🎵 𝄞 🎸 𝄫 🎷🎶 🎻 (jukejoint) wrote in repose, @ 2018-08-15 23:21:00 |
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Entry tags: | *log, burden bell, janus allen |
[Dreaming: Misha & Janus]
Who: Misha and Janus
What: Dreaming
Where: "That which is dreamed can never be lost, can never be undreamed."
When: Nowish
Warnings/Rating: D for demons and A for angels.
Sleep was a deliberate thing for a demon, not that Janus didn't get tired. He was tired of a lot of things, but not so tired that he felt like going back to the crossroads and watching the stars wheel until some idiot called him out with black cat bones and graveyard dirt. After he shut his eyes on Claire's concerned face, he drifted into some neutral space, a habit he'd picked up in a muggy camp from a different life. He drifted until "he" was just a convenience, a word, and there was simply a formless sense of self that resembled an (impossible) flame flickering in a dark void. He went looking for the angel's sleeping consciousness then, not that it was difficult to pick out among all the mortals, supernaturals, and other oddness in Repose. Being nothing and nowhere was disorienting, but the angel was probably used to it, or so the demon thought. Once he made contact, he set up something for them, borrowing one of Eames' techniques. An empty football field, real grass, small heaps of morning frost still glinting in places. The stands were empty, the speakers were quiet, the lights were off. The demon had no definition, not like the place, an unidentifiable figure of flame. Misha slept. He believed he needed to, and so he did, and all his constraints were of this nature. He believed things and they were so, and he'd always been that kind of simple. Heaven, Misha had reckoned, wouldn't lie to him, and it was only now he was learning could be things were different than they'd told him. He could hurt things, which they'd always said he couldn't. He could use his powers for selfish reasons, which they'd always said he couldn't. When he'd trespassed, they hadn't taken his wings, not how they'd always said they would. They hobbled him, but he'd managed to un-hobble himself, and they were scared. He noticed it then, and it tasted real bitter on the pure ozonic air of the Host. Dream, Janus had said, and Misha was dreaming, but it wasn't deliberate. Misha didn't even notice the changing in any lucid way. The field wasn't nothing he'd dreamed 'fore, but it didn't unsettle. The morning was pretty, and the grass was bright, and, Misha, who was sitting in the bleachers in skinny jeans and a white v-neck, stood and walked on down the steps and toward the figure of light. He was barefoot, was Misha, and each of his footfalls left a perfect imprint of flame and cinder, a simmer that didn't turn to ash 'til he was well away. The song of wings rustling carried on some wind that didn't really exist any, and the grass 'neath his feet burned away when he stepped onto the field. "Hello?" he called out, pale and golden and so damn young. "Hey angel." The recumbent flame-figure was lounging on the bleachers, just past the fifty yard line, taking up two metal benches with ashen elbows and molten heels. The voice was not exactly heard, not an audible thing, like the smell of the grass wasn't quite snowy plant but a facsimile; Janus wasn't as good as Eames at this sort of thing. The figure waved a hand at the sky and the ground. "We'd be able to tell if anyone else was here, you know? And, in this one, well, we won't remember anything when we wake up." A faintly Cheshire smile. Misha, he was only starting to realize the dream wasn't right. He wasn't sure why yet, but he realized something wasn't quite fitting how it should. He looked down at his own feet, and he frowned a few seconds at the burned grass 'neath his sole and toes. He was lifting one foot and looking 'neath it when the voice greeted him, and it sounded not right neither. Misha, he quit looking 'neath his own feet, and he walked toward the fifty yard line. "Janus?" It wasn't plenty certain sounding, that name asking, but it was the best Misha could reckon. Walking slow, not hurried none, and still charring the ground as he stepped, he walked on over to the bleachers, clear on the other side of the ones he'd been sitting on. There, he joined the reclining fire-figure. And, despite the burning Misha left in his wake, the boy wasn't actually on fire any. He sat, and he looked over at maybe-Janus. "Why don't we want to recall anything?" he asked, real curious and smelling of ozone and brimstone mixed in the dreaming. A nod from the demon. There weren't any features available with which to discern expression, or if there were, the vagueness of the dream did not allow the detail. Janus had a red and white box of popcorn kernels next to him on the stands, and occasionally there'd be a sudden crack in the silence as one of them exploded in the molten fingers. There was no taste of them in the air, though. "You wanted to talk. I wanted privacy. The thing about your People and my People is they got ways of getting things out of you, and you can't tell what you don't know, sweetie." Could be Misha should've been more