Chapter Text
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The sunset barely brushed against the bedroom curtains. Stanley stood in front of his bed, staring at the disaster before him. It looked like a massacre had taken place there, and the only things left behind by the survivors were their clothes: wrinkled shirts everywhere, pants scattered across the floor, jackets flipped inside out on the nightstand, and ties stretched out across the bed.
He hadn’t slept well the night before, a consequence of his frustration. That evening, there was an important diplomatic dinner in the new world, and Senku hadn’t granted any of the science team members the night off, so Stanley was required to attend on Xeno's behalf—and he definitely didn’t like the idea.
Unlike military formal events, where he would meet with his fellow soldiers to eat and smoke, diplomatic events were all about socializing. Every five seconds, someone new would approach him trying to make conversation, always about trivial topics completely unrelated to his interests. The forced laughter, the fake appearances, the clinking champagne glasses—there was no more suffocating and overwhelming scenario than those dinners, and now he was obligated to attend.
He didn’t enjoy the game of appearances; he wasn’t planning to impress anyone. He just wanted to pick the first thing he could find, but he knew Xeno wouldn’t approve. He could never go to a formal event without Xeno choosing what he should wear. It used to be simple—any formal event, he would just wear his uniform. Now, he had to pick a suit that met everyone’s expectations.
In the end, he was torn between two suits: one black and one navy blue. Both were decent, dark enough to go unnoticed. He grabbed them both and held them up in front of the mirror. He needed to decide quickly before...
“How’s it going, Stan?” Xeno entered the room with a tray in hand and a freshly ironed shirt over his arm, energetic as always. “Have you decided what suit you’re wearing?”
Xeno carefully removed the jackets from the nightstand and placed the tray down: pasta with vegetables, grilled chicken, toasted whole wheat bread, freshly squeezed orange juice, and his daily vitamins. Of course, healthy food—because, according to Xeno, they weren’t that young anymore and had to watch their cholesterol.
Xeno then eyed the jackets Stan had in front of him with disapproval. Oh no, here we go...
“Definitely not the black one. It makes you look way too severe...” Xeno spoke casually, as if this was routine for him. “The navy blue one’s not good either; it makes you look too pale. Better wear this.”
He handed him a garment: a white cotton shirt with steel blue detailing on the buttons. Xeno looked at the perfectly ironed shirt with pride.
“Wear it with the grey blazer you left thrown over the dining chair the other day. I ironed it. And the dark brown shoes—not the black ones—they squeak when you walk; you’ll be uncomfortable all night. The brown ones are better; they’ll contrast with the watch I gave you.”
Stan sighed. He hadn’t asked for help, but he wasn’t surprised either. By now, it seemed like Xeno knew his closet better than he did.
“And my hair?” Stan asked with a half-smile, dripping with irony.
Unbothered, Xeno nodded and pulled the brown shoes from Stan’s closet.
“Yes. I want you to slick the sides back and let the front fall a bit. Natural, but elegant. It suits you better that way. Like the day of the symposium with Ryusui, remember?”
Stanley looked at him in silence, his eyes reflecting something he couldn’t yet tell was mild irritation or discomfort.
“Xeno...” he began, scratching his head, “Could you... not do this today?”
Xeno blinked, slight confusion crossing his face.
“Not do what?”
“This.” Stan turned toward him, gesturing with his hand from the freshly ironed clothes to the tray of food. “Choosing my clothes. Telling me how to do my hair. Preparing my things. Organizing my life.”
Xeno lowered the hand still holding the brown shoes. His expression changed subtly. The cheerfulness turned to rigidity.
“I’m just trying to help you look good, Stanley. It’s an important event.”
“I know, and I appreciate it, believe me. But I don’t need you to do all this for me,” Stan replied, with more harshness than he intended. “I’m not a kid. I can dress myself. I can decide how I want to look. Just… don’t treat me like I don’t know how to take care of myself.”
Xeno didn’t respond immediately. He simply stood there, the shoes wobbling in his fingers. Finally, he lowered his gaze and gave a slow, small nod.
“I understand.”
Stanley noticed him taking a small step back. The hurt was silent but palpable.
“It wasn’t my intention to bother you,” Xeno added, his voice so low it was barely audible. “I just… wanted to help.”
Stanley felt a pang of guilt, but not enough to take his words back. Instead, he grabbed one of the poorly ironed shirts that had fallen onto the bed and put it on without another thought. Xeno noticed—the twisted collar, the uneven buttoning. His lips trembled for a second, but then he composed himself.
