Archive of Our Own ^beta

Kim still isn’t sure exactly how he ended up here.

And by here, he means Kenta clinging to him under the covers in his too-big bed, snuffling into his neck like an animal seeking comfort, releasing a tiny, endearing huff that makes the hair stand up on the back of his neck.

He doesn’t know when it happened, but he knows where it started.

*

Things finally calm down a few months after Tony’s death. The X-Hunter team seems to be figuring their way around the situation and Kim isn’t all that surprised when they ask him to join. He’d thought briefly of returning to Korea—somewhere the team owners aren’t involved in child trafficking as far as he knows—but X-Hunter saved him, so he guesses he owes them.

Fitting in with the team isn’t hard. Some, like North and Sonic, welcome him as if he’d always been a part. Others are slower to warm up, but Kim knows it’ll take time before Babe trusts him completely. He’s not worried about that. He’s more worried about finding somewhere to live.

His other apartment had been paid for by Tony, and with all those assets frozen and most of his employees gone or in jail, it’s all Kim can do to just get into the place and collect his things.

Alan, ever the biggest-hearted person Kim has met, offers up his house as a temporary refuge. And for a while, it’s fine, but Kim really needs his own place, and Alan and Jeff deserve the space they need as their relationship grows. While it’s cute, how Alan cooks breakfast for Jeff every morning and how sometimes Kim catches them making out poolside, it’s not a longterm solution.

So he enlists North and Sonic’s help to find him an apartment. Preferably one he can afford when North wants to show him a penthouse on Silom Road.

Kim doesn’t know how many buildings he looks at. They all start to blur together in the end. But he finally settles on a small but nice apartment close to the racetrack. It’s got two bedrooms and a shiny kitchen with all black counter tops, and it just feels right when Kim stands in the living room and gazes out the window at the greenery in the distance.

And for a while, everything is normal.

Kim starts to forget about everything that happened. He doesn’t think about his time held prisoner in Tony’s house, the threats, the violence he’d witnessed as he pushes it from his mind. Now that Tony’s gone, there’s no need to worry about any of it. And compared to the others, he’s suffered very little.

So the news of Kenta’s release shocks Kim less than it does Babe, who storms into the garage one morning.

“Can you believe it?!” Kim hears Babe say to Alan where Alan is tinkering with a gear set. “He gets released early and has the balls to ask if he can stay with me.”

Stepping around his car, Kim watches Babe huff petulantly while Alan frowns slightly.

“Did he actually ask you that?” Alan asks, as if Babe might be exaggerating. Babe does have a tendency to be over-dramatic, Kim has noticed. Most of the time, he lets it slide, but Alan has a way of calming everyone down.

Babe huffs again. “He said his parole requires an address for him to live at. Like I’d ever trust him in my house.”

“It’s probably that or a halfway house,” Alan says thoughtfully. “I wouldn’t want to stay in one of those.”

“He should,” Babe grunts, crossing his arms.

Kim knows Babe has a lot more history with Kenta than everyone else, and even Kim still remembers the knife held to his throat, a threat to silence him, the cold gleam in Kenta’s eye as he tossed in him the cell. But he also remembers Kenta sobbing on the floor after he killed Tony, broken like the children on the auction block.

“Maybe he could stay at my place,” Alana suggests, and he’s just too nice for his own good, Kim thinks. “It’s big.”

“You don’t want him,” Babe says harshly, squeezing his arms across his chest. “He’s a rabid dog.”

Alan hesitates, but Kim doesn’t think it’s because of what Babe said.

“You’d need to keep an eye on him,” Kim adds finally, and even though he’s been standing right there, Babe seems surprised when he chimes in.

Alan’s house is big, filled with empty rooms where Kenta could hide or plot or do whatever it is he does. And Alan is distracted, rightfully so, with his boyfriend and his happily ever after.

“You can’t trust him,” Babe says decidedly, now gazing at Kim as if he’s said something weird. “He’ll stab you in your sleep.”

That might be exaggerating a little, Kim thinks. From the brief amount of time he spent with Kenta, before all the drama, when he was a simple race car driver recruited to come to Thailand and Kenta had accompanied Tony to meet him, Kenta had been quiet and obedient, barely raising his gaze from the floor unless spoken to directly. More like a beaten dog than something wild.

“I don’t think that’s true,” Kim says even though he shouldn’t with the way Babe is staring at him, but he’s never cowed to Babe before.

“Then why don’t you take him?” Babe snaps, pushing off where he’s been leaning against one of the cars. “Since you know him so well.”

“Babe,” Alan says before Babe can get in Kim’s face, and Kim isn’t going to back down even though he’s not sure why Babe wants to fight. But Alan has a hand on Babe’s chest, nudging him backwards, somehow the voice of reason as he tells Babe to go find Charlie in the office.

Kim doesn’t understand how Babe can have so little empathy for someone who went through the same things he did—possibly even worse—but it’s not really any of his business. It does, however, spur him to offer up his apartment to Kenta in the end, and that decision is where it all begins.

*

Kim has never lived with an ex-prisoner before, but he does a little reading before Kenta’s official release and clears out the apartment of anything questionable.

He doesn’t have a gun or any drugs, but there are plenty of knives in the kitchen that he hesitates over. He believes what he said to Babe, though. Maybe he doesn’t know Kenta well but he doesn’t think he’s a wild animal who can’t control himself. Certainly not a rabid dog out to attack everything it sees. At worst, a feral cat who doesn’t trust anyone to get close.

As much as Kim prepares—gets an actual bed for the second bedroom that has been mostly empty since he moved in, and buys new sheets and towels and basic necessities that he doubts Kenta will have—he still feels nervous when the day comes and Kenta shows up on his doorstep with nothing but the clothes on his back.

“Hi,” Kim says when he opens the door to a stiff-looking Kenta, his hands clasped in front of him the same way he used to stand behind Tony. “Come in.”

He steps back to let Kenta pass, ignoring the awkward silence as Kenta says nothing but scans the room carefully. Kim wonders if he’s checking for threats or just analyzing escape routes for later.

“It’s not as big as Alan’s place,” Kim says as Kenta takes in the living room with it’s plush grey couch, the plants Kim has been trying to grow in the corner with their drooping leaves, the stylized print of Seoul’s skyline behind the television. “But you’ve got your own room and the kitchen’s fully stocked, and I’ve got all the streaming services.”

He gestures at the TV but Kenta barely looks, dark eyes grim as he surveys the space, mouth set in a deep line as if this is the last place he wants to be. He doesn’t say it, though, and Kim takes the opportunity to show Kenta his room instead.

“I don’t really use this room,” Kim says from the doorway as Kenta paces around the walls as if measuring the space. “North somehow convinced me that two rooms would be useful when I rented the place. I think he just wanted the option of crashing here if he needed to.”

Again, Kenta doesn’t reply, and Kim is starting to think that he’s talking to himself.

“Okay, well, make yourself at home,” Kim says after a minute when it becomes clear that Kenta is not going to speak. “Bathroom is down the hall, and I’ll be around if you need anything.”

He leaves Kenta in the room with the door open and retreats to the living room. Maybe this was a mistake, he thinks as he sinks into the couch. What does he know about helping someone who just got out of prison? Alan would say just offering a place to stay is enough, but from the look on Kenta’s face, Kim doesn’t think it will be.

Gazing out the window, Kim sighs to himself. What has he gotten himself into?

*

For the first week or two, Kenta is a ghost.

Kim knows he’s there because dishes disappear from the cupboard and reappear washed and drying on the mat the next day. He hears the shower in the evenings, and Kenta’s light stays on for hours afterward, glowing underneath the door frame. Kim leaves a few new sets of teeshirts and jeans outside one night so at least Kenta has something clean to wear, and they’re gone the next morning.

“Make sure you lock your door at night,” Babe snarks when Kim tells Alan about it.

It’s entirely uncalled for, Kim thinks, watching Babe pull on his racing gloves for practice. After all, Kenta has barely been staying with him a week and so far, he’s done nothing worse than hanging up a towel on the wrong hook in the bathroom. Otherwise, he slinks around the apartment like a cautious black cat, darting from one room to the other so Kim won’t have time to talk to him, shutting himself in his room for hours at a time.

When Kim opens his mouth to say something barbarous in return, Alan sets a heavy hand on his shoulder and Kim has to relent. It doesn’t matter what Babe says. He didn’t want to deal with Kenta, so Kim stepped up, and he’s not going to treat Kenta like a leper. He deserves that much.

By the time Kim gets home from practice, he’s annoyed by the whole situation.

Babe doesn’t know what Kenta went through, and neither does Kim. He just knows that it could be worse. He’d offered up his home because he didn’t want Kenta to end up in a halfway house with a bunch of other former felons, where he might be tempted or goaded into doing something to land him back in prison.

Kim doesn’t know why he feels some sort of affinity or sympathy or whatever it is for Kenta. Kenta isn’t black and white the way Babe thinks he should be, and Kim thinks that somewhere in the varying shades of grey, there’s hope.

When Kim steps into the apartment, he’s surprised by the sight of Kenta on the balcony. It’s not really a balcony—just wide enough to stand on, not even big enough for a chair. But Kenta stands with his back to the living room, and Kim can see the smoke he exhales, a cigarette clutched between his fingers.

It’s the first time since Kenta came that he’s really been out, and it’s probably because he thought Kim would be gone longer.

Kim should probably leave him alone, but the urge to make sure he’s okay is too strong. He crosses the living room quietly, not trying to scare Kenta, but Kenta still jumps and whips around as he slides open the window that allows him to climb out.

The first thing Kim notices is the upside-down jar lid on the cement—a make-shift ash tray that is already jumbled with half-smoked cigarette butts. He wonders how long Kenta has been out here to chain smoke half a pack.

Kenta says nothing as Kim climbs up beside him, and there’s barely enough space for the two of them side by side. He just eyes Kim suspiciously and takes a long drag until the ash crumples off the end.

“You’re not on house arrest, you know?” Kim says after a minute, careful not to kick the ash tray as he shuffles up to the metal railing. “You can go outside.”

