dumbshow | CALL ME OUT heuhuehe

[Metatron doesn't seem to understand the simple fact that Michael does not have to be right all the time (but in this case of controlling fates, he is actually right), because he has the authority to make himself right, anyway. Surely, he isn't hesitating. This is a decision he's made, and has kept making.

He taps his foot on that wing joint, disapprovingly, but makes no move to shake the grip off his ankle. This is another attempt to get him to turn on his own word, and he doesn't appreciate it. The reason he does nothing - or one of the reasons, the one he can properly articulate - is simple: he will not send Metatron to Hell. Delivering his bound man directly into his brother's hands? Frankly, he'd rather not.

Waiting is such a human concept. Michael has little concept of dragging things out (although that is catching up with him, lately), and on some level it did not occur to him that Metatron would still be keeping track of how long he hasn't been human. He shrugs.]

A leader must do right by his subordinates. All of them.

[Damning all his angels for being annoying--it only takes the first one--would be a bad idea, yeah? He tries to keep his voice level, but by the end he's practically grinding his teeth, and it just gets worse-]

Someone like you shouldn't speak so flippantly.

[Have any decisions made by Michael ever been the right one though? A question for the ages.

It's a shame because Metatron would really like to meet Lucifer. It sometimes sucks to be human, he missed out on meeting the older brother of this hot mess. Although he'll outlive the younger if he never goes to sleep (which he should still do already).

Metatron taps his fingers on top of Michael's foot. Subordinates... Like any of the other angels consider him an equal. You already said you own him, just admit he's your toy. No need to be embarrassed. He hums at the insult, as if he would ever consider shutting up.]

It's fun though.

[That is all the reason he needs.]

[No one is allowed to meet Lucifer, stop thinking about it.]

Fun.

[Wow, did he really just... jeez, this is the worst toy ever. This time Michael wiggles his foot a bit - stop tapping ugh - but it's not like he'll stop stepping on Metatron anytime soon, despite that. He frowns down at him instead, like he has been doing, but with less venom than before. Not none--but less. It's tiring (not a word) to keep telling him to be quiet, or be serious, or give up on his subtle hints. Sometimes, Michael would like to be left alone.

Which is, of course, impossible. But still.]

Provocation is your game, isn't it... What a bore. [He bends a little, and sticks out his arm.] Give me your hand.

[yeah guess which one he means]

[Yeah. Why else would he be doing this? It's totally just for fun, don't think it's anything else. Mmhm.

In fact, he was going to be even more annoying for the hell of it when suddenly there is a hand. Oh no. Instantly he is reminded of the past, when the two first met. He was just excited, he had no idea of how much he would come to resent it. This easily hurt more than any of the kicks and stomps. He want to slap that hand out of his face. Push it away and beat Michael back until he falls down onto the ground. Unleash all his own pent up frustrations right back on Michael.

Slowly, he lifts his hand up and takes it.

Like he could do anything else.]

[Before Metatron takes his hand, Michael waits. It's as if those few seconds stretch across thousands of years and suddenly the man pinned under his heel is just that, a man, and he himself is all but dizzy with the need to take hold of him and possess him. But it was never wholly Michael's action; that hand reached out to him on its own, and he laid the terms himself - we curse each other.

It was always mutual, this indescribable thing between them. The past is something vile caught in the back of his throat, and Michael can no longer rely on eternity to take him away from it.

He smiles at Metatron's hand in his, without malice for once, although it lacks the pure radiance he tries to keep up. There is something wrong with them both; it's been far too long to change that now.]

So you can be quieted, still. [His voice is low in an almost unguarded way. Almost. He holds tight to Metatron's hand and lifts the other to run his fingers from the back of the wrist to his fingertips. A caress, if he weren't still digging a heel right into Metatron's chest.

can't have everything in life]

You understand, don't you? You are still mine, no matter what game it is.

[Metatron regrets his choice instantly. Every touch tightens his chest in a way he would never talk about if he had the choice. He's elated - he hates that - at the same time he remembers endless years of emptiness. But his hand feels on fire and he doesn't want to let go.

