Re: Log: Damian/Misha
This was no minefield. There was nothing underfoot to give or detonate. Perhaps it felt thusly, but it was not so. Perception was a strange thing. One experienced the world through one's senses, so what if those senses were wrong? Could they be? Damian knew they could be. Obviously. And yet... the world had told Misha he was insane, and he was not. Not truly. He did not fit into the mold of 'normal humanity.' Damian did not either, but he had money and Father and he could and would kill anyone who attempted to tell him he was wrong. The dissociation was not insanity. It was a reaction to trauma. It was the brain's way of attempting to cope, to survive. He was not unfamiliar with it. Dissociative fugues were the same, another expression of the same. Damian knew these things. He did not know what he felt, but he knew these things and he did not doubt himself.
Misha echoed the word. Damian looked at him. He was aware of the detachment with which the angel spoke, as if it really was just a simple word meant to categorize a life against others. He rolled his eyes at the boy's protests, though he knew further invalidation was not going to help. Perhaps he needed to force the issue. (Now, that was a minefield.—Detonation would happen either way. The question was if it would kill outright or only maim. If the bombs were not metaphorical, perhaps Damian could have answered after some calculations.) "I was with you when it happened at Louis'. It was as if you got too near something you do not wish to make yourself aware of, so you shut down, rebooted as a computer might, with no remembrance. You are confusing dissociation with dissociative identity disorder. They are not one in the same." He answered that question where it sat upon Misha's marble-etched face, and he did it without blinking.
Damian thought of the window. If he jumped, he could force Misha to react. It did not seem as wildly stupid as it ought have, the idea. He trusted implicitly, and not due to the morphine, that he would be fine. Perhaps he did need to force the issue. If wings erupted from Misha's back, he could not deny them so easily.
This was what the man was thinking on when the conversation took an unpleasant turn he maneuvered. He attempted to leave the morphine behind, as he did not want to talk about it. This meant, yes, he shoved it away. It was not a low, not an especial low, to Damian's knowledge. If he had known that Misha thought it was, he would have acted differently. But, as it was, he simply took the angel's hand and asked to go.—The hand to his cheek told him the answer, and he could not hide his disappointment. The room was suffocating. His room. Damian did not shy from the hand on his cheek. He leaned into it with a slight slump. "I do not need to take anything," he said, hating himself as he did. It was not as if Misha truly knew. Lying would be so simple.—Instead, he let his weight fall to the front of his feet as he propped his forehead to Misha's. He kept his eyes open. "I want to help you," he said in an echo, "but I do not know what I should do."—Perhaps Damian ought have been aware he was not helping. That his own issues were exacerbating Misha's, that it was selfish to ask for the boy to be there, as Louis had been.
He threaded his fingers with Misha's, and tugged the boy to the window. He wished for a cigarette. If he was able, he lit one on the way over, lifting Misha's hand with his when it was necessary. "Come."