[About sixty percent of an adult human's body is made of water. Logically speaking, he shouldn't be dehydrated. He shouldn't need this water. If he was thinking, he'd likely have pointed this out to Fugo before even taking the water in the first place. But because he isn't, because he doesn't, he feels the crisp cold of the water sliding down his throat, reminding him that his body is something he's attached to, whether he likes it or not.]
[Once he's done, pulling back off the mouth of the bottle with a gasp, he lifts his face to Fugo again, at once more conscious than before and excruciatingly aware of how exhausted he is. His muscles burn from the exertion of destroying the body that lies in pieces around them, and his roots ache from the nutrients he's forced them to absorb in so little time. In the darkness, his eyes are dim and emotionless.]
[May I?]
[For long seconds, he blinks, parsing but very slowly, the gears in his head turning at quarter-speed. A cloth, water, Fugo's hand outstretched, a request for permission. What is it that Fugo wants to do for him? He wants to help, but what—]
[Fugo's hands holding the damp cloth are pale, long-fingered, and clean. In slow motion, he looks down at his own. Red, tacky, stinking. Looking back up at Fugo, he feels the stretch and pull of drying blood across the skin of his face.]
[Oh.]
[Something complex flashes across his expression. Even so, he nods wordless acquiescence. Holds one hand out for Fugo to take, if he likes. There is some feeling welling up in his throat, making his chest clench. He doesn't know what it is, but he wishes he didn't have to hold it.]
cw hint of disordered eating
[Once he's done, pulling back off the mouth of the bottle with a gasp, he lifts his face to Fugo again, at once more conscious than before and excruciatingly aware of how exhausted he is. His muscles burn from the exertion of destroying the body that lies in pieces around them, and his roots ache from the nutrients he's forced them to absorb in so little time. In the darkness, his eyes are dim and emotionless.]
[May I?]
[For long seconds, he blinks, parsing but very slowly, the gears in his head turning at quarter-speed. A cloth, water, Fugo's hand outstretched, a request for permission. What is it that Fugo wants to do for him? He wants to help, but what—]
[Fugo's hands holding the damp cloth are pale, long-fingered, and clean. In slow motion, he looks down at his own. Red, tacky, stinking. Looking back up at Fugo, he feels the stretch and pull of drying blood across the skin of his face.]
[Oh.]
[Something complex flashes across his expression. Even so, he nods wordless acquiescence. Holds one hand out for Fugo to take, if he likes. There is some feeling welling up in his throat, making his chest clench. He doesn't know what it is, but he wishes he didn't have to hold it.]