Re: log: antique store - louis, misha, and damian
The face of the boy he loved melted away to angled features, consternation on brow, and fair curls. Chapped lips thinned, dropped into a frown. And eyes, now much less vivid, searched Damian's face as Louis returned to himself. The expression on dark features was al Gol. It was cold, calculating, and entirely censorious. Which did not mean Damian was angry, as he was not. He did not feel much of anything then. It was only a neutral expression worn in situations that required a degree of defense, though many here took it as an offense itself.—It was the cool, divine caress to the back of his neck that cracked him, and, for a moment, he thought this thing in the Scot had managed to appropriate Misha's holiness, or to mimic it. But, he thought it too familiar and no thought of coffee was going to drown that notion.
When Damian looked, the angel—the real one—was entering the kitchen. Goose-flesh pricked along skin under hoodie, but Damian only pulled his grip from Louis and stuffed his hands in his pockets. He toyed with the plastic body of his lighter as Misha bustled in the kitchen. "It is not the same," he informed Louis, of the coffee. "Turkish coffee. It is simmered and settled."—He did not carry on about it further, however, as it did not truly matter and as his desire waned in the aftermath of contact. He looked up from one pale man, to the other, and he watched Misha move in the kitchen with appreciation that was likely thick on discerning tongue. He tipped his head as his boyfriend spoke, and he thought his questions were good ones. He did not add to them.
He smiled when Misha's gaze, true and blue, shifted to him, and Damian allowed his expression to turn to smugness. He moved away from the table, toward the boy by the sink, his hands still in his pockets. "Data gathering is important. It is vital to know how a desire is chosen from a sea of them, and if it is variable from there. For example, slipping to another who, in a matter of a second, suddenly wishes for something stronger than those before him." The smaller man positioned himself at the angel's hip, his own pinned there like a hinge. He leaned precipitously against Misha. "If you and I both wish for things, to a high degree, how does Louis—how does whatever it is—make a choice, if it makes one at all. How does it manage a volley or want competition. It would be counterproductive to become a horrifying amalgam of objects of desire. We ought flood it. Louis can attempt to work himself back from there."
Damian thought this made sense. He looked to Misha, his gaze asking if it was so. He smiled, a little flushed in the cheeks, and, with a firework bursting oddly in his belly and an acute awareness of Louis, he kissed the boy beside him by pushing himself up on his toes, with his hands on the counter on either side of narrow hips, and, because he did nothing unbrazenly (this was not a word; he did not care), he did not hold back. Let their desires vie, overwhelm, and confuse.