Archive of Our Own

The Black Bulls had fallen back into their familiar routine, the chaos of their usual antics filling the air as it always did. Laughter, bickering, and the usual sound of magic being cast made the base feel as homey as it ever had. 

But for Finral, it felt like something had shifted. It was subtle, almost imperceptible, but it was there, like a breath of fresh air that seemed to linger in every corner of the building. The weight that had pressed against his chest for so long—always uncertain of his place, always feeling like the team tolerated him more than truly cared for him—had begun to lift.

For the first time in what felt like ages, his demons had quieted. They still lingered, faint whispers in the back of his mind, remnants of his childhood that would never fully fade. But they no longer screamed at him, no longer clawed at his confidence with sharp teeth. Instead, they whispered now, soft and distant, as though they had no power over him anymore. The constant self-doubt, the feeling that he wasn't enough, had begun to fade into the background.

The Black Bulls valued him now.  

He could feel it. It wasn't something anyone had directly said—it wasn't something as simple as words. It was in the way they acted around him, in the way they looked at him, in the quiet respect that now laced every request for his portals. They weren't commands anymore, and that was everything to him.

Before, it had always felt like he was just the guy who could open portals, just a tool for the team. He'd never really fit in, not completely, not the way Asta and Noelle seemed to belong without question. But now, every glance that lingered a little longer, every softer request for help, every smile that didn't feel strained or forced—it made him feel like he mattered. It made him feel loved.

Home.

That was what this place felt like now. He wasn't just the Black Bulls' ride anymore. He was a part of something, something that was his. He'd found a family here, and for the first time in a long time, he felt the warmth of it. It wasn't a perfect family—far from it—but it was his, and he was theirs.

Asta was the first one to show the change. The young man, as blunt and boisterous as ever, had become more thoughtful in his approach. When he asked for a portal, there was a moment of hesitation, a gentleness in his voice. "Finral, uh... would you mind opening a portal to the capital?" Asta's bright grin still shone, but it was accompanied by something new: a respect, as though he realized just how much Finral had done for the team without ever making a fuss about it.

That had caught Finral off guard. He blinked, his fingers pausing as he summoned the magic. A small, almost imperceptible smile tugged at his lips as he opened the portal. It wasn't much, but it felt huge—like he had finally been seen, truly seen, by his teammate.

Luck's shift was more subtle but no less significant. The hyperactive lightning mage had always been one to make jokes at Finral's expense. "Hurry up!" or "Come on, slowpoke," had been common phrases. But now, when Luck asked for a portal, he'd grin and say, "Can you open one for me, Finral? You're the best at this!" The words had a different ring to them—genuine, untainted by his usual teasing.

Even Yami, the ever-gruff captain, had begun to show his own subtle change. It was a quieter shift, one Finral noticed but couldn't quite put into words. Yami still called him "Wheels" in front of the others, still barked out his requests for portals without hesitation. But every now and then, there would be a flicker of something more. Sometimes Yami would add a gruff "Thanks, Wheels" after Finral opened a portal, or even—shockingly—"Please." The captain's gruff voice wasn't exactly warm, but it was different. The words felt real, as if Yami's usual coldness had been chipped away by something stronger, something deeper.

That had been the first thing to surprise Finral: Yami was showing him respect. 

It wasn't something that had been there before, not in the way it was now. Finral knew it wasn't just for show, either. There was something quieter between them, something unspoken that neither of them had ever voiced. It started with a glance, a moment of connection in the middle of their usual chaos, and then came the smallest of touches—a hand brushing against his, a shoulder bump that lingered a little too long, a fleeting look in Yami's eyes that said everything words couldn't.

The changes in their dynamic had started with the kiss the night Finral had returned—something neither of them had really talked about, but something they both understood. Finral's heart would race just thinking about it. It had been unexpected, but everything between them had shifted. There had been no grand confession, no awkward moment where either of them tried to define it. Instead, there had been something simpler and deeper: a connection. A bond that neither of them had been able to deny, and neither of them wanted to.

When they were alone, the shifts became more obvious. In the quiet of the captain's office, when the Bulls were asleep or when the others were out on missions, Yami would close the distance between them with a silent, almost possessive energy. A hand on his shoulder that lingered a fraction longer than necessary. A brush of lips against his cheek when no one else was around. The briefest of kisses, quick and stolen, but meaningful. They didn't need to say it. Neither of them had the words, but they didn't need them.

Finral had begun to understand the language of those moments: the secret touches, the quiet smiles, the stolen glances. And in return, he had become bolder. Sometimes, when Yami passed him in the halls, Finral would reach out—just for a second—and tug him closer, his lips pressing against Yami's in a soft kiss, hidden away from the prying eyes of the others.

It was a secret, this newfound closeness between them, and perhaps it would always be a secret, tucked away where no one else could see. But Finral didn't mind. In fact, he found comfort in it. They had created something strong, something that belonged only to them. And as strange as it was, as unexpected as it felt at times, Finral knew one thing for sure: he had never felt more at home than he did right now, in the warmth of the Black Bulls' family and in the quiet, unspoken love that had grown between him and Yami.

Finral sat at the desk in Yami's office, papers scattered in front of him, trying to get through the mountain of paperwork that had been left untouched for far too long. He sighed, scratching his temple as he pushed the stack of papers to the side. It was tedious work, and Yami had conveniently "forgotten" to take care of it himself, as usual. So, here Finral was, hunched over and squinting at the papers as his fingers ached from writing.

Even though it was quiet, the familiar air of the building was comforting. The hum of activity from the rest of the Black Bulls was always a backdrop in the air. But what made this moment stand out was the presence of Yami. 

The captain had strolled into the office earlier, lighting up one of his ever-present cigarettes and leaning against the window, his gaze distant but intense. He hadn't said much—he didn't need to. Yami was always there, like an unspoken anchor in Finral's world.

Finral worked in silence, filling out forms and jotting down notes. The rhythmic scratching of his pen on paper was almost soothing in its monotony, but he couldn't help but feel the heavy weight of Yami's eyes on him. It wasn't unusual for Yami to stand near the window, watching the world outside, but tonight it felt different. There was a quiet tension in the air that made Finral feel… more exposed than usual.

After what seemed like an eternity, Yami broke the silence with his low, gruff voice. "Hey, Finral."

Finral looked up, his gaze meeting Yami's, and then quickly back down to the paperwork, trying to focus on something else to mask the slight unease creeping up his spine. "Yeah?"

Yami took a slow drag of his cigarette, his eyes still fixed on Finral. There was something strange in the way he looked at him, something deeper than usual. "You happy?"

Finral blinked, taken aback by the question. His pen paused mid-sentence. "What do you mean? Of course, I'm happy."

He was, right? Things were better. The Black Bulls had changed. They treated him with respect, and he felt like he belonged now, more than ever. He had finally found a place where he was valued. He didn't need to be the center of attention or the strongest mage in the room; he was content with the family he had here. It was a good life.

But when he looked back up at Yami, he realized there was something more in the captain's question, something that made the air in the room grow thick with meaning. Yami wasn't asking about his surface-level happiness—the kind that everyone could see, the kind that was easy to fake. He was asking about something deeper.

