Chapter Text
Chapter 1: Bitter Morning Coffee
On a spring morning, Gen woke before his alarm rang.
In recent years, he had often awakened before the sun greeted the day. Sometimes it was because of the villagers’ singing when a fishing line caught a large fish, or Ginro’s screams when Kohaku struck him with her spear and mocked him as a useless village guard.
Years later, he rose early because of his routine as the right hand of the Kingdom of Science’s leader. Even after Senkuu had broken his waist throughout the night, he still had to get up and take care of the former Tsukasa Empire members who wandered about like lost chicks.
A few months after that, he would wake because of waves crashing against the ship’s hull—forcing the contents of his stomach, which had been “shaken all night” by a curious scientist, to spill out with that final jolt.
Honestly, as annoying as Senkuu was in bed, Gen had to be grateful. The scientist always held him whenever he woke from the echoes of gunfire and bombs from the war in South America that lingered in his memory.
But today, Gen did not wake from any of those torments.
He awoke to warmth skin he knew so well, wrapped in soft yet rumpled sheets, inside a small but living apartment.
“I love you, Senkuu-chan,” he whispered.
The kiss he placed on Senkuu’s forehead was gentle, right above the stone scar that had long since faded. Senkuu’s brows furrowed like a child unwilling to be disturbed, making Gen laugh softly and kiss him again.
Gen pulled back, smiling faintly like someone who had finally won something he had never dared to celebrate. His hand randomly grabbed a NASA T-shirt and slipped it over his body until the hem reached his knees. At some point, the scientist had grown nearly as tall as him.
“Maybe… even taller than me?” he murmured.
He pressed the wrinkled fabric to his face, breathing in the familiar scent of coffee and chemicals that always clung to his scientist.
Senkuu’s apartment was large enough for two people, yet it felt small and alive. Perhaps because Gen kept buying strange things at random—things his roommate thankfully never commented on.
A bundle of old newspapers featuring Senkuu’s genius with his apathetic face on the front page, a cloth doll shaped like Senkuu made by a capitalist company under the excuse of “for fans,” and cute magnets shaped like vegetables and animal heads that multiplied on the refrigerator door every week.
It looked more like a family apartment than the home of a scientist obsessed with efficiency.
All of it existed because of Gen—who now filled the kitchen with the sound of boiling water, stirring spoons, the hum of a coffee grinder, and a melody that drifted through his mind at random.
Today felt… right.
“You’re awake.”
That baritone voice sent a shiver up his spine, reminding him of what had happened the night before.When he turned around, there stood the panda-eyed scientist in the kitchen doorway, hair messy and eyes heavy with sleep. Senkuu looked like wilted mustard greens refusing to leave the soil—or in this case, their bed.
“Senkuu-chan! Good morning.”
Gen forgot about his soup, rushed over, hugged the sleepy scientist, and kissed him.
“I dreamed of Kaseki-chan fish soup, so I thought I’d make it this morning. If I remember correctly, fish soup restores energy. It’s far more useful than those canned energy drinks you keep on your lab desk.”
“Hmn. Hmn.”
The reply was unclear. Senkuu leaned forward for more kisses, his hands finding Gen’s slim waist and wrapping around him like a giant koala clinging to a tree. Gen pushed Senkuu’s head away with a ladle, refusing gently though the crease between his brows deepened.
“No French kisses in the morning,” he scolded. “Wash your face and eat. You said you’d test that new device that lets you reconstruct weathered statues—or whatever it is—with Xeno-chan today, right?”
“Tch—damn it,” Senkuu groaned.
He released Gen and trudged unwillingly to the bathroom. His muttered curses toward his science mentor, Dr. Xeno, sounded sincere enough to earn sympathy even from fools.
“I hope Stanley-chan doesn’t hear that,” Gen prayed.
As much as he loved Senkuu, it would be a problem if the scientist’s life was threatened again for insulting a sniper’s husband. Senkuu wasn’t mustard greens that could simply grow back when replanted, after all.
Lately, Senkuu had become a little… too sweet to endure.
Senkuu was never good with emotions, but his… sweetness… was enough to make Gen believe they were finally walking in the same direction. After all, Gen was not a Mentalist with an empty title. He stood beside Senkuu for a reason—he alone truly understood the genius’s thoughts without the need for sarcasm.
They understood each other.
They had been together for so long, wrestling on the same bed until Senkuu began to grow faint stubble. So long that Gen wondered how far this small togetherness would continue. How much he wanted to preserve it—and perhaps… take another step. The signs were there, and as a Mentalist who had become his right hand, Gen knew he had enough place in Senkuu’s heart to try. Closer than a friend, yet not quite family.
