The morning light came soft through the windows of Kanato's apartment, pale gold and tentative, the kind of light that promised heat later but held its breath for now. Akira was still asleep on the couch, curled against Hibari's side, their breathing synchronized in that unconscious way that made something twist gently in Kanato's chest every time he noticed it.
He stood in the kitchen doorway, phone in hand, watching them. Hibari's head had lolled back against the couch cushions, mouth slightly open, one arm draped across Akira's shoulders with the kind of possessive ease that came as naturally to him as breathing. Akira's face was pressed into the curve of Hibari's neck, one hand fisted loosely in the fabric of his shirt, and the tension that usually lived in his jaw was gone. He looked young. He looked peaceful. He looked like someone who hadn't been sold for two million yen at three years old.
Kanato let himself have the moment. Just a breath. Just the sight of them, alive and warm and here.
Then he checked his phone again. The hotel had confirmed the booking — the entire rooftop pool, forty-eight hours, no staff except the one who would set out refreshments and leave. He'd paid for the top suite too, the one with direct pool access, because if Akira was going to spend two hours in the water stretching joints that had been damaged by years of performance enhancers and government-issued disregard, the least he deserved was a nice room to collapse in afterward.
"You're staring."
Kanato looked up. Seraph had appeared beside him, silent as always, a cup of coffee in each hand. He held one out. Kanato took it.
"I'm appreciating," Kanato corrected, taking a sip. The coffee was black, bitter, exactly how he liked it. Seraph had learned that about him years ago, the way he learned everything — quietly, thoroughly, without announcing it.
Seraph's pale eyes tracked to the couch. The barest softening at the corners of his mouth. "He slept through the night."
"First time in a while."
"Hibari helps."
Kanato nodded. It was true. Something about Hibari's warmth, his solidity, his complete lack of pretense — it made Akira's body forget, for a few hours, that it had been trained to stay awake, stay alert, stay ready to run.
"He's going to be sore today," Seraph said. Not a question.
"Arata said the water will help. Takes the weight off the joints." Kanato turned the phone in his hand. "I booked the rooftop pool at the Tokyo Aster. Full privacy, no staff wandering around. Just us."
Seraph considered this. "The others are coming?"
"Kuzuha said he'd drive. Rou and Lauren are meeting us there. Itsuki and Ayato too." Kanato paused. "They want to help. And honestly? They could use the break. We all could."
Seraph said nothing, but his silence had a shape to it — the shape of agreement.
On the couch, Hibari stirred. His arm tightened around Akira, pulling him closer, and he made a sound that was half-groan, half-murmur. "Mmm... 's it morning already...?"
"Past morning," Kanato said, his voice shifting into something lighter, teasing. "Some of us have been awake for hours."
Hibari cracked one eye open. "Some of us are idiots who don't know how to sleep in."
"Some of us have hotel reservations and a pool waiting."
That got Hibari's attention. Both eyes opened. He looked down at Akira, still asleep against him, and his voice dropped, softened. "Akira ne... he gonna be okay with the water? His joints—"
"Arata said it's the best thing for him. The buoyancy takes the pressure off. We're just going to do gentle stretches, nothing extreme." Kanato set his coffee down and walked over, crouching beside the couch. He reached out, brushing a strand of dark hair from Akira's face. "Hey. Akira. Time to wake up."
Akira stirred, a soft sound escaping his throat. His eyes opened slowly, unfocused, and for a moment there was that flicker — the one that still appeared sometimes, the split second of not knowing where he was, who was touching him. Then his gaze found Kanato's face, and the tension bled out.
"...Kanato?" His voice was rough with sleep, deeper than usual. "Nanji...?"
"Kuji mae. Still early. But we've got plans today." Kanato's hand moved from Akira's hair to his cheek, thumb tracing the line of his cheekbone. "Remember the water therapy Arata mentioned?"
Akira blinked, processing. Then a small, tired nod. "Hai... oboeteru."
"I booked the rooftop pool at the Tokyo Aster. The whole thing. Just us and the others." Kanato's thumb swept across Akira's cheek again. "You don't have to do anything you're not comfortable with. We can just float if that's all you want."
Akira's hand came up, catching Kanato's wrist. His grip was weak — he was still half-asleep, still recovering — but the gesture was deliberate. He turned his head slightly, pressing a kiss to Kanato's palm.
"I'll try," he murmured against the skin. "Yatte miru."
Behind Kanato, Seraph made a small sound. Nothing intelligible. Just the shape of a feeling.
And beside Akira, Hibari was grinning — that wide, sunny grin that made him look about twelve years old despite being the oldest of them. "Pool day! Pool day!" He bounced slightly on the couch, jostling Akira, who let out a huff of breath that might have been a laugh. "Kanato, did you bring my swim trunks? The blue ones? The ones that make my legs look good?"
"You own one pair of swim trunks and they're black," Kanato said flatly.
"I own TWO pairs of swim trunks!"
"Both black."
"One has a white stripe!"
"That doesn't count."
From the couch, Akira laughed. It was quiet, barely more than a exhale, but it was real. His eyes had crinkled at the corners, and his hand was still wrapped around Kanato's wrist, and for a moment, the apartment felt full of something other than the weight of the past weeks.
It felt like a beginning.
---
The Tokyo Aster rose against the skyline like a blade of glass and steel, its surface catching the midday sun and throwing it back in shards of white light. The lobby was all marble and muted gold, the kind of quiet luxury that whispered rather than shouted, and the staff moved with the practiced invisibility of people trained to see everything and acknowledge nothing.
Kuzuha parked the car in the underground lot, and they took a private elevator to the rooftop — just the four of them, plus Itsuki and Ayato, who had met them at the lobby. Rou and Lauren were already there, having come separately. The elevator hummed upward, and Akira stood in the corner, his shoulder brushing Seraph's arm, his eyes fixed on the floor numbers as they climbed.
Kanato watched him in the reflection of the polished doors. Akira's jaw was tight, but his breathing was steady. He was doing that thing he did — the thing where he took a moment to assess, to prepare, to brace himself for whatever came next. It was the remnant of his training, the part of him that had learned to survive by never being surprised.
"Hey," Kanato said, quiet enough that only Akira could hear. "If it's too much at any point, we stop. No questions, no pressure."
Akira's eyes lifted to meet his in the reflection. A small nod. "Wakatteru."
The elevator doors opened.
The rooftop pool was everything Kanato had promised. It stretched across the entire level, a vast sheet of turquoise water that reflected the sky, surrounded by lounge chairs and potted palms and low tables bearing trays of fruit and chilled water. The glass railing at the edge made the city below seem distant, almost unreal — a model of Tokyo laid out for their viewing. There was no one else. Just the soft lap of water, the distant hum of the city, and the four of them.
Itsuki let out a low whistle. "Kanato-senpai... this is insane."
"It's just a pool," Kanato said, but he was smiling.
