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(no subject)

Who: Michael, Robin, Riku, and Rin
Broadcast: No
Action: Aboard the Bloodsport
When: Today -> until the plague is cured?

[After centuries of existence, having seen atrocities and having battled devils, including Satan himself, Michael has never felt anything quite like this.

Namely, being totally, utterly, helplessly sick. And much like many of the not-entirely mortal on the fleet, the angel has absolutely no idea how to deal with this admittedly novel experience. As the plague worsened, he's given up his usual cheerful attitude and any pretense of functioning.

Probably much to the chagrin of his healthier crewmates.

For now the miserable angel can be found slumped facedown over the arm of his couch, moaning dramatically into the upholstery. He'll be sure to moan extra loud if someone not sick happens to pass by.]

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[Well, he did kind of invite Robin here, so he brought it on himself a little. And honestly, it doesn't really bother him to know that he's not suffering this indignity alone, for whatever reason the two of them seem to have been singled out.]

I don't know how people stand this...

[People meaning humans, in his context]

Seriously...

[he will give up all pretense of being human if it means he can complain about this horrible, horrible disease.]

I think my head's gonna explode. I should move...

[...he doesn't.]

Better not to mess with what isn't killing you.

[It might be a question to ask if either of them can die. Michael probably can, angel or no. At least while he's in a material body. There are limits. But with limits comes all the fun things. Usually.

Randomly, he shifts just enough that he can look at Robin, though it's a minimal effort all things considered.]

So...Robin...

[in what is surely a feat of exceptional core muscle strength, he manages to lift and swing the lower half of his body up onto the couch. he still has his legs over the back, now he's just laying sideways.]

Yes Michael.

[He's staring rather intently at Robin for a few moments before he continues, almost as if he'd forgotten what he wanted to say, then...]

Why is that your name? Why not...Blackbird or...[He gestures, looking for words, and then splays his fingers over his forehead, in imitation of Robin's hair, grinning]...Rooster.

No, no, no. You're starting to say mean things.

[and it's hard to tell if he thinks it's funny or if he thinks it's genuinely annoying; his smirk is a tight one and he's got kind of this deadpan expression. that might also be because he feels terrible, though.]

I am Robin. My sister was Blackbird, you are a Dove, and roosters are loud. Unnecessarily violent. Very haughty birds. [he waves his hand, which serves no purpose.] Kings and such.

[Michael hums, squinting at Robin, and takes a little bit too long to respond]

That still doesn't answer the question, though. Why Robin? [And he'll very lazily, very lightly, poke Robin on the arm]

[he does not really react to being poked in the arm. his bones hurt. he doesn't have the will to move it.]

Why Robin, huh...? Why Robin... [what was the reason? it was a really long time ago.] Did you know that this isn't my real eye color?

No... [Though it's not surprising, given the hair, and he'd bring that up, except he's pretty sure that's still a thing they're not talking about]

...what's your point?

Haha, my eyes look like blood. The color, anyway. Robins have red breasts because their feathers have been stained with it...

[he rolls over onto his side, because ever staying comfortable for any amount of time with this damn sickness is impossible.]

Robins are prideful birds. Sometimes they warn of death, sometimes they bring springtime... My siblings thought it was soooo funny...

[Michael considers and crosses his arms a bit, mostly because he has another shiver coming on and not for any judgmental reasons. At least, not towards Robin]

I don't think that's how robins got that way. I would have remembered that...

Maybe your world is different. Maybe your robins are weird.

[yep. that's the only explanation he's got.]

Our robins are as God made them [Not weird :|]

Our Robins are as the Godssss made them, so I don't see what the big deal is.

[he attempts to shove at Michael's arm. he regrets his decision. it is not a very hard shove. uuugh his skin hurts this is terrible.]

Edited 2015-01-13 00:23 (UTC)

[It's not a big deal, really, it's just a fact]

Gods, huh?

[He thinks about shoving Robin back for about two seconds and then decides against it. He flaps the edges of his coat instead]

Are you hot or cold? [Because he's having trouble telling what he's feeling right now. It's distressing]

Godsss. The whole indescribable mass of them...

[he, somehow, flops over.]

Ugh, hot. Except my feet.

How d'you know who's in charge?

[He considers Robin's feet as if they were a complex puzzle of some kind, pauses to push hair away from his sweaty brow, and then lamely gestures from Robin to himself. Or, more exactly, at Robin's feet.]

C'mere.

You just know, okay, what do you want with my feet.

[he just squints irritably at Michael, not moving his legs in the slightest.]

[God, does he have to do everything around here?]

You're cold. I'm hot. Simple.

[He manages the titanic effort of bending over enough to grab at Robin's pant legs and begins to haul them into his lap]

Aaaaugh, I'm not into this...

[he whines as his feet are dragged.]

[Robin's feet get about as far as his knees before Robin's complaint makes him stop, and he kind of drop them there, but doesn't go as far as wrapping them up in his coat like he's planned. He gives Robin a look]

No?

[Because making Robin uncomfortable would be the opposite of the goal here]

You sure about that?

Yeah I'm sure.

[give him his feet back. B/ ]

[He holds up his hands in surrender]

It's your cold toes.

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