Michael
OUT OF DARKNESS INTO THE LIGHT
IF YOU WANT ME GONE
IF YOU WANT ME GONE
The clang and clack and bash of cups clinking, of plates colliding with tables, of feet stomping. Tripping, shuffling, too much movement to keep track of all at once so Michael focused instead on what didn't fit the pattern. What didn't follow the rest of the flow. Patternless, the nonsense and scribbles between lines most paid no attention to.
He had to be that way, he had to find the holes and all the things that weren't 'normal'. It was survival of the fittest, and he wasn't the fittest. So, he had to take other approaches, find other ways, seek out different ways to adapt and not DIE.
And because of that… there she was.
Her pause near the window, caught by peripheral vision. He didn't look her way, didn't want attention drawn to him in case it wasn't her, in case it was just someone who looked like her. Because she wasn't the same, didn't LOOK the same. Moved similar, stepped through the doorway. Dressed strange, hair strange, smelled strange, she was DIFFERENT.
But, she was her, and he knew she was her when she moved closer, recognition there in her eyes. The way she weaved through tables and chairs, around the bar. Always stepping forward, a destination in mind:
His table.
Her little wave not acknowledged, gaze lowered back to the table as he drew in a breath. Steadied himself, considering just fucking BAILING even though he was waiting here for her. Running away was one of Michael's most prominent natural states, except now it was much harder with
THAT VOICE IN HIS H E A D
A shift in him, maybe, an extra sprinkling of courage that opposed the cowardice.
And so, no. He didn't run. He stayed there, let her come. Only looked at her when she stopped at his table and spoke to him. When she smiled at him, when he looked to her lips and her eyes, he saw the hollowing of her cheeks, gauntness beneath her eyes. Couldn't say what it was from, but he knew it. Had looked the very same on some days, night… weeks. Sometimes months.
Still alive.
Don't make him laugh, Maea, he might not survive such positivity.
"Unfortunately for me, yeah. I'm alive. And so are you." No bite there in his tone, no accentuated sass or any manner of malice. Just… tired. "Looks like you got a few upgrades. Heard you're some fancy pants guild master or something now. What are you doing hanging out with common rabble like me?" A gesture of his hand, elbow barely shifting off the table. "Would hate to see that dress get ruined by my presence."
Ah, and there it was. A muted little smirk, an angled quirk of his mouth. A sneer, amusement, some form of nipping snark; it was hard to tell.
YOU PULL THE TRIGGER YOURSELF
