Upstairs, in Akira's bedroom, the light was amber and soft through the half-drawn curtains. The door was not quite closed — a crack of honey glow spilled into the hallway, carrying the low murmur of voices. Kuzuha stood in the living room with a half-empty mug of cooling tea, his eyes fixed on that sliver of light. Beside him, Rou had stopped mid-sentence, a dish towel hanging from his hand. Lauren was leaning against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, head tilted slightly as if trying to catch the words through the walls. Shō was on the couch, pretending not to listen but not quite succeeding.
“Serao…” Akira’s voice came through the crack, soft and a little breathless. “It doesn’t hurt that much.”
“Urusai.” Seraph’s voice was lower, rougher, barely above a whisper. “Mada itai darou. Ugokuna.”
Kuzuha watched the shadows shift behind the door. He could make out Akira’s form lying on the bed, shirtless, a sheet pulled up to his waist. Seraph was sitting on the edge, one hand pressed to Akira’s ribs. Medical balm. The smell of menthol and something herbal drifted out. The air in the apartment was thick with it.
“When did you get this?”
Seraph’s voice changed. Kuzuha caught the shift — the way the question hung, the pause. He leaned forward involuntarily.
Silence from the bedroom. Then Akira’s voice, lighter: “Aa, sore? Mukashi no kizu da yo. Nan demo nai.”
Kuzuha saw Seraph’s hand stop moving. The man was frozen, his palm hovering over Akira’s side. Not one of the fresh bruises — higher up, near the ribs. A thin line, almost faded, the kind of scar that had been there for years.
“Gomen…” Seraph’s voice cracked. Just barely. But in the silence of the apartment, it was a thunderclap.
Kuzuha’s throat tightened. He saw Rou’s hand still on the towel, saw Lauren’s jaw tighten, saw Shō’s eyes fix on the door. None of them spoke. They were all listening now, the pretense dropped.
“Oi, oi.” Akira’s voice was warm. Kuzuha could hear the smile in it. “Why are you apologizing for that? I told you, it doesn’t even hurt. Like, at all.”
“Watashi ga…” Seraph started, then stopped. “…kizu tsuketa.”
“Yeah, and you bought me VIP Disneyland tickets,” Akira said, and now Kuzuha could picture him turning, reaching up, messing Seraph’s pink hair. “You spent a fortune. We’re even. Let it go, Serao.”
The silence stretched. Kuzuha could feel the tension in his own chest, the ache of words unsaid, of the story he didn’t yet know but already felt.
“I don’t…” Seraph’s voice was barely there. “I don’t talk about it. To anyone.”
“I know. But I’m not anyone.”
Kuzuha’s breath caught. He saw Rou press the towel to his face, saw Lauren look away, saw Shō close his eyes. This was not a conversation they were meant to hear. But they couldn’t look away.
“Serao.” Akira’s voice was gentle now, the voice of someone who knew exactly what wounds lived under skin. “I’m serious. I don’t hold it against you. I never did.”
“Demo…”
“We were kids. Stupid kids in a system that wanted to break us. You were what, sixteen? I was seventeen. We got caught, we fought, you landed a hit. It’s fine.”
“It wasn’t…” Seraph’s voice broke. “It wasn’t just a hit. I almost cut your ribs. I could have killed you.”
“But you didn’t. And here we are.”
The sound of fabric shifting. Kuzuha saw Seraph’s shadow lean down, forehead pressing against Akira’s. Their silhouettes merged into one.
“Nagi-chan…” Seraph’s voice was thick, raw. “Shiawase da. Imi ga aru. Akira ga kureta kara.”
A long pause. Kuzuha’s tea had gone cold in his hands.
“You have this life because you earned it,” Akira said, and his voice was steady, certain, like he was stating the most obvious truth in the world. “You worked for it. You fought for it. I just… helped you get there.”
There was silence. Then a soft, wet sound — a kiss, deep and unhurried, the kind that didn’t need language.
Kuzuha turned away. He couldn’t watch anymore. It felt too intimate, too sacred. He heard Rou set down the towel, heard Lauren shift, heard Shō let out a breath he’d been holding.
“Oyasumi, Akira.” Seraph’s voice, low, barely a whisper.
“Oyasumi, Serao.”
Footsteps. The door opened wider. Seraph stepped out, blinking in the brighter light of the living room. His eyes were red-rimmed but his face was composed, the mask back in place. He saw them standing there — all four of them — and stopped.
