log: antique store - louis, misha, and damian
It was cold. The overwrought, overpriced coffee drink from the chain in the Capital did not take the edge of hoarfrost off on the drive, even though the heat was pumped up as well. After a diner breakfast of eggs and wheat toast and a hot cocoa, Damian felt somewhat better. Physically, he was not at his peak, and he knew this. He was overusing his Suboxone, taking too much in an attempt to force his desire for morphine into submission. It left him somewhat sleepy and he could feel the depression of his respiratory system, shallow, flat breaths. But, he did not suffer from the chills or bone-aches or excessive sweating, et cetera, that were indicative of opioid withdrawal. This is likely obvious. As he was not truly suffering the withdrawal. The Suboxone gave him a bump rather than a high, and it was a palliative to the physical pains, pinning his pupils, but it did not accomplish what morphine did and he felt every jagged edge of every blade every moment with only the slightest buffer.
Perhaps this was why the cold seemed bitterer. Objectively, it was indeed a cold snap. The glitter of frost said as much where it covered the world as yet untouched by morning sun. Damian's phone recorded the temperature. But, it felt colder still to him, as if it had leaked into him. He kept his hood up over his head, tugged down over brow, and zipped over blue-striped shirt. Now that he had his own hoodie back, he once again wore his usual uniform of black jeans, black sneakers, and the item itself. He did not take any especial care to make himself presentable for Louis. His hair was wild under curve of hood and a lack of sleep hollowed under his eyes. He did not care.
He would do what they came to do, him and Misha. The angel wished to help this man, so Damian would do what he could. He parked the car before the antique store and peered at it in a quiet moment, before he exited the vehicle. He was not particularly happy to be back in this place. He felt exhausted enough that he was certain it had only been a handful of days since they had left, and he was not as prepared as he could have been for this endeavor. For one, he was woefully lacking in patience. But, they were here, and Damian laced his fingers with the angel's, when Misha joined him on the sidewalk. "I will be happy when we see Titus," he said in his deep, flat, inflectionless voice. It was what they had come back for. Or, it was the main reason. This was the secondary one, at least for Damian.
He could only shake his head at finding the door unlocked. Idiot man. And, then he walked up, breaching the landing without any expression finding his face. He waited for Misha, or he joined him, and he made certain his hood was up soundly. He knew he was meant to give a greeting, but he let the angel take care of that as he lurked beside the boy like shadow.