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I am turning my path from your direction,
I am sandal, leaving my fragrance (with you)...
Leaving my heart's desires under your pillow,
Covering myself in a simple cotton cloth as I take my leave.
The air felt unnaturally still.
The morning sun hung low in the sky, its golden light spilling over then, but it did nothing to chase away the cold weight pressing down on Kant's chest. He stood beside Style, his fingers curled into fists at his sides, his heart pounding so loudly that it drowned out the sounds of the city waking up around them.
Ahead of them, Fadel and Bison stood facing Captain and a handful of officers. Their expressions were unreadable, as if they had already accepted their fate, but Kant knew better. He saw the tightness in Bison's jaw, the way his fingers twitched like he wanted to reach for Kant but forced himself to stay still. He saw the way Fadel's eyes flickered towards Style every few seconds, like he was memorizing his face, drinking in every detail before they were separated for years.
Five years.
It felt like forever.
The weight of it settled in Kant's stomach like a stone. He had tried everything-negotiating, pleading, anything to lessen their sentence. Five years was the best he could get, and even though Bison and Fadel had agreed, it didn't make it any easier to accept.
Kant's throat tightened as he turned to Bison, forcing himself to speak even though his voice felt like it would break.
"Please... take care of yourself," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.
Bison finally moved then. He reached out, cupping Kant's cheek, his calloused thumb brushing gently over his skin. "I will," he murmured. "You too."
Kant swallowed hard, gripping Bison's wrist like he could somehow keep him here, keep him from leaving. But the seconds were slipping away too fast.
"I don't want you to leave", Kant saying as his voice cracked
"I will come back soon. You will be always my good boy, hm", Bison said kissing his forehead
Bison turned his gaze to Style. "Take care of Kant, alright?"
Style, who had been unusually quiet, gave a shaky nod. He forced a grin-weak, unconvincing, but still there. "You know I will," he said, his voice light, but the cracks were beginning to show.
Fadel exhaled softly, shaking his head. "You also don't get into trouble because of your tongue," he muttered.
Style smirked. "Please, I'm a delight."
But the humor didn't last long.
"Please dont loose your control and Remember not everyone is kind like you"
Fadel stepped closer, resting a hand on Style's cheek. It was rare for him to be this gentle, this open. Style's smirk faltered as he leaned into the touch, like he wanted to memorize the warmth, to take it with him.
"Don't drive recklessly," Fadel murmured.
Style huffed, but his voice wavered. "That's my thing, babe."
Fadel let out a breathy chuckle, but his eyes were dark with something unreadable.
"You also, don't let your anger take best of you. Not everyone is kind like you", Style said as Fadel kissed hin
The officers shifted, and Captain's voice cut through the moment. "It's time."
The words felt like a gunshot.
Bison pulled away first, his fingers lingering on Kant's wrist for just a second longer before he stepped back. Fadel followed, his eyes locked onto Style's like he was trying to say a thousand things without speaking.
And then they turned.
Kant barely registered the way his vision blurred, how his breath hitched as he watched them walk toward the police van. The doors opened. One last glance, one last second-
And then they were gone.
The sound of the doors slamming shut echoed in the silence.
The Car pulled away.
And then, just like that-
They were alone.
A sharp, gasping sob ripped from Style's throat.
Kant barely had time to react before Style was collapsing beside him, his legs giving out as he sank to the ground, his back hitting the cold brick wall behind him. His hands trembled as they fisted into Kant's jacket, fingers digging into the fabric, holding on like he was afraid of disappearing too. His shoulders shook violently, his breath coming in uneven, painful bursts.
"I-" Style tried to speak, but his voice cracked. "Kant, I-"
Kant said nothing. He just held him tighter.
Because what could he say? That it would be okay? That five years would pass in the blink of an eye? That they wouldn't feel empty without them?
Lies. All of it.
So he didn't say anything at all.
He could still see the image of Bison and Fadel walking away, burned into his memory like an open wound that refused to close. But the pain in his own chest became secondary the moment Style let out a sound Kant had never heard before-
A scream.
Raw, gut-wrenching, full of anguish that clawed through the air like something alive.
Kant flinched, his eyes widening as he turned to him.
Style wasn't just crying-he was breaking apart.
Style entire body trembled, his hands gripping Kant's jacket like a lifeline, his breath coming in short, erratic gasps as sobs wracked through him. He looked like he couldn't breathe, like the world was caving in on him all at once. His fingers clutched at his chest as if trying to hold himself together, but nothing was working.
