Archive of Our Own

For Senkū Ishigami, falling in love had always been a dispensable idea. Not because he denied the existence of love or considered it an unfounded romantic myth, but because, within his mental framework, it simply did not occupy a necessary place. Love did not solve problems, did not explain phenomena, did not produce measurable results. At best, it was a chaotic variable; at worst, a distraction capable of diverting attention from what truly mattered. From a very young age, he had learned to prioritize knowledge, to organize his life around clear objectives, to set aside any situation that could not be sustained by logic or evidence.

Romantic relationships belonged to a different plane, one Senkū observed from a distance, as if it were an interesting social experiment but not one that concerned him personally. He watched people fall in love, make erratic decisions, reorganize their lives around emotions that were difficult to justify, and his suspicions were always confirmed: love complicated more than it contributed. So he never stopped to question it seriously. It simply was not on his path.

That certainty began to crack with a name he knew all too well, even before putting a face to it: Gen Asagiri. The famous mentalist, the charismatic communicator, the author of a book Senkū had skimmed through with disdain and classified as a product inflated by marketing. To him, Gen represented everything he tended to avoid: subjectivity, spectacle, emotional manipulation. There was no reason for him to spark any interest.

However, when he met him in person thanks to his stepmother, something did not add up. It was not an immediate impact or a sudden attraction; it was something subtler, almost imperceptible at first. An uncomfortable sense of curiosity he could not fully justify. Gen was not what Senkū had imagined. Behind the carefully constructed public image, there was a sharp, attentive mind, capable of reading silences and gestures with an accuracy that bordered on unsettling.

Senkū could not identify the moment when he started thinking about him too much. At first, he told himself it was simple intellectual interest, the desire to understand how someone so different from him functioned, but the thoughts persisted even when there was no clear reason. They slipped in at unexpected moments, interrupted his concentration, appeared as a constant background presence. For the first time, something was slipping beyond his control without any way for him to correct it.

Their growing closeness was not accidental. Tsukasa, with his straightforward intuition, and Yuzuriha, far more aware of other people’s emotions than those directly involved, pushed the situation along with patience and a touch of well-intentioned mischief. Senkū, who had never been skilled at recognizing what he felt, let himself be carried along more than he would ever admit. Each meeting added a new layer to that growing confusion.

For Gen, Senkū was initially little more than a brilliant boy with obvious admiration. He saw in him a mix of naivety and genius that he found amusing. Senkū was charming in his clumsy way of navigating the emotional world, so transparent in contrast to the masks Gen himself wore every day. He did not consider him a threat to his balance, much less someone capable of undoing him.

But time did its work. Sharing spaces, improvised routines, long conversations in which Senkū got lost in scientific explanations Gen barely understood—but listened to with genuine attention—began to create something different. Even without grasping the details, Gen understood Senkū. He understood his passion, his way of seeing the world as an infinite set of problems waiting to be solved. In turn, Senkū found in Gen an unexpected calm, an ease in connecting with people he had never possessed.

There was a natural chemistry between them, a kind of synchronization that required no effort. It was not explosive or obvious to others, but it could be felt in small gestures, in the way they shared silence, in how they adjusted to each other without realizing it. Without noticing, Gen stopped seeing Senkū as a simple youthful crush and began to take seriously what was growing between them.

When they started dating, Senkū was nineteen and Gen twenty-three. The age difference mattered less than the circumstances. Gen’s career, shaped by public exposure, constant travel, and the demand to always be available, imposed an early distance. The relationship was sustained through screens, impossible schedules, and brief encounters that always felt insufficient. It was not ideal, but it was what they had.

Distance, far from weakening them, redefined their bond. They learned to communicate with precision, to value shared time, to rely on trust. For Senkū, it was a new and disconcerting exercise: having someone present even in absence. For Gen, it was a test of patience and commitment he had not anticipated.

As the years passed, Senkū moved forward with determination toward his goals. At twenty-three, he landed a job in the United States as a scientist at NASA. It was a huge achievement, one he had imagined for years, but it now carried a different meaning. It not only represented the fulfillment of a professional goal, but also the possibility of leaving behind the distance that had defined their relationship.

Gen, who already spent much of his time in that country for work, received the news with quiet joy. For the first time, the future did not seem like a series of goodbyes. It did not take long before they decided to live together, turning what had once been a fragmented relationship into something everyday.

Without realizing it, Senkū stopped seeing love as a distraction. He discovered that it did not subtract or interfere with his path, but accompanied it. Gen understood that what had begun as something light had become a deep certainty.

Thus, without grand gestures or dramatic declarations, they built something solid. Not perfect, but real. A point of balance between two different worlds that, against all logic, had learned to coexist.

Beginning to live together after years of distance was a quiet challenge, one that did not manifest in major conflicts but in everyday details. Moving from seeing each other in brief, carefully planned periods between trips and commitments to sharing the same space permanently required constant adjustment. Full-time proximity revealed habits, quirks, and silences that had previously existed only in fragments. They had to learn to coexist, to understand each other’s rhythms, to accept that daily intimacy was not always easy, but it was real. Senkū had to accept interruptions to his routine, noise, constant presence. Gen had to get used to impossible schedules, long nights of work, to living with someone whose mind never stopped—and yet, it worked.

Even so, there was one thing they never disagreed on. Christmas.

For neither of them was that time of year associated with the traditional idea of celebration or complete happiness. In Senkū’s case, Christmas had lost its meaning long before adulthood. As a child, Byakuya had done everything possible to keep the illusion alive, to build a ritual centered more on curiosity than on myth. Senkū quickly discovered that Santa Claus was a convenient invention, but that never diminished the value of those early years. The gifts were almost always scientific objects—kits, books, components for experiments—things Senkū treasured with absolute devotion.

However, when Byakuya left for the United States to work as an astronaut, Christmas stopped carrying weight. Not because Senkū suddenly stopped appreciating it, but because he understood that the date had been important mainly for his father. Without him, the day became just another one. Sometimes he spent it with Taiju and Yuzuriha, dragged along by Taiju’s inexhaustible insistence, but rarely by his own choice. They were warm gatherings, full of noise and borrowed energy, but never something Senkū actively sought.

