Chapter Eight: When Art Bleeds
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"More"
"More"
He struck, struck again,
lightly,
gracefully,
creatively,
with a musical rhythm.
He struck with his brush,
once,
then again.
He did not stop,
he did not stumble.
The moment he held the paintbrush,
he forgot time,
he forgot the days,
no,
he forgot time itself,
he forgot place.
Only,
he focused,
and focused again,
to make his canvas the most beautiful painting.
He perfected the details of his drawing,
yet still thought it incomplete.
Without boredom,
without fatigue,
he kept raising his brush,
he kept separating the colors,
he continued painting on the canvas.
He put in great effort,
he tried harder.
And every time, he felt his paintings lacked something better.
He searched, explored,
and finally knew:
he should not paint a remembered picture,
he must observe the subject better.
But to him,
that was a boring way.
He was a creative artist,
he had a memory that never forgot,
if he wished.
So, once he painted,
it wasn't necessary for the scene to be present—
as long as it was engraved in his memory,
that was enough.
And so, Noya immersed himself in his painting,
after having breakfast with his family,
forgetting time,
because he loved art,
he loved painting.
He had to focus.
And with his elegant movements,
like a skilled musician,
he went on completing his canvas,
bit by bit.
Only black coffee
and some tea
accompanied Noya the artist.
They were his only companions,
or rather, they had become the only companions for Noya
whenever he focused on his role as a great artist.
Tin… Tik… Tin… Tik
The ticking of the clock was the only loud sound.
Wherever Noya focused quietly on his painting,
he found no other cry but that.
And with another elegant movement,
the brush lightly struck the canvas,
and with that, Noya announced the completion of his painting,
the completion of his art.
He stood from his seat,
looked at his painting,
not as someone who painted it himself,
but
as someone who knew how to critique.
And as always, there was no mistake.
Everything was in place as it should be,
all emotions clear,
all memories vivid.
He admired it,
admired his art and taste.
So he dried it,
and covered it,
so no one would see—
as if the world was watching.
He had barely caught his breath from the burden of the painting
when sudden knocking brought him back to the real world.
Knock… Knock… Knock…
The sounds of knocking on his door grew louder.
When he looked at his clock,
it was already evening,
an hour before sunset.
Indeed, it had taken longer,
because the painting was great,
as great as its painter.
It had taken longer—
almost half a day.
But he was satisfied,
deeply satisfied with his masterpiece.
So, with relaxed steps, he went and opened the door.
With bright eyes, he met little Elia.
He was messy,
wearing his painter's apron,
stained with colors,
holding his brush in his hand.
Even his face bore traces of his beautiful painting's colors.
Elia was surprised.
She hadn't expected that sight.
But she didn't wait—
she pulled Noya along with her.
Noya was surprised,
but he followed her.
And when he arrived,
he was surprised again.
There was a beautiful person with Idrian.
Though he didn't know who he was,
he guessed.
Just by seeing the air between them,
he could guess:
Idrian's lover,
the person he had called on the first day.
Noya had heard he was an actor,
and indeed, he looked like one.
Despite his thoughts, Noya looked at Idrian
and spoke with a touch of truth and calm:
"Didn't I say I was working?"
Idrian smiled awkwardly,
like a fool.
"I'm sorry."
Idrian stood, trying to introduce Noya to the person before him.
But Noya spoke first:
"Is this your lovely lover?"
The young man felt embarrassed,
and Idrian blushed at the words,
but he kept silent.
Noya added more,
in his usual calm tone:
"Your aura screams from afar that you're a remarkable actor."
The young man gently brushed his face,
feeling embarrassed easily.
He had just received several compliments at once,
from the mouth of someone he didn't know,
who wasn't a fan,
nor a friend,
but the husband of his lover.
Strange, when you think about it.
Noya stepped back a little,
raised his hands, and began measuring an image of the two.
"You are a lovely mix."
Noya spoke with a hint of admiration.
"Can I paint you?"
Noya had found the inspiration he had been seeking:
pure, gentle love,
a love he had never known,
hadn't found in a long time.
He found it in these two.
He did not look at them as husband and lover-of-husband.
He observed them as painting subjects.
Elia laughed,
she was happy,
because everything was fine,
because Noya wasn't upset.
She had been worried,
and at the same time, wanted to prove to her little brother
that Noya didn't care,
so he would stop bothering them every moment.
