4. Daniil
Daniil
The sound of something crashing inside the apartment jolts me out of sleep on the couch, and I almost roll off onto the floor, barely catching myself in time as my heart hammers. More sounds echo from the hallway, followed by Mikhail cursing in Russian.
“Blyat,” Mikhail grumbles.
Pushing myself up from the couch, I find him in the entryway trying to untie his beat-up Converse. He’s failing miserably, fingers fumbling with the laces as he nearly tips over sideways before catching himself on the wall.
I’m so pissed at him. I shouldn’t have driven him to Ozero. I knew exactly what was going to happen and did it anyway because I’m the biggest idiot on this entire planet. He always hooks up with someone when he does this, and it destroys me.
I feel like some pathetic housewife waiting for him to come home, watching the clock and wondering who he’s with. I know he didn’t hook up with Cassie because, for whatever reason, she’s fixated on me instead of him, but fuck, what am I supposed to do? This hurts too much.
I hate my life.
“Danya?” He squints at me in the darkness like he’s trying to figure out if I’m real.
My eyes snap to him. He’s staring at me with pupils blown so wide I can barely see any blue, swaying dangerously before he catches himself on the wall.
My pathetic feet carry me over to him before I can think better of it.
Crouching down in front of him, I look up, jaw tight. “I’ll help you take off your shoes and get you to bed.”
“Nah, nah, I got it.” His accent is thick, words slurring together. He tries to bend down and nearly face-plants. “Shoes are being difficult today. Very rude shoes.”
“I said I’ve got it, Mikhail.”
He pauses and looks at me, confusion flickering across his face. “You sound mad. Are you mad? You’re doing that thing with your voice.”
I pull the laces loose on his first shoe, then the second, pulling them off rougher than necessary. Standing up, I reach for his arm, but he catches my hand instead and grins at me.
“You have nice hands. Did I ever tell you that? Very nice hands.”
I start hauling him toward the bedroom, but he stops dead in the hallway.
Before I can react, he pulls me hard against him, the movement knocking the air out of my lungs as I stumble into him.
My hands brace against his ribs and perfume hits me immediately, floral and sweet and definitely not his cologne. My stomach twists.
“Let me hug you,” he murmurs, wrapping his arms around me before I can shove him away. “Missed you so much. Was gone for like, what, five hours? Felt like forever.”
“Mik, let go.” I try to shove him, but he doesn’t budge.
He’s too strong, all that muscle and height advantage, and I’m trapped against him while he rubs circles up and down my back. He pulls me even closer, pressing his nose into my hair and breathing deep.
“Watermelon,” he says. “You always smell like watermelon, and it’s the best thing ever. Don’t change it. Ever. I’m serious. If you change shampoos, I’ll be so sad.”
Then he presses a kiss into my hair. He always becomes so touchy when he takes drugs, which makes my situation worse, so much worse.
I move my hands from his ribs to his chest and shove hard.
He stumbles backward with his eyebrows shooting up in surprise, almost going down before he catches himself.
“Wait, wait. Are you mad because I went out?”
“I’m not mad.”
“You are though. You’re doing the voice thing and the face thing.” He reaches for me again, and I dodge. “Danya, come on. Talk to me. Use your words.”
“You’re wasted. We’re not talking about anything right now.”
“I’m not that wasted. I can walk. See?” He takes two steps and veers sideways into the wall. “Okay, maybe a little wasted. But still. Why are you upset?”
“I’m just tired. It’s almost six in the morning, and you woke me up.”
We reach his bedroom, and I steer him toward the bed, but he turns and catches my wrist before I can retreat.
“Stay.” His fingers are warm around my wrist, grip loose but insistent. “Please? I don’t want to be alone. Everything’s spinning, and it’s better when you’re here.”
“You need to sleep this off.”
“I will. Promise. Just stay with me first.” He tugs me closer, swaying slightly, and I smell that perfume again. “You make everything better. Did you know that?”
He sits down on the bed and pulls me between his legs, wrapping his arms around me, and I have to bite my cheek to keep from falling apart.
I stare up at the ceiling, trying to focus on anything other than how much this hurts, how he smells of someone else’s perfume and still holds me the same way he always does.
“Did you fuck someone?” The words blurt out before I can stop them.
He freezes. His arms go still around me, and he looks up, confusion spreading across his face. “What?”
Fuck. Perfect timing, brain.
I step back. “Never mind.”
