Re: Capital: Misha/Damian/Jason
Tepidity, disinterest, disdain, distance, and dismissiveness were the typical emotions and feelings Damian had toward most things and people. There was anger, too, but even that did not burn so brightly. The plane he existed on was quite gray, nondescript, and stories and stories above everyone else, at least in his head, on an echelon he occupied alone. With Misha, it was not like that, which, he realized, was a common trope in fiction. The angel was correct, in that, if he did not feel what he felt, as strongly as he felt it, they would not be here right now. Contrary to his obvious weaknesses, Damian had a great deal of willpower and self-control. That he should slip up meant he was offered something he could not resist, and not for lack of trying. There were some moments where he told himself it was okay, to have these faults, but most of the time, he found himself pitiable.
Thusly, he did not think on himself often, though, as suspected, he was nearly always thinking on something. Or someone. What anyone else should think of Misha or his association with Misha was unimportant to him, as their opinions did not matter. That his flaws should be shined upon, glaringly, he bore with less imperiousness.—But, that moment had passed, he thought, with Woods. His hackles remained raised, but, it was easier on the sofa with Misha to put it at a distance. And Damian, he was skilled at distance. It was the closeness that troubled him and that he handled with inept fingers. But, he did try. He even smiled when Misha tried out his own tut. Damian almost told him to shut up, but he did not, as Misha came to a pause. It was as if there was weight to that lull, so the man waited.
He did not fully expect what he was told, but that was no matter. A part of Damian wished to curl up there, on the sofa, but he was not so stupid. "I am not ashamed," he said with a firmness, his head atop Misha's, his hand in the boy's.—In fact, he switched hands, so that he might put one arm over narrow shoulders as Misha wriggled closer. They were nearly fused at the hip at this point, but it was, again, comfortable (which was a state Damian did not put much stock in, but that he appreciated now). He did not apologize for the inadvertent injury to Misha's feelings, but only as he did not apologize as a rule. "I care what you think as well. I will not have you believing I do not like how you are, as you." He was nearing territory he did not need to touch, where things got... sticky, for lack of a better word. He just shook his head lightly, bapping his skull to Misha's. He reassessed and continued. "You will be my boyfriend," he told Misha. "I will be yours."
That settled that.
Damian was lulled there, in the cradle of cushion and boy, and he rubbed knuckles to his cheeks thoughtless, as the angel admitted to not knowing of the Lazarus Pits. Damian let his head loll back to the spine of the sofa. "He has a soul. Perhaps it is fractured or wounded. The Pits affect the mind, usually temporarily, inducing madness upon resurrection. Each Pit might be used once by each person. For Woods, it was a series of traumatic head injuries, inflicted by a man to incite Father." Damian said all of this without emotion, but with a modicum of quiet for once. "That is why he feels different." He stared at Woods from across the room and he was not subtle. He simply lifted a hand impatiently, where're the drinks?