Munakata is fine for hours.
There are things to do, people to lead, an entire island of chaos that needs to be brought under control. Awashima and Fushimi are competent enough to take care of things themselves, but he needs to be seen, it is important that his followers see that he is composed, that he is present and calm and cool even with his uniform stained with the blood of a fallen King. But that's fine, he's not thinking about that, after an hour it's dried enough that he can ignore the color, can focus his mind on the present moment, on this moment and this heartbeat and nothing in the past or the future. He's doing a decent job of it, too. Awashima watches him askance the first few minutes, but no one else so much as blinks, and even the blonde turns away and focuses on her work after she's convinced herself he's holding together.
And he is holding together. His head is ringing, and there's a strange distance to his words, like they're coming from a long way away, but he doesn't pass out, and he doesn't break down; his expression is stoic and his eyes are clear, and when he tucks his bloodstained hands against the small of his back no one can see the faint tremble in his wrists.
By the time they go back to headquarters even Awashima's intuitive concern has been soothed; she is focused on the task at hand, Munakata can almost see the whirr of thought behind her eyes, the slight abstraction to her gaze that says she's thinking about something else. That's good, that's what he needs, so when he says he's going to change into a clean uniform she nods without thinking, only glances up with realization as he's on his way out of the room, and by then he's clear and on his way down the hall.
He doesn't crack. Discipline is his byword, it's the focus of his entire team, and in the end he does what needs doing, whether it's maintaining his composure or… He skids away from that thought, shoves it down hard into the weightless emptiness in his chest as he pulls the door to his room open. The liquid on his fingers is dried, now, his touch leaves the handle clean when he lets it go and gently pushes the door shut behind him.
Then there's just the room, empty and as cold as his thoughts, silent and calm, calm like the unruffled surface of the ocean. For a moment Munakata stands still just inside the doorway. Maybe he didn't need to come up here after all. Awashima has things under control back with the rest of the clan, but he can always provide additional support. There's no one here for him to oversee, no one here that needs his help. He should go where he's needed. He should…
When he touches the collar of his shirt the fabric is heavy, weighted oddly; when he looks down it takes a minute to recognize the red color as blood, it's a breath or two before he can let that too-recent memory come back up from the silent distance he has pushed it to. But he remembers, of course he remembers, how could he forget even for a moment, the warmth of Mikoto's blood soaking into his clothes, the heat of Mikoto's life splashing over his skin, the stain of necessary murder marking his hands more thoroughly than any tattoo could.
His glasses are blurry. When he pulls them off it takes two tries before he can get his hands to steady on the frames, it takes longer than it should to pull them off and then he drops them, they go clattering to the floor as his grip goes slack. Munakata doesn't reach for them, doesn't even notice the blurring to his vision with their loss; he's not seeing the empty room at all anymore, he's seeing Mikoto's eyes, Mikoto's smile, the brief perfect peace on the other's face even as Munakata drove his sabre through his chest. He's shaking, his shoulders are shaking with hugely delayed reaction to the weight of Mikoto's body slumping forward into his arms, when he blinks there's liquid on his cheeks and when he brings his fingers to touch it the tears catch on his skin, turn Mikoto's blood liquid and hot again.
The wall catches Munakata when he tips back, lets him slide slowly to the floor instead of collapsing. He barely notices. The ringing in his head is clearing and it wasn't ringing at all, it was Mikoto's voice, the sound of Mikoto's laugh, the faint pattern of Mikoto's breathing. This is all that's left of him now, the memories trapped in Munakata's head and the blood smeared across his hands and over his shirt. Munakata supposes he should change, he should wash his hands and pull himself together, but the thought is fleeting, rationality crushed out under the impossible weight of the loss. Even sitting becomes too much; he slides sideways to curl on the floor, wrap himself in close around the last real part of Mikoto he has left anymore, and when the sobbing starts every breath burns in his chest like he's inhaling fire.
Reisi's never been good at dealing with heat.