Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Some time has passed since Byakuya’s birth—around two months in which Gen’s world has transformed in ways he never could have anticipated. It was not an abrupt or sudden change, but a slow, constant one, seeping into every aspect of his routine until it filled everything. Days are no longer measured by sunrise or sunset, nor by the number of tasks completed, but by the intervals between feedings, by brief moments of sleep, and by his ever-sharpening ability to anticipate his baby’s needs before crying demands his attention.

At his own pace, and always constrained by a body still recovering and by Byakuya’s constant presence, Gen has gradually returned to his routines. Not as they once were, nor in any way that could be considered efficient by normal standards, but adapted to a new logic in which every task is broken into small actions, interrupted again and again. He has learned to do several things at once, to leave processes unfinished, to return to them later, to measure success not by how much he manages to do, but by how little he accomplishes without waking the baby or making him cry.

He has tried to cut down time in every way possible. Preparing more food at once, organizing materials in advance, keeping everything within arm’s reach so he doesn’t have to move more than necessary. Every minute saved becomes a minute he can spend with Byakuya—holding him, watching him, or simply being there, present, even if both of them are silent. At the same time, this effort to optimize everything does not stem solely from the desire to spend more time with him, but also from an unavoidable reality: his baby does not allow him to do anything without reminding him that he exists, that he depends on him, that he cannot be ignored or set aside.

To Gen, Byakuya is a precious baby. Not in an idealized or distant sense, but in a visceral, all-encompassing way. He is his entire universe, the center around which every decision, every movement, every thought revolves. Yet alongside that unconditional adoration has come a harsher, more honest understanding of what it means to care for another human being from the very first moment of his life. Byakuya is demanding in the fullest sense of the word. There are no real pauses, no complete rests, no moments in which Gen can tell himself that he has done enough for the day.

Now he understands, in a way that before he could only imagine superficially, just how planned parenthood needs to be. How little it has to do with the romantic idea of “having a baby,” and how much it involves a constant renunciation of one’s own comfort, one’s own time, even one’s own identity. He has spent countless nights without sleep, or sleeping in fragments so broken they can barely be called rest. He has learned to function with an exhausted body, a sluggish mind, and the constant sensation of always being slightly behind on what needs to be done.

The limitations have become evident in every area. Many tasks he once did without thinking now require careful risk assessment. He cannot do anything even slightly dangerous with Byakuya on him—and he almost always has him on him. He cannot climb, cannot carry too much weight, cannot move quickly. He cannot improvise. Everything must be calculated, measured, anticipated, and even with all that caution, there are days when he feels like he’s walking a tightrope, holding not only his own balance, but both of theirs.

Leaving him alone is not a real option. Not even for a minute. He has learned, time and again, that it only takes stepping away slightly, not being within immediate reach, for Byakuya to start crying. A cry that does not always respond to hunger or discomfort, but simply to absence—to not feeling him close, to not sensing his warmth, his breathing, his constant presence. Even when he sleeps, Gen has learned that he must stay by his side, because waking up and not finding him is reason enough for inconsolable crying.

That has reduced his margin of action even further. There are days when he sits beside him for hours, unmoving, using that time to watch him, to think, or simply to exist in silence. Days when he accepts that he will make no progress on anything else, because forcing the situation only ends in the baby’s tears—and sometimes his own. He has had to learn to give in, to let go of expectations, to accept that productivity, as he once understood it, no longer applies to his life.

Even so, despite the exhaustion, the occasional frustration, the feeling of always being at the edge, Gen loves Byakuya with every part of his being. It is not an ideal or easy love; it is one that coexists with fatigue, with the constant fear of making mistakes, with the pressure of knowing that any error has real consequences. He never thought it would be this difficult. He never imagined how overwhelming it would be to have a small being who depends on him for everything: food, warmth, safety, comfort, companionship.

