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Mikhail has never had to worry about coughing, choking, or dying. He’s an archangel crafted to be perfect, free of diseases, and blessed with immortality — granted, that became limited with the impending death sentence hung over his head, but the fact still stands — he’s an archangel, all sensations of death and disease cannot happen to him naturally.
So when his throat began to dry and prickle only a week after blackmailing Thomas into freeing him, he was slightly concerned. He had never felt the need to clear his throat of any irritants before until that day, and as he sat alone floating mid air, trapped by fuzzy green covered stones and a silver bar, a small cough escaped him.
Unfortunately for Mikhail, that wasn’t an isolated incident. Over the course of a week, the coughs escalated and frequented, yet no one was ever present to witness the prisoners' less than pleasant experience. Sure, holding back the tickle in his throat only made them worse later, but he would rather deal with the coughs than the confrontation of someone witnessing them.
Hence why no one – other than Mikhail – was present to witness the first petal leave his mouth. It was frilly and white, velvety to the touch, and also covered in spit. He left it to float to the ground, and forgot about the petal as the elevator opened to reveal Thomas with a pack of Uno in his hand. Mikhail grinned, and patiently waited for Thomas to sit next to the silver bars.
The coughs didn’t stop or slow, and it wasn't long until another petal escaped his throat and into the palm of his hands. It was slender that time, orange hues shifted slightly under the dim lights of the dungeon. Small black spots were scattered near what would have been the beginning of the petal and slowly dissipated the farther they went towards the tip. There was less saliva covering the petal that time, its waxy like exterior prevented the petal from becoming soaked. He dropped the petal to the floor, and waited for it to land before crushing it beneath his foot.
Weeks passed, and the petals hadn’t stopped crawling out of his mouth. The sensation of slender wax and frilly velvet sticking to his throat became more familiar with every cough. He wasn’t sure how they would trail up and out of his throat when he barely had one to begin with. Mikhail was sure that someone would notice soon, whether that was because of the steadily growing pile of coughed up petals or from seeing Mikhail produce them himself. One way or another, this secret wouldn’t last forever. He violently coughed once more as the sound of an elevator opening echoed throughout the wall, five petals escaped his lips, and fluttered to the ground as he turned towards the bars. He couldn’t let anyone know of this, not Thomas, not anyone.
It got harder to breathe in between the coughs and the petals. Every breath he took was shallow and sent light stings through his lungs as though being pricked by needles. He doesn’t have much of a throat anymore, and his lungs aren’t even needed for a being like himself, so he doesn’t understand why or how this had happened. It took everything in him to prevent petals from escaping while the Elephants watched over him. So when Commodus finally pranced over to the elevator once his shift had finished to go and find Thomas, Mikhail turned around and began to cough. He coughed and coughed and coughed until he began dry heaving, his body panicked and tried to remove the damn petals that had clung to the lining of his esophagus. When the petals finally spilled out of his mouth and fell to the floor with a soft squelch, he was left panting with his eyes squeezed shut. It’s painful. It’s damaging. It’s unnecessary. He knew he wasn't dying, but if death were to feel like anything, it must feel like this.
It took Mikhail a moment to calm himself. He put a hand up to his mouth, gently wiping away the spit that clung to his lips and had begun to drip onto the floor. He forced his eyes open and glared at the offending products he produced, a white rhododendron flower covered in salvia laid next to an orange lily. He stared at the flowers, trying to make sense of them. He spent long enough in his thoughts that the sound of an elevator descending escaped him, and didn’t notice that another person had joined him until they cleared the throat. At the bars of his cell stood Thomas, frying pan in one hand, and a deck of cards in the other.
Unfortunately, Mikhail’s body doesn’t do much to hide the two flowers, and when Thomas asks about them, he splutters and tells a lie to satisfy Thomas’ curiosity, a lie to save himself from the humiliation of coughing up flowers. When he’s finished he can tell that Thomas doesn’t believe him, but he doesn’t press on. Instead, he sat up against the silver bars and began to unpack the deck of cards. It’s Uno again, Mikhail’s favourite game out of the few he’s played. They played and they talked as the time passed, and not once did Mikhail ever feel the need to cough.
He should have known that after the first two flowers fell from his mouth it would only get worse. While the coughs had wilted in frequency, they made it up in intensity. Every attack would leave him heaving on the ground while saliva and flowers surrounded him slowly, he was sure that if he could bleed, blood would be in the mixture too. It hurt to breathe normally and swallow as of then, and his throat had been cut from the harsh flowers that traveled up his throat. His lungs could only hold a fraction of the air he used to, while it doesn’t make him dizzy or lightheaded – for he needs no air to live – the sensation of missed air threw him off anyway that he might as well have been lightheaded.
Thomas had begun to visit him more often though, yet most of it was to discuss Mikhail’s plan of escape. They're nearing only 31 cycles left before Mikhail’s death, only 31 cycles left until Mikhail breaks free, only 31 more cycles left of being stuck in this cell with Thomas to accompany him. Only 31 more cycles. It excited him, the thought of being free from his cell and doing whatever he wants, even if he’s alone while doing so. Gazing down at Thomas as Mikhail drifted through the air, his thoughts couldn’t help but wander towards the man in front of him. Thomas would be caught in the crossfire of his escape no doubt, but the plan ensured that he would be found innocent, or could escape along with Mikhail if worst comes to worst.
