dumbshow | CALL ME OUT heuhuehe

[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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