“I’ll leave the food here, in case you get hungry,” he said, gesturing toward the tray. His tone was distant, formal, like he was addressing a colleague.
Without another word, he turned and left, closing the door with a click that sounded louder than necessary.
Stanley was left alone in the room. He sat at the edge of the bed and took a bite of the healthy food Xeno had prepared. His cooking was impeccable, as always.
He stood up, buttoning his shirt, but this time avoiding the mirror—something in his reflection was starting to make him uncomfortable, though he couldn’t quite say what.
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The door closed behind Xeno with a clean, unhurried click. His footsteps, usually firm and full of purpose, dragged slightly across the polished wooden floor as he made his way back to his study.
He entered the room, shut the door softly, and stood there alone, under the artificial light of a lamp that had been on since the night before. There were unchecked reports, unfinished calculations, jars lined up with surgical precision. Everything in order. Everything in silence.
He leaned his back against the door, exhaling through his nose, eyes closed. Stanley’s words echoed cruelly in his mind. “Just don’t treat me like I don’t know how to take care of myself.”
A simple phrase. Cold, practical. Anyone else would have let it slide. But from Stanley’s lips… those words were like a dagger, leaving a deep wound in him.
Xeno walked over to his desk and let himself fall heavily into the chair, with the rigidity of someone who no longer had the energy to do anything. He needed to get ready for the lab, he had work to do—but for the first time in a long while, he had no desire to go do science with his colleagues.
He leaned back, covering his face with one hand. He wasn’t used to feeling like this. Not when it came to Stanley. Everything he did for him—laying out his clothes, reminding him of things, leaving little good morning notes, preparing his meals, checking if he slept well, if he ate on time—those weren’t mechanical tasks or part of some controlling routine. They were, simply, acts of love.
A love he never said out loud. A love disguised beneath order, efficiency, constant concern. And now he knew that Stan saw him as a nuisance.
“Did I… go too far?” he whispered, voice cracking.
His fingers clenched at the edge of the desk. Finally, his eyes, dark like onyx, began to blur. The tears fell without drama, without sound. They simply rolled down his cheeks, disappearing into the collar of his linen shirt. He didn’t sob. He just… cried. Quietly. Empty.
Fragments of memories flashed through his mind: Stan smiling with the hot coffee Xeno brought him at dawn. Stan trying on shirts while Xeno suggested colors and quietly murmured they all looked good on him. Stan softly snoring on the couch as Xeno covered him with a blanket. Small details. Moments when he believed he was making him happy.
“I didn’t know it bothered you…” he whispered into the empty room, as if Stanley could hear him from the other side of the house. “I didn’t know I was so suffocating. That was never my intention. I thought you liked me taking care of you… but I was wrong.”
He took a breath and wiped his tears with a trembling hand. It hurt, yes. But he wasn’t foolish. Stan had been clear—he didn’t need someone organizing his life. And Xeno would respect that.
“Alright,” he told himself aloud, forcing a composure he didn’t feel. “I won’t do it anymore. I won’t bother you anymore, Stan.”
From now on, there would be no more carefully ironed shirts. No packed lunches for work. No little reminder notes folded into his pockets. He wouldn’t wake him up early to get fresh air in the garden. He wouldn’t wait for him at dinner if he came home late, nor would he bother reminding him to eat healthy.
Stan wanted space.
And he would give it to him.
Xeno stood up. Almost mechanically, he walked to his closet and pulled out the change of clothes he had prepared that morning. He began getting ready to go to the lab.
On the bed, he noticed the grey blazer—the one he had ironed for Stan to wear. He heard him leaving his room, setting the empty tray in the kitchen, and heading out, not without saying goodbye from a distance. He didn’t wait for a response—he simply left.
Xeno took the blazer and hung it deep in his closet. The special box of cigarettes he had prepared as a thank you for going in his place—he stored it in his bedroom drawer. One by one, the gestures of affection vanished from his space, like erasing footprints. And with every item put away, he felt colder. Lighter, yes. But emptier inside.
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Stanley adjusted his tie for the third time as the spotlight at the entrance blinded him. The event was important: an international presentation on the Kingdom of Science's technological advancements, with guests from all the revived nations. Media-driven, social, diplomatic. Everything he hated.
He passed by the press with his usual look of controlled boredom, nodding slightly in greeting. He entered the hall, where Maya, Brody, and Charlotte were already waiting, dressed elegantly. Charlotte, always committed to her role, gave him a military salute, then looked at him with admiration.