When he started dating Gen, the situation did not change much. Gen’s schedule was always full: trips abroad, commitments, events, parties Tsukasa often took him to when they happened to be on the same guest lists. Christmas was caught between flights, impossible schedules, and accumulated exhaustion. On a few rare occasions, Senkū spent it with Byakuya and Lilian, along with their daughters, Ruri and Kohaku. These were special moments, rare coincidences when Byakuya and Lilian managed to have time off at the same time and traveled to Japan to unwind a little. Those meetings had a calm, almost intimate atmosphere, but they never happened often enough to become a tradition.

For Gen, Christmas did not hold a central place either. His parents always tried to turn it into a happy time, and for a while they succeeded, but the entertainment world eventually wore down any charm it had. The dates filled up with commitments, public appearances, forced smiles, and packed schedules. Christmas, far from being a break, became an exhausting season. Over time, Gen learned to associate it more with fatigue than with celebration.

That was why every opportunity to share space with Senkū during those days felt less like a holiday and more like a pause. It was not a celebration in itself, but a refuge. Being together, even for a short time, was enough. They did not need decorations or special rituals to give those days meaning.

When they finally began living together, that perception did not change. Cohabitation did not turn Christmas into something different, nor did it awaken in them a sudden desire to celebrate it in another way. They simply continued as they always had. Up to that point, they had only spent three Christmases together under the same roof. One of them was shared with Byakuya, Lilian, and their daughters; a quiet gathering, without excess, closer to a family reunion than to a traditional holiday celebration. The other two were just theirs.

There were no decorations, no elaborate dinners, no grand gestures. They exchanged small gifts, chosen without haste, more as a natural extension of their affection than as an obligation imposed by the calendar. They did not prepare lavish meals or follow inherited rituals. They simply existed in the same space, sharing silence, exhaustion, and calm.

For both of them, that was enough. Christmas did not need to be special to have value. Being together was sufficient—occupying the same place without urgency or expectations. In a world that constantly demanded their presence, their smiles, their performance, those days were just another pause, and within that pause, without celebrations or promises, they found a form of tranquility that did not depend on the date, but on the quiet certainty of accompanying each other.

However, the last Christmas they spent together was not like the previous ones. Not because it was marked by a different kind of celebration or a special gesture, but precisely because it was not. At twenty-six and thirty, Senkū and Gen were going through a moment of change so profound that the date itself passed almost unnoticed. That third Christmas under the same roof was accompanied by a silent, constant presence: Gen’s seven-months-pregnant belly, rounded, heavy, impossible to ignore.

In many ways, it was the Christmas they celebrated the least. Pregnancy had made the days slower and denser, and Gen’s exhaustion had become a constant that could not be overlooked. There was no space for decorations, not even for minimal rituals. The very idea of doing anything beyond what was strictly necessary felt exhausting. Dinner was brief and functional, closer to routine than to celebration. Afterwards, they went to bed early, as if Gen’s body set the rhythm for both of them without the need for explicit agreements.

They exchanged gifts in bed, with slow, almost clumsy movements, wrapped in the warmth of the sheets. There was no ceremony and no special words. They were small objects, carefully chosen, given without haste. Then exhaustion took over completely, and they slept until morning, letting the night close in around them without resistance.

The pregnancy had not been planned. Neither of them had imagined that scenario as an immediate part of their future. They lived trapped in packed schedules, absorbed by jobs that demanded constant attention. There were entire weeks when they barely coincided beyond rushed mornings and nights when they met only to sleep. Sharing dinner was an occasional luxury, time stolen from fatigue. In that context, the pregnancy was a shared oversight, a consequence of trust and routine rather than a conscious decision.

When they found out, the impact was silent, heavy, impossible to process right away. There were no quick certainties or clear emotions. Only questions piling up one after another, accompanied by a reality that could not be ignored. They talked about it for days, dismantling their fears with the same meticulousness Senkū applied to any complex problem. They evaluated possibilities, timing, consequences; and in the end, they made a joint decision: they would bring that baby into the world.

Once the decision was made, everything began to reorganize slowly. Gen was the first to change pace. As soon as the pregnancy was confirmed, he requested an almost immediate leave. At first, he kept a few sporadic contracts, isolated commitments he could handle without pushing himself, but he let go of anything that might cause stress or put the process at risk. The priority shifted without drama, but with absolute clarity.

At five months, when his belly began to become more noticeable and harder to hide, he stopped working altogether. His body no longer responded the way it used to, and forcing it made no sense. Together with Senkū, he decided they would not allow the news to reach the world through third parties. They would not let a paparazzo steal that moment, nor allow a gossip magazine to sell the story as a spectacle. So when Gen reached six months of pregnancy, they announced it themselves, in a controlled way, without excess or grand declarations.

From then on, time took on a different texture. The days became more domestic, more centered on the shared space. Senkū, accustomed to living with his mind always projected into the future, began to notice the small changes: the way Gen moved more carefully, the necessary pauses, the exhaustion that appeared without warning. Their cohabitation transformed gradually, without abrupt breaks, but with a new depth.

Christmas arrived in the middle of that process, almost like a suspended point on the calendar. There was no effort to make it different, because neither of them needed it to be. The only difference was what was already there, growing, taking up space, redefining body and routine. That night was short and silent. Sleeping was a necessity, not a choice.

After that date, the weeks moved forward with a strange mixture of anticipation and exhaustion. Gen went through the final months of pregnancy with a fatigue that settled deep into his bones. Some days seemed endless; others passed without leaving a trace. Senkū, for his part, found himself carrying a constant concern he had never known before. It was not anxiety, but a permanent attentiveness, a silent vigilance that slipped into every thought.

In February of the following year, they welcomed Byakuya. The name was chosen without much discussion, carrying a meaning that needed no explanation. It was a way of honoring Senkū’s father, of tracing an invisible line between generations, of acknowledging the origin of many of the circumstances that had led Senkū to that point in his life.

The birth marked a before and an after. Not only because of the baby’s presence, but because of the way it reorganized everything around them. Time, space, priorities—nothing worked the same way again. Nights fractured, exhaustion took on a new depth, and the silence of the home filled with small, constant sounds.

Looking back, Senkū understood that that Christmas had been different because it was a threshold. Not a celebration, but an antechamber. The last moment of stillness before the world became smaller and, at the same time, vaster. For Gen, that Christmas became associated with the weight of his body, with extreme exhaustion, but also with a sense of transition, of something that was about to change everything.

Byakuya arrived like a small but steady light, a presence that made no noise when it settled into their lives, yet ended up illuminating everything. For Senkū and Gen, the relationship they had always felt sufficient in itself. They never felt the need to project themselves toward a traditional idea of family, never talked about children because it was not something that sparked their interest. Their life as a couple worked with a practical, almost self-sustaining harmony. Perhaps that was why the decision to bring Byakuya into the world was so long, discussed with such care, so full of doubts.

