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Fusion does not worry about the way his legs wobble on the way to the showers. He’s never been one to complain about the interesting decoration choices of the many hotels he’s inhabited, but as his bare feet drag against the disgustingly plush carpet— he begins to wish for some semblance of dignity.
Dignity, as it seems, is something he hasn’t been afforded much of lately. At the very least the snores echoing through the room tell him his crew is still asleep. Fusion hates being the second one up, let alone something like the last— but being up alone is a rarity he’s thankful to to be able to experience right now. Quick as he can, Fusion continues down the hallway, lined with paintings he doesn’t care for at all, still covered with that damned plush carpet. Lightheaded, Fusion sighs out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.
When he arrives the cool air of the showers finally hits the skin of his hands— and not much else, blocked by the thick, comforting fabric of his pajamas. His reflections walk alongside him, creeping through the misty floor-length mirrors that line the walls, like a stranger who claims they know you from that something-or-other. Fusion quickly closes the door to his stall.
It’s only as the slightly damp and slippery floor of the shower actually touches his feet that Fusion realizes he should’ve put on sandals. He huffs. It’s fine, at the very least this shower isn’t as disgusting as most. He slowly pulls off his clothes, careful not to let his pants hit the floor, placing them and everything else on the shelf right out of range of the shower head. Just before he takes off his undershirt he— he pauses. It’s been months, maybe years and Fusion is— is still not used, to what he sees underneath that white fabric. But, has he ever? Even before…
It’s a pathetic thing to get hung up on, he thinks, as he grasps the fabric and too-aggressively pulls the garment off. Fusion does not frown at the flat expanse of his chest, and entirely ignores the grotesque scar going straight down the middle of it.
Fusion does not like feeling frail— so, he doesn’t. He turns the left knob on as far as he can, every droplet of water that expels itself from the shower head hitting his skin like gobs of lava. the skin of his fingertips crying every time they surface from the sea that is his long, blond hair, of which itself is straightening out under the oppressive weight of the scalding liquid raining from above. He does not wince. He does not cry. He does not feel anything.
The clear colored soap runs down his body and pools into the drain below. Fusion does not wonder if his tears follow suit.