Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Hey! Welcome to this Beyblade Burst one shot collection — I'm really glad you're here. Before we jump into the actual stories, I want to take a moment to explain how this whole thing works.

This book is meant to be interactive. That means every one shot you'll find here is based on your ideas. You, as the reader, get to choose what you want to see. Whether it's a ship between two characters, a certain genre or emotion, a dramatic setting, or even a surprise plot twist — you decide the direction, and I'll turn it into a story.

You can request anything you'd like, as long as it's not a "x reader" format. Ships between characters are totally fine — canon, rare, or even crack ships. You're also free to choose the tone or genre. Want something full of angst? Go for it. Prefer fluff, drama, action, or humor? That works too. You can also choose the setting — it can take place in the canon world, after a specific event in the anime, or even something completely different like an alternate universe. And if you want to get super specific, you can even suggest how long or short you'd like the story to be.

If you have a fun or shocking plot twist in mind, you're welcome to include it in your request. But if you want the twist to stay a secret so other readers can try to figure it out while reading, you can message me privately on Discord. I'll add it to the story without mentioning who came up with it, and let everyone else try to guess what the twist was!

To make a request, just leave a comment on this chapter. You can use a simple format if that helps you organize your idea — like writing out the ship, the genre, the setting, the twist, and anything else you want included. But if you prefer just writing a few sentences explaining what you want, that's fine too. The important part is that I understand the general direction you'd like the story to go.

I'll try to get to every request, but depending on how many I receive, it might take a bit of time. So please be patient with me — I want to give each one shot the attention it deserves. Also, just a heads up: I might adjust your idea slightly while writing if I need to for pacing, character consistency, or flow. But I'll always try to stay as close to your original request as possible.

If you want to keep your plot twist private, feel free to DM me on Discord or Instagram instead of including it in your comment.
My Discord is: l1losh

Or my instagram is: l1losh.6

That's pretty much it! I'm so excited to see what kinds of ideas you all come up with. Whether it's emotional, chaotic, romantic, or intense, I'll do my best to bring it to life and make it something worth reading.

So go ahead — send me your request, and let's make something awesome together. Let it rip!

Chapter Text

The tension in the corridor was palpable before I even saw him. Shu Kurenai stood outside Chamber 7, hands clasped loosely behind his back, his trademark red‑eye mask absent. His hair was freshly trimmed but sorely needed a cut—his trademark bangs brushing his eyes like a curtain. In his posture there was both steel and delicate fragility, coexisting like two halves of a broken promise.

I'm Dr. Ayane Ren, neural systems specialist on the Requiem Project, and I watched him from the observation window with a mixture of fascination and dread. Earlier, I'd reviewed the footage of his battle with Lui Shirosagi—his blade ripping through the ice and fire of that arena, the moment the red gleam went out in his eye, the mask shattered. Not just his weapon had broken that day—it felt like a part of his identity had died.

He moved slowly, measured, but I could see the tremor in his fists. He was here for one reason: to break himself again and rebuild, to reclaim his place and, if the experiment held, surpass Lui.

Behind me stood Ashtem—dressed in tailored businesswear, confidence radiating like an aura. He, too, stared at Shu. He was the proponent of this project, a blader with both influence and ambition, pushing Shu forward as though he were clay to be molded.

"He understands the stakes," Ashtem said softly, not turning to face me. "He wants this."

"He understands failure," I replied, voice low. "This is dangerous. He lost more than a match."

"Exactly," Ashtem countered. "He's already tasted defeat. Now he'll taste creation."

That set the tone of the project: science and ambition fused with raw emotional hope. That same day, I introduced myself.

"Shu," I said plainly, voice echoing off the sterilized glass, "I'm Dr. Ayane Ren. I'll monitor your neural response. Protocol is strict—no emotional overload."

He nodded once. No warmth. No challenge. Just that mechanical acknowledgment of purpose. "I want to win," he said.

And with that, we began.

I don't remember the exact number of hours it took before things got strange. Time blurred in that chamber—breaths measured in seconds, eyes locked on screens. We started with the core cradle—an incomplete alloy framework saturated with magnetized coils. It was a placeholder for the bey we intended to create. No launch system. No bey in hand. Just potential.

Shu entered the chamber alone, mask on, and stood still. Passive neural sensors flickered as ambient power surged in. We watched his thermal readings, pulse, brainwaves. Each level was within tolerance. Not a single red alert.

But then...

One of the techs began to mutter, "There's resonance." The cradle was heating. Emitting energy spikes. The baseline readings had jumped tenfold. No one touched the console yet.

"Well?" I prodded.

"Protocols say shut down," the lead technician said, glucose levels rising on his monitor. "But... I'm not seeing anything in the logs."

I looked at the cradle. It trembled ever so slightly, as if breathing. I stepped toward the shutter glass, looking for signs of Shu—but he stood unmoving.

And then the cradle began to glow.

Soft purple light edged the magnets; the metal pulsed in a coordinated wave. It emitted a low thrum now, harmonizing not with the machines—but with Shu's heartbeat.

He didn't even flinch.

"Abort!" I said, eyes flicking to the override pad—but my input was locked. The console flashed:
KEEP VOLTAGE ABOVE 85% FOR PROJECTIONS. Someone had removed the failsafe.

My eyes landed on Ashtem in the control booth. He said through the mike, "Let it proceed."

"No!" I gasped. "He hasn't projected—if we push it, we'll kill him."

Ashtem watched, eyes crystalline and calm: "He wanted this."

My heart pounded in my ears. I heard my wristwatch beep—it was resetting. The readings jumped. The cradle glowed brighter. Then it began to spin.

Not launched. Not rotating fast. But sustained. It hovered an inch off its holder, spinning deliberately, almost whispering in the low hum of energy.

I closed my eyes. When I opened them, Shu was stepping forward into the chamber. The outer shutter parted, and he walked to the cradle. He didn't reach out—his arms stayed at his sides—but he walked.

And he whispered something.

Softly, I couldn't make it out.

The cradle responded by accelerating. The magnetic fields pulsed through the room like a heartbeat now, matching his own pulse.

I attempted override again—locked. I pounded on the glass. "Pull the plug!"

Ashtem shook his head once.

"I can't." He turned off the intercom.

Inside the glass, Shu raised his right arm. The cradle slowed, then stopped, then flickered. Then spun again—without momentum. No wind. Just resonance.

The lights dimmed slightly, lights above flickered. A radiator hissed. The chamber stank of ozone and burning metal.

And then the cradle stalled—magnetic collapse. Everything clicked to silence as if a dream had ended.

Shu exhaled, his breath trembling.

He left the chamber without a word.

That night the board approved "creation of the prototype beyblade." The name Spriggan Requiem was whispered. They didn't spell it. They didn't hesitate.

And then the birthing began.

Day after day, the cradle held alloy powder, magnets, electronic components—embedded, but not yet fused into a unified mechanism. Shu returned again and again, silent and serene.

I watched the cradle twice darken without power, only to glow again when he entered. I saw sparks inside the emitter—metal welding together. I saw edges unroll in midair. Foam insulation baked, melted. I saw moments where I wondered if I was hallucinating—if the metal had liquid flow.

On the fourth iteration, the cradle paused mid-birth. No system note registered the halt. No error flash. It just froze.

And then the bey unfolded—straight out of metal. Sharp rings meshing into sheet metal blades. No launcher ejection, no mechanical assembly. It built itself, intent in those whirring circuits.

A light flickered inside it, illuminating its jagged design. It hovered.

It was real.

Spriggan Requiem.

I should have pulled the plug.

I looked at Ashtem. He pressed a button I didn't see him reach. The cradle glowed full.

Then at once everything rattled.

The cradle fractured. Energy erupted in a thin explosion of high-frequency fields, knocking Shu to one knee. He collapsed, smoke spiraled, alarms howled.

I hit the transfer switch—cut all current.

It worked.

Silence fell.

Requiem hovered.

And Shu lay on the metal floor, unconscious, bleeding from a shallow cut on his temple.

Ashtem stood in the wreckage, staring at the bey.

He whispered to himself, "He held the core... I told him to hold it."

I gripped Ashtem's arm. "We almost killed him just to birth it."

He didn't look at me. "One step closer."

Someone reported there was no record of my override attempt. The screen showed no logs.

Just the program code that had activated the cradle and produced the bey under powered field conditions.

The chamber lost power again, then emergency lockdown engaged.

We evacuated.

Shu was rushed to medical. Ashtem closed the shutter.

I watched him from the other side, lingering.

"He's alive," Ashtem said softly.

"He's not the same." I rested against the glass.

He nodded minutely. "He will be."

And inside the chamber... the beyblade twirled.

The world had already begun to shift when Shu first stopped eating.

At least, that's what the handlers noticed first.

When you're watching someone break from the inside out, the small things matter. A missed meal, a late response, a flicker in the eyes you thought were cold but steady.

Shu Kurenai was no longer steady.

Weeks had passed since the birth of Spriggan Requiem.

After the near-catastrophe in Chamber 7, the project had entered a tenuous "observation phase." Shu was moved to a specially modified dorm wing adjacent to the facility. Monitored around the clock by medical staff, behavioral analysts, and security.

I visited him often.

But Shu wasn't the same.

His eyes—once fierce, burning with the fire of a challenger—now flickered, vacant and distant.

He refused to meet my gaze.

One afternoon, I found him sitting on the floor, legs crossed, whispering to himself. No mask. No equipment. Just Shu, curled inward like a wounded animal.

"I don't taste the food," he said without looking up. "It's... metal. Bitter."

His voice was flat, devoid of the usual precision.

"How long has this been going on?" I asked gently.

He shrugged. "Days. Maybe weeks."

I wanted to reassure him. To tell him this was a side effect, a glitch, a phase.

But deep down, I feared it was something else.

The symptoms became impossible to ignore.

It started with the auditory hallucinations.

Shu would flinch suddenly, eyes wide as if hearing something beyond the walls. His speech slurred at times, fractured with long pauses.

He murmured names—some familiar, others alien.

"Requiem... Requiem knows..."

He muttered the word over and over, as if repeating a mantra.

At night, the handlers reported hearing low humming from Shu's room. It wasn't just a sound. It was a frequency—a pulsing rhythm synchronized with his own heartbeat.

Machines around him would fail mysteriously. A computer rebooting unexpectedly. Lights flickering, sometimes all at once. Even the magnetic locks would whine in protest when he passed nearby.

Once, I observed his wristwatch reset itself to zero—not once, but twice—while he sat quietly, staring into space.

"Doctor," one of the medical staff told me in hushed tones, "he's... changing."

Then came the nightmares.

Shu described vivid, terrifying dreams, or perhaps waking visions. He spoke of a dark figure that whispered promises of power and vengeance. A presence that filled his mind and refused to let go.

In those moments, he was terrified, yet drawn closer.

Sometimes he would scream.

Not loud, but a chilling, guttural sound that echoed through the corridors and sent chills down my spine.

Ashtem visited irregularly, his demeanor calm, unshaken by Shu's transformation. To the outside world, he was the pillar of the project's success.

To me, he was something else.

During a particularly tense briefing, I confronted him.

"This isn't progress. He's breaking."

"Ashtem, he's not just unwell. He's unstable. We can't continue like this."

Ashtem leaned forward, eyes sharp. "Progress always demands sacrifice. Shu knew that."

"I'm not sure Shu understands anymore," I said, voice cracking.

He smiled thinly. "He understands more than you know. He's closer to Requiem than ever."

One night, I was summoned urgently.

Shu had disappeared from his room.

We found him in the facility's lower level—inside the resonance chamber.

He was standing motionless, surrounded by an eerie red glow.

Spriggan Requiem hovered above the cradle, spinning slowly.

Shu's eyes were fixed on the bey, but something else flickered beneath.

A dark void.

His hands trembled slightly as if fighting an invisible force.

"Shu!" I called, stepping into the room.

He didn't respond.

The hum intensified. It wasn't the machines anymore. It was him. Or something inside him.

I tried to reach out, but he raised a hand, blocking me.

The bey spun faster, casting distorted shadows across the chamber.

Suddenly, Shu screamed.

Not the usual one, but a deep, primal roar that shook the walls.

The bey accelerated, spinning at impossible speeds, creating a vortex of wind and energy.

The chamber alarms blared.

I rushed to the control console.

"Cut power!" I shouted.

The technicians hesitated.

From the observation room, Ashtem's voice crackled over the comm: "Hold the resonance. Let it run its course."

"No!" I yelled. "He's going to—"

Before I could finish, the screen flickered.

Power surged through the chamber, and the emergency kill switch locked.

Shu's scream warped into a hollow echo.

The resonance core overloaded.

Glass shattered.

And the chamber flooded with smoke.

We evacuated Shu immediately.

His body was limp, his skin pale and clammy.

Medical scans showed neural feedback loops firing uncontrollably.

It was a miracle he survived.

I demanded the shutdown of the project.

But Ashtem stood firm.

"This is evolution," he said quietly. "Shu is becoming the first blader to truly resonate with a bey at the neural level. This is what we wanted."

I doubted it.

The days that followed were a blur.

Shu was confined to a medical bay.

His condition worsened.

He became distant.

He barely spoke.

Yet, sometimes, his eyes would flash red—the old blaze returning for a moment—before fading into emptiness.

I observed him closely.

There was a war raging inside him.

Between the human and something else.

One evening, I sat by his bedside.

He opened his eyes slowly.

"Why?" he whispered.

I waited, unsure how to respond.

"Why did you make me this way?"

I swallowed. "We didn't mean to hurt you."

He laughed—a hollow, broken sound.

"Hurt? No... you awakened me. Requiem is not just a bey. It's a part of me now."

His voice grew stronger.

"The power is intoxicating... but it's tearing me apart."

I knew then that the project was no longer science.

It was a curse.

The facility tried containment.

But the lines blurred.

Shu's mind became a battlefield.

His dreams invaded the waking world.

Voices whispered.

Figures moved in the shadows.

And always, the bey spun.

The Requiem Project was no longer about creating a new weapon.

It was about saving a boy.

But we were losing.

The last thing I saw before the blackout was Shu's eyes glowing fiercely.

The bey spinning endlessly.

And a smile.

Not his own.

I hadn't seen Shu in days. His absence in the observation logs was unsettling, but the staff kept telling me he was "resting," "recovering," "stable." I no longer believed any of it.

The facility had changed. What was once a sterile, clinical environment had taken on the heavy, oppressive weight of a place holding a secret it dared not reveal. The corridors whispered with unease. Cameras caught flickers in the shadows — shapes moving just beyond the edges of sight. Machines that should have been silent would whir, hum, and crackle without cause.

I was drawn back to Shu's room.

The door was ajar.

Inside, the pale light of the monitoring systems cast long, distorted shadows on the walls.

Shu sat on the floor in the same spot he always did—cross-legged, eyes fixed on a point just beyond the room, a faint smile tracing his lips. But there was no warmth in it. It was as if the boy I once knew had been replaced by a stranger wearing his skin.

I cleared my throat.

"Shu?"

He turned slowly. His eyes were glazed, unseeing.

"I'm here," I said softly.

He nodded, voice hollow. "I see him."

"Who?"

"The one who watches."

The hallucinations had become real to him.

The lines between reality and nightmare were dissolving.

Shu spoke often of "the Watcher," an invisible presence that followed him wherever he went. It whispered in a language only he could hear—a mix of static, song, and threat.

Sometimes he said it was Requiem itself.

Sometimes, something older.

In the early days, I thought the visions were a symptom of his neurological trauma. The result of overstimulation from the resonance loops.

Now, I wasn't sure.

Because the Watcher didn't stay confined to Shu.

One evening, I was alone in the lab, reviewing resonance data, when the lights flickered.

The hum began.

Not from the machines — from the walls themselves.

A voice echoed softly in my mind, just beyond comprehension.

A melody.

A warning.

I shook my head, trying to clear it.

But the feeling lingered.

Unnatural.

The Watcher's voice was everywhere now.

Staff reported strange occurrences: doors opening on their own, whispers behind closed doors, objects shifting slightly when no one was looking.

The facility was becoming unstable, as if the resonance itself had seeped into the walls, corrupting the very foundation.

Shu remained silent through most of this, but sometimes, in the dead of night, he'd scream.

Not with fear.

With rage.

With something primal.

Something beyond human.

I found his journal one day—an old tablet he'd hidden beneath his mattress.

The entries were erratic, jumbled.

Fragments of thoughts, memories, and cryptic warnings.

One entry stood out:

"The bey is not mine. It chooses. It consumes. I hear the whispers — it sings the song of endings. I am both the singer and the silence."

It was clear now.

Shu was no longer just a victim.

He was becoming something else.

Something the project never intended.

I confronted Ashtem again.

"We have to stop," I said firmly. "Shu's mind is fracturing."

He shook his head, cold and unreadable.

"You don't understand," he said. "Requiem is evolution. Shu is the bridge."

"Bridge to what?" I demanded.

"To the next stage of resonance. A new being."

His words sent chills down my spine.

We were not dealing with a boy anymore.

We were witnessing the birth of something monstrous.

Shu's hallucinations worsened.

He began talking to voices only he could hear.

"Requiem speaks," he whispered one night. "The bey remembers the ancient song."

He traced patterns in the air, fingers moving as if conducting an invisible orchestra.

His eyes glowed faintly red in the dim light.

The line between Shu and Requiem blurred daily.

His body became gaunt, his movements jerky, unnatural.

He no longer responded to commands or questions.

Instead, he drifted, a ghost trapped in his own mind.

The engineers tried to recalibrate the resonance dampers.

But the system was resisting.

It was as if Requiem had become sentient.

A parasite fused to Shu's neural pathways.

One night, the facility's security alarm blared.

I raced to Shu's quarters.

The door was locked from the inside.

I heard chanting—soft, distorted—a voice not entirely human.

After forcing the door open, I found Shu in the center of the room, eyes closed, lips moving in an unknown language.

Around him, symbols glowing faintly on the walls, pulsing with eerie light.

The bey lay dormant nearby, its core dim.

He opened his eyes slowly, focusing on me.

"I have to listen," he said. "The song is coming."

His voice was not his own.

The next morning, Shu was missing.

The facility went into lockdown.

Search teams scoured every level.

No sign of him.

No message.

Only the faint hum of resonance still echoing through the walls.

Weeks passed.

Then reports came in from the surrounding forest.

Strange sightings.

A shadow with glowing red eyes.

Whispers carried on the wind.

And the sound of a bey spinning at impossible speeds—without a launcher.

The facility was silent.

Everyone waiting.

Watching.

I feared we had unleashed something we could not control.

Something born from human ambition and technological hubris.

And as the darkness settled, I wondered if Shu still existed beneath the monster.

Or if the boy I once knew was gone forever.

I returned to the lab under a heavy sky, the kind of sky that felt as if it carried the weight of every secret I'd tried so hard to bury. The silence greeting me at the entrance was the kind that screamed. No alarms, no emergency lights blinking; just a sterile stillness that felt unnatural, a waiting breath held too long. I gripped my badge, steadying my hand, and entered the main hallway. Every footstep echoed in the emptiness.

Weeks had passed since Shu vanished. Since the last of his screams cut through the thick, recycled air of the containment wing — a sound that still haunted me more than any data point or system failure. I had fled then, unable to watch the boy I once admired dissolve into something unrecognizable, unwilling to witness the final fracturing of a brilliant mind under the strain of our reckless ambitions.

But retreat was no longer an option. Orders came down from the higher-ups — a task force assembled to "recover" what remained of Project Requiem. I was summoned back not just as a scientist, but as a witness to what we'd wrought.

I paused at the threshold of Chamber 7, the place where everything had begun and where everything had ended. The glass was cracked, spiderwebbed like frozen lightning, shards missing along the edges. The locking mechanism had been forced, jagged metal gouged into the frame. I swallowed, recalling how the room used to hum with latent power, how Shu had once stood there like a sentinel — calm and fragile and unknowable.

Now the chamber was cold and dead.

I slid my hand over the emergency panel, toggling the lights. The fluorescents flickered uncertainly, their buzzing a low, persistent drone. The air smelled stale, metallic, tainted with the ghost of ozone and burnt circuits. No sign of life. No sign of Shu.

I stepped inside carefully, the sensors on my mask whirring softly as they scanned for radiation, biohazards, residual resonance. The monitors lining the walls were dark, some shattered, others blinking with error codes. A few still showed faint traces of data — fragmentary logs, corrupted and incomplete.

I crouched by the floor where the resonance core had once spun, a dull crater left in the ground, blackened and scorched like a wound. This was where the final surge had hit — the moment our world tipped sideways.

A whisper of static crackled through the speakers embedded in the walls. I flinched, heart jumping, but it faded as quickly as it came, swallowed by the silence again.

The team sent me in alone — a precaution, they said. I was the one who knew the systems best, the one who had seen Shu at his brightest and at his breaking point. I was the only one who could understand the threads still unraveling here.

I walked slowly through the chamber, eyes scanning every surface, every cable, every trace of human presence. Then I saw it — a smear of dried blood along the wall, leading to a jagged hole where wiring hung loose, swaying slightly as if breathed upon by a phantom breeze.

I followed the trail beyond the chamber, down a corridor that hadn't been on any official map. The walls here were pocked and scorched, the floor littered with shards of glass and crumpled papers. The hum of the building's life support systems was faint but steady.

And then, in the corner of my vision, movement.

I spun around, breath caught in my throat, but there was nothing — only shadows stretching long under the flickering lights. The lab was supposed to be empty.

I pressed forward, heart thudding harder with every step. The air grew colder, heavier, like the breath of something waiting just out of sight.

Ahead, I found a side room — a small chamber that looked like it had been sealed off hastily. The door was dented but closed. I reached out, fingers trembling, and pushed it open.

Inside was a mess — overturned furniture, cracked screens, scattered tools. On the floor, the unmistakable outline of a body curled in a fetal position.

I dropped to my knees beside it, recognition crashing over me like a wave. Shu.

He was thinner, his skin pallid, almost translucent under the harsh light. His breath was shallow, ragged, but he was alive.

I reached for his hand, fingers brushing against ice-cold skin.

His eyes fluttered open — or did they? It was hard to tell. There was something unnatural there, something hollow. The pupils were dilated, the irises a strange, glowing red that didn't belong to any human eye.

"Shu..." I whispered, voice breaking.

He didn't respond. Instead, a low growl rumbled from deep within his throat, a sound no human should make. His fingers twitched, claws elongating grotesquely, nails curling into sharp points.

I recoiled, heart pounding with a mix of terror and disbelief.

"What happened to you?" I asked, but I knew.

The project — our reckless fusion of bey resonance and human neural pathways — had done this. Shu had become something else. Something monstrous.

The whispers I'd heard in my nightmares, the eerie hum that had followed him, the way the resonance pulsed through his veins like poison — it was all true.

He wasn't Shu anymore.

But buried somewhere deep beneath that monstrous exterior, the boy was still there.

I stayed with him, despite the fear gnawing at my sanity. I spoke to him, soft words of reassurance, promises of help. I told him I wouldn't leave him again.

But he only snarled, eyes burning brighter.

Days passed — or was it hours? Time lost meaning in that forsaken place.

I watched him shift, growl, sometimes howl in pain and fury. He clawed at his own skin, trying to rip away the changes. Sometimes he tried to speak, his voice cracked and ragged, but the words came out twisted and alien.

I recorded everything, desperate to find a way to save him, to reverse what the project had done. But the data was maddening — corrupted, unreadable, filled with spikes of unstable resonance.

One night, I found him standing by the window, staring out at the black sky.

"Shu," I said gently.

He turned slowly, face a mask of torment.

"I'm still here," he whispered, voice barely human.

"I know," I said, tears streaming down my cheeks.

But I wasn't sure if he believed me.

Then the sirens started — an alarm triggered by residual resonance detected outside the chamber. I knew what was coming.

Security teams would arrive. They would see what I saw.

They would see the monster.

I couldn't let that happen.

I made a decision that broke me.

I unplugged the life support systems that kept the resonance stable, knowing the surge would kill him, or maybe transform him further.

He screamed — a terrible, inhuman scream — and lunged at me with claws that could shred steel.

I barely escaped, slamming the door shut behind me as the chamber flooded with static energy.

The lab shook. Lights exploded. The resonance core flared with uncontrolled power.

I ran.

Outside, the building was crumbling, systems failing.

Shu's final howl echoed in the halls, a sound of pain, fury, and loss.

I left the facility that night, knowing I had lost him forever.

But even now, in the deepest silence of my mind, I hear the faint hum — a spinning bey, a fractured soul, a monster that still remembers.

Sometimes, in the quiet moments before sleep, I swear I can feel it reaching out — a whisper behind my thoughts, a shadow lurking just beyond the edge of reason.

I don't know if Shu is gone, or if he's trapped somewhere inside that monstrous shell, fighting for the smallest piece of himself to survive.

And I fear that one day, that whispered resonance might find a way back — not as a boy, not as a blader, but as something else entirely.

Something unstoppable.

Something born from our mistakes.

Something we can no longer control.

Chapter Text

The sun had already begun to dip behind the rooftops by the time Shu made it back to his apartment. The soft pinks and golds of the evening sky filtered through the trees, but the beauty of it was lost on him. His hands were shoved deep into the pockets of his hoodie, sleeves pulled far past his wrists. He walked with his head low and his shoulders hunched, like he could shrink himself into nothing and vanish without a trace. The streets were mostly quiet—school was out, and most kids were either home or still at training—but every sudden noise still made him flinch. A car horn, a dog barking, the rumble of a bicycle rolling up behind him. His pulse spiked each time, and he didn't even realize how tightly he was clenching his jaw until his teeth started to ache.

When he finally reached his door, his fingers trembled as he slid the key into the lock. Inside, the apartment was still and dim. He didn't bother turning on the lights. They made everything feel too exposed, too sharp. The darkness, though suffocating in its own way, at least gave him cover.

He tossed his bag near the couch and crossed the room to his desk, where a half-eaten meal from earlier still sat. He stared at it for a moment. The rice was cold and dried at the edges now. The miso soup had a thin film forming on top. His stomach turned. He hadn't eaten more than a few bites in days, but he just couldn't bring himself to eat. The thought alone made him feel sick.

His fingers twitched again. He curled them into fists and pressed them to his sides to stop the shaking. It didn't help. It never did.

Sleep was out of the question. It had been for weeks now. Every time he closed his eyes, the darkness came with memories—sharp, sudden, overwhelming. White walls. Blinding lights. The smell of sterilized metal. The sound of his own voice, flat and empty under the Requiem mask. The pressure of expectation, of being shaped into something he never wanted to become. He still couldn't tell where Red Eye ended and Shu began. Sometimes he wasn't sure if there was even a difference anymore.

He stood for a long time, swaying slightly, until finally, with legs like wet paper, he slumped onto the floor beside his bed and pulled his knees to his chest. His arms wrapped tightly around them, and his forehead pressed against his knees as he tried to breathe—slowly, in and out, like the doctors used to tell him. But his chest was tight, like someone had wrapped a belt around it and kept pulling.

He couldn't live like this. But he didn't know how to stop.

The next day, he showed up at the BeyClub training center because he had no choice. If he didn't go, they would come looking for him. They always did. So he told himself to show up, stay quiet, go through the motions, and disappear again.

But he wasn't invisible. Not to them.

"Shu!" Valt was the first to notice him entering the gym. His voice, bright as always, echoed through the open space. Shu gave a quick wave and kept walking, hoping the others would just let it go.

They didn't.

Ken, Daigo, Honcho, and even Wakiya all turned to look at him. Their battles slowed. The air shifted. He could feel their eyes on him, even though none of them said anything at first.

"You're late again," Wakiya said after a pause, not unkindly, but not without concern.

"Sorry," Shu muttered. He didn't meet their eyes.

"You look tired," Ken added gently. "Did you get any sleep last night?"

"Yeah," Shu lied, voice clipped. "I'm fine."

But he wasn't. He knew it, and they knew it too.

Valt walked over, his steps cautious. "Shu, you've been acting weird for weeks. You're jumpy. You barely eat anything at lunch. You look like you haven't slept in a month. What's going on?"

"Nothing," Shu replied immediately, but his voice cracked just enough to give him away.

Daigo frowned. "We're not stupid, Shu. We can see something's wrong."

Shu tried to brush past them, to walk toward one of the benches near the wall and sit down until someone called for a battle. But Ken reached out and gently grabbed his sleeve. "Please don't shut us out."

And that was all it took. The contact, the gentleness in Ken's voice, the warmth in their faces when he looked up—it cracked something open.

He froze. The tremor in his hands grew worse. He felt a heat rise in his chest, a tightness he couldn't swallow down. His legs locked. His throat burned. The panic came fast, like a wave crashing over him without warning.

He stumbled back, shaking his head.

"I can't— I don't—" he gasped, but the words wouldn't come out right. His knees buckled. He sank to the ground, fists pressing hard into his temples. "Stop— don't look at me— I can't breathe— I can't—!"

"Shu!" Valt dropped beside him immediately, but stopped short of touching him. "Hey—hey, it's okay. You're safe, alright? Just breathe. You're not alone."

The others circled around but kept a respectful distance, eyes wide. Honcho looked terrified. Wakiya's arms were crossed tightly, eyes dark with worry. Daigo knelt down a step away from Valt, speaking softly, "You're not there anymore, Shu. You're here. With us. You're not him."

Shu couldn't answer. His whole body trembled violently. His chest convulsed with every breath. Tears spilled down his face—he didn't know when they had started, but they wouldn't stop. He was shaking so hard he thought he might fall apart. All the noise in his head was deafening. The Requiem lab. The mask. The betrayal. The cold. The loneliness. The shame. The fear that he might still become that person again, that maybe he never stopped being him.

And then he felt it—Valt's hand, light and steady on his shoulder. The pressure was grounding. It didn't hurt. It didn't trigger anything. It was just... warm. Real.

"Just listen to my voice," Valt said quietly. "You're safe. You're okay. We've got you."

Shu buried his face in his arms. It was all he could do. But he didn't pull away.

They stayed like that for a long time. No one rushed him. No one left. Ken quietly fetched his hoodie from the bench and draped it over Shu's back. Honcho sat down next to Daigo and waited, fidgeting nervously but silent. Wakiya, uncharacteristically quiet, hovered nearby, eyes darting to Shu's face every few seconds.

Eventually, the storm passed. His breathing slowed. The shaking dulled, though it never fully stopped. He didn't look up, didn't speak. But he didn't need to.

They were still there.

That, for now, was enough.

⸻

The world had quieted, but the echo inside Shu's head hadn't. Even though the panic had drained from his chest, it left behind a raw ache — like his lungs had been scraped out, his ribs hollow. He sat on the lounge couch above the BeyClub gym, knees drawn up, arms loosely hugging them. The others were nearby but had scattered a little to give him space, sensing without asking that he couldn't handle much more pressure. It wasn't silent, but it wasn't loud either. Wakiya had brought him here without comment, and now he was leaning against the wall with crossed arms, occasionally glancing over without making a big deal of it. Valt sat on the floor next to the couch, close but not too close. Just there.

Shu hated the silence and needed it at the same time. Words felt too sharp in his mouth, too dangerous. Like if he opened up now, he might unravel again.

He'd never meant for them to see that side of him. The part that still woke up shaking in the dark. The part that had tried so hard to bury every trace of what Red Eye had done and failed miserably. He couldn't even lie to himself anymore. Every denial, every deflection — it had all been smoke. And now the smoke had cleared, and he was left with... this. Raw and exposed.

Ken appeared beside him without a word, placing a warm cup of tea on the table and sitting across from him. He didn't ask if Shu wanted it. He just left it there, with a tiny packet of honey beside it. Something about the simplicity of the gesture almost made Shu tear up again.

"I'm sorry," Shu said suddenly, voice rough and thin.

Valt glanced up. "For what?"

"For... this. I didn't mean for today to happen like that."

"You don't need to apologize for breaking," Daigo said from the far chair, his tone gentle. "You've been holding everything in for months. You were bound to snap eventually."

"But I should've—"

"There's no 'should have,'" Valt interrupted softly. "You're human, Shu. Not a machine. Even if that's how they tried to treat you."

The words hit harder than Shu expected. He didn't respond right away, but his hands tightened around the edge of the couch cushion. He wanted to tell them everything and nothing at the same time. He wanted to vanish and also be held in place. It was confusing — too many things pressing in on his chest.

"I haven't slept in days," Shu admitted, staring at the floor. "Not real sleep. I close my eyes and it's like I'm back there. The lights, the sound of metal, the pressure... it doesn't go away."

Ken didn't flinch. "Nightmares?"

"Sometimes. Sometimes it's worse. Sometimes I just... feel like I never left."

Wakiya walked over, a glass of water in hand. He didn't offer pity, just a subtle nudge of the cup onto the table before returning to his spot. "What happened to you — it wasn't just physical. They rewired your sense of safety. That's not easy to undo."

"I thought it would stop after everything ended. After I came back."

Valt shook his head. "It doesn't just stop. But it does get better. Especially if you let people help."

Shu laughed, short and bitter. "Help? What kind of help is there for someone who willingly became a monster?"

"You weren't willing," Daigo said immediately. "You were manipulated. Conditioned. That's not the same."

"I let them do it."

"You were a kid under extreme pressure," Ken said firmly. "That's not the same as giving consent."

Shu opened his mouth, but the words died. His throat clenched, and suddenly he wasn't on the couch anymore — he was back in the Requiem chamber. Cold metal under his feet. The mask pressed to his face. A voice in his ear telling him to fight harder, become stronger, crush his weakness.

"Every time I close my eyes, I hear them," Shu whispered. "I see him — Red Eye — and I wonder if he's still in me somewhere, waiting to come back."

Valt didn't speak for a moment. Then: "I used to wonder the same thing. About you. Back then, after we fought. I kept asking myself if Red Eye was really you, or if I'd lost you for good."

Shu turned slightly, surprised.

"But then you came back. And you've been fighting ever since."

Shu's voice shook. "And what if I lose again?"

Valt met his eyes. "Then we'll help you find your way back again. Every time. As many times as it takes."

It was too much — the kindness, the unwavering certainty in his voice. Shu looked away again, blinking furiously to keep the tears from spilling. It didn't work. His fingers dug into the fabric of his jeans, trying to ground himself again.

Daigo stood and walked to the windows, pushing them open just slightly to let in fresh air. "Do you remember when you trained alone for months?" he asked without turning. "Everyone said you were too cold. Too intense. But I knew — I knew something wasn't right. And I didn't say anything."

"It's not your fault," Shu said automatically.

Daigo looked back. "Maybe. But I regret not reaching out sooner. We all do."

There was a pause. Honcho, quiet until now, finally spoke from where he sat curled up on the far end of the couch.

"I used to look up to you like you were invincible. Like nothing could touch you. But... I think I was wrong."

Shu blinked. "Thanks."

"No, I mean — I was wrong to think that. Because seeing you now? Being honest, even when it hurts — that's stronger than anything Red Eye ever was."

That silenced the room. Honcho's words, simple and unpolished as they were, hit home in a way few others could.

Shu swallowed. "I haven't really eaten in days."

"Then that's our next step," Ken said gently. "One thing at a time."

"I don't think I can handle a full meal," Shu admitted, embarrassed.

Valt smiled softly. "Then we start small."

Minutes later, Wakiya returned with some rice crackers and a small bowl of soup he had someone warm up downstairs. It wasn't much, but the smell alone made Shu realize how empty his stomach had become. He took a cautious sip, and though it didn't taste amazing, it didn't turn his stomach either.

He looked up, almost sheepish. "Thanks."

"You're welcome," Wakiya said simply, returning to his post by the wall.

Shu didn't finish everything, but he ate more than he thought he could. And when he put the bowl down, Valt gave him a small, encouraging nod.

The weight hadn't lifted — not fully. The fear, the guilt, the lingering doubt... they were all still there. But for the first time in what felt like forever, Shu didn't feel like he was drowning alone.

As the sun outside faded into soft orange, casting long shadows across the room, he leaned back against the couch cushions and allowed his eyes to rest. Not sleep. Not yet. But something close. And maybe, just maybe, that was enough for now.

Shu sat curled up on the edge of the couch again, arms tucked tightly around his stomach. The sun had dipped further now, and the sky outside Wakiya's lounge had gone a bruised violet. The lights inside were dim, low enough not to strain the eyes. The others had returned after giving him some space—just far enough to breathe, but close enough to not feel alone.

Someone had laid out a tray again. Nothing heavy, nothing complicated. Rice congee, plain crackers, a small bowl of clear broth, and tea. Ken had said he made it himself. It was the kind of food you'd give someone with a fever or a bad cold—soft, safe, simple.

Shu wanted to eat it. He really did.

But his body didn't agree.

He took a few slow sips of broth. Then a bite of cracker. At first, it sat fine—bland enough not to provoke anything. Encouraged, he took a second bite.

A minute later, his hands were shaking again.

"Shu?" Valt asked, from his spot on the floor nearby. "Are you okay?"

Shu tried to nod, but a wave of nausea hit him so fast and sharp it made his mouth water. He clamped a hand over it and rushed to his feet, half-running for the bathroom Wakiya had shown him earlier. He barely made it to the sink before retching.

There wasn't much to throw up—he hadn't eaten in so long—but his body heaved anyway. Loud, dry, wrenching. It felt like his whole chest caved in with every breathless convulsion. Cold sweat clung to his back by the time it was over.

He leaned over the sink, heart pounding, palms flat on the counter. His throat burned.

Why couldn't he even do this right?

He was supposed to be getting better. They were trying so hard. They made him food, sat with him, talked to him gently, never raised their voices, never pressured him. And he couldn't even eat a cracker without falling apart.

He rinsed his mouth, trembling.

When he opened the door, he was startled to see Valt waiting right there in the hallway. Not hovering—just sitting quietly on the floor, back to the wall, arms resting on his knees.

Shu looked away immediately. "I'm fine."

"I know you're not," Valt said softly. "But I'm still here anyway."

Something in Shu's chest stuttered. His fingers twitched at his side.

"I really thought I could do it," Shu whispered, voice frayed. "I felt... okay. I thought I could eat something. Just something."

"You did your best," Valt said. "That's enough."

"It's not. I couldn't even keep it down."

Valt stood slowly, keeping his posture open and non-threatening. "You're putting too much pressure on yourself. You're not going to recover in one day."

"But it's been weeks," Shu said, voice harsh with frustration. "I thought if I just kept moving forward, it would stop. That if I didn't think about it, I could outrun it."

He felt the words bubbling out before he could stop them. The tight coil in his chest, all those suppressed emotions and swallowed screams—it was all unraveling.

"I can't sleep. I can't eat. I flinch every time I hear metal clanging. I keep seeing him when I look in the mirror. I'm not just broken, Valt. I'm—" He broke off, gripping the wall like the world might tilt without it. "I'm scared of myself."

Valt didn't speak for a moment. Then, slowly, he reached out and placed a hand on Shu's shoulder. "You're not him anymore."

Shu laughed bitterly. "Aren't I? What if I snap again? What if it happens and I don't even realize until it's too late?"

"Then we'll catch you before that happens," Valt said. "Just like we did before."

Shu shook his head. "It's not that easy."

"I know." His voice was calm. "But it's not impossible, either."

They stood there for a moment in silence.

Shu finally let out a shaky sigh. "I just wanted today to be a good day."

"It still can be," Valt said. "Not because it's perfect, but because you're not alone in it."

Back in the lounge, the others looked up when they returned. No one asked questions. Wakiya simply handed Shu a water bottle and nodded once. Ken offered a piece of ginger candy wordlessly. Shu took it, grateful for the small, subtle ways they were showing they understood. They weren't pretending this was easy. They weren't pretending this would be quick. But they were here.

Daigo stood and stretched. "Hey, Shu," he said casually, "want to come for a walk? Just around the building. It's quiet this time of night."

Shu hesitated.

"It's okay if you don't want to," Daigo added quickly.

"No... I think I do."

The cool evening air was a relief. It touched his face gently, wrapped around his arms like a whisper. The sky was dark now, scattered with stars and a crescent moon. They walked slowly—Daigo, Shu, and Valt—around the back of the BeyClub building, where the noise of the city dimmed to a background hum.

They didn't talk much at first. It wasn't awkward. It was peace.

After a while, Daigo spoke. "You know... back when you were Red Eye, I wanted to believe you were still in there. I really did. But it got harder the longer it went on."

Shu looked down.

"But I kept showing up," Daigo continued. "Even when it hurt. Because I knew you'd do the same for me."

Shu blinked hard, something tight squeezing his chest.

Valt added, "You were always the one who pushed us to be stronger. Even when you were going through your own storm."

"I never wanted to be the one who needed saving," Shu admitted.

Daigo smiled faintly. "No one wants to be. But that's what friends are for."

They stopped near the fence where the bushes grew tall, half-hiding the streetlights. Crickets sang somewhere nearby. Shu let himself lean slightly against the cool metal, letting the breeze tug at his hair.

"I want to get better," he said quietly. "Even if it's slow. Even if it means failing sometimes."

Valt stepped beside him, his voice steady. "Then we'll take it one step at a time."

Shu turned slightly toward them, his face half in shadow, half in moonlight. "Can I stay here tonight? At the club, I mean. I don't want to be alone."

"Of course," Daigo said immediately.

Wakiya didn't even blink when they returned and Shu asked. "You can have the guest room. Sheets are fresh. You need anything, you call."

Shu smiled faintly for the first time all day. "Thanks."

Later, when the others had retreated or settled down in their own corners of the lounge, Shu lay in bed staring up at the ceiling. His body was exhausted, but his mind wouldn't quiet. Still, it wasn't the same as the nights before. There was something different about tonight.

There were footsteps outside his door at one point—familiar, soft-soled, cautious.

Valt's voice came through gently. "You awake?"

"Yeah."

"Just checking. Goodnight."

"Night."

The footsteps faded. But the warmth lingered.

Shu pulled the blanket tighter around himself and closed his eyes.

Sleep didn't come fast. But it came.

And for the first time in weeks... there were no nightmares.

The morning light filtered softly through the guest room curtains, warming the blankets draped over Shu's body. For once, he hadn't woken to the violent snap of a nightmare, heart racing, lungs aching. He blinked slowly, confused by the stillness.

He'd slept.

Not well, not deeply—but he had actually slept. That fact alone made the edges of his chest loosen, if only slightly.

There were quiet voices drifting through the hallway. Someone moving around in the kitchen. A kettle boiling.

Shu didn't move for a long while. Just breathed.

By the time he got up and padded into the common room, the others were already there—some eating, some still yawning and wrapped in hoodies or blankets. Ken and Daigo were bickering softly about something on Ken's phone, Wakiya was checking the news, and Valt was half-asleep on the floor with his back against the couch.

No one jumped up when they saw Shu. No awkward tension. No overly bright voices pretending nothing had happened. Just... normal.

Shu wasn't used to that. He didn't realize how much he'd needed it.

Honcho looked up from a bowl of cereal. "Hey," he said around a mouthful. "There's tea. And toast. And like... protein bars?"

"Thanks," Shu said softly.

He didn't try to eat immediately—he just poured himself some tea and sat near the edge of the group, content to watch them move around each other like old gears, comfortable in their rhythm.

After a while, Valt nudged a chair beside him. "Want to talk?"

Shu hesitated. "Now?"

"Only if you want to."

Shu looked at his tea. The liquid inside had started to cool, little ripples skating across the surface. He wrapped his fingers tighter around the cup.

"I think I do," he said quietly. "If I don't now... I might never."

Valt didn't say anything. Just waited.

The room wasn't silent, but it had gotten quieter. The others didn't stare. They didn't lean in. But they listened—every one of them. Shu could feel it in the air. The kind of silence people only made when they were really, truly paying attention.

Shu drew in a slow breath.

"It started before the Requiem Project. Before the mask. I didn't see it back then, but I think... I was already breaking."

Ken set his phone down.

"I was chasing something. Perfection. Power. I wanted to be stronger than Valt, stronger than anyone. Not because I hated anyone, but because I thought I had to. If I wasn't the best, I wasn't enough."

He paused, rubbing at his wrist absentmindedly.

"When the Project reached out to me, I told myself it was for training. For discipline. They said they'd make me unstoppable. And I believed them."

Wakiya frowned. "They groomed you. Manipulated you."

Shu nodded faintly. "At first, it was just extreme routines. Long hours. No breaks. I didn't sleep, but I thought that was normal. Then came the... isolation. I wasn't allowed to talk to you anymore. To anyone."

Valt's throat bobbed in a hard swallow.

"I started hearing a voice in my head that sounded like theirs. It said things like, 'Weakness is failure. Emotion is failure.' I repeated it so much I forgot what it was like to feel anything else."

His hands clenched around the mug now. His voice had gone hoarse, like the words had been trapped in his chest for too long and were finally scraping their way out.

"They put me in that mask and told me I wasn't Shu anymore. That Shu was weak. That Red Eye was the real me."

Ken murmured, "They erased your identity."

"I let them," Shu said bitterly. "That's the part that kills me. I gave in. I stopped fighting."

"No," Valt said firmly. "They beat it out of you. Bit by bit. That's not giving in. That's surviving."

Shu blinked hard, his voice threatening to crack. "I did things I can't forget. Hurt people. You. My friends. I betrayed everything we stood for."

"And yet, you came back," Daigo said quietly.

"That doesn't erase what I did."

"No," Wakiya agreed. "But it means something. The fact that you're still trying? That you're telling us all this right now? That's real."

Shu's breathing trembled, but he nodded.

"There are still nights I wake up and can't remember if I'm Shu or Red Eye," he admitted. "Still moments where I flinch when someone raises their voice or when I hear the clash of metal. I look in the mirror and see the mask even though it's gone."

"You're not alone in that," Valt said.

Shu looked over.

"There were days after our battle when I blamed myself," Valt continued. "I thought, 'What if I'd seen it sooner? What if I'd gotten through to him faster?' I hated that it took fighting you to reach you."

Ken chimed in, softer now. "I was scared of you for a while. But more than that, I was scared for you."

Honcho added, "I looked up to you like a big brother. I didn't understand what was happening—but I missed you."

Shu's throat closed up. The words, the honesty—it hurt and healed at the same time.

"I want to get better," he said again, voice shaking. "I don't want to be afraid of my own mind anymore."

"And we'll be here through it all," Valt said. "Even when it's hard. Even when you relapse. That's how healing works. Not alone. Never alone."

There was a long pause, but it wasn't heavy. It was full. Full of things that had needed saying for far too long.

Then Daigo stood abruptly. "Alright," he said, clearing his throat. "This has all been very intense. But I say we take the day off."

"Off from what?" Wakiya raised an eyebrow.

"From everything. From expectations, training, plans. Just a reset."

Ken grinned. "You want to goof off."

"I want us to goof off."

Valt turned to Shu. "You okay with that?"

Shu, for the first time in what felt like forever, smiled. Not a forced one. Not a tired, grateful nod. A real, small smile. Fragile but real.

"Yeah," he said. "That sounds good."

The rest of the day unfolded like something Shu hadn't realized he needed. The group played board games, argued about the rules, lounged on the floor with music playing softly in the background. Honcho told the worst jokes Shu had ever heard. Wakiya made weird smoothies with too many protein powders. Valt challenged Ken to three straight rounds of Beyblade and lost two of them on purpose.

And Shu? He didn't try to be perfect. He didn't try to keep up or pretend he was okay every second. He just existed. And they let him.

Later that evening, he managed a few bites of dinner. Not much—but enough. Enough to stay down. Enough to feel like a step forward.

As the sun dipped again, and the sky painted itself in soft streaks of gold and pink, Shu found himself sitting alone outside the lounge on the back steps. The air was still warm, summer thick in the breeze. A familiar pair of footsteps joined him.

"Can I sit?" Valt asked.

Shu nodded.

For a while, they didn't say anything.

Then Shu spoke, voice low. "I used to think healing was something that just happened. Like a broken bone. It hurts, then it stops, then you're fine."

"Turns out it's more like rehab," Valt said. "Slow. Annoying. Sometimes it feels worse before it gets better."

"But it gets better," Shu said.

Valt looked over. "It does."

They sat in silence a while longer. Shu closed his eyes.

This wasn't the end of the story. He still had a long way to go. There would be more bad days. There would be setbacks. But now... he wasn't carrying it alone.

And maybe that made all the difference.

It wasn't the end of his pain, but it was a new beginning—and that made all the difference.

Chapter Text

It wasn't anyone's idea of a great plan, not even Valt's — and that was saying something.

Four of the most powerful, stubborn, dramatically different bladers in the world were now expected to live under the same roof for the sake of "bonding and synergy." The program was supposed to "foster communication and emotional growth." Free had fallen asleep halfway through the orientation, Lui had threatened to walk out twice, and Shu had simply stayed quiet, his arms crossed and his expression unreadable.

By the first evening, it was already clear the experiment was going to be a challenge.

The house they were given wasn't small — two floors, plenty of space, an open kitchen, and a shared lounge — but the energy inside was suffocating. Free immediately laid claim to the comfiest chair and a good third of the fridge, clearly unbothered by anyone else's presence. Valt, with his usual boundless energy, half-unpacked and half-sprinted around, bumping into walls and furniture alike, checking everything out like it was some sort of battlefield. Shu stayed quiet, quietly arranging his books and training gear in his room, avoiding eye contact and keeping to himself. Lui... well, Lui paced.

And Lui didn't pace like someone bored. He paced like a predator trapped inside a cage, restless and tense, always watching.

"I give it three days before someone flips a table," Free muttered as he collapsed into his chair, smirking at the chaos around him but clearly too distracted by his own comfort to care much.

Valt nodded distractedly, busying himself with unpacking and trying to plan out his next battle strategy in his head.

But Shu didn't say anything. He didn't complain or protest, but there was a quiet tension around him that only one person really noticed.

Lui.

Not because he was some emotional expert — far from it — but because he noticed the small details that no one else seemed to see. The way Shu's fingers twitched when he thought no one was watching. The restless tapping of his foot that immediately stopped whenever anyone looked his way. The flicker of his eyes toward the window every time a loud noise from outside jarred the quiet of the house. The subtle way his shoulders tensed and twitched as if he was fighting some invisible weight.

The others? They didn't notice a thing.

Free was too wrapped up in his own naps and snacks. Valt was too busy being loud and energetic. Even the more serious Honcho and Ken seemed to think Shu was just quietly distant, as he always had been. Nobody asked.

Lui wanted to say something, to ask Shu if he was okay, but he didn't know how. What could he say? "Hey, I see you're falling apart inside, wanna talk about it?" It wasn't that easy. So he watched, quietly, from a distance.

Night came, wrapping the house in darkness and quiet.

Lui was awake long after everyone else had gone to bed. He was walking down the dimly lit hallway to get some water when he noticed a faint light spilling from underneath Shu's door.

Curious, he stopped and listened.

Through the thin barrier, he could hear shallow, uneven breathing — a soft, almost inaudible whisper that sounded like broken prayers or memories too painful to speak aloud.

Lui's fists clenched.

He wanted to knock, to check on him, but he held back.

Instead, he retreated silently to his own room, his heart heavy with worry and frustration.

The next morning, Shu didn't come out for breakfast.

Valt noisily made his usual mess in the kitchen — eggs somehow burnt and undercooked at the same time, smoke trailing from the pan — while Free lounged on the couch, sipping tea and scrolling through his phone. No one mentioned Shu.

Lui sat quietly, eyes flicking to the hallway every few minutes.

Later that day, Lui made a small gesture. He left a protein bar and a bottle of water outside Shu's door, hoping that even if Shu couldn't say it, maybe he'd accept help.

Shu didn't say a word about it, but when Lui passed by a little later, he caught a glimpse of Shu picking up the bottle and taking a sip.

No thanks, no words — just the quiet acceptance of something no one else seemed to think to offer.

Days passed like this. The others remained wrapped up in their own worlds, loud, oblivious, and careless. Valt's energy filled the house, Free's naps and snacks took over the lounge, Honcho and Ken trained hard and kept to themselves.

Only Lui stayed quiet and watchful.

And Shu continued to slip farther and farther inside himself.

He trained with his usual precision and grace, but it was like he was moving through fog — eyes distant, hands trembling at times, as if trying to hold himself together with sheer will.

Lui hated watching it. He hated seeing someone so strong fall apart and knowing he couldn't just fix it.

Then came the day of their first joint practice.

Shu was late.

Not by a few minutes — but by half an hour.

When he finally arrived, his steps were unsteady, his eyes dull and unfocused. His usually perfect posture slumped under the weight of exhaustion and something darker.

Lui's heart tightened.

Valt called out cheerfully, "Shu! Ready to spin?"

Shu gave a faint nod, but didn't respond.

No one else seemed to notice the pallor of his skin or the slight trembling of his hands.

Lui wanted to step forward, to say something, to help — but he hesitated, unsure of how to break through the wall Shu had built around himself.

Then suddenly, Shu's breathing hitched. His chest rose and fell erratically. His knees buckled, and he collapsed to the floor.

Panic surged through Lui.

He crouched beside Shu, placing a cold bottle of water within reach.

"Drink," he said softly, voice steady but urgent.

Shu's fingers closed around the bottle, trembling as he took slow, careful sips.

Minutes passed like hours.

Slowly, Shu's breathing steadied. Not fully back to normal — but the worst had passed.

Lui stayed by his side, a quiet guardian in the shadows.

The others remained unaware, caught up in their own training and distractions, completely oblivious to the storm Shu was fighting inside.

Later, Shu looked up at Lui with eyes glassy but clearer than before.

"Why..." he rasped, voice barely above a whisper, "why do you care?"

Lui shrugged, trying to hide the concern in his eyes.

"Because no one else does," he said quietly.

And in that silent moment, something fragile and new took root between them — a bond built not on loud words or grand gestures, but on quiet understanding and simple presence.

For the first time in weeks, Shu didn't feel like he was drowning alone.

The days that followed settled into a strange rhythm.