“Don’t,” he said quietly. “Just… don’t.”
He walked past them into the kitchen. A moment later, the sound of the stove clicking on, the hiss of oil hitting a pan.
Kuzuha stood frozen. He could still see into the bedroom through the open door: Akira lying on the bed, his chest rising and falling in the slow rhythm of sleep. No nightmares. Just peace.
Kanato emerged from the bathroom, a towel around his neck, hair still damp. He glanced at the bedroom, then at the kitchen, then at the four of them standing like statues.
“I’ll take over,” he said softly, and walked into the bedroom, pulling the door gently closed behind him.
Kuzuha let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. He set down his cold tea and walked toward the kitchen.
Seraph was standing at the counter, slicing vegetables with quick, precise movements. The knife was a blur, the rhythm steady, almost mechanical. Kuzuha could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw was set.
“Sera-…” Rou started.
“Don’t call me that.” Seraph’s voice was flat. “Only Akira calls me that.”
Rou backed off. “Sorry. Seraph.”
Seraph didn’t respond. He kept cutting. Onions. Carrots. Celery. The pile grew. The smell of garlic hit the hot oil, filling the apartment with something warm and familiar.
Lauren leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “We heard what you said. About the scar.”
Seraph’s knife paused. “That wasn’t meant for you.”
“I know. But we heard.” Lauren’s voice was careful, measured. “If you want to talk about it… we’re here.”
Seraph set the knife down. He stared at the cutting board, at the neat rows of vegetables, as if they held answers. His shoulders rose and fell with a breath. Then he turned, resting his hands on the counter behind him.
“I was sixteen,” he said, and his voice was empty, like he was reciting a mission report. “I just got out of a failed operation. My handlers said I needed ‘re-education.’ Conditioning. Punishment. Isolation tank. The whole package.”
Shō leaned forward. “Re-education?”
“SPIA’s way of breaking someone who didn’t follow orders perfectly. They put you in a room, they take away everything, they break you down until you’re whatever they want.” Seraph’s hands tightened on the counter edge. “I was… scared. I’d never been scared before. But I was sitting in my quarters, waiting for them to come for me, and I couldn’t move.”
Rou let out a low breath. “What happened?”
“Akira found out. He wasn’t supposed to be in that wing. He stole a car from the motor pool — an organization car, black, unmarked — and he drove us to Disneyland.” A ghost of something — not quite a smile — flickered across Seraph’s face. “He was seventeen. He’d just got his license. Real one, not forged.”
Lauren’s eyebrows rose. “Disneyland?”
“No tickets. No money. But Akira knew someone — an employee he’d handled on a mission. They let us in through the loading dock. We walked around all day. I saw…” Seraph’s voice faltered. “I saw colors I’d never seen. Families. Kids laughing. I didn’t know people could look like that. Happy, I mean.”
Kuzuha’s chest ached. He thought of the nest of blankets in Akira’s room, the careful arrangement of gifts, the way Akira showed love through objects and actions, never words.
“We didn’t have money for anything,” Seraph continued. “But Akira stole a churro from a cart. A whole churro. We split it. His half was smaller. He said he wasn’t hungry.”
Shō snorted, but it was a wet sound. “That’s… that’s so Akira.”
“When we got back, he was punished. I wasn’t.” Seraph’s voice went flat again. “They tested me instead. Made me fight him. Said if I passed, I wouldn’t need re-education — just combat re-training. Akira took the hit. He could have dodged it. I know he could have. But he didn’t. He let me…”
“Kick his ribs,” Kuzuha finished quietly.
“And cut him with my knife. I folded it out without thinking. Caught him just under the ribs. He bled. A lot.” Seraph’s eyes were distant, fixed on something no one else could see. “And then they took him away. For the re-education. The conditioning. Because I couldn’t hold it together.”
No one spoke. The sound of the stove filled the silence, the oil sizzling, the vegetables waiting.
“That’s why he has that scar,” Lauren said. It wasn’t a question.
“Yes.”
“And he forgave you,” Rou said. “He bought you Disneyland tickets.”
“VIP class.” Seraph’s voice was barely audible. “After we debuted. He spent half his first paycheck on them.”
Kuzuha’s throat was tight. He thought about the katana, the Beyblades, the subscriber poster. The careful, silent way Akira said I love you without ever saying the words.
“Seraph,” Shō said, and his voice was rough, “that wasn’t your fault. You were a kid. They made you.”
