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They don't make a habit of this. Honestly, they rarely do this at all. Michael may constantly talk about how 'fun' he is to get drunk with but, he's never been this drunk, ever.
Charlie has never drinked enough to even get a slight headache.
But now they were here; drunk out of their minds, with no signs of stopping. They won't die from alcoholism, they probably can't (Michael hopes thinks), but Moothon would definitely be mad if anyone found them like this.
Michael let out a derisive snort at that, swinging his legs that had been hanging off the arm of couch lightly.(It was for his freedom that he left the cult of his siblings, only for it to be for nothing because he just ended up in another one— one that was far more restricting, especially with dictating what he should do morally. )
At somewhere around an hour into drinking, Michael had magicked his dingy room to be a wide and spacious living room, complete with an L-shaped couch (It was really two separate couches pushed together at a corner of the room, but really, who cares about semantics when they're actively getting drunk?) and other furnitures middle-class Indian homes may hold.*
(*He's always been good at pocket dimension-esque magic, especially because it allows him to tap into a secret reserve of the Earth's magical hemisphere squared (which is different from 'hemisphere' and 'hemisphere squareroot' but the same as 'the squareroot of hemisphere squared twice' which is the same as 'hemisphere') that none of his brothers** could ever do. )
(**When you have 389 brothers exactly like you, if you found something that differentiates you from them, you clutch it as tight as a lifeline and parade it publicly as the ring of a newly engaged fiancée. )
Michael had rearranged himself all around the make-shift (literally) room, but Charlie, in his typical fashion, stayed in one spot, reclining on the couch, his head somewhat lifted with support of a cushion and the head rest (for the ease of drinking, of course), his legs slightly crossed at the ankles.
To any onlookers that didn't know him well, Charlie probably appeared sober, his face set in his ever-present grimness. But to Michael, it couldn't be more further from the truth.
Even at this angle: the position probably fatal to a mortal (his neck titled backwards even though he was laying on the couch, if you must simply know), even with Charlie appearing upside down, Michael could see the slight gaze in Charlie's inky pupils, the utter looseness of his limbs— this was Charlie at his most relaxed, most vulnerable.
Michael doesn't know what this visual of Charlie was doing to him but he knew it was doing something. Charlie, being like this, is what made Michael say what he said next.
"Not to be all morbid—" Michael started, turning his gaze back to (the far more lackluster) the ceiling (a popcorn ceiling because Moothon didn't hire him for his sense of humor), finally adjusting his neck in a way in which mortals probably wouldn't die from (but you could never truly know it with mortals).
Michael absentmindedly played with the empty bottle of liquor. "—while drunk, if I were to ever go evil,"
Michael twisted his upper torso, to lean on his forearms so that he could properly look at Charlie. Charlie had turned his slightly-glazed gaze onto Michael.
Michael continued, "Would you murder me?"
Michael's tounge was starting to fall asleep, slurring his speech, but the words still rang out loud and clear.
Charlie let out a snort, as if it were stupid question. And Michael grinned at that.
He twisted his entire self so that he was on his stomach, and seeing as his legs (which had been hanging of the couch so far) weren't that comfortable*, he sat up on his knees. Michael was still playing with the empty bottle.
(*such a contortion would've probably broken the bones of all mortals except expert contortionists.)
He pushed the cool glass bottom of the bottle to his cheek. "Of course you would, that's why you were hired,"
It wasn't a secret. Everyone knew that Charlie came to be a part of the clique* after Michael because while nobody knows (back then, at least) how to kill a Chathan, Charlie had been the first ever being that wasn't a Chathan to bind one.
(*"Of all the things we might call this, this is not it,"
"Boo, you are no fun!")
Michael got off the couch. He swayed a bit*, walking in diagonals and when he reached the end of the room, he turned back and leaned heavily on the frame of a chair that came with the dining table that he had pushed to a side wall.
(*He couldn't figure out to which degree it was because he wanted to and to which degree it was because of the alcohol.)
"Of course you would," Michael said as he readjusted himself, making him lean the weight of his entire body on one of his arms, which held the chair. He hope he looked cool but he didn't care if he didn't. "Of course you'd kill me,"
He leaned more forward, letting go of the chair as he walked forward. He plopped himself on to the couch again, this time he sat sideways, facing Charlie, his head leaning on the backrest of the couch.
