Chapter Text
Another month has passed, and it has done so with a calm that Gen finds almost suspicious. Not an empty or stagnant calm, but the kind that feels like a long, deep, necessary breath after having held the air in for far too long. It is a month in which days follow one another without shocks, without crises, without sudden illnesses or immediate failures that force him to pull himself back together from broken pieces. A month in which, for the first time in a long while, he does not live with his heart constantly in his throat.
The difference compared to the first time he tried to create the revival fluid is abysmal. Back then, his body was exhausted, torn between scientific urgency and the brutal demand of carrying a life. He worked more than he should have, pushed himself beyond his limits, locked in a constant struggle against nausea, dizziness, the dull ache in his back, and a fatigue that never seemed to fade. Every task was twice as heavy because it was not only about surviving, but about doing so while his body changed, while his belly grew, while the fear of not being enough followed him even into sleep.
Now everything is different.
Not because the goal has disappeared—Senkū is still there, motionless, waiting—but because the path has become, at least for now, quieter. This second time, the process does not demand the same immediate physical toll from him. The materials are already in motion, the timing is set by nature rather than by his desperation, and there is nothing he can truly speed up without putting everything at risk. So Gen does what he can do, and nothing more. He carries out his daily tasks with an almost ritualistic consistency: he waters the fields of acid and cotton in the morning, when the air is still cool and the world feels newly created; he hunts what he needs to eat; he cooks carefully, without haste; he bathes when his body asks for it. By the time the sun reaches the highest point in the sky, most of his obligations are resolved, and then there is time.
Time that he once did not know how to inhabit without anxiety devouring him from the inside. Time that now, almost without realizing it, belongs to his baby.
He devotes himself to his baby in a different way, more fully, less fragmented. He plays with him without glancing sideways at what remains to be done, without counting in his mind the steps of the next chemical process. He sits on the ground, lies down beside him, watches him for long minutes as if trying to memorize every gesture, every subtle change. He feeds him patiently, respects his rhythms, learns to read when he wants more and when he has had enough. He sleeps when Byakuya sleeps, sometimes with him curled up nearby, other times simply letting himself fall into a deep rest that once seemed impossible.
He also creates new routines, small structures that give shape to the days. He does not do it because someone taught him how, but because he feels that both of them need it. There are more or less fixed times to eat, to play, to attempt naps. They do not always work, but Gen learns not to see that as a failure. He understands, little by little, that parenting is not a straight line nor an experiment with exact results, and that Byakuya is not a problem to be solved, but a tiny person learning how to exist.
Complementary feeding progresses slowly, without pressure. Byakuya gradually tries new purées, new textures, new flavors. Gen still does not dare to give him meat; not for lack of resources, but out of caution, out of fear of rushing things. Instead, he experiments with different fruits—some sweeter, others more acidic, some mild and others that provoke exaggerated grimaces that make him laugh even on the most exhausting days. There are fruits that Byakuya accepts enthusiastically and others that he hates from the very first moment, but Gen does not take it as something negative. On the contrary, he begins to notice how his baby develops preferences, how he reacts differently depending on what he tastes, how his repertoire expands little by little.
That growth is not limited to food.
Byakuya changes day by day, in ways so subtle that sometimes Gen only realizes it when he looks back. He is stronger, more stable. He sits confidently, plays with intention, leans toward the objects that catch his attention. His babbling is more complex, more varied, and although they are not words yet, Gen feels that there is intention behind them, a need to communicate that goes beyond crying. Sometimes it seems as though he responds when Gen speaks to him, as if he were truly trying to hold a conversation, and that idea—that his baby is no longer just a dependent newborn, but someone beginning to interact with the world—fills him with an intense mixture of pride and vertigo.
Among all those changes, there is one that surprises him more than any other.
For the first time since Byakuya was born, he has managed to sleep through the night.
