6. Mikhail #2
I can’t stay here and stare at his closed door like some pathetic asshole waiting for him to come back out.
I need to go out, to do something to distract myself from this feeling that my entire world is ending over something I don’t even understand.
Pulling on my old black Converse, I head for the elevator.
My hands are shaking slightly, and I curl them into fists, pressing the button harder than necessary.
All the drugs in my system make everything blur and tilt as I try to jam the key into the lock, but my hands won’t cooperate.
I stumble forward, and my face smashes into the door hard enough to rattle my teeth.
The key slips from my fingers and hits the floor with a sharp clank that echoes too loudly in my ears.
“Blyat,” I slur.
I don’t know how I got home. Everything between the club and standing here is just gone, a black hole where memory should be. All I know is I need to get inside, need to collapse into bed and disappear for a few hours.
I reach for the doorframe to steady myself and try to crouch down for the key without falling over, but I’m too far gone. My legs give out completely, and I crash forward, my face connecting with the door again.
Pain explodes across my cheekbone, but I can barely feel it through the haze. I can’t get back up. My body won’t listen anymore. I slide down onto my ass and slump against the door, the hallway spinning so violently I might throw up.
My face throbs where it hit, and when I swipe under my nose, my hand comes away streaked with blood. Great. Perfect.
My head falls back against the door, and I close my eyes, but that makes it worse. Everything spins harder, the floor shifting under me until I’m not sure which way is up anymore. Laughter bursts out of me. The sound comes out broken and wrong, but I can’t stop once it starts.
The door opens suddenly behind me, and I fall backward, my head hitting someone’s legs.
“Shit,” I mumble, blinking up at the ceiling. Or maybe that’s Daniil’s face. Hard to tell when everything’s spinning.
He’s looking down at me, hair messy from sleep, wearing gray sweatpants and my white t-shirt. I definitely woke him up.
“Can you stand?”
I try to answer, but the words won’t come out right. My mouth feels disconnected from my brain.
“What did you take?”
“Don’t remember.” I try to push myself up, but my arms shake and give out.
“Let’s get you cleaned up.”
He pulls me toward the bathroom, and everything goes black for a second. When I come back to myself, he’s already working my shirt over my head and helping me step out of my jeans, his movements careful and gentle. Steam pours from the shower he must have started.
Looking down at my boxers, I decide they need to go too.
I shove them down and stumble forward, nearly cracking my skull on the tile.
He lunges into the shower after me without hesitating, still fully dressed, and water soaks through his sweatpants and t-shirt in seconds.
His hands find my shoulders and steady me before I can fall again.
The water hits me, and suddenly I’m laughing, high and breathless. “You’re getting soaked.”
“Yeah, well, someone has to make sure you don’t die in here.”
I grab onto him because he’s the only thing that feels real right now.
Everything else is spinning and disconnected, but he’s solid, here, keeping me upright.
The water pounds down on us, and I can’t stop laughing even though nothing’s funny.
It’s the drugs, has to be, but I can’t get myself under control.
“Mik,” he says, bringing one hand up to steady my face. “Look at me.”
Blinking at him, I try to focus. His face is too close, water running down his cheeks, plastering his hair to his forehead.
“You’re okay. I’ve got you.”
Except I’m not okay and suddenly the laughter chokes off into something else entirely. My throat tightens, and I can’t breathe right, can’t get enough air. The crash hits hard and sudden, everything I’ve been running from slamming into me all at once.
“Shit,” I choke out, my voice breaking. “Danya, I can’t—”
“I know.” His arms wrap around me, and I hold on tighter, like he’s the only thing keeping me from drowning. My legs shake, and he takes my weight without complaint, holding me upright under the spray.
“Ty nuzhen mne,” I manage to get out. I need you. “I need you so much, and I don’t know what to do with it.”
His hand slides up to the back of my head, holding me closer. “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
The sobs come out of nowhere, tearing through me. I bury my face against his neck and fall apart completely while he holds on tight, his hands moving over my back in slow circles.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs against my temple. “Always.”
When the worst of it passes, he reaches for soap and washes me without saying anything, his movements gentle and thorough. He’s not making this harder than it already is, just taking care of me when I can’t do it myself.
He helps me out of the shower and wraps a towel around my waist, then guides me toward my bedroom, and the second we get there, the light makes me squint. Must be morning already because sunlight streams through the windows.
“Lie down. I’ll close the blinds.”
I collapse onto the bed, and he pulls the covers over me, tucking them around my shoulders. His hand brushes through my buzzed hair once before he pulls away.
“Stay,” I mumble, already half gone. “Please.”
The bed dips as he climbs in next to me, and I reach for him, pulling him closer until I can feel him breathing. Then everything fades to black.