Yami leaned against the window, his cigarette now burning low, but his gaze was sharp, almost piercing. There was an intensity in his eyes that made Finral's chest tighten.

"I'm asking if you're really happy, Finral," Yami said quietly, his voice low but clear. "Not just with the Black Bulls. Not just with your job. I mean… inside. Are you still fighting your demons?"

Finral froze. His breath caught in his throat, and for a moment, he wasn't sure how to respond. His heart stuttered in his chest as the weight of Yami's words hit him like a sudden rush of cold air.

His demons. The ones that had been with him his whole life. The voices that used to scream at him to push harder, to punish himself for every mistake, every failure. He'd been getting better, hadn't he? The shift in the Bulls' treatment of him, the quiet respect and the sense of belonging he now felt—it had helped silence them, helped drown out the darkest parts of his mind. But still…

He lowered his gaze to the papers in front of him, his hands still gripping the pen. Was he really okay?

A part of him—the old, familiar part that had haunted him for years—whispered doubts in his ear. It told him that he wasn't truly free, that the self-destructive thoughts could return at any moment, that the need to hurt himself, to feel something—anything—might come rushing back.

Finral's throat tightened. "I…" He paused, unsure how to articulate what Yami was asking. "I don't know. It's quieter, but… I still feel them, sometimes. The thoughts, the self-doubt. But it's different now. I'm not…" He hesitated, swallowing the lump in his throat. "I'm not hurting myself anymore, if that's what you mean. I don't need to do that to calm the noise in my head. It's just... there are days when it feels like it's still waiting to come back."

Yami exhaled slowly, flicking the ash from his cigarette, his expression unreadable as he stared out the window. "Good." The single word carried a weight that Finral couldn't quite place. "You don't need to be fighting that shit alone, you know? If it ever comes back, if you start feeling like you can't breathe… I'm here."

Finral's heart skipped a beat. Yami had always been blunt, always kept his distance in his own way, but this was different. There was no sarcasm in his words, no mockery. Just a raw, honest promise. It was more than Finral had ever expected to hear from the captain.

"I know," Finral replied quietly, the knot in his chest loosening just a little. "I don't feel alone anymore. Not like I used to."

Yami looked back at him, his gaze softer now, though still intense. "Good. That's what matters. Keep it that way." He paused for a moment before adding, almost offhandedly, "And if you ever need a distraction…"

Before Finral could even process the words, Yami moved. With a swift, deliberate step, he closed the distance between them, grabbing Finral by the wrist and pulling him up from his chair. The pen slipped from his fingers, clattering to the floor, but neither of them paid it any mind.

Yami didn't stop there. In one smooth motion, he pressed Finral against the desk, his body crowding into his space, leaving barely an inch between them. Their breaths mingled, and for a second, all Finral could do was stare, his heart hammering against his ribs.

Then, without another word, Yami kissed him. It wasn't slow, wasn't careful—it was firm, demanding, filled with want.

"Y-Yami—the paperwork—" Finral barely managed to stammer against his lips.

"Forget the damn paperwork for a second," Yami murmured, his voice rough and low, his hands tightening around Finral's hips as he pulled him flush against him.

"But—the reports, they need to be—"

"I'll deal with the consequences," Yami cut him off, his lips brushing against Finral's with each word. And just like that, he kissed him again—deeper this time, more insistent, as if making absolutely sure Finral understood exactly how serious he was about this distraction.

And for once, Finral let himself forget.

— — — — — — — — — —

The Black Bulls' common room was lively as always, though a little calmer than usual. The air was warm with the scent of Charmy's freshly cooked food from the kitchen, and the occasional bursts of laughter echoed through the space. Finral sat with Asta, Noelle, and Luck, comfortably leaning back on the couch. He was more at ease than he had been in a long time. There was a quietness inside him now, a peace that had settled in the wake of everything that had happened.

But it only took one sentence to bring an uneasy weight back into the air.

"Finral," Asta started, his tone hesitant but firm. "Can I ask you something?"

Finral glanced at him, a little confused by the serious look on Asta's face. "Uh, sure?"

Asta took a breath, his expression unusually thoughtful. "It's about your brother. Langris."

The room didn't fall silent, but something in the atmosphere shifted. Noelle straightened, her hands gripping the armrest a little tighter. Luck, who had been lazily sprawled on the couch, tilted his head, suddenly more interested. Even Gauche, who was in the corner polishing a photo of Marie, paused for half a second before going back to his usual routine.

Finral's stomach twisted slightly. They hadn't talked about his past since everything had come to light. It had been an unspoken agreement—no one wanted to force him to relive anything. But Asta… Asta had never been one to avoid difficult topics.

"What about him?" Finral asked, his voice even, though his fingers curled slightly against his knee.

Asta hesitated before speaking again. "Did Langris go through the same things you did? I mean… did your parents treat him like that too?"

Finral inhaled sharply, forcing himself to relax. He had expected this question at some point, but it still caught him off guard.

"No," he admitted. "Langris was… safe. He was the one they cherished, the one they saw as their perfect heir. He had everything they wanted in a son—power, potential. They never touched him, never hurt him. He was loved."

Asta frowned. "But he still treated you badly?"

Finral gave a small, sad smile. "Langris always looked down on me. I was weak in their eyes, so he saw me as weak too. He never physically hurt me, but he never had to. He made sure I knew exactly how worthless he thought I was. And he doesn't know the full truth—about what happened behind closed doors. He just thinks I ran away because I was too much of a coward to live up to expectations."

Asta's brows furrowed. "So… you two don't talk at all?"

Finral shook his head. "He hates me for leaving. He thinks I abandoned the family. And maybe, in a way, I did. But I had to."

"Of course you had to. You couldn't stay there, not with the way they treated you," Noelle said firmly, nodding. She, like the others, knew it had been his only option. Staying would have meant enduring more pain, more of what no one should ever have to endure.

A beat of silence followed. Then, unexpectedly, Luck sat up, his usual lazy grin replaced by something sharper, more determined. "Then we should make him understand."

Finral blinked. "What?"

Luck leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his blue eyes practically sparking with something unreadable. "He doesn't get it. He doesn't know what they did to you. If he knew, maybe he'd stop hating you. Maybe he'd actually come back into your life." Finral opened his mouth to protest, but Luck cut him off, a wicked smile curling at the edges of his lips. "I'll make him understand."

Noelle, who had been quietly watching the conversation unfold, frowned. "Luck, you can't just force—"

"I won't force him," Luck said, standing up and stretching as though he had just made up his mind. "I'll just have a little talk with him. A friendly chat."

Finral sighed, rubbing his temples. "Luck, that's not—"

"Relax, Finral," Luck said, already making his way toward the door. "I won't kill him or anything. I just want to give him something to think about."

Asta and Noelle exchanged looks, both clearly unsure whether to stop him or let him go. Finral wanted to tell him to drop it, to let things be. But deep down, there was a tiny part of him that wanted to believe—just for a moment—that maybe, just maybe, Langris could change.

But he couldn't do that to his brother. Langris loved their parents; they had always treated him well. Finral didn't want to take that away from him, didn't want to burden him with the truth. Letting him believe in the family he had was better than forcing him to see the darkness Finral had escaped from.

