Re: Log: Damian/Misha
If Damian was ambered room and rich oud over tobacco grime, Misha was bright ozone, a cool day in spring. They were scents that ought have clashed, and instead, they mingled, overlapping as scales did on a snake into smooth keel. A ridiculous metaphor, perhaps. Damian did not think about it. He brushed his thumb and fingertips along Misha's cheek, into the gold waters of his hair. He watched the angel speak, each word a conclusion of complex interacting systems and processes within, or, a series of electrical impulses input in a specific order that any could achieve, if they followed it step by step. Perhaps both.—Damian did not use the word 'amazing,' not often. It felt too much. He was not often amazed. But, he did agree in this instance. It should not be so powerful, the physical touch of another. "Yes," he said, his eyes attempting to follow the descent of thumb until said thumb was too close and he could no longer see it. His lip gave under easy pressure, and Damian frowned, as if attempting to puzzle out what it was Misha struggled with precisely.
Was he fussed? He felt nothing, but that weight of rock behind his sternum. He felt warm. Yes, the room was warm and his skin was beginning to dampen beneath hoodie. It could have been sweat from his time on the windowsill, even an automatic bodily reaction to the height, though Damian did not suffer from vertigo or acrophobia. It could not be withdrawal, could it? Perhaps it did not matter. He was warm and distant and was he jealous? He said he was not, but he did not consider it truly. It was not as if he truly believed the outlying pianist presented an impending threat, therefore, jealousy would be as useless as it was irrational. If there was a threat, at least he would be able to utilize the emotion. Damian was not prone to worrying about abstract potentialities. Strategy was knowing they were there and they could come, without giving them undue attention.—He knew it was not about working. He only spoke of it as Misha had in the conversation, both over the phone and with the anonymous man. He only spoke of it as he was attempting to establish a connection. Clearly, it had not been successful.
"I am not telling you you must," the man clarified. "If playing helps, if working helps, then why should you not do it? You have not had an easy time of it since you have come to stay here, after the electro-convulsive application. It is obvious to me that you have been struggling. The party and the subsequent events stressed that even more. It is disassociation." He had seen it. "And so, if it helps, that is what I want."
Damian shifted as the angel did then, thighs abutting, as he attempted to educate the boy on the pills, on his weakness. If his voice was flat, he did not notice. He normally lacked sufficient affect, and this was no different. Was it? He did not like not knowing, but at the same time, he did not really wish to know. Obviously, the addict side of him did not wish for teeth to be pulled from this particular mouth. He did not wish to contribute to his own lack. And yet, as with the knowing, he also did. Damian did not want to be as he was, but changing had proven much more difficult than he had anticipated, even with Misha. He had thought himself willful enough, strong enough even in this disgusting weakness, to stop when he wished to. And now, he could not. It was stupid. But, it was vital to him, to a part of him. How did he explain that? With Misha's hand over his pale, how did he explain the tectonic contradiction?
Frustrated with himself, Damian shook his head. He shoved the bottles from the bed like an angry child in a fit, and crossed his arms, setting chin to chest. He spoke like that, muffled by his hoodie. Misha faced him now, asked him what it was he was inclined to do. Already he regretted pushing the damn bottle off the mattress. "Let us go." He attempted to take Misha's hand in his own, if he was able. "Away from here." Damian looked to the boy. And as the string of drool was to Misha in the Quiet Home, so was the shred of desperation in pupil-pinned eyes to Damian. But he did not smother it. He ought have. Like the woman. But, he did not.