[ He ought to assure Bakugo, tell him it'll be fine, it's just a surgery, routine, entirely experimental, unanaesthetized, entirely fine, bro. He ought to be doing a lot of things right now, but somewhere in between trying to keep calm about the situation and following each lurch in his veins in response, he'd lost track of the time, of himself, of the blood bubbling around him in copious reply. When Choso blinks, it seems to be in puzzlement as he takes in the blood on the walls, in his field of vision, the slow-churning storm around them.
Bakugo works fast. Before the thought can even spark that this might not be an ideal place to be, the hero's voice cuts through the gurgle and the bubbling and the rapids-rush of the blood in his head, and the blood that had begun to shiver dangerously stops altogether. Don't move. Stop talking. Listen.
So Choso listens. His focus turns inward as Bakugo works, to the rush and the pound in his chest, lets the directive lead the fritzed frayed ends of his focus into the task of replenishing the blood slowly oozing itself out of his face. The stuff on the walls begins to slide, to slip further down and onto the floor like oil on foil, so that by the time he finds himself hauled up like a bulky pack, most of it has begun to pool in a growing, glassy puddle around the room perimeter. To his credit, the path between Bakugo and the door remains clear.
To the bathroom. Running water, the hiss of it overhead. Logically, is that not the best place to be? Pay attention, Choso: Bakugo is asking a question. ]
Nho. No medhickh.
[ What if it interrupts? What if it throws something off, what if it somehow comes back around on Yuji, what if, what if, what if? What if the idea of a LILITH staff member perceiving him right now makes his stomach drop?
no subject
Bakugo works fast. Before the thought can even spark that this might not be an ideal place to be, the hero's voice cuts through the gurgle and the bubbling and the rapids-rush of the blood in his head, and the blood that had begun to shiver dangerously stops altogether. Don't move. Stop talking. Listen.
So Choso listens. His focus turns inward as Bakugo works, to the rush and the pound in his chest, lets the directive lead the fritzed frayed ends of his focus into the task of replenishing the blood slowly oozing itself out of his face. The stuff on the walls begins to slide, to slip further down and onto the floor like oil on foil, so that by the time he finds himself hauled up like a bulky pack, most of it has begun to pool in a growing, glassy puddle around the room perimeter. To his credit, the path between Bakugo and the door remains clear.
To the bathroom. Running water, the hiss of it overhead. Logically, is that not the best place to be? Pay attention, Choso: Bakugo is asking a question. ]
Nho. No medhickh.
[ What if it interrupts? What if it throws something off, what if it somehow comes back around on Yuji, what if, what if, what if? What if the idea of a LILITH staff member perceiving him right now makes his stomach drop?
Bakugo has already seen him at his worst. ]