7. Daniil
Daniil
Operation Avoid Mikhail is back at day zero. Every therapist we’ll never see would have a field day with us. We’re each other’s drug. The high, the crash, the withdrawal, the whole fucking cycle. I’m an addict, and he’s my fix, and I can’t seem to quit no matter how hard I try.
He’s been crashed in his bed since yesterday, sleeping off whatever he took.
His bedroom is huge and chaotic. Pictures of us cover every wall, memories taped and thumbtacked everywhere.
I bought him that camera thinking he’d never use it, but he brings it everywhere now.
Road trip through Russia when we turned twenty.
The beach we always go to in the summer.
That cheap motel where the sink broke and flooded the bathroom and he somehow blamed me.
My jaw clenches. What did he take to end up this destroyed?
I know he’s an addict. Benzos are what he’s hooked on, but when it gets bad enough, he’ll take whatever’s available. Coke, molly—he’s not picky when he’s desperate. It’s not about getting high, it’s about silencing the noise in his head that never stops.
My fingers slide down to his neck where Верность в молчании is inked in Russian across his throat. The family motto. We all have it tattooed somewhere on our bodies, and mine’s over my heart. It means true loyalty doesn’t need words. My thumb drags slowly over the letters.
More ink covers his arms and torso now than it did even a year ago. Russian script curls around his left hand with chains wrapping around it on either side, and my favorite flower sits on his shoulder.
There’s a bird on the side of his ribs, the one we spotted when we were kids and both insisted was a dragon.
Turned out it was a cardinal with bright red wings that caught the light.
He got the bird tattooed to remember it, then added a dragon under the flower.
Roman numerals are tattooed on his fingers for the day we found our tree in the woods, and a butterfly sits on his other shoulder from the one we saw as kids, the one that made me say my second word ever.
He’s covered in scars too. Most of them from being reckless, doing stupid things without thinking it through first. Half of them from trying to copy those stunts he watched online, hurting himself because he thought it was entertaining.
I shouldn’t have pushed him away like this. It obviously resulted in whatever mess this has become, and it’s my fault. I’ve been a massive asshole to him for no reason except that I can’t handle my own feelings.
He opens one eye, then grabs my hand and brings it up to his face, holding it there against his cheek. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.”
He gives me this look that says he doesn’t quite believe me, but he’s too worn out to argue. I sigh and shift closer. “I can go grab you some food, then we can smoke and just cuddle. Maybe put something on TV?”
He blinks in surprise. “You would do that?”
“Yeah,” I say, biting my lip. Fuck, he’s so hot even like this.
I want to lick up his neck and bite his earlobes, taste those stupidly perfect pink lips.
He even has perfect teeth, which feels unfair.
Like the universe decided to make him completely irresistible just to torture me specifically. Goddamnit.
He nods slowly, then pushes himself up to sit, and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Fuck, my head. I’m going to shower first, and then we can meet in your bedroom.”
Here we go again… Operation Avoid Mikhail is officially dead. Not back at day zero, just over. I fucking give up. All that effort, all that careful distance I tried to maintain, and one night of him showing up wrecked was all it took for me to cave completely.
I’ve been missing him the entire time anyway, and every single day without him felt wrong. I’m such a hopeless idiot, it’s embarrassing.
Dragging myself up, I head to the kitchen. The fridge is better stocked than usual, probably because our mother came by and filled it while we weren’t paying attention.
She does that sometimes, shows up unannounced and leaves behind containers of food and fresh groceries like she’s worried we’ll starve without her intervention.
I lay everything out on the counter before starting to build sandwiches the way he likes them.
Extra tomatoes and no onions because he hates onions.
Giving in so easily wasn’t the plan. The whole point was to create distance, to protect myself from this constant ache of wanting something I can’t have. But he looked so miserable and hungover and confused, and leaving him like that wasn’t an option.
The container where we keep the joints sits on the counter, the one Mikhail pre-rolls because he’s better at it than me. I check them and make sure they’re packed right before placing them on the plates next to the food. Then I make my way into my room.
Leaning back against the headboard, I bring the joint to my lips and light it, inhaling deeply. The smoke curls up into the air, and the room fills with that earthy weed smell.
