Morning light spilled through the windows of Kanato's apartment, pale and watery, catching the dust motes that drifted through the air like slow snow. The couch where Kuzuha had sat the day before was empty now, the miso nabe pot washed and dried, the apartment quiet except for the soft rhythm of breathing.
Kanato woke first.
His eyes opened slowly, the way a man surfaces from deep water—reluctant, blinking against the light, the world coming into focus piece by piece. His body felt strange. Lighter. The fever that had gripped him for what felt like days had finally broken, leaving behind a bone-deep exhaustion and a clarity that felt almost foreign.
He lay still for a long moment, cataloging the sensations. No heat in his skin. No ache in his joints. The fog that had clouded his thoughts was gone, replaced by a sharp, clean awareness that made the past days feel like a fever dream.
Akira was still asleep beside him, curled on his side facing away, the blanket pulled up to his chin. His breathing was deep and even, the slight hitch that had marked his fevered sleep finally gone. Kanato watched the rise and fall of his shoulders for a long moment, something tight in his chest loosening.
He reached out, fingers brushing the dark hair at the nape of Akira's neck—tentative, barely there. Akira didn't stir, didn't flinch, and Kanato let his hand rest there for a moment, feeling the warmth of his skin, the steady pulse beneath his fingertips.
*He's alive,* Kanato thought. *He's okay. We're both okay.*
The reality of it settled over him like a weight he hadn't realized he'd been carrying. The drug. The aphrodisiac. The twelve hours of lost control, of touching Akira with hands that hadn't been entirely his own. The memory surfaced in fragments—a gasp, a shudder, the taste of salt on his tongue—and Kanato closed his eyes, breathing through the sudden tightness in his throat.
*I could have hurt him.*
The thought was cold and sharp, a blade pressed against the soft underside of his relief. He could have. The drug had made him mindless, driven by a hunger that didn't care about safewords or limits. And Akira—Akira had let him, had taken whatever Kanato gave him because he couldn't bear to say no, couldn't bear to stop Kanato even when his own body was screaming.
Kanato's hand tightened on Akira's neck, a possessive, grounding pressure. Then he forced himself to let go, to pull his hand back, to let Akira sleep.
He sat up slowly, swinging his legs over the edge of the couch. The apartment was still, the light through the windows soft and grey. In the kitchen, he could hear the faint hum of the refrigerator, the drip of a tap that needed tightening. Small sounds. Normal sounds.
He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, rubbing until colors bloomed behind his lids. His body ached, a deep muscular soreness that spoke of days spent fighting fever and sickness. But beneath that ache, there was strength. Real strength, not the hollow, trembling weakness of the past days.
"You're awake."
The voice came from the kitchen doorway, soft and steady. Kanato looked up to find Seraph leaning against the frame, arms crossed, pale eyes watching him with an unreadable expression. He was already dressed—dark t-shirt, loose pants—and there was a cup of coffee in his hand, steam curling toward the ceiling.
"Yeah," Kanato said, his voice rough from sleep. He cleared his throat, tried again. "Yeah. I think it's finally gone."
Seraph nodded, taking a slow sip of his coffee. He didn't say anything else, but something in his posture relaxed—a subtle shift, the loosening of a tension Kanato hadn't noticed until it was gone.
"Hibari's in the shower," Seraph said after a moment. "He wanted to go with you to the office."
Kanato blinked. "The office?"
"Nijisanji. You have a meeting with management. About the drug incident." Seraph's voice was flat, matter-of-fact, as if he were reading a weather report. But there was something in his eyes—a wariness, a watchfulness that spoke of things he wasn't saying.
Kanato stared at him for a long moment, the words slowly registering. The meeting. Right. He'd scheduled it before the fever had taken hold, before everything had become a blur of heat and pain and the desperate need to make sure Akira was safe.
"I..." He ran a hand through his hair, wincing at the tangles. "Fuck. I forgot."
"You were unconscious for most of yesterday," Seraph said, the barest hint of dry humor in his voice. "I'd be more worried if you remembered everything."
Kanato huffed a laugh, short and tired. "Fair point." He stretched, feeling his spine pop in a cascade of small releases. "What time is it?"
"Just past eight. Meeting's at ten." Seraph pushed off from the doorframe, walking over to the couch and setting the coffee cup on the side table. "Drink that. You look like shit."
Kanato looked down at himself—rumpled clothes, sweat-stained, hair a disaster. "I feel like shit too. But at least I'm not burning up anymore."
He picked up the coffee, letting the warmth seep into his palms. The first sip was bitter, strong, exactly what he needed. He let it sit on his tongue for a moment before swallowing, feeling it spread through him like a small fire.
"Akira's still asleep," he said, glancing toward the couch where Akira lay, still curled under the blanket. "He didn't wake up at all during the night?"
"He woke up once. Around three." Seraph's voice was careful, measured. "I gave him some water and he went back down. His fever broke a few hours ago."
Kanato nodded, relief washing through him again, warm and quiet. "Good. That's good." He took another sip of coffee, letting the silence stretch. "Are you coming with me to the office?"
"No. Someone needs to stay with Akira." Seraph's eyes flicked toward the sleeping figure, and something softened in his expression—a tenderness he rarely let show. "He's still fragile. Even if the fever's gone, the... the rest of it is still there."
Kanato understood. The rest of it—the trauma, the fear, the memories that surfaced when the body was too weak to hold them back. He'd seen it in Akira's eyes, the way they went distant and hollow when something triggered a memory he couldn't outrun.
"Okay," Kanato said, nodding slowly. "I'll take Hibari with me. You stay here. Make sure he eats something when he wakes up."
