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It . . . it was finished.
The rocket before Senku gleamed silver and white where the light of the moon hit its smooth surface. Looking up at the massive structure put a crick in his neck, and yet the sight of what was the fruit of years and years of human intellect and ingenuity coming together did everything to make the negligible ache of looking up nothing more than a joke. It took only seconds for the medusa to undo millions of years worth of evolution and innovation, 3,700 years to bring the entire world back to square one, and yet it had only taken Senku and all of the revived less than a thousandth of those wasted millions to get back to the pinnacle they lost.
The moment felt almost sacred to Senku. Stood there with nothing but the whispers of the sparse but chilling night winds and the silence of an entire kingdom, or a civilization , rather, resting in cabins and quarters that more resembled the modern world than the stone world. Then again, there could not ever be total silence anymore. Not now. Not when the new world slowly resaturated itself with the buzzing of technology and vibrated with the new found inventions of nostalgia.
They filled the airwaves with radio music and reclaimed the internet. They took earth’s abundant gifts and churned them into pliable vinyl, video film, and domestic washing machines. They once again brought light into a world of darkness and brought back noise into a world so devoid of it. They had asked for protein powders, mechanical maids, slot machines, cereal, and impossible PS5’s — and every craft Senku accomplished felt one more step closer to home. Back to the world he knew. The world he lived in.
Humanity built itself right back up. Because it always will.
Despite the deep-seethed fatigue that seeped into his bones and his circadian rhythm that knocked under his eyelids almost every hour of the day, Senku let them ask. Senku took every request and spent nearly all of his energy into every one of them, not for the sake of being a good “chief” or for the happiness and compliance of every citizen around him. For the mission, yes. Partly. But mostly . . .
Mostly for himself.
Fun. Exhilaration. That was all what this was supposed to be about. Staring death in the face multiple times in between the crafting was never a part of any plan.
He had finished the final request hours ago. Rollerblades. Something so unbelievably simple that they could have enjoyed those even before they thought to create a tank to conquer a cave that dripped nitric acid. But Senku knew that could not have been the final one. Relief washed over him as soon as the final wheel found its place on the crafted leather boots, and yet, Senku felt unsatisfied. He had waited. In the days filled with nothing but a fevered desire to create, Senku had waited to hear one particular request. Every member of the Kingdom of Science had voiced out what they’ve truly missed from their world, and they worked together to make those memories of modernity become reality once again.
But not everyone.
When Senku heard the light footsteps trudging the soft earth nearing him, he needed not look up to know whose company he’d find himself with that night.
“You know, Senku-chan. You’d be terrible at hide and seek.” Gen finally stopped to stand just beside him, mirroring his actions from earlier by dragging his gaze along the length of their gigantic, piece-meal rocket.
“Aren’t you gonna ask why I’m still awake?” Senku rubbed his eye. “It’s what you do every night, isn’t it?”
Gen scoffed as he kept his face tilted towards the dark sky. “I’ll ask it after you ask me why I think you’d be terrible at hide and seek.”
Senku sighed before turning to face Gen, whose upturned features still remained illuminated and shadowed by the shine of metal and the moon. “Why?”
“Ah, you’re too predictable, Senku-chan.” The casting of light upon Gen’s face shrunk to half a shadow once he turned back down to face Senku with a subtle smile. “I knew you wouldn’t be in your cabin, and I was right. And here you are in the first place I thought you’d be in. You make it too easy.” He let the small smile morph into a faint smirk. “Almost like you want to be found.”
Senku shot Gen a half-glare. “Except I didn’t want to be found, because I expected everyone to be asleep at this hour. ‘Everyone’ includes you, mentalist.”
“It includes you too, Senku-chan,” he accused, leaning his forearms against the railing that separated the dirt of the wide-field launching site from the rocket in its center. “So why are you still awake?”
