Archive of Our Own

Silence enveloped the Kingdom of Science. Late evening leaned over the laboratory, flooding it with the soft, warm light of oil lamps. Somewhere outside the window, in the sleeping city, only the discordant chorus of crickets disturbed the peace, and in the distance the muffled hum of rare mechanisms could be heard. The air was saturated with a familiar but not repulsive aroma — a mixture of delicate chemicals, cold metal, and a light, barely perceptible scent of beeswax from slowly burning candles.

Senku, immersed in his thoughts, bent over countless blueprints. Strands of his unruly hair fell onto his forehead as he carefully made yet another correction to the most complex calculations for the upcoming lunar mission. Nearby, in a comfortable chair, Gen was concentrating on sorting through a pile of diagrams. He had been assigned to organize them by date — a task that even he could easily handle. His gaze occasionally stopped on Senku, watching his painstaking work. The atmosphere was permeated with an almost tangible harmony — two people united by a common goal, working in comfortable silence, preparing to step toward distant stars.

However, for those who had known Senku for a long time, barely perceptible but significant changes could be read in this picture. Before petrification, Senku was an ordinary, albeit brilliantly gifted teenager. He could laugh to tears at the simplest jokes, heated arguments with his father about trifles were a familiar matter for him, and he fell asleep to the lulling sound of the television left on. He was simply a sixteen-year-old guy, and his biggest concern was whether he had enough money for new components for his next invention, and his worst nightmare was failing a physical education test.

Back in elementary school, he sat at the same desk with Taiju. On math tests, Senku always turned in his work within the first five minutes, and Taiju would look at him each time with such comical desperation, whispering pleas for help. Senku would smirk and never give ready answers — instead, he pushed his friend toward the solution, hinted, directed his thoughts in the right direction. "Think for yourself, you're not an idiot," he would say, and there was no condescension in those words, only faith that Taiju was capable of figuring it out. Senku was proud that he was helping his friend become smarter, not just copy. That was a time when the biggest problem was whether to cheat or not.

Once they had finished building the Perseus ship — a huge, majestic vessel that was supposed to take them to America. The whole crew gathered on the shore, everyone was smiling, hugging, shouting with delight. Someone suggested taking a photo, and they all crowded together — happy, full of hope, ready to conquer a new continent. Senku still kept that photograph somewhere among his papers. Sometimes he accidentally came across it and quickly put it away, because looking at those faces, at that carefree joy, became physically painful.

Things were still good for Senku in the first months with Gen, when their relationship was just beginning. Back then, every day seemed like a holiday. Gen knew how to turn any little thing into a reason for laughter — he could joke about a failed experiment in such a way that even Senku himself would forget his irritation and start laughing. Senku responded in kind, they could chat for hours about nothing, lie together under the stars, make plans for the future. The atmosphere between them was light, sparkling, full of that special energy that only exists at the beginning of love. Gen looked at him as if Senku was the center of the universe, and Senku back then could simply enjoy it without feeling what happened to him later.

Now... now something in him seemed to have changed irrevocably. As if that carefree boy who worried about school exams, helped his friend with tests, and dreamed of scientific discoveries, remained somewhere in the past, buried under the weight of responsibility for the survival of all humanity. Somewhere between building the Perseus and what happened afterward, Senku lost the ability to simply enjoy life without looking over his shoulder in search of invisible threats.

With Gen, everything was different too. Their relationship hadn't deteriorated — no, they still loved each other, maybe even more strongly than before. But something had changed in the very atmosphere. The lightness had gone, giving way to caution. Jokes became rarer, smiles — sadder. When Gen hugged him now, in those embraces could be read not only love, but also anxiety, a desire to protect from something impossible to fight against. And Senku knew that he himself was to blame for this.

At first, no one noticed these changes — they were too subtle and gradual. But over time, something elusive began to change in the atmosphere around him. Senku hadn't become less intelligent or less devoted to science. On the contrary, he worked with the same zeal, explained formulas with the same passion. But something else appeared — a fragility that everyone felt but no one could name.

And the people who loved him began to instinctively adjust to this new reality. Chrome, in the past always swift and noisy, no longer burst into the laboratory with a flurry of questions, having learned to knock and wait for an answer. Kohaku, whose movements had previously been full of energy, now carefully placed tools on the table instead of throwing them. Even the irrepressible Taiju, usually fountaining with enthusiasm, began to speak more quietly when he was near his best friend.

Gen had changed too. Pauses appeared in their conversations, when he carefully studied Senku's face, as if trying to read something between the lines. His touches became more careful — each gesture was now slow, predictable, as if he was afraid to frighten with an unexpected movement. And he also began to come to the laboratory more often, simply to be nearby — sitting silently in a corner, occupied with his own affairs, but always remaining within sight.

All these changes spoke of one thing: something had happened to the person who previously seemed capable of handling anything. And although no one knew exactly what, everyone understood — their Senku had become more vulnerable, although he himself continued to pretend that nothing had changed.

"Gen, could you please pass me the calculator?" Senku asked without taking his eyes off the formulas. "I need to finally double-check the trajectory of entry into the lunar atmosphere."

"No problem," Gen responded, reaching out his hand toward the device. But at that very moment, his elbow accidentally hit a glass flask standing at the very edge of the table.

With a characteristic clink, it fell onto the wooden floor. Fortunately, it didn't break, only bouncing up in fright.

For some reason, Senku flinched so sharply, as if he had been struck by electricity. He literally jumped in his chair, his hand jerked above the blueprints with such force that the pencil slashed across the paper, leaving an ugly black line across important calculations. For several painfully long seconds, he froze motionless, eyes wide open and gaze directed somewhere into the void. In his red pupils flashed real fear, as if he was seeing something terrible that definitely wasn't present in this peaceful laboratory.

"Senku?" Gen called out anxiously, instantly turning toward him.

The sound of his own name seemed to return him to reality. Senku slowly turned his head, blinked several times, and not a trace remained in his face of that lostness that had gripped him a second ago. Only the familiar, almost unnatural composure once again covered his features.

"Everything's fine," Senku pronounced in an even, calm voice. A light, barely noticeable smile flickered on his lips. "The flask just fell. Nothing terrible."

But Gen noticed the barely perceptible tremor in Senku's fingers, the too-strong grip on the pencil that could have slipped from his hand. He saw how Senku turned away to the blueprints a bit earlier than the situation required, as if trying to escape from the awkward silence, from the unspoken question.

"Senku..." Gen began cautiously, picking up the intact flask from the floor. "Maybe you'll take a short break? It's already late, and..."

"Ten billion percent not worth it!" Senku interrupted him. In his voice instantly sounded the familiar notes of scientific enthusiasm, as if nothing had happened earlier. "We don't have much time."

He bent over the papers again, but Gen, not taking his eyes away, saw how tense his shoulders were, how frozen in an unnatural position his back was.

"But one evening can't..." Gen made another attempt.

"You know," Senku quickly objected, pointing to a complex formula on the paper, "I was thinking here... shouldn't we reconsider the fuel ratio? If we increase the oxygen proportion by just three percent..."

And again he steered the conversation into the familiar channel of science. Always like this, when reality became too painful.

Gen continued to secretly observe Senku. He was working with the same, undiminished zeal, explaining calculations with the same passion as always. But something was wrong. Something elusive and alarming disturbed the harmony, and this "wrong" had been going on for a very long time, becoming the familiar background of their life.

Several hours had already passed since they went to bed, but Senku still lay with open eyes, staring at the ceiling of their small bedroom. Gen had long since fallen asleep on his chest, breathing evenly and calmly, his dark hair softly and beautifully scattered, but even this soothing warmth couldn't calm the anxious thoughts that gave Senku no peace. His brain was working at full speed, analyzing, planning, calculating all possible threats of tomorrow.

"You're not sleeping," Gen whispered quietly, without opening his eyes.

Senku blinked in surprise. He was sure that Gen had long since fallen asleep. 

"Sorry, did I wake you?" he also quietly replied, unconsciously pressing Gen to himself.

"No," Gen slightly turned his head to look at him. Even in the dim moonlight penetrating through the window, the dark circles under Senku's eyes were clearly visible, silent witnesses of his sleepless nights. "Your heart is beating too fast. And you're all tense."

Senku tried to relax, but it came out unconvincingly.

"Just thinking about tomorrow's work," he lied, his voice sounding slightly hoarse. "We still have so many unresolved questions with the navigation system..."

"At three in the morning?" a note of surprise mixed with anxiety sounded in Gen's voice. He raised himself on his elbow to get a better look at Senku's face in the semi-darkness.

