Re: In-person: Misha B/Damian W
[Damian understood why Misha walked the heroin to the kitchen. He too remembered the Xanax, and if that was any indication of what would have happened with the heroin, more would be left in the apartment than not, which, Damian also understood, was not a risk the boy was willing to take. He walked at a distance behind his boyfriend, guilt slowing his steps, and he watched as the heroin was disposed of. (He had not yet noticed the missing amulet, though would eventually.)—He led the way back to the bedroom, once the angel turned, and he stopped, there by the bed, standing uselessly, both arms crossed once more over his chest.
However, when the angel grabbed for him, Damian went. He went like an ancient building when the last of its supports is felled: immediate, willing, grateful. Misha may have been clinging, but Damian was as well. His arms were around the angel's neck and he was on the tips of his sneakers, so he might hold on. It was difficult here, in this position, and with the heroin finally gone, the promise of it obliterated, not to cry, out of shame, relief, and even regret. The Xanax worked its pharmaceutical magic on Misha, but Damian was left bereft.—So he did cry. His tears fell silently, betraying the man only when he shuddered in inhalation. He kept his nose to Misha's throat as long as he could, but he did come back when the boy insisted.
Damian dropped to his heels. He sniffled stupidly.] Okay. I cannot ask you for that, though I know your intentions are good. It is selfish, but... I could not ask that of you. It is like you and your admissions. I fear what my asking would change. I fear you would know how weak I truly am were I to... [His face contorted with a new onslaught of tears, but Damian fought it off as best he could, stopping only once to hack out a twisted kind of sob, before swallowing it all down again. Misha's forehead was to his, his own hot and damp. His breathing was ragged and shallow, but he sought to even it some with a few deep inhalations and exhalations. His voice was milky with snot.] I am sorry. [After all, he knew it to be a fear of Misha's, the boy had just admitted it. Yet he had sought it out, had he not? Damian. He had. Weakly, so weakly, he could only ask, beg, plead:] Please do not hate me. And, please, please do not hate yourself. It is not your fault. [He knew the boy would take the responsibility upon himself, though it was not, indeed his.]