Even so, now that time has passed, neither of them questions that choice. There is not a single night of extreme exhaustion nor a morning interrupted by crying that shakes that certainty. They adore their little baby with an intensity that surprised even themselves, as if that love had been hidden in silence, nameless, until it found the right space to exist.

It is December, and Byakuya is almost ten months old. He is in a restless, vibrant stage, as if each day he wakes with the urgency to discover something new. He is an active baby, one of those who seem to have infinite energy and little patience for stillness. He protests with determination whenever he is not in his mom’s arms, as if physical contact were a basic need, just as important as sleeping or eating. His small arms stretch insistently, his entire body leaning forward, convinced that this will help him get what he wants.

The two words he repeats most throughout the day are “Papa” and “Mama,” pronounced with different intonations, as if he were experimenting with them. In between, he inserts small sounds that he is completely convinced are full words, even if to adults they are nothing more than scattered syllables. He babbles with seriousness, focused, as if he were explaining something important. Every sound seems loaded with intention, with a logic of its own that only he understands.

Since he learned to crawl, the house has stopped being a static space. Byakuya has become a small earthquake, moving with surprising speed, covering every corner within reach. He does not stay still for even a second. The moment they lose sight of him, he is already attempting to reach somewhere he should not. Senkū and Gen spend much of the day chasing him, intercepting him before he reaches something dangerous, or simply watching him with a mix of amazement and resignation.

More than once, they both wonder where he gets so much energy. Neither of them is particularly active; physical exercise has always felt more like an obligation than a pleasure. They prefer stillness, quiet spaces, predictable routines. And yet, Byakuya seems to have come into the world with an inexhaustible reserve of movement, as if he were compensating for all the vitality the two of them lack.

For them, Byakuya is the entire world. A small, chaotic, demanding world, but a complete one. A universe that spins in on itself and somehow fits perfectly into the life they had before. He did not replace it or correct it; he complemented it, gave it another depth, another perspective.

For now, Gen has not returned to the entertainment world. If he is honest with himself, he knows he started working in that field for the money. Fame came later, almost as an inevitable consequence, but now the financial aspect is no longer decisive. Senkū provides more than enough, and the lifestyle they lead is not ostentatious. They feel no need for excess or unnecessary luxuries.

Since the pregnancy, Gen has remained active on social media, a space he handles naturally and that allows him to stay visible without the constant pressure of show business. He has not done badly, either. He earns a few hundred dollars less than he used to, but that difference is not indispensable and does not affect his stability. It is enough income for him to feel autonomous without compromising his time or energy.

That is why Gen became Byakuya’s primary caregiver. He is the one who spends the most hours with him, who knows his schedules, his gestures, his mood changes best. He is Mom in the most practical and everyday sense of the word. Byakuya calls him that naturally, as if the term had been created solely to name him.

Senkū, for his part, helps and complements him in every free moment he has. He does not delegate that responsibility or see it as a burden. Every bit of space he manages to free up in his schedule is devoted to his son, adapting as best he can to this new rhythm. Sometimes he is exhausted, sometimes he gets home late, but he always finds a way to be present.

In December, the house is not decorated in a traditional way. There are no large ornaments or excessive lights, but the atmosphere is different. Not because of Christmas itself, but because of the accumulation of small details: scattered toys, blankets folded haphazardly, objects that used to have a fixed place and now move constantly to prevent accidents.

Byakuya does not understand what December means, nor dates or celebrations, but his presence alone gives the month a different weight. For Senkū and Gen, this stage is not measured in holidays, but in small advances: a new sound, an attempt to stand, an unexpected laugh.

Sometimes, when exhaustion weighs heavier and the house finally falls silent, they are both aware of how much their life has changed. They do not feel nostalgia for what they left behind. What they have now is enough. Not perfect, not simple, but real.

Byakuya, at almost ten months old, is not just their son. He is the tangible proof of a difficult decision, of a leap taken blindly, of a love that transformed without losing its essence. And even though they never planned to be parents, never imagined it as part of their story, they now cannot picture their life without him.

Gen is sitting on the living room couch, leaning back slightly with Byakuya’s weight settled against his chest. The baby clings to the fabric of his clothes with both hands, tiny fingers tightening and relaxing in an irregular rhythm as he feeds, fully focused on what he is doing. His warm body rests without resistance, as if, in that moment, the world had shrunk to nothing but that contact.

The house is quiet, broken only by Byakuya’s soft, rhythmic sounds and the distant murmur from outside. Gen runs a free hand slowly along the baby’s back, almost by inertia, following a pattern he no longer has to think about. His body is tired, but not uncomfortable; it is a familiar exhaustion, one that has settled in over months and no longer weighs the same.

The front door opens carefully.

Gen does not move, but he lifts his gaze slightly when he hears the familiar footsteps. Senkū comes in, slipping off his shoes with his usual quietness, as if existing too loudly might break something fragile. He leaves his bag near the entrance and walks toward the living room, stopping halfway when he takes in the scene.

Byakuya remains focused, oblivious to everything.

Senkū moves a little closer and leans down to give Gen a brief kiss on the lips. It is a measured, restrained gesture, designed not to distract the baby. Gen smiles faintly against his mouth, without pulling away too much.

“You’re home,” Gen murmurs softly.

“Yeah,” Senkū replies in the same tone. “Everything okay?”

Gen nods, adjusting himself slightly so Byakuya stays comfortable.

“He’s almost done.”

Senkū watches the baby in attentive silence, as if it still surprises him how natural it feels to see him like that. He rests a hand on the back of the couch and stays there, close, without interrupting.

“How was your day?” Gen asks after a few seconds, still looking at Byakuya.

Senkū exhales slowly, running a hand through his hair.

“Long,” he says. “Nothing out of the ordinary. Meetings, revisions, people who think they can ask stupid questions and get intelligent answers.”

Gen lets out a very quiet laugh.

“Sounds like always.”

“Exactly like always.”

Byakuya makes a small sound, somewhere between a whine and a satisfied murmur, and squirms a little. Gen lowers his gaze immediately, attentive, and carefully adjusts his posture.

“He was particularly intense today,” Gen comments. “I think he discovered that throwing things on the floor produces interesting reactions.”

