3rd Person POV
The clubhouse kitchen was bright and cozy under the warm overhead lights. Pots and pans hung neatly on racks; the fridge hummed softly. Akeno had tied a cute apron around her waist—black with little violet lightning bolts embroidered on it—and was humming as she pulled out ingredients for a simple stir-fry: fresh vegetables, chicken, rice, soy sauce, garlic, ginger.
Arto stood beside her, sleeves rolled up, looking determined but slightly lost. "So," Akeno said cheerfully, handing him a knife and a cutting board with carrots. "You chop these while I marinate the chicken. Nice and even slices, okay?"
Arto nodded seriously, taking the knife like it was a sword. "Understood."
He began chopping. Akeno watched for about five seconds before her humming stopped.
The carrots were being… assaulted. Uneven chunks flew everywhere—some paper-thin, others the size of thumbs. The knife technique was efficient in a battlefield way (fast, forceful), but utterly wrong for vegetables. Bits of carrot pinged off the counter like shrapnel.
Akeno bit her lip. Next, she asked him to mince garlic. Arto crushed the cloves with the flat of the blade—military style—then hacked at them until they were more paste than mince, bits sticking to everything.
Akeno's shoulders began to shake.
When she handed him the wok and asked him to stir-fry the vegetables "until they're tender but still crisp," Arto nodded solemnly, turned the heat to maximum, dumped everything in at once (including uncooked rice by mistake), and began stirring with the same vigor he'd use to parry a sword blow.
Oil splattered. Vegetables charred instantly on one side while remaining raw on the other. The rice clumped into sad, burnt lumps. Akeno lasted another ten seconds before helpless laughter overtook her. She doubled over the counter, tears forming in her eyes, giggles turning into full, uncontrollable laughter.
Arto paused mid-stir, looking genuinely puzzled. "Did I… do it wrong?"
Akeno wiped her eyes, still laughing. "Arto—darling—oh my Satan, where do I even start?"
She took the spatula from him gently, turned the heat down, and rescued what she could of the ingredients. He watched her work, head tilted. "In the legion, we ate rations. Hard bread, dried meat, nutrient paste. When we hunted, we roasted it over open fire. Salt was rare. Herbs were… mythical." He rubbed the back of his neck. "I thought cooking was just applying heat until it stopped being raw."
Akeno's laughter softened into affectionate chuckles. She leaned over and kissed his cheek—quick, warm. "That explains so much. You poor thing. You've been surviving on campfire-roasted mystery meat for three thousand years?"
He gave a sheepish shrug. "It kept me alive."
Akeno turned the heat to medium, added fresh vegetables, and guided his hand to the spatula—standing behind him, arms around his waist, chin on his shoulder. "Here. Gentle circles. Let the heat kiss it, not slap it."
Arto followed her guidance, movements careful now. She tasted the sauce, added a dash of soy, a pinch of ginger. "Try this," she said, holding a spoonful to his lips. He tasted—eyes widening slightly. "…This is good."
Akeno beamed. "Of course it is. And from now on, you're learning properly. No more survival rations for my darling."
Arto glanced at the charred remains of his first attempt, then at her smiling face. "I'd like that." She squeezed him lightly. "Good. Because you're stuck with me in the kitchen now. And I'm a very hands-on teacher~"
The stir-fry sizzled gently. And in the warm light of the clubhouse kitchen, the ancient warrior took his first real lesson in something far more dangerous than war: Cooking.
Arto glanced at the open cookbook propped on the counter—the one Akeno kept referring to for measurements and timing.
He leaned closer, curious, and read the elegant gold-embossed title on the leather cover. Dishes for Your Loved Ones—Venelana Gremory
His brows rose "This was written by Rias's mother?"
Akeno smiled fondly, stirring the sauce with a wooden spoon. "Yes. Lady Venelana's personal recipe collection. It's… kind of an internal treasure of the Gremory household. Strictly no leaking allowed."
She tapped the page affectionately. "The main cooks in the estate use copies of this all the time. But the original—the root version—is always with Lady Venelana herself. Whenever she adds a new recipe or tweaks an old one, the change appears in every copy she's gifted. Like magic updates."
Arto turned a page carefully, eyes scanning the neat, flowing handwriting—notes in the margins, little hearts beside certain dishes, personal anecdotes about family meals. "It's more than recipes," he said quietly. "You can feel it."
Akeno nodded, resting her chin on his shoulder as she watched him read. "Exactly. Most cookbooks are just instructions. This one… it's full of love. Motherly love, especially. Every dish has a story—who liked it, who it was made for when they were sick or celebrating. Lady Venelana poured her heart into it."
