Chapter Text
The afterlife is, Morro decides, darker than he'd envisioned. Not that he's spent countless, sleepless nights contemplating the inner workings of life and beyond, but… ok, that may be a lie, but he'd imagined something… grander, an out-of-the-body experience, perhaps—even something as outlandish as a big man in a chair greeting him upon entry through a majestical, golden archway wouldn't have been totally unexpected. However absurd his theories, certainly, he'd expected there'd at least be even the tiniest of smidgeons more… light.
The pitch-black nothingness is all-encompassing. There's no substance or any sights for him to grasp at or lay his eyes upon. He can't even see the tip of his nose, much less the rest of his body.
It's just gone, all of it, like the whole world has suddenly been struck by a power outage on a cloudy, moonless night.
Is this what it means to be dead?
There's just an empty void, you're just a purposeless, stranded consciousness that can only observe and no longer actually interact with reality?
Is this what it's like no longer existing? After all, when a flame gets snuffed out, the fire's gone , its existence erased. It doesn't get to live happily with other deceased flames in a picturesque paradise of eternal bliss.
Morro can't see it, but he can almost physically feel his chest tightening and struggling to expand, like his breath's running amok and his lungs aren't equipped to handle the sudden influx of air. Phantom limbs. He's read the stories of amputees. Is that what this is? Is he just gonna… exist without existing for all of infinity, feel his mortal body but be unable to control it, be deprived of all senses but the ones that make life miserable? Why, why can he breathe , ghosts don't have respiratory systems, do they? Ghosts shouldn't be able to feel, to feel the pain they experienced the moment of their demise, so why, why does his metaphysical throat feel so insanely irritated, like he's—
Morro shoots upright like he's just been jolted awake from a nightmare. Light and color flood his world all too quickly, blinding him, stabbing his temples with an agonizing headache. It's nothing compared to the gruesome retaliation his body serves his disease in the ongoing war being fought in his body, however. Brutal, unstoppable coughs torture his already raw and abused throat and give the sensation of razor blades in his mouth.
The attack gradually, slowly recedes, and his eyes finally adjust a little. Morro experimentally cracks his eyelids open ever so slightly before fully opening the curtains before his vision, only to find that his hand has been slathered in blood. That's unsurprising, unlike literally everything else.
A washcloth lies innocently in his lap, where it's presumably landed after falling from his face. Well, that's the mystery behind his blindness solved. Honestly, he'd feel pretty damn embarrassed if his brain currently had the capacity to worry about his dignity. Safety is a far bigger priority at the moment, because it occurs to Morro with increasing levels of alarm that his surroundings are entirely unfamiliar.
The room he's in is a hot pot of the most random and bizarre clutter items. Bookshelves with neatly assorted, ancient-looking leather-bound books hug the walls, hand-painted scrolls, antique, wooden storage cabinets and oil paintings make up the rest of the wall decor, and there's a Chabudai with beautifully embroidered cushions in the middle of the room.
He himself has been placed in a creaky twin bed with a solid, blocky wooden frame, also pressed against a wall. Layers upon layers of mismatched blankets weigh his body down, and a Japanese lantern glowing warm orange and an assortment of colorful lucky charms hang above his head. A shoji's been left slightly ajar, and a gentle breeze seeps in, rustling a wind charm.
A clock hidden somewhere amongst the piles of possessions ticks repetitively. On his rustic nightstand stands a lone, lit candle and a bundle of incense sticks that spread a lavender aroma around the entire room.
Ultimately, Morro's verdict is that his current environment is… messy, but cozy. He'd even go as far as calling it homely . A perhaps inappropriate conclusion, considering he was brought here without his consent.
Panic grips his heart, wringing it like a wet dish towel. Slowly, fearfully, his gaze drops to inspect his body.
Excluding his jacket and shoes he's still fully dressed, thank FSM. A quick second and third glance around the room and he spots both missing clothing pieces—his jacket dangling from the hook of a vintage coat rack and his shoes placed neatly underneath, both in pristine condition.
Morro's brows twist all on their own accord as confusion overrides every other sense.
Considering the royal treatment of himself and his possessions, this sure is one abnormal kidnapping. He is, however, so intimately familiar with trouble that he can smell its wretched stench from a mile away, and this room reeks of it, like a skunk's gone and done its business all over the place. Whatever the hell's going on, he doesn't have enough lives to pay the price of finding out.
Moving the copious amount of blankets out of the way takes more effort than Morro's willing to admit. He's already out of breath by the time he's slung his legs over the edge of the bed, and air is a precious resource for his body right now, considering how uncooperative his lungs are.
He doesn't have time for his organs shutting down on him, though, so he pushes through the debilitating discomfort, commands his weak-ass muscles to kick their butts into gear, stands in one swift, monumental movement, and—
He almost hurls.