fussed by the lack of features, and, therefore, expression, but he wasn't bothered none. He looked over in what he reckoned was 'bout Janus' face, and he looked plenty puzzled while Janus talked on. "But if you can't remember, then why bother talking? Ain't it always 'bout remembering?" he asked. Could be that was plain, but Misha was confused plenty. He tugged his legs up and hugged his knees 'gainst his chest. "Anyway, they can't get a thing from me. They're scared as mice scurrying 'bout me, and I ain't got a clue why. I reckon it has to do with why they left me in Kentucky how they did for so long." It was something he'd been thinking 'bout a whole lot recent, and it was plenty easy to grab for them thoughts here, in these bleachers. "We just don't remember the things we said. Sometimes you can have conversations with someone, and things are left over. How you feel about the person, or about something you talked about. It's a trust thing." The demon had used it before, and certainly not on angels. The expressionless face didn't have a mouth, but the demon smiled at the angel anyway, and he patted a spot on the bench that was not occupied by his popcorn. "You talking about up top?" Misha, he wasn't real sure he understood nothing about trust, not how Janus was saying, but he tried to make sense of it in his head. He was still looking confused as he sat where the flames patted, but he was real naive and trusting 'bout it, 'bout sitting there. His feet burned the metal of the bleachers 'long the way. He sat, and he looked at the flame. "That's new," he said of the tinder-catch, and he looked over. "I'm talking 'bout up top. Are you scared of me?" he asked. He'd always known Janus to be wary of him, but Heaven was just plain scared. The demon sat up a little to look at the angel's searing trail. "It's probably just a dream thing." Sitting back, the question generated real surprise. "Who, me? Nah. It's not you I'm worried about. It's the big guns that can use either one of us to get to the other." Indeed, Janus was so relaxed in the angel's presence here that it seemed unnatural. "Or anyone else. Blackmail, torture, that kind of thing." A kernel popped inside the slash of a mouth. Misha glanced on over at the popcorn, and he tried reaching across flame to take some. If he managed, he popped it into his mouth and chewed. "No, I mean it happened when I came out of the lake, too," he said of the burning. He'd charred up the dock, but it hadn't never happened again. He shrugged, and he leaned back, elbows on the bleacher row behind him and stretched out like the youth he was. "Heaven ain't going to do nothing to me. They're scared of me. And I been in your Hell, hid there, and I walked right on out and not a hair was harmed on my head. It's how I skipped out on Heaven. I hid myself in Hell, and they can't follow there." The demon allowed the angel to thieve his popcorn. "Wow," the demon said. "I would never do that. The place scares me. I still remember it." The flame figure shuddered, and not just theatrically. "I can't go anywhere like that. I'm lucky I'm not still stuck to a crossroads. Just thanks to some meddling kids and their dog." Huge grin. "Put your foot up here. Does it hurt?" The figure bent in half to check the soles of the angel's feet. Misha chewed the popcorn, mouth open some. His momma, his foster momma, she hadn't never been real concerned with his manners, and his real momma hadn't never been sane 'nough for any teaching. "It wasn't so bad. I reckon it was sad more than anything, but Heaven's real awful, and it ain't all sunshine, and it was worth going through some awful to get out." He put his feet up, both of them, as instructed, but there wasn't a lick of marking on his soles or toes. "It don't hurt any. What's it like, the crossroads?" "Spoken like someone who can fly out of there at any time," the demon said darkly, speaking of Hell and not the crossroads at all. The faceless head tipped to inspect the offered feet, but there wasn't anything to see, and the recline was taken up once more almost immediately. "Looks okay. Just a dream thing then. The 'roads are boring, angel. So boring. You just hang around there watching people go by unless one stops, or you get summoned to another 'road. Boring." The demon shuddered. "Repose might be kicking me around, but at least it's not that." "Is it real awful? I always felt bad some for Lucifer. He just didn't want to have to be what we're told we got to be. No free will, no soul, love folks, do the job you're born to do, and he wanted more, and he got cast out to this real awful place. It don't seem real loving, do it?" Misha asked. Course, these were things he wasn't meant to ask, but Misha was on a course of nearly doing every single thing he wasn't meant to do, and he wasn't real inclined to change course any. But, just now, he was busy lowering his foot. "It happens when I'm awake too. Well, twice, it's gone and happened twice," he said of the ground burning 'neath his feet, but he wasn't real fussed by it. "What's Repose doing to you, honey?" he asked, on account of that sounded a whole lot more interesting. Janus waved a finger in Misha's