Re: [Island to Shore: Dami & Misha]
[The passing utterances about the lake and the dead, about people appearing to Misha as lights and sound, it was reminiscent of how Misha had described being a guardian angel to Damian. Like it was a constant awareness, an ability to tap in, if he chose. But, with the boy as he was now, the man could not immediately decide if saying as much would help Misha feel saner or only make it worse. He had never before worried so much over 'making it worse' for someone. He would say what needed to be said. It was foreign, and uncomfortable, and Damian stared with too-wide eyes. His voice was its usual flat lack of affect and slight drag.] It does not sound mad as anything, Misha. [He said this firmly.] We will talk about it when we are done with this. [It was the best Damian felt he could do in the moment.—As for his own idiotic preoccupation with suicide, he just shook his head.] It does not matter. The morphine helps. [It was undue pressure, but Damian did not think on it twice.] You help more.
[The man did not say anything about not being Grandfather. He was all too aware of the differences between him and his predecessor, myriad and wide-berthed. But, the angel was correct. The two of them were as hypocritical as the other. Damian tried not to allow emotion to eke into his expression. He did not wish for his appeal to be so open. So, he only stared, then said, leaning too much against one palm as thumb stroked:] Fine.
[In the chair, with the boy's lips to his skin, with his spine lighting up nerve endings like lights upon a string, Damian suppressed a shudder. He curled his feet inward, until his heels were to Misha's shins and his toes upon the boy's, the flat of his foot running up shin as well. The angel beneath him then circled around him, and Damian felt once more regretful that they were needed elsewhere. It was not only the addict's compulsive desire for the high of distraction that would have had him shift on his ass—suggestively, so as it arouse Misha, obviously. It was something more animal, as if their reunion required ridiculous celebration. But, of course, he did no such thing, and they did no such thing.
Docked, he turned upon his perch to peer at Misha. He lifted his chin to glare down as he listened, attempting to too steady his breathing as he did so. He could feel the tidal swell of emotion. But, he was pleased to hear the boy tell him he was different. Why he needed that, he did not know.] If you are certain, [he said with some petulance.—He required his Suboxone soon. Or the morphine. They needed only go inside. Damian's gaze snapped to Misha's when the boy took his chin. He gazed down and allowed himself a smile upon the agreement to going to the Capital.
The man stood then, easing around the console, to pull Misha up from the chair by the hand, and he tugged him in, as the boy had him, by the wrist, into an embrace as the hatch opened to sunlight. He turned his cheek against black hoodie and pale cheek to say:] Thank you. [Of course, he was immediately embarrassed and so he just tucked his nose where he found he liked, under chin and against throat, and stayed.]