Re: In person: Misha B/Damian W
[Damian had had hands molding him since before he was born. Perhaps, in some ways, he was susceptible to this. In others, however, he was nothing so mutable, and, indeed, was unmovable. It was another contradiction in a man made up of many. To be weak and to be strong, to be clay and to be steel. Still, regardless of susceptibility, he did not like to be molded. He did not enjoy the feeling of being made in an image, of being shaped for another's purpose, and even now, he felt some detachment from his body, as if he were a stranger in his own skin. (The powerlessness involved would become an issue later. For now, it was only the outrage at it having happened; he did not need Misha's rage to know how stupid he had been.) But, thought it indeed was the work of someone else that had cast him this way, Damian was able to ignore much of what he was feeling, physically, to flatten uncertainty, to pretend not to hear the whispers issued from walls. He was able to live in his stubbornness for a moment, and he did this.
He could not fathom what it was that made Misha require 'some minutes of quiet,' and it was only the tacked-on 'please' that finally caused him to yield. He owed the angel that much, likely. He did not even sigh or scoff of tut. The obstinateness deflated. He went to the bed as bid. He sat. His hand hardly existed on the end of his arm. He offered it as a phantom to Misha and he stared at the wall opposite, as if he did not see the faces in it.]