Re: Capital: Misha/Damian/Jason
To Damian, family was blood and solely blood. Grandfather, Mother, Father, and Helena. He had an aunt, a great-aunt, but they were not so forefront to him. None of it was vibrant, but for the red of bloodlines, that in his veins a deliberate choice. Several named Woods, Greyson, and the rest his siblings, but had never warmed to it. If his feelings were fraternal toward any of them, he refused to acknowledge it. As for austerity, that was the entirety of the al-Gols and Father. The vibrancy was but the tie of blood as ribbon in veins, the honor and disgraces of ancestors therein.—He knew it was different for Misha and Woods both, the concept of 'family,' but that did not alter how it was for him. He rolled his eyes at the comment—and reply—about assholes, but left it at that.
That mention of spoons did precisely what Misha predicted it would. Damian glowered over his cocktail, not even remotely ashamed that he should be called on the behavior with exactness. "If it is 'too fucking adorable,' the door is right there, Woods. We are not spoons." Another turvy roll of eyes, an action that did not repeat yet again only as Misha sounded—affectionate or something akin to it when speaking of Greyson. His glare swung sideways to the boy. "He is failing people," said Damian without forgiveness. "He has not even bothered with any of us." Perhaps the man's obvious irritation at Greyson, the result of an equally obvious hurt, belied how he truly felt about whether this was a family or not, but he did not look so deeply into it. And if Misha was giving, Damian was steel. "Catalone and Sasha are criminals as well. Woods and I are too, per Father, I am certain, as we have blood on our hands. It was not a total condemnation. But it is what he is. And he is stupid." A look for Woods and his bottle. "It sounds thrilling. Truly a good use of your skills, Woods."
Damian was very confident in his appraisals of character, as they had not come from nothing. But, he did keep quiet as Misha spoke on Miller, then Barbara. He flashed another glower the angel's way, but it was intercepted by a cheek-kiss and a smug smile, and he had no choice. Damian laughed. "Shut up," he said, but it was not so serious. With a sigh over his cocktail: "Miller was sad as Nelson did not return her feelings or some such. It is always this way with them. Barbara—Woods can tell you, if he wishes." He smiled with a feigned sweetness that was very much a wolf playing prey. "Leena is Helena. Catalone and Father's daughter."
When Misha pulled himself from the sofa, Damian shifted to the side to allow him space to maneuver, and looked up, his abandoned hand taking up the stem of his glass. The man's confusion turned to a small revelation of a smile, and he leaned back, his eyes following the angel as the boy threaded up to the stage and sat. He did not speak to Woods, as he was busy allowing himself to look up from Misha's spread thighs to his face as he began singing. He was not familiar with the song, but it snagged at him, somewhere behind his sternum, and he forgot his drink as much as the man across from him. He stared, and his interest was beyond sexual and emotion (though that was certainly present); it meted into artistic, a scouring of details, the play of light, the shade of lips and cheeks, the expression. He did not expect the song's culmination, so caught up was he in the act of its continuation, that the silence strung itself out in a bangle before it registered. Of course, the applause came then, as the rest of the smattered crowd appeared to return to themselves as well. Damian seemed to realize his expression had gone soft, nearly open, and he frowned down at his cocktail without a look to Woods. He applauded too, but with no outstanding enthusiasm, as he did nothing with outstanding enthusiasm.
If and when Misha returned, however, he did reach for him and pull him onto the sofa by the wrist or the band of his jeans, and into his lap. He appeared now both smug and pleased by his boyfriend's performance.