But Ken's not going to be deterred this time. He's seen Chikusa cry before, after all, no matter how rare it's been in recent memory, and it's always upset him. But it's also something he knows how to make better, at least to some degree.

So his open, bleeding legs, his broken bones, his aching shoulders and mangled wrists - they're shoved aside. Even Chikusa's enforced obedience is discarded. He lifts himself enough to dig his fingers into Chikusa's clothes - even without his channels, those nails are as good as claws - and jerks Chikusa to him, wrapping his arms around him and burying his nose against his partner's neck.

Honestly, there may be an element of comforting himself in this. But Chikusa crying is definitely the main focus, something he can't ignore or allow.

"Don't cry, stupid," he mutters, and it's exactly like they're kids again. There's even the same upset, choked up quality to Ken's voice that was so familiar back then, like Chikusa crying is enough to almost trigger him doing so, either in pain or sympathy. The words are similar, too - if not verbatim to what they told each other back then, it's still close enough. "I'm here, so don't cry."

Ken, if your legs just stay sliced open indefinitely without Chikusa stitching them shut, you won't be here much longer. But that's not the way Ken thinks, if Ken is thinking at all right now. It's reaction and instinct, blind and powerful and not concerned with common sense.