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[ There's a second where Michael's eyes narrow, intense and focused. Hospital in Maurtia Falls. Interesting to know. He can use Jack as an excuse, if he ever wants to go there and check the place out - maybe make him some lunch and bring it down to the hospital as a treat, to outwardly act like he's a good roommate and a nice friend. He doesn't mind cutting up human meat if it'll let him see his dad at work.

The intensity fades, though, back to a regular smile. If anything, he might have looked offended by the use of the words loony bin, but. He wasn't. Couldn't give less of a shit if he tried. ]

That's cool. Are you guys close?

Not particularly. He's cool and I like him, but he's kind of a grumpy a-hole.

[Tate gives a short little shrug, eyes on Michael after that scrutinous look of his. He's not sure if he put him off there somehow, but equally doesn't give a shit about fixing it if he did. He hopes this kid isn't that delicate in his sensibilities to get all wrung out over phrasing.]

He was my boss for a little bit, the place is kind of a hive for weird shit. Played bingo with him just last week. Pretty sure he's sick of me, but it's not my fault everyone my own age ports the fuck out.

[ Michael doesn't know Jack well beyond old and cannibal, but he still laughs at how candid Tate's burn is. That look he gave Tate before, that bump in the road he tripped over - it's gone now. He's just happy, as sweet and angelic as he's ever been. ]

Well, uh... I'm here, if you want a friend your own age. Hanging out with you and talking about snakes and old guys and stuff feels a lot better than being alone.

That could be cool.

[He says, still not sure it'll happen but - you know, being kind and open in the moment. Tate takes another drink and then looks at his bottle, checking what he's got left before scraping at the label with his nail. Michael's a bit weird in that homeschooled way, but it's not like Tate's found many alternative options for hanging out. Worse case scenario he's going to end up having to chill with Reggie, so - yeah. Options.]

So. You live and work in Jeopardy. What else are you doing? School, all that shit?

[ Cool. Cool, okay. Tate says that'd be cool. Which is cool. Heh. Michael smiles again, shy and cheerful, and, again, he's wearing his feelings on his sleeve - he's happy and he's warm and it's obvious that making a friend is a pretty big deal for him, which Tate could probably easily assign to this whole awkward homeschooled vibe he's got going on. He's still happy, when Tate asks him what else he'll be doing here, but he grows more hesitant, unsure of how to answer. ]

Uh... [ He looks at Tate, then away. ] I'm... okay, I have a bit of a plan, maybe. Promise you won't laugh?

No promises.

[Now he's curious, tilting his head to the side. He can only begin to imagine the perils of sudden independence. He's gone through some of them himself - but, y'know, never felt quite this awkward. He peels the label off his bottle in torn strips.]

What's this plan?

[ That gets a smile from Michael, too, all warm and friendly. He doesn't answer right away, running his hand over the side of his neck as if in thought, and - he sees opportunity, here. A chance to force Tate to relate to him, using what he knows of Constance and the few whispers he managed to overhear from the ghosts of the house who held no love for him but held less for Tate. He has to be careful, if he's going to start revealing things about his homelife, but - again, there's opportunity here. This won't be the biggest risk he'll take in his life. ]

So... okay. First... I guess I should tell you that I was raised by a woman who was very... [ He hesitates, trailing off. Michael is just Tate's delivery guy - they're not close enough for this kind of conversation, not from Tate's point of view. He hesitates, but ultimately forges on. Opportunity. ]

I was raised by a woman who cared a great deal about how the world saw her. She had an image that she tried to live up to, she had goals that she strived to reach, and she had standards she expected everyone to meet. She expected me to... use the blessings I'd been gifted with, like my looks, and my intelligence, to become a great man that she would be proud of. My success was going to be her validation, as a mother.

[ He shrugs, lopsided, not looking at Tate. Focusing on the snake, instead, nameless as she is. ]

But she was a bad person. She hurt people. Me. I heard whispers that she hurt other people in my family, too. We're... estranged, back home, but even though she wasn't in my life, I always felt like she was still watching me, breathing over my shoulder. Now that I'm here, though? I don't have to worry about her. I don't have to do what she tells me to do, and I don't have to worry about disappointing her. I can just... do all the stuff I never had a chance to do back home. Like - make art. Travel, find friends, go to a big city. I want to meet people who understand me. I want to be a better person than I was back home.

And. [ Again, he shrugs. ] Normal things. Small things. Get drunk, get high, have fun. Be normal? I'm sixteen, now, and I haven't done anything at all. I want to make a list and just... cross it all off, one by one.

[If Tate's supposed to feel suddenly connected with Michael over this admission, something went wrong in his wiring - at least, in the visible sense. Sure, the story rings close to home for Tate - astonishingly so, more than he'd ever fathom - but rather than lean forward with an empathetic smile he just sort of lifts a brow and thinks it over. Michael's not the only one with a shitty family background, big fucking deal.

But after a silent moment, Tate's dark eyes flick back to his new 'friend'. He doesn't feel close enough to talk about Constance yet, acting calm and cool about the whole thing. Rather than suffer the idea of having to feign compassion, Tate decides to focus on the few things said that he can actually divert the conversation with. Namely:]

Basically you wanna live your own life. I get that.

