Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

“But cunning Dionysius, who had made many enemies during his reign, arranged that a sword should hang above the throne [on which Damocles now sat], held precariously at the pommel by only the single hair of a horse's tail, to evoke the sense of what it [felt] to be king: though having much fortune, [a king was cursed] to watch in anxiety against dangers that might try to overtake him [or his kingdom]... And so, Damocles finally begged the king [to set him free] as he no longer wished to be so fortunate, realizing that while he had everything he could ever want at his feet, [victory] could not affect the sword suspended overhead.”

Gavin Betts translation of Cicero's Tusculan disputations, 5.61, paraphrased

Blunt nails dig into the thick skin of his bare shoulders and there are teeth, wide and yellow and grinning, framing rum-rich breath exhaled too close to his face. The green room is hazy, air rancid with cigar smoke and the heavy sweat of fighters too young to be as injured as they are and too old to be fighting him in a fair world.

They’ll be hurt, too, when he steps into the ring.

It’s not the first time he’s heard, “I’ve got a lot of fucking money riding on you, Strongest Primate High Schooler,” spit like a threat, but it will be one of the last—though he doesn’t know it yet. Even if he did, it wouldn’t bring anything close to relief.

(He needs the money.)

His manager shakes his head, clicks his tongue, steps back enough to lift one hand and take a drag from the half-burned cigarette dangling between two fingers. The other stays firm there, on his shoulder. It is the iron grip of a greedy, powerful thing. An animal in human skin, blood-stained and possessive. He says nothing. Still.

“We’ve got a couple of months left before you’re yesterday’s fucking news—nobody gives a shit whether you’ve actually been in high school or not, but once you’re too old for the lie it’s over for us both.”

He wants nothing more than to satisfy the nausea churning in his gut by shoving—by throwing a punch to the face in self-defense, maybe, or just walking away. Instead, he stays frozen. Listens. Doesn’t let himself be shaken even as the man tries—violently, both to emphasize his point and in some strange gesture of camaraderie—to jostle him. His manager scowls, embarrassment masked in anger.

(He needs the money.)

There’s no one else; just another asshole as soaked as this one, drowning in anger alongside the rest, mourning the loss of a wife more than the life of a daughter and the son still left. So he becomes an immovable beast with a low center of gravity and his own smoldering rage trapped in the steel box at the center of his chest. Behemoth, wrapped in a nightingale’s tapestry.

Then his manager grins, fake and mean. Slaps one grimy hand on his back, turns, and waves for the club’s bookie. He is stronger, larger, but in the end, he will always lose.

“Don’t ever forget that I own you,” his manager hisses without looking—

He needs the money.

(Through the walls, he hears the bass-heavy rage of his utterly stupid entrance music and—)

He needs the money.

(—the announcer thunders, “And this corner, weighing in at ninety-nine kilograms—”)

He needs the money.

(“—we have the fallen King of the Jungle—”)

He needs the money.

(“—the Strongest Primate High Schooler—”)

He needs the money.

(“—Shishio Tsukasa—”)

For Mirai.

“—so do what you do best and make me filthy fucking rich.”

(—and the crowd roars.)

And Tsukasa does, quickly and efficiently, because that’s what he’s built himself for.

“Focus—you’re still overcompensating on your left side, Kinro,” Tsukasa calls, voice clear even over the wood-and-metal clang of swords, spears, and shields on the training grounds. As he circles through the matches, Tsukasa sees Kinro frown—more than usual, at least—and adjust mid-thrust, balancing his stance just in time to block Nikki’s next strike. Though Kinro isn’t watching, Tsukasa nods in approval.

He hadn’t seen the damage from Hyoga’s spear—had only ordered it from afar—but Tsukasa understands the instinct to protect a long-healed wound as much as he understands the need to break the habit.

At the opposite end of the fenced-off clearing, Magma lets out a battle cry that lasts barely a second before Kirisame, with what looks like very little effort, sweeps one leg out from under him. Magma goes down in a wheeze and Tsukasa doesn’t change his stride, just continues circling the perimeter even as a wave of snickers ripples through the members of today’s session not getting their asses kicked. Tsukasa doesn’t discourage it. Wonders, vaguely, if he should—and cannot bring himself to. This is the third round of bouts today and Magma has been Magma for the morning’s entirety.

Instead, Tsukasa calls, “Lower your center of gravity,” as Magma hauls himself up out of the dirt, glaring at everyone around him. “Even if you have the advantage of size and weight, it means nothing if your opponent has superior technique—as evidenced.”

Kirisame, who remains eternally placid even as her body language radiates an awkward out-of-placeness Tsukasa can feel in his bones, nods, acknowledging the compliment. He isn’t sure he likes Kirisame so much as he admires her prowess, but more than anything he appreciates the strange sort of honest respect she has for him in return. A strong warrior who fought neither for nor against him—and who, as product of the stone world itself, never knew his celebrity in a previous life. He can also appreciate that she is, in some ways, as much a newcomer to the Kingdom of Science as he; a former enemy turned ally.

Still, Magma isn’t quite done kicking up a fight.

“This is bullshit,” Magma grumbles, and Tsukasa watches as he sweeps his gaze across the field, skipping over bouts still engaged, like the dance between Hyoga and Moz—revived for this purpose specifically—out to stragglers like Yo, Mantle, and Ginro watching on the other side of the fence; then further still, toward the shipyard where the Power Team’s other half is busy with their own rotation on Perseus repairs under the Science and Crafting Teams. Senku is there on the beach, bent over a wide furl of parchment with Gen and Ukyo, hollering instructions at Kohaku and Taiju without looking as they haul materials toward the sea.

Tsukasa has learned by now that, while strong, Magma is also a very specific type of fighter—a showman, and, more than anything, a genuine heel. He relishes the satisfaction of pissing off his audience, and he’s looking for one now.

In the distance, Gen mutters something that makes Senku laugh, the sound carrying as he’s startled mid-yell, and he smacks the back of Gen’s head—both of them grinning. Ukyo rolls his eyes, and Tsukasa ignores them all because the alternative is to acknowledge that he doesn’t entirely understand why that, completely unrelated, makes Magma’s posturing all the more grating.

Instead, Tsukasa turns back to the field and raises one eyebrow at Mirai, who’s abandoned her own sparring partner to bounce around Kirisame like she’s just hung the moon.   

“That was so cool,” she beams, Magma sidestepped, and, though there’s no discernible change in her stoic expression, the thin veneer of Kirisame’s calm exterior cracks just a little with embarrassed delight. “How did you do that? What did you do? You’re amazing!” As Mirai practically vibrates, Kirisame flushes—thoroughly unused to praise—and Tsukasa resists the urge to sigh as it derails Moz (“Ha! Your fucking face!”) long enough for Hyoga to nearly win a hit. Nearly.

Tsukasa cannot actually be upset with Mirai, even as he waves an apology to a sweating, forgotten Titan who just laughs in return like he’s used to it. Which he might be, really. Like the rest of the Kingdom of Science, he’s spent more time with Mirai alive and thriving than Tsukasa.

It’s not as odd as it used to be—Mirai’s rapid-fire maturing. Boundless pent-up energy thrown around by a girl who’s still six years old in his mind. The baby she was still coexists with the understanding that she’s nearly thirteen, exacerbated by the fact that he’d been dead for the first year of her resurrection.

He’d missed nearly four-hundred days of catching up under the tutelage of the smartest person in the world with an entire village of people, young and old, speeding the process along. And her body, too—healed long before the end of the world, but even then she should have been frail after years of atrophy not even petrification could cure. Instead, she’d been placed in the care of the village priestess, another of Senku’s miracles, spry now but still building strength in her own way after years of stationary life and apparent illness.

Mirai had been, from the moment she awoke, taken in and loved without question. A gift.

As Kirisame turns red under the onslaught of joy and Nikki finally flattens Kinro and Ginro snickers with Yo on the sidelines and beyond them all, Ukyo gestures in their direction, one eyebrow raised, before Senku and Gen break away from their task to approach—Tsukasa feels a thread of unacknowledged pain unravel. Mirai is as much a stranger now as she is the biggest chunk of his heart.

When Magma finally snaps, it is almost a relief.

“Shut the fuck up!” Magma shouts, fuming at no one in particular—or perhaps all of them collectively. It only has half the intended effect, with the rest of the matches stilling in distraction even as the laughter lingers. It may or may not make the situation worse—Tsukasa can’t entirely tell because Senku and Gen reach the fence just as Magma jabs one finger in his direction and hollers, “Why the fuck am I fighting her when I could be fighting you?” without an ounce of sense. And that certainly gets the last of everyone’s attention.

Tsukasa doesn’t say anything, just stares him down unimpressed, and wonders distantly if that makes him a poor leader or someone who simply doesn’t like Magma—and how much one has to do with the other. They’re here to train their combat skills, after all. Magma can air his grievances with his fists if he wants.

Then Moz, ever the instigator, rolls his shoulders and ducks Hyoga’s spear, grinning wide. “Oh, is the biggest big man joining for once?” he says, either oblivious or indifferent to the way Hyoga glares daggers at his back. “The legendary frozen warrior?”

“No—yes,” Magma snaps, “but he’s fighting me,” and—delighted by the opportunity to goad anyone into anything—Moz sticks his tongue out in a taunt.

“I heard you fought him before and got your ass handed to you,” Moz sneers, playfully condescending. Kirisame and Mirai have stilled, his little sister watching the exchange with wide eyes, and Tsukasa does not miss the way Kirisame places one hand atop Mirai’s head. It’s a gesture both grounding and protective. “But if I can best Hyoga—”

“You cannot best me—”

“—and he’s the only one to have defeated your strongest—”

Then from behind and too close, Senku drawls, “Oh?” and Tsukasa realizes he’s stopped walking the perimeter just beside the spot where Senku’s leaning over the fence, arms dangling into the training area with a languid kind of amusement. It’s one word, barely committal in either direction, but it cuts off Moz all the same. Every time Senku speaks, it’s impossible not to listen.

At Senku’s side, Gen smirks, and it’s like an invitation—suddenly Ginro and Yo are there at the opposite end, too. Spectators at the edge of a ring.

The look on Yo’s face is, perhaps, as much trouble as Magma’s. “Yeah, bullshit.” He gestures jerkily toward Hyoga, who says nothing. “Underhanded victories don’t count.” It is perhaps the most hypocritical thing to have ever come out of his mouth. “And I’d bet ten-thousand drago he could take you both on at once!” like Tsukasa isn’t even there.

There’s a strange sort of tilt to Tsukasa’s axis and tightness in his muscles winds further, another string pulled by something he can’t name.

And Ginro, wracked by a full-body shiver at the promise of cash and chaos, shouts, “And come out on top!” which sets the whole training grounds murmuring.

Ten-thousand drago—

Two against one seems—

Then Mantle, ever the capable lackey, adds fuel to the fire. “T-Then I bet fifteen-thousand drago that Magma will dominate!”

Gen has the audacity to mutter, “This sounds like a porno, truly,” low enough that only Tsukasa and Senku hear, and that has Senku snickering again.

Moz simply rolls his eyes, arms crossed in a show of lazy confidence. “I don’t care for your strange currency, only in fighting the best for my own amusement.” Still standing where he’s been left, Hyoga clicks his tongue in offense—not even under consideration and offended just as much, maybe, by the lack of Moz’s attention. He’d advocated for Moz’s revival, after all, like a child asking for a new toy.

Ginro doesn’t let the opportunity for attention pass, changing loyalties instantly. “T-t-twenty-thousand drago on Moz!” he stutters, gleeful, before Kinro finally pipes up, You don’t even have—

Yo smacks Ginro so hard on the arm he stumbles. “It figures primitives wouldn’t understand,” he sneers. “Tsukasa has won hundreds of matches against stronger opponents than any of you—all across the world—in front of crowds bigger than you can fathom with your itty-bitty villages and teeny-tiny populations.”

While Moz’s eyes light up, utterly intrigued, Magma pivots at the insult—looks like maybe he’ll advance but doesn’t, which is either a sign of character growth or total overconfidence when he jeers, “Doesn’t mean shit,” because Magma’s a one hit wonder.

Yo just throws his middle finger up in response. “Bet he’s even stronger now—why don’t you fight him and see? Someone get Tsukasa a fucking spear, I’d love to watch you get your ass kicked a second time and win some cash in the process—”

Tsukasa scowls at them both and doesn’t move—doesn’t get the chance because utterly without warning, Senku leans further over the fence to grab his wrist and holds it, three fingers pressed to the soft veins below his palm. And Tsukasa freezes. He doesn’t realize he’s clenched his fists hard enough to leave sharp indents in his own skin until he feels them uncurl in distraction.

As he blinks down, baffled, Senku doesn’t even look at him—barely looks like he gives two shits that he’s grabbed Tsukasa in the first place. It is with a numb sort of bewilderment that Tsukasa realizes Senku is checking his pulse, but instead of counting Senku just calls, “Because I don’t feel like setting anyone’s broken bones and losing the manpower to recovery when we’re relaunching the Perseus in a few weeks, moron,” across the field.

And like before, it’s a lazy, indifferent sort of sound that carries a weight of finality so heavy the debate stops in its tracks.

Then into the pause, Gen claps once, loud and clear—yanking everyone’s attention—and sings, “Ryu-chan should be back from Ishigami Village any day now—no more slacking while he’s gone!” as though anyone has had time to rest under Senku’s watch. There’s an almost visible paling across most the Power Team, which would be funnier, perhaps, if Tsukasa were not so acutely aware of the moment Senku lets go of his wrist.

Hands free, Senku gestures vaguely through the air. “Anyone not willing to train is more than welcome to pick up a rotation in the fields or check the traps,” he says, and it’s not entirely an invitation. “We’re still low on rations for the trip.”

And like a switch has been flipped, Magma curses under his breath and Yo blows air through his clenched teeth and Ginro holds up both hands in surrender and Moz grins and Mantle—bug that he is—skitters away. Tsukasa feels a bit like he’s just been rescued, though he’s not entirely sure from what or whom.

Another thread pulls too taut and it makes him want to bolt for the woods—to splinter something in his hands or scale a mountain or perhaps simply run long enough to hit the edge of the world. He would like, more than anything in that moment, to have a singular mindless task, to be alone—but he glances toward Mirai, still off to the side where Kirisame has gently backed her away from any potential danger, and knows he cannot.

(Tsukasa will need to thank Kirisame for that later, he thinks. After he figures out how to untangle the mess in his chest.)

Slowly, the Power Team falls back into their stances and Tsukasa breathes out through his nose, aware after years (and years and years) of a life spent in front of cameras that nothing has shown on his face, on his body. He is fine.

He is fine.

He is fine.

Then Senku turns, tilting his head to the side slightly as he focuses past them all, and calls, “Ehh, actually—we’ve got high altitude arcus clouds coming in from the west, and without Ryuusui it’ll be a crap-shoot guessing whether that turns into a storm. New plan.”

“Hm?” Gen hums like a cue, and if Tsukasa weren’t sure the man were at least halfway full of shit, he’d think Gen amused.

Senku pushes off the fence and gestures in a chopping motion, dividing the group in half. “You—start covering the loose planks on the beach. Wet wood is rotting wood.” He waves to Hyoga, Moz, Kinro, and Nikki, then turns and does the same for Kirisame, Titan, Yo, and Magma. “And you—make sure there’s no debris or equipment in the drainage ditches out by the crops.” A vague chorus of grumbles rise up, but no one lodges a formal complaint, even as Ginro starts inching away. Senku doesn’t bother waiting to see if they follow his instructions, already turning to leave without fanfare.

(They do, though—of course. Follow them Always.)

“And what about the Shishios?” Gen prompts toward Senku’s retreating back.

Senku just waves one hand noncommittally through the air without looking. “Tiny Primate, find Suika—you two and Ginro have lessons with Ukyo.” Ginro sags, caught, but Tsukasa sees Mirai absolutely light up. It is a relief, and yet—and yet, it is a reminder, too, that he still has not grasped the depth of how much her life has slipped through his fingers.

He may be worth gambling on but he is still more fighter than brother.

Still, Senku does not give him an order.

So like it matters at all, he says, “I will return with game,” stilted, before Senku is out of earshot. They’re the first words out of his mouth in what feels like an hour but has, perhaps, been fifteen minutes.

And only then, finally, does Senku glance over his shoulder. “I need rabbits,” he says, utterly unsurprised. “More than one.” Then he turns again, and Gen—after one last look at Tsukasa, eyes like a cat—skips after, expression hidden behind the folds of his sleeves. Tsukasa isn’t stupid, though—has known Gen longer, arguably, than anyone else alive. There’s a smug satisfaction in him that sets Tsukasa’s teeth on edge for no particular reason, even as Senku calls, “Oh, and if it does storm, find shelter or something. I brought you back for labor, not a second stupid death.”

The forest is warm and wet, lush with the cloying humidity clinging to the tail end of its bloom. It could be beautiful and perfect and home, Tsukasa thinks, were he not on the verge of what must be temporary insanity.