It is not something Gen planned or forced; it just happened. One night he put him to sleep as usual, with the familiar rituals, laid him in his little bed, and waited, as he had so many other times, for the rest to be brief, interrupted by hunger, discomfort, or the need to feel accompanied—but that interruption never came. Byakuya slept and kept sleeping. One hour passed, then another, and then yet another, and the silence was not broken by any cry.
Gen spent much of that first night awake, not from exhaustion, but from disbelief. He got up several times to check that his baby was all right, that he was breathing normally, that nothing was wrong, but Byakuya slept deeply, oblivious to the internal upheaval it caused in the one who gave him life.
As the days passed, that pattern held. Byakuya no longer woke up from hunger or discomfort. He also did not seem to need Gen to be physically pressed against him in order to feel safe. The moment Gen put him to sleep at night and laid him in his little bed, Byakuya fell asleep without trouble, as if something inside him had finally found stability.
For Gen, that meant more than physical rest.
It meant space to think without the constant weight of urgency. It meant full nights of sleep that returned mental clarity to him. It also meant confronting a new and contradictory feeling: his baby no longer needed him in the same desperate way as before. He did not reject him, did not pull away, but he grew, moved forward, became a little more independent, and although that independence filled Gen’s chest with pride, it also left a quiet knot in his throat.
Because every step forward Byakuya takes is beautiful, yes, but it is also a constant reminder of everything Senkū is missing. Of how time moves forward, relentless, even when someone remains motionless. Gen keeps talking to him, keeps telling him about every small achievement, every change, every new routine. Sometimes he does it while he works, other times while he feeds Byakuya, other times when the silence becomes too heavy.
This month of peace does not erase the pain, but it makes it more bearable. It does not solve the absence, but it gives Gen the strength he needs to keep holding it. It is a month in which he does not give up, but also does not punish himself. A month in which he understands that moving forward does not always mean running, and that caring for his baby, enjoying him, loving him without reserve, is also a way of resisting.
The world remains harsh, primitive, unforgiving. The final goal is still far from his reach, but in the midst of all that, Gen finds something he did not expect to find this way: balance. A fragile balance, perhaps temporary, but real, and for now, that is enough to keep going.
It is early in the morning when Gen finishes bathing Byakuya. The sun is just beginning to filter through the trees, tinting the air with a soft, golden hue, and the world is still half asleep, quiet, as if it were respecting that intimate moment between them. Steam from the water still floats around, mingling with the clean, warm scent of his freshly washed baby’s body. Gen holds him carefully, already accustomed to the weight, to the way Byakuya settles against his chest without a second thought.
If they were not the only two people left in the world, if he were not so aware of every passing day, Gen would swear someone had switched his baby.
He cannot help thinking it every morning, especially in moments like that. Before, bath time was a true ordeal for both of them. A moment Gen faced with a mix of resignation and guilt, mentally preparing himself for what he knew was coming. Byakuya hated it with his entire tiny being. The moment the water touched his skin, the crying began: a sharp, desperate cry that seemed to say the whole world was ending right there, inside that improvised tub. He kicked forcefully, arched his back, flailed his arms without control, and every movement made Gen’s heart shrink a little more.
There were days when, as he bathed him, Gen had to grit his teeth to keep from crying as well. Hearing that cry broke his soul in a way that was hard to explain. It was not just the sound; it was what it represented: the constant feeling of failing him, of causing distress to the person he loved most, even though he knew rationally that the bath was necessary. More than once, the idea crossed his mind to leave him unbathed, at least for a day, just to avoid subjecting him—and himself—to that suffering, but he never did. He never could.
He bathed him every day.
Sometimes quickly, in an attempt to finish as soon as possible; other times with forced patience, speaking to him softly, apologizing over and over, promising him it would be over soon. He repeated to himself that it was for his own good, that he could not neglect him, that there was no one else who would do it, and even so, every bath left him emotionally drained, with a tight chest and the persistent feeling of walking a tightrope.
Now, at eight months, everything is completely different.
