The phone's shrill cut through the incense-thick air like a blade.
Kanato's hand moved before his brain caught up, instinct trained by years of late-night emergencies and mafia paranoia. He caught Akira's phone from the coffee table, the screen blinding white in the dim apartment. *Seraph*.
His thumb hovered. His voice was shot — raw from the hours of whispered reassurances, from the silent crying he'd done into Akira's hair when no one was looking. He cleared his throat twice, three times, then swiped to answer.
Put it on speaker. Let them all hear. Let them all know.
" Moshi moshi? " Seraph's voice came through tinny, cautious, the way he always sounded when he called Akira — soft at the edges, the sharpness sanded down by something tender. " Nagi-chan? Denwa… "
"It's me." Kanato's voice cracked. He pressed the heel of his palm against his eyes. "Kanato."
Silence. Then, sharper: " Kanato? Naze… " A pause. The shift was audible — Seraph's voice dropping from soft to flat, the way it did when his body went into threat-assessment. " Nani ga atta? Nagi-chan wa? Daijoubu? "
"He's fine. He's —" Kanato looked at Akira, curled on the couch, one hand still laced with his, chest rising and falling in the shallow rhythm of fever-sleep. "He's stable. He passed out when he got here. I found him collapsed on the couch."
The silence on the other end was a held breath. Then: " Ikou ka? "
"Don't." Kanato's voice came out harsher than he meant. He softened it. "Don't. You just got home yesterday, Sera. You're still recovering from the mission. I have —" he glanced around the room, at Kuzuha leaning against the kitchen counter, at Rou sitting rigid on the armchair, at Shō by the window and Lauren on the floor "— I have people here. We're okay."
Another silence. Longer. The kind of silence that carried weight.
" …Kanato. " Seraph's voice was quiet. " Koe ga… "
"I know." Kanato closed his eyes. "I know."
He could feel the question hanging — what happened, what did you see, what did you feel when you found him — but Seraph didn't ask. Seraph never asked the things that would hurt to answer. He just waited, patient as stone, letting the silence do its work.
Kanato's throat tightened. The words came before he could stop them, tumbling out in a rush of guilt and exhaustion:
"Why didn't he call us?"
Kuzuha's head snapped up. Rou's hand stilled on his knee.
"He was — he was burning up. He could barely stand. He was hallucinating, Sera. He thought I was —" Kanato's voice broke. He swallowed, forced it steady. "He told me not to leave him alone. He begged me. And I keep thinking —"
He pressed his fingers against his temples. The words came lower, rougher, scraping out of him like confession:
"Have we not told him enough? Have we not shown him enough that we care? That we're — trustworthy?" The word tasted bitter. "He had my number. He had Hibari's. He had yours. And he didn't call any of us. He just — he let himself burn. He let himself die alone in this apartment because he didn't think —"
" Kanato. "
Seraph's voice cut through, quiet but firm. Not sharp. Not scolding. Just — present. The way he said Kanato's name, low and steady, like an anchor line thrown into rough water.
" Omae no sei janai. "
Kanato's jaw clenched. His hand found Akira's hair, threading through the damp strands, the motion automatic, desperate, grounding.
" …Nagi-chan no koto. " Seraph's voice dropped. Hesitated. The silence stretched so long Kanato thought the line had dropped. Then: " Kega wo shita koto ga aru. "
Kanato's hand stilled in Akira's hair. "What?"
" Itsugo mae… " Seraph's voice was quiet now, the words coming slow, like he was pulling them from a place he'd buried deep. " SPIA kara nigeru no ichinen mae… Nagi-chan wa… naibu shukketsu wo okoshita. "
The room went still.
Kanato felt the air leave his lungs. He heard Kuzuha's sharp intake of breath, saw Rou's hand freeze mid-motion, watched Shō's face go blank — that particular blankness of someone whose mind was racing too fast for their expression to keep up.
