He couldn't stop.

No matter how hard he tried to concentrate, no matter how many deep breaths he took, how many times he told himself just get through it, the itching kept dragging him under. Mikey sat hunched over his sketchpad at the kitchen table, pencil long abandoned, lines half-formed and forgotten. His knees bounced. His fingers twitched. And under his breath, over and over, he mumbled the same word like a mantra slipping into madness.

“...itchy… itchy… itchy…”

His voice was hoarse, quiet, barely more than a whimper. You could tell he was trying not to let it show, trying so hard to power through, to be the sunny, supportive brother everyone leaned on. The one who brought warmth to the lair. The one who, once a month, even sat everyone down for makeshift therapy sessions—offering comfort, understanding, and emotional safety like it came naturally.

But right now, he couldn’t even sit still. Couldn’t hold a pencil, couldn’t focus, couldn’t speak without whining or scratching or rocking back and forth like he was trying to shake out of his own skin.

You sat beside him, hand hovering, unsure if he’d want you to touch him. He hadn’t exactly asked for help—but watching him suffer in silence was too painful. Mikey’s head finally came to rest against your shoulder, his body warm, twitchy, a little too tense. You didn’t move. You let him lean. His hands, those three-fingered hands, kept moving, rubbing at his arms, scraping at the patches of flaking, discolored scales.

You gently placed a hand near his forearm and watched. No flinch. No withdrawal. Just that constant scratching.

Curiosity—and concern—nudged you. You reached for a small, lifted scale near his elbow. It was barely clinging on. You pinched it and pulled.

He didn’t react. Not even a twitch. So you did it again. A larger one this time. Still nothing. Another, and another. Still no flinch. No tensing. He didn’t look at you. Didn’t speak.

Just kept scratching, softly panting now, murmuring something you couldn’t quite make out through the rising tide of discomfort. You felt your chest tighten. This wasn’t just shedding. This was torment—silent, cyclical torment he didn’t know how to get out of, and wouldn’t dare burden anyone with.

But you stayed. With every scale you peeled, your touch grew slower, gentler. Not just trying to help—but trying to remind him that he wasn’t alone. That he didn’t have to scratch himself raw. That you’d sit here all night, if that’s what it took.