Byakuya no longer cries. He does not kick in desperation or cling to him as if he were in danger. On the contrary: the moment he touches the water, his face lights up in a way Gen still cannot fully understand. He laughs. A clear, open laugh that comes from his chest and turns into small, happy sounds. He moves his hands, splashes, hits the water without coordination, but with an obvious intention to play. Every splash is a discovery, every flying drop a source of fascination.
He enjoys it. He truly enjoys it.
For Gen, that is an immense relief. A release he did not know how much he needed until he had it. He no longer tenses up when preparing the bath, no longer anticipates the crying. Now he watches his baby with a mix of tenderness and wonder, asking himself at what exact moment the change occurred. When that ritual once laden with anguish transformed into one of the happiest moments of the day.
The only problem—if it can even be called that—is that Byakuya enjoys it so much that he knows no limits.
He splashes everything.
The water ends up on the floor, on the walls, on the improvised furniture Gen has built with so much effort, and of course, all over him. Byakuya does not discriminate: every movement seems specifically designed to soak him. His hands slap the water with enthusiasm, his feet kick uncontrollably, and every laugh is accompanied by a new wave of droplets that land directly on Gen’s face and clothes.
In a matter of minutes, Gen is completely drenched, as if he had bathed as well.
The first time, it caught him by surprise. Now he expects it, but that does not stop him from laughing every time. A genuine, light laugh, the kind that comes without effort. He cannot help it. Seeing Byakuya so happy, so comfortable, so unaware of the worries he carries makes any inconvenience insignificant. Even so, the practical consequence is inevitable: he has to dry his clothes every day.
For that reason, he ended up making himself another set of clothes. It was not something planned, nor even a priority, but it became necessary. He cannot spend half the day in damp clothes, especially in a world where getting sick can be dangerous. So he invested time and resources in that as well, accepting that his new reality includes shared baths, even if only one of the two is actually in the water.
When the bath finally ends, Gen wraps Byakuya in a clean, soft cloth. He dries him carefully, paying attention to every fold, every small corner of his body. Byakuya no longer protests; on the contrary, he lets himself be handled, still wearing a silly smile on his face, as if the game were not quite over yet. Gen talks to him while he dries him, though he does not always realize the exact words he is using. They are loose phrases, unimportant comments, a way to fill the air and stay connected.
Then comes the moment of dressing him.
The clothes Byakuya wears now are the result of the second batch of cotton Gen managed to process. Almost all of it went into making new garments for his baby. Small shirts, simple pants, everything designed with comfort in mind and with the constant growth that seems to give no respite. Gen looks at those clothes with a mixture of pride and melancholy. Pride for having been able to make them, for having learned, for keeping him warm and protected. Melancholy because every new garment is a confirmation that Byakuya is growing fast—too fast.
He is waiting for his baby to turn one year old so he can make him clothes out of leather.
It is something that has been circling his mind for a while now. Cotton is useful, yes, but it is not eternal. It wears out, it tears, and it does not always protect from the cold as it should. Leather, on the other hand, is more resistant, more durable. Even so, the idea does not fully excite him. He thinks of capybara hide as the most viable option, the softest one possible. Still, he does not know for certain what the right age is for that kind of material not to bother him, not to irritate his skin or limit his movements.
He has no manuals. He has no one to ask.
So, as with so many other processes, he has no choice but to try.
That uncertainty accompanies him constantly. Every decision is an experiment, every choice a gamble, but he has also learned that staying paralyzed by fear is useless. He has had to trust his intuition, the constant observation of his son, and his ability to correct things if something does not work. He knows he will make mistakes, that he already has, but he also knows that every mistake comes with learning.
As he finishes dressing Byakuya, Gen pauses for a moment to look at him. Eight months. Eight months of long nights, exhausting days, of small victories no one else sees. Eight months in which he has had to be everything: caregiver, protector, provider. Eight months in which he has learned more about himself than he ever imagined.