“A scientist in the making,” Senkū murmurs.

“No, no,” Gen disagrees with a smile. “An agent of chaos.”

Senkū smiles faintly and now leans his hip against the couch.

“The old man called today,” he says suddenly, lowering his voice even more.

Gen raises an eyebrow.

“Oh yeah? Your dad?”

“Video call,” Senkū continues. “Crying.”

Gen makes an exaggerated gesture of surprise, still keeping his voice down.

“Like… actually crying?”

“Actually crying,” Senkū confirms. “Saying he won’t be able to be here for Byakuya’s first Christmas.”

Gen looks at the baby, then at Senkū, holding back another laugh.

“Bya-chan is going to survive. There’ll be more Christmases.”

“That’s what I told him.”

“And what did he say?”

“That it’s not the same, that he’s missing something irreplaceable, that he knows he won’t ever see him this small again.”

Gen shrugs carefully, mindful not to move the baby too much.

“That’s Byakuya-chan being Byakuya-chan.”

“Exactly.”

The baby makes another sound and finally pulls away, releasing his grip with a small sigh. Gen watches him closely, waits a few seconds, then settles him more securely against his chest. The baby blinks slowly, eyes heavy but still alert.

“All done,” Gen whispers. “That’s it.”

“Papa,” the little one calls when he notices him, stretching his tiny hands in his direction.

Senkū leans closer.

“Want me to put him to sleep?”

“If you want,” Gen replies. “But I warn you, he was impossible today.”

“He’s always impossible,” Senkū says as he extends his arms.

Gen moves carefully and transfers Byakuya into his arms. The baby protests briefly at the change, scrunching his nose and letting out an indignant sound.

“Shh, shh,” Senkū murmurs right away. “It’s okay.”

“Bya-chan, you literally asked to be in his arms,” his mom teases.

Byakuya calms down halfway, settling against his dad’s chest. Senkū holds him with a confidence he did not have before, but that now feels natural, automatic.

Gen leans back further into the couch and stretches his legs.

“My day,” he begins, “can be summed up as preventing him from killing himself.”

Senkū raises an eyebrow.

“Normal level or extreme level?”

“Extreme,” Gen answers without hesitation. “He threw a glass on the floor that wasn’t even within reach, tried to eat the corner of the table, and crawled into the hallway like he had a very clear objective.”

“What was it?”

“I still don’t know,” Gen says, “but I didn’t like it.”

Senkū lets out a short laugh, careful not to jostle the baby.

“He’s relentless.”

“I don’t understand where he gets so much energy,” Gen continues. “I sat down for five minutes and felt like I was going to fall asleep forever.”

“And yet he won’t stay still if he’s not with you.”

Gen smiles, watching them both.

“Yeah, well. Mom is Mom.”

Byakuya makes a small sound, as if reacting to the tone, and shifts a little closer against Senkū’s chest. They stay quiet for a few seconds, sharing the moment. The house fills again with a soft calm, interrupted only by the baby’s breathing.

“Did you have dinner?” Gen asks.

“A bit,” Senkū says. “I can eat later.”

Gen nods and closes his eyes for a moment.

“We’ll see later,” he murmurs. “For now, let’s just… exist for a while.”

Senkū doesn’t answer, but he stays where he is, rocking Byakuya with slow, steady movements.

Gen is the first to notice.

It’s not immediate; at first it’s just a strange shape at the edge of his vision when he glances toward the entrance. A large box—too large to ignore—leaning against the wall. Long, sealed, new. It wasn’t there in the morning, of that he’s sure. Senkū hadn’t left carrying it, nor had he forgotten it on purpose.

He squints slightly.

“Hey, Senkū-chan,” he says softly. “What’s that?”

Senkū freezes for just a second too long. It’s not exaggerated, but Gen knows him well enough to notice. His shoulders tense slightly, imperceptible to anyone who hasn’t been watching him for years.

“That what?” Senkū replies, trying to sound casual while still rocking Byakuya.

Gen tilts his head toward the entrance without pointing.

“The giant, suspicious box that magically appeared in our house.”

Byakuya shifts a little, settling more comfortably, and Senkū adjusts his grip with care. He avoids looking at Gen directly.

“Nothing important.”

Gen doesn’t answer right away. He doesn’t push. He just watches him, his gaze moving between Senkū and the baby, with that dangerous patience he uses when he knows the truth will come out on its own sooner or later.

“Uh-huh,” he murmurs.

The silence stretches for a few seconds. Senkū exhales through his nose, resigned.

“It’s a tree.”

Gen blinks.

“A…?”

“A Christmas tree,” Senkū clarifies. “Plastic.”

Gen stares at him, as if deciding whether he heard that correctly.

“You bought a Christmas tree?”

“Yes.”

“You?”

“Yes.”

“In this house?”

“Gen.”

Gen covers his mouth with his free hand to keep from laughing too loudly.

“Senkū-chan,” he says at last, “we never decorate.”

“I know.”

“Never.”

“I’m aware.”

“Our Christmas is basically existing, eating something decent, and sleeping.”

“You don’t need to repeat it.”

Gen looks down at Byakuya and then back up, still smiling in amusement.

“Then… why?”

Senkū falls silent again. He looks at the baby, who is already starting to close his eyes, his body heavy and trusting. When he speaks, his voice is lower.

“Because it’s Byakuya’s first Christmas.”

Gen doesn’t say anything right away.

“I thought,” Senkū continues, “that maybe… it wouldn’t be a great idea to exclude him from that kind of thing just because we never saw it as something special. Not because it’s magical, but because… it’s an experience. Something most people go through when they’re little.”

Gen slowly arches an eyebrow.

“Well,” he says, “Byakuya-chan has done a great job with you.”

Senkū turns his head just enough to look at him.

“Don’t start.”

“Come on,” Gen insists, amused. “Tell me you don’t appreciate Christmas thanks to Byakuya-chan.”

“I don’t appreciate it.”

“But you bought it.”

“That’s not the same.”

“Sounds pretty similar.”

Senkū frowns.

“Don’t try to use your cheap psychology on me.”

Gen lets out a soft laugh.

“Hey, it’s not cheap.”

“It’s questionable.”

“It’s refined,” Gen corrects, “and fairly effective, apparently.”

Byakuya lets out a small sleepy sound, and Senkū goes still, hoping he doesn’t wake up. Gen lowers his voice almost automatically.

“Look at you,” he adds. “Buying Christmas trees for your kid. If that’s not character development, I don’t know what is.”