Mikhail walks in wrapped in just a towel, water still dripping off him onto the floor. I have to take the deepest breath I can manage when his eight-pack flexes, the defined ridges of muscle shifting under his skin.
He’s holding boxers and gray sweatpants in one hand, and I want to throw the sweatpants out the window. Those things should be banned because they don’t hide anything, and Mikhail is totally oblivious to what they show. I’m going to have to pretend I’m not looking. Again.
He lets the towel drop without warning.
Oh my god, he’s trying to kill me. A strangled sound escapes my throat, and I force my eyes to the ceiling.
His muscular frame is right there in my peripheral vision, muscles flexing as he pulls on his boxers and then the sweatpants, and I take another hit from the joint just to have something to focus on that isn’t him half-naked in my room.
He launches himself onto the bed hard enough to make the frame creak.
“You can never sit or lay down like a normal person,” I say, raising an eyebrow at him.
He hums in response and reaches over to grab the joint out of my hand, bringing it to his lips and inhaling with his eyes half-closed.
My body sinks deeper into the mattress, and I glance over at him. He’s still wet from the shower, with droplets of water running down his neck to his bare chest.
He cups my chin without warning, turning my face toward him, and brings the joint to my lips.
I inhale deeply and let the smoke curl into my lungs before exhaling slowly into the air between us.
He smirks and tightens his grip on my chin, guiding the joint back to my mouth for another hit.
His thumb brushes against my jaw, and my heart stutters.
He finally lets go and takes another drag himself before closing his eyes and rubbing his forehead. He looks exhausted, still wrecked from whatever cocktail of drugs he took last night.
“Can I ask you something?” he asks.
I look at him. “Sure.”
“Have you ever fucked someone?” He shifts to look at me properly, eyes searching my face.
I blink. The flush spreads up my neck fast, heating my cheeks.
“Uh, what?”
“Have you ever had sex? Or kissed anyone? I mean, I’ve never really thought about you wanting those things. Have you kissed anyone besides me? Besides that night on the roof when we were teenagers.”
My lips pull together tightly.
That night. The kiss that made me realize I was in love with him. The memory hits me all at once, vivid and painful and exactly as intense as it was eight years ago. Pushing it away, I bite my lips and shake my head.
“No.”
He takes another hit of the joint, the end glowing orange in the dim light, and glances over at me. “But you want to? Fuck someone, I mean.”
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
I don’t know how to explain that I’ve never wanted anyone except him.
He goes quiet for a moment, processing this, then looks over at me and puts out his arm. I hesitate for just a second before curling into him, letting him pull me close and wrap his arms around me. He reaches for another joint and lights it up, the smoke curling lazily toward the ceiling.
He glances down at me, and my eyes find his blue ones. His golden family pendant dangles down and touches my identical one, the metal warm against my skin. Butterflies erupt in my stomach at the contact, at how close we are, at how natural this feels.
This is so messed up. Neither of us has friends outside of each other. We’re trapped in this loop where I try to step back, and he doesn’t just follow, he runs after me. Always chasing, always pulling me back in. I tell myself I’m protecting him by creating distance, but he won’t let me.
“I could help you find some girl if you want,” he says, and the words sound forced even to my ears. “Set you up with someone.”
I freeze, eyes closing against the wave of nausea that hits me. If I were to be with anyone, it would be a man. It just doesn’t feel right to me to be with a woman. I’d want someone big and strong, someone who could pin me down and make me feel small in a good way.
“Oh,” he suddenly says.
Opening my eyes, I look at him in confusion. His expression has shifted into something I can’t read, eyebrows pulled together like he’s putting pieces together.
“That’s what they meant,” he says quietly, more to himself than to me.
“What are you talking about?”
“Do you like men?” The question comes out blunt, and his eyes lock onto mine, waiting for an answer.
My eyes go wide, and I try to pull away, but he grabs my arms, holding me in place. His grip is firm, enough to keep me from running.
Oh fuck.
“Um.” I can’t get the words to form properly. My tongue feels clumsy and useless. “I think so.”
He opens his mouth and closes it again, processing. Then he rolls onto his side to face me fully, still holding onto my arms. “You know I wouldn’t care about that, right? I stood up for Alexei when he came out. We all did. Father can go fuck himself with his outdated bullshit rules.”