"It's a penthouse rooftop pool at the Tokyo Aster," Ayato corrected, already pulling out his phone to take a picture. "This isn't 'just a pool.' This is the kind of place where diplomats have secret meetings."
"Maybe they do. I just wanted Akira to have nice water."
That landed. Ayato's phone lowered, and he looked at Kanato with an expression that was too knowing, too warm. "Yeah," he said quietly. "I know."
Akira was standing at the edge of the pool, staring at the water. His reflection wavered on the surface, broken by the gentle movement of the current. Seraph stood a step behind him, close enough to catch him if he swayed, far enough to give him space.
"The water's warm," Seraph said. It was not a question. He had already checked, dipping a hand in while everyone was distracted by the view. "Netsu wa tekitou. Kimochi ii."
Akira let out a breath. "Serao... you checked already?"
"Mhm."
"Atashi no katai."
Seraph's mouth twitched. "Un."
Kuzuha had settled into one of the lounge chairs, stretching out with the ease of a cat claiming a sunbeam. "I'm just here to supervise," he announced. "And eat the fruit. Look at this fruit situation." He gestured at the trays. "This is government-level fruit. I don't think I've seen grapes this fat since the New Year's party at the palace."
"You've never been to the palace," Rou said, sitting down beside him.
"I've seen pictures."
Lauren had found the shade, pulling a chair just far enough under the awning to avoid the direct sun. He had a book with him, but he hadn't opened it — his eyes were on the group, watching, cataloging, the way he always did. "So what's the plan?" he asked. "We just float around?"
"Therapy first," Kanato said, already pulling his shirt over his head. "Then float."
Itsuki made a sound that was not quite a word. Because Kanato without his shirt was... a lot. He was fit in the way that came from regular, intentional work — shoulders broad, arms defined, the kind of body that looked like it could handle itself. Which, knowing Kanato's background, it absolutely could.
"Senpai," Itsuki managed, "you could have warned us."
"Warned you about what?" Kanato said innocently.
"About..." Itsuki gestured vaguely at Kanato's entire torso. "...that."
"Don't be dramatic. It's just a body."
"It's a very nice body," Ayato muttered, then immediately looked like he wanted to sink into the ground. "I mean— not that I'm— I'm straight, I swear, I just have eyes—"
Kanato laughed, bright and easy. "I'll take the compliment."
Seraph was already in the water. He had slipped in while everyone was distracted, silent as a shadow, and now stood waist-deep, his pale hair darkened to silver where it touched the water. His body was... substantial. Broader than Kanato, more heavily muscled, the kind of frame that was built for violence and somehow gentled by the way he held himself. He turned to face them, water streaming down his chest, and said, "Akira. Come."
The command was soft. An invitation disguised as instruction.
Akira hesitated. His hands were at his sides, fingers flexing — a tell that Kanato had learned to read. Anxiety. Not about the water, not about Seraph, but about being seen. About taking off his shirt in front of people who had only ever seen him fully clothed or fever-wrecked and unaware.
"You don't have to," Kanato said, stepping closer. "If you want to keep your shirt on, keep it on. The water works either way."
Akira's jaw worked. Then, slowly, he reached for the hem of his shirt. Pulled it up and over his head.
The scars caught the light first. Not because they were prominent — they were old, faded to silver-white against his skin — but because there were so many of them. A constellation of violence mapped across his torso: thin lines from blades, round marks from burns, a thicker scar curving around his ribs where something had cut deep. The incubus mark sat just below his navel, a dark spiral that seemed to pulse faintly, alive beneath the surface.
The silence that followed was not uncomfortable. It was the silence of people who were seeing the truth for the first time, and taking a moment to honor it.
Itsuki was the one who broke it. His voice was rough, but steady. "Akira-san... those must hurt sometimes, ne?"
Akira blinked, as if surprised by the question. Then he nodded, once. "Hai. Tokidoki."
"The water helps?"
"I think so. Arata-sensei said it would."
"Then let's get you in."
Itsuki said it like it was the simplest thing in the world. Like Akira wasn't a former spy with a body full of scars and a past full of horrors. Like he was just a guy who needed some help getting into a pool. And maybe that was the most healing thing anyone could have offered.
Akira's shoulders relaxed, just slightly. He turned to the water, where Seraph waited with patient hands, and stepped in.
The warmth enveloped him immediately, rising up his calves, his thighs, his waist. He let out a breath that was almost a sigh, and Kanato watched the tension bleed from his posture as the water took the weight from his joints.
"Ii?" Seraph asked.
Akira nodded. "Un. Ii."
Kanato slid into the water beside them, positioning himself at Akira's side. "Alright. Let's start with the shoulders. Arms up, slowly. Let me guide you."
---
From the edge of the pool, Kuzuha watched.
He had the kind of face that didn't show much — practiced neutrality, the casual ease of someone who had spent years in front of cameras. But his eyes were sharp, and they missed nothing. He saw the way Kanato's hands hovered before they touched, giving Akira time to prepare. He saw the way Seraph positioned himself just behind Akira, close enough to catch, far enough not to crowd. He saw the way Akira's breath caught at certain angles, the way his jaw tightened when Kanato stretched his arm past a certain point.
"This is hard to watch," Rou said quietly, settling into the chair beside him. "Not because it's bad. Because it's... careful."
"Careful is good," Kuzuha said. "He needs careful."
"I know. It's just..." Rou trailed off, watching Kanato guide Akira through a slow rotation of his shoulder. "I've known Kanato for years. I've never seen him like this. So... patient."
"Love does that."
Rou looked at him. Kuzuha didn't look back, but his mouth quirked.
"What?" Rou said.
"You heard me."
In the pool, Kanato had moved to Akira's other side, working on the left shoulder now. Akira's face was a mask of concentration, breathing through the stretch, his fingers occasionally curling into a fist when the angle pulled at something tender. Seraph's hand was a steady pressure on the small of his back, grounding him.
"I think..." Ayato said slowly, from his seat a few feet away, "I think I understand now. Why they're like this. Why they're so... intense about each other."
"Intense how?" Itsuki asked.
"Like every moment together could be the last one." Ayato's voice was thoughtful. "Like they're not wasting time on being casual."
Lauren, who had finally opened his book but was reading not a word of it, said, "When you've almost lost someone, you stop pretending that time is infinite."
That landed. It settled over them like a mantle, and for a while, nobody spoke. They just watched.
---
"I think that's enough for the upper body," Kanato said, after what felt like an hour but might have been twenty minutes. Time moved differently in the water, slow and liquid. "How do you feel?"
Akira took a moment to answer. His breathing was slightly uneven, his shoulders loose in a way they hadn't been when they started. "Ii... really, really ii."
"Good. Let's take a break."
Kanato guided Akira to the edge of the pool, where the shallow steps made it easy to sit. But Akira's arms were trembling — the combination of the stretch and the effort of keeping himself afloat had drained more of his strength than he'd let on. He tried to hoist himself up onto the edge, and his arms buckled.
"I've got you."