[He quirks his brows.]

So that's your list, though? Get drunk, get high and have fun? C'mon, you have to have a few more things on it than that.

[ Michael's disappointed, of course, when Tate doesn't immediately fall to his knees and hug Michael close, screaming about how he deserved a better life and how if Michael were his kid, he'd treat him so much better. But - he's never been good at predicting how people might react to the things he says, the things he does. The smile he showed Constance after he killed the priest, the way she reacted to his presents, each one given to her out of love... even explaining himself to Ben, after those two women. He doesn't understand how to get what he wants.

His eyes linger on Tate a little too long before, again - he shrugs. ]

I really just want a friend. I don't have any... ambition, or anything, if that's what you mean.

It's not really about ambition. More like just... direction.

[Which is ironic, coming from him. But he likes to think he's started to pick at his options in the last little while and made some progress. Big moves, big relationships, big fuck ups and fixes. He's still trying to get a few things underway, but - after all those years in the house, staying static, while familiar? Not something he can stand anymore.]

You need to work on having some substance if you expect people to stick around you. Tell me something interesting about you. Give me a conversation starter, let's put you to the test. Favorite movie? Something you hate. And for fuck's sake, don't say 'my mother'. Everybody hates their fucking mothers.

[ He hasn't seen a lot of movies, so Tate's first question only prompts an awkwardly blank stretch of silence and a dumb, goldfish-like stare. As for "something he hates"... ]

Hate's kind of a strong word.

[ Which isn't to say he isn't filled with the stuff, black and putrid as it is. He just thinks it might blow his cover, if he starts talking to Tate about how he hated the way Ben looked at him in their last few sessions, or about how he hated the words that priest kept saying in his ear again and again until it felt like his skull was on fire. But he has to come up with something. ]

I hate... religion. [ Maybe. Christianity. Catholicism. A hatred born of spite and something more innate. He fidgets, tucking his hair behind his ear. That's not a good answer. ]

Or-- I don't know. You're kind of putting me on the spot.

Were you like a mormon or something? You kinda reek of it. No offense.

[Straight laced mother, weird naivety and all that. Sounds just like some sort of church kid who wants to bust out the beers and "get wasted" even though he'll be miserable puking into a toilet bowl sometime in the future. It's a recipe for disaster, Tate can see as much, but doesn't feel any strong desire to intervene that much. Oh well.]

I think religion's often a load of bullshit, especially when it's forced on you. Spiritual shit, if you're into it, should be a choice. And that was kind of the point, Mikey. Putting you on the spot to see how you do.

[He shrugs. Sips his beer, steadily approaching the end of it. Maybe he is getting a dull buzz.]

What's something interesting about you. What makes you special? C'mon.

[ No offense taken. Michael shakes his head at the question and nods as if he agrees with Tate for the rest of it, regardless of whether or not he actually does, but he's being pressured to keep talking and, as before, it's obvious that he's struggling to come up with something to say. He can't talk about his intelligence, or his real age - he can't talk about the things he's done or the places he's been, the things he's seen and the blood he's spilled. He can't talk about how great he is at dissecting animals, he can't talk about the crows and the heat and the storms he's been plagued by. He can't tell Tate that the Dahlia said he gave her the most beautiful smile she'd ever had.

There's just - nothing. Nothing good in him. He's a monster, after all. He swallows hard, scrambling for something. ]

I can... do magic. I can do all kinds of things, like-- like bringing back the dead. I've only tried with little things... mice, cats. Spiders. But I can do it.

[Tate's interest is waning during this brief silence and it's just before he starts looking away to zone out of this conversation that Michael pulls him back in. His head cants to the side and his gaze focuses on Michael, scrutinizing him to see if he's telling a lie but ultimately not being able to call bullshit outright. Well, he could, but instead:]

No shit. This from the porter or something you were born with?

[ Tate shrugs, noncommittal, but he's more and more aware that he needs to double down on being interesting or worthwhile if he wants to keep Tate's attention. He seems interested by the... magic, at least, which he can play up, if he needs to. It's hard to answer his question - his powers were all brand new to him when they were listed one after the other on his arrival, but seeing them felt like they were his own. Like he'd finally scratched an itch and unlocked something in him that was always there. A birthmark that had always been there that he hadn't ever seen. ]

From home.

[ Maybe. He inches forward, looking at Tate, trying to study every reaction he makes. ]

I can make it snow. Hail. Rain. I can make things happen, and I can make people... do things. I don't, but I can. And... sometimes there are, uh... birds?

[Tate watches him with an equally studious look, staring unflinchingly into those baby blue eyes like he expects to see his own reflection inside Michael's pupils. It'd be stranger to hear this if he hadn't already been exposed to a year's worth of porter-met people, cannibals and false Gods. Hail, rain, control of other people? Interesting, but not the most remarkable shit around. Better than what Tate has, to some degree, though.]

Birds?

[Honing in on that, he blinks. Finishes his beer and sits forward to sit the bottle on the shoddy little thing they call a coffee table. He's sitting forward to stand up, going for another beer from the fridge. In the process of that, he glances back at Michael.]