"I can't-" Style choked out between sobs, shaking his head frantically. "I can't-Kant, I can't do this-"
Kant had never seen him like this.
Not even once.
Style was always the loudest, the most reckless, the one who turned every horrible moment into something laughable. Even when he was hurting, he hid it behind smirks and teasing words. He never let anyone see him break.
But now-
Now, he wasn't just breaking. He was shattering.
"I can't live without him," Style gasped, his voice cracking so violently that Kant felt it in his bones. His fingers dug deeper into Kant's shirt, desperate, needy, clinging like he was drowning and Kant was the only thing keeping him from being swallowed whole. "How am I supposed to sleep alone? How am I-how am I supposed to wake up and not see him? Not hear his voice? Not-"
His breath hitched violently, his words cutting off into another sharp sob.
Kant tightened his grip around him.
His own chest ached, but right now, that didn't matter. Right now, he needed to be there for Style.
Style's body curled inward as he buried his face against Kant's shoulder, muffling the next sob that tore out of him. "I want Fadel-I want him-I can't-"
Kant swallowed, his throat dry. He had never been good at comforting people. That was always Style's job, throwing in jokes even when the world was crumbling. But now, it was Style who needed someone to hold him together.
Kant didn't have the right words.
"You aren't alone Style. I'm with you",
He wrapped his arms around him, one hand pressing against the back of Style's head, fingers threading through his messy hair, grounding him as best as he could. Style's sobs didn't lessen, but Kant felt the way his body pressed closer, how desperately he clung to Kant's warmth, needing something-anything-to keep himself from falling apart completely.
"I-" Style tried to speak again, but his voice was a wreck, shaking and strained. "It hurts, Kant. It hurts so much-I don't-" He let out another broken sob, his body shaking harder. "I don't know how to do this. I don't know how to be without him. I don't-"
Kant closed his eyes for a moment, tightening his grip.
He knew. He understood.
Five years felt like a lifetime.
And for Style, who had spent every day with Fadel-sleeping beside him, waking up to his warmth, teasing him, fighting with him, loving him-being apart like this was more than just painful. It was unbearable.
Kant let out a slow breath, his fingers brushing against Style's back in a soothing motion.
"I know it hurts," he murmured, his voice steady despite the ache in his chest. "I know."
Style's sobs didn't stop. His breathing remained ragged, his body trembling uncontrollably.
But he didn't pull away.
Minutes passed, maybe longer, with nothing but the sound of Style's cries filling the empty space around them. Kant held him through all of it, through every sharp inhale, every broken plea.
Until finally-finally-the sobs started to slow.
Not because the pain was gone.
But because exhaustion had taken over.
Style's grip on Kant's shirt loosened slightly, his body still trembling but no longer as violently. His breath was uneven, catching on the tail end of his sobs, but at least now he was breathing.
Kant didn't let go.
However his Mind didn't stopped
The weight of it all sat on Kant's chest like a crushing force, suffocating and relentless. His arms were wrapped around Style, holding him as tightly as he could, but the warmth of another person did nothing to thaw the ice spreading through his veins.
The moment Fadel and Bison had been taken away replayed in his mind like a curse, like some cruel joke from fate, taunting him with every mistake he had made. If he had tried harder-if he had done something, anything-maybe they wouldn't have been in this situation. Maybe Bison and Fadel would still be here, still standing beside them instead of locked behind cold, unfeeling metal bars.
But he hadn't tried hard enough.
He had failed. Again.
His eyes burned, but he refused to let the tears fall. Not now. Not when Style was already breaking apart in his arms, shattering like fragile glass against the cold reality of their loss. Kant tightened his grip, pressing his forehead against Style's shoulder, his body trembling-not from the weight of grief but from the guilt clawing its way through his skin, burrowing deep inside him.
This was his fault.
All of it.
If he hadn't agreed to work with Captain, if he hadn't thought he could outsmart the system, if he hadn't dragged Style into this mess-then maybe, just maybe, none of this would have happened. He had ruined everything, like he always did.
He was like a curse, tainting everything he touched.
He squeezed his eyes shut, willing himself to stay composed, to not break apart. Not yet. Not when Style needed him to be strong.
But inside, he was screaming.
