Re: In person: Misha B/Damian W
[The touch to his mouth stilled Damian after a fashion. He nodded when he was told to tell Misha next time, before he went. It was clear he still thought that perhaps the boy did not understand him, because he did not think he was being told what he could or could not do—he was only expressing that which he did not wish to do, regardless—but, for a moment, he said nothing of it. Pale fingers tapped at the side of his head and he just tried to suspend sniffling long enough to say,] Okay. [Said like that—being shown things no mortal could show him—it did seem painfully stupid, what he had done. Of course she would delve into his mind. Of course she would in turn use him for her own ends. Of course what had come to pass would come to pass. And Damian, who did not often feel stupid, but who especially disliked feeling stupid, felt heat in his cheeks.] You do not tell me that I cannot do anything, Misha, [he did say, his voice salty and thick.] I am saying only that I do not wish to do it. Not that you are forbidding me. [He sniffled again, this time as Misha wiped away tears with the pads of his thumbs. He did notice that the boy did not expound upon how he felt at having seen what he had seen, and it felt... not good. It felt as if it was an unforgivable act, what he had done, but he did not seek to justify or excuse himself further. Instead, he allowed himself to look chastised when Misha threatened to leave for good, should he, Damian, attempt to kill Alyssa. It was not that he did not believe the boy—well, he did not believe Misha would truly leave him, but he understood the depth of the statement. Its kernel. That Damian should not truly be stupid lest he attempt to take on a god alone. He could have argued that it was his duty. The transgression was his. The fault, his. To restore his honor, to revenge himself, it was what must be done. But, again, he recognized with some confusion that these words were those he had learned before he had been born. That meant they could not innately be his, did it not?] I want to kill her, [was what he settled on saying. He swallowed.] But, I will not.
[Damian was quiet then as Misha reassured him. But, again, he began to shake his head, a little wildly, at the talk of resentment.] I do not want yours! That is what I was saying. Be angry with me for what you have seen. Please do not resent me. I do not wish for this either. [He tried to focus again on what the angel had been saying.] Please. I just wish for you. [And that was true. Damian had the dignity to look embarrassed of his pleading as Misha rolled to face him. He tucked his chin down, smearing the pillow case with snot and tears, and he looked up in a peep at Misha as the boy brushed hair from his forehead. There were not enough words in the world—in the universe, in Alyssa's growing, entropic universe—to describe how different it was for Misha to do this, than it was for the woman. This fact alone almost earned a fresh wave of tears. (That he should not deserve this, the gentle touch, the boy giving it freely, was obvious to Damian at the moment.) He said nothing to the idea that he had changed already. Rather like a cat, he butted his forehead into the hand that had caressed him and he tried to brush and rub against Misha, to feel more of him and his touch.
It took Damian a moment to organize his thoughts enough to ask the question that came before the other he had held onto. He was not privy to the stupidity of it, his question, or the neediness, even. But, he was very young, even if he did not think so. And he had never had love given that was not taken away.] Do you still love me?