Tumbling Down: Angst, PG, Parts 7-9
Part Seven
The trip to the neurologist’s went well. They did an MRI and there wasn’t any swelling, or bruising, or anything horribly wrong with Nikolai’s head aside from the fact he couldn’t remember things. The doctor reassured me that he would regain his memory in time, though he might never remember the events just before the crash-which was perfectly fine with me. I didn’t care if he could recall the crash or not.
Just so long as he remembered me.
I was encouraged to let Nik explore his past through pictures and video and writing, so when we got home I pointed him in the direction of the photo albums on the shelf in our-my-bedroom, and let him browse at his leisure while I caught up on the various happenings in the hockey world, of which I had become so detached from in the previous months. Occasionally he would raise a photo and ask a question about it-who’s this person, where is this, what in the world are you wearing-but mostly he just sat on the floor surrounded by albums, slowly browsing through them. I would glance up at times and catch him smiling, or frowning, and sometimes he would stare at a picture for a few minutes as he tried to remember it; some he would successfully recall, while others eventually were put back to be returned to at some other time.
I was just reading up on Peter Forsberg’s latest injury-oh, he’s going to be out for another four months? Well, isn’t that a darned shame…-when a soft gasp interrupted my thoughts. I glanced up to see what was wrong.
And jerked to my feet.
One of those photo albums. The ones Nik and I put all our pictures of the two of us in, so that we could have people over at our respective apartments without having to hide or explain our relationship.
Pictures from our first date were in those albums. A strip of images from those booths where you paid five bucks and got four pictures; it had been at a movie theater, and we were making the most absurd faces in them. There were also pictures from Chimmer’s postponed wedding party-the whole team had shown up in tuxes for the grand affair. We hadn’t been allowed at the real party, so he’d made up for it later during the summer, and we’d all brought our presents then. We’d drunk champagne and toasted to his health and that of his wife, and there was a photo with me and Nikky standing close, him in black and I in white, our hands clasped together. The one on the page opposite it was of us dancing: Nik’s arms were wrapped around my neck, I was looking over my shoulder at the camera and he was flipping the photographer off with a grin. Those photo albums held our lives.
One of those photo albums was currently open in Nikolai’s lap.
It was on a page dated “April ‘06”. There was a blown-up, 8x10 print of him and I sprawled on the couch in the Jackets lounge together, both of us out cold. We had both been injured, then; his ankle in a game versus Chicago, my hands from a batch of faulty sticks the idiots at Warrior had sent me. We were both bandaged and bruised, and his head was resting on my chest, my gauze-wrapped hand at the small of his back. Rick had taken the picture; and I had stolen the negatives in case he ever tried to use it as blackmail.
But that was all of it at the back of my mind, my gut clenching as I searched Nikolai’s face for his reaction.
Don’t walk out on me. Please, don’t walk out on me. Don’t run away from this. I’ll take care of you, I’ll support you, I’ll never touch you ever again-please, just don’t walk away.
But the look in his eyes as he raised them to meet my gaze wasn’t horrified, or shocked. There was a certain startled curiosity there, which was so different from the horrible reactions I had envisioned that my shoulders slumped in relief. Nik tapped the picture, looking over at me cautiously.
“We-we are…together?”
I opened my mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. Realized I looked like a fool and left my desk, going to sit on the floor near him. Nodded wordlessly.
Nik returned his gaze to the photo. His thumb brushed absently against the plastic encasing it, rubbing across where my hand rested on his back.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked softly. “We look-we look…”
Happy.
We were so fucking happy…
“I didn’t want to rush you,” I replied. I dropped my gaze, staring at my hands in my lap, which I had been unconsciously twisting together. “You don’t remember anything…I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable by suddenly telling you that you were-involved, with a guy.”
“I remember some things,” Nik said, his tone matter-of-fact. “I know I like guys-or at least, both guys and girls. I think I’ve been like that since I was little. I can remember bits and pieces of being a kid, but nothing concrete... Just feelings, and ideas.”
I looked up. Nik was watching me, a hesitant smile on his lips. I let out a slow breath.
“So you’re…okay with it?”
He shrugged one shoulder. “I think so. I don’t-I don’t know you; I’m sorry. It’s a little weird…there are these pictures, and I can’t remember them…”
I nodded understandingly. “That’s alright. I don’t expect you to remember everything all at once. The doctor said earlier memories will probably return first. Please don’t feel like I’m rushing you, Nikky.”
The side of his mouth quirked up in a grin. He looked at me from beneath lowered lashes, suddenly shy.
“Nikky,” he repeated. “That’s the first time you’ve called me that.”
I sat back, chagrined. “Oh…sorry.”
“No,” he exclaimed. “Don’t be. It-it feels right. Coming from you.”
“…oh.”
Nikolai laughed at the dumbfounded expression on my face and stood up, joints popping as he stretched. I got up as well, watching him. He caught my expression and stilled, meeting my gaze.