She reached past him to flip to a page marked with a pressed flower. "This one—miso-glazed salmon—was Sirzechs-sama's favorite when he was little. She made it for Rias on her first day at human school. And this chicken stir-fry…" Akeno's voice softened. "She created it for Rias after a tough training day. Comfort food."
Arto read the margin note in Venelana's elegant script: For my little crimson princess—may it warm you when the world feels cold.
He was quiet for a long moment. Akeno glanced up at him, curious. "What is it?"
He closed the book gently, fingers lingering on the cover. "It's… good," he said at last. "To have something like this. A record of care. Of being loved through food."
His voice was soft, almost wistful. "I never had that. Meals were fuel. Survival. No one wrote down recipes for me. No one cooked to make me feel… safe. And it seems nice to have a mother…"
The last word hung in the air, fragile and unguarded. Akeno's teasing smile vanished in an instant. She turned off the stove with a quiet click, then stepped behind him—arms sliding around his waist, pressing her cheek between his shoulder blades. For a long moment she simply held him, face buried against his back, eyes closed. "Yes…" she whispered, voice barely audible. "It's nice to have one…"
A single, almost imperceptible sniff escaped her before she could stop it. Arto felt it—the slight tremor in her embrace, the way her fingers tightened against his shirt. He didn't move, didn't speak. He just let her hold on.
After a breath, Akeno lifted her face, forcing the brightness back into her tone as if flipping a switch. "But lucky for you," she said, voice light again though softer than usual, "you've got me now. And I'm an excellent cook~"
She released him gently, stepping around to face him with her usual playful smile—though her eyes were a touch brighter, a touch more tender. Arto looked at her for a long moment, reading everything she wasn't saying. He reached out, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "Thank you, Akeno."
The words were simple, but carried weight. She leaned into his touch, smile turning genuine. "Anytime, darling. Now—let's finish this stir-fry before it gets cold. You still need feeding."
[Timeskip: Brought to you by chibi Arto analyzing the distribution system of Venelana's cookbook]
The stir-fry had turned out surprisingly well—thanks almost entirely to Akeno's quick rescues and patient guidance. The two of them now sat at the low dining table, bowls of steaming rice and fragrant chicken-vegetable stir-fry in front of them. The clubhouse was quiet; only the soft clink of chopsticks and the occasional hum of contentment from Akeno broke the silence.
Akeno twirled a piece of chicken between her chopsticks, violet eyes fixed on Arto with gentle curiosity. "Arto," she said softly, "you mentioned the Abyssgard Legion before… What was it really like? Being a soldier there?"
Arto paused mid-bite, setting his chopsticks down. For a moment he stared at his bowl, expression distant. "I never had time as a standard soldier of the Abyssgard Legion," he said quietly. "I was never one."
Akeno tilted her head, waiting. He exhaled slowly, as though the words were heavy stones he'd carried for centuries. "From the beginning, I wasn't raised to be a soldier. I was made to be a weapon. Designed to serve the ambition of the Legion's leader."
He didn't say father. The word never came. "I called him Creator," Arto continued, voice flat. "Out of hatred. Nothing more."
Akeno's eyes softened, but she stayed silent, letting him speak."Before I understood anything, I was already the strongest thing in the Legion.
When the Creator died—by my hand, along with his elite guards—I was placed at the highest position. Not because I earned it. Because they thought I could be controlled. A clueless puppet on the throne."
He picked up a piece of carrot, turning it over in his fingers. "For two-thirds of my life, I had no friends. Raised in complete isolation—trained, broken, rebuilt. Then seated at the top, surrounded by schemes.
The common soldiers heard what I'd done to the Creator and his guards. They saw me as a monster—too powerful to approach. The leaders saw a pawn to manipulate for their own gain… but they feared me too. Always watching. Always afraid I'd turn on them next."
He set the carrot down untouched. "Most of my life was never my own. I existed to serve others' goals. Survival. Victory. Power. Never for me."
The kitchen felt heavier. Akeno set her chopsticks down entirely. She reached across the table, covering his hand with hers—warm, steady, grounding. "How about here, now, with me, with us? Are you living your own life freely, Arto?"
The question hung between them, simple yet immense.
Arto looked down at their joined hands—her delicate fingers over his scarred ones. Then he lifted his gaze to meet hers. For a long moment he didn't speak, as though weighing every word against three thousand years of habit. "I…" He exhaled slowly. "I think I am. For the first time."
Akeno's expression softened further, but she waited—patient, giving him space. "I spent so long reacting," he continued, voice low. "Surviving the next fight, the next scheme, the next night in the Arena. My choices were always… shaped by what would keep me alive. Or keep others alive. Never just… mine."
