[color=ed145b][b]NICO LEHMANN[/b][/color]

Mikhail's voice drifted towards him from a different direction and Nico was almost glad he was too tired to look. He didn't have the strength to separate his thoughts from his mouth at the moment, and Mikhail was the last person he wanted to hear his thoughts. He had mentioned some generalities about that particular disconnect in their letters to each other, throwing out brief examples of the occasional wish for someone to get hit by a car and such, but Nico doubted Mikhail had any idea what Nico thought of [i]him[/i]. Especially after what Lucien had said about Mikhail.

Nico knew it was unfair, letting Lucien judge Mikhail for him, but he trusted his younger brother--completely. And Elliot's motivations for selecting Mikhail to be his contact hadn't stemmed from a desire to cultivate any kind of true friendship there. His brothers had their own ways of keeping him safe, and as much as he chafed against [i]yet another thing[/i] they could do better than him (this one being particularly thorny for him since it amounted to "taking care of him better than he could take care of himself") Nico never protested. He couldn't delude himself about his brothers. They had taken care of him his entire life.

[color=ed145b][i]Mikhail is a--[/i][/color]

Green. 

Kelly green. Fern. Shamrock. Viridian. Mint. Emerald. Jade. Dark olive.

He harshly cut off his own thoughts with a single-minded focus on the blur of green shades below his feet. Picking out the colors gave him something to focus on, something to keep his mind from wandering towards less pleasant thoughts.

When the unpleasant tide of emotions loosed by Mikhail's voice had subsided, Nico focused on what his penpal had said.

Of course. Magic school. Some kind of auto-translate magic. He could have kicked himself for not thinking of that first.

And then Mikhail asked for the name of the girl Nico was leaning on and he realized he didn't know. Hadn't thought to ask.

That thought somehow reminded him that he didn't have his bag. Or his jacket. And definitely not his glasses.

[color=ed145b]"Where the hell is my stuff?"[/color] he blurted out quietly, still not enough spare breath yet to speak at a normal volume. [color=ed145b]"Shit. I mean--what's your name?"[/color] he turned as much as he could towards the person he was leaning on, the close proximity allowing him to discern enough details to realize he was leaning directly against the girl's bare, tan skin. 

Tawny. Sandy. Beige. Bronze. Almost copper in the right lighting. Would be umber in the shadows.

It was all he could do to keep his instinctive tendency to back away at bay. The slow recovery from his knockout had dampened much of his usual social reflexes, but as they returned, he found a slow blush rising at the realization that he was using a mostly under-dressed girl as a glorified walking stick. 

[@Riffus Maximus][@Letter Bee]