“I know how hard this must be for you,” he said softly; sadly. “You’re looking for someone that isn’t here; someone you know and love. I’m sorry I’m not him. I’ll try to remember for you.”
He walked toward me and I could only stand, frozen, as he pressed a soft kiss against my cheek. As he left I turned to watch him go, only able to stare as he disappeared into the guest room.
I raised shaking fingers to my cheek, tears welling in my eyes. Memories of what had been, of what we once were, assaulted me from the pictures spread across the floor; from the lingering feel of his lips against my skin. I ached so badly to return to that. I wanted to go to sleep tonight and wake up tomorrow and have it all be some horrible dream.
I wanted my Nikolai back. He was right in front of me, but I couldn’t touch him, and getting him back would be neither easy nor painless.
“You’re still you, Nikky,” I whispered to the empty room. It was cold without his presence, but I felt a distant warmth in my chest that belied the wetness on my cheeks. Slowly, I closed my eyes.
“And I still love you.”
--
Part Eight
“Ron Hainsey. Defense.”
“Yes.”
“David, Vyborny. Right wing. Kind of quiet, but intense. Nice guy.”
“Yep.”
“Adam. Defenseman. Captain, though he wasn’t before-that was someone else…”
“Yes. Luke Richardson was captain before Adam was. This next one?”
“Ah-erm…”
“Eh, Jan Hrdina. He’s a forward, not that you could ever tell. We’ll let that one pass.”
Nik and I were sitting on my bed, facing each other. I had a box of hockey cards in my lap and a deck of Blue Jackets players in my hand. I would hold up the card, covering the name, and he would try and tell me who they were, what their position was, along with any tidbits of information that might happen to pop into his head.
The exercise really illuminated how erratic his memory recovery was. The day before he had suddenly come to me, excited, telling me all sorts of things about hockey that he remembered-twenty men to a team, two goalies on the roster, blue line, red line; and did I know that he played forward and his number was 13? And yet when I asked him if he could remember the RSL teams, he drew a blank. He could recall some things and completely black out on others, but it was definitely an improvement. When I listed off the teams he nodded eagerly, recognition and excitement shining in his eyes. It was like a kid in a candy store, and I admit I felt a little giddy as well.
My Nikky’s memory was coming back.
So in an effort to jog more recollections, we’d gone over some things; talking about the recent rule changes in the NHL (which he couldn’t remember, but that was a more recent memory and unsurprising he hadn’t regained it yet), the teams, some of his past teammates. I collected cards, so I’d dug them out and sorted out players he should know, and we’d been going over them for about an hour.
I set aside the Jackets cards and pulled out a stack of assorted ones. I held one up.
“Mike Modano, forward, Dallas Stars.”
“Yes.”
“That’s-oh, come on, Sergei, everyone knows who that is…”
“Still,” I insisted. Nik rolled his eyes.
“Steve Yzerman, forward, Red Wings captain.”
I smiled. The next card I pulled out had a familiar face, and Nik reached for my hand, closing his fingers around my own with a gentle smile.
“I don’t need a card for that one,” he said softly. “Sergei Viktorovich Fedorov, forward, Red Wings-now with the Columbus Blue Jackets. Assistant captain. Quiet, gentle; caring. Doesn’t like sushi, and is ticklish in his right side…”
I laughed, and Nikolai grinned at me. I leaned forward impulsively and wrapped my arms around him, hugging him close; warmth spread through my chest as he laughed and returned the gesture. We stayed there for a few moments-too long to be considered merely friendly, yet too short to be an expression of deep affection. When we broke apart Nik was blushing, and I reached out with a soft smile and brushed the hair away from his eyes.
Wordlessly, in quiet companionship, we returned to the cards.
--
Part Nine
Nikolai was restless.
I was sitting on the couch, going through the piles of mail I’d been ignoring over the past two months. Nik was pacing. He would go from room to room, prowling around, sitting still for a few minutes before getting up again. It was distracting at first; but I had shared a room with Slava Kozlov, whose odd habits changed according to some complex algebraic formula that had involved the weather, our proximity to Detroit, and how many vowels were in the last names of the opposing team’s players.
A little pacing was nothing.
Eventually Nik stopped in front of me, fists on his hips. I looked up.
“Nik?”
“I want to leave.”
My heart stopped beating.
“What?” I choked out, voice strangled. He ran his fingers through his hair distractedly.
“I want to go out. Go somewhere. I can’t stand being locked up in here.”
I let out a slow breath. Oh. That.
I had thought you were going to…
“We could go out,” I suggested. “Go around Columbus. I didn’t mean to make you feel smothered, Nikky; I’m sorry.”
Just don’t leave. I’m terrified you’ll leave me, Nikolai.
Nik relaxed, the tenseness in his shoulders loosening. He offered me an apologetic smile.
“No, I am. You don’t smother me, Sergei, not at all; I just feel-cramped, today. I want to go out. I…want you to come with me.”