Now he knows. He lives it, and although there are moments when the weight of that responsibility threatens to crush him, there are also other brief, silent, almost invisible moments, when Byakuya sleeps peacefully on his chest, when his breathing syncs with Gen’s, and Gen understands that, despite everything, he would not trade this reality for any other.

During those months, many other milestones occurred beyond the simple and exhausting process of adapting to a new routine. The passage of time was not only marked by Gen’s accumulated exhaustion or by the forced reorganization of each of his tasks, but also by the small changes in Byakuya—changes that might seem minimal to anyone else, but that meant everything to Gen. Every step forward, no matter how tiny, felt like an enormous event, almost miraculous, in a world that had been frozen for so long.

During the first month, Gen began to notice that Byakuya no longer reacted purely by reflex. There was something different in the way he moved when he heard Gen’s voice or saw him approach. His little legs and arms flailed with more force, with an intention still clumsy but distinct from the chaotic movements of the first days. Gen began to recognize patterns: the way Byakuya flinched slightly when he leaned over the improvised crib, or how he seemed to calm down faster if Gen rocked him while speaking softly, even though he didn’t understand a single word.

One of the moments Gen would treasure forever happened the day Byakuya discovered his own hands. It was something so simple and, at the same time, so overwhelming that Gen felt his heart melt in his chest. At first, Byakuya just moved them in front of his face, watching them as if he couldn’t quite understand what they were or why they moved when he did. Then he started bringing them to his mouth with absolute concentration, drooling all over himself in the process. Gen didn’t mind in the slightest that his baby ended up soaked, or that he had to wash his little clothes again and again. To him, that image was the very definition of adorable. He could spend long minutes just watching him, a smile forming on his face without him even realizing it, completely captivated by that small discovery.

That same month also brought a change that was much harder for Gen to process. Byakuya began to produce tears. During the first weeks, his crying had been intense—heart-wrenching even—but dry. There were no tears, only the sound, the reddened face, the tense little body. When the tears appeared for the first time, Gen felt a sharp pang in his chest. He couldn’t understand the logic behind it. How was it possible that before he cried without tears, and now he didn’t? Somehow, seeing them roll down his baby’s tiny cheeks made everything feel more real, more painful. It was as if those tears confirmed that Byakuya was truly suffering, even when Gen couldn’t always identify the cause. From then on, every time he saw them, something inside him twisted, as if failing him—even a little—were unforgivable.

By the time the second month arrived, the changes became even more evident. Byakuya began making many more sounds. They weren’t words, not even anything close to them, but coos, small guttural noises, soft whimpers, and disorganized vocalizations that filled the shelter with life. The silence—that heavy, constant silence that had accompanied Gen for so long since the petrification of the world—almost completely disappeared. If it wasn’t his baby’s crying, it was the steady murmur of those little sounds, sometimes in protest, sometimes simply because he seemed incapable of staying quiet.

There were nights when Gen woke with a start, not because Byakuya was crying, but because he had decided that it was the perfect moment to experiment with his small voice. Soft sounds at first, then a little more insistent, as if he were testing how far he could go. Gen, half asleep, took a few seconds to process what was happening before realizing there was no danger—that his baby was simply existing. In those moments, caught between exhaustion and tenderness, he couldn’t help but smile.

He also started placing Byakuya on his stomach. He didn’t know exactly if it served any purpose, but he had a vague notion of having heard something about it at some point in his life, perhaps before the petrification, in a context that now felt blurry. He did it carefully, always watching him closely, ready to intervene at the slightest sign of discomfort. That was when Byakuya began trying to lift his head. At first it was barely an effort, almost imperceptible. Then, little by little, he began to hold it up for brief moments—trembling, heavy, as if it were too much for his small body.

He couldn’t do it for long. There were times when he couldn’t manage and let his head drop clumsily, frustrated, exhausted—but he tried. Again and again. Each of those attempts drew a genuine smile from Gen, one of those smiles that form effortlessly, full of pride and wonder. Watching Byakuya struggle, fight against his own body to achieve something so simple, made everything worth it: the sleepless nights, the constant exhaustion, the limitations, the fear.