Charlie hadn't said anything, was only staring at him impassively. He hadn’t even moved an inch.
It was fine though, Michael thought, he moved enough for the both of them.
"What I want to know is how," Michael said, flitting his gaze over to Charlie's hands before returning them to his eyes. (Has he mentioned that they were inky black? On a side note, has he mentioned that, even though most people would think otherwise when subjected to his attire, Michael's favourite color was the exact shade of black of Charlie's eyes?) "Would you strangle me?"
He almost laughed at the thought. Strangle? Charlie? Ha! As if.
Strangling was an intimate thing. To receive it, you must provoke the strangler to such an extent.
Charlie was as guarded as they came. He wouldn't let anyone make him feel that much. Even Michael (who held the record of making the Odiyan show the most amount of emotions he's ever shown in public*) wouldn't be capable of that.
(*A twitch in his right eye, if you're curious)
Charlie didn't say anything, didn't even deign it with a snort.
Michael went on, inching closer, "No, it'd be your sword,"
He was a breath's distance away from Charlie's face now, his voice was in a tone quieter. The proximity, unlike what Michael had hoped, did not help him in seeing the thoughts running wild behind Charlie's eyes. (God, he really loves those eyes)
"The question is; would you cry if I were to die?" Michael said, part of the reason was to make Charlie react (it was an absurd thought) and the other equal part of the reason was to simply voice out one of his biggest fantasies*.
*A twitch in the eye had made Michael grin so wide that it was painful for the entire day, think about what a tear shed could do. A tear shed from those black eyes, no less.
Charlie, it seemed, was probably not even listening. He didn't even bat an eye at it, but Michael had noticed Charlie quickly flickering his gaze to Michael's lips. A man can be excused though, on the count of being drunk.
Michael went on, "Would the tear hit the ground at the same time a drop of my blood would? Interweave to a point beyond separation?"
If Charlie understood subtext, he would understand that the words 'tear' and 'blood' didn't represent 'tear' and 'blood'.
But there was significance still at Michael's usage of the word 'blood'. Everyone knew (or at least thought) that the blood Chathans bled were not only green but also poisonous.
Charlie was too careful and too apathetic to ever be in close range to the blood of a Chathan if he were to kill one.
Michael moved an inch away, so that he could turn himself and lay on his back, his head cushioned by Charlie's chest.
"Am I evil?" Michael asks, staring at the ceiling, particularly intrigued by the point where the two walls meet the ceiling. He played with the skin across his own neck.
Charlie finally, finally graced him with an answer, "I can't read your mind, Michael,"
There was something about the way in which Charlie said his name (especially in that low baritone) that made warmth spread over all of him, a warmth different from the one you would get from alcohol.
It was probably that and his drunken state that made Michael do this.
"You would probably stab me here," Michael said in a low voice, still staring at the ceiling as he pointed at his throat. "It's where we're the weakest,"
What Michael had just done what was called in his sect, 'sharing of the guild secrets'. Which is a bad thing to do if your guild just so happened to be akin to an Organized Crime Syndicate. And the Chathans might not be as sophisticated as say a mafia nor as organized, but they were definitely as violent, if not more.
But Michael couldn't think about consequences, not when he was like this*.
*The million dollar question: was Michael referring to his druken state or to the presence of Charlie?
A five mark question, (with a minimum of a 120 words), what is the author referring to about Michael and his emotions when they use this line? Justify your answer.
Michael lifted his head as Charlie shifted, sitting up. He held the back of Michael's neck with one hand and the back of Michael's head with other, and lifted just his head up.
When Michael saw that Charlie was staring intently at the expanse of his throat as Charlie leaned down, Michael's alcohol-addled brain informed him that Charlie was going to bite him, kill.
His normal brain, which was a little slow to what was happening, told him that Charlie was holding his head far too tenderly for someone about to kill.
Michael ignored them both.
Charlie did end up biting him. But it was a different type of biting, one that involved a lot of sucking.
Michael let out a gasp, his hands rushing to find purchase on Charlie's hair or shoulders or neck or anything else that came after ' Charlie's '.
They adjusted enough to actually kiss.
When they pulled apart, Charlie asked, "Does that answer your question?"