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[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?

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?

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