In the midst of a frozen, petrified world, Byakuya grows, changes, and learns, and Gen bears witness to each of those small, everyday miracles, clinging to them as irrefutable proof that even under the harshest circumstances, life goes on.

On Gen’s side, one of the achievements that stood out the most—or perhaps the one that brought him the greatest day-to-day relief—was the creation of oil candles. It wasn’t immediate or easy; in fact, it was the result of weeks of trial, exhaustion, and a patience he hadn’t known he possessed. But when he finally succeeded, he felt as though he had regained a small piece of the control he had lost since Byakuya’s birth.

At first, the difficulty wasn’t just in the technique, but in the context. Gen couldn’t move as he once had. During the pregnancy, he had severely limited his movements, not only because of constant fatigue, but because of the very real fear of going into labor far from the shelter, without help, without a safe place to return to. Now, although his body is still sore and clearly limited, necessity pushes him to go out more. He no longer thinks only about surviving himself; he thinks about Byakuya—about his safety, his rest, about not spending entire nights in darkness with a crying baby.

So he began to explore more areas. Always with Byakuya against his chest, wrapped in the improvised sling, moving slowly, attentive to every step. That exploration was not rushed or ambitious; it was cautious, methodical, almost timid. Even so, it allowed him to discover elements he had previously overlooked. He found different fruits, plants he didn’t recognize, areas with useful materials that expanded his reserves. The world, though dangerous and hostile in many ways, also offered resources if one was willing to observe it closely.

The idea of oil candles was not new to him. He had a fairly clear notion of how they worked: oil and a wick. Nothing more. He had seen Senkū make them many times, watching him work with that characteristic mix of speed and precision. The real problem was the oil. Gen vaguely remembered that Senkū made it from sunflower seeds, but that information didn’t help much. There were no sunflowers within reach, no cultivated fields, no infrastructure needed to produce something so specific. So, once again, he turned to the only thing he truly had: trial and error.

Among everything he gathered, there were some fruits that caught his attention. They grew on low trees and fell to the ground on their own, which Gen took as a sign of ripeness. They had a thick shell, a dull green color, almost olive-like. When he opened them, he discovered yellow pulp surrounding hard seeds covered in small spines. He didn’t know if they were edible or what they were used for, but something about their structure made him think they might contain fat—and fat, at that moment, was a possibility.

The process was slow, but clear even to someone without advanced technical knowledge. First, he collected only the fruits he found on the ground, avoiding those still hanging from the branches. Then he removed the outer shell and placed the pits, still covered in yellow pulp, into a vessel with water. He let them boil for a long time—more than an hour—until the pulp softened, almost turning to paste. That cooking time was exhausting; it meant watching the fire, making sure it didn’t go out, adjusting the amount of water, all while taking care of Byakuya.

Once they were cooked, he patiently scraped off the pulp. The result was a thick mass, which he then mixed with a bit of hot water. There was no precision, no exact measurements; everything was done by eye, guided by texture, instinct, and the accumulated experience of surviving so long by improvising solutions. He let the mixture sit and watched it closely. As time passed, something began to separate little by little and rise to the surface—a shiny, oily layer that reflected the firelight.

Gen carefully skimmed that layer off. Then, as a precaution, he heated the oil over very low heat for a while longer, just to make sure no water remained trapped inside. The final result wasn’t perfect, nor plentiful, but it was oil. Real, functional oil—enough.

With that, making the candles was almost simple. He prepared wicks from plant fibers and small heat-resistant containers. When he lit the first one and saw that it burned steadily, without going out after a few minutes, a deep sense of relief washed over him. That flame meant illuminated nights. It meant not relying exclusively on the campfire, not having to wake up every so often to feed the fire, not being left in the dark when Byakuya cried in the middle of the night.