"Science knows no days off," Senku tried to joke, but the smile that appeared on his lips was forced and insincere, not reaching his eyes.

Gen looked at him attentively, and Senku felt how Gen's piercing gaze seemed to penetrate into the very depths of his soul. He always did this when it was needed.

"You know," Gen said quietly, "when you lie, you bite your lip. Just a tiny bit, but I always notice."

Senku instinctively parted his lips, as if about to say something, and then looked at Gen reproachfully.

"Using your mentalist tricks against me? That's not fair."

"And you use science to avoid talking about what's actually bothering you," Gen said gently, but his gaze was full of understanding. "That's not fair either."

A tense silence hung in the air, filled only with Gen's measured breathing and Senku's heartbeat. Senku looked away toward the window, where in the black velvet of night distant, indifferent stars twinkled.

"Just... a lot of things to do," he finally said. "Fuel calculations, life support system checks, equipment calibration... If I make a mistake in even one place..."

"Senku," Gen carefully touched his cheek, gently but insistently making him look at himself. His touch was warm and soothing. "You've already double-checked these calculations, probably, twenty times. And asked Chrome, Xeno, and even Kaseki to check them once more. You've done everything you could."

"But what if..."

Senku pressed his lips together, as if struggling with an overwhelming desire to speak out, to release the accumulated tension. Gen saw this internal struggle, saw how he was searching for words that could explain everything without revealing too much.

"What if I didn't account for some factor?" Senku finally squeezed out of himself, and his voice sounded strained, as if under pressure. "What if someone gets hurt because of my mistake?"

"Like last time?" Gen asked cautiously.

Senku tensed sharply, as if he had been struck.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he said quickly, and his voice acquired sharp, defensive notes. "Last time everything went perfectly. We achieved our goal."

"Senku..."

"Everyone achieved their goal and stayed alive. That's what matters," Senku continued, and his fingers clenched into a fist until his knuckles turned white. "And minor troubles are an inevitable part of any experiment."

But Gen heard how his voice trembled slightly. How he was speaking too quickly, as if hurrying to convince himself first, before convincing anyone else.

"Go to sleep," Senku said gently, kissing Gen on the top of his head, trying to soften the harshness of his behavior. "Tomorrow is another important day. Need to be in shape." 

Gen froze from the unexpectedness of this gesture. He felt something tighten in his chest. He saw how Senku was suffering, how he was trying to carry the entire burden alone. And how he again steered the conversation away from himself, from his fears, hiding them behind concern for others. As always.

That night Gen lay awake, listening to Senku's breathing nearby and thinking that tomorrow wouldn't bring them relief.

The next day the entire team gathered at the testing ground. The sun stood high, flooding the space with blinding light, and the air was filled with anticipation — today they were testing a new prototype engine for the rocket. Senku stood nearby, holding a notebook with calculations in his hands. Around him Chrome, Xeno, and several mechanics were bustling about, each busy with their own task.

"So," Senku announced confidently, when he was checking the instrument readings. "Now we'll start the engine at ten percent power. This should give us primary data on the ignition system's operation. Everyone move to a safe distance. Xeno, ready to time the operation?"

"Of course," Xeno answered, and his fingers confidently checked the stopwatch. "Pressure sensors are also calibrated."

The team moved behind an improvised shelter made of boards. Gen, standing slightly to the side, watched what was happening with a light smile — he liked seeing Senku in his element, full of enthusiasm and confidence, as he was when science was his only concern.

"Starting in three... two... one..." Senku began the countdown.

Kaseki pressed the lever. The engine roared with a deafening rumble that echoed throughout the area. The sound was sharp, piercing — exactly like a shot from a rifle, tearing through the silence.

And at that very moment Senku turned sharply pale, all color seemed to drain from his face, leaving only ghostly pallor. He swayed to the left, losing his footing.

In his head flashed a memory, vivid and painful. Sharp, piercing pain in his chest. Warm wetness on his shirt — blood, his blood. The sound of the shot still ringing in his ears, drowning out all other sounds. Around him the screams of his friends, but voices as if coming from far away, distorted by pain and distance. The world sways, blurs, darkening at the edges.

"Excellent!" Chrome shouted joyfully, not noticing Senku's condition, as his attention was completely absorbed by the instrument readings. "Look at the traction!"

"Yes, parameters are normal..." Senku said, but his voice sounded strangely quiet and hoarse. He took a step back, then another, trying to maintain his balance. "Need to... need to check the manometer readings. I'll step away for a second."

"But Senku, the manometer is right here..." Chrome began, looking at him in bewilderment.

"Backup manometer," Senku quickly interrupted him, continuing to back away, his eyes darting feverishly. "In the laboratory."

Gen instantly noticed the panic that flashed in Senku's eyes and how he instinctively pressed his hand to his chest — to where once there had been a bullet wound, remaining as a terrible reminder. He quickly approached Chrome.

"I'll go with him," he said with his usual light smile, trying to hide his own worry. "In case help is needed."

"But you're not good at math..." Chrome said in surprise, not understanding the reason.

"But I know how to carry heavy instruments," Gen smiled and hurried after Senku, who had already almost disappeared from view. He caught up with him already in the wooden hut of the laboratory, away from the testing ground, away from that deafening sound.

Senku stopped by the wall, breathing heavily, his hands treacherously trembling, betraying his inner shock.

"Senku," Gen said gently, standing in front of him so as to block the view of the testing ground. "Breathe. Just breathe."

"I am breathing," Senku answered quickly. "Everything's fine. Just need to... I need to get back already."

He tried to go around Gen, but he gently yet firmly stopped him.

"Your hands are shaking," Gen said quietly, and his gaze, full of worry, slid over Senku's trembling fingers. "And you're very pale."

"It's from... from overexertion," Senku nervously licked his lips, trying to hide the tremor. "Too much work, not enough sleep."

"Senku..."

"Everything's fine!" Senku said sharply, and almost hysterical notes sounded in his voice, as if he was desperately trying to convince himself of this. "I just need to get back to work. The team is counting on me!"

But when he tried to take out the notebook with calculations from his pocket, it slipped from his trembling fingers and fell to the ground, scattering across the dusty surface.

Senku looked at the fallen notebook as if it had betrayed him at the most important moment. In his eyes was confusion and something resembling despair, deep and genuine.

"Damn," he whispered, crouching down to pick it up. "Damn, damn..."

Gen saw how his shoulders were trembling, how he was convulsively trying to gather the scattered sheets. When he finally stood up, his movements were clumsy and full of confusion.

"Senku," Gen called to him quietly, cautiously extending his hand. "What happened?"

"Nothing happened," Senku answered quickly, still not raising his head. "Just... the loud sound startled me a bit. It was unexpected."

Gen raised his eyebrow in surprise. In all the time they'd known each other, he didn't remember Senku being frightened by any sounds. Explosions, rumbling, crashing — the usual part of their experiments, something Senku met with delight and scientific interest.

"Since when do you get frightened by loud sounds?" he asked cautiously, trying to understand the reason for his strange behavior.

"I'm not frightened," Senku answered sharply, finally raising his head. In his eyes was a mixture of irritation directed at himself and something resembling shame. "Just... it happened that way. A completely normal reaction to an unexpected sharp sound."

Gen wanted to touch his face, to comfort him, but Senku suddenly moved closer himself, almost right up against him, as if seeking protection from an invisible threat. He gently intercepted Gen's hand with his own, intertwining their fingers with desperate tenderness, as if afraid of losing this single point of support.

"Gen," he said quietly, and genuine tenderness appeared in his voice, mixed with something resembling a plea. "I appreciate your concern. I really do. But everything's really fine."

He carefully brought Gen's hand to his lips, touching the knuckles of his fingers — a gesture so tender and simultaneously desperate that Gen's heart clenched. Then Senku pressed his forehead to Gen's shoulder, and his breathing quickened, became intermittent.

Gen felt how Senku literally clung to him with his whole body, seeking shelter, as if trying to hide from something invisible and terrible that was haunting him. This was so unlike the usual self-confident Senku, from whom every gesture of closeness had to literally be begged for, that Gen's worry only increased.

"Senku," Gen carefully touched his back, stroking soothingly, and Senku immediately moved even closer, as if seeking even more contact, "you always loved explosions. Remember how happy you were when we first made gunpowder?"

"That was different," Senku said quickly, not letting him go. "Back then I knew it would be loud. Was prepared for it. But now... now the sound was too similar to..."