Seraph was there before Akira could fall. His arms wrapped around Akira's waist, lifting him with the kind of easy strength that came from years of training, and he sat Akira on the pool edge like he weighed nothing. Then he climbed out himself, water streaming down his body, and sat beside him.
Akira's head dropped forward, breath coming in short, shallow pulls. "Serao... arigatou."
"Itsumo." Always.
Kanato climbed out on Akira's other side, reaching for the towel Seraph had left on a nearby chair. He dried his hands first — quickly, efficiently — then picked up the plate of fruit and brought it over. "Eat something. You need the energy."
Akira looked at the fruit. Then up at Kanato. There was something in his eyes — too complex to name, too deep to articulate. Gratitude, maybe. Or wonder that this was his life now. That he was being fed grapes by a former mafia heir in a five-star hotel while a former assassin dried his shoulders with a towel.
He opened his mouth. Kanato placed a grape on his tongue. The gesture was so natural, so intimate, that Itsuki had to look away for a moment, his ears burning.
"That's..." Itsuki started, then stopped.
"What?" Ayato said, grinning. "Too much for your fragile straight heart?"
"I'm not— it's not— they're just—" Itsuki sputtered. "They're feeding each other grapes. Like it's a Renaissance painting."
"It's kind of beautiful, though," Ayato said, and his voice had gone soft. "Look at them. Look at how careful they are."
Itsuki looked. Akira was leaning against Kanato now, his head resting on Kanato's shoulder, eyes half-closed. Kanato was feeding him slices of mango, one at a time, his free hand resting on Akira's thigh in a way that was both possessive and tender. Seraph was on Akira's other side, one hand on the back of his neck, thumb tracing slow circles at the base of his skull.
They looked like a painting. Like something out of a story. And Itsuki felt, for a moment, like he was intruding on something sacred.
Then Kanato's phone rang.
The sound broke the spell. Kanato shifted, reaching for it, and his face lit up when he saw the screen. "It's Hibari."
He answered the video call, and Hibari's face appeared on the screen — flushed from band practice, hair even messier than usual, a grin so wide it looked like it might split his face.
"Kanato! Oi, Kanato! Where's Akira? Show me Akira!"
Kanato laughed and turned the phone so Hibari could see. Akira's eyes had opened, and his expression had shifted — the exhaustion was still there, but something else was rising beneath it. Something warm.
"Hibari," he said, and his voice was soft.
"Akira!" Hibari's voice went up an octave. "How's the pool? Is it nice? Are they treating you well? If Kanato's being annoying, I'll come over there and—"
"He's being good," Akira said, and the corners of his mouth lifted. "He fed me grapes."
"He better have! That's the bare minimum!"
"He's feeding me right now, actually. Mango."
"Good mango? Sweet?"
"Very sweet."
Hibari's grin softened into something more tender. "That's good. That's really good. You need to eat, yeah? Build your strength back up."
"I know. I'm trying."
"You're doing so well, Akira. I'm so proud of you."
It was simple. It was honest. And Akira's face did something complicated — his eyes went bright, and he ducked his head, hiding his expression against Kanato's shoulder. But not before everyone saw the way his cheeks had flushed.
"Don't," Akira mumbled against Kanato's skin. "Don't say things like that when I can't hide."
"Why would you want to hide from it?" Hibari asked, genuinely confused. "You're doing amazing. You got out of bed today. You went to a hotel. You got in a pool. Do you know how huge that is?"
"It's just a pool."
"It's not just a pool. It's a pool you didn't have to go into. But you did. Because you're trying." Hibari's voice had gone serious, the playfulness dropping away. "And I see you trying, Akira. We all do. And we're all so fucking proud of you."
Akira's breath hitched. Kanato's arm tightened around him. Seraph's thumb stilled on his neck, then pressed more firmly.
"Hibari," Akira said, and his voice cracked. "Mou... yamete..."
"Never. I'll never stop telling you how amazing you are. Get used to it." And then, because he was Hibari, the grin came back. "Alright, I gotta go — the band's waiting for me. But I'll see you tonight, yeah? Save me some of that pool time."
"I will."
"Love you, Akira."
A pause. Akira's mouth opened, closed, opened again. "Ai... shiteru yo."
Hibari's face lit up like sunrise. "I KNOW. I love you too. Okay bye!"
The call ended. The rooftop was quiet.
Itsuki was staring at the sky, very deliberately not looking at any of them, his face the color of a tomato. Ayato had his hand over his mouth. Even Kuzuha looked slightly affected, his usually neutral expression softened at the edges.
"Okay," Kanato said, clearing his throat. "Break's over. Let's get back in the water."
---
The second half of the session was harder. They focused on Akira's lower body — his knees, his hips, the joints that had taken the worst damage from years of running, jumping, landing wrong. Seraph positioned himself behind Akira, arms wrapped around his chest, holding him steady in the water while Kanato worked on his legs.
"Tell me if it's too much," Kanato said, his voice low and even.
"I will."
"No, I mean it. If you even think about lying to me—"
"Kanato." Akira's voice cut through, patient but firm. "I know. I'll tell you."
Kanato met his eyes. Held them. Then nodded.
He started with the right knee, lifting Akira's leg gently, guiding it through a slow extension. Akira's breath hissed in through his teeth, but he didn't pull away.
"Okay?" Kanato asked.
"Okay. Just... stiff."
"I know. We'll go slow."
From behind Akira, Seraph murmured something — too low for anyone else to hear. But Akira's body responded, relaxing slightly, his head falling back against Seraph's shoulder. It was a gesture of such complete trust that Kuzuha, watching from the edge, felt something twist in his chest.
"They're really something, aren't they?" Lauren said quietly. He had abandoned the pretense of reading altogether.
"Yeah," Kuzuha said. "They really are."
Kanato counted under his breath as he worked. "Ichi... ni... san..." Each count matched a degree of extension, a millimeter of stretch. He stopped at the edge of Akira's tolerance, felt the muscle resist, and held there. His thumb found a knot in Akira's calf, and he pressed gently, working it loose.
Akira gasped. "Soko..."
"I know. Hold on. Just breathe."
Akira's breath came ragged for a moment. His hands found Seraph's arms, gripping them, knuckles white. But he didn't tell Kanato to stop. He breathed through it, and Kanato's thumb kept working, patient and relentless, until the knot released.
On the edge of the pool, Itsuki had forgotten to pretend he wasn't watching. "He's really good at that," he said, almost to himself.
"Kanato?" Rou asked.
"Yeah. He's not rushing. He's not forcing it. He's just... there."
"That's what Akira needs," Rou said. "Someone who's just there. Not trying to fix him. Not trying to save him. Just... there."
---
They did twenty sets. Kanato counted each one, and at the end, Akira was trembling, his entire body vibrating with fatigue. His eyes were half-closed, his head heavy against Seraph's chest, and when Kanato finally released his leg, he let out a sound that was half-relief, half-exhaustion.