“Shut up,” Senkū murmurs, without real annoyance.

Gen watches him for a moment longer, and then his expression changes. The teasing softens, turning warmer.

“I guess… our minds must be connected or something.”

Senkū glances at him from the corner of his eye.

“And why is that?”

Gen settles more comfortably into the couch.

“Because I thought exactly the same thing.”

Senkū blinks.

“About what?”

“That maybe,” Gen says, “we didn’t have the most magical Christmas in the world, for whatever reasons. Not even one we cared that much about. But that doesn’t mean it has to be the same for him.”

Senkū stays quiet.

“So…” Gen continues, as casually as if he were commenting on the weather, “I bought some ornaments online.”

Senkū looks at him properly now, surprised.

“What?”

“A few,” Gen clarifies. “Nothing over the top. They should arrive tomorrow.”

“When were you planning to tell me?”

“After Bya-chan fell asleep tonight,” Gen replies. “I was going to bring it up carefully, in case you said no.”

Senkū looks down at the baby, who is now fast asleep, and then back at Gen.

“I wasn’t going to say no.”

Gen smiles.

“I know.”

They look at each other for a few seconds in silence, the box still visible by the entrance and the baby asleep between them, completely unaware of the Christmas conspiracy that has just formed without the need for any persuasion.

The next day dawns with a strange kind of calm, the kind that feels borrowed. Senkū has the day off, something rare, and that alone changes the rhythm of the house. There’s no rushing, no clocks dictating every movement. The package with the ornaments arrives mid-morning, and Gen receives it with a quiet curiosity, as if he already knows exactly what’s inside and still needs to confirm it with his own hands.

They aren’t used to decorating. It’s not a habit rooted in either of them, not even something that solidly forms part of their childhood memories. In Japan, Christmas was never a deeply domestic tradition, and even less so for them. So they don’t think about lights all over the house or garlands hanging from every corner. Everything is focused on a single point: the tree.

The big box now occupies the center of the living room. Senkū cuts the tape with precision, almost with scientific solemnity, while Gen sits on the floor beside him, carefully checking the contents.

“Well,” Gen says, “I’ll admit it’s bigger than I imagined.”

“Not that much,” Senkū replies. “It’s a standard size.”

“That’s what they always say,” Gen mutters, pulling out one of the pieces. “Does this go here?”

“No,” Senkū corrects him. “That’s the base.”

They start assembling the structure, fitting the parts together with somewhat clumsy movements. They have no experience, and it shows. The instructions sit open to the side, ignored for several minutes until Senkū finally checks them, frowning.

Separating the branches takes longer than expected. Gen works to open them one by one, trying to make the tree look fuller, less artificial. Senkū does the same on the other side, focused, occasionally evaluating the symmetry with more seriousness than necessary.

“My original idea was a real tree,” Gen comments as he adjusts a branch. “An actual one.”

Senkū looks up.

“I figured.”

“Really?”

“Yes,” he says. “But this is more practical.”

Gen arches an eyebrow, amused.

“Explain.”

“We store it and reuse it next year,” Senkū lists. “It doesn’t dry out, it doesn’t drop needles, and we don’t have to throw it away afterward.”

“Wow. How romantic.”

“And,” Senkū continues, ignoring the comment, “you know perfectly well that neither of us is strong enough to carry a real tree.”

Gen laughs.

“That’s true.”

“And we don’t have Taiju nearby to help us,” Senkū adds. “So it was this or a disaster.”

“Taiju would solve everything in five minutes,” Gen says. “And then accidentally break something.”

They keep working in silence for a while. The tree slowly starts to take shape, no longer looking like a pile of plastic parts and getting, at least a little, closer to something recognizable.

Then, a small sound breaks the concentration.

A short, curious babble.

Gen stops first. Senkū follows almost immediately.

Both of them turn their heads toward the bouncer, where Byakuya is watching them with his eyes wide open—awake and alert. His expression is one of absolute interest, as if he were witnessing something important.

“Oh no,” Gen says quietly. “The peace is over.”

Senkū steps a little closer.

“Good morning,” he says to the baby, in a solemn tone. “You’re late for project supervision.”

Byakuya answers with an indecipherable sound and kicks his legs energetically.

“He’s evaluating our performance,” Gen comments.

“That explains the pressure,” Senkū replies.

They decide to take advantage of the moment while the baby stays calm. Senkū adjusts the base of the tree, making sure it’s stable, while Gen starts taking the ornaments out of the new box. Simple baubles, a few lights—nothing excessive. Everything fairly discreet, almost modest.

But it doesn’t last long.

“Ma… ma,” comes the insistent sound.

Gen sighs.

“There it is.”

“He’s not crying yet,” Senkū says. “That’s an improvement.”

“Don’t get too confident.”

The “mama” comes again, a little louder this time.

Gen carefully stands up and walks over to the bouncer.

“Come here, little chaos,” he murmurs as he picks him up.

Byakuya calms down immediately, resting his head against Gen’s chest, though his eyes remain fixed on the half-assembled tree. His hands stretch out, curious.

“He’s fascinated,” Senkū says.

“Anything he can’t touch is fascinating to him.”

Gen returns to the center of the living room with the baby in his arms, rocking him gently.

“Finish it,” he tells Senkū. “I’ve got this one.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. Mom’s on duty.”

Senkū nods and goes back to the tree, adjusting the last branches more carefully now, as if the baby’s presence gives the act more weight. Gen watches from the side, rocking Byakuya, who remains alert, completely awake.

The living room fills with a strange, new feeling. It isn’t magic or over-the-top celebration. It’s something simpler: an attempt. A tradition starting without knowing exactly how it’s supposed to feel, but with the certainty that it’s worth trying.

The rest of the morning and a good part of the afternoon pass in an improvised choreography, a constant rotation of turns that neither of them verbalizes, but both understand perfectly. Decorating the tree, holding the baby, tending to him, back to the tree, back to the baby. Nothing happens in a straight line; everything breaks into small, interrupted tasks.

Gen hangs a couple of ornaments while Senkū holds Byakuya. Then they switch places without announcing it, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Sometimes Senkū leans in to hang a decoration while Gen distracts the baby with exaggerated sounds, waving a bauble in front of his eyes to keep his attention away from the branches. Other times it’s Gen who goes back to the tree while Senkū takes care of changing a diaper on the living room floor, with quick, efficient movements, muttering that this definitely wasn’t in any advanced engineering manual.