"Luck, stop," Finral said suddenly, his voice quieter than usual but firm.

Luck turned back, tilting his head. "Why?"

"Because it's better this way," Finral admitted, looking down at his hands. "Langris doesn't need to know. He doesn't need to lose the family he thinks he has. I won't take that from him."

Luck frowned, clearly unhappy, but for once, he didn't immediately argue. His fingers twitched at his sides, like he was itching to do something, to fight against this choice, but after a long moment, he let out a huff and flopped back onto the couch.

"Tch. Fine. But I still think he should know," Luck muttered, crossing his arms.

"Who should know what?" Yami's booming voice echoed through the common room as he stepped out of the bathroom, a newspaper tucked under his arm. His sharp gaze swept over the room, immediately noticing the shift in atmosphere. Finral seemed quite anxious, while Asta and Noelle looked visibly uncomfortable.

"It's nothing—"

"Langris," Luck interrupted, cutting off Finral's attempt to divert the conversation. "He should know about everything that happened. Maybe he and Finral could get along if he understood that Finral didn't just run away—he had to leave."

Yami's gaze flicked to Finral, who looked like he wanted to sink into the floor. His brows furrowed slightly, and he took a long, slow breath before exhaling through his nose.

"That's a damn mess you're walking into," he muttered, scratching the back of his head. His usual rough tone carried something else beneath it—something unreadable. He shifted the newspaper under his arm before turning fully toward Luck. "And what exactly do you think happens if you go poking at Langris with this?"

Luck grinned, unbothered. "He gets mad. We fight. Maybe he listens."

Yami snorted. "Yeah, that's one way to do it. Real stupid way, but hey, not my problem." His eyes cut back to Finral, his expression unreadable for a beat too long. Then he exhaled, almost as if he were resigning himself to something.

"Look, Wheels. If you don't want this to happen, say the word and I'll shut it down right now." His voice was steady, firm. "But if there's a part of you that wants this—wants him to know—then stop running from it." He let the words hang in the air for a moment before shrugging. "Either way, make up your damn mind quick before Luck gets bored and goes through with it anyway."

Finral opened his mouth, then closed it again. His fingers twitched against his knee, his mind racing.

Did he want this?

For so long, he had accepted that Langris hated him. That there was no fixing things, no way to undo the resentment that had built between them over the years. And he had made peace with that—or at least, he thought he had. But now, with the weight of Luck's determined gaze on him, with Yami watching him like he already knew the answer before Finral did, doubt crept in.

"…I don't know," Finral admitted, voice quieter than before. "I'll… I'll think about it."

Luck hummed, tilting his head as if considering that answer. But behind those sharp, electric-blue eyes, something flickered—something far too mischievous, far too knowing.

Yami sighed, shaking his head. "That's about as decisive as we're gonna get from you, huh?" He turned, making his way toward the nearest couch and dropping onto it with a grunt. "Fine. Just don't take too damn long thinking, or dumbass over here's gonna get impatient."

Finral frowned. "Luck—"

Too late.

Luck was already leaning back, stretching his arms behind his head, the picture of nonchalance. But Finral knew him well enough to recognize the spark in his eyes, the way his lips curled ever so slightly. The gears were already turning.

"Oh, don't worry," Luck said with a grin. "I won't do anything reckless."

Which, coming from Luck, meant he absolutely would.

Finral groaned, dropping his face into his hands. He was so doomed.

Luck laid awake in his bed that night, staring up at the ceiling with an uncharacteristically serious expression. The hum of magic in the air, the distant sounds of his squadmates moving around the base—it all faded into the background as his mind stayed locked onto one thing.

Finral.

Ever since the truth about Finral's past had come out, Luck had felt… different. He had always liked Finral, found him fun and easy to be around, but now? Now, there was something else. A sharp, gnawing feeling in his chest whenever he thought about what had been done to him. A constant, restless energy that made him itch to do something about it.

Because it wasn't fair.

Finral was one of the best people he knew. He was kind, always looking out for everyone else, always putting their needs before his own. And the idea that someone—his own family—had hurt him like that? That they had made him feel worthless?

Luck clenched his fists. He hated it.

And then there was Langris.

That stuck-up, arrogant bastard who had everything handed to him, who had never suffered the way Finral had. Who had hated Finral, looked down on him, without even knowing the full truth.

Luck had seen the way Finral hesitated earlier, the way he didn't outright say no to the idea of Langris knowing. And that was enough for him. Finral was too damn selfless—too worried about others to ever fight for himself.

So Luck would do it for him. His mind was made up.

Tomorrow, he was going to pay Langris a little visit.

— — — — — — — — — —

The next day, Luck strolled up to the Golden Dawn base, his usual grin plastered across his face.

The knights in the courtyard paused at the sight of him, their wary eyes tracking his every move. The Black Bulls weren't exactly known for making social calls—especially not Luck, the cheerful berserker, the maniac who loved to fight anything and anyone.

Ignoring the looks, Luck headed inside, his gaze flicking around until he locked onto his target.

Langris stood at the far end of the hall, speaking with a few other knights. He carried himself the same way he always did—rigid, controlled, his chin lifted just slightly as if the air around him was too refined for anyone else to breathe.

Luck wasted no time.

"Oi, Langris!"

The knights around Langris stiffened, looking between them with unease. Langris turned, his sharp gaze narrowing when he saw who had called him.

"What do you want?" he asked coldly, his expression soured the moment he laid eyes on Luck. He wasn't thrilled about having a Black Bull at their base.

Luck strolled forward with his usual easygoing grin, but he could already see the tension in Langris' shoulders. Even before he spoke, the Golden Dawn vice-captain's magic was bristling around him, restrained but sharp-edged, like he was already debating whether removing Luck by force was worth the effort. "You."

Langris tensed. "Excuse me?"

"We need to talk," Luck said cheerfully. "But talking's boring. So let's fight instead."

That got Langris' attention. His gaze flicked back to Luck, eyes narrowing. "No."

Luck blinked. "Huh?"

"I said no," Langris repeated, crossing his arms. "I don't have time for your childish games. Go back to your base and leave me out of whatever nonsense the Black Bulls are up to this time."

Luck pouted. "That's a shame. 'Cause I'm not leaving."

Langris' fingers twitched. "You're trespassing."

"Nah, I don't think so," Luck said easily. "I didn't break in or anything. Just walked right in through the front door. Not my fault no one stopped me." He grinned. "You guys should really work on security."

Langris let out a sharp breath, clearly resisting the urge to blast him out of the building on the spot. He took a step forward instead, voice lowering in a warning tone. "If you're here to cause problems, I will remove you myself."

"Oh, I know," Luck said, rocking back on his heels. "That's why I said we should fight."

The knights lingering nearby were staring now, glancing between them like they weren't sure if they should step in. Luck could tell they were wary of him—probably had heard the rumors about the Black Bulls' resident battle maniac—but they were even more reluctant to get involved when Langris was clearly pissed.

Langris scoffed. "I have no interest in wasting my time with a reckless idiot like you."

