Chapter Text
The prison gates loudly creak open, making Fadel flinch slightly at the sudden noise.
Fadel stepped outside with the weight of the past five years against his shoulders. He had imagined this moment since the day he was taken in with Bison. He wondered how the air would taste, how the world would change, how freedom from his past life would feel, and if he would have anyone waiting for him on the other side.
He adjusted the strap of his backpack, now slung over his shoulder, as it felt far too light. Five years of his life had been packed into something so small.
The sky stretched endlessly above him. Far too fresh and too open than what he had grown accustomed to. He felt like he was standing at the edge of a cliff, staring into a new life that was too vast to comprehend.
Five years.
Five years of concrete walls and metal bars.
Five years of keeping his head down and his fists ready.
His jaw clenched, the sudden newfound freedom felt all too overwhelming.
The warm air pressed against his skin, and his next step felt heavier than it should, as if the ground itself was unfamiliar. His legs felt tense from years of pacing the same concrete floors, felt awkwards on the open gravel.
He hadn’t even taken a complete step outside before he saw him.
Leaning against his black Jeep, arms crossed, and eyes locked in on the prison gates—Style. The moment Fadel caught sight of him, the world around them seemed to dull, the noise of the gates, the hum of the cars in the lot...all of it faded into the background.
His chest tightened, breath caught, and for a split moment, he had no clue what to do with himself.
Style hadn’t changed since their last visit a few months prior—not really—not in the important ways that had mattered. His hair was a little shorter than usual, but his clothes remained just as loud as always. He always had a knack for wearing crop tops that would give him a teasing peek into his abdomen. Style always knew it drove Fadel crazy, making him never wanting to let go.
It had been five years, and standing there, seeing Style in front of him like that—Fadel was pretty sure that his want had only grown stronger in their time apart.
Style took off his sunglasses, and the moment their eyes met, Fadel could spot the moment that all of Style’s bravado had slipped away. His lips quivered with a whispered, “Oh, my God.”
He took a step forward, and before Fadel could think to react, Style had launched himself onto him, colliding into his arms with full force.
Fadel staggered back a step as Style’s arms wrapped tightly around his neck, a comforting warmth that he hadn’t felt in years pressing against him.
His body wasn’t used to this anymore—the touch, warmth, the way Style’s heartbeat could pound so close against his own, but it felt just right.
Style didn’t say anything for a moment.
“Finally,” Style mumbled into his shoulder, squeezing tightly against him. “You took way too long.”
“I—” Fadel was unsure what he could say or offer to make them okay. Even though Style had tried to see him weekly, there had been so much time lost when they couldn’t even hold each other.
It had pained the both of them.
Style pulled back just enough to look at him, fingers still tightly clutching the neck of his jacket as if afraid that he would disappear at any moment. His eyes were red, and Fadel could tell that he was barely holding on for the both of them. So he let himself melt into the other’s embrace. His body was slow to register the touch, but it instinctively knew that he was safe for the first time since he could remember.
A beat later, another voice—one that he was familiar with—spoke up. Bison.
“Style, you’re suffocating him,” Bison drawled, amusement lacing his every word.
“Good,” Style shot back, “He deserves this for making me suffer without him.”
Fadel exhaled sharply.
“You say that like I chose to be locked up.”
Style pulled back just enough to jut out his lower lip into the beginnings of a pout. “Well, you sure as hell never listened to any of my plans back then. I had your new passports ready to go and what do you go do? Make a deal with the police.”
He couldn’t help but give him a flat look. “You want me to time-travel?”
“Exactly. You should’ve figured out a way in the time you had these last five years.”
“Agreed, took your damn time, didn’t you,” Bison chimed in, the teasing tone not at all lost on Fadel. In that second, Fadel couldn't help but want to smack his brother over the head for even entertaining Style's complaints. They were always menaces whenever they were together.
“You should just let him have this, Fadel. Style cried every time he came home without you.”
Style’s head snapped around so fast that Fadel swore he heard his neck crack. “Kant!”
“What?” Kant shrugged, completely unbothered. “It’s true. We both would.”
Fadel couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow, prodding Style to proffer some more insight into what Kant had said. Instead, Style immediately let go, crossing his arms. “Don’t listen to him. He’s just mad that I got his car.”
“He’s absolutely serious,” Bison confirmed, laughing, “When I came out alone, he was moping around for weeks. I’m pretty sure he would have traded me back in if it meant getting an earlier release for you.”