He stares at me for a long moment, processing slowly, before pushing himself up from the bed. I back away another step, but he’s faster than he should be in his state, catching my wrist and spinning me around to force me to look at him.
“Why does it matter if I did?” His eyebrows pull together in confusion.
“I don’t know. It doesn’t matter, okay? I’m tired, and I think you should sleep alone tonight.”
“But I didn’t.” His grip tightens around my wrist. “I didn’t sleep with anyone. Some girl spilled her drink on me and tried dragging me to the dance floor, but I left and came straight home because I missed you so much.”
The perfume. That’s why he smells like flowers and sugar.
“Okay.”
“So why’d you ask?” He’s studying my face like he’s trying to solve a puzzle. “You don’t care who I hook up with.”
Because I do care. It kills me every single time he does this. Watching him go out and come back smelling like someone else makes me want to claw my own skin off, and I can’t keep pretending it doesn’t destroy me.
“I’m just tired.”
“That’s bullshit. You’re mad at me, and you’ve been mad since I got home.”
“I’m not mad.”
“Then what?” He’s swaying slightly, but his eyes won’t leave my face. “Talk to me, Danya. What did I do?”
Nothing... You exist, and I’m in love with you, and you’ll never see me the way I see you.
“You didn’t do anything.” I try to pull my wrist free, but he holds on.
“You can’t leave until you tell me what’s wrong.”
“Nothing’s wrong.”
“You’re lying.” He steps closer, crowding into my space. “I know when you’re lying. You do this thing where you won’t look at me, and your voice goes flat, and you’re doing it right now.”
“I just need space tonight, okay? That’s all.”
“Space?”
I don’t answer him.
If I get in that bed with him right now, with her perfume still clinging to him, when he’s high and needy, and he puts his hands on me like he always does, I’m going to lose my mind.
I can’t keep doing this. He uses me for comfort and affection after he’s been with girls who actually stand a chance with him, while I never will.
I’m his brother. This crush is pathetic and wrong and fucked up on every level.
My brain is so twisted that I try to ruin every single hookup he tries to have out of pure selfishness because I can’t stand watching him with someone else, even though I have no claim to him at all.
I’m the reason he’s still single. I sabotage everything, demand his attention at the worst moments, pull him away from girls until they get tired of competing with me and leave.
I do it on purpose so I can keep him to myself. It’s sick. I’m sick.
He lets go this time, confusion written all over his face. “Did something happen?”
“No.”
“Then I don’t get it.” He runs a hand over his buzzcut, frustrated. “You’re being weird, and you won’t tell me why, and I don’t understand what I did wrong.”
“You didn’t do anything wrong. That’s the problem.”
“What does that even mean?”
Shaking my head, I turn toward the door. “Go to sleep, Mikhail.”
“Danya, wait—”
“We can talk tomorrow when you’re sober.”
“Why won’t you just tell me what’s wrong?”
Because you won’t remember this conversation in the morning anyway...
I walk out before he can grab me again, closing the door behind me. His voice follows me down the hallway, frustrated and confused. I don’t answer. Just head into my room and close the door behind me, sinking onto my bed and pulling the blanket over myself.
I feel like the most selfish person on this planet. He didn’t do anything wrong. He went out, had fun, came home. That’s it. And here I am acting like he committed some crime by existing near other people.
I need to pull away this time, do it for real instead of telling myself I will and then caving the second he needs me. He can sleep with whoever he wants. I know that. I have no claim on him, no right to feel this way about any of it.
Rolling onto my side, I stare at the wall.
Maybe I should hook up with someone, go out next weekend and find some guy at a bar, get it over with.
I’m twenty-three, and the only kiss I’ve ever had was from someone who was just being kind, completely clueless about what it did to me.
And I’ve spent years pining after him because of it.
He didn’t sleep with anyone tonight. That doesn’t change the fact that he will eventually, probably next week or the week after that, or the fact that he’ll come home and curl up with me after, seeking comfort from the one person who can’t give it to him without bleeding out in the process.
I need distance. Real distance this time, not the fake kind where I tell myself I’m pulling away and then end up in his bed three hours later because he had a bad day or couldn’t sleep or just wanted me there. I need to stop doing this to myself before it kills me.
Pressing my face into the pillow, I try to ignore the ache in my heart that won’t go away.
Staring down at my laptop, I try to focus on the code in front of me, but the numbers and lines blur together until they’re incomprehensible. “Entombed” by Deftones blasts through my AirPods, and I sigh, rubbing my face with both palms.