Might I humbly request KantStyle/StyleKant and 40?
It got long...... Post Ep 11
40 KANTSTYLE because the world is ending
Kant reaches out to wrap an arm around Style's waist because it's what Style would do for him. At his lowest Style always been there, a big warm hand on his hip or shoulder, his upbeat voice reminding Kant that it's not over yet.
Style shakes. His body collapses from its rigidly held posture, and Kant finds himself supporting all of Style's weight. He takes his eyes off the love of his life being driven off in cuffs so that he can make sure that his closest friend is alright.
He's not.
Kant isn't the best judge of people, but it's not difficult to read Style's face. His eyes are red, his lips pulled into the parody of a smile. He makes almost the same expression when he laughs, but Kant could never mistake this for a happy face. He looks like his entire world has crumbled down in front of him.
—
Kant takes him home. To his house, with its green plants and no memories of Fadel hidden in the sheets. There's Bison here, but Kant has known from the start how this would end in a way that Style has not.
He puts Style in his bed, and when he gets up to go and fetch a drink for Style, Style clings on, pulling Kant down into the bed with him.
"You don't want anything from the kitchen?" he asks quietly, and Style shakes his head, burrowing his face into Kant's shoulder.
Kant puts his arms around him and holds him as he shakes, finding it easy now to drift into the space where all he cares about is making sure his loved ones are okay. It's a numb place, and cold, but Kant has lived with one foot there for most of his life.
Style pulls back, and he's not pretty when he cries like Bison is, but afterwards there's a delicate colour to his face that makes him look like a girl from an old Hollywood film. Kant looks at him and feels like a failure. He promised Fadel that he'd look after Style what seems like mere minutes ago, and he's already fucked it up.
Style goes to turn over but Kant keeps him on place with a hand on his shoulder. They spend a second like that, lying face to face in Kant's bed
"They'll be alright. They have each other in there. And I'll look after you until they get out," Kant says. The words feel trite, awkward.
Style lifts a hand and rests it on Kant's cheek, and Kant closes exhausted eyes at the comforting, familiar weight of it. When he opens them, Style has moved closer.
"We'll look after each other," he says. He makes that face again, and it has Kant's heart lurching into his throat.
He doesn't know what to do, so he puts his hand in Style's hair, tilts his head forward and rests his forehead against Style's.
"Yeah," Kant says, and then he's being kissed.
Style's lips are soft and salty from tears, gentle on Kant's own. They've never kissed before, but this feels right. Comforting and warm.
He pulls back and looks Kant in the eye, thumb running over his cheekbone. Kant runs his hand down the back of his head and cradles the nape of his neck.
"It's only five years," Style says, the bravado beginning to return to his voice.
It's only five years. And they'll get through it together.