He sharply fell silent, biting his lip, and pressed even tighter against Gen, as if trying to dissolve in his warmth and safety, to hide from the unspoken horror.

"Similar to what?" Gen gently prompted him.

"Nothing," Senku squeezed his hand tighter. "Just a loud sound."

Gen noticed how desperately Senku was clinging to him — not just physically, but emotionally, as if he were the only anchor capable of holding him in reality. Usually so independent and proud, right now Senku was literally seeking salvation in him, pressing as close as possible.

"Maybe we'll take a break?" Gen suggested gently and caringly.

"No!" Senku reacted too sharply, but immediately softened, burying his face in Gen's neck. "I mean... no, no need. I don't want to disrupt the work schedule because of myself. Don't want to bother you..."

"Bother?" Gen felt a tremor run through Senku's body, as if from cold, although it was warm all around.

"I can see how you're worrying," Senku whispered directly into the skin of his neck, and the warm breath made Gen instinctively hug him tighter. "Don't want to cause you problems."

Gen saw the full depth of his fear. The one who usually relied only on logic and science, who was always confident, was now seeking salvation in the simplest and most sincere thing — in human warmth, in love.

"Everything's fine, Gen," Senku muttered.

But the way he clung to Gen, how his fingers trembled, spoke of the opposite, refuting his every word.

Gen felt how gradually the tremor in Senku's body subsided, his breathing became more even. But when he tried to pull back slightly to get a better look at him, Senku instinctively squeezed his hand harder, unwilling to let go.

"A little more," he asked quietly, not raising his head and sounding almost childishly vulnerable. "Just... a little more."

Gen nodded silently, continuing to hold him, giving him the time he needed. He understood — Senku needed time to collect himself, to put on his usual mask of composure, to once again become that invincible genius the team was waiting for.

"You know," Senku finally said, slowly pulling away, as if reluctantly returning to reality, "you're good at... calming people down."

"Professional skills," Gen answered lightly, trying to defuse the situation, although his eyes remained serious, full of concern. "Though with you it doesn't always work."

Senku smiled weakly, his lips only trembling slightly, and he unclenched his fingers, reluctantly releasing Gen's hand. His face was already taking on its usual expression of concentration, but the shadow of recent vulnerability could still be read in his eyes.

When they came out to the others, Xeno, always attentive to details, immediately noticed something was wrong. Senku was keeping slightly behind Gen, which was completely uncharacteristic for him, and his usual confident gait, as if he walked along his own trajectory visible only to him, had become more cautious, almost timid. The American frowned, his gaze keenly studying his colleague, trying to understand the reason for these unusual changes.

"Senku, are you alright?" he asked directly, and his voice sounded worried. "You look a bit pale."

"You know what?" Gen intervened with his usual light smile, elegantly positioning himself slightly in front of Senku, as if taking the blow upon himself. "Our Senku is feeling a bit unwell today. Too much work, too little sleep. He just needs rest."

"Gen, I said everything's fine..." Senku began, trying to regain control of the situation, but the mentalist gently but insistently placed a hand on his shoulder.

"And that's exactly why," Gen continued, addressing the others, "let's be a bit more delicate with him today, okay? Maybe someone else can handle recording the readings so our main brain can just observe and control the process?"

"Of course!" Chrome immediately responded, always ready to help. "I can write down all the data!"

"And I'll help with calculations," Xeno added, while his gaze still continued to slide studyingly over Senku.

Senku looked slightly embarrassed by such attention, which he usually rejected, but this time he only nodded, accepting their help.

"Thank you," he said quietly. "This... this will help."

The rest of the day passed in the usual bustle of mission preparation. The tests continued, but Senku really did allow others to take on part of the work, although Gen saw how he nervously glanced at the instruments, as if not fully trusting his calculations to other hands. Gen didn't leave his side for a moment, finding any reasons to stay nearby — helping with moving equipment here, clarifying some details there. His presence had a calming effect on Senku, although he didn't admit it out loud.

By the time the sun began to lean toward the horizon, even Chrome noticed that Senku looked less exhausted than usual. And when Gen suggested finishing for today, he didn't object — which in itself was a small miracle.

Later, evening descended on the Kingdom of Science in soft golden hues, unhurriedly painting everything around in honey tones. Under a large wooden canopy that served as the common dining area, oil lamps burned, their warm gleams dancing on the long table made of roughly processed boards. Around it were arranged the small houses of the settlement's residents, from whose windows soft, inviting light also broke through. Somewhere in the distance voices could be heard — someone discussing plans for tomorrow, someone laughing at jokes, creating the noise of peaceful life.

Gen sat at the table, across from him were Taiju, Yuzuriha, and Chrome. And while these three were chatting animatedly, Gen sat quietly, absentmindedly poking at the rice in his bowl with chopsticks. His thoughts were clearly far from here, each piece of food seemed tasteless.

"...and so imagine," Taiju was telling with enthusiasm, energetically waving his arms, almost hitting Yuzuriha's bowl, "I was so hungry after training that I went into the shop near school and bought five onigiri at once! Five! The saleswoman looked at me like I was crazy!"

"A shop?" Chrome leaned forward, his eyes lighting up with curiosity. "Wait, you're saying that before you could just walk up to some place and get any food there? Just like that? You didn't need to hunt, grow, or cook it yourself?"

"Well, yeah," Taiju scratched the back of his head, as if only now realizing how strange this sounded to a person from the Stone Age. "You just walked in, took what you wanted from the shelf, paid money and left. Everything was there — rice, meat, vegetables, sweets..."

"That sounds like a miracle," Chrome whispered admiringly. "Senku told me about this, but I thought he was exaggerating! So nobody went hungry before?"

"Well, not exactly," Yuzuriha interjected with a soft smile. "You needed money to buy food. But yes, overall getting food was much easier than now."

"Incredible," Chrome shook his head.

A short pause hung in the air, during which everyone thought about their own things. Taiju returned to his food, Yuzuriha smiled quietly at her thoughts, and Chrome was still digesting the information about shops.

Gen took advantage of this pause, having silently observed the conversation all this time. Finally, he set aside his chopsticks and carefully said:

"Tell me," his voice sounded quieter than usual, with notes of worry, "have you noticed anything strange with Senku lately?"

Taiju immediately set aside his bowl, and his face became serious.

"Yes," he said, his voice sounding deeply concerned. "He became... different. Before, Senku could fall asleep anywhere — on the laboratory floor, at the table with blueprints. But now I often see light in the laboratory in the middle of the night, he doesn't sleep at all."

"And he became very skittish," Yuzuriha added, frowning. "Remember how before he could work right during explosions? But yesterday, when Taiju suddenly approached him from behind, he almost jumped in fright."

"And he constantly looks back," Chrome said in a whisper. "Like he's hiding from someone. And you know..." he lowered his voice even more, "I think he doesn't want to be alone anymore. Before, Senku could sit in the laboratory for hours without people, but now he always asks someone to stay with him."

"But he never talks to us about it," Taiju added sadly, and his usually cheerful face was clouded with worry. "Every time I ask, he immediately changes the subject."

Gen nodded, feeling the weight on his heart intensify.

"I noticed that too. He avoids any serious conversations about himself."

Xeno approached the table but stopped nearby, clearly having heard fragments of the conversation. On his face was a strange expression — a mixture of understanding, as if he recognized something familiar, and something resembling guilt, as if he were somehow involved in this.

"Sorry for eavesdropping," he said quietly, coming closer, "but you're talking about Senku?"

"Yes," Gen answered, and for some reason his gaze filled with hope for help. "Sit down."

Xeno slowly and hesitantly lowered himself onto the bench. For several seconds he was silent, and then sighed heavily, as if gathering his strength.

"I know what's happening to him," he said, his voice was quiet but there was firmness in it. "I saw it in soldiers after the war. Usually develops after events that leave a deep mark on the psyche. It's called post-traumatic stress disorder."

Everyone at the table fell silent, and tense silence hung in the air.

"Flinching at loud sounds — sharp, unexpected ones. Constant vigilance, as if the person is waiting for an attack at any moment. Sleep problems, nightmares. Avoiding everything that might remind them of the traumatic event," Xeno listed the signs slowly, as if deliberately intimidating. "And also... attempts to drown it all out with work, excessive activity, any way not to think about what happened."

Taiju turned pale.

"That's... that's all about Senku."

"Correct," Xeno looked away.

"Can it be treated?" Chrome asked, and desperation could be heard in his voice.

Xeno sighed, his shoulders dropping.

"In our world? With our capabilities?" he shook his head bitterly. "Usually long-term therapy is needed, specialists who will help work through the trauma. All we have is us."

