Re: Log: Damian/Misha
The cameras were vigilance of the offensive and defensive kind. They were meant to espy (attempted) intruders, whatever their make, and, simply, to surveil. They allowed Damian it amass data on normal activity within the manor and near his door. He was able to see who might linger around outside, or, if by some miracle, someone happened to bypass his security protocols, he would know who the culprit was. But, Damian was an extremely private person and his bedroom was as a sanctuary to him. It ought not have been. It was but a room. An assassin was not meant to grow attached to anything, including spaces. But, he had lived here too long now to not have an affection. Even when the manor had been empty, this had been Damian's space. It was small and neat and dark, and within, he did not have to keep his guard up quite as much.
The man on the bed recognized the approaching gait as Misha's. He was able to ascertain the angel wore boots and that they were either very loose on the foot or untied (or both; likely both). He did not turn at the opening of the door, his back to it. He listened through the veil of music as Misha deposited what was likely his instrument against the wall, he gazed at his own fingers where they laid stark against the orange meant to prevent ultraviolet degradation of the contained pharmaceuticals. His skin seemed dark to him, which was strange, as it had always been his. He spread his fingers just as Misha's knees met the mattress. Finally, he looked over.
Pink puffy nipple was bared where the angel's old shirt had torn across the chest. Fine dirty blond hair was tangled in sleep-wilderness, and the sallow purple that leadened beneath bright blue eyes remained as it always did. Damian allowed his gaze to rake upward, over range and valley of lips chapped, nose, to eyes. His skin shined with the exertion of performance, like a lick of moonlight upon lakewater. Misha, he thought not for the first time, was very pretty. Most days, he accepted that this boy was a weakness. He was worth whatever risks came with it. But, Damian did wish he did not feel. It was another lack of control and one he could not get a handle on, not even with the assistance of his little bottles. He looked away, his own bright gaze moving to open window, then back to his hands.
"You may sit," he said, shifting on his ass to make room on the narrow bed. The man gestured to his phone. It laid near his foot. He had seen the conversation with the pianist, though it did not stir any feelings within him. Instead, he gleaned from the conversation that Misha needed his music. "We will get you back to the carnival." Damian looked up once more with the beginnings of a cool smile. "It is time." If and when Misha sat, the man was quick to lean against him, his side or his back or however he could with his legs still crossed.