dumbshow | CALL ME OUT heuhuehe

[Increase his inter-what?? Michael makes another indignant noise like he first did when his sulking was interrupted, but this one is also - stunned, really. He looks in every direction besides Metatron's face very rapidly, like he's wondering when a giant pillow is going to assault him next, and oops he just kicked the tin across the floor, bye tin--]

You-- What do you think you're doing? Don't touch me!

[The only reason his free hand has found its way to Metatron's shoulder is to hit it, several times. Excuse you little boy, hands off the goods??]

[This dance train isn't stopping. Metatron is just leading Michael around the hallway. He doesn't even know the right way to dance the waltz... At least he hasn't stepped on any feet.]

I'm dancing with you. [Obviously.] You asked.

[Casually twisting your words is fun. He smiles again as he looks down right at Michael's face. Come on, look at him.]

Edited 2014-01-06 07:38 (UTC)

[At least hum a few bars, this is stupid. Michael doesn't know how to waltz, either, but he's fairly sure this is not how. To waltz. At all.

Being a sassy brat does get him to meet his eyes, though it's with more irritation than tender appreciation of this concern for his... hobbyist well-being.]

That's-- [In another era and another place, he must have seen something worthwhile in keeping a human around who so enthusiastically tries to challenge him at every turn -- and he must have been very dumb back then, because this is absurd.

But the thought (subconsciously) (very subconsciously) does delay Metatron's inevitable demise, at least for a bit longer.]

Spinning around clumsily is not dancing.

[Implying that he even knows any good waltz music... Ask him to recite the best wine for 1573 and he could but who knows about anything else.

The fact that he isn't being burnt where he stands is surprising to say the least. Maybe Michael really likes dancing! A surprise discovery.]

You caught me, I've never taken classes.

[A loud laugh but he sure isn't stopping.]

Maybe we could go together.

[Michael hates dancing, but he hates scraping burnt humans off the floor even more. The wine would have been a better choice, although he still wouldn't have had any.

He's finally stopped pushing Metatron's shoulder, only to switch to drumming his fingers on whatever cosplay coat he's wearing today. Impatiently. At that... suggestion... he lets go of the other wrist and drags his hand over his face, clearly exasperated. If there were anyone who could get Michael to do this (besides Raphael but he's Raphael), it's the token human.

He gives Metatron a look between his fingers, then waves dismissively. Man, he does not even care that he messed up the waltz.]

You know the answer to that.

[And he's free! Metatron stops his little fake dance, rubbing at his pained wrist. Do angels bruise? Oh well, it still hurts and he doesn't care to hide that fact.

The fact that Michael isn't even getting angry anymore is annoying. He must have pushed it too far for today.]

It was worth a shot.

[Metatron lazily moves his wrist in a circle and half shrugs.]

I did successfully distract you for a while there though.

[Well, he's not exactly pleased with how this little secret meeting has turned out - does that make you feel better, creep?

He takes a step back and smooths out his weird curtain outfit. Don't look now but there's even a subtle hairflip when he looks up again.]

I already knew about your incredible talent for wasting time. [he mentioned it like 30 times today, even

also that was probably criticism for not giving him a good hobby, not that he would have listened... and now he's just idly watching Metatron flip his wrist around, yeeeaah causing damage mmm]

[Maybe a little. Slowly he will wear you out one way or another.

A talent is a talent, Michael. Thanks for the compliment. But now that he has finished his very necessary check up on his poor wrist he needs to go back to bothering the Michael. It's good that you've fixed yourself up because Metatron is just going to gracelessly drape his arms around Michael's neck. Hugs... If he can get away with it he will plop his chin right on top of his head.]

There's a whole lot to waste. [being immortal suxs, txt it] A naps the best way though.

[Sleep next to him, Michael~~~

Ah. Metatron is tenderly touching those wings too as he drapes. Hello.]

[Lewd.

It's like, over and over Michael thinks he has the upper hand, and then the upper hand is snatched cruelly away from him. Who actually allowed Metatron to be so tall? This is probably blasphemy--

He has a snappy answer, if by snappy we mean "just saying no really emphatically again," but he tosses that to the winds when hands invade his pristine wings. What he says instead is,]

Off!

[And then, since he has a faceful of Metatron and nowhere to move his hands unless he wants to burn the whole hallway down, he whacks him--with a wing. They're handy for more than flying, who knew! Please enjoy the token sparkling rain of feathers that accompanies literally anything Michael does with his wings.]