His pelt is too hot, hide and fur sticking to his bare skin in the thick heaviness that sits over everything just before a storm. The cicadas, too, have quieted to a lulled sort of murmur, and even the leaves around him, agitated in the breeze, sound like they’ve been dipped in liquid cotton. His feet sink into the too-soft earth and if he were to lay down in the dirt, he thinks—knows—he’d simply be swallowed whole by the summer.

Despite what Senku had said about Ryuusui and guessing, Tsukasa is sure it will rain, if not because Senku predicted it (because he’s got shit luck constantly overcome by overplanning, Tsukasa knows that much) but because Tsukasa can feel it himself, a countdown on the horizon. An ache in his chest. Something ripped open, like he can’t get air, like he’s coming apart at the seams, like he’s—

Cold.

Temporary insanity, indeed.

He needs to make some bare-minimum attempt at tracking or, at the very least, check the traps—I need rabbits—but he keeps moving, heading single-mindlessly nowhere with the resolve that he’ll find better prey further from the satellite settlement. Away from people. Surely.

And yet, no matter how far he walks, he cannot escape it—proof of so much missed. Evidence of civilization’s fledgling hands clawing their way through the end of the world in a desperate, human bid to do more than simply survive—to carve a place in the new world and live.

Patches of forest thinned for wood, canyons coated in rough asphalt road, dyed-linen flags tied through branches as markers above and below. Hand-twisted wire fences around wild patches of berries, carved-out doodles in the trunks of wide trees, and footpaths—so many footpaths invisible to the modern eye but still there, weaving like veins through the underbrush.

Thunder rolls overhead, close enough to matter, and only then does Tsukasa slow his pace. Focus, finally—or as much as he can.

As he presses one palm to the rough, half-healed bark of a carved tree, he realizes he’s crossed far, far further west than he’d intended. The gouges are his, after all; arrows carved out by his own hand to guide Taiju and Yuzuriha—and later, eventually, others—back to base. His base. The Empire of Might, now absorbed into Senku’s Kingdom.

It feels, somehow, like a lifetime has passed since then—not the height of his reign, liquid memory caught in the net of a year lived in not-death, but two before. The three of them left after Senku, angry and fearful of both each other and the world around them in equal measure.

It had been a strange thing to confront then, that although he’s always been built to survive in the Stone World, his practical skills had been the product of personal curiosity, one season of competition on some poorly-run survival show, and Senku himself. And at the end of Senku’s life, Taiju had been about as well-equipped as Tsukasa, experience evenly weighed against months of trial by fire as the second person on earth revived.

They’d brute-forced their way through, hand in backstabbing hand, until Tsukasa’s first, then second, then third revival. And though three years can heal most wounds, these are still fresh in the grand scheme of four thousand. The forest remembers.

A storm-heavy wind crosses, but the movement through underbrush is something else entirely and he doesn't need to wonder if the traps here have caught game. As he brushes aside the human-high leaves, he reminds himself that he has always let those who've suffered for his survival rest comfortably before their deaths—has always asked for understanding from what he’s killed.

There’s a limp, hung thing snared by the throat through the first wire trap he checks—white fur matted from the struggle that broke its own neck, blood-red eyes glassy and staring into the distance.

Tsukasa tries, more than anything, not to think about the fact that he’s never done the same for Senku—asked—not because he’s afraid of the question, but because he knows the answer already and doesn’t want to hear it. A dead thing can’t forgive, but a live thing can, after all.

He ties the rabbit’s hind legs and hangs its corpse on his hip, then sets off for the next.

Tsukasa counts the seconds between each crack of lightning in the distance—each roil of thunder after—and cannot help but think of Senku.

Senku’d said, once—sprawled in dirt next to a hazy, half-out campfire with Taiju snoring into the night beside them—that he’d never stopped. Counting, that is. Probably couldn’t, even if he wanted to. Tsukasa wonders if that’s still the case and knows he’ll never ask.

Tsukasa doesn’t try to avoid it—not the counting but the thinking of Senku—and doesn’t think he can do that, either, even if he wanted to.

By the time the rain hits in full, the temperature has dropped to a ridiculous degree and he has six rabbits dripping from his belt and knows he’ll be fine even though he’s too far from the caves to make a difference. The sky’s darkened beyond recognition, visibility made worse by the forest canopy. He knows the terrain intimately enough to understand that returning would be the worse move, so he lets his feet carry him forward instead. It’s not the best decision, only the better one—

But when he finally breaks from the trees, hair plastered to his face and fur cloak twice its weight in water, he wonders if there were a better middle ground he hadn’t let himself consider. He is unsure where the line between masochism and a simple lack of self-preservation sits.

The clearing is—

Not the same, of course, because time has passed and Senku’s single-man handiwork had never been built with longevity in mind, even after they’d mortared the place with pulverized shells. And because Senku had smashed almost everything before he fled. And because Tsukasa himself had stripped it bare that first and only winter without Senku, not stupid enough to waste resources even when it felt like desecrating a grave.

Still, though, it’s not been unmaintained and there’s agonizing moment—like muscle memory or something deeper, a reflex—when he sees the firelight in the skeleton of Senku’s first lab and thinks through the storm, I’m home.

He swipes rain out of his eyes and buries it, trudging instead toward shelter. Doesn’t hesitate, even without context. Everyone alive on earth is their ally, after all. It’s more than likely a villager caught in his exact situation than a danger—and fire means drier clothes. He knows, too, that he’s not going anywhere else tonight, whether he likes it or not. Mirai will be fine, well cared for by any number of options, and in his absence Hyoga will take the lead at tomorrow’s training session. He resigns himself to bunking with whatever other idiot has gotten himself stuck in the storm.

However.

Nanami Ryuusui—stripped to the waist, hair half-frizzed in a ponytail, and eating a wrapped sandwich—would not have been his second guess. And even lower on his list of preferred options.

Tsukasa blinks at him.

Ryuusui grins back, absolutely delighted.

And Tsukasa simply turns around to walk back into the woods.

“Wait, wait—wait!” Ryuusui calls, scrambling up even as Tsukasa steps into the wall of rain. He considers how dangerous it would be to backtrack entirely before turning toward the old tree house, certain enough that it’ll hold his weight for a single night.   

“Apologies for disturbing you,” Tsukasa says over his shoulder, firm and final—but by the time he’s taken two more steps, Ryuusui is already at the entrance ignoring the goodbye. Of course.

“Nonsense!” Ryuusui beams, “Join me!”

“No, thank you.” He takes another step and, undeterred, Ryuusui laughs.

“Wasn’t a question,” Ryuusui says and it’s the audacity more than anything that draws Tsukasa up short.

It’s not that Tsukasa dislikes Ryuusui, really. Though he is without a doubt the demographic Tsukasa would have hated in his previous life—both of them, before and after petrification—he has come to understand the type of person Ryuusui is.

Tsukasa isn’t stupid; he’s aware enough that some of the kinder members of his former Empire have tried somewhat strategically to keep them apart for, perhaps, both their sakes and the sake of broader peace. And yet, Tsukasa cannot deny the kind of grudging respect he has for Ryuusui, both for the strength of his character (warped as it may be) and the way he leverages his own energy to push those around him—Senku specifically and, by extension, the world—to new heights.

Still, that doesn’t mean they’re—

“I have food, my friend!”

“We are not friends,” Tsukasa grunts without thought, not so much contradictory as a plain statement of fact. He would say the same about most people in Senku’s Kingdom, really, and he doesn’t feel particularly put out by it. Understands it, even. Part of the problem, however, is that Ryuusui—

“Yes, we are,” Ryuusui crows. “You’re just not aware of it yet! You’ll catch up eventually.”

He will not, Tsukasa thinks. Still, he does stop—and starts to turn, only realizing he’s being drawn into Ryuusui’s enthusiasm when he’s halfway looking back. There’s a smug sort of victory in Ryuusui’s expression and Tsukasa can’t resist the urge to deadpan, “I also have food.”

Ryuusui eyes the rabbits at his hip. “I have fire,” he retorts.

“I can make fire.”

And Ryuusui snorts, gesturing widely out into the storm Tsukasa is still bathing in. “In this weather? Unlikely. And if you go through the trouble anyway, you’ll return to Senku empty-handed.”

Tsukasa does not budge. “I do not recall mentioning that these were for Senku,” he says, ignoring the rest entirely. Some buried part of himself recognizes it’s a petty place to plant his flag and he’s being, frankly, stubborn—but there’s something about being here, in this place, and finding him of all people that has the threads tangled in his chest unraveling again.

Ryuusui, predictably, isn’t the least bit deterred. Or offended, even. “Of course you didn’t,” he grins a devilish sort of smile, utterly shameless. “But you and I are the same sort of creature, so, again, of course they are.” Tsukasa squints at him, ready to say something—anything—else, but Ryuusui snaps his fingers. “Come, I have provisions enough for the night.”

Now, half-turned and paying attention at least partially against his will, Tsukasa eyes the old lab—sees the oversized pack in the corner, away from leaks; sees the bedroll, already folded out where Ryuusui had been eating, fabric-wrapped sandwich abandoned nearby; sees Ryuusui’s wet outer tunic draped over a lower rafter, dripping dry in the fire’s periphery. Tsukasa frowns. “You were not caught in the storm unprepared, despite being at least a day’s journey from the village,” he says.

“Oh, I was certainly caught in the storm,” Ryuusui laughs again.

Tsukasa raises an eyebrow and still doesn’t move. “I am surprised,” he says, “given your expertise.”

Ryuusui only shrugs lightly. “I can know perfectly well one’s coming, but that won’t change whether or not it hits—or whether I myself can outrun it,” he replies. “I simply chose to hike out and chance it anyway.” Then he snaps again and reaches one hand out into the torrential downpour in a single smooth motion. “Now, I do mean it. Come, sit, dry yourself, eat.” He wiggles his fingers, beckoning. “Mirai would be exceptionally disappointed in me if I let her brother waterlog himself out of courtesy, and I’d be mortified to know I upset a lady if you insist on dragging me down with your pride.”

And if ever asked, Tsukasa will claim what he says next is a test of Ryuusui’s character rather than the complete and total bridge collapse inside his brain.

“I absolutely would have killed you, had I made it to the Nanami Academy’s island.” It’s not a threat, just a statement of fact. Minami hadn’t been wrong in her assessment and in everything else after, and Tsukasa has never been one to lie.

But Ryuusui simply a laughs a third time, loud and free like everything else he does. “So could a dog, a boar, or a very dedicated duck, my friend—all if given enough time. You’re not nearly so special.” He winks, and it’s not even particularly flirtatious. It’s just Ryuusui. “Thankfully, our man Senku found me first.”

Only when his lion cloak, wrung out but still soaked, is hanging alongside Ryuusui’s outer coat does Tsukasa finally settle—but not by the fire. Instead, he sits himself by the entrance with the string of rabbit corpses at his crossed legs, knife in hand.

“Apologies in advance for the smell,” he says, and it’s mostly genuine. Whether he’s accepted the hospitality against his will or not, he doesn’t feel particularly inclined to inconvenience Ryuusui now that he has. “I’ll be quick about it.”

Still, Ryuusui just waves him off, unruffled as he rifles through his pack and begins sorting through his own provisions. “All the better to gut them now so you’re not tempted to bolt before they spoil,” he says, and Tsukasa is less irritated than he expects when he realizes Ryuusui is already several steps ahead and spot-on, as usual.

In some strange way, it reminds him of Senku.

Tsukasa only hums in response, settling the first rabbit at the edge of the packed-earth floor, just beyond the reach of the rain—one wide hand braced against its tiny, crooked neck. He makes swift work of the feet; there’s not much blood and what’s left is sluggish, already half-coagulated in the time since its death. Still, he lets it drain into the storm and then slits the skin at its nape. Pulls. Knows he’s already apologized but does it again anyway when the fur comes loose, and thanks it, too, as he beheads it. When he gently scrapes its guts into the pouring rain and rinses the meat left behind, he feels the strange catharsis that always comes with the process, no matter how many hundreds of times he’s repeated it—and no matter how many different animals he’s flayed.

He knows with a vague but bone-deep certainty that when that distant future comes to pass and Senku has rebuilt enough of the world to render this unnecessary, he will still find himself in the woods of wherever they settle—will still hunt sometimes, if only for the peace of its simplicity.

That’s most of all he’s ever wanted, after all. An uncomplicated existence.

(He does not question the certainty that when he does—settle, that is—it will be near Senku. It is simply the truth.)

Only when he’s on the fourth does he realize Ryuusui hasn’t said anything at all, and when he glances up, he realizes Ryuusui is simply watching him, legs crossed and chin resting on one hand propped against his knee, sandwich long gone and chewing on a piece of jerky. He’s halved his blankets into two thin piles, shoved Tsukasa’s far enough away from his own for Tsukasa’s own comfort, and on the second sits a scattering of wax-fabric wrapped parcels identical to what he’d been eating from before.

Tsukasa cleaves the feet off the fifth rabbit and murmurs, “You’ve certainly come with abundance for just one man.” Ryuusui hadn’t pressed for chatter after dragging Tsukasa in but there’s a loneliness, Tsukasa thinks, in the way his face lights up at the promise of conversation.

“Ha!” Ryuusui barks, rocking back, his whole body in the noise. “Francois is nothing short of the best. Of course they would anticipate a guest when packing my things.” His voice is full of pride, like Francois’s accomplishments are his own, and at once Tsukasa clicks his tongue then then bites it. He beheads the rabbit with too much force and immediately feels a sick sort of guilt for taking his frustration out on such a tiny corpse.

“I will have to thank them for the food later,” he says instead of anything he’s thinking.

Ryuusui just cocks his head, assessing even as his grin doesn’t falter. “I displease you,” he declares. Declares. As though Tsukasa hadn’t just dumped that exact truth between them minutes before.

“Sometimes,” Tsukasa shrugs. He takes care to gut the rabbit with a gentler touch, even as his teeth grind together.

He does not see the raised eyebrow so much as hear it in Ryuusui’s voice. “I was made for different things,” Ryuusui says. “Outsourcing aspects of my life to Francois is, in essence, no different from Senku outsourcing this to you.” Tsukasa stops long enough to see him gesture in no particular direction like he can’t talk without moving, and Tsukasa frowns, just slightly. “That’s why he first revived you—the fighting, the hunting, the labor—am I wrong?”

“That is—” Tsukasa doesn’t falter; just uses the act of washing the meat in the rain as an opportunity to turn the thought over in his mind and does not like what he finds underneath. “Different.” It sounds lame even to his own ears.

Ryuusui lets him get away with it.

Instead, Ryuusui bites another chunk of jerky and chews. “Don’t think I don’t understand,” he says, and again there’s no genuine offense in his tone.

Tsukasa simply glances over his shoulder, skeptical. He thinks of ships named Nanami and mansions lined with velvet and the gold-encrusted cup out of which Ryuusui’s life has always been poured; of the open sea and fair winds and joy. It is a far, far distance from basements and blood and blood money. “Unlikely.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” Ryuusui replies. Then he shrugs, tosses the last bite of his jerky in the fire—a waste of good food and hard work—and leans back on both palms. His hair is dry enough now that it’s started to slip in strands from its tie, and Tsukasa thinks he could be beautiful if he weren’t such an asshole. “I’ll admit, you seem happier now, at peace, so it’s harder to guess—but you’re still itching for a fight just so you can lose. I wish I’d seen the middle, not just the beginning and whatever this is.” Then he snorts. “Though it is true—you totally would have killed me.”

Tsukasa reaches for the final rabbit-corpse and amends the category from asshole to crazy.

“You’ve lost me,” he says, and the last thing he expects to find when he looks again is the glee on Ryuusui’s face when he rocks forward.

“It’s true, then!” Thunder rolls overhead, distant but still there, and Ryuusui’s voice raises in volume with perfect timing. Genius, always. “You don’t remember! We’ve met before, Strongest Primate, when you visited the—”

“Nanami Estate,” Tsukasa bites, already turning back to the task at hand. “I did not forget. You simply weren’t there. The name on the guest list was—”

“My brother’s,” Ryuusui grins, “who would’ve preferred to die in a pit of snakes rather than sit through dinner at a table of professional athletes vying for the board’s attention and the fat check of a Nanami Corp. cruise line PR spot.” There’s a thick sort of disdain in his voice, mocking even around his smile, that catches Tsukasa off guard.

It is true—Tsukasa recalls the strange corporate courting with startling clarity, a home larger than he’d ever entered and the long dining table lined with faceless celebrities baited with the promise of an even larger payout. Tsukasa hadn’t been picked for the contract, of course—had found the whole ordeal distasteful, even among the things he’d been willing to endure for the sake of Mirai’s private room and life support. He’d been well-known enough for the invite and therefore wealthy enough to let the opportunity pass, but his manager had insisted in the way of things Tsukasa couldn’t really refuse. And in some ways, he’d been right, even in the wrong direction. If the world hadn’t frozen in place, the connections he’d made during that dinner could have been worth something when his career ended.