He doesn’t expect Kenta to smash the butt in with the others and turn sharply toward the window.

Kim catches him before he can slip through, a hand on his arm to stop him. Kenta’s eyes snap to the uninvited touch, and Kim freezes under the sharpness of his gaze.

“I didn’t mean right now,” Kim says, though, carefully taking back his hand. He hadn’t meant to make him uncomfortable. “I just meant in general. You’re not a prisoner here.”

Kenta has stopped trying to leave, but he doesn’t look reassured or relaxed as he turns to Kim, mouth in that same flat line, eyes fierce as he fixes his gaze on Kim.

“Then what am I?” he asks, and it might be the first words Kim has heard him speak since he arrived.

“Uh.” Kim didn’t expect to be asked that and he pauses. He’s heard Kenta be called a lot of things. Bodyguard, servant, attack dog, cockroach. But none of them fit the man standing in front of him, jaw tight as if daring Kim to say one of those things, to confirm it for him. “You’re my guest,” he says finally because it’s the closest thing he can think of.

Kenta scoffs, though, as if he thinks Kim is lying. Up close, Kim can see the bags under Kenta’s eyes, the nicotine staining his fingers, his unshaven face with stubble beginning to appear along his upper lip. He looks tired, and Kim wonders if he’s been sleeping.

“I know you only offered because no one else wanted to,” Kenta says, surprising Kim, his voice cold and quiet, staring out over the greenery and the low-slung apartments. “I know you’re the last resort.”

It’s not exactly true, but he doesn’t think Kenta would believe him if he said it.

“I offered because you needed it,” he says instead, which is the truth. He would hope if he ever ends up in a situation like that, someone would offer him a hand. If Babe doesn’t want to and Alan is only offering out of pity, then Kim is doing it because it’s the right thing to do.

Kim thinks he sees a flicker of uncertainty as Kenta’s hands grip the railing until his knuckles are white, watches how Kenta takes a breath, how he tries to hide the way he glances at Kim, as if suspicious he really means it.

“You didn’t want me,” he says after a second, the steel still in his voice. “You got stuck with me.”

Stuck isn’t exactly how Kim would put it. He’d offered to let Kenta stay here of his own free will. There had been other options that were worse.

He sighs after a moment, turning to lean against the rail while Kenta appears to ignore him. He doesn’t know what it is that always makes him want to help, that makes it impossible for him to ignore someone in pain. His mother swears it started the day he rescued a bird that had fallen from its nest as a child. He’d spent all day searching for the nest, cradling the tiny thing in his hands, until he’d finally spotted it and climbed up five feet to put it back.

It’s gotten him in trouble before. With Kenta, even, and he can still feel the cold cut of steel against his throat at times.

“I know this isn’t your ideal situation,” he says at length, “probably not what you were expecting. But I want you to feel comfortable here. I don’t want you to feel like you have to hide or stay in your room all the time if you don’t want to. You can talk to me, or not. Whatever you want. But don’t think I don’t want you here.”

Kim ducks through the gap in the window even as Kenta’s head turns to watch, a twitch at his lips as though he might say something, but in the end, he doesn’t.

Kim might have bitten off more than he could chew, but it doesn’t matter. There is no going back now.

*

“How’s it going with the new roomie?”

Kim looks up at North’s question, how he props himself on Kim’s shoulder and waggles his eyebrows like there’s something juicy to tell. They’re outside, about to watch some of the new recruits in a race to judge if they have what it takes.

Instead of answering right away, Kim glances around North to where Babe sits a few levels down the bleachers with Charlie, but he doesn’t seem to be paying them any attention. And Kim doesn’t want to hear Babe’s interpretation on his situation with Kenta.

“It’s fine,” he says with a shrug, knowing that won’t be enough for North, who scoffs.

“Just fine? You haven’t woken up with him standing over you holding a knife yet?”

“He’s not a psycho murderer.”

“He killed Tony,” North points out, and Kim doesn’t think that really counts. There was something deeply psychological about how Kenta had stabbed Tony and then crumpled into himself. He hadn’t fought at all when the police had taken him out of there.

Kenta hasn’t talked about it, and Kim doesn’t expect he will. Kim is just glad that Kenta willingly came out of his room the other day and sat in the chair in the living room with him. He hadn’t said anything, hadn’t done anything really, while Kim scrolled his phone. Kim hadn’t dared to say anything either in case he scared him off.

It is something, though.

“Tony did a lot of terrible things.”

North hums in agreement as the race starts, turning his attention to the cars instead. But Kim isn’t really watching. He’s thinking about Tony and all the things Kim knows he did. But he’s sure there’s more. More that people like Babe and Charlie and Jeff will never talk about to anyone but their partners. Things Kim will never know or understand because a few days kept prisoner in a dark room are nothing to a lifetime of degradation.

He knows Tony did things to Kenta, just by the way Kenta flinches at sudden movement, how wary he seems at everything, how he doubts every inch of kindness Kim shows him. That’s not a normal reaction, even for someone who just got out of prison.

Kim may not know but he can imagine and none of it is good.

“You could bring him around,” North says after the cars pass on the first loop, and Kim frowns.

“What?”

“Aside from Babe, I don’t think anyone hates him that much.”

That’s definitely not something Kim will be telling Kenta, he thinks as North turns his attention back to the race. Kenta isn’t ready to face the whole X-Hunter team, and the last thing Kim wants is for someone like Babe to push Kenta right back into the angry, defensive position he’d started in.

For now, he’ll focus on getting Kenta out of his bedroom and into the living room. One step at a time.

*

Kim has had roommates before, but most of them weren’t ex-criminals, although Kim suspects that even if they were, they might still make an effort to be polite.

Not that Kenta isn’t, exactly. He doesn’t leave dirty dishes in the sink or towels on the floor or his shoes in a pile by the door. Instead, he picks up his shoes upon entry and takes them immediately to his room so Kim doesn’t even know if he’s home half the time. But cleaning up after yourself and making the effort to talk to someone are completely different things.

Most of Kenta’s communications seems to come in the form of his eyes. Glares when Kim asks something he thinks has an obvious answer. A question mark when Kim offers to do something for him unprompted. Uncertainty when Kim tries to go on with his normal routine despite Kenta being there.

Kim isn’t sure what’s going through Kenta’s head, and Kenta’s certainly not going to tell him, so he has to take his best guess.

There are a few things he knows about Kenta, but they mostly relate to what time he gets up and the little routine he has established in the morning of cooking his own breakfast, promptly washing the dishes, and then disappearing into his room. He’s always up far earlier than Kim, even though Kenta has no job to get to, but he seems to need the routine or he gets grumpy and snappy.

This morning, though, when Kim drags himself out of the bed around his usual time, he’s surprised not to find Kenta standing in the kitchen with his back to Kim, scrubbing at dishes he’s barely used. In fact, there’s no evidence that Kenta has been in here at all today.

Kim makes his coffee and sips it as he leans against the counter. Down the hall, he can see that Kenta’s door is closed, as it usually is. Maybe he got up earlier than normal, Kim thinks, but the sink isn’t wet and there’s no cigarette in the ash tray Kim got for Kenta on the tiny balcony, which he usually smokes before he makes breakfast.

Maybe he slept in for the first time ever. Kim frowns, tapping his fingers on his mug. He hasn’t asked Kenta about what his life was like at Tony’s, if that’s why he has to be up at the crack of dawn, but he’s gotten the feeling it’s just something Kenta is used to. Kim isn’t sure Kenta would ever relax enough to sleep in.

Or maybe Kenta is sick. And if he’s sick, Kim can’t just leave him on his own here.

Kim doesn’t care about being late to work, and that’s why he hesitates as he sets down his empty coffee cup. A part of him knows that if Kenta is sick, he won’t want Kim taking care of him, but Kim won’t let him suffer here alone.

Running a hand through his hair, Kim leaves the mug in the sink and heads down the hall.

He hasn’t been inside Kenta’s room since he offered it, respecting Kenta’s space and privacy. The most he’s done is knock on the door to tell Kenta he’s leaving or ask if he wants something to eat.

When he knocks this time, there’s no answer from behind the wooden door, but that isn’t unusual. Kim knocks again, though, leaning in to see if he can hear anything.

“Kenta?” he asks, careful, but there are no sounds of shuffling footsteps, no grunts of acknowledgment behind the panel.

He hesitates as he reaches for the knob. It is Kenta’s space, after all, somewhere Kim hopes he feels safe, and he doesn’t want to ruin that. But he’s getting worried now the longer the silence stretches.

Shoving down his worries, Kim grabs the knob and twists, pushing the door open slowly as he pokes his head inside.

The room looks much the same as when Kim showed it to Kenta the first time. Kenta hasn’t bothered to put anything on the walls or even on top of the dresser except his wallet and phone. No trinkets, no decoration, no personalization. Just a duvet Kim bought at IKEA, a generic photo of a beach that Kim can’t remember where he got it. He’d put up something Kenta would like if he could figure it out.

His gaze falls on Kenta finally, lying on his bed, curled into a tight little ball, but he seems to be sleeping and not in pain as far as Kim can tell. It doesn’t look like a particularly comfortable sleeping position, and he sighs as he thinks that Kenta can’t even seem to relax when he’s asleep.

Stepping over, Kim isn’t surprised to find the room spotless, all of Kenta’s clothes tucked away in a single drawer. As he gets closer to Kenta, he can see the lines on his forehead, permanently etched with worry. For a second, an urge rises up in Kim to reach out and smooth them away, to leave Kenta looking young and soft, to brush the hair from his eyes. There’s stubble on his upper lip, a downturn to his mouth that Kim lingers on.

He hasn’t really been this close to Kenta before, has never noticed the texture of his skin, the scars that aren’t visible from far away, one long, thin red mark that his hair usually hides.

Kim is halfway to reaching for Kenta before he stops. What is he doing?

