The morning light filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Kanato's apartment, casting long pale rectangles across the concrete floor. The leather couch sat empty, the kitchen counter clean, the whole space holding a silence that felt wrong — too still, too heavy for a day when practice was scheduled.

"He said to come in without knocking, right?" Rou's voice was low as he pushed the door open, stepping inside with the bag of takeout swinging from his fingers. "Said the bell might wake Akira."

Sho followed close behind, his sharp eyes scanning the living room. "Kanato?"

Nothing. The apartment answered with the hum of the refrigerator and the distant tick of a clock.

Lauren stepped past them both, his gaze sweeping the empty couch, the dark monitor, the closed bedroom door. "He said he'd leave the door unlocked."

"It was unlocked." Kuzuha came last, easing the door shut behind him. The soft click sounded too loud in the stillness.

They stood in the living room, four men holding bags of food and the weight of an expectation that had already curdled into something else. The apartment was clean — too clean, the way spaces get when someone has spent the night not sleeping. A half-empty glass of water on the coffee table. A phone face-down beside it. Kanato's jacket draped over the armchair, the one he wore yesterday. Still there. Still here.

"Maybe he's in the bathroom," Sho offered, but his voice didn't believe it.

Rou set the food on the kitchen counter and pulled out his phone. "I'll call him."

The ringtone came from the bedroom. Muffled. Close. They heard it ring four times before it stopped — no pick-up. No movement from beyond the door.

"Kanato-san?" Rou's voice carried toward the bedroom, pitched to travel without shouting. "We're here. You awake?"

Silence.

Lauren moved first, crossing to the bedroom door. He knocked — three sharp raps that cut through the quiet. "Kanato. It's Lauren. We're here for practice."

Nothing. Not even the rustle of sheets.

Kuzuha felt something cold settle in his chest. He'd seen Kanato sleep through alarms before, but never like this — never with the apartment this quiet, never with the door locked and the phone unanswered. "Try again."

Lauren knocked harder. "Kanato!"

Still nothing.

Sho was already moving toward the door, his quick mind connecting dots that made his stomach tighten. "Open it."

"It's his bedroom—"

"Open it, Lauren."

Lauren's hand found the handle. It turned. The door swung open with a soft groan, and the morning light from the living room spilled into the dim space beyond.

And then they saw.

The bed was a wreck — sheets twisted, pillows pushed to the edges, the duvet bunched around two bodies in a tangle of limbs and exhaustion. Kanato lay on his back, one arm draped over his face, the other stretched across the mattress where it met Akira's hip. The blanket had slipped dangerously low on Kanato's waist, bunched at his hips in a way that left his bare chest exposed, the muscles of his torso catching the dim light with the sheen of old sweat. Akira was curled against him, face pressed into Kanato's shoulder, one hand splayed across his chest, the duvet barely covering the curve of his spine.

Both of them were naked. The blanket was the only thing between the scene and full exposure, and it hung on Kanato's body like a dare.

For a moment, no one moved.

The room held its breath, and so did they.

*Oh.* The thought came from somewhere distant in Sho's mind, detached and strange. *Oh, this is real.*

He'd known. Of course he'd known. They all had. The hints had been everywhere — Kanato's jacket on Akira's shoulders, Akira's hand finding Kanato's sleeve in the cafeteria, the way they sat together during breaks with a closeness that went beyond friendship. But knowing and *seeing* were different. Knowing was an idea. Seeing was the wet wipes packet on the nightstand, the empty plate with traces of chocolate mousse, the lube bottle beside it, the clothes scattered across the floor — Kanato's shirt, Akira's pants, a sock half-hidden under the chair. The small bucket of water with a soft cloth draped over its edge, still damp, still holding the ghost of the cleanliness it had been used for.

Rou felt heat crawl up his neck. His brain was doing something he couldn't stop — painting the picture the room refused to complete. The chocolate mousse. Kanato's favorite. He'd eaten it, and then he'd— no. Stop. He forced the image down, but it kept rising. The wet cloth. Kanato cleaning Akira up, gentle, thorough, the kind of care that spoke of routine and tenderness. The lube. The way Kanato's hand rested on Akira's hip even in sleep, possessive and protective at once.