Byakuya does not make things easy.

At times, he seems to cooperate. He gets absorbed by a shiny bauble Gen gives him to look at, turning it in his hands with absolute concentration. It lasts just long enough for both of them to lower their guard. The moment the bauble starts getting dangerously close to his mouth, Gen snatches it away with trained reflexes.

“No,” he says with a tight smile. “That’s not food.”

Byakuya protests with a sharp, indignant sound and stretches his arms toward the vanished bauble, as if he’d suffered a great injustice.

“That was cruel,” Senkū comments from the tree.

“That was survival.”

When they’re not holding him, they leave him on the floor with his toys, surrounded by colorful blocks and soft figures. For a few minutes, it works. The sound of toys bumping into each other fills the room, and Gen and Senkū make a bit more progress with the decorations.

It’s during one of those moments that Senkū feels something brush against his ankles.

He looks down and finds Byakuya, who has somehow managed to crawl all the way to the tree with surprising determination. One of his hands grips the lowest branch, tugging at it with a strength that shouldn’t exist in such a small body.

“Gen,” Senkū says, completely serious. “We have a problem.”

Gen turns his head and covers his mouth to keep from laughing.

“How did he get there?”

“I don’t know,” Senkū replies. “I think he teleported.”

Byakuya makes a triumphant sound, as if proud of his achievement.

After rescuing him and putting him back somewhere safe, they look at each other and reach the inevitable conclusion.

“We need a fence,” Gen says.

“Urgently,” Senkū agrees.

“Until then, constant supervision.”

“Twenty-four-hour shifts.”

In the end, after many interrupted attempts, the tree is finished. It isn’t flashy or excessive. It has a simple, clean aesthetic, a balance that reflects both of them quite well. They don’t turn the lights on right away. The day continues like any other. They make food, tidy up the bare minimum, follow their usual nighttime routine.

When night falls and the house sinks into a quiet dimness, they bring Byakuya in front of the tree. Senkū sets up a small tripod nearby, places the camera carefully, checks the framing.

“What are you doing?” Gen asks while holding the baby securely.

“Recording.”

Gen raises an eyebrow, surprised, but doesn’t complain. He adjusts Byakuya in his arms, making sure he doesn’t launch himself headfirst toward the tree the moment he sees it.

“Ready?” Senkū asks.

“Yeah.”

Senkū moves to the outlet and, after a second’s pause, turns the lights on.

For an instant, Byakuya goes completely still—too still, an undignified state for him.

His eyes widen, reflecting the tiny points of light blinking in front of him. His expression slowly changes, as if he’s processing something entirely new. Then, without warning, his face lights up with a huge smile.

He starts laughing.

It isn’t a small or restrained laugh; it’s loud, clear, contagious. He stretches his little arms toward the tree, waving them excitedly, as if trying to hug all the lights at once.

Gen feels the movement and holds him more firmly.

“I don’t know if this is a good thing or a very bad thing,” he says, without taking his eyes off the baby.

“Both,” Senkū replies.

Byakuya laughs, making small sounds between giggles, completely fascinated.

“We’re going to have to guard that tree until the fence arrives,” Gen adds.

“Without a doubt.”

Gen lowers the camera a little when the laughter calms down, but doesn’t turn it off.

“By the way,” he says, “what did you want the video for?”

Senkū shrugs.

“For the old man.”

Gen blinks.

“To mess with him?”

“Exactly.”

Gen smiles and looks at Byakuya, who is still watching the tree attentively.

“Well,” he says, “then it was completely worth it.”

Senkū looks at the scene in front of him—the lit tree, Gen holding their son—and nods, convinced that for the first time in a long while, Christmas doesn’t feel like something distant.

December twenty-fourth arrives without warning, slipping in between days that have been far too similar to each other. There’s no countdown or special feeling upon waking up; it’s only when Gen checks the calendar on his phone that he realizes they’re already there.

The morning passes with its usual slowness. Gen is sitting on the couch, Byakuya settled against his chest while he feeds him. The baby clutches the fabric of his clothes with both hands, focused, oblivious to the conversation happening around him. Senkū is across from him, a laptop open on the low table, checking something that doesn’t seem to interest him much. The screen shows a video call app open.

“So,” Gen says quietly, “what are we doing for dinner?”

Senkū looks up from the screen.

“We can cook something simple.”

“That doesn’t answer the question,” Gen replies. “Cook what.”

Senkū frowns slightly, thoughtful.

“We could order something.”

“That doesn’t really answer it either.”

“Gen, Byakuya isn’t going to eat any of that anyway.”

Gen looks down at the baby and smiles.

“That doesn’t mean we don’t have to.”

“We can eat what we always eat.”

“It’s Christmas Eve.”

“It’s Wednesday,” Senkū corrects. “Why are you insisting so much?”

Gen sighs, though he doesn’t seem annoyed. He slowly runs a hand down Byakuya’s back.

At first, that had been the plan. Do nothing special. Spend the day like any other, because Byakuya is too young to understand dates, and because neither of them feels a real need to turn the night into something extraordinary.

That would have worked… if not for the video.

After recording Byakuya’s reaction to the tree, Gen had sent it almost without thinking to Taiju and Yuzuriha. Just an automatic gesture, a way to share something he found sweet with their baby’s godparents. He hadn’t expected the flood of messages that followed.

Gen had read the replies out loud while Senkū watched from the couch, where he pretended not to care.

“‘He’s so big,’ ‘I can’t believe he’s almost one already,’ ‘is that his laugh?,’ ‘we have to see him,’ ‘what are you doing for Christmas?’” Gen lists. Then—he looks up—“I ended up inviting them.”

Senkū blinks.

“What?”

“I invited them to spend Christmas with us.”

“Gen.”

“They’re Bya-chan’s godparents.”

“Gen.”

“You haven’t seen them in person in years.”

Senkū goes quiet for a second.

“When would they come?”

“Today, sometime in the morning or afternoon,” Gen replies. “I could pay for the tickets.”

“And you’re sure?”

Gen nods.

“I don’t want to travel with the baby yet. He’s too small. I’d rather have them come here.”

Senkū exhales slowly.

“Alright.”

Now, that decision hangs in the air while the laptop remains open, waiting for a call.

Byakuya makes a small sound and shifts a little. Gen looks down at him immediately, attentive.

“Almost done,” he murmurs.

At that moment, the laptop makes the familiar sound of an incoming call. Senkū leans forward and accepts before it can ring again.