“Kenta?” he says, still quiet, not trying to scare him awake. It’s not working, though. He didn’t think Kenta would be a heavy sleeper. He has to reach out, then, steering clear of where his hand wanted to touch earlier, and landing on Kenta’s shoulder. He gives it a quick shake. “Ken—”

He doesn’t even finish the word as he’s knocked back, Kenta’s hand flying out from where it was tucked before, smacking Kim and catching him off-guard as he stumbles. He falls to the floor with a dull thud, staring up at where Kenta is wide awake now, halfway off the bed, eyes darting around to find the intruder. But Kim isn’t focused on the dull pain spreading through his tail bone or how Kenta is crouched like a cat getting ready to attack, but the knife that glints in Kenta’s clutched hand.

It’s not one of the kitchen knives—Kim knows that. It’s small and sharp and has a gleaming black handle as if it’s made of onyx. He wonders where Kenta got it, but more importantly, why is he keeping it under his pillow?

“Ow,” Kim says finally, pointedly, rubbing his ass as he climbs to his feet.

Kenta hasn’t said a word, but Kim can see how fast he’s breathing, his bare chest rising up and down as he takes heavy breaths, as if Kim’s wake up call shocked him. His eyes have calmed now that he seems to have realized the only threat here is Kim on the floor.

“What the hell are you doing?” Kenta growls as he finally lowers the knife and stares up at Kim when he regains his footing.

“Checking that you were okay,” Kim says, because it should be obvious. It’s been more than a few weeks since Kenta moved in and Kim doesn’t think he’s done anything to warrant a knife to the throat.

“Why?” Kenta asks, and it’s so suspicious that Kim actually pauses. Has no one ever asked Kenta that before?

“Because I was worried,” Kim answered honestly after a second. Kenta’s suspicious expression deepens, the lines on his forehead more pronounced than ever. “You weren’t up and you usually are. I thought maybe you were sick.”

Kenta doesn’t answer that for a moment, frowning as if not sure what Kim means by any of that.

It’s not a trick question. He just wants to know Kenta is okay before he commits to leaving him alone all day. From here, Kenta looks tired with bags under his eyes. His cheeks are a warm shade of pink which could be from sleeping or it could be the beginning of a fever.

Taking a tentative step forward, Kim glances at the knife again, now held at Kenta’s side. He doesn’t think Kenta is going to hurt him, but he can’t be entirely sure.

“Are you feeling okay?”

Kenta still eyes him like it’s a trap, especially when Kim steps even closer. “M’fine,” he says finally, but Kim’s not going to take his word for it.

“Can I?” he asks, raising a hand, and Kenta stares, gaze unsure.

“Can you what?”

Kenta jerks back a little as Kim moves his hand, slowly, until the back presses to Kenta’s forehead. He can feel Kenta reeling back from him, eyes wide, eyebrows furrowed, fighting between letting Kim feel his forehead or falling backward on the mattress.

Kenta opens his mouth as if he wants to ask something, as if Kim is doing something completely foreign to him, but he can’t seem to form the words.

Instead, his eyes dart over Kim’s face as Kim feels his temperature, the warmth soaking through the back of his hand. Kenta is warm, warmer than he should be, and Kim places the back of his hand on Kenta’s neck. For a moment, Kenta just stares up at him, frozen under Kim’s touch.

Kim hadn’t realized before that Kenta slept in only his boxers, and he can see, as he moves his hand to the other side of Kenta’s neck to check his suspicion is correct, that there are more scars on his chest—burn marks that probably came from cigarettes, old cuts, long, white marks, evidence of healed violence that makes something inside him clench, angry and sad all at the same time.

He’s lingering too long, Kim realizes, taking his hand back, but Kenta hasn’t growled at him yet. In fact, he looks confusingly dazed when Kim steps back, blinking and frowning and rubbing off where Kim’s hand had been.

“You’re a little warm,” Kim says, somehow needing to clear his throat. “You might be coming down with something.”

Kim knows what went on in Tony’s house hadn’t been fairy tales and tea parties, and the others don’t have wounds like this. But Kenta isn’t like the others, Kim thinks as Kenta seems to shake himself out of the daze, glowering immediately at his words and reaching for a shirt to cover up. Kenta wasn’t a prized Alpha, destined to be sold, needing to be kept in perfect condition.

What had Tony done to him he wouldn’t do to the others? Kim can only imagine.

Kenta tucks the knife back under his pillow, his gaze daring Kim to say something about it. But Kim’s not going to.

“I’ll make you some tea,” Kim says after a minute, stepping toward the door. He has to do something other than think about how Kenta got all those scars or he’ll want to dig up Tony’s body and tear it limb from limb.

“I don’t want—”

“You’re getting tea,” Kim interrupts Kenta before he can finish, not looking back and leaving the door open behind him as he heads for the kitchen.

*

Kim calls Alan once Kenta has his tea and is begrudgingly sipping it on the couch. He looks strangely out of place, stiff, as if he doesn’t quite know what to do with himself.

He tells Alan he’s not coming in today, leaving it vague since Kenta is clearly listening in. Alan, ever the good guy, doesn’t even ask why, just tells him to take whatever time he needs.

Kim catches Kenta watching him when he hangs up the phone and slips it in his back pocket. His eyes follow Kim all the way from the kitchen into the living room and until he settles on the chair.

“I can take care of myself,” Kenta says once Kim slides down onto the cushion.

Kim isn’t surprised when he says it, glancing over at Kenta and how he hides behind the mug with kittens all over it. “I know. But you don’t always have to.”

Kenta can’t seem to come up with a retort to that, frowning instead.

For a long moment, they sit in silence. Kim can hear the sounds of traffic from outside, a bird calling loudly from somewhere near the window.

“We don’t have to just sit here,” Kim says at length, stretching out his legs where Kenta remains awkwardly upright. “What do you do when I’m not here?”

He doesn’t mean for it to sound accusatory, as if he suspects Kenta of doing something bad when he’s gone, but he thinks it might have when Kenta doesn’t answer, clutching his mug and straightening his shoulders.

“Do you watch TV?” he asks, flashing Kenta a half smile to lighten the mood.

Kenta jerks his shoulders, blowing on his tea that is certainly not hot anymore. “Not allowed,” he mutters, and Kim frowned.

“What do you mean, not allowed? You’re allowed.”

Kenta doesn’t reply this time, not meeting Kim’s gaze, and it hits Kim what he means a second later.

“You mean at—” He stops himself from saying Tony’s name. The more he learns about him, the more he hates the man. “What did you do when you weren’t working?”

Kenta shrugs again, as if the question isn’t one worth answering, and it’s Kim’s turn to stare. Was Kenta allowed to do anything in Tony’s house? Or had he spent all the years of his childhood in an empty room, staring at walls?

“Did you have books?” he asks. “A phone for apps? Pen and paper? Any friends in the house?”

“No,” Kenta says, and it’s so matter-of-fact it breaks Kim’s heart to hear it.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he mutters, and Kenta seems surprised at that.

“What?”

“What?!” Kim repeats, blinking at Kenta and the owlish look on his face, as if he doesn’t understand why Kim is upset. “You’re telling me that you grew up all alone, without anything to do, nothing to comfort or distract you. That’s not okay, Kenta.”

Kenta frowns as though Kim is chastising him, and Kim can see him bristling. “I deserved it,” he says harshly into his mug.

Kim can’t believe his own ears, aghast at the idea that a child wouldn’t deserve something as simple as a distraction, a toy, something to occupy his time. That Kenta would think he deserved to be treated like that.

“That’s bullshit!” Kim says, a little too fiercely perhaps as Kenta’s head snaps up, eying him again. “You didn’t deserve to be abandoned, to be hurt, to be treated like a dog. No one does.”

“I’ve hurt people,” Kenta says, just as harshly, and there’s a glisten at his eye that Kim can’t look away from. “I’ve done bad… things. I should be punished.”

Kim would argue that Kenta has been punished most of his life for something he couldn’t control, but obviously Kenta doesn’t see it that way.

“You went to prison,” Kim points out, voice softening, the anger draining away as he watches Kenta’s shoulders droop. He wants to move over to the couch, set a reassuring hand on Kenta’s knee, but he doesn’t think he’d be allowed. “You did your time.”

Kenta is silent for a moment, gazing at his mug of half-drunk tea. For a moment, Kim doesn’t think he’s going to say anything at all, and he lets out a breath as he sinks into the chair. They’ve all been punished by Tony’s actions, and he’s not sure Kenta deserves any more than anyone else. He’s certainly not going to let Kenta think so anyway.

But Kenta remains stiff on his spot on the couch, staring at his hands when he finally answers.

“It’s not enough.”

*

Kim can’t stop thinking about it, about a young Kenta growing up in that house, about how little Tony had cared about anyone that wasn’t valuable to him. He knows Babe and Jeff were treated differently, and even Charlie. They hadn’t been trained into weapons. Babe’s ego is as big as anyone’s Kim has ever met.

“Bro! You just crashed and burned.”

North’s voice rouses Kim from his thoughts, the black screen of the race simulator reflecting his befuddled-looking face.

He hadn’t really been paying attention, which isn’t a good thing when he sees Babe swagger over in the reflection next, a smirk on his face as he sets a cocky elbow on the screen.

“What’s wrong? Tired from sleeping with one eye open?”

Rolling his eyes, Kim doesn’t respond. Babe’s just trying to bait him, still angry over the fact that Kim offered Kenta somewhere to go. Kim knows if it were up to Babe, Kenta would be sleeping on the street right now.

Climbing up from the seat, Kim ignores him, pushing his hair back and straightening his shirt. He has better things to do than argue with Babe.

“Haven’t managed to tame the wild dog yet, have you?” Babe calls, though, sounding smug when Kim turns away. “It’s because you can’t. He’s a lost cause.”

Kim shouldn’t turn, but he does. Babe’s a lot of talk, but he doesn’t always back it up.

“You don’t know anything about it,” he says simply, watching the smirk on Babe’s face slide away. North, to his credit, takes a step back from both of them.

“I know everything I need to know about Kenta,” Babe snaps. “He’s weak and pathetic. He knew what Tony was doing and he stayed anyway. A tiger won’t change its stripes.”

