memlost | voicemail

[ ONE NEVER KNOWS...

But hey there, Morgan. She's already opening her mouth to protest, or ask what he's doing, but once he reaches out, she abruptly understands.

... Not that it's at all hard to figure out what someone's hand on your forehead means, not when she's had every healer, her parents, and half of the kids doing it ever since she was small. And sure enough, there's a whole lot of heat greeting Morgan's hand. ]

Um, it's really not that bad--

And Cynthia's really not that short.

[ She already looks so hot in the face that feeling for her temperature was more of a formality than anything. He drops his hand away and backs away from the door, toward the couch. It should be cooler out in the communal room than in her tiny room...? ]

Everyone in my house had the same dream, but none of us stayed hot afterward. I'm thinking you're coming down with a bona fide sickness, Noire.

... Eh?

[ his conclusion doesn't surprise her-- she'd already reached that fact not long after she'd woken up. But she follows him slowly, thinking. Maybe if she gets him talking about something else, he won't fret.

... Then again, it's not like he's Gerome or Laurent. ]

Everyone did? And it was just as vivid for you?

[ He plops a seat down on a couch and pats the space next to him invitingly. Getting him to not fret is a pipe dream, but at least he can do it quietly...? ]

Just as vivid. At least, that's what it seems like -- hard to compare definitively and all. But right after we all woke up, Tsuna was running through the house and screaming, FIRE! FIRE! so I'd guess the vividness was a common feature, hah.

[ She's grateful for that, and for all that she's only been up for an hour or so, there's still so much weariness lingering in her posture when she settles in beside him. ]

Tsuna's got a lot of energy... but I wonder why it happened to everyone.

... Then again, I never really understand anything that happens here.

[ When they all first moved to the housing spiral, one of Morgan's housemates was the king of sitting on couches. Morgan takes a page out of his book now and kicks back, putting his shoed feet atop the coffee table -- sneakers instead of his usual boots. He's decidedly more casual than usual this morning underneath his tactician's robe, still in his scavenged jammies thanks to the sudden rush over. ]

We came up with a few ideas, but who can say for sure? Ghosts, prophecies, cries for help... but it can't be a coincidence that this crazy fog rolled in all of a sudden.

[ In contrast, Noire is going to cross her bare (le gasp) ankles together, hands resting in her lap. She's still in scavenged sleepwear herself, and the circlet's absent... truthfully, it's a bit embarrassing. ]

The last time a strange fog happened, it... was back when Morgan and I first arrived, actually. Whatever was in it... a lot of people turned against each other.

[ He thinks back on the first part of the mass nightmare and frowns. Maybe it would be best if the prophecy idea turned out wrong... ]

How long did it last then?

Five... days? I think? We couldn't find any food at the time, either, so it was sort of a blur by the end of it...

[ Ah, the infamous food deprivation incident. And thus the other Morgan's random anecdote becomes startlingly relevant... But this isn't the kind of thing an ill person should be worrying about, is it? ]

... Have I said good morning to you yet?

[ Noire worries about everything, remember? But she blinks at him, bewildered-- before she giggles a little and shakes her head. ]

I forgot, too... so good morning, Morgan.

Good morning, Noire! Not a best morning, but not a worst either, I suppose.

[ Though he'd be hard-pressed to remember a ruder awakening. He touches his shoulder to hers, if simply because he has license to do that sort of thing now(!!). ]

Sorry if I'm a little underdressed. I didn't think to change before I left.

That was my fault, for making you worry. [ and she'll feel daring (and tired) enough to lean a little more against him. ] I'm sorry for putting you through that.

[ This -- contact without reason or purpose, contact for the sake of contact -- is still new to him, and he warms as they settle comfortably against each other. ]

It's no trouble at all. And... it's given me an excuse to see you this early in the day! So it's a point in my favor, I think.

[ it's not like Noire's any better. She's still looking pretty bashful, as is. ]

W-when I'm a mess, too... not that I'm not happy to see you--

[ Morgan's probably sporting a bit of residual bedhead himself, but he cares not a whit. He looks left, looks right, and then leans in conspiringly. ]

Wanna know a secret?

... Eh?

[ means yes. ]

I think you're really cute when you're a mess.

[ Morgan

why would you say that to a person with a fever

because boy is she getting hotter in the .2 seconds it takes for that to sink in. ]

C-cu-- that's--! [ incoherent noises. ]

[ HE SAID IT BECAUSE HE CAN ]

Um, you're really cute when you get flustered, too! ... Phew, it's good to get that out in the open.

[ ... Her head is just kind of thunking onto his shoulder.

SHE LEGIT OVERHEATED. ]

[ whoops ]

Noire? Noire, speak to me! Oh gods, you're burning up!

[ WHY DOES THIS ALWAYS HAPPEN ]

[ GOOD QUESTION.

But she only mumbles something ("mmnnngh") and shifts a little listlessly. She'll be fine. Really. Probably. ]

[ SHE CAN'T DIE ON HIS WATCH!!

He sits up fully and finagles her/lets her flop until her head is on his lap, then begins to fan her with a sleeve. ]

Do you need a healer? Should I call Brady?

N-no... [ she groans softly, bringing up a hand to her forehead. ] I'll be fine, really. It's just a fever.

... When did I lie down?

[ hi, Morgan's lap?? ]

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*her not him.... wow

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