Ever since this little ordeal started this has been the first time Metatron has grimaced. The stillness is broken, he shifts on the ground and rustles his wings. This isn't fun anymore and he actually feels uncomfortable. Wrong, wrong, wrong-

His grip suddenly tightens in return. He hates you.]

You're really no fun.

[Ironically, Metatron is the one that sounds tired for once. So tired.]

[Michael suddenly realizes this is what he's been striving for. Avoiding Metatron is one thing - it leaves a bad taste in his mouth, a dissatisfaction, but this reaction is different. He can see Metatron love and hate him in the same moment and digs his fingers into his hand as well. There are hooks in Metatron's flesh and every one of them is Michael, Michael, Michael--

A grin breaks over his face, too wide, and then he laughs. No matter what mood he's in, the way he laughs will always ring out like bells, and he hopes every inch of Metatron aches for it. The whole hallway hums with it, and before the last echo fades Michael suddenly moves. The most notable change is that he finally removes his foot from Metatron's chest, if only to drop to his knees and squeeze against his ribs. Their bound hands remain bound, but Michael's other hand thrusts back into Metatron's wing feathers as he looms head and shoulders over - and likely much too close to - his face.

Is this the attention you wanted so badly?]

Fun! No fun, no fun at all. What did you think would happen?

[He stares down at him, and there is nothing else in the world outside the two of them. And with all the finesse of someone who always asks the one thing he shouldn't:]

Did I hurt your feelings?

[Metatron can't believe he messed up like this. He lost his cool and gave Michael everything he wanted and now he had to deal with the consequences. Which suck for the record. Just like this curse and everything surrounding Michael as a whole. He feels the skin break and it looks like Michael's really under his skin now ha ha ha-- he clicks his tongue.

This is out of control and he has no idea what to do. With Michael on top of him he moves his free hand to sink his nails into the flesh above Michael's ridiculous stockings. Anything done to him he will return, even if there's no way to stop this train wreck.

The worst part is that he is forced to look upwards. Right at Michael's smug smile, his head haloed by the radiant light that never stops around here. It's infuriating and beautiful. Just like his clear voice that cuts his composure he has spent so long perfecting.]

Would you care either way?

[Michael's mind is reeling, a mess of memories and desires and if Metatron has lost his cool then what is he, wild-eyed and close to manic?

The nails on his thigh bring him back to himself and he hisses through his teeth involuntarily. It aggravates more than it hurts, although the meaning does not escape him when he feels blood well up under Metatron's fingers. That's going to get on his stockings. He's going to be cross.

But his near-mania seems to fizzle out all at once when he's forced, again, to confront things he'd rather push to the side. Does he care about Metatron? He knows the answer even before he absorbs the question - of course he does. If Michael wanted to be rid of someone, truly rid of them, then he would be -- it's black and white. He still cares about Uriel, and that incident is practically legendary. Of course he cares.

Still, Metatron wants to tear him down. If it weren't for that, then...]

I allow you to stay. [He looks down--or rather down and back, at his bleeding leg (sorry about his hair going everywhere). Letting go of Metatron's wing, he moves to push his hand down if not away - blood smears; I let you damage me.

It could mean a lot of things.]

You have been insolent.

[A hallow laugh. Insolent. That sure is one way to put it.

Michael, he knows what he is. You don't have to keep reminding him that he was a toy you picked up on a whim. He gets it. He's yours. So possessive. Like he is one to talk in the slightest.

If the stockings were safe before they aren't anymore, Metatron's hand definitely smears the blood as it is shoved away. He brings the hand to his mouth, touching the blood to his lips. His smile starts to creep back into place, just the corners of his mouth visible.]

I'm not an idiot, Michael, no matter what you think.

[It's your heaven, that's why he's trying to take it.]

[Well he can't have it, so there.

Now, in Michael's defense, he never did say Metatron is an idiot. If he were, Michael wouldn't be nearly as paranoid as he is--that's important. He might be the kind of idiot who gets into these interesting situations with someone like Michael, but they both know that's not what he means.

Michael frowns. His hand follows Metatron's and he puts just his fingertips on his knuckles, pressing down casually. Don't do things halfway, Metatron. Is that the kind of reputation an angel should have? On his other hand his fingers are nearly slippery with blood by now, but he still holds on.]