Still, though. Ryuusui hadn’t been there. Nanami Sai’s chair had sat empty, a stark reminder of the privilege of apathy, right up until the reception when—

“Ah,” Tsukasa says, knife stilling. “You were the man who told their CMO to go fuck himself.”

Ryuusui hums, tilting his head back. “It was a terrible business move, the whole thing—and my brother wasn’t going to use his invitation, no matter how badly they wanted to drag him into their schemes.” Tsukasa realizes, then, that his distaste isn’t for Sai himself but for the rest of it. “The ship sank. People died—guests and employees. The smarter choice would have been to rip out the faulty bilge mechanisms in existing models, rework safety protocol from the ground up, and focus on rebuilding public trust within and outside of the company. Oh, and life insurance for shipmen. Short term loss, long term investment. Not an advertising campaign dressed as some Travel Channel special.” Then he huffs out a laugh. “Not that any of it matters now.”

“You were thrown out,” Tsukasa states. The rabbit skin comes off easy and he adds it to the pile, damp and reeking. He will hang them to dry with his cloak and bring them back with him in the morning, alongside all the rest, hoping only that Senku hadn’t wanted the offal too. “Of the dinner, I mean.”

“And of the house, too—had my allowance fractioned and everything. And Sai left shortly, too. Not that it made a significant difference.” Ryuusui shrugs. “We were always meant to be pawns in our father’s game, and no one listens to a bastard, especially when he’s right.” And there is something there—under the surface—about names and structures, ownership and power. A kindred understanding, even through the knowledge that Ryuusui’s baseline for suffering sits in a different place than his. Then, like none of it means anything, Ryuusui sucks in a breath through his teeth—bounces back to sitting, and says, “But enough about me! We were talking about you!”

Tsukasa can’t resist the urge to roll his eyes, even as he begins re-stringing the meat to dry in the night. “You were talking about me,” he says.

“Of course I was,” Ryuusui replies, smirk back in full force. “Your childish politics fascinate me and I was only lucky enough to see the aftermath.”

“My what—”

“I’m going to kill all adults and create a youth Utopia,” Ryuusui pitches his voice low like he’s mimicking—mocking, really—Tsukasa, throwing air-quotes around the whole thing while Tsukasa stares at him. “Or that’s how it was explained to me, at least.” Ryuusui snorts. “Hilariously reductive way to solve the problem of systemic societal corruption, considering the cop you brought back and the actual age-range of those you revived.”

Tsukasa feels a bit like he’s being swung on a pendulum and after a moment of stunned silence, grits out, “Are you. Critiquing. My attempt at world dominion?” There’s an embarrassment there, wrapped in the bafflement—not at the heckling but the thing itself.

“Oh, absolutely,” Ryuusui’s grin turns wolfish. “I’d have done a much better job, I think. Hyper-capitalist plutocracy based first on resource hoarding and selective allocation to establish dependency while weeding out generalists like Senku in favor of specialists more easily contro—my god, you really don’t have a sense of humor, do you?”

Tsukasa blinks and realizes, then, that he’s moved—is halfway to standing and genuinely unsure whether he’d planned to approach Ryuusui or leave, with a threat thrown somewhere in between. Not bodily harm, because Senku likes him, but something close. He’d sworn no one would be a problem for Senku’s Kingdom of Science and—

For his part, Ryuusui doesn’t look the least bit perturbed. If anything, his eyes are glistening with a kind of calculated mischief that reminds Tsukasa remarkably of Senku’s own. Or, given the subject at hand, Gen’s. Tsukasa can’t decide which is worse.

“I have changed my mind,” Tsukasa grunts, fingers of his free hand curling and uncurling. “I do dislike you.”

“And I’m wholly flattered you’ve given me that much thought,” Ryuusui retorts without hesitation.

Tsukasa tries to cover for the reflex by haphazardly tying the meat up by the door where its coolest then reaching for the pile of wet-clean pelts. Ryuusui watches him as he crosses toward the fire and dumps them unceremoniously in the dirt, then begins hanging them one by one to dry. When Tsukasa doesn’t say anything else, he hears Ryuusui sigh, just slightly.

“Apologies,” Ryuusui says, and it’s a rare enough occurrence by Tsukasa’s understanding that he glances back to find Ryuusui staring at him, still light but sobered at the edges. “It’s hard not to get a bit carried away with no one to oh-so-subtly separate us when we’re in the same room too long.” Then Ryuusui stands, already reaching to help with the reeking skins without so much as a grimace. It raises him in Tsukasa’s esteem by a millimeter. “No one’s overthrowing anyone and I’ve no interest in shackling myself to a position of world leadership when it’s simply that much more fun to covet the world itself.”

Tsukasa grunts but still, he waits. Stays quiet, draping one tiny pelt significantly higher than Ryuusui can reach. Ryuusui side-eyes him.

“You’re really quite sensitive, aren’t you? Both Mirai and Senku warned me, but I’ll admit I didn’t believe it entirely,” he says. Tsukasa scowls. It’s mostly out of stubbornness. Then Ryuusui hums again, hanging the last pelt. “You still believe you were right, though, don’t you? About all of it.” And there’s no judgment there, only a greedy sort of curiosity—like the no matter the answer, he would listen and find himself delighted.

Nearly against his will, Tsukasa feels his assessment shift again, and then decides, finally, that it doesn’t particularly matter what he thinks. Senku chose Nanami Ryuusui, and Nanami Ryuusui serves a purpose—something deeply concrete and enmeshed into the Kingdom’s core, a place firmer than Tsukasa himself will ever have, perhaps.

Being a body isn’t a skill, after all, and Tsukasa isn’t naive enough to think he’s more than that.

What he says instead is, “I didn’t expect a philosophical dissection of my past self when I set out this morning,” looking down at his grimy arms and then the food waiting, still, on his makeshift bedroll. He turns away and Ryuusui laughs.

“I enjoy poking bears. Or lions, as it were,” he replies, and Tsukasa opts to ignore him again. When he’s nearly to the old lab’s entrance something flies through the air at his head. He catches it, a palm-sized chunk of white soap that looks exactly the same as the first miracle he’d ever seen Senku pull from the earth. He lathers all the way to his elbows and then passes it back to Ryuusui, who’s crossed to stand beside him, washing his own hands in the rain. “Would you rather we talked about the weather? Here, let’s try it—impressive storm. Very wet.”

“This is a truce, not friendship.”

“Oh, we’re revising the dislike? That was fast.” Ryuusui laughs, then tosses the soap without fanfare toward his own blankets and rinses, turns, waves one damp hand through the air in a victorious sort of gesture. His paint is gone, Tsukasa realizes; then realizes anew that his must be, too. Both of them bare. “I’ll take it for now. You’ll come to terms with my allure eventually.”

And as Tsukasa retreats to the other side of the fire, he sighs. “You’ve done too much for my sister for me to truly despise you,” he says, settling onto the floor, “and I trust Senku’s judgment implicitly.” His kilt is still damp but it will dry enough, he knows, before the night is over. “I will admit, too, to respecting your expertise, even without having seen you properly sail.” When he reaches back for the food he’s been gifted, he glances up to see Ryuusui watching him, that impish glee in his eyes. Ominous.

“Holy shit, two full sentences,” Ryuusui says, and suddenly Tsukasa feels the need to brace himself against some sort of bullshit. “And a compliment, too. That’s practically a proposal, coming from you.” Tsukasa scoffs, and he will not rise to the bait. He unwraps the first lump and focuses very, very hard on how grateful he is for the existence of bread. “Senku will be so disappointed to know he’s not the only person you’ll flirt with—ow! Fuck!” The quartered loaf hits Ryuusui firmly in the face and he at least has the grace to save it before it hits the floor. “I’ll admit I deserved that but you’ve just forfeit rights to anything but meat and cheese.” Ryuusui laughs at him, bold-faced.

Still, though.

“Why are you so determined to goad me?” Tsukasa bites.

And Ryuusui rolls his eyes. “Because you’re tense to the point of self-destruction, and—more than anything in the world—I want my friends to prosper.”

“We are not friends.” He feels like a broken record.

“Fine, then; but Mirai and Senku are mine. And your well-being is valuable to them.” There’s an edge there, like perhaps they’ve been picking at each other too long, and Tsukasa feels a breath hiss out through clenched teeth. Mirai, Mirai, Mirai.

“My sister—”

“Woke up a grown child in a broken world only to watch you die within the first week—” Ryuusui snaps suddenly, and ah, there it is. The limit. “And I know intimately what it’s like to be left behind, mourning an older brother without knowing if he’s even truly alive.”

It is—incisive. To the point of cruelty. And while it’s not the first time Tsukasa has caught a glimpse of the man who would have ruled the Nanami Conglomerate in due time, it’s the first that practical brutality has been directed at him.

But Tsukasa—he had been a king, however short-lived, and he will not be cowed. “She would have died if I had not,” he says. “And you were not even there.”

“And yet, as I understand it, you were the one who revived Hyoga. Who mismanaged your men and your empire instead of taking one look at Senku’s genius and trusting him.” Ryuusui breathes.    “Instead of looking out for the sibling who should have been your highest priority.” There’s an ache in Ryuusui’s clipped-off anger that sounds faraway, like he’s having another conversation with another man, but Tsukasa does not give him the benefit of the doubt.

“She has always been my highest priority.” He’s not yelling but he feels like he should be—wants to, even though it goes against his nature. His voice stays deadly and low. “And who are you to lecture me? In the beginning there was nothing.” He feels the scrape of earth underneath his damp fingernails, clawing at the ground as he leans forward toward Ryuusui and closer still to the fire. “I only wanted to create a world sustainable on some realistic level where we could live without fear.” Where we could be free. “That’s all.” It hits the dirt between them with the hollow crunch of a half-formed truth and—

Then, finally, they both look away.

Because that’s the danger of breaking an already-broken thing—in the carnage, it’s impossible not to see every spool of guts splayed out, secrets bared and naked. To face a smear of soft parts meant for different eyes. To show too much to the wrong people.

A long, slow moment passes in silence, even as the world around them continues to turn. The rain hasn’t let up, hammering against the thatched roof, against the trees and dirt outside. Far now—but still there—thunder bowls through the dark. In the pit, smoldering wood cracks, and somewhere in the distance frogs scream at each other, a call and response.

Tsukasa wonders, not for the first time, if this is why they’ve been largely kept outside each other’s orbit.

It is Ryuusui, again, who extends an olive branch.

“If something’s troubling you,” he says, “or you want something—” and when Tsukasa looks up he’s turned away, toward the entrance, methodically crumbling the bread’s crust into pieces. It’s another waste, but a small one; he doesn’t let any fall from the fabric wrap, saving them all. “—see if Senku has anything to say about it.”

Tsukasa sighs. And finally, resigned to the night, he unwraps the hard goat cheese still left to him. “Do you often foist problems onto Senku?” he asks. It sounds like a jab to his own ears but it’s not—not really.

“As a matter of fact, no,” Ryuusui replies. Still, there’s a self-deprecating sort of laugh in the answer. Tsukasa is beginning to respect Ryuusui’s ability to bury hatchets alongside the rest. “I make a point of trying to take things off his plate, whether I succeed or not.”

Tsukasa breaks the cheese in half with his bare hands and stares across the fire to where Ryuusui still hasn’t turned. “And has he given you what you want?”

Ryuusui gestures broadly again, counting into the air with his fingers. “He’s returned Francois. And he’s built me a ship. And he’s taking us to India, eventually—it’s on the map.” Thumb, pointer, middle. “He’s given me more than enough to be satisfied knowing I can’t have the other things that he won’t.” The wry smile into nothing isn’t sad so much as a thing that sits in the space between bewildered and resigned, and there’s something there, something left hanging that feels like Tsukasa is dying a second time.

Ah.

“You want him,” Tsukasa says, plain and without judgment. And only then does Ryuusui turn to face him.

“Of course,” Ryuusui says, unashamed—like it’s the obvious, natural answer. “Don’t you?”

And because it is the obvious, natural answer, Tsukasa doesn’t. Answer, that is. He’s not sure how.

You and I are the same sort of creature, Ryuusui had said. In it, somewhere, is the truth.

So instead, Tsukasa asks, “And what does Senku want?” only half expecting a serious reply, and Ryuusui—laughs. Right at him. And just like that, there’s an easy sort of forgiveness in it all.

“Senku is as wholly unaccustomed to expressing his desires as he is accustomed to getting the exact thing he wants,” Ryuusui practically laments, like the whole thing is a personal affront. Which it might be, given what Tsukasa knows about the way Ryuusui lives his life.

“I’m not sure I follow.”

“Oh? Fascinating,” Ryuusui shoves a broken-down chunk of bread into his mouth and talks through it, already regaining momentum. Tsukasa, without thinking much of it, follows the cue and eats too. He realizes suddenly that he is starving—probably has been for a while. “Then correct me if I’m wrong—Senku was always, shall we say, ten-billion percent certain he would win your war, but before it began did he ever actually ask you to reconsider?”

Tsukasa frowns. Chews. Swallows. Doesn’t have to think, really, because every second of that day is etched permanently in the fabric of his mind—but does not particularly want to answer because it’s true. He hadn’t. Tsukasa had more than once—nearly begged toward the end—but never Senku.

“I would not have stopped, I think, even if given the chance.”

And Ryuusui nods, unsurprised. “And I’m sure he knew that. Senku’s not the type to do something so illogical as rely on other people beyond the expertise they’re guaranteed to provide for pride. He’ll take whatever else he wants with his own two hands, no matter how long it takes.” He shrugs, but there’s no denying the soft sort of awe in his voice. “He wouldn’t have asked because as much as he knew you’d refuse, he also wouldn’t trust you to say yes—both in equal measure.” He wads the rest of the bread, then, and tosses it back toward Tsukasa, who catches it by reflex. Then Ryuusui leans back, arms behind his head, to stare at the ceiling. “And he got you in the end, didn’t he? He does everything that way—like he’ll always be denied by anyone else other than himself.”

“Ah,” Tsukasa says, and it’s nothing at all. And everything, too.

Ryuusui hums. “Makes you want to give him the world, doesn’t it? Just to see how he’d react.” Ryuusui snorts, soft and humorless. “Like an experiment.” Tsukasa stares.

Because he would, Tsukasa thinks—in reparation or maybe just a gift, he would kill and skin the earth to lay like another beast flayed at Senku’s feet, the same way Ryuusui would buy the rest and wrap it in gold and silk to do the same. Of course.

He doesn’t say anything else and Ryuusui doesn’t press.

The fire smolders.

The rain softens.

And by the time Tsukasa has finished his bread and cheese and dried meat, the night has dimmed and he is almost sure that Ryuusui has fallen asleep in the quiet.

Still, he feels compelled to—try. The first camp is still more than a day’s hike out from Ishigami Village in the opposite direction of the settlement, and it has not escaped Tsukasa’s notice that Ryuusui is, in fact, alone. A rarity for him, and both a risk and a labor for anyone outside the Power Team, too. Anyone normal.

It seems significant somehow.

“Are you… returning? To Roppongi Hills. Tomorrow.” Tsukasa murmurs, stilted and low enough not to wake Ryuusui—or to give plausible deniability if he doesn’t want to respond.

After a moment, the outline of one hand swings lazily through the dark. “No, no,” Ryuusui says. “I’ll head back to Ishigami Village tomorrow—I’m taking the balloon home in a few days, just like we planned.” He yawns. Tsukasa wonders if he realizes what he’s said. Home. “But there’s no good way to stop halfway through, and I wanted to see all this for myself at least once, before we left for good.”

And Tsukasa blinks. Looks out through the entrance that’s a hole into nothing, moon and stars eclipsed by the storm. Wonders if this will be his last time, too—one final glimpse at the beginning of the world Senku built with his own two hands.

He feels.

Cold.

By the time Ryuusui wakes in the morning, Tsukasa will already be gone.

When Tsukasa breaks through the treeline midday with thirteen rabbits tied at his hip and a young buck slung, dead, across his shoulders, the settlement is bustling—but beyond a few raised hands of acknowledgment, there is, as always, a strange sort of bubble around him. And he can’t blame them—any of them—for the distance; not so much that he’s disliked but that, as a whole, the Kingdom of Science and his absorbed Empire have no idea how to approach him. An enemy reformed to some, a leader domesticated to others.   

He knows it could be worse. He could be Hyoga, revived entirely out of practicality and a strange sort of guilt at Tsukasa’s own request, who despite his contributions to combat training is still one step further removed from the population’s tolerance even with Senku’s forgiveness. Moz and Homura, then revived by extension at his request, are still the only people truly willing to engage beyond necessity.

So.

The awkward uncertainty-intimidation-respect could be worse, he thinks. Even if it stings.

By the time he’s halfway through the settlement, nearly at the junction where he’ll need to decide what’s more important—bringing Senku his spoils or the meat to the mess—not a single person has approached him. He decides, as always, that it is fine.

Except—

“Big Brother!” Mirai crows in delight, sprinting full-speed with dust and Suika at her heels as she launches herself right for him without hesitation. “You’re here!” As she hits the wall of his chest, he marvels again at how much she’s grown. She comes to his torso now, at almost thirteen. Almost. He is unsure how he will survive leaving her behind when the ship leaves.

