Vanitas sits down on the stool, maybe a little harder than intended. His whole body aches, there are cuts on his body that have begun seeping from all the movement again. He knows they're going to sting, when he tries to wash them, but he knows better now the necessity of doing it. Things like why Quentin had covered his hands in vodka before putting them into his leg to set the bone.
He leans over his knees to pick up the cloth from the bucket, ringing it out and starting at his ankles and his shins.
"Save it," He says, without looking up. His legs aren't that bad. They seemed to like to cut into the meatier parts of him— his torso, the muscle of his thighs, the muscle of his arms. Blood and grime come off of him, leaving strips of pale skin behind. "I know what you're like, Master Riku." There's a hint of derision in his voice, though maybe that's as much habit as anything else. Riku would throw himself on a fire to stop others from burning. Vanitas knows this well, even without Riku saying it so plainly.
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He leans over his knees to pick up the cloth from the bucket, ringing it out and starting at his ankles and his shins.
"Save it," He says, without looking up. His legs aren't that bad. They seemed to like to cut into the meatier parts of him— his torso, the muscle of his thighs, the muscle of his arms. Blood and grime come off of him, leaving strips of pale skin behind. "I know what you're like, Master Riku." There's a hint of derision in his voice, though maybe that's as much habit as anything else. Riku would throw himself on a fire to stop others from burning. Vanitas knows this well, even without Riku saying it so plainly.