A veil of fuzziness suddenly falls over his eyes, blurring every color, propelling the accommodating nausea into the realms of unbearable . His heart thrashes uncontrollably and hammers painfully against his ribcage. His legs shake beneath him, too weak from either malnutrition or a prolonged period of inactivity to bear his weight. Thinking it over, it's probably both.
Morro has to plop back down onto the bed to regain his breath and to banish every screaming thought in his head telling him that he's actually gonna die if he doesn't stay put this time.
Hah , as if.
See, the worst thing Morro can imagine is getting stuck again, squished so tightly between two constricting, insurmountable walls that he can't breathe or see ahead. Getting stuck in a tiny, stuffy, suffocating apartment, stuck between the towering bodies of adults, stuck under the crushing weight of their authority—a form of imprisonment so secure that he can't break out of it unless somebody else stops by and pulls him free from the outside.
His welfare can't depend on the kindness, or lack thereof, of anybody else. It's only gonna hurt him when his supposed caretaker inevitably fails him.
The only way to prevent such a fate is to keep moving, never slowing down enough for everything he left behind in that cursed, trash-packed back alley to catch up with him again. His body is incredibly unhelpful in that regard though, and instead of helping him with getting the bloody hell out of this admittedly peculiar prison, it just punishes him for his escape attempt with more coughing and more blood on his sleeves.
Life has never provided him with anything but a headwind, but it's the first time even his own body's fought against him. Ah, well. Not like that really changes his goal, it just makes it needlessly complicated.
Morro regains temporary control over his airways, at least enough that he isn't choking on every inhale. This time he rises carefully, slowly. Takes his time adjusting to standing on solid ground, waiting until he no longer feels like a rickety tower just waiting for the slightest gust of wind to topple him over.
Walking is just as exasperating an endeavor. Every step of the way has him gasping for air, fearing for his grip on consciousness from how dark his vision is getting.
No, not now… just a little bit further… a little further…
He reaches out a hand, fingers closing around the fabric of his coat just as black completely consumes his world. He doesn't faint, but it's a damn near thing, all his leg muscles giving out at once and letting him drop.
He latches on to the coat tightly—out of sheer desperation to not have his head knock against the hardwood floor. Though the support of the metal coat rack does slow his fall, it's not strong enough to hold up his weight, and ends up tipping over and crashing to the ground alongside Morro's body.
He doesn't know what's worse, the ensuing jolt of excruciating pain, or the resounding sound of the metal coat rack colliding hard with the floor, a noise so blaring it tears through his preexisting headache and stabs his brain directly—and undeniably spreads even further than that, to what for sure must be every last corner of this place.
Morro lies helplessly on the ground, hacking up mucus and staining the floorboards with red, unable to hear anything over his own labored breathing. His muscles plead for rest , his vision refuses to focus, his lungs are working on their last specks of energy to keep going, everything everywhere on his body hurts , and everything about his current situation sucks , but he doesn't allow any of the useless complaints to divert his attention away from the far more imperative matter of him being sincerely screwed.
Crap crap crap crap crap crap, he's got to get up, has to get out of here before—
Hurried footsteps grow louder. A sliding door is violently shoved open.
Before whoever lives here finds him powerless and sprawled out on their floor.
Morro pinches his eyes shut, ready for his disease to just end him right then and there. He isn't struck down and granted the mercy of a swift demise, however, neither by his illness nor by the wrath of his mysterious captor. Instead, he's met with a silence that's just as agonizing as if he'd been slowly tortured to death, long, heavy, stretching on for what seems like an eternity, the paralyzing fear doing nothing to help his lungs with getting their essential supply of air—
"I see you're awake."
There's not a hint of animosity in the speaker's voice. Although, something about it still sends icy shivers to the deepest depths of Morro's core, horrible familiarity churning sickeningly in his stomach.
Sandaled feet step into his vision. He can barely make out a thin set of legs poking out underneath the long skirt of a kimono, the entire intricate design of golden threads and dragon insignias becoming visible as his captor kneels before him. A wrinkled face that's half obstructed by a long, flowing beard greets him with a patient smile.
No fucking way.
"Y-you're…" Morro is cut off by another harsh cough. Damn his throat. By now it's rubbed so raw that he might as well have swallowed sheets of sandpaper. Why, why is it now of all times that his body decides to hit him with a speech impairment, when the old man's gonna squeeze him dry of information, when he's gonna need tact and a clear head and a confident voice to convey his intentions clearly, to avoid the geezer with a literal savior complex from calling the cops on his ass within the minute—
"Are you hurt?"
The question arises without warning, leaving Morro momentarily stumped. He gawks, blinking twice before barely managing to shake his head.
The old man exhales breathily.
"That's a relief. But, please, child, I mean you no harm. Quite the contrary, in fact. I'd love to help you if you simply give me permission."
He reaches out a slim, wrinkly hand, beckoning Morro to take it.
And, yeah. Morro's outrageously stubborn, not stupid—sick, not delusional. In his current state, how could he possibly get back on his feet without a literal helping hand?
