T
The morning light through the Nijisanji office windows was too bright. Kanato had been sitting in the meeting room for twenty minutes before anyone else arrived, his coffee going cold in his hands, staring at the polished concrete floor like it might offer him some instruction on how to behave.
He'd kissed girls before. Plenty of them. Knew how to lean in doorways, how to let his voice drop, how to find the exact pressure that made someone's breath catch. It was a language he'd learned young, watching his father's men charm information out of marks in the Fura clan's territory, then perfected on his own through years of easy smiles and easier conquests.
But none of that applied here.
Akira was not a girl he was trying to impress at a bar. Akira was his unit mate. His brother in everything but blood. The guy who would look at him with those dark, flat eyes and say "Don't make it weird, Kanato" every time Kanato leaned too close, every time his hand lingered a beat too long on Akira's shoulder. Three years of that dry voice cutting through whatever tension Kanato had been trying to build, and now—
Now Akira had writhed beneath him. Had begged for him. Had sobbed into his shoulder while Kanato held him, the contract still burning violet and gold beneath his skin.
Kanato pressed the cold coffee cup against his forehead. He didn't know how to look at Akira this morning. Didn't know if he was supposed to be the same easygoing Kanato who joked about everything, or if last night had changed the shape of them permanently.
The door opened.
Seraph came in first, silver-white hair catching the fluorescent light, his broad frame moving with that deliberate quiet that always made Kanato think of a predator holding itself still. Behind him, Hibari's laugh echoed off the hallway walls, bright and bouncing, and then—
Akira.
Kanato's throat closed. He watched Akira step through the doorway and his whole body went rigid in his chair, coffee cup suspended halfway to the table. Akira looked tired—dark circles under his dark eyes, his usually neat hair slightly mussed—but he was walking steady. His lean frame moved with the same trained precision it always had, the SPIA muscle memory that never quite faded.
Seraph didn't hesitate. The moment Akira was through the door, Seraph crossed the room in three long strides and pulled Akira into a hug so tight it looked like it might crack ribs.
"Nagi-chan." Seraph's voice was low, rough, almost a growl against Akira's hair. "You okay? You were sick yesterday?"
Akira made a small sound—not quite a word, his throat still raw from the night before—and his hands came up to grip the back of Seraph's shirt.
"Did you eat?" Seraph pulled back just enough to scan Akira's face, pale eyes moving over him like he was cataloguing damage. "You look pale. You need food."
"I ate." Akira's voice was barely above a whisper, rasping. "Seraph. I'm fine."
"You're not fine. You went home sick yesterday. You didn't answer my messages."
"I was sleeping."
"For twelve hours?"
Hibari bounded over before Akira could answer, his messy brown hair flopping into his bright eyes, grin wide. "Look at you! All worried like a mother hen. Seraph, let the man breathe." He laughed, the sound filling the room, and aimed a gentle fist bump at Akira's shoulder. "Glad you're back, Aki. You had us freaked out, disappearing like that."
"Sorry." Akira's lips twitched—not quite a smile, but close. "Didn't mean to worry anyone."
"Too late." Hibari slung an arm around Seraph's shoulders, which put him at an awkward angle since Seraph was broader and slightly taller. "This one was ready to break down your door."
Seraph didn't deny it. He just stayed close to Akira, his hand lingering on Akira's elbow, like he needed the contact to believe Akira was really standing there.
Kanato still hadn't moved. He was watching Akira's face, looking for some sign—a flinch, a hesitation, anything that would tell him whether last night had broken something between them. But Akira wasn't looking at him. Wasn't looking at anyone now, his dark eyes fixed on the floor, his shoulders slightly hunched.
Then Akira glanced up and caught Kanato staring.
The moment hung between them. Akira's expression flickered—something vulnerable, something almost shy—and then smoothed back into that familiar dry composure. He gave Kanato a small nod.
Kanato nodded back.
That was it. That was all they managed.
The meeting started twenty minutes later. The long conference table filled with managers and staff—people Kanato recognized from scheduling, from marketing, from the endless machinery that kept Voltaction's idol careers running. Seraph sat next to Akira. Close enough that their shoulders almost touched. When someone passed Akira a document, Seraph's hand was there to steady it before Akira could fumble.
Kanato sat across from them and tried to focus on the agenda.
"—so for next month's individual schedules," the lead manager was saying, tapping a tablet, "Hibari-kun and Shikinagi-kun have the location shoot for that reality segment. The production team sent over their director to discuss the concept."
The director stood up from the far end of the table. He was maybe forty, with a too-wide smile and eyes that lingered a beat too long when he looked at Akira.
Kanato's hackles went up immediately.
