The Smell of Memories

Title: The Smell of Memories 
Author: Dice 
Pairings: M/M (new characters, pairings will vary throughout the story) 
Feedback: Oh, please, good or bad, say something :-)

WARNING: The story deals with depression, past trauma and suicidal thoughts. It's BDSM oriented, will have spankings at a later point. I may be overstressing this, but this story is angst, pure and simple, and with few prospects of going anyplace happy anytime soon.

**********

The First Interval

**********

The smell struck him immediately when he set foot in the hallway. Sweet. Sickening. He saw his face blanch in the mirror across from the door. The fragrance made him tremble slightly. Why was that smell there? Julian knew, knew he couldn't stand it.

Roses. Pure, pinkish nearly white blossoms mixed with green and orange in a strikingly exquisite arrangement on the table in the living room.

He was sweating and his hands shook. He scowled at the flowers as if he could prevent them from smelling, prevent them from being, with his glare. There were only one clear thought in his head as he moved forward. He had to get rid of the smell. That smell that was choking him.

He slammed the garbage chute shut and felt some of the nausea go away. Then he returned to the apartment, shuddering when he looked around, not knowing whether he was imagining it or if the smell was still there -- he knew it shouldn't be.

"What the hell...?"

Julian came out of the shower, the towel around his slim hips held up with one hand, the muscles of his abdomen rippling as he dried his hair with another towel. He was staring wide eyed at the empty spot on the table and than turned his brown glare at Mike.

His hands were still trembling and he felt even sicker now.

"They're gone!" he hissed.

"I can see that! What I want to know is where they went?"

Julian advanced on him, throwing the towel he'd used to dry his hair in the big armchair.

"Well?"

He continued giving Mike that same piercing stare.

He couldn't answer. He knew he ought to sit down, or better yet, get outside. He needed air, fresh air. Now. Fast! He pushed his way passed Julian and pulled on the door to the balcony until Julian slid an arm around him and unlocked it to let him out.

Air, fresh air. With the smell gone he breathed more freely and the nausea disappeared. He was finally able to get himself back under control and sink down on the wooden bench by the wall.

"Did you throw them out?"

Julian didn't wait for him to nod -- didn't need to -- he continued harshly: "What is wrong with you? I got those from work! Do you know how sick I find this obsession of yours? This was one step too far. I've had it dammit!"

Julian crouched down in front of him, brown eyes searching the distraught face.

"I just... I just don't want them... Don't. Want. Them!"

Mike shook his head frantically.

"You're so fucked up!" Julian murmured seizing his wrist. "Get a grip, Mike! Fast! Or we're through! Got it?" he got up and left.



Some things are so terrible that you can't even tell the people you love. Others are so terrible that you can't tell people because you love them. He'd tried to tell Julian, tried to explain, but he had got a strange distant look that had said clearer than words `Please don't dump this on me!' and suggested that he see someone professional.

He'd seen enough professionals.

Julian thought that maybe he had a phobia. Against roses? Who'd ever heard anything like it? He tried to cure Mike by buying him roses that he'd associate with something good, red roses, yellow roses, pink, white, blue -- yes even blue roses. Wasn't it a miracle what botanists had managed to do? They didn't get rid of the smell though, did they? But maybe the smell was all in his head.

Last time he'd thrown up on the kitchen floor when the smell wouldn't go away. There had been no more roses. Until today.



`You're so fucked up!'

"I'm so fucked up!" he whispered. "So fucking seriously fucked up! Fucked up! Fucked! Fuck!" he stared at his hands. They were still shaking.

"Through?"

Was that his plan? His way of making the break up Mike's fault? Maybe. It was always his fault, he was nuts, nobody would love him, you can't love a nutcase, a maniac, a weirdo, a freaking, fucking lunatic, with a freaking, fucking obsession with roses, with being away from roses. Far away where the smell couldn't make him go through it again, and again, and again.

`Maybe you have a repressed memory.' Julian's I've-read-a-book-on- this-I-know-these-things-voice rang in his head. `You really should see someone.'

No, no, he hadn't repressed anything. He remembered it as vividly as if it was happening to him now.

He decided to suck up, it was worth a try. Or was it?

"I love you."