“I’m not trying to change him,” Kim says, feeling defensive as he faces Babe, Babe’s words rumbling around inside his brain. “I’m trying to help him.”

Babe’s eyes narrow as he steps closer to Kim, and Kim doesn’t move, squaring his shoulders. There’s nothing intimidating about Babe, no matter how much he thinks being the top racer means.

“He begged Tony to love him because only someone that evil ever could.”

Kim doesn’t mean to do it, but his fist curls into a ball and swings at Babe, catching him on that perfectly sculpted jaw bone. He’s usually so tempered, so measured, can keep his emotions in check, but something deep in his chest bursts with anger at Babe’s words, thrown out so recklessly, just to hurt. The Kenta he’s seen is broken and afraid and believes so badly that he deserves all the bad things that happen to him because of what Tony did.

Babe staggers back, as though surprised by Kim’s reaction.

Kim doesn’t care how surprised he is. He deserved all of that. “How can you say that about someone who’s been just as abused as you were, probably even more because he’s wasn’t special?” he demands as Babe catches his balance.

Darkness floods Babe’s face as he starts back, eyes flashing, growing at least a foot taller than Kim, but North somehow manages to wedge himself in the middle of them before Babe can charge.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” North chimes, hands on Babe’s chest to stop him from beating Kim’s face in. Kim doesn’t move, staring Babe down. He isn’t worried. He can take Babe in a fight. “No killing each other at the office. Can’t give Alan a heart attack.”

Babe doesn’t seem happy about the way North is forcing him away from Kim, so he yells over his shoulder. “He made a choice!”

But Kim doesn’t think he had one.

*

Kim isn’t sure how it happens, but suddenly almost two months have gone by with his new house guest. Once Kenta relented to actually coming out of his room, Kim has felt a lot less like he’s tiptoeing around his own house.

Kenta is still taciturn and standoffish but it makes Kim smiles whenever he answers with a grunt or watches Kim with that slightly disbelieving stare as though whatever Kim is doing is strange, even if it’s just eating seaweed chips for dinner.

“Chips aren’t dinner,” Kenta says when Kim calls him out on the staring one evening.

“I’m too tired to cook, and I’m not very good at it anyway,” Kim says from where he sits on the couch and Kenta is frowning at him from the hallway. It had been a long day of practice, especially with Babe glaring at him ever chance he got.

Kim isn’t going to bring up Kenta to Babe, but he’s also not going to back down when Babe feels the need to complain about him lending a hand. The whole team knows, of course, thanks to North, about their almost coming to blows over Kenta.

Kim hasn’t bothered to tell Kenta, though. Kenta doesn’t talk about Babe, but he doubts anything he could say would help.

Kenta frowns as if Kim is committing a cardinal sin with the bag in his hand. “You can’t only eat that.”

Sighing, Kim crumples up the top of the bag and sets it aside. He didn’t think Kenta would care so much about what he ate.

“Then I won’t,” he says easily, swinging his leg off the couch and standing up. He smiles at the confused look in Kenta’s face as he comes closer. Kenta still seems to recoil at anyone getting too close, as if a reflex. Kim tries not to take it personally even as Kenta leans away from him. “Come on.”

Kenta’s eyes narrow as they usually do. “Where?”

“We’re going to dinner,” Kim says simply, and he would reach out to take Kenta’s hand but that might land him in a choke hold, so he nods at the door instead.

Kenta’s eyes dart to it and back, as if he doesn’t understand. There’s not much to it as far as Kim is concerned.

“You said chips aren’t dinner, so we’re going to go out and get some,” he says, ushering Kenta toward the door.

It takes a minute, a bit of persuading and soft, begging eyes that he isn’t sure have any effect, but Kenta gives in and goes with Kim.

The place Kim picks isn’t fancy by any means—just a cart on the street with a few rickety tables and battery-operated lamps. It’s dark out and he doesn’t know if that’s better or worse for Kenta, who follows him carefully, always glancing around as if on guard.

“This place has the best noodles,” Kim assures Kenta as they sit down on the mismatched chairs and Kenta wobbles a little. Kim pauses as Kenta reads the menu on the side of the stall. There aren’t very many options to choose from, but it occurs to Kim that Kenta may not have ever been out like this. “Did you ever go to places like this? Before?”

Kenta looks back at him, just for a second, before dropping his gaze to the table. “Only when Tony was in a meeting and didn’t need me.”

“Then what’s your favorite?” Kim asks because he doesn’t want to think about how little freedom Kenta probably had growing up. It will just make him angry and he doesn’t want to be angry around Kenta.

Kenta hesitates, eying Kim across the table, mouth twitching as if determining where this line of questioning is going. Kim can practically see the wheels turning behind his eyes. Calculating what he can say and how much he can get away with, wondering if Kim has another motive other than simple conversation.

“It’s not a trick question,” Kim says.

Kenta’s lips press together in a thin line, as if he doesn’t really believe it, but he answers after a beat has passed. “There was a barbecue place I went to once. It was okay.”

Kim takes ‘okay’ to mean ‘good’ and smiles at Kenta. “Maybe next time we can go to one of those. They’re all over in Korea, you know, so they kind of remind me of home.”

“Why haven’t you gone back?”

Kenta’s question surprises Kim—not the question itself but that Kenta actually asked something of him for once.

“I thought about it,” he admits, leaning back in his wobbly chair and running a hand through his hair. “After the whole Tony thing. But then Alan asked if I wanted to join the team. I guess I felt like I wasn’t done here yet.”

“But you’ll go back eventually,” Kenta says, not a question this time, eyes narrowed as if trying to suss out some answer.

Kim shrugs. “I don’t know. I’m open to whatever life throws my way.”

Kenta doesn’t seem wholly satisfied with that answer, and Kim doesn’t know why.

“What about you? Have you thought about what you’re going to do?”

Kenta merely frowns at that, as if he doesn’t understand the question.

Kim leans forward and sets his elbows on the table. “You’re free now. You can do whatever you want. Get a job maybe or volunteer somewhere, find a hobby. What do you like?”

The question seems to stump Kenta, and Kim hopes it’s not because of some sad Tony-related reason. He doesn’t think his opinion of the man can get any lower at this point. He doesn’t want to imagine a baby Kenta sitting in some dark room and staring at the walls for hours and hours all by himself.

But Kenta isn’t a kid, he reminds himself. He’s a fully-grown man sitting across from him who hasn’t been allowed to do things for himself. He’s sure Kenta doesn’t want him feeling sorry for him. Doesn’t want pity, and he definitely doesn’t want anyone’s help but he’s stuck with Kim’s. And Kim’s going to make sure Kenta knows it.

Kenta shakes his head after a second, eyebrows drawn, expression unsure. “I don’t…”

“Cars?” Kim offers when Kenta trails off. There has to be something Kenta likes, something that piques his interest. “Motorcycles? What about animals? Cats or dogs? Cooking? You’re pretty good at cooking. Oh! Knives, you like knives, right?”

Knives always seemed to be Kenta’s weapon of choice, rather than a gun or something easier to handle.

Kenta just looks confused as Kim rattles off the options. “I guess,” he agrees, though.

Kim sighs. It’s so hard to get Kenta to open up, even the tiniest bit. Sometimes it feels like he’s talking to a brick wall and he’s not sure how much Kenta is absorbing.

“But I can’t get a job,” Kenta says after a second, and Kim looks up. “I’m not good at anything except hurting people.”

“I don’t believe that,” Kim says easily, despite how Kenta’s mouth twitches in disagreement. “You’re smart and strong and skilled at fighting. You could use that to help people instead. It might make you feel better.”

Kenta pauses, frowning. “Is that why you do it?”

Kim smiles softly and Kenta eyes him, something unsure but also desperately hopeful in his gaze. “I believe in karma, so I treat people the way I want to be treated, and I help them because I think everyone deserves help, whether they ask for it or not.”

“Everyone?” Kenta asks, and Kim tilts his head to the side. He sound so doubtful.

So Kim nods confidently. “Everyone.” He sits back again and gestures at Kenta. “Maybe you could be a bouncer at a club. You’ve already got the wardrobe.”

His joke goes un-laughed-at by Kenta, but at least he doesn’t glare, so Kim will take it as a win.

For a minute, no one says anything, and Kim realizes they haven’t even ordered yet. He’s been so focused on Kenta that he forgot why they came. The other tables around them have filled up, the lights flickering amongst the darkness, the sound of sizzling as something hits a pan.

Kim is about to suggest they order when Kenta speaks, quiet but purposeful.

“I used to collect knives,” he says, not looking at Kim, “and I like cats and painting, but not gardening or cooking.”

Smiling, Kim nods slowly. It’s nothing shocking or groundbreaking, but it is Kenta begrudgingly offering up a piece of himself, and Kim will take it.

“I guess my plants are out of luck,” he says, and Kenta’s gaze flickers to him. Kim laughs. “Come on, let’s order. I’m still hungry.”

Kenta rises after Kim to head to the cart, and Kim can’t help smiling as he glances back. It’s taken some time, but he has hope for Kenta yet.

*

“How long did it take before Jeff felt comfortable with you?”

Kim can’t see Alan’s face where he’s lying halfway underneath a car, checking something or other that he doesn’t trust the new techs to do yet. Kim leans against the big heavy workbench, watching Alan’s lower-half.

He’s been thinking about it for a while, wondering if Kenta will ever let his guard all the way down. Granted, it’s only been a few months and he’s sure Kenta isn’t going to get over a lifetime of abuse in that amount of time, but he wants Kenta to feel safe with him. In his apartment, he means.

“A while,” Alan answers, voice muffled by the almost two thousand pounds of steel on top of him. “But I didn’t really help in the beginning.”

Kim doesn’t reply, frowning to himself. Alan and Jeff’s relationship is totally different than his and Kenta’s. He’d like Kenta to open up more, to let Kim help him move on and move forward, but it’s slow-going.

Alan slides out from under the car when Kim doesn’t answer, wiping at grease stains on his shirt. “Why are you asking? Everything okay with Kenta?”