"Owari," Kanato said softly. "You did it. You're done."
Akira's response was barely a whisper. "Dekita..."
"Un. Dekita yo."
Seraph shifted, lifting Akira slightly, adjusting his grip to take more of his weight. "Let's get him out."
They moved together — Kanato at Akira's front, Seraph at his back — guiding him to the steps. Akira's legs were like rubber, barely holding him, but with one of them on either side, he made it to the edge. Seraph climbed out first, then reached down to lift Akira out of the water.
Akira's feet touched the pool deck. He took a step. His knees buckled.
"Akira—!"
But Seraph was already moving. His arm caught Akira around the waist before he could hit the ground, pulling him upright, then lifting him fully into his arms. Akira's head lolled against his chest, his eyes already closed, his breathing shallow.
"Is he okay?" Itsuki was on his feet, concern sharp in his voice.
"Just tired," Kanato said. "His body's not used to this much activity. He'll be fine after rest."
Akira stirred, mumbling something against Seraph's chest. His voice was slurred with exhaustion, but Seraph's head bent to catch the words. The others couldn't hear what was said, but Seraph's expression shifted — a gentleness that transformed his usually still face.
He pressed a kiss to the top of Akira's head, then murmured something back. Akira nuzzled deeper into his chest, and his body relaxed completely, surrendered.
"Take him to the room," Kanato said. "I'll be there in a minute."
Seraph nodded, already moving toward the suite door. He paused at the threshold, and his voice carried back over his shoulder, low and private: "Akira felt it. The person behind the bushes. Since an hour ago. But he didn't react — he said he felt safe because I was there."
Then he was gone, the door closing softly behind him.
Kanato stood still for a moment, processing. Then his head turned, slowly, toward the corner of the rooftop where a cluster of decorative bushes created a small, shaded alcove.
"You can come out now," he said, his voice carrying easily across the rooftop. "I know you're there."
The others froze. Itsuki's hand went to his pocket, where he kept a small knife — old habits. Rou and Lauren exchanged glances. Kuzuha rose from his chair, his posture shifting into something more alert.
The bushes rustled. A figure stepped out, brushing leaves from his shoulders, a half-eaten sandwich in one hand.
He was tall, well-dressed in a suit that cost more than most people's rent, with dark hair and a face that was handsome in an understated way. He looked... unbothered. Like he'd been caught doing something mildly embarrassing rather than something suspicious.
"Kanato," he said, with the ease of someone greeting an old friend. "Hisashiburi."
Kanato's expression cracked into a grin. "Ren. What the hell are you doing here?"
---
Ren — full name Ren Suzuki, though he went by his given name with people who mattered — was one of Kanato's old gaming friends from the elite high school where all four Voltaction members had met. He came from money, the kind that ran through generations, and his family owned the very hotel they were standing on.
"I work here now," Ren said, taking another bite of his sandwich. "General manager. And I've been eating lunch on this rooftop for three years. Nobody's ever booked the pool before."
"Didn't mean to crash your lunch spot."
"You didn't crash it. I just hid when I saw you all come up because I didn't want to interrupt." He shrugged. "Then I got invested. That was really beautiful to watch, by the way. The therapy stuff."
Kanato's friends had gathered around, still wary but relaxing as they picked up on the familiar tone between the two men. Kuzuha was the first to speak. "You know this guy?"
"High school friend," Kanato said. "Ren, these are my friends from Voltaction — Kuzuha, Lauren, Rou, Itsuki, Ayato. Guys, this is Ren. We used to stay up until 3 AM playing FPS games and ordering convenience store food."
Ren inclined his head in greeting. "Nice to meet you all. I recognize some of you." His eyes landed on Kuzuha, then Lauren. "You two are huge. Even before I knew Kanato was in Voltaction, I was watching your streams."
"Oh," Kuzuha said, his expression shifting to something pleased. "Well. That's nice to hear."
"And you." Ren's attention moved to the suite door where Seraph had disappeared. "That's Seraph, right? The one with the pink hair? He knew I was here. He felt me watching."
Kanato nodded. "He's got good instincts."
"He didn't say anything. He just... let me watch." Ren's expression was thoughtful. "That's trust. He knew I wasn't a threat, so he didn't make it a problem."
"He also knew you wouldn't be a problem because if you tried anything, he could kill you before you blinked."
Ren laughed. "Fair." He finished his sandwich, crumpling the wrapper, and looked at Kanato with an expression that had softened. "How is Akira, really? I saw the scars. I saw how he moves." His voice dropped. "He was like that in high school too. Always hurting, always hiding it. I used to think it was just... bad genetics or something. But now I know it's not."
Kanato's jaw tightened. "It's a long story. And it's not mine to tell."
Ren nodded, accepting that without pushing. "I get it. But I want you to know... I'm glad he has you. All of you." He looked at the group — at Itsuki and Ayato, who were standing close together, at Kuzuha and Rou and Lauren, who had formed a loose half-circle around Kanato. "He was always good to us. Back in high school. He'd help with homework, cover for us when we were late, make sure we ate when we forgot to. He was like... the mom friend, except he pretended he wasn't."
"That sounds like him," Kanato said, and his voice was fond.
"I used to tell him he was too good for you."
"Everyone says that."
"Because it's true." Ren grinned. "But I'm starting to think you might be good enough for him after all."
"High praise."
"Don't let it go to your head." Ren glanced at the suite door again. "Is he going to be okay? The fall at the end — that looked scary."
"His legs just gave out. The water therapy takes a lot out of him. He'll sleep for a few hours and be better."
"Good. Good." Ren paused. "I know you said it might take years — or decades — for his health to fully recover. But knowing that doesn't make it easier to watch, does it?"
Kanato's expression flickered — a crack in the easy facade. "No. It doesn't."
"But you're not going anywhere."
"No. I'm not."
Ren smiled. It was a genuine smile, warm and sad and proud all at once. "Good. Because Akira deserves someone who stays."
The wind picked up, carrying the distant sound of the city. Itsuki shivered — he was still in his swim trunks, and the temperature was dropping as the sun began its slow descent toward the horizon.
"You should get inside," Ren said. "Before you all catch cold. I'll send up some food from the lounge — late-night snacks, on the house."
"Ren, you don't have to—"
"I want to. Consider it a welcome-back gift. And tell Akira I said hi. Tell him..." Ren paused, searching for the right words. "Tell him I'm glad he's still here."
Kanato held his gaze for a long moment. Then he nodded. "I will."
Ren turned to go, then paused. "Oh, and Kanato?"
"Hm?"
"You have an indoor pool at the Fura mansion. And at your other houses. You know that, right?"
Kanato blinked. "I... yeah. I do."
"So why do you keep booking my hotel?"
The question was light, teasing, but there was genuine curiosity beneath it. Kanato considered his answer.
"The Fura clan territory isn't safe for Akira," he said finally. "My parents accept him, but not everyone in the clan would. And..." He paused. "Akira likes it here. He said the rooftop garden reminds him of a place he saw once, before everything got bad. A place that felt peaceful."