“You look good, Commander Snyder.”
Stan didn’t respond. He didn’t think so. He didn’t feel good. And he didn’t even know why.
The shirt he was wearing was white, yes, but not the lightweight fabric Xeno usually picked—the one that didn’t wrinkle when he moved his shoulders. The tie was tight around his neck, as if it were poorly knotted, and the shoes… damn it, they squeaked against the polished floor with every step he took.
“Tch…” he muttered under his breath.
His teammates were engrossed in distant conversations, and he pretended to be paying attention. In reality, he was just uncomfortable. Too uncomfortable.
He was hot. The jacket was thicker than usual. The fabric itched slightly at the collar. His sleeves were barely the right length. He hadn’t noticed when he threw on the first thing he found. No one had told him otherwise because Xeno wasn’t there to correct him like he always did.
"Don’t wear that shirt—the fabric’s too thick; you’ll be sweating in fifteen minutes."
"That shade of blue doesn’t suit you under artificial lights."
"Those shoes again? The others give you better posture!"
Xeno’s voice echoed mockingly in his head… but now… now, he missed it.
Stan noticed Maya approaching, offering him a drink, but he waved her off. He cleared his throat and pulled her aside, away from the others.
“Maya, tell me the truth… Do I look alright?” Stan stood stiffly in front of her, completely tense.
The question caught Maya off guard—Stan never seemed to care about his personal appearance.
“Well…” Maya looked him up and down, analyzing him. “You look stiffer than a flagpole.”
Stan sighed in defeat, leaning against the wall. He pulled out a cigarette to smoke, but when he reached for his lighter, he stopped. Xeno’s imaginary voice telling him it wasn’t appropriate to smoke indoors made him take the cigarette from his mouth and break it in his hands.
Maya watched the gesture, confused. Since when did Stan waste a cigarette?
“Stan, are you okay?” Maya placed a hand on his shoulder. “You seem… tense.”
Stan shook his head and straightened up, making Maya withdraw her hand.
“Yeah, I’m fine. I just… hate these kinds of events.”
Maya chuckled, sipping from her glass.
“Yeah, I know. But remember—you’re doing this for Xeno, and he’ll be really grateful if you try to stick around a little longer before running off.”
Stan sighed. She was right. He was making this effort for Xeno, so he’d try to endure it a bit longer.
Maya rejoined the conversation with the others, so Stan, on impulse, pulled out his communicator. He turned it on and scrolled through his messages with Xeno. The last message was from the day before—a photo of his formulas in progress and a simple: “Don’t forget to eat dinner.” He frowned. A lump formed in his throat, and he didn’t even know why.
He looked away. On stage, Ryusui was showing off his ability to captivate the audience. Gen was laughing with some foreign delegates, building diplomatic relationships. Kohaku looked flawless, focused on everyone’s safety. Everyone seemed to have a purpose. Everyone seemed to belong.
Except him.
Stanley ran a hand through his hair, already slightly disheveled from the weather. He was sweating, grumpy, and, for some absurd reason, wishing Xeno would walk through the door with a different blazer and that usual, enthusiastic smile of his.
“Damn it…” he muttered, scratching the back of his neck.
He slipped away from the noise, stepping out onto the side balcony. The night was clear. Silent. From there, he could see the buildings, and in the distance, the research center. His gaze drifted in that direction.
He thought about Xeno’s face during their argument. He had been hurt but said nothing. He just let him go. Didn’t argue. Didn’t push back. That was so unlike him, but Stan had been so focused on doing what he wanted, he hadn’t noticed.
Now alone, with the wind messing up his hair, Stan began to reflect. Xeno hadn’t messaged him the entire day. He didn’t ask if he’d arrived safely at the event. He didn’t remind him to bring an umbrella in case it rained. He didn’t hand him an extra pack of cigarettes. He didn’t show up to say goodbye, or to tell him he looked better in grey.
Nothing.
Because Stan had left, without waiting for him to reply.
Stan had asked for space—and that’s exactly what he got.
And him, who thought that was what he wanted, now felt… strange. Out of place. Clumsy. Not because the clothes didn’t fit, but because something was missing.
He sighed under the starry sky, hands in his pockets. His firm posture slowly crumbled. He didn’t realize it yet—not so easily. But something was missing.
It couldn’t be Xeno’s nagging. It was something else. Something behind those complaints and scoldings.
And without that something, his life suddenly felt cold. Empty.