The silence was unbearable. It wasn't supposed to be like this. As he saw the Closed Burger Point, It was just silence but It should have been filled with Bison's laughter, with Fadel's sharp remarks, with the sound of Style bickering over something stupid while Kant tried not to roll his eyes. It should have been warm, not this suffocating, empty void of nothingness.
They should be inside Shop, helping Bison and Fadel
But they weren't.
Because Kant had ruined everything.
He exhaled shakily, pressing his lips into a thin line. His chest felt tight, like something was squeezing the life out of him, but he forced himself to swallow it down.
He didn't deserve to grieve.
Grief was for the innocent. It was for the people who had lost something unfairly, for the people who had no hand in their suffering. But Kant? Kant had played a role in this. He had let this happen. He had allowed this outcome to exist.
And now, he had to live with it.
He was holding onto style as if he were the only thing keeping him grounded. But even that didn't stop the thoughts from coming, didn't stop the torment in his head.
Bison had trusted him.
And Kant had betrayed that trust.
Fadel had warned him, hadn't he? He had always warned him not to play with fire, not to dig too deep. But Kant had been reckless. He had been selfish. He had wanted to fix things his own way, and look where it got them.
Five years.
Five years behind bars.
Five years of Bison and Fadel locked away, of their lives slipping through their fingers while Kant got to stay free.
It wasn't fair.
It should have been him.
His breath hitched, but he masked it well, keeping his expression blank, keeping himself together. He had to. Because if he let himself crack, if he let himself fall apart, then what would happen to Style?
He had already ruined so much. He had already destroyed everything he loved.
He wouldn't let himself be the reason Style fell apart too.
So he stayed quiet.
He held the weight of his guilt in his chest, pressing it down, burying it deep where no one could see.
Because this was his burden to carry.
And no one else needed to know just how much it was killing him.
Style slowly stood up, with his trembling legs. He made his way towards the Burger Point door, opening the lock with his shaky hands.
The door creaked open with a soft jingle of the bell, the sound too familiar, too painful. The moment Kant and Style stepped inside, a heavy silence wrapped around them. The air still carried traces of what once was-faint remnants of grilled patties, toasted buns, and the ever-present mix of Bison's ridiculous cologne.
Kant inhaled slowly, his fingers trembling as he reached for the switch, bathing the dimly lit burger shop in a warm golden glow. The sight before him was almost too much to bear.
Everything was the same.
The chairs, tucked under the tables. The counter, smooth and polished, as if waiting for someone to lean against it with that stupid grin. The tiny notes stuck on the wall where Fadel used to remind Bison not to mess up orders. The fridge stocked with ingredients, even though no one had been here for days.
A lump formed in Kant's throat as his eyes drifted toward the grill, the very same one where Bison had once stood, arms crossed over his chest, smirking at Kant after burning yet another burger.
"You better eat this, babe. I made it with love." , Bison said pouting
"It's burnt!", Kant said shaking his head in disbelief but Bison gave him his puppy eyes begging him to Eat as he specially made it for Kant
"Exactly. Extra crispy. Just how you like it."
Kant exhaled shakily. His hand ran over the counter, his fingers brushing against the wood like he was searching for something-anything-to prove this wasn't just a memory, that this wasn't just another cruel reminder of what was now lost.
He squeezed his eyes shut, but that only made it worse. The past flooded in, vivid and relentless.
Bison, leaning lazily against the counter, flirting with him like they had all the time in the world.
Fadel, standing behind the register, grumbling about the receipts while secretly sneaking fries from the basket to give them to Style.
Style, sitting on the counter, swinging his legs back and forth, laughing at some dumb joke he had just made.
And Kant-Kant had been right here, teasing them, laughing with them, pretending like they had forever.
But forever had been an illusion.
Because now, there was no Bison leaning against the counter, no Fadel scolding him for coming at the shop at night.
Just silence.
Kant opened his eyes again, his chest tightening unbearably as he looked toward the door.
Waiting.
Waiting for them to walk in.
Waiting for Bison to ruffle his hair and say, "Missed me, babe?"
Waiting for Fadel to sigh in exasperation, dragging him by the collar and telling him to go home and Sleep instead of running all day behind Bison.
Waiting.
But the door stayed closed.
His breathing hitched as he gripped the edge of the counter.
If only he had tried harder.
If only he had fought more, searched for another way.
If only he hadn't been a coward.
If only he hadn't been the one to betray them.