Although every fiber of who he is bristles in opposition to the idea, he accepts the old man's offer, letting him sling his arm across his shoulder and pull him up with surprising ease.
Morro barely manages to detain a cocky remark as to the absurdity of an old man helping a teenager walk. Out of concern for his abused vocal cords, though, he keeps quiet.
After gingerly placing Morro back down on the mattress, Wu starts to tidy up the disheveled pile of blankets, layering them one by one on top of Morro's lower body while Morro sits and regains the breath he lost. When apparently finding that Morro is properly insulated, the old man turns away and starts rummaging through a nearby cubby drawer.
Morro observes him attentively, chewing on his lip and barely holding back the urge to penetrate the sensitive skin.
"Why?" The utterance is quiet, nothing more than a wavering whisper, so frail and unsure of itself that Morro himself barely registers that the word comes from his mouth.
But Wu is apparently equipped with superhuman hearing on top of his superhuman combat skills, because he stops his search for whatever he was looking for, instead directing his full, undivided attention to him. Morro bites down harder on his lip, this time to stop it from trembling.
"Why, me?" he finishes, even quieter.
And there it is. That very same dejected, uncannily unnatural expression from their first encounter. But there's no way, absolutely no fucking way in hell that that's actual, authentic worry, not when it's directed at Morro .
And yet, it's present in every last crease of his wrinkled face, slathered all over his tone as he explains, "You are a child, alone and starving on the streets," like it's the most obvious thing in the world.
Morro struggles with bringing the proper amount of anger to the surface.
"So?" he snaps. "Go find someone who actually wants your help. I'm fine."
The rest of his body betrays his mouth, however, punishing him for raising his voice with a round of grating, coarse coughs, and a mouthful of blood. Thankfully the old man doesn't comment. Instead, he just outright leaves, disappearing past a shoji door and returning not many seconds later with a tray of steaming hot tea in his hand, bamboo staff functioning as a walking stick on top of being a fearsome weapon.
Now hold up just a damn minute. That teapot; that freaking blue ceramic teapot with that dragon silhouette swirling around up top—
"So it was you. You gave me those provisions. You were the one following me."
"Ah." The old man places the tray on the nightstand, pausing at the accusations. "Yes, I do apologize for my… unconventional behavior. But after our last encounter, I feared you would refuse my help if I revealed myself."
No, no , that's not the massive, gaping issue here.
" How did I not see you?" Morro unintentionally blurts out.
Wu chuckles lightly at that, apparently amused , though Morro can't for the life of him pick out the reason as to why.
"Shadowing a sick and debilitated child is nothing to a ninja master," he says. "Now."
He takes the tray from the nightstand and places it back down on the bed, on Morro's lap. When Morro simply stares at the tray like he's unsure what to make of it, Wu nudges the tray with the mystery drink closer with his bamboo staff.
"Healing tea," he clarifies. "It will do you much better than any medicine a doctor could offer you."
Ah, great. So the old nut's an advocate for alternative medicine. But, well… detox teas are known for their ineffectiveness, so… it's not gonna harm him, at least. If Wu is telling the truth, that is.
Morro scrunchies his eyes distrustfully at the drink. It was handed to him by a stranger after all. But… this is the same stranger that gave him his last drink, one with a distinct lack of poison, so… his chances of getting drugged out of his senses are probably below average… probably…
The fragrant steam tickles his nostrils, practically taunting him. It's like offering a poor man a suitcase of money for free. There's bound to be some hidden ramifications of accepting this obviously rigged arrangement, but, how, how is he supposed to resist when the cure to his suffering is literally within reach—
Agh, ok, fine. The old man doesn't seem like he'll quit staring at him until he's at least attempted to take a chug of this supposed healing elixir either.
Morro takes the cup and brings it to his lips, blowing cautiously so as to not aggravate his lungs. He only intends to take a small sip, to lessen the feeling of a billion graters having a dance party in his throat, but he ends up finishing the entire cup within the minute.
Holy hell this stuff is good.
A comforting warmth envelopes him from the inside out, prickling heat blossoming in his chest. His veins carry it to every last inch of his body, thawing his bones, clearing his sinuses, and soothing the bloody, crackly mess of his throat. It feels like every ounce of tension and distress oozes out through his pores, leaving only tranquility and calmness behind for his mind to peacefully float around in.
He hasn't felt this good in years .
"Hhm, so you do smile."
He startles at the leftfield comment, nearly dropping the cup.
Crap crap crap crap crap. Why is he letting his guard down?
"C-course I do," Morro counters, not quite sure how to retort to having his willpower called into question. "W-what, you think I'm some kind of masochist?"
Wu laughs out loud at that, not a derisive, insulting kind of laugh, not like he caught Morro in his evil trap and now is mocking him for his foolishness. It's open, sincere, almost edging on infectious .
Though his cheeks burn hotter than even his raging fever could ever hope to achieve, how is Morro supposed to get mad at that?