Senku could have given plenty of answers to that. It tempted him to blame it on caffeine or on last-second fears about their moon mission. It would have been too easy to tell Gen that Byakuya simply plagued his waking thoughts again; but too difficult to tell him how much uncertainty he harbored regarding their departure and return — if they do at all. So he answered Gen with the thought that had been occupying his mind since the last of his days on earth began: “You haven’t told me what you wanted yet.”
Gen raised a brow as more of his weight bore down onto the railing. “You can’t sleep because I gave you more time to rest than craft a silly little trinket for me? Sounds counterintuitive, don’t you think?”
Senku had never been accustomed to the standard definition of ‘rest’, anyway. “You know better than anyone that crafting and inventing counts as ‘rest’ for me. Everyone asked for something, Gen. I’ve been waiting for the ‘most superficial man on earth’ to jump on the opportunity to take advantage of it.”
“Hmm,” Gen hummed as he propped his chin up on his elbow. “I can ask for anything without letting go of a single drago? That does sound like an irresistible deal. But, hah, I think Ryusui-chan covered ten people’s worth of requests with how much he desired.”
Senku snickered at the prospect of having built a slot machine and a microwave, all at the wish of one person. “I didn’t let him have everything, don’t worry. We can’t all have good things. Plus, the microwave turned out to be one of the most useful innovations we’ve brought back in the long run. Not nearly as hard as that doctor who requested to bring X-rays back but they both dealt with electromagnetic waves, anyway. Similar principles but still ten billion percent different.”
Gen shifted where he was, turning around to lean back onto the railing instead of forward. Even with his hands hidden within his sleeves, Senku could not help but notice the subtle restlessness taking over him. “Eh, I can’t really think of anything more I’d want right now.” He smiled as his hand flew out. “And I still have a lifetime supply of Senku cola! Not as elicious-day as Coca-cola but much, much cheaper. What more could I ask for?”
“Your cola addiction’s gonna kill you one day,” Senku lightheartedly warned, to which Gen merely shrugged at.
Gen dropped to a whisper and leant in closer. “If I do, you’d revive me with the medusa, right?”
Senku groaned as he lightly shoved Gen away. “I’m starting to think I shouldn’t.”
“Eh, I think you still would.” A beat. “You can’t afford to lose me, Senku-chan,” Gen claimed.
Senku paused, letting the slight weight of the statement fill the minute space between them. “Lots of other mentalists out there, I’m sure,” he started, looking to his side to find Gen staring right back. He could have left the sentence at that, and he would not have technically lied. Yet he could not help but feel as though the truth were incomplete. He sighed. “But . . . none of them would be you.”
A strand of white hair fell in front of Gen’s face when he averted his gaze, keeping his voice just as silent as the rapidly stilling night. Senku wanted to reach out and tuck the stubborn strands out of the way, just to keep the shadows from clouding the already scarce light illuminating his features. A small part of him tempted him to admit that maybe a subconscious need to commit Gen’s face to memory bore more weight than the geometry of shadow and light on skin.
Senku took it upon himself to reclaim the conversation before any acknowledgement at all from Gen could reclaim it first. “So. Still nothing? Could be your chance at payback for all the hard manual labor you always hated.”
The heavy air that clouded Gen dissipated like transpirating vapor when he let out a single laugh. “Honestly, Senku-chan. Do you even have time for one more craft?”
“I can make time,” Senku bravely pledged, despite knowing that everything was ready for their departure. The only thing left to wait for were the passengers themselves. And Senku used to be so certain that he was ready to (temporarily) leave earth and fulfill their mission on the moon. “Just seems unfair that I got to give everyone a . . . ‘gift’, I guess; but not you.” Gen visibly dragged a breath, and somehow even Senku felt how lacking ‘you’ seemed to encapsulate Gen. “Tell me, mentalist.”
