The first thing Kuzuha registered was the wrongness of the light.
Pale grey filtered through curtains he didn't recognize, casting the unfamiliar ceiling in weak morning glow. His neck ached from where he'd slumped against the armchair, one leg numb, mouth tasting like stale coffee and exhaustion. For a long, disoriented moment he forgot where he was — then the sandalwood hit him, and the leather scent of the couch, and the memory of last night crashed back in fragments: Akira's fever-flushed face, Kanato's voice on the phone with Seraph, the terrible weight of a history none of them had known existed until twenty-four hours ago.
He turned his head.
On the biggest couch, Kanato was still sprawled exactly where he'd been the night before — one arm draped across the cushion where Akira should have been, blanket twisted around his legs, dark hair falling across his face. He was breathing slow and deep, the sleep of someone who'd run on adrenaline until his body simply gave out.
But the space beside him was empty.
Kuzuha was on his feet before his brain caught up, the numb leg nearly buckling under him. He caught himself on the armchair's back, heart slamming against his ribs as his eyes swept the living room — the shadows in the corners, the closed bathroom door, the pile of blankets on the floor where no one was lying.
Gone. Akira was gone.
"Hey—" His voice came out rougher than intended, cracking through the quiet. He saw Lauren stir on the floor where he'd bedded down against the wall, eyes blinking open with that same disoriented fog. Rou was already sitting up on the other armchair, hair a disaster, one hand pressed to his face as he surfaced from sleep.
"Where's—" Kuzuha started, and the panic must have been audible because Lauren was on his feet too, barefoot on the cold floor, his gaze snapping to the empty couch and then to the bathroom door.
"Kanato." Rou's voice was low, urgent, already moving toward the sleeping leader. "Kanato, wake up—"
But before any of them could touch him, before the panic could fully bloom into the terrible possibilities that Kuzuha's mind was already supplying — the bathroom, the balcony, the front door unlocked — a soft sound cut through the room.
"—sst."
It came from the kitchen.
Kuzuha's head snapped toward the open archway that connected the living room to the small kitchen. The morning light was different there — softer, slanting through a window above the sink — and in that pale grey glow, sitting on a bar stool at the island table, was Akira.
He was dressed in a loose gray t-shirt that hung off one shoulder, the collar stretched from wear, and his dark hair was still mussed from sleep. His feet were bare on the rung of the stool, and in one hand he held an injection needle, the thin tube of it connected to an IV line that ran up to a bag of clear fluid hanging from a pole he'd apparently set up beside the island.
Kuzuha watched, frozen, as Akira pressed the needle into the port on his own arm with the casual precision of someone who'd done this a hundred times. No hesitation. No flinch. Just a quiet, practiced movement, and then he taped the line down with a strip of medical tape that had been sitting on the counter, rolled the wheel to adjust the drip, and reached up to hook the IV bag onto the pole.
Like it was just another Tuesday.
Like he'd done this a thousand times before.
The room was silent. None of them moved. None of them knew what to say.
Akira finished adjusting the IV line, then looked up — and met Kuzuha's gaze across the room. For a split second, something flickered in those dark eyes. Surprise, maybe. Or embarrassment at being caught. But then it smoothed over, and Akira's mouth curved into a small, easy smile — the same smile he wore when he walked into the office, when he greeted fans at a handshake event, when he said good morning to the convenience store clerk.
"Ah. Ohayou." His voice was raspy, still thick with sleep, but steady. "Sorry, did I wake you?"
Kuzuha's mouth opened. Nothing came out.
Akira slid off the stool, the IV pole rolling beside him with a soft squeak of wheels on tile, and walked past them toward the living room. His bare feet made no sound on the floor. He moved like he was trying not to disturb the air itself, each step measured and careful. When he reached the couch where Kanato was still sleeping, he lowered himself onto the cushion beside him with a soft grunt of effort — Kuzuha noticed the way his jaw tightened, the slight tremor in his hand as he reached for his phone on the coffee table.
Akira picked up the phone, then reached down and tugged the edge of Kanato's blanket up, tucking it more firmly around the sleeping man's shoulders. His fingers brushed Kanato's hair back from his forehead, a gesture so tender and absent-minded it made Kuzuha's chest ache.
