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1: Kevin
Kevin’s used to the rhythm of filming, now.
There’s a method to it: set up, joke, derail, recover, keep it moving. It has become second nature to him. He sits center like he always does when filming a main channel video, shoulders squared toward the table, energy turned up to carry everyone else with him.
To his left, Aaron. Close enough that Kevin can feel the heat off his arm when they lean in at the same time, close enough that their elbows knock when they both reach for their Kevin Langue coffee mugs.
Aaron’s.. smaller today.
Not withdrawn, Kevin wouldn’t go that far, but focused..? The kind of focus that Kevin associates with Aaron trying to get ahead of something, like he’s mentally grabbing the next joke before someone else does.
He’s locked in, Kevin thinks.
They start rolling.
Denny’s already on one, Herm’s adding commentary, the guest is having a blast, and Kevin’s trying his best to host as well as he can. He’s halfway through asking a contestant a question when he hears it.
A soft clatter.
Kevin glances sideways without turning his head or interrupting his words. Aaron’s pen has slipped out of his fingers and rolled onto the floor underneath the table. For half a second, Aaron just stares at his hand.
Then his face tightens.
It’s quick, blink and you miss it quick, but Kevin sees it. The way Aaron’s mouth pulls tight, the way his fingers curl in on themselves like they’ve forgotten what they’re supposed to do. His hand twitches, stuck in this half claw, knuckles pale.
Aaron sucks in a breath through his nose.
Then it’s gone.
He leans down, scoops up the pen, forces it back into his grip. His hand shakes, not dramatically, just enough that Kevin notices because he’s looking now, and Aaron keeps writing like nothing happened.
The contestant makes some sort of mistake that has the whole table laughing and conspiring, so Kevin’s attention is taken from the moment.
But his eyes drift back again.
Okay, he thinks. That was weird. Right?
He doesn’t know what to do with the thought.
A few minutes later, it happens again.
This time Kevin’s mid sentence, explaining the activity round slower than usual because the table’s already getting a little rambunctious. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Aaron pause. Sees his pen hover, then drop like it burned him.
Aaron’s shoulders tense. His jaw clenched hard enough Kevin can practically hear his teeth grind.
For just a second, Aaron looks… not there. Like he’s somewhere else, fighting something none of them can see.
Then, determination. Stubborn and familiar.
Aaron reaches for the pen again, forces his fingers around it, and keeps writing down what he noticed from one of the contestants.
Kevin stumbles over his next word.
He recovers fast. He always does. But something in his chest twists uncomfortably.
He doesn’t say anything.
Not because he doesn’t care! But there’s a difference between noticing and calling someone out on camera. Kevin knows that line and how much pressure there already is when filming.
So, instead, he adjusts. It’s a quiet decision, but an easy one to make. Aaron is his friend, after all, and he wants this to feel as comfortable as possible for everyone. He wants the content to feel real, like friends hanging out and playing a game. But more than that, he wants Aaron to be able to joke freely with them without worry.
He angles his notebook a little closer to Aaron’s side without making a big deal of it. When he reads his next host card, he slows his cadence just a hair, enunciates more clearly. When he scribbles notes, he writes bigger and easier to glance at.
Aaron doesn’t look at him at all. But Kevin sees the way his shoulders ease.
They keep filming.
The vibe is still there. The guest laughs so hard they have to pause. It’s good footage. Kevin’s proud of it even as his attention keeps snagging on the same thing over and over again.
He thinks he knows what it is- Aaron’s hands.
They shake when he writes. Subtly, but constantly. Like there’s a low level tremor under his skin that can’t settle. Every so often, he flexes his fingers under the table, like he’s trying to coax some life back into them.
At one point, when they’re about to move on to the next contestant’s activity round, Aaron mutters, “Hold on,” under his breath, barely audible over the chatter, and switches the pen from one hand to the other. His writing gets sloppier, slower.
Kevin feels an urge to fill the space.
“So,” he says quickly, cutting in before the table can dogpile Aaron for taking too long, “before we move on, let me just point out-”
He keeps talking. Keeps the focus off Aaron. Lets him take his time.
Aaron flashes him a quick look then, surprised, almost.
Later, during a lull, Kevin slides his notebook fully into the space on the table between them.
“You want my notes?” he says casually, not even looking at Aaron when he does it. “I write fast anyway, enough for the both of us.”