[All he is doing is touching. Stop being so over reactive, he isn't usurping you (yet). Truly he is a saint.

Oof. That sure is a wing hitting him out of fucking nowhere. Metatron was not expecting that so it knocks him off balance and right on his ass. Look, now Michael is finally taller! He won't be getting up right away so savor it.

Metatron catches one of the many fluttering feathers and spins it between two fingers. A little amused laugh.]

It's like it's snowing.

Edited 2014-01-07 03:45 (UTC)

[Jeanne is a saint, Metatron is just annoying. Michael is savoring this moment, though.

Savoring in a sick way, of course; while he stands there and looks down at Metatron there is nothing about his expression that doesn't scream "now you're in your rightful place," because -- he's nuts. And so on. He takes a step forward, planting one foot by Metatron's knee and bracing the other one against his abdomen. All his weight is pressing on that foot, more so when he bends forward to stare into Metatron's face again and reach behind him, shoving his hand roughly into the feathers at the base of one wing.

For a moment, he doesn't do anything - he doesn't even move, save for a slowly intensifying squeeze on that wing base. It's hard to read his face now; part of him would do this thing he's halfway threatening, part of him wouldn't. The catch is that both sides are fueled by the same disaster area that is his feelings for Metatron, not that he'll admit it, not that he'll even hint that there's something he isn't admitting (he may be a little less successful about this last point). He's angry, of course, but it's undercut with something less clear, less simple. The rules of the world are absolute and easy, but this - this. His opinion of Metatron is tangled in so many things he can barely think about it without getting angry about thinking about it.

He remembers: a human man, a grasping hand, a vow. An earnest and genuine man (for a human) who now, with his borrowed wings and ridiculous suggestions, still possesses some... part of Michael. Somewhere. It disgusts him, but he will do nothing about it. He tells himself, only Lucifer concerns him, and he tries to believe it.

If angels had bad habits (Michael obviously has none, presently), then Metatron would be his. There is another second where he searches Metatron's face for something, anything at all besides giggling and whimsy - then he scoffs, pulling out a handful of little feathers and kicking him squarely in the chest.]

[Looks like Metatron is the new rug for the hallway. He expects kicks and grinding heels, it wouldn't be the first time, but what Michael does surprises even him.

It would be alright if Michael did it, after all. No one would question it.

Metatron stares, probing his actions as closely in return. The smile stays but he's definitely questioning. It's clear on his face he is wondering if Michael will go through with it, almost daring him to do it. Rip them, throw them to the ground, smite him. It would be interesting. To see if Michael would really punish him, maybe even rip out both and cast him down. He could move on then.

But he knows it would never happen. Even as the grip tightens he can see the slight wavering within him. They've been going back and forth like this for millennial, he couldn't hope for change now. As his feathers are torn he winces and falls back with the kick. Metatron sighs as he stares up at the ceiling. He had gotten his hopes up.]

You shouldn't threaten such things so readily.

[A light chiding. He never stopped smiling.]

[It is a strange stalemate, this - Michael unable to exact his justice because it's exactly what Metatron wants. He makes another derisive noise, shaking his hand free of feathers over Metatron's body like a handful of dirt. Metatron can chide and suggest all he wants, but Michael is stalwart and sure,]

I am the bringer of justice. [Casually, like a reminder: things Metatron cannot have.] Not you. You exist only by my blessing.

[Which, apparently, is what he's calling it these days. It helps little that he nearly hisses it, cinching the last syllable with a stomp on Metatron's wing. He clasps his hands behind his back and stands straight as he looks down (the ruler surveying his kingdom), and it's unclear whether he's talking to Metatron or himself anymore. He lifts his other foot, preparation for another kick - but then all he does is toe the upper part of the wing he's trampling over, tracing the edge to the first joint. He tilts his head, idly thoughtful.]

These wings... I'll do whatever I want with them. It was never your choice.

Edited 2014-01-07 05:05 (UTC)

[Michael...

Metatron turns his head to look at Michael's foot ~~fetish~~. It can't be said that he likes being trampled on this way. More like a weird little bonus when you obsess over crazy angels. He knows he really shouldn't push Michael any more than he has but being looked down even more obviously than before is a tad grating.

He grabs Michael's ankle, the foot still on his chest. It's a light hold, his thumb running along the joint at the heel, but the threat is clear: he might just try to yank you off.]

I don't know what you've been waiting for then, o Michael on high.

[He's honestly done more than enough for it and they both know it.]

[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.

CALL ME OUT heuhuehe

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