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i'll make you a playlist
i'm good at making playlists

[ he wants to say he's good at making things in general - he likes to draw, sometimes, maybe he should bring that up - but he's here. he's a little sweaty from walking as far as he has, and his arms are hurting from carrying the tank, but that's good, he thinks; tate might offer him a glass of water, or something, and it'll be the first thing he ever gives him. that's an exciting thought.

he sends tate another message to say that he's here, and he waits in the hall outside of tate's apartment, having climbed the stairs to get a little more out of breath and work that sympathy angle a little tighter. tate opens the door as michael's lifting the tank higher up his side, smiling bright. ]

Hi.

cool.

[That's the extent of Tate's response out of a confirmation that he'll be right there when Michael tells him he's arrived, giving him time to shoo Trisk off his lap and pat Cobain on the fat end of her ass as he moves across the apartment toward the door. The windows are cracked open and it's warm, considering it's Heropa, but a metal fan rotates on the table giving the otherwise silent room a gentle hum to fill it.

Tate's in a paint splattered t-shirt that's a size too big to really be his, his black jeans and converse shoes equally scuffed. He hasn't been working on anything today but had intention to, before getting side tracked figuring out where to lay out Helena-slash-Joplin's tank. For the time being it looks like she'll be sitting by the TV, on a table that's been cleared off.

He opens the door, flicking his eyes over Michael to get reacquainted with his face before nodding his head to gesture him inside. He doesn't think to look and see if the kid's parked his car outside, nor to wonder how he got here at all. He just invites him in and will close the door behind him with his heel.]

You can put it on that table over there? There should be space to set this shit up. You need a hand with it, or anything? Looks kinda heavy.

Edited 2018-11-18 05:01 (UTC)

[ Heropa isn't half as hot as Jeopardy, though maybe Michael's experience is limited, given that his own home seems to spike in even higher temperatures than the rest of them. The breeze from the windows feels nice, and Michael closes his eyes when the fan angles itself his way, and for a moment, all he feels is a sense of peace and harmony that was never there in the old Murder House. Tate's life is... calmer, now. Again, he wants to be a part of it.

He only flashes a smile and shakes his head when Tate offers him his help, mumbling something about how this is his job and how he needs to get used to heavy lifting before ducking inside. He sets the tank down on the table offered to him and drops to his knees to start unwrapping the glass, neither addressing nor noticing the cats that stare at him with cautious curiosity. There's a pretty huge box in the tank that he takes out, filled with packaged food and appropriate decor, and Michael sets to work on getting everything set up.

It's hard to look like he only cares about setting up the tank and not about talking to Tate or getting to know him any better, but he's been practicing his conversation points in the mirror. He focuses on lining the bottom of the enclosure with dirt, looking back to Tate with another quick smile. ]

I like your apartment. Have you been living here long?

[Tate wanders closer, giving Michael a bit of space to do his bit - knowing full well this probably extends past his hired duties and wonders if he should tip him for it. He mulls that over while massaging Cobain's head with two fingers after she bumps her face into his palm while sitting on the back of the couch. Her tail sways side to side and she relaxes, perhaps because Tate's body is now between her and Michael.]

Not really. I used to live in the Falls, but I moved here to be by the beach. My old roommate ported out, too.

[And now that he's dating his new one, it seemed to make more sense to condense officially into one place. But he still struggles to be that open with his relationship, battling negative connotation in his own head that keep him from saying 'boyfriend' without the assurance it'll be a nonissue. Being 'legal' now should make shit easier and yet he still feels like he'd prefer to keep quiet.

He scratches the back of his own neck before walking away from Cobain, who mewls and resumes watching Michael with an observant look that her offspring (who just fell off the couch face first,) lacks. He steps into the kitchen space, casting a glance back over one shoulder.]

Did you want that beer, by the way? We have water and soda, too.

[ Again, Michael doesn't really notice the cats. One of them falls and hits her face and any normal kid might laugh or rush to help her, but Michael just watches it happen from the corner of his eye, too focused on saying the things he's practiced and getting through this afternoon as smoothly as he can. The dirt's in and he can start adding everything else he brought over - the stones, the branches, the water dish, whatever else Tate's new snake might need - but he doesn't, not yet. He's too busy listening to Tate, intense and hyperfocused.

Maurtia Falls. Okay. He hasn't been there yet, but maybe he can poke around, hopefully even find where Tate used to live. He's gotta go to the Nonah mansion, too - see if he left anything on set after the show wrapped up. Michael wants to know as much about Tate as possible so he can have an advantage when they start getting closer, and having a whole new city to filter through for information... that feels like a huge head start. He's excited enough by the prospect that he completely forgets to make any kind of sympathetic noise when Tate mentions his roommate.

And then he's offered a beer. Again, he's never had a beer before. His heart skips a beat. ]

Can I? I mean - [ He hears Constance's voice, hears the way she corrected his grammar shift from scolding and firm to shaky and injured. ] May I? Anything's fine, I'll - take whatever you have.

