Re: [Capital University: Misha & Damian]
For his part, Damian was not thinking much upon the marijuana. Perhaps the attempt with it had been tainted and perhaps this was not a bad thing. But, the cannabis combined with the champagne combined with the unpleasant evening had not made Damian inclined to seek it out. He did not desire to drink at present either. He was more interested in sweating and swimming, both of which were, per the jargon of the rehabilitation center, healthy coping choices. But, it would not have surprised him to know the cannabis had upset Misha. He knew it was so. He felt guilty because of this, but, of course, what use was this guilt, when it had not been enough to stop him. Which made him feel even guiltier. Too, it would not have surprised him to learn Misha was still upset about it. He knew the boy had suffered a trauma of a different sort the night he, Damian, had overdosed, and he knew this trauma must still be affecting him.
This said, it did not occur to Damian that his simple message, by virtue of arriving, would trigger the boy, or he would have sought some other mode of communication. But, as he was ignorant, he simply sent it, then went to swim. He was doing this when Misha arrived, back and forth in the lane, from one end to the other, over and over, with the deafening pressure of water in his ears and the rush of his own movement, kinetic and kismet.—It was not the dangle of fingers that snagged his attention during this, however. It was the opaque shape of the boy squatting at the edge of the lane when Damian opened his eyes under the water.
He stopped when he reached the wall, surfacing with a splash that did not spare Misha, and he pushed his hair back with both hands. The entirety of him dripped. Water ran between his eyes, dangled like jewels from lashes and the tip of his nose. It ran in rivulets between his pectorals. But, his eyes, open and that odd milky green, were not bloodshot and his pupils were of a normal, unaltered size. He breathed in hard, a flare of nostrils, as he shored up to the ledge, his arms scraping tile and cement as he floated. "Habibi." He took hold of the fingers, if they were still there, and made as if he were going to pull the boy in. Though he did not. In truth, Damian was looking at Misha, at his outfit and the sweat beating blond a dark gold, like sheafs, Damian thought, of wheat. Black lashes wicked water from Damian's eyes as he tipped his head back to look up legs patterned with bats. He cocked his head.
Damian thought a moment. Then, with hands near Misha's feet, he began to clamber out of the pool, the water cleaving to him in a suck. Hopefully, Misha would move backwards as he, Damian, came forward, and Damian would be able to stand.