“I’m back,” he replies, soft. His hands are still braced on the front and hind deerlegs around his neck but he curls over her all the same, a half-formed, heartfelt hug as she wraps her arms as far as she can around his waist.

Suika skids to a halt, hovering around them close but still keeping her distance, and over the top of Mirai’s head he gives what he hopes is a gentle sort of smile. Like always, he’s not sure if he succeeds. Also like always, though, she stays.

“I wasn’t really worried because Senku and Ruri both said you’d be fine—and I know you’re strong, obviously—“

“Super strong!” Suika echoes, bouncing on the balls of her feet like she can’t stand still. The declaration surprises him, just a little.

“—but it was still quiet without you and training this morning was boring and—and welcome home!” She tilts her face up at him, chin pressed against his chest, and beams. It feels a bit like looking directly into the heart of a miracle.

“I’m sorry for leaving,” he replies. He means it. He wishes he did not have that thing in him that keeps urging him to—something—when things happen. Like if he does not move he’ll combust.

Mirai just buries her face back in the damp skin of his stomach for one brief moment before she lets go.

“It’s fine!” she says, cheerful, grinning as she bounces toward Suika again—who holds out one hand.

“We had a sleepover!“Suika declares, delight peeking out from under her melon helmet, and there’s a childlike excitement in her voice as Mirai grabs her and spins.

The animals aren’t heavy but the afternoon is warming and people have begun to watch from the corners of their eyes, so Tsukasa takes a step—slow, so they know he isn’t leaving them—and they pivot, circling around him instead. They remind him, somehow, of excited kittens. Full of more sound and energy than their bodies can contain.

He knows the poorly-concealed stares are more out of curiosity than anything else. He knows, too, that he has Mirai herself, at least partially, to thank for that.

“Oh?” he prompts.

“With Namari, too! And Senku!” Mirai continues, one hand still locked around Suika’s wrist. “I was going to stay with Ruri and Kohaku and Suika like usual but then Senku said—”

“I got a special assignment to try estimating the voltage of the lightning strikes, and then he wanted to test Namari’s ability to reproduce a drawing of something she’d only seen for a second—” Suika says, swinging their arms together.

“—so we stayed in the lab!” Mirai finishes. The two of them giggle at each other, caught up in their own momentum, and Tsukasa feels a soft and easy warmth spread from them both—an ease that loosens the isolation. More than anything, this is the life he wanted for her—the impossible dream he’d fought for from the time he’d been twelve years old, even knowing she’d never wake up four thousand years before. His little sister, running in circles through the grass, happy.

He hums, adjusting the weight of the deer on his back. It’s not heavy, but he wants so very badly to reach out and ruffle her hair and he can’t do that with hands full of animal.

Then Suika trips just slightly, a surprised, Ah! startling out of her even as Mirai keeps her upright without effort. They skitter to a halt just long enough for Suika to exclaim, “But! We have a mission!” and Mirai perks up.

“Oh! That’s right!” She plants her feet, then, standing still for long enough to point directly at Tsukasa and declare, “We gotta go report back, so don’t leave again.”

And Suika, a tiny mirror, does the same. “And Senku says, Bring me the dried skins and dump the rest in the kitchen!”

Then, without pause, they’re gone, sprinting at full speed further into camp while Tsukasa blinks after them—then the silence that follows he tries not to snort out a laugh. He would wonder if Senku managed to reinvent security cameras if they hadn’t just run off, and though he can figure out the thought process in retrospect Tsukasa can’t help but feel a little awed at Senku anyway.

It’s not a new sensation. As long as he’s alive, and maybe when he’s dead, too—if the past year is any indication—it will never quite go away. He is, for reasons he can’t quite articulate, content with that.

Tsukasa drops the deer behind the mess hall and pulls aside the kitchen’s back curtain, and Ganen goes pale as yells for Ruby—who rounds the corner to a bouncing halt, absolutely delighted. “Oh, Francois is going to love this when they get back—Homura! Homura! Help me drag it—oh, there you are.”

Homura, silent as ever, is already standing at the edge of the back room, watching. Tsukasa is only somewhat surprised to see her; with Francois in Ishigami Village with Ryuusui, the camp’s been left with gaps to fill, and this has been Homura’s.

Ruby carries on. “Ganen, get the rabbits, too—and be careful with the skins on the undressed ones. Chief wants ‘em dried, so I’ll do those after.” Then, without waiting for an answer, she bustles past him to get a closer look at the buck.

As Ganen approaches, already tentatively reaching for the tethers Tsukasa is untying from his belt, Homura gives Tsukasa a quiet nod of acknowledgment. He returns it, just slightly.

“I will assist,” Tsukasa says, stilted, but Ruby just clicks her tongue. When he glances back, she’s crouched over the deer glaring at him with a look of—something. Not quite disdain, but certain displeasure. By the time she’s turned again without a word, Ganen has lurched off, practically stumbling under the weight of all thirteen at once.

Tsukasa understands. Says nothing.

Then Ruby huffs again and reaches for the knife at her hip. “Nice and clean kill. The meat’ll be basically perfect,” she sniffs to no one. It is, somehow, dainty even as she hauls the giant thing over onto its side. “As expected.”

He blinks.

It’s nearly a compliment.

As Homura glides past him, she mumbles, “Not personal. He cooks for her as thanks. She wants credit," low enough that only he can hear. Snorts. “He’s bad with blood.”   

“Homura!” Ruby snaps.

It might be a little personal, Tsukasa thinks, and he wonders if Homura is naive or simply gentler than she’s been given credit for. She’d burned their village, after all—on Hyoga’s order and by extension his own—then tried to betray him after. He wonders, vaguely, if she’s simply willing to take what she’s offered by way of forgiveness, or if—to her—the sharp edges simply don’t matter. Suspects it might be the latter, given her affection for Hyoga.

Still, as he watches the way Ruby directs her around, there’s a strange sort of fondness to it. No matter how rough, the forgiveness is there for all of them.

It’s like looking through the cracks into some softer, kinder world.

He knows he has Senku to thank for the glimpse.

The settlement Science District, affectionately named more than anything, is halfway seeped in chaos by the time he enters the clearing—and Tsukasa wonders if he’s the one at fault for not expecting it. Most of the ground is covered by multiple spread-out spools of wire that Taiju is midway through coiling at mach-5 speed while Senku and Chrome stand off to the side, facing the old Empire of Might Mori Tower on the horizon—Chrome glaring through a handheld telescope even as Senku jabs his finger at the hand-drawn diagrams in his hands.

Then, as Tsukasa watches, Mirai emerges from nowhere hauling a giant clay jar and dodges Kaseki just as he (yelling for Senku) bolts from one of the buildings with a hole-riddled metal plate. She hops out of Taiju’s way just in time, bee-lining for Suika and Namari. The two of them are, for their part, digging through the bottom of one unlit clay furnace, troweling out ashes into another pot, one made of iron—and when Mirai calls for them, they both light up—

Only for Mirai to stumble as Kohaku, leaping down from the treeline, zips past. Before Mirai can hit the ground, Nikki, pickaxe slung over one shoulder, steadies her and laughs—and Kohaku skids to an apologetic halt—before the three of them split again in seconds and continue on their bustling way: Kohaku to Senku, Nikki to Taiju, Mirai to the girls. Kaseki and Kohaku reach Senku and Chrome at the same time and start talking at once, a cacophony amid the cacophony that Tsukasa can’t make out.

It’s as though he’s walked into the midst of an emergency, maybe, or a nest of ants, but despite the urgency no one seems particularly stressed. More than anything, there’s the excited surge of another project buzzing in the air.

Tsukasa slows, stops—can’t imagine the six dried skins rolled into his satchel are worth interrupting this or how they’d even be relevant, despite what Suika had said—but before he can pivot toward the main lab building to drop them off without fanfare or distraction, Mirai spots him and shouts, “Big Brother!” loud enough to carry across the clearing.

Immediately, everyone turns, pausing long enough to glance at him in a beat of total silence. It feels, in a terrible sort of way, like stepping into the ring—then, before he’s even finished the thought, most of the activity has already resumed.

“Glad you made it in one piece!” Taiju hollers, flashing him a sunlit grin and a thumbs up that somehow feels like it holds the force of a punch, before turning back to his task. As she follows behind, spooling a second sheaf of wire in his wake, Nikki waves. Senku’s minor council stays mostly focused, which is—Tsukasa thinks—to be expected, though he catches Senku’s eye even as he stays deep in distant conversation with Kaseki.

The trio huddled around the furnace nearly do the same, Suika and Namari only pausing long enough to greet him with their hands full even as Mirai looks like she wants to explode—but as soon as she sets down the basin, she bolts for him. “You’re on Team Suika!” she says, already grabbing him. “We’ve decided!” He lets himself be dragged as she chatters away (“How many skins did you bring?” Six. “And they dried all through, right?” Yes.) and when he glances up again he sees Suika and Namari exchange a look of utterly devious victory, visible even around Suika’s melon helmet. He doesn’t hesitate to hand the skins over to her—and doesn’t question it when he’s handed a wide iron chisel back and told to get to work while the three of them pour powders into liquids, divide substances up, light the furnace, and start stirring.

He’s glad to be helpful; he’s glad for the excuse to stay.

Around him, the chaos continues to wind up and down. He listens as Kaseki and Chrome work their way into a heated debate, as Taiju and Nikki finish loading packs only the Power Team could carry with wire and equipment, as Kohaku disappears to scout ahead, as Senku complains loudly that they’re losing daylight—effectively ending all discussion and breaking the whole thing up.   

Tsukasa gathers from context that the storm damaged something with the radio tower—not the tower itself but some peripheral thing that’s more dangerous to repair than just climbing the ladder system within the fortress itself. Still, no one asks for his help. He listens with one ear while the trio of girls talk through their work and Senku’s council begins heading out one by one, and he is reminded—again—that he is an outsider of his own making in the well-oiled machine of Senku’s Kingdom.

Then, when he’s on the last skin, Senku crouches down next to him and, without a blink or even looking at him, grabs one of his wrists. Three fingers and thumb, right on the pulse, no fanfare.

Tsukasa utterly stills. He feels, very suddenly, like he’s been caught in a net.

“I see you’ve pulled an S-Rank card, Team Suika,” Senku grins at them without pause, and Suika just smiles back, innocently pleased.

“A good scientist never overlooks an opportunity to exploit resources!” She chirps back—and Tsukasa hears Nikki snort from the edge of the clearing where she’s waiting, the last left—as Senku’s grin widens. “I didn’t want to wait until you got back to start my project, so I found my own labor force like you!” Tsukasa feels the corners of his own mouth twitch, too, even as he stays half-frozen—and Senku looks absolutely shit-eating delighted.

“Exactly,” he laughs. “Someday Gen’s gonna blow a gasket at me for poisoning the next generation.” Mirai giggles, high-fiving Namari by the fire as Suika continues to stir the boiling ash and water mixture. “Watch the fumes—no skin contact even when it cools.” The warning rolls out as apathetic as always, like he doesn’t actually care, but Tsukasa sees the way he looks at Suika, head tilted slightly to the side. “Make your OP player or someone else from the Power Team—not Mirai—do the heavy work and keep it covered. It’d be a pain if Team Senku lost an assistant because you runts got cocky.”

Suika frowns. “But you make soap with—”

Senku lets Tsukasa go and waves his hand through the air, a clear dismissal. “Bzzt, incorrect. Sodium carbonate versus potassium carbonate. What you’re making is ten billion percent more dangerous.” Then he stands, wiggles his fingers a little with a cheeky sort of smile, and—as usual—doesn’t sugarcoat shit. “And I’m used to chemical burns—I’ve got plenty of callouses and damaged nerve endings to insulate, which is why I’ve got Yuzuriha to compensate for delicate work. If you fuck up your dexterity like that, you’ll be totally nerfed, and I need Science Suika’s tiny hands in top shape.”

It’s so matter-of-fact that Tsukasa nearly misses the implication, but Suika’s already whining, “But—” and Senku isn’t even looking at her anymore. Instead, he’s staring right down at Tsukasa, arms crossed. Not a glare at all but simply watching.

“Wrong answer,” he says, and Tsukasa thinks, ah. Because he hasn’t been asked and hasn’t even been told, either; he could simply walk away if he chose. It feels like a test though he knows it isn’t, because the answer is obvious to both of them.

He is a body to use, after all.

“Understood,” he says. It’s quiet and firm and there’s a grumbling sort of murmur from the trio, but no one argues.

Then Namari mumbles, “Yes, Chief,” on behalf of the rest of them. Senku nods.

“That’s what I thought,” he says, then he turns on his heel and starts walking back toward the treeline where Nikki is still waiting. As they stare after his back, he waves one hand over his shoulder and calls, “By the time I’m done, that better be ready for testing!”

And there’s a sputter at Tsukasa’s side before Suika squeaks, “You said this takes seven hours!”

In the distance, Senku laughs.

Despite Senku’s warning, most of the experiment is a matter of letting things soak and settle then soak again, so—easily bored—the girls spend the bulk of their evening scattered throughout the settlement while they wait. He trails after them, only half sure what to do with himself because Hyoga had taken charge of the morning’s training and perimeter rotation, so the rounds he takes through the shipyard and grounds are as much about making his presence known as anything.

Still, as Ruri whisks Mirai away for her stretches—

(“Senku calls it physical therapy,” Ruri had said once when he’d asked. “Although I think soon he’s going to have us work on something called GPS now that we’ve both gotten much stronger—”)

—Ukyo swipes Suika, and Minami comes for Namari, he’s left to wander on his own as dinner passes and the sun sets without word from Senku’s team. Which is, perhaps, how he finds himself back by the labs, walking just a little bit faster when he sees a light on in the building where they’d left the rehydrated skins marinating in Suika’s homemade lye.

When he exhales a wordless, not-quite-disappointed, “Ah,” in the entryway, though, he can’t help but wince internally when Yuzuriha jumps—just slightly—where she’s cross-legged on the floor in a pile of blankets. She’s surrounded by baskets of crushed hemp fiber and spools of finished thread, and on one of the worktables, a candle flickers in the dark—a handmade luxury, pushing warmth against the bright, full-moon night—alongside a dark bottle of what might be half-filled with wine.

“Ahh, you startled me!” She laughs, a little breathless, smiling back at him as she resumes the spinning in her hands without looking.     

“Apologies,” he grunts, already turning to leave. “I will—”

“No, no,” she waves him back. “It’s fine! Here—” She teases out another twist of thread, even as she scoots a little to the side, making room for him. “You came to wait, right?” Tsukasa blinks at her, silent—and he knows he will never stop being amazed by her, too, in parallel. When he doesn’t immediately move, she fidgets. “…Or not?”

“Are you. Sure?” he asks, stilted, staring at the space, and the last thing he expects her to do is laugh at him—but she does, quick and bright and sheepish.

“Yeah?” It comes out like a question, and Tsukasa could laugh in return, but she beats him to it and shakes her head, fond. “Come on,” she gestures him over. “You’ve known us longer than you’ve known Senku at this point, you know,” she says, speaking for Taiju just as much. “Would it help if I put you to work?”

And that does loosen the tension in his shoulders, just a bit. “Yes, actually,” he says, and she beams at him in the night—understanding in a way he thinks he should expect. It’s the full force of an easy kindness he’d glimpsed a few times in the Empire, in quiet moments when the three of them forgot, maybe, to be enemies.

“Alright,” she says, pleased. This time when she waves him over, he comes.

When they finally settle, she’s gotten him practiced enough with the spindle to fetch her lap loom from the Craft Team’s building and switch to a steady, hands-on weaving with the thread accumulated in her pile. He’ll be the first to admit he’s not good at it—the spinning—but she’s a patient teacher and there’s a strange, effortless comfort in the delicacy of the task made easier by the alcohol, both of them sipping lightly with no real commitment as she walks him through the steps.

It’s not the first time he’s made something with hands built for fighting—not even the first time he’s been shown how by Yuzuriha herself—but somehow, in the flickering candlelight yellow-soft against the quiet, it feels like reprieve. A beautiful gift. They sit in silence for what could be hours but might be less than one, working diligently alongside one another—and that’s a comfortable thing, too. He wonders if they’re also the same creature somehow—not like he and Ryuusui, but something different. Something else he can’t place, but familiar all the same.

It is a revelation he’s unsure if he deserves to have.

Still, as he fumbles his way through forming uneven thread with unpracticed fingers, he glances at her. In that other, better life, Senku would have been his first friend, but with him would have come the two of them, too—Taiju and Yuzuriha. And she’d been right. Despite the dissonance, the year of silence and the year of distrust before, he has known them longer.

And perhaps the night spent next to Ryuusui’s chatter still lingers, because eventually—finally—he tries.

It catches them both off-guard.

“Is there a reason you haven’t let your hair grow out?”