Then Akira slouched back against the couch cushions, phone in hand, and started scrolling.
Like nothing had happened. Like he hadn't just injected himself with an IV in front of them. Like he hadn't been missing and feverish and barely conscious twelve hours ago.
The silence in the room was heavy, thick as smoke. Kuzuha could feel it pressing against his skin, could see it in the way Lauren stood frozen by the wall, in the way Rou's hands hung half-lifted at his sides, caught between wanting to do something and not knowing what.
They had so much to say. So many questions. But the weight of Akira's casual normalcy was a wall none of them knew how to breach.
Rou was the one who broke it.
"Nagi-san..." His voice was quiet, careful, the way you'd approach a wounded animal. "How do you feel?"
Akira looked up from his phone. That same easy smile. That same nothing-is-wrong curve of his lips. "I feel much better now. Gomen, I guess I scared you a bit yesterday." He tilted his head, the gesture almost sheepish. "Mō daijōbu da yo. Chotto nereba sugu naotta."
Rou opened his mouth. Closed it. The words he wanted to say — you were burning with fever, you were hallucinating, you screamed in Japanese until your voice broke, we thought you were dying — all of them stuck somewhere between his chest and his throat, unable to cross the barrier of Akira's careful calm.
There was something about this. About the way Akira sat there, IV line taped to his arm, phone in hand, blanket adjusted around Kanato, acting like this was normal. Like this was fine. Like the terror of last night had been nothing more than a minor inconvenience.
Kuzuha realized, with a cold clarity that settled in his stomach like a stone, that they couldn't break this. Couldn't push. Akira had built this normalcy around himself like armor, and to tear it open would be to leave him exposed and bleeding again.
So none of them said anything.
Akira's phone rang.
The sound cut through the silence like a blade, and Akira glanced at the screen. His expression shifted — not the easy smile, but something softer. Something almost private. He answered with a calm, steady voice that held none of the exhaustion Kuzuha could see in the lines of his face.
"Moshi moshi."
On the other end, Kuzuha could hear the low rumble of Seraph's voice — too quiet to make out words, but the tone was unmistakable. Calm. Controlled. Matching Akira's energy beat for beat, like they were dancing to a rhythm only they could hear.
"Un, I feel much better now," Akira said, his voice dropping slightly. "The fever isn't as high as yesterday."
A pause. Seraph's voice again, asking something.
"Mm... a little nauseous. I'll rely on the IV for a while. Don't want to risk throwing up everything I eat." Akira's voice had gone quieter now, almost a whisper, and Kuzuha realized why — his free hand had moved to rest on the back of Kanato's head, fingers threading through the dark hair in slow, absent-minded strokes. He was trying not to wake him.
More from Seraph's end. A question, maybe a suggestion. Akira's lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile — smaller, more genuine.
"Un, I'll drink enough water. And make sure Kanato eats something." A beat. "Thank you, Sera."
The name. The way Akira said it — soft, full of a gratitude so deep it seemed to bend the air around it. Kuzuha felt something crack open in his chest.
He remembered Kanato's words from last night. *Akira has been through a lot more than we imagine. Be patient with him, would you... please.*
And now, watching Akira on the phone with Seraph — the ease between them, the way Akira's voice dropped its practiced brightness into something real, something unguarded — Kuzuha understood. This was years. This was history. This was Seraph, waiting patiently, never pushing, never leaving, because Akira had done the same for him.
Akira hung up and set the phone down, then pushed himself to his feet again — that same grunt of effort, that same flicker of pain across his jaw that he smoothed over before anyone could comment.
"I can cook something for breakfast," Akira said, already turning toward the kitchen. "If you're hungry. I think I have eggs, and there's some—" "No." Lauren's voice was sharper than he probably intended, and Akira stopped, looking back. Lauren softened his tone, ran a hand through his hair. "I mean — you should rest, Akira. Just tell us where the stuff is. We can handle it."
Rou nodded, already moving toward the kitchen. "Yeah, seriously. You just... sit. Or lie down. Whatever. Just point us at the pots and we'll figure it out."
Akira hesitated, something flickering across his face — surprise, maybe, or uncertainty. This was his apartment. His space. And these were people he knew, but not the way he knew Kanato, not the way he knew Seraph and Hibari. They'd never been here before. Last night was the first time any of them had crossed this threshold.