Ren's expression softened. "Then I'll make sure it stays peaceful."
He walked away, disappearing through a service door that led back into the hotel interior. The rooftop felt emptier without him, the silence settling back around them like a familiar weight.
Itsuki let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. "That was..."
"Unexpected," Ayato finished.
"Yeah. That."
Kuzuha was looking at Kanato with a new expression. "He knew Akira in high school. He's seen him struggle for years."
"Yeah."
"And he still cares. After all this time."
Kanato's voice was quiet. "Akira has that effect on people. Once you know him, you don't forget him."
The words hung in the air, true and undeniable. And somewhere in the suite, in a bed that faced the Tokyo skyline, Akira was sleeping — held by Seraph, dreaming of nothing, at peace for the first time in longer than anyone could remember.
Kanato steered them inside with a low laugh that still carried the warmth of Ren's visit, his hand finding the doorframe of the family suite before his eyes had fully adjusted to the dimmer light. The suite unfolded around them—a central living space with plush sofas and muted gold accents, three bedrooms branching off a short hallway, and at the end of that hallway, a door left slightly ajar. Steam curled through the gap, thin and fragrant, carrying the scent of bath salts and clean heat.
Itsuki was already talking, his voice bright with the kind of energy that came from being around Kuzuha and Lauren too long. "So for the tournament, if we drop near the supply bins, we can—"
"No, no, no," Kuzuha cut in, shrugging off his jacket and draping it over a chair. "You don't hot-drop in the first round unless you're trying to throw. We play it tight. Rotate early."
Kanato let the conversation wash over him, his attention splitting. The bathroom door was open. The do-not-disturb sign—a small plastic rectangle—hung from the handle, swaying slightly as if someone had bumped it.
He'd forgotten to mention it.
Rou was still half-turned toward Kanato, gesturing as he talked about a Kraber shot from last season's ranked match. His steps carried him backward, down the hall, his hand reaching for the bathroom door without looking.
"—and the bullet drop on that thing is insane, but if you lead the shot just—"
The door swung open.
Steam billowed out, thick and warm. And through it, Rou saw: the broad curve of Seraph's back, water sluicing over shoulders built for violence, his arms wrapped around a smaller body pressed against his chest. Akira's dark hair was plastered to his skull, his head resting in the hollow of Seraph's throat, eyes half-closed in a state of complete, trusting surrender.
Seraph's hand snapped up. Not in surprise—in protection. His palm covered Akira's chest, shielding him from the intruder's gaze, even as his pale eyes locked onto Rou with a cold, flat recognition that shifted in half a heartbeat to pure, undiluted annoyance.
"Sorry—!"
Rou slammed the door. The sound echoed through the suite, sharp and final.
Silence.
Akira blinked. His body had tensed beneath Seraph's hand, a brief, reflexive coiling that loosened almost immediately. He didn't scream. He didn't flinch into a flashback. He just… waited. Processed. Let the knowledge of what had just happened settle over him like a slow tide.
Then, from behind the closed door, Seraph's voice rose—not loud, but sharp enough to cut glass. "KANATO!"
Kanato winced. "I know. I know, I'm sorry—"
"You didn't *tell* them!"
"I was going to—"
"You were *going to*—" Seraph cut himself off, and the silence that followed was somehow more accusatory than words. Water sloshed as he shifted in the tub. A moment later, his voice came again, lower, calmer, directed at Akira. "Daijoubu?"
A beat. Then Akira's voice, muffled by steam and exhaustion, but steady: "Un. Daijoubu."
Kanato exhaled. He ran a hand through his hair, turning to face his friends, who were frozen in various states of alarm and embarrassment. Rou had pressed himself against the wall as if trying to disappear into it. Itsuki was staring at the ceiling with the intensity of a man trying to ascend through sheer will. Ayato had his hands over his face. Kuzuha was watching the bathroom door with an expression Kanato couldn't quite read—sharp, assessing, concerned.
"I forgot to mention," Kanato said, his voice deliberately light, "that Seraph doesn't lock bathroom doors in hotels. He doesn't trust the locks. So he uses the sign." He gestured at the small plastic rectangle still swaying from the handle. "Which Rou missed."
"I was *talking* to you!" Rou's voice cracked. "You were talking about the *tournament* and I was *looking at you*—"
"I know. My fault. I'll take the hit."
The bathroom door opened again. Seraph stood there, a towel wrapped around his waist, water streaming down his chest. His expression was flat, but the set of his jaw betrayed his irritation. Behind him, steam curled out in lazy tendrils, and through the gap, Akira was visible, still in the tub, his arms folded on the edge, his chin resting on them. He looked exhausted, but there was a small, tired smile on his face.
"It's okay," Akira said, his voice carrying just enough. "It was an accident."
Kuzuha moved before anyone else could. He crossed the room in a few long strides, stopping a respectful distance from the bathroom door, his eyes fixed on Akira's face. "Akira. Are you okay?"
The question was simple, but the weight behind it was enormous. Kuzuha knew. He knew about the recordings. The blackmail. The way Akira's body had been treated like property to be documented and traded. A witness during intimacy wasn't just an embarrassment—it was a trigger wired directly into trauma.
Akira met Kuzuha's gaze. Held it. And then he nodded, slowly, deliberately. "I'm okay. It was just Rou." He paused, as if testing the words in his mouth. "Just Rou. Not a threat."
Something in Kuzuha's shoulders relaxed. "Good. That's… good."
Seraph's hand found Akira's shoulder, squeezing once. Then he turned, grabbing a robe from the hook behind the door and pulling it on with efficient, practiced movements. "I'm taking him to bed," he announced, as if daring anyone to object. "He needs rest."
"Wait—" Itsuki's voice came out strangled. "Wait, before you go—I just—Akira-san, I'm really sorry—"
"It's okay," Akira said again, and this time there was a thread of amusement in his voice. "You didn't see anything. Rou didn't see anything. The steam was too thick." He tilted his head, a ghost of his old dry humor surfacing. "Unless you have x-ray vision, in which case I'm impressed you kept it secret this long."
Itsuki made a sound that was half-laugh, half-relief. "I don't. I swear I don't."
"Then we're fine."
Seraph helped Akira out of the tub, wrapping him in a robe with practiced care. Akira's legs were unsteady, but Seraph's arm around his waist held him steady, and they disappeared into one of the bedrooms without another word. The door clicked shut.
The living room exhaled.
Rou sagged against the wall. "I'm never going to recover from that."
"You'll be fine," Kanato said, already pulling out his phone. "I'll order more food. We'll drink. We'll pretend it didn't happen."
"It *did* happen."
"And we will *pretend*."
Kanato didn’t look up from his phone, his thumbs tapping out an order to room service. “Your trauma is noted. I’ll add it to the bill.”