"Thank you for having me," the director said, spreading his hands. "I've got some fantastic ideas for how we can really showcase the chemistry between Hibari-kun and Shikinagi-kun. The fans love the unit bond angle, so I'm thinking we lean hard into that."
He launched into his pitch. Most of it was standard—shared activities, local challenges, the kind of variety-show filler Kanato had sat through a hundred times. But then the director's smile sharpened.
"And for the evening segment, I'm picturing something more intimate. The two of them, shared accommodations, maybe a hot spring scene where they're just in towels—"
"No."
Akira's voice was rasping but perfectly steady. His dark eyes were fixed on the director with that flat, unblinking stare that Kanato had seen him use on difficult handlers during their early days. The SPIA operative still lived somewhere in that lean body.
The director blinked. "I'm sorry?"
"We're not doing a hot spring scene." Akira's tone didn't waver. "The fanbase for that content isn't the audience we're trying to build. If you want to show unit chemistry, we can do a cooking segment or a game challenge. Something that highlights cooperation, not manufactured intimacy."
"Manufactured—" The director's smile tightened. "Shikinagi-kun, I think you're misunderstanding. This is standard industry practice. Fan service—"
"Is a tool, not a requirement." Akira folded his hands on the table. "I'm happy to discuss alternative concepts that achieve the same engagement metrics without compromising the unit's image."
Kanato watched the director's jaw work, saw the flicker of irritation before it was smoothed over with professional pleasantness. "Of course. Of course. We can certainly adjust the concept."
The meeting moved on. Kanato didn't relax.
When lunch was called, the room scattered. Staff filtered toward the cafeteria, managers clustered near the coffee machine, and the four Voltaction members stayed at the conference table with bento boxes someone had ordered in. Seraph was still close to Akira—had barely moved more than arm's reach the entire morning. Hibari sprawled in his chair, eating with the enthusiasm of a man who hadn't seen food in days, talking through every bite.
"—so then the manager says, 'You can't just climb the building,' and I'm like, 'It was only the second floor, and I used the fire escape, it's fine—'"
"You're going to get us sued," Akira said, but there was something almost fond in the rasp.
"Never! I'm too charming to sue."
Kanato was half-listening, half-watching the room. That was when he saw the director circling back. The man moved through the scattered staff with practiced ease, exchanging pleasantries, working his way closer to where Akira had gotten up to refill his water bottle near the pantry.
Kanato's fingers tightened on his chopsticks.
The director cornered Akira near the emergency exit—a dead-end alcove where the hallway bent and the sightlines from the main room disappeared. Kanato could see them from his angle, but only just: the director's back blocking most of Akira's body, the way Akira's posture shifted from relaxed to something tighter.
"—really think you'd be perfect for a bigger project I'm staffing," the director was saying, his voice carrying just enough for Kanato to catch fragments. "A primetime slot. Much more exposure than the idol circuit."
Akira's response was too quiet to hear.
The director leaned closer. "I could make that happen for you. If you're willing to be a little more... accommodating."
Kanato's vision went sharp at the edges. Something hot and possessive coiled in his chest—ugly, familiar, the same thing he'd felt as a teenager watching his father's enemies try to poach Fura territory. But this wasn't territory. This was Akira. And Akira wasn't his.
He stayed in his chair. Akira could handle himself. Akira had flipped Hibari onto a gym mat with one clean motion. Akira had survived SPIA training and whatever nightmare had left that scar around his throat. Akira didn't need Kanato charging in like some jealous—
Akira's voice cut through his thoughts. Higher than usual. Straining. "Please—get away from me."
Kanato's blood went cold.
Akira was pressed back against the emergency exit door, his water bottle dropped on the floor, his hands—his hands were at his sides. Not pushing. Not fighting. Just trembling. The director had one hand braced on the wall beside Akira's head and the other gripping Akira's forearm, fingers digging in hard enough to whiten the knuckles.
"Come on," the director murmured, too low for anyone else to hear. "Don't be difficult. I'm offering you a real opportunity here."
Akira's face had gone blank. Not the composed blankness from the meeting—something worse. Something hollow. His dark eyes were unfocused, staring through the director like he wasn't there at all.
Kanato was already half out of his chair when Seraph moved.
Seraph didn't run. Running would have been less terrifying. He walked—calm, deliberate, his pale eyes fixed on the director with a stillness that made Kanato's hindbrain scream danger. The table screeched against the floor as Seraph pushed past it, coffee cups tipping and spilling, dark liquid spreading across meeting notes. No one tried to stop him.
The director didn't even hear him coming.