"Internal bleeding," Kanato repeated. His voice was hollow.
" …Hai. "
The word hung in the air like smoke. Kanato's hand found Akira's again, gripping maybe too tight, but Akira didn't stir — he just breathed, shallow and hot, unaware of the bomb that had just detonated above his sleeping head.
"Sera." Kanato's voice was barely a whisper. "What happened?"
Long pause. When Seraph spoke again, his voice was carefully controlled, the way it got when he was talking about something that still hurt:
" Kizu ga… naoru no ga warukatta. Shinkei ga… tokidoki iki o shite… "
He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't need to.
Kanato's mind was already filling in the gaps, and every possibility made him want to throw up. A wound that healed badly. Nerve damage that flared up. Internal bleeding — the kind of internal bleeding that came from rough treatment, from being handled without care, from someone who saw Akira's body as something to use rather than someone to hold.
He didn't ask what caused it. He didn't want to know the details. But he knew.
They all knew.
Kuzuha had turned away, one hand braced against the kitchen counter, his shoulders rigid. Rou was staring at the floor, his jaw tight, his hands clenched into fists on his thighs. Shō had pressed his palm against his mouth, his eyes distant and dark. Lauren sat motionless, his face unreadable, but his hands — his hands were shaking.
Internal bleeding.
In a nineteen-year-old kid who'd been sent on honey trap missions since he was fifteen.
In a boy who'd been conditioned to submit, who'd been passed between targets like currency, who'd learned to dissociate through sex because the alternative was screaming.
In Akira.
Kanato's chest felt like someone had driven a blade between his ribs. He looked down at Akira — peaceful in sleep, his face relaxed, the fever flush fading from his cheeks — and he thought about what that face must have looked like five years ago. Nineteen years old. Bleeding internally. Alone in a SPIA medical wing, no one holding his hand, no one telling him it was going to be okay.
"Sera." His voice came out raw. "Did it — did it reopen?"
Seraph's breath hitched. Just barely. If Kanato hadn't been listening with every nerve in his body, he would have missed it.
" …Ni kai. "
Kanato's eyes closed.
" Mada SPIA ni ita toki. Ichido wa — nagai yoru no koto da. Mou hitotsu wa — " A pause. " …sono ato no misshon de. "
Twice. It reopened twice.
And Seraph knew about it. Seraph had been there. Seraph had watched Akira bleed, had held him, had probably donated blood to keep him alive — and now he was on the phone, telling Kanato about it with the same controlled voice he used to report mission briefings, because that was how Seraph coped with pain: by turning it into information.
Kanato wanted to scream.
" …Dakedo," Seraph continued, his voice softer now, " SPIA kara nigeta ato wa… ichido mo nai. "
Kanato's brow furrowed. "It never reopened after you escaped?"
" Hai. Boku wa… mo naotta to omotteita. " A long pause. " Demo ima wa… chigau kamoshirenai to omou. "
"Why?"
" …Nagi-chan wa… debut shite kara… hitori mo nete inai. "
The words hit like a physical blow.
Kanato's hand tightened on Akira's. His mind went blank — that particular blankness that came when reality was too large to process all at once, when the brain needed a moment to catch up with what the heart already knew.
Akira never had sex after debut.
Not once.
Not even when he complained about being lonely. Not even when people confessed to him — men and women both, Kanato had seen the DMs, the collab requests, the obvious flirtation that Akira always deflected with a joke and a change of subject. Not even with Seraph — Seraph, who he'd loved for years, who he'd protected in secret, who he'd swapped drug doses for, who he'd risked his life for again and again.
Not until the incubus manifestation forced him into it.
Kanato's breath came shallow. He thought about all those nights Akira had spent alone in this apartment, scrolling through his phone, complaining about how he wanted a relationship, how he wanted someone to come home to. He'd thought Akira was just picky. He'd thought Akira was shy, or awkward, or waiting for the right person.