You don't know what I think.

[Of all the things to address it's that petty shit. Michael... Plus Metatron totally knows him. He can read him like an open book! It's a bed time story.

Metatron is not one to disappoint. He flicks his tongue out and begins to lick the blood off. As he actually sticks the fingers into his mouth (gross) he targets Michael's as well. They are dirty as well after all. There is a dull throbbing pain from his other hand but he doesn't do anything about it.

He would have a retort about what he does think is going on in Michael's brain but his mouth is a bit occupied. Ha.]

[It's not a bedtime story nothing is bedtime stop.

Michael did not plan ahead for this circumstance, unfortunately, and he reacts on reflex -- yanking his hand away from Metatron's filthy mouth and slapping him sharply. Sorry if you bite your own hand, dearest. Although it's not the best slap in the world, because he still hasn't put much distance between them. It makes a nice sound, which is what counts.]

Don't be disgusting!

[It is, naturally, only disgusting when Michael doesn't authorize it.]

[That was the most predictable outcome out there. The only saving grace is that Metatron's mouth isn't filled with his own blood (yet). The bite still hurt though. He pulls his fingers out of his mouth - there is a growing red line where his teeth hit - and makes a flippant gesture.]

I'm sorry.

[Meanwhile, Metatron sways the held hands back and forth. He's moving them like a normal, sane couple might.]

[Metatron is slipping from him again - truthfully, Michael would rather have him wounded and hollow than flippant - and it twists unpleasantly at the core of him to watch. While Metatron waves their joined hands Michael has already sought after the other one again, angrily lacing their fingers together and pushing it down to the floor - or rather, wing on the floor. (See, the saliva was never the problem.)

It would make a pretty contrast, these pairs of hands, if Michael cared about that kind of thing.

He regards Metatron coldly, then sighs. There is no reason to stay here, except for all the obvious ones. His eyes shut as he bows his head even lower now, hair everywhere, his forehead resting against Metatron's. There is no reason to stay here.]

Why?

[Stop it. He just started to piece himself back together slightly. This seesaw of control is shitty when it's in Michael's favor. Metatron squirms again, like the uncomfortable child he is. With both hands held down he fidgets the newly held hand, anxiously refusing to hold it back even as he squeezes the other.

He can't look away. Not because he is bewitched or anything, but there is a face right next to his and everything else is hair and he could really use some personal space right now. His lips are pressed tightly together. There is no answer to that question, Michael.

Metatron shifts again, accompanied by an airy laugh. The dead eyed smile is back. He's ability to pretend is waning with these feeble escape attempts.

Why not, who knows, who cares?

He doesn't say anything though - nothing can be said - and finally settles for just closing his eyes. If I can't see it it goes away, right?]

[Sorry, Michael is an awful whirlwind of mixed messages at all times. Mixed messages and zero personal space.

His eyes remain closed; it becomes a concentrated effort when Metatron laughs like that, because Michael can easily picture the hollow look in his eyes and he does not want to see it, that reminder that he created the very thing that wants to ruin him. At the same time he wonders -- this time, would it be different? It has been thousands of years and Michael is still sure that one day, his favorite things will return to him.

One day. He will not surrender in the meantime.

The silence drags, and Michael does not move. Not even to crack an eyelid, to stare furiously down at Metatron and demand he say something, to threaten him into submission in some way. If that worked on Metatron he might, but Michael has not gotten this far by thinking all of his things work in the same way.

But all the same, he does not like being refused.]

Hindrance. Say something.

[No, nope, nuh-uh, no way. He refuses to talk. Metatron will pretend this was a choice made and not just the fact that he is freezing up. This is just him being an asshole like normal, don't look at it too deeply. Or he would like to think he was that subtle but we all know angels can never be that.

At the order Metatron begins to shake his head, bumping their foreheads together. It's more than necessary, almost like he is trying to shake Michael off as well with every movement.

Metatron won't allow it to be different. There is no going back. Even if he wanted to the bitter lump of his feelings towards Michael would never allow it. With a definitive movement (a lie; his hand is trembling) he wrenches one hand from Michael's grip. Let him go.]