Lauren's throat was tight. He opened his mouth to say something — what, he didn't know — and closed it again. The scene in front of him was beautiful in a way that made him feel like an intruder. The way Akira's fingers curled against Kanato's chest, the way Kanato's arm had found its way around him even in unconsciousness, the way their breathing had synced into a rhythm that seemed to say *this is where we belong.*

"Kanato." Kuzuha's voice was quiet, but it carried. He was the only one who hadn't frozen. His eyes were fixed on Kanato's face, watching for any sign of movement. "Kanato, wake up."

The body on the bed didn't stir.

Something shifted in Kuzuha's expression. "He's not responding."

"He's just tired," Rou said, but his voice wavered. "He said Akira's been feeding—"

"He's not responding." Kuzuha stepped forward, crossing the threshold into the room. "Kanato."

Sho's hand found his arm. "We shouldn't—"

"He's not waking up, Sho." Kuzuha's voice was calm, but there was an edge beneath it, the kind that came from knowing what exhaustion looked like when it crossed into danger. "Something's wrong."

Rou moved before he could think, crossing to the other side of the bed. "Kanato-san. Can you hear me?"

Nothing. Not a twitch. Not a breath that changed rhythm.

"I'm going to touch him," Rou said, more to himself than the others. His hand reached out, hesitated, then settled on Kanato's bare shoulder. Warm. Too warm. "Kanato-san."

The moment his palm made contact, the air changed.

Akira's body went rigid against Kanato's. His hand on Kanato's chest curled into a fist, nails digging into skin, and his eyes flew open — dark, wild, unfocused, the eyes of a soldier yanked from a nightmare straight into a war zone. He didn't see Rou. He didn't see the room. He saw a threat, and his body responded before his mind caught up.

A sound tore from his throat. Not a scream — something rawer, a gasp of shock and fear that cut through the silence like a blade.

The movement that followed was so fast it blurred.

Kanato's arm swept Akira behind him, his body rolling to shield, the blanket falling away as he rose. One hand pressed Akira back against the mattress while the other — the other was already moving, reaching under the pillow, finding the cold weight he'd placed there hours ago. The gun came up in a motion so smooth it looked rehearsed, the barrel leveling at the doorway where Sho, Lauren, and Kuzuha stood frozen.

"*Get out.*"

The words came out in a snarl, Kanato's voice stripped of every trace of the easygoing man they knew. His eyes were sharp, dangerous, the amber darkened to something almost black, and his finger was on the trigger — not squeezing, but ready.

Lauren's blood turned to ice. The gun was pointed at him. *At him.* He could see down the barrel, could see the dark circle that meant death, and for one endless second he couldn't breathe, couldn't move, couldn't do anything but stand there and wait for the bullet that didn't come.

"Kanato!" Rou's voice cut through from the side. He had his hands up, palms open. "It's us. It's Rou. It's Lauren and Sho and Kuzuha. We came for practice. You said to come in. Remember?"

Kanato's eyes flicked to him. The gun stayed up.

"We called your name," Rou continued, his voice steady even though his heart was slamming against his ribs. "You didn't wake up. We got worried. That's all. We just wanted to check on you."

Sho had already grabbed Lauren's arm, pulling him back toward the door. "We're leaving," he said, his voice controlled. "We're closing the door. Just—"

"*Wait.*"

Kanato's voice cracked. The snarl was gone, replaced by something fragile. The gun wavered, then lowered, then dropped to the bed as if the strength had left his arm. His free hand was already reaching behind him, finding Akira's shoulder, feeling the tremors that ran through the smaller man's body.

"Akira." Kanato's voice broke. "Akira, it's okay. Look at me. Look at me, baby."

From the bed, Akira made a sound — a choked, ragged inhale that turned into a cough. His breathing was too fast, too shallow, his chest heaving as he tried to pull air into lungs that had forgotten how.

"He's panicking," Kuzuha said from the doorway. His voice was quiet, clinical, the voice of someone who had seen panic attacks before. "Kanato. His breathing."

"I know." Kanato had already turned, his body curving around Akira's, one hand on his cheek, the other splayed across his chest. "I know. Listen to me. Feel my hand. Can you feel it?"

