Re: Quiet Home: Misha & Oliver
Misha liked folks. He liked people. He liked them breathing and being, and he wasn't sure most of them appreciated living like they ought. Folks, he found, complained to the Heavens 'bout every little thing, when they had the one thing worth having. Life. He thought on that in most of these group sessions, while teenagers cried about their real hard lives, and he was expecting more of the same out of the boy sitting to his right.
These days, Misha surprised easy.
When he was guardian'ing, he knew all the secrets living in folks' souls. It was his job to know, and he'd been real good at his job. But, now, he didn't know a thing. He was sitting blind and deaf, at least compared to his normal understanding, and he'd already learned he wasn't always so good at reading mankind all on his lonesome. Maybe it came of living too short, but he was expecting something 'bout mean folks, and the boy talked 'bout some girl dying instead.
Now, Misha, he didn't call on his knowing any, not deliberate. But sometimes he reached for it unthinking. Like now. His fingers closed 'round details, and he turned some to glance at the boy in the faded colors.
"You could be pretty some, if you dressed better," he told him for starters, because Misha liked fashion in a way that only someone raised on whites could comprehend. "And your dead gal, she was real bad news. I wouldn't fuss too much over her." Course, there was fussing happening already, and there wasn't a thing Misha could do 'bout it, so he added, real sweet, "and freezing, that ain't no sin, artist." He winked baby blue.