direction, grinning around a mouth of popcorn. "That right there is the kind of stuff it's better to say here, where we can't repeat it." Chewing thoughtfully, the demon leaned heavy on one elbow to face the angel. The expressionless face suddenly seemed to have been chosen a lot more carefully, since it was still blank, like a mannequin made of cooling lava. "I tried to get into this mortal relationship. Big mistake." "Heaven don't like questioning," Misha said, and that was true 'nough. They wanted all folks seeing things there way, and make no mistake. Misha, he hadn't never reckoned it was so black and white. He might've kept on, but Janus' non-face shifted in some way that Misha couldn't figure just yet. The boy, he shifted on them bleachers, turning his body more toward the man burning at his side. "Mortal relationships ain't bad, Janus. What happened?" he asked, his expression real open. Like most young folks, Misha hadn't really thought of Janus as someone who had a love life, and he was plenty curious. "How it usually goes with us, I guess. You meet one of 'em, they're pretty, you get all tangled up in the maybe-what-if-this-time…" Janus answered readily, after only a moment's pause, which was spent rolling over and tilting a sharp chin toward the ceiling. The security of this non-place was not to be rivaled, that neither would remember precisely what was said or done, only a general idea of topic and feeling, went a very long way. "But both of them know who I am. Not just what. Who. And they fucked. Me. Right up." The demon took a kernel and squeezed too hard, and sending burnt smudges into the cold air. Misha, he was too young to know 'bout how it 'usually went,' or could be that just came from only being earthbound a few years since coming to puberty, but he listened real attentive, and he reckoned he understood how it was to get tangled up entire with a pretty thing that clutched your heart real tight in its grip. But, Misha, he was lucky in that he didn't know a thing 'bout being fucked right up, not in love. He was all youthful curiosity as he looked on Janus. "What happened, honey?" he asked, and he reached out into flame and looked for fingers to squeeze. Misha, he couldn't be burned none, and he reckoned there had to be fingertips in there, seeing as Janus had been eating popcorn. The demon let the angel take burnt fingers into clean ones. Twisting them up, not even pretending even more with the corn kernels, the dark figure bent in two. The shrug was barely perceptible. "What I just said. Except it took a lot of months and this idea from both of 'em--separate--that it might work, let's try, let's talk about it. But no, it's too hard, that's how it ends up. It's too hard with you, Janus. I can't do it." This last was not in a familiar voice. Misha squeezed the burnt fingers, but he was gentle 'bout it. He didn't recognize the voice, but he didn't reckon he needed to, not in order to understand. "That don't sound like they ain't inclined. It sounds like they're overwhelmed. Did you try talking after that?" he asked. Misha, he did know a thing or two 'bout talking. "I learned a while back that if we didn't talk, me and Damian, then it wouldn't never work. Sometimes, talking's hard and we both feel real raw, and the last thing we want's to fight it out, but sometimes we got to. If I just let him say it was too hard, and never pushed on it, then we'd never move on to better things." Misha, he was an optimist, despite all his recent confusion and burning feet. "Oh, angel. No." The demon spoke in the other voice again, this time with a direct intonation that sounded as perfect as a recording, unlike the previous, almost flippant imitation, which had sounded more like a Steve-parrot than real!Steve. The coal fingers flexed. "It's done. I'm sorry but it's the way it has to be." Another moment. "That isn't something you talk around. That's a real sad, polite, 'fuck off,' that's what that is. It means life is too hard with you in it. It means, 'we can stay friends if you feel up to putting yourself through it,' or 'why don't you get on with your life somehow hope it goes well as long as it is somewhere else.' Those things." The demon put the other five fingers out and began pressing each into the shadowed metal of the bleachers, melting bits away like a fevered child with finger paint. "Those are the kind of things people sell to me to fix. They're just burning up to fix it." The demon scraped three holes into the bench. Thick droplets of heated metal flicked off and hissed into the dewy grass below. Misha, he had to cling to that hopefulness. He had to, or he'd fall to shards, and that was the problem some lately. The optimism, the hopefulness, it wasn't sticking how it had all these years. He frowned when Janus went on in that unfamiliar voice, and he didn't like it any. His frown went real sad, and then he glanced down to see the bleachers burning away. "I don't know how to make that better without magic neither," he said. He knew the crossroads deals weren't magic, but they were the same kind of thing as his illusions, the ones Heaven used to make folks that were important to the balance get