Chapter Text
There’s something dark about the emotion that roils and writhes in the pit of Gen’s stomach. Something terrible in the anger it sends lancing through his veins at the slightest hint of provocation. He can’t control it; merely contains it. A mix of jealousy and guilt and fear and shame that twists thick barbs deeper and deeper into his already bleeding heart.
The first time he coughs up a leaf, he steps back, already pretending to wipe a bit of stray spittle off his face as he sneaks the green mush into one of his outer pockets for later examination. Little Suika abandons her bundle of foraged plants to check on him with trembling lips and poorly-concealed worry in her voice. Gen pats her helmet with a gentle smile, adjusting the straps of his backpack to a more comfortable position as he tells her he just had a tickle in his throat.
Later that night he finally gets the chance to sneak out of the observatory’s sleeping space and really look. at the thing. He takes a lantern up with him as he ascends the ladder to the top floor, closing the curtain quietly behind him. It would do no good for either scientist to stumble across him doing research on something this illogical. Not now. Not tonight. Not while Gen can still feel the phantom burn of bile in his throat.
Gently, carefully, he pulls out the clump of green he’d hidden away much earlier that day, handling it like he would a lit match, or a nitroglycerin-tipped paper airplane. It’s dried off by now, stomach acid and spit long absorbed by his clothes, leaving the thing tissue-thin and just as delicate.
It’s a leaf. That much he can tell instinctively, no need for lab tests or microscopes. It’s medium sized, thin, a bit pointed at the top. A small piece cracks off as Gen’s hand twitches involuntarily. He will not call the feeling that wraps its icy fingers around the rungs of his spine and steals the breath from his lungs something as trivial as mere fear. No, what Gen feels is much more primal. Death. The harmless-looking plant that’s cradled so softly in his palm is one of his first glimpses of a death so painful it is hardly ever acknowledged.
His breath stutters as he forces oxygen in through his nose, out his pursed lips. It catches once, twice, shuddering and stalling as his body finally understands the danger it is in. He continues regardless, inhaling and exhaling mechanically. His body may be on full auto pilot, but Gen’s mind is eerily calm as he starts flicking back through his memories, identifying earlier symptoms once discarded and organizing them into a rough timeline.
First was the coughing.
Three weeks ago— around his birthday actually— Gen had begun to cough. It wasn’t anything serious: just a bout or two once a day for a few days in a row. Ever diligent, Senkuu had checked him for strep and a handful of other modern-world diseases that the villagers wouldn’t be able to name, let alone treat without him. Surprisingly enough however, Gen was healthy as a horse. The coughing dwindled out after about a week and Senkuu let him go with a dose of sulfa drugs ‘just in case’.
Fatigue came next.
The period after the coughing fits was filled with headaches and early nights, as well as dozing off on his scientist’s arm more than once while attempting to chart the new star locations. His morning routine took twice as long to get through; sluggish limbs protesting every movement with vitriol. Senkuu assigned him lighter work, longer breaks. The scientist would check on him periodically throughout the day and end up leaving with a frown no matter what Gen did.
Now it was the leaves.
Three weeks, give or take a handful of days: that’s how long Gen had been incubating this. The first week was probably the seeds settling, burying themselves in his flesh. His poor body did its best to remove the intruders to no avail. The second and third weeks were no doubt a time of growth, and he was seeing the results of his unintentional labor laying right here in his palm.
A sudden wave of nausea has Gen stumbling to the nearest opening, hacking and wheezing his trapped breaths into the cool night air with little mental space to spare for worrying about secrecy. A single sliver of green illuminated by the full moon flutters pathetically to the ground below.
He was silent as he climbed back into bed. Slipping under the blankets with minimal movement and practiced ease, Gen feels a bit like a burglar sneaking into somewhere he doesn’t belong. At least, that is until Senkuu rolls over, garnet eyes blinking sleepily at him in the darkness.
Mentalist?
The word echoes between them in the quiet; Gen can’t tell if the other man had actually spoken aloud. He blinks in response, shuffling a bit closer to his scientist.
I’m here.
This time he knows for certain that nothing was said, but the almost imperceptible tension that lines Senkuu’s shoulders disappears anyway. The other man closes his eyes just a few seconds later, and Gen cannot help but mirror the action, listening to the sound of Senkuu’s breathing as he gradually shifts back into slumber.
Another urge to cough rises steadily up Gen’s throat, but for tonight, for this peace, for this unspoken softness that lays between them, he ignores it.