His words were met with cold silence. Icy silence. Julian's silence.

"I do! I really do! I didn't mean to hurt you."

Silence.

"What do you want me to say?" he pleaded and continued in the same breath: "I freaked out, all right? What can I do? I can't take it and you know it, I've tried to..."

"I don't want to hear anymore!"

Julian got up and slammed the door to the bedroom so that the pictures on the wall rattled, dangerously close to falling.

"I'll just make supper then, shall I?" he said to the door.

What he'd really want to do was take a long hot shower and purge himself from the filth -- not that he ever could. It wasn't his body that was dirty -- it was him. He walked towards the bathroom, but reconsidered. Julian was already angry and if he followed up one obsession with another he would be furious. He had to get a grip -- or they'd be through.

"Through."

No, he couldn't think about it. Through meant being alone again, and alone meant... alone meant going back in time, it meant lying in bed not wanting to get up, it meant having meals without taste -- when you bothered eating at all. It meant feeling worthless. It meant being worthless.

"I'm so fucked up." His whisper lingered in the empty room. He sat down on a chair in the kitchen, too tired to get anything done.

He couldn't say how long he had sat there. Julian's hand on his shoulder startled him and he flew back. Julian's face went from about to forgive, to about to blow up.

"I was going to ask if you wanted to order take out, but I suppose you'd rather be alone with your sulking. I'm going out!"

The door slammed.

What was the use? Julian didn't want him. No one could ever want him, he was pathetic. He didn't deserve love, shouldn't be alive.


*****


"Misha? What are you doing here?"

"Just passing by."

"I can't let you in right now."

"That's okay."

"What is wrong?"

"The usual."

"Come back in an hour, all right?"


*****


He sat in Maksim's kitchen.

Whatever conception he'd had of the Russians before he met Maksim only one remained. Hard. Hard eyes, hard words, hard...

"I'm so fucked up."

Silence. But not Julian's silence.

"No, you're not," spoken quietly, but with a voice he knew to listen to.

"I... Julian thinks so."

"And all think like Julian, god of fucked up, yes?" Maksim lifted his chin with a firm hand. "You're a fool, but not so bad."

"Please, I want..."

"He wants? No, no you don't want."

"I'm sorry, I need it, please..." he let out a sob, his eyes looking pleadingly into those of the stern Russian, but Maksim let go of his face and went over to the window, sighing.

"And what is it you need, Misha?" he said barely loud enough to reach Mike.

"I... you know, please..." he whispered.

A cat moved behind the curtain. Slowly. Softly. It stared attentively at the guest, then jumped on Maksim's shoulder, again locking eyes with Mike. Maksim's hand came up and scratched it gently.

"I'm begging you... please, sir, I need you to... to punish me," his voice broke and the cat still watched him.

"No!"

"...no...?"

"What you need is not having Julian telling you things to make you come to me!"

"Why not!?" he stood up, frustration clear in tone and stance, and the cat hissed with its claws out.

Silence and then the Russian let out a sigh again.

"I have no time for you, Misha, no time and no strength," he stated.

"I'm sorry..." Mike turned to leave.

"Where will you go now?"

"Home, I guess... out..."

Silence again. He moved like a cat, Maksim, quick, soundless, fluent. No hesitation as he took his arms, no delaying in forcing him close, despite the tremor it caused. Tears moistened the shirt. Please! Please!

"Misha... meeliy..." the Russian sighed, pulling Mike's head back. Waiting. Waiting until he listened again. "I'll do it. I don't know where you go if I don't -- this worries me... But I say stop, when I do, yes?"

"...yes..."



The ticking sound from the old clock on the wall in Maksim's bedroom had once been acutely irritating to Mike, now it was soothing. A familiar sound that returned him to calmness even after the most intense sessions at the Russian's hands.

He drew a shuddering breath. Above his head his hands were secured tightly with ropes, soft, smooth, probably silk, and at the foot of the bed his legs were being spread with the same kind of sleek ropes.


One loop, two... Maksim's hand caressing his tense calf until he relaxed into the covers.

Bare skin exposed and anticipating pain, bliss, relief -- all the things that Maksim could bring him, the things more cleansing than any water, no matter how hot. The one thing that would purge him from the filth inside.

