The Smell of Memories Part 2

Title: The Smell of Memories 2 
Author: Dice 
Pairings: M/M 
Note: No spankings or playing in this part so far. 


WARNING: The story deals with depression, trauma and suicidal thoughts. It's BDSM oriented and people might not always "play safe"

Recap: Michael Aldren can't stand the smell of roses, why, is something not many knows. After a messy break up with his boyfriend, Julian, over Mike's indulging in S/M, he is driven into a state of depression and beset by thoughts of suicide he finds himself with his job hanging on a thin thread and with only the option of calling on a sometimes "playmate" for help.

**********

The Second Interval (Partial)

He was locked up. Darkness pressing in, the walls somewhere just out of sight, but he sensed them coming closer. He couldn't scream. A weight on his chest. He couldn't move. The weight grew heavier. There was no air. He was going to die! He couldn't breathe!!

He opened his eyes.

The room was dark, a single thread of light falling on the floor, across some newspapers and a pair of socks.

He still couldn't move. Sleep hadn't left his body yet. What was worse he still couldn't breathe – every breath a painful struggle, something weighing down his chest. Something wet ran into his ear and he realised he was crying. Quiet sobs escaped him and he struggled not to choke or be loud enough to disturb Maksim.

Slowly he tried to move his arms, one seemed stuck in the blanket, the other was numb and tingling from at a weird angle underneath him. He rolled over. There was a sharp hiss as something fell heavily onto the rug and a shadow vanished at lightning speed into a black corner.

Mike's heartbeats was loud as thunder in his own ears. That fucking cat! It was just the fucking cat! He wiped his tears away sitting up.

He could just barely remember the dream, but the feeling was familiar, one he'd had for many years after dreams like this. A sense of confinement lingering. Heart never wanting to slow. Since he couldn't shake the feeling staying where he was. He got up and headed unsteadily towards the bathroom, his every step sending a small jolt of pain through his knee.

Then the darkness betrayed him and he stabbed his toe on the bathroom door. He smothered a curse – he mustn't wake Maksim. He wouldn't be a bother. He'd promised.

Washing his face in cold water seemed to ease the persistent fear. The light, and staring at his pale face in the mirror helped too. But only just. He looked ghastly.

He needed to pee.

When he at length came out, the light was on in Maksim's bedroom. He stiffened and stood like a statue in the dark. Heart tumbling over and his stomach clenching in panicked convulsions. He'd promised he wouldn't be a bother. He wrapped his arms around himself and hugged tightly.

There was movement behind the door and then it opened. Maksim's familiar shape was a silhouette in the doorway for a moment and then he moved on, walking casually towards the kitchen, but stopping short of the door.

"Bad Galya. You make such noise. You will wake our guest," he picked up the cat and continued murmuring in Russian as he turned around, the empty couch and discarded blanket coming into his view. He looked around, even in the dark appearing confused. "Misha?"

Mike didn't move. Had forgotten how. He tried to answer, but he couldn't seem to find his voice, it was lodged somewhere in his throat and wouldn't even make a squeak.

"Misha?" Maksim walked around the couch and headed in his direction, but not looking at him. He was almost beside him before he noticed he was there. "Misha!" Sharp, annoyed. Mike looked down, swallowing acid. He was such a bother to everyone. "What are you doing?" Maksim put the cat down and with a firm hand steered him back to the couch. "Sit!"

Mike sat obediently.

"Bad dream?"

He nodded.

"I'm… I'm sorry I woke you…"

"I can live with the waking up!" Maksim cut him off brusquely. "What dream was it?"

Mike stared at his hands, fidgeting on their own in his lap. One hand drifted to the sturdy bandage around his knee – Maksim was frightfully good at dealing with wounds, a fact Mike had been grateful for many times when it had saved him a visit to the emergency after one partner or other had taken his silence as consent. Mike had an aversion to doctors and explaining away whiplashes did not appeal to him.

Maksim slapped his wrist. He jerked his hand back and rubbed it protectively, a red mark blossoming where Maksim's stern hand had struck. He met his eyes in the faint light.

