Re: In-person: Misha B/Damian W
['Half-bred.' Half-breed. These words were as fingers to the scabs of old wounds, though they were not lobbed at Damian. He had been called such words and often. It had happened most often in Jersey, by people who did not think Bruce Wainright ought have a child such as him, with skin dark and features non-European. At times, he heard the same words from professors and trainers when they sought to injure him or when they grew frustrated. Whether that was about race or only the Wainright addition, he did not know. But, he did not know what it was to be 'half-bred.' He said nothing of this, however. He just sighed, wanting to fidget.] I know you are not. But, no one knows this but those you have told. To others, you are. [Damian was beginning to lose his own point. This was another disadvantage to emotion, he found. It made him horribly stupid and illogical.] There is no one like you. [This was close enough to what he intended, he thought. And he smiled at the echo.—The description of Heaven was of interest, of course, but Damian was distracted by the splay of palm pressing against him. There was nothing like this where he had spent his last decade either, but he did not say this, as it was not his time to speak.] If it is a well-known slope, others have gone down it. What happened to them? Is one punished for such? [The man felt foolish for his imprecise vocabulary, so he nodded at Misha's correction.] No war can be fought with intellectualism, from great distances. There is always blood. Do you believe it is like a war?
[Damian smiled slightly at the intimacy leaden in the angel's tone. He disallowed himself room to think about the morphine. Otherwise, he would continue brooding on the matter. He knew this. But, Misha, knowing or not, offered him an out on the subject, so he took it.] I made a choice, [he said.] I am very stubborn. I could have continued to hold out. [Whether this was true or not did not matter. He said this with a smugness that goaded.—It was true, however, that the serious topic of Misha's foster father was important, so he discontinued his smile.] Do you miss this man? Your foster father. [He spoke on this, rather than his own feelings. This was much easier and much preferred. Damian was not one for the coward's path, but he was not feeling particularly desirous of the emotional challenge of enduring at the moment. He was only just managing to keep himself from his morphine, he knew. Everything was very overwhelming and he remember the lack from Misha's interference so acutely, so he focused outward. And, more than that, he did wish to know. Misha did not speak on his foster father often, if at all.] I am glad you no longer feel this distance as a constant. I know I cannot ever understand what it is to feel as you do, especially regarding your foster father, as I am not Oliver. But, if you ever wish to speak on it, you may. I will attempt not to say aloud too often that I am glad he is dead, regardless. [Damian was entirely serious and unironic. He decided to say nothing to the jealousy and to the rest of that, as he knew he was not above lashing out. Instead, he just shrugged as his face was held and studied. He was weak, whatever Misha saw. For once, Damian let himself look down and he did not meet Misha's eye. The pressure he felt inside was growing and it felt like a fist against breastbone, and he did not know how to stop it.]