Ok so. I've had to put chapter 2 of my Climitri fic "Quit." on hold because writing it has become really detrimental to my mental health, but I still want to share the second half of it since that part is fully written, and I'd feel bad keeping it to myself
I'm putting it under the cut. There may be some grammar / spelling issues that I didn't catch, sorry about that
📄 Info: 1509 words
❕ Warnings / Triggers:
mentions of past character death
sexual tension (a little bit I suppose)
suicidal ideation
ptsd
ptsd flashback
clive triggers dimitri's ptsd
manipulative clive
emotional manipulation
fawn response
grief
survivor’s guilt
This is a very long post BTW!!!!
“That’s enough,” Clive, with an authoritative tone, quietly demanded from behind as he plucked the yet-to-be-lit cigarette out of Dimitri’s mouth, accidentally tapping his client’s lips with the tip of his finger in the process. “You need to smoke less.”
“Wha—Oh, very funny, but I’ve got work to do,” he gestured toward the desk before him where equation papers and diagrams scattered its surface alongside a freshly brewed mug of tea. “You know, guiding the Hamanier particles and tinkering with the Soolha coil and whatnot—under your watch, of course. I don’t have time for whatever game it is you want to play. Now hand it over and let’s continue where we left off yesterday,” Dimitri responded casually without looking back. He then picked up one of the papers, a hand drawn Hamanier particle diagram, from the desk with his left hand and opened the other in an expectation that his friend would give up the game and return the cigarette, but Clive had no intention of playing the role of a teacher’s pet today, let alone a friend.
With a few slow but intentional movements, Clive leaned forward and, right above the mug in front of Dimitri, crushed then drowned the cigarette’s remnants in the drink, intentionally concocting an unsalvageable mixture of tobacco and tea.
“Oh—Clive!” Dimitri exclaimed. “Come on, you can’t! That was the last—”
Clive leaned back, his lips almost brushing against his client’s ear.
“I mean it. Quit.”
A silence as thick as the already lingering smoke enclosed the two. While Clive could be a pushy man, Dimitri had found comfort in him, and he never expected such a comforting presence to make such unattainable demands; Claire never did.
His eyes fixed on the newly brewed tobacco/tea monstrosity, watching the tobacco float aimlessly in the brew before he finally found a retort.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Clive. You know I need them to focus,” he trailed off in a whisper as his thumb toyed the edges of the paper. “You know it helps my nerves…”
“It has to stop,” Clive doubled down on his demand, his voice cold and clinical. “Your productivity is down 37%. Your addiction is a clear distraction from your work.”
“...Is that what this was all about? An inspection? You weren’t actually interested in understanding the science of polydimensionality—?”
Clive draped his arms over Dimitri’s shoulders, caging his client from behind. “Oh, no, I was interested. I am interested, as your student. But, as your patron, I must make sure you’re always performing your best, lest I have to cut your funds entirely.” His voice deepened. “You’ve been slacking, and I need to find a fix, so let’s make this quick for the both of us."
Perhaps he really is only my boss, Dimitri thought, but chose to verbalise a different hypothesis.
"There’s a flaw in your conclusion, Clive. If anything, it’s you that’s–”
He paused.
Sure, he could tell Clive to cruise the faux-Thames in his little speedboat, to gamble his life’s funds away at the casino he so loved. To go to the surface—to the real London—to the park which they had frequented and stop attending these little lessons where he humoured both his scientific theories and banter, proposing the most impossible solutions that were apparently supposed to be honest attempts at problem solving, and belting at his quote-un-quote ‘moth-eaten’ jokes with those sun-bright smiles of his that reignited the cinders of hope in his heart that before all of this, before all the lessons and the proximity and the laughter, were so deep and dormant that until now he believed only Claire could ignite.
Claire… Her blurred face floated listlessly in his mind’s eye, bloating like the steam from the mug before him to which his eyes were still locked—unable to break free from—until she eventually became one with the room's stale mixture of air and smoke, and the ink from the diagram smudged under his trembling thumb.
