Re: log: antique store - louis, misha, and damian
Damian was not an angel, but neither was he an idiot. He understood there was tension present. It was palpable, even as Louis Donovan sat stock-still in his chair. Or perhaps, because he sat stock-still in his chair, unmoving, as if he were suddenly an invalid. The youngest Wainright remembered the pale man prone on the sofa, too injured to fetch up what was needed, but this was not that. He was smiling and nodding and joking, and it was as if someone had stapled him to his seat. Damian stared reprovingly, suspiciously, his gaze tracking lily white fingers and napkin. It was not as if Damian wished for Father, so he did not think this man was turning into the other man one inch and destroyed muscle at a time. "What is wrong with you?" He asked, finally.
He did not engage further about fixing anything. It was a distraction, he thought. And he did not smile when the angel beside him did. He glared at the man across the space. He did not enjoy playing games, and if they were here to help, he would have liked to get down to it, rather than exchange inane pleasantries as Louis did whatever it was he was doing in his seat.—For some reason, he found he did not like this man calling Father by his first name and his gaze narrowed. "You may feel for wants, but you do not know him," he reminded Louis Donovan. This statement, this declaration brought with lift of chin from angel's thigh, was interrupted, obviously. Flippancy and orange bottle, and Damian did not have to think about catching the small thing as it aimed toward him. He simply did, in the hand holding the cigarette. Without an ashtray, the burning ashes tipped and fell from impact onto the sofa cushion beside Damian. He did not care. He stuck the cigarette in his mouth, between lips, and looked at the bottle.
He knew what it would be. But, it was empty. He did not register disappointment. There was the sudden awareness of want, as when tongue passes over a rotting tooth and suddenly, one is aware of the pain. But, that was all. He rolled orange in his open palm as he looked at Misha, then to Louis. He was not fussed. Irritated, perhaps. And he rolled his eyes and gave a tut. "I do not need you to provide me with pills," was all he said, and the only tone he took was disdainful. He dropped the bottle onto the coffee table. He placed on arm over Misha's knees again and laid his head there, appearing somehow superior all the while. Very much like a cat. He smoked. "If you could truly give me what I want, it would already be in my bloodstream."