Re: Quiet Home: Billy/Misha
"Manicure and pedicure," Misha corrected easy and with a real pretty grin. "You play older in the dark. You do that on purpose?" he asked, real direct, and being fuzzy made his tongue looser than it normally was. Didn't take a whole lot, though, to be real honest. Misha, he wasn't made for hushing his thoughts. The boy was earthbound to live and, in his real certain estimation, living meant talking and fucking and trying every damn thing put in front of him. Misha, he wasn't worried any 'bout his secrets or his feelings. Hurting, he knew, was exquisite. It separated folks from angels, see, because angels didn't feel a damn thing worth feeling. It was all serenity, and serenity was boring as watching paint dry slow. Hurting came with living, and Misha hungered for it, just like he hungered for everything else. Emotional hurting, that was just as precious.
Misha motioned to a chair close, and then he pulled it closer. He tugged it with long fingers, and he didn't stop until the corner of his chair was touching the chair he was offering to Billy. "You sit down, and you say all the words at me. Don't stop talking until you got nothing left to spit on past those sweet lips." Misha wasn't even seducing. He was just saying, true as true could be, what he wanted Billy to do. He lowered his voice some. "The conversation here, it ain't real good sometimes." Meetings were good, but that was mostly on account of folks coming from outside. Folks that came and went, bringing in the smell of living and dropping tales in the center of a therapy circle.
He reached for the bread Billy held awkward, and he unwrapped it and settled it on his legs. Misha was all curled up now. Legs crossed and on the cushion of the old chair, and the bread sat flat against his thighs. Misha picked at it with brightly bedecked fingernails, and he tucked pieces between his lips pleased. Maybe it wasn't gentlemanly or real polite, but it was nice tasting, and Misha hummed pretty in appreciation. "We don't eat." He wasn't talking 'bout the Quiet Home, and maybe it made no sense, but Misha didn't notice. "I can tell you 'bout folks here, if you tell me 'bout folks outside. Like stories 'round a bonfire that blazes high into the sky and tries to kiss Heaven." He took another bite of bread. "But you can't kiss Heaven, on account of Heaven being right here." Misha made a real expansive sweep with bread-cling fingers.