“I know.” Seraph picked up the knife again. His back was to them now. “I know. But I still can’t look at that scar without…”
He didn’t finish. He started chopping again, faster, harder, the blade hitting the board with a rhythm that was almost violent.
Kuzuha looked at the others, at the careful mask of calm they all wore. He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t think there were words for this.
The door opened.
Everyone looked up. Hibari stood in the doorway, a plastic bag in each hand, his bright eyes scanning the room. His smile faltered when he felt the weight in the air.
“Oi, what’s with the funeral face?” he asked, setting the bags on the counter. “I brought pudding. The one Akira likes. Eight cups. One for everyone.”
Seraph paused, turned. “Eight?”
“Yeah. Forgot to ask Kanato’s friends’ names, so I got one for each of you too. Plus extra.” Hibari started unpacking the cups, his energy filling the room like sunlight after rain. “How’s Akira? Kanato?”
“Sleeping,” Seraph said. “Both of them.”
“Good. Good.” Hibari pulled out a large pan and set it on another burner. “I’ll help you cook. What are we making?”
“Nabe. Miso base.”
“Perfect. I’ll do the broth.” Hibari grabbed a pot and filled it with water, his movements quick and efficient, the tension in the kitchen easing with every clatter of pots and pans.
Kuzuha watched him, this man who could knock out a kidnapper and then laugh about it over pudding. The contrast was jarring, and somehow exactly what they all needed.
“So,” Hibari said, chopping garlic with the enthusiasm of someone who enjoyed everything he did, “my parents heard about the kidnapping.”
Seraph’s knife stopped. “You told them?”
“Didn’t have a choice. They kept calling after I missed their calls for two days. Finally answered, had to explain why I’d been ignoring them. And then my mom made me tell her exactly what happened.” Hibari shrugged. “She wanted to come visit. I talked her out of it. My brother’s getting engaged anyway, so she’s busy.”
“Engaged?” Shō asked.
“Yeah. My big brother. He’s been dating his childhood friend for like a decade. Finally proposed. My mom’s in full wedding-planning mode.” Hibari laughed, but it was warm, genuine. “And my brother offered to send money if Akira needs it. For rest, or help, or whatever.”
Lauren raised an eyebrow. “Your brother?”
“He adores Akira. We all do. My parents, too. They keep asking when we’re getting married.” Hibari’s grin widened. “Three months since we started dating, and they’re already planning the ceremony.”
Kuzuha blinked. “Three months?”
“Yeah. Kanato finally made it official. Well. The contract made it official. But we were all jicchiri before that. Just too scared to say it.” Hibari’s voice softened. “Akira did that. He brought us together, even when he didn’t know he was doing it.”
Rou shook his head slowly. “How did you all escape? The underworld, I mean.”
Kitchen went quiet. Seraph and Hibari exchanged a look — a whole conversation in half a second.
“Akira planned it,” Seraph said. “He and I had been planning for years. We met Kanato and Hibari in high school, and we asked them to join us. They said yes.”
“But… your families,” Shō said carefully. “You faked your deaths. How are you still in contact?”
Hibari’s knife paused. He set it down, turned to face them fully. There was a weight in his eyes now, but his voice stayed light.
“Because Akira went to see them,” he said. “Kanato’s parents. My parents. Alone, without telling any of us. He met them in secret, talked to them, convinced them to help us escape. Told them that parents were supposed to protect their children’s dreams.”
Kuzuha felt the coffee turn to ash in his stomach. “He went alone? Into enemy territory?”
“Yeah.” Seraph’s voice was flat. “I found out after he got back. I thought he was dead. Kanato almost used the Fura clan’s research team to track him down. Hibari and I were minutes away from starting a war.”
“He knew we loved our families,” Hibari said quietly. “Me and Kanato, we hated the business, but we loved our parents. Seraph’s family was gone. Akira’s parents sold him when he was a baby. But we had something to lose. So Akira made sure we didn’t have to lose it.”
Lauren’s jaw was tight. “That’s…”
“Crazy,” Shō finished. “He’s crazy.”
“He is,” Seraph agreed. “But he’s our crazy. And because of him, we have this.” He gestured at the kitchen, the apartment, the sleeping man in the next room. “All of it.”
Kuzuha felt something crack in his chest. He thought of the IV kit Akira had set up with practiced hands, the way he smiled through the pain, the way he never, ever asked for help. And now he understood: Akira had been fighting alone for so long that asking for help felt like surrender. But he had been fighting for them even longer.