Seraph's kick connected with the man's stomach with a sound like a fist hitting wet concrete. The director flew backward—actually left the ground for a half-second—and slammed into the wall near the emergency exit, cracking the drywall. He crumpled, gasping, a thin line of spit and something red dripping from his mouth.
Then Seraph turned, and his whole body changed. The predator's stillness softened into something else—something gentler—as he reached for Akira.
"Nagi-chan." His voice was low, steady, the same voice he'd used that morning. "I've got you. You're safe."
Akira didn't respond. His eyes were still unfocused, his breath coming in short, shallow gasps. His hands hung limp at his sides.
Seraph pulled him into a hug. Not the crushing embrace from before—this was slower, more deliberate. One arm wrapped around Akira's shoulders while the other hand pressed firmly against the center of his back. Pressure. Steady, grounding pressure.
"You're at Nijisanji," Seraph murmured against Akira's hair. "It's Tuesday. You're safe. No one's going to hurt you."
Behind them, the room had erupted. Staff were crowding in, voices overlapping—"What happened?" "Is Shikinagi-kun okay?" "Someone call security—"
Hibari was already at Seraph's side, his bright eyes hard in a way Kanato had rarely seen. "Everyone out," he said, and his voice carried a command that didn't match his usual puppy-dog enthusiasm. "Give him space. Now."
Seraph raised his head just enough to look at the nearest manager. His pale eyes were flat. "That man. He touched Nagi-chan. He grabbed him and wouldn't let go."
"I didn't—" The director was trying to stand, one hand clutching his stomach. "That's a lie! He's overreacting—"
"I saw it," Kanato said. His voice came out rough, and he realized he was standing now, his hands clenched at his sides. "I saw him grab Akira's arm. I heard Akira tell him to get away."
The manager's face went hard. "Security. Escort the director out. We'll be filing a formal complaint with his agency."
The director's protests faded as two security guards hauled him toward the door, his feet dragging. The remaining staff filtered out after them, casting worried glances at Akira's still-trembling form.
Kanato didn't leave. Neither did Hibari. They hovered near the edge of the alcove, not crowding, just—present. A wall of bodies between Akira and anything that might try to reach him.
Seraph was still murmuring, his voice a low constant rhythm against Akira's hair. "You're here with me. With Hibari. With Kanato. You're safe, Nagi-chan. I've got you. Breathe with me."
Slowly—so slowly Kanato almost missed it—Akira's breathing began to match Seraph's. The shallow gasps lengthened into something deeper. His hands, still trembling, came up to grip the front of Seraph's shirt.
"There you are," Seraph breathed. "Good. Keep breathing."
Akira made a sound—something raw and cracked, barely audible. His voice was completely gone now, just a rasp of air.
"Can I check your arm?" Seraph asked. He didn't move until Akira gave a tiny nod against his chest. Then, with deliberate slowness, Seraph pulled back just enough to take Akira's right forearm in his hands.
The bruises were already blooming—four distinct finger-shaped marks pressed into the pale skin of Akira's inner arm, dark purple against his wrist. Kanato's stomach turned. Hibari sucked in a sharp breath.
"Did he touch you anywhere else?" Seraph's voice didn't change, but his hands were trembling slightly where they held Akira's arm. "Did he hurt you?"
Akira shook his head. His lips moved, but no sound came out. His hands were still shaking, the tremor visible even as Seraph held them steady.
Seraph looked at him for a long moment. Then he let go of Akira's arm and shrugged off his coat—a heavy winter coat, thick and lined with fleece, oversized on even Seraph's broad shoulders. He didn't just drape it over Akira. He guided Akira's arms into the sleeves, one at a time, like dressing a child. Then he pulled the front closed and zipped it up to Akira's chin.
The coat engulfed him. The sleeves hung past his fingertips. The collar came up to his ears. Akira looked small in a way Kanato had never seen before—swallowed by Seraph's coat, by Seraph's warmth, by the familiar scent of laundry detergent and the faint cold of outside snow still clinging to the fabric.
Akira's eyes fluttered closed. His shoulders dropped an inch. The trembling eased.
"I'm driving you home," Seraph said. Not a question.
Akira's eyes opened again. He shook his head, lips forming words without sound. The meeting. Not over.
"Kanato will handle it." Seraph didn't look at Kanato, but the statement landed like an order.
"I'll handle it," Kanato said immediately. His voice came out steadier than he felt. "I'll talk to the staff. We'll postpone the meeting and find a new director for the trip. You don't need to worry about any of it."
Akira looked at him then. His dark eyes were still too wide, still carrying the echoes of whatever had shut him down against that wall. But he looked at Kanato. And Kanato saw, in that glance, the same thing he'd seen that morning: something fragile, something trying very hard to be brave.