His vision blurred.
A quiet sob pushed past his lips before he could stop it.
This was his fault.
His failure.
Bison and Fadel were supposed to be here. Right here.
They weren't supposed to be sitting in some cold, lifeless prison cell.
They weren't supposed to be taken away from them.
They were supposed to be here-living, laughing, fighting, cooking burnt burgers, making fun of each other.
And yet...
They weren't.
Because of him.
Kant clenched his jaw as guilt tore through him, raw and merciless.
He had ruined everything.
Destroyed the one place that had felt like home.
The one place where they had been happy.
He sucked in a sharp breath, forcing himself to straighten even though his body felt unbearably heavy.
Beside him, Style was staring at the Kitchen, unmoving, silent. His usual energy was gone, replaced by an emptiness that felt just as suffocating as Kant's own.
Kant swallowed. "They're not coming back, are they?"
Style flinched but said nothing.
Silence settled between them again, heavy and painful.
Kant turned back toward the counter, his fingers pressing against the wood.
If only he could turn back time.
If only he could undo everything.
But life didn't work that way.
And now, all they could do was stand here, staring at a door that would never open, waiting for ghosts that would never return.
His chest ached with the weight of everything-what was, what could have been, and what would never be again.
Then, a voice cut through the quiet.
"Isn't the silence weird?"
Kant turned his head slightly, finding Style standing a few feet away, hands shoved into his pockets. He wasn't smiling. His usual playful glint was absent. Instead, his expression was unreadable, his eyes scanning the empty burger shop as if it were some foreign, unfamiliar place.
Kant understood what he meant.
The shop had never been silent before.
Even in the dead of night, when they were closing up after a long day, there had always been noise-Bison's deep, teasing voice, Fadel's annoyed grumbling, Style's nonstop chatter.
And now?
Nothing.
Only silence.
Kant swallowed hard before turning away.
He couldn't stand this.
He didn't know what else to do-how to fill the emptiness, how to stop the weight of guilt from crushing him. So he did the only thing that made sense.
He grabbed the mop.
Style blinked. "Uh... what are you doing?"
"Mopping," Kant muttered, rolling up his sleeves.
Style raised an eyebrow. "Are you planning to run this shop now?"
Kant didn't hesitate. "Yes."
That caught Style off guard. He stared at Kant for a long moment before exhaling, running a hand through his hair. Then, his lips twitched into a half-hearted smirk.
"We'll burn this place down in one day."
For the first time in days, Kant let out a weak chuckle. It wasn't much, but it was something.
And just like that, they fell into an easy, familiar rhythm.
Kant mopped the floors, scrubbing harder than necessary, as if cleaning away the dust would somehow erase the past.
Style grabbed a cloth and wiped down the tables, dramatically sighing as he worked. "This is manual labor. I was not built for this."
Kant snorted. "Then stop complaining."
"No," Style shot back, waving the cloth in the air. "I'm allergic to hard work."
Kant shook his head but didn't stop mopping.
They worked in silence after that, but this time, it didn't feel as suffocating.
It felt... manageable.
The faint sound of the mop against the floor, the soft creak of chairs being straightened, the quiet hum of the refrigerator-it wasn't the same as before, but it was something.
Something to hold onto.
Something to remind them that, despite everything, they were still here.
Still standing.
Still trying.
Even if it hurt.
Slowly and Slowly The sound of mopping became more of a dull rhythm in Kant's ears as his heart grew heavier with each pass of the mop across the floor. Each streak he wiped seemed to just smear the ache inside him, making it worse, somehow. It was as though he was trying to wipe away the past, but the more he tried, the more it clung to him, an invisible force that refused to let go.
Kant's hands trembled slightly as he gripped the mop. He could feel the sweat gathering at the back of his neck, but it wasn't from the work-it was from the weight of everything pressing down on him.
The silence between him and Style was somehow different now, no longer as comforting as it was earlier. It felt like a vacuum, pulling everything he held together into a dark hole where nothing made sense anymore.
His gaze drifted to the tables in front of him, his eyes landing on the spot where Bison used to sit. He could almost see him there, teasing, laughing, and messing with him. Kant could almost hear it-the voice, the laughter, the teasing words that made him roll his eyes but, deep down, secretly adored. It was just the kind of playful, aggravating thing Bison would do to break the tension and bring them all back to reality.
