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Samatoki was a pretty tough guy. You had to be, to survive in the yakuza. He was in no position to cry over cuts and bruises, or even knife and gunshot wounds for that matter. If someone took a swing at him, he had to swing right back. If someone knocked him down, he had to get the fuck back up.
But he couldn't be tough all the time. It wasn't sustainable.
And with Ichiro at his side, it wasn't necessary.
(It was kind of fun, too. To be a bit of a brat every now and then.)
"Ichiro," Samatoki whined. "I think I'm dying."
"You have a stomachache because you ate some ice cream too fast," Ichiro corrected. "You'll live."
"Doesn't feel like it," Samatoki complained.
Ichiro laughed and clearly didn't buy his agony for a second, but still came over to where Samatoki was sprawled out on the couch and spent the next twenty minutes rubbing Samatoki's stomach.
"Ichiro," Samatoki murmured, another day. "How bad is it? Are we gonna have to amputate?"
"It's a paper cut," Ichiro deadpanned as he peeled open a bandage for the finger Samatoki was holding out to him. "But I'll chop it off if you want…?"
Samatoki stifled a laugh as Ichiro carefully wrapped the cut. "Think I'll take a kiss instead."
And on yet another day, when they were out for drinks with Rio and Jyuto, Samatoki banged his knee on a table while bringing their next round back from the bar. He collapsed into the seat next to Ichiro and flung his horribly wounded (read: barely smarting) leg across Ichiro's lap.
"I think it's broken," Samatoki gasped. "Ichi, what if it's broken?"
"I'll sign your cast," Ichiro promised.
"What if I never walk again?"
"I'll carry you everywhere, for the rest of our lives."
"What if—"
"What if I throw up," Jyuto muttered against the rim of his pint of beer.
Samatoki flipped him off, grinning as Ichiro started to massage that very slightly sore spot on his knee. He left his leg in Ichiro's lap for practically the rest of the night, even after that position started to get uncomfortable.
It was only when he was hurt for real that Samatoki toughed it out, without shedding a tear or uttering a single complaint. Because when he woke up in the hospital, after a fight gone wrong, and found Ichiro slumped over the side of his bed, eyes red and puffy, hair all a mess, looking like he hadn't slept—
That was when Ichiro needed Samatoki to be tough.
"I could've lost you," Ichiro whispered once he saw that Samatoki was awake, only daring to slip onto the bed and bury his face in the crook of Samatoki's neck once Samatoki lifted an arm to beckon him closer.
"You won't ever," Samatoki swore. "It's just a scratch. I'm made of tougher stuff than that."
Ichiro sniffled and clung to Samatoki, as much as he dared with Samatoki all wrapped up in bandages and hooked up to machines. "I know. I know you are. I just hate seeing you hurt."
"Then close your eyes and go to sleep."
Ichiro huffed and butted his chin against Samatoki's shoulder. Only lightly, ever-so-careful not to aggravate his wounds. "Jerk."
"Angel," Samatoki murmured back. He kissed Ichiro's temple, letting his lips linger long enough for Ichiro to feel the warmth of his breath. "I'm serious. Close your eyes for me, won't you? It hurts me more, to see you this worn out."
Ichiro breathed another petulant little sigh against Samatoki's shoulder. "Low blow."
"Please," Samatoki whispered.
Ichiro was a pretty tough guy too, but he was asleep against Samatoki's side, in Samatoki's arms, in a matter of seconds.
He was only weak for Samatoki, just like Samatoki was only weak for him.
But for them both, for the strength they gave each other, it was a more than fair price to pay.