“Oh,” I said blankly, absurdly pleased. I smiled at him and set aside the mail, standing up. “Well, why didn’t you just say so? I’d love to, Nik.”
He beamed and turned around, limping hastily back to the guest room. I grabbed my wallet and cell phone as he returned with his walking stick in hand. It was simple, elegant; cherrywood with a bit of rubber on the end, and a beautifully detailed silver handle.
I held out my arm in a mock-gentlemanly manner, an impudent grin on my face.
“Shall we go?”
Nikolai laughed and obligingly took hold of my forearm, using the added support to limp steadily out the door. There were newspapers in the lobby and we picked one up, turning to the entertainment section and browsing through the various events going on in Columbus.
As it happened, CAPA was playing Tchaikovsky at the Palace Theater. Nik’s eyes lit at the name, though he admitted he didn’t know why he had such a reaction. I had to explain to him that he was an avid fan-he had all of the Russian composer’s works on CD. It piqued his curiosity, that he would so enjoy this composer he didn’t remember, and he decided firmly that would be our activity for the day.
We managed to get a pair of outrageously overpriced tickets for seats in the lower box, but the view was amazing and the excited light in Nikolai’s eyes was worth the smirking ticket salesman. We weren’t exactly dressed for classical theatre, and got some disapproving looks that were blithely ignored. The curtains went up and the music began, and Nik inhaled a soft gasp of awe.
I never had quite figure out why he liked Tchaikovsky so much, but whenever his works were being performed Nik would drag me to see them-whether we had gone before or not. As I watched him, watched this new Nikolai, his eyes softened and slid half-closed, a small sigh escaping him. It was like he was rediscovering a lover, and I felt a brief twinge of envy for the long-dead composer.
If you regain your memory, Nik, I promise I’ll never complain about coming again. Ever. I’ll hold your hand and I’ll listen to the music and watch the conductor and you won’t have to poke me to keep me awake, I swear.
The orchestra was playing Pathétique, Tchaikovsky’s sixth symphony. It was intense-the name isn’t derived from ‘pathetic,’ but from the Russian word for passion-and, ironically, symbolically represented love between two men and the troubles that they face. This little tidbit-I think Nik had told me it once-rose to my mind and gave me more of an interest in the first movement, and I found myself actually paying attention.
The first three movements had been played and the final just begun when I noticed something was wrong. I looked over to see Nikolai’s arms clenched around himself tightly, a pained expression on his face. Concerned, I leaned in close.
“Nikky, are you alright?”
A small shake of his head was my answer. His eyes were watering, and as the violins soared I reached over, taking gentle hold of his arm. Nik leaned into me as I guided him from our seats and out of the theater, ignoring and not caring about the dirty looks sent our way.
We made it out to the deserted hallway before he collapsed against me. He was shaking, quiet groans escaping through clenched teeth, and I slung one of his arms across my shoulders, wrapping mine around his waist.
“Nikky? Nikky, what’s wrong? Tell me what’s the matter.”
“I…” his voice was a pained whimper, and I had to lean close to hear it. “I…hurts. It hurts. My head…”
I nodded and helped him limp outside, shouting for the valet. He used me as a crutch and I had his walking stick in hand, waiting anxiously for the car to arrive. Nik buried his face in my neck and choked back tears; I rubbed his back soothingly as the car pulled up. The young man who had retrieved it watched in concern as I helped Nikky into the car.
“Is he alright, sir?”
“I don’t know,” I replied helplessly. I glanced up. “Do you happen to have a bottle of water?”
He nodded and raced back to the valet station as I smoothed the hair from Nikolai’s eyes. I planted a quick kiss on his forehead, murmuring softly.
“You’re going to be fine, Nikky. Everything’s going to be alright.”
Nik managed a small smile through teary eyes. His fingers were twined with mine, and he squeezed my hand weakly as the valet returned.
“Here you go, sir.”
I uncapped the water bottle and tilted Nik’s head up, placing it at his lips. He swallowed some of the cool liquid, fingers wrapping around the plastic. When I was sure he had it, I closed the car door and stood up, running my hand through my hair. I pulled out a few bills from my wallet and handed them to the kid-I didn’t care about the nominations, but I think there was a twenty or two in there-and thanked him before racing into the driver’s seat and shifting into gear. Nik was leaning against the window, wan and in pain, and I’m positive I broke all the speed limits in Columbus getting back to the apartment.
We made it to the elevator before his legs gave out. He slumped to his knees, doubled over, tears of pain streaking his cheeks. When we got to my floor I picked him up in my arms and carried him the rest of the way, uncaring of anyone that might see. He curled against my chest, whimpering and moaning as I fumbled with the lock on the door.
I laid Nik carefully on my bed, my heart aching at the pained whimpers he made, and how he almost immediately curled up on his side. I stroked his hair and tried to make him comfortable before leaving for the kitchen, putting on a pot of water to boil and retrieving a rag from the bathroom.
