Re: log: antique store - louis, misha, and damian
"I do not, but that is not why I am declining departure." Damian ought have considered his volume. In another flouting of his training, he did not even bother to ascertain that the sidewalks were empty. He was not yelling, per se, in that he was not bellowing. But, he was louder than was strictly necessary. Another mark against his training. He did not think on that. He was wrinkling his nose, rolling his eyes at the tap of fingers to his clay-cold cheek. He had no other counterpoint for the fact presented, so he just dismissed it with a tut. "The Suboxone constricts pupils, as it binds to the same receptors. That was my point." He did not sniffle, but he did rub at his nose with the back of his hand then, though it was fisted in safe black. At least his volume dropped back into intimacy. "I am taking more, then attempting to go longer without it, and I no longer have the morphine to maintain." By which he meant, the island between laps no longer existed. Only the laps. There was the Suboxone dependence to deal with, he knew, and he was not remaining consistent. Or, perhaps it was only the broadside of the things morphine kept in check coming back to him, hitting him hard where he was already vulnerable. Perhaps it was both. "It is everything coming through the floodgates."—But, where Damian did, indeed, flare under orders from another, he did not do so now, even as he was commanded to rouse the angel during his next bout of insomnia. "I will rouse your ass," he agreed, even if he did so with a steely tone.
The man thought his argument about agency and choice was sound. And, he was pleased to see Misha thought so as well, though he did not allow himself to crack beneath it immediately. Instead, he sat upon the figurative fence. Damian rose up to deliver his certainty that he would not be out-wanted, and he found himself with lips to his forehead and the angel smiling with an affection he knew well. "You will not," he repeated, as if the pressure and curl of lips had contradicted his statement, which he simply would not stand. He made his offer for staying, and he was entirely serious, even in the face of that smile. Still, he found himself feeling better for seeing it, and he kissed Misha with eagerness and as punctuation for his victory. A ha! that he broke back from with a smile of his own, genuine. Because, truthfully, though Damian did not see it so clearly through the haze of loss and withdrawal, though there was much occurring in his life outside of himself, he was... happy, in as much as any Wainright could be. His relationship with Misha was fulfilling and important in a way nothing else had yet been, and it offered the brittle, stubborn man some flexibility himself. It offered support during this time and helped with resilience. That and his youth, the newfound gem of love, it meant where he might have shut himself away before, he smiled against chapped lips with the pure pleasure of conquest.
"Sweet victory," he teased, pleased even further to earn this moniker of menace once again. But, he did look seriously at Misha when the boy took hold of his chin. He made a distinct 'hmph' sound as the door was opened behind him, and he turned in front of the angel to march in before him. He shoved his hood from his head. And, inside, upstairs, he did not sit. Instead, loftily he gazed about for Louis (as well as cataloging the differences between the space now and when Father was here), and upon spotting him, if he did, he only said, "Hello, Louis Donovan. We have arrived." Then, without asking for permission, he lit a cigarette.