Gen’s once downcast eyes landed on Senku again, giving off a mischievous glint that grew in union with a slightly impish grin. “Well, if you’re sure that you can make time—”
“This was a mistake—”
“Hmm.” Gen paced slowly near Senku, passing through beams of artificial light posts that now decorated the land generously. “I could ask you for a new deck of cards ‘cause that first one you gave me’s all worn down, but that would be too easy for you, Mr. ‘I made a drone out of scratch in less than a day’.” Senku rolled his eyes while Gen’s snickering filled the air. “Or maybe I should ask for gold jewelry.”
“Gold jewelry.”
“Yes!” He beamed. “Too many revived people are starting to recognize me, Senku-chan. I should be working on my image again if I wanna make it big in the modern stone world. Or, or, I could challenge you and make you bring back hoverboards or those creepy A.I. robots that always sound like they’re scheming to take over the world—”
“Don’t push it, mentalist,” threatened Senku with a deadpan expression.
“Ha-ha. Kidding, kidding, Senku-chan.” Gen only kept his smile as his pacing once again landed him in the same spot next to Senku. As Gen’s breathy laughter simmered down, Senku watched with familiar curiosity as those eyes turned to the rocket once again. As if they were drinking in every fine detail and smooth curve of the structure. A final study before it someday breaches the earth’s atmosphere in pieces, gone from sight of everyone who would remain. The smile thinned. “Well. There’s. . . maybe there is one thing.”
Senku raised a brow in interest. “Yeah?”
He waited for Gen to turn his head towards him and tell him something so unexplainably Gen. Senku expected Gen to laugh and beg Senku for less work instead of a gifted craft. He anticipated Gen complaining about the current textiles of their clothing and asking for much more refined satin or a more comfortable cotton; to be softer on his pale skin and easier on the audience’s eyes. In Senku’s mind, he could even see Gen twisting his own words and taking advantage of Senku’s adamance to fulfill Gen’s any wish; suddenly showing a hidden hand and revealing whose side he’d been on all this time.
Although, Senku had too long ago put all of his trust into Gen to even consider that a possibility.
Senku waited for so many things to slip out of Gen’s mouth to remind him that this was Asagiri Gen he was spending this time with. To remind him that the most recent events never changed the fact that Gen was still a mentalist, his right hand, his friend , his —
“Come back, Senku.” Gen suddenly whispered; letting the words resound faintly yet clearly through the undisturbed air. Senku snapped his head towards the other, processing sentences and pondering how three words could have sounded too soft, too raw, too emotional, transparent, heavy, and. . . too unlike Gen.
“What?” Senku blinked and stared at Gen’s form, head bolted straight and eyes glued on an unmoving rocket that would soon become a vessel to regain everything that’s been taken from humanity.
Gen’s eyes remained trained on the now-offending rocket, whose luster seemed much more daunting as its too-bright sheen intimidated the pair. Fingers too-tightly clenched around a constricting railing shifted and flexed. Without ever sparing Senku a glance, Gen reiterated his request with an expression hidden by the rocket’s shadow and strands of hair, as if it could ever change how clearly Senku heard it the first time around. “Just. . . come back. That’s all.”
Theoretically, it had been Gen’s mind that thought of the words to say. His vocal cords which produced the sound. His tongue that articulated his words. His lips that released the unique sound waves to be characterized as his voice. Gen had asked him to come back, but Senku could not shake off the refusal to believe that the same person who had asked for cola in exchange for an alliance was then asking for something so simple as physically returning.
Senku refused to believe that that person who set off ten billion conflicting thoughts and emotions in Senku’s mind just by asking him to come back was the real Asagiri Gen, if a “real” even existed.
When Gen finally looked at him once more, Senku felt like Gen, or whatever image of Asagiri Gen he dared to even keep in his mind, had returned. Light reilluminated his features and his hands found shelter once more within his sleeves. The grin came back along with narrowing, crinkling eyes and a tilt of the head that should have felt familiar, but now only felt foreign to Senku. “The new world would be lost without its chief, Senku-chan! You’re not honestly leaving all of this to Xeno-chan, are you?”