Shrugging, Kim tosses Alan another rag. “He’s doing better,” he admits. “He talks more, and he doesn’t look like he wants to kill me all the time.”

Alan laughs, sitting up. “That’s an improvement.”

“But I’m not sure he likes it here.”

Alan pauses a second, gazing up at Kim from the floor, and Kim feels kind of stupid saying it out loud. If Babe heard him admitting he’s worried about Kenta, worried that Kenta doesn’t like him, he’d definitely have something scathing to say.

“He was practically a prisoner at Tony’s house,” Alan says at length. “And then he went to actual prison, so I’m not really surprised it’s taking this long.”

“I know,” Kim agrees, jerking his shoulder. He does know. He can’t expect Kenta to shed his past overnight and become an entirely different person. He doesn’t want Kenta to be someone different. He likes that he’s smart, that he thinks about his answers before he says anything, that he needs routine and structure to function, that he doesn’t rush into anything. He likes the suspicious, almost calculating way that Kenta listens to him, as if searching for a trap that isn’t there. Someday, he won’t, Kim hopes. Someday, he’ll take Kim at his word. But he’ll still be prickly and careful and always a little sad, but maybe there will be moments of softness—maybe he’ll smile or look at Kim with something closer to fondness instead of uncertainty.

Alan pushes himself up from the floor, patting Kim’s shoulder reassuringly. “You’ve done so much for him already. It takes time.” He tosses the wrench on the work bench and leans up against it next to Kim. “Even now, Jeff still pulls away sometimes. Not because he doesn’t love me but just because of what he’s been through.”

“What do you do when that happens?” Kim asks curiously. To him, Alan and Jeff are a perfect couple—they never fight and Jeff always seems happy to see him.

Alan shrugs. “I just makes sure he knows that I’m not going anywhere.”

Nodding, Kim doesn’t answer, letting Alan pat his shoulder and leave to get a drink. Whatever happens, he’d like to be there for Kenta, if Kenta will let him.

*

Kenta is reading a book, a book that Kim bought and conveniently left on the coffee table one morning when he left for work. It’s nothing special, just a stupid fantasy book that Kim thought maybe Kenta would turn his nose up at, or maybe he’d be morbidly fascinated by the cliched romantic drama between the love interests in it.

He’d come home to find Kenta a third of the way through, only looking slightly embarrassed to be caught with his nose buried in the pages. Kim had pointedly not said anything about it, but he had smiled to himself as he went about making himself dinner.

It’s been a few days and Kenta is still reading, scoffing occasionally as he turns pages, as if he doesn’t agree with whatever is happening.

Kim looks up from his phone as Kenta makes another noise, almost distressful and slams the book shut.

“What?” Kim asks, breaking the silence for the first time in half an hour. He’s been content to sit in a comfortable silence as Kenta reads and he scrolls TikTok, keeping it muted for Kenta’s sake.

“They fucking killed off the best character,” Kenta answers, snapping as he tosses the book on the coffee table like he’s insulted by it.

Kim doesn’t mean to smile, but it’s cute how angry Kenta is at a book. Kenta glares in response and Kim schools his face.

“I’m sorry. Do you want to go online and complain to the author?”

“No,” Kenta grumbles, reaching for the glass next to him and draining the water that remains. “But why do they do that?”

“Kill off characters?”

Kenta huffs, an adorable twist to his mouth. “Make you like someone and then take them away?”

Kim pauses, watching Kenta. “For the plot?” He can’t fathom why authors do anything.

“Well, they shouldn’t,” Kenta mutters, and Kim can’t help but laugh, earning him a look from Kenta.

“You can always write your own ending, a happy one.”

Kim’s not surprised when Kenta ignores him, grabbing his glass and rising from the couch. He watches him go, the smile lingering on his face. Next time, he’ll find a happier book for Kenta.

His amusement doesn’t last, vanishing with the shattering of glass on the tile floor.

He sees Kenta falter, hears the smash, and he’s clambering up from the chair as Kenta drops to his knees on the floor.

“Fuck,” he hears Kenta say, already reaching for jagged pieces of glass scattered on the tile.

“Kenta,” Kim says quickly as he crosses to the kitchen in three steps, but he doesn’t think Kenta hears him, scrambling to collect the glass.

“I’m sorry,” Kenta says, a rush, bent over the floor, voice trembling even as Kim leans down to stop him. “I’msorryI’msorryI’msorry.”

“Kenta!” Kim says again as Kenta hisses, blood blooming from the cut on his hand, but he only clutches the glass tighter. Kim watches in horror as blood oozes from his fist and drips onto the floor. He doesn’t think before he grabs for Kenta’s hand to stop him, and Kenta flinches, his whole body clenching, retracting as if Kim is going to hit him.

Something cold runs through Kim at the reaction, at how Kenta shrinks into himself, and it’s only when he tears his gaze from Kenta’s bloody hand that he notices the tears streaking down Kenta’s cheeks.

“I’m-I’m sorry,” Kim says quickly, heart pounding in his chest as he realizes what’s happening. “Please,” he says as Kenta gasps for breath, the glass digging even further into his palm. He has to get it away before he hurts himself even more. But Kenta can’t seem to hear him—panting, eyes wild, tears streaming down his face as he curls away from Kim.

Kim doesn’t know what to do, feeling the same panic welling up in himself as he faces Kenta. He knows about panic attacks but he’s never had one, never been faced with calming someone down like this.

“Hey, Kenta, listen to me,” he says, trying to keep his voice calm, taking a chance and moving very slowly to set his hands on Kenta’s shoulders, pulling him away from the glass until he’s leaning up against the cupboards, sliding his hand to Kenta’s and carefully prying it open until he can get the piece of glass out of his grip.

He can see the cut already, digging deep into Kenta’s palm—it’s going to leave another scar.

“It’s okay,” he says as Kenta shakes his head, eyes squeezed shut as if he doesn’t want to face Kim, breaths coming in short gasps, face a mess with tears, red and blotchy, and Kim just wants to wipe them away and assure Kenta with every bit of sincerity that he has that there’s nothing to worry about. “It’s okay. It was an accident.”

Kenta shakes his head again, biting his lower lip as it trembles, taking shaky breaths as he chokes out another, “I’m—sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Kim assures him, keeping a hold of his hand when Kenta doesn’t rip it away. He really needs something to stop the bleeding, and he glances around quickly. There’s a towel he uses to dry dishes and that will have to do because he’s afraid if he leaves Kenta alone even for a minute, he might pass out. “There’s nothing to be sorry about.”

Grabbing it off the counter, Kim presses it to the cut on Kenta’s hand and holds it tightly. Kenta hasn’t calmed, gulping down air, fingers digging into his jeans, his chest heaving.

Kim doesn’t think twice as he takes Kenta’s other hand and presses it to his own chest.

“Here, just breathe with me, okay?” he says, holding Kenta’s gaze as hot tears slide down his cheeks, his nose red and running. Kenta tries to say something, but he can’t get the words out, and Kim’s heart breaks a little.

Cursing to himself, Kim holds Kenta’s hand steady against his heart, taking purposeful, measured breaths, hoping it will calm them both down. He doesn’t want to think what could have caused this reaction.

He doesn’t know how long they stay there, how long it takes before Kenta is able to take a full breath again, before he stops trembling, before Kenta’s heart stops racing and the tears dry.

Only then does Kim check Kenta’s hand, the towel soaked in blood. It doesn’t look good, will probably need stitches, but he’s not sure he can get Kenta to the hospital yet.

He doesn’t reach for Kenta now that Kenta has calmed, kneeling before him on the floor. He lets Kenta draw his other hand back, swallow and sniff away the rest of his tears.

“We need to go to the hospital,” Kim says because he’s too shaken to think of anything else. He’s never seen Kenta like this. He watches Kenta closely, though, relieved when he nods, a jerk of his chin.

Kenta allows Kim to help him up, glancing back at the glass and the blood smearing the floor.

“But—”

“Don’t worry about it,” Kim says firmly, and Kenta’s eyes are big and round, worried as he looks at Kim, as if still fearful of some unforeseen repercussion. “You need to be taken care of first.”

Kenta doesn’t reply, eyebrows twitching, but Kim isn’t going to let him argue as he urges him out of the apartment and down to his car.

*

That night, Kim lies awake for a long while. He doesn’t feel like he really calmed down until the doctor had taken Kenta into a room for stitches and Kim could slide into one of the uncomfortable hallway chairs and breath a sigh of relief.

It haunts him, how Kenta had recoiled, as if expecting to be hit for something as insignificant as breaking a glass.

Kim hadn’t let him look when they’d come home, had settled Kenta in his room with a fresh glass of water and his book. The doctor had given him painkillers and wrapped up his hand in gauze like a mummy, so Kenta hadn’t fought too much at Kim taking care of him.

Back in the kitchen, Kim had spent the next hour cleaning up the glass and scrubbing the floor until not a drop of blood remained.

Then he’d cleaned the rest of the apartment because he couldn’t sit down.

He spends the rest of the night staring at the ceiling—restless, mind racing. Thinking about Kenta and how many times he’d apologized. Over and over and over. A reflex, a defense mechanism. He thinks about the fear in his eyes, the desperation in his voice, how tightly he’d clung to the glass as if trying to punish himself before someone else could do it.

The cut had been deep, the doctor said. Another centimeter and he might have severed a tendon and permanently damaged his hand. As it is, Kenta will just have trouble grasping things for a month or two until it heals. Kim supposes it could be worse, but he’s less concerned about the physical damage and more about how Kenta had reacted to the whole situation.

Staring at the wall that separates his and Kenta’s rooms, Kim wishes he could go over there and check on him, but Kenta wouldn’t like it. He’ll have to wait until morning, and Kim sighs instead of climbing out of bed like he wants to.

The one thing he takes comfort in is how, when the doctor finished sewing Kenta up and Kim was allowed inside, Kenta had almost looked relieved to see him, as if he hadn’t expected Kim to still be there. He’d even let Kim turn his bandaged hand over and say something stupid about not needing to use a duster anymore.

