Posts by michael s

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    He had lived here once, in simpler times. Passing a scrutinizing eye across the open expanse, Michael found that his memories of the place had only slightly faded. He could not speak so easily for the people residing within desert, but they had surely had changed, just as he had. He was not sure that he was making the right decision in coming here. There was quite the journey between the Coven of Elysia and the derelict expanse. His large, pale-blue wings shortened the trip, but traveling between the two meant more time away from his loved ones. Away from Spiritline. He ought to have spoken more to his boyfriend before seeking out a second residence, but the decision to come here had been uncharacteristically hasty. Perhaps he wouldn't stay long. Perhaps he would thrill in the experience of being a stranger instead of a Seraphinus and remain here, with new clanmates, new friends. It wasn't too late to turn back, but he'd made up his mind. Folding his wings neatly against alabaster fur, Michael peered forward.

    Snake is an old hand at giving orders and Michael doesn't mind taking them. In this one regard, they make an excellent match. He slips over, wings folded neatly against his side, cerulean hues tracing the male. The scarred man is a newcomer but he seems confident in his job, and Mike lets out a soft, "Hmm," allowing the sound to speak for him. He would take a task.

    Indeed, Spiritline can tease Michael just as Mulder does his boyfriend and the snowy lion would accept it silently. Affectionately, as foreign as that word might feel from acquaintances. He isn't fascinated by the whittling, more so by the blacker of the two foxes, but there's something curious about the movements of the angelhound's paws. He settles down besides Spiritline, bending his head to offer the shorter man a nuzzle, and turns pale eyes toward Mulder. He hasn't been introduced to the curious newcomer yet, although he remembers Barghest mentioning him. Faintly, he dips a greeting, content to remain in place and allow the others to chatter around him.

    Long, light strides carried Michael toward the obelisk, where Amaranthine was cheerfully waiting. The feline always seemed to approach his meetings with a bright outlook, whether recovering from an illness or not. It seemed to Michael that Ama's good-natured approach was good for morale, although it did little to personally uplift the lion - although right now, he didn't need much uplifting. Spiritline's acceptance of his confession had left him feeling as though he was walking on clouds, and as he halted near the other Elysians, he searched the thin crowd for any sign of the black vulpine.

    Experience and his own natural inclination had pushed Michael away from others. Rather than seek company, he'd tamed the minute expressions that gave him away and hardened the barriers that separated himself from others. Spiritline, with his smiles and concern and inimitable energy, had shattered those walls. He didn't know of the crimes Spiritline had once committed, but even had the vulpine's grey brother shared them with the ivory lion, Michael would not care. If the world banded together on one side and Spiritline stood on the other, Michael knew who he would choose. It wasn't in his nature to give up, and certainly not on those he cared about. His father. Aphrodite. Spiritline.


    He can't read the multitude of memories that batter Spiritline as he approaches, but he can read the grin behind the oracle's golden veil. (He hates that veil, hates the way its translucent fabric masks the lower portion of Spiritline's face.) "Aiye, I hope it has something to do with alcohol," the other says, and the response is so typically Spiritline that Michael's lip nearly twitches upward despite the butterflies in his stomach. He's reminded of the stash of dark bottles he has hidden in a cupboard, waiting for the dark fox to visit and find them. Alcohol would make this easier, he thinks, but Michael's seen what drinking has done to his brother and he refuses to go down that road. "No," he shakes his head. Sorry.


    He's always been stingy with his words, and perhaps that's why they threaten to fail him now, when he needs them the most. "I like you." A lot. "I want to spend my time with you. To stay with you, to be with you, to be there for you, to know you. To be by your side, every day, no matter what happens." His gaze has been threatening to drift to the blue ribbon tied around Spiritline's foreleg, away from the other's eyes and whatever judgement they might hold, but nowhe makes sure to keep his attention locked on the male. "I love you."


    He stops, although part of him wants to go on, to tell Spiritline how much he means to him. This might strike the knight as coming out of nowhere, and if Spirit isn't inclined to agree, Michael doesn't want to scare him away. It's better to tell him and take what comes than wait and wonder forever, but the last thing he wants is for this to shatter their friendship if Spiritline doesn't feel similarly. He waits, body tight with tension, for whatever will happen next.

    Mike was still of the opinion that meet and greets were a waste of time. Listening to seven individuals introduce themselves in the span of seven minutes wasn't conducive to learning their names, and he'd never walked away from a meet and greet to feel anything more than the slightest tinge of familiarity when he bumped into one of his meeters-and-greeters again. Nonetheless, he approached, frosted orbs containing the faintest trace of disdain. "Michael," he offered, scrutinizing Barghest for a minute before expressing, "Is your boyfriend afraid to fall?" The Coven was no place for someone with a fear of heights, and if that were the case, Mulder would need to rethink his new home.