Lui kept his distance, watching without crowding. Shu never spoke about what had happened, and Lui never pressed. Sometimes, that was all you could do.

The others continued their routines, too wrapped up in their own lives to notice the cracks appearing in one of the strongest players they knew.

Valt still bounced around with energy that seemed endless. Free still vanished for long naps and returned with snacks. Honcho and Ken trained fiercely, keeping conversation to a minimum. No one asked questions.

Only Lui.

He stayed alert for every tremble, every flicker of pain behind Shu's calm facade.

Sometimes, when Shu thought no one was watching, Lui caught him staring blankly into space, hands clenched tightly as if holding onto something fragile.

One evening, as the sun dipped low and the house grew quieter, Lui found Shu sitting on the back porch steps.

"Hey," Lui said softly, not wanting to startle him.

Shu didn't respond, eyes fixed on the fading light.

Lui sat down beside him.

"I'm here," he said simply.

Shu finally glanced at him, a flicker of something unreadable in his gaze.

"Thanks," he whispered.

And though words were scarce between them, in that moment, the heavy silence felt a little less lonely.

The house was quieter than usual that morning, the kind of quiet that settled when everyone was preoccupied with their own thoughts and routines. Valt had dashed off early for training, his energetic footsteps echoing faintly down the hallway. Free was still tangled in his blanket fortress on the couch, snoring softly, a bowl of half-eaten cereal abandoned on the table beside him. And Shu... Shu was nowhere to be seen.

Lui had noticed.

He always noticed.

It wasn't a conscious effort anymore. It was like a reflex, a muscle memory born from watching and reading Shu's subtle signs. The way his shoulders tensed even when he tried to relax, the slight tremble in his hands when he thought no one was paying attention, the dark circles deepening under his eyes each day. Lui had seen it all, but no one else did. Not Valt, not Free, certainly not the others who only ever glimpsed Shu's outer shell — the cool, composed blader who never said more than necessary.

But Lui knew the truth.

Shu was struggling. Hard.

And the silence that had settled over him was louder than any shout.

Lui found Shu sitting on the small balcony off the living room, knees drawn close to his chest, eyes fixed on the distant city skyline. The morning sun warmed his pale skin, but it didn't reach the shadows under his eyes. His hands twitched restlessly, fingers clenching and unclenching like he was fighting an invisible war.

"Morning," Lui said softly, stepping beside him. He didn't sit too close — just close enough.

Shu didn't look at him.

"Didn't see you at breakfast."

Shu shrugged, eyes still fixed ahead. "Not hungry."

Lui nodded. He didn't ask why. He already knew the answer.

Valt and Free's cheerful voices drifted from inside, breaking the stillness for a moment. Valt was loud and bright, Free lazy and sardonic — the exact opposite of Shu's silent storm.

"Do you want to come inside? It's better with company," Lui offered.

Shu shook his head. "I'm fine."

Lui didn't press. Instead, he stayed, the silence between them filled with an unspoken understanding. Sometimes, that was enough.

The day moved forward in its usual chaotic rhythm. Valt's relentless enthusiasm filled the rooms, bouncing off walls with loud laughter and the clatter of beyblades spinning. Free flitted around like a shadow, teasing and lounging in equal measure, while Shu kept to the edges, slipping in and out of conversations, never quite settling.

Lui watched, quietly protective.

He tried to include Shu in the training sessions, suggesting drills and sparring matches with a casualness that hid his concern. Shu would agree, pushing through with the same precision and grace he always had, but Lui could see the exhaustion weighing on him. His movements were sharper, less fluid — like a blade that had been used too often without rest.

During breaks, Lui would leave small things for Shu — a bottle of water, a protein bar, a quick nod of encouragement. Shu accepted them without thanks, but the gestures didn't go unnoticed.

Valt and Free never caught on. They were too caught up in their own worlds, too loud and busy to notice the quiet suffering beside them.

That evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon and painted the sky in shades of orange and pink, the group gathered in the living room. Valt was sprawled across the floor, flipping through a magazine, while Free lounged on the couch, scrolling on his phone. Lui sat near the window, watching Shu who was curled into a corner chair, eyes unfocused, lost in thought.

"Hey, Shu," Valt said suddenly, his voice bright and hopeful. "We should have a sleepover. Like, a real one. Snacks, movies, the whole deal. What do you think?"

Shu blinked, almost startled by the suggestion. He didn't answer immediately, but then gave a small nod.

Lui watched him carefully. This was progress — small, but progress nonetheless.

"Alright," Lui said, his voice calm but firm. "Let's make it happen."

The rest of the week passed with the usual mix of training, meals, and quiet moments. Shu was still distant, but he didn't retreat completely. He ate a little more, spoke a little more, and his presence became less like a ghost in the room.

The night of the sleepover arrived, and the house buzzed with an unusual energy. Valt had brought his favorite snacks — a mountain of chips, candy, and sodas — and Free had commandeered the living room for his movie marathon. Lui kept an eye on Shu, who sat quietly, clutching a blanket but not joining the teasing banter.

The living room had transformed into something unfamiliar but comforting. Blankets were piled like miniature forts, pillows scattered haphazardly on the floor. The faint smell of buttery popcorn mixed with the sugary sweetness of candy and the sharp fizz of soda cans cracked open. Free had commandeered the couch, sprawled out like he owned the place, flicking through a chaotic lineup of movies he claimed would cover "emotional variety." Valt, ever the enthusiast, was bouncing between bean bags and the snack table, radiating energy that filled the room with a noisy, nervous excitement.

Shu sat apart from the fray, curled into a corner chair. His blanket was wrapped tightly around his shoulders as if it could shield him from everything else in the room. His hands were folded in his lap, fingers twitching slightly, his gaze fixed on the flickering screen but clearly not really seeing the movie. His whole body seemed wrapped in a bubble of quiet tension, a protective fortress that kept the rest of the world at bay.

Lui watched from the floor, sitting close enough that if Shu wanted to, he could lean on him. But Lui didn't pressure or speak. He understood the weight of silence, how sometimes presence mattered more than words. So he stayed still, a steady anchor in the swirling chaos.

The movie's soundtrack filled the room, an odd mix of explosions, laughter, and sarcastic comments from Free. Valt was loudly speculating about battle strategies inspired by the over-the-top action scenes, and Free was half-asleep in his chair, head resting on his folded arms.

Shu's eyes slowly, imperceptibly, grew heavier. His body relaxed just a fraction, the sharp edges of tension smoothing out like a wave calming after a storm.

Then, quietly, his head moved—slowly, almost hesitantly—until it came to rest on Lui's shoulder.

It was such a small gesture, so subtle it might have gone unnoticed by anyone else. But Lui felt it like a spark—soft and sudden—an opening in the walls Shu had built around himself.

His heart beat a little faster.

He didn't pull away.

Instead, he shifted just slightly to make Shu more comfortable, his arm settling gently behind Shu's back without pressure, offering warmth without words.

The room blurred around them. The loud chatter, the popcorn crashes, the jabs and jokes — all faded into a distant hum. Lui's attention narrowed to the steady rise and fall of Shu's breathing, the soft weight of his head on his shoulder, the faint warmth against his skin.

Time passed, but Lui didn't move. He didn't want to disturb the fragile peace they'd found.

Free yawned, nudged Valt, and soon both were asleep, leaving Lui and Shu alone in the quiet glow of the TV.

Shu's breathing deepened, slow and even. His hands, once clenched so tight they looked ready to break, rested limply in his lap. His face, usually tight with worry and exhaustion, softened in sleep.

Lui's gaze softened too, a mix of relief and something tender he barely dared admit.

When the movie ended and the credits rolled, Lui carefully helped Shu lie back fully on the couch, pulling the blanket up around him. Shu stirred but didn't wake, mumbling something indistinct and curling into a comfortable fetal position.

Lui stayed close, watching, listening to the gentle rhythm of sleep, feeling like he was guarding something precious and fragile.

Outside, the night wrapped the house in stillness.

And for the first time in a long while, Shu seemed safe.

The next morning, sunlight filtered through the blinds, casting soft lines across the floor and the couch where Shu still rested. Lui had fallen asleep sitting upright on the floor, back against the couch, his arm still loosely draped behind Shu's shoulders.

He woke with a start, heart pounding—not from fear, but from the overwhelming sense of protectiveness and hope that had settled over him.

Shu stirred, eyes blinking open, confusion flickering there for a moment before recognition dawned.

"Morning," Lui whispered softly, careful not to disturb the fragile peace.

Shu's gaze was tired, but there was something softer in it than before. "Morning," he replied quietly.

The others were already up and about—Valt was noisily making breakfast, eggs cracking and pans clattering, and Free was scrolling through his phone, yawning heavily.

Shu didn't rush to join them. Instead, he stayed curled on the couch, wrapped in the blanket, as if the night hadn't really ended.

Lui sat beside him again, this time closer, fingertips brushing lightly over Shu's hand. The touch was gentle, tentative—an unspoken question.

Shu didn't pull away.

A small, fragile smile ghosted across his lips.

They didn't speak much. Words felt unnecessary. Their closeness said what words couldn't — a quiet promise that, maybe, they weren't as alone as they thought.

Over the following days, Lui continued to watch Shu carefully, noticing the little changes: the way Shu met his eyes a little longer before looking away, the slight ease in his stance, the faint flicker of humor when Valt's loud antics went just a bit too far.

Shu's training resumed, but Lui adjusted the drills to be less intense, giving Shu space to rebuild without pressure. When Shu's hands trembled, Lui was there with steady encouragement, sometimes just a nod, other times a quiet word.

At night, when everyone was scattered around the house — some in their rooms, some on couches, some pacing restlessly — Lui often found Shu sitting quietly on the back porch, staring out into the city lights, lost in thought.

One evening, Lui joined him without asking.

They sat side by side, shoulders almost touching, the silence between them comfortable and unforced.

"I'm here," Lui said simply.

Shu glanced at him, eyes reflecting the distant glow of the skyline. "Thanks," he whispered.

It was enough.

The day of the planned sleepover approached, and there was a nervous energy in the house.

Valt was practically vibrating with excitement, dragging the others into his plan for a "legendary night." Free was skeptical but agreed, mostly because it meant snacks and downtime. Lui was quiet, focused on Shu.

Shu seemed tentative but willing — a small, quiet step forward that Lui cherished.

When the night finally came, the house buzzed with noise and light. The living room was transformed: pillows, blankets, and snack mountains everywhere.

Valt controlled the playlist, Free took over the remote, and Lui made sure Shu never felt alone.

Shu sat wrapped in a soft blanket, eyes flickering with exhaustion but also something new: a fragile sense of belonging.

As the first movie played, Lui stayed close, neither crowding nor retreating, a steady presence.

When Shu's head slowly drifted to rest on Lui's shoulder, Lui didn't hesitate or pull away. Instead, he allowed the warmth to settle, heart swelling with a mix of protectiveness and something deeper.

For the first time in weeks, Shu let himself be vulnerable — and Lui was honored to be the one to hold that moment.

Shu woke slowly, the soft glow of morning light filtering through the curtains and brushing gently across his face. His head still rested on Lui's shoulder, the warmth beneath him steady and steadying. For a brief, blissful moment, he forgot where he was — forgotten the weight in his chest, the restless thoughts, the constant battle inside.

But reality crept back with the dawn's first breath. His eyes fluttered open and met Lui's calm gaze. There was a softness there, quiet and patient, unspoken reassurance wrapped in the steady rhythm of Lui's breathing. Shu blinked, suddenly self-conscious, and the familiar wall of reserve shot back up. He stiffened, about to pull away.

Lui didn't let him.

Instead, he shifted just enough so Shu could settle more comfortably, a gentle hand resting on Shu's arm. No pressure, no words — just the promise that he was there.

Shu's fingers twitched, almost reaching to grip Lui's hand, then hesitated, retreating to fold in his lap.

"Morning," Lui said quietly, voice low and careful.

"Morning," Shu whispered, voice hoarse but sincere.

They sat like that for a few moments longer, the silence between them soft and easy, not demanding but offering.

The world beyond the door was waking up — the distant clang of Valt's training gear, Free's muffled laughter from the kitchen, the familiar bustle of a house full of restless energy. But here, on the couch, time slowed to a gentle pulse.

Finally, Shu shifted and sat up, stretching carefully. His eyes lingered on Lui's face for a heartbeat, searching for something.

"Thank you," he said, voice barely above a whisper.

Lui shrugged with a small smile. "You don't have to thank me."

But Shu's gaze held his a moment longer before he nodded, a fragile truce with himself.

The morning routine rolled on with Valt's usual boisterous energy filling the rooms. He was already bouncing between stations, shouting out exaggerated battle tactics and inspiring quotes to anyone who would listen. Free sauntered through the kitchen, an ever-present smirk tugging at his lips, while Honcho and Ken were locked in a quiet but intense training duel in the backyard.

Shu was quieter than usual. He didn't join the conversation but lingered near the edge, watching, listening.

Lui kept close, walking beside him like a silent shadow, matching his pace without crowding.

Later, when the others went out for an impromptu park training session, Lui caught Shu sitting alone by the window, staring out with eyes distant and unfocused.

"Hey," Lui said softly, sliding into the seat beside him.

Shu didn't reply right away.

After a long pause, Shu finally said, "It's hard. Being... this broken."

Lui glanced at him, surprised by the rare vulnerability.

"Broken?" he echoed gently.

Shu swallowed, biting the inside of his cheek. "I don't know how to fix it. How to be... me."

Lui nodded slowly, weighing his words. "Sometimes the first step isn't fixing. Sometimes it's just letting yourself be... even if you feel broken."

Shu looked at him then, really looked, and for the first time that week, the hint of a small smile flickered across his lips.

That afternoon's training was quieter than usual.

Lui suggested something simple — focus on fundamentals, slow and steady.

Shu hesitated but agreed.

The drills were designed not to push, but to encourage calm and confidence.

Lui watched Shu move with precision, but with less sharpness than usual — more fluid, more present.

When Shu faltered, Lui was immediately there — a steady hand, a reassuring nod, no judgment.

The others noticed the change too. Valt threw him an approving grin, and even Free gave a rare nod of respect.

After practice, Shu lingered, his breath heavy but steady.

"Thanks," he said quietly.

"Anytime."

The simplicity of the exchange was a small victory.

Evening fell, wrapping the house in a quiet lull.

The others gradually filtered into their rooms or sprawled on couches, winding down after the day.

Shu was on the back porch again, the cool night air brushing against his skin.

Lui joined without a word.

The city lights shimmered in the distance — a vast sea of possibility and isolation.

They sat shoulder to shoulder, silence stretching comfortably between them.

Finally, Lui broke it.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asked softly.

Shu shook his head. "I'm scared. Scared I'll lose myself. That if I let people in, they'll see the mess."

Lui swallowed, his own heart tightening.

"Messy doesn't mean broken," he said quietly. "Sometimes it just means human."

Shu's eyes flickered with something like hope, but the walls stayed strong.

"I don't know how to be human," he whispered.

"You're learning," Lui said simply. "And I'm here."

For the first time, Shu turned fully to look at Lui.

"Why?" he asked, voice thick with disbelief.

"Because I see you," Lui said without hesitation. "Not just the blade, or the silence. I see you."

Shu's breath hitched, a tremble running through him.

And for once, he didn't look away.

The next days brought subtle changes.

Shu ate more, slept a little easier.

He still kept his distance, but his eyes sought Lui's more often — a question, a challenge, a silent thank you.

Lui didn't rush.

He stayed patient.

They trained together, shared quiet moments, fought battles against shadows no one else could see.

One night, after a particularly tough session, Shu finally spoke, voice barely above a whisper.

"I'm scared I'll break again."

"You won't," Lui said firmly. "Not while I'm here."

And for the first time in a long time, Shu believed it.

As the days slipped by, the house felt less suffocating.

Not because the others changed — they didn't — but because Lui and Shu had found a fragile peace.

A fragile bond.

Built on quiet moments, small trusts, and the slow promise of healing.

And for Lui, that was everything.

Shu woke again in the early predawn hush, sunlight not yet fully risen, the house silent except for its gentle, steady breathe. Last night had been a revelation: he had fallen asleep on Lui's shoulder during the sleepover movie marathon, a moment that felt simultaneously foreign and comforting. Now, as he lay in his bed, eyes closed against the empty space, he felt a hollow ache where Lui's warmth had been.

He rose, quietly slipping into the hallway. Everything felt fragile this morning—his own emotions, the unspoken bond forming between him and Lui. He stopped at the kitchen to find Lui already there, quietly preparing something. Soft tinkling echoes of bowls and water, the careful rustle of eggs cracking.

"Morning," Lui said softly over his shoulder.

Shu nodded, voice caught in a tender uncertainty. "Morning."

He lingered, watching as Lui whisked milk into tea, humming a tune Shu didn't recognize, and placed slices of toast onto a plate. The scent drifted through the air, warm and gentle.

"You want breakfast?" Lui asked, offering the plate.

Shu swallowed hard. Hunger felt foreign, a mirror of everything else: the cracks in his head, the darkness he'd pushed aside last night. He nodded.

Lui placed the plate in front of him, then handed him a mug of tea. Nothing more. No pressure. Just an invitation to stay, to taste, to anchor.

Shu picked up a slice, took a small bite. Then another. The bread tasted mundane, but for Shu, it felt like taking the first real breath he'd managed in months.

Lui watched from a few steps away, arms crossed casually, eyes soft. He didn't force a smile, didn't demand acknowledgment. He offered the space for Shu to fill, knowing the smallest gestures mattered more than words.

Shu paused, fork halfway to mouth. Then swallowed, took a breath, and met Lui's eyes.

"Thank you."

Lui inclined his head. "You don't have to say it."

Shu nodded, finishing the toast in silence, feeling the warmth spread not only through his belly but through his chest—something settling there, a nascent comfort.

The morning buzz continued: Valt's laughter in the living room, Free's lazy shouts for more cereal, the distant clatter of training gear. But for Shu and Lui, time moved slower, gentler.

After breakfast, Shu headed toward his room, but Lui caught him by the forearm.

"Training?" Lui offered.

Shu hesitated. He had scratched training off his to-do list for weeks, but this felt different.

"Yeah," he replied quietly.

They walked to the back yard together. Valt and Free were already there—Valt spinning a blade in the air, free strength blazing; Free studying combinations with his bey in hand. Shu joined them, hesitant at first, but with Lui's presence softening his edges, he stepped into the circle.

Lui guided him toward basic footwork, gradual drills. When Shu faltered or his form wobbled, Lui's voice was calm—but firm: "Focus. Breathe. I'm right here." Shu found himself listening, letting the weight of Lui's watchfulness settle into guidance rather than judgment.

After practice, Lui offered a water bottle and a sandwich.

Shu accepted silently, and as he bit into the sandwich, Lui waited, hands loose at his sides. It wasn't generosity—it was presence. But for Shu, presence felt like everything.

Again, Shu found himself thinking, I want him here.

Not because he needed saving—he was more than capable—but because Lui made him feel worthy of care.

Evening came soft and hesitated, a tangerine haze bleeding through windows. Valt and Free planned another low-key evening—bubble tea, card games, their laughter drifting across the rooms. Shu lingered in the kitchen as Lui prepared dinner: noodles and vegetables.

Lui handed him a bowl and chopsticks.

"We can eat out there," he suggested, nodding toward the porch.

Shu followed him outside, where the hum of the city mixed with insect calls. They sat side by side at the small table, the bowls between them, steam rising like ghosts.

Shu took a hesitant slurp. It tasted familiar, warm. Lui watched quietly but his presence filled the gap Shu always felt around others.

When Shu set his bowl down, Lui slid closer, brushing fingertips along the edge of Shu's hand—not enough to startle, but present.

"I don't need to drive you crazy tonight," Lui said softly.

Shu laughed quietly, something like sponge rolling over grime. "Thanks."

For several beats, they ate in companionable silence. It would've been easy to choke on the moment, but Shu didn't. Instead, he savored the way Lui's quiet steadiness felt less like obligation and more like belonging.

Night entered gently, with a hush that settled into bones. Shu lay awake in bed again, eyes open to nothing. He felt stretched thin—fatigue, old anxieties, the ache for connection. But Saddam didn't wake, chest empty.

He got up and padded down the hallway to find Lui sitting on the porch swing, soft light from the lamp pool­ing around him.

"Hey," Shu said, crossing over. "Couldn't sleep."

Lui patted the seat beside him. "Me neither."

It was the simple truth—he'd stayed awake after Shu fell asleep earlier, wanting to make sure he was safe, that he'd followed the moment without breaking it.

Shu sat next to him. Shoulder brushing, and it felt like light. Talk which wasn't demanded, just needed.

Finally, Shu spoke, his words tremors of truth. "I'm scared of falling apart again."

Lui didn't flinch. Instead, he leaned in slightly. "I'm not."

The moment stretched until Shu's breath caught.

"Lui... I..." he paused, caught between vulnerability and fear.

"Shu," Lui said, voice thick with the calm weight of sincerity. "You're not broken. You're healing."

Shu shook his head, tears edging his vision. "You make it sound so certain."

"You are," Lui insisted. "And I'm here—staying."

Shu closed the gap and leaned in, head falling onto Lui's chest.

"What if I fall for you?" he whispered, voice low enough not to carry beyond the porch.

Lui paused, breath hitching. Then wrapped his arms securely around Shu.

"I've already fallen," he whispered back, mouth close to Shu's ear. "So I hope you don't mind."

Shu pressed closer, the ache melting in a flush of steady warmth.

They didn't need more that night—just gentle closeness, a promise sealed in quiet breath, not noise or declarations.

In the following days, their connection deepened like roots seeking water.

Shu slept better, rested in the knowledge that if he stirred awake, Lui might be there. At night he came sometimes to Lui's side, sharing dreams, nightmares, laughter at their own private world.

Mornings were slower. Lui made tea, Shu offered soft smiles—his eyes brighter, unguarded. The simple gift of tea and bread carried more meaning now that sharing felt possible.

One afternoon, after a long session of training, Lui found Shu collapsed on the couch, fatigue heavy. Instead of pushing him to train more, he brought him water and soft words.

"You don't have to be strong right now," Lui said. "I'll carry the weight with you."

Shu nodded, dredging a small yes, expression soft. "I know."

Lui sat beside him, resting a hand on Shu's knee—a touch meant to heal.

And Shu didn't pull away.

Evening came again, and Valt and Free boarded their movie marathon cars. But Lui slipped away before the others, drawing Shu into the kitchen for a late-night snack.

They cooked something small and sweet—instant pancakes topped with berries and honey.

Standing side by side at the counter, their hands brushed. Shu stared, heart amplifying.

Lui caught his glance, smiled quiet. For the first time, he brushed Shu's hair behind his ear: tender, deliberate.

Shu's heart caught at the small gesture, trust rippling through him.

"Lui..." he breathed.

Lui set pancakes on two plates. "Eyes bigger than stomach?" he teased.

Shu dared to smile. And as they ate, on that soft tile floor with syrup dripping, Shu realized that this was more than comfort. He was falling in love—quietly, deeply, irrevocably—with the man who showed up for him every time.

For Lui, this was home.

They fell asleep that night wrapped together on the couch—Lui's arm draped over Shu, Shu's head nestled against his chest. The house murmured around them, soft rhythm of rest and safety.

And the world, for all its noise and battles, shrank to that one perfect temperature of trust and belonging.

Early evening light filtered through the living room windows, painting long shadows on the wooden floor. The house was calm—Valt and Free had ventured out for a late-night training session, and the others were scattered: Ken in his room practicing combos, Honcho fine-tuning an adjustment in the garage. The door clicked softly on each and there was peaceful quiet.

Only Shu and Lui remained in the shared lounge. It had been weeks since Shu had first cracked open—leaning on Lui's shoulder during the sleepover, letting him help with meals, with sleep, with training. Slowly, piece by piece, he had unraveled parts of his fear, and Lui had caught them with unwavering patience.

But here, now, Shu felt the fragile walls of his heart tremble.

He sat on a cushion near the TV, legs folded neatly, a mug of tea warming his fingers. Lui lounged on the couch, sketch pad on his lap, quietly drawing the curve of Shu's body in muted tones—nothing obvious, just the way the light brushed shadows across his face.

Shu watched him for a moment, absorbing the quiet closeness that had settled comfortably between them.

He took a shaky breath.

"Lui..." he began, voice low.

Lui paused mid-sketch, looking up from the pad. "Yeah?"

"I..." Shu swallowed. He cradled the mug tighter. "I need to tell you something."

Lui set the sketchbook aside, giving Shu his full attention. "Take your time."

Shu closed his eyes for a moment. He could feel a rainstorm echoing in his chest.

When he opened them again, the light in his gaze was soft but determined.

"I'm... I've been scared," he said, voice barely above a whisper. "Scared of getting close to someone. Scared that if I let myself feel—really feel—it'll end in pain or loss or me just... breaking."

He paused. "But I look at you and I feel... safe. Like maybe falling apart is okay because you're there to hold me."

Lui's breath caught. He moved forward and sat on the floor, knees pulled up, hands folding across them. "Shu..."

"I'm not good at love," Shu continued. "I don't know how to say it. But... I think I love you. And I'm terrified it's too much—or not enough."

Silence hung between them, warm and heavy.

Lui shifted, leaning forward until their knees almost touched. He reached up, brushing a loose strand of hair behind Shu's ear.

"I'm terrified, too," Lui admitted. "But... I love you, Shu. I've cared for you since the day I noticed you weren't okay. And every time you let me in, I fall harder."

Shu's breathing hitched.

"Fall with me?" Lui asked softly, his voice a promise.

Shu nodded, tears spilling over. He pushed himself forward and wrapped his arms around Lui's neck, pressing his face into Lui's chest. Lui closed his eyes and wrapped Shu in a steady embrace.

They stayed like that for a long moment—no words, just the heat of genuine belonging and the tremulous relief of two quiet hearts daring to hope again.

Valt and Free returned soon after dawn; Ken and Honcho later. They stepped into the living room, surprised to see the pair sitting close, eyes closed, calm.

Valt pressed his lips together to hold back a grin—a soft, proud smile of realization. Free heaved a dramatic sigh and tossed his keys onto the coffee table with a clatter.

"About time," he muttered loudly enough for everyone to hear.

Valt elbowed him gently. "Let them breathe, man."

They left the room quietly, understanding that this was their moment.

The rest of the evening unfolded slowly—quiet, anchored by laughter and normality. Shu and Lui sat side by side, shoulders touching but not pressed. Each glance carried more meaning than any shouted confession.

When night deepened, they slipped away to Lai's room—Lui's makeshift lair of drawings, textbooks, and the softest pillow.

There, under a blanket of warm light and whispered softness, they laid down together.

Lui held Shu close, breathing calm and even.

Shu tucked his face into Lui's chest and murmured, "I'm home."

Lui pressed a kiss to the top of Shu's head. "You are."

Morning came in gentle steps.

Shu woke first, cradled in Lui's arms. He stretched hesitantly—soaking in the peace of skin, breath, warmth. He could feel Lui's heart steady beneath him, safe.

He smiled softly.

Lui woke soon after, blinking at the early light. He lifted his hand to Shu's cheek, tracing the dreamlines gently.

"Good morning," he whispered.

"Good morning," Shu answered, voice heavy with clarity. "You're my favorite sight."

Lui chuckled. "You're biased."

Shu leaned in and kissed him full on the lips. Soft—shy—but laden with meaning.

They both laughed then, a shared exhale of relief.

Over the following days, their bond deepened. They spoke quietly in corners, shared forgotten jokes, lent strength through silent moments. The house hummed with life: Valt's boisterous training battles, Free's teasing jabs, Ken and Honcho's quiet respect. But at the heart of the home was now something warmer, safer—a love built on trust and patchwork healing.

They held hands walking through the yard. They shared meals with fingers brushing. They trained together, but now as partners rather than competitors. Each day brought small moments of reassurance—a stilled panic at night soothed by Lui's steady arm, anxious silence fenced by Shu's absent absences not disappearing but dwindling, replaced by sighs of content.

Shu realized he looked forward to these days—not as battles to fight alone, but as journeys taken together.

One night, as they sat on the back porch, silent, a star-woven sky above, Shu turned to Lui.

"I love you," he said simply.

Lui cupped his face. "And I love you."

Their lips met softly, a promise, a commitment, a release.

In the aftermath, life felt different.

Not perfect.

They still carried scars. They still fought battles.

But now, they fought them side by side.

And that made all the difference.

Chapter Text

The buzz of laughter filled Zac's oversized living room, lights dimmed just enough to make the string of LED stars along the ceiling pop. He'd gone all out—movie projector, snack bar, pillow pit, and even custom sleeping bags with everyone's name stitched into them. Loud music thudded in the background, vibrating in Shu's chest like it was trying to wake up something inside him.

But he wasn't sleeping.

He hadn't been sleeping properly in weeks, not really. And it wasn't the plush velvet cushions beneath him, or the scent of buttered popcorn floating through the air, or even the tangled mess of limbs from three other boys who were far too comfortable sprawling over each other.

It was the weight. The heavy, invisible thing he'd been dragging since the Red Eye incident. It lived in his bones now.

Shu sat on the edge of a beanbag while Zac danced around with a half-eaten chocolate bar in hand, pretending it was a microphone.

"—and THAT is how you drop a beat, boys!" Zac shouted, flipping his golden bangs out of his face.

Xander chuckled from the floor, where he'd been stacking soda cans into a tower. "You call that music? Sounds like a washing machine having a breakdown."

"Jealousy," Zac snapped his fingers dramatically. "It doesn't suit you."

Lui made a face and kicked one of Xander's cans, knocking it over. "You two are idiots."

"Love you too, sunshine," Zac said with a wink.

Shu offered a small smile that didn't quite touch his eyes.

Zac caught it. He always did. Out of the four of them, Zac was the only one who had a radar for moods, even under all that glitter and noise. He'd noticed when Shu hesitated to say yes to the sleepover. He'd seen the deflection, the fake "maybe next time," and Shu's empty eyes when he eventually gave in.

Zac hadn't said anything out loud. He just kept texting Shu every few hours, sending dumb memes and "can't wait!!!" messages, until Shu finally gave up and showed up at the door.

Now, Shu sat stiffly in a hoodie that was a little too big on him, the sleeves pulled over his hands like he was cold. He wasn't cold. The scar tissue under the fabric still stung sometimes.

"So," Zac said suddenly, collapsing next to Shu. "You gonna stay up all night like a proper degenerate, or are you gonna vanish into the shadows like some brooding anime side character?"

"I'm not brooding," Shu muttered.

"Tell that to your face," Zac said with a grin, but his voice lowered just enough. He wasn't making fun of Shu—he was reaching.

Shu looked away, fingers curling into the hem of his sleeve. Zac's leg bumped against his.

"You okay?" Zac asked, quieter now. The others were busy arguing over which movie to watch next.

"Fine," Shu said, too fast.

Zac didn't press. He just nodded and offered a marshmallow dipped in Nutella. Shu took it, chewing without tasting.

Later that night, when the room had dimmed even more and Xander had passed out snoring with his mouth open, Lui half-conscious beside him with headphones in, Shu sat upright, back against the wall, hoodie still on. The others had changed into pajama shorts or tank tops. Shu hadn't. He'd said he was fine. He always did.

His hand itched.

He slipped it under his sleeve and pressed lightly against the gauze-wrapped line just below his elbow, wincing. It wasn't fresh, not anymore, but it wasn't healing well either. Maybe he hadn't cleaned it right. Maybe he didn't care. Maybe he just—

"You can't keep doing that."

The whisper froze him. He turned sharply.

Zac.

Still awake. Sitting on his own sleeping bag, legs crossed, arms folded. His eyes were shadowed, not from sleep but from something heavier.

"I saw it," Zac said. "The edge of the bandage when you reached for the popcorn earlier."

Shu didn't answer. Couldn't.

"I didn't say anything then because you looked like you were going to bolt," Zac added, voice even. "But you don't get to lie to me here. Not tonight."

"You wouldn't understand."

"Try me."

Shu's fingers dug into his palms. His voice cracked when he spoke. "You didn't lose control of yourself. You didn't hurt people. You didn't become something else—something wrong."

"You weren't wrong," Zac said immediately. "You were hurt. You were manipulated. That's not the same thing."

Shu's eyes burned, but he blinked hard. No tears. Not in front of them. Not in front of him.

"I hate looking in the mirror," he said after a moment. "I hate remembering. I can't train without seeing him—Red Eye. I don't sleep. I barely eat. And sometimes..." He trailed off.

Zac didn't push. He just waited.

"Sometimes I think I need to feel something," Shu whispered. "Something sharp. Something real. Because the numbness is worse."

There it was.

Zac exhaled like he'd been punched. He crawled over, settling beside Shu without touching him, but close enough to lean against.

"Do the others know?" Zac asked gently.

Shu shook his head. "They still look at me like I'm the same. But I'm not."

Zac tilted his head. "You're not. But that doesn't mean worse."

Shu gave him a look.

"Don't roll your eyes, I'm being serious," Zac said. "You're hurting, yeah. But that doesn't make you less. It makes you human."

"I'm not supposed to be weak."

"You're not. Wanting help isn't weakness, Shu."

They sat in silence for a long time. Outside, rain tapped softly against the window. Xander mumbled something in his sleep and turned over, snuggling closer to Lui, who made a noise of protest but didn't wake.

Eventually, Shu looked at Zac and said, "I didn't want to come tonight."

"I know."

"But I'm... glad you didn't let me stay home."

Zac smiled, just a little. "You're not alone, Shu. You never were. I've got you. We all do."

And for the first time in what felt like forever, Shu let himself lean into someone. Not all the way. Not yet. But enough to feel a little less like he was drowning.

He didn't sleep much that night, but he didn't spend it staring at the ceiling either.

And maybe that was a start.

It was still dark when Shu woke again—if he ever really slept at all.

The room had quieted into a hum of breathing and soft rustles of movement from half-conscious turns. The projector light had gone out. Only the ceiling stars remained, glowing faintly overhead in artificial constellations. Shu sat up slowly, careful not to disturb the others. His back ached from sitting against the wall so long, hoodie bunched around his waist.

His wrist throbbed.

He looked down, cautiously tugging the sleeve back. The bandage had shifted, a dark spot forming in the corner from where he'd scratched it earlier. It was barely anything. But it said everything.

He let out a breath, low and frustrated.

It wasn't supposed to be this hard—just being. Just existing.

He got up, footsteps silent as he padded toward the kitchen for water, hoodie sleeves pulled low over his hands again. He didn't expect anyone to follow. He didn't hear anyone move. So when he turned and found Xander standing in the hallway, blinking blearily, he flinched hard.

Xander raised an eyebrow. "Didn't mean to scare you."

Shu didn't answer.

"Bathroom's the other way," Xander noted, nodding toward the kitchen. "You alright?"

Shu nodded, too quick. "Thirsty."

"Right." Xander rubbed his eyes, stepping aside to let him pass. "I'll come with."

"You don't have to."

"Didn't ask."

That was Xander for you—direct, blunt, and painfully observant in ways that made it hard to lie without guilt pressing into your chest.

In the quiet kitchen, the soft whir of Zac's refrigerator was the only sound as Shu filled a glass from the tap. He sipped slowly, stalling. Xander leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching him without looking like he was watching.

"You don't look like yourself lately," he said after a beat. "Since the league finals, you've been... off."

"I'm fine."

Xander's eyes narrowed. "Lui might buy that. I don't."

Shu set the glass down harder than necessary. "I said I'm fine."

Xander's voice didn't rise, but the tone changed. He stepped forward slightly, enough to close the space without being aggressive. "Do you think you're the only one who's ever struggled with something? We've all been through hell, Shu."

"Not like this."

"Maybe not. But don't act like pushing us away is going to fix it."

Shu's jaw tightened.

Xander looked at him for a long moment. "You're scared. I get it. You think if we see what you're carrying, we'll turn away. But we've seen the worst of you already, Shu. We were there."

"I saw what I became," Shu snapped, eyes flashing. "You didn't. You don't know what it's like waking up every day and remembering that you weren't yourself. That you hurt people. I wasn't just lost, Xander. I chose to keep going."

"No," Xander said firmly. "You were cornered. There's a difference."

Shu laughed bitterly. "There's always a choice."

"And you made the right one in the end. That counts."

Shu looked away, his hands curling at his sides, sleeves slipping slightly. Enough for the edge of white to peek out under the fabric. Xander noticed. Shu saw the shift in his expression—a flicker of realization, of understanding.

But he didn't say anything.

Instead, Xander walked over to the sink and grabbed a new glass, filling it.

"You want to keep pretending everything's fine? Fine," he said, voice calm. "But you don't have to pretend with me. When you're ready to talk, I'll listen."

Shu stood there, breathing shallow.

Then, almost too softly to hear, he said, "Don't tell the others."

"I won't."

And he didn't. Not when they returned to the living room. Not when Zac gave Shu a slightly-too-long glance that held both concern and patience. Not even when Lui yawned so loud it startled the cat off the couch and grumbled, "Why're you two up? It's not even morning."

"No reason," Xander said, sitting back down and grabbing a fistful of popcorn.

Zac didn't buy it, but he didn't press either. He just passed Shu a blanket, silent but warm.

The next day came with the slow glow of sun through the curtains, the lazy ache of sore muscles from sleeping on cushions instead of beds, and the smell of over-toasted waffles from Zac's questionable cooking attempt.

"Breakfast!" Zac announced proudly, wearing an apron that said Bey-tter than You in pink cursive.

"You're not making a pun out of Beyblade while flipping waffles," Lui groaned, still rubbing his eyes.

"Don't question greatness," Zac said.

Shu didn't laugh—but he smiled. A real one this time, brief but visible. Zac caught it.

They gathered around the kitchen island, eating off mismatched plates and drinking orange juice from novelty mugs shaped like Beys. It was chaotic and unpolished and exactly what Shu didn't know he needed. The noise filled the silence he'd been living in for too long.

But even in this, Shu couldn't forget.

His wrist ached under the hoodie sleeve. He moved carefully, always conscious of how he reached for things. Always checking that nothing showed.

Zac watched from the other end of the island. When Lui tossed a piece of waffle at Xander and Xander retaliated with whipped cream to the face, Shu flinched—but Zac saw it. He said nothing then.

But later, when they all scattered—Lui dragging Xander into a two-player Bey match in the living room, Zac cornered Shu again.

"Come with me," he said simply, tugging Shu toward the hallway.

"Where?"

"My room."

"I'm not—"

"It's not what you think," Zac said, a little too fast. "Just... trust me, okay?"

Shu hesitated.

Then followed.

Zac's room was a reflection of himself—colorful, full of posters, with neon lights along the edges of the ceiling and a photo board above his desk. There were dozens of pictures pinned there: tournament memories, selfies with fans, and a few rare shots of all four of them together.

Zac sat on the edge of his bed, serious now. "I want to show you something."

He pulled open the drawer of his nightstand and took out a small box. Inside, Shu saw—at first glance—just a pile of wristbands. But Zac pulled one out, held it up. Black elastic. Subtle.

"I wore these for six months," Zac said. "After my first real loss."

Shu frowned. "What?"

"I know it sounds dumb. But that loss broke something in me. Everyone thought I was fine—Zac the Sunshine Star. But I stopped practicing. Stopped sleeping. There was this pressure, like I couldn't fail or else I wasn't Zac anymore."

Shu stared.

"I didn't... go as far as you did. But I get the silence. The self-hate. The weight."

Shu looked away. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because I want you to know I see you. Not just the parts you show. And you don't have to deal with this alone."

"I don't want your pity."

"It's not pity. It's care." Zac leaned forward. "There's a difference."

Shu didn't speak.

Zac opened another box. First aid supplies—gauze, tape, antiseptic.

"You're not doing a great job bandaging it yourself," he said gently. "Let me help."

Shu froze.

Then slowly, he pulled back the sleeve.

The wound wasn't fresh. But it was red around the edges, irritated from friction and not cleaning it properly. Zac didn't flinch. He didn't ask anything. He just cleaned it quietly, wrapping it with new gauze, his hands steady.

"You don't have to hurt to feel something, Shu."

Shu swallowed. "I don't know how to stop."

"Then we'll figure it out. Together."

When they returned to the living room, the match between Lui and Xander was in full swing. Zac plopped down with dramatic flair, distracting them with commentary.

Shu sat back down, hoodie sleeves rolled up just a bit. Not enough to show the bandage. But enough to show that maybe—just maybe—he didn't have to hide forever.

Not with them.

Not anymore.

They were in the middle of a casual match—Zac and Lui bickering over launch techniques, Xander lounging on a pile of beanbags—when it happened.

Shu hadn't said much all morning. That wasn't new.

What was new was how unsteady he looked, swaying just slightly on his feet after each launch. He gripped the stadium edge a little tighter every time. His skin was pale, damp around the temples, and his sleeves were bunched halfway up his arms. Zac noticed. He always noticed.

"You okay?" Zac asked, reaching toward him.

Shu nodded mutely, eyes hazy.

Then everything tipped.

One second he was standing. The next, he crumpled forward with no warning—like a puppet whose strings had been cut. His Bey launcher clattered to the floor, and Shu hit the carpet in a heavy, graceless heap.

"Shu!"

The room exploded into movement. Zac was on his knees beside him instantly, hands hovering. "Shu—hey, come on, talk to me."

Xander grabbed a cushion, sliding it under Shu's head, voice tight. "He's burning up. What the hell—?"

Lui stood frozen, eyes wide. "Is he—is he breathing?"

"He's breathing!" Zac snapped. "Just unconscious. Call someone!"

"I got it." Xander was already dialing emergency services, his thumb shaking over the screen.

Zac leaned closer, brushing Shu's hair back. "You're okay, Shu. You're gonna be okay."

But he didn't wake up.

⸻

The hospital was too white. Too quiet. Too cold.

The three of them sat in the sterile waiting room, washed under fluorescent lighting that made everyone look like ghosts. Zac paced. Xander stared at the floor. Lui sat still, arms crossed, jaw tight enough to crack.

It had been an hour. Maybe more.

When the doctor finally came in, all three of them stood at once.

"Are you family?" she asked gently.

Zac spoke first. "We're his friends. Please, just tell us he's okay."

The doctor hesitated, then nodded. "He's stable. He fainted due to exhaustion, severe dehydration, and malnutrition. His vitals were dangerously low when he arrived."

Xander's face went pale. "Malnutrition?"

"He's significantly underweight for his height and age," the doctor continued, clipboard in hand. "According to the labs, he's not been eating properly for quite some time. It's not a simple case of skipping meals—this is systemic. Long-term."

Zac made a strangled sound. Lui's arms fell from his chest, hands curling into fists.

"He's been hiding it," Zac whispered. "We knew something was off, but..."

"He's lucky he didn't collapse during battle," the doctor said. "We've inserted a temporary nasogastric feeding tube. He's not in any condition to eat normally right now."

"A feeding tube," Xander repeated hollowly.

The doctor nodded. "To stabilize his nutrients. We'll need to monitor him for at least a few days. Physically, he should recover, but the underlying issue seems psychological. Has he been under any unusual stress?"

The three boys exchanged looks.

The Red Eye incident. The guilt. The isolation.

Zac stepped forward. "He's been through something... hard. Really hard. And I think he never stopped blaming himself for it."

The doctor's voice softened. "Then he's going to need support. Not just medical. Emotional. Psychological."

Lui still hadn't spoken. His jaw was clenched, eyes burning with something unspoken.

"Can we see him?" Xander asked.

The doctor nodded. "One at a time, for now. He's sedated but semi-conscious."

Zac went in first.

Shu looked small under the hospital sheets, cheeks hollowed out in a way that didn't look like him. His hoodie had been removed, replaced with a sterile gown. Tape held a feeding tube in place along one nostril, trailing down to a pump beside the bed. His hands were pale against the blanket, fingers twitching slightly as he stirred.

Zac sat beside him and swallowed the knot in his throat.

"Hey," he said softly. "I know you probably can't hear me, but... we're here. All of us."

Shu didn't respond, but his eyes fluttered briefly. Zac reached out, carefully taking one of his hands.

"You scared the hell out of us, you know. One second you were just standing there and then—boom. Gone."

His voice cracked, but he kept going.

"You don't have to do this alone anymore. We're not gonna let you disappear."

He sat with Shu until a nurse came in and gently asked him to switch out. He nodded, wiping his eyes, and kissed two fingers before pressing them to Shu's wrist.

"Hang in there."

Xander went in next.

He didn't speak much—just sat down and rested his hand on Shu's shoulder. He watched the slow rise and fall of Shu's chest, the soft beep of the monitor, the tube that seemed too harsh for someone usually so in control.

Xander stayed for fifteen minutes, unmoving.

Then stood, whispered, "You're stronger than this," and left.

Lui waited last.

He didn't want to go in. Not because he didn't care—but because he did. Too much. And he didn't know what to do with that.

Eventually, he pushed the door open.

The quiet inside was worse than the waiting room.

He approached slowly, stopping at the foot of the bed. Shu looked like a shell. Hollowed out. Bruised under the skin with something invisible.

Lui's mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again.

"You idiot," he said, voice low.

No response.

"You should've said something. I would've—dammit, I don't know what I would've done, but I'd have done something."

He rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly feeling fourteen again. Small. Helpless.

"You think you're the only one who's ever hated yourself? You think you're the only one who's ever made a mistake so big it sticks in your ribs like a damn knife?" He shook his head. "We all mess up. But this—this isn't how you fix it."

Shu stirred, barely.

Lui stepped closer, fists clenched.

"You don't get to die, Shu. Not like that. Not for something that wasn't your fault."

He exhaled, harsh and ragged.

"You're not Red Eye anymore. You're just Shu. Our Shu. And we want you back."

A pause.

"You hear me, you stupid bastard?"

This time, Shu blinked.

It was slight. Barely there. But it was enough.

Lui let out a shaky breath and sat beside him. He didn't touch him. Didn't need to.

He just stayed.

That night, Shu woke fully.

The room was dark except for the monitor light and the low hum of machines. He couldn't speak at first—his throat was dry and sore. He reached up instinctively and felt the tape along his nose.

He blinked groggily.

"Shu?"

Zac's voice.

He turned his head slightly. Zac sat in the chair again, legs tucked up under him, hoodie halfway over his face like he'd never moved.

"You're awake," Zac said softly, standing and leaning over him. "Oh, thank god. You had us freaking out."

Shu tried to sit up, but Zac gently pushed him back down.

"Don't," he said. "Just—stay still, okay? You're safe."

Shu looked at him, eyes wet. He didn't speak.

"I know," Zac whispered. "I know it's scary. And hard. And maybe you didn't think we'd care this much, but... we do. So much."

Tears slipped from Shu's eyes. Zac wiped them away without hesitation.

"You don't have to carry it all anymore," Zac said. "Let us help. Please."

Shu nodded, barely.

But it was a start.

Shu drifted between consciousness and haze as nurses cleaned him, changed bindings, and rechecked vitals. His body ached everywhere—every movement felt like glass under his hidden façade of indifference. The tube had been put back in, but now a fresh weight settled around his arms, where the bandages lay thick and new.

He didn't cry. He didn't speak.

His hands were fat with swelling—beautiful hands he no longer recognized. Hands that launched Beys like lightning once. Now, they were marred with lines of self-destruction, angry scars angry and raw peeking from beneath healing skin. He watched, numbly, as a soft-spoken nurse pressed antiseptic to each line, cleaning for the last time—or so he hoped.

The air smelled of alcohol and soy sauce from lunch carts pressing through the corridor. Distant voices echoed gently — no alarms, no frantic footsteps — as his pulse slowed to a normal, almost peaceful pace.

This was quiet. Faux calm. Too close to stillness.

A door opened and a female voice cut in. "Dr. Hana Saito." The therapist he'd met first, after collapse, stepped inside. Her eyes reflected plain concern and quiet professionalism.

Shu's throat clenched. He tensed, every muscle tight. Confrontation, even friendly, felt like falling into water and drowning. He turned his head away.

Dr. Saito approached slowly, gaze low. "I have some time, if you want to talk."

No expectation, just presence.

The nurse finished with the arm wraps, swathed in soft gauze. The heat underneath was tender but sterile. He saw the slight wince Dr. Saito got out of him, but said nothing.

Once the nurse stepped away, she spoke. "Your arms are healing. They look painful, but healing."

His voice came out clipped. "They were my fault."

She waited. The line lay between them: no judgment, just waiting for him to lean or pull back.

"Why did you do it?" she asked gently.

His chest burned. He looked at his arms like they were someone else's. "To feel something," he said finally. Voice rough. "Anything."

Tears that nearly formed. He swallowed. A storm inside shifted.

She gave him space.

"Can you tell me more about 'something'?"

He stared at the ceiling. "Sanity. It's better than nothing."

Silence.

She met his gaze. "There's a kernel there. I want to understand what drove you to that edge."

He shook his head. "It wasn't a choice."

"A need," she said, voice even. "A desperate one."

He closed his eyes, fingers twisting in the folds of the hospital gown. "Everything was numb. Guilt, shame... so much guilt."

"You were punishing yourself?" she asked softly.

He exhaled, bitter and low. "Because I thought it would make me stop... hating me."

"So you hurt yourself to hide from yourself?"

He bowed his head. She could see the tears now glistening on his lashes. "Maybe."

Her next words were calm but firm: "That hurt would change—if it was shared instead of buried."

He tilted his head at that. It sounded impossible.

"You don't have to explain more now," she continued. "But there's a reason I came in today."

His muscles tensed again.

"I want to show you something," she said, reaching into her bag and pulling out a mirror.

Shu blinked—like glass inside him cracked. She sat on the edge of the bed and gently handed him the mirror.

He stared at it. His reflection was gaunt and pale. Dark circles under the eyes. The harsh hospital lights made the room feel too bright, too exposed.

She gave him space with silence. The air trembled.

He saw the scars again and pressed a finger lightly against the gauze. The burn—old and itchy—responded.

"It's okay," she murmured. "You've survived this. But I want you to see how beautiful your body is... scarred, yes, but alive."

He blinked hard. Beauty? Alive? The words sounded foreign in his head.

He traced a line under the skin. Pain lingered under pressure. A wave of shame rolled in. He shook his head.

"I don't know if I can love what I did."

"No one will ask you to love it," she said quietly. "Just to recognize it."

That broke something inside him—recognition of truth older than guilt. A realness he'd feared.

He whispered, "Recognize... that I did this?"

She nodded. "What happened happened in pain. It doesn't get erased. But it—can belong to your story, not be the story."

Shu looked again at the glass. The body moving under the gown was him—scars and weakness and fight. Maybe he could begin.

After a moment, she placed her hand on his arm. A soft weight of trust. "You're not alone."

Her words—there on the air—felt like wind ripping open the walls around his heart.

He let the tears spill.

Over the next two days, he replayed every moment from that conversation. He saw in the mirror again: marks that used to shame him, now worn like proof he'd survived.

He kept the mirror by his bed and looked at it morning and night. Each time, he whispered affirmations he had no right to yet but needed anyway:

"I'm still here."
"I'm still breathing."
"I belong."

Dr. Hana came in again with Dr. Kaito. The two therapists stood at the doorway without entering.

Shu looked at them—then looked at his arms, rubbed gently at a fresh scab.

Hana motioned at Kaito. She took a seat across him, the other leaning on the wall behind. No paper in hand. Just space.

Kaito sat in silence for a moment. Then she began: "You named what happened because it began to make sense—to you, at least."

Shu peered away. She continued softly: "Naming what you did, why you did it—means you're not hiding. It's a step."

He whispered, "Feels like an avalanche of pain."

Her voice softened: "Genesis of pain is honest. Your story is shifting."

The days melded again. Medical staff still checked vitals, cleaned, wrapped. Talks. Mirror. Little sessions—sometimes alone. Sometimes with the nurses who murmured gentle conversation while changing bandages. They called him "Shu" without shame.

One afternoon, he asked for sunscreen paper and for permission to let air meet his arms. The nurse smiled and left the curtain open—brief sunlight falling on each line. It warmed skin and heart. He sat there, soaking it in.

When Dr. Saito re-entered to remove the final bandages two days later, Shu sat beneath the sunbeam like a kid pretending to be brave.

She worked gently, wiping scars with sterile cloth. Each line she cleaned, she waited for him to breathe and not flinch. His gaze dropped to his arms, inch by inch.

When the last piece of gauze came off and the final antiseptic wiped away, he laid his arms out flat.

He looked at them without cringing—just studying.

She asked quietly: "What do you feel now?"

He inhaled slow, steady. "Alive," he whispered. "Scared... but alive."

She didn't smile. Instead, she nodded and said, "Those scars are a testament. They tell the story you survived the darkest part of yourself—and are still choosing to fight."

He let the words sink in, then reached down and hugged himself. No shame. Not yet. But something like acceptance.

That evening he sat on the bed and journalled in his spiral notebook. He started:

I cut myself because I wanted to feel something other than nothing.
But I'm learning I can feel fear and sorrow—and still be okay.
My arms bear the proof.

He watched the page blur as tears fell.

A knock at the door. Zac peeked in.

Shu looked up, surprised to see him. Zac closed the door quietly and sat.

He extended a small beaded bracelet—white with one black bead.

"For scars," Zac said simply. "To remind you scars don't have to be hidden. They can be worn."

Shu put it on his wrist next to a hospital bracelet, small landmark in his body story. He closed his eyes, letting the stone rest against the pale skin.

That night, he slept deeply for the first time in weeks. No machines screamed. No thoughts ran wild. Just full-body exhaustion, scarred arms tucked beneath the covers.

When he woke, he sat by the window and gazed quietly at the city beyond. His arms were uncovered. The world loomed bright and real.

He touched the bracelet. He touched his arms. He felt no pride yet, but there was no more hiding.

And that was enough.
⸻
The hospital room felt impossibly quiet, like the silence was waiting for him to fill it with something—anything. But Shu just lay there, muscles stiff and weak, the feeding tube in his nose a constant reminder of how far gone he'd let himself get.