"But we can help him, right?" Taiju asked anxiously, clenching his fists. "We're his friends! We have to be there for him!"

"We can," Gen nodded, but uncertainty could be heard in his voice, as if he himself didn't know how to do it. "But the main thing is — he has to want to accept this help himself. And that, perhaps, is the hardest part."

At that moment a familiar figure headed toward them. Senku was walking with a light, confident gait, a satisfied smile playing on his face — apparently, in his genius brain an answer to another complex problem had been born. Everyone at the table instantly fell silent and turned toward him. Their gazes were full of expectation, and the atmosphere became tense — everyone carefully studied his face, as if trying to read hidden thoughts, looking for the slightest signs of fatigue or anxiety that could reveal his true state.

"Hi everyone," Senku said lively and energetically. He sat down next to Gen and, as always, gently touched his shoulder with his own, while in his eyes burned that same warm light that appeared only when he looked at his beloved. "Finally finished recalculating the trajectory. Turns out we can save almost twelve percent of fuel if we change the angle of entry into lunar orbit."

Gen smiled in response, his heart filled with warmth from the familiar gesture, but Senku, despite his joy, immediately noticed something was wrong. He turned to the others and frowned slightly.

"What's the matter?" he asked, moving his gaze from one face to another. "You all look like I interrupted someone's funeral."

"No no, everything's fine!" Chrome responded too quickly. "Just... discussing plans for tomorrow!"

"For tomorrow?" Senku looked at him with genuine interest. "Excellent. I have ideas about improving the engine cooling system. Today's tests showed that the temperature in the combustion chamber..."

"Have you eaten?" Taiju suddenly interrupted him.

"Eaten?" Senku blinked, as if he'd heard something completely unexpected. "Um... no, haven't had time yet. Was busy with calculations, and when you're working with interesting data, time flies unnoticed."

"I'll bring you something," Yuzuriha immediately jumped up.

"No need, I'll do it myself..."

"No no, sit!" she was already heading to the kitchen, her words sounding like an order. "You need to rest!"

Senku looked after her in bewilderment, then at his friends again.

"Seriously, what's going on?" he asked, and his voice sounded softer, but a note of worry could be heard in it. "You're all acting strange."

He looked at Xeno, who had been silent all this time, his gaze fixed on the table.

"Xeno, you haven't said a word. That's not like you."

Xeno slowly raised his head, and in his eyes was so much guilt, so much unspoken pain, that Senku involuntarily frowned, feeling something disturbing being born in his soul.

"Xeno?" he called more gently. "Is everything alright?"

"Yes," he answered barely audibly. "Just... tired. Long day."

"I understand," Senku nodded. "By the way, I wanted to thank you for your help with the measurements today. Your notes are very accurate. That saved me a ton of time checking the data."

Xeno barely noticeably flinched at these words of gratitude, as if they caused him pain rather than relief.

"Don't mention it," he mumbled.

Yuzuriha returned with a full bowl and placed it in front of Senku.

"Eat while it's hot," she said with such care in her voice that Senku was even more surprised.

"Thanks," he took the chopsticks and looked at Gen. "Do you know what's going on? They're all so... over caring today."

Gen shrugged with an innocent look, forcing a slight smile.

"Maybe everyone's just in a good mood," he answered, but there was light tension in his voice.

Senku began to eat, continuing to talk enthusiastically about his calculations, not noticing how the others exchanged heavy glances behind his back, as if bound by some common secret. His animated speech about fuel ratios and orbital mechanics sounded the same as always, but now everyone saw what they had previously missed — how his hand trembled slightly holding the chopsticks, how he involuntarily flinched when a door slammed somewhere in the distance, how his eyes sometimes became absent for a second when he thought no one was looking.

While Senku was telling with genuine enthusiasm about his latest calculations, waving his chopsticks around, Gen watched him, trying to understand the person he loved.

Gen thought that the roots of Senku's problem went much deeper than just the events in America, which seemed to be only the last, most painful drop. It all started back then, at the very beginning, when Senku woke from centuries of stone sleep completely alone on an emptied planet. Gen remembered that rare, almost hard-won moment of openness when Senku, usually so closed off in his thoughts, told him about those first, most difficult months. He said that each day brought him only one wish: that at least one person, anyone who was dear to him, would come to life.

At the time, Gen didn't attach much importance to this, considering it natural longing for loved ones. Now he perfectly understood what a deep, incurable wound that absolute, oppressive loneliness had inflicted on Senku. Six months alone with a dead world, where the only sounds were the rustle of wind and his own footsteps — this would be a nightmare for any person, and for a sixteen-year-old teenager, which Senku was then, it became a real, crushing trauma. Science helped him not think about the loneliness, distracted him, but didn't heal the emptiness that had formed in his soul.

And also — although Senku never spoke about it out loud — Gen knew how much he wanted to see his father. Byakuya, who believed in him more than anyone, who left a message across millennia, who died long ago, and Senku would never see him alive again. Couldn't thank him for everything he had done for him. Couldn't show what he had become, what he had achieved. Couldn't simply hug him. Sometimes Gen noticed how Senku froze, looking at the stars, and in those moments understood — he was thinking about his father, about how he would look at their progress, would be proud of them. This was another loss that was impossible to fill, another wound that would never completely heal.

Then, when the world began to slowly come back to life, onto the shoulders of that same fragile teenager fell a monstrous, unthinkable responsibility. Gen thought about how unfair it was — to place on a young person, not yet strong either physically or morally, the burden of reviving all of human civilization. Senku, of course, accepted it as a given, as the only possible course of things, but at what cost? Each of his decisions, each action could affect the fates of hundreds of people, each mistake, even the most insignificant, threatened inevitable catastrophe. And, most terrifying of all, there was no one nearby who could share this unbearable weight, who could support him when his strength was running out.

But the last, crushing drop was the encounter with the Americans. Gen remembered that all-consuming terror frozen in Senku's eyes when Stanley's bullet pierced his chest, twice at that. He remembered how during the attack on their camp, Senku looked at his falling friends with an expression of absolute despair, as if the world was collapsing around him. For him, this wasn't just an attack — it was the collapse of all his plans, irrefutable proof that he, Senku, had failed to protect those for whom he had fought so desperately and was responsible for.

Gen understood that all these traumas had layered on top of each other, creating deep cracks in Senku's psyche that he heroically but futilely tried to hide behind his usual scientific passion. But the cracks hadn't gone anywhere. They manifested in small things: in how he involuntarily flinched at loud sounds, how he had nightmares from which he woke in cold sweat, how desperately he clung to loved ones, afraid of losing them, as if afraid of being alone again.

"...that's why I think if we change the diameter," Senku continued speaking, and in his voice sounded the same undiminished passion for science as always, "this will allow us to..."

But Gen now saw behind this passion something else — a desperate attempt to escape from pain, from fear, from unbearable reality into the only place where Senku felt safe. Into the world of formulas and experiments, where everything had a clear, logical explanation, where there was no place for irrational fears and emotional traumas.

And these moments were coming more and more often. In recent weeks, Gen noticed how Senku would stay up working until late at night, as if afraid to be alone with his thoughts. How he less and less often allowed himself to relax, more and more often found new tasks that required immediate solution. Work had become not just salvation — it had turned into an obsessive need, the only way to silence the internal chaos.

Late in the evening their bedroom was enveloped in the soft, golden glow of a single candle flickering on the writing desk. Senku once again sat bent over spread out blueprints, his hair disheveled falling onto his forehead, almost hiding his tired eyes. This was already a familiar picture: every evening he would stay up late, every night Gen fell asleep to the sound of a scratching pencil and the rustle of turning pages. The shadow from his figure swayed unevenly on the wall in rhythm with the restless flame, and the pile of written sheets with corrections and cross-outs next to him inexorably grew with each passing minute.

Gen lay on the bed, turned toward him, and silently observed this painfully familiar scene. He saw how Senku periodically stopped, tiredly rubbing the bridge of his nose with his index finger and thumb. He saw how tensely his shoulders clenched every time another formula stubbornly refused to work out. He watched how he kept crossing out what he had just written with barely restrained irritation, leaving on the paper traces of his growing dissatisfaction.

"Maybe that's enough for today?" Gen finally suggested quietly, and his voice, colored with care and light anxiety, sounded especially soft in the night silence of the bedroom.

"A little more," Senku responded mechanically, not even raising his head from the calculations. The pencil continued to scratch across the paper, leaving uneven, nervous lines. "Need to finish checking the navigation system."

