Re: log: antique store - louis, misha, and damian
Damian had pills squirreled in several locations. Back at the manor, at the apartment, and in a handful of other places. There were none on his person, however, and none in the car. If Misha had asked, this is what he would have answered and it would have been true. He did not think it was distrust. Or rather, it was not misplaced distrust. He had told the boy he would try hard to sneak what he could sneak, as that was simply the nature of it. But, he had been doing as well as could be expected, given everything, on this tour of trying to remain clean, even if every day seemed to be an eternity of longing. Longing, it seemed, that nourished whatever it was that was in Louis or that Louis was. Color, if it could be called such, still pale and watery, touched sharp cheeks, and rather abruptly, the Scotsman was fumbling over apologies.
So, thought Damian, this was the man's natural state. The Wainright heir did not care to accept or reject any words aimed at him. He remained leaning heavily against Misha, the angel's fingers on the small of his neck, and he tipped his head to peer up at the boy. He smoked his cigarette. He looked back to Louis. He listened to the pale man at the table say Misha desired music, and that, for some reason, surprised Damian. It was not that the want itself was surprising. But, that it was as regular or consistent a pull, currently, to rank next to his own wish for sleep. This was illuminating in some capacity, and he would remember it.—The man's cigarette was smoked nearly dead, and, after not seeing anywhere he could stamp it out, he licked his fingertips and pinched embers. It singed. Did a want erupt from him then? To not feel the bright pain of a small burn? He did not think so. Because he barely felt it. Physical pain had nothing on the man.
Exhaling, he sat upright as his chin was tapped, and he pocketed the butt of his cigarette. He stood, using Misha's thigh as leverage. He gazed low-lidded down at his boyfriend, once he was on his feet, then he crossed the space to join Louis Donovan by the table. He did not sit. Smelling of smoke and the old veil of incense, he leaned across the chair beside the man, to reach beneath the table and take a hand, if he found one. His touch was cold, especially his fingers, but his palm was mostly dry and he did not shake. His just-burned fingertips throbbed, but he felt only the dull sensation of it, not the pain associated. Out of newly formed habit, he nearly laced his fingers with Louis', but he managed not to be so stupid, and instead, he waited. This simple action was enough to churn a want inside the man for the boy on the sofa, for his hand and nearness. It veneered across the steady beat of addiction.