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Atsushi wakes up to pain like he always does.
It’s dull at first, a heavy pressure deep in his leg, the kind that makes it hard to tell where the ache ends and he begins. He lies still, staring at the ceiling of the spare bedroom in Chuuya’s apartment, counting breaths like Yosano once taught him. In for four. Out for six. Don’t move yet. Don’t make it worse.
It doesn’t listen.
The pain flares suddenly, sharp and bright, like lightning under his skin. Atsushi bites down on his sleeve before the sound can escape him. His leg trembles, muscles locking up as if they’re bracing for another impact that never comes. He curls in on himself, hands fisting in the sheets, vision blurring.
He hates nights like this. Hates that after everything—after healing, after learning to fight, after surviving—his body still remembers how to be broken.
It wasn't always so bad. Some days, he barely felt it. Others...
A tear slips out before he can stop it. Then another. His breathing goes uneven, chest hitching despite his efforts to stay quiet. He presses his face into the pillow, ashamed of how small he feels, how helpless.
“Atsushi?”
He freezes. For a split second, panic overrides pain. He scrubs at his face, trying to pull himself together, but it’s too late. The mattress creaks as Chuuya sits up, movements unusually careful.
Chuuya doesn’t say anything at first. He just looks at him, eyes sharp and searching, taking in the way Atsushi’s curled up, the way his leg is drawn tight to his chest, the wet shine on his lashes.
“…Something's wrong,” Chuuya says quietly.
Atsushi swallows. Lying feels impossible like this, exposed and shaking. “I’m— I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bother you.”
“That’s not what I asked.” Chuuya’s voice isn’t angry. If anything, it’s controlled in that dangerous way it gets when he’s worried. “What’s wrong with your leg, baby?”
Atsushi hesitates, then shakes his head weakly. “It’s stupid. It’ll pass.”
Chuuya snorts, but there’s no humor in it. “You’re crying into my pillows at three in the morning. Don’t tell me it’s stupid.”
He reaches out, then stops, hand hovering like he’s afraid of hurting him more. “Can I touch you?”
The question alone makes Atsushi’s chest tighten. He nods.
Chuuya rests a hand on his knee, warm and solid, grounding in a way Atsushi didn’t realize he needed until now. The pain doesn’t disappear, but it dulls around the edges, like it’s being acknowledged instead of ignored.
“It’s been like this for a while,” Atsushi admits, voice barely above a whisper. “Ever since… before the Agency, really. Some days are fine. Some nights aren’t.”
Chuuya’s jaw clenches. “And you just— what? Deal with it alone?”
“I didn’t want to be a problem,” Atsushi says, words spilling out now that he’s started. “Everyone already worries enough. And Yosano can’t fix old damage. I didn’t think it mattered.”
Chuuya lets out a slow breath through his nose. His grip tightens slightly, not enough to hurt, just enough to be felt. “Idiot,” he mutters, but it’s fond and rough-edged. “You don’t get to decide you don’t matter.”
Atsushi laughs weakly, which turns into a sob halfway through. Chuuya reacts instantly, sliding onto the bed and pulling Atsushi against his chest. It’s awkward with the leg, but Chuuya adjusts without complaint, letting Atsushi rest carefully against him.
“Hey,” he murmurs, one hand steady at Atsushi’s back. “I’ve got you. You don’t have to hold it in.”
That’s what breaks him.
Atsushi clutches at Chuuya’s shirt, fingers twisting in the fabric as he cries openly now, face buried against Chuuya’s shoulder. The pain pulses through his leg in time with his heartbeat, but the loneliness— the sharp, hollow thing he’s carried for years— finally eases a bit.
Chuuya rocks him gently, a slow, grounding motion. “You know,” he says after a while, voice low, “my body’s a mess too. Corruption screws me up more than I let on. Doesn’t mean I’m weak. Doesn’t mean you are either.”
Atsushi sniffles. “You don’t cry about it.”
Chuuya huffs. “Please. I scream, swear, and drink. Crying’s probably healthier.”
That earns a real, shaky smile from Atsushi.
Once the worst of it passes, Chuuya shifts, propping Atsushi back against the pillows. “Okay,” he says, businesslike now. “Does heat help? Massage? Painkillers?”
“Heat,” Atsushi says. “Sometimes.”
“Good.” Chuuya’s already on his feet. He returns with a warm compress and settles it gently over Atsushi’s leg, watching his face closely. “Tell me if it’s too much.”
The warmth seeps in, easing the tension in his muscles. Atsushi exhales, long and slow. “It’s good. Thank you.”
Chuuya sits beside him again, brushing damp hair out of his eyes. “You don’t ever have to hide this from me,” he says. “I don’t care if it’s ugly or inconvenient or whatever bullshit you tell yourself. I want to know.”
Atsushi’s throat tightens, but this time it’s something softer. “Okay,” he says. “I’ll tell you.”
Chuuya smirks faintly. “Good. Now scoot over. You’re not riding this out alone.”
He lies down beside him, careful of the bad leg, one arm draped securely around Atsushi’s waist. Atsushi relaxes into the warmth, pain still there but manageable now, no longer something he has to endure in silence.
As sleep finally creeps back in, Atsushi thinks that maybe healing doesn’t always mean being fixed.
Sometimes, it just means being held.