2. Mikhail
Mikhail
Iwake up falling, and my head cracks against the floor before my brain catches up to what’s happening. Pain explodes across my skull, and I lie there staring up at the ceiling, trying to figure out how I ended up on the ground.
Well, that’s one way to wake up.
Glancing over to my side, I see my desk chair, which means I must have passed out there at some point, though I can’t remember sitting down. When I swallow, nausea slams into me hard, and my throat tightens, mouth watering way too fast.
Oh fuck, I’m going to be sick.
The moment I try to get up, the room spins violently, and I grab the chair to keep from going down again.
I stumble toward the bathroom and make it maybe one foot inside before my legs give out completely, leaving me on my hands and knees crawling the rest of the way to the toilet. Everything comes up at once.
I heave until there’s nothing left, acid burning up my throat, but my body’s not done punishing me yet. It keeps convulsing, trying to expel poison that’s already soaked into my bloodstream. The third wave brings up something darker, and I taste iron spreading across my tongue. Great. Blood.
When the vomiting finally stops, I can’t hold myself up anymore and collapse sideways onto the tile, cheek pressed against the freezing floor.
I’m gasping, struggling for air, lungs burning as I try to drag in breaths that feel too thin.
My eyes start burning, and I slap my palm across my face hard enough that the sting cuts through the fog.
The shock drags me back for a second. Okay, still alive, unfortunately.
Get it together. Be a man. Stop being weak.
That’s what Father would say if he could see me right now, what he does say every single time he looks at me and sees exactly what he expected to see. Disappointment with a pulse.
The combination of weed and pills and whatever else I took last night was too much, but that’s not exactly shocking.
This isn’t new territory for me. I keep doing this, keep pushing too far because my brain won’t shut the fuck up unless I make it, and even then it doesn’t always work.
I need the noise to stop, need my thoughts to quiet down for just a few hours, and getting wasted is the only way I know how to do that.
I drag my hand across my mouth and force myself up from the floor. My legs are wobbling so bad I almost go down again, but my palm slaps against the counter and keeps me vertical. Stumbling to the sink, I brush my teeth twice to get the taste of blood and bile out of my mouth.
My emergency stash sits on the shelf above the mirror.
My salvation and my poison, all wrapped up in one little orange bottle.
I grab it and shake out the last two pills, then dry swallow them even though they scrape going down and settle heavy in my empty stomach.
Relief starts creeping in almost immediately, just from knowing they’re in my system now.
My fingers are still trembling when the first sob breaks through, then another, and suddenly I’m falling apart in this bathroom alone where no one can see how close I am to my breaking point.
Fuck.
I need Daniil. I always need him when it gets like this.
My feet are already carrying me down the hall before I can stop myself. He always makes everything better, especially when everything’s too loud, and the only thing that shuts it up is being close to him.
But lately he keeps pushing me away, asking for space like that’s something we do now.
We don’t do space. We’ve never done space.
He won’t let me crawl into his bed anymore, keeps saying we’re not kids and it’s weird, that we need to stop.
I don’t understand why he’s acting different all of a sudden, but it needs to stop because I can’t handle this distance between us.
Pushing the door open, I slip inside quietly and find him curled on his side, face peaceful in the dark. City lights through the window paint him in shades of orange and shadow. That little silver hoop in his nose catches the light.
I should turn around and go back to my own room.
That’s what he’d say if he were awake right now, give me that look and tell me to leave.
But I’m so tired of being pushed away, so tired of him acting like we need boundaries when we’ve never had them before.
I slide into his bed and pull the covers over me, pressing myself against his back and wrapping my arms around him to pull him closer.
He stirs, makes a sleepy noise. “Mikhail?” His voice is rough with sleep.
“I need you,” I say, hoping he isn’t going to kick me out again.
He turns over, faces me in the dark. His eyes are barely open, still half-asleep. “You threw up again?”
“Yeah.”
“You okay?” he asks softly.
“I’m fine.”
He goes quiet for a moment. “You could’ve just told me in the morning.”
“I didn’t want to tell you in the morning. I wanted you and your bed.”
“My bed’s exactly the same as yours. There’s nothing special about it.”
I roll my eyes. “Yes, there is. Yours is warmer.”
“They’re identical beds, Mik.”
