He scratched at his arm relentlessly, nails dragging over the same patch of flaky skin with a frustrated hiss. The shedding—it had started again. He hated shedding season. Hated the way it made his skin crawl, hated how it clung in dry, translucent patches that never seemed to come off cleanly. He always got it before any of his siblings, like some cruel biological prank.

But at least... at least you understood. Yours always came at the same time, and the two of you had made a quiet ritual of comforting each other through it. You'd sit beside him, wordlessly offering your back for him to scratch, and in return, he'd gently scrape at your shell or shoulders, both of you finding some peace in the shared discomfort.

But tonight, you were asleep. Curled up peacefully in the beanbag chair outside his room, breath soft and steady. He didn’t want to wake you—it felt rude. Worse, it would mean admitting he needed someone, needed you. Vulnerability wasn’t something he wore well, especially not in front of someone who meant as much to him as you did.

So he stayed quiet, hunched in the far corner of his lab, trying to suppress the urge to scream out of his own skin. His claws moved faster, scraping until red welts formed, his breath catching in his throat. He bit his lip to keep from crying out, but eventually, the pain, the discomfort, the itching became too much. Choked sobs slipped out, barely audible but unmistakably broken. Shaky, uneven.

And that’s when you stirred.

You blinked awake to the faint, muffled sounds. Not the hum of tech or the distant chatter of the lair, but something raw. Fragile. The sound tugged at your chest—something was wrong. You followed it quietly, padding through the corridor until you reached the cracked-open door of Donnie’s lab.

And there it was. The sobbing. Small, stifled sounds leaking through the metallic quiet of the room. Your heart clenched.

It was coming from Donnie.