And indeed, the little brother observed Noya's reaction,
and was surprised.
But he smiled,
because no one would disturb his brother and his lover.
Miran stepped forward a little,
extended his hand to Noya in greeting.
"I'm Miran, an actor."
Noya observed his movements,
as usual evaluating what was around him.
He assessed him internally,
and extended his hand
to receive that unfamiliar hand.
"I'm Noya Nerith, an artist."
He gently pulled his hand back,
and smiled.
"Pleased to meet you."
Miran spoke happily,
and waited for a reply.
"And I as well."
Noya looked at the two for a moment,
then at the children.
"Are you going on a date, or did you bring the date here?"
Elia tugged at Noya's apron, as usual.
"Oppa, oppa, Miran came here, I wanted you to be there, because my brother isn't good enough with him."
Elia spilled everything on her mind,
complaining about her brother to Noya,
saying he was neglectful about his lover.
Noya bent down a little,
to reach Elia's height,
and gently stroked her hair.
"So Elia says that instead of taking his lover on a date,
her brother brought him here."
Idrian stepped forward a little,
speaking with a tone slightly cold,
slightly tense:
"That's not true."
Another voice intervened—
the little brother who had been watching:
"Yes, it is true."
Noya looked toward Idrian.
"Why are all alphas neglectful?"
Then he looked back at the children.
"Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"
Elia nodded enthusiastically,
while the boy nodded once.
Noya clapped his hands lightly.
"Alright, let's work."
And suddenly, very quickly,
the lovers were pulled into preparations—
with Noya as one of the participants.
Half an hour later, everything was ready:
restaurant booked,
the place set for the date,
to ensure Miran would be comfortable away from the eyes of others.
Before they left, Noya once more asked to paint them.
Miran agreed happily,
and like a fool, Idrian agreed too, after his lover.
The two went out on a date,
organized by three people—
a date that could never fail.
Noya sat in the living room,
resting.
He had already changed his clothes.
He picked up his tablet and electronic pen,
and after putting on his glasses,
he began drawing—
not on a canvas,
nor paper,
but on a smart device,
programmed for drawing,
with advanced techniques.
He sat there drawing what he had seen.
Although he imagined a scene in a restaurant,
Idrian feeding Miran,
so an idea came to him:
in one picture,
he decided to draw two.
One when they were preparing,
and another he imagined of them in the restaurant.
And once again, Noya's passion for art ignited.
For more clarity,
Noya found drawing on his smart device harder than on canvas or paper,
because it required more focus.
Yet the feelings of love he sensed from them
made him unaware of how deeply he was immersed in drawing.
He remembered something he shouldn't have remembered.
His eyes smiled a little,
so did his lips,
though it went unnoticed.
Only one person,
only one,
would notice the change in Noya's expressions.
And that person knew it well.
So he smiled,
smiled unwillingly.
Even if he hated it,
hated admitting it,
his emotions always betrayed him.
He set his pen aside,
wiped his face lightly,
wanting to erase those memories.
They were unworthy,
he did not need them.
He had to focus,
he had work in his hands.
He picked up his pen with firm resolve,
without allowing his wandering emotions to overcome him.
He fought them strongly,
returned to his stillness,
his usual coldness,
his quiet, gloomy atmosphere,
as if those emotions were just a sea wave—
rushing strongly, then disappearing completely.
So he refocused,
and completed the artwork creatively.
And so he remained through the whole night,
until morning.
He could barely hold onto his energy,
barely stay conscious.
He was already half-asleep on the couch,
his tablet set aside with his glasses.
Quietly, he closed his eyes, curled up.
He heard footsteps approaching,
but couldn't wake up.
He had worked hard the whole previous day,
day and night.
He remembered he hadn't eaten anything
except black coffee and tea.
The footsteps drew closer.
Clearly, the family was there,
ready to have breakfast.
The living room was vast,
with two sections:
a dining area with a large table,
and another for sitting and receiving guests.
Idrian was surprised to see Noya sleeping there,
and was about to wake him.
But his little brother stopped him.
"He was painting all night."
The husband—Idrian—was puzzled.
He hadn't expected this.
Clearly, they had agreed to the picture.
But he thought Noya wouldn't draw it now,
since he had painted earlier.
"So what happened then?"
The mother intervened with her calm words,
drawing the eyes of her children and husband,
her presence radiating full control over her family.
Under her gaze,
the three children confessed everything that had happened yesterday.