I was absolutely terrified. I didn’t know what was wrong, and Nikolai was in no condition to tell me. The possibility that something might be terribly wrong-a relapse, maybe he had a bruise the doctor hadn’t noticed-shook me to the core. And I didn’t know how to relieve his pain; all I could think of was the way I used to help Igor get rid of his migraines.
Once the water was hot enough, I took the whole pan along with the rag back to my room. Nik was still lying there, prone, and I turned him over gently. His eyes were puffy and red, tears of pain trickling down his cheeks as I dipped the rag in the water.
“Sergei, it hurts,” he whispered. “It hurts-god, it hurts…”
“Shh, it’s okay,” I soothed. I wrapped my arms around him and he curled up in them, flinching as I laid the wet rag across his forehead. The temperature of the water was above the usual level of comfort but below the point of scalding, and I knew it would help to loosen up his tensed muscles. He looked so fragile, so frail; I stroked his neck and shoulders, holding him close to me as he cried. Every so often I would remove the rag, dipping it back in the hot water and replacing it back across his forehead.
After some time Nik fell into an uneasy sleep, cradled in my arms; and I didn’t even try to move. My side cramped from the awkward position and my leg fell asleep with his dead weight atop it; but I wouldn’t have moved even if the world were ending. I was entwined with the one man I would give my soul to keep safe, and in that position I could pretend that everything was back to normal; that everything was alright once more. Eventually Nikolai’s soft, deep breathing lulled me into slumber with him.
I don’t know how long we lay like that; but for the first time in weeks I slept for more than a few hours before being awoken by vivid nightmares and clammy skin. When I awoke this time I was tucked beneath the blankets, stretched out, the bed cold beside me and the apartment deathly silent.
I was alone.
When I realized this fact I tore out of my bedroom and raced to the guest room. My heart was pounding in my chest as I threw open the door, hand clenched on the doorknob. I nearly fell to my knees at the sight.
Nikolai was gone.
A frantic search through the apartment proved fruitless. As a freezing emptiness gripped my chest, I staggered into the living room, leaning against the bookcase. Tears welled in my eyes, and I wrapped my arms around myself as the desperate loneliness hit me.
He had gone.
What had I done?
I slid to the ground, hugging my knees. Clenched my fingers in my hair, choking back a sob.
What did I do? Nikky, what did I do? Please…
The world was spinning, and I knew that there was something wrong other than grief. But I couldn’t see through the blurred vision that tears had brought, anguish and weariness draining my body of energy; sucking my soul of its will.
The apartment door creaked open.
I jerked to my feet: hoping; disbelieving.
Nikolai was standing there with a newspaper in one hand and his walking stick in the other. He blinked at my expression.
In three bounds I was standing in front of him-kneeling in front of him. My arms wrapped around his waist, and I buried my face in his shirt, sobbing uncontrollably.
You came back, you’re still here-!
Concerned hands stroked through my hair, and distantly I knew Nik was asking something, but it barely registered. He was still here, he was alive-he didn’t remember but I didn’t care, so long as he was here.
Hadn’t I told Viktor I would take care of you no matter what? Hadn’t I said I would be content as long as I knew you were safe?
I was wrong. I can’t give you up.
Nik crouched in front of me when I still didn’t reply to his questions. He placed his hands at the small of my back; tugged me forward. I was pulled into his embrace and the gentle touch nearly broke me, and I wept into his shoulder as he murmured soothing words.
“Sergei? Sergei, hey, I’m here, don’t cry…”
The sound of his voice was like a permission of release. I fisted my hands in his shirt, stumbling over my words in an attempt to convey my weakness.
He had to know that I wasn’t strong enough for him.
“I-I thought I had lost you,” I choked out, hiccupping as I tried vainly to catch my breath. “I thought you were gone again, and I love you so much, Nikky; love you so much I think I would die without you. You don’t remember me, you might never remember me-but please, please don’t…please don’t leave.”
Nikolai’s inhaled a sharp breath of air. He tightened his arms around me, and I let myself be cradled in that strong embrace. My fingers curled against his back as I tried desperately to catch hold of him: to grab as much and feel as much as I could before he was gone.
“Oh, Sergei,” he whispered. “Sergei, I remember you. Even if I can’t remember the things we did, all our time spent together, I still feel you. Every time I look at you, I feel peace. Even if I don’t get my memory back-I’ll never leave you. I’ll never leave you.”
I let out a choked sob. Nik leaned back, cupping my tear-streaked face in his hands, and gently pressed his lips to mine. I closed my eyes, melting against him; my body shaking with the torrent of emotions experienced in such a short period of time. My heart ached at his words: a good ache, a dull ache, like the burn of exercised muscles. I felt such relief-such intense relief that I couldn’t even speak, limp and drained in Nikolai’s arms. I rested my chin on his shoulder as he stroked my back, and somehow the world made another tiny tilt toward being righted again.
After a while Nik spoke again, softly, rubbing circles against my spine that stiffened in surprise at his words.