The suite settled into a fragile quiet, the steam from the bathroom slowly dissipating into the air-conditioned cool. Kuzuha drifted toward the floor-to-ceiling windows, his back to the room, staring out at the Tokyo skyline now lit by a thousand evening lights. He wasn’t seeing the city, though. He was seeing Akira’s face in that steam—calm, unafraid, even amused. Just Rou.
It wasn’t the lack of panic that struck him. It was the trust. Akira hadn’t looked for a threat assessment. He’d looked at Rou, processed him as non-lethal, and dismissed the danger. His safety hadn’t been in the locked door or the sign; it had been in the man holding him. In the knowledge that Seraph’s hand would snap up, that Kanato’s voice would carry, that the threat would be contained before it ever reached him. It was a kind of safety Kuzuha had never considered—not the absence of danger, but the absolute certainty of being shielded from it.
“He’s different,” Kuzuha said, the words soft against the glass.
Behind him, Lauren looked up from his phone. “Who?”
“Akira.” Kuzuha turned, leaning against the window frame. “He used to… calculate. Every person, every room, every exit. Now he just… knows.”
“Knows what?”
“That they won’t let anything happen to him.”
The words hung there, simple and monumental. Itsuki was sitting on the arm of a sofa, his face still flushed, but his eyes were thoughtful. “It’s like he’s… anchored. No matter who’s looking. As long as one of them is there, he believes he’ll be fine.”
Kanato finally put his phone down. “He is fine.”
“Yeah,” Kuzuha said, his gaze drifting toward the closed bedroom door. “I’m starting to see that.”
The food arrived twenty minutes later—a spread of delicate sushi, steaming bowls of ramen, and a platter of fresh fruit that looked like it belonged in a museum. They ate gathered around the low table in the living room, the conversation drifting from the upcoming Apex tournament to a new game Itsuki was obsessed with, the earlier tension dissolving into the easy familiarity of shared meals and competitive banter.
Kanato was in the middle of explaining a new strategy when a soft knock sounded at the suite door. He stood, crossing the room to answer it.
A hotel attendant stood there, holding a silver tray laden with an assortment of beautifully arranged snacks—tiny sandwiches, chocolate-dipped strawberries, delicate pastries. “Compliments of Mr. Suzuki,” the attendant said with a slight bow. “He thought you might enjoy a late-night treat.”
“Ah,” Kanato said, taking the tray. “Tell him thank you.”
The door closed. Kanato turned, tray in hand, and found five pairs of eyes watching him.
“Ren’s too good to us,” Ayato said, already reaching for a strawberry.
Kanato set the tray on the table. Before anyone else could move, the bedroom door opened.
Akira stood there, dressed in soft sweatpants and an oversized hoodie that Kanato recognized as Seraph’s. His dark hair was damp, his face still soft with sleep, but his eyes were clear. He blinked at the spread, then at Kanato, and a small, knowing smile touched his lips.
“Ren sent it,” Akira said, his voice still husky from sleep.
Kanato paused, a sandwich halfway to his mouth. “How did you know?”
Akira shuffled forward, his movements still slow with fatigue. He picked up one of the tiny sandwiches, examining it. “The presentation. It’s his style. The strawberries are cut the way his family’s chef cuts them.” He took a small bite, chewed thoughtfully. “And he always sends food when he’s feeling sentimental.”
Itsuki stared. “You can tell who sent food by how the strawberries are cut?”
“When you’ve eaten enough meals in a place, you learn its fingerprints.” Akira shrugged, as if it were nothing. As if reading a person’s mood through fruit arrangement was a normal skill. He looked at Kanato. “He came to see you today, didn’t he? On the rooftop.”
Kanato’s expression shifted, something warm and pained moving behind his eyes. “Yeah. He did.”
“He’s a good friend.”
“He is.”
Akira finished his sandwich, then took a strawberry. He ate it slowly, his gaze distant, lost in some memory only he could see. The others watched him, this quiet young man standing in an expensive hotel suite, reading a billionaire’s son through pastry, and they felt the gulf between his world and theirs—not a gap of money, but of experience. Of a life where knowing who cut your fruit could mean the difference between a safe meal and a poisoned one.
“You should sleep more,” Kanato said softly, breaking the silence.
“I slept.” Akira’s eyes drifted back to the tray. “This is better.”
He stayed with them for another hour, curled in an armchair with a blanket over his legs, listening to them talk, interjecting occasionally with a dry observation that would make them laugh. He didn’t mention the bathroom again. He didn’t flinch when someone moved too quickly. He just existed among them, a quiet, steady presence, until his eyelids grew heavy and his head began to nod.
Seraph emerged from the bedroom then, his hair tousled, his expression softening when he saw Akira struggling to stay awake. He didn’t say a word. He simply walked over, slid his arms under Akira, and lifted him from the chair as if he weighed nothing. Akira’s head lolled against his shoulder, already asleep again.
“Goodnight,” Seraph said to the room, his voice a low rumble, and carried Akira back to bed.
The door clicked shut. The suite felt larger, emptier without them.
“He’s really going to be okay, isn’t he?” Itsuki asked, his voice small in the quiet.
Kanato looked at the closed door, his face unreadable. “He already is.”
They slept in shifts, the friends sprawled across the suite’s three bedrooms and the large sectional sofa. Kanato took the room with Akira and Seraph, the three of them fitting into the king-sized bed with a practiced ease that spoke of countless nights shared. Kuzuha and Lauren claimed a room, Rou and Itsuki another, and Ayato took the couch with a dramatic sigh that made them all laugh.
The night passed in deep, dreamless quiet.
Morning came filtered through the haze of Tokyo smog, the sky a pale, milky gray. Kanato’s friends had assumed he and Akira would check out early, returning to the rhythm of their lives—streams, meetings, the mundane logistics of existence. So when they emerged from their rooms, showered and dressed, to find Kanato still in a hotel robe and Akira drowsing on the sofa with a cup of tea, there was a collective pause.
“We’re staying another night,” Kanato announced, before anyone could ask. He was scrolling through his phone, one hand absently rubbing Akira’s shoulder. “Seraph has a collab stream today. Akira and I are going to enjoy the amenities.”
“The amenities,” Kuzuha repeated, his eyebrow arched.
“The jacuzzi,” Kanato clarified, a grin spreading across his face. “Akira loves a hot bath.”
Akira, from his nest of blankets, made a soft sound of agreement. He looked better than he had the day before—the exhaustion was still there, a faint shadow beneath his eyes, but the rigid tension in his shoulders had eased. He was leaning into Kanato’s touch, his body loose and pliant.
Seraph emerged from the bedroom then, dressed in his usual dark clothes, his silver-white hair neatly combed. He crossed to Akira, crouched in front of him, and pressed a kiss to his forehead. “Iku,” he murmured. “I’ll be back tonight.”
“Un,” Akira said, his eyes warm. “Gambatte.”
Seraph stood, nodded to the room at large, and left without another word. The suite felt his absence immediately—a subtle shift in the atmosphere, like a guard had stepped away from his post.
