Re: Capital: Misha/Damian
Had anyone taken offense to the behavior and actions of the two on the sidewalk, hand-in-hand and inches apart, Damian would have had no issue with putting whomever in their place, which, for the uninitiated, was very far beneath the gum-stick of Damian's sneaker sole. Of course, for all the come Misha had swallowed, Damian had not. For all the black eyes, he had none. But, was any stupid enough to attempt it, it was more than likely that Damian's bit of self-defense would be swift and fatal, but such were the risks of forcing one's views on others with a closed fist. Were it not fatal, the reaction would at the very least be incredibly painful and involve a high proportion of broken fingers.—Though he had had hours of education on American (Puritanical) society, it was different living something, than reading about it on a page. That anyone should take issue with him and Misha did not occur to the inexperienced man. If he had been less wound up in the pale boy beside him, it is possible it might have occurred to him, but even that was no given.
The Wainright heir was busy ignoring the wattage of the angel's smile, as well as the sweetness of the nuzzling close, though he did not go so far as to not lean into the other boy, as he could not (and did not wish to) help that. But, other than that obvious shift of weight and the feather-curl of a smile on his own lips, he did not react.—The smile was allowed to bear fruit, briefly, heavy on the vine of lips, as Damian watched Misha wet the end of the cigarette. To take pleasure in such an innocuous action was bizarre, but he did so. He took back the cigarette and pressed his tongue to the filter, once it was taken soggily between his own lips, as if he might taste the angel there. He did not. Damian inhaled deeply.
"I would like to come in your mouth," he announced with too much volume amid billow of smoke. "And I would like you to come in mine." Damian's smile now was a sliver of dazzling, Wainright charm that had died in Father's veins long before Damian was conceived.—He watched with eyes as wide as moons twinned in the sky and shaded over with green, gaze following the lift of joined hands to Misha's lips. He took a drag that was far too hard on the cigarette, and it finally collapsed, orange ash tipping to the gritty sidewalk. Damian dropped the butt and ground it out as he exhaled once more.
He had no scars either, though he had, instead, years and years of indoctrination against any manner of emotional expression. It was due to this that he did not blush or even smile once more as Misha spoke. "I liked you," he admitted, though not with any particular ease. Damian dragged the boy closer to his side by the hand, so that they would be shoulder-to-shoulder, and so that he could blow the remnants of smoke right in the angel's face. Just because. (Now he smiled, but it was not a nice smile.) "You liked me." He thought this was true. Damian blinked slowly. "If you are my boyfriend and I am yours, is Oliver still yours?" These equations of emotion were not clear to the man, but he attempted to get it all out in the open.