An enemy wouldn't have done shit, he thinks. There was no he'd be culled on Alternia because on Alternia he was the one doing the goddamned culling. He could say he's been in these arenas longer than either of them. He could even be so cruel as to bring up the Disciple, and how she'd been lucky they'd become something like allies then, not that it had mattered since he'd failed to save her anyway. He doesn't though. He's too tired anyway.
Almost, but not quite, too tired to laugh when the Psiioniic asks if he sterilized the blade. He snorts, a terrible gasping sort of laugh following after. "G-going on about germs now? STERILIZED MOST ASSUREDLY AS I SUMMONED TO MINE OWNSELF A GRAND BANQUET AND SPARE GARB." He remembers Mituna's scolding. He remembers it fond and he smiles before the Psiioniic for the first time. Only for it to flee with next wave of pain. And with the Psiioniic trying care on for him.
If Psiioniic's the arachnophobe, he's the spider what all fears to be crushed should he move up at all. He looks back and forth from the Psiioniic's face to what's been offered several times, before finally taking it. He's careful not to touch the Psiioniic himself. It's not fair, this kindness, knowing it real. But he drinks, however reluctantly, then pauses with realising he's stained it all by his blood. He shifts and brings his shirt up to wipe at the container, cleaning it off as best he can. Maybe he shouldn't make tease on germs. When it involved things unrelated to his ownself, he was the same now, always seeking clean for those around him. "S-sorry..." He says, when he finds he can't do more for it.
He eases himself back slow, lying on down and breath shuddering breaths. He inhales sharp at his leg being moved, but to his credit, doesn't make the noise what wants to come. Sam's hand is there, and he thinks, okay. Okay. He squeezes back, nodding imperceptibly. He tries to ease as what's asked, sighing.
The stitching starts and his other hand goes to cover his mouth. But ain't to stifle no noise that time, no. It ain't about pain. It's to chase away the ghostly imagining of thread going through his lips to silence him. It's about vision getting done in the wake of bloodloss. Mirth but he used to paint most profound in his most hurt. Messiahs could reach him at weakest. The urge to paint spirals, angels, the coming of ends is all coming down, but no, no, not here, not in front of Sam, Mituna, the Capitol. He looks for distraction, reaching for his token necklace of all those little memories, the rings, the leaves, the golden goat. His fingers curl around them and hold tight.
"YOU AIN'T GOTTA HELP ME. Kno-know that right?" He says all on at to Mituna. He's got fluttering lashses and an ugly grimace tries to masquerade as a smile. "HE WON'T BE MAD UP AT YOU, IF YOU GO, PSIIONIIC. S-Signless, I mean... HE'LL UN... DERSTAND. He will. PROMISE. Would tell 'im off 'f 'e got mad up at you. WOULDN'T ANYWAY. Pitied you t-too much... YOU KNOW THAT? Missed you..." How funny it was their little circle of want. Their stupid goddamn jerking around. But Sam was smarter, he didn't have none of that, he... "YOU'RE HURT!" He gasps. "Why'd y-you come at to me if you was-s hurt your ownself you fff...fuckin hypocrite. AIN'T NEITHER OF YOU SHOULD BE..." The final shout dies again, turning into a strangled noise. His hand is back to his mouth again, claws digging in to get. Fucking. Rid. Of that stitching feeling up on him. Then just as fast, he swings that very same hand away and digs his claws into the wall of ice.
"...kits what I got... should have somethin... maybe morphling..."
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Almost, but not quite, too tired to laugh when the Psiioniic asks if he sterilized the blade. He snorts, a terrible gasping sort of laugh following after. "G-going on about germs now? STERILIZED MOST ASSUREDLY AS I SUMMONED TO MINE OWNSELF A GRAND BANQUET AND SPARE GARB." He remembers Mituna's scolding. He remembers it fond and he smiles before the Psiioniic for the first time. Only for it to flee with next wave of pain. And with the Psiioniic trying care on for him.
If Psiioniic's the arachnophobe, he's the spider what all fears to be crushed should he move up at all. He looks back and forth from the Psiioniic's face to what's been offered several times, before finally taking it. He's careful not to touch the Psiioniic himself. It's not fair, this kindness, knowing it real. But he drinks, however reluctantly, then pauses with realising he's stained it all by his blood. He shifts and brings his shirt up to wipe at the container, cleaning it off as best he can. Maybe he shouldn't make tease on germs. When it involved things unrelated to his ownself, he was the same now, always seeking clean for those around him. "S-sorry..." He says, when he finds he can't do more for it.
He eases himself back slow, lying on down and breath shuddering breaths. He inhales sharp at his leg being moved, but to his credit, doesn't make the noise what wants to come. Sam's hand is there, and he thinks, okay. Okay. He squeezes back, nodding imperceptibly. He tries to ease as what's asked, sighing.
The stitching starts and his other hand goes to cover his mouth. But ain't to stifle no noise that time, no. It ain't about pain. It's to chase away the ghostly imagining of thread going through his lips to silence him. It's about vision getting done in the wake of bloodloss. Mirth but he used to paint most profound in his most hurt. Messiahs could reach him at weakest. The urge to paint spirals, angels, the coming of ends is all coming down, but no, no, not here, not in front of Sam, Mituna, the Capitol. He looks for distraction, reaching for his token necklace of all those little memories, the rings, the leaves, the golden goat. His fingers curl around them and hold tight.
"YOU AIN'T GOTTA HELP ME. Kno-know that right?" He says all on at to Mituna. He's got fluttering lashses and an ugly grimace tries to masquerade as a smile. "HE WON'T BE MAD UP AT YOU, IF YOU GO, PSIIONIIC. S-Signless, I mean... HE'LL UN... DERSTAND. He will. PROMISE. Would tell 'im off 'f 'e got mad up at you. WOULDN'T ANYWAY. Pitied you t-too much... YOU KNOW THAT? Missed you..." How funny it was their little circle of want. Their stupid goddamn jerking around. But Sam was smarter, he didn't have none of that, he... "YOU'RE HURT!" He gasps. "Why'd y-you come at to me if you was-s hurt your ownself you fff...fuckin hypocrite. AIN'T NEITHER OF YOU SHOULD BE..." The final shout dies again, turning into a strangled noise. His hand is back to his mouth again, claws digging in to get. Fucking. Rid. Of that stitching feeling up on him. Then just as fast, he swings that very same hand away and digs his claws into the wall of ice.
"...kits what I got... should have somethin... maybe morphling..."