Kanato waited until the door clicked shut before he stood, stretching. “Alright. Who wants to join us?”
Itsuki blinked. “In the… jacuzzi?”
“Yes, in the jacuzzi. It’s big enough for all of us.” Kanato’s grin turned wicked. “Unless you’re shy.”
They weren’t shy, exactly. But the idea of sharing a jacuzzi with Kanato and Akira, after yesterday, felt… intimate. Charged in a way they couldn’t name. Still, they followed, towels in hand, as Kanato led them to the private terrace attached to the master suite.
The jacuzzi was a sunken stone bowl, large enough for eight, steam rising from the bubbling water in the cool morning air. The Tokyo skyline stretched around them, a tapestry of steel and glass, the city awake and humming below. Kanato shed his robe, revealing swim trunks beneath, and stepped into the water with a sigh of contentment.
Akira followed more slowly, his movements careful. He kept his robe on until he was at the edge, then let it slide from his shoulders. The scars were still there, silver-white in the morning light, but he didn’t try to hide them. He simply stepped into the water, his breath catching at the heat, and sank down until it lapped at his chest.
Kanato opened his arms. Akira went to him without hesitation, settling between his legs, his back against Kanato’s chest. He turned his head, nuzzling into the curve of Kanato’s neck, and let out a sigh so deep it seemed to come from his bones.
“This feels nice,” Akira murmured, his voice already thick with relaxation.
“Yeah?” Kanato’s hands came up, one carding through Akira’s damp hair, the other resting on his stomach, thumb tracing idle circles over the incubus mark beneath his navel. “Good.”
The steam rose around them in lazy spirals, catching the pale morning light and turning it into something soft, almost dreamlike. Akira's head rested heavier against Kanato's chest, his breathing deepening with each passing minute, the tension that always seemed to live in his shoulders finally, fully released.
"Ii ne..." Akira murmured, his voice low and rough with approaching sleep. It was deeper than usual—that voice that always made people do a double-take when they first heard it, expecting someone older, someone who had lived through more than his twenty-four years should have. But now it carried something rare: contentment. A soft, unguarded happiness that transformed his usually sharp features into something almost boyish. "Kore... hontou ni kimochi ii..."
His body sank deeper into the cradle of Kanato's thighs, the hot water lapping at his chest, his chin dipping toward the surface before he caught himself. His eyes were half-lidded, dark lashes casting shadows on his cheeks, and he looked like he might slip under at any moment—not from danger, but from the sheer weight of his relaxation.
From the opposite side of the jacuzzi, Itsuki had frozen mid-sentence. He was staring at the two of them—at Akira, specifically—with an expression that was caught somewhere between wonder and acute embarrassment. The way Akira had settled against Kanato, the way his body had simply surrendered to the warmth and the touch, the way his scarred chest rose and fell in slow, peaceful rhythms...
"He's... really relaxed," Itsuki managed, his voice coming out strangled.
Ayato, seated beside him, made a sound that wasn't quite a word. His eyes were also fixed on the pair, and his ears had gone red. "Yeah. I can see that."
Akira let out another sigh—long, deep, a sound that seemed to start somewhere in his bones and work its way out through his lungs. "Mmm... koko... sugoi ii ne, Kanato. Hontou ni..."
Kanato's hand moved from Akira's hair to trace the line of his jaw, fingers light, almost reverent. "Yeah? You like it that much?"
"Un..." Akira's eyes were fully closed now, his head lolling back to rest in the hollow of Kanato's shoulder. "Mou... kaeritakunai..."
Kanato laughed, soft and warm. "Then we don't have to."
But Akira was already fading, his breathing evening out, the tension in his hands—even those had relaxed, floating limp on the water's surface—signaling the approach of sleep.
Kuzuha, leaning against the far edge of the jacuzzi with his arms spread along the stone rim, watched the scene with an unreadable expression. But his eyes were soft, softer than they usually were. "He looks peaceful," he said quietly. "I don't think I've ever seen him look that peaceful."
"He hasn't been," Kanato said, his voice dropping. "Not for a long time."
Itsuki swallowed. His gaze kept drifting to Akira's face—the slack features, the parted lips, the way his breathing had slowed to the rhythm of someone truly, deeply asleep. "Kanato-senpai... can I ask something?"
"Sure."
"Does he always... I mean, when he sleeps like this... does he usually—"
"He usually wakes up every two hours. Nightmares. Hypervigilance. Training." Kanato's voice was matter-of-fact, but there was something underneath it—a tenderness he didn't bother to hide. "But lately... it's been getting better."
Ayato's voice was rough. "Because of you?"
Kanato didn't answer. But his hand came up to rest on Akira's stomach again, thumb finding the edge of the incubus mark beneath the water. He traced it once, gently, and Akira made a small sound—not a word, just a syllable of contentment—and pressed closer.
The gesture was so intimate, so casually possessive, that Rou had to look away. His face was burning. "Kanato," he said, his voice strained, "you're going to give me a heart attack."
"What?" Kanato's voice was innocent, but his smile was anything but.
"You know what. That. The way you touch him. The way he responds to it." Rou gestured vaguely at the sleeping figure. "That's not normal levels of intimacy. That's—that's—"
"Years of practice?" Kanato offered.
"I was going to say 'marriage material,' but sure."
Kanato's laugh was quiet, careful not to wake Akira. "We're getting there."
Lauren, who had been silent until now, watched Kanato with sharp eyes. "So when you say 'getting there'... you mean you're planning to officially move in together? All four of you?"
The question hung in the air. Itsuki and Ayato exchanged glances. Rou straightened slightly. Even Kuzuha's attention sharpened.
Kanato's hand stilled on Akira's stomach. His expression didn't change, but there was a beat of silence before he answered. "We've talked about it."
"That's not a no," Lauren said.
"It's not a yes either. Not yet." Kanato's thumb resumed its idle circles. "Akira's apartment is a rental. Mine is owned. Seraph's place is a security nightmare. Hibari's is too small for all of us. We're still figuring out the logistics."
"But you're planning to," Kuzuha said. It wasn't a question.
Kanato's smile was small, private. "One day."
The word carried weight. Itsuki felt something shift in his chest—a recognition, maybe. Of the seriousness of what Kanato was saying. He wasn't talking about a casual arrangement. He was talking about a future. A shared one.
Ayato let out a breath. "Man... you guys are really committed, huh?"
"We are." Kanato's voice was quiet, but certain. "We've been through too much not to be."
Rou was quiet for a moment, then said, "Remember when you bought that Italian couch? The one that costs more than my annual rent?"
Kanato snorted. "That was practical."
"Practical how? It's a couch."
"Hibari's joints." Kanato's voice shifted, losing its teasing edge. "He has old injuries. From before. The floor was too hard, the old couch was too firm, and he was spending more time on the floor playing Mario Kart than he was actually sitting. I needed him to be comfortable."