The mother frowned slightly,
her elegant brow creasing.
She didn't know what to say about her children's neglectful behavior.
So she asked, almost interrogating:
"At least, did he eat?"
The children quickly avoided their mother's eyes.
They knew the scolding they would get if they answered.
Her gaze bore down steadily on her foolish children.
If it weren't for her husband calming her,
she would have unleashed all her anger on them.
Noya stirred from the noise,
woke and stretched.
"Good morning."
Another meaningless phrase,
a simple courtesy, enough.
And so he walked toward Idrian,
showed him the picture.
"Here it is."
He said it while waiting for a reaction.
But the family froze.
They gasped sharply,
astonished at the sight.
It wasn't art,
not just a drawing—
it was genius.
Breaths cut off,
voices halted,
mouths opened,
eyes widened,
hands trembled.
All that and more,
at the sight of Noya's art,
at the sight of lovers drawn,
preserved in memory,
shaped into a fantastical painting,
carrying all romantic emotions.
Noya observed their reaction,
uncertain.
It wasn't that he had truly given his all.
He had painted with exhaustion,
so he thought it wouldn't be as good as usual.
But their reaction proved his expectations wrong.
He was happy with the final result,
happy to surprise them.
He spoke in a cheerful tone,
an artist proud of himself:
"It's excellent. You liked it?"
He praised his painting,
asking about its perfection.
Idrian lifted his gaze,
met Noya's sleepy eyes.
The shadows weighed heavily on them.
So he looked at the picture again,
and with troubled feelings,
he let words slip from his lips:
"It's dazzling. No—
a sacred masterpiece."
Noya was delighted at the praise.
Though he knew his own genius,
hearing it from someone else
always made him feel better.
"I want a painting of me too!"
Elia shouted from afar,
her voice filled with desire and wonder.
But her younger brother quickly shut her mouth,
pulled her back,
and glared at her angrily.
He knew better than her—
that Noya was exhausted,
and it was improper to request another painting so simply,
without knowing the effort poured into it.
Noya stepped back a little,
returned to his room after speaking briefly with his family.
He didn't even eat,
for he was tired.
And it wasn't fatigue that concerned him most,
but that dull feeling gnawing slowly at his body like a deadly disease.
He had found no relief,
even when he focused on art.
So he returned to his room,
found his medicine box—
high-quality nutritional supplements
he always took whenever he immersed himself in art,
so he wouldn't burn himself out by skipping meals.
He searched one of his bags,
opened his window gently,
allowing the breeze to hit him.
He received those blows despite their coldness.
Winter was approaching,
and with it, the cold,
especially in such a cold country.
But Noya didn't care.
He needed something to clear his clouded mind.
He took a cup of coffee, drank it slowly,
while inspecting his favorite violin.
After an hour,
when he felt empty and at ease,
he picked up his violin,
stood upright,
held the bow gracefully,
closed his eyes,
and began playing carefully, slowly.
He played what he wished—
a famous piece titled Strings of Dusk.
It was sad,
quiet,
slightly tense,
holding an unspoken longing.
Something Noya had lost,
something words and expressions betrayed him in expressing.
So he turned to the violin,
an instrument to release his emotions.
He was crying inside,
a cold corpse being eaten by insects.
He felt his insides twisting.
He was sad.
So he played,
to express his feelings.
The piece Strings of Dusk
spoke everything within him.
Like a famous piece,
beloved by many,
heard in our reality—
Massenet's Meditation from Thaïs.
Noya played his piece
without stopping.
No matter how his hands screamed for rest,
no matter how the violin screamed to stop,
no matter how the strings cried to end,
he didn't stop,
he didn't finish.
He played,
then played more,
as if his life depended on playing this piece.
Like painting,
once begun,
he would forget
all times and places,
until he completed his creation,
until he completed his masterpiece.
But Strings of Dusk was long—
very long.
And Noya didn't play just a part,
but from the very beginning.
So he couldn't stop.
He had to finish it.
And with a stroke—
Screeeech!
A piercing squeal,
a poignant melody,
shattering walls,
melting emotions,
a sound spreading, breaking all restraints.
Noya fought harder,
to make the piece better,
to complete his art,
to control his emotions—
no, to kill them.
Because he knew they were useless.
So instead of hiding them,
he had to fight them,
with all his strength,
with every ounce of reverence for art.
He had to stop them.
Screech!