Ok. Sure. Let's say the old man really does have good intentions. That may be unheard of when it comes to him , but there is such a thing as charity out there, so no matter how much proof Morro may have accumulated over the span of his life to prove the contrary, it's not everybody in his godforsaken city that's completely rotten to the core.
Still, Morro keeps tightening his grip around the now empty yunomi cup, until his knuckles turn stark white.
Still, he can't get too complacent. It's when he begins to expect good things that it actually hurts when his childish fantasies of security and warmth and just a basic sense of stability aren't fulfilled. He's a teen now, so it's about time for him to drop the innocent kid act. He's seen too much, experienced too much to be hiding behind that excuse anymore. All this… everything that the old man is offering, means nothing. Accepting that is the only choice he has, it's the only way he can keep going , keep moving forward, because he doesn't know if he can take being let down one more time—
Morro gives back the Yunomi cup with shaky hands. Wu takes it gratefully, then pushes Morro down onto the bed, not forcefully, just as a silent way of advising that he gets some shuteye.
His touch hurts , as if bypassing his clothes, the sore skin on his chest, and his rib cage altogether, his hand seizing hold of his heart and squeezing, overwhelming him with… what, grief? A tremendous sense of loss that's totally irrational considering he hasn't lost something that he possessed before.
When was the last time anybody treated him this kindly with no ulterior motives? Thinking that question over leaves Morro's throat even more dry than when he just woke up. It makes swallowing his useless optimism, swallowing dangerous hope extremely hard. But he manages, nonetheless.
"I won't repay you, you know…" He meets Wu's eyes head-on, refusing to have his conviction deterred by this sudden insurgence of vulnerability.
"I'll leave as soon as I can make it past the front door."
Wu simply smiles at that, like nothing in this world can offend him.
"The only payment necessary for an act of kindness is a simple bit of gratitude. Now, I'll be nearby if you need me."
He leaves him alone with those words, fetching the discarded washcloth and a tub with sloshing liquid Morro had somehow failed to spot earlier on the way out, vanishing past a door to presumably go refill it—because there's the unmistakable sound of a water faucet blasting out water at full power just a second later.
Honestly, Morro doesn't intend to comply with the old man's orders. Even if he can conclude that he's most likely not going to get his throat slit in his sleep, his brain's still buzzing with the most macabre what-if scenarios, fighting ferociously to keep him awake and alert for the moment this all goes horribly wrong, the moment the old man realizes how big a mistake he's made by not only preserving a life as worthless as his, but then on top of that taking him in .
He might act all understanding for now, but he'll get fed up with him in time, he'll see the full extent of his burden and then he'll turn away and leave him to rot on the side of the road, again, because of course , who has the ungodly patience that undoubtedly would be needed to actually fix his irreversibly damaged head?
Unfortunately, the bed and blankets are so insidiously comfortable that sleep comes to him involuntarily and swiftly.
Time is an odd thing. It feels like he skips entire days just by opening and closing his eyes, while, simultaneously, nothing really happens, making weeks melt seamlessly together into one big lump as he drifts in and out of consciousness.
He sleeps, waking up only to go back to sleep again.
A day and night cycle becomes impossible to maintain. Hours— days , pass in an instant when he's sedated by blissful, time-distorting sleep, while the few minutes a day he spends awake feels like an eternity of suffering and pain.
His throat's become the equivalent of an unstable volcano, spewing blood every time he breathes just slightly too deep, he's shivering profusely on top of feeling like he's melting, sweat acts as a glue between his clothes and skin, and, adding yet another unnecessary layer of cruelty to the torture, his blood turns to ice the second he sticks so much as a toe out from underneath the protective mountain of blankets.
In the sparse moments when Morro isn't deep down in the realm of unconsciousness where the effects of his disease can't reach him, Wu is there. Every time he cracks his eyes open, he's there , within earshot, ready to provide assistance until Morro's proven he either doesn't need or want his help.
Which Morro does fervently, every time. His disease may have drained every ounce of strength from his body, but it hasn't flushed away his stubbornness.
Not that he's denying that he needs the support. He needs it, definitely. To a certain degree. It's just that Wu's walking a thin line here—between helping and coddling him, and whenever the old man seems to wobble a little too far towards regarding him like an incapable baby, Morro makes sure to very vocally let him know to correct his stance and get the hell back on the right track.
Or, uhm. The demand for being treated like a competent adult usually comes out as a disgruntled moan more than anything, since he's got no energy to formulate a proper argument. Wu seems to understand his broken language anyway, however, backing off every time without so much as a protest.
And that's how things are supposed to be. Of course he's uncooperative, of course he's acting like a downright scumbag. It just wouldn't be good if the old man became attached, because he's got no intentions of reciprocating such feelings.