[ He rushes to work on the terrarium again, keeping his head down and avoiding eye contact so as to not look eager or overly interested in making smalltalk. The cat's still staring at him, unblinking, and Michael finally starts to really notice her. He's seen cats like her before. They never really seem to like him. This could be a problem, if she starts getting territorial. ]

What's, um - what's your cat's name? The... big one.

[Tate dips into the fridge, pulling out two beers and setting them down on the counter. While he rummages around for the opener they have in one of these fucking drawers, he looks back up at Michael when he asks about his cat and flicks his gaze over to Cobain. He pops the lids off neatly while he replies, dropping them into an open mason jar to keep for later.]

Cobain. Cat Cobain?

[He's not sure if the joke flies, but the lilt in his voice might make it obvious that there's more to it. He heads back toward Michael in the living room, holding one bottle out by the neck as he tips back his to take a long sip. It's the shit Derek brought home and it's not exactly what he likes, but Derek'd be right in expecting that Tate's much happier with it.]

Here.

[ Michael doesn't get the joke, but he laughs as if he does, only somewhat unconvincingly. He scratches the back of his neck and watches Cobain for any signs of agitation, but again, she mostly just seems... suspicious, shaking the tip of her tail but ultimately leaving him alone. Tate brings him his beer and Michael takes it with both hands, grateful that Tate uncapped it for him. He wouldn't have known how to, himself.

He drinks from his bottle and almost chokes, the bubbles getting stuck up his nose after taking too big of a swig. He sets the bottle against the table as he coughs, nose running a little, his eyes watering, and if Tate offers him any help or looks of concern, Michael will hastily wave them away. He rubs his eye on the back of his hand and gets over it, cheeks red. It's only beer, but he's basically four years old. ]

Crap - sorry. I haven't...

[ He doesn't finish his sentence. He shakes his head and tries again, taking another drink and managing to keep it down this time, but he's so fucking embarrassed. He doesn't look at Tate, only busies himself with the work he's doing, falling quiet so he doesn't say anything stupid enough to make Tate's impression of him any worse. ]

[Tate doesn't know what to do when Michael chokes, lips parting for a few seconds when he notices and he does lift his hand to offer to take the bottle back but is waved away. He snorts lightly, less amused and more just - doing it to lessen the awkward tension of the moment. From his experience with him so far, Tate's noticed the kid himself is just... awkward. He hasn't the faintest idea why, and perhaps it's better like this.]

My bad, I should've warned you it's that artisan shit. My - roommate bought it.

[Tate takes another swig, looking over what Michael's doing with the knowledge he should be observing it to know how to do it himself. He looks back down to his beer bottle, running his thumb over the label before he tries to think of something else to say. Then he just looks back up to the room, casting a glance back to his bedroom.]

I'll go grab the snake. She's been chillin' by the bedside.

No, it's-- I'm sorry.

[ Michael runs his hand through his hair, shaking blond curls out through his fingers and hiding blue eyes behind them. He gets dirt in his hair from doing this and has to surreptitiously shake it out without Tate noticing, and hopefully he pulls that off - either way, Tate's heading out to get the snake and Michael plans to use that moment to regroup. Jesus Christ.

He nods and lets Tate go, taking a long, slow breath to ease his anxiety, shaking out his wrists and cracking his neck to get himself back into the game. He rushes to finish decorating the enclosure and does a pretty decent job by the time Tate's back, everything just seeming to fit into place perfectly, like he has a perceptive enough eye to see exactly where things should go. He's still sitting on his knees when Tate comes back, but he pushes himself up on his knuckles and away from the table by a few inches, leaning on his shins and looking up. ]

It's - yeah. It's done, I think. She'll need some water to drink and to bathe in, and she's probably getting hungry, if you haven't fed her... but... she's... got a house, now.

[Tate returns, bottle in one hand and snake carrier in the other, setting both down nearby. Michael's handiwork isn't admired right away, because Tate's taking the snake out with both hands - enamored by it once more in an almost childish way. It's cool, and he's still not over the fact it belongs to him. He turns back to Michael with a bit of that residual smile on his face, lifting up the snake in a 'eh?' sort of way to show her off.]

Yeah, about that - mice, right? Did you happen to bring any of those unlucky fuckers? I forgot about it but it's like, every ten days or so she should be snacking, right? I'm gonna have to come back and get more.

[He sets the snake down in the enclosure, watching her slither along to explore it.]

Is it better if they're alive or dead, in your personal opinion?

[ Tate shows his new pet off, and whatever hope Michael had for Tate complimenting his work gets swept away by the pride of sharing such a happy moment with him. He beams, looking at Tate and the snake with all the joy in the world, and when he brings up food, he nods and starts rummaging through the box. ]

Alive is more natural. They'll run away from her, and she'll be able to hunt them. It gives her exercise and lets her use her instincts.

[ But some people think that's cruel. He bites his tongue at the last moment, locking that thought away. Tate can come to that conclusion on his own, if he wants to. He pulls out what he's looking for, a small container of already dead mice - a starter's kit, so to speak, just to get Tate started. He should probably charge for this, but he won't. ]

Maybe put them in the freezer before they rot?