Aaron snorts.
“Yeah,” Aaron says. “Thanks.”
Their fingers almost touch when Aaron pulls the notebook closer. Kevin notices Aaron hesitate before gripping the edge, like he’s bracing himself for it to hurt.
Kevin pretends not to see.
They wrap the round. Move on to the next video of the day. Reset.
By the end of filming, Kevin’s head is buzzing, and not from a headache, but from all the things he didn’t say.
He wants to ask. Wants so badly to say Hey, what was up just now with your hands? Wants to say You okay? Wants to say You don’t have to white knuckle this.
But he doesn’t.
Because Kevin knows that look. Knows the way Aaron swallowed it down and kept going. Knows when someone decides that whatever they’re dealing with is theirs to deal with alone.
Everyone’s got their own shit.
As they pack up, Aaron silently hands Kevin his notebook back.
“Good work today,” Kevin says lightly as he accepts it. “You carried.”
Aaron smiles, genuine.
“Always do,” he says. “What can I say? It’s my burden.”
Kevin huffs. “Martyr.”
Aaron laughs, and for a moment, the pressure lifts.
Kevin watches him flex his fingers again when he thinks no one’s looking.
I hope you’ll tell me when you’re ready, Kevin thinks.
x
2: Herm
Herm likes this place because it’s loud. The foods great too, which is a plus.
Not club loud, but just enough noise that no one feels obligated to fill every silence. The clatter of plates, the hiss from the kitchen, the overlapping conversations from other tables all blur together into something comfortable. The kind of background chaos that makes a group of five guys at lunch feel like part of the furniture instead of a spectacle.
They pile into a booth. Kevin’s already halfway into a story, Denny’s interrupting him, Zane’s scanning the menu, and Aaron’s sliding in at the end with a smile and a comment.
Their orders come fast.
Herm’s halfway through his lo mein when it happens.
Aaron lifts his chopsticks, pinches a bite of rice, and-
It slips.
No one reacts.
Why would they? It’s nothing. Chopsticks are weird, and rice does that sometimes. Herm barely even notices it at first, already tuning back to the tables argument over whether orange chicken is overrated.
Then Aaron tries again.
His grip is tighter this time. Herm sees the faint tremor in his fingers, the way the chopsticks wobble just enough to give him away. The rice makes it about two inches off the plate before falling again.
Aaron freezes.
It’s only for a second, but Herm sees it. A flash of frustration crosses Aaron’s face before he smooths it over like it never existed. He exhales slow and controlled, then sets the chopsticks down harder than necessary.
“God,” Aaron mutters under his breath, more tired than angry.
Then, not even a second later, the smile’s back. He continues to reply to the topic at hand like nothing had happened.
Subtly, he leans back and pushes the plate away just a bit.
Herm’s own chopsticks pause halfway to his mouth.
Huh.
He kind of has whiplash. Looking around the table, Kevin’s still ranting, Denny’s stealing food off of Zane’s plate, Zane’s too busy on defense. No one else noticed.
Herm does.
And now that he’s thinking about it… it’s not the first time.
There was that time Aaron had dropped his phone twice in the span of a minute and laughed it off. And how he sometimes rubs his hands together when he thinks no one’s watching, like he’s trying to wake them up.
Herm had chalked it all up as tics, or hand stimming, or something.
But sitting here, watching Aaron ignore his food like it had personally wronged him, something in Herm’s gut tightens.
They finish eating.
Well they do. Aaron doesn’t.
Kevin squints at Aaron’s mostly full plate. “You’re really gonna tap out already?”
Denny grins. “Didn’t even fight it. Weak.”
Zane shakes his head dramatically. “We brought you here for sustenance and you disrespect us like this?”
Aaron laughs. “I’m full, dog. Don’t act like you’re not all gonna eat again in three hours anyway.”
“Two,” Kevin says. “Probably.”
They all laugh.
Herm doesn’t.
He keeps his eyes on Aaron, on the way his hands rest uselessly in his lap now, fingers curled in. On how he doesn’t even pretend to reach for the chopsticks again.
Aaron’s acting normal. Too normal. Same tone, same jokes, same deflections he always has locked and loaded.
And that’s what bothers Herm the most.
Because whatever that flash was, frustration, pain, whatever, it didn’t belong to the version of Aaron he’s seeing right now.