He felt Maksim's thigh against his as the other man sat down on the bed. Reaching over, the Russian placed a scarf against his lips and Mike readily accepted the gag, this he was used to, though it had worried him at first, those many years ago. It was different now -- easier to scream when he wasn't frightened of the sound he made.

The many tresses of a flogger tickled his back. He could feel which one it was, not the smoother deer hide one and not the more rigid one with the vicious thongs either, but the suede, rough and gentle at the same time. It was snatched up and landed with a whoosh. Mike let out a gasp -- not from pain, there was none yet, but from the pure built up tension releasing at that first, sought after stroke.

The pain built up, becoming tangible, and then a slow burning feeling spread over his skin. Maksim focused on thighs and buttocks, knowing where to hit and how to hit. Driving Mike further into that state of bliss not found elsewhere.

He was almost free.

The pain, still a comfortable warmth, building slowly into a blaze, sent waves of emotion through him. It began to tingle more at each swift lash and he began to squirm uneasily, but wanting more, so much more. Maksim didn't let the pain fade between lashes, didn't allow for the skin to regain any coolness.

It hurt enough to make him wince now, to make him hiss softly for every stroke. And slowly, methodically Maksim drove him towards that brink he so yearned to reach. He felt as if he was being lifted out of himself, just on the edge of attaining that perfect state of floating... flying... where no thoughts, no feelings were too strong to be pushed aside. It was euphoria.

So close... The room dimmed as if from vertigo. So close now... he would let go any moment...

Then he knew it wouldn't come. Maksim's hands removed the gag, wiped away tears Mike never knew he'd shed and began untying his arms.

The clock ticked steadily, the low familiar sound, a reminder to come back to reality.

"...no...no..." tears welled up afresh, falling on the covers. "...no...don't stop...not yet..." but Maksim showed no mercy. He pulled him up and held him briefly, then pushed him into the bathroom and in under jets of cold water, quickly turning warm at the turn of a knob.

He was left alone. Crying, he rested his head against the wall.



"Did you have food before you came?" Maksim's voice cutting through his dazed thoughts as he came out from the bathroom. He shook his head. "Should have told me -- whippings are not good on an empty stomach!"

"I know..."

The cat was again on her master's shoulder, if cats had masters, perhaps it was the other way around... Maksim sat on the couch, half turned towards him.

"You know, and yet, you do not tell me? What am I to think of this?" he sounded angry. Mike didn't like anger, but he deserved it. Deserved everyone to hate him.

"I'm sorry, sir..." Why say it? It wouldn't help. Didn't help when said to Julian... it never helped. Maksim stood up and the cat jumped down.

"Sit! I'll make you food... I found a new baker, he's Polish, but live in Russia for some time... not good at bread, Polacks..." Maksim's voice trickled out from the kitchen as Mike sank down in the couch, a far off, yet reassuring sound that he didn't listen to much and that wasn't why Maksim spoke. Not because he wanted something said, but to keep Mike grounded, calm. He'd seen through his tactics, but that did not prevent them from working.

Mike let his gaze fall on the little white and grey cat, which watched him with scepticism from underneath the coffee table.

He'd had a cat. The memory came like a flash of sharp light and he closed his eyes. No. A black kitten. No, no, he didn't want to see that! Blood on the floor... no! A trail of it... it had looked like paint... and fur... no! ...then that little mass of red and black... no! ...he couldn't believe what it was... but the eyes... still open... NO!!

He stood up. Shivering. He clenched and unclenched his hands. The image faded. He walked into the kitchen, stopped hesitantly in the doorway. Maksim looked up, said nothing, but put the jar of honey down. Mike flushed with shame at the Russian's weary sigh.

"Bad thoughts?"

He nodded.

"Let me finish. Sit! Talk if you want."



He didn't talk.

When the Russian was done he sat beside him, pushed the bread into his hands and patted him on his knee. Salamata**, cold, with cream, honey and jam. It fuels the weary and the drained, Maksim claimed and Mike did not argue.

"Misha...?" Mike stopped chewing and looked up, a lump forming in his throat. "You should not stay."

He felt suddenly cold, did he want him to go? Now? Then he understood and the cold went to his heart. He put the bread down, a dismal kind of nausea overcoming him.