Luck just shrugged. "Guess I'll have to follow you around all day then. You can ignore me if you want, but I get real annoying when I don't get what I want."

A muscle twitched in Langris' jaw. "You're insufferable."

Luck's grin widened. "Yep."

Langris exhaled sharply, rubbing his temple as though Luck's very presence was giving him a headache. Then, with a clipped tone, he said, "Fine. If it'll get you to shut up, I'll entertain you for one match."

Luck's eyes lit up. "Great!" He stretched his arms, lightning crackling to life around his fingertips. "But fair warning—you're probably not gonna like what I have to say."

Langris just clicked his tongue in irritation, already activating his magic.

As they stepped outside, the tension between them was thick. The knights had mostly scattered, but a few lingered at a safe distance, sensing that this wouldn't just be a casual spar.

Luck wasn't here just to fight.

He was here to make Langris understand.

And one way or another, he was going to make sure he listened.

Langris exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders as he stepped onto the field outside the Golden Dawn base. His magic pulsed around him in controlled bursts, a quiet but unmistakable warning. "I'll make this quick," he said flatly. "When I win, you'll leave immediately and never come back."

Luck just grinned, crackling with anticipation. "Sure. But that's a big if."

The moment the last word left his mouth, Langris attacked. Spatial Magic: Archangel's Crash.

A sphere of compressed space shot toward Luck, warping and tearing through the air like reality itself was breaking apart. But Luck was already moving. Lightning Magic: Thunder Step. His body blurred, leaving an afterimage as he dodged, the distorted air from Langris' attack just missing him.

Langris clicked his tongue, already firing again. "You're fast, but you can't outrun spatial magic forever."

Luck barely avoided the next hit, rolling to the side and landing in a crouch. "Yeah," he admitted, grinning. "But I don't need forever." His lightning flared around him, the energy surging wildly. "I just need long enough to talk."

Langris scowled. "Talk?"

Luck shot forward. Faster than before. Much faster. He was suddenly inches away, his fist crackling with electricity as he aimed straight for Langris' stomach. Langris barely had time to react—Spatial Magic: Absolute Defense.

A barrier of warped space shimmered to life around him, just in time to absorb Luck's hit. The impact sent out a shockwave, rattling the windows of the Golden Dawn base.

Luck hopped back, unfazed. "You think Finral just ran away because he's weak?" he asked suddenly.

Langris stiffened. His magic flickered. "Shut up."

Luck laughed, not out of amusement but something sharper, something angry. "You really don't get it, do you?" He lunged again, this time forcing Langris to move. Their battle turned into a blur—spatial magic distorting the field, lightning flashing through the air. Each time they clashed, Luck kept pushing. "You think he's weak. You think he abandoned you. But you don't understand what he does for us. For the Black Bulls."

Langris froze, his sword hovering in the air for just a moment. "What? What do you mean?" He had expected taunts about strength, or his lack of it, but this was different.

Luck's expression softened for just a second before it was masked by another grin. "He's the one who makes sure we all stay together."

The words were a little quieter now, and the usual thrill of their sparring match had faded, replaced by something far more serious in Luck's tone.

"He opens portals for us, sure, but that's not all. He's there when we need him. Every damn time." Luck was closing the gap between them now, his lightning sparking more aggressively. "Whenever anyone in the Bulls is struggling, whether it's with their magic or their head, you'll find Finral somewhere in the middle of it. He checks in on us. He makes sure we're not alone."

Langris' breath caught for just a moment. Was this the Finral he had missed? The one he had never truly seen?

"He makes us all feel like we're a family," Luck continued, his voice growing steadier as he pushed Langris back, "like we matter, like we belong. He doesn't get thanked enough for it."

Langris clenched his jaw, a bitter taste in his mouth. "I don't need you to lecture me about him," he muttered, trying to regain control of the fight. But there was a crack in his voice, a vulnerability he hadn't meant to expose.

Luck, undeterred, stepped forward again, closing the distance. His eyes were focused now, more serious than Langris had ever seen them in a fight. "You want to know why the Bulls love him so much? Why we all keep fighting with him?" Luck paused for just a beat. "Because he's the glue. He's the one who makes us feel like we have something worth protecting. We all feel it. Every damn one of us."

Langris' grip faltered for a split second, the weight of Luck's words sinking deep into his chest. "He ran away, he left me!"

"So, you think he just abandoned you?" Luck continued, his voice gentle but firm. "No. Finral never abandoned anyone. He was just trying to survive. We all have our demons, and he fights his every damn day. But you know what? He fights for us. He fights for you too."

Langris gritted his teeth, dodging just in time to avoid another devastating strike. "He is useless."

Luck's grin vanished. For the first time since arriving, his expression darkened. "You don't know anything."

Langris didn't have time to respond. Luck disappeared—not just moved fast, but truly vanished from his sight. Langris barely managed to put up a defense before—

CRACK.

A bolt of lightning struck right behind him, Luck reappearing in an instant. And this time, he didn't aim for Langris directly—he slammed his fist into the ground, sending out a violent surge of magic that shattered Langris' footing, forcing him to stumble.

And that's when Luck's voice dropped, dangerously quiet. "You wanna know the difference between you and Finral?" he murmured. "You had a choice. He didn't."

Langris looked up, stunned.

Luck's expression wasn't mocking anymore. It wasn't even angry. It was something else entirely—something raw. "If you really think your parents were perfect," Luck said, stepping back, "then I dare you to check the cupboard in the basement. Hell, it's enough to just take one look at Finral's back!"

Langris went still.

Luck's voice lowered even further, electricity humming around him. "If you're so sure they did nothing wrong, then you have nothing to lose by looking." He tilted his head. "Right?"

Langris stared at him, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes.

The fight was over.

Luck turned, already heading toward the exit, hands shoved in his pockets. "Think about it," he called over his shoulder. "But don't take too long. Finral's already spent enough time waiting for you."

And just like that, he was gone—leaving Langris standing there, his magic crackling uselessly around him, his world suddenly not as certain as it had been before.

Langris stood frozen in the courtyard long after Luck had disappeared, his magic still buzzing faintly in the air. The fight had ended, but the words still lingered, embedding themselves like splinters beneath his skin.

"Check the cupboard in the basement."

It was ridiculous. A waste of time. He knew his parents. They were strict, yes—his father had high expectations, his mother held a firm hand—but they weren't cruel. They weren't monsters.

...Right?

His grip tightened.

His whole life, Finral had been the failure, the disappointment—the one who ran. It was easier to believe that. To believe he'd left because he was weak, too soft to handle the pressure of their noble bloodline.

Because if that wasn't true—

Langris clenched his jaw, pushing the thought aside. He wouldn't let some reckless idiot from the Black Bulls get in his head.

And yet.

That damn cupboard.

Memories stirred in the back of his mind, things he'd never paid much attention to before. Their father's sharp disapproval whenever Finral so much as hesitated. The way their mother's voice would turn cold, biting. The way Finral—annoying, stupid Finral—never fought back.

And that basement. He hadn't been down there in years.

Langris exhaled sharply, turning on his heel. His knights were still watching him, waiting for him to shake off the confrontation and return to normal.

But he didn't feel normal.

