Re: Quiet Home: Damian & Misha
Damian was not hectic. The sleek black car he arrived in was not hectic. Even the rumpled, mismatched black of hoodie and jeans were not hectic. He was unwavering, even as the thrashing sea around him churned—staff, patients, visitors, emotions, affections, connections. It sucked at him and he did not pay it mind. It was an exercise in which he was well-versed. It was wrapping oneself in a bubble, so as to observe the world as it worked around you and to pare details from minutia only visible from a distance.
He did not assess his own feelings on the matter of this visit. He did wonder, however, as to the cause behind the cessation of visitation to the Manor. A small, indistinct sliver of his soul told him it was Misha, who did not wish to see him, but he knew that was false, as he had been invited here. The rest of him was able to read the sharp blade of consonants cut from honey as the other boy's words flowed, stopped, flowed, as if under very careful control. He could not say precisely the cause, but he could generalize: Misha was likely under some influence. He had misbehaved and they had taken away his privileges.
This was the hypothesis he carried with him as he walked into that clouded atrium, his hands in his pockets and his hood up. He had been checked over for contraband, but carried none. Damian's gaze as he entered that wide, long room studded with chairs and anguish sought out Misha, found him, small, by a window. Once there, it did not move. He was aware of the chaos around him, but he did not care.—From a small distance, he was able to confirm that Misha had been sedated. The strange body language had indicated as much, but closer, he was also able to see a slipped gaze and saliva gathering at the corner of lips.
Okay.
He sat. Across. He looked at Misha, lifting his chin as he appraised him. "Speak to me."