"I can't..." he whispered, breath stuck somewhere in his throat.

"He will damage you... I see this," Maksim shook his head.

"I've nowhere to go..."

Maksim said nothing. He hadn't expected him to. The silence grew a moment longer and then Maksim rose, busying himself with the washing up.

"You don't like the bread? Polacks! I should not buy from Polish baker..."


*****


The apartment was so dark. It felt abandoned and the air was raw. Mike turned the light switch and then hurried to close the balcony door. What a mistake in this neighbourhood. Not that there was anything worth stealing anyway, apart from a few CDs and a really old VCR.

He looked around, Julian hadn't been back.

Walking into the bedroom he ignored the lights and sank down on the bed. Some lingering remnants from the flogging made him tense up. It felt good. A comforting reminder.

He sat there for a long time, just feeling one with the dark. Melancholy overpowering him and making him unable to stir again.

The key in the lock. Stumbling footsteps. Julian was back from clubbing -- alone it seemed.

He turned the lights on in the bedroom, making Mike squint. The liquor showed in every movement of his swaying form. He leered at Mike and came closer, swaying backwards slightly and then he bent forward and kissed him.

Hot, sensual, with lips that tasted of alcohol and something else, a sour taste of someone else's ejaculation. Mike pulled back, but Julian held the back of his head, forcing his tongue into his mouth and tipping him backwards onto the bed.

Julian's hands suddenly lacked any trace of drunkenness as he swiftly unbuttoned Mike's jeans, and pushed them down over his hips and off. Mike resigned and let him have his way, as always. It was best. Always let them have their way and the pain is less.

Then as his briefs were dragged off, roughly, scraping the tender skin, Mike remembered how bright the glaring light really was. Julian moved back a bit, his face darkening.

"The fucking Russian," a statement, not a question. "You fuck!" Julian flung him off the bed -- he lay still. He had this coming. He deserved to be struck. Julian had never hit him before, but he knew, had always known, that it was only a matter of time.

"...I'm sorry..." automatically, always on the tip of his tongue, he regretted it immediately.

"Sorry?" Julian's voice was dripping sarcasm. "You fucker! You cheated on me, you bloody prick!!"

"And what you do isn't cheating...?" whispered quietly, a defiant question, coming unbidden and from somewhere out of Mike's control. He felt horror twisting his insides.

"You fuck!!" Julian kicked him -- once, in the ribs. Then he left the room. He returned a few minutes later. "We're through! You get that, you sick, fucked up pervert?! Through!" then he disappeared again only to return with a bag.

He flung clothes into it haphazardly. Shirts and sweaters, dirty and too big for their owner, jeans, the only other pair he had. Mike closed his eyes as every article of clothes he owned was stuffed into the bag until no more fit into it.

"Get the fuck up and get out!!" Julian hurled the bag at him, half of the clothes falling out again. Mike hugged it to his chest.

Julian pulled him up, dragged his compliant body towards the door and kicked him out, chucking jeans and jacket after him -- the shoes, ultimately, thrown with direction at his face. Mike ducked and cowered.

The door slammed shut and with a final, irrevocable click the lock was turned from the inside.


*****

A paper mug was placed in front of him, the aroma tickling his nostrils. Espresso, steaming. He warmed his hands on the mug, not quite holding it. He would drink soon, just let it cool some. It was odd, he had no tears.

Perhaps he was too empty already to cry, this was just a pebble added to the weight after all. He watched the mug and wondered briefly who had ordered it -- he didn't want it. His hands moved to grip it and the heat burned at his palms. He didn't want it to stop, at least he felt it. It meant he could still feel.

He wondered why he had worried about breaking up with Julian. It wasn't as if it mattered anyway, nothing did. He laughed faintly, but the sound was brittle, empty. Like life. For a moment he could almost feel his draining away from him.

His head swayed. There wasn't really any point ever rising again. He could just let himself relax, he'd fall and then he'd just stay down.

The room was so distant, like he was trapped in a bubble. Faint shapes moved around him but they didn't concern him.

Then the smell came creeping into his senses.

It jolted him back to the present like a sharp jab from a knife or the tip of a lash curling around the hip. He began to shake.