The candles burned for hours without trouble. They provided enough light to move safely, to change diapers, to look at his baby without straining his eyes. They weren’t a luxury, but they were a huge improvement in his quality of life. For Gen, that achievement wasn’t just technical; it was emotional. It was proof that, even with all the limitations, he was still capable of adapting, of creating solutions, of building an environment that was a little kinder for Byakuya.

In a frozen world, where most answers seemed out of reach, those small flames became a symbol of something greater: persistence, curiosity, and the will to keep moving forward, even when everything seemed to be working against him.

That day, Gen wakes up with a single idea circling his mind even before he opens his eyes: alcohol. Not out of desire or whim, but out of pure necessity. It’s part of a long, uncomfortable chain of steps that eventually leads to nitric acid. Eight months have passed since he woke up in this frozen world, two since he gave birth, and at least four more are still needed to complete the process. He’s aware there’s a long road ahead, but he also knows that time slips through his fingers differently now that Byakuya is part of his life.

Byakuya slows down every process. Not because he wants to, and not because Gen resents him in the slightest, but because it’s inevitable. Each day fragments around his baby: feedings, crying, diaper changes, endless rocking, short naps that rarely line up with the moments when Gen could actually make progress. Still, he’s learned to accept that reality. If he wants to get everything done in time, he’ll have to work ahead whenever he can—steal minutes here and there, take advantage of any pocket of calm that presents itself.

He sits with his back against the wall of the shelter, carefully adjusting his position so as not to bother Byakuya, and pulls him closer to his chest. While nursing, he stretches out his free hand to reach the worn pages Senkū left behind. The paper is folded, stained along the edges, filled with cramped notes and diagrams drawn with a confidence Gen has always found borderline insulting. He reads slowly—not just because he’s tired, but because he has to translate Senkū’s particular way of thinking into something he can actually carry out with the resources he has.

Alcohol. Fermentation. Distillation.

He needs grapes or something similar. Fruit with enough sugar. Gen frowns slightly as he tries to recall the mental map he’s formed of the forest, since Chelsea’s map isn’t within reach right now. There’s a deeper area, less traveled, where he once saw berries growing in abundance. He didn’t go back there during the pregnancy; he’d been too tired, and the idea of going into labor far from the shelter had been terrifying. Now, even though the fear hasn’t completely disappeared, he knows he can try.

He has to collect them, crush them, let them ferment for at least three weeks. Then comes distillation, with that strange device Senkū drew as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. A slow, meticulous process. Too long.

“It’s so tedious…” he murmurs, eyes never leaving the paper. “You really enjoy this stuff, Senkū-chan.”

Byakuya remains latched to his chest, oblivious to everything else. His big, attentive eyes stay fixed on Gen’s face, as if he’s studying him. Gen lowers his gaze and meets that expression, and something inside him softens immediately. He smiles without meaning to.

“What are you staring at so much, hm?” he whispers. “Interested in chemistry?”

The baby doesn’t respond, of course, but he keeps watching him. Gen sets the pages aside, surrendering to that silent attention.

“After you eat, we’re going out,” he continues. “We need to look for some berries. A lot of them… It’s not a very exciting adventure,” he adds, “but it’s necessary.”

Byakuya makes a small sound, barely a coo, and Gen lets out a soft laugh.

“Quiet,” he comments. “Just like your papa. Two men of few words, huh?”

When Byakuya pulls away from his chest, Gen holds him for a moment longer, distracted, his mind already on everything he needs to prepare before leaving. He sets him down in his little bed and starts moving—puts the pages back in place, bends down to grab one of the leather bags… and then freezes.

He blinks.

Looks at his baby.

“Oh… wait,” he says suddenly, with a tired but amused grimace. “Right.”

He sits back down almost immediately, as if his body reacted before his mind. He gently rests Byakuya against his shoulder, settling him into a position that’s already familiar. One hand supports the tiny back; the other begins giving small, rhythmic, gentle pats.

