Re: In person: Misha B/Damian W
[Damian felt the presence of himself like a bubble of gas trapped in skin. It pressed against the nothingness. And, after a moment, he was aware of who he was and what he was, and he was aware of who Misha was and what he was, and he knew they were at the Carnival. He knew too that the angel was taking his hands, denying him something he truly did want, and his expression was somewhere between a pout and a frown. His gaze did alight shrewd green on the boy, sharp and present, and now, more than a sliver and glitter, Misha might feel his boyfriend as a more concentrated beam.—It helped that the two of them were close, physically, breast to breast, and Damian, fairly immediately, was distracted from his search by the movement of pretty, chapped lips.
He stared there, at Misha's mouth, with only the slightest delay in understanding. (Cleaned up from what? Why did he need to feel better?) Soon he would remember, the memories returning like bodies surfacing in a swamp, but for now, he did not. He was himself, but with less knowledge. He sniffled and wondered why he felt tears dried tight on his cheeks.—The man peered up from holy lips as Misha began to walk, taking him along with him. He felt gravel beneath the soles of his feet, but he did not look down. He felt like himself and yet he did not. He remembered the shattering of everything, he remembered he was blood. Anxiously, he matched his step to Misha's and, without managing eye contact as he did so, asked in a hushed, guilty tone:] Did I get high?