Re: log: antique store - louis, misha, and damian
Damian did not hear the conversation that unfolded in apology and honesty in the bathroom, over antibacterial ointment. He would have had nothing nice to say, regardless. He would have found himself annoyed by (and annoyingly fond of) Misha's warm smile, offered to put Louis at ease in earnestness. And he would have wanted to inform the Scotsman of all the ways in which he was not fit to attempt to master this on his own, considering, as Misha said, it was one of these Endless. But, he did not hear and he was not a part of the discussion. He knew the angel felt poorly, inasmuch as he knew the boy always did in circumstances such as these, where he felt ineffectual. As if it was his fault that Louis was weak or shameful, or that he intended to put himself down as if that were any kind of true apology. It was a victim's attitude, and Damian could not respect that. He could hardly stand it. It irritated him more than it ought have, he knew.
He attempted to not think on it, just as he attempted to not think on the renewed gnawing in his belly, the queasiness and the ache for nothingness. He did not feel his thumb, save for the pressure of his pulse there in a throb. But it did not hurt. That level of dissociation was so ingrained, he did not consciously force any manner of division. It happened. On some level, it was likely still occurring, but it was distant enough to make no impact, a smudge of smoke on horizon.—The cigarette helped distract him from his cravings, and he watched smoke escape from his mouth and float away, out the window, breath taken, and, largely, he felt nothing at all. That was good, he thought. It was as it should be. Perhaps, he thought idly, pain could do what the morphine was meant to, divorce him, divide him.
Damian peered over as he heard Misha approach. He took the open hand offered, switching his cigarette over to do so. "I am fine," he said, again, following the line of angelic gaze to the bathroom. He blew smoke over his shoulder, so that he might continue. "If you wish to stay, we may." He did not know what it was Misha wished for in the moment, as he had no creature to whisper to him. He could only resort to the methods humanity had relied on since its inception. Communication, trial and error. He spoke softly, intimately tot he boy, so as not to be overheard. "If you wish to go, we will go. I know you wish to help, and I know you do not feel good about what has occurred." He kissed Misha's cheek with a spring up on toes, quite brief. He squeezed fingers between his own. "Only say what it is you will." There was nothing more human than that.