The strings cried,
pleaded to his fingers.
They all screamed to stop.
But Noya did not.
He didn't care for the excruciating pain consuming every inch of his body.
He didn't care for the harsh gusts slapping his face.
He continued,
and continued,
until he was drained.
Even his legs refused to stand longer.
His body surrendered before his will.
He fought it,
sat on the bed,
continued playing.
His muscles ached,
his joints screamed,
yet he persisted,
like a beast numb to pain,
like a machine devoid of feelings.
His cold face,
his glowing eyes,
he looked dangerous.
A string snapped,
his fingers cut,
blood splattered across his face.
He didn't care.
Noya had gone mad.
The emotions that overtook him were greater than he could bear.
He wanted to scream,
he wanted to cry,
but couldn't.
So he made his violin scream instead,
made his body ache,
longing to release a voice trapped inside.
He tried,
tried again,
but the more he did,
the more his voice faded—
refusing to come out,
refusing to give him relief.
And so another day was lost
to Noya's grief—
a grief he himself did not understand.
He didn't know what he felt,
though he expressed it in a whole, long piece.
The violin fell,
all its strings broken.
Noya dropped the bow from his hand,
unwillingly, not by choice.
He collapsed to the floor.
His eyes opened, glowing.
He panted from exhaustion,
sweat dripping down,
his heart pounding faster,
breathing quietly.
He leaned against the bed,
threw his wet hair back.
He knew he wasn't in good condition.
He wiped his forehead,
confirmed his state,
rubbed his hand on the back of his neck,
brought it to his nose,
and smelled it.
The scent confirmed his identity—
an identity he both loved and hated:
the heat of an omega.
His heat was coming.
And as always,
instead of admitting,
instead of telling the real reason for his feelings,
Noya only blamed the heat that was beginning to appear.
So he took suppressants.
Despite the pain,
he bathed,
bandaged his wounded fingers.
He wore loose brown trousers,
a long-sleeved white shirt covering his body,
a padded round cap of two colors,
covering his damp hair,
round black sunglasses
hiding his glowing eyes,
black gloves
concealing his sin—
the wounds adorning his hands,
a light-brown leather watch,
and distinctive black leather shoes.
He took his helmet with him and left.
When he saw the family having dinner,
he realized how long he had been playing.
He didn't care.
He knew they had heard the sound.
Without words,
not even his usual courtesies,
he coldly dropped what he wanted,
then left with an icy heart:
"I'll go buy heat suppressants."
No one stopped him,
because the mother had advised them.
She had been the first to return home.
She had heard from the servants
how long he had been playing.
So she chose silence,
knowing Noya's hidden nature:
he never liked sharing anything.
Thus no one objected to his leaving.
He just left,
rode his motorcycle,
took the bag with the violin to repair it.
He left that night,
went to the hospital,
took a suppressant injection.
He went to the pharmacy,
chose his usual heat suppressants,
swallowed three pills at once.
He was trying to escape the feelings left over from his playing,
because he decided their cause was the heat.
And this was Noya's story of survival until today—
with a cold face,
frozen words,
a decisive tone,
and a very sick heart.
But his mind interpreted everything with scientific, logical reasons,
only so the heart wouldn't realize,
so Noya wouldn't realize
that the cause of these feelings
sprang from his heart.
Yes, gentlemen, this was his struggle.
A struggle unwritten, unseen, unheard.
It was between the lines of lines,
no one able to decipher it,
no matter how they tried.
And another night ended.
He ended up using cold compresses,
so he would feel nothing but cold.
An open window,
cold compresses,
strong suppressants,
a large injection.
He tormented his body,
so he could forget that the origin was the heart.
While heat burned his body from within,
cold devoured it from without—
a battle of which was stronger.
Its victim: Noya's repressed feelings,
which his mind never allowed him to confess.
Even then, sleep never came.
And beyond that,
he took another medicine box,
a sleeping drug.
He took two doses,
just to sleep a little,
not to think,
not to see nightmares,
not to feel pain.
Noya drugged himself that night,
sank into an artificial sleep,
burdened with all that eyes could not see,
that souls could not feel.
Only Noya, alone,
forced to endure it,
away from lights,
away from attention.
This was his life alone.
He wanted no one to share it,
despite everything.
For he knew.
He knew that what burned inside him
was not the heat of his body,
but the heat of his heart.
Yet he chose to curse the body
rather than admit the heart.