“Sergei, I’ve remembered some things…”
The trip to the neurologist’s went well. They did an MRI and there wasn’t any swelling, or bruising, or anything horribly wrong with Nikolai’s head aside from the fact he couldn’t remember things. The doctor reassured me that he would regain his memory in time, though he might never remember the events just before the crash-which was perfectly fine with me. I didn’t care if he could recall the crash or not.
Just so long as he remembered me.
I was encouraged to let Nik explore his past through pictures and video and writing, so when we got home I pointed him in the direction of the photo albums on the shelf in our-my-bedroom, and let him browse at his leisure while I caught up on the various happenings in the hockey world, of which I had become so detached from in the previous months. Occasionally he would raise a photo and ask a question about it-who’s this person, where is this, what in the world are you wearing-but mostly he just sat on the floor surrounded by albums, slowly browsing through them. I would glance up at times and catch him smiling, or frowning, and sometimes he would stare at a picture for a few minutes as he tried to remember it; some he would successfully recall, while others eventually were put back to be returned to at some other time.
I was just reading up on Peter Forsberg’s latest injury-oh, he’s going to be out for another four months? Well, isn’t that a darned shame…-when a soft gasp interrupted my thoughts. I glanced up to see what was wrong.
And jerked to my feet.
One of those photo albums. The ones Nik and I put all our pictures of the two of us in, so that we could have people over at our respective apartments without having to hide or explain our relationship.
Pictures from our first date were in those albums. A strip of images from those booths where you paid five bucks and got four pictures; it had been at a movie theater, and we were making the most absurd faces in them. There were also pictures from Chimmer’s postponed wedding party-the whole team had shown up in tuxes for the grand affair. We hadn’t been allowed at the real party, so he’d made up for it later during the summer, and we’d all brought our presents then. We’d drunk champagne and toasted to his health and that of his wife, and there was a photo with me and Nikky standing close, him in black and I in white, our hands clasped together. The one on the page opposite it was of us dancing: Nik’s arms were wrapped around my neck, I was looking over my shoulder at the camera and he was flipping the photographer off with a grin. Those photo albums held our lives.
One of those photo albums was currently open in Nikolai’s lap.
It was on a page dated “April ‘06”. There was a blown-up, 8x10 print of him and I sprawled on the couch in the Jackets lounge together, both of us out cold. We had both been injured, then; his ankle in a game versus Chicago, my hands from a batch of faulty sticks the idiots at Warrior had sent me. We were both bandaged and bruised, and his head was resting on my chest, my gauze-wrapped hand at the small of his back. Rick had taken the picture; and I had stolen the negatives in case he ever tried to use it as blackmail.
But that was all of it at the back of my mind, my gut clenching as I searched Nikolai’s face for his reaction.
Don’t walk out on me. Please, don’t walk out on me. Don’t run away from this. I’ll take care of you, I’ll support you, I’ll never touch you ever again-please, just don’t walk away.
But the look in his eyes as he raised them to meet my gaze wasn’t horrified, or shocked. There was a certain startled curiosity there, which was so different from the horrible reactions I had envisioned that my shoulders slumped in relief. Nik tapped the picture, looking over at me cautiously.
“We-we are…together?”
I opened my mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. Realized I looked like a fool and left my desk, going to sit on the floor near him. Nodded wordlessly.
Nik returned his gaze to the photo. His thumb brushed absently against the plastic encasing it, rubbing across where my hand rested on his back.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked softly. “We look-we look…”
Happy.
We were so fucking happy…
“I didn’t want to rush you,” I replied. I dropped my gaze, staring at my hands in my lap, which I had been unconsciously twisting together. “You don’t remember anything…I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable by suddenly telling you that you were-involved, with a guy.”
“I remember some things,” Nik said, his tone matter-of-fact. “I know I like guys-or at least, both guys and girls. I think I’ve been like that since I was little. I can remember bits and pieces of being a kid, but nothing concrete... Just feelings, and ideas.”
I looked up. Nik was watching me, a hesitant smile on his lips. I let out a slow breath.
“So you’re…okay with it?”
He shrugged one shoulder. “I think so. I don’t-I don’t know you; I’m sorry. It’s a little weird…there are these pictures, and I can’t remember them…”
I nodded understandingly. “That’s alright. I don’t expect you to remember everything all at once. The doctor said earlier memories will probably return first. Please don’t feel like I’m rushing you, Nikky.”
The side of his mouth quirked up in a grin. He looked at me from beneath lowered lashes, suddenly shy.
“Nikky,” he repeated. “That’s the first time you’ve called me that.”
I sat back, chagrined. “Oh…sorry.”
“No,” he exclaimed. “Don’t be. It-it feels right. Coming from you.”
“…oh.”
Nikolai laughed at the dumbfounded expression on my face and stood up, joints popping as he stretched. I got up as well, watching him. He caught my expression and stilled, meeting my gaze.
