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The chilly evening breeze brushes past the curtains, pulling a shudder through Gen’s groggy muscles, heavy with sleep. The sun had long since begun its slumber, the only light coming from the shimmering stars that glitter in the black sky. Gen had taken a much, much needed nap and woke up just at the perfect time thanks to the lack of warmth by his side. The balcony door was left open just a crack, so Gen assumes that his favorite scientist with gravity-defying green tipped hair must be outside.
Gen haphazardly tosses a few extra layers on before he slips through the curtains, admiring the view — not of the stars in the sky, but of the man staring at them. His hair is down for once, tied back in a messy bun with strands sticking out of it, and he’s wearing a beige hoodie and black sweatpants. The color of his hoodie makes him look like a stuffed bear that gives Gen the urge to wrap his arms around his waist and dig his nose into his hair. The look on his face is soft, the same way he looked at the rocket he built with Xeno before they finally managed to slowly rebuild society.
The same way he looked at Gen’s first birthday present for him. He realizes that this might be his favorite look on the scientist, although he’s sure he was already aware of it years ago.
Gen steps towards him quietly, a soft yawn revealing his presence to the other man. Senku doesn’t turn to look at him, but he welcomes the arms snaking around his waist and tangles their fingers together. He welcomes the nose that pokes at the spot under his ear on his jawline, and the kiss against his nape that comes with it. Well, “kisses” plural, unless he wants to ignore the ones that flutter along his neck, then trail back down to his shoulder when he nudges the hoodie down, back up to his jawline. Then the one he gets when Senku turns his head to meet Gen’s lips in a slow kiss.
He really doesn’t kiss Gen like this very often. He should make that a New Year’s resolution.
When they part, Senku almost makes a noise of complaint the moment Gen moves to stand next to him, leaning against the balcony.
“How much time is left?”
Senku doesn’t need to check to be able to tell him the answer.
“One minute and sixteen seconds.”
With a grin, Gen turns to look at his lover. “And how shall we spend this last minute and sixteen seconds?”
Senku takes about eight seconds to think. Somewhere below them, people chatter and cheer in excitement for the minute to end. The aroma of food, music, and party lights fill the air as Gen soaks in the festivity of it all.
Even as Senku stays silent, failing to tell Gen all the words running through his head, furrowing his brows like what he wants to say is right there and he just can’t figure it out, Gen listens patiently. And even as Senku huffs and closes his eyes, takes Gen’s hand and just breathes, he adds this to his never ending list of things he loves about Gen; how he never rushes Senku unless he’s absolutely, undeniably, ten billion percent sure that rushing him would be a better option. He understands that Senku has trouble with words outside of the elements of the periodic table and anything about science that Gen has no knowledge of, that Senku’s mind simply works differently and needs time to process.
Another six seconds pass. Inhale, exhale. Gently, Senku squeezes Gen’s hand repeatedly, and he starts playing with the pads of his fingers and his knuckles before he even realizes he had taken Gen’s other hand. The two of them have spent the past few years trusting each other with their lives — building, creating, scamming, manipulating, planning, worrying, managing a kingdom together under the pressure of danger. Five more seconds.
When Gen is around, Senku’s productivity skyrockets. His overall mood improves, his patience grows longer, his temper is better, he fulfills his physiological needs in a healthier way, the people around him begin to trust Senku more, the work he does provides more results with more opinions. And most importantly, Senku no longer feels like he’s nothing more than his neurodivergence. When Gen is around, he can finally breathe. He can enjoy conversations that don’t involve science without Gen seeming surprised that he has the mental capabilities of knowing anything other than physics, biology, chemistry, geology, and every other word ending in -ology they can imagine.
When Gen is around, Senku is Senku. Senku is not the prodigy who only knows science, or the boy who counted every second continuously for over three thousand years, or the man who is going to build society from nothing in the name of science. Senku is just the guy with gravity-defying blonde hair and green tips which are surprisingly soft and fun to braid, the guy who sleeps at eleven in the morning and wakes up at eight at night just to experiment and tinker, the guy with calloused hands which move with so much gentleness and care and intense crimson red eyes that hold so much wonder and excitement.
Twelve more seconds pass in silence, and Gen still waits for an answer.
“I don’t know,” Senku finally says, but the smile on his lips is enough for Gen to overlook the uncharacteristically long time he spends thinking.
Thirty-one seconds spent thinking — he has forty-five seconds before the countdown ends, and about forty-seven seconds before the fireworks start.
Before Senku can even think to speak, Gen does it for him. Because he always does.
“You know, I think I’ve loved you from the start,” he says, placing Senku’s hands on his hips before he places his own hands on Senku’s chest as he steps closer. “When I saw the exact date on that tree, and when Tsukasa told me about how you died for Yuzuriha and Taiju. It only started to hit me when you made me do manual labor as soon as you realized I wasn’t a direct threat.”
“You deserved it.”
“How eul-cray!”
The two of them inch closer as he speaks, their faces so close that they share breaths with each other, smiling so bashfully that they could be easily mistaken for a middle school couple.
“‘Ishigami Senku and Asagiri Gen will happily fall into hell together.’ I meant that.” Gen’s hands, which are always so soft and pretty, so precise and smooth in their movements that it almost makes Senku jealous, rub his nape and cup his face the way Senku enjoys, leaning into the touch as he listens. “But you’ll probably say that’s gross.”
Senku’s lips split into another grin when he chuckles, pulling Gen closer.
“Yeah, that’s gross.”
“Right?”
Twenty-six seconds have passed.
The way Gen’s hands feel against his skin is grounding. Comforting. All of Senku’s knowledge of science suggests that his hands should make him feel colder, but the touch only brings him warmth. The hand against his nape, gently pulling him up into a kiss, feels just as warm as the hand on his cheek, a thumb stroking his winter-numbed skin.
It’s certainly not their first time kissing; after dating for a year, the two of them have definitely kissed enough for it to feel like a normal occurrence. But when he feels Gen’s lips curl up into a smile against his, their bodies pressed against each other for warmth, hands touching skin and hair, it feels like their first kiss all over again. Instead of on the balcony of their apartment, Senku remembers the observatory with the telescope, and he realizes that the stars watching them now are the same ones that watched them before.
It’s a gentle, innocent kiss. Not chaste and casual like they usually do, nor passionate and breathless like they do on some occasions — it’s sweet. Romantic, if you ignore how Senku awkwardly struggles to find out how to go about it, causing Gen to guide him with his own movements. Actually, the awkwardness only adds to it, he realizes now as the scientist bashfully follows his lead, relaxing into the feeling of Gen’s fingers in his hair.
They part with Senku chasing his lips for more, which elicits a quiet giggle from Gen.
“Happy New Year, Mentalist” Senku says with a rare fondness lacing his words, causing his lover’s smile to glow even brighter. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Senku hopes that he gets to say that to him next year. And the years after that, all the way until he can no longer say them anymore.
One second. Two.
They turn their heads from each other to stare at the sky. In the distance, a wisp of light flies into the air, gaining more height until it bursts with a pop, blossoming into a light that looks similar to a flower. More fireworks fill the sky, and Senku feels strangely like… like he’s exactly where he’s supposed to be. Like everything he’s done has led to this moment, watching the celebratory fireworks with his Mentalist in his arms, flowers in the sky reminding him of the flowers that Gen so cheekily hides in his sleeves along with his cards.
And if Senku were a less logical man, he would say that the world is a magician, and her flowers are Asagiri Gen.