"I know how to take care of him." There was no edge in Seraph's voice, just a quiet certainty. He'd been doing it for years, after all. Long before Kanato had stumbled into their lives, Seraph had been the one holding Akira together.
The bathroom door opened, and Hibari emerged in a cloud of steam, a towel slung around his neck, his hair still dripping. He was wearing a loose hoodie and jeans, and his face split into a wide grin when he saw Kanato awake.
"Kanato! You're up!" He bounded over, dropping onto the couch beside him with enough force to make the springs groan. "How do you feel? Dizzy? Nauseous? Any lingering effects?"
Kanato smiled despite himself. Hibari's energy was infectious, a bright, buoyant presence that cut through the heaviness of the morning. "I feel fine. Tired, but fine. The fever's gone."
"Thank fuck." Hibari leaned back, letting out a long breath. "I was getting worried, honestly. You were out cold for like, sixteen hours."
"Sixteen? That's... actually not bad, considering." Kanato took another sip of coffee, thinking. "The doctor said the drug could take up to forty-eight hours to fully process. I must have a strong constitution."
"Or you're just too stubborn to let a little poison keep you down." Hibari grinned, nudging him with an elbow. "I told you I'd drive you to the office. You ready?"
Kanato glanced at the clock on the wall. Eight fifteen. He had time to shower, change, and grab something to eat before the meeting. "Yeah. Give me twenty minutes."
He stood, stretching again, and caught Seraph's eye. Something passed between them—a silent acknowledgment, a shared understanding of what this meeting meant. Not just for Kanato, but for all of them. The investigation, the security changes, the future of Voltaction in a world that had suddenly become a lot more dangerous.
"I'll see you in a few hours," Kanato said, and Seraph nodded, once, the gesture carrying more weight than words could hold.
---
The Nijisanji office was the same as it always was—fluorescent lights humming overhead, the low murmur of voices from cubicles and meeting rooms, the smell of coffee and printer toner. But to Kanato, walking through the doors at nine forty-five with Hibari at his side, everything felt different. Charged. As if the air itself had grown thinner, sharper.
The receptionist looked up as they approached, her professional smile flickering with recognition—and something else. Pity, maybe. Or wariness. News traveled fast in an office like this, and the story of what had happened to Akira, to Kanato, had clearly made the rounds.
"Fura-san," she said, her voice carefully neutral. "Management is waiting for you in Conference Room B. I'll let them know you've arrived."
"Thank you." Kanato's smile was easy, practiced—the mask he'd worn a thousand times in a thousand different rooms. He could feel Hibari's presence behind him, a solid warmth that grounded him as they walked through the corridors.
The meeting was brief, clinical. Management had already spoken to the police, had already reviewed security footage, had already identified the staff member who had drugged Kanato's drink. A woman from the radio department, mid-thirties, no criminal record, no connection to the underworld. Just a woman with a grudge and access to a supply closet.
"She's been arrested," the head of management said, folding his hands on the table. "The police have enough evidence to charge her with assault and unlawful confinement. Given the circumstances, she's not likely to see the outside of a cell for a while."
Kanato nodded, keeping his expression neutral. "And the security measures?"
"We're implementing a new system. Biometric access for all staff rooms, restricted entry to the recording studios, and a mandatory check-in protocol for any external personnel. It's not perfect, but it's a significant improvement."
Kanato listened, filing away the details. It was good. Necessary. But it wouldn't bring back the days Akira had spent in terror, wouldn't erase the images that haunted his lover's sleep. Still, it was something. A step forward.
After the meeting, he found Akira's manager in the break room—a nervous young man with a perpetually worried expression who looked like he hadn't slept in days.
"Shikinagi-san will be taking some additional time off," Kanato said, his voice firm but not unkind. "He's still recovering from the incident, and I don't want him pushing himself too hard."
The manager nodded quickly, relief flickering across his features. "Of course, of course. I've already cleared his schedule for the next two weeks. Tell him to take all the time he needs."
"I will." Kanato paused, then added, softer, "Thank you. For looking out for him."
The manager's eyes widened, a flush creeping up his neck. "I—of course. He's a good guy. One of the best in the agency. I just..." He trailed off, shaking his head. "I wish I'd noticed something was wrong sooner."
Kanato didn't say anything. There was nothing to say. They all wished they'd noticed sooner. They all carried that guilt, heavy and cold, in the spaces between their ribs.
---
The drive back to Kanato's apartment was quiet, the city passing in a blur of grey buildings and pale sky. Hibari drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the gear shift, his usual chatter subdued.
"You okay?" Kanato asked, glancing at him.
Hibari shrugged, a slow, heavy motion. "I don't know. I'm glad the bitch is in jail. I'm glad management's taking it seriously. But I keep thinking about Akira." His grip on the steering wheel tightened. "About what would have happened if we hadn't found him in time."
Kanato didn't answer. He'd been thinking the same thing all morning, the thought circling like a shark in the back of his mind. *What if. What if. What if.*
"But we did," he said finally, the words feeling thin, inadequate. "We found him. He's alive. He's going to be okay."
"Is he?" Hibari's voice was flat, not accusatory, but tired. "Is he really going to be okay, Kanato? Because I look at him and I see someone who's been breaking for a long time, and he's just been really good at hiding it."
The words hit harder than Kanato expected, settling into his chest like stones. He stared out the window, watching the city slide past, and didn't try to answer.
When they finally pulled into the parking lot of Kanato's building, the afternoon sun had broken through the clouds, casting long shadows across the concrete. Kanato sat in the car for a moment, hands resting on his knees, gathering himself.
