Re: Quiet Home: Misha & Oliver
It was a spike of pride that made Oliver coil up, shoulders diamond-sharp under the shirt's red. A self-conscious and half-formed shrug with a sharp look aimed from the top. It was a brief look, dismissively rolling away when Oliver looked back to the therapist, who seemed to be smiling reassurance. He shifted his chair back toward the boy who'd spoke. "What's wrong with how I dress?" The tone of the question made it entirely seem like Oliver was aware something might be wrong with his clothes, but he was still insulted by the allegation.
He wore colors, at least. His brother became concerned when he didn't wear enough colors, or didn't paint with enough colors, and putting on this splash of red(pink) had felt like a way of proclaiming his 'okayness' to the rest of the world. See? He couldn't be depressed or living in the past, he was wearing color!.
"What does being bad have to do with it?" Oliver felt a little sickened, way down in his stomach, at the idea that bad people either didn't require interaction, or just the spending of feeling? "Bad news doesn't even deserve a bad feeling?" The idea felt at odds to him, and Oliver sounded a little tiffed when he asked the question. Because he'd loved people, and he hurt for people, and everyone was bad when it came down to it.
It was the 'artist' comment that quieted him, and Oliver scrutinized the blue eyes, the boy's clothes, the wink. All in time, all committed to thought and memory. Maybe he'd forget after this, throw the boy and the blue eyes and the wink all away. Or maybe not. He hadn't decided yet.