“A wise Mentalist knows when to gamble,” he resolved.
Gen served the fish soup in small bowls and waited for Senkuu to come eat with him. Thin steam rose slowly. When the clock hand shifted, Senkuu returned with a livelier face. A white lab coat that still smelled of disinfectant draped over his tall body. He turned on the coffee machine, brewed coffee strong enough to keep him awake for twelve hours, and naturally sat across from Gen.
“What’s your plan today?” Senkuu asked.
He picked up his chopsticks and carefully separated the fish from its bones—a habit formed long ago after learning that his Mentalist often choked on them. Later, he would give the clean meat to Gen.
People joked that Senkuu fed his pet cat. But to Gen’s love-struck mind, it translated into affection that made him melt.
Gen smiled widely, resting his chin on his palm as he obediently waited for food from his master.
“Reconstruction is going smoothly. There aren’t many disputes threatening it. So I think I can stop working as a diplomat and stay here.”
“Oh, that’s good,” Senkuu sighed in relief. His gaze stayed on the fish, but the crease in his brow softened as if hearing good news.
Of course, that meant they would be together more now. Maybe this was the time to try. Gen cleared his throat, seeking Senkuu’s full attention. “I’ve been thinking about our relationship.”
Senkuu set down his chopsticks and looked straight at Gen. “Coincidence. I was thinking the same thing.”
Gen blinked rapidly, his heart racing as his smile widened.
“Really?”
“Hmn.”
“That’s great!” Gen clapped his hands. “You go first.”
Senkuu glanced at his phone, typed something, then sighed heavily.
“This kind of relationship can’t go on like this.”
Gen nodded slowly, his smile unbroken. “You’re right. We can move to the next step.”
Gen stood up from his chair, pretending to reach for tissues in the kitchen cabinet. In truth, his hand was searching for the small box he had hidden there for weeks, between tea bags and biscuit tins, blending in with the black box where he kept Senkuu’s favorite coffee beans. A simple wooden box. No polish. No carvings. A place where he had stored his feelings for almost ten years.
Gen turned back, hiding the box behind his back. One hand pressed against his chest, trying to calm his pounding heart. No matter how skilled a Mentalist was at controlling emotions, proposing to the one you loved was always nerve-wracking, wasn’t it?
“Gen.”
His name was spoken in a low voice that made his legs tremble. Senkuu pulled a piece of paper from inside his lab coat. Gen felt as if he already knew what it was—as if that scrap of paper would change his entire life.
“Is… Senkuu-chan going to propose to me? No, wait… I should go first.”
“Senkuu-chan… from long ago, I’ve loved—”
“I’m going to marry Kohaku.”
The sentence fell without mercy.
There was no crash. No shattering. No warning. Only a small click inside Gen’s head, like a switch being turned off, like scissors cutting a single thread.
Sanity and hope, tied to one fragile strand.
His hand froze in the air, still holding the box. The kitchen narrowed like the sword box he once used for his magic performances. The smell of fish soup suddenly became too strong, making his stomach churn and his face turn pale. His breathing lost its rhythm, as if his lungs had simply shrunk.
“Marry?” he repeated, as if tasting the word on his own tongue.
It tasted like coffee that was too bitter.
“Senkuu-chan and… Kohaku-chan?”
“Yes,” Senkuu replied. His shoulders lifted heavily, as though burdened by the reluctance of explaining something important to an outsider.
Gen clenched the box tightly, as if he wanted to crush it into fragments. The saliva sliding down his throat burned, as though soft flesh had been scraped by broken glass.
“The reason?”
Senkuu unfolded a piece of paper with Kohaku and Senkuu’s names written on the first line—both bearing the Ishigami surname. A piece of paper waiting to be officially validated.
“The reason isn’t important. People think we suit each other because we’re the astronaut pair who saved the world.”
“Then… what about us?” Gen asked hesitantly.
Wasn’t Gen also one of those who helped save the world? Even if he did not risk his life in an astronaut’s seat, he united people throughout the global expedition. He had even become a diplomat afterward at Senkuu’s own request.
He was part of it too, wasn’t he?
Senkuu turned his face away, refusing to let Gen read his expression. “We can end this friends-with-benefits relationship.”
“So you’re no longer interested in me—”
“That’s not what I mean,” Senkuu answered as quickly as the question came. “It’s just… not now. You’ll understand when the time comes.”