But then he nodded, a small, almost grateful tilt of his head, and limped toward the kitchen — the IV pole rolling beside him with that soft squeak of wheels on tile.
"The pots are in the lower cabinet beside the sink," he said, opening it to reveal a neat stack of cookware. "Pans are above the stove. Plates are in the upper cabinet to the left. Seasonings are in the drawer under the cutting board." He moved through the space with the efficiency of someone who knew exactly where everything was, opening cabinets and pointing, his voice steady and matter-of-fact. "Fridge has eggs, vegetables, some leftover miso. Freezer has some chicken and frozen dumplings. Use whatever you want."
He stepped back, giving them room, and Lauren moved past him toward the fridge — but paused, his gaze catching on something in the open cabinet beside the stove.
An electric cigarette. Sleek, black, sitting beside a bottle of cooking oil like it belonged there.
"You smoke?" Lauren asked, picking it up. He turned it over in his hands, glancing at Akira. "Never seen you smoke at the office."
Akira's expression didn't change, but something in his posture went still. "I used to. Had to, for some undercover missions back in SPIA. Got addicted." He said it the same way he'd said everything else this morning — casually, like he was talking about the weather. "After I escaped, the doctor told me I had enough organ damage already. Smoking on top of it would... lower my life expectancy even more. So I had to stop."
The room went quiet again.
*Lower my life expectancy even more.* The words hung in the air like smoke themselves, and Kuzuha felt them settle into his lungs, cold and heavy. He thought of Akira's fever last night, of the way his body had burned. He thought of the IV line taped to Akira's arm, the casual way he'd injected himself. He thought of organ damage, of a life expectancy that had apparently already been low enough for a doctor to mention it.
No one pointed it out. No one knew how.
"It was so hard making you stop."
The voice came from the couch — rough, sleep-thick, but unmistakable. Kanato was stirring, lifting his head from the cushion, dark hair falling across his amber eyes as he blinked at the room.
Akira didn't deny it. He just turned from the kitchen, a soft, fond look crossing his face as he limped back toward the couch, dragging the IV pole with him. He lowered himself onto the cushion beside Kanato and pulled him into a half-hug, one arm wrapping around Kanato's shoulders.
"Ohayou." Akira's voice had changed — warmer, softer, the practiced brightness replaced by something genuine. "Yoku neteta?"
Kanato made a low, sleepy sound, nuzzling his forehead against Akira's, eyes still half-closed. "Mm..."
For a moment, just a moment, Kuzuha saw Akira's mask crack.
A flush crept across his cheeks — a shy, almost boyish blush that looked completely out of place on the face of a former SPIA agent who'd probably killed people with his bare hands. His eyes darted to the side, aware of the audience, embarrassed by the public display of affection. But then Kanato's hand came up, brushing through Akira's hair in a slow, gentle motion, and Akira's eyes slid closed, his body leaning into the touch like a plant turning toward sunlight.
Kuzuha looked away. They all did. Lauren suddenly became very interested in the contents of the fridge, and Rou busied himself with finding the rice cooker.
"I mean," Lauren said, his voice deliberately casual, "it is kind of hard to quit once you're addicted. If it were easy, I would've stopped smoking by now too."
Kanato pulled back from Akira, suddenly much more awake. "No, that's not it." He shook his head, a wry smile curling his lips. "He doesn't even like smoking that much. He only did it once or twice a week before the doctor told him to stop. But when the doctor said stop, he acted like he couldn't live without it." Kanato's smile widened, a glint of amusement in his amber eyes. "Just so me and Hibari would bribe him to stop. We bought him his favorite snacks or cake every time he said he felt like smoking."
Rou let out a startled laugh. "Wait, seriously? That's—" He caught himself, then laughed again. "That's dirty. But also kind of smart."
Akira's blush deepened, spreading to his ears. "I wasn't trying to manipulate anyone," he said, but there was no heat in his voice. "It's just... your reactions were amusing. And a free cake is a free cake."
Kanato groaned, dropping his forehead onto Akira's shoulder. "I should've believed Seraph. He told us you were faking it, said you'd used that trick on him too many times back in SPIA."