"Let's go inside," he said, and his voice was steady, even if the rest of him wasn't. "Let's go see him."
---
The apartment was warm, the smell of something cooking drifting from the kitchen. Seraph was at the stove, stirring a pot of rice porridge, his back to the door. Akira was on the couch, sitting up for what looked like the first time in days, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders.
He looked up when they entered, and Kanato's heart clenched at the sight of him. Pale, dark circles under his eyes, his hair flat and unwashed. But awake. Aware. Present.
"Akira." Kanato crossed the room in three quick strides, dropping onto the couch beside him. He didn't reach out, didn't touch—not yet. He just wanted to look at him, to confirm with his own eyes what his mind was still struggling to believe. "How are you feeling?"
Akira managed a weak smile, the expression barely reaching his eyes. "Better. Fever's gone." His voice was rough, scratchy from disuse. "Seraph said you went to the office. How did it go?"
Kanato filled him in, keeping his voice light, neutral. The staff member was arrested. The security system was being upgraded. His manager had cleared his schedule for two weeks. All good news, all things that should have brought relief.
But as he spoke, he watched Akira's expression shift—a subtle tightening around his eyes, a tension in his jaw that hadn't been there before.
"Two weeks?" Akira said, and there was something in his voice—not relief, but... something else. "I can't just take two weeks off. We have recordings scheduled, promotional events, the new song—"
"Akira." Kanato reached out, finally, resting a hand on his knee. "You almost died. You can take two weeks."
"I'm fine." The words came too fast, too sharp. Akira pulled away, shifting back on the couch. "I'm fine. I don't need—I can still help. There's paperwork, scheduling, coordination—things I can do from here. I don't need to just lie around doing nothing."
Kanato exchanged a glance with Hibari, who had settled into the armchair, his expression unreadable. Seraph had stopped stirring the porridge, his hand frozen on the ladle.
"Akira," Kanato said carefully, "no one's saying you have to lie around. But you need to rest. Let your body recover."
"I've been resting." Akira's voice was tight, the edge of frustration cutting through. "I've been lying on this couch for two days. I can't just—I need to do something. I need to be useful."
The word hung in the air, sharp and fragile. *Useful.*
Kanato felt something twist in his chest. He knew that word. Knew the weight it carried, the way it wrapped around a person's throat and squeezed until there was nothing left but the desperate need to prove yourself worthy of the air you breathed.
"You are useful," he said, his voice low, steady. "You're useful just by being here. You don't have to do anything."
Akira's jaw tightened, and he looked away, staring at a point on the wall. "That's not—" He stopped, swallowed, tried again. "That's not how it works."
"I know." Kanato scooted closer, not touching, but close enough that Akira could feel his presence. "I know it's not. But I'm telling you anyway."
The silence stretched, heavy and uncertain. Then Akira let out a breath, a long, shuddering exhale that seemed to carry the weight of everything he wasn't saying.
"Okay," he said, and the word was barely a whisper. "Okay."
---
The next few hours passed in a fragile, tentative peace. Seraph's porridge was distributed in steaming bowls, eaten in small, careful spoonfuls. Hibari put on a movie—something mindless, an action flick with explosions and one-liners—and they watched it in a loose cluster on the couch and floor, blankets and pillows forming a nest of comfort.
Akira's eyes stayed open for the first hour, then began to droop, his head lolling against Kanato's shoulder. Kanato shifted, letting him lean heavier, and felt the exact moment Akira's breathing evened out into sleep.
He looked at Hibari, who met his gaze with a knowing sadness, and at Seraph, who was watching the movie with an expression that said he wasn't really seeing it.
"He's going to push himself," Hibari said quietly, his voice barely audible over the sound of explosions from the TV. "You know that, right?"
Kanato nodded, his hand finding Akira's, threading their fingers together. "I know."
"He's going to try to do everything himself. He's going to say he's fine when he's not. He's going to—"
"I know, Hibari." Kanato's voice was gentle, but firm. "I know."
---
The knock at the door came just past five, a familiar rhythm that pulled Kanato from the half-daze he'd fallen into. He disentangled himself from Akira—who had somehow migrated to lying across his lap, still dead to the world—and made his way to the door.
Kuzuha stood on the threshold, a bag of groceries in his arms. Behind him, Rou and Lauren were visible, and further back, Shō was leaning against the wall, hands in his pockets.
"We brought supplies," Kuzuha said, lifting the bag slightly. "And company. Figured you guys could use both."
Kanato stepped aside, letting them in. "You didn't have to."
"We know." Rou's voice was dry as he followed Kuzuha inside. "But here we are."
The apartment filled quickly, the quiet domesticity of the afternoon giving way to the easy chaos of friends. Kuzuha commandeered the kitchen, pulling out ingredients for what he claimed was "the best damn curry you've ever had." Rou settled into a corner of the couch, pulling out his phone but keeping half an eye on the room. Lauren found a spot on the floor, cross-legged, watching the proceedings with an amused expression. Shō hovered near the doorway, leaning against the wall, his presence quiet but solid.
Akira woke slowly, blinking at the sudden influx of people. He sat up, running a hand through his tangled hair, and managed a small, embarrassed smile.
"Sorry," he said, his voice still rough with sleep. "I didn't mean to—"
"Don't apologize," Lauren said, her voice firm but kind. "You're recovering. You're allowed to sleep."
Akira's smile flickered, uncertain, but he didn't argue. He pulled the blanket tighter around his shoulders and settled back against the couch, watching as Kuzuha moved around the kitchen with practiced efficiency.
The conversation drifted, flowing around the room like water finding its level as Akira falling asleep.
