Re: Quiet Home: Misha & Oliver You're faded, and Oliver swore that he could feel his heart squish down, slumping lower in his chest in its best lonely place. Trash-compacted, he was coal wishing for diamond status, judged he felt, and deserving of it, and also boiling because of it. People didn't usually just come out and say it, though. Well, sometimes Oliver did, but to have such blatant observance shucked back at him, it felt far too intimate for a first meeting. He looked down, and his long, artist fingers plucked at the hem of his shirt like it was something better to do, better than looking at the boy's eyes, which were bluer than Rembrandt's Sevres Blue oil. He didn't particular like that, because what kind of fucking paint was he going to find to match that coloring? He'd probably have to venture into the Capital, and the twitch of guilt in his stomach told him what he already suspected, asking Jude was asking too much.
Counseling, he hadn't expected it to be this. His brother had asked it, and others had asked it, and he'd only just now complied because it meant feigning like sickness couldn't take root in a body that protested it was healthy. His mind was bright! He couldn't get gray. "I'm upset because she shot herself right there, like I wasn't even there. She bubbled and bled like I was supposed to know what to do!" Honestly, he seemed offended, offended by the assumption that she might think he knew anything about sadness or suicides or people who got their heads blown off. Oliver didn't know anything about that, swear on his parents' graves, he didn't.
His eyes shot sharp, brown flint ready to spark if the questions kept coming. "Its done, what does it even matter?" The unspoken portion there being, why does it matter to me?