Re: [Treatment Facility: Dami & Misha]
Damian assumed Misha was staying at the manor. There, there was shelter (obviously), food, clothing, and Pennyworth, the man, not the cat, would make certain Misha was taking care of himself, as well as finding him access to funds. It made the most sense, so this was what Damian thought had happened. It did not occur to him that it was otherwise until he saw Misha on his periphery, looking as if he had been sleeping somewhere uncomfortable, if he was sleeping at all.—More than the hugging, which no one here would mind, as no one was around—Misha would have already been checked and asked to hand over keys and anything else—, they would have minded the emotional jolt that turned Damian's anxiety over seeing Misha, who he was concerned about in an emotional sense, into open turmoil. It was like a wound lanced upon his face, broken and rough-edged and not at all pretty, and whatever calm he had felt at being in this environment was violently upended.
In an expression of nervousness, Damian pulled his hands into his sleeves, fidgeting with the warm fabric inside as his glare dissipated into worry. He did not stand immediately. He sized up Misha with eyes that were tired, but sharp, and he shook his head. "Where have you been staying?" He ignored the question about the knitting bag because it did not matter, and he tried to keep the sensation of needing to vomit from climbing up his throat. This was just a tightening of the winch of anxiety he felt, he knew, and it would not gain anything to be sick upon the concrete by the pool.—Damian had a difficult time letting go of feeling that he had to take care of everyone in the family, in some way. He had to accommodate their many feelings and all such at all times, which meant he spent much time fretting over them, even when he shoved them away from himself. That he had finally been able to sink into his surroundings here was a credit to the place, but it came barreling back to him upon seeing Misha, and in an instant, he knew he had made a mistake choosing such a place and choosing to think that everyone would be okay without him there to make certain they were.
It was the physical limitation and illness, along with the weeks of emotional exhaustion, that made him susceptible then to tears, and he began crying. He felt powerless and he felt weak and he felt he had caused so much of this. "You can stay at the manor. What is wrong with you?" He stood now, with effort, hand on the low chair pushing him upright. He wiped his nose with his sleeve, but he did not push back his hoodie. Damian desired to embrace Misha, but too, he was frustrated with the boy, so he only pressed his palms to narrower chest and pushed slightly, weakly. "What have you been doing? Why would you not ask for help? I do not comprehend what—why—why—" The desire for morphine was always there, but Damian wished for the high he had found, the warm spike of it, and he pressed his palms to his eyes and said nothing further.