I scowl at him. “Mine doesn’t have you in it, so no, they’re not identical.”
He huffs out a breath that might be a laugh, and I wrap my arm around his waist, pulling him closer. He fits against me perfectly, always has, his head tucking under my chin while his breath warms my throat.
“We’ve been doing this our whole lives,” I mutter. “Why is it weird now?”
“Because we’re not kids anymore.”
“So? Still works. You sleep better when I’m here, and I sleep better with you.”
He’s quiet for a long moment, then his body relaxes against mine. “You can stay.”
Burying my face in his hair, I inhale his watermelon scent, then drag him closer, even though he’s already pressed against me with nowhere left to go.
He lets out a sigh that sounds almost pained. “Go to sleep.”
“Trying to get you closer.”
“I can’t get any closer than this unless I literally laid on top of you.”
I lift my head and look at him. “Then do it.”
“What?”
“Lay on me. Come on.”
“You’ll complain that I’m crushing you,” he mutters.
“No, I won’t. I promise.” I try to pull him on top of me. “Please? I need you.”
He sighs. “Fine. But when you can’t breathe, that’s on you.”
Then he shifts and carefully settles on top of me, trying to spread his weight out. My arms immediately lock around him, holding him there.
“See? Perfect.”
He grunts. “I’m going to suffocate you.”
“Worth it. You’re like a weighted blanket.”
“A weighted blanket that can kill you.”
I grin. “The best kind.”
He shakes his head against me but doesn’t move. Something that sounds like “you have no idea” comes out muffled against my skin, so quiet I almost miss it.
His hand comes up to my buzzcut, and his fingers run back and forth over the short hair, the repetitive motion calming him down the way it always does. He doesn’t know I only keep it this short because he does this, because he needs the texture when he’s anxious or can’t sleep.
“It’s not weird,” I say again.
We both know this isn’t normal brother behavior, but neither of us says it out loud.
I’m sure as hell not bringing it up because if I name it, he might see us differently and realize how messed up this is, then pull away.
I can’t handle that. I need him to keep letting me crawl into his bed, keep letting me wrap around him this way.
I crave this more than I should because I can’t get it from anyone else, so yeah, I’ll keep my mouth shut forever if that’s what it takes.
His breathing slows on top of me, evening out as sleep pulls him back under. I close my eyes and hold him there, hand pressed flat against his back.
I’m so fucking proud of him for going through with the DNA test. I don’t know what they’re hiding about where he came from, but he deserves the truth.
Obviously I pushed him into it. What was I going to do, let him spend his whole life wondering? They act like this is some massive danger, but our entire existence is dangerous. At least this might actually tell him something real.
Even with the exhaustion dragging at me, I can’t sleep. Just have to wait for the pill to kick in, and then maybe I can get some rest.
I wanted to do better, I really did. I work my ass off, keep my head down, eat clean, train hard.
Even fought for that business degree, and it actually comes in handy now.
Running three clubs isn’t easy, especially when they’re laundering money and passing intel between our allies.
I handle the books, the staff, the security, the bribes, making sure everything runs smoothly so nobody looks too closely.
None of us have lives outside this family. All we do is manage whatever piece of the empire Father handed us, whether it’s ports, clubs, escorts, or shipping routes. We’re spread thin across the city, each holding down our territory.
Sometimes I think about what life would’ve been like if I wasn’t born into this, if I’d grown up normal without the expectations and constant pressure to be something I’m not. I think I would’ve been happier. Maybe found some quiet farm somewhere.
I’ve always liked animals. Would’ve been nice to work with my hands on something that didn’t end in blood or broken bones, something simple. Wake up early, feed animals, fix things, come home tired but the good kind of tired. Pop open a beer and watch the sun set from the porch.
It’s stupid, a fantasy that’ll never happen. I’m an Avrorin, which means this life, this city, no getting out no matter how much I might want to. But sometimes I let myself think about it anyway, just for a little while before reality drags me back and reminds me what I am and what I’ll always be.
The bed’s empty when I wake up, and I roll over, immediately pissed off that he’s already gone.
I was really hoping for morning cuddles, which I can’t get from anyone else, only from Daniil, and I’m fully aware it’s fucked up that I’m trying to get cuddles from my own brother, but what the hell am I supposed to do about it?