This wasn’t one of Akira’s most tragic or debilitating moments in the long, unfortunate history of his life. In fact, as he stood there, slightly hunched and running on fumes, he figured he’d gotten the better end of the stick. He wasn’t stuck in that hellish maze for as long as Akechi had been before him. He wasn’t the one who had been forced to relive his worst moments in excruciating detail, gaslit and haunted by a warped, grotesque version of someone he loved.
But he had seen it.
His heart twisted at the memory of the cognitive Goro—of Maruki—who had been ready to kill his own twin brother. That was Maruki?
Maybe he should be more concerned. Maybe he should be picking apart what they just saw, analyzing it, preparing for whatever fresh hell awaited them next. But his thoughts kept circling back to that child. The cognition of himself—wild-eyed, wrong, golden ichor dripping like tears.
He had seen it before.
He had never heard it scream like that before.
But Akira knew himself well enough. If he let himself really think about it, let it sit—he’d start spiraling. And between the two of them, someone had to keep the mood light before they both lost their damn minds.
So when Corvus blatantly lied about being fine, Akira only let out a quiet, hollow laugh—half amused, half resigned. He gave the other boy a lazy thumbs-up, as if they had just survived an especially bad group project and not a nightmarish, soul-crushing reality-warping hellscape.
“Brain’s still catching up to me,” he finally muttered, kicking his bag further into the chaos of the room before making his way over to the bed. Yes, it was an Olympic queen sized bed, a perk of just grabbing whatever room you wanted from a cognitive hotel.
He barely paid attention to that fact as he all but collapsed face-down onto the mattress beside Corvus, letting out a muffled groan of relief. The sheer exhaustion pulled at every inch of his body, and for a brief, blissful second, he let himself sink into it.
Then he noticed the blood—his blood—smearing against the sheets.
“Ugh.”
He sighed, bringing a hand up to his nose, feeling the sluggish warmth of a shallow nosebleed. Just his luck. First time-jump injuries, then cognitive nightmares, and now he was going to have to do fucking laundry? Amazing.
Still, he didn’t move. Just shifted onto his side, using the hem of his already-ruined shirt to halfheartedly dab at the blood while keeping his eyes lazily trained on Corvus.
“Seriously, though—how’s your arm?” he asked, voice quieter now but laced with something almost genuine. “Time jumps aren’t exactly forgiving on injuries. The pain of your past wounds can do this funky little nostalgia trip in your brain.”
His grin turned wry, self-deprecating. “Actually- scratch that. It’s super nostalgic.”
no subject
But he had seen it.
His heart twisted at the memory of the cognitive Goro—of Maruki—who had been ready to kill his own twin brother. That was Maruki?
Maybe he should be more concerned. Maybe he should be picking apart what they just saw, analyzing it, preparing for whatever fresh hell awaited them next. But his thoughts kept circling back to that child. The cognition of himself—wild-eyed, wrong, golden ichor dripping like tears.
He had seen it before.
He had never heard it scream like that before.
But Akira knew himself well enough. If he let himself really think about it, let it sit—he’d start spiraling. And between the two of them, someone had to keep the mood light before they both lost their damn minds.
So when Corvus blatantly lied about being fine, Akira only let out a quiet, hollow laugh—half amused, half resigned. He gave the other boy a lazy thumbs-up, as if they had just survived an especially bad group project and not a nightmarish, soul-crushing reality-warping hellscape.
“Brain’s still catching up to me,” he finally muttered, kicking his bag further into the chaos of the room before making his way over to the bed. Yes, it was an Olympic queen sized bed, a perk of just grabbing whatever room you wanted from a cognitive hotel.
He barely paid attention to that fact as he all but collapsed face-down onto the mattress beside Corvus, letting out a muffled groan of relief. The sheer exhaustion pulled at every inch of his body, and for a brief, blissful second, he let himself sink into it.
Then he noticed the blood—his blood—smearing against the sheets.
“Ugh.”
He sighed, bringing a hand up to his nose, feeling the sluggish warmth of a shallow nosebleed. Just his luck. First time-jump injuries, then cognitive nightmares, and now he was going to have to do fucking laundry? Amazing.
Still, he didn’t move. Just shifted onto his side, using the hem of his already-ruined shirt to halfheartedly dab at the blood while keeping his eyes lazily trained on Corvus.
“Seriously, though—how’s your arm?” he asked, voice quieter now but laced with something almost genuine. “Time jumps aren’t exactly forgiving on injuries. The pain of your past wounds can do this funky little nostalgia trip in your brain.”
His grin turned wry, self-deprecating. “Actually- scratch that. It’s super nostalgic.”