Akira's hand shot up, grabbing Kanato's wrist. His grip was desperate, his nails leaving crescents in Kanato's skin.

"Good," Kanato said, his voice dropping to something soft, something private. "That's good. Now breathe with me. In. Hold it. Out. Come on, Akira. You know this."

The door clicked shut. Rou had pulled it closed, giving them privacy, but the walls were thin, and the silence was absolute.

Lauren leaned against the living room wall, his hand pressed to his chest. "He pointed a gun at me." His voice was hollow, not angry — just stunned. "He *pointed a gun at me.*"

"He didn't recognize us," Sho said. He was pacing, his quick mind already processing, filing, categorizing. "He was still half-asleep. He saw a threat and he reacted."

"That's—" Lauren stopped. Took a breath. "That's not normal."

"None of this is normal." Rou's voice was quiet. He was staring at the closed door, his expression unreadable. "We knew that. We've always known that."

Kuzuha said nothing. He was listening — to the muffled sounds from beyond the door, to Kanato's voice rising and falling in that low, steady rhythm, to the gasps that slowly, painfully, began to even out.

"—Seraph is safe." Kanato's voice leaked through the wood, clearer now that Akira's breathing had quieted. "He's in Nagoya. He called last night, remember? He said the concert went well. He's coming back tomorrow. Seraph is *safe.*"

A pause. Then Akira's voice, thin and hoarse: "Promise?"

"I promise. I swear it. On my life."

Another pause. Longer this time.

Lauren closed his eyes. The fear had faded, replaced by something heavier — a shame that crept up his spine and settled in his chest. They'd walked in on something private. Something fragile. And they'd broken it.

"He called him 'baby,'" Sho said. His voice was strange, almost wondering. "Kanato called Akira 'baby.'"

"Don't." Lauren's voice was sharp. "Don't make it weird."

"I'm not making it weird. I'm just—" Sho stopped. "I've never heard Kanato talk like that. To anyone."

Rou sat down on the couch, his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands. "We should have knocked."

"The door was unlocked," Kuzuha said. He was still standing, still watching the door. "And we did knock. He didn't answer."

"We should have knocked *harder.*"

From the bedroom, the sounds had settled. Akira's breathing was slow, even — the breathing of someone falling asleep, or passing out. Kanato's voice had dropped to a murmur, too low to make out words, just the rhythm of reassurance.

Minutes passed. Five. Ten. The silence in the living room grew heavy, pressing down on them, filling the space between breaths.

Then the bedroom door opened.

Kanato stood in the doorway, barefoot, wearing only a pair of sweatpants that hung low on his hips. His chest was bare, and the light from the living room caught the marks on his skin — scratches down his back, a bite mark on his shoulder, bruises on his ribs where fingers had gripped too hard. His hair was a mess, his face pale, his eyes shadowed with exhaustion and something that looked like guilt.

For a moment, no one spoke.

Lauren's brain short-circuited. He saw the marks — *saw* them — and immediately wished he hadn't. Because now his imagination had *fuel.* The scratches, the bite, the bruises — they told a story he had no business knowing, and his mind filled in the gaps with images that made heat crawl up his neck.

Kanato's jaw tightened. He took a step forward, then another, and then he stopped in front of them and bowed — a deep, formal bow, the kind that meant more than words.

"I'm sorry." His voice was hoarse. "I'm sorry. That should never have happened. I should have—" He stopped. Swallowed. "I'm sorry."

Rou was on his feet. "Kanato, stop."

"I pointed a gun at you. At *you.* You're my friends. You came here to help me, and I—" Kanato's voice cracked. "I don't even remember doing it. I just—I heard Akira and I—"

"Kanato." Sho's voice was firm. "Sit down."

Kanato blinked. "What?"

"You look like you're about to collapse. Sit down, drink some water, and *then* you can apologize."

Lauren was already moving, grabbing a bottle from the kitchen and pressing it into Kanato's hand. "Drink."

Kanato stared at the bottle for a moment, then obeyed, sinking onto the edge of the couch. He took a sip. Then another. His hand was trembling.

Rou sat down beside him, not touching, just present. "Take your time."

The silence stretched. Kanato stared at the bottle in his hands, his thumb tracing the cap in a nervous, repetitive motion.

