Re: Quiet Home: Misha & Oliver
Misha wasn't sure, until the moment when them fingers closed tight 'round his own, that the boy was going to stand. Wasn't that Misha was the insecure sort, 'cause he wasn't, but he just wasn't sure like he normally was 'bout folks and what they would do. But he was real pleased when Oliver stood, and it glowed all over his features. Could be this was as much for Misha as it was for the artist. Misha, he liked folks. He liked real folks, living folks, flawed folks and broken folks and folks whose souls glittered brilliant from pores and mouth and eyes. It was why Misha was down here, suffering like he was, because he missed them things when he was living in Perfect. Wasn't that Heaven wasn't Heavenly, 'cause it was, but it wasn't living. Dirty, painful, rotten, and Misha would still take this over any damn alternative going.
He kept on with Oliver's fingers between his own, and he walked slow and dragging feet. The hall was long and blue, and the whole damn place looked too old for living, but Misha didn't mind it any. It was romantic some, if you thought old Gothic things were romantic, and Misha reckoned he did.
He turned down one corner, then down at another. "He says I should come on home. He says my daddy's real fussed with me. He says I'm better than this, and that He'll always forgive me. Course, He says that through other angels, but He says it all the same. He don't do a lot of talking on His own." Misha was smiling out the side of his mouth when he looked over at Oliver. Misha expected the boy to think his guide was missing marbles. He'd be worried if Oliver didn't think that.
But Misha was hoping the present he was about to serve up, that it would make all the madness the world had in it tolerable. Down a real quiet and forgotten hall, and behind an incongruous and yellow door at the end, there was a room that sat stocked and quiet, looking like it had been lifted from another time and with light streaming in perfect.