Without a word, he walked past them, heading toward the exit.

"Vice-Captain?" one of the knights called.

Langris ignored them.

He had somewhere he needed to go.

The Vaude estate was as pristine and elegant as ever when Langris arrived, its grand halls unchanged since the day Finral had left. Their family's servants greeted him with deep bows, murmuring welcomes, offering tea, but he brushed them off.

He wasn't here for pleasantries.

As he moved through the corridors, his footsteps echoing in the quiet, he realized how little he had actually thought about this house over the years. He had visited, of course—spoken with his parents, upheld his noble duties—but he had never looked too closely at the past.

Not until now.

The entrance to the basement was tucked behind a lesser-used corridor, leading down a narrow staircase of cold stone. The air grew heavier the further he descended, the familiar scent of aged wood and dust filling his lungs. He stepped carefully, as though something unseen lurked in the shadows, waiting to be disturbed.

At the bottom of the stairs, the storage room stretched out before him—shelves lined with old books, crates of forgotten heirlooms.

And at the very back, tucked into the farthest corner, stood the cupboard.

Langris stopped.

For a long moment, he simply stared at it, an unfamiliar feeling curling in his gut. It was just a cupboard. A stupid, ordinary cupboard. And yet, something about it felt wrong.

He stepped forward, slowly, cautiously. The wood was worn, but sturdy. His fingers brushed the handle. He hesitated.

Nothing to lose. That's what Luck had said. If he was so sure, then opening it should mean nothing. So why was his chest so tight? 

Langris inhaled sharply and pulled the door open.

The inside was empty—except for the walls.

And the marks.

Scratch marks. Deep, jagged clawings etched into the wood, overlapping over and over again, desperate, frantic, panicked.

Langris felt his breath catch in his throat. His mind supplied an image without his permission—small hands, shaking, scraping against the wood in the dark.

His stomach twisted violently.

"No."

This—this wasn't real. This didn't mean anything. It couldn't.

But his hands were trembling. His vision blurred as realization crashed over him in an unforgiving wave, as something cold and hollow settled deep in his chest.

"Langris, dear?" His mother's voice drifted down the stairs, light and confused. "Are you down here?"

Her footsteps grew closer, but Langris remained frozen in front of the cupboard, his fingers still brushing over the deep, jagged scratches inside.

This was it. The moment he would find out the truth—the full truth. If this was nothing, if the marks had come from wild animals, from rats—No.

He refused to lie to himself anymore.

Somewhere deep down, he had always known. He had known that there was more to Finral's escape, that his brother hadn't left just because he was weak. But it had been easier to turn away, to dismiss it, to avoid questioning what he didn't want to acknowledge. Because as long as he had no proof, he didn't have to confront the reality of their parents' actions.

But now—now he had proof. And now, he had to face it.

"Honey, what—" His mother's voice faltered as she stepped into the room, her eyes flickering between him and the open cupboard. A moment of stillness passed. Then, her expression hardened ever so slightly. "You shouldn't be down here."

Langris inhaled slowly, forcing his voice to remain steady. "There are claw marks." He turned to her, his tone unsettlingly calm. "Where did they come from?"

Liliane barely hesitated. "Oh, I don't know. The house is old—"

She was lying. He saw it immediately—the twitch of her right hand, the same tell she had always had.

"You do know." His voice didn't rise, but there was something pleading beneath the demand. A desperate need for her to say anything but what he feared. "Tell me, Mother."

Silence.

Langris swallowed, his throat dry. His next words came out quieter, more fragile. "Tell me these aren't from Finral."

The pause that followed was too long.

And his heart sank.

"You know how he was," Liliane finally said, her tone clipped, as if explaining something that should have been obvious. "He needed stricter discipline than you. He needed—"

"He was a child!" The words ripped out of him before he could stop them. His own voice startled him—when had he ever raised it at her? But then, softer, breaking apart at the edges— "He was a child… and you locked him in here?" His breath shook. "How often? For how long?"

Liliane's lips pressed into a thin line, displeased. "Langris, it was a long time ago. Let's not reopen old wounds—"

"If you won't tell me, I'll ask him." His hands curled into fists at his sides. "But I'd rather hear it from you. How long, Mother?"

A long silence stretched between them. Then—

"Whenever it was necessary." Her voice was disturbingly even. "Sometimes only for a few hours. But other times…" She trailed off, but the meaning hung thick in the air between them.

Langris exhaled sharply, his entire body rigid.

"It was for his own good," Liliane continued smoothly, stepping forward as if to placate him. "He needed to be stronger. He needed to learn his place."

His place.

His place.

Something inside Langris twisted violently.

"What else?" His voice was hollow now. "What other punishments did you think were appropriate for a child?"

Liliane sighed, exasperated. "Langris, let's not discuss this here. Your father will be home soon—let's have tea and talk properly, yes? You need to understand, everything we did was for Finral's benefit. We only wanted him to become strong."

Langris let out a bitter, humorless laugh.

"So you locked him away. You punished him because he wasn't as strong as you wanted him to be?" He stared at her, something cold creeping into his chest. "And what if he had surpassed me? Would you have punished him then, too? Because he would have been better than me? Because he would have needed to 'learn his place'?"

Liliane's expression darkened. "Langris, you're being unfair. We only did what was necessary."

His entire body tensed. "You didn't have to hurt him."

The silence that followed Langris' words was suffocating. His mother's face remained calm—too calm, like she had already accepted this confrontation long before it happened. As if she had been waiting for the day he would finally ask these questions. And yet, there was no remorse in her eyes.

"Langris," she said, her tone carefully measured, "I understand that you're upset, but we did what we had to. You've always been strong, always been capable, but your brother—"

Langris let out a sharp, bitter laugh. "My brother?" The words tasted like poison on his tongue. "My brother, who you locked in the dark? Who you left in here, scratching at the walls, trying to get free? Who you—" He exhaled, trying to steady himself. "And you think that made him stronger?"

Liliane's lips pressed together, her gaze cool. "It was discipline. If he had endured, if he had learned, he could have been worthy. But instead, he ran. And now, look at him. A failure, surrounding himself with fools and delinquents."

Langris' vision blurred for a second, his pulse roaring in his ears.

A failure?

Finral, who fought for his friends without hesitation? Finral, who always put others before himself, who had carried wounds far deeper than anyone had realized? Finral, who had survived them?

He wasn't a failure.

Langris could barely hear his own voice when he spoke. "You… never loved him, did you?"

Liliane blinked, and for a moment, Langris saw something flicker in her expression. Annoyance? Frustration? Or maybe just the irritation of a woman whose carefully crafted reality was cracking at the edges. "Love," she said the word like it was a foreign concept, "is not about coddling the weak, Langris. Love is making sure someone is strong enough to stand on their own."

Langris had no words.

He had spent so long believing that Finral had left because he was cowardly. That he had abandoned his duty, his family. But now, standing here in the dim light of the basement, staring at the proof carved into the wood—he realized Finral hadn't run away at all.

He had escaped.

Liliane stepped closer, placing a hand on Langris' arm. "Come now, let's not dwell on this. You're upset, but you'll see, in time, that this was for the best. Now, let's go upstairs and—"

Langris jerked away from her touch.