"Akira's asleep," he said finally. "He was having a nightmare. About Seraph. About the day Seraph got shot." His voice was quiet, flat, the voice of someone reporting facts because feelings were too much. "He woke up in a panic. Thought someone was coming to—" He stopped. "He asked me to make sure no one could get in."

Kuzuha leaned against the wall, his arms crossed. "That's why the gun was under your pillow."

Kanato nodded. "I usually keep it in the bedside drawer. But he was so scared, and I needed him to feel safe, so I—" He ran a hand through his hair, a nervous gesture that left it standing on end. "I put it there. To show him nothing would get past me."

"And the one under Akira's pillow?" Kuzuha's voice was quiet, careful.

Kanato's hands stilled. "How did you—"

"You said nothing would get past you. But you also said Akira was scared. He wouldn't feel safe unless he had his own."

A long pause. Then Kanato's shoulders sagged. "It's empty. They're both empty. I took the bullets out before I put them there. I'm not—I would never—" His voice rose, frantic. "I would never hurt any of you. You know that, right? I would *never*—"

"We know." Lauren's voice was soft. He'd moved to sit on the arm of the couch beside Kanato, close enough to be a presence but far enough not to crowd. "We know, Kanato."

"I'm so sorry." Kanato's voice broke. "I'm sorry. You came here to practice. I was supposed to have everything ready. And instead you had to see—" He gestured vaguely toward the bedroom, his face flushing. "That."

Rou's lips twitched. "The chocolate mousse was a nice touch."

Kanato stared at him. Then, against all odds, a laugh escaped him — ragged, half-choked, but real. "Shut up."

"I'm just saying. Romantic."

"I hate you."

"No, you don't."

Some of the tension cracked. Sho let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. Lauren's shoulders dropped from their defensive hunch. Kuzuha's expression softened by a fraction.

"Okay," Rou said, his voice shifting to something more practical. "So here's what's going to happen. We're going to eat the food we brought, because it's good and we're hungry and you look like you haven't eaten in days. Then we're going to figure out the stream situation. And then—" He paused. "Then maybe you're going to tell us what's really going on."

Kanato's jaw tightened. But he nodded.

The food was laid out on the coffee table — bento boxes and side dishes from the good place near Rou's apartment, the one that used fresh ingredients and didn't skimp on portions. Kanato picked at his food, taking small bites, his eyes distant.

"He's been having nightmares for three days," Kanato said eventually. His voice was low, directed at the rice in his box. "Ever since Seraph left for the concert tour. He doesn't tell me — he tries to hide it. But I can feel him wake up. I can hear his breathing change."

Lauren set down his chopsticks. "The anniversary of the shooting?"

Kanato nodded. "The same day. Seraph almost died. Akira watched him flatline on the operating table. He was nineteen years old, and he watched the person he loved most in the world die, and then he had to beg the people who did it to let Seraph live."

The words landed like stones in still water.

"The feeding last night was supposed to help," Kanato continued. "It usually does. After we're together, he sleeps deeply. But he used up too much energy during the nightmare, and I—" He paused, his hand going to his chest as if checking his own heartbeat. "I gave him everything I had. I didn't realize how much until I woke up."

"You passed out," Sho said. It wasn't a question.

"I think so. I don't remember falling asleep. I just remember being so tired, and then—" He gestured vaguely. "Nothing."

Rou leaned forward. "You need to eat more."

"I know."

"No, I mean it. You're shaking. You're pale. You're running on empty, Kanato. You can't take care of Akira if you collapse."

Kanato's hand tightened on his chopsticks. "I know." His voice was tighter now. "I know, okay? I'm trying."

Sho reached across the table and pushed a piece of grilled fish toward him. "Then try harder. Eat."

For a moment, something flickered in Kanato's eyes — irritation, maybe, or the edge of a defense. But then it faded, and he picked up the fish and took a bite.

The conversation shifted after that. Lighter topics — the tournament schedule, the other teams they'd be facing, the new map that everyone hated. Kanato participated, but his responses were slow, his attention always drifting toward the bedroom door.

It was Kuzuha who finally asked the question that had been sitting in the air since the gun came out.

"Why do you keep a gun in your nightstand?"

The table went quiet.