Kant's breath caught in his throat as he felt the all-too-familiar pull. His heart skipped a beat, and before he knew it, his eyes were no longer on the cold, silent shop, but on the ghostly image of Bison sitting at one of the tables.
"You didn't clean it properly," Bison's teasing voice echoed in the still air.
The words hit Kant like a punch to the chest, sending a wave of emotion that he wasn't ready for crashing over him. The mop slipped from his fingers, clattering to the floor, but he didn't even flinch. His eyes locked onto Bison, who was still there, sitting like nothing had changed, the smile on his face as irritatingly familiar as ever.
"Bison..." Kant whispered, his voice barely a sound, like he was afraid to speak too loudly and shatter the fragile image before him.
Bison's lips curled into that playful, mocking grin. "What's wrong? You look like you've seen a ghost, Kant."
Kant shook his head, unable to look away. His chest tightened, each breath feeling like a struggle to take. Was he imagining this? Could he be hallucinating? He hadn't seen Bison in what felt like an eternity even though it's been only few hours, and yet here he was, alive, looking at him with that same, irresistible ocean eyes, and smug face
Kant's mind was a whirlwind of confusion. His body froze in place as his memory surged forward like a floodgate bursting open. It was all too real-too vivid. He could hear his own voice in his head, taunting Bison back when the shop was alive, when everything was... normal.
"You're the owner, brat."
Kant heard himself say it-felt the warmth of the memory, the teasing tone, the banter. He had said it all so naturally, so carefree. And now... now he couldn't even imagine speaking to Bison like that again. The thought of it broke him inside.
His heart hammered in his chest, and he had to close his eyes, a rush of heat and tears building in his throat. It wasn't fair. None of this was fair.
Kant opened his eyes again, desperate to hold onto the image of Bison, the way he had been. The way everything had been. But as he reached out, the figures before him began to blur, the clarity fading like smoke drifting in the wind.
Before he could even make sense of it, the image of Bison began to fade, fading into nothingness. Kant's breath caught in his throat as he reached forward, trying to grab onto something, anything, to make the memory last just a little longer.
It was only then that he saw Fadel-Fadel, sitting in the corner, acting like he always did, the way he had always been with Bison, taking care of things in his quiet way. Kant blinked in disbelief. Fadel wasn't supposed to be there, not like this. He wasn't supposed to be a part of this nightmare.
And yet, there he was, his expression calm as always. He turned toward Kant, and for a second, Kant thought he heard Fadel's voice, low and patient, asking them to leave for the night. But then, Fadel's voice merged with the image of Bison's teasing grin, and Kant realized it wasn't just one of them-both Bison and Fadel were fading from his vision.
"Leave," Fadel's voice echoed, though it sounded distant. His words were sharp yet kind, like he had been telling them to go for years. It was his voice, but it wasn't Fadel anymore. It was just a shadow of him, a memory.
Style was next.
Kant's eyes widened as he saw Style pouting next to Fadel, whining as Fadel ask them to leave. However,His usual energy was missing, replaced by something more subdued, quieter, like he had lost a part of himself, just like Kant had. Style's lips moved, but Kant couldn't hear him. He only saw the way his expression twisted in an unspoken plea.
It felt like the shop was slipping away, sinking into the cracks between his fingers, and there was nothing he could do to hold on to it.
He tried to reach for Bison but couldn't, tried to touch him one last time, but Bison just smiled. The whole thing was too much.
Kant's hands started to shake, and he closed his eyes again, desperate to stop the tears from falling. His breath came in short, shallow gasps. He didn't know what was real anymore. Was it all just a dream? Was it his fault? Was it his punishment for everything he had done? Was this what he deserved-this emptiness?
And then, just as quickly as the memories appeared, they disappeared.
The room fell silent again. The voices, the images-they were gone, leaving Kant standing there, alone. The shop was empty once more, just as it had been when they had walked in.
The ache in his chest intensified, the guilt suffocating him. His hand trembled as he reached for the counter once more, leaning heavily on it as he tried to steady his breathing.
"Why didn't I try harder?" he whispered to the empty room. The words felt foreign, bitter on his tongue. He had failed them. He had failed his friends, his family, Bison, Fadel, Style-he had ruined everything.
He continued cleaning.His vision blurred, but he didn't care. He kept going, because it was the only thing he could do. The mop made a soft, repetitive swish against the floor, but inside his head, the sound was deafening.
