Re: Log: Damian/Misha
Damian had not had his own space until this manor. Even his bedroom back at Father's in Jersey had held the feel of other. Brocade on the bed, and a room designed baroque. Even further back, on the island he had grown up on, there was no such thing as privacy. Once he was out of the artificial womb, he had a pallet bed, but spent most of his time engaged in studies, physical, mental, and otherwise. And nowhere he was was off-limits to Mother or Grandfather or his various guardians and professors. Here, obviously, he had this bedroom. And it was safe, in a way, because there was no encroachment. (Save for the Teo woman's intrusion that once. But, now that he had everything set up, she would no longer be able to blunder her way in.)—None of which meant that Damian did not wish to leave. It was simply that if he stayed, this was where he wished to be. If they were to depart, it would be fine, as well, so long as he and Misha were alone. Thus were his feelings on the matter, anyway.
He was not dwelling on this, however, as Damian was distracted in the moment. As much as a man such as him could be distracted. He was not intoxicated, per se. He was out a ways from the shores of morphine high, bobbing out to sea. It dragged there underneath, perhaps, as it always did until it wore off, but it did not overwhelm. It was not even enough to file away at the edge. Like an aching tooth, it remained, but, also like an aching tooth, Damian ignored it. His attention left himself and his metaphorical navel at the entrance of Misha, and, for better or worse, the man allowed himself to wind completely around the angel, emotionally. Not so much as a snake constricting, as ivy climbing tree. Perhaps because he distanced himself aggressively from his emotions with the crowbar of opioids, he was not aware of the fact that he was soap in Misha's grip. Damian did not have a baseline for himself, because to have such would take a level of introspection he detested.
So, his focus was Misha, the way the boy joined him on the bed and how the bed dipped under his weight. He listened to the movement of angel upon duvet, of breathing. He leaned into the touch to his neck, smiling at the ticklish brush of hair, and feeling the vibrations of Misha's deep voice as they moved through him. Damian glanced over, though it was impossible to do so entirely given their proximity. He was told he was pretty. He smelled of agarwood, musk, myrrh, and cigarette smoke. He lifted a hand to blond and to cheek and caressed both without a word. Misha's presence made him feel better for reasons Damian did not wish to dwell upon, and, physical contact did even more. Perhaps it was the difference between reading about the scent of roses and truly smelling them. The intellectual was powerful, but it could not substitute the tactile. "I am not jealous," he countered at once, furrow between brows, though he did not pull away. Was he? He could not say, and he refused to dig into whatever it was that massed in his chest like a stone.
Instead, he picked up one of the two bottles. "This is the Suboxone. I have told you before, it is for maintenance. It allows me not to suffer the effects of morphine withdrawal, though it too blocks opioid receptors, so I cannot get the 'high' effects. It contains Naxone, which does not take effect unless administered intravenously. Naxone is for overdoses and immediately induces unpleasant withdrawal-like effects. On a day to day basis, the Suboxone is what I take. Withdrawal sets in quite nearly immediately, in a very mild form. It is at its worst at about 72 hours in, though it is bad six to 12 hours in." Damian set one bottle down and traded it for the other. He continued his educational speaking, as flatly as ever. "The morphine I take 30 milligrams once a day, unless I am not able to. I do not take enough to be impaired." A glance to Misha. "What else do I need to tell you? I do not know what it is you wish to know precisely."