Re: In-person: Misha B/Damian W
[Forty-five minutes later, he came back. Much colder, with any and all exposed skin reddened, and shivering, but whole. Damian bounded up the stairs to the apartment and burst through the door, loudly. He slammed it behind him, then stalked to the bedroom, hood still up and hat and gloves still on. His arms were folded tightly over his chest. He hovered in the doorway, partially angry, partially sad, partially who-the-fuck-knew, and he stamped errant snow from his drenched sneakers.
He was not high. He had heroin in the back pocket of his jeans, but he was not high. He was fucking painfully sober as he looked down at Misha, who seemed unmoved. His sobriety existed for two reasons: 1) he had promised to speak to Misha before getting high, and 2) he was still attempting to prove to the boy (and himself) that he could, in fact, deal with things. If he wished to be believed on this count, he had to actually prove it was so. Which was why he had come back. He could not keep telling Misha he was capable, only to run away when he felt overwhelmed and/or angry and/or anything. So, stubbornness. Stubbornness kept him sober and he glared down at his boyfriend, before breaking.
He pushed from the doorjamb and walked slowly toward the boy. He stopped at the safe distance of the bed and half-sat on the edge of the mattress. His arms were still folded over his chest and he curled inward on himself, even as he attempted to project surety he did not feel. He could not look at Misha without feeling horrible for the boy, so he stared down at his feet.] Okay, [he said stupidly, his jaw aching from being clenched.] I am back.