The silence that followed Akira's breathing evening out into sleep was a fragile thing, held together by the weight of unspoken words. Kuzuha stood in the kitchen doorway, a wooden spoon still in his hand, watching the sleeping figure on the couch with an expression that was difficult to read—something between concern and a quiet, aching empathy.
Kanato didn't move. He stayed where he was, Akira's head heavy against his thigh, one hand resting on the curve of his shoulder. The blanket had slipped, and he reached out, tugging it back up, his fingers lingering against the fabric longer than necessary.
"He's out cold," Rou said, his voice low, careful. He'd put his phone away, his full attention on the room. "How long has he been like this?"
"On and off for days." Kanato's voice was quiet, almost a murmur. "The fever broke, but the exhaustion—that's going to take longer. His body's been through hell."
"And his mind?" Lauren's question hung in the air, sharp and unflinching. She was sitting cross-legged on the floor, her back against the wall, arms wrapped around her knees. There was no judgment in her voice, only a directness that cut through the careful politeness of the room.
Kanato looked at her, then at the others—Kuzuha still frozen in the kitchen doorway, Rou leaning forward now, elbows on his knees, Shō still against the wall but with his eyes fixed on Kanato. They were all waiting. They had all seen enough, heard enough, to know that the easy answers wouldn't hold.
"He's not okay," Kanato said, and the words felt like a confession. "He's been not okay for a long time. But he's really good at hiding it."
"We noticed." Kuzuha's voice was dry, but not unkind. He set down the spoon and walked over to the island counter, leaning against it. "The way he was trying to help this morning. Getting his own IV. Making breakfast. Acting like everything was normal."
"That's what he does." Seraph's voice came from the kitchen, where he had resumed stirring the rice porridge. He didn't turn around. "He's been doing it for years. Acting like he's fine until his body gives out."
Hibari, who had been silent in the armchair, shifted. His hands were clasped together, knuckles white, and his jaw was tight. "He almost killed himself yesterday," he said, his voice rough. "Not on purpose. But he pushed himself so hard to be useful that his body just—shut down. And he would have kept going if we hadn't been here."
The words settled over the room like ash. Lauren closed her eyes. Rou ran a hand over his face. Kuzuha stared at the floor.
"It's not just the physical stuff," Kanato said, and his voice was steady now, but there was something underneath it—a tremor he couldn't quite hide. "It's his mind. The way he thinks. He's been conditioned to believe that his value comes from what he can do for others. That if he's not useful, he's not worth keeping around."
He paused, his hand still resting on Akira's shoulder. "And the thing is—he doesn't even realize he's doing it. He thinks he's just being helpful. He doesn't see that every time he sacrifices himself, he's digging himself deeper into a hole that's going to be impossible to climb out of."
"That's..." Shō's voice trailed off. He pushed off from the wall, walking over to the kitchen counter, his movements slow and deliberate. "That's not something that goes away with rest. That's something that needs—"
"Therapy," Seraph said, turning off the stove. He set down the ladle and finally turned to face them, his pale eyes sweeping over the room. "He needs professional help. A psychiatrist. Someone who can deal with the trauma he's been carrying since he was a kid."
The word hung in the air like a bell that had been struck, its resonance vibrating through the room. Kanato's friends exchanged glances—surprised, uncertain, but not disagreeing.
"He does," Kanato said, his voice quiet but firm. "I know he does. But getting him to agree to it is going to be—"
"Impossible," Rou finished, his voice flat. "He's too proud. Too used to handling everything himself."
"No." Seraph shook his head, and something in his expression shifted—a weariness, a sadness that seemed to come from somewhere very deep. "It's not pride. It's fear."
He walked over to the couch, stopping a few feet away, looking down at Akira's sleeping form. "He's afraid of what will happen if he stops being useful. He's afraid that if he admits he's broken, we'll see him as a burden. And he's afraid of what the treatment will be like—because every time someone in a white coat has touched him, it's been to hurt him."
The silence that followed was heavier than before, weighted with a truth none of them wanted to sit with.
"You went to therapy," Hibari said, and his voice was soft, almost a question. "After we escaped from SPIA. Right, Seraph?"
Seraph's gaze didn't leave Akira. "I did."
"Why you but not him?" Kuzuha asked, and there was no accusation in his voice, only curiosity. "You were both in the same situation. You both went through the same things."
"Not exactly the same." Seraph finally looked up, meeting Kuzuha's eyes. "I struggled with things people could see. I couldn't socialize. I was hypervigilant. I had panic attacks in public. My aunt noticed, and she found me a therapist she trusted. I had no reason to refuse."
He paused, his jaw tightening. "But Akira—Akira was good at hiding it. He's an intelligence agent. Acting is his specialty. He could walk into any room, talk to anyone, and no one would know he was falling apart inside. So no one noticed. Not even me."
Rou leaned back, his expression thoughtful. "I remember when you first joined the agency," he said slowly. "You were... stiff. Careful. Like you were always measuring the threat level in the room."
"I was," Seraph said, a ghost of a smile flickering across his lips. "I still am, sometimes. But it's better now."
"You've gotten easier to talk to," Lauren added, her voice gentle. "More relaxed. I just thought you were warming up to us."
"That's part of it." Seraph's smile faded. "But the therapy helped. My aunt was right about that."
"So why didn't Akira go?" Kuzuha asked. "If you saw how much it helped you—"
"I didn't see it until it was too late." Seraph's voice was raw, the words scraping out of him. "By the time I started therapy, we'd already been out of SPIA for over a year. And in that year, Akira was fighting just to survive. The drug withdrawal—he was taking double my dosage of performance enhancers for years, did you know that?"