"Tell me!"

"I don't want to!" Mike flinched at his own voice. "…sorry…"

"I have no patience for your wants. Tell me what is wrong!"

So simple to him. Just obey. It sounded easy.

"It's nothing, nothing's wrong. I'm sorry, I'm… I'm… I shouldn't have…" he turned away and moved up in the couch, feeling small and vulnerable. Maksim's face, lit by the warm light from his bedroom was so at odds with the chill Mike felt coming from him.

"It would be better for you not to lie," Maksim stood up. "I will not ask more, but I will tell you this; if you have a plan to kill yourself, you should not have come to me!"

The door closed. Darkness once again enveloped him and he remained sitting. Waiting. Waiting for daylight. He wouldn't sleep again this night, he knew as much. He never did. Not after a dream.

Maksim was angry. He'd been a bother. He'd promised not to be a bother. Before he knew it he was sobbing into the pillow he'd borrowed. First quietly. Constrained gasps that he wouldn't allow anyone to hear and then he couldn't stop them from growing louder.

He cried hard. So hard that he didn't hear the footsteps, didn't react until he was pulled up and embraced. He wept into the Russian's bare shoulder, choking on tears, his throat aching. An eternity passed, but he couldn't stop, couldn't find his breath, couldn't keep the sobs from echoing in the silence.

When no more tears would come, he felt he still had many, many more to shed. Maksim laid him back on the pillow and folded the blanket over him, caressing his forehead and rising. A soothing whisper was the last he heard before he succumbed to a restless sleep.

"Sleep, mîliy*… no more worries."

*****

A newspaper fell into his lap. Mike looked up startled at Maksim, who was now pouring coffee into a cup, sniffing it with a frown.

"Not as strong as I make it," he judged and Mike cringed, about to apologise. "It has apartments."

Mike drew a deep breath and let it out in a trembling sigh that he hoped couldn't be heard. It was. Maksim sat down and his eyes found Mike's, stern and compelling.

"You will not stay here! I live alone. I like this. You must take care of you. No boyfriend. No!" he interrupted Mike's plea with a sharp blow to the tabletop with his fist. Mike jumped. "You can stay here, two weeks, three. I will allow this. But you will look at apartments. You will be useful and you will obey me." A very clear `or else' hung in the air between them.

Mike nodded slowly. He had known this was temporary. Had known Maksim didn't want him. Never had. But it hurt.

He stood quickly, his knee making his steps falter as he walked over to the kitchen counter, turning the tap. The clatter of porcelain filled the silence as he began the washing up with shaky hands. He'd promised Maksim that he'd make himself useful during his stay. He might as well prove he could be.

"Misha!" Mike flinched and dropped the cup into the sink with a loud clang. "Do not try to ignore me! I will not accept it! Understood?"

"…yes…" he mumbled, picking up the cup – the handle had come off.

He was such a clumsy idiot! He fucked everything up. Everything always came apart around him. Maksim would have a go at him for this, he wagered. He slipped his hands and the cup under the water and held it still.

If only he could get a new one without Maksim noticing. He moved his hands and the cup to the surface again looking at the pattern. No. No, this wasn't even new. Probably not British. He'd never seen it in a shop. Maksim moved behind him and he pushed the cup under again, tensing up.

Don't see! Don't see! Don't see! Don't see! Don't see! Don't see!

"What did you break?" Quiet. Fed up.

Fuck!

"I'm sorry! I'll get a new one! I promise! Please, I'm so…"

Maksim turned him around, hands clamped down on his shoulders, looking him straight in the eye. There was no storm in them, no blackness and no threats. Only certainty and an inflexible sense that they saw more than Mike wanted to show.

"Misha… you cannot stay here if you are afraid of me," he sighed. "You trust me, yes?" Mike nodded automatically. "Then why are you shaking?"

"…I… I don't… don't know…" he looked up with a pale smile that almost hurt.