His voice is low, but somehow it feels like shouting against the soft click of her loom and she nearly fumbles, shuttle slipping just slightly against the weave. He realizes so very acutely that he’s made a mistake that it hurts, right in the strange phantom place near his lung where the tangle sits—but when she looks up at him, she looks ready to laugh—again.

“How long have you been waiting to ask me that?” she asks in return, and he just. Blinks at her. And then she does giggle, just a bit.

He frowns.

“You’re under no obligation to answer,” he says, then he turns back to his spinning. He feels a bit like he’s missed something but can’t figure out what.

“Sorry—sorry.” She covers her mouth, only vaguely apologetic, and Tsukasa squints harder—doesn’t look at her and mostly wishes he’d kept his mouth shut and preserved what was there. “You’re probably the only one I’d take seriously if they asked me that, and I went and—oh, don’t look like that, the thread didn’t do anything wrong.” He doesn’t even realize he’s started genuinely scowling until she snorts again.

“It’s hardly thin enough for thread,” he grumbles, attempting a redirect, and in his peripheral vision he sees her roll her eyes—fond. It’s an odd feeling.

“Yarn, then,” she says. “And I just meant—you’ve got the longest hair of anyone but Ruri, I think.” Then, completely without warning, she lifts a hand and shifts the hair by his ears, fingernails grazing light against his close-cropped scalp. He freezes. Wonders, vaguely, if he should run very far away—but can’t quite figure out why. It’s like when Senku grabs his wrist but—not. “Might even be the thickest, too, if you didn’t maintain your undercut so meticulously.” She laughs again. “So you get how much of a pain it is to keep up.”

“I don’t find it… particularly burdensome,” he murmurs, but she shakes her head. Moves, then, to run her fingers through her own bob and frees him to exhale. He reaches again for the wine.

“Well, I’m sure it’s all much easier now that we’ve got real scissors and you’re not using seashells like you and Taiju used to,” she snorts, “but I’d have to wear mine up in a tie like Kohaku if I wanted to get even a third of my work done, and the headaches alone would halve my productivity, I’m sure.” When she glances at him again, there’s a teasing sort of look in her eye. “And we can’t have that, can we? I think you’d all just die without me.”

And Tsukasa—can’t help it. There’s a loosening to the tension in him, just a fraction, and he huffs out what might be a laugh in return. “Probably,” he says. The grin they share is… easy. Soft. Like the start of something better; like she’s already there and waiting for him to catch up.

“And Taiju?” he asks, mostly poking back because he’s fairly sure he already knows the answer—can’t picture him doing anything else but declare she’s beautiful—and she colors all the way to the tips of her ears by way of response. He wants to nudge her with his shoulder but can’t bring himself to move, so he settles for tilting his head at her even as she hides her face.

“W-well—“

Then Namari’s voice breaks through the silence and asks, “Are you sleeping together?” and Yuzuriha yelps—

“What?” at a volume that makes even Tsukasa wince.

In the entryway, three pairs of eyes blink at them—Mirai and Namari flanking Suika on either side, all equally startled by the outburst even as they grip one of Suika’s hands in each of their own. Suika. Who looks so very, very small between them.   

Though neither are particularly impacted by the wine, there’s an anxiety there in the trio that sobers the levity for them both—doubly so when Mirai echoes, quieter, “Are you having a sleepover in the lab too? Until they come back?”

And Yuzuriha is already shoving the baskets aside with one hand, yanking on the pelt still around Tsukasa’s shoulders with the other. “Yes, come here,” she says. “We thought we’d greet them when they make it home, like how you waited for Tsukasa last night.”

There’s nothing accusatory to the statement but Tsukasa feels it anyway—an absolutely unintended violence that has him straightening, spindle set aside, pelt off and added to the pile, half-reaching already even as Mirai starts dragging the chain of her best friends into their waiting arms.

They settle between them in a tangle of limbs, Namari and Mirai curled around Suika with Namari’s head on Yuzuriha’s leg and Mirai on Tsukasa’s own. And only when they’re settled, finally—and hear Suika’s mumbled, “Do you think they’ll be back soon?” does Tsukasa realize the most important part: Suika has been crying. Not now, maybe, but recent enough that it’s still thick in her tiny voice.

He feels a surge of protective violence hard and quick, so swift it startles him, misplaced and buzzing—

But before he can lurch and displace any of them, Mirai presses her back against Tsukasa’s thigh and Yuzuriha reaches over gently—so, so gently—to slip the melon helmet from Suika’s sweaty blond hair without much resistance. It’s not the best sign, really.

Namari answers for them both. “He said seven hours,” she says, certain, “so it’s gotta be soon.” Yuzuriha glances up at Tsukasa in confusion and—

Ah. Shit.

He settles, apprehensive. Then before Yuzuriha can ask, he says, “That may have been an estimate.” He tries to be as matter-of-fact as possible, but without her melon to hide the expression he sees Suika’s face scrunch up, squinting at nothing—stricken.

He’s not entirely sure how to fix it but Mirai is already squeezing her, one step ahead. “He’ll be fine,” she says, and here’s a conviction to her tone that has Tsukasa leaning closer to them all like a wall. “He always comes home, just like mine.” Suika nods, mostly a ball now. “You said so, right? Not even Medusa could beat him on the island.”

“Yeah,” she mumbles. “Yeah.”

When he looks up again, Yuzuriha doesn’t seem the least bit surprised—only something a little like sad, just at the edges. Then, in a blink, it’s gone—and she’s nodding. “That’s right,” Yuzuriha says. “Senku always comes home. So try to get some rest.”

And Tsukasa realizes, then, like a goddamn idiot—like he hasn’t been watching from the periphery this whole time without processing the implication. Science Suika, the little village orphan, is to Senku what Mirai is to him. Or the worse alternative, maybe: that Senku is to Suika what he is to Mirai, and Senku’s none the wiser.

“I don’t want to sleep,” Suika murmurs, but even then it’s clear that the three of them are exhausted. Tsukasa does not want to know how late they’d stayed up the night before, doing the same for him. Or does, maybe, just to face the ache is his chest head-on. Doesn’t make a decision either way because there’s a small, “Tell us a story—like Senku does,” from his little sister and Tsukasa—

Inhales.

Exhales.

Because that, he can do—has done a thousand times seated at the edge of a hospital bed. So he runs his fingers through Mirai’s hair and says, stilted, to them all, “Have you heard… of the Little Mermaid?”

By the time he’s finished a deeply abbreviated chimera of two parts Grimm’s, one part Disney, that’s new to Namari and Suika and barely-remembered for Mirai, all three girls have visibly relaxed to a half-asleep puddle. Yuzuriha is looking at him with an expression he’s both never seen before and has no idea how to read.

And then—

“I still don’t understand why you don’t sleep in Taiju’s hut,” Namari murmurs, mid-yawn, already more than mostly unconscious, and Yuzuriha makes a noise somewhere next to the pitch of a mouse being quietly strangled. The girls either don’t notice or don’t particularly care. “That’s what you do when you’re in love with someone, right?”

“That’s not—um!”

Mirai nods. Her eyes are already closed, though, content against Tsukasa’s leg as he runs his fingers through her hair and tries hard not to smile. “It’s true,” she mumbles. “It’s in the stories. Weren’t you listening?”

Suika, still holding one of each hand but mostly burrowed into Tsukasa’s pelt, hums. “And Ruri said so.” She’s calmed down significantly now—melted into the warmth and friendship, tears dried and cheeks red.

Tsukasa exchanges a glance with Yuzuriha, who looks at least a little bit like she’s slowly dying, and Tsukasa is almost proud of the evenness in his voice. “Not necessarily,” he says. “Chrome and Senku sleep in the lab sometimes, but that doesn’t mean anything.”

Suika just shakes her head, matted hair mussing further at angles that would be hilarious if he and Yuzuriha weren’t trying to maintain some semblance of authority in a conversation they have no business guiding. “Ahh. Uhm.” Suika yawns. “Propositional fallacy.”

Tsukasa does snort, then. “No, you’re arguing a fallacy-fallacy.” Yuzuriha raises both eyebrows at him and he raises one back. Before he can say anything else, though, Suika lifts her head just enough to squint at him.

“That’s not even real,” she says, only mostly confident in her defiance.

“Ask Senku when he gets back,” he replies. She can’t exactly counter that.

It turns out, though, she doesn’t actually have to—Mirai tucks further into his side and slurs, “That doesn’t count ‘cause they only do that when they’re doing science and they don’t want to leave a project.” It’s barely coherent. “Chrome should be sleeping in Ruri’s hut, like Senku did in the cave when you were in the freezer.”

Without hesitation, Suika nods; Namari doesn’t reply because her breathing’s already evened out, Yuzuriha says nothing because she looks like she’s shifted from dying to near-death for some entirely new reason Tsukasa can’t fathom, and Tsukasa—

“That’s the same as staying in the lab with Chrome,” he says, ignoring the way the night’s strange ache solidifies like ice in his left lung. “I was simply the experiment.”

“I’m fine! Get off me, you big oaf!” Senku hollers, voice bursting through the trees only half a step before Taiju’s wailed—

“Senku-u! I’m sorry!”

“Calm the fuck down!” Senku yells back. “I nailed Hyoga with worse than this!”

Tsukasa is already on his feet, scrambling up with Mirai in his arms and Yuzuriha at his heels, Suika on one hip and Namari’s hand gripped tight in the other. They hit the entryway just in time to see Senku trudging into the clearing, pissed and half turned as Taiju keeps pace right behind him, hauling both shares of equipment—Nikki and Kaseki nowhere in sight—and sobbing.

Chrome breaks through third but zips ahead, calling, “Hang on, I know where Francois keeps the aloe—” without even pausing to acknowledge the rest of them. By now, all three girls are wide awake and staring—Suika already squirming out of Yuzuriha’s grip and holding hands with Namari while Yuzuriha—

“—It’s second degree!” Senku gripes, shoving Taiju’s face aside with one hand when he tries to pick Senku up for what Tsukasa suspects is not the first, second, or even third time. Tsukasa sees, then, the damp, seeping, slightly pink bandage wrapped around Senku’s upper arm. “I’m not dying!” Then he clicks his tongue and squints toward the buildings, not the least bit surprised to find the group of them standing there and Yuzuriha already halfway across the clearing. “Ah, Yuzuriha, come wrangle your ape so I can—“   

Without hesitation, she grabs Senku by the front of his tunic and starts marching him back toward the lab with an iron grip.

“Suika!” she barks, “Cool water, clean—drinking water. Namari, go to the craft building and get me the scraps basket.”

The girls snap to attention as she passes, Taiju trailing at her heels, and they bolt before she spares a glance at any of them—Mirai wriggling out of Tsukasa’s arms with an immediate “I’ll help!” as she runs for Suika’s abandoned melon helmet and bolts after. It’s as practical as it is compassionate, giving them a task so they feel like they’re doing something while keeping them out of the way.

As Tsukasa watches, muscles taught like springs because he should be doing something too—Yuzuriha lets Senku go just as she rounds the table, and Senku tenses, already inching away. And without hesitation, she says oh so very sweet, “Taiju, don’t let him run.”

And Senku bolts—

And with one great, weepy sniffle, Taiju snags the back of Senku’s collar, clotheslines him, and then wraps both arms around his torso from behind, lifting him bodily off the ground while Senku wheezes. Tsukasa feels his breath hitch—physically resists the urge to lurch forward because this is Taiju and—

“Fine fine fine fine fine fuck—!” Senku flails, utterly helpless, while Tsukasa stares, heart racing and completely dumbfounded. “Fine! Mercy!”

Immediately, Taiju drops him. In that moment, Senku looks so remarkably like a pissed-off animal it could be funny in any other circumstance, glaring back at Yuzuriha—who’s so unimpressed by how much Senku seems ready to bite, Tsukasa could laugh.

Doesn’t.

“What happened?” she asks Taiju, completely ignoring Senku, and Tsukasa thinks if she had even the slightest inclination, Yuzuriha could probably rule the world. It is also not as funny as it should be.

Taiju bursts into another great sobbing heave. “He got—he got electrocuted!”

“Oh, for the love of fuck,” Senku hisses, even as Yuzuriha rounds on him. “It’s not even the first time you’ve seen that happen—”

“This is different!” Yuzuriha explodes, literally stomping her foot in the dirt. “We don’t have hospitals and you’re not thirteen and we can’t call your dad to ask him what we’re supposed to do!” Then, the least gentle Tsukasa has ever seen her, she rips the bandage off his upper arm and doesn’t even pause when Senku physically recoils—yelps—

Which puts him in direct eye contact with Tsukasa, still frozen in the doorway, whether intentionally or not. Tsukasa can almost physically see the moment his brain shuts the steel box, locking it all in less than a second and jackknifing hard into—

“Yo, Tsukasa,” Senku says, utterly nonchalant. Like there’s no hurt, no chaos, no anything.

There is a pause.

Yuzuriha sighs. Pinches the bridge of her nose. Says nothing. There is a strange sort of moment where Tsukasa wonders if she’s going to cry—a dissonant thought, almost derailing, because in spite of Taiju’s own theatrics he has rarely seen her do it. She’d barely flinched when he’d held his spear to her throat, only let out one quick tear when Senku himself had died—had spent a year under his rule, unyielding, then grit her teeth and soldiered through when asked to reach her hands into his chest cavity and sew up his own bleeding lung.

The wound on Senku’s upper arm is red and weeping, a little bloody around the edges—not terrible but still something spread out across half-healed lesions Tsukasa hasn’t seen before, either. And Senku doesn’t look even the least bit phased, like he’s not in any pain at all.

Tsukasa feels his mouth dry—feels the freezer’s cold against his skin—understands Yuzuriha but in so many ways Senku, too—and stands tall, matching Senku’s easy tone. “Welcome back, Senku.” And because Tsukasa is, perhaps, the most familiar with hurt of any—any of them, he says. “I assume your upper arm is partially numb.”

And Senku grins back, lopsided. “Pretty much.” He shrugs. “No big deal.”

It is, Tsukasa understands with absolute clarity, at least three-fourths a lie.

The hot air balloon is visible against the sunrise for more than half an hour before it lands, and as soon as the basket is anchored in the middle of the settlement center, Ryuusui leaps to the ground—laughing, utterly shameless—and declares, “I have returned!” at the top of his lungs.

Immediately, half the village—gathered to watch the descent because the novelty of a flying machine will never, in fact, get old—heaves a sigh of relief so palpable Tsukasa can feel it.

“Francois is back!”

“Francois!”

“Oh, thank the gods—Francois has come home to us!”

“Francois, we missed you!”

Tsukasa tries very, very, very hard not to laugh.

Senku has absolutely no qualms doing so.

“Well, well,” he snickers, arms crossed and a shit-eating grin plastered wide across his face as the crowd parts between them, most cheering louder as Francois descends the rope ladder like a normal goddamn human being. “Return of the prodigal and all that.” Then Senku holds out one palm and Ryuusui—who, to Tsukasa’s surprise, seems genuinely pleased at the praise Francois is receiving, practically preening as Francois shakes hands and pats the heads of village children—smacks Senku’s, a resounding high-five that rings across the clearing. “Hope you had a nice vacation, Captain, because now it’s back to work.”

Ryuusui cackles, utterly delighted. “I’d expect nothing less.” Then he snaps and Francois is there, right at his side once again. “Now, where’s my beautiful ship? I have some new ideas—”

At the end of the morning’s training session, as the last bout comes to an end, Moz leans back against the wooden fence and calls, “I still don’t understand why the Chief hasn’t made you a weapon,” to Tsukasa with a lazy hand-wave through the air. “You’d probably be stronger with it. Seems like a tactical disadvantage.” At his side, Hyoga snorts.   

The day’s warm but still shot through with a kind of breeze that reminds them all autumn is on its way, and in the distance work on the Perseus has come to a sluggish halt in favor of half the repair team floating on their backs in the cove. It’s taken most of Tsukasa’s patience to keep Ginro and Yo from throwing their own bouts to join them in the water, only kept in line by the threat of switching partners and sparring with Moz himself. Still, Tsukasa isn’t entirely heartless. Team morale is as much a part of leadership as the work itself, so now—with dismissal, he watches the two of them sprint full-speed for the surf with Magma (whooping), Nikki (yelling), and (partially against his better judgment) a giggling Mirai hot on their heels.

In the days since his return, Ryuusui has been holed up in the Science District with Senku and Ukyo, arguing about something—or more than one somethings—while Chrome runs interference between Kaseki in the mines and Yuzuriha’s crafting team in full-force by the labs. The vacuum has left a void in shipyard oversight that Gen has, ostensibly, stepped up to fill—but with his focus concentrated more on resource management than structural engineering and, in Yo’s words, the only real sympathy for the labor team in the entire Kingdom, the atmosphere has felt something like a classroom under substitute teacher supervision for the past week.

There’s a mischievous relaxation in the air, made all the more fun by the subterfuge as Gen pointedly ignores the field day and has instead spent the morning observing training. It would be hilarious, Tsukasa thinks, if he weren’t so on edge.

“It’s a fair point,” Hyoga says, monotone a thin veneer around his calculation. “You’ve been fighting without one since your revival. Too guilty to pick up a spear?”