The room went still. Kanato's hand tightened on Akira's shoulder.
"I didn't know that," Kanato said, his voice barely above a whisper.
"Neither did I," Seraph said, "until we escaped and I found out. He'd been doing it since we were kids. Taking my portion so I wouldn't have to."
The weight of those words settled over them like a collapsing ceiling. Hibari made a sound—a low, broken noise, barely human—and pressed his palms against his eyes.
"Fuck," he breathed. "Fuck, Akira."
"He was already struggling to get through each day," Seraph continued, his voice hollow. "He was tired all the time. His body was breaking down. I couldn't—" He stopped, swallowed. "I couldn't ask him to go to therapy on top of that. I couldn't add one more thing to his plate when he was already drowning."
"But you wanted to," Lauren said. It wasn't a question.
Seraph nodded, a single, tight motion. "I wanted to. But I didn't want to hurt him. I didn't want to make him feel like he was broken in a way that couldn't be fixed."
Kuzuha let out a slow breath, running a hand through his hair. "So you just... watched him suffer."
"I helped where I could," Seraph said, and there was no defensiveness in his voice—only a tired, honest sadness. "I held him when he had nightmares. I made sure he ate. I told him I loved him. But I couldn't force him to get help he wasn't ready for. And I couldn't—"
His voice cracked, just slightly. "I couldn't be the one to hurt him again. Even if it was for his own good."
Kanato rose from the couch, careful not to disturb Akira. He crossed the room to stand in front of Seraph, close enough to see the faint tremor in his hands, the tension in his jaw.
"I'll talk to him," Kanato said, his voice low. "When he's ready. I'll find a way to make him understand."
Seraph met his eyes, and for a long moment, neither of them spoke. Then Seraph nodded, a slow, grateful dip of his head.
"Thank you," he said, and the words carried more weight than any of them could fully understand.
---
The afternoon passed in fragments—quiet conversations, the smell of Kuzuha's curry filling the apartment, the distant sound of a video game from the living room where Shō and Rou had started a half-hearted Mario Kart session. Kanato had moved to the guest bedroom with Akira, settling him into the bed with careful hands, adjusting the pillows, making sure he was comfortable before returning to the living room.
Hibari was in the kitchen with Kuzuha now, helping chop vegetables for a side dish, his movements mechanical, his mind clearly elsewhere. Seraph was on the couch, scrolling through his phone, but his eyes kept drifting toward the hallway that led to the bedroom.
"He's okay," Kanato said, dropping onto the couch beside him. "He's resting."
Seraph didn't answer, but some of the tension in his shoulders eased.
"Seraph." Kanato waited until Seraph looked at him. "You did the right thing. All those years. You did the right thing."
"Did I?" Seraph's voice was quiet, almost lost in the noise from the TV. "He almost died. He's been hurting for years, and I just—let him."
"You didn't let him. You stayed." Kanato reached out, resting a hand on Seraph's knee. "You stayed when it would have been easier to look away. You held him when he needed holding. You loved him when he couldn't love himself."
Seraph's jaw tightened, and he looked away, blinking rapidly. "It doesn't feel like enough."
"It never does." Kanato squeezed his knee, then let his hand fall. "But it's going to be enough now. We're going to make it enough."
---
When Akira finally stirred, the light through the curtains had shifted to a warm, golden afternoon glow. Kanato was beside him, sitting cross-legged on the bed with his back against the headboard, doing something on his phone. He looked up when he felt Akira move, and his expression softened.
"Hey, sleepyhead."
Akira blinked, his eyes still heavy with sleep. "Mm..." He tried to sit up, grimacing as his body protested the movement. "What time is it?"
"Almost four." Kanato set his phone aside, reaching out to brush a strand of hair from Akira's forehead. "You've been out for a few hours. How do you feel?"
"Like I got hit by a truck." Akira's voice was rough, but there was a hint of humor in it—the first Kanato had heard in days. He managed a weak smile. "But a little better, actually. The sleep helped."
Kanato smiled back, but there was something in his eyes—a weight, a hesitation. Akira noticed it immediately, his own smile fading.
"What's wrong?"
Kanato hesitated, then reached for a small jar on the nightstand—medical balm, the one the doctor had left for Akira's swollen ankle. "The doctor said I need to do this twice a day. Can I?"
Akira nodded, watching as Kanato unscrewed the lid, the sharp herbal scent filling the small space between them. He shifted on the bed, letting his ankle rest in Kanato's lap, and Kanato began to work the balm into the swollen joint with careful, gentle fingers.
The silence stretched, comfortable at first, then growing heavy with the weight of unspoken words.
"Akira," Kanato said, not looking up, his fingers still moving in slow circles against the bruised skin. "Can I talk to you about something?"
Akira tensed almost imperceptibly. "About what?"
"About getting help." Kanato's voice was careful, measured, like he was navigating a minefield. "Professional help. A doctor—a real one, not just—" He gestured vaguely. "Someone who can help you with the long-term stuff. The physical therapy. The... the trauma."
The silence that followed was sharp, brittle. Akira's body went still, his ankle frozen in Kanato's hands.
"I'm fine," he said, and the words came out flat, automatic. "I don't need—"
"Akira." Kanato looked up, meeting his eyes. "You passed out from exhaustion yesterday. You've been having panic attacks. You can barely walk without pain. This isn't—this isn't something you can just push through."
"I will get better." Akira's voice was tighter now, a defensive edge creeping in. "It's just—this incident was bad. But I'll recover. I always do."
"That's what I'm afraid of." Kanato's voice cracked, just slightly. "That you'll recover enough to keep going, keep pushing, keep sacrificing yourself until one day you don't recover. Until one day you push too far and there's nothing left to save."