“I always forget,” he murmurs. “And then you complain, right?”

He keeps patting him patiently, staring off into space as his mind returns to the endless list of things to do: the berries, fermentation, distillation, time, firewood, water. All of it fades into the background for a moment, reduced to a distant hum, as he focuses only on the warm weight of Byakuya against his chest.

The sound comes without warning: a small burp that breaks the silence.

Gen goes still for a second, then smiles widely, relieved.

He settles him back against his chest, close to his heart, and watches as the baby’s body slowly relaxes. His eyelids begin to droop, the tension melts away, and within minutes Byakuya looks completely content, almost asleep.

Gen lets out a quiet laugh at the sight.

He stays like that for a few more minutes, unmoving, savoring that brief but precious calm. Finally, once he’s sure Byakuya is comfortable, his thoughts return to the outside world—to the berries, the alcohol, everything that still needs to be done.

“Well,” he murmurs. “Now then… let’s get ready.”

With extreme care, he starts getting up again, this time forgetting nothing, certain that every interruption, every small detour, is now a natural part of his life. And somehow, he wouldn’t change it.

Gen takes his time preparing everything he’ll need before leaving, knowing that every minute can stretch longer than expected. First, he gathers the leather bags, checking for cracks or loose seams, making sure they can withstand the weight of what he plans to collect. Then he takes the small knife—the one with the most manageable blade—and cleans it carefully, running his thumb along the spine to make sure it’s still sharp. He keeps everything close, organized, within reach, just as he’s learned to do since Byakuya arrived and chaos stopped being a viable option.

When he’s finally about to leave, he realizes his baby’s diaper needs changing. He sighs softly, without irritation, and sits back down. The process is slow, almost ritualistic: unfasten, remove, clean carefully, put on a fresh one. At some point, Byakuya wakes up, uncomfortable, and starts to fuss with small sounds that gradually grow louder. Gen doesn’t rush, even though time presses on him; he prefers to do everything calmly, speaking to him in a low voice, rocking him gently until the crying dissolves into a sleepy murmur.

He doesn’t fall asleep right away. Gen rocks him a little longer, standing now, swaying with short, slow steps, until the tiny body fully relaxes again. Only then does he place him in the sling, adjusting every knot and fold of fabric, making sure the little head is properly supported and nothing is too tight. He pauses to check everything once more, because doing it just once never feels like enough.

With everything ready, Gen approaches Senkū’s statue. The contrast between the stone body and the warm weight of Byakuya against his chest always gives him a strange sensation—hard to put into words. He leans in carefully and presses a soft kiss to Senkū’s unmoving lips. Then he stays there a few seconds longer, watching him in silence, and a quiet, almost incredulous laugh slips out.

He thinks Senkū would be embarrassed if he knew he now gets kissed every chance Gen has. They didn’t do it much before—not because they didn’t care about each other, but because it never seemed necessary, because there was always something more urgent to do, something to explain, something to build or destroy. Now, though, those gestures have become essential, as if Gen needs to remind himself that Senkū is still there, even frozen in time.

He looks down at Byakuya, then back at Senkū. The resemblance between them hits him with almost painful clarity. The same light-colored hair, unruly even in its infant softness. The same calm they seem to radiate effortlessly, that presence that soothes even when they say nothing. When Byakuya opens his eyes and stares at a fixed point, as if trying to focus with his still-immature vision, Gen can’t help but think the expression is identical to the one Senkū makes when he’s concentrating on some complicated scientific process.

The thought draws another smile from him—softer this time, filled with deep tenderness.

Gen leans toward the statue again and, in a low voice, as if not wanting to break the moment, tells him they’re leaving, that they’ll be back soon. There’s no drama in his words, just a simple, everyday promise, spoken with the naturalness of someone who has already accepted that this one-sided conversation is part of his life.