The image takes a second to stabilize, and then Byakuya—his father—appears. The camera is slightly off at first, showing his forehead before he adjusts it.

“There you are!” he says without preamble. “Where’s my grandson?”

Senkū doesn’t hesitate.

“He’s unavailable. He’s having breakfast.”

Gen bites his lip to keep from laughing.

“Having breakfast?” Byakuya repeats. “At this hour?”

“He has his own schedule,” Senkū replies. “Very strict.”

“Of course, of course,” the man says. “Well, I’m not going to waste my limited video call time staring at the face of my ungrateful son who clearly doesn’t appreciate me.”

Gen finally laughs.

“Wow,” he says. “I never thought I’d live to hear that from Byakuya-chan.”

“Gen,” Byakuya says with a smile. “That’s how it works. Once there are grandkids, children stop mattering.”

“That explains a lot,” Gen replies.

“How are you?” Byakuya asks, though Gen isn’t in frame yet.

“Tired,” Gen says, “but good.”

“That’s part of the package too.”

Senkū crosses his arms.

“Shouldn’t you be calling your wife and daughters?”

Byakuya snorts.

“I already did yesterday. Besides, Lilian understands perfectly well how important it is to call my grandson on Christmas.”

“Of course she does,” Senkū mutters.

At that moment, baby Byakuya pulls away from Gen’s chest with a small sound of protest. Gen pauses, surprised, then adjusts his shirt naturally. The baby squirms, looking around.

“Looks like he’s done,” Gen says.

He carefully stands and sits down beside Senkū, settling Byakuya in his arms. The baby blinks, curious, and fixes his gaze on the screen.

“There he is,” Gen says.

The reaction is immediate.

“Byakuya!” the grandfather exclaims, leaning toward the camera. “Just look at you.”

The baby stares at the screen with absolute focus, as if trying to understand who this person looking at him so intently is.

“He’s huge,” Byakuya says. “Senkū, what are you feeding him?”

“Gen,” Senkū answers without missing a beat.

Gen nudges him lightly with his elbow.

“Hey.”

“See?” the grandfather continues. “He’s already got personality. Definitely runs in the family.”

Gen smiles, holding his son securely, as the call continues and Christmas Eve morning begins—not with grand ceremonies, but with all the important pieces in place.

The morning moves on without either of them fully noticing. The sun climbs higher, filtering through the windows with warmer light than the usual cold. There’s a quiet sense of expectation, the kind that belongs to hours leading up to something that hasn’t quite taken shape yet.

Byakuya is calm, for the most part, nestled against Gen as he walks slowly around the living room, rocking his weight with movements so natural he doesn’t even think about them anymore. Senkū stays nearby, checking something on his phone.

Then the doorbell rings.

It isn’t particularly loud, but in the domestic silence it echoes more than expected, spreading through the house. Gen stops short. Senkū lifts his head at the same time. Their gazes meet, both carrying the same unspoken question.

They weren’t expecting anyone else. Taiju and Yuzuriha should still be at the airport, and the timing doesn’t add up. Gen adjusts his grip on Byakuya, as if the simple gesture might anchor him, and both of them head for the door.

Senkū turns the knob and opens it.

The first thing he sees is Taiju, smiling, as huge as ever, taking up a good portion of the space by the entrance. Beside him, Yuzuriha—impeccable even after traveling—raises a hand in a cheerful wave. For a fraction of a second, everything seems normal.

Then the scene widens.

Behind them stands Ryūsui, relaxed to the point of audacity, sunglasses still on, as if stepping off a private jet and showing up unannounced at someone else’s house were the most natural thing in the world. Beside him, Ukyō maintains a polite, slightly rigid posture, his expression betraying the fact that he himself is still trying to understand how he ended up there. Farther back, almost like an inevitable add-on, are Suika and François.

Gen blinks.

Once.

Twice.

His brain takes a little longer than usual to process the full picture.

Senkū doesn’t say anything at first either.

There’s a strange, heavy silence, where no one seems willing to be the first to acknowledge the obvious: this was not part of the plan.

“Surprise!” Taiju says, breaking the stillness with his usual enthusiasm.

Gen is the first to react. He clears his throat, adjusts Byakuya a little closer to his chest, and smiles, though the shock is still clear in his eyes.

“Uh… welcome,” he says, stepping back to make room. “Come in.”

Senkū turns his head toward him immediately.

“Don’t act like everything’s normal,” he says with a frown. “We didn’t invite Ukyō and Ryūsui.”

Ryūsui removes his sunglasses with a slow, almost theatrical gesture, and smiles.

“That hurts my feelings, Senkū,” he says. “I came full of Christmas spirit.”

“You came without warning.”

“The best trips always are.”

Ukyō steps forward slightly, clearly uncomfortable, and inclines his head.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “It was completely improvised. Ryūsui decided to travel this morning. I didn’t know where we were going until we got to the airport… and ran into them.”

Yuzuriha nods right away, backing up the explanation.

“I ran into Ryūsui at a charity event,” she adds. “They invited me to auction off some designs from my brand, and in the middle of the conversation I mentioned we were coming here for Christmas.”

“And, well,” Taiju continues, scratching the back of his neck, “by the time we realized it, we were already being picked up so we could all come together.”

Senkū crosses his arms.

“‘Being picked up’?”

Ryūsui smiles, clearly pleased with himself.

“Perks of having a private jet,” he says. “You can get anywhere fast—no layovers, no delays, nothing to interrupt the trip.”

Gen lets out a small, incredulous laugh. He looks down at Byakuya, who’s watching the group with wide eyes, as if trying to memorize every new face.

“Right,” he says. “That explains a lot.”

Senkū sighs—long, resigned—and steps aside.

“Come in,” he says. “You’re already here.”

The house begins to fill with footsteps, with movement, with an energy different from the usual one. Gen steps back a little more to make space, feeling how the carefully planned calm of the afternoon transforms into something far more chaotic—and also far more alive.

Gen crouches slightly, just enough to be at Suika’s height. She is almost completely hidden behind François, only half of her face peeking out. Her small hands clutch the fabric of someone else’s pants with a grip that betrays equal parts nerves and curiosity.

“Hi, Suika-chan,” Gen says gently, instinctively modulating his voice. “It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?”

Suika doesn’t answer right away. She only watches him, wide-eyed and attentive, her gaze shifting toward the baby in Gen’s arms and then back to the adult’s face, as if trying to put the whole picture together.