He couldn't sleep. Not really. Not yet.

His mind replayed everything he tried to forget: the red eye incident, the guilt crushing his chest, the sharp edges of loneliness he never dared show. He'd hidden the cuts, the pain, but the hospital could see through everything.

It was humiliating.

He hated needing help. Hated feeling small.

But worse was the emptiness inside—the part of him that felt like giving up was easier than facing the damage he'd caused himself.

Zac visited again, but Shu barely noticed. He watched the door open and close, heard the soft footsteps, the low voice, but inside, Shu was locked away.

The tube in his nose made swallowing hard, the food pumped in tasteless and cold. He hated it, but he needed it. He wanted to get better. Somewhere buried beneath the haze was a stubborn thread holding him together.

Then, one afternoon, the doctor came in with a clipboard and a look that wasn't clinical but real. She spoke quietly.

"We're going to remove the feeding tube soon. You're making progress. How are you feeling?"

Shu's throat tightened. "I want to leave."

The doctor nodded slowly. "That's normal. But we need to make sure you're ready. Eating on your own, gaining strength. Not just your body, but your mind."

"Do I have to stay here?"

She hesitated. "Only as long as you need. And we'll help you get the support outside. Therapy, counseling... people who understand."

Shu didn't want to talk about that. He didn't want to open up. But he knew deep down he couldn't keep running.

When the others came, he barely looked at them. He felt fragile, like a cracked mirror that might shatter with one wrong touch.

Lui stood in the corner, arms crossed, staring.

Zac sat by the window, silent but steady.

Xander leaned against the wall, waiting for Shu to say something, anything.

But Shu just stared at the ceiling, trying to find something to hold on to.

After a long moment, Zac broke the silence.

"We're here," he said simply.

That was all Shu needed to hear.

Days passed in a slow blur of tests, small meals, and long, quiet moments.

Shu's body was healing. His skin gained color. His strength came back bit by bit. But his heart? That was a different story.

He found himself standing in front of the mirror one morning, seeing a face he barely recognized. The eyes still held pain, but also something else—a flicker of defiance.

Maybe, just maybe, he wasn't done fighting.

The days blurred into one another like ripples on a stagnant pond. Shu counted time in breaths, in the slow tick of the clock on the sterile hospital wall, in the faint sounds of distant footsteps and quiet voices outside his room. His body remained fragile—a shell that barely held itself together—and yet inside, a war waged relentlessly.

The feeding tube was still in, a silent, insistent presence. Some mornings, Shu hated it more than the day before; other days, it was simply something he ignored, something to endure like the dull ache in his limbs.

He was learning to eat again. Small bites, spoonfuls of thick soup, pieces of bread. It wasn't easy. The muscles in his jaw and throat felt clumsy and foreign. Sometimes the food stuck painfully, making him gag. He wanted to stop. But the nurse's patient voice reminded him, You're stronger than you think. This is the way back.

He wasn't so sure.

Every night was worse.

Sleep slipped through his fingers like smoke. The darkness magnified every fear, every crack in his mind.

He whispered to the shadows.

I want out.

The phrase twisted like a knife, cutting deeper than any wound.

His thoughts tangled and frayed, looping endlessly between guilt and anger, between wanting to heal and wanting to give up.

Sometimes he heard their voices—the Supreme Four—calling his name. Not just Zac's steady presence, but Lui's worried glances, Xander's silent support. But Shu felt like he was drifting further away from them, from himself.

One afternoon, he sat by the window, watching rain streak down the glass in jagged trails. The gray sky pressed in, heavy and cold. His hands lay folded in his lap, trembling.

The nurse brought his meal and sat quietly, waiting.

"Want to talk?" she asked gently.

Shu shook his head.

She left the room, but the silence stayed.

He thought about the battles he'd fought on the Bey stadium, about the fierce drive that once pushed him to the top. Now, even the idea of standing, launching a Bey, seemed impossible.

Where did that Shu go?

The feeding tube was a reminder he was still alive, but not living.

Sometimes, when no one was looking, he pressed his fingers against the tape, willing the tube to loosen. A small act of rebellion.

But each time, the pain reminded him: he wasn't in control.

The physical pain was nothing compared to the mental weight.

He fought waves of self-doubt that crashed over him without warning.

"You're weak," the voice hissed. "You can't do this."

He wanted to scream, to throw the world away, but he was trapped inside his own mind, caught in a storm with no shore.

Zac came again one evening.

He sat quietly beside Shu's bed, offering no words but a steady presence.

Shu's voice broke the silence.

"I'm tired. I don't want to be here."

Zac nodded slowly.

"We'll get through this. Together."

It wasn't enough.

Not yet.

But it was a start.

The battle wasn't over.

It was just beginning.

The therapy room was quiet and softly lit, a stark contrast to the harsh sterility of the hospital ward. Shu sat curled in a chair too big for his slight frame, knees drawn close, hands clenched in his lap. His eyes flicked around nervously, refusing to meet the gaze of the woman sitting calmly across from him.

She had introduced herself as Dr. Kaito, her voice gentle but steady—a quiet anchor in the storm swirling inside him.

"Shu," she said softly, "thank you for coming today. This is your space. You can say whatever you want, or nothing at all."

He wanted to run. To shrink away. But the exhaustion that had settled deep in his bones kept him rooted.

"I don't know where to start," he whispered.

"That's okay," she said. "We start wherever you feel safe."

He swallowed hard. The feeding tube still nestled inside him, a reminder of everything broken. The weight of Zac and the others waiting outside, hoping, made him feel raw and exposed.

"I feel... lost," Shu said, voice trembling. "Like I'm not me anymore."

Dr. Kaito nodded. "That's a brave thing to say. Can you tell me what 'you' used to be like?"

Memories flickered—battles in the stadium, laughter with friends, the fierce determination burning in his eyes.

"I was strong," he said quietly. "I was... in control."

"And now?"

"Now, I'm just tired. And scared. And sometimes... I don't want to be here."

The tears came suddenly, spilling over. Shu wiped them away roughly, embarrassed.

"It's okay to cry," Dr. Kaito said softly. "It means you're starting to feel again."

For the first time in weeks, Shu let the walls around him crack just a little.

The sessions weren't easy. Some days he talked; other days he sat silent, battling the fear that speaking would open wounds too deep to heal.

But slowly, piece by piece, the therapist helped him hold those broken parts without breaking.

She taught him to name his feelings, to breathe through panic, to find moments of calm.

Most importantly, she never rushed him.

Outside, Zac and the others waited, a silent circle of support. They didn't push; they just held space for Shu's slow, painful journey.

Sometimes, when the pain was too much, Shu thought about giving up again. But then, the memory of Dr. Kaito's calm voice, or Zac's quiet strength, pulled him back.

He was still fighting.

Still trying.

Still holding on.

The hospital room felt colder than ever that morning. The light from the window was dim, muted by thick gray clouds that pressed down like a weight on Shu's chest. He lay in the bed, staring at the ceiling, eyes glassy and vacant, his body too weak even to shift beneath the thin blanket.

The feeding tube was still in place, taped firmly against his pale cheek. But Shu barely noticed it now, or the bland, forced meals it delivered. His appetite had vanished completely in the last two days. He hadn't eaten anything by mouth, barely moved, barely spoken.

He didn't want to talk. He didn't want to move. He didn't want to be here.

The nurse came in quietly, her footsteps soft on the linoleum floor. She offered a gentle smile, but it didn't reach her eyes. She knew the signs.

"Good morning, Shu. How are you feeling today?"

He didn't answer. He barely even blinked.

She set a tray of food on the bedside table, the same bland, thick soup he hated. He didn't even look at it.

The feeding pump hummed quietly, pushing nutrients into his body.

The hours passed like slow, suffocating waves. Shu's mind was a storm of dark thoughts, swirling with hopelessness and anger. The faces of Zac, Lui, and Xander appeared and vanished behind a fog of exhaustion.

He heard their voices sometimes — Zac's calm, firm tone trying to reach him; Lui's worried sighs; Xander's quiet presence — but it all felt distant, like echoes from a faraway place he could no longer reach.

He wanted to push them away. He wanted to disappear.

The doctor came in mid-afternoon, clipboard in hand, eyes serious.

"We're worried about you, Shu," she said gently. "You've stopped eating and barely respond. We need to help you."

Shu's eyes flickered with something dark—defiance, maybe.

"I don't want help," he whispered, voice barely audible.

The doctor knelt by his bedside, steadying.

"We're here because we care. But you have to meet us halfway."

He looked away, his breathing shallow.

That evening, when the lights dimmed and the hospital grew quieter, Shu's walls started to crumble.

The tube burned his nostril again. The hunger pangs twisted into a knot of pain and frustration in his gut. The exhaustion weighed him down like a heavy stone.

He tried to sleep but the night stretched endlessly.

His thoughts spiraled.

Why keep fighting?

What's the point?

The darkness whispered lies he wanted to believe.

The next morning, Shu's trembling hands reached up and touched the tape on his cheek.

A sudden, desperate impulse surged inside him.

He pulled.

The tape loosened.

He yanked the feeding tube free with a sharp, burning pain that made him gasp.

Alarms blared through the ward—shrill and urgent.

Nurses rushed in, panic in their eyes.

"Shu! No!" one cried, rushing to restrain him.

He pushed away weakly, but when they moved to secure his arms and legs with soft restraints, he fought harder.

"I don't want this! I'm not a prisoner!" he shouted, tears streaming.

But the staff worked calmly but firmly, pinning him to the bed.

"Shu, we have to keep you safe," the nurse said gently.

His heart hammered in his chest, panic rising like a tidal wave.

Zac, Lui, and Xander were called immediately. They arrived just as Shu's screams began to fade into ragged sobs.

Zac knelt by his side, voice low and steady.

"We're here, Shu. We're not giving up on you."

But Shu closed his eyes, overwhelmed by shame and fear.

He felt broken beyond repair.

The doctor reinserted the feeding tube carefully, murmuring reassurances that barely reached Shu's ears.

As the tube slid back in, a wave of nausea overwhelmed him. He choked back tears.

The restraints stayed on for hours, until Shu's panic lessened to a fragile calm.

Zac stayed the longest, holding Shu's hand gently.

"You don't have to do this alone," he whispered.

Shu's fingers twitched, the first small sign of life in days.

The crisis was a devastating blow. Recovery felt farther away than ever.

But even in the darkest moment, the fierce bond of friendship and care held fast.

This was the fight now.

Not just for Shu's body.

But for his soul.

The morning after the feeding-tube crisis was still and sterile in a way that felt deliberately cruel. The clouds outside pressed against the window, casting a pallid gray across Shu's face. He lay motionless, eyes fixed on the ceiling, mind spinning in a haze of shame, exhaustion, and shame again.

He felt like he'd lost everything. There was no clearer proof of that than the leather straps around his wrists and ankles. They'd been removed hours ago, yet the marks remained—light red impressions on his skin that throbbed under the bandage where he pressed his thumb, trying and failing to scrub away the memory of every moment pinned down.

Once, he had fought in Bey arenas—fierce, unbreakable. Now, he felt like something disposable, discarded when it grew too weak.

A soft chime interrupted his dark thoughts. The door slid open quietly. His heart sank with apprehension, bracing for confrontation. Instead, His suite-of-rooms therapist, Dr. Kaito, slipped in gently, clipboard in hand and eyes calm.

"Good morning, Shu," she said softly.

He didn't respond. He didn't even blink.

She settled into the seat beside his bed, her voice low and soothing. "We don't have to talk today. I just wanted to check in."

That hit him like a hammer. The thought of speaking felt like standing on glass barefoot. But there, beside the bed, Dr. Kaito leaned forward, not insisting, not prying—just waiting.

A guttural, exhausted sound escaped Shu. He swallowed hard, throat raw. "...Missed my chance." His voice was a broken whisper, fading.

She nodded slowly. "It feels like that, doesn't it? Like you lost everything."

He clenched his jaw. "Feels like I lost me."

Dr. Kaito's voice remained quiet, patient. "What do you look like inside?"

Shu's gaze froze on the featureless ceiling. "I don't know anymore."

She placed down the clipboard. "Then let's try to find out. One piece at a time."

She sat there for nearly an hour, letting silence settle around them. Not the oppressive silence of the hospital ward, but the kind that said it was okay to feel lost.

Eventually, Shu spoke again. "I hate feeling like this." He gestured at his body. "Weak, helpless."

"You're not worthless," Dr. Kaito offered gently. "These feelings don't define you. They are signs that something inside is hurting."

He closed his eyes. "It doesn't feel like that."

She didn't press. Instead, next to her clipboard lay a small spiral notebook and a pen. "If you want, you can write. Or draw. Or just sit with the pen in your hand."

Her quiet invitation, without expectation or judgment, unsettled him. He stared at the notebook until his jaw ached.

Sunbeams shifted as the clouds outside started to break. A patient nurse peeked her head in. "Would you like something to eat, Shu?"

He bit the inside of his cheek. The word "eat" felt like a challenge too painful to meet. "...Not now."

The nurse nodded and stepped out quietly, closing the door softly behind her.

Shu felt the world stretch across his chest. Too few breaths. Too much grief.

Dr. Kaito watched him for a long moment, then stood. "That's enough for today. I'll check in later."

Shu didn't reply. He stared at the notebook until the sunlight faded.

Zac, Xander, and Lui arrived together late that afternoon, footsteps echoing through the quiet corridor. They flinched when the door slid open and saw Shu in his hospital gown, sitting hunched under pale light that now looked harsh and cold.

Lui stood stiffly near the door, arms crossed, face taut with nerves. Xander hovered by the office desk, hands shoved into his jeans pockets, gaze flickering between the room and the hallway. Zac stepped up close to Shu's bedside and simply stood there, breathing shallow and steady.

That was Zac's way—doing nothing until the moment was right.

Xander was the first to speak. "Hey." A small word. He perched at the end of the bed. "We... we missed you."

Shu didn't look at them. He stared at his hands where they rested limply in his lap.

Lui spoke next, voice taut. "Stop collapsing." He added, "We can't—" He cut off, eyes flicking away.

A long silence. Shu tasted guilt on his tongue—sweet and terrible.

He swallowed. "I didn't mean to..."

Zac's voice was gentle but firm. "That night you didn't choose to collapse, Shu."
"Still, I did," Shu whispered.

Zac leaned forward, voice steady. "You were hurting. And we—we're not okay with losing you."

Xander shifted. "We need you."

Shu looked up, eyes raw. "But I'm not strong enough."

Lui's shoulders slumped. "We know."

Zac held out a small cup. "Soup. Taste something today."

Shu's hand shook, but he took it. The soup was warm when he sipped. Nothing like ash this time. It tasted human.

It brought tears to his eyes. He swallowed hard.

Dr. Kaito re-entered quietly behind the group and gave Shu a soft smile. "That's progress."

Lui looked surprised. Xander gave a tight-lipped nod. Zac's eyes shone clear, no need for words.

They lingered for a few more minutes, gentle conversation without pressure. Then they left as softly as they entered, promising to return tomorrow.

Later, asleep, Shu dreamed he was back in a stadium, not as a fighter but as a spectator—watching a strong-voiced version of himself, launching a Bey with confidence he couldn't remember having. The crowd roared and the lights shone too bright, too harsh. Then he woke with a start: the feeding tube control beeping quietly by the bed.

He blinked awake, the warmth of the blanket clinging to him. The taste of soup lingered faintly at the back of his mouth, slightly sweet under the antiseptic air.

He picked up the spiral notebook that had been left open on the bedside table. The page was blank.

He sighed, exhaustion tugging at his bones, but he didn't push the notebook away. He sliced through guilt and doubt, picked up the pen, and scribbled:

"I'm still here."

He woke the next day to pale sunlight streaming through the curtains. The feeding pump was quiet—turned off for the moment. A thin tray with a single spoonful of porridge and some juice sat beside him.

His throat felt raw, but he tried anyway. The paste slid down rough and gritty, but he swallowed it all.

A nurse came in, eyebrows rising slightly with a smile. "Well done, Shu."

He managed a ghost of a nod.

Therapy that afternoon was different. He entered the soft light of the psych office, notebook in hand.

Dr. Kaito greeted him with a genuine warmth. "Ready to start?"

Shu exhaled slowly. "I wrote something."

He held out the notebook. On the first page: "I'm still here."

Then the second page had a single short sentence:

"What now?"

He met her eyes. She nodded, and that was enough. She stayed seated.

Shu spoke, voice trembling. "I don't know where to go next. I feel..."

He hesitated, hands clenching the notebook.

"I feel afraid. That all this goes away."

She nodded again. "That's fear of losing progress. It's real."

He kept going. "What if this is all I get?"

"Then we take it," Dr. Kaito said firmly. "One moment at a time."

That evening, Zac, Xander, and Lui visited again. This time, the tension in the air felt lighter. They pulled chairs into a wobbly semicircle. Zac asked about porridge. Xander told a story about scrubbing old Bey blades. Lui made a joke—awkward and quiet, but it worked and drew Shu into a small smile.

Lui clapped him on the back. "Still no collapsing."

Shu rolled his eyes but laughed.

They talked—about little things. The brilliance of morning light, the sound of distant hospital alarms like waves on shore. They didn't discuss breakdowns or feeding tubes or therapist rooms. They listened for the quiet shifts: a sip taken without force, a crack in a smile, a question asked by Shu:

"Do you guys think I'll be able to launch again?"

Xander and Lui both looked at each other, then at Zac.

Zac breathed deep. "Maybe."

Shu closed his eyes for a second. "Maybe is better than never."

The chapter closed that night on a small, simple moment: Shu, for the first time in weeks, asked to remove the tube temporarily—for dinner. The nurse hesitated, nodded, and unwrapped the tape. She smiled again when Shu swallowed pizza crust—gagging a little, but swallowing it all.

He lay back, satisfied and exhausted.

The room glowed with pale morning light as Shu awoke, each breath a soft tremor in his chest. The feeding tube was still tucked gently behind him—a promise of tomorrow. One spoonful of oatmeal, brought by the nurse whose eyes carried warmth and encouragement, slid awkwardly down his throat. He held the sensation in his mouth like a fragile victory.

He closed his eyes. This is progress, the nurse said. And in that moment, Shu believed her.

Later, he found himself in Dr. Kaito's softly lit office, notebook in hand. He offered a single line: "I'm scared I'll fall again." She read it quietly before asking, "What are you learning?" He nearly hesitated before whispering, "That I need help. I can't do this alone." Her nod was steady—firm, but not harsh. "That's true," she said. "One of the hardest, but strongest things to admit."

Something inside him shifted: relief, raw and bitter.

They lingered in silence until she invited him to close his eyes and remember. He pictured the stadium before it broke him—the lights pulsing against his skin, the perfect launch of his Bey, the roar of the crowd echoing his name. He felt strong there, before everything cracked. He spoke through a rough voice: "What if that me is gone forever?" She looked at him with soft certainty. "That you still exists. Maybe wounded, but still you."

In a small gym, Shu stood before a pull-down strap with therapist Elsa and stepped forward into a trembling act: physical therapy. The first time he stood, his legs protested like betrayed muscles. He reached up and pulled, the band resisting. Elsa offered gentle encouragement, and his arms shook, but he pulled down, moving them—a surge of iron and vulnerability. That night, the ache in his muscles felt sharp and undeniable. Proof.

But recovery was neither swift nor kind. Two mornings later, he sat in Dr. Kaito's office, head bowed. "My body doesn't follow. I'm weak," he confessed. On paper, he wrote "I'm not good enough." She met his gaze. "Tell me what we can do right now." He looked down, voice small: "I want to feel ordinary." She nodded, "Okay. We try that tomorrow." It wasn't inspiring—but it felt like a hand reaching into darkness.

Days later, the door opened; Zac, Xander, and Lui came in carrying a container of sushi and only sushi inside. Their eyes held something careful—uncertain, hopeful. Xander admitted their gift, not forced, just something real. Shu took a single maki roll, rice sweet against his tongue. He closed his eyes, swallowed. They said little. Zac watched. Lui folded his arms, tension easing just enough. All Shu needed was one small bite—and after that, another.

The night came, and Shu sat on his hospital bed coloring in markers on a piece of paper neatly titled What I am proud of:. His hand trembled as he wrote:
My perseverance.
I'm asking for help.
I still have love for my friends.
I woke up today.

He handed it to Dr. Kaito. She's silent for a moment and places a hand gently on his arm. "Shu, this... is progress."

He stared at the words, small and jagged, filled with fragile hope, and realized how true they were. Inches at a time, the horizon had inched closer.

That night he lay awake, clutching the notebook. The taste of sushi and the soreness of muscle lingered. The feeding tube, still set aside, felt less like a shackle and more like a crutch he'd begun to trust.

He whispered in the dark: "I'm still here."

And for the first time in a long while, that felt enough.

Shu pushed himself to sit up, every inch of his body screaming in protest. The feeding tube lay beside him, wrapped in sterile bandages, unused for now. He let his fingers brush its length, strange mixture of resentment and reluctant gratitude twisting in his chest. He'd asked for it to come out, but they'd insisted on keeping it one more day for monitoring. It hummed silently, dormant—just like his worst impulses. For now, he was stronger than that.

He closed his eyes against the overhead lights. There was no triumph in the halls—only the soft murmur of patients and nurses, the occasional beep of distant monitors, and the steady rhythm of his own breathing. That was enough. It felt like victory.

He took a slow sip of water from a small, plastic cup. His hands trembled, but he didn't splinter. When the door slid open and Dr. Kaito stepped in, he met her gaze without shame.

"I'm ready," he said, voice lower than before but steady.

Dr. Kaito settled across from him with a kind smile, hands folded. She didn't say anything for a moment, just let the silence breathe. Then she gestured to a single sheet of paper on the table—a printed silhouette of a person, labeled at the top: "Who I'm Becoming." Its intent was clear: fill in the emptiness with meaning.

Shu stared at it. The page looked blank and heavy. Nothing's certain, he wanted to say.

But the pen in his hand felt solid. He started to write: I'm learning step by step. He paused, then added: I'm not giving up.

He looked up. "I don't know where this goes next."

Dr. Kaito nodded. "That's okay. This isn't about where. It's about becoming. You don't have to know the destination."

He blinked. Step by step. He felt that phrase stirring something—fragile hope. He kept writing: I want to be myself again. When he couldn't think of anything else, he wrote so far. Because this was all so far—progress and possibility.

When the session ended, Dr. Kaito paused at the door. "We'll continue, but remember—each step you name is real. You're not invisible anymore."

Shu nodded. His tongue touched his lower lip, like tasting hope for the first time in months.

That afternoon, physical therapy returned. It was the final hurdle before release. Shu met Elsa in the small gym, sunlight catching dust in the air. His muscles itched with anticipation and fear.

Elsa positioned a low exercise bike. "Want to try?"

He grimaced. He hadn't planned on pushing so soon. But the inside of his chest ached with longing to feel useful again, for his body to match the slow healing of his mind.

He straddled the bike, trembling as he pressed each foot to the pedal. Elsa started resistance low. His legs trembled uncontrollably on the first turn, sweat beading at his temples.

Then—something shifted. His palms gripped the handles, muscles groaning and blood roaring in his ears.

Leg after leg, he turned the pedals. The resistance increased, and his legs burned in righteous pain. He focused on each rotation—one step at a time, like his mind said earlier.

Shu ground his teeth. The ache turned sharp, delicious.

Sweat dripped, but he didn't slow. He focused on the hum of the bike, his breath, and the small victory of progress.

When Elsa clicked off the timer, he leaned forward, chest heaving. "That's it?"

She shook her head with a grin that made something warm slide into his chest. "That's you, Shu. Strong."

He laughed—soft, almost surprised he still could. "So far."

That evening, the room felt warmer. The feeding tube was finally removed, and for the first night in weeks, he felt whole—his breath unclouded, his cheeks not hollow.

Lui, Xander, and Zac came by. Each of them carried a small gift. Zac brought a plain black hoodie with "SHU" stitched in subtle lettering on the chest. Lui held a packet of soft dried fruit. Xander had a portable speaker—they joked it might remind Shu of the thump of the crowd.

They gathered around the bed like they used to—no fear now, just careful celebration. Zac pulled the hoodie onto Shu's shoulders. He let it fall just right. The fabric was soft, solid. Me.

Lui handed him the dried fruit. "Real food for a real friend." Shu smiled at the sentiment—bittersweet and meaningful. He ate one slowly, thinking of each chew as a ceremony of his own survival.

Xander set down the speaker. "Mind if we test it?" He raised an eyebrow. Soon, quiet music filled the room, gentle crackle and soft melody reminding Shu of early morning stadiums before the crowd arrived. Soothing.

They sat with him, three silent sentinels in the soft light. Shu held the hoodie closer and whispered, "Thank you." He meant the hoodie, but more—himself, the journey, them.

That night, sleep came easier. No tube, no alarms. Just the steady hum of care and soft music drifting through the door.

He dreamed again—of stadiums and spotlight, but also of the bed he'd almost never left. He dreamed he was both fighter and survivor, carrying scars too real to hide. He woke with a quiet strength.

Morning brought discharge papers and the fresh smell of possibility. At the doorway, a small farewell: Dr. Kaito smiled warmly.

"This isn't the end. It's the beginning of living between the lines you set—not before. If you ever wobble, you're welcome back."

Shu nodded, the words holding him. "Thank you."
⸻
They were in a taxi, Lui was in the front with headphones around his neck. Zac and Xander were in the back, drumming small rhythms on the door panel. Shu sat beside the window, looking at the hospital recede and blur.

He touched the hoodie again. Solid cloth. Solid him. The edges of fear lingered. But so did something else—strength, small but fierce.

Later, they were back at Zac's place—memory and comfort rolled together. Their shared living room. Pillows fluffed. Beys waiting on the table.

Shu unpacked the dried fruit, the hoodie, the memories. Zac set up the speaker. Music filled the room.

Lui cleared the board and set the stadium. "First one to three hits wins," he said.

Shu looked at the Bey in his hand. It felt remarkably heavy and more like home than anything else.

He took a breath. He launched.

The Bey spun against his. It emitted a soft click. The other Bey clicked off balance, wobbling out.

Shu exhaled.

They looked at him. He smiled—small, real, surprise in his eyes.

Later, he stood outside on a warm evening breeze, hoodie zipped halfway, the city quiet around him. They'd had pizza on paper plates. Laughed. Talked about nothing and everything.

Zac came beside him. Silence drifted, not awkward, but companionable.

Finally he said, "You ever realize how much noise we make?"

Shu looked over. A small grin. "Used to hate how loud stadiums were. Now... feels like music."

Zac chuckled. "Welcome back."

Shu nodded. "Yeah."

That night, back in his own bed, no tubes. He lay under the hoodie. He reached for the notebook, scribbled a final line: "I'm still here—and I'm going to keep going."

He set the pen down. No need to write more. The words burned true.

A soft phone ping—the group chat had a new message:
Lui: "Up for practice tomorrow?"
Xander: "Let's see Shu launch that thing again."
Zac: "THAT sounded like hope. Love you, man."

Shu put the phone down and closed his eyes.

For now, that was enough.

The shadows still whispered sometimes, but now there were voices louder than the dark—his own, his friends', the quiet pulse of something like peace. Shu didn't know exactly where he was going. But he knew, with every aching breath, he was going to get there.

Chapter Text

It started, like most disasters did, with Valt Aoi running his mouth.

"Come on, Shu, you and Lui should at least try to get along. You're on the same project. The whole class is watching you two like it's a warzone."

Shu only offered a deadpan stare, textbook in hand, his sharp features unreadable. "I'm not the problem."

"Damn right you're not," came a sneer from across the table.

Lui Shirosagi leaned back in his chair, legs kicked up, chewing gum like the very existence of rules annoyed him. "Mr. Perfect here thinks everyone should bow down to his flawless little world."

Valt sighed dramatically, slumping in his seat between them. "Can't you two just... not be enemies for like five minutes?"

"Can't you stop breathing so loud?" Lui shot back without missing a beat.

The tension in the room could've been sliced with a blade. Even Free De La Hoya, the king of boredom and naps, lifted his head from where he was laying across the back row of desks.

"This is getting more fun than I thought," he drawled.

The classroom was buzzing. The announcement had gone out that the school's top bladers would be paired off for the upcoming cultural festival project — and somehow, by what Shu believed had to be divine punishment, he'd been paired with Lui.

The only person in the entire school more irritating than Valt on three energy drinks.

They weren't just rivals. They were opposites. Shu was order, control, and precision. Lui was chaos, fire, and force. Their matches were legendary for how explosive they became, with teachers often stepping in to prevent one of them from breaking school property.

And now they had to spend the next two weeks working on a joint project booth. Together.

Just kill me now, Shu thought.

After class, Shu walked down the hallway, his thoughts swirling with how to survive this without committing murder. He hadn't even made it three feet before a voice called out behind him.

"Hey. Nerd."

Shu turned slowly, already exhausted.

Lui was sauntering up to him, that irritating smirk still firmly plastered on his face. His hands were stuffed in his pockets, eyes glinting with that too-sharp energy Shu had come to loathe.

"We meet at your place or mine?" Lui asked, voice smooth and mocking.

"We're not meeting anywhere," Shu replied flatly. "We'll use the library. Neutral ground."

"Afraid I'll find out where you live? Scared I'll see your creepy symmetrical furniture arrangement?"

"Afraid you'll ruin my furniture by existing near it," Shu said sharply.

"Aw. That's the most emotion you've shown in days. I'm honored."

Valt and Free caught up with them, walking on either side like amused spectators at a gladiator match.

"Library it is!" Valt declared, clapping both of them on the back. "You two are gonna nail this project!"

"Or nail each other," Free muttered with a yawn.

Shu glared. Lui's grin widened.

The next few days were a blur of heated arguments and cold glares.

They couldn't agree on anything. Not the theme. Not the layout. Not the color of the damn banner.

"If you touch the decorations one more time, I swear I'm reporting you for harassment," Shu hissed.

"Touching paper is harassment now? You must be fun at parties," Lui shot back.

"You wouldn't know. You've never been invited to one."

Despite all of this, the project somehow started to take shape. Shu's organization met Lui's improvisation in strange, unpredictable ways. Lui was annoyingly creative, and Shu had to begrudgingly admit that some of his chaotic ideas actually... worked.

They worked well together. Too well.

And that's what bothered Shu the most.

Because somewhere between the fights, he started to notice things.

Like the way Lui's hair fell over his eyes when he was concentrating. Or the way his voice dropped just slightly when he was being sincere. Or the stupid crooked grin he got whenever he won an argument — the one that made Shu's stomach twist in a way it absolutely shouldn't.

He didn't like Lui.

He didn't.

Right?

By the end of the week, the booth was ready. Against all odds, it was good. Impressive, even.

Shu was standing near the window of the classroom they were prepping in, checking the last of the blueprints, when he heard the door close behind him.

He turned to find Free and Valt... smirking.

"Uh," Shu said slowly. "What's with the faces?"

Valt whistled innocently. "So. You and Lui, huh?"

"What about us?"

Free's eyes glinted. "We're just wondering how long you'll both keep pretending."

"Pretending what?" Shu asked, but his voice was too sharp, too fast.

Before he could get another word out, the door slammed shut.

And clicked.

Shu froze.

"What... did you just do?"

"Locked you in," Valt called from the other side. "Time to stop pretending you hate each other and deal with it!"

Shu's heart dropped. "Are you insane?!"

"I'm insane," came Lui's voice from behind him, "but I had nothing to do with this."

Shu spun.

Lui stood near the desks, looking infuriatingly calm, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed.

"Well," he said, voice low, "guess we're stuck."

The heavy door slammed shut with a definitive click that seemed to echo off the barren classroom walls, leaving Shu standing frozen in place. His hand still rested on the cool metal handle, but it was useless—the lock had been set, sealed tight from the outside. The small room, once a space he barely noticed between the endless shuffle of hallways and classrooms, suddenly felt claustrophobic, suffocating.

Shu's jaw tightened as he spun around, eyes immediately locking on the figure leaning casually against the wall on the opposite side. Lui.

Of all the people he never wanted to be trapped with, Lui Shirosagi ranked right at the top. Cold, arrogant, and with a knack for getting under Shu's skin like no one else. Enemies. They were enemies. That much was clear.

Lui smirked, arms crossed, one eyebrow cocked in that infuriating way he had. "Looks like we're stuck here together, nerd."

"Don't call me that," Shu snapped, voice low and clipped. His eyes narrowed, scanning the room like some escape plan might magically present itself. "You had a hand in this, didn't you?"

Lui chuckled softly, stepping forward so that the distance between them shrank by a foot. "Relax. I didn't do anything. Probably Valt or Free messing around."

Shu's scowl deepened. "Great. Just what I needed."

The air between them felt thick, charged—not with any kind of truce or understanding, but with the sharp edge of rivalry and irritation. The kind that made every glance feel like a dare.

He turned back to the door and tugged the handle again, harder this time, but it didn't budge. Locked tight.

"We're not getting out without help," Shu said grimly.

Lui nodded, still smirking. "So, looks like we'll be spending some quality time together."

Shu spun to face him, anger sparking in his eyes. "Don't think for a second I'm going to make this easy for you."

"Wouldn't want it any other way," Lui replied, voice teasing but cold.

The tension between them was palpable, electric. Neither wanted to give an inch, and yet, both knew they had to survive this, somehow. Maybe even cooperate—but no way they'd say that aloud.

Shu paced back and forth, his shoes tapping sharply on the scuffed floor. The classroom was small, barely big enough for two people to move comfortably without brushing against each other. The walls, lined with dusty shelves and old textbooks, closed in on him. The single window was shut tight, letting in only a weak glow from the afternoon sun, casting long shadows that seemed to trap them further.

Lui stayed rooted by the wall, watching him like a predator observing its prey. "You really think yelling at the door will help?"

"It's better than standing around looking smug," Shu shot back.

Lui smirked wider. "I'm just conserving my energy."

Shu stopped pacing and crossed his arms, trying to ignore the way Lui's presence filled the room—too close, too imposing. Lui was taller by a few inches, and the way he carried himself was like he knew he owned every space he entered. That confidence grated on Shu like sandpaper.

"You always act like you own the place," Shu muttered under his breath, not looking at Lui directly.

"Maybe because I do," Lui answered smoothly, stepping closer. The air shifted, the heat of their bodies nearly touching. Shu felt a flash of irritation mixed with something he wouldn't admit even to himself.

"Don't get comfortable," Shu snapped, his voice low but firm.

Lui shrugged. "I'm not. Yet."

The silence stretched, heavy and full of unspoken words. Neither of them looked away, neither wanted to give ground.

Minutes passed.

Neither spoke. The clock on the wall ticked loudly, each second grinding away at their patience.

Shu's mind raced. How had this happened? He should have been with Valt or Free, not stuck in a room with his rival. Worse yet, locked in by some prank that had gone too far.

He glanced at Lui, who was now casually seated on the edge of a desk, arms resting on his knees, watching him like he was a curious puzzle.

"You really don't look worried," Shu said, narrowing his eyes.

Lui smiled—a slow, dangerous curve of lips. "Why should I? You're the one pacing like a caged animal."

Shu bristled but didn't deny it. The situation sucked, and being stuck here with Lui made it worse.

"Don't get cocky," he warned.

"I don't need to get cocky. I am."

Shu clenched his fists, the tension coiling tighter in his chest.

The door rattled suddenly, making both of them jump.

"Valt?" Shu called out, stepping toward the door.

"Free?" Lui echoed, his tone skeptical.

No answer came.

Only silence.

Shu leaned his head against the door, closing his eyes for a moment.

"We could be stuck here for hours," he muttered.

Lui stood, stretching, and then surprised Shu by moving closer.

The proximity was dangerous, the air thick between them.

Shu could feel the heat from Lui's body, the subtle scent of his cologne, and for a second his breath caught.

He pushed the feeling down. Didn't need to deal with that now.

"Look," Shu said, voice sharper than he meant, "just don't think for a second this changes anything."

Lui's eyes held his for a moment, then flicked away with a smirk.

"Of course not," he said.

The rest of the afternoon stretched on with the same sharp bickering, subtle digs, and awkward silences.

They tried the windows. No luck.

Shu tried the door again. No luck.

They argued over whose fault this was.

They argued over who was the better Beyblade player.

They argued over everything except the obvious: they were stuck.

As the sun dipped lower, shadows grew long and dark.

Shu sat on the floor with his back against the wall, breathing heavy.

Lui remained standing, arms crossed, watching the faint glow from the hallway outside the window.

Neither moved to bridge the gap.

Neither said a word about how strange it was, being this close.

And somewhere beneath the anger, the rivalry, and the harsh words, something like an unspoken challenge lingered—
Who would break first?

The silence that had fallen between Shu and Lui was a brittle thing, hanging in the air like a thread about to snap. Neither wanted to be the first to break it, but the weight of hours trapped in the small classroom began to suffocate all pretenses.

The day outside had given way to the orange-pink glow of late afternoon, slipping into the early haze of evening. Shadows pooled in the corners of the room, thickening around the two boys locked inside. The quiet ticking of the clock was the only sound, a relentless reminder that time passed even when nothing changed.

Shu leaned back against the wall, arms folded tightly over his chest, eyes fixed on the peeling paint of the ceiling. He hated this. Hated being stuck, hated the silence that was forced between them, hated having to share a space with Lui Shirosagi. It was a nightmare, and yet there was nowhere to go.

"Are you just going to sit there all day?" Lui's voice cut through the quiet, smooth but with a sharp edge.

Shu didn't respond, only glanced at Lui briefly, then looked away. "What do you want?"

Lui shifted, the scrape of his shoes against the worn floor echoing louder than usual in the small room. "I'm bored. Thought maybe you'd have some better ideas."

"Like what? Call Valt or Free to come and save us?"

"That's their problem."

Shu grunted. He hated this smug attitude, the way Lui always acted like he was five steps ahead. "Maybe if you weren't so damn arrogant, someone wouldn't have locked us in here."

Lui's lips curled into a sardonic smile. "Right, because you're so perfect."

They glared at each other, two sharp edges pressed tight in the same room. The tension was so thick Shu felt like he could cut it with a blade.

After a long moment, Lui's eyes flicked toward the window, where the last light of day faded fast. "We're stuck here until someone lets us out," he said quietly. "So maybe we should figure out how to pass the time."

Shu scowled. "Like what? Play Beyblade? Talk about how much I hate you?"

"Why not both?"

Shu shook his head. "I'm not doing that."

Lui shrugged, then plopped down onto one of the desks with a casual ease that drove Shu crazy.

"Fine," Lui said. "We can sit and stew in silence if you want. See how long you last."

Shu's jaw clenched, but he dropped down to the floor, sitting cross-legged facing away from Lui. He wasn't about to give Lui the satisfaction of watching him.

Minutes ticked by, slow and dragging, until a sudden noise broke the quiet. A faint scraping, like someone nervously dragging their nails over a rough surface.

Shu's head snapped up, eyes narrowing.

Lui's gaze followed his, fixed on the corner of the room where the light barely reached.

"I heard that," Shu said, voice low.

Lui stood, moving cautiously toward the shadowed corner, as if expecting something to jump out at him.

"Probably just a rat," Lui said dismissively, but Shu wasn't so sure.

He rose too, keeping close to Lui, the tension between them like a taut wire.

The scraping came again, louder this time, and both boys froze.

Without thinking, Shu reached toward the bookshelf and grabbed a thick textbook.

"I'm not going to let some rodent scare me," he muttered, though his hands trembled slightly.

Lui just smirked. "You're more scared of me."

Shu swung his gaze around, daring Lui to push his luck.

Instead, Lui held up his hands in mock surrender. "Relax. Just messing with you."

But Shu wasn't relaxed. His eyes scanned every shadow, every crack in the wall.

The room felt smaller now. Closer. More like a cage.

Time stretched on with the creeping crawl of hours.

They both drifted back to their previous spots, Shu on the floor, Lui on the desk, each lost in their own thoughts.

Shu couldn't help but watch Lui out of the corner of his eye. The way the late light caught his sharp jawline. The way his fingers drummed absentmindedly on the wood.

Despite himself, a part of Shu admitted the guy wasn't as infuriating as he usually thought. Not because he was nice—far from it—but because he was a challenge. A puzzle Shu couldn't solve. And that annoyed him more than anything.

Lui's eyes flicked toward Shu suddenly, breaking his train of thought.

"You're staring," Lui said flatly.

Shu jerked his head away. "I'm not."

"Sure you're not."

"I'm just... thinking."

"About what?"

Shu hesitated. "About how much I hate being stuck in here with you."

Lui laughed softly. "That's not very creative."

"Like you'd know."

"Maybe not," Lui admitted, leaning back on the desk with a lazy grin. "But I'm enjoying watching you lose your cool."

Shu opened his mouth to retort but then stopped. There was no point. The situation was hopeless, and the best he could do was survive.

"Fine," he muttered, "enjoy it."

As twilight gave way to night, the classroom darkened except for the faint glow from the hallway outside the window.

Shu rubbed his eyes, exhaustion creeping in.

The sharp edges of their rivalry had softened just a bit—not much, but enough that neither was shouting anymore.

Still, the silence was heavy, filled with unsaid words and simmering frustration.

Lui stood suddenly, stretching, and then moved closer to Shu.

"Trapped like this... it's annoying."

Shu glanced up, meeting Lui's gaze.

"Yeah," Shu said quietly, "annoying as hell."

For a moment, neither spoke.

The tension lingered, thick and unbroken, as the room grew colder with the night.

Neither wanted to admit how strange it felt—to be stuck with the person they hated most and yet not feel completely alone.

The walls pressed in, and the clock kept ticking, marking time neither wanted to waste.

The classroom was steeped in shadows, the last remnants of daylight fading into a muted gray dusk. The air between Shu and Lui, once razor-sharp and nearly suffocating, had softened to something more fragile — like a brittle ice sheet cracking slowly under pressure.

Neither spoke for a long while, the silence no longer uncomfortable but weighted with things left unsaid. Shu sat on the floor, back against the wall, his knees pulled close. Lui leaned against a desk, arms crossed loosely, watching the boy with a cautious expression.

After what felt like an eternity, Shu finally broke the silence.

"I never hated you at first," he said quietly, voice rough from disuse.

Lui blinked, surprised by the sudden confession.

"What?" he asked, stepping closer.

Shu swallowed and kept his gaze fixed on the floor. "I mean... I looked up to you. You were... kind of my idol."

Lui raised an eyebrow, a flicker of genuine curiosity breaking through his usual cool mask.

Shu let out a dry laugh, one without humor. "Yeah, I know. That sounds ridiculous, right? But it's true."

He paused, gathering the words as if they were fragile glass beads he was afraid to drop.

"I always wanted to be like you. Strong. Confident. Untouchable."

Lui didn't say anything, just waited, the air thickening.

"But then..." Shu's voice dropped, tightening. "...you scarred my eye."

His fingers instinctively brushed over the thin line tracing his eye, the reminder still raw.

"That was the moment I started hating you. Not just you — everything you stood for. I hated that you could hurt me and not care. That you were so... ruthless."

Lui's eyes darkened for a moment, flicking away.

"I wasn't trying to hurt you," he said softly, but there was no defensiveness.

Shu's laugh was bitter. "No? Doesn't feel that way."

They stood in silence again, the weight of past pain hanging between them.

Lui took a slow step forward, closing the distance until only inches separated them.

"Maybe I didn't know what it meant to you," he admitted quietly. "Maybe I was too focused on winning... on being the best."

Shu looked up, eyes locking with Lui's for the first time in what felt like forever.

"And you were," Shu said, voice barely above a whisper. "Still are."

There was a vulnerability in Lui's expression that Shu had never seen before — a crack in the armor.

"Why tell me this now?" Lui asked.

"Because... I'm tired of pretending," Shu said, voice breaking slightly. "Tired of hating you just because it's easier than dealing with how I really feel."

Lui's gaze softened, and for a brief moment, the hostility that had defined their relationship seemed to melt away.

"You're not the only one," Lui said quietly. "I never meant for things to get like this."

The words hung in the air, fragile and tentative.

Shu swallowed hard, unsure how to respond.

For a long moment, neither spoke.

The silence was no longer a barrier but a bridge — fragile, but real.

Then, with a small, almost shy smile, Lui reached out and lightly touched Shu's scarred cheek.

"Maybe we can start over," he said softly. "No more enemies."

Shu's breath caught, heart pounding in his chest.

He looked down at Lui's hand, then back up, meeting those steady eyes.

"Maybe," he whispered.

The room felt different now — warmer, somehow.

Outside, the sky deepened into twilight, the first stars beginning to twinkle faintly.

The walls that had held them captive seemed to shrink, closing in not as a prison, but as a space where two people could finally start to understand each other.

Shu shifted, meeting Lui's gaze with a new kind of intensity.

"I always wanted to be better than you," Shu admitted quietly. "But maybe... maybe I just wanted to be seen."

Lui's hand dropped from Shu's cheek but lingered near, as if unsure whether to pull away or hold on.

"You are," Lui said simply. "More than you know."

Shu's heart hammered, a mixture of old pain and new hope swirling inside him.

They sat down together then, closer than before, the tension replaced by something unspoken but deeply felt.

Neither knew what would come next — but for the first time, it didn't feel like a battle.

It felt like the beginning.

The moment felt suspended. Shu sat quietly beside Lui in the fading twilight of the locked classroom—a hush of acceptance and mutual understanding weaving through the residual tension that had defined so much of their history.

Every shadow in the room felt softer now, warmer, as if the space itself had shifted to hold something new. Something tender.

Shu reexamined the gentleness in Lui's eyes, realizing those proud, arrogant edges had softened when he confessed. The scars and the fights—both physical and emotional—made sense now. The raw wound he'd carried since the accident was mirrored in Lui's expression, as though both had been silently damaged, and neither knew how to heal.

Lui's arm hovered near him, warmth close enough to offer shelter. Shu's gaze flicked to it—then back up to Lui's face, searching. A fragile thought rose: Maybe I belong here.

And in that delicate moment, the first contact—light, deliberate—happened. Lui's fingers curled around Shu's hand. Their breaths mingled in soft proximity, quiet anticipation humming like a live wire between them.

Shu's heart pounded. Every boundary he'd held rigidly before seemed to blur—vale tinged with something new. Acceptance. Forgiveness. Something he hadn't realized he'd been aching for.

Lui's thumb brushed the scar on Shu's eye.

The briefest tremor flickered across Shu's body. Then he exhaled, leaning in.

Lui's fingers tightened just slightly—and that small movement filled Shu's lungs with butterflies, something warm under his ribs.

They moved toward each other with an intimacy neither had allowed before, step by cautious step, collision inevitable and breathless.

It was slow, unhurried. A test. A confession. Their foreheads touched first—gentle and hesitant—before lips found each other. Tentative. Warm. Tender.

The kiss was everything they weren't supposed to allow: soft, searching, steady. A single point of contact that carried a universe of emotion—regret, hope, healing.

Shu's other hand found its way to Lui's shoulder, fingers gripping fabric, an anchor as he let himself fall. He felt Lui's breath on his cheek, the safe firmness of his grip, the steady rhythm beneath his hand.

When they finally broke apart, eyes met—soft, raw, trembling.

Their foreheads stayed pressed together, as though that space bridged everything between them.

"I never wanted this to be the way," Shu whispered.

Lui closed his eyes, pressing his forehead harder. "Me neither."

They stayed like that for a long moment, letting silence hold them—no words, just the heartbeat between them and the faint hum of life beyond the locked door.

Then—click. (Time Loop vibes)

The door swung open, harsh against their fragile world.

Valt and Free stood there, stunned, as though the world had shifted under their feet. The door slammed shut behind them.

Valt's voice came first, muffled, breathless:
"What... did we miss?"

Free stared. Blinked. Pressed the door shut.

"Uh... is this...?" Free's tone cracked for a moment. "This was unexpected?"

Valt stepped closer, mouth halfway open, frame rigid with disbelief.

They watched, slack-jawed, as Shu and Lui—still linked—rose slowly, neither letting go.

Valt's voice trembled: "Are you... together?"

Shu turned toward him, cheeks shaded faint pink. He glanced at Lui, then at Valt.

Lui just smirked—no arrogance this time, just quiet certainty.

Shu cleared his throat. "Yes."

Valt sagged backwards, pistoned jaw folding into a shaky grin. "Oh. My. God." He grabbed Valt's head as if pinching himself. "I—this—they—I can't believe—"

Free shook his head, blinked again. "This is actually real?"

Lui slipped an arm around Shu's shoulders, protective, still calm.

Shu held Lui's hand in both his own, and for once the warmth between rivals—broken, battered rivals—was clear.

Valt stumbled forward, voice breathless. "Dude. Look at you two."

Free smirked. "Wanted shipping? We gave you shipping."

Valt glared at Free but managed a grin. "Only thing we didn't expect is... this."

Shu's voice was small but clear. "We're—"

Valt waved a hand dismissively. "We'd better not hold you up. Just... we needed to know."

Free nodded. "Yeah. Totally needed to know."

They backed out slowly. After a long beat, Free turned and added, voice low: "Text me. Send pics. You know."

Then they were gone.

The door clicked shut again. Silence returned, but this time it felt different—lighter.

Lui squeezed Shu's hand. Shu exhaled, safe.

"...That happened," Shu said quietly.

Lui's lips lifted, warm and steady. "Technically, yes."

Shu snorted. "You're insufferable."

Lui's fingers curled around Shu's, pulling him closer. "But apparently case closed."

They breathed together.

The weight of their confession and the shock of that interruption settled around them, but didn't break what had begun.

Hearts thrumming, eyes locked.

Shu tilted his head, resting his forehead against Lui's. "Starting over?"

"Starting over."

That night, they stayed seated—together, tangled, safe in the only way they'd ever known—healing in the glow of shared truth.

Chapter Text

The Raging Bulls training compound was quiet.

It was late—too late for practice, too late for meetings, and too late for Lain to still be awake. The rest of the team had long gone to their rooms after a long day of drills and light sparring. Most of them were tired in the good way. The kind of tired that comes after laughter, progress, and victories, even small ones.

But Lain's tired wasn't like that.

He sat curled up on the worn couch in the common room, the room lit only by the pale flicker of the television across from him. The remote sat limp in his hand, half-forgotten. He wasn't even watching, not really. He was just letting the noise fill the space.

And then—he heard it.

"Here it is again, folks—the explosive final tag battle of the Ultimate Tournament!"

His finger didn't press the button to change the channel.

The screen cut to a wide-angle replay of the finals in Japan. His stomach tightened before he could help it.

He watched as the image zoomed in on Hikaru and Hyuga—grinning, in sync, full of reckless confidence. Their twin attacks crashed against the combined defense he and Shu had built. And then the scene flashed to his moment. Their moment.

The Flare.

Bright and chaotic, that twisted power had flared up once more in the middle of the match—uncontrolled, suffocating. He hadn't meant to lose control. Not again. But something about the pressure, the need to win, the desire not to let Shu down... it had lit that spark inside him like dry kindling.

And then...

Then the brothers had overcome it.

Together.

"...And in a stunning display of teamwork, Hikaru and Hyuga Hizashi shattered Lain's Flare, bringing an end to not only the battle, but what many fans saw as a dangerous phase in his evolution as a Blader."

Lain exhaled slowly. He felt the words settle deep in his chest—a dangerous phase. Like it had been some kind of sickness. Like he had been a problem to fix.

"We've always admired Shu Kurenai," the commentator continued, "but even someone as skilled as him couldn't hold the line against the sheer synergy of the Hizashi brothers. What a moment!"

They cut to a short interview clip: Hikaru smiling brightly, Hyuga bouncing next to him, practically glowing.

"That was our toughest battle ever!" Hikaru said.
"But we didn't give up!" Hyuga added. "And we knew we could do it if we trusted each other!"

The clip ended, and the screen faded to a highlight montage, music swelling under slow-motion shots of the final explosion of their Beys.

Lain reached for the remote and turned the TV off.

The room was quiet again.

He sat there a moment longer, staring at the blank screen. The darkness on it showed his reflection, faint and vague. His hair was a little longer now. He was thinner than he used to be. He hadn't realized that until this moment.

He stood up.

The carpet was soft under his socked feet as he crossed the lounge and quietly opened the door to the rooftop stairwell.

The wind up top cut through his hoodie easily. It wasn't bitter, but it was sharp—reminding him it was still early spring in New York.

The city below glowed, impossibly alive even at this hour. Horns honked in the distance. Lights shimmered off the Hudson. People were out there, laughing, living, forgetting battles that had already ended.

But for Lain... it hadn't ended.

Not really.

He leaned on the railing, the steel cold against his forearms. His breath came in little clouds. He tried not to think about the match again, but of course he did. The way Shu had looked at him—not angry, not disappointed, but quiet. Always quiet.

Lain had hated that. He wanted someone to yell at him. To say "Why did you do that?" or "You should've known better." But Shu hadn't said anything. Not when they lost. Not when Lain turned away after the match. Not when they left Japan.

Just silence. As if Shu knew Lain would come apart if he tried to talk about it.

He wasn't sure if he appreciated that or resented it.

The rooftop door creaked open behind him.

Lain didn't move.

Footsteps padded slowly across the rooftop, then paused beside him. He didn't need to look to know who it was.

Shu stood a few feet away, his presence calm and unobtrusive, like always.

Lain let the silence stretch for a long time. The wind picked up.

Eventually, he muttered, "They said it was good. That the Flare's gone."

Shu didn't answer immediately. "It is good," he said quietly.

"I know." Lain's hands curled over the railing. "It's just... weird."

Shu waited.

"They all act like I'm fixed now. Like I'm better." He stared out at the skyline. "Like I was a problem, and now I'm solved. Like they're proud I'm not that guy anymore."

"They are proud."

Lain snorted. "Yeah. But it doesn't feel like it's really about me."