It’s the look on Kenta’s face when he walked through the door—hopeful and surprised and grateful—that finally helps Kim fall asleep that night. And he sleeps all the way to morning with a smile on his face.

*

“What are you looking for?” Kenta asks as they wander down the rows of the market—well, Kim is wandering. Kenta is mostly following, eyes drifting from stall to stall.

Distracted, Kim pulls his gaze from Kenta’s hand. The bandage is still there but the stitches should be coming out in a few days. Kenta hasn’t complained about it at all, though Kim knows it’s bothering him that he has to do everything left-handed.

The market is busy today, bustling with people and noise, and he wasn’t sure Kenta would want to come. But Kenta had shrugged when he asked and went to get his shoes.

They’ve passed stalls piled high with vegetables, another loaded with cheap tourist trinkets, one overflowing with fake silk scarves, and about a million food stalls that smell delicious even though it’s not quite time for lunch.

“Nothing,” Kim says when Kenta asks, slowing down to match Kenta’s pace. It can be a bit overwhelming in the small aisles, with people talking all around, stuffy and hot despite the open air. “Just wanted to get out.”

It does make him smile when Kenta tosses him a skeptical look.

“It’s fun to wander around for no particular reason.”

Kenta doesn’t agree but he also doesn’t disagree, and it’s as much enthusiasm as Kim expects.

As they walk, passing by different stalls selling all sorts of things—clothes, shoes, fruits, plastic toys—Kim stays close to Kenta so he doesn’t feel lost in the maze of the market. He’s sure Kenta can handle himself in a crowd, but Kenta also hasn’t been around this many people since he got out of prison.

Scanning the crowd, Kenta doesn’t seem worried, eyes sharp, but he’s still quiet.

A throng of people push past them in the small aisle-way, a bustling group of aunties on the hunt for a deal, and Kim steps to the side, keeping Kenta in front of him. His hand comes up without thinking, resting gently on Kenta’s back to keep him steady as the women surge around them, chattering and loud, jostling them in the walkway.

He hardly notices he’s doing it until they’re gone and the aisle is clear again. Kenta steps away and Kim takes his hand back. He opens his mouth to apologize, but Kenta is already moving on.

Trailing after, Kim sighs to himself. He’s not trying to make Kenta uncomfortable—it’s normal for him to touch people. A hand on a shoulder, on someone’s back to keep them safe. He just has to remember that Kenta doesn’t like it.

Ahead, Kenta has stopped walking, hovering over a table with more interest than any he’s shown so far. Gazing over his shoulder, Kim can see what caught his eye—numerous knives laid out on a black velvet cloth.

Kim doesn’t know anything about the particularities of knives, but he knows when something is pretty. And these knives are very pretty and shiny. Some are pocket knives, switchblades, butterfly, longer ones with jagged edges and gleaming handles.

“Those are nice,” Kim comments as Kenta hesitates over the table. His eyes dart to Kim and he shrugs.

“They’re fine.”

“What’s this one?” he asks the man behind in the stall, pointing at one with an iridescent-colored handle he notices Kenta’s eyes drifting toward.

“Mother of pearl inlay,” the man says, picking up an elegant butterfly knife and whipping it around. “Very nice, very good quality. See how that rotates?”

Kim is looking at Kenta, though, gauging his reaction. His eyes follow every movement of the knife with precision, as though memorizing it. There’s something beautiful about the way Kenta focuses and Kim smiles as he watches.

“How much?” Kim asks the man and Kenta’s eyes flash to him instead.

“No,” he says, but Kim shakes his head.

“What? You like it, don’t you?”

Kenta frowns. “I don’t want you to buy it for me.”

“But I want to get it for you,” Kim says, ignoring the man still playing with the knife. “It’s a beautiful knife, and it’ll be safer than that one you’re hiding under your pillow.”

“I don’t need gifts,” Kenta says, and Kim pauses, frustrated. He gets that Kenta can be stubborn and has all sorts of ideas about what he does and doesn’t deserve, but it doesn’t need to be so complicated all the time.

“It’s not a gift,” he answers instead, “it’s a knife, and you like it. So will you let me buy it for you?”

He doesn’t care what Kenta calls it, but Kim wants Kenta to have it. If it brightens his day for even a minute, he wants Kenta to have it.

“If you don’t, I will buy it for myself and then accidentally leave it under your pillow.”

Kenta’s mouth twitches, in annoyance or amusement, Kim can’t tell. But Kim stares him down, even if he is an inch or two shorter than Kenta. In the end, Kenta frowns and turns away, and Kim knows he’s won.

“We’ll take it,” he tells the man, who wraps it up excitedly and places the knife in a box made just for it.

After he has paid, Kim presses the box into Kenta’s hands and leans in slightly. “You do deserve gifts.”

He steps away before Kenta can argue and he knows Kenta will catch up with him a moment later, falling into step and decidedly not saying anything except for a quiet, “Thank you,” that Kim barely hears over the din of the market.

*

The stitches come out a few days later and Kim catches Kenta fiddling with the knife not long after that. He still doesn’t have all his grip strength back, but he can hold onto the knife and try out a few of the openings he looks up on Youtube when he borrows Kim’s phone.

He doesn’t tell Kim that’s what he’s doing, but when butterfly knife tutorials start showing up in his recommended videos, Kim figures it out.

He likes to watch Kenta as he sits on the edge of the chair in the living room, flipping the knife around, practicing different moves. He’d known Kenta would like it, but he hadn’t expected how… hot it would be to watch Kenta handle a knife. He has such concentration, and he’s so elegant with his moves. Kim knows he’s been taught how to use weapons, but he didn’t expect something like this to affect him.

The only times Kim has seen Kenta with a knife have been when he’d been holding it to Kim’s throat and when he’d stabbed Tony. And both of those times had been incredibly stressful. Kim hadn’t bothered to appreciate how good Kenta was at handling a knife.

But he is good. He’s fast and precise, and he learns all the basics in days. Kim, on the other hand, can’t stop watching Kenta’s hands—the amount of control he has, how quickly he adjusts his grip, the twist of his wrist to bring the handles back together.

“You’re learning really fast,” he comments one evening as he watches Kenta twirl the knife open, and he should be doing something other than watching Kenta swing a knife around, but it’s mesmerizing, and definitely attractive even though Kim shuts that thought down.

Kenta glances up, almost looking embarrassed, and he flips the knife shut and tucks it in his pocket. Kim is just slightly disappointed.

“Yeah, it’s not that hard,” Kenta mumbles, glancing at the clock. “I should probably make dinner.”

“I’ll do it,” Kim offers before Kenta can get up. He’s been too lazy lately, living off ramen and snacks from the garage. He really should make something decent for once.

“But—” Kenta starts to say, and Kim glances over his shoulder. Kenta closes his mouth, though, as if accepting Kim’s offer.

Kim doesn’t say anything either, heading to the kitchen and amused when he hears the click of the blade again.

Now, Kim isn’t the best cook. He can do the basics and keep himself alive, but his recipe list is small and unvaried. Still, he does the best he can as he pulls out ingredients and begins frying up the meat, adding in spices and vegetables until it smells vaguely like dinner. Kenta is a better cook than he is, by far.

It tastes alright, he thinks, when he checks, and the rice cooker beeps in the background.

He sets the table with bowls and chopsticks, plating it out before he calls Kenta over. The knife clicks again, closed this time, and Kenta takes one of the chairs at the small two-person table pushed up against the wall. Normally, Kim eats on the couch, but it’s nice to sit down at a real table from time to time.

He knows what the meal looks like—not fancy or recognizable by any means—but Kenta, despite the skepticism on his face, doesn’t say anything about it.

“Why don’t you like cooking?” Kim asks as he serves Kenta first, plating out the rice and adding a scoop of the meat and vegetable mixture on top. “You’re not bad at it.”

Kenta shakes his head as he shovels rice in his mouth. “Didn’t really have a choice. Don’t like doing it alone.”

It hadn’t occurred to Kim that Kenta might have had to cook for himself at Tony’s. He’d just assumed he had cooks for all those kids.

“Maybe you could show me,” Kim offers, “and we could do it together. Clearly, I am not a good chef.” He gestures at the meal in front of them.

“It’s not that bad,” Kenta says, and Kim laughs at his attempt to lie.

“I’m glad you’re better with that knife than you are at lying.”

Kenta frowns, and he shoves in another bite so he doesn’t have to answer. It’s nice that he’s trying to spare Kim’s feelings, but he doesn’t need to.

Kim watches him for a minute, letting the silence linger, letting him eat. As Kenta does, a bit of sauce smears on the corner his mouth and Kim smiles.

“You’ve got—” he says when Kenta doesn’t notice, gesturing at his face.

Kenta raises a hand, but he pauses when Kim does too. For a second, they’re both frozen, and Kim doesn’t know if he should. He’s never been hesitant when it comes to this, to interacting with other people, but Kenta is different than everyone else. If it was someone else, if it wasn’t Kenta, he would simply grab a napkin and do it. He wouldn’t over-think a simple touch.

When Kenta lowers his hand, though, Kim thinks it’s good sign. So he makes sure to move slowly, reaching over and letting his thumb brush down the side of Kenta’s soft lips, wiping away the sticky sauce. Kenta’s eyes follow him, cautious, but he doesn’t pull away from the touch.

“It’s kind of messy,” Kim says when he pulls his hand away, wiping it on the napkin. “Sorry.”

But Kenta just shrugs in response, as if he doesn’t care, tongue darting out to lick where Kim’s touch was. Kim doesn’t look away as he smiles, and he knows Kenta notices, eyes darting in his direction, but he doesn’t say anything and neither does Kim.

*

“First race of the season in two days!” North says to his camera as he swings around behind Kim, using the garage as his backdrop. “Let’s see what your racers have to say about it!”

Kim blinks as North slides up to him, the phone shoved in his face before he can say anything.

“Everyone meet the newest racer! Kim came to us from Red Racing because he knows X-Hunter is the best. Kim, what do you think is going to happen on Saturday?”

“I think you’re going to get run over by a car,” he answers, and North scoffs, lowering the phone.

