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The apartment was quiet except for the occasional rustle of fabric and the slow, steady rhythm of breathing. Kant had his arms draped around Bison’s shoulders, his face buried against his neck, warm and content in the soft glow of the bedside lamp. Bison's fingers traced lazy circles on Kant’s back, their bodies pressed close in the lingering heat of their earlier kisses. It was one of those rare nights where nothing else mattered—just the two of them, tangled up in each other, the world outside forgotten.
Then Kant's phone buzzed on the nightstand, breaking the moment.
Kant groaned but didn’t move right away, nuzzling deeper against Bison instead. “Ignore it,” he mumbled, voice thick with drowsy satisfaction.
Bison huffed a small laugh. “What if it’s important?”
“If it’s important, they can—” Kant froze mid-sentence as the name on the screen caught his eye.
Style.
He shot up instantly, the previous haze of warmth and laziness wiped clean. With a sharp inhale, Kant grabbed the phone and swiped to answer, putting it on speaker without hesitation.
“Style?” His voice was alert, on edge.
For a second, there was only silence—then a shaky breath, followed by a voice that barely sounded like Style at all.
“Kant…” It was raw, strained, like someone speaking through a throat scraped raw from holding back too much. “I—” A sharp inhale. Then, softer, more broken, “I don’t know what to do.”
Bison sat up immediately, his chest tightening. Kant’s grip on the phone turned white-knuckled.
“What happened?” Kant demanded. “Where are you?”
“At home,” Style said, barely above a whisper.
Kant opened his mouth, but then Style kept going, his voice unsteady, thick with something dangerously close to tears.
“He—Fadel—he was drunk,” Style murmured, and just that was enough to make Kant’s expression darken. “He… he hugged me, and I—” A shaky inhale, like he was trying to steady himself but failing. “And then he called me Fluke.”
Silence.
Bison and Kant exchanged a glance, the weight of that name crashing over them like ice-cold water.
Kant’s jaw tightened. “He what?”
“I don’t—I don’t think he meant to,” Style said, voice fragile, like he was trying to convince himself. “He was just—” He cut himself off, exhaling shakily. “…I don’t know what to do.”
Kant was already moving, shoving his legs into his jeans with a force that nearly knocked the bedside table over. “We’re coming,” he said, voice sharp, barely leashed. “Stay put.”
He ended the call before Style could respond, fists trembling at his sides.
“I’m going to break his fucking jaw,” he spat.
Bison caught his wrist, steady but firm. “I'm in, but we focus on Style first,” he reminded, voice low, grounding. “Alright?”
Kant’s breath came out harsh, but he nodded, even as fury rolled off him in waves.
Bison squeezed his hand once before letting go. “Let’s go.”
And without wasting another moment, they were out the door.
****
Kant barely made it two steps inside before he saw Style on the couch, shoulders caved in, head hanging low, hands gripping at his hair like he was trying to hold himself together by force. The second he lifted his head, Kant stopped breathing.
Style looked—wrecked. His lips were parted slightly, breath shallow, his eyes red-rimmed like he’d spent the last hour battling against tears. There was a faint shine at the corners of his lashes, but they hadn’t fallen. Yet.
“Style.”
That was all it took. The second his name left Kant’s mouth, Style broke.
A sharp breath hitched in his throat, and his entire body seemed to crumble in on itself as his hands shot up to cover his face. His shoulders jerked, his chest rising and falling unevenly, and a raw, stifled sound squeezed out between his fingers.
Kant didn’t think. He moved.
He was on the couch in an instant, grabbing onto Style like it was the only thing that mattered. One arm wrapped firm around his back, the other cradling the back of his head as Style shook against him, silent gasps slipping out between clenched teeth.
Bison watched, arms crossed, but his gaze wasn’t sharp like before. It was worried. Style was unraveling right in front of them, his cries slipping out in broken pieces. Bison had never seen him like this.
This wasn’t just heartbreak.
This was a fucking collapse.
Style wasn’t just crying—he was losing it. His fingers curled into the fabric of Kant’s shirt, gripping like a lifeline, and for the first time, he let go. The dam broke. A sharp, choked sob tore from his throat, then another, his entire body jerking with the force of it.