Shu was quiet again. The way he always was when he was thinking carefully.

Lain glanced at him. "Did you see the replay?"

"I did."

Lain looked away again.

"I'm happy for them," he said. "Hikaru and Hyuga. They worked hard. They earned it. They... they were amazing."

"They were," Shu agreed.

A beat passed. Then Lain added, more quietly:

"But I still wish we'd won."

There. He said it. The words dropped out of him like stones.

He half expected Shu to nod or say something wise. But instead, Shu just said:

"You're allowed to feel both."

Lain exhaled, and this time it shook a little.

He blinked hard at the lights in the distance, pretending his eyes weren't stinging from something other than the wind.

"I didn't want to let you down."

"You didn't."

Lain didn't answer. He couldn't. He didn't believe that—not fully. Not yet.

The wind pushed past them again. Lain gave an involuntary shiver and hunched deeper into his hoodie.

Without a word, Shu shrugged off his own jacket and stepped closer.

Lain stiffened slightly when Shu draped it over his shoulders. The fabric was warm, lined on the inside. Still held Shu's body heat. It smelled faintly like cedar and sweat and something clean.

Shu didn't make a comment. Didn't linger.

He just rested his hand lightly on Lain's shoulder for a second—barely a second—then stepped back.

"I'll leave the door open," he said simply. Then he turned and walked away, the door clicking softly behind him.

Lain stood there, wrapped in warmth that didn't belong to him, watching the skyline blink on and off like a heartbeat.

He didn't move for a long time.

Lain didn't sleep that night.

He went back to his room eventually, Shu's jacket still wrapped around his shoulders, and sat on his bed for a long time just... thinking.

He hadn't cried. He hadn't needed to. But something inside him had shifted on that rooftop—like the words he'd finally said, the ones about wanting to win, had cracked open a piece of him he'd buried after the tournament. He didn't know what to do with that yet. It felt too raw to touch.

The next morning, the compound was bustling. The Raging Bulls had an early practice block, and most of the team was already out on the floor by the time Lain wandered into the hallway. He wasn't late, technically. But he wasn't early either.

As he passed the cafeteria, he slowed. Voices drifted out through the open doorway—familiar ones.

"Have you noticed how different he is now?" That was one of the junior Bladers—Diego, maybe. "Since the finals?"

"Totally," someone else said. "He used to walk around like he was gonna explode. Now he just looks... quiet."

"I mean, better quiet than terrifying," the first voice laughed. "But it's still weird."

Lain stopped walking.

The hallway light buzzed faintly above him. He didn't move, didn't breathe. Just listened.

"I guess he's not scary anymore without that Flare," the second Blader said. "Kinda soft now."

Soft.

Lain didn't hear the rest. He turned and walked away, footsteps light and fast against the tile. He didn't know where he was going, only that he had to get away.

He ended up in the far end of the training facility, near the old equipment storage. It wasn't used much—too narrow, too out of the way. The kind of place people forgot existed.

He sat down on the floor, back against the wall, knees pulled up to his chest.

"Soft." The word echoed in his head like a slap. Not even cruel, really. Just... careless.

They didn't mean it to hurt. That's what made it worse.

He didn't want to be feared anymore. That wasn't what this was about. But was this what they saw now? Something faded? Dull?

Had Flare really been the only thing that made him feel real?

He had tried so hard to change. To control it. To be better. But now that the flames were gone, now that he didn't burn with that blinding heat anymore—was there anything left?

Who was he without it?

A sudden voice pulled him back.

"I figured you weren't on the main floor."

Lain stiffened. Shu's footsteps echoed lightly through the hall before he appeared at the entrance to the corridor.

"I wasn't hiding," Lain said reflexively, before realizing how defensive it sounded.

"I didn't say you were." Shu didn't move closer. He just leaned against the opposite wall, watching him. Calm. Like always.

Lain glanced away. "You're still here?"

Shu nodded. "I'm in New York for a few more days."

"Great." Lain muttered. "More time for me to disappoint you."

Shu didn't react. "You haven't disappointed me."

"Yeah, okay," Lain snapped, sharper than he meant to. "Keep saying that. Maybe I'll believe it someday."

"I'll keep saying it either way."

Lain's chest twisted.

He hated how that steadiness made him feel. Like no matter how hard he tried to push, Shu wouldn't go. Wouldn't break. Wouldn't yell or roll his eyes or say the thing Lain was dreading most: You used to be better.

There was a long pause.

"I heard them talking," Lain said quietly. "This morning. About me."

Shu didn't ask who. Just waited.

"They said I'm different now. That I'm softer." He laughed bitterly. "Like it's some kind of downgrade."

Shu finally moved, walking over to sit across from him. Not too close, but close enough that Lain could feel the quiet presence again—like a lighthouse in fog.

"Do you think that?" Shu asked. "That being different means being less?"

"I don't know," Lain admitted, voice low. "I don't feel like I used to. And that scares me."

Shu nodded. "Because it's unfamiliar."

"Because I don't know if what's left is enough."

Silence.

Lain hated how easy it was to say that to Shu. How he could rip himself open around him and not feel exposed. Just... understood.

"You know what the Flare was," Shu said quietly.

"A power," Lain said automatically.

"No." Shu's voice was steady. "It was a shield. Something to keep everyone out. Including yourself."

Lain frowned. "I thought you were the one person who respected my Flare."

"I respected you," Shu corrected. "Even when you didn't."

Lain stared at him.

"You were never your Flare, Lain. You were never the fire or the anger or the noise. You were a Blader—sharp, instinctual, driven—and the Flare just made it harder to see that."

"But it made me strong."

"No," Shu said gently. "You made you strong."

Lain looked down at his hands. They were calloused, fingers worn from years of training. He didn't know what to say.

"I didn't win," he said finally. "Even after all that."

"You lost to people who care about each other," Shu said. "Who trusted each other. That's not a failure."

Lain's throat was tight again. He hated that it felt good to hear that.

He hated that he needed to hear that.

"I wanted to be enough for you," he admitted.

"You are," Shu said immediately.

And it was too much.

Lain pushed up to his feet suddenly, pacing a few steps away. His chest felt tight, too full of something he didn't know how to carry.

"You always say stuff like that," Lain said. "But what if I'm not ready to believe you?"

"Then I'll keep saying it," Shu replied calmly. "Until you are."

Lain turned to him, breathing hard.

"Why?" he demanded. "Why do you care so much?"

Shu stood slowly, meeting his gaze.

"Because someone should have," he said. "And because I see who you are, even when you don't."

Lain stared at him.

The silence between them pulsed like a heartbeat.

"I don't know how to be this person yet," Lain said. "This version of me. The one who doesn't burn everything down."

"Then give yourself time," Shu said. "And let people help you figure it out."

Lain didn't answer. He looked away, biting the inside of his cheek.

He didn't say thank you. Couldn't. But something in his posture softened.

Shu didn't expect anything. He just stepped forward and placed a hand on Lain's shoulder again—brief but grounding. A reminder.

Lain didn't flinch this time.

He didn't lean into it either.

But he didn't move away.

And that was something.

It started with a harmless comment.

Lain had just wrapped up a solo training set. His Bey had crashed out of the stadium on the final round, clattering against the wall with a dull thud. Nothing dramatic. Just a loss.

He was walking past the coaching office when he heard it—his name. It wasn't even whispered.

"Lain's still trying to find his rhythm," one of the assistant coaches said. "He's not like Shu. Not composed enough. Not yet."

Then a low chuckle. "Well, he wants to be Shu. Can't blame him."

Lain didn't hear the rest.

He kept walking, pace even, jaw clenched. By the time he reached the elevator, his throat was tight. And by the time the rooftop door clicked shut behind him, his whole body was humming with a different kind of heat.

Not Flare. That was gone.

This was something heavier. Lonelier.

He paced the rooftop once, twice, then dropped down onto the cold concrete near the railing, sitting with his back against the wall and his arms wrapped tight around his knees.

It had been weeks since the final tournament. Since that battle. Since Flare flickered out for good.

He thought he was getting better. He was trying. Training harder. Holding back less. Letting people in, bit by bit. He wasn't angry all the time anymore.

But if people still saw him as a lesser version of someone else—if all he was now was "Not Shu"—then what was the point?

He didn't want to be Shu. But he had trusted him. Looked up to him. Fought beside him. And now that he was on the other side of the darkness, now that the flames were gone, all he could think was—

Maybe he wasn't enough.

Not strong enough. Not composed enough. Not worthy of being someone Shu trusted.

That was the worst part.

He thought maybe he was. For a moment.

The door opened behind him.

Lain didn't look up. But he knew the sound of those footsteps. The even weight of them. The quiet that came with them.

Shu didn't speak right away. He sat beside him, close enough that their shoulders almost touched. The air between them was cool and still.

"You always find me," Lain muttered eventually.

"I don't have to look hard."

A small silence.

Lain didn't want to say it. But he'd carried it too long. The words were ash in his mouth, but he said them anyway.

"Why did you trust me?"

Shu didn't ask why now. Didn't ask what happened. He just tilted his head slightly toward him.

"Because I saw you."

Lain's breath caught.

"I saw a Blader who was lost," Shu continued, "but not beyond reaching. I saw someone who didn't know how to ask for help, but still wanted it. Someone who wanted to be more than anger and pressure and pain."

Lain looked down at his hands.

"I didn't know how to stop," he said, voice quiet. "I thought if I lost the fire, I'd lose everything. That without it, I'd be... empty."

"You're not empty."

Lain didn't answer.

Shu waited. Patient, steady.

And then, almost too softly to hear:

"I thought maybe... if I could be strong next to you, I'd matter."

Shu's expression didn't change. But his voice lowered, gentle.

"You already mattered."

Lain shook his head, shoulders stiffening. "You say that, but—"

"No one has ever had to earn my trust, Lain. Not like that. You didn't have to prove anything. I saw who you were—even when you didn't."

The weight of those words cracked something open.

Lain pressed a hand to his face, the other still clenched around his knees. His voice was shaking.

"They think I'm trying to be you."

Shu exhaled slowly.

"Trying to be someone you respect isn't the same as trying to become them," he said. "And honestly, I think you're stronger for wanting something different. For letting go of what hurt you."

"I didn't feel strong."

"Of course not. It's hard. Letting go usually is."

Lain didn't realize he was shaking until Shu touched his shoulder—lightly, steady, not pushing.

And this time, he didn't pull away.

He turned his head slightly, eyes burning.

His voice cracked.

"Just this once."

Shu didn't need to ask what he meant.

He shifted slightly, and when Lain hesitated again, Shu moved first—quietly, carefully pulling him into a hug.

No words.

No ceremony.

Just warmth.

At first, Lain sat stiffly, frozen against the sudden closeness. He didn't know what to do with it. His body wasn't used to this kind of contact—gentle, given without demand.

But then—

Then he let go.

He leaned into Shu's chest, clutching at the front of his hoodie, burying his face against the curve of his shoulder. His breath hitched once, then again, and then the tears came—hot and fast and silent, because of course he didn't sob, not out loud. But they were real.

Shu said nothing. He just held him. One hand curled gently behind Lain's head, the other wrapped firmly around his back.

There was no pity in it. No awkwardness. Only presence.

Steady. Warm. Solid.

Lain wasn't sure how long they stayed like that. He lost time, lost track of how much emotion poured out of him. But when the shaking stopped, when his body finally stilled, he was still there—anchored by someone who had never once asked him to be anything but himself.

He pulled back slightly, not breaking the contact entirely, just shifting enough to breathe.

"Sorry," he muttered.

"You don't need to apologize."

Lain swiped at his face with his sleeve.

"I think that's the first time someone hugged me like that."

Shu raised an eyebrow, not unkindly. "Like what?"

"Like it wasn't a reward or a pity thing." He paused. "Just... because I needed it."

Shu gave him a rare, small smile. "That's what it was."

Lain looked down at the rooftop floor, then back at him.

"...Is it still just once?"

Shu didn't even hesitate.

"As many times as you need."

Later that night, Lain didn't go back to his room right away.

He and Shu sat on the rooftop a little longer, this time in a comfortable silence. No expectations. No weight.

Just two Bladers sitting side by side, looking out at the lights of the city.

Not as teacher and student.

Not as warrior and weapon.

Just Shu and Lain.

And that, for the first time, was enough.

Chapter Text

The stadium echoed with the last remnants of energy. Footsteps faded. The buzz of chatter dulled to a distant hum, and soon the only sounds left were the clack of shoes on metal flooring and the occasional chirp of crickets outside. The once-electric atmosphere of the tournament had melted into something quieter, almost solemn. The spotlight beams were off now, leaving the main Bey platform soaked in the orange light of the setting sun pouring through the high windows.

Toko sat on the edge of the stadium platform, legs dangling, fiddling absently with his launcher. His Bey rested beside him, untouched. Nika stood a few feet back, arms crossed, bouncing a foot like she was waiting for something—maybe a conversation that neither of them wanted to start.

Down below, Valt was still talking with Kit, both of them kneeling beside the younger blader's Bey, Valkyrie variant parts scattered between them. They were deep in some configuration talk—burst resistance, weight distribution, launch angles. Valt was animated, smiling, gesturing with both hands. Kit was nodding along, eager, his brows furrowed in concentration.

It wasn't anything new.

Toko sighed and looked away.

"You're gonna wear a hole in the floor," he muttered to Nika without looking up.

Nika stopped bouncing her foot. "You're gonna break your launcher with how much you're messing with it."

Toko paused. He dropped it beside him with a small clink. "Doesn't matter."

Neither of them said anything for a while.

The first time it had happened, it made sense. Valt was famous now. Busy. Champion. The kind of person everyone wanted to talk to, blade with, learn from. He still called sometimes. Sent goofy selfies. Told them about new moves he was working on.

But then came Kit.

And suddenly, there were photos online of them training together. Of them traveling together. Valt's excited voice over the phone, saying "Kit came up with this awesome technique, you gotta see it sometime!"

Sometime never came.

"I'm gonna go talk to him," Toko said, standing up suddenly. His voice was sharper than he'd intended, and Nika looked at him, surprised. "We've been here the whole day."

Nika hesitated, eyes flicking toward Valt and Kit. "...Don't start something, Toko."

"I'm not gonna—" He stopped, then corrected, "I just want to talk."

His steps down the platform echoed louder than they should have.

"—see? If you tilt your wrist just a little before launch, the spin catches earlier. That's why your bey rebounded instead of bursting—"

"Kit," Toko called, trying to sound casual, "You mind giving us a minute?"

Kit blinked, startled, then looked at Valt, uncertain. Valt gave him a confused glance, then looked up. "Oh, hey! Toko! What's up?"

Toko didn't smile. "Can I talk to you?"

Valt's smile faltered a little. "Uh... sure?"

Kit stood, hesitating for a beat. "I'll just go check the back room for... uh, spare parts."

He took off, nearly tripping over his own feet. Toko watched him leave, jaw tight.

Valt stood slowly. "Everything okay?"

"We haven't talked in weeks," Toko said. "Well. Not really."

Valt blinked. "I mean, yeah, but that's just 'cause I've been traveling. You know how it is during—"

"No, Valt. I don't know." The words came out more bitter than he wanted. He swallowed, tried again. "I tried talking to you earlier. You brushed me off. Said 'later.' That was three hours ago."

Valt scratched the back of his head. "I wasn't brushing you off, Toko, I just... I was helping Kit with—"

"Of course," Toko said, voice tight. "It's always Kit."

Valt frowned, confused now. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Toko looked away. "Forget it."

"No, come on, man, what's going on? You're acting weird."

Something in Toko's shoulders tensed. "I'm not acting weird. You just don't see it because you're always with him."

Valt blinked. "With Kit? What—Toko, are you mad at me for training with someone?"

Toko laughed—but it wasn't funny. It was hollow. "You used to train with me."

Valt's eyes widened, realization hitting slowly. "Toko..."

"You used to call. You used to show me new moves. You used to say, 'You're my little bro, I'll always have time for you.'" His voice cracked just slightly at the end. "But I guess I got replaced."

Back on the platform, Nika froze.

She hadn't meant to eavesdrop, but the words cut through the quiet. Her hand closed around her launcher without thinking, knuckles white. She stood there, part of her wanting to storm down and back Toko up—and part of her frozen in place.

"Toko," Valt said carefully, "Kit isn't replacing you. He's just—he's a newer blader, I'm mentoring him—"

"Right. Like a big brother."

"That's not what I—"

"Do you even know when you last battled with me?" Toko asked. "Not at a tournament. Not an exhibition match. Just... us."

Valt looked guilty.

Toko shook his head, the words rushing out now. "Do you know how many times I told Nika, 'He'll show up eventually'? How many times we waited for a call or message that never came?"

"I didn't mean to hurt you," Valt said, quietly.

"But you did."

Silence stretched out like a wall between them. Valt's gaze dropped. He ran a hand through his hair, struggling to find something—anything—to say.

"I didn't realize," he said at last.

Toko's eyes stung, but he didn't blink. "Yeah. That's the problem."

Footsteps behind them. Nika appeared, arms folded tightly across her chest.

"Toko's not the only one, you know," she said, cool and sharp. "I stopped bothering months ago. Figured you were too busy being everyone's favorite big brother."

Valt turned to her, startled. "Nika—"

"You know what the worst part is?" she continued. "We were proud of you. We still are. But it feels like... like we're watching from the audience now. Not family. Just background."

Valt opened his mouth, but the words stuck.

"I'm sorry," he said again, helplessly. "I never wanted it to feel like this."

"You don't get to decide how we feel," Nika snapped, voice cracking.

A distant door creaked—Kit, returning, but he stopped in his tracks when he saw the tension in the air. None of them acknowledged him. Not yet.

Valt looked at his siblings—really looked. Toko's clenched fists. Nika's trembling jaw. And he realized how much he'd missed. Not just their birthdays or texts, but the signs—the ones that said we still need you.

But now wasn't the time for fixing. Not yet.

He took a shaky breath. "Can we talk about this properly later? All of us? I need to—"

Toko turned away. "You always need more time."

Nika didn't speak. She just walked past Valt, taking Toko by the arm. They left the stadium together, footsteps echoing down the corridor.

Kit stood awkwardly in the doorway. Valt didn't move.

The silence that followed was louder than any crowd.

Valt stood in the stadium long after they left. The walls felt bigger now. Emptier. For once, the silence didn't comfort him—it gnawed at him, left something unsettled crawling just beneath his skin.

He'd messed up. That much was obvious.

He'd always told himself that his bond with Toko and Nika was unshakable. That no matter how busy life got, they'd understand. That they'd always be there—waiting, forgiving, unchanged.

But now... they weren't waiting anymore.

The next day, the stadium was quiet again.

It was late morning, the clouds hanging low and the sun buried behind a dull gray sky. Most bladers had left town after the tournament, but Valt stayed, claiming he wanted to "train solo" a bit more.

Kit, unsure whether he was supposed to stay or not, hung around too—hovering at the edges, as if trying not to breathe too loud.

Toko returned first.

He came alone, hoodie up, hands buried in his pockets. He didn't make a dramatic entrance—just walked in, set his launcher bag down, and sat in the stands. Watching.

Nika followed an hour later, headphones around her neck, face unreadable.

Valt saw them both. But he didn't go over. Not right away.

Instead, he bladed with Kit.

Just a few test launches. Simple stuff. But he could feel their eyes on him—especially Toko's. Every move felt weighted. Off.

Eventually, the words hanging in the air became too heavy to ignore.

"You're still acting like nothing's wrong."

Toko's voice rang across the stadium. Not a shout—but it cut through everything.

Valt turned mid-launch. Valkyrie clattered to a stop.

Kit froze.

"Toko..." Valt sighed. "Can we not do this here?"

Nika stood as well. "Why not? Afraid someone might see the great Valt Aoi getting called out by his own family?"

Kit took a step back, murmuring, "Maybe I should—"

"No," Toko said sharply. "You're part of this too."

Kit flinched. "I didn't mean to cause anything—"

"You didn't," Valt snapped, stepping forward. "Leave him out of it."

"Oh, so now you defend him?" Toko's voice wavered. "Where was that when we needed you?"

"I wasn't trying to replace anyone!" Valt shot back. "I was just trying to help a younger blader grow. The same way I tried to help you."

"Don't twist this like it's about training," Nika snapped. "This is about us being forgotten."

Kit looked like he wanted to vanish.

Valt took a breath, trying to calm down. "You think I forgot you? You think I just... stopped caring?"

"You stopped showing it," Toko said, stepping forward now, fists clenched. "We've been sitting on the sidelines watching you mentor other kids, travel the world, post everything except us. It's like we were part of your origin story, and now we're just... footnotes."

"That's not fair," Valt said quietly. "You don't know what it's like trying to juggle everything. Tournaments. Interviews. Expectations. I didn't mean to—"

"We don't care about your fame!" Toko exploded. "We just wanted you!"

His voice cracked so loudly it echoed off the walls.

Even Valt looked shaken.

Kit stepped forward, nervously. "Toko, I swear, I wasn't trying to—"

Toko turned on him. "You don't get it. You got everything we used to have. Time. Focus. Care. You don't even know what it's like to have someone you looked up to slowly drift away like you were never that important."

Kit opened his mouth—but nothing came out.

Nika moved between them, pulling Toko back slightly. "He's not the one who owes us answers."

Valt stared at them, speechless.

He wanted to argue. To say it wasn't true. That he had cared. That he'd thought about them every time he launched. Every time he won.

But that didn't matter, did it?

Not when he'd never said it.

Not when he'd stopped showing up.

"I'm sorry," he said again, and this time it wasn't defensive—it was soft. Stripped. Real. "I... I didn't realize how far apart we'd grown."

Toko shook his head, still trembling. "We were never supposed to be people you left behind."

Nika's voice was gentler. "We didn't need tournaments or glory. Just your time. Your presence. That's all we ever wanted."

Valt's shoulders slumped. "I don't know how to fix this."

"Maybe you can't," Toko said.

The words hit like a Beyblade strike to the chest.

Valt turned away, frustrated with himself more than anything. "I tried. I really did. I thought... maybe if I helped Kit grow, it would feel like how it used to be with you guys. Like reliving the early days."

"That's the point," Nika said. "You were reliving something with someone else—without us."

The air thickened again. Heavy with things unsaid.

Kit shifted uncomfortably. "Look... I'll leave. I didn't mean to come between anything."

Valt looked at him, suddenly aware of how unfair this must have felt for him too. He shook his head. "You didn't. This isn't your fault."

Toko looked at Kit, eyes still stormy—but guilt creeping in. His anger hadn't been meant for the boy. Not really. "I'm sorry I snapped at you," he muttered, not quite looking at him.

Kit blinked. "It's okay. I mean... it's not, but I get it."

Valt glanced between all of them. The tension was still there—but the heat had faded slightly. What was left behind was tiredness. Hurt. Honesty.

"I need time," Toko said finally, voice low. "To figure out if this... if we can go back to how it used to be."

"I don't want to go back," Valt said.

Toko's head snapped up.

"I want to move forward," Valt continued. "With you. With Nika. With Kit. Together. Not like it used to be. Maybe even Better."

Silence again.

But it felt different this time. Less jagged. Less sharp.

Nika exhaled, rubbing her forehead. "You're gonna have to prove that. Words aren't enough."

Valt nodded. "I know."

Kit looked between them. "If it helps, I'd like to blade with all of you sometime. Not... not as Valt's student. Just as a blader."

Toko gave a small, tired smile. "We'll see."

They didn't shake hands. Didn't hug. But as the storm finally passed, something raw and broken had been aired out—and that was its own kind of progress.

Valt stayed behind after they left again.

Not to launch. Not to train.

Just to sit. Alone. Thinking.

It wasn't the ending of anything.

It was the beginning of a promise.

The stadium felt colder the next day.

A rainstorm rolled in overnight, tapping against the high windows like fingers drumming impatiently. The hum of the fluorescent lights overhead was louder without conversation to drown it out.

Toko sat alone again, this time not near the platform, but up high in the stands. His Bey sat next to him, untouched. Not because he didn't want to blade—but because he didn't want to feel like he was training.

That had started to taste bitter now.

Nika arrived late, a take-out drink in her hand, headphones around her neck again. She didn't say much. Just sat a few rows behind him and watched the platform with a neutral face.

They hadn't talked much since the argument. Not really. Just a few text messages. Short ones. Mostly checking in, making sure the other was okay. But the air between them was still heavy—like neither wanted to say aloud what they were both thinking.

"Do you think we were too harsh?" Toko finally asked, not turning around.

Nika didn't answer right away. The rain was louder up here.

"Maybe," she said. "But I think we needed to be."

Toko leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "I didn't mean to yell at Kit. He didn't do anything wrong."

"No, he didn't. He just happened to be where we weren't."

Toko smiled faintly. It didn't last long.

"I miss how things were," he said. "Back when we used to battle in the backyard. Valt would show me tricks and pretend I was his apprentice or something. Even when he was training for tournaments, he always made time for us."

Nika gave a short laugh. "Remember that time he launched his Bey through the kitchen window?"

"That was you, not him."

"No," she said. "He told me to do it."

Toko laughed, but it trailed off quickly.

They both sat there a while longer, quiet again. Letting the memories drift in and out.

Valt stood under the edge of a bus stop roof, watching the rain hit the pavement. His phone was cold in his hand, screen still lit up from the outgoing call.

It rang twice before the familiar voice answered.

"Valt? You okay?"

"Hey. Yeah. I just... needed someone to talk to."

There was a pause on the other end. Then Shu's voice softened. "What happened?"

Valt exhaled, rubbing his forehead. "I think I really hurt Toko and Nika. I didn't mean to—but it got bad."

"How bad?"

Valt hesitated. "They said I replaced them. With Kit."

The other end was quiet for a moment.

"...Ouch," Shu said at last.

"Thanks," Valt muttered.

"I mean it," Shu said. "That's not something you say unless it's been sitting in your chest for a long time."

Valt leaned against the glass wall behind him, watching his own reflection blur in the rain. "I thought I was doing what I always do. Helping someone grow. Mentoring. Passing on what I learned."

"Sure," Shu said. "But you were doing it with someone who wasn't them."

"I didn't realize I'd left them behind."

Shu was quiet for a moment, then said, "It's easy to forget that the people closest to you aren't always loud about needing you. Sometimes, they just wait. And keep waiting. Until one day they stop."

The words hit harder than Valt expected.

"I don't want to lose them."

"Then don't," Shu said. "You've already done the damage. Now do the repair work. Don't make it about a big apology. Just start showing up again."

Valt stared out at the storm.

"Yeah," he said finally. "You're right."

"I usually am."

Valt gave a small smile. "Thanks, Shu."

"Anytime," came the reply. "Now go fix it. While they're still willing to listen."

Back at the stadium, Toko had finally stood up, launcher in hand. He launched half-heartedly at a training platform, the Bey clinking loosely off the side and spinning into nothing.

Nika watched him without comment.

A few minutes later, someone else entered the stadium.

Kit.

He stopped just inside the door, awkwardly clutching his launcher case. He looked unsure whether to turn back or keep going.

Toko turned toward him. Their eyes met.

There was a long pause.

Then Toko nodded once. "You can come in. We're not gonna bite."

Kit relaxed just slightly and stepped forward.

"I didn't mean to replace anyone," he said quietly as he reached them. "Valt never made it feel like that. I just looked up to him. Still do."

Nika gave a small sigh. "We know. It wasn't about you."

Kit nodded. "Still. I'm sorry I didn't realize how it felt. You were his siblings. I should've stepped back."

"You didn't know you were stepping anywhere," Toko said. "It wasn't on you to guess."

There was a pause. Kit's fingers fiddled with his launcher strap.

"Do you guys still blade together?" he asked cautiously.

Nika raised an eyebrow. "Us? Yeah. Not as much lately, though. Valt used to—"

She cut herself off. Then sighed. "Used to."

Kit swallowed. "I'd like to blade with you guys sometime. Not as Valt's tagalong. Just... as me."

Toko and Nika exchanged a glance. It wasn't a yes. But it wasn't a no either.

"Maybe," Toko said. "If you can keep up."

Kit grinned, just a little. "Try me."

That night, Valt returned to the stadium.

He entered slowly, like someone unsure if they were still welcome. The rain had finally stopped, and the wet pavement outside made the lights inside reflect like glass.

The stadium was empty—but not lifeless.

He found the scorched marks of recent launches on the platform. A water bottle left behind. A launcher hanging off the bench.

Signs of Toko. Of Nika. Of home.

He sat down on the bench and picked up a stray bolt from the floor, turning it over in his hands.

There was no big speech. No grand gesture.

Just a quiet promise in the way he stayed.

Tomorrow, he'd show up again.

And again.

Until they believed him.

The sky was clearer the next morning.

No rain. No wind. Just pale light slipping through the clouds, drying the pavement outside and casting long shadows across the stadium floor. It was quiet again—but it no longer felt empty. Just waiting.

Toko returned first.

This time, he came with intention—hood still up, but his steps more certain. He dropped his bag by the bench and started warming up his arm with short, practiced motions. Not for a match, necessarily. Just for the rhythm. The feel of being back.

Nika arrived soon after, nodding at him silently as she joined. She didn't ask who they were waiting for. She already knew.

Neither of them said much. They didn't need to. There was something mutual in the stillness. Some unspoken agreement that they hadn't walked away from everything—just stepped aside long enough to be honest.

And when the doors opened again, they both looked up.

Valt stood there, one hand still on the frame. He looked unsure—like a stranger stepping into a home that used to be his. His eyes swept the space, landing on them, and staying.

He raised one hand, slow and sheepish. "Hey."

Toko rolled his eyes and muttered, "Took you long enough."

But he wasn't angry.

Nika tilted her head. "You planning to just stand there?"

Valt cracked a grin, a little crooked. "Guess not."

He walked in, duffel bag over one shoulder, and took a seat beside them. The silence wasn't heavy this time—it was just there, like an old friend rejoining the group after being gone too long.

They sat for a moment—awkward, uncertain, but not tense.

Valt finally cleared his throat. "I don't know what to say that I haven't already said."

"Then maybe don't say anything," Nika replied, casually inspecting her launcher. "Just... be here."

Valt nodded. "I can do that."

He leaned back, looking up at the ceiling. "Shu said something yesterday. On the phone."

Toko raised an eyebrow. "Shu? He called you out, huh?"

Valt smiled faintly. "Yeah. He didn't let me off the hook. Said I was a 'crappy big brother.'"

Nika snorted. "Fair."

"But not a bad one," Valt added.

Toko blinked. That was not something he expected.

Valt glanced at him. "He said I messed up. But I can fix it. If I stop just talking about how sorry I am and actually show up."

A quiet passed between them. Not uncomfortable—just thoughtful.

Nika rested her elbows on her knees. "And are you gonna?"

Valt looked them both in the eye. "Yeah. I'm gonna keep showing up. Even if it takes time to make things feel normal again."

Toko looked down at his Bey, then back at Valt. "We don't want normal," he said. "We just want you."

They didn't hug. No one cried. No dramatic forgiveness was handed out.

But when Nika stood and stretched, saying, "How about a match?" and Valt answered with "Three-way or two-on-one?", something shifted.

Something mended.

Toko was already grabbing his launcher.

"Let's see if you can still handle us," he said.

"I'd be more worried about Kit," Nika teased. "He's been training nonstop."

Valt gave a lopsided smile. "Well, someone's gotta keep me sharp."

They lined up on the platform.

Three launchers clicked into place. Three bladers focused.

There was no audience. No lights. No cheering.

Just three siblings—tired, healing, but together again.

"Three"

"Two"

"One"

"Let it rip!"

The Beyblades clashed with that old, familiar crack, spinning into chaos, sparks dancing along the ridges of the stadium.

It wasn't about winning.

It wasn't about proving anything.

It was about belonging.

By the end of the match, all three were on their backs, laughing, panting, and complaining about bruised wrists.

Nika tossed a water bottle at Valt's chest. "Still rusty."

"Still stronger than both of you combined," he shot back, grinning.

Toko flicked a pebble at him. "Delusional."

They were bickering again. Joking again. Not perfectly healed—but present. That was more than enough.

Valt leaned back, eyes half-closed, listening to the sound of his siblings talking, teasing, laughing.

He didn't speak. Didn't interrupt.

He just stayed.

Kit came in later—unsure whether he was intruding.

But when Valt waved him over and Nika tossed him a spare water bottle, he understood.

The seat beside them had never really been closed.

And as the sun lowered behind the high windows of the stadium, the four of them sat together—Valt, Toko, Nika, and Kitt—not as opponents or mentors or replacements, but as bladers.

And more importantly, as something else entirely:

A family learning how to start again.

Thanks for the request—and once again...
Happy birthday!!!!
Ps: I stayed up until it was exactly 12PM for you. I'm tired :,)

Chapter Text

Shu wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his wrist, the air around the BeyStadium thick with heat and the smell of metal from countless spinning tops. His launcher was already warm from the sheer number of battles he'd done that day. The others had taken breaks, laughed, and sat down to talk over strategies, but Shu had kept going, match after match.

Again.

Again.

He wasn't satisfied until every launch was perfect, every movement precise. He had a notebook sitting open beside the stadium, filled with observations and adjustments for his Beyblade. But even as he studied the scribbled diagrams and arrows, the page seemed to waver faintly, as if the ink was moving.

"You're not taking a break?" Valt's voice cut through the quiet thrum of his thoughts.

Shu didn't look up. "Not yet."

"You've been at it since morning," Valt pressed, leaning over to peer at the notebook. "Even I take breaks."

"I'll stop when I get this right," Shu replied, eyes fixed on his Beyblade as he picked it up again.

Valt sighed, but there was no stopping Shu when he got like this.

The truth was, Shu had been running on this rhythm for weeks—long training sessions with the BeyClub, then extra time alone afterward. Early mornings, late nights. The upcoming tournament loomed over him like a weight he couldn't set down. He didn't just want to be ready—he needed to be flawless.

But lately, he'd noticed small cracks in his routine. His legs felt heavier during sprints. His launches lacked their usual snap at the end. He brushed it off as nothing serious.

In school, it was harder to ignore. He'd catch himself staring out the window while the teacher's voice faded into background noise. The chalk on the board would blur into pale streaks, and he'd have to blink several times to refocus.

During lunch one day, Shu sat with Valt, Wakiya, Honcho, Ken, and Daigo in the courtyard. The others were in the middle of an animated conversation about a recent battle.

"—and then I thought he had me, but nope, I pulled out the burst finish!" Valt was grinning ear to ear.

Shu smiled faintly but didn't join in. His bento box sat untouched on his lap.

"You're not hungry?" Honcho asked, pointing his chopsticks toward Shu's food.

"Not really," Shu said, shaking his head. "I'll eat later."

"That's the third time this week you've skipped lunch," Wakiya observed sharply.

Shu gave a small shrug. "Just focused."

Ken tilted his head. "Focused is good, but... you don't look great, Shu."

Daigo nodded quietly. "Yeah. You seem... worn out."

Shu's smile tightened at the edges. "I'm fine. Really."

The words felt automatic now. He said them so often they almost sounded true.

After school, while the others made plans to hang out at the arcade, Shu headed straight for the training center. He told himself it was just to make small adjustments, just to practice for an hour or two. But once he started, the hours slipped away unnoticed.

He repeated launches until his arms ached. His hand cramped briefly, but he shook it out and kept going. The sound of spinning tops clashing was the only rhythm he needed. When his Beyblade burst, he reset immediately, ignoring the growing knot in his shoulders.

Eventually, Wakiya walked in, his sharp voice echoing in the quiet stadium. "I knew I'd find you here."

Shu straightened. "Just fine-tuning."

"Fine-tuning doesn't require skipping dinner," Wakiya said, stepping closer. "The others left hours ago. You didn't even notice, did you?"

Shu avoided his gaze. "I'll be done soon."

"You said that yesterday too," Wakiya replied, but he didn't push further.

That night, Shu returned home late, his body aching in a way that was no longer satisfying. It wasn't the healthy burn of a good workout—it was something heavier, deeper. He showered, drank some water, and stared at the notebook again before bed, reviewing launch angles by the light of his desk lamp.

When his alarm blared at dawn, his limbs protested immediately. Still, he forced himself out of bed. Skipping training wasn't an option.

Days blurred together in the same cycle. School, training, late nights, early mornings. Even his handwriting in class began to slip—letters slanting more than usual, uneven lines. He caught himself dozing off in history once and quickly sat up straighter, hoping no one had noticed.

But Valt noticed.

After class one afternoon, Valt caught up to Shu in the hallway. "You're not sleeping much, are you?"

"I'm sleeping enough."

"You don't look like it." Valt frowned. "You can't just keep—"

"I'm fine," Shu interrupted, more sharply than intended.

Valt fell silent, taken aback, but his eyes lingered on Shu with unspoken concern.

By the weekend, the club had gathered for a full-day training session. They'd agreed on a rotation—battle for twenty minutes, then rest. Shu ignored the breaks, quietly taking on whoever was ready to launch.

By midday, the others were sitting in a cluster, talking and eating snacks. Shu was still at the stadium, fine-tuning his grip, experimenting with slight shifts in his stance.

Honcho finally spoke up. "Shu, come eat. You've been going for hours."

"I'll eat after this one," Shu said without looking up.

"After this one" turned into another hour.

By the time the sun began to dip lower in the sky, his movements had lost some of their usual precision. When his Beyblade ricocheted off the stadium wall and burst spectacularly, Shu froze for a second, staring at it like it was an unfamiliar object.

Valt jogged over. "That's enough for today."

Shu shook his head. "I just need to—"

"No, seriously," Valt interrupted. "You're pale, you've barely eaten, and your launches aren't even you right now."

"I'm just... distracted," Shu muttered.

"Distracted doesn't make you look like you're gonna fall over," Wakiya said from behind him.

Shu straightened his posture immediately. "I'm fine."

It was becoming a reflex—those two words.

But when he left the training center that night, walking alone down the quiet street, his steps felt heavier than usual. The crisp evening air should have refreshed him, but instead it felt sharp in his lungs. He gripped the strap of his bag tighter, telling himself tomorrow would be better.

He would train harder.

The next day, Shu stood in the middle of the BeyStadium, launcher in hand, the weight of it strangely heavy. The others were still warming up, chatting as they set up their Beyblades. Normally, he'd be locked in, focused on every movement, but right now his gaze drifted to the spinning ceiling fan above, watching its slow rotation.

"Shu?" Ken's voice broke his trance.

He blinked and forced himself to nod. "I'm good. Ready to launch."

They battled, but even to his own eyes, his movements were sluggish. His grip on the launcher wasn't quite as firm, his footwork just a fraction off. The metallic clatter of his Beyblade crashing against the stadium walls rang louder than usual in his ears.

"You okay?" Daigo asked after the round ended.

"Fine," Shu said quickly, bending down to retrieve his Beyblade.

But as he straightened, a wave of dizziness swept over him. He caught himself before anyone could react, pretending to check the tip of his Beyblade. His chest felt tight, his breath shallow.

The training session dragged on, each match feeling heavier than the last. Sweat stung his eyes, but not from intensity—it was the kind of clammy, unpleasant sweat that came with being unwell.

When they broke for lunch, the group sat on the bleachers, sharing snacks and swapping stories from the week. Shu stayed quiet, unwrapping a sandwich he'd brought but only taking a small bite. His stomach twisted, and he set it down.

Wakiya noticed. "That's barely anything."

"Not hungry," Shu said, avoiding his gaze.

Valt leaned back on his hands, frowning. "You've been saying that for days. Are you sure you're not sick?"

"I'm fine," Shu replied, but his voice came out flat.

They didn't push it, but the unspoken worry hung between them.

By the time training ended, Shu's body felt drained. His legs ached as he walked home, the cool air prickling his skin in a way that made him shiver. The streets were quiet, the evening sun painting the sky orange, but Shu barely noticed. His thoughts were heavy and sluggish.

When he finally reached his place, he set his bag down and collapsed onto the couch. He told himself it would just be for a moment before reviewing his notes from the day, but his muscles sank into the cushions like they'd been waiting for this all along.

He stared at the ceiling. His heartbeat felt louder than usual, echoing in his ears. He swallowed against the dryness in his throat and closed his eyes, intending only to rest them.

An hour slipped by before he sat up again, groaning softly as his head swam. He moved to the kitchen, filling a glass with water, but halfway through drinking it, he had to set it down. His hand trembled.

He leaned on the counter, gripping the edge tightly. His breathing was uneven now, short and quick. The edges of his vision shimmered faintly, like heatwaves rising from asphalt.

Shu took a step toward the couch, but the floor seemed to shift under his feet. His knees buckled, and before he could catch himself, he crumpled to the ground.

His mind registered the impact distantly, like it was happening to someone else. There was no pain, just a deep, dragging pull toward darkness.

When awareness returned, the first thing he noticed was the silence. He was lying on his side on the floor, cheek pressed against the cool wood. His whole body felt heavy, like every muscle was resisting movement.

It took several long moments before he managed to push himself up to a sitting position. His breathing was shaky, but he forced himself to stand, one hand gripping the back of the couch for support.

Shu sank onto the cushions again, staring at nothing. He felt... empty. Not just tired, but hollow, drained to the point where even thinking about moving made his limbs ache.

He stayed like that for the rest of the evening, wrapped in a blanket he barely remembered pulling over himself. His Beyblade sat on the coffee table, still scratched from training earlier, but he didn't have the energy to touch it.

The next morning, his alarm blared like always. Shu reached over to silence it, but his arm felt like lead. His head pounded with a dull ache, and when he sat up, his stomach churned.

He got ready for school slowly, every movement deliberate. Even so, when he left, he was already late. The walk felt longer than usual, and by the time he arrived, the day had barely begun, but he was already longing for it to be over.

In class, his vision swam whenever he looked at the board too long. His pen slipped once while taking notes, leaving a jagged line across the page. He quickly corrected it, hoping no one noticed.

At lunch, the others sat under a tree in the courtyard. Valt was midway through a story about a new battle strategy when he noticed Shu staring blankly at the ground.

"Shu? You listening?"

"Yeah," Shu said, though his tone made it sound like he wasn't.

Wakiya studied him carefully. "You look worse than yesterday."

"I'm just tired."

Honcho leaned forward. "You need a real break. Not just sitting down for five minutes. A whole day off."

Shu shook his head. "I can't."

"Why not?" Daigo asked.

"Because there's still so much to work on," Shu said, voice low.

Valt exhaled through his nose, clearly frustrated. "What good is all that work if you can't even stand?"

Shu didn't respond. He couldn't argue without admitting they were right, and admitting that meant facing the truth he'd been avoiding.

That evening, back at his place, Shu dropped his bag by the door and sat on the couch without even removing his shoes. He told himself he'd get up in a minute. But the minute stretched, and the heaviness in his limbs only deepened.

He tried to get up to drink some water, but halfway across the room, the same dizzy wave from the night before hit him again. His vision narrowed, his knees buckled, and he fell hard onto his side.

This time, there was no half-awareness. The darkness swallowed him whole.

When his eyes opened again, the room was dim, shadows long on the walls. He was lying on the floor, his head against the armrest of the couch. It took effort just to breathe evenly.

Shu slowly rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling. He felt cold despite the blanket he managed to pull over himself. His thoughts were sluggish, disorganized.

For the first time, the thought crossed his mind: he couldn't keep this up. Not like this.

But even as the realization settled in, a familiar stubbornness pushed back. The tournament was close. There wasn't time to slow down.

Still, lying there in the quiet, he couldn't ignore the way his body had simply shut down on him. Twice now.

And deep down, he knew it wouldn't be the last time if he didn't change something.

At school it was hard for him to stay focused. His pen tapped lightly against the desk. It wasn't intentional — his hand simply couldn't stay still. His eyes were fixed on the whiteboard, but the lines of text kept slipping in and out of focus, like waves rolling over them.

The classroom was unusually warm that morning. A faint hum from the heater filled the silence between the teacher's words. Shu's seat was near the window, and though the sun poured through the glass, it only made the heat more stifling.

He'd barely slept the night before. Every time he closed his eyes, his mind had replayed training footage in flashes — spins, bursts, narrow wins that still didn't feel good enough. When his alarm rang, his head had already been heavy from the weight of the day ahead.

Now, sitting in his chair, his body felt like it was sinking into the floor. The ache in his shoulders from holding himself upright was small at first, but it spread until it reached his neck.

"Shu, do you have the answer for number three?" the teacher's voice broke through the haze.

He blinked and straightened slightly. "Uh..." His mind scrambled for the words he'd just written in his notebook, but they swam in front of him, letters twisting into unrecognizable shapes.

Valt, sitting diagonally behind him, leaned forward just slightly, brow furrowing.

Shu managed to mutter the answer after a pause, his voice quiet but steady enough to satisfy the teacher. She nodded and turned back to the board, her chalk squeaking faintly.

But Valt kept watching him.

By the time the second period began, the air in the room felt thicker. Shu loosened his grip on his pen and flexed his fingers, but they felt stiff, almost numb. His head throbbed in rhythm with the ticking clock.

When the teacher handed out worksheets, Shu reached for his paper and felt his vision pull sideways for a brief second, like someone had tilted the entire world. He blinked hard.

"You okay?" Wakiya whispered from the next row over, his eyes narrowing.

Shu gave a short nod without meeting his gaze.

He focused on the worksheet, determined to make it through the morning, but halfway through writing the second answer, the lines on the page seemed to curl and fade at the edges. His pencil slipped slightly, leaving a faint streak across the margin.

He set it down and pressed his fingers against his temple, trying to ground himself. The murmurs of classmates around him blurred into an indistinct hum.

It happened slowly at first — the heaviness in his limbs, the strange floating sensation in his chest. But then it hit all at once. The sound in the room grew muffled, the light too bright. He reached for the edge of the desk, but his fingers barely grazed it before his body tipped sideways.

There was a sharp gasp from someone in the back of the room. His chair scraped against the floor as it fell with him.

"Shu!" Valt's voice was loud now, breaking through the fog.

The whole class erupted into motion. Desks shifted, voices overlapped — concern, shock, confusion. Shu lay on his side, eyes half-open but unfocused, his breaths shallow.

Valt and Honcho were at his side in seconds.

"Shu, hey — can you hear me?" Valt asked, crouching down.

Wakiya had already stood, motioning for the teacher. "We need the nurse. Now."

Ken knelt on the other side, his usually calm voice edged with urgency. "Shu, don't try to move yet."

The teacher hurried over, her heels clicking sharply on the floor. "Give him space — everyone, step back."

But Valt stayed close, his hand lightly on Shu's shoulder. "It's okay. We're here."

Shu blinked slowly, his lips parting like he wanted to say something, but only a faint breath escaped. His face was pale, and sweat clung to his forehead.

"Should we get water?" Daigo asked quickly.

"Not yet," Wakiya replied firmly. "We don't even know if he can sit up right now."

The nurse arrived moments later, kneeling beside Shu with practiced movements. "Alright, let's get him to the infirmary. Can one of you help me?"

"I've got him," Valt said immediately, sliding an arm under Shu's shoulders. Honcho moved to help, supporting his other side.

The class fell silent as the two lifted him carefully, the shuffling of shoes the only sound as they left the room.

In the hallway, Shu's head lolled slightly against Valt's shoulder, his breaths still uneven. Valt glanced down at him. "Just hang on a little longer, alright?"

They reached the nurse's office, where she directed them to a bed. Shu was eased down gently, the cool pillow against his head drawing a faint sigh from him.

The nurse checked his pulse, her expression tight. "He's exhausted — and dehydrated." She looked at the group still lingering at the door. "Was he sick before this?"

Valt hesitated. "He's been... pushing himself a lot. For training. And lately, he hasn't been eating much."

Wakiya added, "Or sleeping."

The nurse nodded slowly, turning back to Shu. "He's going to need rest. Real rest. I'll keep him here until he's stable, but you should all encourage him to slow down."

They agreed, though none of them looked satisfied with the answer.

Shu stirred faintly, his eyes opening halfway. He blinked at the white ceiling before shifting his gaze to the side. Valt was still there, sitting in the chair beside the bed.

"You passed out in class," Valt said quietly, his tone softer now. "Scared everyone half to death."

Shu's lips twitched, maybe an attempt at a smile, but it faded quickly. "Sorry."

"You don't have to apologize," Valt said firmly. "You just... you can't keep doing this."

Shu's eyes drifted shut again, but not before Valt caught the flicker of guilt there.

The others filed in one by one during the next hour, their usual chatter muted. Honcho set a bottle of water on the table. Ken stood with his arms crossed, watching silently. Daigo leaned against the wall, eyes on the floor. Wakiya just shook his head.

When the nurse finally said Shu could go home, Valt offered to walk with him. Shu didn't protest. The walk was quiet, the sound of their footsteps echoing faintly.

At Shu's door, Valt hesitated. "We're not letting this go, you know. Tomorrow, we're talking about it. All of us."

Shu glanced away, his hand tightening on the doorknob. "…Alright."

It was all he could manage.

Inside, as he sank onto his couch, the memory of the classroom came back in flashes — the bright light, the sudden weightlessness, the rush of voices. And beneath it all, the realization that there was no hiding it anymore.

Tomorrow, he'd have to face them.

And tomorrow came earlier than expected.

Shu sat on the bench outside the training center, his hands resting loosely on his knees. The cold metal under him was a sharp contrast to the soft hum of activity inside, where the others were waiting.

He knew they wanted to talk. He also knew they wouldn't let him get away with vague answers this time.

The door creaked open behind him. "You coming in?" Valt's voice was light, but not playful.

Shu glanced over his shoulder and nodded, standing slowly. His legs still felt a little heavy from the day before, though nothing like the collapse in class. That moment was still fresh — the sharp sound of the chair tipping, the rush of footsteps, the look in everyone's eyes.

Inside, the main stadium was empty. The others were gathered around one of the side tables instead. Wakiya leaned back in his chair with his arms crossed. Honcho was drumming his fingers on the table, his usual easygoing demeanor replaced with a worried frown. Ken and Daigo were sitting side by side, both quiet but alert.

Shu took the last empty chair. No one spoke for a few seconds.

Finally, Valt broke the silence. "Alright, we're worried about you. Really worried. And not just because of yesterday."

Shu kept his gaze on the table. "I'm fine now."

"Don't," Wakiya cut in sharply. "Don't say you're fine. You've been saying that for weeks, and then you passed out twice in two days. That's not fine."

Shu's shoulders stiffened. "It's not a big deal."

"Not a big deal?" Honcho's voice rose. "You scared everyone in class! You hit the floor and didn't get up for almost a minute!"

Shu winced but didn't argue.

Ken spoke next, his voice low. "You've been overdoing it for a long time. We've all seen it. You train longer than anyone, you skip meals, you don't rest. Why?"

The question hung in the air. Shu hesitated, his fingers curling slightly against the tabletop. "...Because I have to be ready."

"For what?" Daigo asked gently.

"For everything," Shu said, his voice tightening. "The tournament, battles, challenges — if I'm not at my best, I'll fall behind. Everyone's improving, getting stronger. If I slow down, I lose my edge. I can't let that happen."

Valt leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "You think pushing yourself until you collapse is gonna make you stronger? It's not. You can't win if you're not even standing."

Shu's jaw worked, but he didn't answer.

Wakiya's eyes narrowed. "This isn't just about winning. You've got this... thing where you think you have to be perfect all the time. But guess what? You're human. And humans need rest."

Honcho nodded. "You're our friend first, teammate second. We care more about you being healthy than about you getting some perfect battle record."

The words made something twist in Shu's chest. He'd heard versions of that sentiment before, but never this direct, this united.

Ken leaned in slightly. "We can help you train smarter. We can share strategies, split practice sessions. You don't have to do everything alone."

Daigo added quietly, "You've been acting like carrying all the pressure yourself is the only way. But it's not. We're all in this together."

Shu finally looked up at them, meeting each of their gazes in turn. There was no judgment there — just genuine concern, and something warmer.

"I..." He hesitated, the words heavy. "...I didn't want to be a burden. If I started slowing down, I thought you'd all have to work harder to make up for it."

Valt shook his head. "That's not how a team works. If one of us is struggling, we help. That's what we do. You've done it for us, remember?"

Shu blinked. Memories flickered — staying late to help Valt tweak his launch, walking Wakiya through a strategy change before a match, listening to Ken talk through a new combo.

Wakiya leaned forward. "We're not asking you to stop caring about training. We're asking you to stop destroying yourself for it."

Honcho's voice softened. "You matter more than the results."

The room was quiet for a moment. Shu exhaled slowly, tension easing from his shoulders bit by bit.
"...Alright."

Valt tilted his head. "Alright as in...?"

"As in... I'll slow down," Shu said, his tone reluctant but sincere. "I'll rest more. Eat properly. No more skipping breaks."

"That's a start," Wakiya said, though his tone made it clear he'd be keeping an eye on him.

Ken smiled faintly. "We'll hold you to it."

Valt grinned, the first hint of lightness in the conversation. "And I'm gonna personally make sure you eat lunch every day. No excuses."

Shu gave a small, almost amused huff. "Guess I don't have a choice, then."

"Not anymore," Honcho said with a grin.

The tension in the room lifted slightly, replaced with a quiet sense of relief. They spent the rest of the afternoon not battling, but just hanging out — talking, laughing, planning future training in a way that felt balanced.

By the time the sun dipped low, Shu felt something he hadn't in weeks: lighter. Not because the pressure was gone — but because it wasn't all on him anymore.

As they left the training center together, Valt fell into step beside him. "You know, if you'd said something earlier, we could've avoided all of this."

Shu glanced over. "Probably."

"Guess we'll just have to make sure it doesn't happen again," Valt said with a grin.

Shu nodded. "Yeah. We will."

For the first time in a long while, he actually believed it.

The next afternoon, Shu was sitting on the couch at home, a mug of tea warming his hands. The day had been quiet — no training, no schoolwork, just rest, like the others had insisted. The TV was on in the background, but he wasn't really watching it.