Byakuya looks back at him, curious, calm, completely unaware of the weight of those thoughts. He stretches out a hand and grabs a lock of Gen’s hair, tugs at it with that excessive strength only babies seem to have. Gen makes an exaggerated face and laughs, leaning closer to him.
In that moment, with the sun already higher and the day just beginning, Gen feels that, despite everything, they are okay. Tired, yes; alone, too; but okay, and for now, that is enough.
Gen lays his baby down carefully on the futon, adjusting him on the blanket so he is comfortable and safe. No sooner does he straighten up than Byakuya is already moving, as if staying still were an absolute impossibility. Gen watches him over his shoulder as he picks up the water containers and cannot help but smile: just as he expected, only a few seconds pass before Byakuya tries to sit up, awkwardly bracing himself with his arms and straining his abdomen until he manages to sit.
“Of course…” Gen murmurs, amused. “Why stay lying down, right?”
Byakuya responds with a cheerful sound, a kind of shapeless babble, proud of himself and accompanied by a few claps, and Gen shakes his head fondly before leaving the shelter with the water containers.
The morning air is still cool. The ground retains the night’s moisture and the sky, though clear, does not yet have that relentless sun he fears so much when he has to work with Byakuya on top of him. He starts with the acid fields, moves slowly, pours the water carefully so as not to waste a single drop. It is almost automatic work by now, something he has repeated so many times that his body seems to do it on its own. Even so, his mind is not entirely there; part of his attention remains inside the shelter, imagining his baby moving, exploring, perhaps attempting some new feat.
When he finishes, he goes to storage and collects a bit more water. He waters the cotton fields, making sure to cover all areas well, and then returns to the acid fields to complete what was missing. The rhythm is calm, unhurried, like almost everything in these past days. He no longer feels that constant urgency from before, that weight in his chest that forced him to race against time. Now, while the fluid prepares slowly and the days repeat themselves with a strange calm, he can allow himself to work like this: slowly, attentive, present.
With one last full container, he returns inside the shelter.
The first thing he sees is Byakuya, now positioned on his knees and little hands, his body leaning forward with a determination Gen recognizes instantly. That posture, that clear intention to move.
“Huh?” Gen says as he sets the water aside. “What’s that? Are you going to crawl?”
Byakuya makes a small effort, pushes with one leg, and ends up tipping completely to the side, falling onto the blanket with a soft plof. For a second he stays still, as if processing what just happened, and then lets out an open laugh, delighted with himself.
Gen cannot help laughing too.
“Almost, almost,” he encourages him. “You were doing great, Bya-chan, it’s just that… well, the direction wasn’t that one.”
Byakuya manages to reposition himself, rolls a little, adjusts his hands again. He tries to move forward and, once again, goes off to the side. This time he does not even seem surprised; he just laughs, as if falling were an essential part of the game. Gen leans against one of the shelter’s walls and watches him for a moment longer, feeling that familiar mix of tenderness and wonder. It seems incredible to him how something as simple as trying to move can be an endless source of fun for his baby.
“You’ve got your whole life to learn,” he murmurs. “There’s no rush.”
With that calm, Gen takes the leather he uses to clean the statues. He wets it a little, wrings out the excess water, and approaches Senkū’s statue. As always, the gesture is careful, almost reverent. He runs the leather over the petrified surface with slow, precise movements, removing the dust that has accumulated. Every touch is gentle, as if he feared that any roughness could damage him, even though he knows it is useless.
“Good morning,” he says softly, as if Senkū could hear him. “You look just as stubborn as ever today.”
A small smile escapes him as he cleans the statue’s face, tracing features he knows by heart. He speaks while he works, without thinking too much about the words. He says nothing important, nothing transcendent. He just talks because he wants to.
