The fluorescent lights hummed their low, electric hymn over the empty studio, casting the same pale glow it always did—the kind that made everyone look slightly washed out, slightly tired, no matter how much sleep they'd had. Kanato leaned back in his gaming chair, the leather cool through his shirt, and stretched his arms above his head until his shoulders cracked.
"And that's game," he said, his voice carrying that easy, post-stream lilt. He rolled his neck, glancing at the monitor where the victory screen bloomed in neon colors. "Good rounds, everyone. Really good rounds."
Lauren let out a theatrical groan from the seat beside him, long legs stretched out, his head tipped back. "Good rounds for you, maybe. I swear your aim has gotten sharper. Or you've been cheating. One of the two."
"I don't cheat. I'm just talented." Kanato grinned, reaching for his water bottle. "You're just getting old, Lauren-san."
"Oi, oi, I'm only a few years older than you."
"And yet, the gap widens."
Rou laughed from his corner, a low, relaxed sound. He was still scrolling through the post-game stats, his expression thoughtful. "To be fair, Lauren-san, Kanato was locked in today. I think he's been practicing without us."
"Absolutely," Kanato said, not missing a beat. "I have a reputation to maintain."
Sho, who had been quiet for most of the banter, finally set his controller down with a soft click. His voice, as always, was deceptively soft, the sharpness hidden beneath a patient surface. "If you're so talented, KNT, maybe you can explain why you pushed alone into that crossfire in round three."
Kanato's grin faltered for exactly half a second. "That was… a tactical decision."
"It was suicide," Sho said, his tone flat, but a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. "We had to bail you out."
"It was a *distraction*."
"It was stupid," Lauren said, still grinning. "But it was fun to watch."
The room settled into that comfortable silence that followed a good session—the kind where no one wanted to move, where the adrenaline was still fading, and the conversation could drift wherever it pleased. The air smelled of faint sweat and electronics, the clean burn of a well-used PC.
Kanato was about to suggest lunch when the door slid open.
Seraph stepped in, and the room shifted. It always did when he entered—not because he was loud, but because he was the opposite. His presence was a gravity, a stillness that pulled attention whether he wanted it or not. His silver-white hair caught the light, and his pale eyes swept the room in a single, efficient scan before landing on Kanato.
"You're done," Seraph said. It wasn't a question.
"Just finished," Kanato said, straightening in his chair. "What's up?"
"Lunch. The cafeteria has katsudon today."
Lauren perked up. "Katsudon? I could be convinced."
"I wasn't asking you," Seraph said, his voice flat, but there was a thread of dry humor in it that made Rou snort.
"He's learning," Rou said, standing and stretching. "He's making friends."
"I tolerate you," Seraph corrected. He looked at Kanato. "Coming?"
"Yeah, yeah. Let me shut this down." Kanato began the process of closing out his stream, the familiar rhythm of it a comfort. Behind him, his friends were already gathering their things, the banter continuing in a low, easy hum.
"You know," Lauren said, slinging his bag over his shoulder, "it's nice to see Seraph being social. Last year, he would've just texted 'food' and walked away."
"He's growing," Kanato said, a warmth in his chest. "They're all growing."
The walk to the cafeteria was a slow procession of familiar hallways, the carpet slightly damp from the morning cleaning crew, the air carrying the scent of coffee and printer toner. Other talents passed them, nodding greetings, the occasional "good stream" thrown their way. It was normal. It was routine.
It was almost enough to make Kanato forget the weight that had settled into his bones over the past few weeks. The worry. The fear. The constant, low-grade vigilance that came with loving someone who had been broken in ways that still weren't fully mapped.
But then their manager appeared, rounding the corner with a clipboard in hand and a slightly harried expression.
"Kanato! Seraph! Perfect. I was just looking for you."
Kanato slowed. "What's going on?"
The manager's face lit up with that particular energy—the kind that meant a new project, a new opportunity, something that required *excitement*. "We just got an invitation. An exclusive promotional event. Big names, big exposure. Voltaction's been selected."
Kanato felt Seraph go still beside him. Not visibly—no one else would have noticed—but Kanato felt it. The subtle tension in his shoulders. The way his breathing slowed.
"That's great," Kanato said, because it was expected. "What's the catch?"
"No catch! Well—" The manager pulled two folded pieces of fabric from his pocket. "There's a concept. The event organizers want a surprise reveal. They want you to wear these on the way there."
He held them out.
Eye masks. Sleek, black, professional-looking. The kind that blocked all light.