[Guess that means he will be making repeated trips to the store, even if he has a moment of pause while considering it. The hunt's natural enough that he justifies it quickly in his head, noting that the mice die either way. He looks to the container in Michael's hand, reaching for it tentatively with a wave of morbid curiosity. Dead mice. Not something his mother would've ever stood to allow in the house, never let him touch.]

Yeah, okay...

[His eyes are still on the container, then the contents inside when he looks it over. He touches his fingertip down over the thawing fur of a previously frozen mouse, blinking out of this reverie and back into motion shortly after. He doesn't bother to find any other way of feeding than picking one of the little corpses up by hand and putting it in the enclosure; looking up to Michael while he does so.]

I drop it and let her get to it, yeah?

[Otherwise the hand that feeds is the hand that's likely to get bit.]

Thanks for all this, by the way. You didn't need to do all this shit for me, and you did anyway. I appreciate it.

Or you can make a game of it. Tie it's tail to a branch and watch her try to break it off, maybe bury it in the dirt and see if she can sniff it out. Things like that.

[ Michael smiles at Tate, warm and friendly, offering him the same expression he might use if he was complimenting Tate's outfit or welcoming him to the pet store. The snake lunges at the little mouse Tate offers her, striking with a surprising amount of speed the second it drops into the dirt, but Michael doesn't even react. Just keeps smiling, shyly scratching the back of his neck and hiding a laugh. ]

But, um, it's okay. I really liked helping you out today, actually. This is the best day I've had since porting in. [ He laughs, like even he's aware that that sounds kind of crazy, and he gets to his feet, dusting his legs down. ]

I mean - I like helping people? I lived with my grandma back home, and I helped her out around the house all the time. She's not here, so... I guess it was nice to feel needed again.

[The suggestions are just enough on base that they don't sound too fucked up for Tate to consider, taking out his hand with a cautious watching of the snake as it devours the little corpse with a passion he hadn't quite expected. This'll be an interesting new endeavor, feeding this thing. Especially if he tries the live route.

He wipes his hand off on his shirt, crinkling his nose and making note to change before he makes anything to eat. The laundry Derek did last night's sitting out, a black henley looking ripe for the taking later. He picks his beer back up, taking another swig.]

That's cool. You can stick around if you're not busy, have another beer if you want. I get it if you have other shit to do, I can always text you if I have questions about anything. You'll get sick of me soon enough.

I'll stay.

[ He says it too fast, with all the eager precision of a hungry snake, latching onto Tate's invitation with sharp and venomous teeth. His eyes are alight, his brain running a thousand miles an hour, rushing through the thousands of things he and Tate could do together - but he stops on the precipice of saying anything out loud, gripping the hem of his shirt and tugging it down, shy and hopeful. ]

I mean - if you're sure that that's okay. I was just going to look around the city, so. [ He takes a breath, lets it go. ]

It'd be nice. To hang with someone my own age.

Yeah, it's cool. I don't have anything to do for the next little while.

[At some point he'll have to go grocery shopping, picking up a few things they need - might be a good point to shake Michael loose, so he leaves it on reserve to mention later. For the time being he's not that picky about the social intrusion, not when his snake is still giving him a buzz of endorphins and the beer's equally contributing.

He sits down on the couch and stretches out, lolling his head back against the cushions and looking up at the ceiling. He doesn't really know how to be that openly warm and welcoming to company, much preferring quiet contemplation or drugs to ease the silence along.]

You get stuck with shitty roommates?

They're... there's one named Jack. Um, and - a girl I haven't met yet.

[ He could bring up the dead bodies he found in the fridge, if he wanted to, but he's pretty sure that'd only get him into trouble. It's something to keep tucked away for later use, if he needs to - it's a big enough bombshell that normal people might be shaken by it, so maybe he could turn it into a weapon, at some point - but.

They're fine. They're roommates. The gore doesn't really bother him. Excites him, if anything. ]

Maybe you know him? He's old. Older than me.

Jack?

[He knows a Jack, but he's never really put that much thought into where the guy lives when he's not at work. But with his habit of playing bingo in Jeopardy now, could it be that he lives there too? Tate raises his brows, not one for having thought he'd put up with roommates.]

Old, old - old guy? Quiet, always looks grumpy? That Jack?

Yeah, he's...

[ This is kind of rude, but Michael still has the mind of a kid in a lot of ways, so he doesn't really think about whether or not he's being a dick when he puts his hands on his cheeks and pulls his skin down to indicate someone just super fucking old. He makes noises, too, to really hammer the point in. Old people noises. Like a zombie. He lets go when his eyes start watering. ]

Like that.

Sounds like Jack.

[Tate takes another swig of his drink before resting it against his knee, tongue darting over his lips. This shit tastes terrible and yet he's getting far too used to it - he needs to get some better liquor in this house. And stat.]

He's cool. I work with him at the hospital in Maurtia Falls. The loony bin one.

[ 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?

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