He hadn't thought — he hadn't once considered — that Akira was scared.
That every time someone flirted with him, Akira's body remembered being used. That every time he thought about starting a relationship, his nerve endings flared with the ghost of old injuries. That the loneliness he complained about was real, bone-deep, and the fear that kept him from filling it was deeper.
Kanato pressed his forehead against Akira's. Breathed him in — sweat and sandalwood and the faint chemical tang of the IV fluids. His voice came out broken:
"He's been fighting alone this whole time."
The silence on the other end of the line was a confirmation.
" …Omae ga mitsuketa toki," Seraph said quietly, " nagi-chan wa nani wo itta? "
Kanato's throat closed. He forced the words out: "He begged me not to leave him."
Seraph's breath caught. Just barely. But Kanato heard it.
" …Sore ga," Seraph said, his voice barely above a whisper, " ano ko ga dekiru saidai no 'tasukete' da. "
Kanato's eyes burned. He didn't wipe them. Let them fall.
He thought about Akira's face when he'd walked through the door — pale, sweating, barely conscious, but relieved. Like he'd been waiting for someone to find him. Like he'd been hoping, somewhere deep in the fever-fog, that someone would come.
And he thought about what Seraph had just told him — that this was the first time in five years Akira had let himself be vulnerable enough to ask for help.
Kuzuha moved first. He crossed the room, silent on his feet, and crouched beside Kanato. His hand found Kanato's shoulder — a solid weight, warm and grounding.
"Oi," he said, his voice rough. "You hear that?"
Kanato looked at him, eyes red-rimmed.
"He trusted you," Kuzuha said. "He didn't call you because he didn't trust you. He called you because he did." He squeezed Kanato's shoulder. "You're the one he came to when he couldn't hold it together anymore. Think about what that means."
Kanato opened his mouth. Closed it. His hand found Akira's hair again, stroking, gentle, the motion automatic and desperate.
" Sera," he said, his voice hoarse, "why are you telling me this now?"
Long pause. The line crackled with static.
" …Because," Seraph said slowly, " nagi-chan ga misshon kara kaette kita toki… byoushitsu ni ita. "
Kanato's hand stilled.
" SPIA no iryoubu de, mita. " Seraph's voice was distant now, like he was seeing it again. " Nagi-chan ga ICU ni ite… karada no naka de mada nakami ga dete ite… isha ga itta. 12-jikan ijou, kyuumei shujutsu wo ukeru made matanakereba nakatta to. "
Twelve hours.
Twelve hours with internal bleeding.
Kanato felt the nausea rise, hot and sharp, at the back of his throat. He swallowed it down.
" Isha wa itta," Seraph continued, his voice barely audible, " kiseki da to. Nagi-chan ga ikiteiru no wa kiseki da to. "
The room was silent. Even the air seemed to hold its breath.
Twelve hours.
He'd been moved for twelve hours — twelve hours of transport between prefectures, twelve hours of being jostled and shifted and carried while bleeding internally, twelve hours of pain that he couldn't escape because painkillers didn't work on him, twelve hours of knowing he was dying and no one was stopping to help.
Kanato's hand found Akira's again. He gripped it, hard enough to leave marks, and Akira didn't stir.
" …Nidome wa," Seraph said, and his voice cracked, just slightly, " ni-shuukan ato datta. "
Two weeks later.
" Nagi-chan ga… toire ni aruite itta. Soshite… taoreta. " Another pause. The silence stretched. " Kizu ga hiraita. Mata kyuumei shujutsu. Boku wa… chi wo dashi ni yobareta. Nagi-chan ga… shinde shimau hodo chi wo ushinatte ita. "
Kanato couldn't breathe. He heard Rou make a sound — a sharp, choked noise, like he'd been punched — and saw Shō press both hands over his face, his shoulders shaking in silent, terrible tremors.
Lauren hadn't moved. His face was stone. But his eyes — his eyes were wet.
