Re: [in-person: damian & misha]
[The kitchen was bright. The house was ancient, so the lighting was a gas-yellow, but it was bright, opening on the walls in large, Stil de graine swaths and spilling to the floor similarly. Damian was before the many-burner'd stove, under a gathering of the lights, and he felt as if the beams that fell on him were nearly tactile. Their weight could be distinguished on his skin. Or perhaps it was only his imagination.—He placed a lid over the pot, so the eggs would cook, and he turned toward Misha on the island behind him. The man did not mind being looked over carefully. He expected it. He smiled. It was soft and tired and perhaps sad, but it was a smile, and Damian did go when beckoned.
He stood between thighs covered in dark denim. He insinuated himself so that the hand offered could go to his back and he leaned heavily forward, his own arms wrapping around the angel's waist. He blinked heavily there, feeling stupidly comforted by the heat and smell Misha near. He looked up. His irises were not pastures of Sargasso green ringing small black sea. He did not sniffle, as he was unaltered. The fidget of fingers to the small of the angel's back may well have given that away as well. Damian rubbed his cheek against Misha's shoulder with a slight scratch from the long night.—Of course Misha would not miss the Arabic. It made him feel fondly toward the boy he was already overwhelmed with affection for. It made him wish he was more subtle, as well.] Yes, [he admitted with only a glint of defiance in a lift of chin. He shifted to tiptoes without moving his arms ringing waist, so he could kiss Misha. He tasted of cumin, paprika, garlic, and tomato. He pulled back from the heat of it reluctantly to continue. He blinked.] Sometimes it is still strange to be here.