[In that case. Michael's eyes snap open when their heads knock together; no? In what universe does saying no to him end well? Michael lets go of his hand surprisingly easily (which should be the first warning sign). He leans away too, enough to lift his hair out of Metatron's face, and gazes down at him with the righteous fury of a couple thousand years. Blood from Metatron's other hand drips from under Michael's nails down to the floor.

That is the moment he drives his hand into Metatron's throat. An angel cannot be strangled, but a neck is weak and soft and hurts, and an angel once human will always have a more poignant awareness of mortality than someone like Michael. This one especially - that is what Michael is banking on, anyway. Of course he has no intention of following through, but he squeezes long enough and strong enough to at least become a dangerous discomfort, before abruptly releasing his grip. His hand remains where it is.]

Do you still understand nothing, you piece of dirt? Who do you think will take a wretch like you, if not me?

[No matter how much he want to refuse Michael's existence at this moment there are always human reflexes. Metatron's eyes pop open the second his throat is grabbed, the inherent fear of death fill them for a brief second. It irritates him, the hand he just freed was now griping Michael's wrist. He breath escapes him in a long, angry hiss as his chest tightens for entirely different reason from before.

When released he gulps air and coughs. The reaction is so human it hurts- for a whole slew of reasons.

Michael has won(?) at least. Metatron is glaring vehemently at the angel.]

I don't need to be taken. I don't need a keeper.

[He will gladly take control of his own life. Somehow there is a way to do that. He believes.]

[Good. Michael grins, crooked and not at all radiant. It feels wonderful to have things go exactly as he planned.]

That is not for you to decide.

[There must have been a moment things could have gone better. Honestly, Michael probably ruined it himself, but it must have happened. He can't remember why - Enoch adored him, the newly-winged Metatron was shamelessly his favorite. Everything that stretches out behind them is a mess.

He presses on Metatron's throat again, but not enough to make him gasp this time. How many times will he "die" by Michael's hand? The grin is still stretched across his face, even though his voice sounds cold.]

If you could only see yourself... Death is the only thing that makes you look alive! Disgusting.

[There is another panic as Michael just keeps on talking. Having his issues called out by him of all people is more painful than any grip on his throat. Just as quickly as those bursts of life occur they fade back to the hallow stare and he returns his own twisted smile.

The final straw was the immortality, of course. Endless days where all he has to do is think. Contemplate every single instance and event, every what-if. There was never any closure, never allowed to die before he ascended. It might not have changed anything down the line, but he can only wonder and wonder and wonder...

He's already contemplating what if he had let sleeping tigers lie and hadn't pushed Michael's buttons today. It would have probably been a nicer day, at least.]

Then kill me.

[There is a strange lilt to Metatron's voice. He means it. He wouldn't mind if Michael just finished it. He holds eye contact, and slowly lifts his hand upwards to softly caress Michael's cheek. The gentlest Metatron has been in decades, a little plea that won't be answered.]

[Michael never wonders what would have been different if he hadn't stepped in before Metatron could die properly, as Enoch. He already knows - Heaven would have another puppet. Maybe he would be devoted to his very bones, like Jeanne, but Michael doesn't need Jeanne and he would not need another one like her. He tells himself he doesn't need anyone, and what use are things that turn against his will?

Metatron tries very hard. Michael can hear it in his voice and feel it in the touch against his cheek and he knows -- a just ruler would not keep one of his own suspended between existences like this. Someone who loved Metatron would give him the satisfaction of his only wish. But before Michael loves Metatron (he still does) he loves himself, and ultimately it is that selfishness that cracks his grin and makes it falter.

He mirrors Metatron's action, lifting his hand from his throat and touching his face. There's a moment of silence before he looks at the hand he's clawed his way into repeatedly and then lets go. It's only for a second; he turns his hand over to look at the blood on it and then snatches Metatron's hand back to him again, but without digging in his nails. A sliver of his old affection lingers there - he doesn't care how much that hurts - and maybe something that keeps Metatron close as something other than his toy.

And besides all that, it's not as if Metatron's yapping about going to sleep is actually threatening. Cursed with this man he may be, but this is his kingdom and his punishments.]

I will not.

CALL ME OUT heuhuehe

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