It made sense. Whether Senku admitted it or not, the new world largely depended on the guidance of those who built its very foundations. Senku found solace in how Gen put more faith in he and Xeno together than just one of them when pitted against or for the world. “Come back. Is that it, mentalist? Something as boring as coming back?”
Gen shrugged but kept his lips thinned and his sleeves together. “Heh, then you can make me what I actually want when you come back. Right, Senku-chan?”
Something was missing there, Senku felt. A disconnect. A painting hidden behind a white sheet or chemical samples kept secret underneath foil. He told himself that Gen had come back; that this Gen who sounded coy and sly with unending ulterior motives was the Gen Senku had known all this time. Yet a large part of him screamed how seeing a familiar side of the mentalist felt like losing much more of Gen than getting more of him back. “I would, if you’d just tell me what it was.”
In how Gen had moved a few centimeters even closer to Senku, how he looked at the rocket with more trepidation than awe, and how those overlapping sleeves trembled by just a millimeter — so faint it could have been blamed to the almost absent wind — Senku had an inkling of what Gen wanted. A wish that went beyond coming back from a mission tainted by death and went further back than promising hell together.
A wish that maybe . . . maybe Senku wanted, too.
Gen sighed. “I hate making promises, Senku-chan. But.” His elbow barely brushed against Senku’s arm when he pulled his hands out of his sleeves, presenting a single stalk of lightly pressed but still vibrant nightshade between his fingers when he did. “I will. I’ll tell you everything and anything I ever wanted. You have my word.” The moisture beading at Gen’s eyes did nothing to dim how the moon reflected off of them, nor did the subtle quaking of flower petals did anything to conceal the trembling of its holder. “Just come back.”
Senku knew, despite the faint weight settling in his chest and threads of realization weaving into the folds of his mind, that coming back needed to be a choice. No, it needed to be more than a choice. The second they had decided on a two-way rocket Senku had told himself that returning would be a requirement more than an option. And Senku wanted to come back. Senku wanted to be there when the world further grew and thrived. Senku wanted to witness the world slowly rebuild what was lost and run through thousands of years of history in just decades. The world would turn and progress even without him, but his desire to stand alongside the world when it did burned stronger than humanity’s desire to return to the 21st century.
And, Senku finally confessed to himself, he wanted to see Gen within that same world, reclaiming the life he once had or even building himself a new one, whether that life had Senku in it or not. Senku hoped he was, because Senku wanted to be beside Gen while the world revolved in time and still be there when it finally completed its reset. He wanted to be with Gen, just as much as he hoped for Gen to want the same. And while Senku could infer just as much from the flower held to him and the rare promise from the mentalist it symbolized, Senku wanted to hear Gen say what he wanted himself.
When he came back.
With unsteady hands that incorrectly communicated his certainty, Senku gently took the flower. ‘ Liar ,’ Gen had said it meant. A beautiful irony if set beside the fragrant vow it represented.
“I’ll come back, Gen,” Senku whispered, boldly yet reluctantly keeping Gen’s hand where it was. Senku breathed as he took every unspoken want and confession and loosely linked his own rough fingers between Gen’s, letting it speak comfort into weakly shaking digits until it subsided along with the coolness of skin. “I promise.”
No one but a measly flower stood as witness to their quiet exchange. No one but the rocket heard Gen’s shuddering breath calm into a steady rhythm as Senku’s words settled as a pleasant weight in his chest and the warmth of his palms a grounding anchor. No one but the moon saw how Gen let go of any calculation in his softening smile and tightened his clasp against the other.
Senku would leave and the world would go on. They would hold off everything left unsaid and wait until the man on the moon ceased to exist and until the world could rotate without an imminent threat breathing down its back. It could take days, or months, or years, but time would not matter. Time stopped mattering years ago, when Senku counted all 117,354,893,870 seconds in stone and woke up to an image of the past rather than the future.
It would never matter because Senku would come back, and Gen would wait.
Until then, they had their words.