Akira looked away, his jaw working. "That's not going to happen."
"You don't know that." Kanato set down the balm, his hands trembling now. "Akira, I'm not—I'm not trying to trap you. I'm not trying to make you feel broken. I'm trying to keep you alive."
"I am alive." Akira's voice rose, a sharp edge cutting through. "I'm right here. I'm talking to you. I'm recovering. Why isn't that enough?"
"Because it's not sustainable!" Kanato's voice came out harsher than he intended, and he saw Akira flinch—a small, instinctive recoil that made something in his chest shatter. He immediately softened, reaching out, his hands open and empty. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—"
Akira was breathing harder now, his eyes bright with something that might have been fear, might have been anger, might have been both. "I don't need a doctor. I don't need a psychiatrist. I need—I just need time. I need to rest. I need—"
"Okay." Kanato's voice was soft now, gentle, the sharp edges filed away. "Okay. I hear you."
He moved closer, slowly, giving Akira time to pull away. When Akira didn't, he wrapped his arms around him, pulling him into a careful, firm embrace.
"I'm sorry I yelled," Kanato murmured against his hair. "I'm sorry. I just—I'm scared, Akira. I'm scared of losing you."
Akira didn't answer, but his hands came up, clutching at the back of Kanato's shirt. His breathing was uneven, stuttering, and Kanato felt the exact moment the fight drained out of him, replaced by a bone-deep weariness.
"I'm not going anywhere," Akira whispered, his voice small, fragile. "I promise. I'm not going anywhere."
Kanato held him tighter, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. "I know. I know. Just—rest, okay? We can talk about this later. When you're stronger."
The words hung in the air, soft and fragile, and Kanato felt Akira's body slowly relax against his—not the limp surrender of sleep, but the gradual unwinding of tension, muscle by muscle, as if the fight was finally draining out of him through the points where their bodies touched.
Kanato didn't move. He kept his arms wrapped around Akira, one hand resting at the nape of his neck, fingers threading through the dark hair there. He could feel Akira's heartbeat against his chest—rapid at first, then slowing, steadying, the rhythm of a man who was finally, finally letting himself rest.
"I'm sorry," Akira whispered against his shoulder, the words barely audible. "I'm sorry I can't—"
"Don't." Kanato's voice was soft, but firm. "Don't apologize. You don't have anything to be sorry for."
Akira's fingers tightened on the back of his shirt. "I keep making things difficult. I keep—"
"Akira." Kanato pulled back just enough to look at him, to meet those dark eyes that were rimmed with red, glassy with exhaustion. "You are not difficult. You are not a burden. You are the person I love, and you are hurting, and that's not your fault."
Akira's breath hitched, a small, broken sound that cut through Kanato like a blade. He opened his mouth to say something, then closed it, his jaw tightening as he fought to keep the tears at bay.
Kanato brushed his thumb across Akira's cheekbone, a feather-light touch. "I'm sorry I yelled. I was scared, and I let it get the better of me. That's on me, not you."
"You were right, though." Akira's voice was barely a whisper. "I can't keep going like this. I know I can't." He closed his eyes, a tear slipping free, tracking a silver line down his cheek. "But I don't know how to stop."
Kanato's chest ached with the weight of those words. He pulled Akira closer, pressing a kiss to his forehead, letting his lips linger against the warm skin. "Then we'll figure it out together. Slowly. One step at a time. You don't have to have all the answers right now."
Akira let out a shaky breath, and Kanato felt the last of the tension leave his body. He sagged against Kanato, his weight becoming heavy, his breathing evening out into the slow, even rhythm of approaching sleep.
Kanato held him through it, murmuring soft reassurances against his hair. "That's it. Just rest. You're safe. You're in Hibari's apartment, and no one can hurt you here. No one's going to punish you for resting. No one's going to force you to do anything you don't want to do."
Akira's hand, still clutching Kanato's shirt, slowly loosened. His breathing grew deeper, more regular, the tension in his jaw finally releasing as sleep claimed him.
Kanato kept murmuring, his voice a low, steady hum. "I've got you, Nagi. You're okay. Just sleep. I'll be right here when you wake up."
The silence that followed was soft, filled only by the sound of Akira's breathing and the distant hum of the apartment. Kanato didn't move. He stayed exactly where he was, holding Akira close, his hand tracing slow, soothing patterns on his back.
And then, just as Akira's consciousness was slipping away, he heard it—a whisper so faint it was almost lost against the fabric of his shirt.
"No doctor..." Akira's voice was slurred with sleep, fragile, the words escaping without his permission. "No medicine... they'll hurt me..." His fingers twitched against Kanato's back. "They always hurt me..."
The words landed like stones in Kanato's chest, each one heavier than the last. He felt his breath catch, his arms tightening around Akira instinctively as the meaning settled over him—cold, sharp, undeniable.
Akira wasn't just afraid of doctors. He had been hurt by them. The people who were supposed to heal him had been the ones who caused his wounds. The white coats, the sterile rooms, the needles and restraints—they weren't symbols of safety. They were symbols of pain.
Kanato pressed his lips together, blinking back the heat that pricked at his eyes. "I know," he whispered, his voice rough. "I know, Akira. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
He held Akira tighter, as if he could shield him from every white coat and cold room that had ever betrayed him. "No one's going to hurt you. Not while I'm here. I promise."
Akira didn't answer. He was already gone, lost to the depths of exhausted sleep, his body finally surrendering to the rest it desperately needed.
Kanato stayed there for a long time, holding him, feeling the steady rhythm of his breathing, counting each rise and fall like a prayer. He didn't hear the soft footsteps in the hallway. Didn't notice the door creak open a crack.