Kant held on. One hand gripped the back of his head, keeping him steady, the other rubbing his back in slow, grounding motions. His own jaw was clenched so tight it ached, because if he let himself feel the full weight of this—of Style breaking apart in his arms—he might actually kill Fadel with his bare hands.
“…Come on,” he murmured, voice hoarse. “Your Pa’s room.”
Style just nodded. He couldn’t even speak.
Kant didn’t let go of him as they stood, guiding him with careful hands. The moment they reached the bed, Style collapsed onto it, curling in on himself, fingers tangling in his own hair like he wanted to tear something out of himself.
And then, between ragged, gasping breaths—Style started talking.
“He didn’t mean it,” he whispered. “I—I know he didn’t mean it.” His chest shuddered as he inhaled sharply, his voice splintering on the words.
His hands clenched into fists. His whole body wouldn’t stop shaking.
“I thought he just—he just needed me, so I let him. I let him because I wanted to be there, I wanted to be what he needed, and then—” His breath came in sharp, short bursts. “Then he called him.”
Kant stiffened. His fingers twitched, fists curling at his sides.
Then, without a word, he stood.
“I’m going to kill him.”
Style’s head snapped up, eyes still wet, breath still uneven. “Kant—”
“No.” Kant’s voice was dangerous. “I don’t care if he was drunk. I don’t care what the fuck his excuse is—”
“Don’t.”
Kant froze.
Style was staring at him, his eyes red and tired, but his voice—it cut through Kant’s rage.
“Not tonight,” he whispered. “I just—” His throat bobbed, his fingers shaking as he wiped at his face. “I need you to be here.”
Kant’s jaw clenched. His fingers flexed at his sides—this isn’t over. But after a long, heavy breath, he forced himself to sit back down.
He turned to Bison. “Hold him.”
Bison blinked. “Hah?”
“Hold him,” Kant repeated, eyes burning. “I need to get him some water. Please, stay with him.”
Bison hesitated for only a second before letting out a slow breath. Then he reached forward, pulling Style toward him, careful but firm. Style didn’t resist. His body was still trembling slightly, but when Bison wrapped an arm around his shoulders, he leaned in.
Kant stood again. “I’ll be back.” But before he left, he lean to land a kiss on Bison. "Please, make sure he’s okay."
And then the door shut behind him, leaving just the two of them.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Then, hoarse and quiet—
“Can you…tell me about Fluke?”
Bison’s fingers twitched against his arm. He let out a slow breath, leaning back against the headboard. “He was Fadel’s first everything.” His voice was steady, but something about it felt heavy. “His first love, his first heartbreak. The only thing he thought he couldn’t live without.” He shifted slightly. “And then he disappeared. Vanished into thin air. No one knows if he’s dead or just ran off. Until yesterday.”
Silence settled again. Then, Bison’s voice dropped, turning sharper.
“But that doesn’t excuse what Fadel did tonight.”
Style tensed slightly.
“I don’t care how much he loved Fluke back then,” Bison muttered. “I don’t care how much he’s hurting right now because of the truth.” His hand on Style’s back slowed, fingers gripping his shirt instead. “What he did? Not fucking okay.”
Style swallowed hard.
“I might be his brother,” Bison said, voice softer now, “but, now, you’re my brother too.” His grip tightened. “And I won’t let this slide.”
A long pause.
Then, barely above a whisper—
“…Do you think he loves me?”
Bison sighed, shifting slightly. His free hand lifted, resting lightly against the back of Style’s head.
“He’d be an idiot not to.”
Style let out a small, shaky breath—almost a laugh. But his fingers curled slightly against Bison’s sleeve, holding on.
“If he didn’t, I wouldn’t be stopping Kant from breaking his nose,” Bison added, voice dry.
Silence. Then—soft, tired—
“…Thanks.”
Bison hummed, “Yeah,” he muttered. “I got you.”
Even after Style stopped asking questions, even after the room fell into silence except for the occasional shaky breath, Bison kept holding on. His arm was strong around Style’s shoulders, his free hand still tracing slow, absentminded circles against his back. The warmth of it, the steady weight, kept Style grounded in a way he hadn’t realized he needed.
