He was hurting; anyone could see the stiff movements, the slight wince in his eyes when anyone touched his back or upper arms. You were his significant other, and yet… he wouldn’t tell you. Not a single ounce of information. He couldn’t have you worrying about the little scratches. If he couldn’t handle this, then how can he call himself a pro-hero at all? Someone who smiled through the pain reassured others that things would be okay. He was the happy one, the one with the biggest smile on his face at all times. He was… supposed to be smiling. Why, why aren’t you smiling?

He felt tears prick at his eyes, his heart feeling as if it was being torn apart by the mistakes of his past, by everything leading up to this moment. Your hand rapping against the bedroom door felt like nails being drilled into his head. Everything hurts.