Looking around he found the source of the smell. A couple, seated behind him, oblivious to everything but each others eyes. A bouquet of roses lay atop her purse, glaring angry red at him. Mike couldn't control his body. It felt as if it had remained in the far off place where his mind had taken him a moment ago and he had woken up leaving it behind.

He stood clumsily. The espresso gushed over his jeans and shoes as he toppled it in his rush to get away. It scalded the skin momentarily, but he couldn't even find the presence of mind to swear.

Some people were moving towards him and he suddenly felt crowded. Panic hit hard and he lurched out the door and into the street. Someone called after him, but he just ran all the quicker. Crossing the trafficked street with no regard for life or limb; he found himself reeling into a side street, fleeing down the pavement and into the blessed darkness of a park.

He stumbled on the low hurdle separating path from lawn and landed on his face in the dew glittering grass.

Breathing slowly, he gradually found himself again. He sat up, pain began to make itself known from the scalding coffee and he rubbed at his leg. A part of him worried about blisters, the other wanted the pain to eat its way through his bones.

The bag was gone and everything he owned with it. But somehow he couldn't work up the strength to care. He rose.

Rain hung in the air, as so often when summer was reaching its end. He'd get wet. Perhaps he'd catch pneumonia. People died from that if it wasn't treated. It seemed an easy way to go. He didn't have to do anything, just lie down in the cold, wet grass and wait for the rain.

Wouldn't it be just as well? He didn't matter to anyone. Why should he take up space?

His feet moved on their own accord and he found himself staggering out of the park and to a familiar bus stop. He climbed on and dug up a few coins from his jeans pocket... the wallet! A moment's apprehension and then he let it go. It was in the bag with everything else -- with his entire life. A man with large brown hands accepted his money and the choked whisper that was his destination. The ticket crumpled in his hand.

The rain started to fall. Leaving drops on the window. He pressed his forehead to the cold glass and watched his breath become vapour and the lights outside vanish behind the haze.

He was so fucked up. This wasn't right, sane people didn't feel this disconnected. But he wasn't sane. Fucked up. Fucked up and worthless. Julian didn't want him. Maksim couldn't be bothered. He smiled weakly. Nothing hurt. Everything was just distant... the bubble reasserting itself around him.

Getting off, someone shoved him, he staggered and then slipped on the now soaked pavement. His knee crashed down against the hard stone and the acute pain drew a moan from him. He sat on the ground. The world began to dim for a moment. Someone was speaking to him, but he didn't listen.

The leg wouldn't carry him when he tried to stand and he fell down on his hands and knees. He could feel tears burn against his eyelids from the pain. So there were still tears inside him then. He marvelled at that.

Then someone touched him. He recoiled and his hand flew up. Staring at the woman he saw a look of worry and then disgust.

He heaved to his feet, forcing his leg to take his weight, and gritted his teeth against the pain. He saw her speak and noticed other faces around him. His body trembled. Panicked but unable to move. Trapped like a wild animal. And yet he found himself running.



He had no memory of getting there, but the familiar building suddenly loomed over him. Dark. Forbidding. A small light glinted from above the backdoor.

Mike moved towards it like a moth to a flame. He touched the handle, but the door wouldn't budge. Of course, locked. No one would be left at this time. He back away from the door and collapsed against the bricks.

He sat there a moment, not thinking. Then he raised his hand to his jacket's inner pocket a wild grin spreading across his face as he clasped the key. He didn't believe it. It had to be another key. But no, it fit the lock and the door opened with a desolate echo. The corridor within seemed to swallow and at the same time multiply every sound made. His steps was heard before he made them and they followed him like a stalker.

He couldn't walk up the stairs -- his knee wouldn't support him any longer. He bit his lip so hard he tasted blood and then pushed himself up. One step... another... and another. His injured leg never touching the metal grid and his arms aching from dragging his whole body upwards with only one leg to stand on.

His palms were slick with sweat and he could taste salt on his upper lip when he finally reached the third floor and yanked the heavy door open. He fell through it.

The dark made the office an unfamiliar place, but he knew the way and he had soon staggered to his cubicle, falling into the swivelling chair and turning on the lamp. A small island of light in the vast darkness, which he knew was only an illusion for the office wasn't so big.