He turned his hand palm-up beneath hers, fingers curling lightly to hold hers back. "But here—waking up to sunlight instead of monsters. Eating food made with care instead of rations. Learning because I want to, not because I have to. Having people who ask how I'm feeling instead of how many enemies I killed…"
His thumb brushed over her knuckles, almost unconsciously. "Having someone hold my hand and ask if I'm free…"
A small, genuine smile touched his lips—quiet, but brighter than any Akeno had seen from him yet. "I'm starting to feel like the answer is yes."
Akeno's heart gave a quiet, fierce thump. She squeezed his hand. "Then keep feeling it," she whispered. "Because you are free here. With us. With me."
The kitchen light caught in her eyes—warm, steady, full of promise. Arto's smile lingered. "I will," he said simply. "Now, what are we doing tonight? I don't know much about entertainment, so what is your recommendations, Akeno?"
Akeno's smile turned slow and delighted, like a cat who'd just been handed a new toy.
She leaned forward, elbows on the table, chin resting in her hands. "Well, darling," she purred, "we have the whole clubhouse to ourselves. The night is young, and I have many ideas."
Arto raised a brow, waiting. "First option," she continued, counting on her fingers, "we could watch a movie. I'll pick something romantic—maybe with a little action, since you like that. Lots of cuddling on the couch guaranteed."
She winked. "Second, we could play games. Board games, video games—Kiba has a console. I'm very competitive, fair warning."
Her grin sharpened. "Third… I could give you that shoulder and back massage I mentioned earlier. You're carrying centuries of tension. I have excellent hands~"
Arto's ears perk up, but he didn't look away. "Or," Akeno said, voice softening, "we could just talk. Sit on the rooftop, look at the stars, drink tea. You tell me stories from your world—ones that don't hurt too much. I'll tell you some of mine."
She reached across the table, brushing her fingers over his. "Or we can mix them all. The night is ours." Arto considered each option carefully—eyes flicking to her face, reading the sincerity behind the teasing.
Finally, he smiled—small, but warm. "All of them sound good," he admitted. "But… let's start simple. Movie on the couch. With tea. And talking."
Akeno's expression melted into something softer, genuinely pleased. "Perfect choice, darling."
She stood, taking his hand and tugging him gently toward the living room. "Prepare yourself for the best romantic-action movie in my collection. And don't worry—I'll pause whenever you have questions about modern life. Or if you just want to cuddle more."
[TImeskip: Brought to you by Akeno choosing movies to watch with Arto]
Arto wandered into the living room while Akeno was still upstairs, rummaging through her impressive collection of DVDs and humming happily. The old CRT television sat on a low wooden stand, its bulky gray casing and thick glass screen giving it that unmistakable early-2000s look. Next to it stood the DVD player—silver, scratched, with a small digital display that flickered faintly when he pressed the power button.
He clicked his tongue, crouching down to peer at the back panels. "Primitive," he muttered under his breath, more to himself than anything. "Functional… but so much wasted potential."
The technology was quaint compared to the half-remembered fragments of his old world's machinery—devices that could project images directly into the mind or pull visuals from thin air. Here everything still relied on spinning discs, electron beams, and clunky wiring.
But that only made it more interesting. He had no physical tools. No screwdriver, no soldering iron. He didn't need them. Arto raised his right hand. A faint silver-blue glow gathered in his palm—subtle, controlled, almost invisible unless you knew what to look for. He placed the hand flat against the top of the DVD player first.
His eyes closed. Inside the machine, mana threads—thin as spider silk—slipped through the casing, following the circuits like water finding cracks. He felt the layout instantly: the laser assembly, the motor spindle, the decoding chipset, the analog output stage. Everything was analog-heavy, bandwidth-limited, mechanically fragile.
He began to rewrite.
Not with brute force, but with surgical precision. Mana flowed into the laser diode, recalibrating its wavelength and power output to read data with near-perfect accuracy and zero jitter. The spindle motor received a tiny stabilization field—frictionless rotation, silent, capable of handling double-layer discs without strain. The decoder chip got a gentle mana overlay that boosted signal processing speed by an order of magnitude.
He moved to the television next.
The CRT tube hummed under his palm. He traced the electron gun, the deflection coils, the phosphor screen. The glow in his hand brightened slightly. The deflection yoke received a micro-enchantment that sharpened beam focus tenfold. The phosphor layer was coaxed into responding faster—higher refresh rate, crisper colors, deeper blacks. The analog tuner was bypassed entirely; a new mana bridge turned the entire set into a hybrid digital/analog display capable of handling progressive scan, higher resolutions, even early HD signals if a disc ever supported them.