He was drawn in close to Maksim's chest. Just a quick, quiet hug and then released. He nodded as if they'd reached an agreement on something and Maksim returned the gesture. A mutual, tacit understanding of just how bad things were and that they couldn't be dealt with in the blink of an eye.

"I have work," Maksim said then, moving him out of his way and
patting his shoulder. "I will be home around five. You go to the police and bring your bag."

Mike slammed the broken cup into the dustbin when Maksim was safely out of the building and cursed him. He might as well tell him to go to the fucking moon for that bloody bag. That's how impossible it felt. Of course, he lived here on borrowed time, in borrowed clothes and on borrowed food. He had to go get his bag. He owed Maksim that much.

He owed Maksim to go to the moon too if he asked it.

No matter how unwillingly and grudgingly Maksim offered his home and his compassion, his was the only offer that came without questions or pressure for sex. He might have demands that seemed insurmountable to Mike, but at one time `stand up' had seemed to be such a demand.

When he first met Maksim he had told him very little of himself. He'd been afraid. Afraid to be turned away by the Ruthless Russian, which was what he was referred to as in the circles that Mike used to move in then. But little by little a shaky bond of trust was forged between them. A bond that wasn't love and never would be. Friendship perhaps. Or as close to a friendship as it was possible for someone like him to have with a man like Maksim.

Maksim was the only one who didn't care that he was insane. The only one who accepted that part of him without forcing change on him. He simply told him to live with it.

Live with it. `You must take care of you.' Live with it. Go on. One step and then another. He'd tried that for so long and still every step hurt. All hurt.

He drew himself up and went back to washing up.

`If you have a plan to kill yourself, you should not have come to me!'

He smiled. A small cynical twist of his lips. No, guests should probably be more courteous than that. The thought of suicide hadn't crossed his mind though. Not once since Maksim said he would come for him. It was forbidden.

Gritting his teeth he tried to shove the thought away now. It wasn't real. Not a real wish. He was merely toying with the idea, like a cat with a snake… no harm done until it bit and its venom spread inside him, poisoning his every rational thought.

He missed Julian. A pang of guilt and longing pierced him. God, he missed Julian!

Missed his warm eyes, his kisses and his touch. Missed the security, someone who cared, someone who wanted to be with him. Now Julian hated him. He had made Julian hate him.

Mike banged his head against the cupboard door as hard as he could. Searing, blinding pain stabbed at his consciousness, just about making him fall over.

His hand came away wet with tears when he pressed it against his face to keep his balance. He was so fucked up! Fucked up nutter!

Rummaging around in Maksim's cupboards he finally found some pain killers. For the longest while he merely glared at the hateful things.

Drugs. He loathed them. Couldn't stand them. Hated them with his whole being and at the same time… He'd used to be able to do anything for them. He'd taken just about any kind there was, some from doctors, others from friends, some making his life bliss, others a hell without limits.

His head pounded, reminding him why he'd searched these out and shaking free of his qualms he knocked back a few without water, not bothering to check whether they were prescription or not.

Julian would've been fit to be tied if he'd seen him. Julian…



"…for a notice in the paper… Yeah, it's Julian!" his voice. Julian's voice. Mike felt warm inside. Then he realised he would have to say something and the warmth turned to ice in his stomach.

"It's… it's…"

"Mike?! Mike where the fuck are you?! Are you all right?!" Anxious. Worried to the verge of anger. A fitful laughter burst like a bubble on Mike's lips and mingled with the tears. He wiped at his nose.

"I love you…"

"I… Where are you? I was worried… I didn't know if you…" he didn't say it, never said it, never made it real.

Mike swallowed. If he told… He didn't know what to say. He choke on his tears and gulped down his voice. Then he tried again.

"Maksim's…"

"What?! You fuck!" Julian couldn't keep the disgust from his voice and Mike cringed.

"I'm sorry! I didn't have anywhere else to go! I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry…"

"Yeah? You always are, aren't you?" acid dripping from every syllable. "Fuck you Mike! I thought you were… I don't know… I'm…" A long pensive pause.

