Maruki stood frozen for a long moment, his fingers trembling as they hovered over Morning’s limp shoulder. The rhythmic sound of snoring filled the room, a stark contrast to the storm raging inside his head. He could hear him. Azathoth, whispering, taunting, in that insidious way only it could, its presence a gnawing reminder of his own choices and failures.
"So fragile," it cooed, its voice slithering through his mind like oil on water. "You care so much for these fleeting things. But look at him... He’s already slipping, isn't he?"
Maruki clenched his teeth, forcing himself to focus. The dim light in the room blurred as his eyes glittered cold and sharp, like shards of broken glass catching a faint glow. His vision...shifted. He wasn’t even sure what he was doing, only that he felt it was necessary. Almost instinctual.
And then, he saw it.
It was faint, barely there, but Morning’s sleeping form seemed to be accompanied by a shadow-like framework. The shape was distorted, its outline significantly smaller—no older than five or six years. A child. Maruki’s brows furrowed deeply, his chest tightening as confusion warred with unease. What was this? The framework oozed, almost pulsated, like something from a nightmare brought to life. It dripped a sickly substance that wasn’t quite liquid, wasn’t quite mist but it fractured at the ends like broken glass and Maruki felt his stomach churn.
He took a sharp step back, his breath hitching as his back collided with the sofa. The contact jolted him, but the sight before him remained burned into his mind. He released a deep shudder, dragging a hand down his face as he tried to steady himself. His gaze flickered to the shadowy childlike outline again, only to find his mind screaming for answers it couldn’t provide.
"Not yet," Azathoth hissed, almost amused. "Not for you."
Maruki shook his head fiercely, as though trying to silence the voice. With a shaky breath, he straightened and raised his left hand. A single, trembling finger extended, and from it, a tentacle emerged. The sight could have unsettled anyone, but instead, Maruki focused entirely on its purpose. The appendage swelled, distorting and reshaping itself into something protective—a capsule-like form that enveloped Morning gently, cradling him with an almost tender precision.
The tentacle, careful not to wake the boy, receded toward the hallway, carrying Morning’s unconscious form like a parent tucking their child in for the night. Maruki followed, his legs unsteady beneath him, each step heavier than the last.
He stopped in the doorway, watching as the tentacle carefully laid Morning onto the bed, its movements disturbingly precise. It pulled the blanket over him with a deliberate care that felt almost mocking in its tenderness. Maruki stood frozen, his arms hanging limply at his sides, his breath uneven.
The guilt clawed at his chest, sharp and relentless. He couldn’t tear his gaze away from the boy. Morning looked so small, so fragile, even as his steady breaths filled the silence. The image of the shadowy child lingered in his mind, an echo that refused to fade.
Maruki swallowed hard, his voice a mere whisper. “What am I doing?”
He pressed his knuckles against his forehead, his expression twisted with horror and guilt. He didn’t know if he was even helping the boy or violating some unspoken boundary. The tentacle retracted silently, leaving only Maruki in the room with the boy who, even in sleep, carried a weight far heavier than any child should. He wanted to ask why did he not knock at his door. Why did he pass out on the floor? Why damn it!
Maruki took a hesitant step back, his lips trembling as he muttered, “I’m sorry, Akira. I’m so, so sorry...” For what? He didn't know. He couldn't possibly know.
Then he turned away, retreating into the hallway with a heavy shadow cast down on his eyes.
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branchandroot
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Date: 2025-01-24 01:53 am (UTC)"So fragile," it cooed, its voice slithering through his mind like oil on water. "You care so much for these fleeting things. But look at him... He’s already slipping, isn't he?"
Maruki clenched his teeth, forcing himself to focus. The dim light in the room blurred as his eyes glittered cold and sharp, like shards of broken glass catching a faint glow. His vision...shifted. He wasn’t even sure what he was doing, only that he felt it was necessary. Almost instinctual.
And then, he saw it.
It was faint, barely there, but Morning’s sleeping form seemed to be accompanied by a shadow-like framework. The shape was distorted, its outline significantly smaller—no older than five or six years. A child. Maruki’s brows furrowed deeply, his chest tightening as confusion warred with unease. What was this? The framework oozed, almost pulsated, like something from a nightmare brought to life. It dripped a sickly substance that wasn’t quite liquid, wasn’t quite mist but it fractured at the ends like broken glass and Maruki felt his stomach churn.
He took a sharp step back, his breath hitching as his back collided with the sofa. The contact jolted him, but the sight before him remained burned into his mind. He released a deep shudder, dragging a hand down his face as he tried to steady himself. His gaze flickered to the shadowy childlike outline again, only to find his mind screaming for answers it couldn’t provide.
"Not yet," Azathoth hissed, almost amused. "Not for you."
Maruki shook his head fiercely, as though trying to silence the voice. With a shaky breath, he straightened and raised his left hand. A single, trembling finger extended, and from it, a tentacle emerged. The sight could have unsettled anyone, but instead, Maruki focused entirely on its purpose. The appendage swelled, distorting and reshaping itself into something protective—a capsule-like form that enveloped Morning gently, cradling him with an almost tender precision.
The tentacle, careful not to wake the boy, receded toward the hallway, carrying Morning’s unconscious form like a parent tucking their child in for the night. Maruki followed, his legs unsteady beneath him, each step heavier than the last.
He stopped in the doorway, watching as the tentacle carefully laid Morning onto the bed, its movements disturbingly precise. It pulled the blanket over him with a deliberate care that felt almost mocking in its tenderness. Maruki stood frozen, his arms hanging limply at his sides, his breath uneven.
The guilt clawed at his chest, sharp and relentless. He couldn’t tear his gaze away from the boy. Morning looked so small, so fragile, even as his steady breaths filled the silence. The image of the shadowy child lingered in his mind, an echo that refused to fade.
Maruki swallowed hard, his voice a mere whisper. “What am I doing?”
He pressed his knuckles against his forehead, his expression twisted with horror and guilt. He didn’t know if he was even helping the boy or violating some unspoken boundary. The tentacle retracted silently, leaving only Maruki in the room with the boy who, even in sleep, carried a weight far heavier than any child should. He wanted to ask why did he not knock at his door. Why did he pass out on the floor? Why damn it!
Maruki took a hesitant step back, his lips trembling as he muttered, “I’m sorry, Akira. I’m so, so sorry...” For what? He didn't know. He couldn't possibly know.
Then he turned away, retreating into the hallway with a heavy shadow cast down on his eyes.