Kanato stared at them.
The fluorescent hum seemed to grow louder.
"It's a branding thing," the manager continued, oblivious. "The location is a secret, and the blindfold concept adds to the mystique. You'll be driven there, and when you arrive, you take them off and—surprise. The cameras will be rolling for a reaction shot."
Seraph's voice cut through the air, quiet and sharp. "Where is Akira?"
The manager blinked. "He's—well, I already found him. He's waiting in the prep room. I told him to stand by while I rounded up the rest of you."
"Which room?" Seraph's tone hadn't changed, but something in the air had. The casual warmth of the hallway was draining away like water through a crack.
"The green room on the third floor. But—" The manager held up the eye masks. "You need to put these on before we—"
"Seraph." Kanato's own voice surprised him. It was steady, but there was an edge beneath it, a blade wrapped in silk. "Can I talk to you for a second?"
Seraph's eyes met his. A silent conversation passed between them, one that needed no words. They had both seen Akira's file. They had both heard the nightmares. They both knew what a blindfold meant to him.
*It's stupid, I know.*
Kanato's memory flickered, dragging him back to a night he had tried to forget, a confession that had carved itself into his ribs.
*It's stupid, I know.*
Akira’s voice, soft and embarrassed, floating in the dark of Kanato’s bedroom after the first time. The smell of sex still hanging in the air, a musk that had made Kanato’s head swim. Akira had been lying on his back, staring at the ceiling, the incubus mark beneath his stomach a faint, fading glow.
*I can sleep with the lights off. I don’t mind the dark. If you tell me to close my eyes, I’ll close them. But if something covers them…*
A hand over his eyes during a playful moment in the kitchen. A towel tossed too carelessly over his face after a shower. Akira had flinched, every time. A full-body recoil, quick and sharp, followed by a forced laugh, an apology, a change of subject.
*It’s not the dark. It’s the… covering. The feeling of something pressed there. They’d put… cloth, or tape, or sometimes just a hand, you know? Before they’d…*
He hadn’t finished. He hadn’t needed to. Kanato had seen the rest in the file. Photographs he wished he could unsee. A boy, eight years old, eyes bound before the needles went in. A teenager, fifteen, a strip of fabric over his eyes before they cut into his throat. A young man, nineteen, a blindfold secured before they handed him off to a target.
*It means something’s coming that you don’t get to see. Something you don’t get to stop.*
The memory landed in Kanato’s gut like a stone.
“Which room?” Seraph asked again, his voice a low, controlled blade.
The manager blinked, confused by the shift in atmosphere. “The green room. Third floor. But the concept—”
“Take us there,” Kanato said, and his voice wasn’t easygoing anymore. It was the voice he used when he was no longer asking. The one that had made men in his father’s organization go pale.
“Kanato-san, the event—”
“Is canceled.”
The word hung in the fluorescent-lit hallway, absolute. Behind him, Kanato felt Lauren, Rou, and Sho go still. They were watching, their earlier laughter gone, replaced by a wary, confused silence.
“Canceled?” The manager’s face drained of color. “You can’t just—it’s a major sponsor. The logistics—”
Seraph took a step forward. Just one. It was enough. “Where is Akira?”
Something in Seraph’s posture—the stillness, the way his hands hung loose at his sides, the cold clarity in his pale eyes—made the manager swallow. “I… Green room. 305.”
Seraph was moving before the number fully left the man’s mouth. Kanato fell into step beside him, a silent, urgent shadow. The manager scrambled after them, still clutching the eye masks.
“Wait, you can’t—the protocol—”
“Fuck the protocol,” Kanato said, without looking back.
Their friends followed, a tense, confused procession. Lauren’s long strides ate up the distance, his playful demeanor gone, replaced by a sharp focus. Rou kept pace, his expression serious, his eyes darting between Kanato and Seraph’s backs. Sho brought up the rear, his soft voice cutting through the manager’s flustered protests.
“Something’s wrong,” Sho said, not a question.
“Yeah,” Rou murmured. “Something’s really wrong.”
The elevator ride to the third floor was silent except for the soft mechanical whir. Kanato watched the numbers light up, his heart a hammer against his ribs. He replayed the morning in his head. Akira had seemed… okay. Tired, but okay. He’d kissed Kanato goodbye at the door, a soft, lingering press of lips. He’d promised to meet them later. He’d been smiling.
The doors slid open.
The hallway to room 305 felt endless, the corporate beige walls closing in. Kanato’s breath hitched when he saw the door was slightly ajar.