His phone buzzed against the armrest. When he saw the name on the screen, his stomach tightened.

Mom.

He stared at it for a second. It had been weeks since they'd spoken — months since they'd had a real conversation.

He swiped to answer. "...Hello?"

"Shu?" Her voice was exactly as he remembered — warm, quick, tinged with a kind of restless energy, like she was always halfway to her next task.

"Yeah. Hai."

"I just got off a call with your school," she said, no preamble. "They told me you collapsed yesterday."

Shu's grip on the mug tightened slightly. "It's nothing serious. I'm fine now."

"That's what the nurse said too, but she also mentioned exhaustion and dehydration. Shu, that's not nothing."

He stayed quiet.

Her sigh crackled through the speaker. "You've been pushing yourself again, haven't you?"

"...Maybe."

"More than maybe." There was no sharpness in her tone, just worry. "I know we haven't been around much lately. Work's been—" She stopped herself. "That's not an excuse. We should've noticed sooner."

Shu shifted slightly on the couch. "You've been busy. It's fine."

"It's not fine," she said, her voice softer now. "You're our son. You shouldn't be running yourself into the ground because you think no one's looking out for you."

Something in his chest tightened at that. "I wasn't trying to—" He cut himself off. "...I just wanted to stay at my best. For battles. For the team."

There was a pause on her end. "And for yourself?"

He hesitated. "...Yeah."

"Shu," she said gently, "there's nothing wrong with wanting to be better. But you can't do it by tearing yourself apart. You need rest, food, balance. That's not weakness — it's how you keep going."

He let out a slow breath. "...The others already gave me the same lecture."

Her voice warmed with a faint smile. "Good. I'm glad they're looking out for you."

"They are," Shu admitted quietly. "More than I expected."

There was a faint murmur in the background — the sound of voices, a phone ringing somewhere else. "I don't have long," she said reluctantly. "Your father is busy, but I told him what happened. He's worried too."

"Tell him I'm fine," Shu said automatically.

"I will. But I'll also tell him you're taking care of yourself now, right?"

"...Right."

"I mean it," she said, a note of firmness creeping in. "No more skipping meals, no all-night training sessions. Promise me."

Shu stared at the floor for a moment before answering. "I promise."

"Good." There was a short pause. "And Shu?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm proud of you," she said softly. "Not because you're winning battles. Because you're still trying, even when it's hard. Just... remember to try for yourself too."

He swallowed, the weight in his chest shifting into something else. "Thanks."

There was movement on her end, a muffled voice calling her name. "I have to go back now," she said regretfully. "But we'll talk more soon. I'll make time."

"Okay."

"I love you."

"Love you too."

The line clicked off, leaving the quiet hum of the TV in the background.

Shu set the phone down and leaned back into the couch, staring at the ceiling. The conversation had been short, but it lingered in his mind — her voice, the way she'd sounded like she meant it when she said she'd make time.

His phone buzzed again. This time it was a message from Valt:

We're meeting tomorrow, but no battles. Movie day. You in?

Shu stared at the text for a second, then typed back:

Yeah, I'm in.

He set the phone aside, took a sip of tea, and let himself relax fully into the cushions. For once, there was no urge to plan his next training session. No weight pressing him forward before he was ready.

Just the quiet, and the faint thought that maybe — just maybe — he wasn't as alone in this as he'd thought.

Chapter Text

Hyuga had noticed something was off the moment he walked into the training room. At first, he told himself it was nothing—Hikaru was always energetic, always bouncing off walls, and maybe today he was just a little sluggish. But there was a heaviness to Hikaru's movements, a subtle sluggishness in the way he spun his Beyblade that made Hyuga pause.

"Hey... you okay?" Hyuga asked, stepping closer. His voice was calm, but there was a taut edge to it that only Hikaru would notice.

"I'm fine," Hikaru said, flashing his usual confident grin. "Just a little tired, that's all. Don't worry about me."

Hyuga frowned, unconvinced. He watched as Hikaru lifted his launcher, only for it to wobble slightly in his hand. Normally, Hikaru's movements were precise and sharp, like clockwork. This time, there was a lack of coordination that immediately set Hyuga on edge.

"Hmm. You sure?" Hyuga pressed, his arms crossing automatically.

"Yeah," Hikaru replied too quickly, waving him off. "Really. Just a minor thing. Nothing to worry about."

Hyuga narrowed his eyes, sensing Hikaru's usual deflection. He knew his little brother well enough to know that tone—it was one of those times when Hikaru wanted to handle things himself, no interference. Hyuga felt a familiar tug of frustration. Usually, Hikaru kept him in check, even when Hyuga wanted to fuss over him. But right now, something in the way Hikaru's head dipped slightly as he blinked made Hyuga hesitate.

"Alright," Hyuga said slowly, forcing himself to believe Hikaru. But his instincts screamed otherwise.

The day went on, and Hyuga's unease only grew. During practice battles, Hikaru's usual energy was absent. He didn't spin his Beyblade with his characteristic flourish, his movements sluggish and off-tempo. Every time he stumbled slightly or coughed into his hand, Hyuga's chest tightened.

By the time they returned home, Hyuga was pacing. Hikaru was quiet, quieter than usual, dragging his feet and occasionally leaning against walls for support. Their parents were briefly visible in the doorway, noticing the change immediately.

"You okay, Hikaru?" their mother asked softly, concern threading her voice.

"I'm fine," Hikaru said again, louder this time, almost defensively. He gave Hyuga a quick wink, as if to signal that he had everything under control.

Hyuga's fists clenched at his sides. He knew his parents were capable and caring, but he also knew they had no idea how specific Hikaru's needs could be when it came to rest, food, or even emotional reassurance. Hyuga felt an uncharacteristic surge of protectiveness.

"Hyuga," their father said quietly, giving him a look that seemed to say, keep an eye on him, before retreating down the hall. Hyuga's jaw tightened. That was his role now. The responsibility landed squarely on his shoulders, and the weight was heavier than he'd expected.

He led Hikaru to the couch. "Sit down," he said firmly, though his voice betrayed his worry.

"I'm fine," Hikaru murmured again, attempting a grin that didn't reach his eyes. Hyuga ignored it.

"You're not," Hyuga said flatly. "You're burning up, and your body's telling you something."

Hikaru hesitated, then gave a small sigh. "Maybe I'm a little tired," he admitted.

Hyuga frowned and reached for the thermometer in the cabinet. Hikaru leaned back, letting him take charge despite his protests. The thermometer beeped almost immediately, confirming what Hyuga had suspected: a low-grade fever.

"See?" Hyuga said, holding it out for Hikaru to see. "You're sick."

Hikaru groaned softly, sinking further into the couch cushions. "Okay, fine. You win."

Hyuga exhaled sharply, both relieved and anxious. Relief that Hikaru wasn't pretending—an illness was easier to manage than some mysterious exhaustion—but anxiety because this meant Hyuga actually had to care for him. And Hyuga had never done this before.

He stood and went to the kitchen, fetching a glass of water, some crackers, and a small blanket. He returned to Hikaru, who was trying not to look too miserable.

"Here," Hyuga said, placing the items in front of him. "Drink this. Eat a little. Then rest."

Hikaru frowned at the crackers but took a small bite, while Hyuga adjusted the blanket around him. His movements were careful, precise, and yet he couldn't shake the nervousness coiling in his stomach.

"You're... really panicking," Hikaru said softly, half-amused despite himself.

"I'm not panicking," Hyuga said sharply, though his fingers trembled slightly as he tucked the blanket closer. "I'm cautious. Responsible."

Hikaru snorted quietly, and it was the smallest sound, but it carried a warmth that made Hyuga's chest ache. Despite his pride, he felt entirely unprepared for this role. He wasn't just Hyuga the Beyblade battler anymore; he was Hyuga the caretaker, and there was no cheat code for this.

Hours passed slowly. Hyuga sat beside Hikaru on the couch, monitoring his temperature, making sure he drank fluids, adjusting the blanket when Hikaru shivered. Each small cough or sigh made Hyuga jump a little, his nerves taut. He glanced at the clock repeatedly, calculating how long it had been since Hikaru last ate or drank.

At one point, their mother peeked in again. "He's resting well?" she asked gently.

"He's fine," Hyuga said immediately, though his grip on the blanket betrayed his unease. "I've got it under control."

Their mother gave him a look, not quite convinced, but she didn't push further. Hyuga knew she trusted him enough to step back, and he appreciated that—but it also meant he couldn't fail.

Night fell, and the house grew quiet. Hyuga stayed by the couch, Hikaru's head resting lightly on a pillow he'd brought from his own bed. He tried reading a book to pass the time, but his attention kept drifting back to Hikaru, checking for signs of discomfort, listening for uneven breaths, counting every cough and sniffle.

"You know... you're really overdoing it," Hikaru murmured at one point, eyes half-closed.

"I am not," Hyuga replied quickly, though he realized halfway through that the defensive edge in his voice was betraying him. "I just... I need to make sure you're okay."

Hikaru smiled faintly, a little crookedly. "I know. That's actually kind of nice."

Hyuga blinked, surprised at the soft appreciation in Hikaru's voice. It wasn't a compliment he'd ever received before, not in so many words. His chest tightened, a mix of pride and panic—pride that he could help, panic at the responsibility of doing it properly.

By the time Hikaru's eyelids grew heavy and he drifted into a restless sleep, Hyuga had learned a few things about caretaking: it wasn't just about following instructions or keeping track of temperature and fluids. It was about being present, noticing the small changes, anticipating needs before they were spoken, and sometimes just staying quietly beside someone who needed you.

He stayed there through the night, watching over his little brother, exhausted himself but unwilling to leave. For the first time, Hyuga realized just how much Hikaru must do for him every day—and he silently promised himself he wouldn't fail now.

Even if it stressed him out to his core.

Hyuga woke up with a start, his neck aching from where he'd slumped in the chair beside the couch. For a second he panicked, until he spotted Hikaru still under the blankets. His brother's face was flushed, his breathing a little uneven, but at least he was asleep.

Hyuga rubbed his eyes and leaned forward, whispering, "Hikaru? You okay?"

Hikaru stirred, blinking at him blearily. "Mm... what time is it?" His voice was scratchy, too rough for Hyuga's liking.

"Morning. You slept through," Hyuga said, relief softening his voice before it hardened again. "You don't sound good."

"I'm fine," Hikaru murmured automatically, coughing into his sleeve. The sound made Hyuga flinch.

"No, you're not fine," Hyuga shot back, already grabbing the glass of water on the side table. He thrust it into Hikaru's hands. "Drink."

Hikaru obeyed, taking a few sips before sinking back against the pillow. His eyes closed again. "You're fussing too much," he muttered.

Hyuga's jaw clenched. "And you're downplaying it too much. We're not the same."

That shut Hikaru up, but Hyuga could see the faint smile tugging at his lips. It only made his chest tighter.

He hovered for a few minutes, not sure what to do. His brother needed food, right? Something warm and light. That would help. Hyuga stood up abruptly, marching toward the kitchen with determination. He flung open cupboards, stared at the pots and pans, then froze.

...He had no idea how to cook.

Sure, he'd boiled water a few times. Maybe toasted bread. But soup? Real meals? That was always their parents' job. Hyuga swore under his breath, running a hand through his messy hair. He wanted to do this himself. Hikaru needed him to handle it, not their parents.

"Hyuga?" their mom's voice drifted from behind. She stepped into the kitchen, brows lifting at the chaos of open cupboards. "What are you doing?"

Hyuga turned, flustered. "I—I was gonna make something for Hikaru. He needs food. Something warm."

Her expression softened, but she shook her head gently. "You don't need to worry about cooking. Leave that to me. You just stay with your brother."

Hyuga bristled. "But—"

"Hyuga." She placed a hand on his shoulder. "You're already doing the most important part. You're with him."

Hyuga looked away, heat rushing to his face. It didn't feel like enough. What good was he if he couldn't even make soup? Still, he stepped aside reluctantly as she began preparing a light broth.

He hovered the entire time, pacing the kitchen. "Don't put too much salt. He'll hate it if it's too salty. And don't make it too hot. Or too cold. And—"

"Hyuga." His mom's voice had a firm edge. "Go sit with him. I'll bring it when it's ready."

Hyuga deflated. He wanted to argue, but he couldn't. Instead, he trudged back into the living room, flopping down beside the couch. Hikaru cracked one eye open at him.

"Did you burn the kitchen down or something?" Hikaru asked weakly, his voice teasing.

"No! I was trying to help," Hyuga said defensively, crossing his arms. "But Mom took over."

Hikaru chuckled, though it turned into another cough that made Hyuga instantly lean forward. "Careful!" he said sharply, grabbing the water again. Hikaru took a sip, smiling faintly.

"You're stressing yourself out," Hikaru murmured.

"You think I don't know that?" Hyuga snapped before catching himself. His hands clenched on his knees. "I just... I don't know what I'm doing, Hikaru. You always handle everything. I can't even make soup."

Hikaru's expression softened. He shifted slightly under the blankets, his fever-bright eyes studying Hyuga. "Soup isn't what matters. You being here matters."

Hyuga looked away, throat tight. "Doesn't feel like enough."

Before Hikaru could answer, their mom entered quietly with a tray. "Here. Soup, broth and crackers. Keep it light." She set it down on the table and gave Hyuga a small smile before retreating again, giving them privacy.

Hyuga scrambled to grab the tray, setting it carefully on his lap before helping Hikaru sit up. His hands shook a little as he arranged the blanket around him. "Careful. Don't spill. Here." He spooned a little broth, blowing on it before holding it out awkwardly.

Hikaru blinked at him. "...You're feeding me?"

"Shut up and eat," Hyuga muttered, cheeks hot. "You'll probably drop it if you try."

Hikaru chuckled but leaned forward, sipping from the spoon. "Not bad," he admitted softly. "Thanks."

Hyuga felt something unclench in his chest at that small word. Thanks. Maybe he wasn't completely useless.

The rest of the day dragged in a haze of Hyuga's fussing. He hovered constantly, checking Hikaru's forehead every half hour, tucking the blanket tighter, making sure he drank water. Every cough set him on edge, every sigh made him snap upright. He was restless, bouncing his leg, unable to relax.

At one point, their father appeared in the doorway. "How's he doing?" he asked quietly.

Hyuga straightened instantly. "Still warm. He ate a little, though. He's resting."

His father's eyes softened. "You're doing good."

Hyuga's chest swelled with a mix of pride and doubt. "I don't feel like I'm doing anything."

"You're staying with him. That's everything," his father said, and then disappeared down the hall.

Hyuga sat back, chewing on those words. Everything? It didn't feel like everything. He wasn't cooking, he wasn't curing the fever, he wasn't making Hikaru magically better. He was just sitting here, stressed out of his mind.

But when Hikaru stirred awake again, eyes glassy and unfocused, Hyuga leaned forward instantly, voice soft and urgent. "Hey. I'm right here. You okay?"

Hikaru blinked at him, then gave the smallest smile. "Yeah. Because you're here."

Hyuga froze, the words hitting him square in the chest. His throat tightened, but he forced himself to smile back. "Good."

He sat down again, staying close enough that Hikaru could feel his presence. He wasn't perfect. He wasn't their parents. But he could do this—be here, watch over his brother, even if it stressed him out to no end.

And for now, that had to be enough.

Hyuga had thought the worst was over. Hikaru had managed some food, even joked with him a little, and though he still looked miserable, Hyuga convinced himself things were slowly improving.

But by the time night fell, Hikaru's fever spiked again.

Hyuga noticed it when he reached out to check his forehead, only to jerk his hand back at the heat radiating from his skin. His stomach dropped. Hikaru stirred weakly under the blankets, his lips parting with a soft groan.

"Hikaru," Hyuga whispered, panic rising in his chest. "Hey. Wake up."

Hikaru's eyes fluttered open, unfocused and glassy. "Huh...?" His voice was hoarse, barely audible.

Hyuga's breath caught. He grabbed the thermometer from the table, fumbling with it until it beeped. The number made his blood run cold—higher than before. Way too high.

"Mom!" Hyuga shouted instinctively before biting it back. No. If he called them now, they'd take over. They'd sweep in, and then what? Hyuga would just be shoved aside again, useless. He clenched his fists. He couldn't let that happen. Not when Hikaru needed him.

"Okay, okay, think," he muttered under his breath, pacing. He darted to the kitchen, soaking a cloth with cool water, wringing it out with trembling hands. He pressed it gently against Hikaru's forehead. Hikaru flinched, but didn't pull away.

Hyuga hovered close, heart hammering. "You're okay. You're okay. Just... stay with me. Please."

But the words felt thin, fragile. His chest was tight, his eyes burning as he stared down at his brother, who looked far too pale and far too small under the mountain of blankets. Hyuga had never seen him like this. Hikaru was supposed to be strong, steady, the one who always had the answers. Seeing him vulnerable, seeing him like this—it tore something in Hyuga wide open.

He slumped into the chair, clutching his knees. "I don't know what I'm doing," he admitted in a whisper, voice cracking. "I'm messing everything up."

A soft cough drew his attention. Hikaru shifted slightly, his fevered eyes trying to focus. "...You're not messing up," he rasped.

Hyuga's throat closed. "Yes, I am! You're worse, and I can't fix it. I don't know how to fix it. I can't cook, I can't make the fever go away, I—I can't—" His voice broke completely, and he shoved his hands into his hair, tugging at it in frustration. "I'm not enough."

There. The ugly truth, spilling out like poison. He wasn't enough. Not for Hikaru. Not for anyone.

Silence stretched for a moment, broken only by Hikaru's uneven breathing. Hyuga squeezed his eyes shut, ashamed. He hated this. Hated feeling so powerless.

Then he felt it: a weak tug at his sleeve.

He looked down to see Hikaru's hand, trembling but determined, clutching at him. Hikaru's eyes were half-lidded, his face pale, but there was clarity in his gaze.

"You're wrong," Hikaru whispered.

Hyuga's breath hitched. "What?"

"You're enough," Hikaru said, his voice soft but steady despite the weakness behind it. "You being here—it helps. More than you think."

Hyuga shook his head wildly. "No, it doesn't. You're still sick. You're still hurting. If I was good at this, if I was like you, you'd already be better."

Hikaru's lips curved into the faintest smile. "Hyuga... you think I make everything better right away? You think I don't worry, or stress, or feel useless sometimes? Taking care of you... it's not about fixing everything. It's about being there. That's all."

Hyuga's chest ached. He wanted to believe it, but the fear gnawed at him. "But what if I lose you?" he whispered, voice shaking. "What if I can't keep you safe?"

Hikaru squeezed his sleeve tighter, though his grip was weak. "You won't lose me. Not from this. And even if... even if something did happen one day, it wouldn't be because you weren't enough. Because you are."

The words cracked something deep inside Hyuga. Hot tears spilled down his cheeks before he could stop them. He leaned forward, burying his face against the blanket near Hikaru's shoulder. "I hate this," he admitted in a muffled voice. "I hate seeing you like this. I hate feeling so helpless."

A shaky hand brushed against his hair, clumsy but comforting. "I know," Hikaru murmured. "But you're not helpless. You've been here the whole time. Watching over me. Do you know how safe that makes me feel?"

Hyuga froze, the words sinking into him like sunlight through storm clouds. Safe. He made Hikaru feel safe. Despite everything.

He lifted his head slowly, meeting Hikaru's fever-bright eyes. "Really?"

"Really," Hikaru whispered with a tired smile. "Hyuga, you don't have to be perfect. You just have to be you."

Hyuga blinked rapidly, swiping at his eyes with the back of his hand. His heart was still pounding, his body still tense, but the knot of fear in his chest loosened just a little.

"...I can do that," he said hoarsely. "I can be me."

"Good," Hikaru murmured, his eyes slipping shut again. "That's all I need."

Hyuga sat back, still holding onto Hikaru's hand. He didn't let go, not even when Hikaru drifted back into a fitful sleep. He stayed there, thumb brushing over his brother's knuckles, breathing through the fear.

He wasn't perfect. He couldn't fix everything. But maybe—just maybe—that wasn't the point.

As the night stretched on, Hyuga kept the cool cloth refreshed, watched every flicker of discomfort on Hikaru's face, and whispered soft reassurances he wasn't sure Hikaru could hear. His tears had dried, but the raw ache in his chest lingered. Still, beneath it, a fragile sense of resolve had taken root.

He wasn't giving up. Not now. Not ever.

The next morning, Hyuga woke to the sound of soft breathing.

For a moment he panicked, sitting up straight in the chair. His neck screamed in protest, and his eyes burned from lack of sleep, but he barely noticed. His gaze darted immediately to Hikaru.

His brother was still curled up beneath the blankets, but something was different. The feverish flush in his cheeks had faded a little, and his breathing, though still uneven, sounded calmer than before.

Hyuga let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. Relief washed over him so hard his hands shook.

"You scared me," he whispered, even though Hikaru was still asleep.

He checked the thermometer carefully, heart pounding until it beeped. The number was lower. Not normal yet, but better. Hyuga sagged back in the chair, exhaling shakily.

"Okay," he muttered under his breath. "Okay, we're getting somewhere."

By the time Hikaru stirred, the sky outside the window had shifted from pale dawn to soft morning light. He blinked groggily, squinting at Hyuga.

"You're still here?" Hikaru rasped.

"Of course I am," Hyuga shot back instantly, though his voice was hoarse from fatigue. "Where else would I be?"

Hikaru chuckled weakly. "Bed? Sleeping? Like a normal person?"

"Not happening," Hyuga said firmly. He grabbed the glass of water from the table, pressing it into Hikaru's hands. "Drink. Slowly."

Hikaru obeyed, sipping carefully before sinking back against the pillow. "You look worse than me."

Hyuga bristled. "Do not. You're the one burning up and coughing like a broken engine."

"Still," Hikaru said with a faint smirk. "You've got bags under your eyes. You're running yourself ragged."

Hyuga crossed his arms. "I don't care. I'm not leaving you."

The firmness in his voice left no room for argument. Hikaru's smirk softened into something warmer, and he didn't push further. Instead, he leaned back and whispered, "Thanks."

Hyuga swallowed hard, pretending to fuss with the blankets to hide the lump in his throat. "Don't thank me yet. You're not better."

Their mom appeared briefly in the doorway not long after, carrying a tray. "He's awake?" she asked softly.

"Yeah," Hyuga said, immediately springing up to take the tray from her hands. "I've got it."

She raised a brow at his insistence but didn't argue. "Light porridge. He should eat at least a little. Call me if he refuses."

Hyuga nodded quickly. "He won't refuse. I'll make him eat."

"Hyuga," she said gently, "remember to be kind, too."

"I am kind!" Hyuga insisted, maybe a little too loud. His mom's lips twitched, but she only gave Hikaru a fond look before retreating again.

Hyuga plopped back down, setting the tray across his lap. He helped Hikaru sit up with exaggerated care, arranging pillows and fussing with the blanket until Hikaru rolled his eyes.

"You're worse than Mom," Hikaru muttered, though there was no real bite in it.

"Shut up and eat," Hyuga said, spooning a little porridge and holding it out.

Hikaru stared at the spoon. "...Seriously?"

"Yes, seriously."

Hikaru sighed, but leaned forward, letting Hyuga feed him a bite. His expression flickered—pleasant surprise. "Not bad."

"Of course it's not bad," Hyuga said, puffing up a little. "Mom made it. I just—uh—delivered it."

Hikaru snorted, nearly dropping porridge on the blanket, and Hyuga shoved the spoon at him again in retaliation.

They fell into an easy rhythm after that: Hyuga carefully feeding Hikaru, Hikaru teasing him whenever he got too overbearing. It wasn't perfect, but it was something—and for the first time since this started, Hyuga felt like maybe he was actually helping.

The day passed in a blur. Hikaru dozed on and off, and each time he woke, Hyuga was right there. He no longer hovered quite as frantically, but his presence never wavered. He fetched water, adjusted blankets, cooled Hikaru's forehead with a damp cloth, and stayed close enough that Hikaru never had to ask for anything.

By afternoon, Hikaru seemed more alert. He sat up on his own, stretching slightly under the blanket. "Feels like my head's not full of fog anymore," he admitted.

"Good," Hyuga said immediately. "But don't get cocky. You're still sick."

Hikaru grinned faintly. "You sound just like me."

Hyuga blinked, then flushed. "Do not."

"Do too," Hikaru teased, his grin widening. "You've been lecturing me nonstop."

Hyuga crossed his arms, muttering under his breath. "Maybe I picked it up from you."

Hikaru's grin softened into something gentler. "That's not a bad thing."

Hyuga glanced at him, heart clenching. Hikaru looked better—still pale, still tired, but better. And hearing him tease again, hearing that familiar warmth in his voice—it felt like the world was finally tilting back into place.

That night, when their father checked in, he paused in the doorway. "Looks like he's on the mend," he observed, his gaze flicking between Hikaru and Hyuga.

Hyuga straightened. "Yeah. He's getting there."

"You've done well," his father said simply.

Hyuga's throat tightened. He wanted to brush it off, but Hikaru spoke first. "He really has."

Hyuga whipped his head toward him, startled. Hikaru was smiling, faint but certain, as he leaned back against the pillows.

"I wouldn't have gotten through this without him," Hikaru said.

Hyuga's ears burned. "You—you're exaggerating."

"No," Hikaru said firmly. "I mean it."

Their father's eyes softened. He gave Hyuga a small nod before leaving them alone again.

Hyuga sat back down heavily, staring at his lap. His heart thudded so hard it almost hurt.

"You really mean that?" he asked quietly.

"Of course I do," Hikaru replied. "You've been here the whole time. You didn't let me feel alone for a second. That's worth more than any soup or medicine."

Hyuga swallowed hard. He wanted to argue, but the sincerity in Hikaru's voice silenced him. Instead, he muttered, "I was really scared, you know. I thought I was gonna lose you."

Hikaru reached out weakly, tugging on his sleeve. "You didn't. I'm still here. And you kept me safe."

Hyuga blinked rapidly, his eyes burning again. He gripped Hikaru's hand tightly. "I guess I did."

"You did," Hikaru confirmed, squeezing back.

They sat like that for a long time, hand in hand, the quiet between them warm instead of heavy.

The next morning, Hikaru managed to shuffle to the table for breakfast. Their parents fussed, of course, but Hyuga hovered closer than anyone, ready to grab his arm if he so much as swayed. Hikaru laughed at the overprotectiveness, but didn't complain.

By midday, Hikaru was smiling more easily, his color returning. Hyuga finally let himself breathe. The worst was over.

That evening, as they sat on the couch with the TV playing softly in the background, Hikaru nudged him. "You know, you don't have to keep watching me like a hawk."

"Yes, I do," Hyuga retorted instantly.

Hikaru chuckled. "Guess I shouldn't complain. It's kind of nice being on the other side for once."

Hyuga tilted his head. "What do you mean?"

"I mean... I've always been the one looking after you," Hikaru said softly. "But this time, it was you looking after me. And you did a good job."

Hyuga's face heated. He turned away, grumbling, "Stop saying embarrassing stuff."

"It's true," Hikaru insisted. "You were stressed, yeah, but you didn't give up. You stayed. And that means everything."

Hyuga's throat tightened, but he forced a grin. "Guess we make a pretty good team, huh?"

"The best team," Hikaru agreed.

They sat together in companionable silence, the tension of the past days finally ebbing. Hyuga leaned back, letting his shoulder brush against Hikaru's. Hikaru didn't move away.

For once, Hyuga didn't feel like he had to do anything more. Just being here was enough.

And for both of them, that was everything.

Chapter Text

Fubuki's hands clenched into tight fists as he stared down at his Beyblade resting silently on the ground. The stadium's roar had faded to nothing in his ears. Every step, every moment leading to this had felt like it was supposed to mean something more — a triumph, a breakthrough. But now, all that remained was the sting of defeat.

But still...

He had lost.

The Luinor Cup, a tournament he had trained for with every ounce of strength and determination he had, was now behind him. The taste of defeat was bitter, and it clung stubbornly to his tongue like a harsh reminder of everything that had gone wrong.

His appointment's final attack had shattered more than his Beyblade; it had shattered his confidence, his resolve. He had trained endlessly, pushed himself beyond his limits under Shu's guidance, but none of it felt enough. Not today.

"I thought I was ready," he whispered into the empty night, voice cracking with the weight of disappointment. "I trained so hard... but it wasn't enough."

He remembered Shu's last words before the tournament. "Train harder than you ever have. Don't just prepare to fight—prepare to win."

Fubuki had tried. He had pushed himself beyond limits, believing in Shu's guidance. But now, standing in the aftermath of defeat, the confidence Shu had inspired felt fragile, like it could shatter with the slightest touch.

A long moment passed before his phone vibrated softly. The screen lit up with a name that instantly made his chest tighten: Shu. His mentor, his friend — the one person who had believed in him even when he doubted himself.

Fubuki's fingers hovered over the screen. The urge to ignore it warred with a deep need to hear that steady voice.

Finally, with a shaky breath, he answered.

"Fubuki," Shu's voice was calm and steady, a quiet anchor amidst the storm of emotions. "I saw the match. I know this hurts. I'm sorry."

Fubuki swallowed hard. "I thought I was ready. I really thought I could win."

There was a pause, gentle and understanding.

"Sometimes," Shu said softly, "it's not about being ready. It's about knowing what to do next."

Fubuki's throat tightened. "I don't know what to do now. I feel like I've lost everything."

"Fubuki," Shu's voice grew warmer, "come to America. We'll talk, you'll rest, and we'll figure out the next steps—together."

The offer felt like a lifeline. But it also meant leaving everything behind—his home, his family, his world—for an uncertain future.

"I'll come," he whispered, barely able to believe the words himself.

The hours that followed were a blur of movement and noise. Packing his suitcase felt surreal—each item folded and placed inside with mechanical precision, his mind still caught between disbelief and exhaustion. His Beyblade case was tucked carefully inside, a small reminder of the battles fought and those yet to come.

At the airport, the world seemed overwhelming. People rushed past, their faces blurred and distant. The bright lights and constant announcements grated against his senses. He moved slowly through the crowd, feeling disconnected from the bustling energy around him.

Seated near the gate, he gazed out the window at the endless runway stretching beneath the twilight sky. The flight ahead was long, hours away from everything familiar.

When the plane took off, the sudden rush of acceleration pressed him into his seat. Clouds slipped past the window, vast and silent, and Fubuki closed his eyes, the exhaustion pressing down like a heavy blanket.

The hours dragged on. He drifted between moments of restless wakefulness and broken sleep. His mind wandered back to Shu's voice, calm and reassuring, the promise of a second chance.

The plane's descent into a foreign land was gentle but brought a wave of nervous anticipation. As the wheels touched down, Fubuki felt the full weight of what he had done—the journey away from defeat, towards hope.

Outside the terminal, the air smelled different—fresher, cooler. Fubuki's steps were slow, his body aching from travel. Then, among the sea of unfamiliar faces, he saw him.

Shu stood waiting, calm and composed. His presence was a steady light cutting through the haze of fatigue.

Without many words, Shu approached, offering a small smile. "Welcome to America, Fubuki."

Fubuki returned the smile weakly, exhaustion etched across his face.

Together, they made their way to a nearby apartment Shu was staying at temporarily. The walk was quiet, punctuated only by the soft sounds of their footsteps and the distant city noises.

At the door, Shu pulled a set of keys from his pocket and unlocked the entrance.

Inside, the apartment was modest but welcoming. Soft light spilled from a lamp, casting warm shadows on the walls. Shu led Fubuki to a small bedroom prepared just for him.

"You need rest," Shu said gently. "I'll be right here if you need anything."

Fubuki collapsed onto the bed, the mattress soft beneath him. His eyes fluttered shut almost immediately.

Shu stayed by the door, watching over him silently. The steady rise and fall of Fubuki's breath was a balm to his own restless thoughts.

For the first time in days, Fubuki allowed himself to let go.

He drifted into a deep sleep, the quiet comfort of Shu's presence a small but steady light in the darkness.

The night stretched ahead, calm and still. Outside the apartment, the city pulsed quietly with life, but inside, peace had settled.

For now, rest was all that mattered.

And in the morning, perhaps, the chance to begin again.

Fubuki awoke slowly, the morning light spilling gently through the curtains and casting soft patterns on the pale walls. For a moment, he lay still, his body heavy with exhaustion that reached far beyond physical tiredness. The ache in his muscles was minor compared to the weight pressing down on his chest—an invisible burden of disappointment and frustration.

The room was unfamiliar. The bed beneath him was softer than any he had slept on in months. A quiet stillness filled the air, unbroken except for the faint hum of distant traffic and the occasional chirp of a bird outside the window. It was peaceful here, a sharp contrast to the chaos of the stadium and the thunderous roar of the crowd that had surrounded him just days ago.

His eyelids fluttered open to reveal Shu standing quietly in the doorway, leaning against the frame with arms folded loosely. His expression was calm, patient, the kind that seemed to say, I'm here, and I'm not going anywhere.

"Morning," Shu said softly, his voice gentle and steady.

Fubuki forced a small smile and pushed himself up onto his elbows. "Good morning," he replied, his voice rough from sleep.

Shu stepped inside, moving slowly as not to disturb the fragile atmosphere. "Did you sleep at all?"

Fubuki shrugged, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "More than I thought I would, I guess."

There was a pause before Shu nodded. "Good. You need rest."

That simple phrase carried a weight of understanding. Shu didn't push, didn't ask for explanations or apologies. He simply offered quiet support—an unspoken permission to feel whatever Fubuki needed to feel.

Fubuki swung his legs over the side of the bed, the soft carpet cool beneath his feet. The small apartment around him was neat and modest. A bookshelf filled with books about strategy and Beyblade history stood against one wall. On a desk near the window, his own Beyblade case sat closed, waiting.

The sunlight streaming in caught the dust motes floating lazily in the air. Fubuki inhaled deeply. The air smelled faintly of coffee and something else—clean linen, maybe? It was different from the familiar scents of home, but not unpleasant.

Shu moved to the kitchen, beginning to prepare tea. The soft clink of the kettle and the quiet sound of water pouring into a cup filled the room with a comforting rhythm.

Fubuki watched him, still feeling like a shadow of himself. The defeat was raw in his mind, replaying over and over like a scratched record. He had trained so hard—pushed his body and mind to the edge under Shu's guidance. And yet, here he was, broken and lost.

Shu placed a steaming cup on the table and gestured toward it. "When you're ready."

Fubuki nodded, grateful for the space. He sat down slowly, the chair creaking under him. The warmth of the tea seeped into his hands, grounding him.

Minutes passed in silence, comfortable yet heavy. Shu watched him, not with pity but with quiet concern. The bond between them was deeper than words. Years of training, struggles, victories, and losses had forged a connection stronger than most could understand.

Fubuki's thoughts drifted to the last moments of the tournament. Suoh's attack—the way his blade had cut through Fubuki's with such force and precision. The cheers that had erupted for Suoh, and the deafening silence that had swallowed Fubuki's own supporters.

"I don't know if I'll ever get it right," Fubuki confessed quietly, almost to himself.

Shu's gaze softened. "You will. It's just a matter of time and perspective."

The rest of the morning passed slowly. Fubuki wandered the apartment, feeling the newness of his surroundings sink in. He looked out the window and saw the street below lined with trees swaying gently in the breeze. People passed by, faces unfamiliar, but there was a peacefulness to it—a chance to start anew.

After a while, Shu suggested they go for a walk. Fubuki agreed, needing the fresh air more than he realized.

Outside, the city breathed a different life than what Fubuki was used to. Wide sidewalks, cafes spilling out onto the streets, the aroma of fresh bread and brewed coffee mingling with the crisp air. It was vibrant yet calm, a rhythm that invited him to slow down and breathe.

They walked without urgency, the city unfolding around them like a story told in sights and sounds. Children played in a nearby park, their laughter bright and unrestrained. A stray cat darted between flowerbeds, its fur shimmering in the sunlight.

Shu stayed by Fubuki's side, matching his pace, occasionally pointing out little things—the way the leaves shimmered gold in the sunlight, a mural painted on a nearby building that told a story of hope.

Fubuki found his mind wandering, the heaviness in his chest easing bit by bit. It wasn't an instant change, but the gentle world around him was a balm to his wounded spirit.

As they returned to the apartment, the sun was beginning to dip toward the horizon, painting the sky with hues of orange and pink.

Dinner was quiet but nourishing—simple dishes Shu had prepared, nothing fancy, but enough to remind Fubuki that he was cared for. They ate side by side, the silence no longer uncomfortable but shared.

Later, Fubuki sat by the window, the city lights blinking awake like distant stars. Shu joined him, standing close without pressing. The night air was cool against their skin.

"You don't have to figure everything out right now," Shu said softly.

Fubuki glanced up, surprised by the warmth in Shu's voice. "I feel like I've lost so much."

Shu shook his head gently. "You haven't lost yourself. You've just taken a step back. It's okay."

For the first time since the tournament, Fubuki allowed himself to lean into that reassurance.

The night deepened, the apartment cocooned in quiet. Fubuki's breathing slowed, the turmoil inside him easing. Shu stayed by his side, a silent guardian in the darkness.

For now, that was enough.

Later, Fubuki sat on the edge of the small sofa in the modest apartment, the soft hum of the city outside filtering through the window. The shadows cast by the streetlights painted gentle patterns on the walls, and somewhere distant, a dog barked. But inside, the stillness was thick and heavy — a quiet that felt almost suffocating.

He hadn't spoken much since arriving. Shu had given him space — the kind of space that wasn't lonely but felt like a gentle reminder that he wasn't alone, either. Fubuki was still carrying the weight of the Luinor Cup loss, the echo of the final attack, the feeling of failure gripping his chest.

The small apartment was a sanctuary but also a cage, holding all the emotions Fubuki hadn't yet allowed himself to release.

"Hey," Shu's voice broke through the silence softly. He was sitting on the other end of the room, watching Fubuki carefully, as he had been all day.

Fubuki didn't respond. He stared down at his hands, the skin pale where his fingers curled tightly into fists. He felt like he was falling apart inside, but the walls held his breaking point at bay.

Shu got up slowly and approached him, his steps quiet on the wooden floor. He sat down next to Fubuki, close enough that their shoulders almost touched.

"I know you're hurting," Shu said quietly. "I don't want to rush you. But you don't have to carry it all by yourself."

Fubuki's breath hitched. The tightness in his chest twisted harder, and suddenly the dam broke. Hot tears spilled down his cheeks, uncontrolled and raw. He bowed his head, unable to stop the sobs that wracked his body.

Shu didn't say anything. He just wrapped an arm around Fubuki's shoulders and pulled him gently close.

"It's okay," Shu murmured, voice soft and steady like a warm blanket. "Let it out."

Fubuki buried his face in Shu's shoulder, trembling as the tears flowed freely. The years of training, the pressure, the crushing disappointment — it all poured out in that moment.

Shu's hand moved to rub gentle circles on Fubuki's back, offering silent comfort. The world outside faded until there was nothing but this small, fragile space where Fubuki could finally be vulnerable.

After a long while, the sobs slowed and then stopped. Fubuki's breathing evened, and he lifted his head slowly, eyes red-rimmed but clearer.

"I thought I was ready," he whispered, voice cracked. "I wanted to win for you... for myself. But I couldn't even beat him." His gaze flickered up to meet Shu's. "I feel like I let you down."

Shu's expression softened, his eyes full of unwavering belief. "Fubuki, you never let me down. Not once. You've worked harder than anyone I know. This loss doesn't define you."

Fubuki swallowed hard, struggling to hold back fresh tears. "Then why do I feel so... worthless?"

"Because it hurts. Because you care. That's a sign of how strong you are, not how weak."

They sat like that for a long moment, the quiet wrapping around them once more, but now it felt different — safer.

Shu shifted and stood up, holding out a hand. "Come on. Let me get you to bed."

Fubuki blinked in surprise but took the hand, allowing Shu to help him to his feet. His legs felt shaky, and Shu's steady grip was the support he desperately needed.

With gentle arms, Shu lifted Fubuki into a comforting embrace, careful not to rush. Fubuki's head rested against Shu's chest, the steady beat of his heart soothing.

They moved through the apartment quietly until Shu carried him into the small bedroom. Shu settled Fubuki onto the bed, pulling the blanket over him with tenderness.

Fubuki's eyes fluttered closed as exhaustion tugged at him, the emotional storm leaving him physically drained.

Before turning away, Shu leaned down and brushed a soft kiss on Fubuki's forehead — a quiet promise that he wasn't alone and that this was just the beginning of healing.

The kiss was brief but filled with unspoken understanding and care. Shu then sat beside the bed, watching over Fubuki as he drifted into sleep, peaceful at last.

The night held them in that fragile calm, a silent bond forged in shared strength and quiet comfort.

Fubuki woke slowly the next morning, the soft light of dawn filtering through the curtains and brushing gently against his face. The lingering warmth of Shu's presence from the night before still wrapped around him like a protective shield, and for the first time in weeks, the heavy weight of defeat didn't press so relentlessly on his chest.

He stretched lightly beneath the covers, muscles still sore but gradually recovering, mind quieter, more steady. The quiet hum of the city outside blended with the distant chirping of birds, welcoming the new day with a promise of possibility.

Shu was already awake when Fubuki slipped from the bed and moved toward the small kitchen area. He was preparing breakfast with calm precision, the soft sounds of utensils and water filling the otherwise peaceful apartment.

"Morning," Shu greeted without looking up, his voice steady but warm.

"Morning," Fubuki replied, offering a small, genuine smile. It felt strange — almost foreign — to exchange greetings so simply, without the shadow of tension or doubt lurking beneath.

Shu turned then, catching Fubuki's eye. "You slept well?"

"Better than I expected," Fubuki said quietly, eyes flickering to the sunlight pouring through the window. "I didn't realize how much I needed rest."

Shu nodded, setting a plate of toast and eggs on the small table. "You've been pushing yourself too hard for too long. Sometimes stepping back is what's needed to move forward."

They ate in companionable silence for a few moments, the calm of the morning soothing and grounding.

Once breakfast was finished, Shu leaned back in his chair and studied Fubuki carefully. "So... what do you want to do today?"

Fubuki hesitated. The question felt huge, loaded. For so long, his life had been a series of battles, training sessions, and tournaments. Losing at the Luinor Cup left him feeling adrift.

"I want to train," he finally said, voice steady but soft. "But... maybe differently."

Shu smiled, that rare, genuine smile that could light up his entire face. "I was hoping you'd say that."

They spent the next hour gathering their gear, Shu's experience as a mentor guiding them toward a plan. The day ahead was not just about intense practice, but about rediscovering joy, learning, and rebuilding confidence.

Their first training session began outdoors, in a small park nearby where the soft grass gave way to a clearing. Shu demonstrated some fundamental techniques with his own Beyblade, his movements precise and deliberate.

"Focus on control first," Shu said. "Power isn't everything. Strategy and finesse make the difference."

Fubuki watched closely, absorbing every detail. He launched his Beyblade, adjusting his grip, his stance, and Shu's corrections sharpened his awareness.

"It's not about trying to overpower," Shu explained patiently. "It's about knowing when to attack, when to defend. The battlefield is as much in your mind as it is in the stadium."

Hours passed as they practiced together. Shu pushed Fubuki gently, not to exhaustion but to the edge of comfort — a place where growth happened.

At one point, Fubuki launched a spin that held longer than any before, and a flicker of excitement lit his eyes. "Did you see that?"

Shu grinned. "I did. That's the Fubuki I know."

As afternoon shifted to evening, they took breaks under the shade of tall trees, sharing stories from their journeys — the challenges, the victories, and the moments that had shaped them.

"I never thought I'd feel this lost," Fubuki admitted quietly. "But being here... with you... it feels like maybe I'm not alone in this."

"You're never alone," Shu said firmly. "We're a team. Always."

When night settled, they returned to the apartment, exhausted but energized in a way that felt new. Over a simple dinner, they laid out plans for the weeks ahead — balancing training, rest, and reflection.

Before Fubuki went to bed, Shu paused at the doorway. "Remember, it's not about winning every battle. It's about becoming stronger each day."

Fubuki nodded, determination sparkling anew in his eyes. "Thank you, Shu."

The days that followed were filled with hard work and steady progress. Shu's mentoring was patient and insightful, never pushing too hard, always encouraging Fubuki to listen to his body and mind.

They analyzed past battles, breaking down what went wrong and exploring new strategies. They experimented with different Beyblade parts, tuning performance with careful adjustments.

One afternoon, Shu surprised Fubuki with a small makeshift stadium in the apartment's living room. "Practice wherever you can," he said with a smile. "Every moment counts."

Training sessions were intense but balanced with moments of laughter, quiet talks, and comfortable silences that deepened their connection.

Fubuki's confidence grew, not in leaps but steady strides. The heavy fog of doubt lifted, replaced by a quiet resolve that was stronger than any momentary victory.

Weeks later, as they watched the sunset from the apartment window, Fubuki spoke softly. "I'm ready to face the next challenge."

Shu smiled, pride shining in his eyes. "I never doubted it for a second."

The journey was far from over, but together, they had found a new beginning — one built not just on skill, but on trust, friendship, and the courage to keep moving forward.

Chapter Text

The sun hung low over the edge of the forest, spilling gold across the small stadium perched just outside town. It wasn't a tournament venue — just an open-air practice arena built from weather-worn concrete and surrounded by chain-link fencing. On most days it sat empty, its paint faded and cracked. But today, the quiet was shattered by the high, eager voice of Aiger Akabane.

"Three! Two! One—Let it rip!"

Two blurs of spinning metal burst from their launchers, clashing in the center of the dish. The metallic ring of impact echoed off the fencing. Aiger's Turbo Achilles dashed forward like a comet, each strike brimming with reckless energy, while Kit Lopez's Air Knight danced in smooth arcs, gliding just out of reach.

Aiger leaned forward, his hair bouncing as he shouted encouragement to his Bey. "Come on, Achilles! Don't let him fly away again!"

Kit, calm as always, adjusted his footing and tracked every motion with sharp green eyes. His voice was steady but carried just enough warmth to show he was enjoying this. "Patience, Aiger. Knight's not running — he's waiting for the right moment."

A sudden gust swept over the arena, whipping Aiger's scarf into his face and ruffling Kit's hair. The breeze had been light all morning, but now it picked up, curling into the stadium like it had a mind of its own. Kit's Bey caught the wind in its sweeping glide and surged forward with a burst of speed.

"Whoa!" Aiger's eyes widened as Turbo Achilles barely dodged the incoming strike. The wind gust carried Air Knight right past him, and as it banked along the curve of the stadium wall, it seemed to skim the air like a bird riding an updraft.

Aiger laughed. "Okay, I'll give you that — that was awesome!"

Kit blinked, uncertain. He had felt something... different. Usually, Air Knight's momentum was predictable, built from pure technique. But that last boost hadn't come from his calculations. It had felt... natural, like the stadium itself had leaned in to help.

He shook his head, brushing the thought aside as their Beys continued to clash. Achilles pushed forward again, relentless, but each time Air Knight swerved away, the wind seemed to follow, pushing at its back.

Finally, with one last sweeping curve, Air Knight caught Achilles from the side and knocked it clear from the stadium. The Bey clattered against the fence and rolled to a stop.

Aiger groaned. "Not again!" He bent down to scoop it up, though his grin quickly returned. "I swear you've got some kind of magic, Kit. No one dodges Achilles that much without a trick up their sleeve."

Kit chuckled faintly, though his mind lingered on the strange wind. "Just reading the flow of the battle," he replied, avoiding the thought of what that 'flow' had really been.

They reset their launchers, but as Aiger prepared for another round, Kit's gaze wandered to the treetops surrounding the stadium. The branches swayed harder than they should've in the mild breeze. He could feel the air on his skin — not just its temperature or speed, but its direction, its rhythm. Every shift stood out like a chord in a song only he could hear.

They launched again. This time, Kit's focus narrowed entirely on the movement of air. The faint currents that always danced through the stadium were sharper now, like strings waiting to be plucked.

When Achilles came charging, Kit reacted without thinking — he almost... pushed. Not physically, but in his mind, he shoved the air toward his Bey.

The gust came instantly. It wrapped around Air Knight like a cloak and hurled it forward in a blur. The strike landed squarely, sending Achilles bouncing back in a perfect counter.

Aiger staggered back, his scarf flapping wildly in the sudden rush. "Okay, that was definitely a trick! You've got to tell me how you did that!"

Kit's hands tightened around his launcher. He had no explanation that didn't sound ridiculous. "Just... good timing."

But his stomach twisted with unease. The more he thought about it, the more impossible it seemed. The gust had come exactly when he wanted it — and only for him.

The rest of the afternoon passed in a blur of matches, laughter, and teasing, but Kit barely heard Aiger's usual stream of excited banter. The strange sensation returned every few rounds, like the wind was listening for him to call it.

As the sun dipped lower, they finally packed up. Aiger slung his bag over his shoulder. "Same time tomorrow? I'm gonna beat you eventually, y'know!"

Kit smiled faintly. "We'll see."

They went their separate ways — Aiger bounding down the dirt path toward town, Kit taking the longer route through the forest. He preferred the quiet, though tonight it only made the feeling stronger. The breeze followed him down the trail, swirling through the leaves in playful spirals.

He stopped. The air shifted again, matching his own movements. He took a step forward — the wind nudged his back. He stepped back — it pulled toward him.

His pulse quickened. "No way..."

He crouched, focusing like he would before a Beyblade launch. In his mind, he pictured the air moving in a circle, just like Air Knight's path in the stadium.

The leaves overhead stirred, then spun in a perfect ring.

Kit's eyes widened. He let go of the thought, and the wind fell still, like it had never been there at all.

He stood frozen for a long moment, heart pounding. It couldn't be real. There had to be an explanation — maybe a change in weather, maybe his mind playing tricks on him after too many hours of battling.

But deep down, he knew that wasn't true.

When he finally made it to his apartment, the wind stayed calm. But lying in bed later, Kit couldn't shake the memory of that moment in the forest. The air hadn't just moved — it had listened.

The next morning, Kit found himself back at the stadium before sunrise. The air was cool and still, the sky a pale wash of orange and pink. He brought Air Knight, but he didn't launch. Instead, he closed his eyes and tried again.

The trick was focus — not just wanting the wind to move, but feeling where it wanted to go. It was like guiding a Beyblade: you didn't force it into a path, you nudged it along the one it was already taking.

A faint breeze brushed his face. He pictured it curling into the stadium, circling the dish. Slowly, the air obeyed, forming a soft whirl.

The moment he lost focus, it faded again.

Kit exhaled sharply. "This is insane."

"Talking to yourself?"

He turned to see Aiger standing at the gate, grinning. "I knew you'd be here early. You're not the only one who wants to win more battles, y'know."

Kit managed a smile, though his mind raced. The last thing he wanted was for Aiger to see what he'd been doing. "Just warming up."

They set up for another match, but the entire time, Kit's thoughts kept drifting. Each time he felt the air move, it was harder to ignore. It was like trying to pretend you couldn't hear your own heartbeat.

And the strangest part? The wind didn't feel dangerous. It felt... familiar. Like it had always been there, waiting for him to notice.

But why now?

The first few matches of the morning played out like usual, but Kit wasn't really trying to win. He was testing something else entirely — what would happen if he didn't call on the wind? He let Air Knight move strictly by skill alone, no nudges, no subtle pushes.

By the third battle, Aiger was grinning like he'd just conquered a mountain. "Yes! Achilles finally took him down! You're slipping, Kit."

Kit gave a nonchalant shrug. "Guess I'm just off today."

But inside, his mind was racing. Without the strange wind boosts, Air Knight was still strong, but... ordinary. The extra bursts of speed and sharp dodges had been coming from him, not from luck or chance.

That realization sent a strange shiver through him — excitement tangled with unease.

They reset for another round, and this time Kit let his focus slide, just slightly. He pictured the air curling behind Air Knight, pushing at the right moment. The gust came like a whispered agreement. Air Knight dodged a crushing blow and countered so fast that Achilles skidded halfway up the stadium wall.

Aiger's eyes widened. "Whoa, where was that all morning?!"

Kit smiled faintly, avoiding the truth. "Guess I just needed to wake up."

They battled until the sun climbed higher, the air growing warmer and thicker. When they finally packed up, Aiger waved, already talking about tomorrow's rematch. Kit stayed behind a few minutes, staring at the empty stadium.

The wind brushed against his shoulder like a tap.

"...Alright," he murmured, setting his bag down. "Let's see what you can really do."

He took Air Knight out again, launching it into the dish. Without an opponent, the Bey spun freely, gliding along the outer ridge. Kit focused, drawing the wind in tight. The air wrapped around the Bey like an invisible track, speeding it along. He shifted his focus, and the gust pushed down into the dish, forcing Air Knight to drop toward the center in a sharp dive.

It was seamless. Natural.

But there was a limit — every time he pushed too hard, the wind scattered, slipping out of his control. He had to guide it gently, like coaxing a skittish animal.

When he finally stopped, he was breathing harder than he expected. Controlling the wind wasn't just concentration — it took something from him.

The realization brought a flicker of caution. If this was draining, what would happen in a real tournament? Could he even keep it up without people noticing?

The thought stuck with him for the rest of the day.

That evening, Kit found himself in the forest again. The sky was streaked with violet and gold, the air cooler now. He sat cross-legged beneath a tall maple, letting the rustle of leaves fill the silence.

He didn't try to move the wind this time — he just listened.

It was there, in layers. A low, steady current flowing from the west. Smaller whirls drifting between the branches. Tiny eddies curling around his hands and hair. The longer he sat, the more it felt like a conversation.

He raised a hand slowly, feeling the currents shift in response. Not because he pushed — because they noticed him.

A sudden rustle broke the moment. Kit turned his head to see Aiger standing a few feet away, one hand gripping a branch for balance.

"You've been acting weird all day. What's up?"

Kit's pulse jumped. "Just thinking about tomorrow's battles."