“Come on, Kim! This is for my channel. Let’s go again.” He raises the camera and turns it to Kim. “Kim, what do you think is going to happen on Saturday?”

Kim leans in. “I’m going to win.”

“Oh ho, even against Babe, the King of the Hollow?” North goads playfully.

“He won’t be king for long,” Kim says easily, and North laughs loudly, as if this is all part of the game.

“Team spirit, team spirit!” he says brightly, turning the camera back to himself. “Nothing wrong with a little friendly rivalry over here at X-Hunter! But Babe is still the king for now, so let’s go see what he’s up to!”

North ends the recording, tucking away his phone as Kim tries to get back to what he was doing. There is still a lot to do before the race, and Kim is starting to feel the nerves that always build up before something like this.

It’s always fine once he’s in the car, behind the wheel, but the few days before just mean less sleep as the anticipation fills him up.

“Are you actually ready?” North asks now that the camera isn’t rolling, and Kim scoffs.

“Of course I’m ready.”

North nods. “And is Kenta coming to the race?”

Kim pauses. He hasn’t actually thought about asking Kenta. So far, he’s tried to keep him away from the garage for both his and Babe’s sake. He wouldn’t want them to get into it as he’s sure they would. Or at least Babe would.

Maybe he should invite him. A race would be better than hanging out at the garage. There would be people in the crowd and everyone’s focus would be on the race.

“I don’t know,” he answers North finally, who nods again.

“He can always sit with Sonic if he doesn’t want to be alone.”

It’s a nice offer, Kim thinks, sweeping his hair back. And not one Kenta would have gotten, even from North, a few months ago.

“I’ll tell him,” he says, and North smiles.

And this time, he thinks, he actually will.

*

The days before races are always hard for Kim because he can’t sleep. He’s too wired, too excited, buzzing with anticipation that he won’t get rid of until it’s actually time to get in the car.

And that’s why he finds himself awake at two in the morning, unable to sleep, too antsy to lay in bed. So he crawls off the mattress and heads into the kitchen to get something to drink. There’s not much in the fridge, but he plucks a bottle of juice from the door and settles into the couch so he can gaze out the tiny balcony window.

The sky is a hazy dark blue, reflecting the many lights of the city. This is his first official race with X-Hunter, racing with Babe instead of against him. Other people might be worried they wouldn’t measure up, but Kim doesn’t have any doubts about that. He wants to beat Babe because he wants to be the best. That’s always been the goal.

Taking a sip, Kim sighs, trying to shake off the energy building up inside him. It’s always like this but he still needs to sleep.

The creak of a door draws Kim’s attention as he stares at the window, shuffling footsteps coming down the hall, and Kenta’s dark shape appears.

He doesn’t seem to notice Kim, heading for the fridge and pulling out a bottle of water.

“Kenta?” Kim asks, watching Kenta whip around, squinting into the darkness.

“What are you doing?” Kenta asks, voice low, as if there’s someone else in the house they shouldn’t wake up. He stalks closer to Kim, and Kim can see his rumpled hair in the ambient light coming through the window.

Kim shrugs, watching Kenta come to a stop by the chair. “I have a hard time sleeping before races. Too much excitement, I guess.”

Kenta doesn’t reply, and Kim squints a little to see him better in the darkness.

“What about you? Are you up at two in the morning often?”

He hears the breath Kenta takes, a quick inhale and long exhale, can see his fingers clutching the bottle.

“Only when I have a dream,” Kenta mutters after a minute, and Kim frowns.

“Dream like a nightmare?”

He always suspected Kenta didn’t sleep much, but he hadn’t thought about the reason. There could have been any number of them and Kenta never seemed inclined to share.

Kenta hasn’t moved from near the chair, but Kim nods at him, a silent invitation to join him on the couch. It takes a second, Kenta’s fingers clenching the bottle, but he takes a few hesitant steps forward until he can carefully perch next to Kim.

“What do you dream about?” Kim asks once Kenta doesn’t seem like he’s going to run away.

Kenta doesn’t meet his gaze, smoothing down his boxer shorts. His hair is a mess, sticking up in the back, falling into his eyes, but he doesn’t brush it away.

“Tony, usually,” he admits after a beat of silence.

“What’s he doing?” Kim asks carefully, not wanting to pry too much, to scare Kenta off. Shifting on the couch, he turns toward him, knees close enough to touch.

Kenta shrugs, licking his lips slowly. “Sometimes he’s punishing me. Sometimes I’m… stabbing him, and there’s so much blood.”

Kim remembers. He remembers the blood and Kenta’s cries of anguish. He doesn’t know what to say, though, so he remains silent.

“And sometimes it’s all the kids,” Kenta says without prompting, “begging me to help and I just turn away.”

Kim frowns, and he doesn’t hesitate this time as he reaches over to set a gentle hand on Kenta’s knee. Kenta’s eyes dart to it but he says nothing.

“What Tony did wasn’t your fault.”

“I didn’t stop him.”

Kim shakes his head. “It’s not as simple as that.”

“I could have done something,” Kenta says, turning to Kim, expression plaintive, begging, and it takes all of Kim’s self-restraint not to gather Kenta into a big, warm hug and hold on tight.

“You did,” he says seriously, trying to impress the words into Kenta’s brain. “You gave us the evidence, and you got rid of Tony so he’ll never hurt anyone else.”

“Then why do I still dream about it?” Kenta asks, as if hoping Kim will have an answer, eyes big and sad, and Kim wishes he knew.

He can only shake his head, though, squeezing Kenta’s knee, surprised when Kenta’s hand covers his own.

“I don’t know,” he admits. “But next time it happens, just wake me up. You don’t have to be alone in this.”

Kenta doesn’t answer, and Kim stiffens, just for a second, as Kenta leans into him. He’s warm against Kim’s side, and he can feel his breathing, his hair tickling his neck. Kim doesn’t dare move, but his heart fills with something warm as silence falls in the apartment, and he squeezes Kenta’s knee one more time before he closes his eyes.

*

Kim scans the stands, searching for a familiar figure in black. He doesn’t think Kenta owns any other color despite Kim offering to buy him new clothes. He’s not really listening to what Alan is saying, even though he should be. He’s more preoccupied with find Kenta amongst the crowd.

He knows he’s there because Kim had driven them both, but Kenta had slinked away before any of the other X-Hunter racers could show up.

Finally, he spots him, near the top of the bleachers, a lone figure away from the groups of friends, hunched over and glancing around carefully.

Smiling, Kim considers waving but that might be too much. And Kenta’s not looking at him anyway, so he dutifully turns back to Alan.

“Remember, tight on the turns and don’t let anyone crowd you out.”

They all nod and Alan shoos them off their cars.

“I see you brought the dog today,” Babe says as he pulls on his helmet, and Kim glances at him. Now is not the time to let Babe get in his head. They may be on the same team but they both still want that first place cup. “Couldn’t trust him not to chew up your shoes?”

“He’s not a dog. He’s a human being,” Kim answers, zipping up his suit and pulling on his gloves.

“Yeah, right,” Babe says, turning toward the stands. “But I guess he listens to his new owner.”

Kim glares at Babe, but he can’t do anything about it. The best thing to do is get in that car and beat his ass on the track. So Kim keeps his mouth shut this time and pulls on his helmet.

The roar of engines fills his ears, the smell of burning rubber, and Kim focuses on the road in front of him instead of Babe’s voice in his head. This race isn’t about Kenta or anything that happened in the past. It’s just about Kim shutting everything out and doing what he does best.

His eyes lock on the light, the countdown, revving his engine and tightening his grip on the wheel.

They’re off before Kim even knows, slamming down the gas pedal and zooming ahead. It’s almost autopilot, spinning around the track, head filled with squealing tires and rushing wind, taking the corners at breakneck speed as they weave in an out, sliding behind other cars, darting ahead when he sees an opening.

Kim can see Babe’s car, one ahead of him, and he knows the team strategy is to be the blocker, make sure no one can get past him, but as Kim zooms past the starting lane for the last lap, he knows this is his chance.

There’s space to get around, space that he should be protecting, but Kim surges ahead anyway, pulling up beside Babe, knowing Babe is looking even as he shifts one last more time and jerks in front of Babe.

They’re too close, cars practically bumping into each other as they vie for the finish line. Another car is coming up behind them, someone from the other team, but Kim doesn’t care about them. He cares about pushing harder, faster, urging the car as fast as it can go as he and Babe hurtle together toward the end.

The flag goes up and the cars circle, slowing down until he can pull into the pit. Kim doesn’t know who won, and he climbs out of the car, ripping off his helmet and searching the screen.

There it is. Babe’s time flashing under his name, and Kim’s, point two seconds slower.

His heart sinks even as the rest of the team flood the pit to congratulate him and Babe for coming in first and second.

“That wasn’t what we planned,” Alan says as he reaches Kim, and Kim tosses him a look.

“Do you expect me to just let Babe win?”

Alan doesn’t answer, shaking his head, and Kim knows he doesn’t have an answer for that. Annoyed, he turns from Alan, distracted as he catches sight of Kenta lingering by the barricade. He doesn’t seem to be trying to get past security, but Kim doesn’t care about the rest of the guys celebrating behind him, so he waves at Kenta to come in, nodding when the security guard looks back to check.

“Hey,” he greets Kenta once he’s past the line, pulling down the zipper on his suit. The cars are a thousand degrees inside but outside isn’t much better. “What’d you think?”

“You did great,” Kenta says, not sounding surprised. Then again, he had been with Tony when Tony had recruited him from Korea.

“Almost,” Kim allows, smiling slightly when Kenta presses his lips together, so close to a smile.

“Better keep that one close, Kim.” Babe’s voice cuts through them where he’s hanging onto Charlie, clearly reveling in his win. “In case he bites someone.”

Kenta’s eyes flash to Babe, a hint of the darkness Kim remembers as he stiffens. Kim’s hand goes to Kenta’s chest, even though he doesn’t think Kenta’s going to do anything. In fact, he feels Kenta shrink a little as Kim turns to Babe.