You good on that beer or do you want another?

Um - you decide?

[ Michael's flustered enough by the offer of another beer to lose the intensity in his eyes again, leaning on being overly polite and stupidly not knowing if taking another drink that was offered to him could be considered overstepping. He takes a swig of his beer anyway, polishing it off, even though he hates the taste, and he settles the empty bottle next to Tate's, twisting the neck so their labels align. ]

But, uh - yeah. They... [ Again, he's on the precipice of saying too much, but - he really is desperate. If he knew he were the Antichrist, maybe he wouldn't be so quick to share the signs. He sits at the coffee table, tuckling his knees up beneath it, resting his forearms and elbows on the wood. ]

The... sky turns red. Crows circle above me. My house gets hot. [ A pause. ] That happens here, too. I haven't seen many crows... but it's been sweltering inside my house. Kind of worried Jack'll die. I don't think old people take to heat very well.

Well that's fucking weird.

[Tate says, disappearing behind the fridge door after opening it. He doesn't seem fazed, returning to the couch with two bottles after uncapping them. He holds one out to Michael, but doesn't let go of it easily. Not before first saying one thing:]

Yes or no; you want this beer, right?

[Tate's just - slightly irked by the indecisiveness, realizing in the moment that it's going to get fucking annoying soon. He'll let go of the bottle if Michael answers yes, plopping back down to sip on his own and feed the buzz he has going with a moment of quiet before snickering.]

Don't worry about Jack. Don't think that'll kill him.

[ Michael reaches out for the beer, though his fingers draw back like they've been shocked when Tate doesn't just pass it over to him. He sees Constance in Tate, for a moment. She would correct his behaviour the same way - letting him dangle with his hand out when he didn't say his pleases or thank yous. He swallows and nods, too shy to actually vocalize his yes, and he snatches the bottle, taking a sip.

Still tastes disgusting. He draws his knees up, looking down at the coffee table. ]

Good weird or bad weird? I think it's kind of cool. Scary, but... cool.

I've seen weirder.

[When it comes to dead nurses and a demonic child who eats corpses in the basement to a variety of things here as well? Tate's actually not that concerned. Kid sounds fucked up in more ways than one, but - hey, at least he has magic for an excuse. Tate's fucked up and only a small portion of that can ever truly be blamed on anything other than himself.]

Scary is kind of cool, anyway. I can't do much here myself, but - I've been practicing what I can do.

[He pauses, a moment of concentration behind a blank stare with the rim of his bottle to his lips - and then the lights flicker on cue overhead. After that, he reanimates, brows arched and bottle tipped back for another drink. Maybe this artisan shit Derek buys isn't that bad after all.]

Again. Not much.

[ Michael watches the lights flicker overhead, drawn to them like a kid seeing snow fall for the very first time. This is something else about his father Michael wants to memorize - he got in trouble for wanting to be like Tate back home, but that just means any imitation he does from here on out has to be done in secret. Happy and curious, he taps his knuckles together and scoots forward until the coffee table is pressing tight into his chest. ]

Are you kidding? That was so cool.

[ It's like you're a ghost, or something. He stops himself from saying it, but he could. Michael drops his voice to a hushed whisper, like he's asking something he's not supposed to ask. ]

Can you do anything else?

A few things.

[Tate's become a little bit more open about it while here, likely because it's not uncommon for ImPorts to be weirdos. He mulls over whether or not he should keep talking, running his tongue over his teeth. Oversharing details about himself is something he knows from Derek wouldn't be good, especially for the two of them. But casually shooting the shit with a teen his age... while buzzed? He has trouble deciding where his lines should lay.]

I'll show you next time. I'm kinda buzzed, might not be a good mix right now.

[Last thing he needs to do is get stuck in a wall somehow.]

Whaaat.

[ Michael's hopeful curiosity gives way to visible disappointment, and he slumps down against the table, looking up at Tate from beneath blond hair. He wants to know as much about Tate as possible... he wants to know what he can do, who he lives with, what he tells people about home. He's happy to hear Tate talk about a next time, but he's - impatient. Annoyed, childishly. ]

Fine, be a tease. [ He brings his beer back to his lips, taking a small sip and hating the taste enough to pull another face. Fucking awful. He sets the bottle back down, eyeing Tate. He thinks he knows the answer to what he wants to ask, but... he'll ask anyway, because he doesn't know what Tate will say. ]

Are... your powers new or from home?

Edited 2018-11-30 05:24 (UTC)

[Tate snorts at the tease comment, rolling his eyes. It'll take just a few more awkward conversations between them or piercing, imploring stares from Michael before he starts to suspect maybe something's off but for the time being it's fine. He doesn't need to shut this kid down yet, even if there's a faint vibe of some ungodly attraction. Little does he know that's, well, exactly what it is. Antichrist and all.]

New.

[Is that a lie? It's not like they were really powers back home. Ghosts had abilities, sure, but he doesn't really know if it counts. So he lies, licking at his lip and eyeing Michael over again. That's another thing for down the road, figuring whether or not he can trust this kid.]

My life back home wasn't all that memorable.

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