“Alright,” he says, sliding out of the booth, “well, we’re not done yet.”
Kevin blinks. “With what?”
“Dessert.”
Denny snorts. “From where?”
Herm shrugs. “Anywhere.”
Zane raises an eyebrow. “That’s not an answer.”
“Literally anywhere,” Herm repeats. “Ice cream, bubble tea, gas station cookies. I don’t care. Your man needs his sweet treat!” He tries to joke
They sit there, staring at him.
Aaron tilts his head. “You’re being weird.”
Herm grins. “I contain multitudes.”
He shepherds them out the door before anyone can push back too hard, cracking jokes the whole way, making it sound spontaneous and stupid and completely normal. He insists on paying despite the protests.
They end up at a little spot down the street, which sells something warm and sweet and impossible to argue with.
Herm orders for the table. A lot.
“Dude,” Kevin says, laughing, “are we feeding an army?”
Herm shrugs again. “Filming takes a lot out of us, man.”
He slides one of the dishes closer to Aaron without comment.
Aaron hesitates.
Herm pretends not to notice. He keeps the attention moving until Aaron finally picks up his spoon. His hand shakes a little, but the spoon seems easier on him.
Aaron takes a bite.
Then another.
Herm feels something in his chest loosen, just slightly.
He doesn’t stop joking. But he keeps an eye on the dish until it’s half gone, then mostly gone.
Anything is better than nothing, he thinks.
If Aaron notices Herm’s hovering, the way he keeps glancing over, he doesn’t say anything.
And Herm lets himself believe that’s enough. For now.
x
3: Zane
The kitchenette’s quiet.
Not dead quiet, just the low hum of the fridge, the faint whir of something electrical behind the walls, and the distant noise of the studio. It’s the good kind of silence, the kind that doesn’t demand conversation. Zane’s leaning against the counter, waiting for the microwave to finish, when Aaron steps in beside him with a mug and a teabag.
They nod at each other. It’s comfortable.
Aaron fills the kettle, sets it down, moves like he’s done it a thousand times, which he probably has. Zane watches the timer on the microwave and thinks, absently, that filming days always make everyone a little feral for some sort of caffeine.
The microwave beeps.
At the same time, the kettle clicks.
Aaron turns with the mug in his hands, and it slips.
The ceramic hits the floor and shatters, loud and sharp. Pieces scatter across the tile. Zane jumps, swears under his breath, and looks back just in time to see Aaron freeze.
His hands flex.
Open. Close. Open again.
They’re shaking.
Aaron stares at them like they’ve betrayed him.
“Damn it,” he mutters, already crouching.
“Hey, be careful-” Zane starts.
Too late.
Aaron reaches for the biggest piece, rushing to pick it up, and hisses sharply as blood wells up along his palm. He yanks his hand back, fingers curling tight, jaw locking.
“Okay,” Zane says, automatically. “Okay. Stop. Don’t move.”
He grabs a paper towel, presses it gently into Aaron’s hand before he can argue. Aaron grimaces, for a split second, then plasters a smile over it like muscle memory.
“Wow,” Aaron says lightly. “I’m on a roll today.”
Zane snorts, mostly out of reflex. “Are you trying to lose kitchen privileges or what?”
There it is.
That flash again.
Frustration. Something sharp and ugly that crosses Aaron’s face before he laughs, easy and familiar.
“Guess I shouldn’t be trusted with breakable objects,” Aaron says.
He wiggles his fingers like it’s a bit.
Zane laughs with him. Because that’s the rhythm, what you do when someone jokes.
But his eyes don’t leave Aaron’s hands.
“C’mon,” Zane says, already steering him by the elbow. “Let’s get you patched up before you bleed all over the place.”
Zane gets Aaron out of the way, then crouches down to quickly sweep up the rest of the pieces of the mug. He isn’t really worried about the mug, anyways.
They duck into the little side room with the first aid kit. Zane sits Aaron down across from him and works carefully, but efficient. Aaron watches him like this is all mildly interesting instead of alarming.
“Sorry,” Aaron says. “I swear I’m not usually this clumsy.”
Zane hums. “Mm.”
He cleans the cut. It’s not deep, but it’s bad enough to need a wrap. Zane does so neatly, taping it down.
He notices how Aaron doesn’t seem to be reacting to the pain. Zane isn’t really expecting him to get up and yell, but Aaron isn’t even wincing as he works.