“He’s got a hell of a lot more manners than you do,” he replies sharply. “And if you’re going to keep talking shit about Kenta, you better back it up. You may be able to beat me on the track but you know I can take you out.”

Babe scoffs, as if Kim doesn’t have the proof to back it up. “Looks like the dog trained you,” he says instead, sneering. “Gonna show up with a collar on next time?”

“That’s enough,” Alan says, stepping in between them even though Kim has no intention of coming to blows with Babe again. He’s not worth the effort, and he doesn’t want Kenta to have to witness any more of Babe’s unfiltered opinions on things he knows nothing about.

“You’re wrong about him,” Kim says bluntly, despite Alan shooting him a look. Kim ignores him, glancing back at Kenta, his downcast gaze, hands curled into fists at his sides, but not in preparation to hit someone. Instead, Kim can see his nails biting into the skin. “He’s not wild, or feral, or uncontrollable. He’s Kenta.”

Babe just rolls his eyes, as if Kim doesn’t make any sense. But Kim doesn’t care what Babe thinks. He just cares that Kenta is okay, and he turns from the rest of the team to take Kenta carefully by the arm.

“Come on,” he says simply. “Let’s go home.”

He leads Kenta away from the track. There will celebrating tonight, drinks at the bar, dancing and laughing, but Kim won’t be a part of it. And he doesn’t mind at all. It’ll all still happen at the next race, but tonight, he just wants to be with Kenta.

*

Kenta is silent the whole way home, and Kim’s not sure why. Not that it’s unusual for Kenta to be quiet, but this feels like a different kind of silence than Kim is used to.

“I think we should order takeout,” Kim says once they’re back in the apartment and he’s toeing off his shoes by the door.

Kenta takes his off too, but he doesn’t leave them by the door, scooping them up by the heels. He only gets halfway across the living room before he turns around again, and Kim wonders if he’s going to get an answer to his takeout suggestion.

“Why did you do that?” Kenta says instead, catching Kim off-guard with the sharpness of his tone.

“Do what?”

“Act like I needed to be saved,” Kenta answers, voice hard, eyes narrowed, and Kim can only stare.

“That’s not what I—I was just defending you.” He hadn’t thought he was doing anything wrong, standing up for Kenta. He wasn’t going to let Babe bad-mouth him in front of everyone.

“I don’t need you to defend me,” Kenta says, and Kim doesn’t know what he did wrong here as he fumbles. “I can handle people like Babe.”

“I know,” Kim says fervently, taking a step toward Kenta, but Kenta moves a step back, and he stops. Has he screwed up all the progress they’ve made in a mere five minutes of conversation? “I just hate what he says about you, because it’s not true. Do you want me to ignore it?”

“I want you to understand that you can’t save me,” Kenta snaps suddenly, tossing his shoes aside and they clatter against the wall. Kim blinks, taken aback, shocked. “No matter how hard you try.”

Kim can only shake his head in disbelief. “I’m not trying to—Kenta, wait!” he calls as Kenta turns and storms down the hallway. But the door slams shut before Kim can even make it to the hall.

Blindsided, Kim stands in the hall, staring at Kenta’s closed door. He isn’t trying to be a savior to Kenta, doesn’t think he needs to be saved. He just needed to be helped.

“Kenta,” he says, his feet moving before he even finishes, stepping up to the door and knocking even though he knows Kenta isn’t going to open it. “Listen to me,” he says to the wood, “I didn’t take you in because I thought you needed to be saved. I did it because everyone deserves a second chance to do better, and I know you will because I’ve already seen you change and open up, and…” He pauses, biting his lip, wishing he was saying this to Kenta’s face. “And even if you don’t think you deserve to be treated well, I’m going to do it anyway. You can’t stop me, no matter how much you believe otherwise.”

For a moment, Kim presses his ear to the door, but there’s no sound. Sighing, he steps away at length. He knows he hasn’t been perfect at this, hasn’t known what to say most of the time, but Kenta has to know he’s sincere, that he means everything he says.

Kenta doesn’t come to the door, though, so Kim has to turn away. He’ll try again in the morning.

Kim does order takeout later that night, but Kenta doesn’t come out to eat it, and when Kim finally goes to bed, he sighs at Kenta’s closed door. He doesn’t know where he went wrong or if he can even fix it.

But he can’t fix it tonight, and Kim climbs into bed and stares at the ceiling for a very long time before he finally falls asleep.

*

Kim doesn’t know what time it is when he jerks awake, startled out of sleep by the mattress dipping beside him.

“Hey-what—” He jerks as his head snaps to the other side of the bed, unable to discern the shape in the darkness, groggy and confused, groping for anything he can touch, and his hand smacks against someone’s arm.

“Stop,” the person whispers, and Kim recognizes Kenta’s voice. His heart rate immediately drops back closer to normal, but not entirely as his sleep-riddled mind wonders why Kenta is climbing into his bed in the middle of the night.

“Kenta, what are you doing?” Kim mumbles back, rubbing at his eyes as Kenta slides underneath the covers.

Did he dream their fight last night? Or is he dreaming this right now?

He feels Kenta settling in, unused to the way the mattress bounces with someone else on it, and he can see Kenta’s outline on the pillow next to his. His bed is big enough that there doesn’t need to be as little space as there is between them when he gazes at Kenta.

“I’m sorry,” Kenta whispers, and even though Kim is mostly awake now, he’s still confused.

“What?”

“I’m sorry,” Kenta says again, voice muffled in the pillow, as if he doesn’t quite want Kim to hear. Kim rolls onto his side anyway, blinking quickly, trying to get his mind in order to listen to what Kenta is saying. “I just keep thinking that, that you’re going to figure out that you can’t fix me, and then you’re going to leave.”

Kim shakes his head as Kenta’s words sink in. He should have suspected that, but Kim isn’t always as smart as he thinks he is. He should have known it was about more than losing face to Babe. It breaks his heart a little bit to know Kenta thinks that. “Is that why you yelled at me?”

Kenta shoves his face into the pillow and doesn’t answer, and Kim wishes it wasn’t dark in here so he could see. He wants to reach out to him, to smooth out his frown lines that he’s sure are there.

“It’s okay,” he says, though, after a minute, and Kenta peeks out again. “But you have to know that I don’t think that at all. I just want to help you become you.”

“I don’t know who that is,” Kenta says, whispers across the pillow, and Kim shifts again until his hands are pressed up against Kenta’s between them. He doesn’t try to take them, just brushes a thumb over Kenta’s skin in a slow, circular motion.

“You’ll figure it out,” Kim assures him.

Gazing across the pillow, Kenta sighs, and Kim smiles, the energy of the day finally draining from him, leaving him feeling like he might actually be able to sleep.

“I’m sorry,” Kenta says again, and Kim shakes his head, leaning in until their noses are almost touching, sharing a single pillow, and he can feel Kenta’s breath on his chin.

“Stop saying that,” he says simply, closing his eyes. “You have nothing to be sorry about.”

He hears Kenta take a breath, the rustle of the pillow as Kenta settles in, but he doesn’t open his eyes, content with Kenta right there and happy to have him.

*

Sunlight streams in through the curtain, drawing Kim out of a deep sleep, and he yawns as consciousness comes rushing back. As he tries to roll over, he’s stopped by a weight on his chest and a strange tickling on his neck.

Kenta’s hair brushes against his nose when he turns to look, wild and messy, sticking up at odd angles as if he tosses and turns in his sleep. But Kim hadn’t noticed last night.

He notices now—Kenta curled up against him, clinging to him under the covers, nuzzling at his neck as if he doesn’t know he’s doing it.

Kim smiles, though, not hesitating to reach over and brush Kenta’s hair back, smoothing a finger down his cheek as Kenta huffs, quiet and endearing. He didn’t think Kenta would be clingy, but he likes it as he hugs him back, careful not to wake him just yet.

It doesn’t take long, though, for Kenta’s eyes to flutter open, for Kim to feel the way he stiffens slightly in his arms as though realizing what he’s doing.

“Morning,” Kim says because he’s not going to let Kenta out of this so easily.

Kenta glances up at him, seemingly unsure about the position he has put himself in, but he doesn’t let go. He does take a breath and blink the sleep from his eyes. His big, soft brown eyes that Kim gets to stare into now. And Kenta licks his pouty pink lips that Kim pulls his gaze from as Kenta sighs.

“Morning,” Kenta repeats finally.

“Feeling better?” Kim asks, and Kenta nods. “Good,” he says, “because I’m going to kiss you now.”

He doesn’t expect Kenta to stop him, but he leans in slowly anyway, bringing his hands to Kenta’s jaw and holding him still even as Kenta doesn’t move, closing his eyes seconds before their lips meet.

It only lasts a minute—lips brushing against lips, Kim pressing forward as Kenta lets him in, savoring the sweetness of the moment as Kenta pushes back, opens his mouth for Kim, captures his bottom lip and lets it slip away again in a careful dance between them.

It only lasts a minute but it’s perfect, and Kim breathes a sigh against Kenta’s lips when he pulls away, somehow surprised by the way Kenta gazes back, how it makes him warm and giddy in a way he didn’t think he felt anymore.

A part of Kim isn’t sure how they got there, but it doesn’t matter because they did and he’s not planning on letting go of Kenta any time soon.

“You want breakfast?” Kim asks after a long moment as Kenta smiles, actually smiles, at him and he doesn’t think he can feel any lighter than he does at this moment.

“I’ll make it,” Kenta offers, and though it takes another five (or ten) minutes before Kim lets Kenta go, he does and he drags himself out of bed not long after, unable to stop the stupid smile taking over his face.

When he makes it out to the kitchen, he’s happy to see Kenta busy at the stove, chopping vegetables.

“I’m making an omelet,” Kenta says as Kim sidles up beside him, leaning against the counter and watching. “And you’re gonna like it.”

Laughing, Kim glances around at the kitchen and he pauses as his eyes fall on Kenta’s shoes, placed carefully right next to his at the door. His smile grows and he looks back at Kenta and the questioning look Kenta gives him.

“I’m sure I will.”

*

FIN.