Re: log: antique store - louis, misha, and damian
Misha’s needs, which flared in Louis’ mind like a sunburst when he hugged him, were mostly accounted for. Damian was already in the room, a wish for humanity was too abstract to easily accommodate unless it became more pressing, and his other wish, for Damian to be well, dovetailed beautifully with Louis’ prime imperative at the moment. He relaxed, a little, in the angel’s grip. “Hello there,” he said. There was no sign on the surface whatsoever of the storm of panic, barely held in check below this smooth veneer of cheer and calm, both unlike him, really. If Misha had a good sense for that sort of thing, something was indeed wrong under the surface. He touched Misha’s hand on his arm by way of greeting. “Lengths and lengths of it,” he said, smiling a little, in on the joke. “There are saucers on the drying board, or feel free to use a mug. They’re in the cabinet over the sink.” He didn’t rise, however, to get one, as he might have.
Louis looked back at Damian when he contemplated the spill on the table. He had forgotten all about it, it seemed, and when Damian’s eyes fell on it, Louis swiped a napkin over it, sopping up the brown liquid until the surface was perfectly dry again without comment. “Don’t bet on it,” he said, with a flicker of amusement, a clean, bright smile. “I could use someone handy around here, so I wouldn’t offer where I can hear you, or I’ll start taking advantage of your kindness. The boiler’s off, the hinges on the front door stick when the weather gets warm. If you have half an hour to spare, I could bore you with the full list of complaints.”
They made a pretty sight, the pair of them - Damian leaning on Misha, smoking, comfortable and familiar. They were a blaze of want for each other, tangled and worried in each other’s company. When Misha asked if he could tell what they wanted, his smile softened. “Oh, yes,” he said. ‘You want so much more than Bruce did. You might have thought about that a little.” He sounded perfectly normal, his typical half-brogue, half-schoolboy cadences, as perfectly placid as if they were still discussing the chill.
He picked up the orange bottle and tossed it, end over end, at Damian. He knew the boy would catch it, even sprawled into Misha’s lap. “At least before you brought an addict into the room,” he said, to Misha. The bottle was clearly labeled, and it contained morphine at an absolutely dizzying dosage. Of course it did. He was warm and perfectly comfortable, and he glanced between the two of them, waiting to see what they would do. He set the mug down and leaned back in the kitchen chair. “If you’re going to scrap for it, don’t tear up the couch. This place is enough of a pit as it is.”