Aiger tilted his head, unconvinced. "Thinking doesn't usually make leaves spin in circles."

Kit froze. His gaze flicked upward — sure enough, a small whirl of leaves twisted lazily above them, fading as soon as he noticed.

Aiger's eyes lit up like a kid seeing fireworks. "Okay, that was awesome. Tell me you can do that on purpose!"

Kit hesitated, torn between keeping his secret and telling someone. Aiger wasn't exactly the quiet type, but he was loyal.

"I've been noticing something lately," Kit admitted slowly. "When I battle... the wind sometimes helps me. Or maybe I help it. I don't really understand."

Aiger's grin only widened. "You've got a wind power! That's incredible! You've gotta use that in battles all the time!"

Kit shook his head quickly. "It's not that simple. If I push too hard, I lose control. And it feels wrong to use it like that. It wouldn't be a fair match."

Aiger frowned for a moment, but then his expression softened. "You're overthinking it. It's just like having a special move — you train it, you make it part of your style. It's still you battling."

Kit wasn't convinced. "Special moves are skill. This is something else."

Aiger shrugged. "Then figure it out. Control it. That way it's never an accident."

The words stuck with Kit. Maybe control was the key. Not hiding from the wind, but learning exactly how far it could go.

The next morning, Kit arrived at the stadium before anyone else — not even Aiger was there yet.

The goal was simple — use the wind to guide Air Knight through a set path without an opponent's interference.

The first battles were clumsy. The wind either overshot the cones or died halfway, leaving Air Knight to coast without help. Kit adjusted, breaking the course into smaller segments.

An hour passed. Gradually, he found the rhythm — the push-pull balance that kept the wind steady without forcing it. When it worked, it felt effortless.

He was mid-run when a voice called from behind. "Practicing your obstacle course without me?"

Kit didn't even flinch this time. "Morning, Aiger."

Aiger dropped his bag by the fence and leaned on the railing, watching as Kit launched again. Air Knight zipped between cones like it was being guided by invisible rails.

"Yeah," Aiger said after a moment, "that's not just skill."

Kit caught Air Knight and sighed. "Still think I should use it in real matches?"

Aiger smirked. "I think you should use it in a match with me. Right now."

Kit blinked. "You want me to use it against you?"

"Of course! If you don't test it against a real opponent, you'll never know how good it is!"

It was reckless — exactly what Kit expected from Aiger. But he couldn't deny the truth in it.

They set their launchers. Aiger's eyes gleamed with excitement, while Kit's mind narrowed into focus.

"Three! Two! One—Let it rip!"

Achilles shot forward instantly, charging headlong toward Air Knight. Kit felt the rush of air building — not just around his Bey, but in the whole stadium. He caught it, curved it, and pushed. Air Knight swerved out of reach, the gust carrying it into a perfect counterstrike.

But Aiger adapted fast. Achilles used the rebound to slingshot around the dish, pressing the attack. Kit's control wavered for just a moment — enough for Achilles to land a heavy blow that sent Air Knight spinning toward the edge.

Kit pushed harder, desperate to keep it in. The gust came sharp and strong, shoving l Knight back into the center. But it also ripped through the stadium, knocking Aiger's cap clean off and sending a dust cloud into the air.

They both coughed, waving the grit from their eyes.

"Whoa," Aiger said, laughing even as he caught his breath. "Okay, maybe dial it back just a little."

Kit's heart was pounding. That hadn't been just a big move — it had been uncontrolled. If that happened in a tournament...

Still, a flicker of pride crept in. He'd kept Air Knight in the match when it should've been finished.

Maybe control wasn't as far away as he thought.

The dust from their impromptu windstorm settled slowly over the practice stadium. Aiger was still laughing, brushing dirt from his jacket, while Kit silently retrieved Air Knight from the dish.

"You've definitely leveled up," Aiger said, eyes still bright. "I mean, yeah, you almost blew me away—literally—but that was awesome."

Kit didn't answer right away. His fingers ran along the Bey's smooth edges, tracing the slight scuffs from Achilles' hits. "It's not consistent," he said finally. "One second I can control it. The next... it's like the wind decides it doesn't care what I want."

Aiger tilted his head. "Maybe you're overthinking. You've just gotta trust it."

Kit almost smiled at the simplicity of the suggestion. Trust the wind. As if it were a teammate. "I'll try," he said, though deep down, he wasn't sure it worked that way.

They battled a few more rounds, each one a tug-of-war between Kit's improving control and the occasional wild gusts that threw the match into chaos. When they finally called it a day, Aiger bounded off toward the main street, already talking about finding some new challengers for the weekend.

Kit lingered. The stadium was empty now, save for the quiet whistle of air drifting through the chain-link fence. He stood in the center, feeling the currents swirl.

"You're not just... mine, are you?" he murmured. "You do what you want."

The breeze answered with a playful twist, lifting a stray leaf into the air before letting it spiral down.

Kit shook his head, slinging his bag over his shoulder. Whatever this was, it wasn't simple.

The next day, the stadium was already buzzing when Kit arrived. Aiger stood near the center, animatedly talking to a boy Kit didn't recognize — tall, lean, with close-cut dark hair and a windbreaker that flapped lightly in the breeze.

"There you are!" Aiger waved. "Kit, meet Renji. He's in town for a few days and heard about our battles. Apparently he's some kind of 'storm specialist.'"

Renji's mouth quirked into a smirk. "I don't call myself that. But people who've battled me might." His voice was cool, self-assured. "I heard you've got a Bey that can ride the air like it's nothing."

Kit hesitated. "I guess you could say that."

Renji reached into his bag, pulling out a sleek silver-and-blue Bey. "Mine's called Cyclone Mirage. It thrives on manipulating air currents in the stadium. I want to see if yours can keep up."

Aiger grinned. "This is gonna be epic!"

They took their places opposite each other, launchers ready. Renji's eyes were sharp, almost calculating, as if he were already reading Kit's moves before the match began.

"Three! Two! One—Let it rip!"

The clash was immediate. Cyclone Mirage hit the dish and began a wide, sweeping orbit, almost identical to Air Knight's gliding style. But unlike Kit's Bey, it seemed to leave a faint shimmer in the air behind it — the currents visibly shifting in its wake.

Kit felt it instantly. The wind inside the stadium wasn't just moving randomly — it was being pulled, bent to Cyclone Mirage's rhythm.

He focused, calling the currents back toward Air Knight, but Renji's control was sharp, unyielding. The moment Kit tried to push, Renji countered, redirecting the flow.

"Not bad," Renji called across the stadium. "But you're fighting the air, not working with it."

Kit gritted his teeth. He was working with it — at least, he thought he was. But now the wind felt like a rope being tugged between them, every move countered by Renji's precision.

Air Knight dove in for a strike, but Cyclone Mirage twisted away, carried effortlessly by a side current Kit hadn't sensed until too late. The counter hit was clean, sending Air Knight wobbling dangerously.

One last push — Kit shoved the wind hard, forcing Air Knight into a desperate arc that narrowly avoided a ring-out. But the gust was sloppy, scattering debris across the dish. Cyclone Mirage cut through it like it was nothing, delivering the final blow.

The match ended with a decisive clang as Air Knight skidded to a stop.

Renji caught his Bey, expression unreadable. "You've got raw potential. But you're trying to control the wind like it's a machine. It's not. It's alive."

Aiger crossed his arms. "He's just warming up. You should go again!"

Kit wasn't sure if he wanted to. Losing wasn't the issue — it was how easily Renji had read him. That kind of skill wasn't just training; it felt... similar to his own connection with the air.

They battled again. And again. Each time, Kit learned a little more — how to redirect Renji's currents instead of just fighting them, how to slip under his control instead of challenging it head-on. But he still lost every match.

By the time they stopped, sweat clung to Kit's forehead, and his breathing was uneven. Renji looked barely winded.

"You've got something rare," Renji said quietly, handing Kit his Bey back. "Don't waste it." Without another word, he turned and walked toward the gate, his windbreaker snapping sharply in a sudden gust.

Aiger hurried over. "He's good. Like... really good."

Kit nodded, still watching Renji disappear down the street. "He knew exactly what I was trying to do before I even did it."

Aiger grinned. "So you'll just have to surprise him next time."

Kit wasn't so sure there would be a next time — but something told him he'd see Renji again.

That night, the wind was restless. Kit could hear it outside his window, rattling the leaves and whispering against the glass. He lay awake, thinking about Renji's words.

Alive.

If the wind was alive, what did that make him? Just someone who could hear it? Or... someone it chose?

The thought was both thrilling and terrifying.

Unable to sleep, Kit got up and stepped outside. The air was cool and sharp, the moon veiled by thin, fast-moving clouds. He closed his eyes, reaching out with his senses.

The currents were strong tonight, unpredictable — almost like they were agitated.

And beneath it all... something else. A deep, rolling pulse, like the early rumble of a storm far away.

Kit's stomach tightened.

Two days later, the storm arrived.

The sky darkened by mid-afternoon, clouds churning in heavy layers. The wind tore through the streets, scattering leaves and sending shop signs creaking.

The stadium was empty when Kit arrived — he'd been drawn here without thinking, the same way a Beyblade player might be drawn to the dish before a big match.

The air inside was chaotic, spiraling in unpredictable bursts. Kit stood in the center, feeling every shift like it was in his own pulse.

"You feel it too, don't you?"

Kit turned sharply. Renji stood at the entrance, his hair tousled by the gusts, Cyclone Mirage in hand.

"It's not just a storm," Renji said. "The wind's... unsettled. Like it's testing us."

Kit frowned. "Testing?"

Renji stepped closer. "You've noticed it, haven't you? The way it listens to you. The way it moves when you want it to. You're not the only one."

Kit's breath caught. "You can—"

"Yes." Renji's eyes narrowed. "And if we can't control it, this storm could get worse. Much worse."

Kit glanced up at the swirling sky, the clouds shifting faster now. He didn't know if Renji was right — but the air's restless pull told him something was coming.

Something that wanted to see what they were made of.

The day after his battle with Renji, Kit couldn't stop thinking about the storm brewing on the horizon. The winds in the forest had been strange all morning — fast one moment, still the next, always shifting like they couldn't decide which way to go.

It wasn't just the weather. He could feel it.

Every time a breeze brushed his cheek, it carried weight, like a quiet voice speaking without words. Sometimes it was playful, swirling around his ankles; sometimes it was sharp, cutting against him as if testing his balance.

It was the same sensation he'd felt in the stadium, but stronger now — impossible to ignore.

When Aiger called him, his voice practically shook with excitement.
"You've gotta come down to the stadium right now! The wind's going crazy — it's perfect for training!"

Kit hesitated. "This isn't just weather, Aiger."

"What do you mean?"

Kit thought of the way the currents seemed to listen to him, how they'd obeyed in moments of battle. But explaining it over the phone felt impossible. "I'll show you when I get there."

By the time Kit arrived, Aiger was already bouncing on his heels near the dish, Turbo Achilles in hand. The stadium's chain-link fence rattled constantly in the gusts, and leaves tore across the concrete in wild arcs.

"Feels like the wind's daring us to battle," Aiger said with a grin.

Kit walked into the dish slowly, feeling the currents wrap around him like invisible threads. They weren't just blowing past — they were watching.

"I think it's more than that," Kit said quietly.

Aiger tilted his head. "You're acting like the wind's alive."

Kit didn't answer right away. Instead, he set Air Knight into his launcher and took a deep breath. "Just... watch."

Three! Two! One—Let it rip!

Air Knight shot forward, the gusts instantly catching it and hurling it along the stadium wall. Kit didn't try to block them — he let the currents run their course, just to see what they'd do.

The Bey danced across the dish, every curve and bank perfectly in sync with the wind. Kit barely touched the rhythm — just the smallest nudge here, a light pull there — and the air responded like a partner in a practiced dance.

Aiger's eyes widened. "Whoa. That's not just luck."

Kit closed his eyes for a moment. The sensation was clearer than ever — every current around the Bey was mapped in his mind, each one a different note in a song only he could hear. When he "pushed" one, it shifted instantly, obedient but never lifeless.

He gave one strong nudge, and the gust lifted Air Knight in a wide arc, avoiding an imaginary strike before diving to the center. The motion was so precise it felt almost... rehearsed.

Aiger laughed in disbelief. "Kit, are you controlling the wind right now?"

Kit finally looked up, his voice steadier than he expected. "I think I've always been able to. I just didn't realize what it was."

They battled for real after that, Achilles charging in with relentless force while Kit leaned fully into the wind's help. He didn't force every move — just when it mattered.

A light breeze carried Air Knight over a sudden strike.

A sharp push at the right moment turned a glancing blow into a powerful counter.
The currents seemed to protect him, almost anticipating Aiger's style.

But the more Kit connected with them, the stronger they became. It was as if each successful move made the air more eager to join in, building momentum until the entire stadium was caught in a spiraling updraft.

Aiger stumbled back, laughing and shielding his face as his scarf whipped into the air. "You're turning this place into a wind tunnel!"

Kit pulled back his focus slightly, but the gusts didn't stop. They weren't wild like before — they were his.

This wasn't just a trick he could use during matches. This was something bigger, something he could shape into anything he wanted.

They ended the match after Air Knight caught Achilles with a perfect burst finish. The moment Kit relaxed his focus, the wind dropped to a gentle breeze, like it had exhaled with him.

Aiger came over, shaking his head. "Okay, I've seen some crazy stuff in my time, but this? You've basically got a superpower!"

Kit managed a small smile. "It's strange. It feels natural, but also like I've been ignoring it my whole life."

"Then don't ignore it anymore," Aiger said firmly. "If I had a connection like that, I'd be training every day until I could use it in my sleep!"

Kit glanced at the stadium wall, where leaves still clung from the earlier updraft. Training sounded right — but this wasn't just about battling. The wind was something alive, something that had chosen to work with him. He couldn't treat it like just another weapon.

The air shifted suddenly, stronger and colder than before. Kit felt it instantly — a ripple running through the currents, deeper than anything they'd stirred up during battle.

He turned toward the horizon. Dark clouds were gathering fast, rolling in with unnatural speed. The forest treetops beyond the fence bent in unison under the rising gusts.

Aiger followed his gaze. "That's not normal."

Kit's grip on Air Knight tightened. The pulse in the air was the same one he'd felt two nights ago, just before the storm had first appeared. Only now, it was coming straight for them.

The clouds above the stadium thickened, the sunlight dimming until the concrete looked washed in gray. The wind no longer felt playful or cooperative — it was testing him again, pushing hard against his senses.

Aiger frowned. "Kit, what's happening?"

"I think," Kit said slowly, "it's trying to see how much I can handle."

Before Aiger could reply, a violent gust tore through the stadium, slamming into the fence with a metallic groan. Kit reacted without thinking, pulling the air into a spiral to redirect it upward.

The gust obeyed — mostly. It bent and curved, shooting skyward in a twisting column, but the strain left Kit's heart racing.

Aiger's jaw dropped. "You just... stopped that wind from hitting us."

Kit shook his head. "Not stopped. Redirected. It's harder when it's this strong."

Another blast came from the opposite side, this one sharper, faster. Kit caught it again, pulling it aside before it could crash into the stadium. The push and pull of the currents was like a physical fight now, each move taking effort.

The clouds above swirled tighter, thunder rumbling deep within them.

Aiger stepped closer. "You're not doing this alone. If there's a way for me to help—"

"Let's battle," Kit interrupted, setting Air Knight into his launcher. "The wind responds to motion. If Achilles is moving, I can shape the currents around both of us."

Aiger didn't question it. "Three! Two! One—Let it rip!"

Achilles shot into the dish, spinning fast enough to cut through the swirling debris. Kit launched Air Knight right after, guiding the wind so the two Beys traced wide, sweeping circles that pushed back against the incoming gusts.

The air shifted in time with their movements, the stadium filling with an intricate pattern of opposing currents. Kit's focus split between battling Aiger and holding back the storm's pressure, every sense straining.

For a moment, the wind eased. The clouds loosened slightly, letting a pale shaft of sunlight slip through.

Kit exhaled slowly. He could feel the air calming — not completely, but enough to hold for now.

Aiger jogged over, panting. "You did it."

Kit shook his head. "We did it. But that was just the start."

Aiger grinned despite the tension. "Then we'll just train until you can control it completely."

Kit glanced at Air Knight, feeling the faint hum of the currents still twined around it. For the first time, he wasn't afraid of what the wind could do.

The skies over the town had stayed calm for days, broken only by the occasional gust that brushed Kit's hair or tugged at his scarf, almost like a greeting.

He could still feel it — the presence in the air. It wasn't gone, only quieter now. Not a test. Not a challenge. Just... there.

Watching.

Waiting.

He walked the ridge above the stadium that morning, the grass shifting in soft waves as the wind played through it. Below, the dish sat empty, still carrying the faint scars from the battle with the storm.

Kit sat on the edge of the hill, knees pulled up, and let the air move around him. It was warm, touched by sunlight, carrying the faint smell of the ocean far away.

He closed his eyes and listened.

Every gust had a shape.

Some curled around his shoulders like a protective arm. Others darted ahead, impatient and playful. Every now and then, one would swirl sharply around his head before racing away, leaving him with the faintest laugh on his lips.

It was the same wind that had tried to tear him down — the same force that had whipped through the stadium, testing every part of him. And now... it felt like the two of them were sitting here together in comfortable silence.

"You've been quiet lately," he murmured to it.

The grass at his side bent slightly in answer.

Footsteps crunched behind him. "I knew I'd find you up here."

Kit opened his eyes to see Aiger making his way over, hands stuffed in his jacket pockets.

"Checking in on your 'secret training spot,'" Aiger said with a grin, settling down in the grass beside him.

Kit gave him a sideways look. "It's not training. Just... listening."

Aiger leaned back on his hands, watching the clouds drift. "You've been doing a lot of that lately."

"Yeah," Kit admitted. "I didn't realize how loud the world was until it got quiet."

For a while, neither of them spoke. The wind brushed through the grass again, carrying the sound of birds somewhere down the slope.

Aiger finally broke the silence. "So... what now? You gonna keep chasing storms?"

Kit shook his head slowly. "No. I don't think I need to. It's not about proving anything anymore. I've already got what I was looking for."

"And what's that?"

Kit took a breath, feeling the air fill his lungs. "A partner. Not just Air Knight. The wind itself. I think... it's always been there, I just didn't know how to listen."

Aiger smiled, not teasing this time. "Guess that means you're not alone in your battles anymore."

Kit returned the smile, softer. "Guess not."

They sat until the sun rose higher, the breeze never leaving them.

When they finally stood to head back, Kit paused at the top of the hill. He looked out over the stadium, the town beyond, and the endless sweep of the sky.

The wind lifted at that moment, wrapping around him in a way that felt almost like a promise.

He didn't know where it would take him next. He didn't need to know.

For now, it was enough to walk forward, knowing the currents would be with him wherever he went.

Chapter Text

Valt sat cross-legged on his bed in the BC Sol dorms, tightening the performance tip on Valtryek for what felt like the hundredth time that evening. From the open window, the warm summer air drifted in, carrying the faint buzz of scooters on the street below and the distant laughter of a few teammates still hanging out in the lounge. The smell of dinner from earlier — something with garlic and roasted peppers — still lingered faintly in the air. Training had gone well today, but as Valt stared at his Beyblade, a familiar itch crept into his chest.

An itch to talk to someone.

Someone in particular.

He reached for his phone on the nightstand and scrolled through his contacts until his thumb stopped on one name: Shu. A grin spread across his face.
"Why not?" he muttered under his breath.

The phone rang a few times before a calm voice finally answered.

"Valt?" Shu sounded alert, though there was a faint echo in the background, like he was in a gym or a large empty room. "You do realize it's... what... two in the morning here?"

Valt laughed. "Oh, come on, Mr. Professional! If you're answering, that means you're not sleeping. So, what are you doing?"

"I was reviewing some training footage," Shu admitted, his voice carrying that same measured tone as always.

Valt groaned in mock disbelief. "See? Overworking yourself. Again. Do you ever take a break?"

"I take breaks," Shu said mildly. "Just not as often as you'd like."

"That's because you need me to remind you!" Valt swung his legs off the bed, pacing the room. "Remember the last time you took a break? We ended up battling for six hours straight and then inhaled way too much curry. You can't tell me that wasn't worth it."

Shu chuckled, the sound quiet but real. "I also remember not being able to move my arm the next day."

"Small price to pay for greatness!" Valt grinned at the mental image. He let himself drop back on the bed with a bounce. "You know what? I think it's time for another one of those breaks. Here. With me."

Shu paused, clearly weighing something in his head. "Valt..."

"I'm serious!" Valt leaned forward, voice brimming with excitement. "You've been holed up in New York with the Raging Bulls for months. I bet they haven't seen you smile without a stopwatch in your hand since you got there."

"I'm not holed up. I'm training."

"Training, training, training. Always with the training." Valt made an exaggerated groaning noise. "You need to come here, breathe some fresh Spanish air, battle me in person, and maybe — maybe — I'll forgive you for skipping last month's team reunion."

There was a softness to Shu's tone when he spoke again. "Valt..."

"Don't 'Valt' me," Valt shot back instantly. "You're my best friend, and I miss you. Is that such a crime?"

Shu went quiet for a long moment, and Valt could almost picture him pressing a hand against his forehead, weighing how much trouble this would cause his schedule.

"Besides," Valt added, his voice lowering just a little, "it's been way too long since I've seen your real smile. Not the polite one you give reporters. The real one."

Shu's sigh wasn't the exasperated kind — it was the sound of someone who'd already decided to give in. "You really don't change, do you?"

"Not when it comes to important stuff," Valt said brightly.

"You're impossible," Shu muttered, though there was warmth behind it. "Fine. You win. I'll book a flight. Just for you."

Valt bolted upright. "Wait, seriously?"

"Seriously."

A burst of joy exploded in Valt's chest. "Yes! Okay, okay, I'll set up the perfect battle spot, and we can—"

"Valt," Shu interrupted.

"—and maybe we can visit that place near the beach that makes the huge churros—"

"Valt."

"...Okay, fine, I'll try not to go overboard," Valt said, though the grin in his voice was impossible to hide. "You're the best, Shu."

"Don't make me regret this."

"You won't! Oh, man, I've gotta tell Rantaro—no, wait, I should keep it a secret. Surprise entrance!"

"I'll send you the flight details when I have them," Shu said, his tone returning to calm. "And Valt?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm only doing this because you asked. Not because I need a break."

"Uh-huh," Valt replied, grinning. "Sure, whatever you say, Mr. Totally-Not-Burnt-Out."

Shu chuckled softly, and even after they said goodbye, the sound lingered in Valt's ears.

He lay back on his bed, staring at the ceiling for a moment. Shu was actually coming. In person. It had been months since they'd stood across from each other in a real match.

The dorm around him felt unusually quiet now, except for the muffled voices in the hallway. He could hear Rantaro and some of the newer members talking excitedly about tomorrow's practice, but it all felt far away. His mind was already jumping ahead — picking stadiums they could battle in, food they could eat, places to show Shu.

He hopped up and dug through his desk drawer until he found a battered notebook. Flipping it open, he started scribbling ideas: rooftop stadium battles, maybe a match right by the harbor at sunset, churros after training, a trip to the old park where BC Sol used to hold friendly tournaments.

Halfway down the page, he realized he was humming without thinking. It was the same tune he used to hum while waiting for Shu before a big match back in their earlier days.

The warm night breeze stirred the curtains, carrying in the distant sound of waves from the coast. Valt closed his eyes for a moment and smiled. For the first time in weeks, the dorm felt a little less empty.

Shu's apartment in New York was unusually quiet as he packed his bag, the muted hum of the city outside contrasting with the clatter of his carefully organized equipment.

The call from Valt had been unexpected, but impossible to resist. That ridiculous grin, the teasing about overworking himself, the casual insistence that he come to Spain—it had been like a spark igniting something inside him that he hadn't felt in months. He shook his head and smiled faintly. Valt's energy was infectious, even from across the world.

Shu packed methodically, as he always did, double-checking that each item was in the right compartment. Clothes folded precisely, Beyblade gear secured in its case, chargers and documents neatly stacked. He didn't usually travel for anything short of tournaments, but this trip was different. This trip was personal.

When he finally zipped his bag and slung it over his shoulder, he paused for a moment, glancing around the apartment. The quiet weight of solitude pressed in on him. Over the years, he had become accustomed to this silence, to the rhythm of training alone, analyzing data, improving technique. But now, with the thought of Valt waiting for him in Spain, the apartment felt empty in a new way, as if it had been holding its breath for something significant.

He left a brief note and stepped out into the warm night. The streets were calm, the usual bustle of New York muted by the late hour. He hailed a cab and gave the driver the airport address, his mind already shifting to the upcoming flight, the crossing of oceans, and the moment he would see Valt again.

The airport was bright and alive even at this hour, a chaotic dance of travelers and luggage carts. Shu moved through it with the quiet efficiency of someone used to navigating chaos, checking his ticket, boarding pass, and passport in a seamless flow. At the gate, he took a deep breath, letting the excitement and tension settle together in his chest.

He settled into his seat near the window, Valtryek and a couple of other Beyblades secured in the bag at his feet. For a moment, he simply watched the runway lights stretch into the distance, blinking like tiny constellations in the night. Somewhere far below, the city pulsed with life, oblivious to the journey about to unfold.

As the plane taxied and the engines roared to life, Shu's thoughts drifted. He thought about the last time he had really battled Valt, that sunlit stadium where their Beyblades had spun furiously, laughter echoing through the air. He thought about the hours of training since then, the sacrifices, the victories, and the quiet losses that accompanied them. And now, finally, he was going to Spain—not for a tournament, not for records, not for anyone but Valt.

The plane lifted into the sky, the city shrinking below them, lights flickering as New York became a patchwork of darkness and illumination. Shu leaned back, closing his eyes for a moment. It had been a long time since he had felt this kind of anticipation, this kind of simplicity. The hum of the engines and the occasional murmur of passengers around him created a rhythm that was strangely comforting.

Hours passed, and Shu found himself lost in reflection. He thought about Valt's energy, that unstoppable drive to push forward no matter what. He thought about their conversations, the teasing, the camaraderie, and the quiet understanding that had formed between them over years of battles and training. It was rare, he realized, to find someone who could match you in skill and in spirit, and Valt had always been that for him.

A sudden jolt brought him back to the present. The plane shuddered lightly, a routine turbulence, but enough to make his fingers tighten around the strap of his seat. He looked out the window at the clouds glowing faintly in the moonlight, the sky vast and unending, serene yet unknowable. He tried to focus on the calm, telling himself that it was normal, that the pilots were trained for every possible scenario.

Minutes stretched into tense stretches of quiet. Then, a sharper shake, followed by a flicker of the cabin lights. Murmurs rippled through the passengers, a subtle edge of panic creeping into the air. Shu kept his composure, hands clasped over his lap, voice low as he reassured himself. It's just turbulence. Just turbulence.

The plane rocked again, more violently this time, and an alarm chimed faintly in the cabin. Shu glanced around at the other passengers: some were gripping their armrests, eyes wide with fear; others muttered prayers under their breath. Flight attendants moved quickly but carefully, their calm masks betraying a hint of tension.

Shu's mind raced, analyzing the situation logically. He had been trained to remain focused under pressure, to maintain clarity when everyone else panicked. Still, even his calm was tinged with unease. The turbulence was stronger than anything he had experienced in his long travels. The engines hummed with an odd irregularity, and a faint scent of smoke began to drift down the cabin aisle.

He closed his eyes, grounding himself. Panic would solve nothing. He had to stay present, aware, calculating. Yet even as he focused, a gnawing fear grew—a small, persistent thought that maybe, just maybe, something was very wrong.

The plane tilted sharply, and the lights flickered violently. The murmurs turned into gasps, passengers gripping each other, the seatbelts of everyone tightened to their maximum. Shu felt the stomach-dropping shift of descent, the cabin vibrating with the unnatural rhythm of a machine failing.

For a moment, he allowed himself to think of Valt, of the silly grin on his face, the teasing voice over the phone, the promise of Spain and sunlight and battles. That thought, fragile and fleeting, became his anchor as chaos swirled around him.

Another jolt, stronger this time. The plane's engines roared, the vibrations thrumming through every inch of metal and plastic. Shu gripped the seat, his mind calculating probabilities, escape routes, contingencies, and failing to find one. The alarm sound grew louder, a constant, screaming reminder that control was slipping.

Time seemed to stretch, each second a weighted eternity. Shu's breathing was steady, even as the cabin shook violently. He closed his eyes once more, summoning the countless hours of focus and resilience that had defined his life. But even the strongest will could not stop what was happening.

A deafening roar filled the cabin as the plane pitched sharply downward. Shu braced himself against the straps, eyes shut, and his Beyblade tucked tightly at his side. The city lights below blurred into streaks of white and yellow as gravity pulled them closer.

Then, suddenly, all went black.

The flight had begun as a bridge between worlds — New York to Spain, distance and time shrinking under the promise of reunion. But now, as darkness closed in, all that remained was the unbroken, silent chaos of a moment ending too soon.

Valt woke before the alarm, heart already racing with the restless energy that came after a night of planning. He had barely slept, his mind running through every detail of what he would do when Shu arrived. He imagined the surprise when he opened the dorm lounge to find Shu standing there, grinning with that calm, unshakable composure that somehow made Valt want to punch him in the arm and hug him at the same time.

The BC Sol dorm was unusually quiet that morning. Most of the team had left for early practice, leaving the corridors empty except for the distant hum of the city outside. Valt paced the room, Valtryek spinning idly on the floor, then stopped to pull out his phone. He checked the time, then stared at the screen, waiting.

Waiting for a message from Shu confirming his flight, or maybe a text saying he'd landed safely. Any little sign that he was on his way.

Hours passed. The sun climbed higher, casting bright streaks through the windows. Valt tried to distract himself with training exercises, spinning Valtryek repeatedly, analyzing launches, practicing stamina techniques. But every time he paused, his thoughts drifted back to Shu. The phone stayed at his side, vibrating occasionally with notifications from teammates, yet none of them were from the one person he truly wanted to hear from.

By midday, the anticipation had turned into anxiety. Valt moved faster, talking louder to himself as he imagined Shu stepping into the lounge, joking about his overworking habits, maybe teasing Valt back for the countless messages and calls.

Then, the phone rang.

At first, he didn't recognize the number. It wasn't Shu. The ringing felt unreal, slicing through the morning with sudden, sharp clarity. Valt grabbed the phone, answering before even thinking.

"Valt?" The voice on the line was unfamiliar, calm but urgent. "This is a representative from the airline."

Valt's heart skipped a beat. "Is this about my friend? Is he—"

"Please, calm down," the voice said gently. "There's been an accident with the plane your friend was on traveling from New York to Spain. Rescue teams responded, but... there were no survivors. I'm so sorry."

The words struck him like a physical blow. Valt's hand went slack on the phone, his vision narrowing as if the world had constricted around him. He tried to process it. No survivors.

"No, that's... that can't be right," he whispered, shaking his head. "He said he was coming..."

The representative's voice continued, gently but firmly. "I'm very sorry. All passengers on that flight were accounted for. I'm so sorry for your loss."

Valt collapsed onto the bed, phone clutched tightly, Valtryek untouched beside him. His mind was a storm, spinning images of Shu's calm face, the phone call from the day before, his teasing voice, the promise of Spain and sunlight and battles. None of it made sense anymore.

"This isn't real. He can't be gone." Valt whispered again. "He can't..."

Rantaro's footsteps echoed down the hallway, then paused as he saw Valt slumped on the bed, pale and trembling. "Valt?" he said cautiously. "What... what happened?"

Valt could barely speak. Words failed him. "It's Shu," he finally managed, voice breaking. "He was on a flight to come here, and it..." His throat tightened; the sentence collapsed under the weight of grief.

Rantaro's face went pale. He didn't wait for Valt to finish his sentence, because he already suspected what happened. Instead he knelt beside him, placing a steadying hand on his shoulder. "Come here... I'm so sorry, Valt."

Valt shook his head violently, tears forming at the corners of his eyes. His mind replayed the phone call over and over: the representative's voice, the words he wished he could unhear. He pressed his face into his hands, trying to block out the reality, but the truth kept slipping in.

Hours passed, though it felt like minutes and lifetimes at once. The dorm remained quiet, the other teammates returning from practice, faces concerned, voices hushed. Everyone could tell something was wrong, though none could grasp the depth of the wound in Valt's chest.

He wandered through the dorm lounge, aimless, Valtryek spinning in his hand but without focus. He imagined Shu stepping through the door, like old times, waving lazily, that calm, confident look he always carried. But the space remained empty.

Finally, Valt found himself on the dorm terrace overlooking the city, the streets below alive with movement, completely unaware of the devastation in one small corner of the world. He dropped Valtryek onto the railing, letting it spin for a few seconds, hypnotized by the rotation before it toppled to the floor.

His hands shook as he dialed Shu's number, then stopped midway. Of course there would be no answer. The call replayed in his mind: the Captain's voice, the words he wished he could erase. Valt sank to the floor, leaning against the railing, staring out at the horizon.

"Why him?" he whispered. The words were almost carried away by the wind. "Why now... why like this... why me?"

Memories flooded him. All the times he had teased Shu, pushed him, insisted he take a break, laughed about his seriousness. All the matches, all the victories and losses, all the quiet conversations late at night about strategy or dreams. And now... gone.

Rantaro came out onto the terrace, sitting beside him without saying a word. He didn't offer empty words, didn't try to cheer him up. He just let Valt sit with the weight of the loss, letting the grief pour out freely.

Valt's hands clenched into fists. "I should have stopped him. I shouldn't have told him to come. I should've—" His voice broke entirely, tears spilling down his face. "I should've done something!"

"You did everything you could," Rantaro said softly. "It wasn't your fault, Valt."

Valt shook his head violently. "It is my fault! I told him to come! I begged him! I... I wanted to see him... I wanted to see him so badly and now he's..." His voice faltered, choked by grief.

The city stretched before him, indifferent. The sunlight now felt harsh, cold, highlighting the emptiness where Shu's arrival should have been. Valt's gaze followed the horizon, lost in thought, lost in guilt, lost in the hollow ache of absence. Every plan he had made for Shu's visit, every imagined battle, every laugh, every sunset—vanished.

Time passed, or maybe it didn't. Valt didn't notice. The dorm remained quiet, the city below oblivious to the devastation in this one small terrace. And Valt sat there, Valtryek idle at his side, thinking of a friend who had crossed oceans just to be with him—and now would never arrive.

The grief was suffocating, sharp, a constant pulse that seemed to echo in his chest with every heartbeat. He pressed his face to his knees, trying to stifle the sobs, trying to make sense of what had happened. But there was no sense to be made. Only absence. Only silence. Only the memory of a friend who should have been here, and wasn't.

And in the quiet, as the sun climbed higher, Valt whispered a name over and over, as if saying it could somehow bring him back.

He stayed there long after, staring at the empty horizon, as if Shu might somehow appear from the sunlight. Every sound of the city below reminded him that the world kept moving, indifferent to the emptiness in his chest. His hands gripped Valtryek tighter, knuckles white, and yet he felt paralyzed, unable to rise or call out.

Memories of Shu—the laughter, the challenges, the quiet moments of camaraderie—flooded his mind, each one cutting sharper than the last. Valt's chest ached with the knowledge that those moments were gone, irretrievable, and no amount of wishing could change it.

"I... I can't believe you're really gone," he whispered again, his voice barely audible over the wind. "I should've... I should've done something."

And still, he kept whispering Shu's name, over and over, as if saying it might pull him back, as if the repetition could stave off the crushing reality that he would never hear that calm, confident voice again.

Minutes stretched into hours, and Valt remained on the terrace, lost in grief, yet somewhere deep inside, a small, fragile spark lingered—a determination, born not of hope, but of love and memory, that he would carry Shu with him, always.

Chapter Text

The air in BC Sol's headquarters was thick with the usual after-work tiredness, but beneath it all hummed something far more electric. Kris sat behind her desk, absently tapping a pen against the table as she stared at the mess of training schedules and team reports. The room around her buzzed faintly with the sounds of distant footsteps and the low murmur of voices packing up for the day. But her attention was elsewhere.

Across the room, Trad was leaning against the edge of his own desk, sorting through a stack of paperwork with exaggerated care. Every now and then, he'd glance up, catching Kris's eyes, and hold her gaze for a heartbeat longer than necessary, a sly smile playing on his lips.

Kris rolled her eyes with mock exasperation but couldn't suppress her own grin. "Are you seriously still pretending to work?" she whispered, leaning forward just enough for him to hear.

Trad shrugged theatrically. "Hey, someone has to make sure these schedules don't rebel and start a mutiny."

She snorted quietly, shaking her head. "You're impossible."

He winked. "Flattering, isn't it?"

For a moment, the world shrank to just the two of them—quiet, warm, and full of unspoken understanding. Then, like clockwork, Kris's phone buzzed softly on her desk. She glanced down, a message from Ange flashing briefly on the screen: Don't stay late. Everyone out by 7.

Kris frowned, pocketing the phone with a sigh. "Looks like we don't have much time."

Trad's smirk deepened. "So what are we going to do about that?"

She raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

"You know exactly what I mean," Trad teased. "I think it's time we... sneak out."

Kris blinked, then laughed softly. "Are you serious? Sneak out?"

"Absolutely," he said, eyes gleaming with mischief. "A little late-night adventure, just the two of us."

Kris bit her lip, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "You're crazy. Ange is going to kill is if she finds out."

Trad shrugged again. "Maybe. But I'm also right."

The two exchanged a conspiratorial glance. They both knew that Ange wouldn't approve of their relationship, especially if they got caught sneaking out together. It was better to keep things under wraps, at least for now.

Kris stood, stretching her arms above her head. "Alright. Let's do it. But if we get caught, you're taking all the blame."

Trad chuckled. "Deal."

The team members around them were finishing their last tasks, none paying the slightest attention to the quiet little exchange happening in the corner. Kris and Trad moved through the room like shadows, careful not to attract suspicion. They packed up their things with exaggerated slowness, sharing small smiles and playful nudges.

As they walked toward the side exit, Kris glanced over her shoulder, her eyes sparkling with a mix of excitement and nerves. "You think we'll get away with it?"

Trad's grin was unwavering. "We'll be ghosts. Masters of stealth."

Kris laughed softly. "Ghosts, huh? You realize I'm probably more like a noisy poltergeist."

"Perfect," Trad replied, looping his arm through hers. "You keep me on my toes."

They slipped out the door, the cool evening air wrapping around them like a comforting blanket. The city outside was already settling into the quiet rhythms of night—streetlights flickering on, the distant hum of traffic, and the occasional murmur of late-night vendors packing up.

They started walking toward El Astro, the famous Beyblade arena that was buzzing with energy during tournaments but tonight was calm and quiet. Though it wasn't their usual hangout spot, it was close enough and offered plenty of nearby streets where they could wander without running into anyone they knew.

Kris tucked her hands into her jacket pockets, glancing sideways at Trad. "So, what's the plan once we get there? Just walk around?"

Trad smirked. "Exactly. Maybe grab some snacks, take a stroll, talk about whatever nonsense comes to mind."

Kris smiled, nudging him playfully. "Sounds like a thrilling Friday night."

"Hey, don't knock the classics," Trad said with a mock offended look. "Besides, I hear the street food near El Astro is the best in the city."

Kris raised an eyebrow. "Street food, huh? You trying to bribe me with snacks?"

"Maybe," Trad admitted, flashing a grin. "But it's a solid plan."

They fell into easy conversation, teasing each other about everything from Beyblade techniques to who was more likely to get caught sneaking out.

As they walked, Kris noticed how natural it felt just to be with Trad like this—no pressure, no eyes watching, no need for secrecy beyond the fact that they were outside these walls. The city was quiet enough that their voices were soft, their laughter low and intimate.

At one point, Kris caught Trad's hand in hers and held on a little longer than usual. He squeezed gently, a silent affirmation that they were in this together.

"You know," Kris said, "we make a pretty good team."

Trad nodded, his smile softening. "The best."

They slowed their pace, letting the night wrap around them. The glow of streetlights cast soft shadows, and the cool breeze tugged gently at Kris's hair.

"You think we'll always have to hide like this?" Kris asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Trad's fingers tightened around hers. "Not forever. But for now, this is our secret."

Kris smiled, leaning her head against his shoulder for a moment. "I like our secret."

Trad chuckled. "Me too."

The streets near El Astro were still lively with the sounds of late-night vendors and the occasional chatter of other bladers finishing their own training sessions. The scent of fried snacks and grilled skewers drifted in the air, making Kris's stomach rumble.

"Snacks?" Trad offered, his eyes twinkling.

Kris nodded eagerly. "Definitely."

They stopped at a small food stall where a friendly vendor greeted them with a warm smile. Kris picked up a skewer of grilled chicken while Trad chose a bag of crispy fried potatoes.

They found a quiet bench just off the street, the city lights flickering above like distant stars.

As they ate, Kris glanced at Trad, who was animatedly recounting a recent match, complete with exaggerated sound effects and wild hand gestures. Kris laughed, the sound light and genuine.

"You're impossible," she teased, elbowing him gently.

Trad grinned, unbothered. "And you love it."

Kris shook her head, smiling. "Maybe."

They shared a comfortable silence, the kind that only comes from years of knowing each other. The night felt endless, filled with possibility and the quiet thrill of being together without anyone else knowing.

As the night deepened, Trad nudged Kris playfully. "So, what's the verdict? Should we make this a regular thing?"

Kris looked at him, eyes shining. "Absolutely."

Trad reached out and brushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear, his touch featherlight.

"Good," he said softly. "Because I have a lot more sneaking out planned."

Kris laughed, leaning into him. "I'll hold you to that."

They sat together, the world around them fading away until it was just the two of them and the promise of more nights like this—secret, simple, and full of laughter.

The smell of warm street food lingered in the air as Kris and Trad settled onto the worn wooden bench near the corner stall. Kris nibbled on the last bite of her grilled chicken skewer, savoring the smoky flavor, while Trad crunched happily on his crispy fried potatoes. The bustle of the night around them faded into a cozy bubble—just the two of them, sharing a simple pleasure that felt like a secret treasure.

Trad wiped his fingers on a napkin and grinned at Kris. "You know, for someone who claims to be all about Beyblade battles, you sure know how to enjoy your food."

Kris laughed softly. "I'm a well-rounded blader. Fighting and feasting—both essential skills."

Trad raised an eyebrow. "I'll have to add that to my training regimen."

They shared a quiet chuckle. The easy humor between them was a comforting rhythm, a language built from countless hours of shared moments and small jokes.

Kris glanced at Trad out of the corner of her eye, catching him mid-bite, eyes bright and animated. She felt a warm flutter in her chest and quickly looked away, pretending to inspect a loose thread on her sleeve. Trad caught the glance and smirked knowingly.

"You're staring," he said, voice teasing.

Kris's cheeks flamed pink. "I am not!"

"Oh yeah? Then what's with the deer-in-the-headlights look?"

"Nothing," she muttered, trying—and failing—to look casual.

Trad leaned a little closer, lowering his voice into a playful whisper. "You know, you're not very good at hiding it."

Kris rolled her eyes but smiled, her heart beating just a little faster. "Maybe I just like looking."

He laughed, his warm breath brushing her ear. "Good. Because I'm not going anywhere."

They sat close, their shoulders nearly touching, the warmth of their proximity a quiet promise in the cool night air. The streetlights above flickered softly, casting a gentle glow that made the world feel softer, more intimate.

"Ready for a walk?" Trad asked, standing and offering his hand.

Kris took it without hesitation, the small thrill of his fingers wrapping around hers sending a shiver up her spine.

They stepped off the bench and into the quiet streets around El Astro, the night alive with the distant sounds of Beyblades spinning inside the arena and the murmur of late-night city life. Their footsteps fell in sync, a steady beat against the pavement.

As they wandered, Trad couldn't resist another jab. "So, which do you think is more dangerous? A Beyblade battle or trying to sneak out past Ange?"

Kris laughed, nudging him with her elbow. "Definitely sneaking out. Beyblade battles don't usually have scolding managers waiting to lecture you."

"True," Trad admitted. "But they do have spinning metal death machines."

"Exactly."

Their laughter mingled, echoing softly down the empty street. Kris loved how easy it was to be herself around Trad—no masks, no secrets beyond the ones they chose to keep for now.

They found themselves lingering near a quiet park, benches tucked beneath trees whispering in the night breeze. Kris let go of Trad's hand to push a stray hair behind her ear, suddenly self-conscious.

Trad noticed and stopped, turning to face her. His eyes were soft and serious for a moment, a contrast to his usual playful demeanor.

"You okay?" he asked quietly.

Kris nodded, biting her lip. "Yeah. Just... glad we're doing this."

Trad smiled gently. "Me too."

Without thinking too much about it, Kris stepped closer until their shoulders brushed. Trad reached out, brushing his thumb along her cheek in a slow, careful gesture. Kris closed her eyes, leaning into the touch, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath his hand.

"Trad..." she whispered.

He leaned in, their breaths mingling, the space between them shrinking.

The kiss was slow and tentative at first, a soft meeting of lips that spoke more than words ever could. Kris's heart pounded in her chest, but the warmth that spread through her was calming, like coming home after a long journey.

When they pulled apart, Kris rested her forehead against Trad's, smiling shyly.

"That was..." she started, but Trad cut her off with a gentle chuckle.

"Yeah," he said. "That was good."

They stayed like that for a moment longer, wrapped in the quiet glow of the night and the safety of each other's presence.

They resumed their walk, fingers intertwined once again, the earlier nervousness replaced by a comfortable closeness. The city around them felt a little less cold, a little more alive with possibility.

"So," Kris said, breaking the silence, "how long do you think we can keep sneaking around like this before someone finds out?"

Trad shrugged, eyes sparkling with mischief. "Long enough to enjoy tonight."

Kris laughed. "You always know how to keep things optimistic."

"It's a gift."

They rounded a corner, the streetlights casting long shadows behind them. Kris glanced up at Trad, feeling the familiar pull of affection and admiration.

"Promise me something?"

"Anything."

"Promise we won't rush. No matter what."

Trad squeezed her hand gently. "I promise."

Kris smiled, squeezing back. "Good."

Their pace slowed, reluctant to end the night. Trad pulled Kris close for a quick side hug, resting his chin on her head.

"You know," he murmured, "I could get used to this."

Kris tilted her face up, eyes shining. "Me too."

They lingered there, the night wrapping around them like a soft blanket, holding them safe and warm.

The glow from the streetlights flickered unevenly as Kris and Trad walked back toward the quiet edges of the city, the night still humming softly around them. Their hands were intertwined, their steps light, almost carefree after their tender moment. But Kris, usually so calm and collected, suddenly felt a restless tug in her chest.

"Hey, wait up," she said softly, pulling her hand free from Trad's grasp. Without waiting for his reply, she quickened her pace, the quiet urgency of her footsteps echoing on the pavement.

Trad frowned, instinctively calling after her. "Kris! Where are you going?"

She glanced back over her shoulder, a brief flash of hesitation in her eyes. "I just need to check something real quick. I won't be long."

Trad's brow furrowed, concern tightening his features. "Be careful."

Kris gave him a small, reassuring smile—though inside, a knot of unease twisted tighter. She didn't want to worry him, but something felt off. She pushed the feeling down and stepped faster, disappearing into a shadowy alley near the edge of the block.

The alley was narrow and dimly lit, the faint smell of garbage and damp concrete thick in the air. Kris's breath hitched as she scanned the quiet space, her heart pounding not just from the quickened pace, but from something else entirely—a sudden awareness that she might not be alone.

A low shuffle from deeper in the alley made her freeze. Her eyes darted to a dark figure leaning against the graffiti-covered wall—a man, his face obscured by the brim of a hat pulled low. The flicker of a cold smile showed beneath a rough stubble.

Kris's pulse spiked. This was no ordinary passerby.

Before she could think, the man stepped forward, his movements deliberate and slow. "Well, well... what do we have here?"

Kris took a cautious step back, instincts flaring. "I don't want any trouble."

The man chuckled, a low, dangerous sound. "Trouble found you the moment you walked into my path."

Kris's eyes darted frantically, searching for a way out. But the alley was a dead end, with only a rusted dumpster behind her and the man blocking the way forward.

Her mind raced, trying to remember her training—how to handle a confrontation without escalating it. "Look, I don't have anything you want," she said, voice steady despite the rising fear.

The man's smile twisted. "I'm not here for what you've got. I'm here for what your friends have."

The words sent a chill down her spine. Before Kris could respond, a sharp sound—like a soft metallic click—made her snap her head to the side.

"Hey!" came Trad's voice, cutting through the stillness like a knife.

The man's head turned sharply toward the sound, eyes narrowing.

Trad strode into the alley, his posture tense but controlled. "Step away from her."

The man's gaze flickered to Trad, then back to Kris. "Looks like I've got myself company."

Without hesitation, Trad stepped closer, positioning himself between Kris and the man. "Leave. Now."

The man laughed darkly, the sound echoing off the walls. "Or what? You'll fight me?"

Trad's jaw clenched. "If I have to."

The tension thickened, the air crackling with danger. Kris's heart pounded in her chest, fear twisting into fierce protectiveness. She stepped forward, placing a tentative hand on Trad's arm. "We don't have to do this."

But the man wasn't listening. In a flash, he lunged toward Trad, swinging a rough fist. Trad barely dodged, twisting to avoid the blow, but the strike grazed his shoulder with a harsh scrape.

Kris gasped, panic surging through her. She wanted to jump in, to help, but the man's attention was firmly fixed on Trad now.

Trad recovered quickly, throwing a counterstrike—a sharp jab to the man's ribs. The man grunted but retaliated with a kick aimed at Trad's leg.

Kris scanned the narrow alley desperately, looking for anything to use—anything at all.

Her eyes landed on a loose metal pipe leaning against the wall near the dumpster.

Without thinking, she grabbed it and brandished it awkwardly. "Hey! Over here!" she shouted, waving the pipe.

The man's head snapped toward her, surprise flickering in his eyes.

Trad seized the moment, pushing the man back with a forceful shove.

The man stumbled but quickly regained his footing, turning back toward Kris, anger flashing in his eyes.

Kris raised the pipe again, heart hammering. "Leave us alone!"

The man sneered, then suddenly lunged toward her.

At the last second, Kris swung the pipe sideways, hitting the man's arm with a sharp clang.

He yelped in pain and staggered back.

Trad moved forward swiftly, grabbing Kris's hand and pulling her toward the alley's exit.

"Run!" he urged.

They sprinted together, adrenaline fueling their flight. Behind them, the man's angry shouts faded as they disappeared into the relative safety of the city streets.

Breathing hard, Kris and Trad didn't stop until they reached a quieter, more familiar part of town. Trad stopped first, turning to face Kris, his eyes searching hers.

"Are you okay?" he asked, voice rough with worry.

Kris nodded, swallowing hard. "Yeah. I think so. But you..."

Trad shrugged, rubbing his scraped shoulder. "I'm fine. Could've been worse."

Kris frowned, guilt twisting her gut. "I should've stayed closer. I ran ahead and almost got us into real trouble."

Trad shook his head firmly. "No. You were brave. You made a difference."

She looked up, meeting his gaze. "I just don't want anything to happen to you."

Trad's expression softened. "You won't lose me that easily."

They stood in silence for a moment, the danger slowly receding but the adrenaline still buzzing beneath their skin.

"Let's get back," Trad said quietly. "We need to clean those wounds before Ange finds out what we've been up to."

Kris gave a small, grateful smile, looping her arm through his. Together, they began the slow walk back to BC Sol's headquarters, the night feeling heavier now, shadows stretching longer as trouble lingered just out of sight.

The city felt colder on their way back to BC Sol's headquarters, the night air sharper as if reflecting the tension that clung to Kris and Trad. Their footsteps echoed quietly against the pavement, breath forming soft clouds in the cool air. Kris kept her arm linked through Trad's, as if tethering him and herself to safety, but inside she felt shaky, adrenaline still pulsing beneath her skin.

Trad was quieter than usual, his usual easy confidence replaced by a shadow of fatigue. He rubbed at his scraped shoulder absently, wincing every now and then as the sting settled in. Kris noticed but said nothing—words felt clumsy in the silence.

"We should've called for help," Trad muttered finally, voice low.

Kris shook her head, squeezing his arm gently. "No. If that guy had known where we live, it would've been worse. This way, we keep the team safe."

Trad's eyes darkened in the dim streetlight. "I hate that you got hurt because of me."

Kris stopped walking and looked up at him, her expression soft but firm. "You were protecting me. And that's what matters."

He smiled briefly, though the pain was still evident in his eyes. "Still feels like I wasn't enough."

"You were," Kris insisted. "And next time, we stick together."

Trad nodded, a small spark of determination flickering to life.

They reached the familiar silhouette of BC Sol HQ, the building quiet except for the faint hum of activity coming from inside. Kris glanced around nervously before pulling open the door and slipping inside, Trad following close behind.

The sterile brightness of the infirmary was a harsh contrast to the dark streets outside. Ange was already there, pacing with arms crossed, eyes sharp and unreadable.

The moment Kris and Trad stepped in, Ange's gaze snapped to them, and her expression shifted instantly from calm to furious.

"Where have you two been?" she demanded, crossing the room in long strides.

Kris exchanged a quick glance with Trad, nerves prickling under Ange's scrutiny.

"Just out for a walk," Kris said cautiously.

Ange narrowed her eyes. "A walk? At this hour? Without telling anyone?"

Trad swallowed and gave a small nod. "We needed some time alone."

Ange's scowl deepened. "Alone? Sneaking off without telling me or anyone else? Do you have any idea how dangerous that was?"

Kris's cheeks flushed, guilt tightening in her chest. "We were careful."

Ange's lips pressed into a hard line. "Careful isn't good enough. You both got hurt!"