Then he straightens up, adjusts the sling one last time, and with Byakuya asleep against his chest and Senkū’s image etched into his mind, he prepares to leave the shelter—carrying with him the quiet certainty that, even if the world is frozen, his small family is still moving forward.

Gen makes his way slowly into the forest, his steps measured, careful about where he places his feet. Every crunch beneath him sounds too loud, every snapped leaf feels like a warning. He doesn’t like this place. He never has—not completely—but now the aversion is more visceral, deeper. The denser the forest becomes, the less light manages to filter through the tall canopy, and that constant dimness presses uncomfortably against his chest, as if the air itself were growing heavier.

The clarity of the shelter fades quickly behind him. Here, sunlight barely reaches the ground in irregular patches, and shadows stretch into strange shapes among twisted trunks and roots that rise like traps. Gen moves slowly, turning his head often, alert to any movement that doesn’t belong to him. Since Byakuya was born, his sense of danger has changed completely. Before, risk was something he could rationalize, measure, even ignore if necessary. Now it isn’t. Now every possibility of harm multiplies in his mind, because it’s no longer just about him.

If he’s honest with himself, he’s grown deeply wary of animals. Not because he was ever particularly good at defending himself, but because now the idea of a confrontation is unthinkable. With his baby against his chest, bound securely in the sling, he can’t run the way he used to, can’t react as quickly, can’t afford a single mistake. His body no longer belongs entirely to him; every movement must account for the warm, fragile weight he carries.

That’s why he hates straying far from the shelter or venturing into areas he doesn’t know well. Every step into the unknown feels like a small betrayal of the instinct screaming at him to turn back, to stay safe, to not tempt fate. And yet he keeps going, because he needs those berries. This isn’t a whim or a passing idea; it’s a necessary step to move processes forward, to gain time, to get a little closer to the future Senkū planned with such care.

He works to collect them as quickly as possible. He identifies the bushes by the shape of their leaves, by the dark color of the fruits hanging in small clusters. He crouches carefully, always keeping one hand near Byakuya’s body, as if the gesture alone could protect him from harm. He plucks the berries gently—he’s learned that too much force makes them burst between his fingers, staining his skin with juice and wasting part of the pulp.

He places them patiently into the leather bags, even though urgency gnaws at his nerves from the inside. He wants to fill them fast, take as many as he can so he won’t have to come back soon. Each berry that drops into the bag is a small victory, another excuse to shorten his stay in a place that unsettles him so deeply.

Gen is acutely aware of how dangerous everything is. Of how fragile his situation truly is. Sometimes he thinks about the absurd luck he’s had so far—never being the prey, always managing to get ahead, to escape, to avoid the worst—but that narrative crumbles the moment he looks down and sees his baby’s small head peeking out from the edge of the sling. Byakuya is completely defenseless, oblivious to the hostile world around him, trusting in a way so absolute it makes Gen’s chest ache.

That contrast makes him nervous. His senses stay taut, overly alert. Every sound of the forest—the flap of wings, the wind brushing through branches, the distant crack of something moving—makes him hold his breath. He forces himself not to panic, not to spiral into catastrophic thoughts, but it’s hard when everything around him seems to remind him that he doesn’t belong here.

When he finally manages to fill the bags he brought with him, relief hits him immediately, almost dizzying. He adjusts the weight against his back and side, checks that nothing is about to fall. He’s just about to turn around when a sudden noise shatters the fragile balance of his calm. He can’t clearly identify it—something between a dry crack and abrupt movement among the nearby bushes.

His heart lurches. His body reacts before his mind does. Instinctively, he presses Byakuya closer to his chest, spins on his heels, and without thinking too much, starts retreating with quick steps that soon threaten to turn into a run. He doesn’t stay to investigate. He doesn’t try to reason out what it was. In that moment, the only thing that matters is distance—distance between him and that sound, between him and the shelter.

He heads back almost in a rush, dodging roots and low branches, focused only on not falling. With every passing second, he feels as though the entire forest is watching him, as if something could emerge from the shadows at any moment. Only when the light begins to filter through more clearly and he recognizes the path back does the knot in his chest loosen a little.

