He stood coherently, staring into Delirium's eyes...
...for all of three seconds. Then he dove wildly away, collapsing more than diving, to all fours and vomiting up everything he'd eaten since arriving back here. There wasn't much, and his body continued to heave for several minutes. His mind swam and spun, the sounds and colors still tormenting him, until finally they began to fade. Almost as soon as he realized this, they dropped away completely, and he was staring at a puddle of vomit on the floor of his hotel room.
He rolled over, barely avoiding the puddle of vomit as he plopped down on the floor, and more or less tore the left sleeve of his shirt off. Were he more coherent, he'd have noted the irony of finally having stable clothing only to tear it apart, but all he was concerned with was what was underneath.
There it was, clear as day. A scar and a tattoo all at once, deep furrows in his skin colored an inky black, connecting in bizarre lines that made up the mark of the blind idiot god Azathoth. Michael stared at it for a long minute, and then looked up at Del, his face pale and practically hanging from his bones. "What does this mean?" It was a stupid question, and Michael knew it. His voice was hollow and devoid of any real curiosity because he knew.