But he knew, somewhere in the back of his mind, that they had heard. All of them. Seraph and Hibari and Kuzuha and the rest. They had heard Akira's confession, small and broken, and they were carrying its weight now too.
---
The morning came grey and quiet, the sky through the curtains a pale, washed-out blue that held no warmth. Kanato had slept in fits and starts, his body sensitive to every shift of the sleeping man in his arms, waking each time Akira stirred or made a sound.
By the time the light had fully settled into the room, he was awake, watching Akira's face as the last traces of sleep slowly released him. His features were relaxed—younger, softer, stripped of the careful masks he wore in waking hours.
Kanato reached out, brushing a strand of hair from Akira's forehead. The fever was gone. His skin was cool, his breathing even. For now, at least, he was stable.
Akira's eyes fluttered open, slow and heavy. He blinked a few times, orienting himself, and then his gaze found Kanato's. For a moment, there was no recognition—just the blank, vulnerable look of someone who didn't yet know where he was.
Then it cleared. "Kanato?"
"Hey." Kanato's voice was gentle. "You're okay. You're in the guest room. You slept through the night."
Akira let out a slow breath, his eyes closing again. "Good. That's... good." He was quiet for a moment, and then: "Seraph?"
"He's still here. He was going to go to the office today, but he wanted to wait until you woke up."
Akira's brow furrowed. "He shouldn't have to—"
"He knows. But he wanted to make sure you were okay first."
Akira was silent for a long moment, processing this. Then he pushed himself up, slowly, grimacing at the protest of his muscles. "I'll talk to him. He should go. It's important work."
Kanato wanted to argue—wanted to tell Akira that nothing was more important than his recovery. But he saw the set of Akira's jaw, the determination in his eyes, and he knew this was a battle he couldn't win right now.
"Okay," he said, helping Akira sit up fully. "But you let him make that choice, alright? You don't pressure him."
Akira nodded, a small, tired motion. "I won't."
---
The conversation with Seraph took place in the kitchen, away from the others. Kanato watched from the doorway as Akira stood across from Seraph, his hands wrapped around a mug of tea that he wasn't drinking.
"I'm fine," Akira was saying, his voice steady but thin. "Hibari and Kanato are here. Kuzuha and the others too. You should go."
Seraph's expression was unreadable. "The meeting can be rescheduled."
"It's with the production team for the new music video. You've been waiting months for this." Akira's voice was patient, calm, the voice of someone who had learned to persuade through gentleness rather than force. "I know you. You'll regret it if you miss it."
Seraph's jaw tightened. He looked at Akira for a long moment, something passing between them—a conversation that didn't need words.
"Fine," he said finally. "But I'm coming back as soon as it's done. And you call me if anything happens."
Akira managed a small smile. "I will."
Seraph reached out, his hand brushing Akira's cheek—a brief, tender touch. Then he turned and walked out of the kitchen, pausing only to exchange a glance with Kanato that said everything words couldn't carry.
---
The apartment was quieter after Seraph left. Kuzuha had taken over the kitchen again, preparing a light breakfast, while Rou and Shō had set up a quiet game in the corner. Lauren was reading on the couch, her presence a calm, grounding force.
Akira had retreated to the guest bedroom to change clothes. He'd insisted on doing it himself, waving off Kanato's offer of help with a small, embarrassed smile. "I'm fine. Just need a minute."
Kanato had let him go, but he was hovering. He couldn't help it. Every instinct in his body was screaming at him to stay close, to keep Akira within arm's reach.
He was standing in the hallway, half-watching Kuzuha chop vegetables, when he heard it.
A crash. Sharp. Sudden. The sound of something heavy hitting the floor.
His heart stopped.
"Akira?"
He was moving before the name had fully left his lips, his feet carrying him down the hallway, his hand slamming against the bedroom door. It swung open, and what he saw made his blood run cold.
Akira was on the floor of the bathroom, pressed against the wall, his knees drawn up to his chest. His shirt was half-unbuttoned, hanging open, and his eyes were wide—terrified, unseeing, staring at something that wasn't in the room.
The mirror above the sink was cracked. A towel rack had been pulled from the wall. Akira's hands were bleeding, small cuts from where he'd gripped the broken ceramic.
He was shaking. Violently. His breath coming in short, sharp gasps that bordered on hyperventilation.
"Akira." Kanato dropped to his knees beside him, his hands hovering, not touching—not yet. "Akira, can you hear me? It's Kanato. You're in Hibari's apartment. You're safe."
Akira didn't respond. His eyes were fixed on the mirror—or rather, on his own reflection, which stared back at him through the fractured glass, fragmented, broken into pieces.
Hibari appeared in the doorway, his face pale, his eyes scanning the scene in an instant. He took in the broken mirror, the bloody hands, the shattered expression on Akira's face—and he moved.
He crossed the room in three long strides, grabbing a towel from the rack—the one that was still attached—and wrapping it around Akira's shoulders. Then another, draped over his head, cocooning him in fabric, in warmth, in safety.
"I've got you," Hibari murmured, his voice low and steady. "I've got you, Akira. You're okay."
He lifted Akira easily, cradling him against his chest, the towels wrapped around him like a protective shell. Akira didn't resist—didn't react at all, his eyes still fixed on some distant point that only he could see.
Hibari carried him out of the bathroom, down the hall, into the guest bedroom. Kanato followed, his heart pounding, his hands trembling.
Kuzuha appeared in the hallway, his face a question mark. Rou and Shō were behind him, their game forgotten. Lauren was already on her feet, her phone in her hand, ready to call for help.