Style lunged at Bison, slapping a hand over his mouth. “There. Are things. We. Do not. Need. To discuss.”
Bison muttered something against Style’s palm before pushing him off. His eyes still glinting with mischief.
While he knew that Bison was joking, Fadel couldn’t help but glance over his brother.
It hadn’t even been more than a couple of months and Bison already looked…different. Not drastically, not in any way that would be noticeable to most people, but Fadel noticed—after all, even after everything, Bison was still his little brother. His stance was more relaxed, and the harsh edges of his face that he had obtained in prison softened just enough to make it clear that time—freedom—had been good to him.
Draped against Kant, Bison looked at peace for the first time since Fadel knew him.
Something about that felt both comforting and unfamiliar.
Bison used to be tense, wound tight like a wire ready to snap at any second. He was always looking over his shoulder, prepared to take out his anger on anyone who looked at him differently.
Even if he wanted to deny it, Fadel understood the feeling intimately.
He had been the same. Every muscle coiled, every nerve stretched thin, and his heart raced at the sound of unfamiliar footsteps behind him. Their survival had depended on their vigilance—never relaxing, never trusting, and never letting their guard down. Prison hadn’t taught them anything new.
The bloody world that Lily had raised them in had demanded it.
While Bison had been reckless, Fadel had been like a live wire. His smile had been sharp and hollow, his laugh never quite reaching his eyes after ___ had disappeared. Nights spent sitting on the edge of his bed, staring at the shadows creeping across the walls of his room, convinced that he didn’t have much longer to live. He remembered the anticipation that if he blinked too long, something would go wrong, something would break, and he would be long dead with nobody but Bison mourning him.
Prison had only sharpened those instincts. The cold, unyielding walls, the endless echo of metal doors, and the constant, oppressive awareness of too many eyes watching. Every glance, every movement, every breath calculated to avoid confrontation while still waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Vulnerability was dangerous; weakness was unforgivable.
Bison had been like that, too, always on alert and prepared to strike first if it meant survival. It had long been trained into their system, far before prison had become a worry of theirs.
Now, look at Bison leaning against Kant, an easy posture that used to be unthinkable. Fadel felt a twinge in his chest as Style’s body leaned into him. Because if Bison found peace… that meant there was hope for him, too.
The thought felt overwhelming, the old tension crackling beneath his skin. Outside the prison gates, the idea of a world—a whole future—ahead of him felt unfamiliar.
Too bright.
Too loud.
Too unpredictable after five years of confinement and a lifetime of forced obedience.
His muscles ached with the instinct to retreat, to fold in on himself to close up, and brace for a threat that might never come.
But there was no Lily around.
There were no prison guards.
Nor prison cells.
So, he tried to play it cool, to act like he could melt right into the life he had left behind years ago.
“Y’know, I really wasn’t expecting the welcoming party.”
But no matter how much he tried to feign indifference; Bison knew him too well. Fadel caught the way Bison’s sharp eyes scanned him carefully, checking for any injuries he may have incurred during their time apart and picking apart the surface to look for any hidden wounds. It was the same look Bison would give him after a mission, as if daring Fadel to deny his pain while searching for hidden bruises or fractures, or even sewing Fadel up when things went sideways.
Fadel shifted under the scrutiny, choosing to hide in the crook of Style’s neck instead, taking in a deep breath of his scent. The scent of Style’s earthy cologne mixed with something chemical—oil, probably, like he had been working until the moment before coming to pick him up—filled his senses. It was familiar and grounding, exactly what he needed at the moment while under Bison’s gaze.
Graciously, his brother chose to let it go this time around.
“As if we’d ever let you walk out of here alone.” Bison snorted, shaking his head.
Fadel wanted to believe it, but a part of him—the dark, sick part that had kept him alive and willing to do Lily’s dirty work—had thought precisely that. Because the one thing, one person, that had tied them together was no longer there.
Lily was gone now. She had forced their hands and dictated their lives. The sins they had committed under her command had been paid in full.
Bison finally had the one thing that he had always craved—freedom. And some part of Fadel had assumed Bison would’ve walked away without looking back. They had always expected their future to be apart.
He wouldn’t have blamed him for it.
But Bison was here. Kant, as well.
And Style—
Style shifted against him, pulling back just enough to tilt Fadel’s face up and study him. He was the only other person that could see right through him. He knew that Style saw it—the tightness in his jaw, the stiffness in his shoulder. The look he received conveyed more than words ever could.