" Soshite… mikkame wa," Seraph's voice was barely a whisper now, " mata ato no misshon de. Ichi kagetsu dake no kyūka no ato. "
One month. One month of recovery before they sent him back out.
One month before he was bleeding again.
Kanato's hand moved to Akira's face, cupping his cheek, feeling the warmth of fevered skin, the steady rhythm of his breath. Alive. He was alive. He was here, in Kanato's arms, breathing.
" Sera. " His voice was wrecked. " Naze… "
" …SPIA no kami ga hanashite ita," Seraph said. The words came out flat, but there was something beneath them — something raw and wounded. " Nagi-chan ga mada byouki de, takai maintenance ga hitsuyō nara… dokoka ni suteru kamo shirenai to. "
The air left the room.
Kuzuha's hand gripped Kanato's shoulder, hard. Rou's face went white. Shō made a sound — a low, broken noise, like an animal in pain.
They were going to get rid of him.
SPIA — the organization that had taken Akira when he was too young to remember his parents' faces, that had trained him, conditioned him, used him — was going to discard him because he was costing too much to fix.
" Dakedo," Seraph continued, his voice steady now, the flatness giving way to something almost tender, " nagi-chan wa yoku naotta. Moto no yō ni tsuyoku natta. So shite… kare wa mada ikiteiru. "
Kanato's chest heaved. He pulled Akira closer, folding around him like a shield, like he could protect him from a past that had already happened, from wounds that had already scarred.
" Soshite… " Seraph's voice dropped. " Sore de, nagi-chan ga… tasuke wo motomeru no ga kowai riyū ga wakatta. "
Kanato's eyes closed. Of course. Of course that was why.
Akira had learned — had been taught, by the only family he'd ever known — that needing help made him disposable. That showing weakness meant being thrown away. That the only way to survive was to be useful, to be strong, to never let anyone see how much he was hurting.
And he'd been fighting that conditioning every single day since he escaped, trying to unlearn the survival instincts that had kept him alive in SPIA but were destroying him now.
" Sera. " Kanato's voice cracked. " Omae wa… "
" Boku wa daijōbu. " Seraph's voice was soft. " Nagi-chan no koto… omae ni azukeru. "
A pause. Then, quieter:
" Omae wa ii hito da, Kanato. "
Kanato's throat closed. He pressed his forehead into Akira's hair, felt the warmth of him, the steady rhythm of his breathing, the pulse beating under Kanato's fingers — alive, alive, still alive — and he let himself cry.
He didn't make a sound. He just let the tears fall, silent and hot, soaking into Akira's hair as he held him, as the room held its breath around them, as the weight of everything Seraph had said settled into their bones like lead.
Kuzuha's hand stayed on his shoulder. Rou moved to the couch, sitting on the other side of Akira, one hand resting gently on his ankle — a touch so light it was barely there, but present. A reminder that Akira was not alone, not anymore, not ever again.
Shō came to stand behind Kanato, one hand on his back, grounding. Lauren poured a glass of water and set it beside Kanato's elbow, then retreated to his spot by the window, watching the street below, his shoulders tight with emotion he wouldn't show.
The phone was still on speaker, Seraph's breathing a quiet presence on the line.
" Kanato. " Seraph's voice was soft. " Nagi-chan wa… omae no koto shinjite iru. "
Kanato's hand tightened in Akira's hair. "I know."
" Dakara… " A pause. " Yoroshiku. "
Kanato let out a breath — shaky, ragged, but steady. "I won't let him go again."
Silence. Then, soft: " Shitte iru. "
The line went quiet. But neither of them hung up.
And in the silence, in the darkness of Akira's apartment, surrounded by his friends and the weight of a past they couldn't change but could bear witness to, Kanato held Akira close and made a promise he would keep until the day he died.
Akira would never be alone again.
Not while Kanato had breath in his body.
Not while any of them were still standing.