“I know how hard this must be for you,” he said softly; sadly. “You’re looking for someone that isn’t here; someone you know and love. I’m sorry I’m not him. I’ll try to remember for you.”
He walked toward me and I could only stand, frozen, as he pressed a soft kiss against my cheek. As he left I turned to watch him go, only able to stare as he disappeared into the guest room.
I raised shaking fingers to my cheek, tears welling in my eyes. Memories of what had been, of what we once were, assaulted me from the pictures spread across the floor; from the lingering feel of his lips against my skin. I ached so badly to return to that. I wanted to go to sleep tonight and wake up tomorrow and have it all be some horrible dream.
I wanted my Nikolai back. He was right in front of me, but I couldn’t touch him, and getting him back would be neither easy nor painless.
“You’re still you, Nikky,” I whispered to the empty room. It was cold without his presence, but I felt a distant warmth in my chest that belied the wetness on my cheeks. Slowly, I closed my eyes.
“And I still love you.”
--
Part Eight
“Ron Hainsey. Defense.”
“Yes.”
“David, Vyborny. Right wing. Kind of quiet, but intense. Nice guy.”
“Yep.”
“Adam. Defenseman. Captain, though he wasn’t before-that was someone else…”
“Yes. Luke Richardson was captain before Adam was. This next one?”
“Ah-erm…”
“Eh, Jan Hrdina. He’s a forward, not that you could ever tell. We’ll let that one pass.”
Nik and I were sitting on my bed, facing each other. I had a box of hockey cards in my lap and a deck of Blue Jackets players in my hand. I would hold up the card, covering the name, and he would try and tell me who they were, what their position was, along with any tidbits of information that might happen to pop into his head.
The exercise really illuminated how erratic his memory recovery was. The day before he had suddenly come to me, excited, telling me all sorts of things about hockey that he remembered-twenty men to a team, two goalies on the roster, blue line, red line; and did I know that he played forward and his number was 13? And yet when I asked him if he could remember the RSL teams, he drew a blank. He could recall some things and completely black out on others, but it was definitely an improvement. When I listed off the teams he nodded eagerly, recognition and excitement shining in his eyes. It was like a kid in a candy store, and I admit I felt a little giddy as well.
My Nikky’s memory was coming back.
So in an effort to jog more recollections, we’d gone over some things; talking about the recent rule changes in the NHL (which he couldn’t remember, but that was a more recent memory and unsurprising he hadn’t regained it yet), the teams, some of his past teammates. I collected cards, so I’d dug them out and sorted out players he should know, and we’d been going over them for about an hour.
I set aside the Jackets cards and pulled out a stack of assorted ones. I held one up.
“Mike Modano, forward, Dallas Stars.”
“Yes.”
“That’s-oh, come on, Sergei, everyone knows who that is…”
“Still,” I insisted. Nik rolled his eyes.
“Steve Yzerman, forward, Red Wings captain.”
I smiled. The next card I pulled out had a familiar face, and Nik reached for my hand, closing his fingers around my own with a gentle smile.
“I don’t need a card for that one,” he said softly. “Sergei Viktorovich Fedorov, forward, Red Wings-now with the Columbus Blue Jackets. Assistant captain. Quiet, gentle; caring. Doesn’t like sushi, and is ticklish in his right side…”
I laughed, and Nikolai grinned at me. I leaned forward impulsively and wrapped my arms around him, hugging him close; warmth spread through my chest as he laughed and returned the gesture. We stayed there for a few moments-too long to be considered merely friendly, yet too short to be an expression of deep affection. When we broke apart Nik was blushing, and I reached out with a soft smile and brushed the hair away from his eyes.
Wordlessly, in quiet companionship, we returned to the cards.
--
Part Nine
Nikolai was restless.
I was sitting on the couch, going through the piles of mail I’d been ignoring over the past two months. Nik was pacing. He would go from room to room, prowling around, sitting still for a few minutes before getting up again. It was distracting at first; but I had shared a room with Slava Kozlov, whose odd habits changed according to some complex algebraic formula that had involved the weather, our proximity to Detroit, and how many vowels were in the last names of the opposing team’s players.
A little pacing was nothing.
Eventually Nik stopped in front of me, fists on his hips. I looked up.
“Nik?”
“I want to leave.”
My heart stopped beating.
“What?” I choked out, voice strangled. He ran his fingers through his hair distractedly.
“I want to go out. Go somewhere. I can’t stand being locked up in here.”
I let out a slow breath. Oh. That.
I had thought you were going to…
“We could go out,” I suggested. “Go around Columbus. I didn’t mean to make you feel smothered, Nikky; I’m sorry.”
Just don’t leave. I’m terrified you’ll leave me, Nikolai.
Nik relaxed, the tenseness in his shoulders loosening. He offered me an apologetic smile.
“No, I am. You don’t smother me, Sergei, not at all; I just feel-cramped, today. I want to go out. I…want you to come with me.”