"Don't."

A flash of surprise crossed her face, but he didn't care. He turned, heading for the stairs, his heartbeat hammering in his ears. He needed to get out. Now.

"Langris." Her voice followed him, still calm, still composed. "Where are you going?"

He didn't answer, because he didn't know. But he knew he couldn't stay here.

Not anymore.

— — — — — — — — — —

It wasn't every day that a member of the Golden Dawn showed up at the Black Bulls' base unannounced. And it was certainly unheard of for Langris Vaude to be that person.

So when the door to their base suddenly swung open with force, slamming against the wall, every single Black Bull froze. Conversations cut off mid-sentence, forks paused halfway to mouths, and a few hands twitched toward their grimoires on instinct.

Langris never came here. Never.

Even after running from home, Finral had tried to mend the broken threads between them, but Langris had always kept his distance. He had barely acknowledged his brother outside of official missions, always looking for an excuse to avoid him. And now, here he was, standing in their doorway, his breath uneven, his shoulders tense like he was holding himself together by sheer force of will.

Finral, who had been laughing at something Magna said just moments before, blinked in confusion. "Langris?"

Langris didn't answer right away. His eyes were scanning the room, searching, locking onto Finral with an intensity that made even Luck—who thrived on unpredictability—raise an eyebrow.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Magna asked bluntly, standing up. The Bulls weren't exactly on bad terms with Langris, but that didn't mean they welcomed him with open arms.

Vanessa swirled the wine in her glass lazily, but her eyes were sharp as they flickered between the two brothers. "Did something happen?"

Langris ignored all of them. He only had eyes for Finral. And before anyone could react, he was already closing the distance between them. "Take off your shirt."

A beat of silence.

Then—

"What?" Finral choked out, completely thrown off.

The rest of the Bulls immediately snapped to attention, their confusion morphing into wariness.

"What the hell did you just say?" Magna drawled, narrowing his eyes.

Langris' hands twitched at his sides, his impatience bleeding through. "I need to see." His voice was sharp, urgent, like he was barely keeping himself together. "Finral—take off your damn shirt."

Finral took a step back, his eyebrows knitting together. "Langris, what—?"

But before he could finish, Langris reached out and grabbed the hem of Finral's shirt, trying to tug it up.

"Hey!" Asta immediately jumped to his feet. "What the hell do you think you're doing?! You can't just barge in here and start grabbing people!"

Vanessa was already summoning her magic, her protective instincts kicking in. "Have you lost your mind?!"

Finral, still reeling from the sheer audacity of what was happening, tried to push his brother away. "Langris, stop! What the hell is wrong with you?!"

The Bulls were ready to intervene. Magna looked about two seconds away from swinging at Langris, while even Gauche was glaring daggers.

But then—

"Wait." The single word, spoken calmly, came from Luck.

Everyone turned to him, surprised.

Luck wasn't his usual grinning self. His expression was serious, his blue eyes watching Langris carefully.

"Let him do it," he said, his voice steady. "It's something Langris needs to see."

Finral looked at him like he'd lost his mind. "Luck—what the hell?!"

Before anyone could argue further, another voice cut through the room. "What the hell is going on here?!"

Yami had entered, his dark eyes scanning the scene in an instant. His gaze locked onto Langris—who still had his hands on Finral's shirt—and his expression darkened.

"Oi." Yami's voice was low, dangerous. "Did I just walk in on something real damn stupid?"

Langris didn't back down, even with Yami's sharp gaze pinning him in place. "I need to see them," he said, his voice still tense. "The scars."

Yami's scowl deepened. "And you think the best way to do that is by tearing his damn clothes off like some lunatic?"

Langris was still staring at Finral, desperate, frantic. "I need to see. I need to know."

Yami exhaled sharply, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "You're a pain in the ass, you know that?" He turned to Finral. "You don't gotta do anything you don't wanna do, kid."

Finral's breath was still uneven, his mind struggling to catch up to what was happening. But as he looked at Langris—really looked at him—he saw something he hadn't seen before.

Langris wasn't just demanding proof. He wasn't just being his usual self-righteous, impossible self. He was desperate. For the first time, Langris wasn't looking down on him. He wasn't sneering, wasn't judging. He looked lost.

And for that alone, Finral hesitated.

Langris clenched his fists, his voice quieter now. "Just… please."

Silence stretched between them.

Then, finally, Finral sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. "Fine," he muttered. "But I swear to god, Langris, if this is some weird way to insult me again—"

"It's not." Langris' voice was raw. "I swear it's not."

Yami rolled his eyes but backed off, watching with his usual unreadable expression.

And as Finral finally pulled his shirt over his head, revealing the faded scars that marked his back, the room fell into silence.

Langris had never seen them before. No one had, except for Luck and Yami.

And now that they had, none of them could look away.

The room was heavy with silence. Langris stared, his breath uneven as his eyes traced the scars that marred Finral's back—jagged lines of pain etched into his skin, proof of what he had endured, what he had survived.

He didn't know what he had expected, but seeing it with his own eyes made it real in a way words never could. This wasn't just Finral being weak. This wasn't just their parents being strict. This was suffering. This was cruelty. And he had never—never—allowed himself to see it before now.

"Langris," Finral's voice was quieter now, cautious. He shifted uncomfortably under the weight of his brother's stare, reaching for his shirt again. "Are you satisfied now?"

Langris flinched, guilt coiling deep in his chest. "Finral—" He didn't even know what he wanted to say. There was nothing he could say that would make this right.

His fingers curled into fists at his sides. His mother's voice still echoed in his ears. We only did what we had to do. The excuses, the lies, the justification—it all burned now, crumbling under the truth that had been right in front of him all along.

Finral exhaled and shook his head, tired in a way that had nothing to do with magic. "I told you, Langris. You don't need to burden yourself with this."

Yami, who had been watching the exchange with narrowed eyes, let out a sharp scoff. "That's rich, coming from you, Wheels."

Finral shot him a half-hearted glare, but Yami wasn't done. His dark eyes settled on Langris with open disdain. "I don't give a damn what your reasons are, but you storm into my base and try to strip Finral like a damn lunatic—" Yami's fingers twitched like he was barely restraining himself. "You got a death wish or something, brat?"

Langris barely heard him. His gaze was still fixed on Finral's back, on the scars that told a story he had refused to acknowledge for too long. His throat felt tight. His chest ached with something raw and unfamiliar.

Luck, who had been uncharacteristically quiet until now, finally stepped forward. His usual manic energy was dimmed, but his determination remained. "You get it now, don't you?" His voice wasn't mocking, wasn't teasing—it was firm. "He didn't just leave, Langris. He had to leave."

Langris swallowed hard. He looked at Finral again, at the older brother he had spent years resenting. And for the first time in his life, he didn't see the coward he had always assumed Finral to be.

He saw someone who had survived.

"I…" Langris took a shaky breath, then clenched his jaw. He wasn't ready to say everything he needed to. He wasn't sure if he even knew how to.

