Re: Manor: Damian/Misha
[He did not offer an honest answer. He offered no answer at all. Damian looked down imperiously at Misha, cold eyes hardly warmed by the fire, and he pushed away from tapping slipper. For the first time, some of his mask slipped, agitation showing through crack and something sadder through splinter, but the man was agile on his feet and turned away before too much happened. By the time he had crossed back to his desk, he felt in control again and managed to throw a glare over his shoulder.] I said I would help. I will help. [Damian turned away again, his gaze settling on the easel before him. The painting itself, the bones and beginnings of one were traditional. It would be a floral piece in purples and golds and acrylic.—The man debated, for a split second, just tossing it in the fire, but he resisted the urge.
He lit a cigarette while still facing away from Misha, and pivoted to face him as stiff as stone. Smoke corkscrewed up toward the ceiling.] Do you talk to him with regularity? Your father. [He blanked his interest to nothingness on his features. Indeed, he simply lifted his chin and exhaled as if he felt nothing at all.]