So they don't talk much. Sometimes the old man gets a few bites of food in him. Sometimes they're lucky enough that it stays down. Really, the first instance where communication even becomes relevant is an unquantifiable long-ass time later, where even the mind-numbingly agonizing sickness can't drown out the intense pressure in his bladder warning him that he has to take a piss. Urgently.
It's an utmost irksome inconvenience, offering him very little wiggle room in terms of solutions.
Wu is nearby, as always, seated on a cushion by the Chabudai, eyes glued to the contents of an ancient-looking scroll. The old man can be overbearing on the best of days. A constant presence that he's pretty sure is supposed to provide reassurance, but, even now, he's nothing more than a glorified guard dog keeping him from his goal.
There are two exits to the box-shaped room he's in. Two sets of shoji doors, one at the front of the room, and one at the back. He isn't sure where the back one leads, because Wu always enters and exits through the front one. Probably best not to stick his nose into places where a nose shouldn't go, in this case.
Morro gauges the distance from the bed to the door at the front of the room, calculating the odds of making it there without falling flat on his face. He dismisses the results of said calculations, because as if he'd ever openly admit to being incapable of going to the bathroom. Maybe he can't do everything on his own right now, weakened as he is, but he can still take care of himself. Now that he's finally gained independence, he's never giving it up again.
Morro ushers Wu out of the room with the vague excuse of wanting privacy, which, technically, isn't a lie. Wu puts the scroll away and wordlessly complies. He waits until the old man's footsteps trail off into the distance, leaving him alone in a stiff silence.
Removing the blankets and slinging his feet over the edge of the bed, Morro suddenly finds himself in a hauntingly familiar position.
He would take a deep breath to dispel some of his nauseating nerves, if only he wasn't assured that it would only do more damage to his lungs. Instead he just mentally tells himself that this isn't gonna end like last time, and that there's no point in wussing out at this stage. Not like his bladder is giving him the choice anyway.
In spite of his better judgment, he stands. Carefully, slowly. His legs protest furiously, muscles aching, bones creaking like he's got arthritis. Even just blinking makes him breathless nowadays, so he stands and refills his lungs with as much air as they can currently contain, waiting. He stands by the bed, ready to sit back down the moment something goes wrong, because when does something ever not go wrong when it's him we're talking about—
But no matter how many seconds tick by, there's no darkness creeping in, no warning signs that his thoughtlessness could potentially lead to fainting.
Morro smirks, feeling almost inclined to do more to celebrate this momentous victory. His glee is short-lived, however, crashing and falling and burning alongside the rest of him the second he attempts to take an actual step.
It's as if his knee doesn't register that it's got a job to do. It simply… gives up, buckling beneath him with no warning.
Yelping in surprise, Morro collapses yet again. Honestly, he's starting to believe that even his own body hates him.
Lying flat on his stomach, he curls up into a shivering ball of misery, wallowing in his own stupidity.
Wu walks in on him like that. Again. Morro doesn't look up at him, doesn't tear his eyes away from the non-judgemental floorboards. For an uncountable number of heartbeats, suffocating silence fills the bedroom. It drags on and on, for so long that Morro wonders if he's finally done enough to get himself booted, since disobeying Wu certainly would count as proof that he's good for nothing—
"Did I not say I had no intentions of hurting you?"
The old man sounds exasperated as he kneels beside him. Not frustrated. Not disappointed. It's oddly misplaced, given the situation. Morro still doesn't look up, however, too afraid of the expression he'd see staring down at him.
He hears Wu take a deep breath.
"Are you not uncomfortable on the floor?"
Well... Yes.
"Would you rather not fully regain your strength instead of using it up every time you regain small scraps?"
Well, when he puts it like that—
"Then, will you let me help you?"
Hell no!
Morro stubbornly keeps his mouth shut, not allowing the geezer the satisfaction of thinking he's getting through to him. Because he isn't. Try as he might, but his kindness is wasted on him. It should be glaringly obvious by now, so why , why won't the old man just understand that and quit already—
A hand gently dislodges his cheek from the ground, swooping under his head and letting it rest against his forearm. Wu's other hand works itself under his knees, and before Morro can ask what the hell the old loony is doing, his body's hoisted off the ground, and Wu carries him. Like he's fucking invalid .
Immediately Morro opens his mouth to spew violent protests at such a humiliating treatment, though his words just devolve into unintelligible gasps for air, merely making him look even more pathetic.
Coughing drains the strength he would've used to physically resist, leaving Morro slack and in the old man's arms, helpless to fight back. He relents, accepting his fate as closes his eyes and exhales in frustration.
Wu, apparently not getting the hint that he'd need a reason to venture out of the safe circumference of the bed, is about to return him back to where he started, deleting all of his hard work. Before that can happen, Morro grabs a fistful of the old man's Kimono, halting him in place with one rough tug.
Through gritted teeth, he croaks out a tiny, "...Bathroom," hoarse voice below a whisper.
Wu hears him, however, face setting in understanding.