“Does it hurt?” He asks, genuinely curious.
“Ah. Not… really?” Aaron replied, a little caught off guard by his own answer.
Zane lets it go.
When they come back out, Kevin looks up immediately. “What happened?”
“Kitchen attacked him,” Zane writes off. “We’ll be pressing charges.”
Aaron grins. “I lost.”
They laugh. It’s a moment that passes.
It doesn’t pass Zane, though.
He quietly watches Aaron flex his bandaged hand like he’s testing it. Watches the way he keeps it tucked close to his body afterward, protective.
Clumsy, Zane thinks. Sure.
He doesn’t push. Yet.
Some things surface on their own if you give them room.
x
4: Denny
The errand runs started a long time ago. Neither of them planned for them to, necessarily.
One day, one of them needed groceries. Another day, dry cleaning. A hardware store run for something specific. Somewhere along the line, it turned into a domestic affair. If both of them were in LA, one would text the other. No explanation or pressure, and not out of necessity, but more just reaching out.
You busy for an errand run?
It was about the quiet. The way you could exist next to someone without acting it up, as they often did. Most days, they didn’t talk much. Sometimes Aaron would tell a story from tour, or Denny would talk about his latest vacation. Mostly, there was just music and shared space and the kind of normalcy that felt rare in their lives as comedians.
That’s why Denny doesn’t notice right away. It definitely doesn’t excuse it, though.
Aaron’s quieter than usual this run, sure, but quiet isn’t new. He looks tired, a little dull around the edges, but everyone gets like that after long days. Denny assumes it’s just one of those moods. They knock out the list efficiently, drifting through fluorescent lit stores like they always do.
It’s at the bank that Denny notices.
Aaron’s mid sentence with the teller, polite as he always is, when Denny’s gaze drops, just for a second, and catches on Aaron’s hands.
They’re shaking.
Not a faint tremor you can write off as nerves or caffeine. This is violent, enough that Aaron presses his palms flat against the counter, looking annoyed as he forces them still.
Denny’s stomach sinks.
Anxiety, is the first explanation his brain comes up with. It makes sense, too. Aaron’s been running himself into the ground lately- Denny’s seen the spiral before.
So he doesn’t interrupt or make a spectacle of it. He knows what Aaron needs when he gets like this.
He waits until they’re back in the car, pulling out onto the road, and keeps his voice casual. “You hungry?”
Aaron blinks. “What?”
“In-N-Out,” Denny says. “My treat.”
There’s a pause, just long enough to register.
“Yeah,” Aaron says finally. “Okay.”
He sounds normal. Tired, but normal. Denny exhales and lets himself believe that explanation for a few more minutes.
He and Aaron used to have late night talks, sometimes. He knows how much it would help Aaron when times were tough and he just needed a listening ear. He hopes it’ll be enough to quell the sudden spike of anxiety Aaron seems to be dealing with.
Until they’re parked.
Denny’s halfway through complaining about traffic, trying to keep it easygoing, when he realizes Aaron isn’t listening. He’s staring at his hands in his lap, fingers threaded together tightly, thumbs digging into his knuckles like he’s trying to work something loose.
He’s massaging them.
Slow and unconscious, as though he’d done this a thousand times before.
Denny trails off. “You good?”
Aaron startles slightly. “Yeah! Sorry, long day.”
“You wiped out?”
“Something like that,” Aaron says, forcing a little giggle. “Guess my body’s just… lagging.”
“Lagging how?” he asks, gently. He’s slowly starting to realize that this isn’t the usual case of anxiety at all.
Aaron shrugs, too quick. “Just stiff. You know how it is, getting older.”
He flexes his fingers and winces.
Denny watches him try to cover it up with a grin. Watches him rub at his knuckles again.
“Do your hands hurt?” Denny asks, as blunt as he had always been.
Aaron hesitates. “Not,” He stops himself, exhales. “Not really. I mean, it’s fine. They’re always like this when the weather’s weird.”
Always?
The word catches Denny off guard.
Denny glances at him. “Always like what?”
Aaron shrugs again, smaller this time. He laughs softly, like he’s expecting Denny to laugh too.
Instead, Denny demands quietly, “Let me see.”
Aaron freezes.
“It’s nothing,” he insists, a little urgent now. “Seriously. I don’t want to make it a thing.”
