Re: Capital: Misha/Damian
The flare of smugness on Misha's face informed Damian that he had not been quick enough by far with the removal of his own. He rolled his eyes, but he did not manage to hold out indefinitely. The hint of a smile returned to the quirked corners of his own lips, though it never fully manifested. He would not go that far.
He was intimately aware of the angel's saintly blue gaze on him in a very unsaintly manner. Of course he did, as he was staring at the boy across from him with an intensity that bordered on physical, as pressure on bare skin.—Damian did not step back as Misha leveraged near on shoes born pink. His own were black against the sodden tiles, and they came together as the boy cleaved, so very briefly, to Damian for a kiss. It was not enough, Damian felt, and deeply. He was neither soft nor cool, but an immediate lick of heat and his usual brute force, limned with cigarette smoke.
Damian opened his eyes to look at Misha as he spoke, this ice-ringed sea square on blue sky. "Okay," he said, just to be difficult, and perhaps to feel Misha's lips against his own as he did so. He smiled, and it was very purposefully smug.—Before he could punctuate the expression with a drag from his cigarette, however, Misha shoved the door behind Damian open, and out they went, the man offering no resistance to the tug upon his fingers.
He found he liked Misha's hand in his, the thought settling like sediment in his stomach, just before his eye and astute senses, honed to find exits and every other potentiality, were drawn by the bar around them. He was able to discern that it was a gay bar immediately, as everyone was with a member of the same sex. It took no mental work at all, and that allowed Damian to turn his head, to look from one wall to the other, across the spanning sea of bodies and horrible, sticky music, as he took in the information as a computer being fed binary. His gaze snapped back to Misha when the boy spoke, there before the enclave of the night, and he peered over his shoulder once more, before he was taken out into the bowels of the city.
Damian had been here, a handful of times, though dressed quite differently. It was back before Father had returned, when he was acting as the Shadow. But, streets always looked quite different from above. Damian recognized the landscape, but the finer features were new. The people here were young, his and Misha's age, and nearly every other establishment was some manner of drinking house. Once again, the man looked around with a keen eye. It was not so much curiosity as it was wishing to know. Perhaps those were the same thing.
Their joined hands flattening Damian's hair made him look to Misha again. He was not ashamed either, though he never was—at least not outwardly, and certainly not about this. He did not know to be, regardless. As the angel in pink propped against him, Damian looked at him, his cigarette smoking uselessly in his free hand. He had forgotten about it, momentarily. Briefly, he chewed over the information of their final destination, before he told Misha very matter-of-factly, "You look pretty."—As heat neared his knuckles, he remembered the cigarette, ashed it, and brought it back to his lips, his gaze still canted at the boy against his side. He was only marginally aware of those around them, which was stupid (for any assassin), but he did not care. "You will let me kiss you, before we enter." Not a question.