    Although he'd been born one of four, Michael Seraphinus had long since grown used to walking alone. When his path had diverged from his brothers and a chasm had developed between them, he'd convinced himself that he was comfortable in his solitude - that he was correct in his solitude - and he hadn't attempted to repair the tattered remains of their relationships.


    That said, he couldn't deny the wisdom that his siblings occasionally spewed. Adonael had not become leader through foolish notions or hasty words, and the last time they'd spoken, the gold toned lion had offered an outstretched hand and advice that, although hypocritical, Michael had extrapolated to a different relationship.


    He was a strict man, more easily compared to the frosty winter season than the warm spring that followed. If love had once thawed him, it had been the platonic love of a son for his father, a brother for his siblings, an uncle for his niece. It had never been a romantic love, for a winter day can only grow so warm. And yet, he had what could only accurately be described as a hopeless crush on Spiritline. The two were as different as night and day, and that had frozen Michael. He hadn't known the other for nearly long enough and he couldn't puzzle out if Spiritline was equally as fond as him. He didn't know and he couldn't bring himself to ask, for the few times the issue had come close to being raised, Spirit had laughed it away. It was easier to wait with butterflies in his stomach and an ache in his chest than face the possibility of rejection, but Adonael had (to Michael's mind unwittingly) advised him against that.


    "You don't get a future by waiting for it. You reach for it yourself. You speak up, you act."


    He was not so easily gallivanted into action. A week of sleepless nights hadn't spurred him to approach the male, but as time ticked by he couldn't continue to ignore what he knew to be good advice. It was a breezy day when he sought out Spiritline and by the time he approached the smaller creature, his mane was wind-mussed. "Spiritline. There's something..." His words caught in his mouth as he met the other's honeyed gaze, and with his heart lodged in his throat, Michael plunged on. "Something I want to tell you."


    // spiritline i'm so late with this sorry!! wasn't sure if you'd prefer open or p

    Barely a second passes before Adonael meets his gaze, and in that moment of silence, Michael nearly turns to leave. He doesn't connect the dots between where his brother was looking and what he says, and Michael at once has his defenses up. It's in the set of his jaw, the flash in his eyes. The gold hued lion is shifting responsibility to him, as though he hadn't sided against Michael so long ago. What does this say about Adonael's responsibility to repair broken bonds?


    He doesn't have a chance to respond before Spiritline is speaking. "Hmm," he hums, unconvinced. Spiritline might have the luxury of an outside view, but Michael's opinion is colored by the emotions that had haunted him since his brothers left. He starts to turn to go, and something clicks. Adonael's advice is poor regarding their own relationship, but perhaps he can direct it elsewhere instead. Perhaps Spiritline had realized that, had realized Michael's other meaning, had just given him permission to pursue such a goal.

    wip

    "I don't want to live in the past," Adonael confirms, and Michael hears what goes unsaid. You do. This grudge is your fault. It's unfair. True, perhaps, but unfair. Michael gains no joy by holding onto grudges, but he can't let go so easily. It's his responsibility to remember life beforehand, to remember the father who had abandoned them (who Michael knew would not have left them without reason). And, he's tried letting go. He's still here, isn't he? Still living in the same place as Adonael, as Lucifer. "Everyone wants a future," he mutters, but he's looking past Adonael, looking at Spiritline. He wants them both to read the subtext that he can't bring himself to say, although he doubts either of them will, and he turns his gaze back to Adonael, expression going flat.

    "Adonael." A new name for his brother. What did that symbolize? A new start? Changes? The desire to wipe his identity? Michael, who had always lived half in the past, was disturbed by the change. The brothers' names had always been their identifiers, tied to their essences. Michael. Who is like god? Lucifer's name hadn't fit the godly theme, just as Lucifer himself had been so different from his siblings - or perhaps Michael was the only one who had seen that, for he had always been more single minded than his brothers. Adonael. Not Gabriel, because he'd apparently moved past everything. Adonael. But he was still Mike because he couldn't, because however much Spirit had showed him, however much he might want to, he could not change. His wings flared slightly as he approached, his emotions given a physical outlet, and queried, "Why?"

    The ballroom was beautiful, a vision in gold and white with Valentine colored accents, but Michael had eyes only for the host. When he'd heard that his neighbor had been tasked with the ball, the blue eyed man had been doubtful, but Shen had once again exceeded his expectations. Not only had he put together a party that was sure to be talked about for weeks after, but he'd set aside his usual attire for a gown with swirling patterns that makes Michael go weak. As he approaches, he's glad for the elaborate silver trim on his own mask, shading his cheeks from any traitorous flush that even his usual stoicism can't hide.


    "Shen..." he starts, but his voices catches and dies in his throat. He turns his gaze to the flowers arranged nearby, and when he looks back up, he still finds himself at loss for words. Instead, he forces his attention from the man to his niece, twirling gently in place. "Hello, Aphy." It's easier to greet her, just as it's easier to offer a faint nod to the strange women who approaches, asking after the host. He turns azure eyes back to Shen, still unable to speak without choking but perfectly content in his silence.

