Re: [Treatment Facility: Dami & Misha]
When it came down to it, Damian could not even control himself. It was the impetus behind the morphine, originally. Up until his first overdose, he had been able, if nothing else, to wield his body as a perfect instrument that followed his will with precision. It was the only aspect he was ever able to master as he was meant to, however. His emotions were not so easily guided and trained, and when they became unruly to the point of distraction, he had sought to fix that. It was where this all started, yes? In a man who had been created for a very specific purpose, with very specific ideals. Control, power, domination, and annihilation. Everything else was unnecessary and unimportant. But, though Damian did not know this, no child was ever born wanting these things and excelling at them. No child sought destruction on such a massive, and intimate, scale, and no person who exacted these things did so without a price upon himself, but Damian did not know this either. He only knew he had not been able to live up to the expectations set for him, not by Grandfather and not by anyone else, including himself.
He would not have said he needed Misha to 'be okay.' It was important to him that the boy stop gagging his own emotions and cease handicapping himself for the sake of others (him, Damian), but every time he said as much, he was chastised and told relationships were ebb and glow, give and take, and though he, Damian, was taking much now, he might not later. This never made him feel better. It was affirmation. He knew Misha was not as steady as he seemed. He knew the boy well enough to know there was no way for this to be true, and it made him feel his own inabilities were getting in the way of—well, everything, but Misha having his own reactions, et cetera. It was not a good feeling. "What about class?" He repeated as Misha took the credit card offered. "You are meant to be studying for the General Equivalency Diploma."
Obviously, Damian understood why Misha would not go to the manor—and not simply due to his dislike of the house—, but he did not understand why the idiot boy would not have asked about accommodations or some such. He glared at Misha, but it softened to nearly nothing as hands fell to the boy's lap. "You are lying to me." He pushed himself off of his chair, and, if he was able, crawled into Misha's lap instead, shoving aside the hands that occupied the space he desired for himself. He sat as he usually did, which was sideways, his shoulder to Misha's chest and an arm around the boy's neck. "You are different as well." He touched the skin bared by the loose shirt, by Misha's clavicle. "What did you do?"