Then Hibari stepped closer. He crouched down—Akira was still sitting against the wall, Seraph's coat pooled around him—and put a hand on Akira's knee. His bright eyes were soft now, all the hardness drained away into something aching.
"Please," Hibari said. "Go home. Rest. Let us take care of the rest."
Akira's resistance crumbled. His shoulders sagged. He nodded once, barely a dip of his chin, and let Seraph pull him to his feet.
Seraph kept one arm around Akira's shoulders as they walked toward the door. The heavy coat made Akira look smaller from behind, the hem falling almost to his knees. His steps were unsteady, but Seraph matched his pace, solid and warm against his side.
Just before they reached the door, Seraph paused. He looked back over his shoulder—at Kanato, at Hibari—and his pale eyes were not flat anymore. They were burning.
"Find out who hired that man," Seraph said quietly. "I want to know if he's worked with us before. I want to know if there were complaints."
Then he was gone, guiding Akira into the hallway, the door swinging shut behind them.
The meeting room was very quiet. Coffee still dripped from the edge of the conference table. A chair lay on its side where Seraph had knocked it over. The broken drywall near the emergency exit was a stark white crater.
Kanato stared at the bruises on his memory—the finger marks on Akira's arm, the hollow blankness in his eyes, the way his voice had cracked on "Please—get away from me."
"Hey." Hibari's voice cut through his thoughts. The older man was standing by the table, his arms crossed, his messy hair falling into eyes that were no longer bright at all. "We need to talk. After we're done here. Basement parking lot. No CCTV."
Kanato's instincts prickled. He'd heard that tone before—years ago, in the underworld, when Hibari was about to let the puppy act drop and show the teeth underneath. "About what?"
"About Akira." Hibari's jaw tightened. "And about what you did to him last night."
The words hit Kanato like a physical blow. He opened his mouth to respond, but Hibari was already turning away, already shifting back into the easy smile he wore for the staff filtering cautiously back into the room.
Kanato closed his mouth. He helped clean up the spilled coffee. He talked to the managers, arranged the postponement, confirmed that the director would be blacklisted from all Voltaction projects. He did everything he was supposed to do, and the whole time, Hibari's words echoed in his skull.
What you did to him.
An hour later, Kanato pushed open the stairwell door to the basement parking lot. The air was cold and smelled of concrete dust and exhaust. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting harsh shadows across the rows of parked cars.
Hibari was waiting near Kanato's motorcycle. His hands were in his pockets. His posture was loose, casual. But his eyes—Kanato remembered those eyes from the bad years, the years before Nijisanji, before Voltaction, when the Fura clan and the Watarai family had worked together in the dark and Hibari had smiled while breaking bones.
"Hibari—"
The first punch caught Kanato in the ribs. Low, under his left arm, exactly where a bruise wouldn't show if he kept his jacket on. He doubled over, gasping, and Hibari caught his collar, yanking him upright.
"That's for being rough with him."
"I wasn't—"
The second punch landed on his right kidney. Kanato's vision went white for a second. His knees buckled, but Hibari's grip on his collar kept him from falling.
"I saw the marks on his wrists." Hibari's voice was shaking now—with anger, Kanato realized. Genuine, blazing anger. "When Seraph checked his arm. Restraint marks. From last night."
Kanato's blood went cold. He'd been careful. He'd used padded cuffs, had checked the tightness, had—
"Are you out of your mind?" Hibari shoved him back against a concrete pillar. "You used restraints on him? On Akira? The same Akira who flinches when someone touches his neck? The same Akira who just froze up when a stranger grabbed his arm because he couldn't make himself push back?"
"He agreed to it." Kanato's voice came out rough. Defensive. "I asked permission for everything. He said yes—"
"Of course he said yes!" Hibari's voice cracked, echoing off the concrete. "Akira would cut his own throat if you asked him to! Don't you get that?"
Kanato went still.
"SPIA trained him for years." Hibari's grip on his collar tightened, knuckles pressing against Kanato's throat. "They punished him if he asked for a break. They punished him harder if he complained. He learned that saying no was dangerous. That refusing was worse than enduring. So yes—yes, Kanato, Akira says yes to everything. Especially to us. Especially to the people he loves."
The word 'loves' landed like a third punch.
"You think asking him makes it okay?" Hibari's eyes were wet, and that was somehow worse than the anger. "You think 'Akira, can I tie you up' is enough? When he's half-conscious and overwhelmed and burning up with whatever the hell that incubus thing is doing to him? When he's so desperate for energy he can't think straight?"
Kanato's throat worked. He couldn't speak.