Without another word, without looking at anyone else, Langris turned on his heel and walked out. No one tried to stop him. He didn't know where he was going, only that he needed to get away—away from the weight in his chest, from the suffocating guilt that clawed at his throat. He had hated Finral for so long, blamed him for everything, and now—

Now he knew the truth. And he had no idea how to live with it.

Finral exhaled slowly, rubbing his hands over his face as he finally pulled his shirt back on. The weight of everything—the confrontation, Langris' reaction, the painful memories dredged up—pressed down on him all at once.

"I… I think I need a minute," he murmured, barely meeting anyone's gaze as he turned toward the stairs leading to his room. No one stopped him. Not even Yami, who usually had something to say about everything.

Luck, on the other hand, had already moved. The second Langris walked out the door, Luck followed, slipping into the night after him.

He found Langris outside, pacing furiously near the edge of the forest that surrounded the Black Bulls' base. His hands were clenched into fists, his breathing uneven, as if he was still struggling to process everything.

"Running away?" Luck asked, his voice light but his gaze sharp. "Funny, I thought that was supposed to be Finral's thing."

Langris whipped around, his eyes flashing. "I am not—!" He cut himself off, inhaling sharply before forcing his voice back down. "I just… needed air."

Luck tilted his head, studying him. "Air, huh?" He took a few steps closer, hands in his pockets. "So? Did seeing his scars make it real for you?"

Langris turned away, staring into the distance. "You think I didn't already know?"

"No," Luck said simply. "You didn't. If you did, you wouldn't have hated him so much."

Langris let out a short, bitter laugh. "You don't understand anything."

"Maybe not," Luck admitted, shrugging. "But I know what it's like to realize you were wrong about something. To realize you hurt someone you never should've. That kind of guilt? It eats at you."

Langris flinched, and Luck knew he had hit a nerve.

"But here's the thing," Luck continued. "You're still here. You didn't run all the way back to the Golden Dawn, didn't storm off to pretend none of this happened. You came here, to him. And yeah, you freaked out and grabbed at his shirt like an idiot, but still… you came here."

Langris swallowed hard, his jaw tight. "I don't know what to do."

Luck's grin softened, just a little. "That's a start."

Langris shot him a glare, but there wasn't any real bite to it. Just exhaustion. Frustration. And something else, something more fragile.

"Come back inside," Luck said. "Talk to him. Or don't. But don't just stand here acting like the world just ended."

Langris hesitated, looking toward the base, then back at Luck. "Why do you care?"

Luck blinked, then grinned. "Because Finral does. And maybe… I care about you too."

Langris stared at him, completely thrown, and for once, Luck didn't elaborate. He just turned and started walking back toward the base, glancing over his shoulder only once.

Langris was still standing there. But his feet weren't moving away anymore.

That was enough. For now.

Luck leaned against the wall outside the Black Bulls' base, arms crossed, waiting. He knew Langris would come back. There was too much left unsaid, too much still burning in his eyes when he had fled.

And sure enough, as the sky deepened into twilight, Luck caught the faint hum of mana coming closer. Langris walked over, his face set in a scowl, though it wasn't clear if it was directed at Luck or himself.

"Thought you might run forever," Luck said, pushing off the wall. "Would've been a shame."

Langris exhaled sharply. "Shut up."

Luck only grinned, taking a step closer. "You ran before Finral could say anything. Before you could say anything. You gonna fix that, or just keep acting like a coward?"

Langris's hands clenched into fists. "I—" He faltered, then let out a bitter laugh. "I don't even know where to start."

"Start with him," Luck said simply, jerking his head toward the base. "He's in his room. Probably thinking too much, like always."

Langris hesitated, but then, with a sharp nod, he walked past Luck and into the base. The halls were quiet, the usual chaos of the Bulls subdued as if they all knew something important was happening. Luck showed him the way, before disappearing down the hall. 

Langris stopped in front of Finral's door. For a long moment, he just stared at it, his hand hovering near the handle. Then, before he could second-guess himself, he knocked.

A pause. Then the door creaked open, and Finral stood there, looking exhausted but unsurprised.

"Langris," he said softly.

Langris swallowed hard. "Can we talk?"

Finral studied him for a moment before stepping aside. "Come in."

Langris entered, his eyes darting around the room. It was nothing like the pristine, cold estate they had grown up in. It was messy, warm, lived-in. It was Finral's home, a place he had built for himself. And for the first time, Langris wondered what it would have been like if they had grown up in a place like this instead.

Finral closed the door and gestured for Langris to sit, but the younger brother remained standing, restless energy radiating off of him. "I... I don't know how to do this," Langris admitted, running a hand through his hair. "I don't know what to say to make this right."

Finral sighed, sitting on the edge of his bed. "There's nothing to 'make right,' Langris. The past is the past. I never expected you to believe me. I never even thought you'd care."

Langris flinched. "I didn't know. I swear, I didn't know it was that bad."

"But you knew something," Finral said, voice calm but firm. "You knew they treated me differently. That they favored you. That I was never good enough for them. And you hated me for leaving, for running away. But Langris, I didn't run away—I escaped."

Langris swallowed, his throat tight. "I know that now."

Silence settled between them, thick with unspoken words. Langris clenched his fists, struggling to breathe past the guilt tightening in his chest. "I should have—"

"You were a kid too," Finral interrupted, shaking his head. "You were given a different life than me. You didn't know, and you shouldn't have had to know. I don't blame you for that."

Langris looked away. "I spent my whole life thinking you were weak. That you abandoned us because you couldn't handle it. But you were stronger than any of us. You survived. You made a life for yourself. And I... I spent years hating you for it."

Finral smiled faintly, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Guess we both made mistakes."

Langris finally sat down across from him, his hands gripping his knees. "I don't know how to fix this."

Finral sighed, then reached out, placing a hand on his brother's arm. "You don't have to fix anything. Just... be here. If you want to try, if you want to be in my life—then stay. That's all I ask."

Langris hesitated, then nodded. "Alright. I'll stay."

It wasn't everything, not yet. But it was a start.

Langris shifted uncomfortably, rubbing the back of his neck. "I... I should probably tell you something else," he said, his voice quieter now. "Luck came to the Golden Dawn base this morning. He challenged me to a duel."

Finral raised an eyebrow, a smirk playing at the corner of his lips. "Luck? That sounds about right."

Langris huffed, leaning back slightly in his chair. "Yeah, well... I thought he was just being his usual maniac self. I mean, that guy never knows when to back off, does he?" He shook his head, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth despite himself. "But I... I didn't expect him to take it so seriously. He wasn't just fighting to win, you know? He was trying to make me understand. Trying to make me see what you went through."

Finral's expression softened. "You mean…?"

Langris nodded, his eyes flicking briefly to the floor before meeting Finral's gaze again. "He wanted me to know. To understand how much you've been through. How much you've done for everyone here. And, I have to admit, it pissed me off a little, but..." He paused, looking a little sheepish. "But I'm glad he's got your back, Finral. I'm glad someone does. You deserve that kind of loyalty."

Finral blinked, a mixture of surprise and warmth crossing his face. "Luck... really did that for me?"

"Yeah," Langris muttered, leaning forward, the weight of his words settling on both of them. "I didn't think much of him at first, but... I can see now why everyone here cares about you so much. They're all... they all love you, Finral. And that's not something you get by accident."

