Damian and Leena in NJ
Damian did not possess meds, but he had his own coping mechanisms tucked away safely in the over-hot sleeve of his hoodie, and, as they had no security to pass through, the jet owned and paid for, it was indeed safe. He had not brought anything resembling a suitcase either. Perhaps he had been alone too long, because he didn't think about the fact that he had the same ensemble on for many days prior to the flight. It didn't smell. Pathetically low standards, yes, he would have agreed, but he did not care to think on it. Instead, he chose to spend the duration of the journey alone in private quarters (which housed a bed), and he read and painted and sat, and emerged at the end of the flight exactly as he had come into it. Seemingly unfettered and with his gaze cold.
He ought to have paid Leena more mind, but he was not feeling particularly social, in spite of all his offerings, and, in all honesty, he did not enjoy being around others while or just after he used. It was like opening himself up to scrutiny, allowing a wound to be glimpsed, and that could not be undone. Wisps clung to him and his veins, but he was fine. He even tried to give his sister a smile—albeit tight and not particularly genuine—as they alighted the aircraft and entered the perfect interior of a long, black car.
The ride to the manor, far outside of town though it was, was not, in reality, any great distance, as the small, nearly-private airport was Wainright-owned. It was over before it truly began, or so Damian believed the idiom went, and he entered the graveyard of Father's house, the seat of the Wainrights now forsaken, behind Leena. He did not assist her in attempting to decipher a past that may or may not have been. She seemed to want to be alone and he did too, so he found his bedroom, the one occupied for so little time, and he considered going into the basement, but he ultimately did not.
Instead, he laid in his bed, on his stomach, though he had been taught not to do so, as it was more difficult to rise quickly, if needed, and he picked at the rich, wrought fabric of his comforter. He tore at its perfection until a thread came loose, and then he kept pulling. It was a slow unraveling, but he was committed, and by the time he heard a voice outside the closed door, he realized he had a wad of gilt thread tight around his palm, his fingers nearly blanched at the tips. Quickly, he tried to free his hand, tearing at the cage he'd wound himself. Rather brusquely, he loudly said: "Obviously. Come in." He found a small hidden blade of his and freed his palm, working blood into his fingers as he stood from the nonsensically gigantic bed.
He presented himself as impassive to his sister. His eyes were a milk grass green and cold. But, it was difficult to tell if that was intentional or default. He tugged his hood up and looked out warily at Leena. "Did you find anything?"