“The bath was a disaster again,” he continues. “For me, I mean. Bya-chan had way too much fun… I should start counting that as exercise, you know? I end up soaked every day.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Gen watches Byakuya. The baby continues with his game, moving without any clear pattern: he rolls, ends up on his stomach, props himself up on hands and knees again, tries to move forward and fails spectacularly. Every fall is accompanied by giggles, as if the entire world were a game designed just for him.
“Look at him,” Gen says as he runs the leather over Senkū’s shoulder again. “He entertains himself with anything. With falling, with moving, with nothing. I guess… I guess that’s good.”
He pauses, cleaning a small crack in the statue more carefully.
“It’s a relief,” he admits. “While he’s like this, while he can play near me, I can do things. I can work. I don’t have to carry him all the time or worry that he’ll hurt himself the moment I turn around.”
Byakuya falls again, this time ending up on his back. He kicks the air, excited, and makes a sound that could be a complaint or a laugh; with him, it is never easy to tell. Gen lets out a small chuckle.
“I don’t think he really understands what he wants to do,” he says. “But he wants to do it, that’s for sure. Just like you.”
He turns his attention back to Senkū, now cleaning the statue’s chest, following the rigid lines of the stone.
“Sometimes I wonder what you’d say if you could see him,” he continues. “You’d probably make fun of me. Say I’m too soft, that I should let him fall more… although, well, he falls on his own, so I guess he already is.”
The leather slides once more, and Gen pauses only to make sure he leaves no marks, that he does not forget any corner. It is an almost ritualistic act, one he repeats every few days. Cleaning Senkū is not an obligation; it is something he does because he needs it, because it allows him to feel that there is still a bond there, that he is not speaking only into the void.
“I’m okay,” he says suddenly, almost like a confession. “Tired, but okay. Bya-chan is okay. He’s growing fast… too fast.”
He looks at his baby again. This time, Byakuya manages to move just a little forward before collapsing again. The progress is minimal, but Gen notices it.
“Did you see that?” he says, raising his voice slightly, as if Senkū could react. “He moved. Just a little, but he moved.”
He goes back to cleaning, a soft smile on his face.
“As long as he’s close,” he adds. “As long as I can see him like this… I think I can handle everything else.”
The shelter fills with small sounds: the leather brushing against stone, Byakuya’s intermittent laughter, Gen’s low, steady voice as he talks about simple things. There is no urgency. There is no immediate danger. Just him, his baby, and a silent statue sharing a quiet morning in a world at a standstill.
By the afternoon, the shelter is steeped in that particular silence that only appears when Byakuya is taking his nap. It is not absolute silence, because the world never is: there is wind moving the leaves outside, some persistent insect, the soft creak of wood when Gen moves. Even so, it is a different calm, fragile, almost sacred. Gen takes advantage of that moment to step outside and prepare his lunch, moving carefully, as if he feared that any slightly louder sound might break that balance and wake his baby.
As he stokes the fire and arranges the meat, his mind wanders, as it often does when he does not have Byakuya in his arms. At some point—he does not know exactly when—he discovered that his baby no longer needed him to sleep during his naps. He simply fell asleep. At first, he thought it was something temporary, an isolated day, but over time it became the norm. He would lay him down, adjust the little blanket, kiss his forehead, and Byakuya would close his eyes without looking for him, without reaching out with his little hands, without that desperate gesture of clinging to his clothes, and it hurt him to the core.
Gen stirs the meat distractedly, the knife scraping against the stone surface, and he feels that familiar knot in his chest. A strange, contradictory emptiness opens up inside him. Because he knows it is a good thing. It is development, growth. It is his baby learning to self-regulate, to feel safe even when he is not holding him. It is exactly what is supposed to happen, and yet, it still hurts.
He feels that he did not enjoy that attachment the way he should have. That, at the time, when Byakuya could not sleep without him, when he needed him for everything, there were moments—just moments, but enough—when he thought he was wasting time. That he had to move forward, that he had to produce, that he could not stay still with a sleeping baby on his chest when there was so much to do, so much to rebuild, so much on which the future depended.
Now he hates himself a little for that.