Fadel shifted on his feet, suddenly feeling exposed.
A playful glint lingered in Style’s eyes, but there was more beneath it—something more raw, more real. As if there were thousands of different things that he wanted to say but was unsure of which should be first.
“You’re going to have to make this up to me,” Style murmured, His fingers tracing along Fadel’s face as if trying to memorize all the new changes that had happened in front of him but still so far away. “Five years. Do you know how long that is? If you had just gone along with my plan, we could be married by now, hopping from country to country.”
Standing there, feeling Style’s warmth, heartbeat, everything—Fadel wasn’t sure how he should even respond because Fadel knew precisely how long it had been. He had spent his days counting down each and every one.
It had been 1,825 days of silence—1,825 days without having Style chatter his ear off.
1,825 days filled of concrete walls.
1,825 days of memories that would claw at him in the dark, taunting him.
1,825 days of pretending he hadn’t been waiting for this exact moment when he could be in his arms again.
His throat felt tight.
No words felt right enough to respond, so he didn’t. Couldn’t. Because no matter what words he combined to form a response, it would never be enough to put exactly how much he missed Style in those five years.
And Style, of course, picked up on it immediately. A small smirk tugging at his lips, “Oh? No comeback? No eyeroll?”
Fadel let out a short, breathy laugh, “Shut up, Style.”
Style beamed like he had just won a bet, which with his track-record, Fadel wouldn’t put it past the man.
But with the way Style tilted his head up just a little, their noses almost brushing, something warm bloomed in Fadel’s chest and he couldn’t help but move. His hands came up to cup Style’s jaw, fingers sliding along his cheek, his thumb brushing against the curve of his bottom lips. His face had matured in the time he had locked away, and Fadel wanted to memorize it all.
Style’s breath hitched—a flicker of uncertainty crossed his eyes before melting into something warmer. Something desperate, not too unlike the look found in Fadel’s own.
“Fadel—”
He closed the distance between them, their lips meeting for the first time in years. Style made a sound, surprised, but didn’t pull away and Fadel's heart couldn't help but flutter in the moment.
The kiss wasn’t gentle; it wasn’t hesitant. It was messy, desperate—making up for their lost time. It was five years of longing and bottled-up need. Style gasped softly against his lips, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, his hands tangled into Fadel’s hair, pushing him closer. There was an unspoken promise made in that moment that they locked their lips. That Fadel wasn’t leaving him again. No matter how much time they had lost, Fadel would never let another second go to waste.
It was their promise to each other.
Fadel felt everything at once. The warmth of Style’s mount, the slight tremor in his fingers tangled with his hair, the way his breath mixed with his own. His hand slid from Style’s jaw to the back of his neck, fingers curling into the soft strands of his hair that he had missed caressing.
Bison made a loud, dramatic gagging sound from where he stood. “Okay, I get it, but we just got you back, and you’re already devouring each other? Wait for a room—”
“Give them a minute,” Kant mused, sounding way too happy for his best friend. “It’s been five years. Fadel has a lot of time he needs to make up for.”
Style couldn’t help but flip his friend off as Kant raised his hands in mock surrender.
A slight chuckle slipped through his lips when Fadel realized what Style had done. It was so much like him, a part of him was happy that much had changed in the time he had been locked up.
The sound made Style freeze. As he held him, Fadel could feel the way his body had gone still. Style turned back towards him, his expression unreadable for a moment. Then, without warning, his eyes softened, and his lips twitched at the corner.
“You laughed,” Style murmured as if trying to confirm that he had heard correctly. His voice low, awed, like the laugh itself was a fragile thing that he was afraid might disappear if he wasn’t careful.
Fadel shifted on his feet, nodding, “Yeah?”
Style grinned, and before Fadel could even react, he lunged forward again, wrapping himself around Fadel completely. His arms locked around his neck, his grip fierce and unyielding.
“You really missed me,” Style declared smugly, his voice muffled against Fadel’s shoulder. “You can’t even hide it anymore.”
He faked a groan, but his hands settled naturally on Style’s waist, fingers pressing into the familiar curve of his hips.
“Guess, I’m just going to have to make up for those five years since my time machine never worked out.”
“You definitely have your work cut out for you.” Style whispered, though his words carried a weight they both felt. It had been five years too long.
Fadel's chest ached. He lifted a hand and cupped Style's cheek, his thumb tracing the familiar line of his jaw. The skin beneath his touch was warm, solid, real.