The silence said much. Silence that wasn't quiet was Julian's speciality. Silence that spoke wordless volumes. Mike rested his throbbing head against the doorsill and waited. Waited for Julian's decision. His verdict.

It came at length and kindly.

"I'm glad you're all right…"

"I love you…" Mike mumbled quickly, voice thick with crying and tears running down his cheeks.

That silence again. Longer this time. Tired. Satiated with the lack of response that was still so unmistakable. Mike's hand clenched around the receiver as if it could prevent Julian from vanishing. As if he could keep him there with the strength of his grip.

"I love you!" he pressed on in desperation, choking. Please be there… be there always… don't go!

"…I…" a sigh or a sob quivering on the other end.

"I love you! Please!"

"…I care about you… Mike, I do… but I can't… we can't…" he was quiet again, gathering strength, searching for words, finding them, "…don't ring me… I rather you didn't… it's better… I'm sorry. Please, I can't… bye…"

The sharp click was surreal. Reality wavered for a second and Mike dropped the receiver and sank down to his knees.

A shiver ran through him. Once, twice. He felt nothing. The world around him was swaying slightly and then he pushed himself up from the floor and rushed over to the sink.

He vomited until his insides burned, but the nausea wouldn't yield its grip on him. Still, when there was nothing left to heave up he staggered away from the sink drying his eyes on his sleeve, leaning on a chair.

Some milk perhaps. Maksim might have that.

No milk. He leaned heavily on the door feeling the cold from the refrigerator against his face. It felt good. His eyes fell on a bottle. Mike touched the label, he couldn't read it, but knew what it was all the same. Vodka. Russian – bound to be bought on one of his trips or sent from his family.

His fingers traced the foreign letters for a moment and then he let out his breath.

*****

He blinked up at the ceiling, the fading light from outside made patterns on the white wood, they danced before his eyes.

Someone opened and closed the front door. Mike closed his eyes.

"Misha?" he kept himself shut off and listened. Maksim stepped closer. "Misha…?" his voice was tired and not quite able to muster the response it seemed to want to give to his inert form.

He came closer yet. One step at the time and Mike held his breath. He heard him bend down and pick something up from the floor next to the sofa, cursing subtly in Russian – the bottle of vodka undoubtedly – a cold hand on his wrist, checking for a pulse and then he was shaken harshly by the shoulder.

"Misha!" he opened his eyes unwillingly to stop the rough handling. He glared up at Maksim leaning over him. "What do you mean by this?" he held the bottle out.

"Well… hullo to you… too," Mike muttered, the words he wanted were hard to catch. He tried to sit up and Maksim pushed him back down.

"You draining your sorrows, maybe? Yes?" Sizzling eyes, piercing right through him. Even as drunk as he was, he still quivered.

He struggled to sit up, Maksim barely allowing it. The room rolled over as his head came up higher than his feet and he wished someone would tell the walls to stand still. He attempted to glare defiantly at the towering Russian. He failed.

Maksim simply raised an eyebrow in return.

"Fo your infomashion… it'sh `drowning your shorrows' …actshually," he snarled with more sarcasm then he'd ever dared use towards Maksim. Although the effect was somewhat lessened by the fact that his jaw no longer seemed attached to the rest of his face.

"Mudilo**! I should drown you! You know what my brother give for this?" Maksim made to cuff him and then, when Mike flinched, just scowled and turned away, going to the kitchen with the bottle.

Mike's ears burned from drunken indignation and he stuck two fingers in the air at the Russian's retreating back. The room tilted again.

He lay back down on the sofa, his arm flung over his face. He listened to the sound of the bottle being tossed in the dustbin and then there was a clearly identifiable, rattling noise as Maksim shook the small plastic container Mike had dropped on the bench.

The Russian came back into the living room, medication in hand.

"How many?"

Too few. The cynical response died on his lips. He turned his head away. Anger, humiliation, and liquor burned inside him.

