Re: log; misha and adrian
"I did," he said. Europe had become home - he had left Repose behind, not looking back for almost two decades. "I never wanted to come back, until I was older." And maybe that said something he hadn't acknowledged, or let himself think too much about.
His brow furrowed against Misha being beaten for being too gay. Anger sparked and swirled, and it happened a lot faster than it might have a few hours before. "Those fucking assholes," he said. The longer he spent in this warm, comfortable place, the more that feeling was coming back - like he could feel anything at all, and feel it now. "I know why he feels that way," he said. "People punched me a few times. I guess I made them regret it." He flexed his fingers, and the memory came back to him where there had been nothing before. Before yesterday, he thought that the worst thing that had come of being gay was some light teasing and a bit of bullying in college. Now, though, there was a memory, vivid and fresh, and it involved splitting his knuckles on some idiot's cheekbone.
The anger curdled and settled into something closer to sadness at flames rekindled, flames doused. "It is," he said. "I'll put it out." He had to. He had promised that he would say it would happen, not say that he hoped it would. If it frightened Newt that he wasn't sure he could get over him, then he would be sure. Hoping to stop loving someone, that had to be a desperate thing. He didn't see another way forward, though.
"Yes," he said, without hesitation. "But I don't think I'm really feeling it yet." When he left this safe, strange place, then it would hit him, he was sure of that. It might take days before it really caught up with him, the person he was now. "I keep thinking that it feels like I could feel anything I wanted to," he said. "I know that's strange."
Adrian left his hand where it was, laying on the edge of his knee, turned up toward the soft glow of Misha's form. He didn't understand what Misha was, or why it meant he couldn't hold his hand. It saddened him, a little but not for himself. "That's a shame," he murmured, looking at Misha's hand. "It does?" he looked up again, met his gaze, curious. It was as if it had never occurred to him that someone offering him help might get something out of it for themselves, too - that he might be more than just a drain.
He let his head fall back against the wall, his dark hair, a little longer than usual, pooling against the plaster. "Oh my god," he said. His voice cracked with exhaustion, and he suddenly grinned. "Fuck yes."