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There was always something.
A question here, a task there. Advice here and labor there.
Gen just couldn’t seem to stop helping.
It hadn’t just started after his petrification and revival. His whole life had been the same story.
His parent’s marriage? He’d been the glue. It was how he’d learned to read others; predict their needs and grievances before they could fester or explode. It was so he could protect himself and the fragile peace under his home’s roof. Stop the fights before they ever started. Stay capable enough (even when as young as 7 years old) so as not to require more care than either adult could afford him on any given day.
But he’d made it work. At least, until he was able to escape into the illustrious world of show business.
There, he’d learned to read others for a new purpose. Not just to serve them, but to also serve himself. If he could stay aloof long enough to get what he wanted while making others think they’d stayed in control all the while, then it was a win-win for everyone involved. It was how he skyrocketed to fame so quickly. How he managed to build a small empire on magic and mentalism before the age of 20. He fed others exactly what they wanted from him.
And Gen?
He got money. A cult following. The guise of professionalism. Peace of mind. Stability, in some semblance of the word.
But here? In this new stone world? Gen had to start all over.
With Tsukasa, he’d played the role of benevolent follower from day one. Someone capable of being trusted. Someone too eager to please to ever be doubted. And so, he helped him. Not in the way the other had ever wanted, no. But instead in a way Gen saw he needed it. In a way that benefitted Gen just as much as it did the other.
Tsukasa’s army—his Kingdom of Might—was built on the fragile, horrific ideal that adults and those with power were not worthy of carrying on a legacy. Of rejoining the new world.
They’d turned to irreparable, avoidable violence, and that was simply not something Gen could get behind.
So what did Gen do?
He helped lead the man down a path of redemption.
He helped him by lying and manipulating and leading him astray from his goal with the hope that none other than the dead man Tsukasa had sent the mentalist to find could someday be his salvation.
Then Senku was next.
While, arguably, the easiest in figuring out how best he could be of use to the acquaintance, the work itself was certainly the hardest. Physical, back breaking labor. Hours upon hours worth, until his hands were red at the end of the day and his breath escaped his carefully-crafted guise of control.
But when he first saw that exhilarating, unbridled joy in the other after having given his all—watched as man-made light was brought back to a world long since dimmed—Gen’s mind had forever been made up. He’d do anything for Senku. He’d given him more than his all.
Even if that meant putting himself in dangerous situations, like with Hyoga.
He’d do it over and over again, without hesitation.
Sure, Senku still asked things of him, arguably more than anyone else, but his selfishness had never been as crass as he’d tried to play off.
So, yes, he asked things of Gen, but not because he knew the other would do it. Not because he could take advantage of him. But rather, because he knew only Gen had the skillsets he gratifyingly boasted about for all to take witness to. That he was proud of. That he genuinely enjoyed performing in such ways.
Especially in such instances as when he’d devised a plan all on his own to use said skills to earn himself a ticket straight to Hell.
He was no longer expendable, but rather an asset. Something to be coveted. Desired and cherished. More so than for what he could offer others, but rather for who he was.
That was why Gen stayed.
After that, he shifted focus towards helping the Kingdom of Science out of adoration, rather than duty.
Sure, there were still moments in which he felt taken advantage of; like making him drive the tank because he was the only one with a driver’s license (really, Senku?), and sending him on a suicide mission back into the heart of the Kingdom of Might because he was the only one that knew the lay of the land, despite the integral necessity of his skillset way back in Ishigami Village to ensure the plan’s success.
But he let those instances slide.
After all, he’d grown used to it long, long ago.
The fact that his only sense of value was entirely dependent on what others could stand to gain from having him around—what he provided for them in return.
Regardless, over the span of his first year after revival, he’d found equilibrium once more in the new world. He finally got to help others with a sense of pride and a love for his trade. No strings attached. Well, besides the continued manual labor he’d gotten progressively better at avoiding.
Instead, his favorite way of earning his stay was to perform for the children of Ishigami Village. He showed them awe-inspiring tricks and dazzling illusions, earning their adoration and trust in return. They’d been weary of him upon his initial arrival at the village—understandably so. This had been the least he could do to help provide a sense of ease at his arrival and continued stay on the outskirts of the village.
It brought him joy. Almost as if he were getting just as much out of the gigs as they were.
Then, after the Kingdom of Might’s defeat, he’d been given new tasks.
Expectations.
‘Keep things from falling apart between the now joined groups.’
This was the first chip in his meticulously constructed mask before they just kept coming.
He became a peace-keeper overnight. Like with his parents all over again.
Everyone had just assumed he’d take on the role. He can’t even remember anyone offering him the job. Just a question here, and then a warning about in-fighting there. Before he knew it, he alone was responsible for keeping the entire merger from collapsing at their feet.
To say it was taxing would have been an understatement.
But, if he stepped down—ever told anyone he couldn’t care less about their benign spat—or relinquished the unofficial role to another, what would be left for him?
Senku had real laborers now. He had a workforce.
Gen was only good as a puffed up babysitter for so long, no matter how much he had enjoyed it.
So if this was how he continued to earn respect and a place at the others’ sides, he would do it.
Again.
Despite the years of regret the first go-around had left him with well before petrification.
Because this time, at least they thanked him.
