Re: Capital: Misha/Damian
It occurred in a span of seconds, the displacement. It was not a feeling of falling, in spite of the sudden removal of both bed and floor. In fact, it did not feel like much at all, save for the light breeze and the sounds of flight that gave it away. But then, it was over. Damian, who had been moved by Misha before, was startled only briefly, as he had been lying prone upon his bed, with his tablet dropped to his side. The next thing he knew, all of the shadows of his room, the soft sounds of a fire crackling, and the scents of oil and smoke were all gone, replaced by a thud of music created electronically, the stench of the public toilet and... sex and sweat, and the low lights that reflected reds and chipped paint of the stall.
Damian was aware the space he was in was confined before his brain made sense of it, simply due to the constraint of acoustics—the visceral sounds of sex ticked off of tiles, over and under, and the ambient noises filled the ears. And there was Misha. The shirt made very little sense to Damian, but he did not care. As the boy before him was puzzled together by the threads of his senses, he smiled something small and reactionary, pleased by the baring of belly and the stricture of jeans on thighs and hips.—Obviously, the smile was gone by the time he did settle.
Per usual, the man was dressed darkly. His hoodie had been left behind, but that did not matter. His t-shirt managed an off-brown, rather than an off-black, which, in spite of what it may have looked like, was not an attempt at 'gussying.' It was simple chance. His hair was stuck up in the back from lying on the bed, but Damian, for all of his consciousness of details and appearances, thought caring about such below him.—He did care as to how Misha looked, as it was relevant. The boy seemed better than he had been earlier, with more color, which was positive.
Thankfully, the packet of cigarettes that was in Damian's back pocket (squashed only some) had made the trip, so he was able to remove one with some finessing. He did not offer one to Misha, and, instead looked at him, quite intently and unblinkingly, as he lit the thing. After an inhale and an exhale, he finally spoke. "Where are we?" He could make a guess, but he chose not to. Rather, he glanced at the joining of their feet, toward the sounds of sexual intimacy, and back up without any change to his indifferent expression.