Tsukasa clicks his tongue and resists the urge to simply walk away lest Hyoga think he’s won—but he doesn’t have to, because Moz, shameless and confident in equal measure, throws his head back and laughs. Without warning, he smacks Hyoga on the back hard enough to make Hyoga stumble to the side a fraction and declares, “Bold taunt from a man beaten by him bare-handed, so I’ve heard!”

It utterly breaks the tension in a way only Moz can, and at the edge of the clearing both Kohaku and Kinro—just finished with their match—snort without a word. Tsukasa nods toward them and they return the favor before hopping the fence inland, the last to head for their rotation on the wheat fields with Taiju. Away from the bullshit.

Then Gen, hovering at the perimeter (certainly not keeping an eye on the workers) says, “And he was injured, too.”

“But hardly unarmed,” Hyoga snaps back, bristling. “There was an entire Senku involved.”

Tsukasa almost expects Moz to laugh at Senku’s expense or, more likely still, tease back—and is ready to put him down in Senku’s defense if he does. As much as he’s grown fond of Kirisame, Moz himself is another story. Instead, however, Moz just nods, and for a moment there’s an odd, not-quite-fearful look of commiseration between he and Hyoga.

Out of the corner of his eye, Tsukasa sees Gen raise an eyebrow, a little too intrigued.

“Senku is quite handy to have in combat, isn’t it? Like a little weapon in his own right,” Gen prompts. It feels a little like the start of a test and Tsukasa tenses, just slightly. He’s not particularly in the mood for whatever Gen wants to stir up. “Physically noodle-esque, though,” Gen continues, thoughtful. “It makes you wonder what he’d be capable of if he actually put thought into offense—or perhaps not.” He hums. “I watched him build a tank out of paper.” It could be halfway between planting a seed of doubt to see what weeds grow or halfway a threat, Tsukasa isn’t sure.

But Moz just hums, looks at Gen with his arms crossed and head half-tilted, and says, “I don’t like you.” It’s barely personal. Gen blinks and Tsukasa almost—almost—snorts, but doesn’t want to give Moz the satisfaction. Then he says, “He dislikes fighting and he’s strong enough to bring us to heel, so he doesn’t have to,” and the statement is so matter-of-fact it’s like an explanation in and of itself, said completely without judgment.

In the moment of stunned silence that follows, every single thing Tsukasa has assumed about Moz reslots.

And Hyoga, of course, snaps. “What are you, a dog?”

Moz just grins. “Bark, bark.” Then, without waiting for a reply, he leans his head back and whines, “Man, I want the Chief to return soon. I’m gonna ask him for the strange mechanical thing he made while I was in disguise.”

“And now you sound like a child,” Hyoga grumbles.

“You’re just jealous you didn’t get to see it,” Moz says, flashing him a shit-eating grin in return. “I was very cool and it was extremely deadly.”

Hyoga glares back. It is, Tsukasa thinks, his default state. “You’re a student of the Kudayari now, by your own request. Act like it.”

There’s sharpness to his anger that sounds a little too much like the dangerous thing Tsukasa’s seen more than once now at Hyoga’s edges, and he wonders if he should intervene. Still, Gen looks like he’s trying very hard not to laugh more than anything, and that’s a consolation. Whatever Gen’s test, Moz has passed—and the rest is at least partially worth it to watch Hyoga squirm. For all his violence, Tsukasa is sure it’s mostly quelled into habit.

In some strange way, it feels like they’re back in their own world, when this land had been the Empire’s and they’d been two of his own generals. Whatever stress they might have now, the tension of then is gone—that guillotine hanging over all their heads, blade held as much by Senku as each other during the war. Moz’s easy antagonism, too, is a welcome reprieve.

“Yeah, but I can be a spearmaster and also have a fucking awesome—” He blinks. “What the fuck even was that?”

“A switch-axe,” Gen chirps, like it’s the most obvious answer in the world. All three of them blink back, and for once even Tsukasa’s brain sputtering to catch up. Gen’s mirth slides into a truly theatrical lament. “Figures that you two spent too much time touching grass to play video games in the old world,” he sighs, shaking his head sadly. “And Monster Hunter is such a classic.” Tsukasa wonders if he should take genuine offense or if Gen’s angling for that on purpose.

Still, Moz squints. “A monster hunter?”

“Don’t listen to him,” Hyoga scoffs, but Gen just leans forward conspiratorially, stringing Moz along in his momentum. Even Tsukasa can see he’s something of an easy mark.

“It’s a creature-slaying weapon from modern era legends,” he says, voice pitch-perfectly awed, “that our Genius Leader brought to life on a whim.” Moz looks just on the edge of skeptical, like he can’t quite tell if he’s being fucked with and also isn’t sure if he cares. It seems like a default state for him, at least where Gen and Senku are involved.

Pushing off the fence, Hyoga just rolls his eyes. “Oh, please,” he grumbles, already marching away. He doesn’t stop talking, though. “Senku just doesn’t know enough about real weapons to recreate them and picked some fantasy bullshit instead.”

“Paper tank!” Gen calls.

And, equally childish and unwilling to let Hyoga win on principle, Moz taunts, “Jealous!” again. Hyoga’s shoulders ride up to his ears but he doesn’t turn back—just throws his middle finger over one shoulder at them all.

“Face it, Hyoga-chan!” Gen shouts after him, voice sing-song as he waves one sleeve in an unseen beckon. “Genius wins the arms race! If anyone could make, say, a functional Buster Sword, it would be our Senku-chan!”

(“A what—?”)

It’s a jab timed specifically to rile him up, because Hyoga can’t resist getting in the last word in even as he stalks off. “It’s insult to tradition!” he shouts back, sounding genuinely offended. “And you’d have to be fucking insane to carry one!” There’s a faint crack of hysteria in his voice that Tsukasa almost—almost—misses. “They’re too goddamn big to be practical!”

When Tsukasa glances back, Gen looks like a cat full of canary and Moz is openly chuckling, even without context. Then Gen snickers, “I wonder what it was for him. Chastiefol? The Lance of Longinus? Maybe Mogura? Every kid wants one, and our dear Hyoga-chan is hardly so immune.”

And because he’s not feeling particularly charitable, Tsukasa snorts, “Kyoko Sakura’s spear, probably,” low enough that no one else might hear. It’s mostly courtesy. Moz just tilts his head, deeply intrigued—and then it’s Gen’s turn to blink, just for a moment, before he loses it.

“Oh, my god,” He giggles, eyes practically sparkling. Tsukasa only feels a little bit bad. “The boys are absolutely going to love that.” Then he squints. Cuts his eyes over in a way that makes Tsukasa feel a little too seen. “Ah, Tsukasa-chan, I didn’t know you were a—”

He leaves immediately.

He hasn't been avoiding the Science District, which sounds like a lie in his head but isn't—not really. There's a strange atmosphere hanging in the air—has been for days now, since Ryuusui’s return or before, maybe. Senku’s injury. Like the whole place is wrapped in a bubble of chaos, insulated and incubating some internal countdown to combustion.

He has tried. More than once, even. But every time he's gotten close he's found himself simply stopping at the edge, standing near the treeline, strangely certain if he were to step foot four millimeters closer the whole well-oiled machine of it would collapse with his interference. And the rare moments he's been acknowledged, it's been with a dismissive, “What do you need?”

He has not been asked to help again.

Not by Suika, not by Yuzuriha, and certainly not by Senku himself.

And watching Ryuusui and Ukyo, Gen and Chrome, Taiju and Yuzuriha, Kaseki and even Minami filter through with purpose, he has become acutely aware of the simmering revelation he has been trying to avoid for weeks: that he is an outsider, irredeemable. If not disliked then at least partially untrusted, and he cannot even blame them. He’s failed again—had broken his promise—had chosen to stay while Senku went, and Senku had been hurt in his absence.

So he has thrown himself bodily into managing the four branches of the Power Team in return, has dedicated himself to getting them ready for independence once they set sail.

Most won’t be an issue, really—the mining division has been doing just fine on their own since before his resurrection, and their workload will reduce significantly without any major construction. The agriculture division will be much the same, especially when faced with winter—though he’s more concerned than anything about how they’ll fare without Taiju. And the labor team will be dissolved, more or less, and divided between both after the Perseus leaves, with stragglers absorbed into the crafting team.

No, it’s the combat team that—not worries him, really, but has him on edge.

No matter how little anyone wants to address it, there’s simply no telling when they’ll truly return to Japan. If all goes perfectly to plan, they’ll be in North America by late fall and spend enough time settling Corn City that they’ll need to stay through the winter, then from there it makes more sense to head south rather than re-crossing the Pacific. Given the road-map of cities, there’s a decent chance they’ll simply end up circumventing the globe before they backtrack at any point, which could take years, depending on the rate of expansion. Optimistically. And it won’t go according to plan, Tsukasa is sure, because they’ll be relying at least partially on Senku’s fucking terrible luck.

And through all of that, they’ll have every single decent and half-decent warrior in the entire Kingdom of Science with them. Both the first and second lines of defense.

Despite Senku’s insistence that they would have known by now if there were any more Soyuz descendant settlements nearby, the existence of the Petrification Kingdom—and the incongruous violence of its people compared to the relatively docile Ishigami Village—irks Tsukasa. And even beyond that, they’ll still be left with the frankly baffling accumulation of large invasive predators still stalking the landscape, the result of unchecked population growth among the remnants of nearly a hundred zoos throughout the country. Lions, yes—and the panthers they’d killed for Hyoga’s own pelt; gorillas and wolves, massive boars and bears, and at least one Komodo dragon.

As good as the C-tier combatants like Titan and Carbo, Turquoise and Jasper have become, he knows with sick clarity that no one would make it out of a direct confrontation unscathed. They’ll be in charge of hunting and protecting both the settlements themselves and anyone traveling between them—all without backup. And without the main force acting as a deterrent, nature itself might get cocky.

And then, too—he will be leaving Mirai behind in their care, which is perhaps the most nerve-wracking part of it all.

The inadequacy of it all gnaws at him, just at the edges, and in the night he watches Mirai sleep—sprawled out on her back, mouth open, drooling into their shared pelt bedding—and weighs the merits of a dozen different options like a man portioning out pieces of his soul. He wants to bring her with them, but can’t. He wants to stay here with her, but can’t.

He needs to go—to sail the Perseus by Senku’s side and watch him reshape the world, to hold both hands against the throat of anything that would get in Senku’s way—and to do that, he needs to engineer the ideal conditions ensuring her safety, and that, too, is impossible.

And more than anything, he wants to talk to Senku, but doesn’t.

So he hasn’t been avoiding the Science District or Senku or Senku’s injury or even Yuzuriha herself, holed up nearby and working on whatever assignment she’s been given. He has simply been staying out of their way, dealing with his own responsibilities—

No matter what the look on Francois’s face might be telegraphing.

“If you wouldn’t mind, Master Tsukasa,” they say, bland, holding out a leather-wrapped bundle through the kitchen storeroom’s back entrance. They’d caught him between tasks so perfectly he’s almost positive they’d planned it. “My knives require a degree of maintenance after my absence and I am, unfortunately, quite busy at the moment. And the remainder of your rabbit skins have long-since dried.” They hand him a second bundle. He’s not being asked to do anything—simply told in fewer words—and, oddly enough, it’s a relief.

“Of course,” he grunts, and Francois nods, satisfied.

Then, with an odd sort of amusement that catches at the edge of their eyes, they add, “And while you are there, please do inform Master Senku that the next iteration of his herb curing experiment is ready for inspection.”

Ryuusui is marching out of the main lab building, a massive roll of blueprints in one hand as he scowls into the air, when Tsukasa steps into the clearing. He doesn’t seem angry—not that Tsukasa has ever seen him truly so, but in some strange way it reminds him of the way Senku grits his teeth when an experiment doesn’t go the way he’s planned. A determined kind of frustration, maybe, supported further by the fact that as he passes, Ryuusui slows beside the open entrance to the Crafting Team’s adjacent building and calls, “You are as incredible as always—absolutely stunning work!” bright and quick, loud enough to carry even as he keeps walking.

Not angry, then—presented with a challenge, already back to grinning wildly and on the attack. His default state.

From inside, Yuzuriha stammers a surprised, “Ah, t-thank you?” that sounds more amused than anything, but Ryuusui simply carries on—nodding once to Tsukasa as he passes.

“Captain,” Tsukasa greets, returning the gesture. It feels more like the truce has solidified, somehow, while he wasn’t looking.

And Ryuusui’s smile stretches, a surprised sort of delight that he keeps reigned alongside the light in his eyes. “Tsukasa.” It’s not quite a formal greeting but something easier. Then he tilts his head to the side a little, and says, “Good luck,” with a teasing lilt that ends in a laugh. And taking the cue, Tsukasa keeps walking on a straight course to the heart of the place.

When he passes Yuzuriha’s building, he sees her alone in a sea of identical hourglass jars, meticulously filling each with sand. She looks up as his shadow crosses the entrance but doesn’t pause, mostly engrossed in her work, hands still moving even as she gives him a soft smile—and he cannot begin to fathom what she’s making, because he’s learned by now that the obvious answer (some multi-dozen number of primitive clocks) is always too simple for the truth.

He nods to her, too, by way of greeting—then continues on.

Senku has his back hunched away from the door, working furiously at a set of blueprints when Tsukasa rounds the corner, and immediately Senku gripes, “Don’t even try, Ryuusui—it’s a waste of—” but when he turns to glare over his shoulder, he falters.

“Hello,” Tsukasa says, because he simply cannot think of anything else.

“Ah.” Senku blinks. “Yo, Tsukasa.” And his whole body shifts, then—not quite like the tension drains from him, really, but like he’s flipped a switch in his brain and put whatever’s bothering him back in the box to lock. Again. “What do you need?”

It stings, just a little, even though this time—for once—it’s true.

Tsukasa holds out Francois’s deliveries like they’re an answer in and of itself (which they might be) and Senku snorts. “Put the skins down—I’ll need to soak them in water first.” Then he waves one hand through the air, fingers smudged from the wrapped charcoal pencil in his hand, and turns away again. “Or you could. Whatever. Just give me a second to finish this and then we’ll deal with those. I can’t imagine what kind of damage Ganen did while Francois was gone.” Then, before Tsukasa can reply, he murmurs, “I should make them a new set anyway—they’ll need knives on the ship and if Ganen is getting used to using them… hm,” even as he returns to his work—two tasks at once, already moving ahead to the next.

For a moment, Tsukasa wonders if Senku is addressing him and doesn’t move—but when Senku starts his next sentence midway through a thought and mostly-mumbled, he realizes Senku has simply begun talking to himself.

Senku would talk forever if he could—rarely stops even now, endlessly muttering to himself in the lab, whether he realizes it or not, to anyone who would listen but more often to no one at all. It’s a habit he’s had for as long as they’ve known each other so Tsukasa turns, finally, and scans the room. Finds the basin he’s looking for. And by the time he’s carried out his task and returned, Senku is stretching his arms over his head, leaning back—

And Tsukasa watches the lithe lines of his silhouette, toned muscle earned from years of hard work by necessity even on a body destined to be weak the same way Tsukasa himself was born strong. The edge of his soft leather sleeves fall back to his shoulders as he moves, exposing the raw line of bandages along his upper left arm—and Tsukasa is so acutely aware, more than anyone else, of how easy it would be to lose the foundation of everything they’ve built. How easy it would be to lose Senku.

Then Senku turns, catches his stare, and Tsukasa wants to look away but doesn’t—because even from their earliest days in the woods, Senku has been impossible not to watch with something like awe. (Again, as always.)

And as with all things, Senku is utterly unphased. “Thanks,” he says, like Tsukasa hasn’t done the bare minimum. Then he turns and starts heading for the door, waving for Tsukasa to follow. “Now let’s get to work—you’re going to learn something new.”

The armory is one of the strangest buildings in the settlement, at least partially because its existence post-dates the war that would have truly necessitated it. Still, it is as much the home of their hunting equipment as it is place for creation and maintenance—an open-backed pavilion with the forge and anvil at one end, woodworking equipment at the other. It’s an odd mix of things that Tsukasa hates and respects, with racks of spears, old and new—stone and metal—alongside bows and swords and carbon-fiber shields.

Like everywhere in the Science District, too, it is a sea of half-finished projects all in various states of revision—the remnants of a disassembled air cannon, the split-apart mechanism of some electronic thing that looks reminiscent of Senku’s stun gun, and the prototype for what might be a slingshot all strewn across every surface.

Oddly, too, he catches sight of something wretchedly familiar amid the organized chaos—the half broken spear from a lifetime ago, made first by Senku’s hand then halved in Yuzuriha’s gunpowder explosion. The weapon he never abandoned—the weight of the thing he used to snap Senku’s neck like an albatross around his own. He’d thought it lost or, at the very least, thrown away. Instead it’s sitting, unobtrusive, on a table amid another half-strewn pile of paper and wood and metal.