Seraph reached it first. He pushed it open.
The room was small, windowless, lit by the same relentless fluorescents. A single couch sat against one wall, a low table in front of it. And on that couch, perfectly still, sat Akira.
He was dressed in the casual clothes he’d worn that morning—dark jeans, a simple gray button-up. His posture was rigidly correct, hands folded in his lap, back straight. He was looking straight ahead at the blank wall opposite him.
And over his eyes was a sleek, black eye mask.
Kanato’s stomach dropped.
Akira didn’t turn toward the sound of the door. He didn’t move at all. He just sat there, a beautiful, still statue, waiting for an order that hadn’t come.
“Akira,” Kanato breathed.
No response.
Seraph took a step into the room. “Nagi-chan.”
Still nothing. Akira’s chest rose and fell in a slow, measured rhythm. Too slow. The kind of breathing you did when you were trying not to panic.
Lauren stopped in the doorway, his tall frame blocking some of the light. Rou peered over his shoulder, his face pale. Sho slipped past them, his sharp eyes taking in the scene—the mask, the stillness, the terrifying obedience.
Kanato approached slowly, his footsteps silent on the carpet. “Akira. It’s us.”
He reached out, his hand hovering just above Akira’s shoulder, the fabric of his shirt. He didn’t want to startle him. He just needed to touch him, to let him know he was safe.
His fingers brushed the cotton.
Akira flinched.
It wasn’t a small movement. It was a violent, full-body recoil, a lurch away from the contact as if burned. The calm facade shattered like glass.
A sound tore from his throat—a raw, choked scream that didn’t sound like him. It was too high, too thin, shredded with a terror that turned the air in the room to ice.
“Iaa!!”
Kanato jerked his hand back as if stung. His heart stopped.
Akira was scrambling backward on the couch, his hands flying up to claw at the eye mask, but his fingers only brushed it, trembling too hard to get purchase. He was gasping, his chest heaving, tears already streaking from beneath the black fabric, carving wet paths down his pale cheeks.
“Stop—please, stop—don’t touch me—” The words were a ragged whisper, then a sob. “Let me go—let me rest—I can’t—I can’t anymore—”
His voice. God, his voice. That deep, comforting baritone that could calm a room was gone, replaced by this broken, hoarse thing, thick with tears and a fear so profound it made Kanato’s own lungs seize.
Behind him, Lauren made a small, pained noise. Rou took a sharp inhale. Sho went perfectly still, his eyes wide.
Akira tried to stand. His legs gave out immediately, buckling beneath him. He crumpled to the floor with a soft thud, but he didn’t stop. He pushed himself backward, crab-walking across the carpet until his back hit the far wall, cornered. His hands flew to the collar of his shirt, clutching the fabric, the buttons, as if someone was about to rip it open.
“No more—please, no more—” he begged, his head shaking, the words dissolving into incoherent, whispered Japanese, pleas for mercy that no one in that room had ever had to give.
Kanato stood frozen, his hand still outstretched. Every instinct screamed to go to him, to hold him, to tear that fucking mask off his face. But the terror in Akira’s body was a living thing, a wall of thorns. His touch had caused this. His touch had thrown him back into whatever hell he was seeing.
“Akira,” Kanato tried, his voice cracking. “It’s me. It’s Kanato. You’re safe. You’re at the office.”
Akira didn’t hear him. He was curled into a ball now, knees drawn to his chest, face hidden against them, his shoulders shaking with silent, violent sobs. The sound of his crying was muffled, desperate, the sound of someone who had learned long ago not to make noise.
Lauren took a step forward, his face a mask of horrified sympathy. “Jesus Christ,” he whispered.
Rou’s hand shot out, grabbing Lauren’s arm. “Don’t,” he murmured, his voice tight. “He doesn’t know it’s you.”
Sho just stared, his usual sharp wit utterly extinguished, replaced by a sick, dawning understanding. He looked from Akira’s trembling form to the black eye mask on the floor where it had fallen during his scramble, then to Kanato’s stricken face. His lips pressed into a thin, bloodless line.
Kanato’s mind was racing, a white-noise panic. He had to do something. He had to fix this. But every move felt like the wrong move. Every word felt like a trigger.
Then Seraph moved.
He didn’t rush. He didn’t speak loudly. He simply walked across the room, his steps slow and deliberate, and knelt on the carpet a few feet from where Akira was curled. He didn’t reach out. He just knelt there, a steady, silent presence.
