[ Michael feels oddly touched about being called dipshit, and there's a bounce in his step as he follows Tate to the shitty little slide-building and climbs on up, avoiding some rusty metal and marvelling at how completely clean of graffiti this place is. He'll fix that.
He passes over a few cases to Tate and fishes around in his bag for a couple cans of spraypaint - red, obviously, to practice his fucking pentagrams without slicing open his arms every time he has to do it. He rattles the can and lifts up his shirt to cover his nose and mouth, quietly nodding at Tate to do the same.
He paints something pretty fucking edgy, just to really ravel in that pathetic teen angst shit he's going through under all the transient highs he gets from Tate's attention, then drops on his ass and tucks his spraypaint away. He nudges Tate's shin, telling him to join him. ]
no subject
He passes over a few cases to Tate and fishes around in his bag for a couple cans of spraypaint - red, obviously, to practice his fucking pentagrams without slicing open his arms every time he has to do it. He rattles the can and lifts up his shirt to cover his nose and mouth, quietly nodding at Tate to do the same.
He paints something pretty fucking edgy, just to really ravel in that pathetic teen angst shit he's going through under all the transient highs he gets from Tate's attention, then drops on his ass and tucks his spraypaint away. He nudges Tate's shin, telling him to join him. ]
Ready.