There was a moment of quiet, and Langris couldn't help but feel a sense of relief. The tension between them, the years of misunderstanding and resentment, were beginning to lift, even if only a little.

After a brief silence, Langris shifted, his gaze steady on Finral. "I didn't realize how much you meant to them," he said quietly, his voice carrying a mix of surprise and regret. "I always thought you were just the... the guy who opened portals, the one they used to get places fast. But now I see. You're so much more than that."

Finral let out a breath, leaning back in his chair. "It's alright, Langris. I didn't expect you to see it all at once. Hell, even I didn't know how much the Bulls cared for me until recently." He smiled, albeit a bit sadly. "It took me a long time to realize that I'm not just the guy who opens the doors, you know? I have a place here. A real place."

Langris nodded slowly, the weight of his brother's words sinking in. "I… I think I'm starting to get it now. But," he hesitated, his voice tight with guilt, "I don't know how to be a brother to you. Not the way you deserve."

Finral's smile softened. "We'll figure it out. One step at a time. But you don't have to be perfect. I don't expect you to just... change overnight. Just be here, that's all. You're my brother, Langris. And that's enough for me."

Langris felt a tightness in his chest, something he hadn't realized had been there, something that was slowly beginning to loosen. For the first time in what felt like forever, he allowed himself to believe that maybe, just maybe, things could change. That maybe the two of them could rebuild the bridge they'd burned so long ago.

"Alright," Langris said quietly. "I'll try."

They sat there for a few more moments, the silence between them comfortable, before Finral stood up, stretching his arms above his head. "Well, enough serious talk for one day. Let's head downstairs. The others are probably waiting for us."

Langris followed his brother, taking a deep breath, steeling himself for the next step. This would be harder than just talking. It would take time to prove himself—to himself and to the rest of the Black Bulls. But maybe, just maybe, he could start over.

When they reached the common room, the moment they stepped through the door, the usual chaos of the Black Bulls hit them. Asta was already bouncing around, talking about something, Noelle was glaring at him, and Gauche was doing his best to ignore everyone while staring at a picture of Marie.

Yami, who had been leaning casually against the wall, took a long drag from his cigarette, his gaze flicking between his team and Langris. There was a brief pause before he finally spoke. "You two made up? Everyone's happy again?"

"Everything's alright, Captain Yami," Finral nodded, sending him a small, relieved smile.

"Good. Just a warning though, Langris: don't think you can pull a stunt like that again. You don't get to barge into my base, grab my guy, and start acting like you're entitled to anything. Keep that in mind. I don't care if you're the vice-captain, I'll send you back in pieces if you try it again." His voice was calm but still carried that authoritative edge.

Time seemed to still as the group seemed to catch on to his words—Yami had said my guy. Asta blinked, looking from Yami to Finral, then back again. The pieces started to fall into place.

"Wait," Asta said, his eyes widening. "Did you just—"

Yami glanced at him sharply, cutting him off before he could finish his sentence. "What? You didn't notice earlier?" His smirk was lazy, but there was a flicker of amusement behind his eyes. "Yeah, Finral's my guy. What of it?"

The room went completely still. Noelle froze, and even Gauche paused to look over at Finral with a raised eyebrow. Everyone in the room processed the information at once, and suddenly, things felt a little less certain.

Langris, on the other hand, stood there stunned for a moment. He glanced from Yami to Finral, his expression conflicted. "Wait... so this isn't just... a joke? You two are really...?"

Finral scratched the back of his neck awkwardly, unsure how to react to the sudden spotlight. "Yeah," he said with a small shrug. "Guess it's not something we really made a big announcement about. But yeah."

Yami gave a half-hearted roll of his eyes. "I didn't make a big deal about it, but it's not like I'm hiding it either. It's just none of your business, Langris." His tone wasn't unkind, but it was firm, clearly putting boundaries in place.

The room was filled with a mix of stunned silence and realization. Asta was the first to speak up again, his voice a little too loud in the quiet room. "Whoa! So this is why you two were acting so... weird earlier?!" He blinked rapidly. "I didn't even notice it until just now."

Noelle, still processing, glanced at Finral, and then at Yami. "But... you two? I mean, Yami, I never imagined you..." She trailed off, clearly trying to wrap her head around it. But instead of disbelief, there was only curiosity, maybe a hint of something else. "You really care about him, don't you?"

Yami simply shrugged. "Wouldn't still be here if I didn't, would I?" His eyes softened, just for a second, as they landed on Finral, who had a slight blush on his face, clearly uncomfortable with the attention. "But that's not the issue right now."

Langris, still reeling from everything he'd just learned, blinked rapidly, his mouth opening and closing as if he was trying to find the right words. He'd never considered this, never even imagined it could be the case. His brother... with someone like Yami? But as he looked at Finral, standing there quietly, he could see it. He could see how relaxed Finral was, how much more confident, even in the chaos.

"So, you're really serious about him, huh?" Langris muttered, his voice still filled with a mix of disbelief and something else—something softer.

"Uh, yeah, I am." Finral rubbed the back of his neck, clearly feeling uncomfortable under the weight of all the attention. His eyes darted around the room, trying to avoid meeting anyone's gaze for too long. The silence in the room felt a little too heavy, a little too much, and he shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

Luckily, Luck, with his usual exuberance, knew just what to do to break the silence. He grinned widely, a mischievous glint dancing in his blue eyes. "Now that all the drama's out of the way," Luck said, suddenly appearing in front of Langris with his usual boundless energy, "does that mean we can fight again?"

Finral glanced at him, his expression puzzled but slightly relieved. At least someone was keeping things light. But then Luck's face lit up, his excitement palpable. "We didn't get to finish our last fight!" His voice was almost childlike in its enthusiasm, his eyes sparkling as he turned to Langris.

Langris opened his mouth, but the words stalled on his lips. He wasn't sure how to respond, caught in a whirlwind of emotions, from guilt to confusion. "Maybe another ti—"

Before Langris could finish his sentence, Luck had already grabbed his hand, pulling him forward with surprising strength. Luck's infectious laugh filled the air as he happily dragged Langris out of the base, clearly unbothered by any prior awkwardness or tension. "Come on, Langris!" Luck cheered, his voice bubbling with excitement. "Let's get some real training in! We've got so many fights to have! I can't wait to see how much stronger we can get!" 

Langris tried to pull his hand back, still not fully processing the whirlwind of everything that had just happened, but Luck wasn't about to let him go. His grip was firm, and his enthusiasm infectious. They passed by the others, most of them watching with varying degrees of amusement or curiosity, but no one intervened. Luck was already off and running, tugging Langris behind him like it was the most natural thing in the world.

"Come on, come on! I'm ready to throw down whenever you are!" Luck chattered as they made their way out of the building, his words bouncing off the walls of the base. Langris could barely keep up with him, but he didn't resist. He hadn't been this… well, carefree in a while. Maybe that's what Luck did best—he forced you to live in the moment, to leave the past behind and just move forward.

Despite everything, Langris couldn't help but feel a slight, reluctant smile tug at the corner of his lips as he let Luck drag him off. 

Maybe, this was the start of something new.