He nods, and without further questioning, Morro is carried out the front set of shoji doors. Through his spinning vision, he catches sight of old, wooden kitchen cabinets and a large assortment of diverse sharp objects mounted onto the wall. He doesn't really care enough to wonder what for.
The bathroom is connected to some sort of kitchen. It's thumb-sized, the epitome of anti-modern, equipped with the sort of ancient toilet that you have to pull to flush. The shower curtain is horrendously retro, and shelves filled with jars with hand-scribbled labels make up the wall decor. Even the toilet paper roller is an excessively fancy, wooden dragon carving.
Morro isn't complaining about any of it. What does odd furniture choice matter when he isn't even planning on spending that long here? And, to his credit, he does finish up quickly, washing and drying his hands in record time, seeing as he doesn't want to spend a second longer on his legs than he needs.
However, something keeps him rooted in place, unable to move.
Above the antique sink hangs an unassuming, slightly crooked, slightly murky mirror.
It's the first time in what must be months that Morro has seen his own reflection. He doesn't recognize the face that stares back. His shoulders are angular, jawline worryingly sharp, cheeks hollow—as if every last ounce of baby fat has been carved out. He's white as a sheet, skin a strikingly stark shade of white.
His eyes look dead. He doesn't know how else to explain it. That spark of life that you'd usually find in every living creature has been seemingly extinguished, leaving two lifeless green beads in his eye sockets, as one would find on a stuffed animal.
His appearance resembles that of a walking corpse. Morro averts his gaze to literally anywhere else, zoning out again almost immediately. Nausea pulsates throughout his body, making him feel even sicker than before. The sight of his own face is unnerving—not that looking himself in the mirror has ever been easy.
Maybe… maybe the old man's excessive worrying is starting to make sense. Just a little bit. A little.
Doesn't mean he's gonna apologize to Wu for being so difficult. It's fair that he's only begrudgingly accepting his help, since he didn't even ask for it in the first place.
"Pneumonia?"
Morro cringes at the sound of his own voice, a raspy, coarse, grating noise, so distorted and gruff that you wouldn't think a human body would be capable of producing the sound.
Wu doesn't seem to mind though, standing with his back turned and calmly pouring himself a cup of tea by the Chabudai table.
"Yes," he says, leisurely stirring. "I fail to see how it could be anything else."
Agh. Well, it certainly makes sense, given his symptoms. But uhm. Doesn't that kinda create a massive fucking problem?
"Isn't that shit contagious? Should you really be standing here, breathing in the same air as me?"
Wu unhurriedly brings the cup to his lips, breathing in the steam and taking a slow sip.
"Your concern is appreciated. Worry not though. My bloodline provides a certain degree of immunity to such… human diseases." He turns around, showing the second cup he's carrying. He reaches it forward, as if expecting Morro to take it. Morro scrunches his brows at him in confusion, but Wu smiles at him innocently, offering no further explanation.
He never figures out what the hell he means by that. Or what the old man's deal is in general. Wu is beyond cryptic on the best of days, not suspiciously so, just… slightly, deranged, slightly, askew, in a sense. He's weird enough to make Morro wonder who hit him on his head as a child, and how hard, because something definitely came loose in the old man's brain at some point.
Although, that said… his presence is not… unpleasant.
For the first time in Morro doesn't even know how long, he's not alone. Wu isn't just putting up with him out of obligation. That much is painstakingly clear. He's actually showing interest in him, actively trying to get closer for no ulterior reason.
It hurts in a way that it shouldn't. Every day Morro wakes up in a warm bed and gets fed warm meals, and he has to repeat to himself that this is just a temporary stay. He's going back to the cold of the streets, back to the unwelcoming, lonely alleyways, back to fighting just to stay alive. That's where he belongs. That's his place in the world, that's where worthless people like him go. He's soiling everything he touches here. It's too nice for him, he's not deserving of any of it.
It's a fact that he's an unlovable mistake. His presence alone is enough to make people sick, quite literally, at the moment. That's why it's best to cut people off before he's let down. Before he lets them down. Saves everyone from the pain of a bunch of unnecessary emotional wounds.
Rejecting Wu's kindness is the right thing to do. For both their sakes.
He wakes up to the world coated in a warm orange glow, wondering if the sun is preparing to tuck in for the night, or just rising from a deep slumber, like himself.
Morro blearily sits up in the bed, rubbing his face awake and groaning as he blinks away the grogginess.
He doesn't know how much time has passed since he last fell asleep. It was still daytime then, but, again, that could mean he's slept anywhere between a few short hours to a full night and then some. Ugh, why does time have to be such a bitch to keep track of? He's confused enough about his situation without worrying about a messed up sleep schedule.
Something's different though, that much becomes immediately noticeable as soon as he regains awareness of himself.
For the first time in his involuntary stay in this place, his sickness is… lesser. His throat still feels like fireworks have gone off in his mouth, and he's still shivering even though his cheeks are searingly hot, so, by definition, he's not exactly well .