    There's something remarkably eerie about the sight of another pale winged lion with icy eyes. It's like looking in a mirror, but the features are all wrong and the coloring is ever so different. Michael approaches silently, lips pressed together as he seizes up the other male, and when he speaks, he manages the impossible feat of injecting his tone with both neutrality and boredom. Although he's out and about, his mind is miles away from the small group gathered near the stone boats, and he rumbles his customary greeting without elaboration. "I'm Michael."

    Unlike his niece and friend, straitlaced Michael wasn't visibly excited by the prospect of blind dates. As he approached, his blue gaze flickered toward Spiritline and he forced a warning into his eyes. He couldn't keep the fox from going and having fun (and Spirit was certain to have fun!) but he wouldn't put it past the ranger to sign him up as well.

    "The strongest you've got," comes Spiritline's reply, and if Michael was not Michael, he'd fight to hold back a snort. The response is typical of his flighty companion, and it reminds him with a pang of the way Lucifer used to urge him toward the bottle. He hasn't touched anything harder than coffee in what feels like a millennium. He tolerated Lucifer's drinking then, but he barely tolerates it now. Lucifer has soured drinking for him, and he informs Spiritline, "I don't have 'strong.'" He's not sure what entices him to softly add, his voice kissed with disgust, "I'm not my brother." The words come out a whisper, melancholic in tone, and he busies himself with preparing drinks as though they were never said. (Later, when he passes someone giving away homebrewed beer, he'll think of Spiritline. He'll take it, assuring himself that he intends to dispose of it, but when he gets home he'll tuck it into a corner, just in case.)


    He brings Spirit the cup, noting the vulpine's position just shy of his bedding. Spiritline seems at home here (he seems at home everywhere) and Michael can't find it within himself to tell him off and make him move. "You're hurt," he points out, exasperated, as the man winces. Now that he's expressed a desire to run off and cause his usual mischief, Michael is determined to distract him until his limbs don't seem to ache so much. It - it's his duty as a clanmate to make sure Spiritline is okay, especially considering that Spiritline himself can't be trusted with that duty.


    He inhales the steam rising from his own mug, gazing at his reflection in the tan water. His features are distorted and shadowed, barely visible, but Michael prefers them that way. The liquid reflects his inner turmoil, the confusion that's been following him since he left Solaris behind. He blinks as the steam stings his eyes and refocuses on his dark companion, ignoring the question in favor of his own. "What brings you here?" There must be a reason that Spiritline sought him out, and Michael doesn't mind laying aside his previous thoughts in favor of sussing out what's troubling the fox.

    It's not like Michael to be late but apparently all of his clocks are off. (He thinks that might have been Shen, but he can't recall when the man had been in his apartment alone.) It's not until Neon's message lights up his phone that he realizes that no, he doesn't have fifty-eight minutes left before he has to leave. He stuffs his phone and wallet in his pocket and he's out the door, but even though he's late, he's only the second guest to arrive. Subtly placing himself between Shen and the oblivious dog, he offers a noncommittal, "Hmm."

    Michael had once visited the Isles when the place had still been known as BlizzardClan, but unlike Mack, his memories of the time weren't fond. He still had not resolved his issues with his brothers, although these days he lived within close proximity to them. How, then, was he expected to reminisce about his visit when they had visited it? Mack hadn't been around then, but even if he had, Mike wouldn't have remembered him. His patience for others had been stretched and threadbare in those days, and it had only barely improved. He ran his gaze steadily over the brightly colored hybrid for a long moment before shortly introducing, "Michael Seraphinus." That, he judged, was more than enough of a greeting and he fell silent.

    Like Fitz, Michael preferred warm weather to the dreary winter sleet. (And who, exactly, had ever imagined that a lion might like the ice and cold? He could not think of a single tribe member whose species was known for loving the cold.) Unlike Fitz, exposure to snow, however pretty it might be, did nothing to change his mind. The young canine's voice sounded beside him and he turned a flat gaze toward the other male. Evidently, he'd pelted the wolf-dog with some of the snow sticking to his own ivory fur. Apologies didn't come naturally to him but nonetheless, Michael parted his pressed lips and tried. "I apologize."


    Something cold pressed against his still damp pelt; a clump of snow, courtesy of Spiritline. He inhaled sharply as the fox let loose a joke and levelled a glower toward him. His heart wasn't into the glare, but how could it be? With his next breath, Spiritline's voice was laced with concern toward a tribemate. The vulpine might be a wisecracker, but he had a good heart. (Mostly, Michael mentally snorted.)


    He blinked away Aphrodite's question, reaching out a wing to try to delicately brush some of the snow from her back. "Aren't you?" Admittedly, she seemed a lot less like a snowcat than him, but snow still littered her sides liberally.