“Nagi-chan,” he said, and his voice was so soft, so familiar, it cut through the static in Kanato’s head.
Akira flinched again, but less violently. His crying hitched.
“Nagi-chan,” Seraph repeated, the nickname a gentle anchor in the storm. “Can you hear me?”
A ragged breath. A tiny, almost imperceptible nod against his knees.
Kanato felt a sob claw its way up his own throat. He bit it back, his nails digging into his palms.
Seraph waited, patient as stone. “I’m going to take the mask off. Okay? I need you to tell me if that’s okay.”
Silence. The only sound was Akira’s choked breathing, the hum of the lights, the distant murmur of the office building beyond the door.
Slowly, so slowly, Akira uncurled just enough to lift his head. The eye mask was askew, one eye partially visible beneath it, red-rimmed and swimming with tears. He blinked, disoriented, his gaze unfocused, searching the room without seeing.
He was looking for Seraph. Even in this, even shattered, he was looking for the one voice he trusted without question.
“Serao…?” The name was a shattered whisper, so hoarse it was barely audible.
Kanato’s heart broke clean in two.
*He knows him*, Kanato thought, a desperate, grateful ache. *Even now, he knows him.*
“Yeah,” Seraph said, his voice impossibly gentle. “It’s me. I’m here. Can I take it off?”
Akira stared—or seemed to stare, his vision still blocked. His lips moved, soundless, as his panic-slowed brain tried to process the question. Trust versus terror. The present versus the past.
He gave a small, jerky nod.
Seraph’s hands moved, slow and deliberate. He didn’t grab. He didn’t pull. His fingers found the edges of the mask, his touch so light it might have been a breath. He lifted it away.
The fluorescent light hit Akira’s face, and he screwed his eyes shut against the sudden brightness. Tears tracked freely down his cheeks, catching in the dark lashes, dripping onto his shirt. He blinked, rapid, disoriented, his pupils dilated wide.
And then his eyes found Seraph.
The change was instantaneous. The rigid terror in his shoulders didn’t vanish, but it softened, just a fraction. The frantic, gasping breaths evened out into something more like crying, less like drowning. He was still trembling, still curled tight, but his gaze locked onto Seraph’s face as if it were the only solid thing in a world that had tipped sideways.
“Mo… owatta no?” Akira whispered, the words slurred with exhaustion and fear.
*Is it over?*
The question, so small, so hopeful, landed in the silent room like a physical blow. Rou flinched. Lauren looked away, his jaw tight. Sho closed his eyes for a second, a muscle ticking in his cheek.
Seraph didn’t answer with words. He just opened his arms.
Akira stared at him for another heartbeat, his lower lip trembling. Then the last of his resistance crumbled. He didn’t crawl. He didn’t stand. He just fell forward, collapsing into Seraph’s chest with a shuddering, broken sigh.
Seraph caught him, wrapping his arms around him, pulling him close. He buried his face in Akira’s hair, his own eyes squeezed shut. “It’s over,” he murmured into the dark strands, his voice rough. “You’re safe. No one’s going to touch you. I’ve got you.”
Akira’s hands clutched at the back of Seraph’s shirt, his fingers twisting into the fabric. He was crying properly now, silent sobs that shook his entire frame, his face pressed hard against Seraph’s shoulder. The sound was muffled, private, the sound of a relief so profound it hurt.
Kanato watched, his own eyes burning. He wanted to go to them. He wanted to wrap his arms around both of them and never let go. But he stayed rooted to the spot, knowing his presence, his touch, had been the trigger. The guilt was a cold, heavy stone in his gut.
Lauren shifted beside him, his voice low. “KNT,” he whispered. “What… what the hell was that?”
Kanato couldn’t answer. He just shook his head, his throat too tight.
The manager, who had been hovering near the door, pale and silent, finally found his voice. “I… I’m so sorry, I had no idea—he said it was fine, he didn’t say—”
“He wouldn’t,” Kanato said, the words coming out flat, drained of all emotion. “He wouldn’t say no. Even if he was terrified. He’d just sit there and wait.”
The manager’s face crumpled with understanding, and with a fresh wave of guilt. “The event… I’ll cancel it. I’ll handle everything.”
“You do that,” Kanato said, not looking at him. His eyes were on Akira, on the way Seraph was rocking him gently, murmuring things too low to hear.
“I’ll… I’ll reschedule. Or find another unit. I’m so sorry.”