"You've been working for fourteen hours straight already," Gen noted, slowly rising on his elbow and carefully studying his beloved's profile in the candlelight.

Senku froze, as if realizing for the first time how much time he had spent at the desk. He looked at the written page, where among correct symbols numerous cross-outs and corrections were scattered, and sighed heavily, hopelessly. Setting down the pencil with fingers trembling from exhaustion, he leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.

"I know. Just..." he admitted tiredly, slowly running his palm over his gaunt face, "want to make sure everything's right."

Gen rose from the bed and softly approached him, carefully embracing his tense shoulders from behind. He leaned down so that their faces were very close, and in the flickering candlelight the deep dark circles under Senku's eyes became especially noticeable, testifying to many sleepless nights.

"And when was the last time you were sure everything was right?" Gen whispered directly in his ear.

Senku thought about this simple question much longer than he should have. The silence dragged on, becoming more eloquent than any words.

"I don't remember," he finally admitted quietly.

Gen carefully grasped the armrests of the chair and slowly turned it so that Senku was facing him. The candlelight now fell directly on his haggard features, emphasizing every line of fatigue, every shadow under his eyes.

"Let's go to sleep," he said simply, without persuasion or explanations. "You'll deal with the rest tomorrow."

Senku slowly nodded, but his gaze still treacherously lingered on the unfinished calculations scattered across the desk. However, he had to obey — when Gen used precisely this tone, soft but brooking no objections, arguing was useless.

Gen noticed this hesitation — as he always noticed everything concerning Senku — and gently, almost weightlessly took his hand. Senku's fingers were cold and trembled slightly from deep exhaustion. Gen carefully, with that patience that comes only with true love, pulled him toward the bed.

He carefully sat Senku on the edge, and he obediently sat down. Gen stood behind him, and his hands reached for the disheveled hair. This hair, which during the day Senku carefully styled, he allowed to be let down only here, only with him.

"When did you last brush your hair?" Gen asked quietly.

"This morning, probably," Senku answered uncertainly, and his voice sounded surprisingly quiet, almost childishly guilty. "Or the day before yesterday. I don't remember exactly."

Gen didn't comment on this uncertainty — he already knew that Senku had been forgetting such simple things in recent days. Instead of words, he simply took from the table a wooden comb — the very one he had carved from wood several months ago. He began slowly running it through the white-green strands. Each movement was smooth, soothing, filled with that tenderness difficult to express in words. The comb glided from roots to tips, smoothing out tangled hair, and along with it seemingly smoothing out the tension in Senku's body.

"Tomorrow we need to check the seal on the hatches," Senku began quietly, and his voice sounded monotonous, like a memorized prayer spoken without thinking. But under the calming influence of the brushing, this voice gradually became more and more sleepy, more and more relaxed. "And review the entire communication system with Earth."

"Mhm-m," Gen responded quietly, with understanding, continuing his work. He had long since studied this strange habit of Senku's — to talk through all plans for tomorrow before sleep. "What else?"

"Full calibration of navigation instruments," Senku tilted his head back slightly, almost unconsciously, instinctively offering himself to these touches like a cat seeking affection, "detailed check of all fuel lines, comprehensive testing of emergency systems..."

Gen finished brushing and with a quiet sigh of satisfaction carefully put the comb back. Senku's hair now lay smooth, gleaming in the soft candlelight, looking well-groomed and beautiful. Gen walked around the bed and sat directly opposite Senku, their knees almost touching.

"And we absolutely need to recalculate the trajectory taking into account the latest data on solar activity," Senku continued, but his voice was already losing its previous mechanicalness, becoming more tired.

"Always work," Gen smiled gently, leaning forward and kissing the top of his head — a slow, tender kiss that lingered for a second longer than necessary. In his voice mixed sincere warmth and a barely perceptible, loving reproach. "Even in bed you're thinking about rockets."

Senku winced slightly at this display of affection, like an embarrassed cat being petted without permission. But a second later, that expression shifted into something softer, almost peaceful. Slowly, deliberately, he wrapped both arms around Gen's waist, pulling him closer with unhurried, lazy tenderness. Then he buried his face in his chest, pressing so close that his breath warmed the fabric of Gen's shirt, and mumbled something incoherent and almost childishly petulant. There was such a sense of vulnerability in this gesture, such a clear need for closeness, that Gen's heart was filled with a painful tenderness.

"What are you mumbling about?" Gen asked quietly, smiling as he ran his fingers through Senku's hair.

Senku only pressed closer in response, and Gen decided not to insist. Some moments don't need words.

Gen carefully nudged Senku to lie down, and he finally obeyed, sinking tiredly onto the pillow but not letting go of Gen. The mentalist lay down beside him, habitually pulling him close, and Senku immediately settled more comfortably, burying his face in Gen's chest again, as if this was his favorite place in the entire universe.

Yet even in the semi-darkness, he could feel how every muscle in Senku's body remained taut as a string. Tension radiated from him in waves, not allowing him to relax for even a second.

Senku lay motionless, his cheek resting near Gen's chest, where he could hear the steady beating of his lover's heart — a soothing rhythm that usually helped him fall asleep. Exhaustion covered him like a heavy blanket, his body demanding rest, but his mind refused to shut down. He weakly opened his eyes and saw several strands of Gen's hair softly falling onto his collarbones. Black and white, contrasting against each other. Beautiful. Senku thought that he had never told him this out loud. He should have. So many things should have been said, but his tongue wouldn't cooperate, and he didn't have the strength even for simple words. Should he start a conversation now or just pretend to be asleep, as he had done so many times before? Silence seemed easier, safer. But something inside whispered that today, after everything that had happened, silence would be a betrayal — both to Gen and to himself.

"It's just..." Senku paused, as if considering his words, and then slowly turned over onto his back, directing his gaze at the dark ceiling, "planning is calming. When you know what tomorrow will bring — it's easier to fall asleep."

Gen caught something disturbing in his intonation, something hidden beneath the surface of ordinary words, that made his heart painfully clench.

"Is something preventing you from falling asleep?" he asked carefully.

"Nothing in particular," Senku shrugged indefinitely. "Just... thoughts."

They lay in silence-filled semi-darkness for several long minutes, listening to the dying candle quietly crackle and hiss, as if counting down the last precious moments of its short life. Wax slowly dripped down the candlestick, forming bizarre patterns.

In this silence each was immersed in his own thoughts. Gen felt how something elusive but significant was changing in the atmosphere between them — not in a bad way, but becoming deeper, more sincere, penetrating into the most intimate corners of their souls, usually hidden from outside eyes.

"We need to get up early tomorrow," Gen said quietly, though he didn't want to move.

"Yes," Senku agreed, but he also didn't stir, his arm still calmly embracing Gen. "Ten more minutes?"

"Ten minutes," Gen agreed, quietly rejoicing at this small reprieve.

They settled more comfortably — Senku hugged Gen, pulling him close, Gen cozily settled on his chest, listening to the steady beating of his heart. The room became quiet, only the measured breathing of two lovers and distant sounds of the settlement falling asleep came from outside the window.

"Gen," Senku finally called quietly.

"M-m?"

"Thank you for staying with me, even when I'm not doing well."

Gen froze, and his heart began beating more anxiously. In these simple words was what he had been waiting for so long. A chance to draw out from Senku, from this genius hiding his pain under a mask of confidence, an admission of his weakness.

"Are you not doing well, Senku?" he asked, his voice full of tenderness and sincere desire to understand.

Senku was silent for a long time, and Gen almost decided he had fallen asleep when he heard a quiet, barely distinguishable answer:

"I can't imagine what it's called. But something's definitely not right."

"Can you tell me about it?" in Gen's voice was only tenderness, no pressure, only readiness to listen.

Senku lowered his head to better see Gen's face in the darkness, as his eyes searched for confirmation that he would be understood.

"You won't think I've lost my mind?"

"Never," Gen answered firmly. "Tell me."

Senku took a deep breath, as if gathering his last courage, collecting piece by piece the remnants of his will.

"Remember when I got frightened by the loud sound?" Senku began, and his voice sounded slow, as if he was struggling to find words to describe something that had been tormenting him until now. "For everyone it was just a noisy engine. But for me... it was a gunshot."

He fell silent, and his gaze was directed somewhere into the distance, as if he was seeing again that terrible scene that had imprinted itself in his memory.

"I felt pain in my chest," his voice became quieter with each word until it turned into a whisper. "I saw blood on my hands... And for a second... it seemed to me that I was dying. And then... that you were all dying too because of me."

