[ Michael gives Tate a small, reassuring smile, squeezing his hand and helping him up. He steps right to the edge of the platform they're standing on, not jumping down, but - guiding Tate to look out, to see the park. All its broken equipment, the dirty bark, the rocks and the sparse brown patches of dead grass. He nods upwards, towards the unyielding ceiling beneath the Up. The cage that keeps the Down so dull and humid and horrible.
Hawthorne hasn't really taught Michael anything new. It opened the floodgates, told him that everything he can do is possible - but that's all they did. Every spell, every impulse, every quiet thought made tangible and real, that all came from him; they just broke down the dam of ignorance and disbelief that stopped him from realizing his true potential.
They don't have a sky, but they have a big expanse above them and a ton of moisture in the air. That's all he needs.
He reaches one hand out, pointing towards where the sun should be. He closes his eyes, feels for listless, stagnating molecules with nowhere to go, and he changes them. Hawthorne hasn't taught him anything new, no, but it has honed what he can do, sharpened it. Michael doesn't lose himself the way he did the last time he tried this. He just - moves his hand, and...
He makes it snow. It's subtle, at first. Little white flakes that flow down like feather-light clumps of cocaine. He makes it snow more, and more, and more, and when he opens his eyes again with the tiniest drip of blood trailing from his nose down to his upper lip, there's a thin blanket of white slowly dropping to the ground, there's a cloud formed of nothing sticking to the ceiling of the Down. Michael grins a little, hopping off the platform, letting go of Tate's hand when he does.
He doesn't say anything. He just walks backwards into the gently falling snow, then holds his arms out with a smug little half-grin, all look at this, silently asking Tate if he's impressed. ]
[Tate's enamored - at first he sees the smallest flecks of white floating down, growing and growing in intensity until it clicks for that that this is snow. He doesn't pick up on Michael's nose at first, instead tips back his head to watch the flurry of white - back in LA he'd never seen snow, and here he's just had cold in the Up and miserable humidity in the Down.
He follows Michael down a step, looking at him only after raising his hand to catch a few snowflakes and feel the cold of them melting against his palm. He's - interested, awed and suddenly more interested in this stranger than ever before. It's then he notices the blood, snapping from the daze.]
You're - hey, you're bleeding.
[Tate doesn't think, he just tugs his sleeve down over his hand and reaches out tentatively to wipe the little droplet of red off of Michael's face. It's a vast improvement from licking the blood off of Violet's wrist, so clearly - he's learning how to properly interact with people. Bit by bit.]
[ Again, maybe it's just the coke, but Michael's heart is racing so hard he feels like it might pop, coating the insides of his ribs with warm feelings and too much viscera. Tate steps close and starts cleaning away the blood on his face and Michael's-- stunned, staring at him too closely. Tate never, ever, ever would have treated him with this much kindness at home. This much care.
He laughs, and the only reason his voice isn't quiet is because he's too amped up to manage the volume. ]
Not afraid of a little blood, are you?
[ He lingers until Tate pulls away, then takes a few steps back to get a better look at the snow. He could pick this up, make it a blizzard. Freeze Tate the way he nearly froze the others. Show him how strong he can be. He doesn't, but - he thinks about it. ]
C'mon, give me a challenge. Ask me to do something. I can probably do it.
[Tate snorts at the comment, because saying 'no I like it' is also a social faux-pas. He just shakes his sleeve a little as he drops his hand back down to his side, and gets distracted again with the snow. He still feels so fucking happily buzzed, caught up in this literally magical whirlwind. Go fucking figure.]
Uh... pull a rabbit out of a hat? I don't fucking know.
[ Michael's feeling more and more confident, willing to rib Tate back. He's not really great at telling jokes or having fun or interacting with people his own age, and Tate's... already a special kind of problem, but the coke's making him feel talkative and relaxed and easy. Still sorta wants to get hit in the face, too, but he can leave that.
He can change how he looks, but he's back to walking that fine line between wanting to scare Tate and wanting to impress him. He tilts his head, deciding. ]
Okay. [ He steps closer, a bounce in his step. ] Close your eyes. Count to three. Open them again.
[Tate snorts, taking a moment before he does as he's asked - still staring at the snowfall with a sense of muted wonder. He catches a few more snowflakes against his palm before he seems to remember he was given instruction, and looks more directly at Michael before closing his eyes. Takes a blink before they stick shut, and he's starting to feel the coolness from the snow.]
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no subject
Hawthorne hasn't really taught Michael anything new. It opened the floodgates, told him that everything he can do is possible - but that's all they did. Every spell, every impulse, every quiet thought made tangible and real, that all came from him; they just broke down the dam of ignorance and disbelief that stopped him from realizing his true potential.
They don't have a sky, but they have a big expanse above them and a ton of moisture in the air. That's all he needs.
He reaches one hand out, pointing towards where the sun should be. He closes his eyes, feels for listless, stagnating molecules with nowhere to go, and he changes them. Hawthorne hasn't taught him anything new, no, but it has honed what he can do, sharpened it. Michael doesn't lose himself the way he did the last time he tried this. He just - moves his hand, and...
He makes it snow. It's subtle, at first. Little white flakes that flow down like feather-light clumps of cocaine. He makes it snow more, and more, and more, and when he opens his eyes again with the tiniest drip of blood trailing from his nose down to his upper lip, there's a thin blanket of white slowly dropping to the ground, there's a cloud formed of nothing sticking to the ceiling of the Down. Michael grins a little, hopping off the platform, letting go of Tate's hand when he does.
He doesn't say anything. He just walks backwards into the gently falling snow, then holds his arms out with a smug little half-grin, all look at this, silently asking Tate if he's impressed. ]
no subject
He follows Michael down a step, looking at him only after raising his hand to catch a few snowflakes and feel the cold of them melting against his palm. He's - interested, awed and suddenly more interested in this stranger than ever before. It's then he notices the blood, snapping from the daze.]
You're - hey, you're bleeding.
[Tate doesn't think, he just tugs his sleeve down over his hand and reaches out tentatively to wipe the little droplet of red off of Michael's face. It's a vast improvement from licking the blood off of Violet's wrist, so clearly - he's learning how to properly interact with people. Bit by bit.]
no subject
He laughs, and the only reason his voice isn't quiet is because he's too amped up to manage the volume. ]
Not afraid of a little blood, are you?
[ He lingers until Tate pulls away, then takes a few steps back to get a better look at the snow. He could pick this up, make it a blizzard. Freeze Tate the way he nearly froze the others. Show him how strong he can be. He doesn't, but - he thinks about it. ]
C'mon, give me a challenge. Ask me to do something. I can probably do it.
no subject
Uh... pull a rabbit out of a hat? I don't fucking know.
[A challenge? Tate scowls, trying to think.]
Can you change how you look?
no subject
[ Michael's feeling more and more confident, willing to rib Tate back. He's not really great at telling jokes or having fun or interacting with people his own age, and Tate's... already a special kind of problem, but the coke's making him feel talkative and relaxed and easy. Still sorta wants to get hit in the face, too, but he can leave that.
He can change how he looks, but he's back to walking that fine line between wanting to scare Tate and wanting to impress him. He tilts his head, deciding. ]
Okay. [ He steps closer, a bounce in his step. ] Close your eyes. Count to three. Open them again.
no subject
One, two... three?
[And he'll open them.]