Dabis Kid (Edits Complete)

(10) The Bar, the Stage, the Noise That Saved Us -Edited

The moment we reached the bar, something in my chest loosened.

I didn’t even slow down—I grabbed Zuzu’s wrist and dragged him inside like the place might disappear if I hesitated.

“Uncle,” I called, voice echoing off the walls, “I brought Zu with me this time.”

He looked up from behind the counter, took us in, and smirked.

“Yeah,” he said. “You really did.

Then he turned to the crowd, clapped his hands once, sharp and practiced.

“Alright, listen up,” he shouted. “Tonight we’ve got Lady Flame—and Zu—performing.”

The bar erupted in mixed cheers and exaggerated groans.

“In twenty minutes,” I added, holding up a finger.

That earned a chorus of dramatic suffering.
I leaned against the bar. “My usual scotch. Wine for my dad. Beer for my girlfriend.”

Uncle didn’t comment—just set the drinks down neatly on the feathers I’d let drift free like trays. They held steady, obedient.

When I turned back, Hitoshi, Shoto, Zuzu, and Katsuki were all staring at me.

“What?” I asked. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

Shoto blinked. “You’re… drinking?”

“Yeah,” I said easily. “Have been for a while.”

His mouth fell open.

“What do you want?” I asked. “I grabbed our regulars.”

“Vodka,” Katsuki said immediately.

“Beer,” Hitoshi said, then winced. “But my dads would kill me.”

“White wine,” Zuzu said, polite as ever.

“Scotch,” Shoto added. “Mama didn’t raise a coward.”

Dad laughed so hard he nearly spilled his glass.

I relayed the orders and came back to find the table relaxed now—voices overlapping, tension easing the way it only ever did here.

Before Zuzu could even take a sip, I tugged him toward the stage.

He didn’t resist.

I took the mic, heart steady, shoulders loose.
“Hey,” I said. “I’m here tonight with my best friend. Some of you know him as Zu Bunny. Tonight, he’s performing with me. One song each—then one together.”

The crowd responded immediately, energy lifting.

The lights dimmed.

The music started.

When I sang, the room quieted—not silent, but attentive. My voice filled the space the way fire fills oxygen, controlled but alive. When I finished, there was a beat—just one—before the cheering started.

Himi’s voice cut through it all. “LET’S GO, BABE.”

That broke the dam.

Then it was Zuzu’s turn.

And gods—he didn’t just sing. He bled into the mic. Every note landed heavy, honest, sharp with feeling. I watched the crowd lean in, watched something shift in them the way it always does when someone tells the truth too loudly to ignore.

When he finished, the applause came fast and hard.

I stepped back up beside him.

“One more,” I said. “Together."

The last song felt less like performing and more like letting go. Two voices weaving, trading lines, catching each other when one faltered. By the time it ended, we were both laughing, breathless.

Someone yelled something stupid and celebratory.

We shouted back.

Then we stumbled offstage and collapsed into seats, drinks finally in hand.

Later—much later—Dad called Grandpa.
“I’m dropping off six very drunk kids,” he said calmly.

There was no time for arguing.

A portal opened.

The six of us tumbled out onto Grandpa’s floor in a heap of limbs and laughter.

He sighed, covered us with a blanket like this was just another Tuesday, and went to bed.

And for the first time in days, I slept without dreaming.