[ In truth, he can't remember. Even if he hadn't come close to death and then knocked himself out anyway, things were so frantic that he wasn't paying too much attention to what the tentacles were doing at that point.
Still, he turns around, wavering a little as he does, and squints through scenery that's completely fuzzy. ]
It probably would have been thrown into the trees. It shouldn't be too far.
[ He raises an arm to point. The long, stinging strips of shredded away skin stretch with the motion and burn. He grimaces, looks at his arm. Hadn't realized how bloody it was. Just a red blur.
His stomach lurches once more. It's the most of his own blood he's ever seen outside of his body. ]
See you inside.
[ It's a slow walk back in. A slower ascent up the stairs. The barely-eaten food in the kitchen is ignored; it'll be a pain in the ass to clean up tomorrow, but who knows, maybe The Humanoid Garbage Disposal will end up coming home and inhaling it all. Maruki can't even remember what he made for dinner. Something with extra mushrooms, nearly always. His head spins as he climbs another few steps. He needs–
To clean himself up. Hands, arms, face, neck washed in the bathroom sink, the warm water and soap as painful as lemon juice. Checks himself in the mirror, leaning in close to be able to focus his eyesight. Deep gouges, nasty latticework scrapes, nicks and cuts everywhere. Scratches like the claw marks of a feral animal. His throat may have been healed, but his neck is already bruising black and blue.
He knows he should patch up the worst of the wounds, but he's passed the point of exhaustion and entered into a dark, dizzy state that feels a little too familiar. With the blood rinsed down the drain, he grabs one of their many first aid kids and stumbles into his bedroom down the hall.
He should change. Doesn't. Collapses into bed in the clothes that are still stained with grass and dirt and both of their blood. In the morning, after a good long rest, Azathoth will be in rare form and will fully heal him, he's certain of it. Only then will he worry about mundane shit like laundry.
For now, all that matters is going horizontal, staring up at the ceiling until it stops spinning. The first aid kit is abandoned on his bedside table. His phone buzzes in his pocket. He doesn't check it. Only lays there and breathes, slowly going from a ragged pant to the carefully counted breaths that he teaches to his patients.
He can't sleep yet, despite everything. Can't even rest his eyes without that last image of Akechi above him before glass shattered down into his face, that sense memory of torn flesh and contused tissue. ]
cw injury descriptions (i don't think they're graphic, but. shrug)
[ In truth, he can't remember. Even if he hadn't come close to death and then knocked himself out anyway, things were so frantic that he wasn't paying too much attention to what the tentacles were doing at that point.
Still, he turns around, wavering a little as he does, and squints through scenery that's completely fuzzy. ]
It probably would have been thrown into the trees. It shouldn't be too far.
[ He raises an arm to point. The long, stinging strips of shredded away skin stretch with the motion and burn. He grimaces, looks at his arm. Hadn't realized how bloody it was. Just a red blur.
His stomach lurches once more. It's the most of his own blood he's ever seen outside of his body. ]
See you inside.
[ It's a slow walk back in. A slower ascent up the stairs. The barely-eaten food in the kitchen is ignored; it'll be a pain in the ass to clean up tomorrow, but who knows, maybe The Humanoid Garbage Disposal will end up coming home and inhaling it all. Maruki can't even remember what he made for dinner. Something with extra mushrooms, nearly always. His head spins as he climbs another few steps. He needs–
To clean himself up. Hands, arms, face, neck washed in the bathroom sink, the warm water and soap as painful as lemon juice. Checks himself in the mirror, leaning in close to be able to focus his eyesight. Deep gouges, nasty latticework scrapes, nicks and cuts everywhere. Scratches like the claw marks of a feral animal. His throat may have been healed, but his neck is already bruising black and blue.
He knows he should patch up the worst of the wounds, but he's passed the point of exhaustion and entered into a dark, dizzy state that feels a little too familiar. With the blood rinsed down the drain, he grabs one of their many first aid kids and stumbles into his bedroom down the hall.
He should change. Doesn't. Collapses into bed in the clothes that are still stained with grass and dirt and both of their blood. In the morning, after a good long rest, Azathoth will be in rare form and will fully heal him, he's certain of it. Only then will he worry about mundane shit like laundry.
For now, all that matters is going horizontal, staring up at the ceiling until it stops spinning. The first aid kit is abandoned on his bedside table. His phone buzzes in his pocket. He doesn't check it. Only lays there and breathes, slowly going from a ragged pant to the carefully counted breaths that he teaches to his patients.
He can't sleep yet, despite everything. Can't even rest his eyes without that last image of Akechi above him before glass shattered down into his face, that sense memory of torn flesh and contused tissue. ]