He wants to ask what it’s for but he doesn’t get the chance. As they enter, Senku offers a lazy, one-handed wave to Ukyo, who looks up from where he’s bent over one of the long tables with a spray of arrows spread out in front of him, diligently assembling his arsenal. He doesn’t seem surprised to see them—probably heard them coming from half the clearing away.

“Solid progress,” Senku says without stopping, crossing the room with purpose. Ukyo simply nods, frowning down at his pile.

“I figure we won’t know what we’ll find when we get there, so it’s better to be prepared,” Ukyo replies, soft-spoken as always. He runs his fingers across the length of a feather and Tsukasa is struck, suddenly, by a partial solution to one of his problems.

As Senku settles himself in the corner with most of their blades and metalworking equipment, Tsukasa stalls by Ukyo, tilting his head slightly to the side, just as quiet. Ukyo catches his eye, waiting. It is a quality Tsukasa has always respected in him—his patient openness.

Then, when Tsukasa finds his words, he says, “Would you find it burdensome to teach several of the villagers the basics of archery before we set sail?” eyeing the bow set to Ukyo’s side. “I am aware of how busy you are, but perhaps they would be better equipped for the winter when we’re gone.”

Ukyo raises his eyebrows. Then the corners of his mouth twitch. “I could certainly find the time,” he replies. “And I’d have ten billion percent better luck teaching the Villagers than I did in the Empire.” From across the room, Tsukasa hears Senku snort—but when he glances up, Senku has already turned his back to lay out Francois’s knives and is pouring water from a skin at his hip into a pot on the table.

“I will admit, finesse was lacking,” Tsukasa replies, gaze sliding to the side. “Generally.”

“You broke my bow,” Ukyo replies, and this time he fails to hide his smile. “You broke my bow in half.”

Against his will, Tsukasa feels his face heat and wonders distantly if he should have waited to ask, because Senku is fully snickering now. “It was not my intention,” Tsukasa says, and Ukyo just shakes his head as he resumes his work, tying off the last knot.

“Well, I certainly hope not,” he chuckles back. “You looked too disappointed and you’re a worse liar than Senku.”

Then from across the room Senku says, “I can lie,” voice full of offended theatrics.

“Badly,” Ukyo retorts. “That’s why Gen does all your talking.” And when Ukyo rolls his eyes at Senku’s back, grin at the corner of his mouth, Tsukasa realizes—suddenly—that there’s an easiness to him that Tsukasa has not met before. A predictable softness. This is Ukyo the man, not Ukyo the Naval officer, and whether out of fear or habit or obligation, Tsukasa has only ever known the latter.

They had talked once—in that brief reprieve after the Stone Wars ended, before things went to shit—and Tsukasa had offered an apology for his injuries on Hyoga’s behalf. Still, Tsukasa is acutely aware of the divide between them. So many betrayals, most deserved, and Ukyo had been the only one truly hurt in return. He would have died, had Senku not won in the end.

But before Tsukasa can voice the sentiment and make things more of an awkward mess than they already are, Senku drawls, “Well, I for one am glad there are things the Lion King isn’t incredible at on the first try,” as he dunks a stone in the water up to his wrist. “Now wrap it up over there—Tsukasa, you’ll need to know how to do this.”

And without really thinking, Tsukasa turns—starts to walk away—and then realizes what he’s done and looks back, vaguely apologetic. There’s a quiet smile on Ukyo’s face as he simply waves him on, already pushing back his stool to stand. “I have afternoon lessons soon, regardless,” he says, as he gathers his things. “And I still need to regroup with Yuzuriha about rebuilding the ship’s globe—and her other project.” Then he glances back and gives a minuscule bow, the edge of his hat tilted just slightly toward Senku, who isn’t looking. A gesture of respect, unseen. Something curls warm and pleased in Tsukasa’s gut, like that’s the way things should be—not simply knowing full-well Ukyo never did the same for him but content with it, too. “I’ll take my leave.”

“Later,” Senku calls back, bland, not even glancing up. “And don’t forget to check the new sound-proofing below deck—if I hear one more complaint about the fucking goats I’ll make Ryuusui keelhaul them.”

Ukyo’s lips twitch. “The goats deserve better than that, I think,” he says. “I’m not sure how well they can swim.”

“Oh, fuck off.“ Senku squints back long enough to throw a middle finger of his shoulder, “I’ll make Ryuusui keelhaul you,” and Ukyo really does snort then, a genuine laugh. 

“Sure, sure,” Ukyo says, amused, and then—softer, “Thank you, Senku.” There’s a deep well of fondness in Ukyo’s eyes that Tsukasa catches when Ukyo turns to address him again. “Think of anyone in particular who might pick up archery fast enough in the time we have left,” he says, and Tsukasa nods. Thanks him again. And then Ukyo slips out the door.

When Tsukasa finally crosses to Senku’s side, Senku starts talking like they’re already midway through a conversation.

“Slate’s good for these,” he says, gesturing down to the wide, flat stone sitting on the table. “Won’t bore you with the details because I’ll make you a pocket stone anyway, but we’ll start with something stationary.” He glances up long enough to make sure Tsukasa is paying attention (Tsukasa is; of course he is; he cannot help it) then reaches for the largest chef’s knife, a gleaming wood-handled thing clearly crafted by Kaseki’s loving hand. Without hesitation, he scrapes the flat of the beveled edge against the rock. Makes a handful of passes. Stops and inspects the edge, then holds the knife out to Tsukasa by the blade.

And this is another quality of Senku’s that Tsukasa has always respected—he has never once talked down to Tsukasa, has always met him at the edge of his own intelligence and never assumed anything less of him, in spite of who he is. Has assumed, here and now—rightly so—that he doesn’t need the bare-bones explanation of a whetstone and simply thrown him into the challenge. Still, though—

“Easy as hell,” Senku shrugs. “Here, hold the angle—and don’t use bow snapping strength ‘cause then you’ll bend or chip the edge,” he says, brows furrowed and focused even as he points out the knife’s curve. When Tsukasa doesn’t move, though, he looks up. Frowns.

Tsukasa curls and uncurls his fists. Feels worse for disappointing him than the lack of action, because this is what he’s wanted. And Senku, in a rare show of what could be patience with another human being, waits with both eyebrows raised and a look of mild annoyance on his face. He lasts a few seconds before he starts sharpening the knife again, unable to stay entirely still when there’s work to be done. He doesn’t say anything, though.

Finally, Tsukasa says, “I do not wish to break Francois’s tools.”

And Senku rolls his eyes, dismissive. “It’s delicate work but you’ll be fine,” Senku insists. “You won’t be doing it this way most of the time anyway, but it’s good to know the technical process before I hand you a rock and tell you to go at it.”

Still, Tsukasa isn’t satisfied. “Why are you teaching me this?”

“Because it’s important for you to know how to maintain your team’s weapons,” Senku says. “Duh. Realistically, there’s going to be a point where the crafting team won’t be around to drop everything and check at your convenience, and it’s better for you to be able to gauge their state anyway,” he says, like he’s going down a mental list. Tsukasa watches him, hands still methodically honing the edge, and cannot argue. As usual.

“I see,” he says. Still, though—

“What, the great Shishio Tsukasa scared of a little metal? Here—” Senku stops abruptly, then, and grabs Tsukasa’s wrist—steps to the side and tries to pull him closer, but fails spectacularly because. Well. “Oh, come on,” Senku gripes, “at least play fair, you fucking wall of muscle,” and Tsukasa is acutely—acutely aware of the fact that he hasn’t let go. That he’s just holding Tsukasa there, fingers on his pulse point, glaring up at him without anything sharp at the edges.

A beat passes. Predictably, Senku doesn’t back down, and Tsukasa isn’t sure what he’s even being stubborn for. Digging his heels in out of a genuine worry he’ll ruin something, maybe, or for the excuse to say there, locked in Senku’s hand.

Neither seem good enough under Senku’s gaze, so finally, he does move—and Senku doesn’t.

Instead, Senku stands firm, pressed up against Tsukasa like he’s trying to superimpose himself onto the same space, and he doesn’t seem the least bit bothered even as Tsukasa feels some essential part of himself short-circuit. If Senku notices, he either doesn’t care or doesn’t show it, just carries on in the throes of his own explanation, absorbed (as always) in the act of teaching.

“Anyway. Steady, consistent pressure like this—” He guides Tsukasa’s hand down to the blade. Holds him there, shows him how to position the angle right and moves the knife in a slow arc against the whetstone. Senku’s hands are worn and calloused, made rougher still by the gray wet-grit staining his fingers as he works. “—keeps the edge even. Always follow the same number and pattern for your strokes on both sides. Tip to heel, heel to tip, vice versa. Pick one and stick with it.”

Tsukasa grunts without saying a word, trying so goddamn desperately to pay attention to the rhythm of the action even as the ends of Senku’s ridiculous hair brush at the collar of his tunic. He feels crowded in, almost crushed despite the wide-open room and their difference in size. Still—Senku’s presence—his existence—is an all-consuming kind of thing that sucks the air out of every millimeter he occupies. Tsukasa has seen the way every face turns toward him when he enters anywhere—room or field or beach. How every voice quiets when he speaks. Has done both himself for years now, he’s sure.

Senku stops, brushes Tsukasa off to inspect the edge of the blade again, running his finger along the bevel as he carries on, “When you get a bur like this, you’ll switch to honing, which is—are you even paying attention?” Tsukasa blinks and knows he hasn’t moved properly, still staring down at their hands—close, so close—as Senku glares up at him.

“Mhm,” Tsukasa grunts, offering a curt nod. It’s not technically a lie.

Even though Senku squints, he lets it slide, only vaguely skeptical. “You’ll have an easier time with swords because everything’s scaled up, but with something like this you’ll change your grip and move in a single direction.” He adjusts, then, and spreads his thin fingers wider across the spine, holding it steady—gliding it across the stone in sweeping, smooth, even strokes before flipping and slowly sliding the heel toward their bodies, pressed together. And Tsukasa hovers, wanting the touch back but not, too, as he watches the delicacy of it—the confidence with which Senku handles something so dangerous—transfixed.

It’s only a chef’s knife but he feels the absence of Senku’s hands on his own like a burn and wonders, distantly, if Senku handles all of his weapons with the same sort of care.

All of them.

Then Gen’s voice crashes through the room in a sing-song, “Senku-chan! I thought I’d find you here,” and Tsukasa absolutely does not startle. He simply. Stiffens. And feels the space in his chest shrink by halves, a tight spike of something.

When he turns, Gen is waiting at the building’s open entrance, a delighted little smile on his face, and Senku doesn’t seem the least bit surprised by the outburst. Tsukasa can’t help but wonder how long Gen has been standing there—how long his own awareness slipped. As Senku leans back and drawls, “What’s up, Mentalist?” without actually leaving Tsukasa’s space, Gen glides closer.

Senku doesn’t seem in any particular hurry to address him—doesn’t set the knife down and step away until Gen whines, “You’re busy working on Tsukasa’s project but how’s mine going?” like an overly dramatic kicked puppy, Senku snorts, rolls his eyes. Is already switching gears, ready to solve a new problem.

The strange threads of feeling tangle, ever-so-slightly, and Tsukasa grunts, “This is Francois’s,” too-sharp. “Not mine.”

Gen quirks an eyebrow. “Isn’t it? I thought for sure—”

“Yours should be ready,” Senku cuts him off, dunking his grit-stained hands in the basin of water up to the bandages on his wrists. “It’s been sixteen days since we jarred the last batch and according to Tsukasa, Francois checked when they were doing their rounds.”

And Gen absolutely lights up, already diving into Senku’s orbit to grab him by the arm—not the injured one, but still. Tsukasa is torn between an odd bafflement at how much touchier Senku has become and the overwhelming urge to simply pick him up and move him out of reach when Gen crows, “Oh, perfect!” as he nuzzles his face against Senku’s with a mischievous glee. “Shall we try it out? Your place or mine? Please, please, please?”

Immediately, Senku squirms, shoving him away, “Get off you freak—no! Shouldn’t you be working?“which only makes Gen cling harder, giggling. Still, when Tsukasa catches his eye, there’s an assessing sort of edge underneath the layers of mirth—the same glint of calculation that made him a valuable revival for Tsukasa in the first place.

No matter how many times he falls under Gen’s scrutiny, Tsukasa knows he won’t get used to it. And he’s too unsure of his own thoughts to understand the win condition here—barely sure if he’s being tested in the first place or if this is simply Gen’s natural inclination to fuck with people, and even more uncertain as to why this bothers him so much. So much closeness, again and again and again. Rather than do literally anything, Tsukasa just stands utterly still while Senku wriggles and Gen lets himself be scraped off like a starfish or perhaps some sort of goo.

“Aw, but Senku-chan,” Gen huffs, voice hitting an award-winning level of heartbreak, “It’s too azy-cray hot to work on the beach without the crew risking sun sickness so I—” and Senku sticks his wet hand directly on Gen’s face. Immediately, Gen’s eyes widen and he sputters, completely breaking character long enough to let out a gargling yelp of total indignation. “Eugh!” Within seconds, he’s completely extracted himself and Senku snickers.

“You deserved that,” Senku says without an ounce of remorse.

As Gen swipes at his face with the wide fabric of his sleeves, he glares back. “I did not!”

“Absolutely did.” And Senku, already drying his hands down the length of his own tunic, rolls his eyes. “Anyway, I’m busy tonight.” He’s begun carefully wrapping Francois’s knives back into their leather and Tsukasa realizes with a gnawing disappointment that Senku has decided they’re finished.

“Tomorrow?”

“And tomorrow.”

Then Gen huffs, “Fine, fine,” and tucks his hands inside his sleeves, straightening—finally giving Senku his space—before his eyes cut over to Tsukasa one more time and he says, “We could invite our dear Tsukasa-chan to the den of iniquity instead,” all mischief. “If you won’t come.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, stop calling it that,” Senku gripes, suddenly turning to leave them both behind. “I’m an ethical drug dealer. It’s a lean-to of minor inconvenience at best.” As he passes, he smacks Gen on the back of the head and ignores his pouting, So violent! Even Chief Tsukasa-chan was nicer to me, and says, “We need to have a strategy meeting anyway, so give us a couple of days to finish the GPS,” without stopping. Then he glances back over his shoulder, prompting Gen to scramble after. “Unless you can keep perfect time and test the accuracy of forty-eight hourglasses by hand.”

“No, no—I’ll leave that to our human stopwatch,” Gen sighs, breezy.

“How generous.”

“I’m a philanthropist, what can I say?”

And Senku raises his eyebrows, unimpressed. “Thank you for the weed?”

Gen snorts into the folds of his sleeves, eyes bright, delighted by the retort. “Thank you for the weed, Senku-chan,” he sing-songs in return, mocking, like a child repeating phrases back to his teacher. And to Tsukasa’s surprise Senku does—genuinely—smile. It’s a twitch at the edge of his lips more than anything, half-hidden as he turns to ignore Gen’s final wave before Gen saunters back out into the clearing, but it’s an easily-earned marvel.

And Tsukasa realizes, then, what Gen has done—not antagonism but the intentional break in tension. Wandered in to ask a favor and gotten something else, just as wanted, in return.

When Senku hands the roll of Francois’s sharpened knives to Tsukasa, he doesn’t tell him to leave, so Tsukasa—despite knowing Francois will want them back, especially as they begin preparing tonight’s dinner—doesn’t. He simply trails after Senku, quiet, as Senku mutters to himself on their way out of the armory and back into the main lab building.

“Francois—done. Ukyo—good for now, need an update. Gen—fine for a few more weeks, no more than three.” It takes a moment for Tsukasa to realize he’s running down a mental checklist, the ever-shifting Jenga tower of tasks to do for the people around him. “Ah, I should make another set of knives for Ganen. And Ryuusui—revisit schematics, find a justification for—ugh. Whatever. Oh—should talk to Taiju about baling hay for archery targets, too. Then Ruri needs—” Archery targets.

And Tsukasa pauses as they cross the threshold, a strange, startled warmth spreading at the realization that Senku has already slotted Tsukasa’s plan into the ecosystem of his mind. It’s not a true stumble but the closest he’ll ever get, maybe, and Senku glances back. Raises an eyebrow.

And maybe it’s because of the past however-long spent in total concentration or maybe it’s simply Senku’s default state, somehow Tsukasa feels utterly exposed. He wonders with a terrible little jolt if he’s made a mistake—if he should have left. If he’s upset Senku somehow or crossed some sort of line.

Senku’s furrow-browed stare pins him to the floor from across the lab and Tsukasa starts to say, “Apologies, I’ll—”

And completely without warning or context, Senku doubles back. Reaches for Tsukasa’s wrist. Says, “If you could have anything from the old world, what would it be?” And Tsukasa freezes. Opens his mouth and then closes it, baffled. “And don’t say something stupid and brooding like nothing, the old world was poison or, I don’t know—” he snorts, “—smart phones.”

It’s so abrupt, so utterly ridiculous that all Tsukasa can think to say is, “Do I really sound like that?” and it’s almost enough to distract from the fact that Senku is doing it again—holding him there, loose and steady, fingers on his pulse point.