Trad pulled up his sleeve to reveal a growing bruise, and Kris lifted her shirt slightly to show a scrape on her side. Ange's expression softened for a brief moment, concern overtaking anger.

"You're lucky you came back when you did," she said quietly. "I was about to send a search party."

Kris bit her lip, glancing away. "We didn't want to worry anyone."

Ange crossed her arms again but her voice softened. "You two have been acting weird lately. Always sneaking around, avoiding questions..."

Trad looked away, rubbing the back of his neck. "We're just... keeping things professional."

Ange raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Professional? Then why the secrecy?"

Kris and Trad exchanged nervous glances. Neither ready to spill the truth, their silence only feeding Ange's suspicion.

"Look," Kris said quickly, "we're fine now. We just need to rest."

Ange studied them for a moment longer before nodding reluctantly. "Fine. But no more sneaking out. Understood?"

Both Kris and Trad nodded.

Ange began cleaning their wounds, her hands steady but her eyes never leaving them. Kris felt the warmth of the antiseptic sting on her scrape but welcomed the distraction.

As Ange worked on Trad's shoulder, Kris stole a glance at him. His jaw was clenched, eyes fixed on some distant point, but there was something vulnerable in his expression she hadn't seen before.

When Ange finished, she pulled them both into a serious gaze. "You're lucky nothing worse happened. Promise me you'll be more careful."

"We will," Trad said quietly.

Ange gave a short nod, then paused, tilting her head. "And if there's something you're hiding, you know you can tell me."

Kris and Trad exchanged another glance, hearts pounding.

Ange's look lingered, knowing and sharp, before she turned away.

As they prepared to leave the infirmary, Trad reached out and took Kris's hand. She squeezed it, finding comfort in the simple touch.

Later that night, in the quiet darkness of their shared room, Trad broke the silence.

"I feel weak," he confessed, voice barely above a whisper. "Like I couldn't protect you when it mattered."

Kris shifted closer, resting her head on his shoulder. "You did protect me. That's all I need to know."

Trad sighed. "Still... I hate feeling like I failed."

Kris looked up, meeting his eyes with a soft smile. "We're a team. We watch each other's backs."

He nodded slowly, the tension easing slightly.

"I'm sorry for running ahead," Kris admitted. "I should've stayed closer."

Trad shook his head. "Don't apologize. You were brave."

For a long moment, they just held each other, the quiet calm settling between them.

Eventually, Trad pulled Kris gently into the bed, the small comfort of shared warmth easing the night's fears.

They fell asleep side by side, the silence speaking louder than words.

The next morning brought the usual buzz of activity, but Kris and Trad moved through it with guarded steps. Their faces bore the evidence of the previous night—bruises, scratches, and bandages hidden beneath their clothing.

Curious glances followed them wherever they went, whispers floating just out of earshot.

"Hey, what happened to you two?" asked someone, eyebrows raised as Kris winced at a sudden twinge in her side.

"We got into a little accident," Trad said quickly, trying to sound casual.

"An accident?" another chimed in, eyes narrowing.

Kris and Trad exchanged quick, nervous looks, doing their best to downplay the injuries.

Ange watched from across the room, her eyes sharp and knowing. She caught Kris's gaze and raised a single eyebrow—an unspoken question hanging heavy between them.

The tension in the room was thick, and Kris felt it coil tighter around her chest.

They both feared the day when their secret would no longer be safe.

The next few days at BC Sol HQ unfolded with a tension that neither Kris nor Trad could shake. Every glance felt loaded, every whisper felt like it was about them. Though they tried to act as if nothing had changed, the bandages wrapped around their arms and the faint bruises on their faces made them conspicuous — and curious eyes never missed a thing.

The training room was buzzing one afternoon when Kris and Trad entered, both trying to appear casual, though the ache in their muscles reminded them sharply of the night before. Trad rubbed the tender spot on his shoulder where the bruises had started to darken.

"Still sore?" Kris asked, half-teasing, a small smile playing on her lips.

"Yeah," he admitted, chuckling softly. "Guess I'm not as invincible as I thought."

Kris smirked. "Welcome to reality."

Their light teasing did little to ease the quiet suspicion simmering among the team. Ange, ever watchful, leaned against the edge of the training mat, arms folded, her gaze sharp enough to cut glass.

"So," she began, voice casual but loaded, "any updates on what happened to you two?"

Kris and Trad froze, exchanging nervous glances. Kris forced a laugh, trying to deflect. "Like we said, just a little accident. Nothing worth making a fuss over."

Ange's eyes narrowed. "A little accident that left you both bruised and bandaged? Sounds serious to me."

"We're fine," Trad said firmly, stepping beside Kris. "It's nothing."

A few teammates exchanged looks, clearly unconvinced. Among them, Sol himself appeared briefly, his eyebrows raised as he caught sight of Kris's scraped cheek and Trad's swollen shoulder.

"Everything okay here?" Sol asked, voice steady but inquisitive.

Kris smiled quickly, hoping to defuse any potential alarm. "Just some training mishaps."

Sol's gaze lingered a moment, and Kris could swear he was trying to read between the lines. After a brief pause, he nodded slowly.

"Well, take care of yourselves," he said, before moving on.

Relief washed over Kris like a wave, but it was short-lived. They couldn't fool everyone—not with injuries like theirs and Ange's obvious suspicions.

That evening, Kris and Trad found themselves alone in a quiet corner of the HQ lounge. Trad ran a hand through his hair, frustration clear in his eyes.

"They're all looking at us like we're hiding something," he muttered.

Kris sighed, resting her head against his shoulder. "Maybe we are."

Trad looked down at her, the vulnerability in his gaze raw. "I don't want to lie anymore. I'm tired of sneaking around."

Kris nodded slowly. "Me too."

They sat in silence for a moment, the weight of their secret pressing heavily between them.

Suddenly, Kris smiled mischievously. "Remember that time Ange caught us almost holding hands and blamed it on some weird training exercise?"

Trad chuckled, the tension easing slightly. "Yeah. She still hasn't quite figured us out."

"Not yet," Kris whispered. "But soon..."

Their laughter was soft but genuine — a brief, needed reprieve.

The next day sun filtered through the large windows of BC Sol's training room, casting long, warm streaks across the floor where Kris and Trad paced quietly, their injuries mostly hidden under their training gear but their nerves more obvious than ever. The weight of days spent dodging questions and avoiding curious stares finally pressed down on them like a storm ready to break.

Kris exhaled slowly, running a hand through her hair. "I don't know how much longer we can keep this up."

Trad's gaze softened as he looked at her. "We promised to be careful, but this... this is getting out of hand."

Their team was no longer just suspicious; they were practically certain something was going on, and Ange's knowing looks had become almost a daily occurrence. The secret they guarded so fiercely felt more fragile by the minute.

"We have to tell them," Kris said, voice barely above a whisper.

Trad nodded. "Better now than later."

They shared a nervous smile before walking together toward the team lounge where the others were gathering. The usual chatter quieted noticeably as they entered, all eyes shifting toward them.

Sol was the first to speak, his tone calm but serious. "You two have been avoiding questions and acting strange. What's going on?"

Kris swallowed but stepped forward. "We've been trying to keep something private."

Ange's eyes gleamed, clearly anticipating this moment. "Something that's been obvious for a while."

Trad took Kris's hand gently, squeezing it for support. "We're... dating."

A hush fell over the room. Some exchanged surprised looks; others smiled knowingly. Ange folded her arms, smirking slightly.

"Well, it's about time you two stopped hiding," she said. "You're awful at it."

Kris laughed nervously. "We didn't want to cause any drama or distractions."

"But you're part of this team," Sol said firmly. "And that means being honest with each other."

The tension broke, replaced by a wave of warmth and acceptance from their teammates. The unspoken fear of rejection dissolved, leaving room for lighthearted teasing and support.

"Guess we owe you all some stories," Trad said with a grin.

Kris rolled her eyes playfully. "Yeah, like how Trad thought he could fight off a mugger with just his charm."

Laughter bubbled through the room, the weight of secrecy lifted at last.

Later, as the team gathered for practice, Kris and Trad felt lighter, freer. Their bond was no longer hidden in shadows but shared openly, a new strength in their unity.

And when Trad spun his Beyblade with a triumphant smile, Kris knew that no matter what challenges lay ahead, they would face them together—unafraid and unashamed.

Chapter Text

Free sat in the chair like he was carved out of stone. The office around him was warm, lined with shelves of books and framed degrees, but none of it mattered. His eyes followed the pattern of the carpet as though there was something important written there, something only he could see. The clock ticked steadily on the wall. He heard it louder than the therapist's voice.

"How have you been sleeping, Free?"

He blinked once, slow, the question floating somewhere above him. His fingers turned the small metal piece of a Beyblade between them, the sharp edges pressing into his skin.

"Fine."

"Just fine?"

Free's shoulders lifted in the faintest shrug.

The therapist gave him a patient look, jotting something down on the notepad resting on her knee. He hated that sound—the scratch of pen on paper, as if she could write him down, analyze him, break him open into neat categories.

"Do you remember what we talked about last time? About emotions?"

"Yes." His tone was flat.

"Do you think you've noticed any changes?"

"No."

Another pause, the air heavy. The therapist didn't push, not too hard. She had learned in the past weeks that pressing him only made him shut down further, but she still probed gently, her voice soft like she was handling glass.

"Sometimes when people have been through what you have, they stop feeling safe showing what they feel. Do you think that might be true for you?"

Free's jaw clenched, but he didn't answer. His thumb dug into the Bey part hard enough that it left a dent in his skin.

The session went like that. Questions, short replies. Long silences stretching across the room. He wasn't angry. He wasn't sad. He wasn't anything, really. It was easier this way. If you didn't feel, you couldn't hurt.

When it was over, he slipped out quietly, bag slung over his shoulder, the hallway buzzing faintly with fluorescent light. He expected to walk out alone, as always, but instead—

"There you are!"

The voice cut across the hallway, too loud, too familiar. Sisco was leaning against the wall near the door, arms folded, a smirk plastered on his face like he'd been waiting for hours. His energy was always explosive, like someone had bottled lightning and let it loose in human form.

"What are you doing here?" Free's voice was level, almost tired.

"Waiting for you, obviously." Sisco pushed off the wall and fell into step beside him. "Thought we could hang out. You know, grab something to eat, battle, break the world record for loudest indoor yelling contest—normal stuff."

"I'm not interested."

"Too bad. I didn't ask if you were."

Free's eyes flicked toward him, unamused. Sisco grinned wider, shameless. It was always like this—noise and fire, crashing into the quiet space Free kept around himself.

They walked out together, Free not bothering to protest further. He knew Sisco well enough by now. Resistance only fueled him.

By the time they reached the park near the street, Sisco was already digging through his pocket for his Bey. "Come on, just one round. You look like you need it."

Free sighed, setting down his bag. The familiar weight of his launcher in his hand was grounding, the only thing that ever felt steady. "Fine."

The battle was quick. Free's style was efficient, calm, precise. Sisco was wild, reckless, shouting every move like it was a declaration of war. When Free's Bey knocked his spinning out, Sisco let out a loud groan and threw his hands up.

"Again!"

"No."

"You're killing me here!"

Free started packing his launcher away, ignoring the complaint. But then Sisco leaned close, squinting at him.

"Hey. You didn't even smirk. Not even a tiny one. What's with you?"

"Nothing."

"You always say that."

Free's lips pressed into a thin line. The truth hovered at the back of his throat like smoke, but he swallowed it down. Nothing was safer. Nothing meant survival.

Sisco huffed, crossing his arms, then broke into a grin again. "Fine, be all mysterious. But I'll get you to crack eventually."

Free didn't answer. His silence was supposed to be a wall, but Sisco treated it like a challenge.

As they sat on the grass, Sisco rattling on about something Free only half-heard, a sharp sound cracked through Free's head—memory uninvited. The echo of a gunshot. A woman's gasp cut short. The coppery tang of blood thick in the air. His mother's hand, warm one second, lifeless the next.

His chest tightened. His fingers dug into the grass to ground himself. Breathe in. Breathe out. Don't let it show.

"Hey," Sisco's voice cut in, still carefree, oblivious. "You zoning out again?"

Free blinked, dragging himself back. "No."

Sisco shrugged and launched into another story.

When the sky darkened, they finally split ways. Free walked home alone, his footsteps slow, his face unchanged.

Sisco had been loud, annoying, persistent. He always was. But for a fleeting moment, Free realized—it hadn't been unbearable.

Later that night, lying in bed, the ceiling above him blurred into shadows. He replayed the memory in silence, his parents falling, the sound of the shots ringing louder than anything else. He didn't flinch. He didn't cry. His face remained blank, his chest hollow.

He wished he could feel something.

But nothing came.

The dorms at BC Sol were never quiet. Someone was always shouting about a new launch technique, or racing through the hallways with a Bey in hand, or blasting music way too loud. For most bladers, the chaos felt like home. For Free, it was background noise, something he could tune out like static on a radio.

He sat on his bed, legs folded under him, staring down at his Bey as he turned it in his palm. Fafnir's gold shimmer caught the lamplight. His door creaked open without a knock, and he didn't need to look up to know who it was.

"Guess what?" Sisco's voice burst into the room.

"No."

"I didn't even say it yet!"

"I don't care."

Sisco ignored him completely, dropping into the chair at Free's desk like he owned it. "You're battling me again today. No excuses."

Free's eyes flicked up. "I already beat you."

"Yeah, but I thought of a new trick. I'm calling it 'The Super-Awesome-Sisco-Spin-Smash!'" He threw his arms up dramatically. "Bet you can't handle it."

Free stared at him blankly for a long moment, then returned to his Bey. "It won't work."

"You don't know that until we try!"

Before Free could argue, a knock sounded at the doorframe. Kristina leaned in, arms crossed, her sharp eyes softening just a little when they landed on Free. "Sisco, stop barging into people's rooms. And Free, you've got therapy in twenty minutes. Don't forget."

Free's grip on Fafnir tightened. He gave a small nod, silent.

Kristina's gaze lingered. She always seemed to see past the walls he built, not tearing them down but pressing against them gently, patiently. Like she was waiting for him to open the door himself. "Don't be late," she said quietly, then left them.

The air hung heavier after she was gone. Sisco swung around in the chair to face Free, brows raised. "You still going to those?"

Free didn't answer.

"That's good, right? I mean, better than just... staring at walls all day."

"Drop it."

Sisco frowned but didn't push further. For once.

Later, the therapy room was the same as always—soft light, quiet, the faint smell of old paper. Free sat in the chair, still as stone, hands in his lap.

The therapist studied him for a moment before speaking. "Free, last time you told me nothing's changed. Can you tell me what happens when you try to feel something?"

His throat worked around words that didn't want to come. He didn't want to talk about it. He didn't want to remember. But Kristina's voice echoed in his head: Don't be late.

She wanted him to try.

"I don't," he said finally.

"You don't...?"

"I don't feel anything." His voice was flat, but his grip on his knee tightened, the only giveaway. "Not sadness. Not happiness. Nothing."

"That sounds very lonely."

He didn't reply.

"Sometimes, when people go through trauma, their mind protects them by shutting down emotions. It's a way to survive. But it doesn't have to stay that way forever."

Free's jaw clenched. He wanted to tell her it was easier this way. That if he let feelings in, he'd break apart. But the words stayed locked inside.

When the session ended, he walked back to the dorms. The hallway felt too bright, the laughter spilling from the rec room too loud. He slipped past quickly, heading for the staircase—

"Free!"

Of course. Sisco barreled out of the rec room, nearly colliding with him. "There you are. You vanished earlier."

"I was busy."

"Busy staring at walls?" Sisco grinned.

Free didn't answer, but his lips twitched—barely, almost invisible. Sisco's grin widened like he'd just won a championship.

"You almost smiled. I saw it."

"You didn't."

"Did too. That's progress!"

Free shook his head, walking toward the dorms. He should've known Sisco would follow, chattering the whole way.

When they reached the rooftop balcony later that night, the city stretched out below them, golden lights flickering against the dark sky. Sisco leaned against the railing, his voice softer than usual.

"You know... you don't have to pretend with me."

Free's eyes narrowed slightly. "What do you mean?"

"That nothing's wrong. I mean, I get it. You don't talk much. But I can tell when you're... I don't know. Holding everything in."

A gunshot rang in his head. His mother's body crumpling. His father shouting her name before the second shot silenced him too.

Free's chest ached, but his face stayed blank. "You don't understand."

"Then make me." Sisco's voice was fierce now, no joking. "I want to."

Silence stretched between them, tense and heavy. Free's fingers curled around the railing. He wanted to speak. He wanted to unload the weight pressing down on him. But when he opened his mouth, nothing came out.

Instead, he turned away, heading for the door.

Sisco's frustrated sigh followed him, but he didn't call him back.

Later, Free lay in bed staring at the ceiling. Across the hall, laughter erupted from another room—Sisco's voice loudest of all. Free closed his eyes, his parents' deaths replaying in his head, as vivid as the night it happened. The sound of it was louder than the laughter, louder than anything.

He pressed a pillow over his ears, but it didn't help.

Nothing ever did.

The room was alive with noise. Chairs scraped, voices overlapped, Beys clashed against stadium walls. It was the kind of chaos Free usually tuned out, but tonight it felt louder, every sound clawing at him. He sat in the corner, hands folded loosely around Fafnir, staring at the spinning tops. They blurred together, a meaningless swirl.

"Free!"

Of course. It's always him. Sisco dropped onto the couch beside him, all elbows and energy. His hair was a wild mess, his grin wider than usual. "Guess what? I perfected the Super-Awesome-Sisco-Spin-Smash."

Free didn't look at him. "It won't work."

"You always say that."

"Because it's true."

Sisco leaned closer, trying to catch his eyes. "Then battle me and prove it."

Free's fingers tightened around Fafnir, but he didn't move. "No."

Sisco groaned dramatically, falling back against the couch. "You're impossible, you know that? You act like you're eighty years old, not a blader."

The words slid past him, but the sharp throb in his head didn't. It was happening again. The noise of the stadium faded, replaced by something darker. A crack of gunfire. The smell of smoke. His father's body dropping heavily beside his mother's.

Free blinked hard, but the image stayed. He stood abruptly, shoving Fafnir into his pocket.

"Hey—wait, where are you going?" Sisco scrambled up, following him out into the hallway.

"Somewhere else."

"That's not an answer."

Free's footsteps quickened. The laughter and shouts from the rec room followed him down the hall, but his chest was tight, his ears ringing. He needed air. He needed silence.

Sisco caught up with him on the stairwell, blocking his path. "Hey. Seriously. What's going on with you?"

"Move."

"No."

Free's gaze hardened. His voice came out low, almost dangerous. "I said move."

Sisco didn't flinch. His eyes, for once, weren't playful. "Not until you tell me why you keep shutting everyone out."

Something inside Free cracked. "Because if I don't, I'll fall apart!" The words tore out of him before he could stop them, raw and sharp. His chest heaved, breath ragged. "Is that what you want to hear?"

The stairwell went silent, the echo of his voice fading into the walls.

Sisco froze, eyes wide. Free had never raised his voice like that before. Never let anything slip through the calm mask he wore like armor.

Free's hands shook. He hated that Sisco was looking at him like that, hated that the dam had broken. He shoved past him, bolting up the stairs two at a time until he reached the rooftop.

The night air was cool, biting against his skin. He gripped the railing, knuckles white, trying to breathe. But the memories crashed harder now, unstoppable. The sound of his mother's scream cut short. The dull thud of bodies hitting the ground. His own voice, younger, hoarse from calling out for parents who would never answer again.

He bent over, pressing his forehead against the cold metal. His chest ached, his throat tight. Still no tears came, only emptiness, only the endless replay of the moment that had carved him hollow.

"Free."

Sisco's voice was quieter now, careful. He stood a few feet back, like he wasn't sure if stepping closer would shatter something.

"Don't." Free's voice cracked on the word. "Don't say anything."

But Sisco didn't listen. He never did. "I get it. You don't want people to see you weak."

Free's laugh was humorless, bitter. "Weak? I don't even feel anything. Not sadness, not anger. Nothing. It's like I'm already dead inside."

"That's not true."

"You don't know what you're talking about." He spun, glare sharp, but his hands were still trembling. "You didn't watch your parents get shot in front of you. You didn't stand there frozen while they—while they—" His voice broke completely, the words strangled. "While they died."

The rooftop fell quiet except for his ragged breathing.

Sisco's expression softened. He took a step forward, slow and steady. "You were just a kid, Free. That wasn't your fault."

"I should've done something."

"There was nothing you could do."

"You don't understand—"

"Then make me understand." Sisco's voice rose, fierce but not cruel. "Yell at me. Tell me how much it hurts. Just stop pretending you don't feel anything, because I see it. I see you fighting yourself every day."

Free's body shook. His nails dug into his palms. For years he had locked it away, convinced silence was strength. But Sisco's words clawed at the cracks until the dam finally gave.

"It hurts," he whispered, then louder, "It hurts so much I can't breathe. Every time I close my eyes I see them. I hear it. And I don't know how to stop it. I don't know how to live when they can't. I shouldn't be here when they're not—"

The words dissolved into broken sounds, his chest convulsing. For the first time in years, Free's face twisted—not blank, not calm, but raw with grief. Still no tears came, but the anguish in his voice was worse than any crying.

Sisco didn't hesitate anymore. He crossed the space and grabbed Free by the shoulders, grounding him. "You're here because you're still alive. Because they'd want you to be. And I'm not letting you give up on that."

Free trembled under his grip, the fight draining out of him. He sagged forward until his forehead rested against Sisco's shoulder, breaths shallow and uneven.

For once, Sisco didn't make a joke, didn't push with words. He just stood there, holding him steady, like he'd decided his job was to be an anchor in the storm.

Minutes passed, the city hum below them fading into the background. Free's breathing slowed, but the hollow ache remained. At least now it wasn't silent. At least now someone else carried part of it.

When Free finally pulled back, his eyes were red-rimmed though no tears had fallen. His voice was hoarse. "Don't tell anyone."

Sisco's grin returned, softer this time. "Your secret's safe with me. But only if you promise not to shut me out again."

Free gave a shaky exhale, not quite agreement, not quite refusal. But he didn't walk away either.

For Sisco, that was enough. For now.

Free didn't sleep that night. He lay in bed with his arm over his eyes, listening to the muffled sounds of the dorm around him. Laughter, doors shutting, the distant whir of spinning Beys. Every noise felt far away. All he could hear clearly was the echo of his own voice on the rooftop, raw and broken.

He had fallen apart.

And Sisco had seen everything.

By morning, his body felt heavy, his head foggy. He slipped out of the room early, avoiding the usual noise of breakfast in the dining hall. He couldn't stand the thought of Sisco's grin, or worse, Sisco's pity.

The courtyard was still cool with dawn when he sat down on the stone steps, Fafnir resting in his palm. He traced the Bey's ridges absentmindedly, trying to find calm in the familiar weight.

"Free?"

He stiffened. The voice wasn't Sisco's this time.
What a surprise, right? Kristina crossed the courtyard toward him, a cup of coffee in hand. Her gaze was sharp as always, but softer when it landed on him.

"You're up early."

"I couldn't sleep."

She hummed quietly, sitting beside him without asking. For a while they stayed like that, the silence not uncomfortable. Kristina had a way of filling space without crowding it.

Finally she said, "You've been... different lately."

Free's thumb stilled against Fafnir's rim. "I'm fine."

She gave him a look that said she didn't believe a word. "You don't have to tell me anything you don't want to. But I want you to know—you're not alone here. Not with me. Not with anyone in BC Sol."

Her words cut deeper than he expected. He didn't reply, but when she stood and left, the quiet weight of her care lingered.

By the time breakfast rolled around, the dorm was buzzing. Free slipped in late, hoping to grab something quick and escape unnoticed. But luck never worked that way for him.

"Hey, there you are!"

Sisco's voice rang across the hall, too loud, too familiar. He bounded over with a tray in hand, balancing it dangerously as he set it down in front of Free. "I saved you food."

Free sat stiffly. "I wasn't hungry."

"Tough. You're eating."

Sisco plopped into the seat across from him, grinning as though last night hadn't happened. As though Free hadn't broken down and confessed things he'd buried for years.

The food sat untouched. Free stared at it, appetite gone. He could feel Sisco's gaze on him, unwavering.

"What?" he muttered.

"Nothing."

"You're staring."

"Yeah, because I'm waiting for you to eat."

Free's shoulders tightened. He hated this—being watched, being fussed over. He pushed the tray back. "I said I'm not hungry."

Sisco frowned, his usual spark dimming. "You can't keep skipping meals."

"Stop acting like you care." The words came out sharper than he meant, but once they were out he didn't take them back.

For a second, Sisco's face went blank. Then his eyes narrowed, voice rising. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Free clenched his fists under the table. "You don't actually care about me. You just like being the loud, annoying friend who thinks he can fix everything."

The words were like knives, cutting through the air between them.

Sisco's chair scraped back as he stood. For once, he didn't smile. "You really think that?"

Free didn't answer. Couldn't. His throat was tight, his chest heavy.

"Fine." Sisco's voice cracked, low with frustration. "If that's what you want to believe, then whatever. But don't pretend you know what I feel."

He stormed off, leaving Free alone at the table, surrounded by noise that suddenly felt too loud, too sharp.

Free stared down at the tray, the food untouched. His appetite was gone, but so was the tiny spark of warmth Sisco usually dragged into his world.

The rest of the day passed in a blur. Training matches, noise in the dorms, the constant hum of activity. Free kept his distance, burying himself in practice until his hands ached. He wanted the repetition, the rhythm, anything to drown out the memory of Sisco's voice breaking.

When night fell, he found himself on the rooftop again. The city lights stretched out like scattered stars, the air cool against his face. He leaned on the railing, exhausted but restless.

The door creaked open behind him.

Of course.

"You're avoiding me," Sisco said, voice quieter than usual.

Free didn't turn. "You shouldn't be here."

"Too bad. I'm here anyway."

Silence stretched. Free's grip on the railing tightened. Finally he said, "Why do you keep pushing? Why do you care so much?"

"Because you matter to me."

The words hit harder than he expected, knocking the breath out of him. He turned, searching Sisco's face for mockery, but found none. Just stubborn, unflinching sincerity.

Free looked away quickly, heart hammering. "You don't get it. I don't know how to... I don't know if I can feel that way. Not after everything."

"You don't have to know right now," Sisco said softly. "You just have to let me stay. That's all I'm asking."

Free's chest ached. He wanted to push him away, to build the walls back up. But he was so tired of the silence. So tired of carrying everything alone.

He exhaled shakily, eyes fixed on the city below. "I don't want to lose you."

The confession slipped out before he could stop it. His voice was low, almost swallowed by the wind, but Sisco heard it.

And for once, Sisco didn't laugh, didn't shout, didn't gloat. He just stepped closer, standing beside Free, their shoulders almost brushing.

"Then you won't," Sisco said simply.

The rooftop was quiet after that. Free didn't smile, not fully, but the heaviness in his chest eased—just a little.

Free avoided Sisco the next morning. It wasn't hard. BC Sol was crowded and loud, full of bladers rushing from one practice to the next. But even with all the noise, Free felt Sisco's absence like a hollow space shadowing him.

He didn't go to breakfast. He didn't go to the rec room. He trained instead, alone in the practice stadium. The sound of Beys colliding against the walls was sharp, mechanical, almost violent. He launched Fafnir over and over until his arm throbbed.

"Skipping meals again?"

Free startled slightly at the voice. He turned to see Kristina leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed.

"I'm fine," he muttered.

She raised a brow. "That's what you always say."

He went back to adjusting his launcher. Silence stretched between them until she stepped forward, her tone gentler. "You and Sisco fought, didn't you?"

Free's chest tightened. He didn't answer.

Kristina sighed. "You can push a lot of people away, Free, but not him. He's stubborn. He'll just keep coming back."

"I don't want him to," Free said, sharper than he intended. His hands clenched around the launcher. "I don't want him looking at me like I'm broken."

Kristina's gaze softened, but she didn't argue. "Maybe he's not looking at you that way. Maybe he's just looking."

She left him with that, and Free hated how the words stuck in his head long after she was gone.

Later, at lunch, Free slipped in late, hoping the noise of the cafeteria would hide him. He kept his head down, grabbed food quickly, and found a quiet corner. But Sisco spotted him anyway.

"Hey."

Free froze mid-bite. Sisco stood across from him, tray in hand, expression unreadable. Not grinning. Not loud. Just watching.

"Can I sit?"

Free's instinct screamed no. But he didn't say it. He shrugged instead.

Sisco sat, poking at his food without eating. The silence between them was thick. Finally, he spoke.

"Why do you think I don't care?"

Free's fork stilled. His throat felt tight. "I didn't say that."

"You did. Yesterday. You said I only act like I care."

Free swallowed hard, staring at his tray. "I didn't mean—"

"Yes, you did." Sisco's voice cracked, sharp with hurt. "You think everything I do is just... what? A game? You think I stick around you because it makes me feel better about myself?"

Free's chest ached. He forced his voice out, low and bitter. "Isn't it true? You're always so loud, always pushing, always trying to break me open. You don't know what it's like to live with this. You don't know what it's like to watch everything that mattered get ripped away. You can't understand. So why pretend?"

Sisco's chair scraped back suddenly as he stood, fists clenched at his sides. His face was flushed, his eyes blazing. "I'm not pretending! I've been here this whole time, Free! I've stayed, even when you act like you don't want me to. Doesn't that mean anything to you?"

Free flinched. His voice was quieter, strained. "I don't deserve it."

Sisco stared at him for a long, heavy moment. Then he shook his head, stepping back. "Maybe you don't get to decide that."

He left his tray behind and stormed out of the cafeteria.

Free sat frozen, appetite gone, the stares of a few curious bladers prickling at his back. He shoved his food away and left quickly, heart pounding, shame burning in his chest.

Therapy that afternoon felt different. The room was the same, soft light and quiet, but Free couldn't shake the argument echoing in his head.

"You look unsettled," the therapist observed.

Free stared at the floor. "I said something I shouldn't have."

"To who?"

"...A friend."

"Do you want to tell me what you said?"

He hesitated, then forced the words out. "That he doesn't really care about me. That he's pretending."

The therapist nodded thoughtfully. "And do you believe that?"

Free's hands curled into fists. His voice broke. "No. I just... I don't understand why he does care."

"Why is that hard to believe?"

He swallowed hard, the words burning in his throat. He hadn't said them in years. Not out loud.

"Because people who care—" His voice broke, shaking now. "They don't stay. They... they get taken."

The therapist stayed quiet, letting him go on.

"My parents—" Free's breath hitched. His hands dug into his knees. "I was there. I saw it. They didn't even get to say anything. One second they were alive, the next they were—" He cut himself off, a sharp tremor running through his chest. "And I couldn't do anything. I just stood there. And after that... I stopped crying. I stopped talking. Because if I let myself feel anything, it was like I'd never stop."

The silence was heavy, but not judging.

Finally, the therapist spoke, voice gentle. "So you learned to hide it all. To survive."

Free nodded once, jerky. His eyes were burning but still dry, like always. "And now Sisco—he's not supposed to care. Not about me. I don't know what to do with it."

The therapist leaned forward slightly. "Maybe that's because it's the first time someone stayed. And maybe it scares you because you want them to."

Free's chest tightened painfully. His chest was tight, his eyes burning, though still no tears came. "I don't want to lose him." The admission cracked his voice, fragile and raw.

The therapist's expression softened. "That sounds like someone who matters very much to you."

Free couldn't answer. He pressed his palms against his knees, grounding himself, trying to hold the words inside.

That night, the dorm felt suffocating. Laughter spilled from the rec room, music blared down the hall. Free sat on his bed with Fafnir in hand, staring at the spinning ring as if it could give him answers.

A knock sounded at his door. His chest tightened. He didn't move.

"Free?" Sisco's voice. Hesitant.

Free stayed silent.

The knock came again, softer this time. "I just want to talk."

Still, Free didn't move. He wanted to. God, he wanted to. But shame pinned him in place.

After a long pause, Sisco sighed. "Fine. But I'm not giving up. You hear me? I'm not going anywhere."

His footsteps retreated, fading down the hall.

Free set Fafnir down on the bed beside him, staring at the ceiling. His chest hurt, his throat tight. He wanted to call out, to open the door, to let Sisco in. But the words wouldn't come.

Instead he lay in silence, the emptiness pressing heavy against his ribs.

When morning came, Free dragged himself to the courtyard again. The air was crisp, the stone steps cool beneath him. He sat with his arms around his knees, Fafnir resting in the grass.

Kristina found him there, as if she had been expecting it. She didn't sit this time, just stood with her hands on her hips.

"You're fighting with him," she said simply.

Free didn't look up. "I told him he doesn't care."

Kristina's sigh was quiet but sharp. "That was cruel, Free. He cares more than anyone. And you know it."

His throat closed. His voice came out rough. "I know. I just don't know what to do with it."

Kristina softened. "Then figure it out. Because if you keep pushing him away, one day he might stop pushing back. And I don't think you want that."

Her words lingered long after she left, heavy and true.

Free closed his eyes, pressing his forehead against his knees.

I don't want to lose him.

The thought rang louder than the memories, louder than the silence. And for the first time, he admitted it fully to himself.

Free didn't know how many times he replayed the fight in his head. The cafeteria, Sisco's voice breaking, his own cruel words echoing louder than any battle. Every time he thought about opening his mouth to apologize, the shame stopped him cold.

But the silence between them was unbearable. Even with the noise of BC Sol all around him, it felt like something had gone missing. Something loud, chaotic, essential.

He realized he missed Sisco's voice more than the quiet that used to comfort him.

That night, Free found himself on the rooftop again. The city lights stretched below, the wind tugging at his hair. He gripped the railing, chest tight.

The door opened behind him. He didn't need to turn to know who it was.

"You really like rooftops, huh?" Sisco's voice was cautious, but there was still a spark of his usual energy buried underneath.

Free exhaled. "You followed me."

"Yeah." Sisco walked up beside him, leaning against the railing. His tone was sharper now. "Because you keep running, and I'm tired of chasing you."

Free winced. The words cut deeper than he wanted to admit.

Sisco crossed his arms. "So? Are you gonna keep pretending, or are you finally gonna tell me what's going on in your head?"

Free gripped the railing tighter, knuckles white. His throat ached with words he didn't want to say, words he'd been holding for years. But Sisco was here. Sisco hadn't given up.

"I'm scared," Free said finally, voice barely above a whisper.

Sisco blinked, thrown off. "Scared of what?"

"Of losing you. Of needing you too much. Of—" His voice cracked, raw. "Of being too broken to give anything back."

Sisco stared at him for a long moment. Then he let out a breath, shaking his head. "You idiot."

Free stiffened.

"You think you're broken? Fine. Maybe you are. But that doesn't mean you don't matter." Sisco's voice was rough, his usual grin nowhere to be found. "You don't have to give me anything back. I'm here because I want to be. Because I care. Not out of pity. Not because it makes me feel good. But because it's you."

The words hit Free like a punch. He turned, searching Sisco's face, desperate for a hint of mockery. But Sisco's expression was steady, fierce, painfully honest.

Free's voice shook. "I don't know if I can feel love the way other people do."

Sisco didn't flinch. He stepped closer, their shoulders brushing. "Then feel it your way. I don't need perfect. I just need you."

Free's chest ached, heavy and light all at once. He looked down, swallowing hard. "I don't smile anymore. I don't even laugh anymore. Not like I used to."

Sisco smirked faintly, softer than usual. "Then I'll just have to be annoying enough until you do."

Against his will, Free huffed a shaky sound—something between a laugh and a sob. His chest loosened, just a fraction.

Sisco's eyes softened at the sound. He reached out, hesitated, then rested a hand against Free's arm. "You don't have to hide from me. Not anymore."

Free stared at the city lights, the weight of Sisco's hand grounding him. For once, the silence between them wasn't suffocating. It was steady. Warm.

"I don't want to lose you," Free whispered again, the words raw, stripped bare.

"Then you won't."

Sisco said it simply, like it was the easiest promise in the world. And somehow, Free believed him.

Later, back in the dorms, Free sat on his bed with Fafnir in his hands. For the first time in years, the Bey felt less like a shield and more like what it was meant to be—a partner. Something that fought with him, not for him.

There was a knock on the door.

"Come in," Free said quietly.

Sisco poked his head in, grinning a little sheepishly. "Hey. Thought you might still be sulking."

Free shook his head. "Not tonight."

Sisco walked in, flopping down on the bed across from him without hesitation. "Good. Because sulking doesn't suit you."

Free almost smiled at that. Almost.

The silence stretched, softer now, until Sisco spoke again. "You know, I meant what I said on the roof. You don't have to be fixed. I don't need perfect. I just need you to stop pushing me away."

Free looked down at Fafnir, then back up at Sisco. His voice was low, steady. "I'll try."

Sisco's grin widened. "Good enough for me."

For the first time in a long time, Free felt something shift inside him. Not a cure. Not a miracle. Just a spark, small and fragile, but real.

And for once, he didn't feel the need to hide it.

The night outside was quiet. Free lay awake, but not because of nightmares. For the first time, the silence wasn't heavy. It was peaceful.

He wasn't fixed. He wasn't healed. His parents were still gone, his scars still deep. But as he drifted in that quiet, he thought of Sisco's hand on his arm, his stubborn voice saying I'm not going anywhere.

And for the first time in years, Free let himself believe it.

Chapter Text

The day was quiet.
Suspiciously quiet.

Daigo Kurogami sat at the dorm's small kitchen table, steam curling lazily from his mug of green tea. The sun streamed in through the window, soft and warm. No battles. No shouting. No Valt running laps around the common room with his Bey launcher in hand.

For once, peace.

He took a slow sip. Yeah, today would be good. Maybe he could even—

The door banged open so hard it rattled the frame.

"DAIGOOO!"

Daigo's grip tightened on his mug. "Clio?"

Clio Delon practically flew into the room, scarf trailing behind him, eyes bright with the look of someone who had found trouble and made friends with it.

Daigo sighed. "What did you do."

"I didn't do anything!" Clio said, far too quickly to be believable. Then, grinning, he pulled his hands from behind his back.

In them was... a hamster.

A small, fluffy, golden-brown hamster, blinking up at Daigo with tiny black eyes.

"...Why," Daigo said flatly.

Clio beamed. "He followed me."

Daigo stared at him. "Hamsters don't follow people."

"This one did. We have a connection. His name is Turbo Squeak!"

Daigo set his mug down with the care of a man trying not to break something. "Clio. You can't just bring a hamster into the dorm."

"Too late!" Clio plopped the hamster onto the table. The hamster began inspecting Daigo's tea mug with fearless curiosity.

Daigo rubbed his temples. "If someone finds out about this—"

"Then we hide him! No one will ever know," Clio said, nodding to himself as though he'd just solved world hunger.

The front door banged again. "Hey, you guys in here?"

Valt's voice.

Clio froze. "He can't see Turbo Squeak!"

"Why?!" Daigo hissed.

"Because if he finds out I'm keeping a pet here, he'll think we're—" Clio waggled his eyebrows in an exaggerated arc, "—cohabiting."

Daigo nearly choked. "We are not— Just hide the hamster!"

Clio, in a moment of blinding genius, scooped up Turbo Squeak and shoved him into Daigo's hoodie pocket.

"What are you—"

"Shh!"

Valt barreled into the kitchen, bright as ever. "Oh, hey Daigo! Hey Clio! What's up?"

Daigo sat very still. Turbo Squeak shifted in his pocket.

"Not much," Daigo said, trying to sound casual. "Just sitting."

A squeak came from his hoodie.

Valt blinked. "...Was that you?"

"No."

Another squeak.

Clio coughed loudly. "That was me! Weird cough, huh?"

Valt tilted his head but didn't push it. "Anyway, Shu wants to do some light practice later. You in?"

"Sure," Daigo said quickly, trying to edge Valt toward the door.

But then—

"Hey, what's that?"

Valt reached toward Daigo's pocket.

Panic surged through him. "Nothing!"

Valt jerked his hand back. "Okay, jeez. Secretive much?" He shrugged and wandered out.

As soon as the door shut, Daigo pulled the hamster from his pocket. Turbo Squeak looked perfectly unbothered.

"That," Daigo said to Clio, "was way too close."

Clio smirked. "Relax. We're professionals at secrecy."

Daigo gave him a look. "You? Professional? In what universe?"

Before Clio could answer, another voice floated in from the hallway — calm, measured.

"Clio. Daigo."

Shu Kurenai stepped into view, hands in his pockets, posture relaxed but eyes sharp. He still carried that quiet intensity after the Red Eye incident, even when doing something as simple as entering a room.

"Practicing later," Shu said. "Try not to exhaust yourselves beforehand." His gaze flicked briefly to the hamster still in Daigo's hands. "Interesting pet."

Daigo froze. "Uh—"

Shu gave a small nod and walked away without another word.

The silence left behind was heavy.

"...He knows," Daigo muttered.

Clio shrugged. "Or he doesn't care."

Daigo stared at him. "You have no idea, do you?"

"Nope," Clio said cheerfully.

The rest of the morning was a blur of increasingly absurd cover-ups.

Incident #1: Rantaro barged in looking for snacks, nearly spotted the hamster on the couch. Clio claimed he was "just fluffing a very realistic hamster pillow."

Incident #2: Turbo Squeak escaped and made it halfway to the Bey stadium before Daigo caught him. Clio insisted this meant he was "born to battle."

Incident #3: Free walked in, glanced at the hamster in Daigo's hands, and said in his calm monotone, "That's not regulation," before leaving without further comment.

By lunch, Daigo was exhausted. Clio was still brimming with energy.

"We should build him a little Bey launcher," Clio said between bites.

"No," Daigo said immediately.

"Come on, imagine the tiny battles—"

"No."

Clio sighed dramatically. "You're no fun."

Daigo leaned back in his chair. "I just want one quiet day."

Naturally, that was when Valt reappeared.

"Hey, Daigo, what's this?"

Daigo looked over. Valt was holding a small plastic bag. A bag of hamster food.

Daigo's brain stalled. "Where did you get that?"

"It was in your backpack."

Clio froze mid-bite, eyes darting between them.

"Oh, uh—" Daigo started, scrambling for an excuse. "That's for... um..."

Valt's eyes narrowed in playful suspicion. "You're hiding something."

Daigo forced a laugh. "Don't be ridiculous—"

"Uh-huh," Valt said, clearly unconvinced, before walking off with the bag.

As the door swung shut behind him, Daigo slumped forward. "We're doomed."

Clio grinned. "Nah. This just means we have to be even sneakier."

Daigo groaned. "That's exactly what I'm afraid of."

And somewhere down the hall, Shu was sipping tea, thinking, They really think no one notices?

Daigo woke up the next morning to the sound of Clio talking to someone in the hallway. He rolled over, hoping it was a dream, but the voice got closer until Clio shoved open his door without knocking. The hamster was perched on his shoulder like some kind of pirate mascot.

"Daigo, I have a plan," Clio announced.

Daigo sat up slowly. "Why do I feel like that sentence is about to ruin my life."

Clio ignored him. "Valt's suspicious. We can't just keep hiding the hamster—people are going to notice our... closeness."

Daigo rubbed his face. "Our what?"

"You know." Clio smirked. "We're together a lot. And by together, I mean together."

Daigo's ears went red. "You—Stop saying it like that."

"So," Clio went on, "I've decided we need to act normal."

"We are normal," Daigo muttered.

Clio gave him a pitying look. "Daigo, yesterday you shoved a hamster into your hoodie like it was contraband. That's not normal."

Daigo tried to deny it, but... okay, he had a point.

"So here's the plan," Clio said, pacing the room like a general explaining battlefield strategy. "We're going to overcompensate. No one will suspect a thing if we're just two totally ordinary teammates. We'll fake arguments, avoid sitting next to each other, that sort of thing."

Daigo stared at him. "You realize you're making us sound even weirder, right?"

"Trust me," Clio said, and Daigo felt his soul leave his body a little.

Breakfast was the first test. The whole crew was gathered in the kitchen—Valt bouncing in his seat, Rantaro shoveling cereal into his mouth, Shu quietly sipping tea. Free was at the counter, clearly only there because someone had promised him bread.

Clio entered first, sweeping into the room with exaggerated energy. "Morning, everyone. Oh, Daigo," he added when Daigo walked in behind him, "you're late. Again."

Valt's eyebrows went up. "Whoa, trouble in paradise?"

Daigo choked on air. "It's not—there's no—" He gave Clio a look that said stop talking.

Clio just shrugged and dug into his toast. "We should have a schedule. Punctuality is important."

Rantaro blinked. "Since when do you care about punctuality?"

"Since always," Clio said.

Valt grinned. "You two are so weird."

Shu's eyes flicked from Clio to Daigo. He didn't say anything, but Daigo swore he saw the corner of his mouth twitch.

The fake argument idea didn't get any better during practice. They'd all gathered in the stadium for some light training, and Valt was already in the middle of an animated explanation about his latest launch technique. Daigo was just setting his Bey when Clio leaned in and said, loudly enough for everyone to hear, "Your form's sloppy."

Daigo glanced around, horrified. "Why are you—"

"Just go with it," Clio hissed.

"I don't need tips from someone who names their Bey after a mythical creature," Daigo shot back without thinking.

Clio gasped theatrically. "Excuse me?!"

Valt, Rantaro, and even Free turned to watch. Daigo wanted the floor to open up and swallow him.

Shu, leaning against the wall, finally spoke. "I see."

That was all. Just two words, delivered in his calm, quiet tone, before he went back to sipping from his thermos.

Daigo could feel his pulse in his ears. He launched his Bey just to have something to focus on, but the entire match was a mess because Clio kept making smug faces at him between rounds.

By lunch, Daigo had abandoned all hope of subtlety. They were sitting outside, Valt and Rantaro debating who would win in a match between Free and Shu, when Clio casually reached over and brushed some crumbs off Daigo's sleeve. It was the kind of small gesture Clio probably didn't even think about, but Daigo felt his whole body tense.

Shu noticed. Of course Shu noticed. His gaze lingered just a moment too long before sliding away again.

Daigo tried to move his arm, but Clio was already chatting with Rantaro about hamster diets, completely oblivious.

After lunch, Clio decided they should "practice being seen apart." Which somehow meant forcing Daigo to sit in the far corner of the common room while Clio lounged on the couch with Valt and Rantaro. Daigo thought maybe, finally, he'd get some peace—until Clio started sending him exaggerated winks from across the room every time someone looked away.

The worst moment came later that afternoon. They were all gathered in the practice room again, and Daigo was quietly adjusting his launcher when Clio strolled over and plopped down right next to him. He leaned in like he was about to share some top-secret strategy.

"Just so you know," Clio whispered, "our acting is going great."

Daigo stared at him. "Clio, you literally just sat next to me. Again."

"It's part of the plan."

"Your plan makes no sense."

Clio grinned. "Exactly. No one can suspect a plan they can't understand. Never let them know your next move."

Daigo was about to point out that everyone suspected something when Shu's shadow fell across them. They both looked up.

"You're up next," Shu said simply, then walked away.

Clio waited until he was out of earshot. "He totally suspects nothing."

Daigo just put his head in his hands.

The day ended with another close call. They were packing up to leave the practice room when Sir Fluffington, who had been quietly stashed in Clio's duffel bag, decided it was the perfect time to make an appearance. The little hamster popped his head out, whiskers twitching, just as Valt turned around.

"What's that?" Valt asked, already walking closer.

Clio reacted instantly, scooping the hamster back into the bag. "Nothing! Just, uh... my phone."

"Your phone squeaks?" Rantaro asked.

Clio grinned. "Limited edition."

Valt tilted his head but shrugged. "Cool. Hey, Daigo, you coming to the store with us? We're grabbing snacks."

Daigo hesitated. "I think I'll stay here."

"Suit yourself," Valt said, and he and Rantaro left. Shu lingered for a moment, watching Daigo and Clio, then quietly followed the others.

When the door closed, Daigo exhaled slowly. "Clio. This is unsustainable."

"Nonsense," Clio said, checking on Sir Fluffington. "We're getting better at it."

"We're getting worse," Daigo said.

Clio looked thoughtful for a moment, then grinned. "That's just part of the charm."

Daigo wasn't sure whether to laugh or throw something. He decided on neither, because with his luck, the noise would draw someone back in.

He told himself tomorrow would be calmer.

The next morning started deceptively normal. No shouting, no hamster sightings, no Clio announcing new "plans." Daigo even managed to have half his tea in peace before Rantaro stormed into the kitchen.

"Alright, which one of you took it?" Rantaro demanded.

Daigo blinked. "Took what?"

"My Bey! Roktavor is missing."

Valt, who was halfway through a stack of pancakes, gasped. "No way."

Clio strolled in behind Rantaro, entirely too calm. "Wow. That's... unfortunate."

"You sound suspicious," Rantaro said immediately.

Clio widened his eyes, full of mock innocence. "Me? Why would I take your Bey?"

Daigo frowned. "Clio..."

Clio shot him a quick look that said shut up. Which, if Daigo knew Clio at all—and unfortunately, he did—meant he absolutely had something to do with it.

Rantaro groaned. "I've looked everywhere. Stadium, dorm, even under the couch."

"Maybe it rolled away," Valt offered helpfully.

"It doesn't just roll away," Rantaro said, exasperated.

Clio cleared his throat. "Well, I'm sure it'll turn up. In the meantime..." He slid into the seat next to Daigo and whispered, "I'm working on something."

Daigo whispered back, "What did you do?"

"Customized it. For you," Clio said, like that explained everything.

Daigo nearly choked on his tea. "Why—"

"Because it's romantic," Clio said, dead serious.

Daigo put his head in his hands. "You can't just steal people's Beys."

"I didn't steal it," Clio said. "I'm borrowing it. Temporarily. To make it better."

"This is going to blow up in our faces," Daigo muttered.

It didn't take long for things to spiral. Rantaro, determined to find his Bey, enlisted Valt's help. Which meant the two of them began tearing through every room in the dorm. Shu passed through once, taking in the scene with a small frown before moving on. Free wandered in midway through, took one look, and said, "Looks like someone's hiding a crime," before calmly leaving with a piece of toast.

Daigo spent the next hour trying to keep Clio away from the search party, which was harder than it sounded because Clio kept making "casual" trips to the room where his bag—containing the modified Roktavor—was stashed.

Eventually, Daigo managed to slip away and retrieve the Bey himself. It looked... different. The parts were swapped with pieces from Clio's own Bey, the colors mismatched but strangely coordinated. And—of course—someone had drawn a tiny heart on the layer with a permanent marker.

Daigo stuffed it into his pocket, intending to sneak it back into Rantaro's room before anyone noticed. He made it halfway down the hall before Valt appeared out of nowhere.

"Oh hey, Daigo! What's that?" Valt asked, already leaning in.

"Nothing," Daigo said, trying to sidestep him.

Valt's eyes lit up. "Is that Rantaro's Bey?!"

Daigo froze. "No."

"Yes it is!" Valt reached for it.

Daigo pulled back. "It's—uh—Shu's."

Valt tilted his head. "Shu doesn't use Roktavor."

Think, think, think. "It's... a spare."

Valt narrowed his eyes. "Why are you acting weird?"

Before Daigo could answer, Rantaro came around the corner. His eyes locked on the Bey in Daigo's hand. "I knew it!"

Daigo opened his mouth to explain, but Clio appeared like a specter of chaos. "Oh, you found it! Isn't it great?"

Rantaro snatched the Bey and turned it over in his hands. "...What did you do to it?"

"I improved it," Clio said proudly.

"There's a heart on it," Rantaro said flatly.

"That's part of the aerodynamic enhancement," Clio said without blinking.

Valt snorted. "I don't think that's how that works."

Rantaro groaned. "You can't just mess with someone's Bey like this!"

"It was for a good cause," Clio said.

"What cause?!" Rantaro demanded.

"Uh..." Clio glanced at Daigo. "...Team bonding?"

Daigo wanted to melt into the floor.

Shu's voice drifted down the hallway. "Are you done causing trouble yet?"

They all turned to see Shu leaning against the wall, watching with that unreadable expression that made Daigo more nervous than yelling ever could.

"We're done," Daigo said quickly.

Shu's gaze lingered on the heart drawn on Roktavor before he walked away without another word.

Valt scratched his head. "He's been quiet lately, huh?"

Rantaro grumbled something about having to fix his Bey and stomped off. Valt followed him, probably to offer unhelpful advice.

As soon as they were alone, Daigo rounded on Clio. "You're going to get us caught."

Clio looked entirely too pleased with himself. "Technically, we didn't get caught."

"That's not the point," Daigo said. "Every day you make it worse."

Clio shrugged. "That's part of the fun."

Daigo stared at him, speechless, until Clio leaned in and whispered, "Besides, I've got another idea."

"No," Daigo said immediately.

"Yes," Clio said, already grinning. "Rantaro invited you out later, right?"

"I'm not telling you anything."

Clio's grin widened. "He did. And I'm coming too."

Daigo groaned. "Why?"

"Because," Clio said, "it'll be fun. And if we happen to run into Valt and Shu, well... that's just fate."

Daigo had a sinking feeling he knew exactly where this was going.

Daigo really thought maybe—just maybe—this outing would go smoothly. Rantaro had invited him to grab food and hit the practice stadium afterward. Simple. Harmless. A chance to reset from the hamster and the Beyblade theft.

Except Clio had shown up at the front door ten minutes before they left, scarf whipping dramatically in the breeze. "I'm coming with you," he'd declared, like it wasn't even a question.

And now they were sitting at an outdoor café, Daigo wedged between Clio and Rantaro, with Valt across the table and Shu quietly nursing a tea at the end.

It was immediately obvious Shu was... off. Not angry—Shu didn't get visibly angry often—but quieter than usual, eyes down, shoulders tense. He was answering questions with short nods, not engaging much. Daigo knew it was probably one of those days where the weight of the Red Eye incident still sat heavy.