Akira laughed — a real laugh, surprised out of him, bright in the quiet room. "Sera doesn't fall for it anymore. I overused it."
Kanato's friends were laughing now too, the tension in the room cracking open like an egg. Kuzuha found himself smiling despite everything, despite the IV pole and the sleepless night and the weight of all the things they still didn't know.
"How many sweets did you get out of them?" Rou asked, genuinely curious.
Akira tilted his head, considering. "I lost count. But Hibari once asked, completely seriously, how I hadn't become a sugar addict instead."
Kanato made an indignant sound against Akira's shoulder. "We bought you so much cake."
Akira's expression softened. He nuzzled into Kanato's embrace, his voice dropping to something almost shy. "Oishikatta."
Kanato went still. For a second, he seemed genuinely surprised — Akira was usually too shy for PDA in front of others, too aware of eyes on him. But then his arms tightened around Akira, pulling him closer, and his voice came out rough and warm.
"Well... if you liked it, then I guess it's okay."
Rou and Lauren exchanged a glance. The room was so quiet they almost missed it — almost. But they heard. And they pretended they hadn't.
Akira fell asleep in Kanato's arms not long after that.
It happened gradually — his breathing slowing, his body relaxing, the tension bleeding out of his shoulders inch by inch until he was a dead weight against Kanato's chest. This time, there was no fever-flush to his skin, no trembling, no restless twitching. He just looked tired. Deeply, bone-achingly tired, the kind of exhaustion that came from years of fighting alone.
But peaceful, too. For the first time since they'd arrived last night, Akira looked peaceful.
Kanato's friends moved quietly through the apartment, cooking breakfast in the kitchen, keeping their voices low. No one suggested waking Akira — they'd heard what he said about the nausea, about relying on the IV. They left a plate for Kanato, who accepted it with a murmured thanks, one hand still tangled in Akira's hair.
Then they started cleaning.
Kanato guided them through the apartment with quiet instructions — the washing machine was in the small utility closet off the kitchen, the extra blankets were in the hall closet, the cleaning supplies were under the sink. They gathered Akira's sweat-stained sheets and the clothes he'd shed during the fever, bundling them into the machine. Kuzuha's hands paused when he saw the patches on one of the blankets — dark, rust-colored stains that weren't sweat.
He put it in the machine without saying anything.
"The curtains," Kanato said quietly from the couch. "Leave them closed. And keep the lights off. He can't sleep with the lights on."
Rou paused, looking toward the windows. "Can't he use a sleep mask?"
Kanato shook his head. "He has one. He wears it when he sleeps outside. But if someone else puts something over his eyes..." He trailed off, his jaw tightening. "People used to blindfold him. During interrogations. During torture. During—" He stopped. Started again. "In a lot of bad situations back in SPIA."
No one asked for details. The silence that followed was answer enough.
Kuzuha found himself standing in the doorway of Akira's bedroom, a clean blanket in his arms that Kanato had directed him to take from the hall closet. He'd been looking for somewhere to put it, but the sight of the room stopped him cold.
It was... plain.
Functional, certainly. A bed in the corner, neatly made. A desk with a computer setup — the monitors dark, the chair pushed in. A bookshelf against the wall. A closet with sliding doors. But there was almost nothing personal about it. No posters. No photos. No clutter. It looked like a hotel room, not a home.
Except for the things that did stand out.
A signed poster on the wall — an artist Kuzuha recognized, one of Hibari's favorites, the signature scrawled in silver ink across a glossy photo. He remembered, distantly, hearing about that. Hibari had gone to a festival where that artist was performing, and instead of asking for a signature for himself, he'd asked for one for Akira.
A full set of BL manga on the shelf, still sealed in plastic. Displayed like art books, their spines pristine and unbroken. Kuzuha remembered Akira mentioning on stream that he'd already read that series online, but Seraph had bought him the physical copies anyway — because Akira had once said the covers were pretty and he wanted to display them.
A professional-grade microphone on the desk, the same brand Hibari used for his singing recordings. Next to it, a row of Voltaction merch — small plushies of Hibari, Kanato, Seraph, and Akira himself, lined up like little soldiers beside the computer monitor.
