Re: log: antique store - louis, misha, and damian
He knew this man would turn into Misha. Though Damian could be (both accidentally and purposefully) oblivious to what existed inside of him, he knew he wanted the boy on the sofa. It was not a desire forced to the surface willfully, like roses painted red for attention, but he was aware of its sharpness, and he knew that the shift was coming long before Louis' fingers constricted around his. Damian's curiosity was flattened by anticipatory defense, and he watched the Scotsman shift into Misha by shades, seconds, and degrees with green gaze sidelong and slitted with annoyance. He was perennially unimpressed and it showed, regardless of the slight roughness of string callouses on fingertips. Blue eyes turned bluer. Sharp features softened. Round of applause for the creature inside of Louis.
But, however he appeared, he was not Misha, the man in the chair, and Damian's awareness of this likely killed the impact of the change, just as it killed any true likeness. He simply did not feel as Misha felt to Damian, even sitting close, even touching. This was what he thought, and he thought it imperiously. But... the smile was like graffiti on façade. It was nothing but pauper's paint. Yet, somehow, Damian still found he liked it. He nearly smiled back, all of his criticisms from seconds before not gone, but unimportant. Diminished.
However, although he was not Host, although he was nothing of an otherworldly make, Damian was an al Gol. He had been trained, practically since conception, to resist the likes of undue influence, brainwashing and hypnosis. He knew altered states of consciousness. The morphine assisted his knowledge there, and he recognized this was nothing but a ploy, a play for his agency. A starving man wanting for a feast did not necessarily want the roast stuffed down his throat as he gagged. Damian lifted his chin, though he did not break contact. "This," he said plainly, "is not what I desire." And it was not. He wanted Misha. He did not want to be made to want Misha, and, more than that, he did not want to be made to want a Misha that was not Misha, and so, he chafed against those bindings, figuratively forcing a hand before the projector to ruin the image on the wall.
He attempted to turn it around on the man. He did not know if he could will it so, but he did try. He focused solely on wanting a cup of Turkish coffee, prepared with cinnamon and cardamom. (Which is to say, perhaps, it only read as wanting to want something to the fine palette of Louis Donovan.) Outwardly, he was staring unblinkingly, challenging at the man in the chair. But, by the end of this miniature meditation, Damian did wish for a taste of familiar, warming coffee.