"We have to be the ones with self-control." Hibari's voice dropped, raw and aching. "Because he doesn't have any. Not when it comes to us. He never has. Every dangerous stunt, every time he threw himself in front of a threat—he's been trying to protect us since the day we debuted. And you know what? He'd let us break him. He'd let us hurt him. He'd thank us afterward."
Hibari let go of his collar. Stepped back. His hands were shaking at his sides.
"Sex toys, Kanato? Really?" His voice climbed again, cracking on the words. "After everything SPIA did to him? After whatever left that scar around his throat? You thought 'hey, let's use toys on our Akira' was a good idea?"
Kanato's legs gave out. He slid down the pillar, landed hard on the cold concrete. His ribs ached. His kidney throbbed. None of it compared to the sick, twisting guilt that was hollowing out his chest.
"I didn't—" His voice broke. "I didn't want to hurt him."
"Then what did you want?"
Kanato squeezed his eyes shut. Remembered Akira beneath him—the way his dark eyes had gone hazy with need, the way his body had arched into Kanato's touch like he was starving for it. The way he'd begged. The way he'd sobbed when Kanato's thumb touched that scar.
He'd stopped. He'd stopped the moment he realized what was happening. But he'd started it. He'd pushed Akira to that edge in the first place, thinking it was a game, thinking—
"I got carried away." The words were barely a whisper. "The contract. The incubus thing. I thought—I told myself I was helping him. Feeding him. But I was just—"
"Taking advantage."
Kanato flinched. "Yes."
Hibari was quiet for a long moment. Then he crouched down in front of Kanato, his bright eyes still hard but no longer blazing.
"You and me," Hibari said slowly, "we've done some rough shit. When we were younger. In the clan. I let you use me as a punching bag more times than I can count, and I didn't care, because I knew what we were and I could take it."
Kanato looked up at him. Hibari's jaw was still tight.
"But Akira isn't us. Akira isn't from that world. He's been hurt enough—by people who were supposed to train him, supposed to protect him, and instead they conditioned him to break. He deserves—" Hibari's voice cracked again. "He deserves safe intimacy. Not painful. Not frightening. Not forced. He deserves someone who will touch him without making him afraid."
"I know." Kanato's voice was hoarse. "I know. I swear—I never wanted to hurt him. I got caught up in—the opportunity, the contract, the way he was reacting to me. It was a dirty move. I knew it was a dirty move. And I did it anyway." He dragged a hand over his face. "I'm sorry."
Hibari stared at him for a long moment. Then he let out a breath, and some of the tension drained from his shoulders. "I'm not the one you need to apologize to."
"I know."
"And you still owe us an explanation." Hibari straightened, offering a hand. "Seraph wants to meet. At the café near Akira's apartment. After he gets Akira settled."
Kanato took the hand and let Hibari pull him up. His body protested—ribs, kidney, the back of his head where it had hit the pillar. But he deserved all of it.
"He's going to hit me too," Kanato said flatly.
"Oh, definitely." Hibari's lips twitched—not quite a smile, but close. "You're lucky it was me who saw the marks. If Seraph had noticed them when he was checking Akira's arm, we'd be scraping you off the walls."
Kanato remembered the director flying across the room. Remembered the crack of drywall, the thin line of blood dripping from the man's mouth. One kick. Seraph had done that with one kick.
"He wouldn't stop at two punches," Hibari added, almost conversationally. "He'd keep going until someone pulled him off. Or until you stopped moving."
"Noted."
They stood in the cold fluorescent light of the parking garage, two men who had known each other since childhood—since Hibari's family had served the Fura clan, since they'd run through the corridors of the compound together as boys, since they'd held each other in the dark after things neither of them would ever speak aloud.
Hibari reached out and ruffled Kanato's hair. The gesture was almost gentle. Almost forgiving.
"I'm not saying it's okay," Hibari said quietly. "It's not. But I know you, Kanato. I know you get carried away. I know you don't always see the line until you're past it. And I know you'd never deliberately hurt someone you love."
Kanato's throat tightened. "Hibari—"
"Come on." Hibari turned toward his car, keys jingling in his hand. "Seraph's waiting. And you owe all of us an explanation about this incubus situation."
Kanato swung his leg over his motorcycle, the engine roaring to life beneath him. The vibration rattled through his aching ribs. Ahead, Hibari's car pulled out of its space, and Kanato followed, the café's address already burning in his mind.
Whatever was waiting for him there—Seraph's anger, Hibari's disappointment, the weight of everything he should have done differently—he deserved it.
And Akira deserved better. So much better than any of them had given him.
The motorcycle roared out of the parking garage, into the cold winter afternoon. Kanato didn't look back.