When he pulled his hand away, the devices looked exactly the same on the outside.
Inside, they had jumped forward a decade or two. The DVD player could now read discs flawlessly at double speed, with buttery-smooth frame rates and zero read errors. The television could display images so sharp and vibrant it almost looked like a modern flat-panel—without losing the nostalgic warmth of CRT black levels.
Arto sat back on his heels, satisfied. "Better," he murmured.
Upstairs, Akeno's footsteps approached the stairs. He quickly stood, brushing his hands together as though dusting off invisible work, and turned toward the doorway just as she appeared at the top of the stairs—holding three DVDs triumphantly.
"Found them!" she called, descending with a bounce in her step. "I went with a classic mix: one romance, one action, and one romantic-action just in case you get bored."
She stopped short when she saw him standing beside the television, looking far too innocent. "…What were you doing?"
Arto shrugged, small smile tugging at his lips. "Just… making sure everything works properly." Akeno narrowed her eyes playfully, then glanced at the player and TV.
They looked the same. And yet… something felt different. Cleaner. Sharper. She decided not to question it too hard. Instead she sauntered over, slid the first disc into the player, and patted the couch cushion beside her. "Come here, darling. Your first real movie night starts now."
Akeno slipped the first DVD into the player with a satisfied little hum—some romantic action-comedy from the mid-2000s she'd chosen specifically because it had explosions and kissing scenes. The familiar whirr of the disc spinning up filled the room, followed by the soft blue glow of the DVD menu.
Arto sat down beside her—close enough that their thighs pressed together, the warmth of him seeping through the thin fabric of her lounge pants. She leaned into his side immediately, head resting on his shoulder, already claiming her territory for the night.
The screen flickered to life. The menu appeared—slightly grainy, colors a little muted, the way old CRTs always looked under low light. Arto studied it for a few seconds, then nodded once. "Good. It's working." A small, private smile tugged at his lips. "Let's see if things can get… more clearly."
He lifted his right hand and snapped his fingers. A faint silver-blue shimmer rippled outward from his palm—like heat haze made of light. It washed over the television in a slow wave. The bulky CRT casing seemed to breathe for a moment.
Edges softened, then sharpened. The glass screen stretched—physically stretched—growing wider and taller while the frame slimmed down to near-nothingness. The once-thick bezel vanished entirely. The image quality sharpened dramatically: colors popped, blacks deepened, motion became buttery smooth without the old CRT flicker.
In seconds, the old tube television had transformed into something that looked suspiciously like a prototype flat-panel display from a decade in the future—sleek, large, high-definition, and impossibly thin. Akeno's mouth fell open. She stared at the now-massive screen, then at Arto, then back at the screen. "…Darling," she said slowly, "did you just… upgrade the television? With a finger snap?"
Arto shrugged, looking faintly pleased with himself. "It was already halfway there. I just… encouraged it to catch up a little."
Akeno's laughter bubbled up—delighted, disbelieving, and more than a little fond. "You turned a 2005 CRT into what looks like a 2020s smart TV… in ten seconds… because you wanted movie night to look nicer?"
He glanced at her, one brow raised. "Was that wrong?" She threw her arms around his neck, pulling him into a fierce hug. "You ridiculous, wonderful man. No. That was perfect."
She kissed his cheek—quick, enthusiastic—then settled back, tugging him down with her until they were properly cuddled on the couch, her head on his chest, his arm around her shoulders. The movie menu now looked stunning: crisp text, vibrant colors, smooth animations.
Akeno grabbed the remote, pressed play, then nestled even closer. "Best date ever," she declared happily. "And it's only just starting."
The lights in the living room had been dimmed to a soft glow. The upgraded television—now a sleek, impossibly sharp flat-panel that had no business existing in 2005—filled the wall with rich colors and deep blacks. Akeno had chosen the first disc carefully: Before Sunrise (1995), the quiet, talky romance that unfolds over one night in Vienna between two strangers who meet on a train.
She nestled against Arto's side on the couch, legs tucked under a shared blanket, head resting comfortably on his shoulder. Her hand found his almost immediately, fingers lacing together as the opening credits rolled.
Arto sat very still at first—posture straight, eyes fixed on the screen like a man studying a tactical map. The film began: the train, the argument between the German couple, Jesse (Ethan Hawke) and Céline (Julie Delpy) striking up a conversation…
He didn't speak for the first ten minutes. Just watched. Absorbed. Every frame seemed new to him.
Akeno glanced up after a while, noticing his intensity. "First movie ever?" she asked softly. Arto exhaled slowly, gaze never leaving the screen. "Not… exactly. I think I might have seen some, once. Long ago. Before the Void."