But no matter how much Bison tried to soothe him, the ache in Style’s chest wouldn’t fade. It sat there, heavy, the kind of pain that settled deep in the bones, refusing to let go.
He swallowed, blinking against the sting in his eyes. His body still trembled slightly, breath uneven. He felt so fucking tired, but every time he closed his eyes, his mind dragged him back to Fluke. To the way Fadel had said it—so natural, so thoughtless—like it had always been Fluke in his arms, not him.
A quiet sob pushed its way out before he could stop it.
Bison exhaled, shifting slightly to tighten his hold. “Shh,” he murmured, voice softer now, less about anger and more about comfort. He tucked Style’s head against his chest, his hand moving up to cradle the back of it, fingers threading into his hair. “It’s okay.”
Style shook his head, fists curling weakly into Bison’s sleeve. “It’s not.” His voice was hoarse, breaking on the words. “I don’t—I don’t want to be second choice.”
“You’re not,” Bison said, firm, unshakable. “You never were.”
“But—”
“You never were, Style.”
Style sucked in a breath, shuddering. Bison was different from Kant—Kant's hold had been tense with barely contained rage, his grip solid, unwavering. But Bison’s was warm, gentle in a way that wasn’t hesitant. Like he had all the time in the world to just be here with him.
Style’s shoulders shook again. Another sob broke free, muffled against Bison’s shirt.
Bison just held on.
Even when Style’s body curled into itself, pressing closer to the warmth, even when he soaked the fabric of Bison’s sleeve with quiet, hiccuping breaths, Bison didn’t let go. He rested his chin lightly against the top of Style’s head, his own breath steady, grounding.
“Let it out,” he muttered. “I got you.”
And Style did.
The dam broke again, and this time he didn’t try to stop it. The weight in his chest cracked open and spilled out, frustration and sorrow tangled together in quiet, desperate sobs. His grip on Bison’s sleeve stayed tight, like letting go would make everything real again.
Bison stayed through all of it.
And when Kant returned, stepping quietly into the room with a cup of water in hand, he was met with the sight of his boyfriend and brother curled up together on the bed.
Style was curled into Bison’s side, his face tucked against his chest, hands slack against Bison’s sleeve. His breath had evened out, still shaky but softer now, exhaustion finally pulling him under. Bison sat with his back against the headboard, one arm draped protectively around Style’s shoulders, the other still resting lightly against his back. His fingers moved in slow, absentminded strokes, like he had no plans of letting go.
Kant exhaled through his nose, the earlier anger in his eyes dimming slightly. He stepped forward, setting the cup down on the nightstand with a careful clink before sinking onto the edge of the bed.
“He asleep?” he asked quietly.
Bison hummed, low and thoughtful. “Close enough.”
Kant ran a hand down his face, rubbing at his temples. The tension in his shoulders hadn’t fully eased, but seeing Style like this—worn out but safe, curled up against Bison like he had nothing left to fight—kept his rage on a leash. For now.
“This isn’t over,” Kant muttered.
Bison let out a slow breath. “I know.”
Kant watched them for a long moment, then reaching out to brush a stray lock of hair from Style’s face. His fingers barely skimmed his skin, gentle, deliberate. The boy stirred, pressing just a little closer, but didn’t wake. His fingers twitched slightly against Bison’s sleeve before relaxing again.
Kant swallowed. His grip tightened—just for a second—before he pulled away.
Bison watched him for a moment, then shifted slightly. “Come here.”
Kant blinked, but before he could protest, Bison reached out, catching his wrist and tugging him closer. It wasn’t until Kant let himself lean in, pressing against Bison’s other side, that he realized how much he’d needed it too.
“He’s strong,” Bison murmured.
Kant swallowed. “Yeah.”
Silence settled again, warm and heavy. The storm wasn’t over, not by a long shot. But for tonight—for this moment—they stayed right where they were.
Tomorrow.
Tomorrow, they’d deal with Fadel.
But tonight, Style wasn’t alone.