The tears came in waves, crashing over him no matter how hard he tried to hold them back. It was futile. The tears kept pouring, each drop a reminder of his failure, each sob a reflection of his weakness. No matter how much he wiped at his eyes, how much he rubbed his face, it was all the same. The weight on his chest never lifted.
If only I hadn't worked for the captain...
The thought repeated itself in his mind like an endless loop, echoing louder with each passing second. If only he hadn't been so stupid. If only he hadn't trusted the captain, hadn't gotten caught up in all of it. He wouldn't have betrayed Bison.
He wouldn't have ruined everything for Fadel, for Style, for himself.
Kant ran his hand over the counter, desperately trying to remove the stain-some kind of deep, indelible mark.
"No No There can't be any stupid mark here", He said as he scrubbed harder, harder than he should have, his knuckles turning white from the pressure. He didn't even know what he was trying to scrub away anymore. The stain was there, refusing to leave, just like the scar he had left on everyone's life.
The scar that wouldn't fade.
Kant's breathing hitched as his mind spiraled. I could have done more...The words whispered through his thoughts, mocking him, like a constant reminder of his inadequacy. He could have tried harder to protect them. He could have fought against the captain's orders. But no, he had been too weak. He had been too afraid of the consequences, too afraid of losing everything.
And now, Bison and Fadel were paying for it. They were locked away, and it was all his fault.
I'm the reason they're in there. I'm the one who ruined everything.
His fingers were raw as he continued to scrub at the counter, the force of his actions growing more frantic. His vision was blurry now, not from the tears but from the overwhelming guilt clouding his mind. Each stroke of the mop, each movement felt like a futile attempt to erase the damage he had done.
Kant's chest tightened painfully, and the sobs became more desperate, louder, as if his very soul was crying out for forgiveness that would never come. But who was he kidding? There was no forgiveness. Not for what he had done.
Bison had trusted him. Fadel had trusted him. Style had trusted him. And he had betrayed them all.
I should never have gotten involved with the captain. I should never have let myself get caught in this mess.
But it was too late for regrets now. He had already done the damage, already made the choices that had led them all here. He had chosen the wrong path, and now they were all paying the price for his mistakes.
The image of Bison's face-the way he used to smile at him, teasing and charming, and always there for him-flashed in his mind. Bison would never have done what he did. He would never have turned his back on his friends. But Kant? Kant had done nothing but drag them all down with him.
He wasn't a good person. He wasn't someone who could be trusted. He wasn't someone who deserved to be forgiven.
Kant could still see them if he tried hard enough. If he closed his eyes, he could picture Bison leaning against the same counter he's cleaning, grinning as he made some flirty remark. He could hear Fadel scolding them for being lazy, pretending he didn't secretly enjoy their chaos. He could see the flicker of light in their eyes, the comfort of knowing they were together
They would be better off without me. If I wasn't here, they wouldn't have to suffer. They wouldn't have to deal with the mess I've made of everything.
Kant's hand stilled on the counter, and he looked down at it, bloodshot eyes staring at the red marks that had formed on his hands from his constant scrubbing. His breath came in short gasps, and the tears continued to fall, even though he no longer had the energy to wipe them away.
He could feel his mind slipping. He wasn't sure how much longer he could keep going, how much longer he could pretend to be strong for Style, for anyone. The more he tried to fix things, the more broken they became. The more he tried to erase the scar from his life, the deeper it embedded itself in his soul.
I'm the one who ruined everything.
The thought took root in his mind and refused to let go. He was a stain on the lives of those around him, a mark they would never be able to scrub away. No matter how hard they tried, no matter how much they forgave him, he would always be the reason they were in pain. He had no right to ask for anything more. He had no right to expect their forgiveness, because he hadn't earned it.
He had never earned it.
If only I hadn't gotten involved...
The thought kept repeating, louder now, until it drowned out everything else. It became his mantra, a chant that he couldn't escape. The guilt wrapped itself around him, choking him with its suffocating weight. It felt like a punishment he couldn't escape, a never-ending cycle of self-loathing that dragged him deeper with each passing second.
This is who I am. This is what I deserve.
He was broken.
He had broken everything.
And there was no way to fix it.
Kant let the mop fall from his hands.
He couldn't continue. He couldn't keep pretending. His body shook with silent sobs as he sank to his knees, hands gripping the edge of the counter for support. The weight of his guilt was unbearable, suffocating him with its intensity.