A few new folders and documents had been dropped on his desk after he'd left in the day. He moved them aside and looked at the mess that was his workspace. It quite accurately reflected his life. He sat there for a length of time that could've been an eternity or just a second, before he moved again, feeling every hurt and ache in his body. He opened the top drawer. A bottle of pain killers caught his eye... so simple... he could just take them all... it would all be over... so simple.

Picking it up he felt disappointment surging through him. Empty. He should've known. Should've remembered.

A tear trickled down his cheek. He didn't bother to wipe it away. More tears fell.

He stared down into the drawer. Then a thought came to him and he shifted some papers and a box of staplers... there he found it. For a moment he did nothing but look at it and then he grabbed it. The sharp edge glimmered in the lamp light. So slight and sharp as a razor. Such a small thing, hardly worth calling a knife...

He held the grip in his hand, tears still falling down his face unhindered. He moved his arm upwards, his wrist slipping free of the jacket's sleeve, he bent his hand backwards and looked at the blue vein underneath the pale, thin layer of skin. The blade would cut deep and with no trouble.

Blood would well up. Red and bright. He could see it as if he had already put the knife to his arm. Could picture how it would stain the papers and trickle down onto the floor -- it would be a dreadful mess. He wondered briefly who would find him... who would be forced to clean up the mess he would leave...

Both his arms rested on top of the desk, the hand clutching the knife trembled slightly. He still cried, but it felt as if it was someone else's hands and someone else's tears. He was just floating above the worthless sod sitting there... just watching something that had nothing to do with him.

Toby would find him -- he was always early. But Betsy... poor Betsy wouldn't have to clean up the blood, would she? They wouldn't make Betsy do that, would they?

He was tired. So very tired. Maybe he would just rest a moment and then decide. Just put his head down and then his hands wouldn't tremble so much. He closed his eyes against the glaring light. Just for a moment...


*****


"Oy, Mike, you been `ere all night?" a distant voice. Then closer. "Oy, mate! You look like shit!"

Mike's head rolled over to one side and he blinked, vaguely aware that he wasn't where he thought he was. He rubbed his eyes against the jacket's sleeve -- he'd slept at his desk. The night before came creeping back into his mind, but somehow he couldn't quite focus on the details.

Toby Binks was looking at him from over the cubicle wall. He blinked up at him bleary eyed.

"What're you doing here, mate?"

He didn't know what to say. Couldn't find any words at all. He felt drained, like a rag slung over a line and left in the wind.

There was something in his hand. He knew suddenly what it was and swallowed, cautiously he slid it in under a folder, hoping that Toby hadn't seen it. He gave his colleague a nervous look, licking his lips and blinking stupidly still.

"Good morning, Mr. Binks," another voice drifted into Mike's dazed consciousness and then Mr. Pardew came into view. Mike met his eyes and his heart sank into his shoes. "Mr. Aldren?" his boss regarded him gravely and then gave a small nod. "You don't look so well, a word perhaps, Mr. Aldren, my office?"

Mike stood. Or tried to stand. A sharp spike of pain lanced through his right knee and he reeled, bending over the desk for support. He looked down and saw his jeans, shredded and bloody, clinging to his leg beneath the knee.

"Mr. Aldren?"

"Mike!"

Their voices, concern evident in both, mingled with Mike's own groan in pain. He shook his head when Toby reached out to help him, pushing his colleague away brusquely.

Fighting off the pain took some effort, but when he was prepared for it he could.

Mr. Pardew held the door to his office open and Mike sidled inside.

He knew. Mike realised. The older man knew and would deal with it. The thought made him feel nauseous with fright.

"Are you feeling quite well, Mr. Aldren?"

The words came so calmly, so without resentment or anger that Mike for a moment dared to hope that he'd been wrong, that he hadn't guessed, didn't know the awful truth from just that one look at him.

"This isn't good, Mr. Aldren, and you know that," his boss watched him with quiet concern. Mike looked at his hands, folded on his lap.

"I'm sorry, sir," he whispered, the response filling some of the void inside him.

"Have you been taking your medication?"

Mike shook his head faintly.

"And you're still not seeing a therapist or the such?"

Again a faint negative inclination and Mike felt his chest tighten in dread. This was it, he was doomed! He trembled enough for the older man to see it, he was certain. He felt so weak.