But he is well enough . Well enough to maybe make a worthwhile attempt at cognitive thinking again.
Glancing around the room, something else immediately sticks out to him as being out of place—or, perhaps it'd be more accurate to say missing .
Wu is nowhere to be seen. Which is… strange. Though Morro supposes he has a life outside of taking care of him. He could be on the toilet, he could be out shopping, he could be doing ninja master things he's too uncultured to know off. There is any number of explanations to rationalize his absence. And it doesn't even really matter where he is. What does matter is that he isn't here.
Tentatively, Morro frees himself of the blanket pile. His feverish skin protests vehemently at being exposed to the open air, shivering intensifying, his bare feet nearly freezing over as they touch the cold floorboards.
Swallowing is painful, but necessary for untying the knots in his stomach.
Honestly, it's not like he really wants to give walking another shot. He's not like those relentless superheroes who get up no matter how many times they're knocked down. All his life, all he's ever known is adversity. It's always been about survival, and you don't survive by repeating your mistakes. Morro isn't strong enough to catch the curveballs life throws at him. His only option is to dodge—run away—or let himself get hit and then stay down. If he tries getting up, he'll just be hit again. Continuously, until his fragile body snaps in half.
Simply put, Morro is gonna die if he doesn't submit to the powers that are stronger than he is.
Meaning that this is his limit. If this doesn't work out, it's over. He'll give up for real. But… well, third time's the charm, and all that shit, right?
Morro sucks in his lips. If he keeps a baseline of optimism at around 0, there's really no room for being disappointed, right?
…Only for disappointing others.
He shakes his head, breathing out the remains of his anxiety. Leaving no time for other intrusive thoughts to interfere, he pushes himself upwards, straightening his body. His legs still shake precariously beneath him, but… the strength he's spent the last many days accumulating doesn't fizzle out immediately.
He stands on his own. This time, however, he's not naïve enough to think that it's over. He's won half the battle, with another half yet to win.
He pinches his eyes shut as he takes his first step, readying himself for the inevitable fall.
Although he staggers a bit, although his knee threatens to cave in if he doesn't fight against the pull of gravity, it holds. He did it. He took a step. He can walk again.
The revelation is accompanied by relief more than jubilation. He isn't just a dying, wheezing lump of flesh anymore. He's regained a bit of agency—the freedom to move around as he pleases.
Walking is an arduous ordeal, though. He has to be mindful of every step, pouring all his strength into keeping his balance and making sure his legs obey him. Again, he's far from fully recovered. But he seems to have recovered enough to indulge in a healthy dose of exploration.
Morro has had his suspicions about this place. The unanswered question of, where the hell even is he, should be reason enough to want to take a peek outside. But… there have been times when he's laid awake, too wrapped up in his sickness to really give it any proper consideration, but the ground has… almost swayed , as if he was dizzy while lying down and staying stock still.
While that could have just as well been another symptom of his disease, that answer doesn't fully satisfy the logical side of his brain. Houses, no matter how old and wooden, aren't supposed to move .
As soon as he reaches the other side of the room, Morro very much intentionally crashes into the wall, using it as a cushion before he topples over from how badly his head is spinning. He's breathing so hard his vision fades in and out of focus, so he takes this opportunity to rest, closing his eyes to lessen the nausea.
The wave of sickness passes, and Morro looks up again, mapping out his next move.
All that hassle has placed him by the shoji door at the front of the room. It must lead somewhere useful, surely, since it's the only one of the two exits that get used.
Walking through the door leads Morro back to the kitchen that he's caught sneak-peaks of every time he's gone to the bathroom. Now that he gets to fully take it in, he finds a neat little kitchenette, equipped with a gas cooktop and magnet-covered minifridge. Apparently, the compact space doubles as an armory, throwing stars, kunai, katana—an impressive collection of very real, very pointy weapons—all hanging on the wall in an open display.
Though the authentic ninja tools intrigue him immensely, Morro figures it'd be wisest to keep his fingers to himself. He'd like to keep them.
Struggling to cross the room with his heavy, untrustworthy feet, and resisting the urge to touch anything and use it as support leads him to… a hatch. Like one would find on a boat, rather than in a house. It's as if it's been somehow misplaced, but, then again, considering Wu's unorthodox furniture taste, perhaps it is fitting. He unlocks the hatch after a bit of fiddling around with the locking mechanism. The door swings open to reveal a hallway, wooden from floor to ceiling. It's empty, say for a few framed pictures and a bunch of hatches identical to the one he's just passed through lining the walls.
Morro, however, ignores all the potential dead ends in favor of what's at the end of the hallway.
Stairs. An actual, tangible exit, within reach. Though he knows it serves no point beyond further exhausting himself, he speeds up his pace. There's another hatch up top blocking his path to freedom, though, being designed for being moved, it's not heavy. Morro just… isn't very strong at the moment, so it still takes an alarming amount of energy and time to finally get it shoved open.