“Idiot…” he murmurs to himself, without anger, more with exhaustion. “You really are an idiot.”
It hurts to see that his baby no longer needs him as much, though he would never say that out loud. It hurts because it feels as though the world is charging him for something, as if it were karma, and even though he knows, deep down, that it is not punishment nor reproach, that it is simply the natural course of life, he cannot help feeling it that way. Like a small, silent loss, one more added to all the others.
When the meat is finally ready, Gen puts out the fire, takes his food, and returns to the shelter. He enters hoping to find Byakuya asleep, perhaps shifting a little in his dreams, but what he sees makes him stop short for a second.
Byakuya is sitting in his little bed.
He is not crying. He is not screaming. He is just there, upright but a little crooked, clearly just awake. His hair is completely tousled, sticking up in impossible directions, and his little eyes are still heavy with sleep, as if he does not quite understand where he is or what is happening. He blinks slowly, confused, bringing a little hand to his face.
Gen cannot help laughing.
It is a soft, quiet laugh, full of tenderness, the kind that is born on its own.
“Good morning,” he says to him, his voice warm, almost teasing. “Did you sleep well?”
Byakuya lifts his gaze when he hears him. For a second he seems to process the information, and then his face lights up in a wide, disarming smile. Gen does not know whether it is because he recognizes his voice or because he truly sees and identifies him, but the effect is the same: Gen’s chest tightens in a different way, less painful, sweeter.
“Ah…” Gen sighs. “That smile really is cheating.”
He comes closer, but does not pick him up right away. He sits a little farther away, leans his back against one of the walls, and begins to eat. He watches Byakuya as he chews, unhurried, as if that simple act were part of lunch. Byakuya looks back at him, curious, swaying slightly, playing with the fabric of his clothes, still half asleep, still half in his own world.
Gen wonders, almost without realizing it, if Senkū looked like that when he was a baby.
The thought catches him by surprise. He tries to imagine it: that same unruly hair, that same expression caught between confusion and attentiveness, that particular way of existing in the world without worrying about anything beyond the present moment. He thinks it is most likely yes. That Senkū must have been a strange, restless baby, full of energy even before he could walk. That perhaps even then he already had that intense gaze, that spark of curiosity that never went out.
“You’re adorable,” he murmurs more to himself than to Byakuya.
He feels a soft pang in his chest when he thinks that Senkū may never know his baby from when he was small. That he was not there to see his first advances, his first smiles, his first falls. That all of that was taken from him by a world that decided to petrify everything without asking permission, even though it was they who bet on that second petrification, but at the same time, when he looks at Byakuya, he feels that there is something there, a kind of strange comfort.
His baby is a visual representation of it.
He is not Senkū, never will be, but there are patterns that repeat themselves. Gestures, traits, details that make Gen feel, at times, as though he is seeing an echo of the past, a tiny version of someone he loves with all his heart, and that hurts, yes, but it also comforts him in a way he cannot explain.
Byakuya shifts a little, loses his balance for a second and awkwardly braces himself with one hand, then smiles again, proud of himself. Gen watches him closely, with that constant mix of love, nostalgia, and fear that has already become part of him.
“I guess…” he says softly, “I guess growing up is that, right? Stopping needing things… even people.”
He does not expect an answer. He just continues eating, looks at his baby, stores that image somewhere deep in his memory, aware that one day, without realizing it, that scene too will be left behind.
As he eats, Gen keeps Byakuya within his field of vision without even thinking about it. It is not a conscious decision; it is a reflex that settled into his body from the moment he began calling him his son. He can be tired, distracted, even trying to convince himself that he is allowing a moment of calm, but even so, he looks at him. He always looks at him.
Byakuya is in his little bed, entertained with nothing in particular. He plays with the fabric as if it were the greatest treasure in the world, bunches it between his fingers, brings it to his mouth, lets it go. He sways, twists his body, stays still for a second and then moves again, clumsy and charming, still learning where his own body begins and ends.