"This is not good. Not good at all. We had an understanding, Mr. Aldren, didn't we?" still very controlled and without much anger, but there was some annoyance there, Mike knew, and it didn't bode well.

Mr. Pardew knew. Knew about the depression, the one he'd got over once, and promised would never return. Had known since Mike had started working for him. Well, a few weeks after as it were. A compassionate understanding of how much Mike needed to be needed had finally won out over the disappointment at his lying when he was employed and the concerns he had had and Mike had kept his job. He'd done well at it.

He couldn't lose it now. He mustn't. Mustn't!

"I didn't see this coming," Mr. Pardew admitted finally. "What brought this on?"

"I don't know... I... I just..." he blinked away tears and began to shake.

"Oh, dear... Mr. Aldren?"

Mike got himself under control with tremendous effort and nodded, not trusting his voice. He was so tired... so weak...

"Last night was... I didn't..." his voice trailed off -- there was no use, he was worthless, no one wanted him. He was a waste of everyone's time.

"Mr. Aldren, I must think of the firm! But as your employer I am concerned about your welfare, do you understand me?" Mr. Pardew spoke deliberately and not unkindly.

He nodded again, dreading the words he knew must come.

"I feel that perhaps you need some time off..."

"No!"

"You do... you must see that!" Mr. Pardew stood firm, his furrowed brow indicating frustration. "I would be much calmer if I knew you took care of yourself ... have you thought about having yourself admitted?"

Admitted? He shook himself. Admitted. He wanted to laugh. Not the first time. Easy advice. Advice for any fucked up, fucking nutter. Admitted. He couldn't cope with the thought. Never again! There wasn't a chance in hell he'd set foot in a hospital! Never again! Admitted...

He looked at his boss, shaking his head. Slowly and then quicker, until it hurt.

"Please, Michael!"

His first name.

Mike swallowed staring at him. He couldn't lose his job, he couldn't! What would he do? The night before flashed in his mind. He knew it had been bad, but he didn't want to acknowledge just how bad. He didn't want to go back to that place again.

There was a knock on the door.

Toby poked his head in. He looked uncomfortable. For a moment he stared awkwardly at Mike and then he looked away. Mike blushed, though he didn't quite know why. He must look terrible.

"Yes, Mr. Binks?"

"There's a P.C. Bradley outside, asking for Mike, sir," Toby met Mike's glance only for a second before again looking away.

A policeman. A policeman looking for him. Why would the police be looking for him...? It didn't make sense.

"Ask him to step in here, Mr. Binks," Mr. Pardew's level voice, not void of curiosity, answered Toby's silent question.

Mike rubbed his sweaty palms against his jeans. He couldn't grasp this. It didn't make sense. A policeman. He hadn't done anything. He hadn't done anything. He hadn't...

"Good morning to you, sir, I'm P.C. Bradley." He was young, had warm eyes and a tentative smile. Mike stared at the handcuffs at his belt and swallowed hard, something sour threatening to come up if he didn't focus on breathing calmly.

The policeman shook hands with Mr. Pardew. He stood quiet for a moment with his hand reached out towards Mike. Mike swallowed again, nervously rubbing his palms against his thighs. He couldn't raise his hand.

"I'm looking for a Michael C. Aldren, that wouldn't be you, would it?" he asked smiling still, his hand sinking down to his side. When Mike didn't respond Mr. Pardew confirmed his assumption. He hadn't done anything.

"Mr. Aldren, a waitress at the Friday Café reported a young man running out of there last night. Leaving a bag behind? She was worried that he wasn't well or that he might be in trouble... honestly she thought there might be a bomb in the bag..." the young policeman looked him over casually, head tilted. "She checked... which we don't really recommend, but which I suppose was lucky for your luggage... wouldn't you agree?"

What was he talking about? Mike shook his head, not able to process all the information. He hadn't done anything.

Mr. Pardew began talking. Mike heard what he said, but he couldn't quite understand it. He was talking about him. He was telling the stranger what they'd been talking about. He would ask him to arrest him. He would go to jail.

But he hadn't done anything!

Silence. Unanswered questions hanging in the air. The policeman looked at him again, his eyes friendly, the smile replaced by sympathy.