Maksim advanced on him. Steps falling heavily against the carpet. He was pulled up much too fast, the world tumbling over in pace with his stomach. A firm grip tilted his head back and forced his eyes to level with the Russian's. He twisted his head to get free, but Maksim's thumb pressed against his jaw until he stopped trying.

"I dunno…" Defensiveness warred with the confidence of the very drunk and he glowered at Maksim.

"You do not know?" the Russian scoffed. "I will drive you to the hospital then, yes?"

"No!" Mike pushed his hand away angrily. How could he say that? "I'm not… fuck… go not to no… not going to… no bleething hoshpital!"

"You do not mix drink and drugs. You can die, Mikhail!"

"It'sh Michael!" Mike shouted, frightened to open hostility. "Fuck off! What care… whachyou care?" the words seemed to be skipping merrily along just out of his reach. The words came out jumbled and he had to focus until it became a physical exercise just to get a sentence out. "I'd be… out of your… out of your… way then, wouldn't I? Wouldn't I? Wouldn't I?" Happy he'd found something to say that didn't come out all mixed up he repeated the question. "Wouldn't I?"

He stumbled to his feet pushing Maksim with all his weight.

It proved a stupid thing to do as the Russian stepped backwards on his own and Mike fell forward and knocked his bandaged knee on the coffee table. The pain made even his fingers tingle and he groaned, temporarily blinded and unable to focus on anything at all. He turned his anger and frustration back at Maksim as soon as he could.

"I shouldn't ashked you to help! Shouldn't ever talked to you… Julian hated you, I know why… he shaid you'd only… he shaid you were… You know what? Fuck you!" he stumbled up. He didn't know what made his head spin so badly, but he almost fell over again.

He put too much weight on his leg and cried out, staggering, stumbling and then suddenly Maksim steadying him with one hand under his arm. Why was he there? Always ready to help, but never willing? Mike snatched free and slapped his hand away.

"Should've never come here…"

"Why do you not leave then, hm? Go on, the door is over there!" Maksim pointed towards the front door, his eyes an empty black that would've chilled Mike to the core if not for the vodka clouding his judgement.

"I bloody… bloody will then! Fuck you!"

He staggered to the door, looked for his shoes, yanked a jacket down from its hanger and tossed it on the floor, raging and cursing when he couldn't find his own. Nothing cooperated with his clumsy fingers and the floor kept bobbing underneath his feet trying to knock him down.

The shoelace snapped and he threw the shoe into the wall, tears of frustration welling up. He kneaded his forehead with his knuckles until it hurt.

He was drunk, it hit him suddenly.

"I'm… I'm a… I'm not feeling so good…" he whispered.

Maksim watched him. He didn't reply. But the silence was heavy. Mike felt it even through his stupor. It wasn't supposed to go like this with Maksim. It wasn't supposed to be like this at all. It was all like a bad dream he couldn't wake up from.

The shoelace dropped from his hand as it went limp and he started crying. Maksim mumbled in Russian and then he moved. Walked towards Mike with no hurry.

When he reached his side he bent and picked him up. He felt light as a feather. He could recall vaguely being handled like this before, but not when. Carried. Like a child. Safe. Comfort.

He cuddled closer, sobbing.

"If I was a clever man I would not try to do this by myself, when I know I cannot, yes?" Maksim's voice was quiet and tired.

Mike felt the soft bedspread against his hands when Maksim let him go. He'd felt the pattern underneath his clutching hands many times. It was reassuring. Familiar. Lying on this bed was familiar too, it brought back the odd mixture of apprehension and calm of being in Maksim's hands. He felt small and free. His head swam.

"No! here, in here!"

Something was held up, his bleary vision couldn't make out what, and he heaved up the purely liquid diet of the day into it.

He fell back on the bed and the last thing he knew before sleep pulled him into a swirling black hole was Maksim's firm hands tucking a blanket around him.

To be continued

* mîliy -- dear/sweet (if anyone knows that this word can't be used as an endearment, let me know so I can change it something else).

** mudilo -- dumbass