Re: In person: Misha B/Damian W
[Rather than black pinned to nothing, a needle drowning in a sea of green, Damian's eyes were pupil-eaten. He struggled to identify Misha in the shift of realities, and his gaze tracked sideways to follow the moving light. He did not, however, recoil from the angel's touch. He was unaware of any pauses or lulls in conversation. He would surface in pieces from the delusions/truths, in shrapnel and scraps of himself, but he tripped and tripped again and tripped and fell and fell and fell. The blood on his palm would soon turn saturnine and erupt in a new solar system; a galaxy, if he was lucky. (He was not.) Even with his chin gripped by pale fingers, he dug a finger into the hole in his palm, unfeelingly.
His gaze snapped back to Misha in a shudder of clarity. The pellucid gaze dissolved after a second, but Damian seemed to know Misha was there now—for now. (The man had been crying a moment ago, had he not? The tears seemed to have evaporated.) He pulled back from the angel's grip, his palms (including the bloody one) pressed to his boyfriend's thighs as he dipped toward the boy, until their faces were an inch apart.] Sic probo, [he said.]