The last words were whispered so low that Gen could not hear them.
Gen lowered his head, like a gambler about to lose all his fortune. He tried to use his mentalism, trying to reason why Senkuu was acting so strangely all of a sudden. While he was trapped in the fog of his thoughts, the scientist slowly explained himself.
“The public thinks it’s fitting if I marry Kohaku, like Byakuya married Lillian. That damn Kokuyo pressured me with moral reasons—whatever those are, I’m sure you understand them better than I do. Some people want me to pass on my brain genes like a child-printing machine, so many female scientists have offered themselves. So I reached one conclusion: marriage status will protect me from forced matches with foreign scientists. There are many good candidates, but I chose Kohaku because she’s appropriate—and she can defend herself if trouble arises.”
A small spark of hope peeked through the darkness. Gen dared to gamble. “So it’s because of efficiency? That’s good. You don’t love each other.”
Gen stepped back in order to advance. A tactic he believed he could win. His right hand searched the kitchen drawer, its creak echoing in rhythm with his heartbeat. He desperately sought the last object that might let him win this gamble. He rummaged without caring if his fingers met knife edges or scraped glass.
“I… I have several plans to solve your problem. The public only needs a small lie to calm down. And I think Kokuyo-chan is just worried his tomboy daughter won’t get married. After all, Ruri-chan is already married, and a good father always fears he can’t protect his daughters forever. It won’t be hard to convince him.”
Among receipts and cutlery, the small stick carried a weight heavier than a human life. When his fingers felt its ridged surface, he gripped it tightly as if it would save “them.”
“If it’s about children… I can—”
“You don’t need to trouble yourself.” Senkuu interrupted him. His hands, rough from a lifetime of experiments, tapped the edge of the paper lying on the table, the paper that wrote death over Gen’s name.
“We will announce our marriage tonight at the Nobel ceremony. It’s too late for you to carry out your plan, my Mentalist.”
The heavy weight of the small pink stick in his hand now felt as light as a feather. As if it had never had value at all. Gen shook his head, swallowing the bitter saliva choking his throat. “Wait, Senkuu-chan. You know me, right? Your sly Mentalist? I can do it. About that problem… children… our… children… I—”
“Useless!”
A phantom memory flashed in his mind: parents shouting at the doorway, pushing an ugly cat outside into the spring air blurred by rain. Cold sweat soaked his back. The words rang as clearly as deafening screams cold as ice poured over his head.
“Useless child. I’m cursed for giving birth to a useless futaneko like you. Ugly! Filthy! You’d be better off dead, or you’ll curse your husband and all your descendants!”
And… perhaps his parents were right.
That spring morning, after that terrible flashback, he found himself sitting on the floor with both hands bound behind his back, desperately hiding the object that had been precious for weeks and was now nothing but trash.
Before him, Senkuu knelt with a worried face, his eyes fixed on Gen’s bleeding legs, scratched and now wrapped in bandages. Glass shards had cut him, somehow the entire contents of the drawer had spilled onto the floor. One shard left a long wound along his calf, another peeled his toenail. Not serious enough for a hospital, but enough to leave ugly scars.
“What’s wrong with you? Why weren’t you careful?”
The scolding would have felt warm if Gen’s heart were not in chaos, so chaotic his mind no longer worked properly.
“I’m sorry. I was careless.”
Senkuu shook his head. The whisper “This is my fault” was clearly heard, yet Gen could not process it. He simply stared at the man who carefully treated his wounds.
“Senkuu-chan,” he called after the scientist finished bandaging him.
“Hmn.”
“I love you,” he said, smiling.
“Hmn.”
“Senkuu-chan,” he called again as the scientist seated him at the dining table, gave him a plate of boneless fish, and soup that had sadly turned lukewarm after being ignored too long.
“Hmn.”
“I really love you,” he said with eyes closed and lips sealed.
“Senkuu-chan,” he called one last time, when the scientist carried his work bag and said goodbye as Gen saw him off in the hallway of their small apartment.
“Hmn.”
“I will always love you,” he said, head lowered, his smile no longer forming.
The creak of wood echoed as the door closed, swallowing whatever reply Senkuu gave from the other side of the boundary between them. Gen leaned his forehead against the door, swallowing the sob that gnawed at his throat. Tears fell, soaking the wooden box in his left hand and the flat plastic stick with two lines in his right.
Drowning them both.
On a spring morning, Gen left what perhaps had never truly accepted his existence.
He wished for the spring storm to erase all the fallen petals.
.
.
.