That’s when Denny reaches out.
He grabs both of Aaron’s hands before Aaron can pull them away.
Aaron stiffens. “Denny-”
Denny turns them over.
Scars. A lot of them. Pale lines crossing knuckles and fingers, some old, some not. Skin pulled tight over swollen joints. Fingers curled faintly inward like they don’t quite want to straighten, trembling even as Aaron tries to hold them still. His finger tips are red and angry, as if they had been out in the cold, but they were in LA, where the weather was decidedly not.
Denny’s jaw locks.
It’s fine his ass.
He releases Aaron’s hands carefully, like they might break if he’s not gentle.
He bites back a curse. He should have noticed this sooner. How can you miss something this big?
“Alright,” Denny says, forcing his voice steady. “We’re going to my place.”
“We’re what?” Aaron’s anxiety spikes instantly. “Denny, really, it’s fine. I don’t want to bother you with this, just drop me back off-”
“Relax,” Denny interrupts, sharper than he means to be. He softens it immediately. “You’re not bothering me. At all. Just be patient, okay?”
Aaron swallows. “I- Uh? Okay.”
The drive is quiet. Not the good kind.
Aaron fidgets the whole way, tugging on his fingers, flexing them like he’s testing their limits. Denny watches him out of the corner of his eye, chest tight.
Why don’t you trust me? Why do you feel like you can’t reach out?
At Denny’s place, he gestures Aaron inside first. Aaron perches on the edge of his couch, shoulders tense, eyes following Denny like he’s waiting to be scolded.
Denny ducks into the kitchen and grabs a small bag.
When he comes back, Aaron looks worse, hands clenched, posture rigid, so Denny sighs and starts talking, voice easy.
“A few years back,” he says, sitting across from him, “I was helping a friend move. Real genius idea: we didn’t get gloves.”
Aaron huffs faintly.
“The guy’s glass shelf shattered,” Denny continues. “Sliced his hands up bad. Like, bad enough that we probably should’ve gone to the ER, but he didn’t want to.”
Denny pulls out a roll of athletic tape.
“He was freaking out,” he says, glancing up. “Shaking, bleeding everywhere. I figured if I didn’t do something, he’d pass out.”
He makes a grabbing motion. “Hand.”
Aaron lifts his other hand automatically, eyes fixed on Denny’s face.
“I wrapped him up with what he had at his place,” Denny continues, voice steady as he works. “Watched a bunch of videos after and learned how to do it properly. He healed up fine, but his hands still give him trouble sometimes. Apparently, wrapping them up helps, so he had me teach him what I picked up.”
He finishes the wrap and gestures for the other hand.
Aaron complies without thinking.
“Guess I stuck with it,” Denny adds quietly.
He secures the tape around Aaron’s wrist and releases his hand.
Aaron finally tears his eyes away from Denny’s face and looks down.
“That’s when you learned how to do this?” he asks softly, inspecting his bandaged hands.
Denny hums. “Yep.”
He hesitates, then meets Aaron’s eyes.
“And listen,” he says. “When you’re ready, and only then, I’m here. Whatever this is, whatever started it. Or anything else you want to talk about.”
Aaron swallows hard. He doesn’t answer. But he doesn’t pull away either.
Denny decides that he has to be okay with that. Until Aaron is ready.
x
+1: Aaron
Aaron knows well the moment his hands stop feeling like hands.
It was subtle at first. He was young.
An almost ache, buried deep in the joints, the kind that feels like it’s coming from inside the bones rather than the skin. It was a warning the body gives out of obligation, not kindness. He would flex his fingers once, twice, feel the tremor catch in them, and pretend it was nothing.
It’s always worse in the mornings.
Worse when the weather shifts, when the air is heavy, when the sky looks like it’s going to rain. His hands know long before the forecast does. A deep, throbbing ache settles in his knuckles, seeps down into his palms, crawls up toward his wrists. He hates how predictable it becomes. Hates that his body remembers things he’s spent years trying to forget.
They shake when he tries to hold still.
That fact frustrates him the most. The tremor isn’t dramatic, usually. Most people wouldn’t notice unless they were looking for it, but he notices. Every time. His fingers quiver when he grips a mug, when he writes, when he presses his palms flat against a table like that’ll somehow convince them to behave.