“Oh,” I said blankly, absurdly pleased. I smiled at him and set aside the mail, standing up. “Well, why didn’t you just say so? I’d love to, Nik.”
He beamed and turned around, limping hastily back to the guest room. I grabbed my wallet and cell phone as he returned with his walking stick in hand. It was simple, elegant; cherrywood with a bit of rubber on the end, and a beautifully detailed silver handle.
I held out my arm in a mock-gentlemanly manner, an impudent grin on my face.
“Shall we go?”
Nikolai laughed and obligingly took hold of my forearm, using the added support to limp steadily out the door. There were newspapers in the lobby and we picked one up, turning to the entertainment section and browsing through the various events going on in Columbus.
As it happened, CAPA was playing Tchaikovsky at the Palace Theater. Nik’s eyes lit at the name, though he admitted he didn’t know why he had such a reaction. I had to explain to him that he was an avid fan-he had all of the Russian composer’s works on CD. It piqued his curiosity, that he would so enjoy this composer he didn’t remember, and he decided firmly that would be our activity for the day.
We managed to get a pair of outrageously overpriced tickets for seats in the lower box, but the view was amazing and the excited light in Nikolai’s eyes was worth the smirking ticket salesman. We weren’t exactly dressed for classical theatre, and got some disapproving looks that were blithely ignored. The curtains went up and the music began, and Nik inhaled a soft gasp of awe.
I never had quite figure out why he liked Tchaikovsky so much, but whenever his works were being performed Nik would drag me to see them-whether we had gone before or not. As I watched him, watched this new Nikolai, his eyes softened and slid half-closed, a small sigh escaping him. It was like he was rediscovering a lover, and I felt a brief twinge of envy for the long-dead composer.
If you regain your memory, Nik, I promise I’ll never complain about coming again. Ever. I’ll hold your hand and I’ll listen to the music and watch the conductor and you won’t have to poke me to keep me awake, I swear.
The orchestra was playing Pathétique, Tchaikovsky’s sixth symphony. It was intense-the name isn’t derived from ‘pathetic,’ but from the Russian word for passion-and, ironically, symbolically represented love between two men and the troubles that they face. This little tidbit-I think Nik had told me it once-rose to my mind and gave me more of an interest in the first movement, and I found myself actually paying attention.
The first three movements had been played and the final just begun when I noticed something was wrong. I looked over to see Nikolai’s arms clenched around himself tightly, a pained expression on his face. Concerned, I leaned in close.
“Nikky, are you alright?”
A small shake of his head was my answer. His eyes were watering, and as the violins soared I reached over, taking gentle hold of his arm. Nik leaned into me as I guided him from our seats and out of the theater, ignoring and not caring about the dirty looks sent our way.
We made it out to the deserted hallway before he collapsed against me. He was shaking, quiet groans escaping through clenched teeth, and I slung one of his arms across my shoulders, wrapping mine around his waist.
“Nikky? Nikky, what’s wrong? Tell me what’s the matter.”
“I…” his voice was a pained whimper, and I had to lean close to hear it. “I…hurts. It hurts. My head…”
I nodded and helped him limp outside, shouting for the valet. He used me as a crutch and I had his walking stick in hand, waiting anxiously for the car to arrive. Nik buried his face in my neck and choked back tears; I rubbed his back soothingly as the car pulled up. The young man who had retrieved it watched in concern as I helped Nikky into the car.
“Is he alright, sir?”
“I don’t know,” I replied helplessly. I glanced up. “Do you happen to have a bottle of water?”
He nodded and raced back to the valet station as I smoothed the hair from Nikolai’s eyes. I planted a quick kiss on his forehead, murmuring softly.
“You’re going to be fine, Nikky. Everything’s going to be alright.”
Nik managed a small smile through teary eyes. His fingers were twined with mine, and he squeezed my hand weakly as the valet returned.
“Here you go, sir.”
I uncapped the water bottle and tilted Nik’s head up, placing it at his lips. He swallowed some of the cool liquid, fingers wrapping around the plastic. When I was sure he had it, I closed the car door and stood up, running my hand through my hair. I pulled out a few bills from my wallet and handed them to the kid-I didn’t care about the nominations, but I think there was a twenty or two in there-and thanked him before racing into the driver’s seat and shifting into gear. Nik was leaning against the window, wan and in pain, and I’m positive I broke all the speed limits in Columbus getting back to the apartment.
We made it to the elevator before his legs gave out. He slumped to his knees, doubled over, tears of pain streaking his cheeks. When we got to my floor I picked him up in my arms and carried him the rest of the way, uncaring of anyone that might see. He curled against my chest, whimpering and moaning as I fumbled with the lock on the door.
I laid Nik carefully on my bed, my heart aching at the pained whimpers he made, and how he almost immediately curled up on his side. I stroked his hair and tried to make him comfortable before leaving for the kitchen, putting on a pot of water to boil and retrieving a rag from the bathroom.
