Re: Capital: Misha/Damian
Damian could be patient, if necessary or advantageous, or if he did not care to be otherwise. It required more effort, however, in situations such as these, he had learned only recently, when none of the three applied, and, in fact, he actively wished to be impatient. That he did not latch onto Misha, and hard, was, indeed, an expression of extreme self-control, or so he thought. He thereafter had to ignore much of the boy, so as to be able to commit, but it was not too difficult, with all of the sights and sounds and so on that flooded his senses with their newness.
Misha proved impossible to ignore in entirety, however, outside, with an expression of open awe on his face. That this drew Damian's eye was stupid, but it was true. He watched the angel gazing around with a contentment and excitement Wainright Manor certainly did not elicit to fine features.—The grip of the pale hand on his, too, was not something that he could pretend did not exist, so tight it was, blanching his own dark skin to white. The paranoia he recognized as it continued to fray to fetters, metabolized slowly from bloodstream. It was an extreme dilution of the days prior, however, so Damian was not overwhelmingly concerned about it. He was concerned, of course. He would have the results from the angel's blood soon, and he would have more data on other possible reactions, etc., but for now, that the leaden yoke of paranoia and fear had lifted some was good enough. (Not that he had seen too much of Misha over the last couple of days. The angel was very good at hiding himself away.)
Damian tutted when the boy looked at him and all but challenged Damian to tell him he was wrong. Which Damian could have done. It would not have been true, but he did not worry so much about lying. It was just that he did not want to. "Shut up," he told Misha, forcing his own expression to blankness, as if that could undo whatever it was the angel saw now and before that gave him away.—But, it was impossible not to react to the smile that formed on angelic lips after, and Damian's mirrored the boy's, rounding cigarette. He exhaled and passed the thing over, in case Misha wished for a drag, as he tried to think of what he had been told.—He did not have the shame or understanding to couch his words carefully. So, there, on the neon-lit street, he just made his guess. "That I would come in your mouth next time?" He blinked, seriousness on his face, as if raking through other parts of their conversations. "Or is this about me asking you to be my boyfriend?" He had a feeling he was not correct on either conjecture, but he tried, and perhaps he enjoyed those two points simply for what they were.