Re: [Treatment Facility: Dami & Misha]
It was not a good idea to raise a person to believe control was the goal, and that, if they could not achieve it, it was not that the universe was, by and large, uncontrollable, it was a personal failing, a weakness. It bred a kind of anxiety that lived just under the skin. Damian would never have admitted to anxiety before, finding the word itself too revealing, but it was what the psychiatrist called it. He tried very hard to keep the reins on himself and everyone else, without ever having the ability to recognize he could not so much as hinder what someone else chose to do. He could not be there for everyone, he could not accommodate them, he could not bring them together, he could not even tear them apart. To Damian, it all felt as his responsibility, and that he could not lead, that he could not manage what he was meant to—it pointed only to his own faults. This business with Misha was the same.
He looked at string-raw fingers as they were presented in a flare, but his expression did not quirk in any direction of amusement or even so much as surprise. He stared, attempting to ascertain if the truth was being told to him. He could not discern if it was, so he dropped his head to his knees, and he listened as Misha pulled a chair over. He felt the want for a cigarette like a sharpness, and he sighed as Misha came close. His tears quelled quickly to a limn on cheeks, smeared into denim, and he sniffled idly as the boy beside him spoke. "Sadie." He laughed slightly, but it was not pleased. He wished everyone would go home, another addition seemed only like it would deepen the entrenchment in the manor. "Work? What will you do?" He lifted his head now, hood sliding back on dark hair, growing out once more. Misha touched his hand and Damian frowned. "You have class. This is what you should be doing." He shifted upon his ass, pushing onto one palm and reaching into his back pocket. He had his wallet, even if he did not have his phone or identification. He passed Misha a black credit card. "Use this." Damian settled in the chair, arms back around his knees, his chin propped in the valley between kneecaps.
An expression that was more usual for Damian—it was not an eyeroll, but it was what came before one—came over his face and he looked at his fiancé. "I know it is a saying." Obviously. He sighed. "I did not expect you to fare perfectly without me, but I expected you to—to—Why will you not simply ask? I could have given you a credit card. I could have assisted. I do not understand." He sniffled again and wiped his nose upon his knee.