Re: log; misha and adrian
Misha had gone back to being more the person Adrian recognized. There was nothing wrong than the angel and his wings - he was beautiful, and he had helped him in a way no ordinary human could expect to. Still, he preferred Misha the person to Misha the heavenly being. His presence on the window seat was a comfort in a way that the soothing aura of divine love could never be.
Adrian sat cross-legged while Misha found his space and talked to him. On the road below, a woman passed by with a profusion of flowers wrapped in her arms, towing a dog behind her. It was late afternoon, and the light was golden, slanting into evening.
"I lived here," he said, turning his head, looking toward the kitchen. There was an echo of a voice in there, behind the closed door, directing someone to stir the sauce, mija. He listened for the voice again. His voice came back to him, slowly and steadily. "After my mother died." He took a slow breath. "When I was adopted, and left Repose, came to Europe." He gestured to the world outside, and pressed the backs of his fingers to the glass. It was London, evident from street signs and markings on the pavement.
Were the men on the bed a secret? One had to be. "They're two people I care about," he said. His smile had fallen away, but the space felt no less safe, no less a close, warm nest. "One...he'd rather kill himself than let anyone think he likes men." He blinked. "The other I'm in love with." He looked at Misha. "That hasn't changed," he said softly, as if the admission were a regrettable thing indeed. "I thought it might."
He smiled again when Misha said the place was warm and nice. "It's the first place I can ever remember feeling really safe," he said. The words surprised him. He tried to trace them to their origin, but the rope, when he followed it back to memory, came up raw in his hands. "There are still some things I don't remember," he said.
He offered Misha a hand, an open palm resting on his knee. "Does being so good ever make you tired?"