And above the monitors, on the wall, a poster. It was slightly crooked, as if it had been put up in a hurry and never adjusted. The three of them — Seraph, Hibari, Kanato — in silly poses, holding a banner that read *Happy 200,000 Subscribers, Akira!!* It was a joke gift. Kuzuha remembered Kanato laughing about it when he'd shown it on stream. But Akira had put it on his wall anyway.
On the opposite wall, a katana sat in a display stand. Kuzuha recognized it — not the sword itself, but the story. Kanato had mentioned it once, offhand, during a collab. When they'd first met in high school, a year before Voltaction escaped from the underworld, Kanato hadn't known what to get Akira. But then Akira had made some comment about how all teenage boys go through a "samurai obsession era," and Kanato had smirked, and the next week he'd shown up with an antique sword from the Fura clan's main estate. A real historical blade.
Kanato had said, on stream, that he'd never seen Akira so happy.
The sword was in perfect condition. The blade gleamed, oiled and cared for. The tsuka was wrapped in clean, tight ito. Akira had learned how to maintain it.
Beside the katana, a rack of soft airsoft guns — tools for the survival games Kanato and Seraph liked to drag Hibari and Akira into. Kuzuha remembered Akira talking about buying gear on stream, hesitating because it was expensive. He'd never mentioned it again. But now Kuzuha could see, sitting beside the airsoft guns, a set of Beyblade spinners. The same ones Kanato had brought to a concert backstage, where all four of them had played like children while the other performers rested.
Kuzuha remembered the Hokkaido concert. Kanato had asked what souvenirs they wanted, and instead of local food or Hokkaido merch, Hibari, Seraph, and Akira had all asked for a limited-edition Beyblade spinner. They'd played it at the office as soon as he got back to Tokyo.
Looking at all of it — the poster, the manga, the microphone, the sword, the toys — Kuzuha felt something crack open in his chest again. He'd thought, maybe, that this was one-sided. That Hibari and Seraph and Kanato were the ones doing the loving, and Akira was just... receiving. Too broken to give back.
But this room told a different story.
Akira cherished them. Every gift, every joke, every memory — he'd kept it all. Displayed it. Made it part of his space, part of his life. He was just as in love as they were. He just didn't know how to show it the same way.
Kuzuha heard a soft sound from the living room — Akira's voice, barely audible, slurred with sleep.
"...thanks for coming."
He went still. So did Rou, in the hallway with a stack of folded towels. So did Lauren, by the washing machine.
None of them responded. None of them acknowledged they'd heard. They just kept moving, quiet and careful, giving Akira and Kanato space to breathe, to exist, to heal.
From the living room, there was only the soft sound of Kanato shifting on the couch, his arms tightening around Akira. And then his voice, low and rough, almost too quiet to catch:
"...always."
Kuzuha let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. He looked down at the blanket in his arms — clean, soft, heavy — and thought about what Kanato had said earlier, about Akira using weighted blankets even in summer.
"He says it feels like a hug," Kanato had said. "Now he can't sleep if the blanket's too light."
Kuzuha walked back into the living room, the clean blanket folded over his arm. Akira was still asleep on the couch, curled against Kanato's side, his face slack and peaceful. Kanato looked up as Kuzuha approached, and something passed between them — a look that said *I know*, *I see it too*, *we're in this together now*.
Kuzuha draped the blanket over Akira's sleeping form, tucking the edges around his shoulders. Akira didn't stir, but his hand moved in his sleep, fingers brushing against Kanato's sleeve before going still.
Kanato smiled — small, tired,但却真实. He pressed his lips to Akira's hair, then rested his forehead against the crown of Akira's head, eyes closing.
Kuzuha turned away, giving them privacy he didn't have words for. In the kitchen, Rou was stirring miso soup, the smell of it drifting through the apartment like something warm and alive. Lauren was setting out plates, moving quietly, his face unreadable.
The morning light crept through the edges of the closed curtains, pale gold and gentle. Somewhere outside, a car passed. A bird called. The world kept turning, indifferent to the small, fragile thing that was happening in this apartment — this slow, careful healing of a man who had been breaking for longer than any of them knew.
Kuzuha picked up a bowl of miso soup, the warmth seeping through the ceramic into his palms. He didn't drink it. He just stood there, in the kitchen of a man he barely knew, watching the steam rise, and thought about the weight of the things people carry.
And about the people who carry it with them.