Kanato shook his head, a small, tight motion. "Not yet. Just—give us a minute."
They retreated, but they didn't leave. Kanato could feel their presence in the hallway, a silent wall of concern.
---
In the bedroom, Hibari had laid Akira on the bed, wrapping him in more blankets, building a cocoon of warmth and pressure. Akira was still shaking, still gasping, still lost in whatever nightmare had swallowed him whole.
Kanato climbed onto the bed beside him, carefully, slowly. He wrapped his arms around Akira, pulling him into a tight embrace—deep pressure, grounding, anchoring.
"Akira," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "I need you to come back to me. Can you do that? Can you try to hear my voice?"
Akira's body was rigid, every muscle locked tight. His breath came in ragged, stuttering gasps, and his hands—bleeding, still bleeding—were clenched into fists against Kanato's chest.
"Iyaa..." Akira's voice was a broken whisper, the sound tearing out of him like something being ripped from his chest. "Yamete... Onegai... Mō iyaa..."
Kanato felt his heart crack open. He pulled Akira closer, pressing his cheek against the top of his head, feeling the rapid, panicked flutter of his heartbeat against his own chest.
"Please, Akira," he said, and his voice cracked. He didn't care who heard. "Please... you need to calm down... you're going to give yourself a cardiac arrest..."
Akira didn't respond. He was somewhere else—somewhere dark, somewhere cold, somewhere Kanato couldn't follow.
Hibari moved to the other side of the bed, his hand finding Akira's shoulder, squeezing gently. "Nagi-chan," he said, the name falling from his lips like a prayer. "Nagi-chan, can you hear me? It's Hibari. You're in my apartment. You're safe."
The name hung in the air, soft and desperate. The name only Seraph used. The name that meant trust, safety, love—the name of the person Akira trusted more than anyone in the world.
For a long, agonizing moment, nothing happened.
Then, slowly—painfully slowly—Akira's eyes flickered. The distant, unfocused look began to clear, replaced by a dawning awareness that was almost worse to witness than the dissociation had been.
"Hibari?" Akira's voice was raw, scraped clean. "Kanato?"
"We're here," Kanato said, his voice thick with relief. "We're here, Akira. You're safe."
Akira's hands, still bleeding, found the back of Kanato's shirt. He clutched at the fabric, his grip desperate, and pressed his face against Kanato's shoulder.
The sob that tore out of him was broken, ragged, the sound of someone who had been holding everything together for too long and had finally shattered.
"Kowaii..." Akira's voice was muffled against Kanato's shirt, but the words were clear enough to cut. "Kowai yo, Kanato... Itaii... Mō iyada..."
Kanato held him, rocking gently, his hand tracing slow circles on Akira's back. "I know. I know it's scary. I know it hurts. But you're not alone. You're not alone, Akira. I've got you."
In the hallway, Kuzuha pressed his hand against his mouth. Rou had turned away, his shoulders tight. Shō was staring at the floor, his hands clenched into fists. Lauren had closed her eyes, her lips pressed together in a thin, white line.
They had never heard Kanato sound like that. They had never heard the panic in his voice, the raw, unguarded fear that bled through every word.
And they had never heard Akira cry like that—like a child who had been lost for years and was only now being found.
---
Inside the room, the minutes stretched into an eternity. Akira's sobs slowly quieted, replaced by shuddering breaths and the occasional, involuntary whimper. His body, still trembling, began to relax against Kanato's.
"Seraph is guarding the door," Kanato murmured, the lie falling from his lips with practiced ease. "He's out there. No one can get past him. You're in Hibari's apartment. You're safe."
Akira's grip on his shirt loosened, just slightly. His breathing was evening out, the ragged edges smoothing into something approaching normal.
"No one's going to hurt you," Kanato continued, his voice a low, steady hum. "No one's going to touch you without your permission. You're safe, Nagi. You're safe."
Akira let out a shaky breath, and Kanato felt the last of the tension drain from his body. He sagged against him, his weight heavy, his hands finally releasing their desperate hold on Kanato's shirt.
"I'm sorry," Akira whispered, the words barely audible. "I'm sorry I keep falling apart."
"Don't." Kanato's voice was gentle, but firm. "Don't apologize. You're not falling apart. You're healing. And healing is messy."
Akira didn't answer. His eyes were closing, the exhaustion of the episode finally catching up with him. His body was giving out, the adrenaline fading, leaving behind a bone-deep weariness that would take days to recover from.
Hibari reached out, his hand finding Akira's, threading their fingers together. "Rest," he said softly. "We'll be here when you wake up. I promise."
Akira's lips moved, forming words that were too quiet to hear. But Kanato caught them, just barely, spoken against his skin like a secret.
"Maybe... I should see someone..."
The words hung in the air, fragile and tentative. Kanato's breath caught in his throat, and he exchanged a look with Hibari—a look that held hope, and fear, and a fierce, protective love.
"We'll talk about it," Kanato said softly. "When you're ready. There's no rush."
Akira nodded, a small, barely perceptible motion. And then his eyes closed fully, his body surrendering to sleep, his breathing evening out into the slow, steady rhythm of rest.
Kanato held him for a long time after that, watching the rise and fall of his chest, counting each breath like a gift.
In the hallway, Kuzuha, Rou, Shō, and Lauren stood in silence, the weight of what they had witnessed settling over them. They had seen Akira's strength. They had seen his skill, his competence, his quiet determination.
Now they had seen the cracks. The wounds that had never fully healed. The fear that lived in his bones, waiting to surface.
And they knew, with a certainty that settled deep in their chests, that they would do whatever it took to help him carry it.