back on their feet. "You could be wrong," he said, on account of that likely needed pointing out. "You said they, like there was more than one person. Did they both say this?" he asked, but then he just shook his head, optimism sliding down to join the burn marks on metal that his feet had left behind. "When I was younger, I would go get into bed with as many folks as I could when I felt bad, and that was likely the healthiest of my ways of coping. Staying with someone who can let you go like that, it would be even less healthy than sleeping all over. You deserve someone who sees you and reckons there's nothing too complicated, nothing that wouldn't make you just right how you are," he said, real earnest and passionate with conviction and Heavenly glow and unabashed youth. "I think they come as a package, sweetie." The demon withdrew darkening fingers from the metal bench. "I can't be sure. I could get into bed with one or another--I haven't tried the seduction tactic, it might work for a few hours, but only for a few hours. Don't think I'm not tempted though." The lined lips creased in a smile at the angel's more hopeful advice. "Claire said the same thing. But I am complicated. The outside and inside match, which means they never get to see the same thing. Mortals hate that." The demon sat up on the bench and moved over, leaning into Misha's shoulder for the physical support, without asking. "It's my own fault for trying it. I knew it wasn't going to go well. As soon as I started trying to impress Atticus with the same person over and over…" Misha, he didn't mind being leaned on any. If he could manage, what with Janus not having a whole lot of shape, he slung an arm over Janus' shoulder. He was frowning thoughtful, was Misha. "I don't know I could do folks as packages. Ain't that real complicated? I reckon someone would always get jealous and hurt, and there might not be no avoiding it. I thought we were going to do that once, the threesome thing. Oliver, he asked to sleep with us, or to sleep with Damian, and Damian said yes, but it never did come to fruition." He stretched his legs out onto the bleacher in front of him. "You ain't slept with neither of them? Why?" But the rest, it made the young angel shake his head. "Insides and outsides don't never match. Folks just think they do," he said, sagacity on the lips of the young. "Honey," he went on and kinder, softer sounding, "I do know one thing and that's for certain. You got to show them you, whatever that is, and don't fuss 'bout impressing by being things you ain't." "I didn't mean that. I meant a package, like you and Damian are a package. If we weren't here, I would say that anything I told you would also end up with him. But we aren't." Said with a tone of relief. The coal red eyes closed. "At first it was complicated. Atticus might have worked out as a mark, or if not then as a lot of value. He knows magic, and a lot of ancient things. Probably more than he thinks he does. We went on one date, and I wore the face he was used to, the one he'd seen summoned and the one that's easiest to talk with. That was the one he asked out for the date. He likes him. He wanted to dance." Like dancing was an absurd thing to do. "Like prom." A little wondering, with pleasure, it was true. Also absurd. The demon coughed. "So, there was the date. That one was a little different. Then the nightmare came along, you know what happened with that." A respectful pause for that grave set of events. The demon shuddered. "Steve was there after. Knew me when I was alive, which was sort of good but sort of bad. When I got stuck and I couldn't change, I looked like the sick kid I was when I died--or the blonde that had got cut up for months in the nightmare. They kept looking at me like this broken kid, like when I came back from Nam, the way my dad looked at me. It made me crazy, so I sold some old memories so Atticus would always see the guy he liked. I thought if it was going to be a long time, and I was staying in Repose… this was after the nightmare, and Claire, the gargoyle, everybody helped me out, I thought if he always saw him, then it would be better and he'd always see me the same. A long time in Repose..." Flickers of rocky fingers twisting thinly in the air to indicate that bizarre turn. "No cons, then. But the wolf can tell when I don't match, so now it hates me and Atticus is constantly angry, and we can't even get past five minutes talking about it unless I'm always that guy, even if I didn't wake up that day as him." The demon, pausing, glanced up at the angel to see if he understood. Misha, he still didn't understand why Janus was so concerned 'bout talking to him, even if it meant Damian hearing things, but that wasn't real concerning just now. He was worried 'bout the figure at his side, genderless and flaming how he was. He couldn't help but smile at the concept of dancing, seeing as he reckoned it was real sweet and romantic, and he hadn't taken Damian dancing in real long. But the smile, it faded when Janus brought up the nightmare, and Misha didn't like thinking 'bout that thing. The story meandered on, and Misha moved again, turning complete on the