It was his goal—his duty—to save her. To correct the mistake of the past that, like the smoke, loomed over every waking hour of his life; a life of which he did not believe for a single second he deserved—a thought he dissected daily, diligently scraping away at the lesion with his scalpel of logic, but in being a man of physics, he was no surgeon. And the cigarettes—they were the anaesthetic, yes, but so was his new friend, his new star that had pulled the lonely rogue planet that was him into orbit. He realised now he needed the light of another—those rays of light which both humoured and, most importantly, saw him. Claire had once been that light, Claire had once inhibited the shadows of his doubts, but now Clive, his only friend, had taken her role. Clive was now his star, and Dimitri was at perihelion. The scientist knew now he could never allow himself to experiment with the dark and unforgiving void of isolation again.
But he could never confess all of this to his friend, so ultimately he decided to keep his mouth shut.
Eventually though, the claws of withdrawal hooked deep into his skin and allowed him to force out a feeble plea.
“Please, just… let me smoke.”
Clive then, in one aggressive motion, spun Dimitri’s chair around, the force from which caused the diagram to slip out of the scientist’s grasp.
Suddenly they were face to face, and it became immediately apparent to the patron that he’d pushed his client further than he originally planned; that’s what the scientist's slight sheen of sweat and darting gaze told him anyway.
But it was of no concern to Clive, he understood that once he succeeded in his persuasion the air would clear and the fragrances which were once the vital tools of his manipulation would be able to bloom once more, and so he allowed himself to tug at the soft spot the scientist wore so earnestly on his chest.
“You’re quite the romantic, aren’t you? Always wearing this rose…” he forcefully changed the subject as he plucked the flower from the scientist's lab coat.
Dimitri stayed silent, his mind slipping away as time seemed to slow. He clung to his friend’s shoulders.
Clive ignored him and twirled the stem in his fingers, inspecting every petal as the flower pirouetted between them. The thing was dry to a crisp; falling apart at even the mere suggestion of movement.
Carefully, he brought it up to his nose and sniffed. Even this reeks of smoke he thought to himself. A pity.
Without showing even the slightest hint of disgust, he carried on, “and you wear it every day…” His eyes bored into Dimitri’s. “A motif of something, perhaps?”
No response.
“Look, I see what you're getting at,” Clive responded to the scientist's unfinished statement, disregarding his last plea. “To you, I’m the cause of your productivity decline. The lessons I requested, in your opinion, are robbing you of vital time. So you’d rather me… leave you alone… so that you’ll be able to get back on track, and save Claire… correct?”
No response.
“It’s quite logical. I must admit I’m impressed.”
“So then,” Clive continued, “the solution to that problem would be for me to leave you alone and let you smoke… since, according to you, it's my company that's distracting you, not the cigarettes.”
He paused, then allowed himself to go all-in.
“But, If I left, wouldn't those nightmares return? You know, the ones where there's the windows shattering and the alarms blaring…”
“No.” Dimitri clung tighter to the man.
That’s it.
“The ones where there’s a cadaver… all lifeless and—”
He brought the dried flower up to the scientist, forcing him to take in nothing but the tainted scent.
“The ones where—”
He then took the rose away from Dimitri, and, as their eyes locked, heartlessly ground the petals in his palm, and the crumbled flakes from which scattered lifelessly onto the scientist’s chest and lap.
Dimitri could see her clearly now—on the floor, right there—It was too early; he was too late.
“...If you can’t save her, will the nightmares ever stop?”
Clive pulled away from the scientist, acutely aware he had put down a winning hand.
He then caressed Dimitri’s cheek, allowing his thumb to trail the line of his lips, and lingered on them. They were as thin and dry as the petals of the rose he had crushed just a moment ago.
“Quit. That’s my only demand.”
“...O–Ok.” The scientist folded. “I’ll quit.”
Clive grinned. Jackpot.
Wordlessly, the patron pulled the other chair toward the desk and sat down with ease next to his client, his scientist, his teacher, looking pitifully at the man who had been crumpled like one of the many hundreds of papers that littered the floor, amongst which lay the diagram Dimitri had dropped. Clive picked it up.
“Don’t worry,” he said reassuringly, tapping the left lapel of his blazer with a steady rhythm. “I'll get you a new one.”