Kanato set down his chopsticks. "You really want to know?"

"I want to understand." Kuzuha's voice was even. "I'm not judging. I'm asking."

Kanato was silent for a long moment. Then he leaned back, his hand moving to rub the back of his neck.

"I was fourteen the first time someone tried to kill me," he said. His voice was flat, matter-of-fact. "It was a rival clan. They sent someone to my school. I only survived because my driver had been in the military and he took the bullet instead."

Lauren's face went pale. "Kanato—"

"The second time was when I was sixteen. They used a car bomb. I wasn't in the car — my father had called me out of it five minutes before it went off. I never knew if he'd been tipped off, or if it was just luck." Kanato's eyes were distant. "The third time was my own cousin. He tried to poison me at a family dinner. I was seventeen."

No one spoke.

"After that, I started keeping a gun in my room. It made me feel safer. Even after I left the clan, even after I faked my death and came here, I couldn't stop." He looked up, meeting Kuzuha's eyes. "Habit. That's all it is. A habit I can't shake."

Kuzuha held his gaze. "And Akira?"

"Akira keeps one in his drawer too. It's empty. He says it helps him sleep." Kanato's voice softened. "He'd rather get hurt than hurt someone else. So he keeps it unloaded. But he needs it there."

"And Seraph?" Rou asked.

Kanato let out a dry laugh. "Seraph is the dangerous one. He keeps his loaded. Safety off. And he has a knife under his pillow."

"A knife?"

"A foldable one. Custom-made. Black diamond blade — no metal, so it doesn't trigger airport security. Akira gave it to him years ago." Kanato's smile was faint. "It's the most expensive thing Akira's ever bought. He spent almost his entire savings on it because he found out Seraph was carrying around a cheap butterfly knife that kept breaking."

The image was startling — Akira, the quiet one, the one who flinched at sudden movements, the one who needed to be wrapped in blankets and held through the night, spending his savings on a weapon for the man he loved.

"That's..." Lauren started, then stopped. "That's actually really sweet."

"It's Akira," Kanato said simply. "That's just who he is."

The conversation drifted after that. They finished eating, packed away the leftovers, and started setting up for the stream. Rou and Sho offered to help Kanato with his PC setup, adjusting cables and checking the audio levels while Lauren and Kuzuha tested the cameras.

It was only when Kanato disappeared into the bedroom to check on Akira that Rou let out a long breath.

"That was a lot," he said quietly.

Sho nodded. "He's carrying more than he lets on."

"They all are." Lauren's voice was soft. "All four of them. They all act like it's normal, but it's not. None of it is normal."

Kuzuha was quiet, his eyes on the bedroom door. "He loves him, though."

The others turned to look at him.

"Kanato," Kuzuha said. "He loves Akira. That's not an act. That's not a performance. He *loves* him." He paused. "It's the best thing I've ever seen."

The bedroom door opened. Kanato came out, dressed now in a loose shirt and jeans, Akira bundled in his arms — wrapped in the duvet, his face pressed against Kanato's neck, his breathing slow and even.

"He woke up," Kanato said quietly. "He didn't want to be alone."

Rou's expression softened. "Of course. Put him on the big couch — we'll keep the volume low."

Kanato laid Akira down on the largest couch, adjusting the duvet around him. Then he reached for something on the armchair — a long red coat, unmistakably Seraph's, the one with the high collar and the dramatic cut — and draped it over Akira's blanket.

Akira's hand found the edge of the coat, pulling it closer, and his face relaxed into something almost peaceful.

"I'll take a quick shower," Kanato said. "Then we can start."

He was gone for ten minutes. The apartment was quiet, save for the soft sound of Akira's breathing and the distant hum of traffic below.

Rou looked at the sleeping figure on the couch — the way Akira's fingers curled around Seraph's coat, the way his body had relaxed into the familiar scent, the way he looked small and young and fragile despite everything he'd survived.

"He's going to be okay," Rou said quietly. "They all are."

Lauren nodded. "They have each other. That's more than most people get."

And when Kanato returned, hair still damp, eyes still tired but clearer than before, and sat down at his PC with a quiet "ready when you are," the four of them fell into the familiar rhythm of practice, letting the game fill the space that words couldn't reach.