"It's fine, Arthur," is his growled response, because it's fine. He's not the one who got into a fucking fist fight. It's nothing. He'll be fine.

The bite mark is where he might expect, nearer to the tip than to the base as it had curled up near his mouth to hold his upper chest back. There's no telling any kind of bruise and it's hard to see if there's even an opening in the void-black flesh. It's only when Arthur shifts the tentacle that the slick flesh shines in the light to show the lightly seeping wound.