Sometimes they cramp without warning, muscles seizing as though they’ve been yanked tight by invisible strings. When that happens, he has to bite down hard on the inside of his cheek to keep from hissing and yelling in frustration. He curls his hands into fists and waits it out, nails digging into skin, grounding himself in the sting because at least that is a pain he chose.
That’s always been the rule, hasn’t it?
If he chooses it, it’s fine.
He’s always picking at his hands. The skin around his nails is never quite healed. Tiny scabs, rough edges, half moons of irritation where he’s bitten or torn or worried at them without thinking. It gives him something else to focus on, something smaller and sharper than the constant, dull throb beneath. Something he can control.
He tells himself he deserves it anyway.
Wrestling had felt invincible. Like his body was something reliable instead of this fragile thing that betrays him now.
He remembers the adrenaline, the way pain blurred into background noise when he was moving, when he was winning. He remembers ignoring the fractures because he could just tape them up, be in the ring longer, and push through. He remembers when he told himself it would heal eventually.
Well, it didn’t.
The root cause of the chronic pain in his hands is those poorly healed fractures. Strains that never quite stopped being strains. Damage layered on damage until his hands were so fucked up he couldn’t continue to wrestle anymore.
He was instead forced to get use to the aches and shakes that remind him, daily, that actions have consequences.
And that he made those choices.
So when his hands hurt, when they throb and cramp and refuse to cooperate, there’s a quiet voice in the back of his head that says good. Says this is fair. Says if he’d been smarter, if he’d listened, if he’d stopped when he should have, taken those rest days seriously, he wouldn’t be dealing with this now.
He was paying off a debt he owes.
Tea helps.
Heat always does. He wraps his hands around the mug and breathes in slowly, eyes closing just a fraction as the warmth seeps into his joints. It doesn’t fix everything, not really, but it takes the brunt of it. Turns the sharp ache into something more manageable.
Some nights he’ll just sit there, hands cupped around the ceramic, long after the tea’s gone cold.
Sleep is harder.
There are nights where the ache crawls up his arms and settles there, heavy and insistent, making it impossible to get comfortable. He’ll lie awake, staring at the ceiling, flexing his fingers slowly in the dark, counting stretches and waiting for exhaustion to win.
Chronic pain is different. It’s pain that sinks into your soul and stays there, even after you’ve technically rested. Even on good days, there’s a low hum of fatigue under everything, like his body is constantly running on a deficit.
Aaron doesn’t talk about it.
Part of that is shame. Part of it is because he doesn’t think he has the right.
Everyone has their own things. Their own problems, their own stress, their own pain. He knows how easy it is to become a burden without meaning to. He knows how fast concern can turn into obligation, how help can turn into something people feel stuck giving.
He doesn’t want that.
And he doesn’t think he deserves help for something he caused in the first place. This isn’t bad luck or some cruel twist of fate, its the result of his own bad decisions, stacked one on top of the other until his hands paid the price.
So he keeps it to himself.
He mostly just chalks it up to clumsiness, making a fool of himself as often as possible to take the attention away from his hands. He drops things so it looks like fumbling instead of weakness. Laughs it off when his fingers don’t cooperate, then quietly grits his teeth to push through the cramps.
He handles it alone.
And Aaron has built his entire life around the idea that he has to.
Because bothering people, pulling them into something messy and chronic and forever unsolvable, would feel worse than the pain ever could.
So he doesn’t say anything.
Not when Kevin quietly slides his notebook closer, not when Herm’s eyes linger a little longer than usual on his hands, not when Zane wordlessly patches him up and pretending it’s just another joke, not even when Denny offers help directly.
He notices it all. He doesn't know why they all give him that space to make his own decisions on whether or not he want to go to them for help, but he knows he won’t, can’t, take the offer.
He knows he can’t burden them with it.
This, though, was unexpected.
It starts like any other flare. An ache first, deep and spreading, his bones creaking like their fracturing for the first time again. He told himself that it would pass.
He knew he had to brace himself. So, he keeps filming, keeps smiling, keeps joking. Keeps pretending the tremor in his hands is adrenaline, excitement, caffeine, anything but what it is.
He gets through most of the day. By the time he has to sit down with Kevin, Herm, Denny, and Zane for the final meeting before they go home, his hands are screaming at him for releif.
They’re violently shaking, convulsions running up to his elbows, the irritation nearing on unbearable.
Then, suddenly, his fingers seize.
Hard.
