to hold back the sob threatening to burst from his throat, but the moment Phantom takes his wrists in hand, it breaks free anyway.
The skin is raw, blistered, charred nearly beyond recognition. Every time he tried to call upon his magic, the iron would boil his flesh as punishment.
Even with Phantom’s gentle touch, Yuri chokes on another wail. “Shhh, I know. It’ll be better in a minute, I promise.” Curling his fingers around Yuri’s wrists, the man closes his eyes. For a few seconds, Yuri’s vision goes white. He stops breathing. He convulses and writhes as his wrists burn so hot, he’d rather cut them off. Or die. But then, it’s gone. The pain, the ache. Yuri pries his eyes back open and looks at the now smooth, restored skin where the braces had been.
Yuri’s gaze shoots up to meet Phantom’s. He’s one of them! That explains so much.
“Come, my bike is just another block away. We should get out of here before they get a search party.”
And maybe it’s stupid to blindly trust a stranger. But Phantom isn’t one, not really. He’s looked after Yuri for weeks. Given him freedom. And hope. So Yuri accepts the man’s offered hand, follows him through the overgrown field, and down another street before climbing onto the motorcycle awaiting them.
As they’re strapping their helmets on, Phantom says, “I’m Otabek, by the way.”
“Yuri.”
“I know.”
They exchange smiles before the engine roars to life, not unlike Yuri’s renewed magic. And as they drive away from the nightmare that tried to consume his soul, Yuri clings to his phantom and grins against the black leather draped over Otabek’s back. Finally, he’s found someone who understands. Who doesn’t judge him for the power running through his veins. Who risked his life to save Yuri’s instead of locking him away and calling it ‘love’.
As far as Yuri’s concerned, he doesn’t have a husband anymore. Jean doesn’t deserve him.