Clio, however, seemed oblivious. Or worse—intrigued.

Halfway through their drinks, Clio leaned forward, propping his chin on his hand. "So... what's with you?"

Shu looked up slowly. "What?"

"You're sitting there like someone stole your puppy," Clio said bluntly. "Why are you trying to act depressed?"

Daigo nearly choked on his iced tea. "Clio—!"

Rantaro's eyes went wide. Valt froze mid-bite.

Shu's gaze was unreadable. He set his cup down. "I'm not acting."

There was a pause so heavy Daigo could feel it pressing on his ribs.

Clio, instead of shutting up, tilted his head. "Well, you could at least smile or something. You're kind of killing the vibe."

Daigo slammed a hand over Clio's mouth so fast he almost knocked over his chair. "He's fine. Everything's fine. Eat your food."

Clio tried to mumble something into Daigo's palm, but Daigo just pressed harder, glaring. "No. Words. From you."

Valt glanced between them, clearly confused. "Uh... are you two—"

"We're fine," Daigo cut in quickly. "Perfectly fine. Totally normal."

Shu, still calm, took another sip of tea. "It's fine, Daigo. He's not wrong that I'm quiet today."

Daigo glanced at him, unsure whether Shu was irritated or genuinely unbothered. "Still, he could maybe... not."

Clio finally pried Daigo's hand away. "I was just trying to help. You know, lighten the mood. People say laughter is the best medicine."

"I don't think calling someone depressed counts as medicine," Rantaro muttered.

Valt nodded. "Yeah, you're supposed to, like... tell a joke or something."

Clio crossed his arms. "Fine. Shu, why did the Beyblade cross the road?"

"Clio," Daigo warned.

Shu raised an eyebrow. "Why?"

"To get away from the hamster in Daigo's hoodie," Clio said, grinning.

Daigo groaned into his hands. "You're impossible."

Shu didn't laugh, but his mouth twitched—just barely.

They managed to get through the rest of lunch without further disaster, though Daigo kept one wary eye on Clio the whole time. Every time Clio leaned toward Shu, Daigo would shove a plate of fries or a drink at him to keep him busy.

After they ate, they headed to a stadium. Valt was already bouncing with excitement, challenging Rantaro to a launch-off. Shu wandered over to the side benches, sitting in the shade with his tea. Daigo thought maybe he'd be able to keep Clio occupied in the stadium itself.

Wrong.

Halfway through a round, Daigo glanced over and saw Clio standing in front of Shu, hands on his hips, clearly in the middle of some monologue. Daigo abandoned his match mid-spin and jogged over.

"Clio," he hissed, "what are you doing?"

"Helping," Clio said.

Shu's expression was neutral. "He's telling me I should 'stop brooding like an anime rival.'"

Daigo's face heated. "You said what?!"

"It's true!" Clio said, turning to Shu. "You've got the whole stoic thing going on, but it's starting to look like you're auditioning for a tragic backstory arc."

Shu blinked slowly. "...You're not wrong about that last part."

Daigo's brain short-circuited. "Shu, don't encourage him."

Clio grinned like he'd just won a trophy. "See? He admits it!"

Rantaro called from the stadium, "Hey, are you guys battling or what?"

Daigo grabbed Clio's arm. "We're battling. Right now. Far away from here."

Clio let himself be dragged away, still smirking. "I think I made him feel better."

"You're going to make me lose my mind," Daigo muttered.

The rest of the afternoon was a balancing act of keeping Clio distracted enough not to say something else inappropriate, keeping Valt and Rantaro oblivious, and keeping Shu from being left alone with Clio again. Daigo didn't know which was harder.

But as they were all packing up to leave, Daigo noticed something strange—Shu actually looked... lighter. Still quiet, still reserved, but there was a hint of ease in his posture that hadn't been there at lunch.

Maybe, Daigo thought reluctantly, Clio's chaotic brand of "help" hadn't been a complete disaster.

Then Clio loudly announced to the group, "See? Shu's smiling now. I fixed him."

Daigo slapped a hand over his face. "You're unbelievable."

Shu actually chuckled, soft and almost reluctant. "Maybe."

And somehow, that was the worst part—because now Clio would never, ever let it go.

As the group headed back to the dorm, Daigo fell into step beside Shu.

"You okay?" he asked quietly.

Shu glanced at him. "Better. Thanks."

Daigo nodded. "Clio's... well, Clio. You handled him well."

Shu's lips quirked in what might have been a small smile.

That night, as the dorm settled into quiet, Daigo found himself thinking about Shu's struggles—and how sometimes the loudest noise wasn't always the one that helped the most.

The dormitory was unusually calm for a Friday night, the quiet almost oppressive compared to the usual clamor of late-night Beyblade practice and Clio's endless antics. Daigo sat on the couch, half-watching a replay of yesterday's battles on his tablet while half-worrying about how long this whole charade with Clio and Shu was going to hold.

Clio was nowhere in sight, which usually meant one of two things: he was either plotting some wild new scheme or accidentally causing chaos somewhere. Daigo's gut told him it was probably both.

Just as he was about to settle back into the replay, a soft rustling sound drifted from the kitchen. Daigo groaned but got up and went to investigate.

There was Clio, crouched low by the fridge, eyes wide and fixated on something small and fast moving on the floor. "Shh! I'm hunting the hamster," Clio whispered with mock-seriousness.

Daigo blinked in disbelief. "Hunting? Seriously? You're treating a hamster like some kind of enemy?"

Clio nodded, barely able to contain his excitement. "Absolutely. That fluffball's plotting a Beyblade takeover. I can feel it."

Before Daigo could protest further, the tiny hamster streaked past, a blur of twitchy whiskers and tiny paws. Clio sprang up like a cat on a laser pointer and chased after it with dramatic flair, knocking over a small stack of papers in the process.

"Clio! Stop—" Daigo shouted, but Clio was already in full pursuit.

The chase was on, Turbo Squeak darting through the living room and heading straight for the closed door to Rantaro's room.

Daigo and Clio exchanged a quick glance and dashed after it. Clio threw the door open, only to come face-to-face with Rantaro, who was standing there in his usual composed manner but clearly confused.

"What the—?!" Rantaro exclaimed, eyes wide as he took in Clio's wild grin and the hamster zipping around his feet.

Daigo cleared his throat awkwardly. "Uh... hi, Rantaro."

Rantaro's gaze flicked between Daigo and Clio, then to the open door behind them.

"What are you two—?" His eyes darted towards the hamster.

Rantaro groaned. "You two are impossible."

Just then, from behind Rantaro, a calm voice cut through the tension.

"Impossible is what we do best."

They all turned to see Shu standing there, holding his own Beyblade, his usually stoic face softened by a small, almost reluctant smile. His eyes flicked briefly to Clio and Daigo, who exchanged a guilty glance.

Rantaro raised an eyebrow. "What is going on?"

At that moment, the rest of the team began gathering, drawn by the noise and confusion. Valt bounded in, still buzzing from his latest training session, followed by Free, Silas, Sasha, and the others.

Free smirked knowingly. "Looks like the truth finally caught up with you."

Silas chuckled. "About time."

"Are we talking about the hamster or...?" Clio asked, but he had a feeling it was about something completely different.

Daigo sighed deeply. "Alright. You caught us. We are dating."

Clio threw his arms up with theatrical flair. "We were just trying to keep things interesting."

Shu crossed his arms and nodded. "And maybe lighten the mood a bit."

Rantaro shook his head but smiled despite himself. "Well, I guess everyone deserves a little chaos."

Turbo Squeak chose that exact moment to sprint across the floor, expertly dodging feet and tumbling over a stray Beyblade launcher. The entire group burst into laughter as it disappeared through an open door, as if on cue.

Daigo looked around at the faces—grinning, amused, and unexpectedly warm—and realized maybe this chaotic little family of theirs was exactly what they needed.

After the laughter died down, Daigo pulled Clio aside, nudging him gently. "You realize this means they know now, right? They know we are dating."

Clio grinned mischievously. "I was counting on that. No more hiding means less stress. Plus, it's fun watching everyone squirm."

Daigo rolled his eyes but couldn't help smiling. "You're impossible."

"Impossible and proud." Clio winked.

Shu approached, clearing his throat softly. "Daigo, Clio... thank you."

Both of them turned, surprised by the rare gratitude in Shu's voice.

"For what?" Daigo asked.

"For reminding me that even the strongest can lean on others."

Clio's grin softened. "See? I do have a heart."

Shu gave a small, almost imperceptible nod.

As the night wore on, the team settled into comfortable chatter, the awkward secrecy finally lifted. Rantaro shared embarrassing practice stories, Valt challenged everyone to another match tomorrow, and Free calmly plotted his next tournament strategy, completely unfazed by the evening's chaos.

The hamster, for its part, was nowhere to be seen. Presumably safe from further "attacks," for now.

Daigo sat back, watching the team. The bonds between them, strengthened through battles and secrets, were what made them strong. Chaos, humor, and all.

And maybe that was the real secret to winning—not just in Beyblade, but in life.

Chapter Text

The afternoon sun poured through the BC Sol training yard, heat shimmering off the tiles. The sound of spinning beyblades echoed across the stadium, metal clashing against metal in bursts that made the air hum. Sisco was the loudest thing there, as usual, his voice carrying all the way to the sidelines.

"Ha! Did you see that, Free? Total destruction!" he declared, pointing at his bey like it had just won a world championship. "That was my patented Super Spinning Shockwave Style! You're lucky you even got to witness it."

Free sat cross-legged on the edge of the stadium, Fafnir resting calmly in his hand. His hair fluttered a little in the breeze, his expression as relaxed as ever. But this time, instead of giving Sisco a flat "mm" or ignoring him, Free tilted his head and said, "You mean the part where your bey ricocheted into the wall and barely survived?"

Sisco froze. "What?! No, that was strategy!"

Free's lips tugged upward, just slightly. It wasn't a full smile yet, but the teasing edge in his tone made Sisco stare. Then, as if to twist the knife, Free added, "I thought you were trying to impress me."

That did it. Sisco's face went red. "Wh—of course I was! And I did impress you, didn't I? Admit it!"

Free let out a small laugh, quiet but real. The sound startled Sisco more than anything else. He blinked, mouth falling open, because Free didn't just chuckle — he was actually laughing. There was warmth in it, like sunlight peeking through clouds.

Sisco slapped his hands on his hips. "Finally! I knew I could crack you open. Sisco Karlisle: master of comedy and battling."

"You're just ridiculous," Free said, and though his words were flat, his smile wasn't. He set Fafnir in the launcher, gesturing toward the stadium. "One more round?"

"You're on!" Sisco declared, already winding up.

Their beys burst into the stadium with a clash of sparks. Sisco was shouting orders at his bey like it could hear him, hopping on the balls of his feet with every impact. Free, as always, was still, his calm composure almost mocking the storm Sisco was creating. But his eyes weren't blank anymore. They glimmered with amusement, following every exaggerated move Sisco made.

"Go, no! Slice him in half! No—no—WAIT, don't go that way, what are you doing—"

Fafnir took the hit, spun lazily, and stole the momentum like water slipping around a rock. Sisco's bey wobbled and collapsed in seconds.

The stadium fell silent except for the faint hum of Fafnir still spinning.

"Winner: Free de la Hoya," the announcer's voice would have said if there had been one.

Instead, Sisco groaned, throwing himself flat on the ground as if his life had just ended. "Ughhh, why does this always happen?!"

Free leaned forward, resting his chin in his hand. "Because you get too dramatic."

"Dramatic?" Sisco sat up, scandalized. "This is called passion! Maybe you should try it sometime, Mr. Calm-And-Collected!"

For a second, Free said nothing. Sisco worried he'd gone too far, that maybe Free would close up again. But then Free's shoulders shook slightly, and he started laughing again. Louder this time. Genuine.

Sisco froze, caught off guard. Free was laughing at him — not mocking, not cold, but openly amused, eyes crinkling at the corners.

Free just kept laughing, wiping at the corner of his eye. "You're unbelievable."

The match ended there, but neither of them cared. They sprawled out in the grass beside the training yard, beyblades lying forgotten between them. The sun dipped lower, painting the sky in shades of gold.

Sisco folded his arms behind his head, still pouting. "You know, one day, I'm gonna beat you so hard you won't even be able to say Fafnir without crying."

Free tilted his head toward him, smiling faintly. "You think so?"

"I know so," Sisco insisted, grinning up at the clouds. "And until then... I'll just keep making you laugh. Because clearly, you need me for that."

Free was quiet for a long moment. Then, softly, he said, "Maybe I do."

Sisco almost sat up at that, but the weight of the words kept him still. He didn't know how to respond, not really. So he just grinned wider, letting the silence stretch.

They lay there until the sky darkened, the sounds of the BC Sol dorms starting to stir for dinner. Free finally sat up, brushing grass from his hair. "Come on. If you lose to me this badly, you'll need the energy to keep trying."

"You're buying dessert," Sisco declared, leaping up after him.

Free gave him a look, amused. "We'll see."

But as they walked back together, side by side, Sisco caught that small smile still lingering on Free's face. And he thought — maybe battles didn't always have to be about winning. Sometimes, they were about this.

The cafeteria at BC Sol was buzzing as usual, trays clattering, voices overlapping, chairs scraping against the tiled floor. Bladers crowded around tables in clusters, some arguing over matches, others laughing over inside jokes. It smelled like tomato sauce and warm bread, the kind of comforting, everyday meal the place always churned out.

Free sat at the far end of a table, half-finished plate in front of him. Pasta, a roll, some fries, and salad. He wasn't really paying attention to it, just twirling his fork slowly while his mind wandered. Training had ended an hour ago, but the sound of spinning beyblades still echoed faintly through the walls, like the whole building vibrated with energy.

Suddenly, a tray slammed down across from him.

"FREE!"

Sisco dropped into the seat with the energy of a firework, nearly sending Free's water glass tumbling. His tray was loaded with food—two sandwiches stacked high, a mountain of fries, a bowl of soup, and what looked suspiciously like three desserts balanced precariously on the corner.

Free raised an eyebrow. "Are you planning to feed the entire team?"

Sisco jabbed a thumb at himself proudly. "Nope. This is all for me. A true blader needs fuel, Free! My body is a temple of greatness, and greatness requires—" He stuffed half a sandwich into his mouth, muffling the end of the sentence completely.

Free leaned back slightly, lips twitching in faint amusement. "Requires terrible table manners?"

Sisco swallowed, slapped a hand dramatically against his chest, and gasped. "You—you just made a joke at my expense!"

Free gave the smallest shrug, like it wasn't a big deal, but the glimmer in his eyes gave him away.

Sisco grinned like he'd just won a tournament. "I knew it! I knew hanging around me would rub off on you. Next thing you know, you'll be standing on tables announcing your greatness!"

"That won't happen," Free said calmly, taking a sip of his water.

"We'll see about that." Sisco reached over without hesitation and speared one of Free's fries.

Free's gaze followed the fry like a hawk. "That was mine."

Sisco popped it into his mouth anyway, smirking. "You weren't eating it. Consider it rescued."

Free sighed, but his voice carried no real annoyance. "Unbelievable."

They ate—or in Sisco's case, devoured—their food with the easy background noise of the cafeteria around them. Sisco narrated every bite like he was hosting a cooking show, dramatically rating the soup as a "9 out of 10 flavor explosion" and the fries as "dangerously addictive." Free shook his head, but more than once, a quiet laugh slipped out, barely audible under the din.

When they finally finished, Sisco leaned back with a groan, patting his stomach. "Alright. Time for the second half of today's adventure."

Free looked at him evenly. "Second half?"

"Yep. The lounge. You and me. Games."

"I don't play games," Free said, standing to carry his tray away.

Sisco sprang up, nearly tripping over his chair in his hurry to follow. "Oh, you will today. I, Sisco Karlisle, challenge you!"

Free glanced at him sidelong. "To what? Foosball?"

"Yes!" Sisco's eyes lit up like a kid's. "Exactly foosball. You read my mind. Come on, don't back down now."

The lounge wasn't as busy as the cafeteria, but a handful of bladers were sprawled across couches or clustered around the foosball tables. The air smelled faintly of popcorn from the machine in the corner. Posters of past tournaments lined the walls, the bright colors a reminder of the energy that drove everyone here.

Sisco darted straight for an empty table, slapping his hands dramatically against the handles. "Choose your side, Free. Red or blue. Choose wisely, because it'll decide your fate!"

Free hesitated only a moment before sliding to the blue side, fingers resting lightly on the handles. "This is ridiculous."

"Ridiculously fun," Sisco corrected.

The game started with a clatter as the ball dropped. Sisco immediately threw himself into it, spinning his handles wildly, shouting battle cries with every strike. Free, by contrast, moved with calm precision, blocking Sisco's attempts with minimal effort.

"Ha! You'll never—" The ball zipped past Sisco's defenders and into his goal.

"One to zero," Free said mildly.

Sisco clutched his chest like he'd been shot. "Betrayed! By my own hands! This table is cursed!"

Free's lips curved upward, just slightly. "Or maybe you're bad at this."

That earned him a glare, but Sisco was already laughing too hard to stay mad. They kept playing, round after round, the score climbing unevenly in Free's favor. Each time Sisco lost, he had a new excuse: the lighting was wrong, the ball was slippery, Free was using "mystical meditation powers" to cheat. Free countered each with quiet deadpan remarks that only fueled Sisco's theatrics.

By the fifth round, Sisco was leaning so far over the table he nearly fell across it. Free blocked his frantic last-minute shot and sent the ball smoothly into Sisco's goal.

"Game over," Free said softly.

Sisco collapsed backward onto the floor, arms spread wide. "Defeated again! My legacy... my pride... ruined!"

A few bladers nearby snickered at the scene. Free leaned against the table, watching Sisco's exaggerated death throes. Then, unexpectedly, a laugh bubbled up from his chest. Clear, genuine.

Sisco sat up instantly, eyes wide. "You—did you just—"

Free covered his mouth with his hand, but he couldn't stop. The laughter spilled out, quiet but unrestrained, shaking his shoulders. For a moment, Sisco just stared, stunned. Then a slow grin spread across his face.

"I did it again," he whispered triumphantly. "I made you laugh."

Free wiped his eyes, trying to compose himself, but the smile lingered. "You're annoying."

"And you love it," Sisco shot back, climbing to his feet. "Don't deny it."

Free didn't answer right away. His smile softened, his gaze steady. "...Maybe I do."

The words hung in the air, heavier than they should have been, but not uncomfortable. Sisco blinked, heart skipping, before quickly shoving the moment aside with a laugh. "Well, of course you do. Who wouldn't? I'm amazing."

Free shook his head, still smiling.

They stayed in the lounge until the lights dimmed to signal curfew approaching. Sisco kept suggesting new games—darts, cards, even a puzzle he found on a shelf—but Free mostly watched, offering dry commentary that made Sisco ham it up even more. At some point, Free actually joined in on a round of darts, landing a perfect shot while Sisco missed the board entirely. The smug look on Free's face afterward was enough to fuel Sisco's competitive fire for the rest of the night.

Eventually, the staff started ushering people toward their dorms. Sisco stretched, yawning dramatically. "Guess that's it for today. But don't think this means you're off the hook. Tomorrow, rematch. And the day after that. Until I win!"

Free stood, slipping his hands back into his pockets. "That'll take forever."

"Forever's fine with me," Sisco said with a grin. "As long as it makes you laugh."

Free looked at him for a moment, then nodded. "Deal."

They parted ways in the hallway, heading to their separate dorms. But as Free pushed open the door to his own, he realized the quiet didn't feel heavy tonight. It felt lighter, almost comfortable. He actually found himself looking forward to tomorrow.

The hallway outside Free's dorm was quiet, muffled footsteps echoing in the distance as bladers settled in for the night. A soft hum of conversation leaked from a few doors, but otherwise BC Sol felt calmer than it had all day.

Free sat on his bed, legs folded loosely, Fafnir turning lazily between his fingers. His room was neat but sparse — just a desk, a few books, and a small potted plant by the window that one of the staff had given him months ago. He'd kept it alive surprisingly well.

He wasn't sure if he expected the knock. Sisco didn't usually bother with them. But tonight, there it was: a loud, uneven bang-bang-bang.

"Free! Open up before I break this door down!"

Free set Fafnir on the desk and rose, opening the door just enough to see Sisco's grinning face and the bag of chips he was waving around like a trophy.

"I come bearing snacks and entertainment!" Sisco announced, already squeezing his way inside without waiting for an invitation.

Free raised an eyebrow, shutting the door behind him. "Your definition of entertainment worries me."

"You'll thank me later," Sisco said, plopping onto the bed as if it were his own. "What are you even doing in here? Sitting in silence? Meditating? Talking to plants?"

Free sat back down on the chair by the desk, resting his chin in his hand. "Something like that."

Sisco tore open the bag of chips, crunching loudly. "Man, you're too quiet sometimes. Don't you ever get bored?"

"Not really."

"Not really," Sisco mimicked in a deep voice, then burst out laughing at his own impression.

Free just stared at him, lips twitching. He shook his head. "You're unbelievable."

"Yeah, yeah, I know." Sisco leaned back on his elbows, still chewing. "So, hey, I heard you had an appointment today. Therapy, right?"

Free's fingers stilled on the desk. For a moment, the air shifted—he wasn't used to people bringing it up so casually. But Sisco's tone wasn't heavy, not pitying. Just curious, straightforward.

"...Yeah."

Sisco tilted his head. "How was it?"

Free hesitated, then exhaled softly. "Good. Different, but... good."

"Different how?"

Free looked at the plant on his desk, tracing the edge of one leaf with his eyes. "I used to sit there and not know what to say. Or I'd say nothing at all. Now... it's easier. Talking. Saying how I feel." He paused, then glanced back at Sisco. "Even laughing. I didn't use to laugh much."

Sisco froze mid-chip. His chest tightened unexpectedly. "Yeah, I noticed."

"I think it's helping," Free continued, voice quiet but sure. "For a long time, I thought I was fine the way I was. But I wasn't. Now... I feel lighter. Like I can actually breathe."

Sisco swallowed the lump in his throat quickly, masking it with a grin. "Well, duh. Of course you're better now. You've got me. Best therapy there is."

Free chuckled softly. "You think so?"

"I know so." Sisco sat up straighter, puffing out his chest. "C'mon, admit it. I'm funnier than your therapist."

"You're louder," Free corrected.

"Louder, funnier, better. Same thing." Sisco tossed him the bag of chips. "Here, eat something. It'll boost your happiness by twenty percent."

Free caught the bag with ease, shaking his head. Still, he took one, the salt and crunch grounding him in the moment.

For a while, they sat in comfortable silence, Sisco sprawled across the bed, Free turning the chip bag in his hands. Then Free spoke again, voice low but steady.

"You know... when I started therapy, I didn't think I'd ever get here."

Sisco tilted his head. "Here?"

"Feeling okay. Smiling. Sitting with someone like this." Free's gaze flicked toward him briefly, then away. "It didn't seem possible."

Sisco blinked, caught off guard by the honesty in his tone. For once, he didn't jump to a dramatic reply. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "...And now?"

Free looked at him, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "Now it does."

The words hung in the air, soft but solid. Sisco's chest felt warm, tight in a good way. He scratched the back of his neck, trying not to look flustered.

"Well," he said, forcing a grin, "guess I'm stuck with you then."

Free's smile grew just enough to show teeth. "Guess so."

Sisco laughed, the tension breaking, and flopped back onto the bed dramatically. "Man, I should get a medal. 'Best Friend of the Year.' Or maybe 'Best Therapist Assistant.'"

Free snorted. "They don't give medals for that."

"Then I'll make one. Big gold one. You'll have to polish it for me every day."

Free leaned back in his chair, laughter slipping out again. Not forced, not guarded — just easy.

They stayed like that for hours, talking about nothing in particular — training drills, cafeteria food, Sisco's ridiculous plans to invent new bey techniques that made no sense. Every so often, Free would laugh or roll his eyes, and every time, Sisco felt a little more proud, like he'd won something important.

When the clock finally chimed curfew, Sisco groaned, dragging himself upright. "Fine, fine, I'll go before the coaches yell at me. But you owe me a rematch in foosball tomorrow."

"You'll lose again," Free said calmly.

"Not this time. I've been practicing."

Free raised an eyebrow. "Practicing losing?"

Sisco gaped at him, then burst out laughing. "Ohhh, you're getting bold now. Therapy really is working!"

Free chuckled, standing to walk him to the door. "Goodnight, Sisco."

Sisco paused in the doorway, looking back at him with a grin that was softer than usual. "Night, Free. And hey... I'm glad you're doing better."

Free's chest warmed at the words. He didn't say thank you, but his smile said enough.

When the door clicked shut and the room fell quiet again, the silence didn't feel empty anymore. It felt alive, filled with the echoes of laughter still lingering in the air.

Free sat back on his bed, Fafnir glinting faintly in the moonlight from the window. For the first time in years, the quiet wasn't something he hid behind. It was something he could rest in.

And maybe, just maybe, he owed a little of that to Sisco's endless noise.

The training hall at BC Sol was already humming when Sisco burst through the doors, his bey in one hand and a determined grin plastered across his face. "FREE! I know you're in here. Today's the day I finally win!"

From the far side of the room, Free turned his head, Fafnir spinning lightly in his palm. His expression was as calm as ever, but the faintest smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "You said that yesterday."

"And the day before that," Sisco admitted without shame. "But this time is different. I've been—uh—strategizing."

Free raised an eyebrow. "Strategizing?"

"Yeah! Don't underestimate the genius of Sisco Karlisle." He jabbed a finger dramatically at the practice dish. "Now, prepare yourself!"

They set up quickly, familiar with the ritual by now. The hall quieted a little as a few other bladers paused their own training to watch.

"Three... two... one..."

"Let it rip!"

Both beys burst into the dish, colliding with a satisfying clash. Sisco shouted encouragement at his bey as though it could hear him, flailing his arms like he could steer it with sheer willpower. Free, in contrast, remained steady, eyes following every movement with sharp focus.

Fafnir absorbed hit after hit, spinning slower but never faltering. With a final shimmer of sparks, it countered cleanly, sending Sisco's bey clattering to the edge.

"Nooo!" Sisco dropped to his knees, hands thrown up in despair. "Defeated again by the icy calm of Free de la Hoya!"

Free reached down and retrieved Fafnir, brushing dust from its surface. "You get louder every time you lose."

"It's called dramatic flair," Sisco corrected, springing back to his feet. "Part of my brand."

Free gave him a look, lips twitching. "Your brand?"

"Exactly! The Sisco brand. Loud, passionate, unforgettable. Unlike you—" He squinted at Free. "—who barely moves a muscle. Except now you're smiling more, which I'll take full credit for."

Free chuckled, slipping Fafnir into his pocket. "You would."

Sisco grinned, triumphant at drawing another laugh from him.

They battled a few more rounds, the results always the same. Sisco fought with fire and noise, Free with precision and calm. By the time the last match ended, both of them were breathless—not from the battles themselves, but from the constant banter that accompanied every launch.

Eventually, they left the hall, stepping out into the late afternoon air. The sun was dipping low, but the sky still burned with streaks of pink and gold. They flopped onto the grass outside BC Sol, lying side by side, their chests rising and falling as they caught their breath.

"That... was... totally rigged," Sisco panted, staring up at the sky.

Free turned his head slightly toward him. "It wasn't rigged."

"Then you're cheating."

"I'm not."

"You must be." Sisco threw an arm dramatically across his forehead. "How else could anyone defeat someone like me so many times in just one day?"

Free smirked faintly, folding his arms behind his head. "Maybe because you're reckless."

"That's not reckless—that's style!" Sisco insisted, rolling onto his side to jab a finger at him. "Besides, it keeps things exciting. You'd be bored without me."

"Maybe." Free's tone was deliberately neutral, but his eyes gleamed.

Sisco squinted. "Wait... did you just admit it?"

Free let his gaze drift back to the sky, refusing to answer. The silence said enough.

Sisco grinned so wide it hurt his cheeks. "Ha! Victory!"

They lay there for a long time, Sisco chattering about everything from new bey tricks he wanted to invent to how the cafeteria should add triple chocolate cake to the menu. Free listened more than he spoke, but his small smiles and occasional dry comments proved he was paying attention.

By the time evening settled in, most of the other bladers had gone inside. The air cooled, crickets starting their chorus from the hedges.

"Hey," Sisco said suddenly, sitting up. "Come on."

Free raised an eyebrow. "Where?"

"You'll see." Sisco grabbed his wrist without warning and tugged him to his feet.

Normally, Free would've pulled away, but this time, he let himself be dragged along. They wound through the quiet hallways of BC Sol until Sisco pushed open the door to the upstairs balcony. The night air swept over them, cool and fresh.

Above, the sky had deepened into navy, dotted with stars. The moon hung bright and full, bathing the courtyard below in silver light.

Sisco leaned against the railing, pointing upward. "Look at that. It's like the world's biggest spotlight. Perfect for me."

Free shook his head, amused, but his eyes lingered on the moon instead. The glow reflected faintly in his irises, softening his features.

Sisco lowered his arms, catching the shift in his expression. "You like it?"

"...Yeah," Free murmured.

Something in his voice made Sisco pause. It wasn't his usual calm, practiced tone — it was quieter, more open. For a moment, Sisco thought about asking why, but the thought slipped away. He didn't need an explanation.

Instead, he leaned back against the railing, letting the silence stretch. It wasn't awkward. Just... peaceful.

They stood there together, side by side, the hum of the city faint in the distance and the glow of the moon wrapping the world in silver.

Eventually, Sisco broke the quiet with a grin. "You know, this is the perfect time for another dramatic declaration."

Free glanced at him, eyebrow raised. "Please don't."

"Oh, I will," Sisco said proudly. "One day, I'm gonna beat you, Free. Right here, under this exact moon. And when I do, it'll go down in history as the most legendary victory of all time."

Free huffed a soft laugh, turning back toward the sky. "Good luck."

"You'll see. Don't underestimate me."

"I never do," Free said quietly.

Sisco blinked, caught off guard by the sincerity. But before he could reply, Free stepped back from the railing. "We should go in."

"Yeah, yeah," Sisco said, shaking it off with a grin. "But I'm holding you to that rematch. Moonlight battle. It's gonna happen."

Free gave him a small, knowing smile. "We'll see."

As they walked back toward their dorms, Sisco kept talking, filling the air with noise the way he always did. Free listened, silent but content, the image of the moon still lingering in his mind.

He didn't say what it meant to him. Not yet. But he carried it with him as he slipped into his room, the silver light still spilling faintly through the window.

For the first time in a long time, the quiet didn't feel lonely. It felt full.

Chapter Text

Valt Aoi tightened his grip on his Bey, taking a deep breath as he faced Shu Kurenai across the Beyblade arena. The sunlight streamed on the rooftop practice area, painting the floor with warm stripes, and the faint breeze carried the sound of distant chatter from the streets below. Valt's heart raced—not from anticipation of a match, but from the simple fact that he was training with Shu, his best friend, his rival, and, often, his biggest inspiration.

"Ready, Shu?" Valt called, trying to keep his voice light and cheerful.

Shu's eyes flicked up, and he gave a faint nod, his usual calm demeanor perfectly intact—or so it seemed. But something was... off. Valt had trained with him countless times, had seen every flicker of emotion cross Shu's composed face, and today, there was a hesitation there. A tiny flinch, a brief tightening around Shu's jaw, subtle enough that most people wouldn't notice. But Valt noticed.

"Shu?" he said again, a little more cautiously this time. "Are you sure you're okay?"

Shu paused, his hand hovering over his Bey. "I'm fine," he said, voice steady. "Let's just get this over with."

Valt frowned but didn't push further. Shu rarely admitted anything wrong, and he knew pressing might make him shut down completely. Still, the nagging worry in Valt's chest refused to go away. He decided he'd keep an eye on him, just in case.

They launched their Beys simultaneously. Valt's Valtryek spun with a sharp, fierce energy, and Shu's Spryzen moved with calculated precision. The clash was thunderous, sparks flying from the point of contact. Valt grinned, adrenaline surging through him. "Here I come!" he shouted, giving his all in the battle.

Shu's movements were... slower than usual. Not clumsy, exactly, but deliberate in a way that seemed unusual. Every swipe, every dodge, had a carefulness to it that made Valt pause mid-spin.

"Shu... you're holding back," Valt said between attacks, trying to keep it casual. "Come on, I can handle you at full power!"

Shu's face remained composed, but his eyes flickered downward for just a moment. "I'm just trying a different strategy," he said softly.

Valt's stomach sank slightly. That didn't sound like Shu. Not the Shu he knew, the one who loved a challenge and thrived on pushing the limits. He spun his Bey with extra force, aiming a powerful attack. "Okay... if that's how you want it!"

The two Beys collided again, and sparks flew, echoing across the rooftop. But even as Valt cheered at his own spin, his eyes kept glancing at Shu. Something was wrong. And he didn't like feeling so helpless.

After the battle, they sat down on the bench on the rooftop, catching their breath. Valtryek and Spryzen clattered to a stop beside them. Valt wiped the sweat from his forehead, still watching Shu closely.

"Seriously, Shu... you're acting weird today," Valt said finally, trying to sound casual. "You sure there's nothing wrong?"

Shu looked at him, expression unreadable. "I told you, I'm fine," he said quietly. But there was a faint tremor in his hands as he picked up his Bey.

Valt's frown deepened. That tremor was impossible to miss. "Shu... I know you better than anyone. Something's up. You don't have to say it if you don't want to, but I can tell."

Shu's gaze dropped, and for a long moment, he didn't answer. The wind ruffled his hair, and the sunlight caught the edge of his jaw in a way that made him look fragile, almost too human in a way Valt hadn't noticed before.

Finally, Shu gave a small, almost imperceptible shrug. "I'll be okay," he said, his voice quieter this time. "Really."

Valt studied him for a moment longer, feeling the tug of worry in his chest. "Okay," he said slowly, though his heart didn't agree. "But if you're not... just... tell me. Promise?"

Shu's lips twitched in a faint smile. "I promise," he said.

That night, Valt couldn't sleep. He tossed and turned, replaying every subtle gesture, every hesitation he'd seen in Shu's movements. Something about that small tremor and the way Shu had looked at him seemed different. It gnawed at him, an uneasy knot in his stomach he couldn't shake.

The next morning at school, Valt waited outside the classroom, hoping to catch Shu before class started. He scanned the hallways, eyes darting from one familiar face to another. But when the bell rang, and students filed in, there was no sign of Shu.

"Where's Shu?" Valt asked, approaching a group of their friends.

"Didn't see him this morning," one of them replied. "Maybe he's sick?"

Valt's chest tightened. That would explain it, maybe, but his mind raced with worry. Sick enough to miss school? Or was it something else? He couldn't just sit there and wonder. He had to know.

He left school early and made his way to Shu's house, his heart thumping with every step. The streets were familiar, the wind carrying the faint scent of spring blossoms, but Valt barely noticed anything around him. All he could focus on was Shu.

When he reached the front door, he hesitated, hand hovering over the doorbell. Something deep inside told him that whatever he was about to find would be... strange. Different.

He pressed the doorbell. A moment later, the door swung open—and what he saw made him freeze in shock.

There, standing in the doorway, was Shu. But not the Shu he knew. Not the composed, confident Shu who could launch his Bey with pinpoint precision. This Shu was smaller—much smaller. His hair still white and his eyes red and sharp, but his features had softened, his frame tiny. He looked up at Valt with wide, frightened eyes, and before Valt could speak, he let out a small, trembling whimper.

"Shu...?" Valt said, voice catching. He stepped closer, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. "Is that you?"

Shu whimpered again and reached up toward Valt, tiny hands grasping at his shirt. Valt's heart twisted. This wasn't just strange. It was terrifying. He felt like the world had shifted under his feet, and yet, at the same time, the little boy in front of him felt familiar, undeniably Shu.

"Hey... hey, it's okay," Valt said softly, crouching down to Shu's level. "I'm here. It's me. Don't be scared."

Shu's lower lip trembled, and tears welled up in his eyes. "I want... my mom..." he whispered.

Valt's chest tightened even more. He swallowed hard. "I know, buddy. I know. But, uh... I'll take care of you, okay? I promise. You're safe."

The little boy clung to him instantly, burying his face in Valt's chest. Valt held him gently, feeling the reality of the situation sink in. Shu had somehow become a toddler. And there was no explanation, no warning. Just this small, frightened boy who was now entirely dependent on him.

He looked down at Shu's tiny hands, at the tear-streaked cheeks, and his mind raced. What did he do now? How did you take care of someone who used to be your best friend but was now... a child?

Valt took a deep breath and gently lifted Shu, holding him close. "Okay," he said quietly, more to himself than to Shu. "We'll figure this out. We'll get through this together."

And in that moment, as Shu's small body trembled against him, Valt realized that something was about to change—not just for Shu, but for both of them.

He just didn't know how much and how long yet.

Valt's mind was spinning as he carefully carried toddler Shu down the street. The small boy clutched at Valt's shirt, trembling, and let out occasional hiccups as if trying to hold back tears. Every few steps, Shu's soft voice would murmur, "Mom... Mom..." and Valt's chest tightened. He'd faced countless Bey battles in his life, but nothing had prepared him for this—caring for his best friend, who had somehow turned into a small, scared child.

He arrived at his place, keys clutched tightly in one hand, and tried to steady his nerves. Living here meant there were extra people to consider—his mother, hardworking and kind, and his younger siblings, Nika and Toko, who were energetic twins with enough curiosity and energy to power a small city. How would they react to a toddler suddenly appearing in their home, especially one who wasn't really family?

As soon as Valt unlocked the door and stepped inside, the house was filled with the familiar scents of home—warm cooking from the kitchen, faint traces of Toko's coloring pencils, and the ever-present buzz of Nika's boundless energy. He tried to stay calm as he stepped in, cradling Shu in his arms.

"Mom! I'm home!" Valt called, his voice a little too high-pitched from nerves.

His mother, Chiharu, looked up from preparing dinner, wiping her hands on a towel. "Valt! And who's this?" she asked, her brow furrowing slightly as she spotted the small, frightened boy clinging to Valt.

"This... this is Shu," Valt said quickly. "Something weird happened—he's... he's a toddler now. I don't know how, but I need to take care of him for a while."

Chiharu blinked, momentarily speechless. "A toddler? Shu? Are you serious? How?"

"I don't know," Valt said, holding Shu closer as the little boy buried his face in Valt's chest and whimpered again. "He's scared, Mom... I think he just wants his parents, but, well, we've got to—"

Before he could finish, the door to the living room burst open. Nika and Toko, the twin whirlwind of energy, appeared. "Valt! Who's that?!" they shouted, voices overlapping, eyes wide.

"Well... this is Shu," Valt said carefully, unsure how to manage their reactions.

The twins froze for a moment, staring at the small boy who was clutching Valt's shirt. Then Toko squealed, "He's so tiny!"

Nika knelt down immediately, holding out a hand, "Hi... are you gonna play with us?"

Shu flinched and pressed closer to Valt. "S-Scared," he whispered.

Valt sighed, feeling the weight of responsibility. "Yeah... he's scared. Be gentle, okay? Don't startle him."

The twins nodded, though Toko's excitement barely hid the curiosity dancing in his eyes. Chiharu stepped closer, giving Valt a small, encouraging smile. "Alright, Valt. Let's figure this out together. He'll need food, sleep, and care, and we'll help. You don't have to do it alone."

Valt felt a wave of relief, grateful for his family's support. "Thanks, Mom. I just don't know where to start."

"Well," Chiharu said, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear, "first, we need to make sure he's comfortable and safe. Then we can think about meals and everything else."

Carefully, Valt set Shu down on the living room rug. The boy's small body trembled, his wide eyes darting around the house as if it had become an enormous, unfamiliar place. Nika and Toko crouched nearby, speaking in soft voices, trying to reassure him, but Shu continued to cling to Valt's leg.

Valt knelt beside him, rubbing his back gently. "It's okay, it's just us here. Nothing's going to hurt you. I promise."

After a few tense minutes, Shu's trembling eased slightly, and he looked up at Valt with cautious eyes. Valt noticed the small furrow in his brow—the same intensity he always saw when Shu was focused during Bey battles, just scaled down.

Next, Valt turned to the meals. He had no idea what a toddler would eat, but he knew Shu needed something comforting. Chiharu guided him to the kitchen. "Let's start with something simple—milk and soft bread, maybe some fruit," she suggested.

Valt returned with a small cup of milk and soft bread. Shu hesitated, looking at it uncertainly. "Drink," Valt said gently. "Eat a little, it's safe."

Shu's lips quivered, but eventually he took a few sips of milk, followed by a tentative bite of bread. Each small success made Valt's heart swell.

After lunch, Valt decided to introduce something familiar—Beyblades. He grabbed Valtryek and set it on the floor. Shu leaned forward slightly, curiosity battling fear.

The twins gathered around, equally fascinated, though they were careful not to crowd Shu. Nika held a small Bey, ready to spin, while Toko kept an encouraging eye on the little boy. Shu's attention flickered between the tops and Valt's steady, reassuring gaze.

Hours passed in a slow rhythm of small successes and setbacks. Shu would sometimes get startled by a sudden noise or a shadow, pressing himself into Valt's chest. At other times, he'd crawl around with curiosity, exploring under careful supervision. Valt found himself constantly adjusting, learning new ways to soothe, distract, and entertain. The twins proved surprisingly helpful—Nika would offer toys, Toko would sing softly, and Chiharu made sure Shu had snacks and blankets ready.

By late afternoon, Valt realized that Shu needed rest. He carefully lifted him and settled him onto the couch, propping him with pillows and wrapping a blanket around him. The little boy immediately snuggled against Valt, eyes heavy, and let out a small sigh of comfort.

Valt sat beside him, brushing Shu's hair back from his forehead. "Time to rest, Shu. You've had a big day," he whispered.

Shu mumbled softly, "Mom..." and buried his face further into Valt's chest.

Valt squeezed him gently. "I know... I know. But Mom's not here right now. I'm here. We'll get through this."

Once Shu drifted off to sleep, Valt looked around. Nika and Toko were quietly coloring in the living room, Chiharu washing dishes, and the house hummed with normalcy despite the chaos of the day. Valt felt a mix of exhaustion and determination. He knew this was only the beginning.

The next morning, Shu awoke to soft sunlight streaming through the window. He blinked blearily and immediately reached for Valt, who had slept on the couch nearby to keep an eye on him.

The morning routine was challenging. Shu was clingy, easily startled, and needed constant reassurance. Nika and Toko tried to help, but Valt realized he was still the primary source of comfort. They all worked together to make the little boy feel safe, gently introducing toys and games, and keeping the apartment calm.

Hours passed, with laughter, tears, and quiet moments of bonding. Valt realized that patience wasn't just a virtue—it was survival. Every soothing word, every gentle touch, every small victory mattered. Shu's trust had to be earned again, moment by moment.

By the evening, the house felt more settled. Shu had calmed enough to explore a small corner of the living room with his Beys, always glancing at Valt for reassurance. The twins were delighted by their new playmate, though they were careful not to overwhelm him. Chiharu offered quiet guidance, making sure everyone stayed calm.

Valt watched toddler Shu with a mixture of awe and concern. He was fragile, frightened, and entirely dependent—but even in small ways, the spark of his older self peeked through.

"Tomorrow we'll figure out more," Valt murmured as he tucked Shu in. "No matter what happened, we'll get through this together."

Valt rubbed the sleep from his eyes and groaned as his alarm rang. He had barely adjusted to having Shu as a toddler, let alone figured out a normal morning routine. Now, on top of everything, he had school. He stared down at the small boy sleeping in the blanket-fort setup Chiharu had improvised in the living room. Shu's tiny chest rose and fell, eyelashes brushing his cheeks, his little fists curled into soft balls. For a brief moment, Valt allowed himself a smile; despite everything, Shu looked peaceful.

"Okay... this is gonna be interesting," Valt muttered.

Chiharu appeared in the doorway, holding a tray with breakfast. "You're going to be late if you don't hurry. I'll take care of him while you're at school."

Valt blinked at her. "Wait, you mean watch him?"

"Of course," Chiharu said, placing the tray on the coffee table. "He's a toddler. You have school. I can handle it."

Valt hesitated, then nodded. "Thanks, Mom. Don't let him get into trouble."

Chiharu gave him a small smile. "You think he's going to get into trouble? This is Shu we're talking about."

Valt groaned and dashed out the door, backpack slung over his shoulder.

At home, toddler Shu stirred as Chiharu set the tray of milk and soft bread in front of him. He blinked up at her, wide-eyed and unsure, and let out a small whimper. "Mom...?" he murmured.

Chiharu chuckled softly. "Not exactly, sweetie, but I'm here to help. Now, eat a little breakfast. You need your energy for... whatever today brings."

Shu sniffled and reached for the milk, spilling a little on the tray in his nervousness. Chiharu calmly wiped it up. "It's okay. You're still learning, little guy. We'll figure this out."

The twins, Nika and Toko, barged in, bouncing across the floor with boundless energy. "Shu! Let's play!" Toko exclaimed, nearly tripping over his own feet.

"Wait, wait! Be gentle!" Chiharu warned, scooping Shu onto her lap. The little boy immediately clung to her, tiny arms wrapping around her neck.

Valt's mother sighed, half amused, half exasperated. "This is going to be an interesting day."

Later that morning, Valt trudged through school, his mind only half on his lessons. Every time he glanced at the clock, he wondered what kind of chaos awaited him at home. When the lunch bell rang, he barely managed a sandwich before heading to the rooftop to get some practice in. Spinning Valtryek, he tried to focus, but even in the midst of a battle, his thoughts drifted back to toddler Shu.

Meanwhile, Shu had fully woken up. He had explored the living room and discovered the twins' toy box, which became a treasure trove of curiosity and, as Chiharu predicted, minor chaos.

"Uh-oh," Chiharu muttered, picking up a scattered pile of blocks and stuffed animals. Shu had managed to pull the largest box over and was now sitting inside it, gripping a plush toy and peeking out nervously. "Well... at least he's entertained."

Nika leaned down and waved. "Want help, Shu?"

Shu shook his head violently, his tiny face scrunching up in frustration. "No... strangers!" he whimpered.

"They're not strangers," Chiharu said, crouching nearby. "These are friends. You'll get used to them. Slowly."

Shu's expression softened slightly, but he still clung to the plush toy like a shield. The twins grinned at each other. "We'll be gentle!" Toko promised, though his eyes betrayed his excitement.

Despite their good intentions, chaos ensued. Shu grabbed a handful of blocks and threw them at Toko, who yelped and ducked. Nika squealed with laughter. "He's like a mini tornado!"

Chiharu groaned and carefully removed the block-laden hands from Shu's grip. "Little tornado or not, we have to keep the place from turning into a disaster zone before Valt comes home."

By mid-morning, Shu had discovered the couch and found it very interesting. He crawled all over it, examined the cushions, and eventually fell face-first into a pile of pillows, letting out a surprised squeak.

Chiharu gently helped him sit up. "Careful there! That's a big tumble for a little guy like you."

For a while, the house was peaceful—well, as peaceful as a house with two energetic twins and a curious toddler could be. Shu had managed to relax, even giggle a few times at the twins' antics. Chiharu took the opportunity to feed him a small snack and let him sip some milk.

Meanwhile, Valt finished his classes and rushed home, his mind buzzing with worry. As soon as he opened the door, he was greeted by a scene that made him freeze:

Shu was sitting inside a blanket fort with Toko and Nika, a small block tower teetering dangerously on his tiny knees. He looked up at Valt, eyes wide and slightly defiant.

"Hey, little guy," Valt said softly, crouching down. "How's it going?"

Chiharu appeared from the kitchen, smiling. "He's had a big day. He's learning the ropes of... well, being a toddler."

Valt gently set Shu down on the floor and started cleaning up the toys and blocks. Shu toddled behind him, occasionally tripping over his own feet but laughing every time Valt caught him.

The twins joined in, making the cleanup a fun game. "Who can pick up the most blocks?" Toko suggested, and soon the four of them were racing around the living room, laughing and arguing over who was winning.

That evening, after dinner, Valt sat with Shu on the couch. The little boy had finally calmed down, sipping milk from a small cup and holding his plush toy. "Tomorrow school again?" Shu asked quietly, looking up at Valt.

Valt nodded. "Yeah, but Chiharu will be here to help. I'll see you after school, okay?"

Shu hesitated, then nodded slowly. "Okay... ," he murmured, burying his face into Valt's chest.

Chiharu smiled from the kitchen, watching the two boys. "You're doing great, Valt."

Valt sighed, feeling both exhausted and proud. "Thanks, Mom. I don't know what I'd do without you."

The next morning brought another round of mild chaos. Shu had discovered the bathroom and the joys of splashing water everywhere. Nika and Toko, trying to help, ended up dripping soap onto the floor. By the time Valt arrived home from school, the apartment looked like a miniature storm had passed through.

Shu ran to him as soon as he walked in, tiny feet pattering across the floor. "Valt! Valtryek!" he squeaked, pointing at the Bey tops Valt had set aside.

Valt couldn't help but laugh. "You're going to make me tired just by existing," he said, scooping him up.

Shu giggled and squirmed in his arms.

For the first time since the transformation, Valt realized something important: despite the chaos, the crying, the fear, and the mess, they were all having fun. Shu was adapting, learning to trust, and even enjoying himself. The twins antics, while exhausting, were helping too.

And as Valt watched Shu spin a Bey with tiny hands, letting out a delighted squeal, he felt a deep sense of hope. They would get through this. Together.

Little did he know, the biggest surprise of all—the final transformation back to Shu's normal self—was still waiting for them.

After another day of chaos, Shu groaned and rubbed his forehead, wincing as a dull headache pulsed through his skull. His eyes fluttered open, and the morning sunlight streaming through the window made him squint. Everything felt... strange. He was back to his normal self.

"What happened...?" Shu muttered, looking down at his hands and legs. "Where even am I?"

He tried to remember, but his mind was a blur. The past few days—or hours?—felt hazy, like fragments of a dream. "I can't even... I don't remember anything," he whispered, pressing his temples as the dull headache reminded him something had gone seriously wrong.

Just then, the door creaked open, and Valt stepped inside, dragging his backpack behind him. He froze mid-step.

"Shu...?" Valt's voice caught in his throat. The small pile of toys on the floor and the blanket fort were still there, but standing in front of him was his best friend—full-grown, looking around with a confused expression and rubbing his temples.

"You're... you're back to normal?!" Valt exclaimed, rushing forward. "Wait—how... what happened?"

Shu blinked at him, still rubbing his head, and shook it. "I don't know. I just woke up... and I have a headache. What happened?"

Valt froze. "Uh... Shu? Look around, and you will know."

Shu looked around, his gaze sharp, taking in the living room, the scattered toys, the twins watching wide-eyed, and Chiharu standing in the kitchen with a small smile. "I was... a toddler?"

"You were," Valt said slowly, scratching the back of his head. "For a few days. It was kind of a mess."

Shu blinked, then looked at the twins, who were now pointing at him. "And these two?"

Valt chuckled. "Nika and Toko. They were your... temporary playmates and babysitters."

Shu stared at the twins, expression unreadable. "Babysitters?"

The twins burst into laughter. "You were super cute! And tiny! And you cried a lot!" Toko exclaimed.

"I cried?" Shu repeated, eyebrows furrowing in disbelief.

"You clung to Valt like glue," Nika added. "And you were scared of everything—doors, toys, shadows, everything!"

Shu's lips twitched, almost as if he was trying not to laugh. "I... seriously?"

"Yes," Valt said, holding back a laugh. "You were scared of me, heck, even the block towers made you cry. I had to catch you like a hundred times."

Shu shook his head slowly, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "I can't believe this. I was that helpless?"

"You were tiny, scared, and adorable," Toko added enthusiastically. "It was fun!"

Valt groaned. "Fun for you maybe. For me, it was pure chaos."

Chiharu walked over, handing Shu a small cup of milk. "He managed pretty well," she said. "Even when he was scared, he was learning. At least he's back to normal now."

Shu blinked again, then shook his head. "This is... ridiculous." He paused, then let out a small laugh, shaking his head. "I can't believe this happened to me."

"Well, it did," Chiharu shook her head, smiling.

After a while, Shu sat with Valt on the couch, spinning. "Valt... I need to know," Shu said finally, looking thoughtful. "What exactly did I do as a toddler?"

Valt smirked. "Where do I start? You cried when Toko sneezed. You refused to eat broccoli. You hid under the blanket fort for almost an hour because Nika tried to tickle you. And a lot more."

Shu blinked, then burst out laughing. "I seriously did all that?"

"Yes," Valt said, laughing too. "You were kind of a handful. But a very cute one."

Shu shook his head, still smiling. "I can't believe this. I was scared of everything? Of a freaking toy?"

Valt nodded. "Pretty much. And the funniest part—you're not scared anymore. You've got your Bey back, your skills, and your confidence. But for a little while, you were... well, you."

Shu let out a small chuckle, feeling a little embarrassed but amused. "I guess I learned something about relying on people. And how chaotic I can be."

Valt grinned. "Exactly. And now you can return the favor." He nudged Shu lightly. "Keep up with the twins and me. Don't let us get too lazy."

Shu nodded, spinning his Bey with precise movements, a gleam of determination in his eyes. "Deal. And... thanks, Valt."

Valt blinked. "Thanks? For what?"

"For taking care of me. When I was a toddler," Shu said quietly, looking down for a moment before meeting Valt's eyes. "I know it wasn't easy."

Valt felt his chest tighten slightly. "Hey... it's what friends do. Besides, your twin fans—uh, siblings—kept you busy too."

The twins looked up, grinning. "We're your babysitters now!" Toko said.

Shu raised an eyebrow, mock serious. "I'll remember that when you try to trip me with blocks."

They all laughed, the house filled with warmth, relief, and the kind of laughter that comes after surviving something chaotic together.