The cramp hits without warning, muscles locking so abruptly that the breath punches out of him. His right hand curls in on itself, joints screaming, pain flaring white-hot and sharp enough to blur his vision.
Fuck.
He drops whatever it was he was holding. Doesn’t even register the sound. His left hand tries to compensate, tries to pry the right one open, but it starts shaking too, violent and uncontrolled.
Absently, he notes that everyone at the table had stopped what they were doing immediately, concerned voices calling out to him.
He barely notices. All he can think is that this isn’t manageable. This isn’t something he can wait out.
He’s scared of this.
Panic creeps in, cold and fast. Aaron swallows hard and looks up.
They’re all there, looking at him.
Kevin’s had been laughing about something stupid, but that laugh died immediately, concern etched all over his face.
“Aaron, dude, what’s wrong?” Kevin says.
Aaron opens his mouth.
Nothing comes out.
His hands throb like they’re on fire, pain radiating from them, dragging exhaustion with it. He squeezes his eyes shut, breath stuttering.
“I-” His voice cracks. He forces it steady. “I need help.”
The words land heavier than he expects. He had whispered them like uttering them too loud would make them disagree.
No one jokes or hesitates.
Herm is moving first, chair scraping back. “Okay. Alright. Sit. Sit down.”
Zane’s already at his side, steadying him like it’s instinct. Denny’s face has gone frighteningly focused, scanning him over.
Kevin crouches in front of him without thinking, eyes level. “Talk to us. What hurts?”
Aaron laughs weakly, the sound brittle. “That’s kind of the problem.”
His hands are still clenched, fingers refusing to obey him. The pain pulses, relentless.
Denny reaches out, careful. “Can I?”
Aaron nods.
Denny cups his hands gently, thumbs warm against Aaron’s wrists. “You’re cramping hard,” he says quietly. Not judgmental. “How long’s it been like this?”
Aaron exhales, shaky. “Years.”
That makes Kevin flinch.
Herm swears under his breath. Zane’s jaw tightens.
Aaron stares at the floor. He hates how exposed he feels. “I messed them up when I was wrestling. Fractures. Strains. I didn’t let them heal right.” He swallows. “I can’t… I can deal with it when it gets bad. It’s never been this bad, though.”
No one interrupts him.
So he keeps going.
“I didn’t say anything because I thought I deserved it,” he admits quietly. “Because it’s my fault. And I didn’t want to make it anyone else’s problem.”
The silence that follows is thick.
Kevin speaks first. “Aaron. Man.” He rubs a hand over his face. “That’s not how that works.”
Herm nods. Zane adds, softer, “And you don’t get bonus points for suffering alone.”
Denny squeezes Aaron’s hands just enough for him to feel it. “You should’ve told us.”
Aaron winces. “I know. It was stupid.”
“No,” Denny corrects gently. “You weren’t ready. ’m glad you are, now.”
They help him then.
Heat packs. Tape. Slow stretches guided by Denny’s calm instructions. Kevin keeps talking, voice deliberately steady, grounding him. He was also observing the instructions Denny was mumbling under his breath, like he was memorizing them, just in case.
Herm distracts him with commentary about how ridiculous Zane looks concentrating this hard. Zane mutters something about OSHA violations and gets a few laughs.
The pain eases.
Aaron slumps back against the couch, exhausted. He stares at his bandaged hands, flexes them carefully. They still shake, but less.
He laughs wetly. “Well. That was humiliating.”
Kevin snorts. “Buddy, you’ve bombed worse on camera.”
Herm grins. “Yeah, this doesn’t even crack top ten.”
Denny smirks. “You whined less than I expected.”
Aaron huffs. “Fuck you.”
“There he is,” Zane says, relieved.
The weight in Aaron’s chest loosens, just a fraction.
They don’t make it a big thing after that.
They don’t treat him like he’s fragile. They don’t hover, nor do they interrogate him. They just… adjust.
And, later, when Kevin makes a joke about Aaron being “high maintenance now,” Aaron flips him off with both hands, deliberately.
“Look at that,” Kevin laughs. “Full mobility.”
“Miracles happen,” Herm shrugs.
Aaron smiles.
For the first time in a long while, the pain doesn’t feel like a punishment. He knows it won’t disappear, that’s not how chronic pain works, but it feels closer. More manageable, especially with the people he loves helping him out.