He could feel the flowers creep up his throat before he could force them back down. He sputtered and grasped a hand around his mouth to prevent them from spilling down towards the cell floor. His body shook with every cough, and soon he floated down to his knees as he began heaving. The dreadfully beautiful flowers incapacitate his focus on the other individual in the room as they scratched up his throat, and it didn’t take long before the contents poured out. Petals of white and orange fluttered softly down, while fully bloomed flowers covered in spit faintly fell to the ground with a thud. A moment passed, and Mikhail's gaze lifted up towards Thomas' eyes. He doesn’t explain what happened, his throat too damaged to form a proper sentence anyway. Instead Mikhail spoke one word, an order for Thomas to leave, so he left.
The moment the elevator closed around Thomas, Mikhail coughed and heaved again. It had lasted for minutes, spewing up the usual, however this time accompanied by vibrant leaves and a stem. He sneered at the absurdity of the situation. For a little over two months he had been spewing flowers out his body. For a little over two months he had had no idea what it could have been. For a little over two months he had kept this a secret until then. It’s stupid, it’s impossible, and it’s painful. He’s an archangel with a disease, a disease that he should have never gotten, a disease that is ludicrous to even describe. He stared at the mess scattered across the floor, and crushed the nearest flower in his palm.
There's only two things that changed after the incident. The first is that more people took the time to visit him, whether that was to satisfy their own curiosity or to genuinely care for him did not matter to Mikhail. He hadn’t been asked about flowers during any of the visits from irregulars down here, but he had been given some type of soothing herbal tea for his throat from Rani through Thea. Whatever Thomas told them, he was glad it wasn’t the full truth, that he didn’t mention any flowers, god knew how much of a spectacle he would have become then. Mikhail, the archangel who coughed up flowers with no apparent reason as to why, what a spectacle.
The second thing that’s changed is how often Thomas came down to his cell. He already visited frequently, more so than an Elephant usually would, but now it seems he’s always there, just slightly out of reach. With Thomas’ prolonged presence, the coughs subdued slightly, and the flowers, even though fully bloomed, hurt less. It’s a strange pattern that Mikhail has recognised, the way Thomas’ existence next to him prevented drastic attacks on his throat and comforts him slightly. He had only two weeks left before he escaped with Thomas, only two weeks before his supposed execution. Mikhail sighed and leaned against the bars, back pressed against the cool metal as he turned his head over at Thomas’ direction, noting the way his eyes are softly closed and his breathing is steady. He smiled to himself at the sight of such peace, no one else but Thomas would let themselves relax so much around Mikhail, and he loved that dearly. He wouldn’t want anyone else to sleep as close to him as Thomas did. He felt a small cough crawl up and out of his throat, and with it fell out a singular petal.
━⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅━
Archangels don’t need to sleep, they are beings of endless energy and existence, however Mikhail wishes he could sleep. It’s the night of his execution, the day he is supposed to meet his demise, at least that’s what most think. The plans have been in motion since two nights ago, and his escape was always going to be inevitable once he was sure an Elephant was on his side. It’s unfortunate that this ship will be punished for letting such a thing happen, but there is nothing Mikhail can do about it now. Although none of this matters to Mikhail, he just wishes he could be asleep, as his part doesn’t come into play until the morning, when noise fills the air and hides the sounds of his escape. Instead Mikhail must sit against the bars with his eyes closed, waiting.
He waits for around 31 minutes before a voice speaks, echoing from the elevator, quiet in the stone hall, soft in a way Mikhail could never forget, comfortable for a place associated with vile beings, “you seem to be relaxed.”
“I’m only biding my time, I needn’t do much after all. You have it all figured out, Thomas. The plans for my escape, for yours too,” Mikhail turns his head around to face the man standing above him. His helmet is nowhere to be found, and his dark eyes hold steady at Mikhail's words.
“Yes yes, I do. I just thought I would visit you before- everything…” he rubs the back of his neck, voice wavering as he lowers himself to the ground to sit next to Mikhail, “in case something goes wrong.”
Mikhail glances down at the ground, taking his time to think before responding, “nothing will go wrong. I’ve been waiting forever for this, it won’t go wrong now.”
Thomas stares at him for a while, dark eyes looking into even darker ones capable of stealing any light particles that dare venture to them, and Mikhail stares back. There’s an unspoken agreement between the two of them. They both will leave this ship, or they both get what they deserve while trying. Mikhail wouldn’t want to leave Thomas anyway, not with the way his presence heals the ache in his lungs and throat.
Closing his eyes and leaning back against the bars, Mikhail gives a slight cough, letting a petal escape from his lips. He grimaces, but continues to rest despite it. Thomas isn’t some miracle cure to this disease, he never was going to be, but he does lessen it, that’s more than Mikhail could ask for. A soft snore next to Mikhail pulls him out of his thoughts and paints a light smile across his face. Maybe one day he’ll figure out what this disease is, or maybe even cure it, but that’s for when the night gives into morning and the final steps of the plan begin.
Mikhail finds himself quite content in this small moment with Thomas, despite the flowers that he fosters and nurtures in his lungs. As long as he can rest with Thomas, he’ll be okay.