The memories flooded back-Bison's laughter, the way he would tease him, the way they would joke around while cleaning the shop. It was all gone now, lost. Bison would never be there again.
And it was all Kant's fault.
He wanted to scream, to shout at the world, to tear it all apart. But he didn't. Instead, he stayed there, kneeling on the floor, letting the weight of his mistakes crush him. He didn't deserve anything good. He didn't deserve to be loved or forgiven.
But He could still feel Bison's presence in the air, faint but undeniable, and it only made the guilt worse. He could still see Fadel's face, full of concern, even though he had no right to be concerned about him anymore.
His thoughts were spiraling, and there was no end in sight. The tears wouldn't stop. The guilt wouldn't stop. He could feel himself drowning in it, and he didn't know how to get out.
Because the truth was, Kant couldn't fix this. He couldn't go back. He couldn't undo the mistakes he had made.
And he didn't know how to live with the knowledge that he had ruined everything.
His gaze drifted again to the counter-the spot where Bison had always stood, grinning like an idiot as he took orders, making flirtatious comments that had made Kant roll his eyes every damn time.
He squeezed his eyes shut, but it was no use. The memories flooded in, unrelenting, drowning him.
Bison pretending to cook when it had always been Fadel actually running the kitchen. Fadel scolding them when they slacked off, his voice gruff but never truly angry. The way Style would whine about doing dishes, how Bison would always pretend to kick them out of shop just to mess with them. Kant could hear it all so clearly. He could see them, standing there, just within reach-
And then they faded.
The images again slipped through his fingers like smoke, disappearing as if they had never been there at all. The cruel trick of his own mind shattered something inside him, leaving only an unbearable void.
They were gone.
Bison and Fadel were gone.
Because of him.
A sharp breath tore through his throat, ragged and uneven. His chest felt too tight, constricted, like something was wrapped around his ribs and squeezing the air out of him.
It should have been me.
The thought hit him like a hammer, slamming into his skull with a force that left him dizzy.
It should have been me in that van. It should have been me behind bars.
Not them. Never them.
Kant clenched his jaw, his breath shuddering as his hands curled into fists.
This place didn't feel right without them.
It would never feel right without them.
And it was his fault.
The guilt, the anger, the unbearable agony of knowing he had ruined the lives of the only people who had ever mattered to him. It was too much.
Before he even realized what he was doing, he slammed his head against the counter. He felt like a sinner. So, He has to punish himself
The impact sent a sharp jolt of pain through his skull, but he barely felt it.
Again.
It wasn't enough. The ache inside him was deeper than this, heavier than this.
Again.
His vision blurred, his body trembling, but he didn't stop. He didn't deserve to stop.
He should be in that prison cell. He should be the one locked away, not Bison, not Fadel. They had trusted him. And he had betrayed them. He had ruined everything.
Again.
A broken sound left his lips, something between a sob and a gasp. His hands clutched at the edge of the counter as his knees threatened to give out. His chest was tight, burning, suffocating.
Again-
"WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?!"
A force yanked him back, arms gripping his shoulders, shaking him violently. He barely registered Style's voice, barely felt the desperate hands trying to pull him away.
"Kant, STOP!"
But he didn't. He struggled against the hold, trying to break free, trying to-
A sharp sting exploded across his face.
Kant froze.
The slap rang in the suffocating silence, the impact forcing his head to snap to the side. His breath hitched, his entire body going still. For a moment, he could hear nothing but the pounding in his skull, the rush of blood in his ears.
Style was panting, his hands shaking as they remained outstretched, as if even he was shocked by what he had just done. His eyes burned with frustration, with fear, with something else that Kant couldn't name.
"Kant," Style's voice cracked, raw and trembling. "Stop."
Kant stared at him, unblinking, his mind struggling to process what had just happened. His face stung, his head throbbed, but none of it compared to the storm raging inside him.
It wasn't enough.
Nothing would ever be enough.
His lips parted, but no words came out. What could he even say? That he was sorry? That he deserved worse? That if he could trade places with Bison and Fadel, he would do it without hesitation?
But none of it mattered. Because the damage was already done.
And he had no idea how to fix it.
Style was still looking at him, his hands now clenched at his sides, his breathing uneven. Kant could see the struggle in his eyes, the helplessness, the barely contained anger.
"Kant," Style whispered again, this time softer, as if he was afraid Kant would break apart completely.