Senku blinks back, mirth still clinging to him. “Absolutely not,” he says plainly. He’s so close he has to tilt his head up to look at Tsukasa, and there’s a strange, soft sort of jolt in Tsukasa’s chest as he stares down in return. “My voice is at least half an octave higher than yours even at the lowest pitch I can reach.”

Tsukasa squints just slightly and wonders if he’s been spending too much time with the children, because he’s struck suddenly with the urge to stick his tongue out—then the secondary thought that at this distance, he could lick Senku if he wanted. That derails him more than the initial question and he very fucking nearly pulls away—

But doesn’t, because Senku’s eyebrows quirk up another fraction and Tsukasa’s sure he’d rather take another spear to pulmonary cavity than do anything to disrupt the silly little glee in Senku’s eyes. The mischief. And knowing he’s at least partially the cause, too—Tsukasa stays still. Waits. Lets himself be scrutinized even as he hopes all of Senku’s genius can’t read that thought in him the way he’d picked up his worse intentions years before.

Then Senku’s expression shifts. He frowns, leans in closer, amusement shifting to a sober inspection—and Tsukasa becomes acutely aware that he might have messed things up regardless.

“Elaborate,” Senku says.

And in the pause, Tsukasa cannot think how to word his own explanation—only knows the broad feeling of it, lurking at the edges. A thing dipped in guilt and shame, tangled in the way he wants to be able to answer Senku honestly simply because he’s the one who’s asked.

Was I really so angry? Was it really so obvious? Why did you save me anyway?

So instead, he says, “Potato chips,” and Tsukasa discovers for the first, beautiful time what Senku looks like when he’s surprised.

Eyes wide, mouth half-open, Senku throws his head back and laughs so close Tsukasa can feel it vibrate down the length of his whole body, shaking with delight. “What are you, American?” he asks, alight. The look of completely unguarded pleasure takes Tsukasa’s breath and flees with it, uncertainty forgotten. “No, wait—you spent time overseas, Gen told me. It’s how you met, right? Some game show while he was living over there.” He shakes his head. “Potato chips. Potato chips!”

Then, suddenly, Senku steps away—lets go of Tsukasa’s wrist—and Tsukasa is becoming used to the feeling of loss that comes with watching him turn to leave. So he says, “They were. An indulgence,” stilted, and when Senku glances back over his shoulder Tsukasa wonders if he understands the breadth of what he’s trying to convey. Suspects he does, mostly on trust.

As Senku crosses the room, he huffs, and without preamble (again) says, “Heart rate spikes, minor pupil dilation, increased breath frequency—" he bypasses the spread of blueprints entirely and starts hauling a wooden stool half his size, utterly wheezing with leftover laughter on top of the effort. “I’d throw sweat in there too, but let’s be honest—we’re all sweaty as hell all the time.” Tsukasa is already moving to help but Senku just glares him off, talking through the strain without pause. “And let me guess—you’re sometimes slammed with a boost of game-breaking physical energy—” he gives up and just starts dragging the damn thing across the dirt floor, “—at random times with no specific outlet.”

Tsukasa can’t do anything but stare, skinned alive by the whiplash. Senku lets him have his silence and finally stops shoving the stool at the edge of the room, pausing long enough to swipe the bangs from his face and accomplishing exactly nothing.

“Yes,” Tsukasa says. It comes out flat. He wants the laughter back, wants Senku’s joy more than his calculation despite knowing they’re inseparable and relishing both, and Senku doesn’t even look at him, just nods to himself and then clambers up to reach the three-rows-deep shelf of filled glass jars closest to the ceiling—the tinted ones meant to keep sunlight out.

“Yeah, thought so,” Senku says, mostly absorbed in whatever he’s hunting. “You’ve probably got cortisol burnout, dude.”

Tsukasa is not unintelligent—he knows exactly what it sounds like and what Senku deliberately isn’t saying—and though he’s long-since learned conversations with Senku are like being dragged behind a raging bull, he can’t help the winded, “Pardon?” that cuts across the lab.

Senku hums. “I’ve watched you do it,” he says, reaching for something toward the back of the shelf. “If I had to guess, I’d bet your adrenal responses were easier to manage before now because the highs and lows weren’t significantly different from your norm. Dunno what the daily routine for an MMA fighter’s like but I’ll hazard a guess and say you were under immense stress and constantly venting it through cycles of extreme physical exertion, whether you realized it or not.” He makes a noise of frustration, shoves two bottles aside, and strains on his toes to reach. Tsukasa feels the curve of Francois’s knives digging into his palms and realizes he’s gripping the leather hard enough to damage if he tried.

Senku carries on. “Then the world ended and I woke you up and BAM! nothing’s really changed, all that energy is going in a different direction, survival, then we go to war—”

“I was there,” Tsukasa says, frayed, through gritted teeth.

Senku ignores him.

“Where the hell did I put it? Ugh.” With an absolutely graceless hop, he hits the ground, repositions the stool, and tries again while Tsukasa says absolutely fucking nothing and stares. “Anyway, now the fire’s out but your brain hasn’t figured out how to function without it, probably because it’s never had to. God damn it, if Chrome—” Then he makes a triumphant sound and scoots four things aside to grab the fifth just out of reach, adds, “That, or you’re in love—or both,” voice taut with the effort but otherwise utterly bland as he reaches with his whole body. The stool wobbles.

He is either completely oblivious or blisteringly apathetic to the total crisis happening behind him.

When Tsukasa says, “How inconvenient,” it comes out with all the poise of a very large walrus being crushed slowly to death and he half expects Gen or (god forbid) Ryuusui to leap around the corner and declare he’s been pranked.

This, of course, does not happen.

Senku simply replies, “Yep,” popping the last letter like they’re talking about the weather. It is deeply unhelpful. Tsukasa does not read into it.

“Your suggested course of action?” he asks instead, because what else can he do?

With one final stretch, Senku grasps the last jar and at the same time, says, “I dunno, smoke a joint. Get laid—” and Tsukasa lets out a strangled Hm. muffled to his own ears as Senku turns, leaps to the ground with his prize, and simply carries on without stopping. “Senku’s orders: fucking chill, man.” He shrugs, and only then does he look at Tsukasa. Tsukasa can’t even begin to guess what he sees.

He’s sure there’s nothing on his face, but Senku has always been able to read him best, after all. Then Tsukasa mutters, “Deeply scientific,” only mostly sarcastic and immediately wants to wince—more than aware of how it sounds.

Instead of snapping back, though, Senku just snorts out an unoffended little laugh. “Yeah, well, I’m not a medical doctor,” he says, already back to his task and inspecting the green-glass jar of something unidentifiable in his hands. “I’m an astrophysicist molded into a generalist by an American with a god-complex and too much free time on his hands—ah, and one research trip to Liberia during the Ebola outbreak—”

“The what—”

“Not important.” For the second time, Tsukasa’s general rule of expect to be surprised with Senku fails him long enough to falter ever so slightly, but as always it’s nearly impossible to avoid being swept up in Senku’s momentum. “What is important is that Gen is the closest thing we have to psychiatric care in the apocalypse and he’s the last person you want poking around in your brain about this shit—clinically untrained with enough on his plate already and no real outlet of his own.”

“Ah,” Tsukasa says, deeply eloquent.

Then, seemingly satisfied with whatever he’s pulled from shelf, Senku pivots back and sticks one finger in his ear, letting his gaze slide away—eyes rolling, dismissive, even as he approaches. “Locking you both in a room and telling you to talk it out wouldn’t be fair to either of you and I can’t have two of my best guys weighing each other down.”

Senku is as blunt as ever, and Tsukasa feels like he’s being yanked along by a string, unsure how to even begin processing the compliment and the double-ended kindness because his brain’s still snagged on four other things in the one-sided conversation already. He settles on a not-at-all-forced, perfectly calm, “That seems somewhat alarming in the long term,” because he’s Shishio fucking Tsukasa and Senku just shrugs again in response.

“Which part?”

“All of it, frankly.”

Senku sighs. “Yeah, well, it’s certainly not ideal, but I’m working on it. Gen’s got his own ways of blowing off steam but we’ll need to figure out a more permanent solution eventually because you’re not going to be the last—you’re just an early case.”

Then without waiting for a reply, he deposits the jar in Tsukasa’s free hand and keeps walking to the workbench on the opposite wall, away from the spray of blueprints he’d been agonizing over earlier. There’s some other, half-finished project there, neatly set aside and probably in the midst of the thing Tsukasa has learned most experiments require: rest.

Senku picks up some vial of separated liquid and sediment and squints at it against the incoming sunlight, and Tsukasa does not move.

An early case.

“Senku,” he says, voice steady. “Do you mean to tell me that others suffer as I suffer?”

And when Senku looks back at him around the glass, his expression is like the surface of a lake. “Do you suffer, Tsukasa?”

The jar feels heavy, weighing him down worse than the bundle of knives. “I don’t know,” Tsukasa says.

And Senku nods, focused on Tsukasa fully even as he gently spins the beaker, swirling the substances back together with his wrist. “I suspect,” he says, “that’s at least part of the problem.”

Tsukasa doesn’t flinch, doesn’t say anything. Just stands there—waits. Processing. And does his very, very, very fucking level-best not to simply turn around and leave—to drop what he’s been given and walk into the woods and keep going until he hits the ocean or perhaps the other side of the world—because to do so would feel less like a solution to the buzzing in his limbs than a loss. A lack of trust.

Senku sighs. “How about this,” he says. “Patient C,” he waves his hand noncommittally in the air, “has bottled aggression that requires intense physical exertion to recreate the adrenaline-response rhythm of a both an unstable domestic development and professional fighting structures as a result of said environments and multiple experiences of severe life-threatening injury, including impalement, surgery without anesthesia, and pseudo-death—”

Tsukasa recognizes the shift in tone, the sort of mood where Senku keeps talking and talking and talking until the other person is completely assured he’s correct. It’s not anger—not even close—more like the intense need to make sure Tsukasa understands.

“Patient B has severe panic attacks after nightmares and flashbacks of his brother impaled or of being impaled to death himself, along with a frankly baffling amount of pent-up anxiety.” Without looking, Senku stops spinning the beaker—sediment perfectly and cleanly dissolved, not a hint of bubbling or foam. Tsukasa wonders if it’s dexterity or the perpetual count in his head or his functionally inhuman expertise or all of the above—but Senku is still talking.

Tsukasa has struck a nerve in his own self-flagellation.

“And Patient A has a highly disjointed sense of time and self after 117.3 billion consecutive seconds in complete and total isolation, exacerbated by a preexisting abandonment complex and subsequent experiences of personal betrayal resultant in one’s own murder, the inability to save and resultant forced-hand killing of said friend in return; the joint pseudo-murder and pseudo-suicide by the entire remaining social circle; and finally—impalement. Again.” Senku breathes out through his nose. “Because it’s the leading cause of trauma in this whole fucking place.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Tsukasa asks, hollowed out.

“Because there’s no doctor-patient confidentiality if I’m not a doctor and we’re both patients,” Senku says in return. There’s nothing in his voice but the plain thud of truth.

“And Ginro?”

“You’ll never admit it, but he’s already proven himself a capable warrior in your eyes and you won’t judge him for being an evidential example you can’t wave off as personal bias.” With his working hand, Senku dumps the vial into some larger glass cylinder filled with something else, then immediately replaces it on the rack.

“I could admit it,” Tsukasa replies, quick. It’s not defensive so much as the easiest confession he can make without addressing the rest.

“Well, don’t,” Senku scoffs. “It would just go to his head, and Matsukaze’s already doing enough for his ego.” And just like that, the tension breaks. And maybe it’s the whiplash of the last however-long bubbling over, too, because Tsukasa can’t help it—he snorts, a sound that startles him more than Senku. And—finally—when he looks down at the jar in his hands, he sees it for what it is: soundproof walls and whetstones and looms.

A gift.

“Tell me,” Tsukasa says, marveling quietly as the tightness in his chest loosens, bit by fractional bit. “Have you handed me marijuana or sexual lubricant?” And that does startle a laugh out of Senku—the light back in full force when he glances up—and it’s not an apology because neither have anything to apologize for, but it’s something.

“It’s hair conditioner, you pervert,” he says. “I told you to veg out and gave two possible options of an undefined total.” Then he turns, putting his back to Tsukasa completely as he returns to his work with both hands. The larger beaker is cloudy now—mixture shifting to a viscous, yellow-milk thing that Tsukasa can’t even begin to guess the use of. “Take Mirai on a hike and go spend the day in the hot springs—do something about the knots in your greasy mane for all I care.” Then Senku sticks two entire fingers in the gel, swirls, and lifts his hand to squint as he rubs his thumb through the residue. Frowns. “Eugh, that’s not right.”

And that’s it.

Senku doesn’t say anything else, Tsukasa solved and already moving on to the next problem. There’s nothing cold about it, because for all Senku’s bluster Tsukasa has never—not from that first strange day reborn naked and fighting lions—been anything other than an essentially human type of kind. The kindness of hands in the dirt reaching out for other hands. The kindness of unwavering belief in his fellow man. The kindness always eaten alive by the old world in a way that, at the end of it all, will prove them both right—no matter the victor.

Tsukasa wonders if he’ll ever hit the bottom of exactly how deep that endless well of Senku’s sharp-toothed patience really runs. Wonders if he does, what he’ll find there—anger or grief or something else. Wonders if it even matters at all because they might all die halfway across the Pacific Ocean a few weeks from now before he even finds out and shifts his feet, the hem of his cloak brushing the back of his legs as he turns, a soft sound in the quiet lab.

Senku barely acknowledges his exit, silence turned to muttering as he glares down at his work. And still—whether Senku feels like it’s a satisfactory end to the conversation or not, Tsukasa finds he doesn’t quite want to leave. Not yet. He wants to stretch the seconds out just a little longer.

So with one hand on the thatched-together door frame, Tsukasa asks, “Are the other patients similarly cared for?” and whether Senku knows he’s watching doesn’t matter—Tsukasa sees his shoulders tense, a tell against the boisterous laugh that’s still mostly genuine, though Tsukasa can’t quite figure where, exactly, the lie sits.

“Patient B has a robust emotional support system in one overly-devoted attendant and said brother, and Patient A has devised a series of multi-layered achievement roadmaps for the good of humanity as a means of joint self-social and temporal grounding.”

“You distract yourself,” Tsukasa says.

“I have a hobby and frankly you should too,” Senku retorts, dropping all pretense in favor of simply being right. “And build better social connections—that might help. But, again, not my area of expertise.”

Senku shrugs, and it is another quality Tsukasa has come to admire in him—his strange, oxymoronic humility. It’s a thing of beauty that stems from the spark of true genius inside him, Tsukasa thinks. His love not simply for science—and certainly not authority—but for the breadth of humanity itself. The thing that drives him, body and soul, to save them all. Senku simply cannot know everything, and he is content with that—delighted by it, even, if only because that means there is someone out there in the vast expanse of the world who does know more than him.

Tsukasa marvels at him like revelation glittering in the eye of a bird, and Senku holds his new mixture up to the light again, checking for something.

“So you prescribe relaxation, enjoyable mental stimulation, and time spent with friends and family?” Tsukasa says, only half a question, mostly a joke, and even though he knows Senku isn’t watching he raises his eyebrows anyway.

“Mhmm,” Senku hums. “I know it’s 99% muscle, but try to let your brain figure out what happiness feels like. That’s all we’ve got, so even if it’s only treating the symptoms it’s still better than nothing.”

Tsukasa feels the corners of his mouth twitch, not a smile but something close, and cradles the jar closer to his chest.

Still, though—outside, he hears the telltale shrieks of Mirai, Suika, and Namari, reunited and utterly restless in the wake of their chores and lessons for the day, Chalk and Sagara set loose to chase by circumstances just to the left of coincidence. Their voices are getting closer, carrying through the settlement as rest of the Kingdom of Science begins the quiet shift into early evening. There’s an innocence there, in all of them, despite what they’ve seen.

“You said there will be more,” Tsukasa murmurs.

“Of course there will—we’re trying to survive a post-apocalypse.” Tsukasa can almost hear the eyeroll in his voice. He sets the beaker down and reaches for something that isn’t there, then turns to glare across the lab at the blueprints—and at all of his note-taking supplies still scattered on the other side of the room.

Tsukasa hums, an unheard or maybe just unacknowledged, “Hm.”

Senku, though—he just keeps talking. “But we’ll be fine. We’ll move forward. We’ll have new experiences. We’ll make amazing things. We’ll encounter incredible people. We’ll survive—thrive, even—because that’s what humanity’s always done.” And his back rises, falls; Senku breathes, alive, conviction and hope seeping out of him like acid. “All seven billion of us.” Then he waves one hand over his shoulder, a clear dismissal. Conversation over. And Tsukasa has to remember how to breathe, too. “Now go spend quality time with your fucking sister. Repairs on the Perseus are almost done, you’ve got roughly 28.9 million seconds of being dead to make up for before we set sail, and I’d prefer to accidentally glue my fingers together in peace before anyone else needs something.”