bleacher now, and so he was sitting sideways now and with his legs crossed in front of him. It was so he could pay attention better, and he watched Janus' profile, as it were, while he kept on. One hand reached for smouldering shoulder, and he squeezed pale and supportive fingers there. "Can you change it? Sell something new, or unsell something?" He reckoned the answer was no, and that if it was easy Janus would've already done it. "If not, then could be you might could do something to appease the wolf," he suggested, reckoning approaching it the other way 'round might work. "But, Janus, honey, you can't change yourself for folks. Not for folks you love, and not for this town. You got to be yourself, or it'll make you miserable regardless, even without a wolf disliking you. Being ourselves, whatever that may be, is important. You'll just come to resent it in the end if you do anything different. Do they understand that you ain't comfortable being male always?" Misha, he remembered Janus' stories 'bout wearing his momma's clothes and why he joined the military, and they'd gone 'round 'bout dressing like a girl and feeling like one, and Misha knew Janus wasn't like him. Janus, Misha reckoned, he didn't just like wearing the clothing. He reached for Janus' chin, if he could, and he tipped it. "You're perfect how you are, honey, and you always have been." The demon had fought more wars than the angel had, and knew other demons who specialized in torture and thought, twisting good intentions to bad, doing bad things for good reasons over and over until it was just bad things. There were demons that could perfectly imitate Misha for Damian, even better than Janus could. There were demons who could make one night seem like years of pain, for the express purpose of collecting information. Janus was careful what anyone found out. "I can't change it. You can't undo it. That's the point. But I don't have much else to sell. All I have of who I used to be are bad memories, because those aren't worth anything. My last one was to forget what the nightmare did, that's how I got my stripes back." Waving the backs of both hands. "It's good I even remember Steve. But that was war." The demon scrubbed fingers over the slash of a mouth available. "I don't know what they understand. I don't even understand it. I never had to think about it before. Who was watching? Lucifer never cared what I looked like. I'm not sure he even noticed, you know? He's pretty self-centered." The demon was surprised out of this semi-monologue at the touch. After a split second of surprise, the flattened mannequin face crumpled inward, as if sucked in by an invisible force. The demon sniffed. "Not really. But thanks." Misha, he was plenty trusting and still real young. It wasn't that he didn't know bad things existed, on account of he knew that plenty, but it just wasn't where his mind went immediate. He hadn't fought no wars, Heavenly or otherwise, and his life had been split into earth and Heaven, and neither decade had been real good to him. "Then, if you can't fix it, you find a way to work with it. If you're inclined to making things work with these folks, you got to sit down and talk open, Janus. It's the only way relationships work. Talking real and open." Misha reckoned that was scary for Janus, and he understood that particular fear real well. But the next bit, the bit 'bout not understanding, Misha had to fix on that a spell 'fore answering. "Human folks, they don't think like us, and it's real hard to make them see things different than how they see. Damian, he's real human, and that makes him real beautiful to me, but he can't see the world how I see it, and I can't see it how he does. The most I can do is listen and try to explain, and I reckon that's the most you can do too. Explain Janus, over and as many times as it take for you to be understood. Listen 'bout them too, these two men, and that's how you move forward when it comes to anything at all." He was touching Janus' chin then, and he watched as Janus crumpled and sniffed. "You, listen. You're perfect. You're you, and what you are is perfect for you. If that you feels they ain't male, then that's perfect too. Janus, honey," and here his fingers slipped away from burning chin, "you got to start liking you 'fore you can expect other folks to." "We can't talk because the wolf goes crazy whenever I show up. Or he makes Atticus go crazy. It's hard to tell. I told Steve maybe just let the Wolf come at me and maybe he'll get over it. But Steve talked the Wolf out of it. He said he's always a mediator and we can't be there for him because we are arguing. Claire says I should bribe the wolf with bacon. Then Steve wouldn't have to mediate." Sniff. "Not that it matters now." The demon ate some popcorn, chewing slowly. It didn't have much taste. You had to imagine it. "I like myself. Sometimes. Just have to pick the right look. When I do it feels good." Smile. Misha tried to understand this whole thing with the wolf, but he hadn't never spent time any with that kind of creature, and he was winging it some in this conversation. But folks were still folks, and feelings were still feelings, and