Work Text:
Satoru has flashbacks as hands collide with his chest.
⚠︎
He’s under a table again, the same one from when he was seven, clutching his ears to muffle the arguing. He ignores the clattering of a chair being slid across the floor, or the rough tugging of someone—anyone, everyone—extracting him from his haven. The wood scrapes his knees, bumps dig into his skin as he fights the servant. The poor thing is just doing their job under his parents' rule. He scratches and cries, not able to stop the onslaught of emotions. The door shuts as he’s drug into a room and put on his bed, still held in place by the person’s body. His watery eyes catch a glimpse of their ravaged arms, his doing, and slowly trail up to their face. Hana, the kindest servant to him, smiles back despite the painful blood welling on her pale skin.
Satoru gasps and sobs, burying his face into her shoulder. “M’sorry, M’sorry—“ he slurs, tangling Hana’s fingers with his own at her side.
She hushes him lightly, taking tissues from the nightstand to both their wounds. “I know. It was hard, wasn’t it? Listening to them. I tried to be gentle. I know you didn’t mean to hurt me, buddy. It’s okay.”
Satoru opens his mouth to respond, but his jaw locks, and all that escapes is a shuddering breath.
Hana seems to sense it, rubbing between his shoulder blades, rocking side to side. “I’ll always protect you from them, I promise,” she soothes, throwing away the red-stained tissues—even while his parents argue right outside the door for the hundredth time in his short life.
⚠︎
The next time Satoru opens his eyes, he’s on a plush surface, blinking rapidly to deter the searing, stabbing pain within his eyes, melting from his temples. Over him, under a flush of light, Suguru’s face is gaining clarity, worried depths in his precious eyes. His mouth is moving, but Satoru doesn’t hear anything past the slight ringing of his ears. The hands are still on his chest, somehow reverberating Satoru’s galloping heartbeat up into his skull and he’s aware that it’s way too fast. He’s still, but his soul is spinning, descending towards the abyss of growing lightheadedness until he gains the faint thought that he might pass out.
His unfocused gaze snaps towards Suguru, abandoning the strange corner of the ceiling he stared at absentmindedly. If Satoru loses his mind or whatever, he wants his last sight to be Suguru's face. He becomes more grounded when a palm is placed onto his sweaty forehead, swiping away the uncomfortable, sticky bangs clinging there. He tries to sigh in relief, but his lungs won’t stop forcing themselves to choke on empty, there’s nothing there, but he can’t breathe. They won’t halt long enough for the oxygen to be processed in his veins.
He involuntarily lets loose a string of low, panicked mutters, retracting his legs, about to thrash. Suguru leans closer, touching his face tenderly—Satoru can finally listen.
“Slow down, easy, easy. I'm here. You need to breathe,” Suguru whispers, his other hand flitting over Satoru's chest and shoulders. “You're safe. Breathe, Satoru,” is said with a hint of desperate energy.
A cry bubbles from his throat because he can't, it's impossible. He kicks once or twice in a panic, trying to shove Suguru away. The very atmosphere is constricting, and he uses his trembling legs to curl and hide, crushing his abdomen. Satoru hiccups, gripping his hair in fistfuls, hot breaths lingering on his sleeves as he conceals his face. He remembers that he's on a bed and not a rug when he feels the mattress shift with Suguru. A heavy covering is placed on him tentatively, but Satoru doesn't fight the sensation of a weight being draped evenly across his body. It's like a hug that isn't overwhelming.
He sees Suguru's figure drop beside him, and then they're lying facing each other, with Satoru still sobbing and hyperventilating. Suguru cautiously reaches for Satoru's hands, untangling them from his matted hair, clumped together by the stickiness of perspiration and the force of his movements. Satoru's heart breaks when Suguru's thumbs brush over his palms; his heart aches at the chaotic, pink lines etched on Suguru's arms—his doing, again.
It makes Satoru think of Hana and how sorry he is, triggering a fresh wave of tears. His heaving diaphragm throbs and his lungs burn with the countless attempts to retrieve a breath.