After helping Yuzuriha with her first fashion store designs, she’d praised him for being such a ‘good friend’. After providing Taiju with bonding ideas between him and the aforementioned member of the Kingdom of Science, he slapped Gen on the back with a large smile and a loud ‘thanks!’. And once they’d added a certain conglomerate heir into the mix, he’d not only encouraged, but also helped wingman his dear friend Ukyo with the budding relationship on the horizon between the two. For that, he’d earned a hug.
But…
If they were all such good friends, then why had no one ever seen?
The tightness in his smile, the creases at his eyes? The growing dip of his shoulders and trembling of his hands he often kept hidden in his sleeves?
The anger, resentment, fear under his skin?
The loneliness?
Why did no one ever ask if he was doing okay or offer to help him?
Why couldn’t he stop pretending?
Why couldn’t he stop putting on a brave face and ask someone for help?
Well, simply put; because he was a burden.
It was a truth ingrained in him by his parents and perpetuated by years of others’ abuse of his talents. He’d never been given a reason to believe otherwise, because what else was there for him to trust as divine truth?
If he ever let it show, all it would result in would be added stress to the lives of those he’d learned to care about, upending their perfect new worlds to constantly worry about him.
Or, it would freak them out beyond reproach. Then everyone would abandon him and leave him behind once they fully understood just how broken he was inside.
He’d be all alone.
Again.
Because it had happened before.
But Gen didn’t want that.
Not now. Not anymore.
So, instead, he kept on smiling.
Helping.
Being of use to everyone around him so he could continue to pretend he’d remain whole.
And it had been working.
For a while…
Until one day everything came crumbling down.
Ryusui and Senku had fought over which route to steer the Persius towards the Americas. It resulted in a card game. At first, all had seemed fine. Just a friendly match of skill and wit. But after a particularly nasty allergic reaction from Senku and Ryusui's inflated-ego’s first taste of defeat, things had escalated quickly.
Gen had tried to get in the middle of it. Keep the peace. Provide outside mediation. Offer potential mutual agreements. Even went as far as to physically, literally, stand between the two of them.
Then Ryusui had turned his inflamed attention to him.
“As much as I want you, Gen, I don’t need you in this!”
Ah.
Yes.
Need.
Need.
He didn’t need him.
Because if there was nothing he could offer, then he wasn’t needed.
Gen’s pacifying smile had slipped, as if he’d been slapped across the face.
Senku had seen it.
Gen excused himself quickly, leaving the two to duke it out between themselves whilst he found a corner further below deck.
Time ticked by after that. Crowded by himself as far into the back corner of a storage room as possible, Gen let his first tears of the new stone world slip silently down his cheeks. He stayed there for a while. A long one, at that.
Evidently, a little too long, because Senku came looking.
“Mentalist?”
Gen didn’t think he’d been spotted yet, giving him a blessed moment to swipe at his face until all that remained was an unavoidable puffiness at the edges of his eyes. And probably a lot more, but he just couldn't seem to stop playing pretend.
Just as he’d managed to slip a smile that more so resembled a grimace onto his face, Senku rounded the other side of the crates in front of him.
“There you are.”
“Senku-chan! To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“You’ve been crying.”
Ah. Of course. Gen should have known better than to expect the sharpest eyes—other than his own and Kohaku’s—on the ship to miss the plethora of signs still marring Gen’s face.
“Was there something you needed?” he asked, instead of addressing the other’s observation.
“No, of course not. I came to check on you. You looked upset before, by what Ryusui said. Clearly, I was right.”
Oh…
Sure, Senku was observant, but he’d certainly never shown signs of concern towards Gen’s wellbeing in such blatant terms before.
Gen’s heart beat a mile a minute behind his ribs. Fear wracked his body from head to toe as his knees curled further into his chest. “I assure you, dear Senku-chan, I am right as rain! Just a little worn out from our exhilarating game, so I’ve been enjoying a moment to myself.”
He couldn’t let him know.
He couldn’t let him see.
How close he was to the truth.
How close Gen was to breaking.
How close he could be to losing him.
“Well, that’s a load of bull. Seriously, Mentalist, what’s bothering you? I can’t expect my mentalist to be in top shape if there’s something going on that I don’t know about. Wouldn’t be a very good leader if I let you suffer in silence.”
He knew.
It was the final crack in Gen’s well-constructed mask.
And suddenly, all that was left was the gaping panic painted across his features. “Senku– I– I don’t want to… burden you with something like this. I’m fine. I’ll be fine. I promise, you won’t need to worry about me. I’ll get it under control. I’m still of use to you, I swear–”
“You’re not a burden, Gen.”
And just like that, the first person to ever try to break through years of self doubt and guilt for having been brought into this world had succeeded in breaking down at least one wall. Maybe even chip away at the next.
Senku didn’t say things he didn’t mean.
Senku didn’t pull punches, either.
Senku meant each and every syllable.
Meaning: he truly believed that Gen was not a waste of existence.
The tears came back before Gen could stop them. He swiped fiercely at his cheeks, but just as soon as one wave had been dealt with, another was hot on its heels. They just kept coming and Gen was close to hyperventilating and Senku was looking at him with such unbridled worry.
Then there were arms around him.
It was awkward, what with his knees still pressed to his chest, but it was real. Genuine. Comforting in a way Gen hadn’t truly felt in who-knows-how-long.
It was everything.
“I don’t need you to be useful to me, I just need you to be Gen.”
And what a sentence that was.
To be asked to be oneself, as if that alone could ever be enough.
“Okay,” Gen replied between gasps for air.
“Good.”
And, somehow, Gen believed him.
Or, at least, he wanted to try.