Misha knew some 'bout that. "You keep saying it don't matter now, but that don't sound like you mean it. Janus, honey, if you ain't content with how things are, then try to change how things are. If you reckon this ended on account of misunderstanding with the wolf and Steve mediating, then work on that," he suggested. As for the rest, Misha knew it was complicated, but it was easy some too. "Some days, I wake up and feel masculine, and I wear jeans and boots and shirts, just like a boy, and some days I wake up feeling feminine, and I wear a dress or a skirt or stockings, and I put pins in my hair and paint my lips. I ken what it's like to need to be who you are, but, honey, you're feeling like you need to be what someone else wants to see, and that ain't good." The demon tapped the side of one nostril. Or, what passed for one. It was rather square and unremarkable. "It's close to that, what you said about the clothes. I never did that when I was alive." The demon's whole body gave a little shudder, not in fear, but at the strangeness of it. "I think it ended because Steve was done with it," was the grave reply. A pause. "Maybe just done with me. Either way." The demon picked a piece of popcorn into thirds. "That's how these things go sometimes, angel." The angel tipped his head some curiously. "You're giving up?" He asked it young, on account of he wasn't old 'nough yet to think 'bout giving up as something that was doable. He tapped his toes on the metal of the bench he rested them on, and the smouldered 'gainst the flat surface. He was quiet some, thinking, lost real deep in them thoughts. "If you're right and this Steve's done, then I reckon he don't deserve you any, Janus. To deserve us, folks got to be able to want us 'round, how we are, no matter what. I don't reckon you were awful to him any, so you can't go blaming yourself." Misha, he knew sometimes things didn't work for humans, on account of he'd seen it happen. "Humans, they ain't like us, and I reckon they can walk away in ways we can't," he said, on account of demons were just like angels, weren't they? Misha, he wasn't so sure 'bout Lucifer being awful, not recent, and he already knew demons weren't always awful. “Not giving up is to ignore what Steve wants. He told me. He told me… it was done.” The difficulty in finishing the sentence overcome by repetition, the demon took a breath and another piece of popcorn to mutilate. “He was a dream anyway, angel. Even when I was alive, and in all that stinking mud, he was a dream. I can’t even be surprised it’s not real for me.” The demon stared down at one of Misha’s toes and then reached out a finger to see if it burned. "It's only ignoring what Steve wants if Steve meant it. Don't you never say things you don't mean on account of being fussed or angry?" Misha asked. He reckoned he'd said things he didn't mean plenty in life. "Why was he a dream?" he asked, looking confused. "How can someone you know be a dream?" He looked down to see Janus' touching a toe that looked plenty cool and not on fire at all, but Janus' fingers would've felt the heat and, potentially, been singed all the same. The demon looked doubtful; it was in the turn of the head and not a real contortion of features. "I can ask him if he is sure," came the eventual (reluctant) reply. "It seems like begging. But… if he changed his mind..." Hiss. The demon shook the artificially burnt finger--it was a dream, after all. "Maybe you're a new, more badass angel," the demon suggested. Misha, he just chuckled some at the notion he was some new, badass angel. "I'm just confused is all. I ain't sure what I am or ain't, and ain't no one Up There's going to tell me the truth." Which was real succinct, but which was plenty of truth. But this dreaming, it wasn't 'bout Up or Down, and he reached out and did his best to squeeze Janus' shoulder through flaming. "You do whatever you reckon needs doing, and what's good for you, Janus. I'm just saying, you got your rights to what you're feeling too, honey, and if you need to talk to him more, you go on and do it." He smiled kind and pulled his hand back. If he could find hair to push off Janus' forehead or behind ear, he did that too. "Damian, he always says I don't stand up for myself, and I apologize whenever I do manage it. I reckon you can hear that too. Stand up for yourself, honey." There wasn't any hair to push at fondly, but Janus got the gist anyway, and the mannequin mouth split into a grateful gawp. "If I had any clue about what I felt any time, I might. It's always simple stuff like happy, sad, confused. I think they want more." Shrug. "It's okay. It felt good to talk about it where I know it can't be remembered." Grateful pat to the air by Misha's cheek. "Thanks." Misha, he understood some 'bout having a hard time communicating. Not on account of himself, but on account of Damian having trouble some, 'specially at the beginning. He smiled at the air pat, and he stood on the bleachers. "I reckon that's my cue. You come talk whenever, Janus, you hear? Don't be a stranger any." He gave Janus a little nod and a smile, and he shifted on feet that burned metal, but that didn't hurt none. |