[Reaction]
It was like watching a scene oft-replayed and cherished from a different angle. Suddenly, the actions one had memorized, the fall of shadow, the acoustic bounce of words one anticipates—everything was skewed new. The familiar backdrop became strange. The focus was dissimilar. One even felt differently.—That was Damian's experience, at present, and it was uncanny. It was dizzying and surreal, and it was not only the heart of the boy in the memory that beat wildly in chest. Damian's too broke itself on ribs. His memory of the memory rested on his mind, palimpsest on brain matter.
He did not remember the red. He remembered white, gold, blue. He remembered cool fingers and coagulated Latin. He remembered a smile that threatened to break him. He remembered his own coldness, the white-knuckle grip he attempted to keep on the situation, though it was futile (and though he did not truly wish to control it at all).—The wink in the memory, it made Damian smile, and no longer was he restrained about it. Wherever he was, whatever he was doing, it is gone, obliterated by the kiss of lashes pale as milk and the near snap of the man remembered. It was, he realized, sweet. It was sickly and sentimental, and it meant something to him. Something immense. Something too big to swallow. Rather than consuming it, it consumed him. He let it.
The memory melded with his own. It was not meant to be mutable or easily influenced, memory, but the mind did what it willed. And Damian knew every time that night occurred to him from now on, he would think on the boy in the bed beside him and his hard dick. He would think on the meet of fingers as momentous. On the beauty of the wink as if it was his own. He would think on how he ignorantly slept (albeit with his own thrill present) that night, on how he could have acted on the wants he then still sought to crush, if he had even recognized them for what they were. He was fairly certain he had not. Red joined the white, gold, and blue. Black too. The palette of the night changed.