Itsuki blinked. "You bought a twelve-thousand-dollar couch because Hibari's knee hurt?"
"It was on sale."
"It was twelve thousand dollars."
"Originally it was twenty."
Ayato made a sound like a dying animal. "That's not helping, Kanato-senpai."
But the story settled over them, and Itsuki found himself looking at Kanato differently. He knew the surface—the easy smile, the teasing voice, the way Kanato seemed to float through life like nothing could touch him. But underneath that was something else. Something that noticed when someone was in pain. Something that spent a fortune on a couch because a friend's joint ached.
And now he was talking about a jacuzzi. In their apartment. Their shared apartment. A future he was already building in his head.
In the water, Akira stirred. His eyes didn't open, but his lips moved, forming words that were barely audible. "Ooku-sugiru yo... ano jakuji..."
Kanato's hand paused. "Hm?"
"Jakuji... oite mo... tsukaeru no wa... getsu ni nikai dake..." Akira's voice was a mumble, thick with sleep, but the logic was there, stubborn even in unconsciousness. "Muda ni naru..."
Itsuki stared. "Is he... arguing about the jacuzzi? In his sleep?"
Kanato's expression had softened into something unbearably tender. "He's always like this. Even half-asleep, he's thinking about practical things." He leaned down, his lips brushing Akira's temple. "Akira. I know it's big. But you love hot baths."
"...furo de juubun..." Akira's nose scrunched slightly, the ghost of a pout on his sleeping face. "Koko ni kureba ii... onsen ni iku ka..."
"But you hate public baths. And you hate when there are other people around when you're trying to relax." Kanato's voice was gentle, teasing. "Remember the last time we tried to go to a spa? You spent the whole time with your back to the wall, watching the door."
One of Akira's eyes cracked open. Just a sliver, dark and hazy with sleep. "...koko wa daijoubu da kara..."
"Because Ren owns it?"
Akira made a small sound of agreement. His eye closed again. "Anshin dekiru..."
Kanato's breath caught. Just barely—a hitch so small that only someone watching closely would notice. But Itsuki noticed. And Kuzuha noticed. And the way Kanato's arm tightened around Akira, pulling him closer, said more than any words could.
"You really like it here, huh?" Kanato's voice was soft, almost wondering.
Akira didn't answer. His breathing had evened out again, slipping back into the depths of sleep.
Kanato held him. His hand resumed its gentle tracing, but slower now, more deliberate. "We could come back here as much as you want," he murmured, more to himself than to Akira. "If you want a deep soak every day, we could just... put one in. At home."
Akira stirred. His voice came again, barely a whisper, but clear. "Jikan ga nai yo... mainichi furo ni Hairu no wa muri da..." His lips curved, just slightly. "Demo... ii ne... sou iu no..."
"Sou iu no?" Kanato prompted.
"...yume mitai..." Akira's hand, floating on the water, moved until his fingers brushed Kanato's wrist. "Jakuji ga aru heya... issho ni sumu... yume mitai..."
Kanato went still.
The silence stretched. Itsuki felt like he was intruding on something too private to witness, but he couldn't look away. Akira's face was peaceful, his hand loosely curled around Kanato's wrist, and he was mumbling about dreams. About a jacuzzi. About a home.
Then Kanato's voice came, rough around the edges. "We'll make it happen. When you hit one million subscribers, we'll find a bigger place. Install whatever you want."
It was a joke. Or it was supposed to be. But the way Kanato's voice caught made it sound like a promise.
Akira's laugh was quiet, barely more than an exhale. "Jaa... nannen kakaru ka na..."
"It doesn't matter how long it takes."
There was a pause. Then Akira's voice, softer still: "Sou da ne... jaa... watashi no ichi-mannen kinen wa... jakuji paatii da ne..."
And then he was asleep. Truly, completely asleep, his breathing evening into the slow rhythm of deep rest, his body a dead weight against Kanato's chest.
Kanato didn't move. His arms tightened around Akira, pulling him impossibly closer, and he pressed his face into Akira's damp hair. His shoulders shook once. Twice.
Itsuki's heart stopped.
"Kanato-senpai?" Itsuki's voice was careful, uncertain. "Are you... are you okay?"
Kanato let out a sound—half laugh, half something wet. "I'm fine. I'm fine, I just..." He pulled back slightly, his hand coming up to brush Akira's hair away from his face. The gesture was gentle, almost reverent. "I just remembered something."
Kuzuha leaned forward, his eyes sharp. "What?"
Kanato was quiet for a long moment. The water bubbled around them, steam rising, the city humming below. When he spoke, his voice was low, stripped of its usual easy charm.
"Years ago. We came here for Golden Week. Our last year of high school. The four of us, just... running away for a few days." His thumb traced Akira's cheekbone, feather-light. "I asked him the same thing. Joked about getting a jacuzzi for our dorm."
A pause. Kanato's voice cracked.
"He said the same thing. That it was a waste of space. That he didn't need it." Another pause. "I told him we'd find a place after graduation. Big enough for all of us. Big enough so Seraph didn't have to fold his legs to fit in the tub."
Itsuki felt a chill run down his spine. "What did he say?"
Kanato's jaw tightened. "He said... he'd think about it. If he survived until graduation."
The words landed like stones.
Ayato's face went pale. "He said if?"
"He was in a bad place back then." Kanato's voice was barely above a whisper. "He was coming off the performance enhancers. His body was falling apart. Every week, a new problem. Every month, a new scar. Arata told me—" He stopped. Swallowed. "Arata told me to be grateful that he was still alive. That it would be a miracle if he made it through high school."
The jacuzzi seemed to grow colder.
Rou's voice was hoarse. "Did Seraph know? Hibari?"
Kanato shook his head. "I never told them. I didn't know how." His hand tightened on Akira's shoulder. "But Akira knew. He knew how bad it was. And he still... he still said if. Like it was a real possibility that he wouldn't make it."
Itsuki felt his eyes sting. He blinked rapidly, staring at the steam rising from the water. "But he's here now."
"He's here now." Kanato's voice broke on the last word. "And he's talking about one million subscribers. About jacuzzi parties. About years from now. He's not saying if anymore."
No one spoke.
The water bubbled. The city hummed. And Akira slept, peaceful and warm, his hand still loosely curled around Kanato's wrist.
Ayato was the first to move. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, then let out a shaky breath. "I'm going to call my mom tonight."
"Yeah," Itsuki said, his voice thick. "Me too."
Kuzuha said nothing. But his hand found Lauren's shoulder, squeezing once, and Lauren leaned into the touch without a word.
Kanato held Akira through it all. His face was wet, but he wasn't hiding it anymore. He pressed his lips to Akira's hair, to his temple, to the corner of his jaw, each kiss a promise written against skin.
"I'm here," he whispered. "We're all here. And we're not going anywhere."
Akira stirred. His eyes didn't open, but his lips moved, forming a single word: "...okay..."
And Kanato laughed—wet and raw and real—and held him tighter.