"Would you mind telling me what happened last night?" he asked, crouching down so he could see Mike's face.

"I... I don't know... I don't remember!"

"Mr. Aldren, would you like me to take you to the hospital?" His way of asking, making it sound almost all right. Almost safe.

Mike shook his head.

"Then tell me what I can do..."

Go away!

He didn't answer.

"I will not be responsible for you collapsing in the office, Mr. Aldren, I want you to at least go home for the day. Do you have anyone you can ring?" Mr. Pardew sounded weary, but adamant.

Mike began to shake his head. But then dread came over him. If he said no the police might take him anyway. They did those things. They talked to you until you didn't know what you were doing and then they locked you up.

"I... yes..." he breathed.

"Good, good. Capital!" Mr. Pardew handed him his phone via the policeman.

He stared at it, he didn't know who to ring. Julian hated him. Didn't want him. He had no one else... Maksim... but Maksim would be cross. So angry. He didn't want him either. There was no one else. Maksim.

"I'd like you to come to the station with me first, and pick up your bag, if you don't mind?" the policeman put a hand on his shoulder and he shrank back. "Or it can wait till tomorrow, perhaps?" he yielded when he noticed Mike's obvious apprehension. "Are you sure you'll be all right?" Mike nodded quickly. The policeman backed away.

Mike dialled a number.

The signals seemed to never stop. They went on and on and... click. There was a moment's silence and then a crackling noise, a voice answering at the other end. Curt. Offhand. A certain lilt and trace of a familiar accent. Maksim.

"Yes, Savin, how may I help you?"

"Hello... it's..." he trailed off -- this was insane. Maksim didn't want him to ring if it wasn't important. He couldn't bother him like this... he had no right.

"Misha?" there might've been surprise there, but then he sighed. "I am at work. What is it? Oh, wait..." the indistinct sound of voices, barely audible. "...I have a client... what is it?"

"It's... I... please...?" he trembled. He could picture Maksim's eyes flash and narrow.

"Yes, out with it!" Annoyed. Frustrated. He shouldn't have bothered him with this.

"I'm sorry... I'll... I shouldn't have... I'm sorry..." his hands shook. He reached for the button to turn the phone off.

"Misha! Tell me!" Sharp, like a whiplash, and then the hard tone softened. "Tell me what is wrong?"

Mike gulped for air. He stared at the policeman's feet, his spotless, black shoes weren't so spotless when you looked closer. Mike closed his eyes. What must Mr. Pardew be thinking? He would lose his job. He couldn't lose his job. He got his voice somewhat under control and breathed slowly... in... out... in... out.

Maksim was speaking away from the phone. He heard only a faint murmur and then he was back, repeating the question. He couldn't tell him. Couldn't bring himself to say what he needed to. Couldn't face the rejection.

"I don't know what to do..."

The truth. So simple and artless and yet without any meaning.

"Where are you?"

"At the office... I'm... I... I don't have anywhere to go," a small whisper, afraid that Maksim would hear, afraid that Mr. Pardew would hear. He looked up at the policeman. A polite smile, probably meant to encourage, moved across his face.

"Not to Julian then?" Maksim knew and it made it a little easier. A little less painful.

"...no..."

"Very well, only this time... all right? I cannot be some last resort like this... I have not time to run places and pick up pieces." He would save him. Maksim would come!



He waited outside the dreary building, watching the cars that passed. His knee ached. His heart ached. But Maksim would come. He felt ashamed, being so relieved, but he couldn't help it. If Maksim had turned him down... no he wouldn't think about it.

A police car stopped in front of him. He swallowed hard, refusing to look at it.

"Mr. Aldren?" the policeman stepped out. "I just wanted to ask again if you're sure you're all right... I'd... well, if there's anything I can do... at all..." he gave up. "Well, take care of yourself, Mr. Aldren. You can fetch your bag at the station."

He was given a note with the district and address of the police station. He pocketed it without responding. The policeman got back in his car, hesitating a moment before he drove off.

Maksim would come.

**********

To be continued


* meeliy = dear/sweet (if anyone knows this can't be used like this, let me know so I can correct it)
** Salamata = Russian bread made from a dough you boil while mixing.