Re: Quiet Home: Damian & Misha
Damian would not insult the blind and say only they would not be able to realize Misha was acting not as himself. No, anyone with any manner of perception would have been able to discern the difference between the boy slumped before Damian and the other. Misha was sharpness as it was found on the edge of a feather, with enough speed and pressure it could be made into a razor blade on the skin. Which is to say, he may have appeared soft and acted so, but there was nothing unfocused about him. Here, he could not even manage to shift his gaze to Damian where he sat.
"Yes," was the man's response to his own existential confirmation. He did not watch the pearl of drool as it slid down wither-gray chin. He stared, as he always did. He waited for Misha to continue, as he could tell he was going to, just slowly. "I am real." Affirmation couched in coldness. Damian frowned, the film of his annoyance cast aside to perhaps preview true concern when Misha expressed that he was 'just like him.' It was not true, but he did not say it. "Okay."
There was nothing further to be expressed, as then, Misha seemed to come into focus, a camera's gaze finding its point of distance. Damian recognized the spur: fear. In seconds, the two of them were upon their feet and moving. Damian did not remove his hand from Misha's. (There was an infinitesimal thrill that palpitated his heart at the contact and he drowned it.) His grip was not limp. It was hard and unyielding and he was not going to release the boy, even as he was led. It was a tether. His steps were determined and did not give to Misha's desperation, only for the simple fact that shuffling at any high rate of speed would be conspicuous to any in the vicinity. "I am coming. I am with you," he told him. There was an attempt at soothing there, however paltry. It was accompanied by a squeeze of fingers. He did not look behind him. He maintained his demeanor and asked, "Who is it?"