Re: Log: Damian/Misha
He did not know how it had turned, badly or otherwise, with Oliver. He knew the other boy had been distant, prioritizing himself and his brother, and reinforcing Misha's own fears and insecurities to prop himself up. He knew, abstractly, the descent as it would have appeared on a map or as the trajectory of a plane coming in for landing. But, Damian had not been there, and he did not know what it felt like. Had he known he was bringing Misha back to that, emotionally, again, perhaps he would have acted differently. Perhaps he could not have. (Do not tell him I said so.)—But, the boys were both young and inexperienced in different ways, and this new knot caught in teeth. They skinned each other's fingers trying to undo it, then worried when the other bled. It was, in short, a mess.
And, for what it is worth, Damian trusted Misha. And he knew he was trusted as well. If the eye roll was normalcy and relief for Misha, it was for Damian as well. He was not going to allow the topic to spin away, however—the topic of Misha and his issues, though he recognized the desire in the boy before him. It presented itself as it did to Damian himself. Let me leave it, let me leave it, let me leave it. Misha was afraid. Damian did not know if he was. He could not feel it. If his heart fluttered spastically where it sat, he had no idea. But, it was possible in this very moment. Very many things were. "You need helping too," he insisted stubbornly, lifting his chin as if doing so would offer authority. He, obviously, remained shorter than the angel, but he did not feel this took away from how imposing a figure he was. Probably. "We can help each other."—And Damian, for all of his fits and fickleness and contradiction, for all of the corrosive al Gol blood in him, did want to help. He liked Misha. He more than liked Misha, he realized.
He took the boy to the window. Flame was catching cigarette, smoke beginning to roil in chemical reaction and energy exchange, when Misha spoke. Damian looked over. He sat on his sill with one hip, facing the angel and knees pointed toward him. It was cold outside, colder now that the cacophony of musical accompaniment had stopped. But, it felt nice. He puffed on his cigarette thoughtfully, smoke pooling on his tongue before he sucked it down into his lungs where it worked on killing him. He exhaled through his nose and glanced down to watch his knee where it butted Misha's, as two continental plates meeting. Along them, mountain ranges would erupt, with volcanoes and hydrothermal vents cooking ocean. He swallowed.
How bizarre it was that the knot inside of his chest seemed to move. To squirm in response to Misha's words. Heat rose now too quickly, up in a rush of blood to Damian's face. "Misha," the man said, almost ominously, before he leaned forward, cigarette trapped under forefinger and ashing on his skin, and his palms on either side of the angel. They were very close. It felt as if a bomb was about to go off, or was that whatever was trapped inside of the man's chest? Damian had endured explosive detonations before. He closed his eyes and opened them. Then he finished his sentiment before it could escape him. "I love you."
Oh, and how I could go on about that. What it meant. But, all that occurred inside Damian was something like an elongated, internal scream. If he was sweating before, it had nothing on now.
This was worse than jumping out of the window. That fall, he knew the angel would catch him. This one, he did not. Waves of heat washed over Damian now and he did consider falling purposefully. But, though he felt like hiding, he did not. He lifted his chin again in defiance of himself and glared at Misha, like he dared the angel to say anything different. Even if he, Damian Wainright, was hyperventilating somewhat, breathing in and out too quickly and too hard.