His voice was quiet, almost distant. "But everything from that time… it's gone. The Void ate the memories. Faces, sounds, stories. All of it. So as far as I'm concerned… yes. This is my first."
Akeno's thumb brushed gently over his knuckles. "Then I'm honored to be here for it."
On screen, Jesse and Céline wandered the streets of Vienna—talking, laughing, stealing moments. The camera lingered on ordinary things: a street musician, a ferris wheel at sunset, two people simply being together.
Arto's breathing changed—subtle, but there. His free hand slowly rose to rest over his heart, as though checking it was still beating.
When Jesse and Céline sat in the park at night, talking about dreams and death and what it means to really connect with someone, Arto's grip on Akeno's hand tightened.
He didn't cry. He didn't speak. But his eyes—those ancient, storm-gray eyes—shone wet in the television's glow. Akeno noticed. She didn't comment. She just squeezed his hand back and pressed closer.
The film ended on that heartbreaking train-station goodbye—promises made, no names exchanged, just the hope of meeting again in six months.
The credits rolled...Silence...Then Arto spoke, voice rough. "…They didn't even know each other's last names. One night. And it was enough."
Akeno lifted her head, looking up at him. "Sometimes one night is all you need," she whispered. "To know."
He turned to her then—really looked. The movie had done something to him. Softened the edges of centuries. Made him feel… small. Human. Alive in a way he hadn't since before the Void. "Thank you," he said quietly. "For sharing this with me."
Akeno smiled—soft, genuine, no teasing. "There's more," she said. "The sequel. Before Sunset. They meet again… years later." Arto's brows lifted slightly. "Really?"
"Really." She reached for the remote, then paused. "But only if you want."
He looked back at the now-black screen, then at her. "I want." Akeno's smile widened. "Then press play, darling. We've got all night." She hit the button. The second film began.
[Timeskip: Brought to you by chibi Arto and chibi Akeno enjoying the movie together]
The credits of Before Sunset rolled slowly across the now-crystal-clear screen, the soft piano melody fading into silence.
The living room was dim, lit only by the blue glow of the television and the faint warm light from a single lamp in the corner. The blanket had slipped down to their laps sometime during the film; Akeno's head still rested comfortably on Arto's shoulder, their fingers loosely intertwined.
Arto stretched his arms upward with a low, contented hum, joints popping softly after hours of stillness.
"Hmmmm~ That one was good," he said, voice rough from disuse. He let his arms drop back down, one settling naturally around Akeno's shoulders again. "I wonder how they would do over the years… I hope there would be a sequel for that."
Akeno lifted her head, blinking up at him with a slow, knowing smile. "Oh, darling…" She reached for the remote and paused the DVD menu, turning slightly so she could see his face properly. "You're in luck. There is a sequel."
Arto's brows lifted in quiet surprise. "Really?"
"Mhm." Akeno's smile grew, soft and a little mischievous. "But… not yet."
She glanced at the calendar on the wall—January 2007, the current date. "The third one hasn't come out. The director—Richard Linklater—said he wants to wait another nine years. Let the actors age naturally. Let the characters actually live those years apart."
Arto tilted his head, processing. "Nine years…" he murmured. "So Jesse and Céline will be… what, in their forties by then?"
"Exactly." Akeno nestled back against him, fingers playing idly with the sleeve of his shirt. "They're planning to call it Before Midnight. It'll be about marriage, family, the real mess of long-term love. Not just the spark anymore—the work."
Arto was quiet for a long moment, staring at the paused screen where Jesse and Céline stood frozen in a Parisian street, mid-conversation, still carrying all the hope and uncertainty of their youth. "Nine years," he repeated softly. "That's… a long time to wait for an ending."
Akeno hummed in agreement, then added gently: "But think about it. They waited nine years in real life too. The actors, the director… they let time happen. Let the characters grow up off-screen. That's what makes it special. It's not just a story. It's… life."
Arto's gaze drifted back to her. "I've waited longer than nine years for things," he said quietly. "For peace. For answers. For someone who'd stay."
Akeno's hand slid up to cup his cheek. "And now you've got all three," she whispered. "No more waiting."
He turned his head just enough to press a light kiss against her palm—simple, grateful. "I hope the third one is worth the wait," he said.
Akeno's smile turned tender. "I have a feeling it will be. And when it comes out… we'll watch it together. Front row. No interruptions."
Arto chuckled—low, warm. "I'll hold you to that." She snuggled closer, pulling the blanket up around them both. "For now, though… we've got the first two. And the whole night."