Gen carefully took his hand, and his touch was tender but insistent.

"It wasn't because of you, Senku..."

"No, it was," Senku interrupted him firmly. "I led you there. I didn't foresee that the Americans could..." he swallowed, words stuck in his throat. "And you know what's worst of all? This doesn't only happen with loud sounds."

He turned to Gen, and in his eyes was such bottomless pain, such sincere anguish, that the mentalist's heart clenched.

"Sometimes I wake up and the first thing I do is check if you're breathing. Because in my sleep it seems to me that you're gone. That I'm alone again, like in those first months after petrification. And also sometimes it seems to me that if I relax even for a second, something terrible will happen again. That's why I'm constantly planning, calculating, trying to anticipate all possible threats. But the more I plan, the more I understand that not everything can be controlled."

Gen was silent, feeling pain growing in his chest for the person he loved more than life, for his suffering that he so diligently hid.

"And what's strangest..." Senku smiled bitterly, "before I believed that science could solve any problem. That any mystery has a solution, any difficulty is surmountable. But now... I don't know how to solve the problem with myself."

When Senku fell silent, Gen carefully sat up on the bed, turning to face him. He wanted Senku to see him, to feel his presence, his support.

"Senku," he began gently, "what you're describing... it's a normal reaction to what you went through. Your brain is trying to protect you from repeating the trauma. It's not your fault, and it doesn't mean you're weak."

"But I have to be strong," Senku said, his voice sounding tired, but there was stubborn firmness in it. "Everyone's counting on me. I have to be the one who saves them."

"And who said that acknowledging your own pain is weakness?" Gen took his hand, squeezing it tighter. "You went through hell and keep moving forward. You built an entire civilization, you're preparing a flight to the Moon, you're saving humanity. And at the same time every day you're fighting your own fears. If that's not strength, then I don't know what is."

"Gen..."

"No, listen," Gen's gaze was full of determination. "You don't have to deal with this alone. There are ways to help yourself, there are techniques that can make it easier..."

"Gen," Senku gently interrupted him. An surprisingly calm expression appeared on his face, as if he had suddenly found a way out. "No need to worry so much."

Gen fell silent, surprised by the sudden change in his tone, wary of this sudden clarity.

"I really, really appreciate your concern," Senku continued, looking directly into his eyes, and in his gaze was his former confidence, but now it seemed forced, artificial. "I really do. You can't imagine how much this means to me. But you shouldn't worry so much. I'll handle everything myself."

Gen was taken aback. After everything Senku had just told him, after the pain that had sounded in his voice, after the words he had spoken, he was again trying to reduce it all to a simple "I'll handle it."

"Senku, but you just said..."

"I said it, and I feel better," Senku smiled, and this smile was so sincere at first glance, so convincing, that one could almost believe it. "See? It was enough to just talk. Now I understand what's happening to me, and I'll be able to control it."

Gen couldn't smile back. In his eyes was pain for the person who even in moments of absolute openness couldn't allow himself to be vulnerable to the end, who was afraid to give himself the right to weakness.

"But..." he began, but Senku was already turning toward the wall, as if drawing a line under this conversation.

"Good night, Gen," Senku said with the same pretend-calm intonation, as if he had already returned to his familiar world.

He closed his eyes, and from his entire appearance it was clear that the conversation was over. But Gen saw how tense his shoulders were, how he was breathing too evenly — like a person who with all his might is trying to seem asleep, when in reality he's fighting his own pain.

"You know I care about what's happening to you?" Gen began, speaking to Senku's back. "When you suffer, I suffer too. These aren't 'problems' I'm forced to endure. This is part of you that I love too."

Senku was silent.

"You really did say that science can solve any problem," Gen's voice became quieter. "But what if some things don't need to be solved? What if they just need to be accepted and you need to learn to live with them?"

No answer.

"You don't have to be perfect, Senku," Gen whispered. "Not for me, not for the team, not for the whole world. You have the right to be human with your own fears and pain."

Senku's breathing remained even, but Gen knew he wasn't asleep.

"I'm not going anywhere," he finally said. "Whatever you think about yourself, whatever you try to take on — I'm not going anywhere. And if you're not ready to accept help, then I'll just be here. Until you're ready."

Gen knew that each of his words had hit the mark. He knew that Senku had heard and understood. But he had decided to pretend that the conversation hadn't happened. That he could simply close his eyes and pretend that the pain would disappear on its own.

Gen noticed how he gripped the pillow tighter, as if trying to keep himself from turning and speaking. He turned away and closed his eyes, feeling exhaustion pressing down on him like a lead weight. He had opened his heart to Senku, shown all the depth of his love and pain for him. And in response received a wall of silence. Maybe loving someone isn't only being there in difficult moments. Maybe it's also accepting the fact that sometimes people aren't ready to accept love. Even when they need it most.

Gen lay in the darkness, understanding that falling asleep tonight would be difficult for both of them. Anxiety had settled in his soul, which seemed to fill all the space, leaving room neither for peace nor for hope.

Morning greeted the Kingdom of Science with familiar hubbub that had long become its integral part — the pounding of hammers, clear voices of workers, the coordinated creaking of mechanisms foretelling great achievements. Gen woke from sunlight breaking through the window. He reached his hand to the side where Senku should have been lying, but the bed next to him was cold and empty. Gen sat up, tousling his hair, and looked around, his heart clenching with longing. On the table there was no usual note with an explanation of where Senku had gone — usually he always left them, knowing that Gen worried. But he had fled again at dawn.

After yesterday's conversation, Gen had expected anything but Senku simply disappearing without even saying goodbye.

Inside the hangar work was in full swing, people bustling about, preparing for new achievements. Senku sat at a long table piled with blueprints and calculations with a concentrated look. For several hours straight he had been tirelessly checking formulas, immersed in his familiar world of numbers and trajectories, as if trying to drown in familiar work.

But even among the monotonous rhythm of calculations, his thoughts treacherously returned to yesterday's conversation. To Gen's words that still sounded in his head, to that tenderness in his voice, to that boundless love that he expressed so openly. Senku understood — no, he knew — that Gen sincerely cared about him, that each of his words came from the heart itself. And this made everything even more painful.

Gen was his entire world — an anchor in a stormy sea, light in darkness, the only person with whom he could allow himself to be simply himself, and not the savior of humanity. How strongly he loved this amazing, perceptive, incredibly patient person who saw right through him and still stayed by his side. Everything in him cried out to accept this care, to trust it, to allow Gen to share his pain.

But he couldn't. He simply physically couldn't force himself to take this step. Every time he tried to truly open up, something inside him compressed into a tight knot, refusing to yield. As if the many-year habit of carrying everything alone had become a part inseparable from himself. He was afraid of becoming a burden, afraid of disappointing, afraid that if he showed the full depth of his weakness, Gen would understand that he had gotten involved with the wrong person.

Senku mechanically rewrote another formula, his hand moving automatically while his mind thrashed in desperation. He valued Gen so much, treasured every word, every gesture of his... but accepting this love seemed to him an impermissible luxury he had no right to.

Gradually these anxious reflections began to affect his work. Something was wrong, it was felt immediately. Numbers that previously came together in his head instantly and flawlessly now suddenly slipped away, evading him. He reread the same line three times before understanding its meaning, which was previously something unthinkable for him. The simplest calculations that he could do with his eyes closed suddenly required tremendous effort.

"Six times seven..." he muttered, frowning. "Forty... no, forty-two..."

He erased the wrong answer, sighed irritably, and rewrote it again. Then he stopped, staring at these numbers, at these simple signs that had suddenly become a mystery to him. When had he become so scattered?

Senku closed his eyes, trying to concentrate and gather his will into a fist. He needed to check the fuel consumption calculations — a critically important part of the mission on which many lives depended. But lines of formulas swam before his eyes, and in his head it was as if an impenetrable fog had formed, giving him no peace.

"Concentrate," he whispered to himself, trying to calm down. "Just focus. This is just fatigue, you can handle it."

But the more he tried to force his brain to work as usual, the worse it became. His breathing quickened, as if he were running a marathon. His palms instantly became sweaty, leaving wet traces on the paper. His heart began to beat faster — first barely noticeably, and then stronger and stronger.

Senku put down the pencil and pressed his hand to his chest, trying to calm this frantic rhythm. What's happening? This is just fatigue, just need to rest for a minute and everything will return to normal, just need to endure it, and everything will be as before.

