Re: In-person: Misha B/Damian W
[Damian did not have any reasons as to why Misha should not do as he did. In fact, he encouraged this behavior. He squeezed closer, dragging fingernails through fine hair at the angel's nape as the boy held him by the ass. Now Damian felt very guilty for what amounted to wringing support from Misha, who, at present, deserved support himself, but he did not seem able to stop himself. And the kisses that were placed on his cheeks, on his face, overtop tears, they did make him feel better, even if they were ill-earned.
He sniffled.] How can you say that, but not believe it is true when your fears say the same of you and me? [As for the so-called 'logic' when it came to his addiction... well, Damian had misled himself with the same justification. Still, it was easier to be measured and logical when one was still doing morphine every day. It was much more difficult, the less he did. Not only because he did not have the high to buffer him, but because his want became much more acute and much more desperate, and desperation was never logical.—The mention that he had, in fact, traipsed in with heroin earned another shamed shift of gaze, but he did not argue. He sniffled as his face was cradled in palms. He did not inform Misha that it was not impossible for the boy to hate him, to come to hate who he, Damian, was underneath the morphine, especially when he realized the disgusting truth of how much of a lowlife Damian was. It would happen. The man was sure of it. But, he did not argue. He did not want to make it more about himself than he already had.
He went to the bed, to Misha's lap, easily, and he looped an arm around the boy, to keep himself close and upright, even as he leaned heavily into narrow chest with his shoulder.] No, you are not responsible, [he argued back, even if he ought not have.] If I was stronger, if I could simply deal with... anything, this would not be an issue, which means, it resides with me. You ought be able to do what you feel needs doing, even if it is stupid—and taking bricks of Xanax is stupid—without having to wonder if I will fall apart or not, as if I am nothing but... but... wet crackers, rather than the al Gol heir. [Damian looked up when his chin was touched.] Your problems are not bad for me and you did not make me agree to anything. [Misha's fingers touched his lips to quiet him and he glared through glaze of tears.] Obviously, [he said, to the quiet flutter of unseen wings,] I forgive you. You have done nothing, so it is easy. [Damian leaned his head to Misha's shoulder, looking at the boy in close profile.] I hate that you think your problems are bad for me. It goes back to what I said before, that it is due to my own ineptitude, not your problems. I want to help you. Too, are my problems not bad for you? Bad enough you feel you cannot have your own and you must drug yourself. [He shook his head against bony shoulder.] But you wish for me to be okay with it, no?