Suguru squeezes his hands. “I put your favorite weighted blanket on you, okay?” he says, gazing into Satoru's striking blue eyes, rimmed with the sheen of crying.
Satoru nods jerkingly, his expression innocent and sad, looking much younger and vulnerable by the minute.
“Deep breath in,” Suguru instructs, not breaking contact. “Unravel your body.”
Satoru exhales too quickly, his foggy mind unable to register the complicated task.
Suguru changes routes, keeping his attention with another squeeze. “Stretch out your legs and keep looking at me,” he restates, watching Satoru push his socked feet from the end of the blanket. “Good job. Deep breath in.” His core physically warms with hope when Satoru inhales to the best of his ability, holding it, even as he releases it in a burst. “You’re doing great, sweetheart. Just keep breathing. Settle for me, easy, slowly…”
Satoru eventually falls limp against Suguru, snuggling against his neck, his face buried into jet-black hair. “M'okay,” he murmurs if only to assure Suguru.
“I know, baby, I know you're okay,” Suguru whispers, his voice doused in relief. He wraps his arms around Satoru, kissing the back of his neck. “Let's get you cleaned up, alright? We can talk about it after.”
Satoru hums in agreement, not protesting when he's lifted by Suguru and carried to the dimly lit bathroom. They intentionally keep the lights low for days like these, when either one of them is much too sensitive for the world. He's lowered onto a bathmat.
Suguru gets wet wipes from a cabinet and approaches him. “Are these okay?”
He sits cross-legged as Suguru grabs more bottles and places them on the floor beside. “Yeah, they're okay.”
“Good. Tell me if anything smells too strong, or if something is getting too much to handle. You won't hurt my feelings.”
A subtle smile graces his face. “I will. Thank you, Suguru.”
“No problem, ‘Toru,” he responds honestly, scooting closer on his knees. He sprays detangling conditioner into Satoru's hair, something that makes it a million times easier as he brushes through, working out the knots painlessly. “Is dry shampoo okay?”
Satoru didn't know anything about hair care, to be honest, until after many years spent with Suguru. “It's good,” he responds, nodding. He could almost giggle as Suguru ruffles his hair, the dry shampoo coating his already snowy locks. “It feels better already,” he comments, fidgeting with his fingers in his lap.
Suguru swoops in and gives him a peck on the cheek, dodging before Satoru can swat at him in a flustered mess.
“Hey!” Satoru pouts. “I didn't say you could do that.”
“I wanted to.”
Satoru groans playfully, smacking Suguru's arm.
“I didn't say you could do that,” Suguru parrots, holding some wet wipes and pulling off Satoru's shirt. He purposely shoves some into Satoru's bare chest without warning.
“Cold!”
“I hold the power,” Suguru announces flatly, taunting him by waving the entire box of wipes around.
Satoru falls silent with a full grin.
“That's what I thought.”
Suguru goes through the motions, removing the layer of sweat from Satoru's body. He brushes Satoru's hair some more and helps him change into pajamas, insisting that Satoru should be babied, ignoring the weak objections thrown his way. Satoru is taken back to bed while Suguru brings snacks and water from the kitchen.
Suguru does not almost cry at the sight of Satoru waiting nervously for him, curled in the weighted blanket, brightening immediately when he's spotted.
“Hi, baby,” he says gently, climbing in with Satoru, avoiding the laptop with paused anime on it. How sweet.
Satoru cuddles first thing, squishing against him. “Hello, love,” he mumbles.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Suguru questions lowly, running his fingers through Satoru's soft hair.
He receives a nod.
“I made you panic when I pushed your chest too hard, was it? That was a pretty bad one,” he recounts, soothingly, delicately.
“Wasn't your fault,” Satoru replies quietly. “I just remembered something… from my parents.” He shuffles under the covers. “Are your arms okay?”
“Nothing a couple of band-aids can't fix. You were out of it, I understand.”
“I'm still… sorry.” Satoru's voice cracks at the end.
“It's okay. I forgive you, always,” Suguru says. “Wanna watch this show?”
Satoru relishes in his hand being taken. “Yeah."