I was absolutely terrified. I didn’t know what was wrong, and Nikolai was in no condition to tell me. The possibility that something might be terribly wrong-a relapse, maybe he had a bruise the doctor hadn’t noticed-shook me to the core. And I didn’t know how to relieve his pain; all I could think of was the way I used to help Igor get rid of his migraines.
Once the water was hot enough, I took the whole pan along with the rag back to my room. Nik was still lying there, prone, and I turned him over gently. His eyes were puffy and red, tears of pain trickling down his cheeks as I dipped the rag in the water.
“Sergei, it hurts,” he whispered. “It hurts-god, it hurts…”
“Shh, it’s okay,” I soothed. I wrapped my arms around him and he curled up in them, flinching as I laid the wet rag across his forehead. The temperature of the water was above the usual level of comfort but below the point of scalding, and I knew it would help to loosen up his tensed muscles. He looked so fragile, so frail; I stroked his neck and shoulders, holding him close to me as he cried. Every so often I would remove the rag, dipping it back in the hot water and replacing it back across his forehead.
After some time Nik fell into an uneasy sleep, cradled in my arms; and I didn’t even try to move. My side cramped from the awkward position and my leg fell asleep with his dead weight atop it; but I wouldn’t have moved even if the world were ending. I was entwined with the one man I would give my soul to keep safe, and in that position I could pretend that everything was back to normal; that everything was alright once more. Eventually Nikolai’s soft, deep breathing lulled me into slumber with him.
I don’t know how long we lay like that; but for the first time in weeks I slept for more than a few hours before being awoken by vivid nightmares and clammy skin. When I awoke this time I was tucked beneath the blankets, stretched out, the bed cold beside me and the apartment deathly silent.
I was alone.
When I realized this fact I tore out of my bedroom and raced to the guest room. My heart was pounding in my chest as I threw open the door, hand clenched on the doorknob. I nearly fell to my knees at the sight.
Nikolai was gone.
A frantic search through the apartment proved fruitless. As a freezing emptiness gripped my chest, I staggered into the living room, leaning against the bookcase. Tears welled in my eyes, and I wrapped my arms around myself as the desperate loneliness hit me.
He had gone.
What had I done?
I slid to the ground, hugging my knees. Clenched my fingers in my hair, choking back a sob.
What did I do? Nikky, what did I do? Please…
The world was spinning, and I knew that there was something wrong other than grief. But I couldn’t see through the blurred vision that tears had brought, anguish and weariness draining my body of energy; sucking my soul of its will.
The apartment door creaked open.
I jerked to my feet: hoping; disbelieving.
Nikolai was standing there with a newspaper in one hand and his walking stick in the other. He blinked at my expression.
In three bounds I was standing in front of him-kneeling in front of him. My arms wrapped around his waist, and I buried my face in his shirt, sobbing uncontrollably.
You came back, you’re still here-!
Concerned hands stroked through my hair, and distantly I knew Nik was asking something, but it barely registered. He was still here, he was alive-he didn’t remember but I didn’t care, so long as he was here.
Hadn’t I told Viktor I would take care of you no matter what? Hadn’t I said I would be content as long as I knew you were safe?
I was wrong. I can’t give you up.
Nik crouched in front of me when I still didn’t reply to his questions. He placed his hands at the small of my back; tugged me forward. I was pulled into his embrace and the gentle touch nearly broke me, and I wept into his shoulder as he murmured soothing words.
“Sergei? Sergei, hey, I’m here, don’t cry…”
The sound of his voice was like a permission of release. I fisted my hands in his shirt, stumbling over my words in an attempt to convey my weakness.
He had to know that I wasn’t strong enough for him.
“I-I thought I had lost you,” I choked out, hiccupping as I tried vainly to catch my breath. “I thought you were gone again, and I love you so much, Nikky; love you so much I think I would die without you. You don’t remember me, you might never remember me-but please, please don’t…please don’t leave.”
Nikolai’s inhaled a sharp breath of air. He tightened his arms around me, and I let myself be cradled in that strong embrace. My fingers curled against his back as I tried desperately to catch hold of him: to grab as much and feel as much as I could before he was gone.
“Oh, Sergei,” he whispered. “Sergei, I remember you. Even if I can’t remember the things we did, all our time spent together, I still feel you. Every time I look at you, I feel peace. Even if I don’t get my memory back-I’ll never leave you. I’ll never leave you.”
I let out a choked sob. Nik leaned back, cupping my tear-streaked face in his hands, and gently pressed his lips to mine. I closed my eyes, melting against him; my body shaking with the torrent of emotions experienced in such a short period of time. My heart ached at his words: a good ache, a dull ache, like the burn of exercised muscles. I felt such relief-such intense relief that I couldn’t even speak, limp and drained in Nikolai’s arms. I rested my chin on his shoulder as he stroked my back, and somehow the world made another tiny tilt toward being righted again.
After a while Nik spoke again, softly, rubbing circles against my spine that stiffened in surprise at his words.
“Sergei, I’ve remembered some things…”