"You think this is what they want? You think Bison wants to come back and see you like this? You think Fadel-" He stopped, his voice cracking. "You're not the only one hurting, you idiot."
Kant's lip trembled. His body felt like it was crumbling in on itself, but Style didn't let go.
Kant collapsed forward, his body trembling as deep, gut-wrenching sobs tore from his throat. His forehead pressed against Style's shoulder, hands gripping his arms so tightly his knuckles turned white. His breath came in broken, shallow gasps, as if he couldn't get enough air into his lungs.
"I'm sorry," Kant choked out, his voice hoarse and raw. His body was still shaking, his chest aching with an unbearable weight. "I-I ruined everything, Style. I ruined your life."
Style's arms hesitated for only a moment before wrapping around him, pulling him in.
"You didn't ruin my life, dumbass," Style muttered, his voice rough, his grip tight.
"You didn't ruin anything."
Kant shook his head violently against Style's shoulder, refusing to believe it.
"No-No, I did," he insisted, his voice cracking under the weight of his own emotions. "Bison-Fadel-they're in jail because of me. And you-you should've never been dragged into this. If I hadn't-" His breath hitched, his throat closing up.
"If I hadn't been such a coward, if I had fought harder-"
Style pulled back just enough to grip Kant's face between his hands, forcing him to look at him. His fingers were warm, steady, grounding.
"Listen to me," Style said, his voice firm but not unkind. "It's not your fault, Kant. You didn't put them in jail. They made their own choices."
Kant's lips trembled.
"But I-"
"No." Style's grip tightened just a little, his thumbs brushing against Kant's damp cheeks. "You think Bison would ever want you to blame yourself? You think Fadel would?"
Kant stared at him, his chest heaving, and for a moment, the only sound in the shop was the quiet hum of the lights above them. The silence was suffocating.
"I-" Kant opened his mouth, but no words came.
Style sighed and pressed their foreheads together, a silent reassurance, an unspoken promise.
"I know it hurts," he murmured, his voice quieter now. "I know it feels like you could've done something, anything, to change this. But you didn't put them behind bars, Kant. The world is just unfair."
Kant squeezed his eyes shut, his fingers gripping the fabric of Style's shirt as if it was the only thing keeping him from falling apart completely.
"They're gone," Kant whispered, barely audible.
Style swallowed.
"Not forever," he said. "Five years. We just have to hold on."
Kant let out a shaky breath.
Five years.
It felt like an eternity.
Slowly, his sobs quieted into soft sniffles, his body still trembling but no longer on the verge of collapse. Style kept holding onto him, rubbing slow, absent-minded circles against his back like Bison used to do when they were younger.
It was a long time before Kant finally pulled away, his gaze unfocused as he stared at the shop around them. The chairs, the counters, the kitchen door slightly ajar-it all felt like a ghost of what once was.
His eyes flickered toward the entrance.
The door.
Waiting for them to come in and remind him, that it's just a nightmare
His breath hitched.
But the door didn't move.
It stayed closed.
And reality hit him like a cold, merciless wave.
"They're not coming back," he whispered.
Style turned, following his gaze.
"No," he admitted. "Not right now."
Kant swallowed the lump in his throat.
"Then... what do we do?"
Style exhaled through his nose and pushed himself to his feet, dusting off his hands.
"We run this place," he said simply.
Kant blinked at him, unsure if he had heard correctly.
Style turned back to him, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, though it didn't quite reach his eyes.
"What?" he asked. "You thought we were just gonna let it rot? No way. This place is Bison and Fadel's happiness and freedom. And if they can't be here to keep it running..."
He held out a hand toward Kant.
"Then we will."
Kant stared at him, his heart hammering in his chest.
Could they really do that?
Could they really keep this place alive?
Slowly, hesitantly, Kant reached out and grasped Style's hand, letting him pull him to his feet.
Style grinned, but there was something sad in his eyes.
"No matter what happens," he said,
"we'll treasure it."
Kant exhaled shakily, glancing around the shop once more. The memories clung to the walls, to the chairs, to the counter where Bison used to stand. They would never go away.
Maybe that was okay.
"Every day," Kant said quietly. "We'll visit every day."
Style nodded.
"Every single day," he agreed.
And for the first time in what felt like forever, Kant allowed himself to believe-just a little-that maybe, just maybe, they could get through this.
Together.