Climbing the last bit of the way, the first thing to hit him when he steps outside is the sunlight. Though it's a warmer, softer shade than the pure white of the midday sun, it still pierces his skull, blinding him completely. Tears well up to combat the harsh light, and Morro blinks to get rid of them.
The overwhelmingly salty smell hits him even through his clogged sinuses. With no obstacles in its way, the icy wind hits him full throttle, completely bypassing the thin T-shirt and biting into his skin. Morro rubs his biceps to get the blood flowing, teeth already clattering.
As soon as his blurry vision sharpens and the fuzzy blobs turn into recognizable shapes, Morro's eyes widen, hungrily feasting on the sight of the beautiful, glimmering, blue wasteland stretching out seemingly endlessly before him.
Ocean.
Suddenly, the pieces he'd been missing to solve the mystery of his whereabouts click into place.
It's a boat. Morro is standing on the deck of a boat. And, being painted a rich crimson, with two masts, and twin dragons as a figurehead, it's an imposing one. It's docked right by the warehouse district, all alone, which kind of seems like a waste of space. Though, considering Wu's status as Ninjago's sole defender, it shouldn't surprise him that he has his own private parking lot.
It's convenient for him too. It would be easy, so damn easy to jump over the railing, race across the dock, and return to the city, to the streets, to his rightful home, without being stopped by anyone.
But… knowing Wu's freakishly advanced tracking abilities, he could probably find him again easily if he wanted. Or, worse, call child protective services on his ass…
"You should still be resting in bed."
Morro does not nearly scream out of fear.
He whips around, spotting Wu approaching with a leisurely gait. Crap, he'd let himself get too lax again. He's got to stop doing that when his roommate is a literal stealth professional.
"Yeah, well what's it to you?" he says, composure masterfully restored. He calms himself as he leans against the ship's railing, to hopefully reduce the shaking of his legs and how unthreatening it makes him look.
His breathing is a little too thin, so Morro waits a little until it evens out before telling him, "I did say I would leave as soon as I got the opportunity, didn't I?"
He regrets his choice of words as soon as they're out of his mouth. Because there's a very obvious, glaring hole in his statement, one that he himself has been too scared to look down, not out of fear of what he'd find at the bottom, but, rather, precisely because he knows what to expect.
The old man pulls all his worst fears to the surface with one simple, seemingly innocuous question.
"Then why haven't you?"
And Morro sees red.
Gritting his teeth, he seethes, "Why do you care ?" trotting up to the old man and getting all up in his face. Wu stands his ground, unperturbed and unflinching at his outrage, probably because their height difference kind of makes Morro seem like a kitten hissing at a tiger, but he's not a cowardly kitten, merely yelling louder,
"After everything I've said and done in response to you just trying to help, why have you not realized that I'm worthless and given up on me yet? And don't try to act stupid, 'cause I already know that's how you feel, so just come on and spit it out instead of keeping me hopeful like this! I've already accepted that there's no place for me in this world, so for you to bring me into your home and treat me like there's space for me, like I deserve any of this, it's i-it's…"
He trails off, voice withering and dying a painful death along with his anger. A lump in his throat prevents any sound from escaping—not that Morro even knows how to properly respond to this kind of situation.
A single arm is slung around his torso. It's impossible to mistake the gesture for anything else than what it is.
Wu's embrace is tight, but not uncomfortably so. Even with his shredded lungs, air comes to him easily, though in small, confused gasps. It's his thoughts that really fail him, mind drawing a total blank, because what the actual fuck —
"You've had a hard life, haven't you, child?"
Morro's heart races, pulse deafening in his ears. Wu's words reach him regardless, seeping in deep. He's powerless to stop it, with all the walls he's spent his entire life carefully constructing so completely annihilated like this.
This is wrong. This is wrong . This is wrong, this is wrong, this is wrong. He should shove him off. He should reject this. He doesn't deserve his sympathy, he doesn't deserve kindness and understanding, he doesn't deserve any of it, he doesn't, he doesn't, he shouldn't—
A prickling sensation assaults his eyeballs. Morro has to bite down really fucking hard on his lower lip to stop himself from completely losing it right then and there.
"You don't know anything," he says, traitorous voice on the verge of completely breaking too.
Wu places his other hand on top of his head, merely pulling him tighter against his chest. His body radiates heat, serving as a harsh contrast to the surrounding, biting cold. The old man says nothing, not for a long while, seemingly content like this.
"I'd love to learn more," is his answer.
He releases Morro, though keeps a firm hand on his shoulder, steadying him. With the adrenaline slowly oozing out of his system, Morro needs it. He feels Wu's eyes on him, but, yet again, he finds himself unable to confront whatever expression he may be making.
Yet again, Wu doesn't seem to mind.
"When you're ready, tell me more," he simply says. "You can stay here as long as you wish until that time comes."
Morro has nothing to say to that. Wu doesn't expect him to say anything.