Kanato just nodded, his attention already elsewhere. He took a careful step forward, then another, until he was standing just behind Seraph. He didn’t reach out. He just stood there, a silent sentinel, watching as the tremors in Akira’s body slowly began to subside.
“Let’s get you home,” Seraph whispered against Akira’s temple.
Akira mumbled something, his voice thick and muffled against Seraph’s shoulder.
Seraph went very still. He leaned closer, listening. Then he closed his eyes, a pained expression crossing his face.
“What did he say?” Kanato asked softly.
Seraph opened his eyes. They were bleak. “‘Kairitai,’” he repeated, the word a soft exhale. “He wants to go home.”
The plea, so simple, so devastating, hung in the air. Kanato felt something inside him fracture. He looked at Sho, Rou, Lauren. Their faces were a mirror of his own horror. This was the man who made them coffee after long streams. Who listened patiently to their complaints. Who smiled with that quiet, steady warmth that made everyone feel seen. This broken, trembling thing in Seraph’s arms was the same person.
“We’re going,” Kanato said, his voice finding a strength he didn’t feel. “Now.”
Seraph nodded. He shifted, preparing to stand, but Akira’s grip tightened, a silent plea. Seraph understood. He stayed kneeling, holding him, murmuring quiet promises into his hair. “I’ll take you home. I’ll protect you. You’re safe. I’ve got you.”
He repeated the words like a mantra, a steady, rhythmic reassurance until Akira’s breathing finally evened out, his body going limp with exhaustion. The stress, the panic, the sheer emotional drain had pulled him under. His eyes fluttered closed, his head lolling against Seraph’s chest.
Seraph waited a full minute, two, making sure he was truly asleep. Then, with infinite care, he shrugged out of his jacket and draped it over Akira’s shoulders. He slid one arm under Akira’s knees, the other around his back, and stood in a single, smooth motion, cradling him against his chest.
Akira didn’t stir. He was out cold, his face pale and tear-streaked, his lashes dark against his cheeks.
Kanato moved then, stepping forward to open the door, holding it wide. Seraph carried Akira through, his steps measured and sure. The manager scrambled out of the way, his face still pale with shock.
Lauren, Rou, and Sho fell into step behind them, a silent escort through the empty hallway. No one spoke. The only sounds were their footsteps on the carpet and the distant echo of their own breathing.
In the elevator, Kanato finally looked at his friends. Their expressions were a mixture of shock, sorrow, and a dawning, grim comprehension. They had seen the cracks before—the way Akira sometimes went quiet, the way he flinched at sudden movements, the nightmares Kanato had alluded to in vague terms. But they had never seen the foundation give way. They had never seen him like this.
“Kanato,” Rou said softly, as the elevator descended. “Is he… will he be okay?”
Kanato looked at Akira’s sleeping face, nestled against Seraph’s shoulder. “I don’t know,” he said, and it was the truth. A terrible, hollow truth.
The doors opened to the basement parking garage, cool and dim after the bright office lights. And there, leaning against the side of their car, phone in hand, was Hibari.
He looked up as they approached, a smile starting on his face—a smile that died the second he saw Seraph carrying Akira, saw Kanato’s expression, saw the silent, grim procession behind them.
His purple eyes widened. “What happened?”
“Get the door,” Seraph said, his voice leaving no room for questions.
Hibari moved without another word, yanking the car door open. Seraph carefully slid into the back seat, still holding Akira, arranging him so his head rested in his lap. Kanato got in on the other side, his hand automatically reaching to brush the hair from Akira’s forehead.
Hibari looked at Lauren, Rou, and Sho, who had stopped a few feet away. “You guys…?”
“We’re coming,” Lauren said, his voice firm. “If that’s okay.”
Kanato met his gaze through the open door. He saw no pity there, only a fierce, protective determination. He nodded. “Yeah. Get in.”
They piled into the car, the silence heavy but not uncomfortable. It was a silence of shared witness, of a line crossed together. Hibari started the engine, his hands tight on the wheel, his eyes constantly flicking to the rearview mirror, to Akira’s still form.
As they pulled out of the parking garage and into the gray afternoon light, Kanato looked down at Akira’s sleeping face. The tear tracks had dried, leaving faint salty trails on his skin. In sleep, he looked younger, vulnerable in a way he never allowed himself to be awake.
Kanato’s hand found Akira’s, where it lay limp on the seat between them. He laced their fingers together, his thumb stroking over the knuckles. Akira’s hand was cold.
He didn’t let go. Not once during the entire drive home.