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The night is quiet.
Too quiet.
Bankoku-gai folds in on itself after sunset, its crooked alleys swallowed by shadow, its residents shuttered behind thin walls and dim lamps. Even Red Chanpuru, who rarely make their presence known unless blood or business requires it, have disappeared into the dark like ink bleeding through paper.
Sun Fei hums as he walks.
It is a soft, careless sound, almost cheerful.
He has not been in such a good mood in days.
Beside him, Bacchus makes a low noise of irritation. It is the sort of sound Sun Fei knows well — protest without consequence, anger without teeth.
“You’ve lost your mind,” Bacchus says at last.
“Good evening to you too, Bacchus,” Sun Fei replies smoothly.
“Do you really think this is a good idea?” Bacchus presses. “Those Furin brats will come back for him. You know they will. You know better than to get attached.” His voice sharpens. “If we had known this would happen, we would never have agreed to send you to—”
“Bacchus.”
The name falls gently.
Bacchus stops.
That is what Sun Fei appreciates about him. For all his temper, Bacchus understands the difference between speaking and overstepping. One word is enough to remind him.
Sun Fei smiles.
Perhaps, in time, he will learn that too.
“He’s in your room,” Rakta says from his other side. “As instructed.”
“And his injuries?”
“Cleaned. Dressed. Nothing fatal.” Rakta pauses, and when he speaks again, his tone acquires that careful weight Sun Fei finds both tedious and endearing. “There were deeper cuts, but they’ll heal with rest. So don’t indulge yourself yet, Sun Fei.”
Sun Fei glances at him.
Rakta, always sensible. Always watching. Always offering advice he knows Sun Fei may ignore, but offering it anyway — as if restraint is something that can be handed over like a cup of tea.
Sun Fei likes that about him.
“Don’t worry,” he says. “I’ll be on my best behaviour.”
Bacchus scoffs under his breath.
Sun Fei only smiles wider.
His room sits at the far end of the east wing, secluded from the others by a long corridor and an old wooden door that no one opens without permission. It belonged to his master once.
Now, for the foreseeable future, it belongs to him.
And tonight, it holds something precious.
The scent of incense reaches him before he steps inside — warm, sweet, and clinging. It curls through the room in pale ribbons, softening the edges of the furniture, blurring the lamplight into gold.
Sun Fei closes the door behind him.
“Sakura-kun,” he calls softly. “I’m back.”
No answer.
That is all right. He does not expect one.
Patience, after all, is one of the first things his master taught him. How to wait. How to let a poison take root. How to let a frightened creature tire itself out against the bars before reaching in.
Sakura sits on the bed.
He has been washed and bandaged, his torn uniform taken away to be cleaned and mended. Sun Fei would have preferred it burned. The jacket, especially, carries too much of Furin with it — too much sunlight, too much stubborn loyalty, too much of a life Sakura came here believing he could return to.
But Sun Fei can be generous.
For now.
The changshan suits him better.
It is a deep, muted colour that echoes Sun Fei’s own, its collar neat against the line of Sakura’s throat. His hair has been combed, the white and black strands pinned back with a delicate butterfly clip. Small earrings brush against his jaw whenever he shifts, though he barely shifts at all. His hands rest in his lap, bandaged to the knuckles.
A beautiful thing, made still.
Sun Fei approaches slowly, letting the floorboards announce him.
Sakura does not look up until Sun Fei reaches out and tilts his chin with two fingers.
Only then do those mismatched eyes lift to him.
The incense has done its work. Sakura’s gaze is hazy, his pupils slow to sharpen, his body heavy with a softness that does not belong to him.
Sun Fei’s smile warms.
“There you are,” he murmurs. “I was starting to think you were ignoring me.”
Sakura’s brows draw together. Even like this, some part of him still fights. Some stubborn little flame refuses to go out.
Good.
Sun Fei would have been disappointed otherwise.
“It’s good that you’re calmer now,” he says. “You hurt yourself so much earlier. Struggling, shouting, looking at me like I betrayed you.”
His fingers drift lower, tracing the edge of the bandage at Sakura’s throat.
That was the moment everything ended.
Sakura had come for him with fury in his fists and tears in his eyes, demanding answers Sun Fei had no interest in giving. Why won’t you come back? Why are you doing this? Why won’t you be Suo Hayato again?
Poor Sakura-kun.
Still believing names were cages.
Still believing people could be returned to where they once belonged.
The cut was not deep enough to kill. Sun Fei had made sure of that. It is deep enough to silence. Deep enough to force Sakura’s body into obedience when his heart would not follow. But not enough to take anything Sun Fei wishes to keep.
His voice will return.
Eventually.
Until then, Sun Fei finds the rasp rather charming.
“Suo…” Sakura croaks.
The name comes out ruined. Soft. Almost pleading.
Something in Sun Fei’s chest tightens pleasantly.
He leans closer.
“No.”
Sakura blinks at him.
Sun Fei cups his cheek, thumb brushing just beneath his eye. “That’s the wrong name, Sakura-kun.”
A faint tremor passes through Sakura’s body. It smells a little bit of anger, perhaps. Fear. Confusion. The incense makes it difficult for him to hold on to any one feeling for long.
Sun Fei finds that merciful.
“You came all this way for me,” he whispers. “All the way into Bankoku-gai. You fought Red Chanpuru. You fought me.” His smile softens into something almost tender. “How could I possibly send you home after that?”
Sakura’s lips part.
No words come.
Sun Fei gathers him close before he can try.
Sakura’s body yields reluctantly at first, then helplessly, his weight sinking against Sun Fei’s chest. His bandaged hands twitch between them, as if remembering they are supposed to push, to punch, to claw their way free.
But the strength is not there. Not tonight. Not until Sun Fei ceases with the fragrance flooding the room.
Sun Fei rests his chin against Sakura’s hair and breathes him in: medicine, incense, faint perfume, and underneath it all, that stubborn warmth that belongs only to him.
“You don’t have to worry anymore,” Sun Fei says. “You don’t have to chase after me. You don’t have to ask me to come back.”
His arms tighten.
“Because now you’re here.”
Sakura makes a small, broken sound.
It might be protest. It might be his name.
Sun Fei chooses not to decide.
“You were so desperate to bring me home,” he murmurs, his voice low and pleased. “So I thought I should return the favour.”
He draws back just enough to look at him.
Sakura’s eyes are wet, unfocused, furious beneath the haze. Even subdued, he looks as if he might bite when he has the strength.
Sun Fei’s smile turns fond.
Yes.
There he is.
His beautiful, furious Sakura-kun.
With time, he will not need incense.
With time, he will not need locked doors, careful hands, watchful guards, or the slow persuasion of smoke in the air.
With time, Sakura will stop reaching for Furin.
With time, Sakura will understand that the world outside this room has already lost him.
Sun Fei brushes his thumb over Sakura’s lower lip, light enough to be mistaken for kindness.
“I won’t leave you again,” he promises.
Outside, the night remains silent.
Inside, Sakura shivers in his arms.
Sun Fei holds him closer, gentle as a ribbon pulled tight.
“My beloved Sakura-kun,” he whispers. “You’re exactly where you belong.”