“So your parents know,” Rou said. “Both sets. And they support you.”
“Yeah. We visit them every New Year,” Hibari said, his voice warming again. “Akira and Seraph come too, sometimes. Especially Akira. My parents adore him. Kanato’s parents, too. They’re all part of the family now.”
“My uncle and aunt ask about marriage too,” Seraph added, his voice dry, edge of humor returning. “Since we debuted. They wanted grandchildren.”
Shō snorted. “And what did you say?”
“I told them we’re still figuring out how to have children when none of us can get pregnant.” Seraph’s delivery was deadpan. Hibari burst out laughing, the sound filling the room like a wave.
“Oi, don’t joke about that. My mom would probably start researching surrogacy.” Hibari wiped his eyes. “But seriously. Voltaction is a family. A real one.”
Kuzuha let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. The tension had shifted, softened. He could feel the others relax too, the story settling into them, becoming part of the fabric of this strange, broken, beautiful group.
“But,” Hibari added, and his voice changed — concern, careful, “there’s another problem.”
Seraph’s hands stopped. “Kanato’s parents.”
“Yeah. If they heard about the kidnapping, they might not wait for an invitation. You know how they are. Spoiling, protective, stubborn. They adore Akira just as much as we do.” Hibari’s voice dropped. “I tried to stop them. But Kanato’s parents are worse than mine when it comes to worry. Kanato’s their only son. And he’s the head of the clan now, even if he’s faked his death. They’ve got resources. And they’ve got no sense of boundaries when it comes to their kid.”
Seraph’s jaw tightened. “Akira’s not ready for that.”
“I know.” Hibari’s voice was gentle. “I’ll stay. If they come, I’ll stay. We’ll handle it together.”
Kuzuha watched them — Seraph with his knife still held, Hibari with his easy stance that could turn lethal in a second. These were men who had survived things he couldn’t imagine. And they were terrified of Kanato’s parents visiting.
“How bad is it?” Rou asked.
Seraph exhaled. “Imagine a mother who wanted to buy Akira a house so he wouldn’t have to live in a rental. And a father who offered to ‘eliminate’ any staff member who harassed him. And they were being subtle.”
Shō let out a low whistle. “They like him.”
“They love him,” Seraph corrected. “He’s the only person besides Kanato who can talk them out of anything. But if they show up here, unannounced, while Akira is still recovering…”
“I’ll call my mom,” Hibari said. “She can talk to Kanato’s mom. My mom is the only person who can keep her in line. And my brother’s engagement is a good distraction. They’ll focus on that for a while.”
“And if they don’t?” Lauren asked.
Hibari smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Then we’ll deal with it. We’ve dealt with worse.”
The kitchen fell into a comfortable rhythm. Seraph and Hibari worked side by side, the nabe coming together in layers — miso base, vegetables, tofu, thinly sliced pork. The steam rose, filling the apartment with the smell of comfort. Kuzuha found himself seated at the table, a cup of warm tea in his hands, watching them move.
“You know,” Rou said, low enough that only Kuzuha could hear, “I thought I knew what loyalty looked like. But this…”
Kuzuha nodded. “They’d kill for each other. But they’d also cook for each other. That’s the difference.”
Rou’s lips quirked. “That’s poetic.”
“It’s true.”
From the bedroom, a soft sound. Kuzuha turned his head. The door was still closed, but he could imagine Kanato curled around Akira, one hand on his chest, keeping time with his breathing. Akira sleeping without nightmares, finally. A small miracle.
Hibari stirred the nabe, sampled the broth, added a splash of soy sauce. “Almost ready. Go wake everyone up.”
Shō stood. “I’ll get the bowls.”
Lauren followed. “I’ll set the table.”
Kuzuha stayed where he was. He watched Seraph and Hibari, their shoulders almost touching as they worked, the easy familiarity of people who had been through hell together and come out the other side laughing.
He thought about what he’d seen today. The scars. The kisses. The stories whispered in half-dark rooms. And he thought about the weight people carried — and the people who carried it with them.
The smell of miso nabe filled the apartment. Somewhere on the street below, a car passed. A bird sang, off-pitch, happy. Life kept turning, warm and small and precious, in the kitchen of a man who had spent too long fighting alone.
And for the first time that day, Kuzuha smiled.