He doesn’t stop until he’s certain he’s left the densest part of the forest behind, breathing hard, his hands trembling slightly. Then he lowers his head, checks that Byakuya is still asleep—peaceful, unaware of everything—and exhales slowly. The fear doesn’t disappear completely, but it shifts into a quiet determination: he’ll do whatever is necessary, yes—but he will always come back. He will always return with his baby safe.

Gen returns to the shelter with a tired but steady gait, feeling the familiar weight of the day settling into his shoulders. The forest slowly recedes behind him, the light grows clearer, less fragmented, and with it comes that faint sense of safety he only ever feels near his improvised home. Byakuya has been awake for a while now, and he’s made sure Gen knows it the entire way back. Every few steps, a new little sound—a short coo, a poorly coordinated guttural noise, a small complaint that doesn’t quite become a cry. Gen lowers his head several times to look at him, to make sure he’s still properly settled in the sling, and every time their eyes meet, he can’t help but smile.

He talks to him softly as he walks, as if the path itself deserves narration. He tells him they’re almost there, that everything went well, that they were brave. He doesn’t know if Byakuya understands any of it, but the attention with which he seems to listen—eyes wide open, mouth slightly parted, body moving in small, disordered impulses—is enough to make Gen feel like he isn’t talking to himself. It’s strange how something as simple as those inarticulate sounds can keep him company better than the absolute silence of months past.

When he finally catches sight of the shelter, relief settles into his chest like a long sigh. The wooden structure, imperfect and cold, never struck him as welcoming, but now it represents a clear boundary between the uncertain outside and the safety within. He pauses for a moment before entering, adjusts the sling one more time, and carefully sets the leather bags full of berries near the door, making sure they won’t tip over. The gesture is automatic—part of a routine built from repetition and necessity.

Then he crosses the threshold with Byakuya still awake, attentive to everything. Gen raises his voice slightly, not because anyone might be startled, but because that announcement has become important to him.

“We’re home.”

The shelter, as always, doesn’t respond—but Byakuya does. A small, sharp squeal cuts through the still air, brief but decisive, as if he’s actively participating in the ritual. Gen laughs immediately, a soft, tired, but genuine sound. It echoes off the stone walls, and for a moment, the place feels less empty.

“That’s right,” he says, still smiling. “When you get home, you have to announce it.”

He moves slowly deeper inside, swaying slightly without realizing it—that constant rocking now part of how he stands. As he walks, he starts explaining something to his baby that has become important to him, even if it sounds a little absurd in such a lonely setting.

“When you arrive, you say ‘I’m home,’” he continues. “And the person inside says ‘welcome back.’”

He pauses briefly, glancing toward Senkū’s statue, unmoving in its usual place. The habit of including him in everything hasn’t faded, even if the answer never comes.

“Papa should say it,” he adds, with gentle tenderness. “But for now, he can’t talk.”

Byakuya squirms a little more, as if Gen’s tone has caught his interest. Gen steps closer to the statue—not to touch it yet, just to be near—and keeps talking to his baby with the same natural ease he’s had since he was born.

“So for now, I guess we welcome ourselves.”

The shelter fills again with small sounds: Gen’s breathing, the soft rustle of the sling, Byakuya’s uneven noises as he explores his own voice. It’s not the home he once imagined, nor the complete family he dreamed of—but in that moment, with the berries safe, the baby awake, and the ritual fulfilled, Gen feels that, at least for now, they’re home.

Gen doesn’t waste time. The idea of alcohol pushes back into his thoughts with almost obsessive insistence. He knows the sooner he starts, the sooner the process will move forward—and with a baby who seems to grow and change by the day, any advantage matters. So he moves with a measured urgency, the kind he’s learned since Byakuya came into his life: quick, but never careless.