“Yeah, I do,” he agreed softly.
He kissed him again. This time slower, softer. Cherishing every second. Pouring everything he couldn’t bring himself to say yet into the press of their lips together. He could feel as Style melted into the kiss, his arms tightening around Fadel's neck as though he might never let go.
When they finally parted, breathless and dazed, Style rested his forehead against Fadel's and whispered, “Welcome home.”
“I’m glad to be back.” Fadel murmured back, unwilling to move far away from the other’s lips as he carefully placed several pecks all around Style’s face.
“Okay, seriously, I’ve hit my limit,” Bison groaned, clapping his hands together and breaking the moment. His voice altogether loud and teasing, “All right, lovebirds, let's get out of here before Fadel decides to turn this parking lot into a reunion suite, and we all end up returning to one of those prison cells.
“Let them have their moment,” Kant chuckled, leaning in to peck Bison’s cheek, “I’m pretty sure we were no better.”
Bison scoffed, though his cheeks had turned a shade of red that Fadel had rarely ever seen. “Yeah, well… we had the decency to make out in the car like normal degenerates. Not in public.”
“Hmm, I don’t think many would agree that making out in front of me was decent.” Style chimed in, his voice dripping with mock offense.
Kant snickered, glancing over his shoulder. “Please, you watched, you were invested wishing that you had Fadel around so you can join in.”
Style grinned, “More like invested in the trauma, then sure, maybe.
Fadel’s lips twitched into a smirk at their bickering, a warmth settling in his chest.
He had missed this.
He had forgotten what it was like to be surrounded by people he cared about—the noise, the bickering, the way they all filled the spaces he didn’t even know he had.
Kant, noticing the serene look on Fadel’s face, let the teasing slip away for a moment. His gaze softened as he stepped forward, placing a firm hand on Fadel’s shoulder.
“Hey,” Kant said, his voice firmer, “It’s good to have you back, man.”
Fadel blinked, caught off guard by his sudden sincerity. His throat tightened slightly, before settling into a small, genuine smile. “Thanks, it’s good to be back… And, thank you for taking care of Bison. I’m sure it wasn’t easy.”
Before Kant could offer a response, Bison clapped Fadel’s back playfully before steering Kant back into the car. “Yeah, yeah, I’m a troublemaker at times, but Kant already knew that” he chided. “Come on, let’s give these two their soap opera moment in peace before they scar everyone further.”
“Soap opera? Please, this is peak cinema,” Style shot back, a smug grin pulling at his lips, the corners twitching with barely-contained amusement. His voice carried that familiar teasing lilt—the one that could disarm and infuriate in equal measure.
Fadel thought about chiming in, but the truth was—he couldn’t argue, because Style had a point.
Their story was truly one worthy of the cinema.
Because they were here. And he was here. Together.
His gaze was stuck on him.
On his Style.
Style, who was all sharp laughter and reckless charm, a whirlwind of crop tops and quick wit. Who hid his emotions through the chaos that he sparked.
The same Style who had driven him insane with every taunt—pushing and demanding something from he hadn’t been ready or willing to give.
The Style that he had once sworn to himself that he had no place in his life.
And yet, he somehow became his life.
For so long, Fadel had been drowning—in violence, in silence, in the weight of surviving. But now being here, with him, something inside his chest eased.
Cracked open.
Breathed.
It was overwhelming. And familiar.
Fadel could spot the glint of mischief that danced in Style’s eyes before he even opened his mouth.
“You’re staring, Fadel,” he teased, his voice dipping lower, taunting. “Missed me that much?”
His lips pressed into a thin line, before he gently pecked Style’s cheek, “You wish.”
But standing there, he realized that maybe the world hadn’t moved on without him. Maybe he hadn't been forgotten, at least not in the way he feared during those sleepless prison nights.
Maybe he still had a place in it after all.
Style, still pressed close, whispered into his ears, “Ready to go?”
Fadel glanced at the car where Kant and Bison were climbing in, before looking back at Style.
For years, Fadel had thought a home was something you built—four walls, a roof, a steady place to return to. It had been something that Fadel had grown up to accept that he would never have in this lifetime. He knew he had too much blood on his hands.
But here, in the messy chaos of laughter and warmth, surrounded by everyone he cared for, he understood.
“Yeah,” he responded, his voice confident in one thing, “I’m ready.”
And somehow, Fadel knew that he had finally found his home.