Re: Quiet Home: Misha & Oliver
Misha tossed himself down sitting on the table easy, long legs hanging and the fiddle settling down in his lap. He was breathing hard some, the air around him crisp cool, just like it always was, and he huffed through pretty lips and smiled through those huffs at the boy with the fingers that flew in a whole different way than his own did with bow and string. "I can play quieter next time, so you won't be bothered some. I know all the classics too. I'm real musical," he explained, proud of what he could do, and not shying from it at all. Misha, he really didn't live shy. He was bold as brass, and that was born out of a desire to feel every damn thing going in his pores.
"I like you," he said, plain as could be. Misha, he fixed on folks quick and easy, and he liked the dark-haired boy with the shadows beneath his eyes. There was something real uncomfortable and frail about Oliver, and Misha didn't find himself wanting to fix it any. He thought it was beautiful, like those vases that cracked, where gold was added in the schism lines. It made the cracks pretty, better than when the vase was whole, and Misha thought Oliver felt like that some.
His gaze dropped to the pamphlet, to what he could see of the lines there, and he wasn't fussed any by the almost-wings. Misha, he talked God a lot, so it wasn't real strange to see those wings. The flutter in the room just then, it was real muted, but it wasn't deliberate any. That kind of thing, it just happened some.
"You're going to be just fine," he told Oliver, soothing and that voice that he'd been born with, the one that said trust me, pretty, on account of where I come from and what I am. "About the dead girl. I know it's wrecking you some now, but it'll fade, and you'll work it into what you put down on canvas, and you'll be right. Just don't let it tangle up with the past, sugar. The past, that's something different. Always is, but sometimes things get tangled when new things happen."