He brings the basket closer to the shelter’s entrance, choosing a spot where some light and air can reach it without exposing his baby too much. He lays him down carefully, adjusts the fabric beneath his body, checks that he’s properly supported. Byakuya stays awake, eyes open and alert, following Gen’s movements with a silent concentration that still surprises him. He doesn’t cry. He doesn’t protest. To Gen, that alone already feels like a miracle.

“Stay here for just a little bit, okay?” he says, though he knows it’s more to reassure himself than to form any real agreement.

He carefully folds the sling and sets it aside so it won’t get dirty or damp. Then he looks for a large container—sturdy enough to withstand both the weight and the process to come. He drags it outside to where the ground is firmer and there’s enough space to work. He begins dumping the berries in, the dull sound of the fruit falling and piling up filling the air.

He glances at his clothes and makes a face. He has no intention of washing his pants or sweater today, so he strips them off without much ceremony and leaves them inside. The yukata, on the other hand, won’t be spared. He sighs resignedly, slips off his shoes, and sets them aside. He looks down at his bare feet, then at the berries, then back at Byakuya.

“I’m going to crush them,” he explains, his tone almost instructional. “Senkū-chan says this is how it all starts. You wait three weeks, mixing it every day… then comes the complicated part.”

He steps into the container carefully, making sure he won’t slip. The cold, wet feel of the berries beneath his feet makes him shiver slightly. He starts moving slowly—pressing, twisting, making sure to crush them thoroughly without losing his balance. Juice begins to run, staining the rim of the container, and the air fills with a scent that’s both sweet and acidic.

He focuses so completely on the movement, on not falling, on making sure no berry remains whole, that he stops talking without realizing it. His entire world narrows to that careful sway, the texture beneath his feet, the wet sound of crushing fruit.

Until the crying cuts through everything.

Gen freezes instantly, his heart jumping in his chest. He looks toward the basket and sees Byakuya with his face scrunched up, little arms flailing chaotically, mouth wide open in a clear, urgent cry. Gen speaks to him from where he stands, tries to soothe him with his voice, but it doesn’t work. The crying doesn’t fade, doesn’t pause—it only grows more insistent.

He doesn’t hesitate.

He steps out of the container without cleaning his feet, leaving wet footprints on the ground. He rushes into the shelter, bends over the basket, and lifts his baby carefully but without wasting a second. He brings him to his chest immediately, rocking him with that instinctive sway his body now knows by heart.

“Shh… shh… I’m here,” he murmurs, over and over, his voice low, carrying a calm he’s trying to give himself as much as his baby. “I’m here, Bya-chan.”

Byakuya cries for a few more seconds, his face tense, his eyes squeezed tightly shut. Gen holds him firmly but gently, one hand supporting his back, the other resting on his small head. He speaks to him slowly, without rushing him, as if every word were an anchor.

Little by little, the crying fades. First it becomes uneven, then turns into small hiccupping sobs, until finally it settles into broken silence. Byakuya opens his eyes and, when he finds Gen’s face so close, his expression changes. His features soften, his little arms lift clumsily as if reaching for him.

He stretches his hands toward Gen’s face—and smiles.

It isn’t a perfect or deliberate smile. It’s brief, uncertain, almost accidental, as if his face is still learning how to express what he feels—but it’s real. Clear. Unmistakable.

Gen goes completely still.

The air catches in his chest, as though he’s afraid that any movement might shatter the moment. Something tightens painfully in his throat, and his eyes fill with tears he can’t stop. His vision blurs as he looks at that tiny face, at that first smile that isn’t for the world or for chance, but for him. Only for him.

He doesn’t move. He doesn’t speak. He barely dares to breathe.

He stays there, holding his baby in his arms, his heart overflowing, understanding all at once that no matter how many tasks await him, no matter how long the processes or how ambitious the scientific plans, no achievement, no goal, no progress compares to this moment. In that instant, he understands that everything since waking up in this world has led him—without his knowing it—to this very moment.