The Things that Linger Behind
a companion to Mothertongue
written for the CLM smell challenge
[ dm/vm, teen!het!dom ] PG
Whenever Dominic stops to think of the past, it's always the smell that returns to him first. All the rest quickly follows-the sounds that scuttled across the background of his perception, the sights that blurred with the movement of his eyes, and the feel of the world beneath his feet and under his willing hands. In his mind, however, that is all secondary-just background filler and ambient noise to the scent that lingered in the air that moment, the smell that made the memory worth remembering in the first place. He wonders sometimes whether or not it is a proper way to look at the world, and his mind thinks about the memories that have slipped to the wayside-colorful and vibrant, but odorless.
:::
Dominic's favourite girlfriend was a nouveau hippy named Annetta, whose hair always smelled faintly greasy beneath the constant drench of patchouli. She was an artist with awkward glasses perched on the bridge of her thin nose and with clay always caked along the insides of her forearms.
He remembers those fumbling moments in the storeroom behind the art studio at school, after classes were finished and all the kids were jostling their way out the building. "Oh sorry, no, it's alright...can I just...no, it's okay, you can touch me there, yes...oh yes please, Annette..." He had murmured into the side of her face as her back pushed up against one of the cabinets. The dankness of forgotten acrylic paint and white binding glue hung in the air and mixed with the sound of Annetta's glasses clattering to the floor and the sight of her pale stained hands gripping at Dominic's arms.
Because of Annetta and the memories of her private storeroom, Dominic equates the smell of art being made with the tiny desires that accumulate in the pit of his belly as he grows older. Whenever he catches the hint of musty manila craft paper, Dominic begins to ache from the inside, suddenly longing for Annetta and everything she had once promised him-both sex and love and everything in between.
:::
Dominic thinks that Viggo smells like India ink-dark and severe and slightly tinny. He watches silently as Viggo makes his methodical way down one of the many wandering aisles of the used bookshop; his head bobs up and down as he ducks and peers at the passing authors. When Viggo reaches the "C" section, he stops abruptly and begins to systematically read off all of the titles quietly to himself one by one.
The air in the bookshop is stale and aged like the scent that comes off of important family documents and abandoned stacks of twice-read newspapers. Dominic can feel the clean, crisp smell of the winter air evaporating off of his jacket and his clothes as his cheeks warm to room temperature. He notices smudges of red and orange paint on the backs of Viggo's hands and clicks his tongue in disapproval.
"You need to wash your hands," Dominic says absently, leaning his hip and his head lightly against one of the teetering bookshelves.
"No, I don't," Viggo says matter-of-factly, his eyes and his fingertip running along the broken backs of the ancient books. "It reminds me of who I am." He lands on the spine of a thick, squat volume with a faded burgundy cover; the title is almost completely obliterated by years of incessant touching. As Viggo pulls it off the shelf and carefully opens it, the yellow smell of crumbling paper kicks up from its pages. The thought of Annetta flickers across the surface of Dominic's mind and his lips begin to itch at the memory.
"You bloody daft over-romanticized artist," Dominic says, and the tone to his voice is enough to make Viggo look up from the sentence he was skimming. Dominic mutters with a sideways smirk spreading on his face and his body inching its way along the shelves-always closer, closer. "You don't need dirty hands to remember who you are..that's what you keep me 'round for." A soft laugh escapes from between Viggo's slightly parted lips as he snaps the book shut and tugs Dominic towards him.
There is the acrid chemical smell of paint caught beneath Viggo's fingernails and the dried varnish on the band of his wristwatch as he leans in to kiss Dominic. All at once, in Dominic's mind it is winter and Viggo and art and Annetta--all coated in smell of old paper. "So remind me of who I am," Viggo whispers quietly, and Dominic wonders in the back of his mind what kind of memory this will moment make.