But instead of the long-awaited relief, a new, all-consuming wave of anxiety washed over him. His heart was pounding so hard now that it seemed about to burst from his chest. Air became catastrophically insufficient — Senku greedily gulped it with his mouth, but oxygen seemed not to reach his lungs, depriving him of the ability to take a full breath.

"What... what's happening?" he whispered, his voice barely audible, hoarse from lack of air. Senku, struggling with mounting panic, gripped the edge of the table, his fingers turning white from the grip.

His hands began to tremble so violently that several sheets with calculations fell to the floor, scattering across it valuable formulas that now seemed to him a meaningless set of symbols. In his ears a deafening ringing grew, drowning out all other sounds, everything swam before his eyes.

Senku quickly looked around — people were working around him, but no one saw him. Kaseki was forging something, Chrome was checking connections. No one saw how the chief scientist of the Kingdom of Science was suffocating in broad daylight without any visible reason.

He stood up sharply, hoping at least somehow to cope with this nightmare, but his legs gave way, not obeying him. Staggering like a drunk, he reached the wall and slowly lowered himself to the floor, leaning his back against the rough boards. Senku pressed his knees to his chest, hid his head in his hands, trying to hide from the panic that had overwhelmed him, from the fear that he wouldn't cope.

"No, no, no," he whispered through his fingers. "Not now. Not now."

In his ears the ringing grew louder, his chest was squeezed in a vise, thoughts darted chaotically, finding no peace. But strangely, he wasn't thinking about the possibility he might die, not about a heart attack or sudden illness. Instead, his consciousness, gripped by panic, painted completely different pictures: what if someone from the team found him here? What if Gen walked into the laboratory and saw him, huddled against the wall, trembling and helpless? What if Chrome turned away from his instruments and noticed how his mentor was sitting on the floor, choking from panic?

This thought terrified him more than any physical pain. To imagine how they would see him — not a confident genius with answers to all questions, but a broken person who couldn't even cope with his own body — seemed unbearable. How would he look them in the eyes afterward? How would he lead projects, give instructions, instill confidence, if they saw him like this — weak, frightened, having lost control over the most basic thing — his own breathing?

At that moment Gen, gripped by anxiety, was searching for him everywhere, while his heart fluttered in his chest, sensing something was wrong. Right now he saw the familiar figure huddled against the wall, and horror reflected in his eyes. His heart clenched painfully when he understood what was happening, what exactly Senku was experiencing right now. Gen himself became frightened, but he forced himself to remain calm, gathering all his will into a fist.

He approached and carefully crouched down nearby, maintaining distance and not touching Senku, understanding that during a panic attack, when a person's mind is full of fear, even the gentlest touch could only worsen his condition.

"Senku," he called quietly, slowly approaching, trying not to frighten but to calm. "Listen to my voice. You're safe. You're in the laboratory, with me. There's no danger. Just breathe."

Senku continued breathing rapidly, his breathing was intermittent and shallow, and his hands still covered his face.

"Try to breathe slower," Gen said gently. "Don't rush. In and out."

He settled more comfortably, sitting down next to Senku on the cold floor, but still not touching him.

"I'm here," he repeated, hoping he would hear. "I'm not going anywhere. We're together."

Gradually, very slowly, Senku's breathing began to even out. He lowered his hands, opened his eyes, which were full of tears and fear, and his pupils narrowed, betraying his condition.

"Gen?" he whispered uncertainly, trying to focus his gaze.

"Yes, I'm here," Gen answered gently. "How do you feel?"

"I..." Senku tried to stand up, but Gen carefully held him by the shoulders.

"Don't rush. Sit a bit longer."

"What's happening to me?" Senku's voice trembled, betraying his weakness. "I couldn't breathe, my heart was beating so fast, I thought..."

"You had a panic attack," Gen explained quietly.

Senku raised his head and his eyes opened wide with surprise and disbelief. Such sincere amazement reflected on his face, as if Gen had just told him about something absolutely impossible.

He looked at Gen as if waiting for him to say he was joking, that it was some kind of mistake. Because panic attacks happened to other people — weak, unbalanced, unable to control themselves. But not to him. Not to Senku Ishigami, who always knew the answers to all questions and could handle any problem.

"But why?" he asked quietly. "Nothing happened."

"A panic attack doesn't always need a reason," Gen said sympathetically. "Sometimes the body just can't withstand accumulated stress."

He carefully extended his hand toward Senku, not touching, but making it clear he was ready to take it if Senku wanted.

"May I?" he asked, giving him the right to choose.

To Gen's surprise, Senku didn't even answer, but immediately touched his hand, as if it were the only thing that could calm him. Gen gently took his trembling hands in his own, began slowly stroking with his thumbs.

Gradually the ringing in his ears subsided, his heart slowed its frantic rhythm, allowing him to return to normal. Senku looked into Gen's eyes, as if drowning in them, clinging to their calmness like a life preserver.

"Better?" Gen asked carefully.

"Yes," Senku whispered. "Better. Thank you."

They sat in silence for several minutes, Senku gradually coming to himself, and Gen patiently waited, not hurrying him, giving him as much time as needed.

"Gen," Senku finally said, and in his voice sounded a new note that had previously been something impossible for him — not the former stubborn denial, not false confidence, but something resembling capitulation, an acknowledgment of his helplessness. "This is the third time this week."

Senku smiled weakly, it was more a defensive reaction, as there wasn't much funny here. Gen's eyes widened with realization. Three times. Three times in a week Senku had experienced such attacks — suffocating, losing control over his own body, thinking he was dying — and kept silent. Said nothing. Just silently endured, as he endured everything else in his life. And Gen hadn't even suspected.

"You know what's strangest? When it started..." he nodded at himself, "I wasn't thinking about possibly dying. I was thinking about you or, for example, Chrome seeing me sitting on the ground trembling. That everyone would see."

He raised his head, meeting Gen's gaze slowly and uncertainly, as if he needed to gather all his will to meet the eyes of someone who saw right through him.

"When I was alone after petrification," he suddenly began, "I thought I'd go crazy from the silence. You know what saved me? Work. Constant, continuous work. Calculations, experiments, planning. I loaded my brain so there was no time to think about... about being alone on the entire planet."

Gen listened silently, his gaze not leaving Senku's face.

"And now even work doesn't help. Before I could work eighteen hours straight. Solve equations even in my sleep. And this morning I forgot what six times seven is," Senku chuckled, but there was no cheer in the sound. "Counted on my fingers like a first-grader."

Senku raised his eyes again and looked at Gen — in that gaze flickered something pleading, almost childlike, as if he was seeking confirmation that he wouldn't be judged for weakness.

"I always knew what to do. Always. From the first day of awakening I had a plan — restore civilization, save humanity, reach the stars."

He fell silent, slowly lowering his head and looking at his hands resting in Gen's warm palms.

"But no one told me what to do when this happens to me."

There was no self-pity in his voice — only the confusion of a person who had lost the only support he was used to relying on.

"In America, when I was shot, I thought about only one thing: how to protect the team. Even lying in blood, I was calculating options. And now... now a loud sound can knock me off my feet."

Senku lowered his gaze, as if it became hard for him to meet eyes, and guilty notes sounded in his voice when he asked:

"Tell me honestly. Can you rely on a person who can't control himself?"

The question hung in the air between them. Gen knew that Senku was waiting not for consolation, but for truth.

"I don't know," Gen answered honestly. "But I know something else. I relied on you when you were alone against the whole world. When you bore responsibility for many people. When you did the impossible again and again."

Gen's gaze became softer, and something warm, almost painfully tender appeared in his eyes.

"I relied on you from the very beginning, when I myself didn't know whose side I was on," he continued. "When I wavered between Tsukasa and you, when I didn't understand who could be trusted. You accepted me even knowing I could betray again. I relied on you not because you're flawless. But because even with all the mistakes, with all the failures, you never gave up."

Senku listened without taking his eyes away, and something in his posture gradually changed. His shoulders straightened just a little, as if the weight he carried had become slightly lighter. In his red eyes flickered surprise — not for show, but real, as if he was hearing something like this about himself for the first time.

"And everyone else relied on you too," Gen continued, and firmer notes appeared in his voice. "Remember how many times plans went wrong? How many times we failed? But no one stopped believing in you. No one said: 'That's it, Senku can't be trusted anymore because he makes mistakes.'"

Something trembled in Senku's soul, as if he was realizing this simple truth for the first time. His lips parted slightly, as if he wanted to say something but changed his mind. His eyelashes trembled almost imperceptibly.

"Taiju still talks about you as if you can move mountains. Chrome is ready to go into fire if you say it's needed for science. Kohaku entrusted you with her sister's life. Xeno chose cooperation with you, not war."

