Re: Rehab: Misha B & Damian W
[It was not about clarity. Because the world was not out of focus. It was like the mirror. It reflected reality or, in the case of Lyssa, it rejected reality. But the picture, such as it was, was always clear. So it was with whatever this was in Damian. It was not clarity. He had that. It was... what was it? It was nice. It felt nice. Warm bath, salt soak nice. Clean. That was what it was. Like baptism as Damian imagined it worked in Christianity. A washing away of the sins, yes?
He was still holding the kerchief to his nose, but the thought, that the nosebleed, was a fount of wickedness ceased to sound true. He did not know why he would wonder if his head would grow so heavy as to pin him to the desk. He did not wonder as to the indentations of pen to paper. Instead, with his neck beginning to hurt, he dropped his chin somewhat to look at Misha. To look at him. The boy was sagging, as if sapped, exhausted. Damian slid off the desk, ignoring the mirror, and he slid under Misha's arm to guide him to the bed.] What did you do? [The blood-drip from nose had slowed more. Damian kept the kerchief there, but he did not pinch bridge. Instead, he made Misha put his arm about his shoulders and he wrapped his around the boy.]