Re: [Island to Shore: Dami & Misha]
[Damian felt the smile form on Misha's lips, and he rolled his eyes as he pulled away. But, he smiled too, as if he had caught the stupid contagion. He talked then on resources, et cetera, and Misha did appear to listen, even if he did not agree aloud. The driving was meant to make him feel more capable, but Damian was not thinking on this with any clarity as the boy rocked against his thumbs and against him. His gaze was open on Misha and it glazed, only briefly, with familiar want. But, as I said, this was brief, then Misha was confessing something that was not wildly surprising, but still unexpected.] It was about your mother, [he translated (for himself), slowly. His gaze was steady, though it lacked its usual steel.] No. You have not mentioned it before. Did you wish to die, or only to feel as she felt before she did? [Softer, he said,] I do not think you can drown. I am glad, too, that you did not. [Damian allowed his face to be manhandled. The perk of a smile lifted the corners of his lips slightly.] Nor did I.
[It was not incongruous then to cinch closely together. It was a natural, logical progression, to Damian, anyway. The kiss as well. It was confirmation or need or... who knew what it was? It did not particularly matter. What mattered is that there was no space, and Damian did not want any either. He held on, until his chin was pressed upward and, cowardly perhaps, he reached improbably closer.—That Misha returned the embrace, that he did not turn him away, brought relief, as Damian realized he had feared such. But, the boy pinned him close, and he did the same, even enjoying the slow rocking movement. Like the repetition of Misha's fingers in his hair, it was soothing in a way Damian could not determine.] I would have killed her. I would have wanted to. If she had told me I would not, I would have, to show her she did not know me and she was wrong. I am the only one who controls myself. [He closed his eyes. Misha pressed lips to temple, and Damian squeezed the boy tighter.
It was true that he did not feel fear, not this particular brand. His heart was not clenched in his chest, as Misha's was, over someone left behind to die—though, while it was accidental in the angel's case, it was not in Damian's. In fact, the man felt nothing in relation to the woman. He did not feel guilt, but nor did he feel pleasure. He was empty.—He turned his face upward finally when Misha admitted his own fear. He peered searchingly at the boy.] Fine, [he said. A little clumsily, he continued:] It is okay. What is it you fear? [He cocked his head.] If she is dead, then I am not as you have chosen to see me?