Gen hesitated for a few moments, as if considering whether he should, then carefully, almost uncertainly, put his arm around Senku's shoulder. It was a light, soothing touch — so simple, yet in this moment it meant more than any words.

"You think they're all wrong?" Gen continued, and his hand slowly slid down Senku's back, caringly stroking the tense muscles between his shoulder blades. "You think they don't know about your fears and doubts? Of course they know. And they still rely on you."

Senku flinched slightly at the contact — not from surprise, but from how precisely Gen sensed where the tension had accumulated. His shoulders involuntarily relaxed under the gentle hand, and he found himself leaning closer.

"So if we accepted your failures at work, your mistakes in calculations, your failures in plans, why do you think we won't accept your personal problems?"

Something trembled in Senku's eyes — not just surprise, but something deeper, as if something inside had broken or, conversely, fallen into place. He slowly exhaled, and it sounded as if he had been holding his breath for a very long time.

"But this... this is different," he objected weakly, and such confusion could be heard in his voice, as if he himself didn't understand why he thought so.

"Why? Because it concerns you personally?"

Senku was silent, but the corners of his eyes turned slightly red, and his gaze became moist. He tried not to blink, as if afraid that the tears that had gathered there would break through.

"You know what Chrome does when an experiment doesn't work out for him?" Gen continued, and now a barely noticeable smile appeared in his voice. "He comes to you. Taiju, when he can't cope with heavy work? Calls the team. And what do you do when you face a problem you can't solve alone?"

Senku's lips trembled, and he bit his lower lip — an old habit that betrayed his anxiety.

"I try to solve it harder," he whispered, and these words sounded like a confession of something shameful.

"Exactly," Gen nodded understandingly. "And that's where you're wrong."

Silence hung in the air, and there was something fragile about it, like thin ice. Senku was looking at the floor, but from the way he tensed, it was clear he was waging some kind of struggle inside himself.

"It's... difficult for me," he finally admitted, and each word seemed to cause him physical pain. "I don't know how to ask for help in such a case..."

"Then don't ask," Gen gently squeezed his hand. "Just... when we offer help, don't refuse right away. When we see you're not doing well, don't pretend everything's fine."

Senku was silent for a long time. His breathing gradually evened out, and something new appeared in his red eyes — not relief, but something resembling weak hope. Then he nodded almost imperceptibly.

"Then..." Gen hesitated, studying his face carefully before continuing cautiously, "let me help you with this?"

Senku's reaction was immediate. He looked up, and something flashed in his eyes — so desperate yet so full of hope at the same time that it took Gen's breath away.

"Yes," Senku whispered so quickly, as if afraid Gen might change his mind if he hesitated even for a second. "Please."

His voice broke on that last word, and Gen saw how the corners of those remarkable eyes had reddened even more, how the tears Senku had been trying so hard to hold back finally welled up to the very edge, ready to spill over at any moment. And yet there was such openness in his gaze, such vulnerable gratitude, as if Gen had just offered him not help, but salvation itself.

"Of course," Gen's answer came out so naturally and warmly, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. There wasn't a trace of doubt in his voice, not a shadow of hesitation — only the quiet certainty of someone who had made their decision long ago.

And in this moment there was only quiet, deep acceptance of the fact that some battles cannot be won alone.

Somewhere in the distance familiar sounds could be heard: the pounding of hammers, the hissing of chemical reactions, the voices of comrades discussing plans for tomorrow. Life went on its course, measured and predictable. The Kingdom of Science didn't stop, didn't freeze in anticipation — it simply continued to exist, proving to Senku what he had so long refused to accept: the world wouldn't collapse if he allowed himself to be vulnerable. What had happened now wasn't healing — there was still a long road ahead of him, full of setbacks and small victories — but something more important.

The first step from the habit of carrying everything on his shoulders to readiness to entrust someone with his pain.

Gen looked at Senku and thought that perhaps right now he was witnessing the most important experiment of his life — an experiment to figure out what it means to be simply human. Not the savior of humanity, not the bearer of all answers, not the one who must be strong for others. Simply a human who has the right to fear, to weakness, to be supported when he falls. And that love is measured not by the absence of problems, but by the willingness to honestly share these problems.

"You know," Senku suddenly smiled, and this smile was strange — melancholic, a bit sad, but at the same time bright, as if after a long, exhausting illness he had felt for the first time the taste of fresh air, "I should probably... try to work less. At least a little."

Gen felt something clench in his chest — not from pain, but from unexpected hope. He carefully smiled back, trying not to scare away this rare, precious moment of openness.

"That's already progress," he said gently. "To get started, you can try finishing work before midnight. Revolutionary idea, I know."

Senku quietly chuckled, shaking his head so that his bangs fell over his eyes. He tucked them behind his ear with an automatic gesture, and in this simple movement there was so much familiar humanity that Gen's heart ached.

"Midnight sounds like an impossible dream," Senku admitted, and his voice was surprisingly calm, devoid of usual tension. He paused, his gaze became more serious, focused. "Gen... I probably don't tell you important things often enough. Too busy with calculations and plans. And then time passes, and I realize that in a whole day I haven't said anything except 'pass me that device.'"

Gen listened attentively, feeling that something important was about to be said.

"I love you," Senku said this almost matter-of-factly, but his fingers squeezed Gen's hand tighter, betraying his agitation, and barely noticeable wrinkles of embarrassment appeared in the corners of his eyes. "I know I've said this before, but... not as often as I should have. You do so much for me, put up with all this..." he waved indefinitely with his free hand, "and I don't even bother to properly tell you how important you are to me."

Something warm and simultaneously painful spread through Gen's chest, and he felt his eyes treacherously moisten. He blinked quickly, trying to hide the tears, but knew that Senku had noticed anyway.

"I always knew that. Even when you were silent," he ran his thumb over Senku's knuckles, slowly, tenderly. "But... yes, I wouldn't mind hearing it more often."

Senku carefully pulled Gen closer, embracing him as if afraid he might disappear.

"I love you too," Gen intertwined their fingers, feeling how their palms fit each other perfectly. "Even when you're stubborn. Even when you refuse to sleep. Even when you try to convince me that you're fine when you're not."

"That sounds more like a complaint," Senku tried to joke, but tenderness could be heard in his voice.

"That sounds like the truth," Gen parried, pulling back slightly to look into his eyes. "And the truth is that we'll manage. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow. But we'll manage."

Senku nodded, and in this nod was more hope, more faith in the future than he had allowed himself to feel during these last long, exhausting months.

They fell silent, listening to distant sounds of work — muffled voices, the clatter of instruments, all those familiar noises that meant life went on, that the world hadn't stopped while they sat here together.

"I wish I could take a vacation," Senku suddenly admitted, and sincere, childlike dreaminess sounded in his voice. "Go somewhere for a week, to the sea, for example. Watch the waves and not think about anything."

"But you can't," Gen finished for him, though in his words was only understanding.

"Not now," Senku agreed with regret in his gaze. "The Moon mission is too important. Too many unsolved problems, too many people depending on us doing everything right. But... maybe after? When we return from the Moon?"

"Definitely after," Gen said firmly. "I won't let you go alone, so get ready for company."

"I wasn't planning to go alone," Senku smiled slightly. "What's the point without you?"

Gen leaned in and touched his lips to Senku's — slowly, without haste. They met softly, and Senku responded to the kiss, lifting his chin. Gen ran his hand along his cheek, lingered for a moment, then pulled back, their faces still remaining close to each other.

"I'm proud of you," he whispered, pulling back just enough to see Senku's face. "You know that?"

Senku blinked, clearly not expecting to hear such a thing.

"For what?"

"For letting me help. For not giving up, even though it was difficult. For being here, with me, and being ready to try," Gen ran his thumb along his cheek, feeling warm skin under his fingers. "That takes more courage than any flight to the Moon."

Senku looked at him silently, eyes wide open, as if not believing what he had just heard. These words — so simple, so ordinary for someone else — meant everything to him.

A second later tears flowed down his cheeks on their own.

He didn't even try to hold them back — just pulled Gen to himself and hid his face on his shoulder. Because finally, after so many months, he had heard what he needed most in the world.

Gen hugged him tighter, one hand soothingly stroking his back, the other tangled in his hair. He didn't say anything — words weren't needed. Just held him, allowing Senku to release what he had kept inside for so long.

"Then... I'll try not to disappoint you," Senku finally whispered.

"You've never disappointed me," Gen answered. "And you won't start now."