Gen smiles without realizing it.
Then, in the blink of an eye, Byakuya rolls out of the little bed and falls onto the futon.
Gen sighs, anticipating the crying even before he hears it.
“The peace is over…” he murmurs, with that resigned and affectionate tone he already knows in himself, stretching out a hand to get up and pick him up before the fright turns into tears, but he does not get up, because there is no crying.
There is silence.
A strange, expectant silence.
Gen slowly lowers his hand, barely furrows his brow, and then he sees it. Byakuya is not asking for help, not waiting; he is focused, as if something inside him had switched on.
He struggles to reposition himself. First he awkwardly twists his body, as if each movement were a small puzzle. He presses his abdomen against the futon, then tries to move his legs. He fails. He tries again. His knees search for the floor, drag, tremble, until at last they settle beneath him.
The little hands come down next, open, brace themselves.
Gen feels a sharp blow to his chest.
The world becomes small, ridiculously small. Everything narrows down to that baby on the floor and the way time seems to stretch, to lengthen, as if the universe itself were holding its breath along with him.
Byakuya wobbles. His body tilts slightly to one side, close to falling. Gen leans forward without realizing it, muscles tense, ready to react, but he does not fall.
He does not fall.
“Bya-chan…” he whispers, and his own voice sounds distant, fragile to him.
Then, as if he had crossed an invisible threshold, Byakuya moves forward.
It is not pretty, it is not clean; it is an awkward, messy movement, more will than technique, but it is real. His hands move ahead, one and then the other. His knees follow. His body responds to something new, something Gen recognizes even before he can put words to it.
He crawls for the first time, what he has been trying to do all day.
Gen sets the bowl down on the floor as if it no longer exists. He leans fully forward, arms open, heart racing, eyes burning.
“Come on…” he says, his voice trembling. “That’s it… that’s it, Bya-chan… come… come to me…”
He does not call him to make him arrive faster; he does it to accompany him. As if his voice could hold him, as if every word were a promise that it is okay, that he will not fall alone.
Byakuya advances slowly. He veers off, stops, tries again. He looks serious, focused, as if the entire world depended on reaching that point. It is not perfect. It never will be, but it is his, and it is enough to break Gen apart inside.
When Byakuya’s small hand finally grips his clothes, Gen takes him in his arms with an almost reverent gentleness. He lifts him slowly, as if the moment were fragile, as if it might fall apart if he moves too fast. He presses him against his chest, wrapping him completely, burying his face in his warm little head.
The tears come without warning.
He cries without shame, without restraint, his body trembling. He cries because his baby has just done something enormous, because he is growing, because time does not stop even though a part of him wishes it would, because in the midst of loss, fear, and waiting, life keeps pushing forward.
“You did it…” he whispers, his voice breaking. “You did it, my love…”
His chest hurts from feeling so much. His heart does not fit inside his body. Love overflows him, suffocates him, holds him at the same time. He lifts his gaze a little, without letting go, and looks toward Senkū.
“Did you see that?” he says with a smile through tears. “Did you see it, Senkū-chan? Our baby… our baby just crawled…”
The word “our” weighs heavy, hurts, comforts. It hangs suspended between them, loaded with everything Senkū could not see, with everything Gen will one day tell him in detail, as if that could somehow give back the lost time.
He kisses Byakuya again and again. His forehead, his cheeks, his soft little head. He wants to memorize everything: his weight, his warmth, that exact moment that will never be repeated.
Byakuya responds with a clear, bright giggle, completely unaware of the magnitude of what he has just done.
For him, it is a game.
For Gen, it is the entire world.
That laughter settles his soul. It reminds him why he keeps going when everything hurts, why he loves even with fear, and as he holds him, as he feels his calm breathing against his neck, Gen allows himself to believe, even if only for a second, that one day Senkū will be there to see it too. That one day, the love that overflows him that day will be able to be shared in full.