Ukyō smiles patiently.

“It’s been quite a while since the last time she saw you,” he explains. “She’s a bit shy.”

He leans down and extends his arms. Suika hesitates for a second, but finally detaches herself from François and moves closer. Ukyō picks her up carefully, settling her on his hip, and takes a few steps forward to stand a little nearer to Gen.

The distance shortens just enough for Suika to get a good look at Byakuya.

The baby, for his part, is wide awake, watching everything that moves in front of him with fresh interest. His eyes go from Suika to Ukyō, then to Ryūsui, as if trying to decide which stimulus is the most interesting.

“Look, Bya-chan,” Gen says, lowering his voice a little. “Say hello.”

Byakuya doesn’t understand the words, but he recognizes the change in tone. He makes a small sound, something between a babble and a happy puff of air, and waves his little hand without much coordination.

That gesture seems to break something in Suika.

“H-hello…” she says softly. “I’m Suika.”

Gen smiles immediately.

“This is Byakuya,” he replies. “He doesn’t talk much yet. Just a few little words… but he does recognize his name.”

Suika tilts her head slightly, fascinated, and carefully lifts her hand, imitating him, as if greeting were a universal language they could both share.

Ukyō watches the scene with a calm, fond expression, while Ryūsui lets out a low laugh, crossing his arms.

“It’s amazing how fast kids grow, isn’t it?” he comments. “You blink and they don’t fit in one arm anymore.”

“Yours was never going to fit,” Senkū replies without looking at him. “He was big from day one.”

Ryūsui laughs louder, taking the comment as a compliment.

“By the way,” he says, turning slightly toward Senkū, “don’t worry about dinner. François will take care of everything.”

François, who until then had remained in the background, inclines the head slightly, already in work mode.

“We bought the best ingredients,” Ryūsui continues. “Straight from Japan.”

Senkū blinks.

“You brought them on the jet?”

“Of course.”

There’s a second of silence.

“Thank you,” Senkū says, looking at François. “Really.”

François nods calmly, as if that were the most natural thing in the world, and begins to survey the space, evaluating the kitchen at a glance, calculating times and surfaces without saying a word.

Gen adjusts Byakuya slightly in his arms. The baby remains attentive, now looking at the lights on the tree in the distance, then back at Suika, as if the world had suddenly become much bigger.

Taiju approaches with large but careful steps, as if his size alone might be intimidating to a baby who is only just beginning to understand the world. Gen holds Byakuya against his chest, rocking him gently while watching the movement around them.

“Look who’s here!” Taiju says, leaning down a bit. “Your favorite uncle is here.”

Ryūsui, who had been leaning against the wall, immediately raises an eyebrow.

“That’s objectively false,” he cuts in. “I’m the favorite uncle.”

Gen lets out a quiet laugh, already used to that kind of comment, but says nothing. Byakuya watches the two men closely, wide-eyed and curious, following the movement of their mouths more than their words. Then he turns his head.

Senkū is right there, off to the side, arms crossed, observing the scene without intervening.

The baby lights up.

He stretches both arms out without hesitation, leaning toward him clumsily.

“Papa.”

The word comes out clear and certain.

Senkū arches an eyebrow and, not missing the opportunity, steps forward to take him into his arms.

“Well,” he says with a half-smile, “looks like he prefers me.”

Byakuya settles against him immediately, as if that were exactly where he wanted to be.

“Of course he prefers you,” Gen replies, unbothered. “You’re his dad. It would literally be weird if he didn’t.”

Ukyō watches the scene with a crooked smile, crossing his arms.

“You say that now,” he comments, “but Ryūsui and I worked so much during Suika’s first year that she ended up preferring François more than once.”

Ryūsui laughs, without the slightest hint of shame.

“A poorly calculated investment.”

François, who is nearby, inclines the head slightly.

“It will always be an honor to take care of Miss Suika,” comes the serene reply.

Yuzuriha steps a little closer to Ukyō and gives him a light bump with her shoulder.

“Come on, don’t exaggerate,” she says. “You know she loves you.”

Gen looks at all of them, then turns his gaze back to Ukyō and smiles with gentle mischief.

“So that’s why you stopped working.”

The laughter that follows is light, domestic, the kind that doesn’t need explaining. Byakuya babbles something incomprehensible from Senkū’s arms, oblivious to the conversation, completely secure in being exactly where he wants to be.

The house, which only a few hours earlier had been quiet and still, now feels full. Not just of people, but of something else: soft laughter, intersecting footsteps, curious glances. A Christmas none of them planned, but one that, without realizing it, is beginning to take shape.

Night falls gradually, almost imperceptibly, as if the house itself had adapted to the change in light. The windows reflect the illuminated interior while the sky outside grows darker, and inside the atmosphere fills with a constant, calm, living motion. The kitchen becomes the center of everything for quite a while: warm, spiced aromas, familiar even to those who didn’t grow up celebrating the date. François moves with silent precision, occupying the space as if always meant to be there, transforming ingredients into dishes that seem far too elaborate for a dinner that wasn’t supposed to exist at all.

The table fills little by little. There’s no formal ceremony, no strict order. Dinner unfolds the same way everything does in that house: organically. Plates passed from hand to hand, low laughter, comments crossing between bites. Senkū observes more than he speaks, leaning back against his chair, with Byakuya sometimes in his arms, sometimes in a small seat near the table, always within his line of sight. Gen, meanwhile, moves between eating and tending to the baby, adjusting his clothes, wiping his mouth, calming him whenever a new stimulus becomes a bit too much.

In the middle of the night, they receive a video call. Lillian appears on the screen with a tired smile, apologizing for not being able to be there. She’s in another country for work, and this time she isn’t traveling alone: in addition to Kohaku and Ruri, she’s also looking after Chrome, Connie and Shamil’s son, since both of them were assigned to a mission at the same time. Chrome doesn’t fully show himself, but his presence is felt in distant noises and off-screen comments; Senkū recognizes him immediately, not as a stranger or his father’s godson, but as the kid who sends him emails full of science questions, improvised experiments, and endless curiosities that flood his inbox with near-obsessive frequency.

Byakuya, Senkū’s father, couldn’t join them; space keeps him away even on important dates, a constant absence that no longer surprises anyone, but still weighs heavily. Behind Lillian, Kohaku can be heard arguing with Chrome, dissatisfied, her energy cutting through the screen even without being fully visible, while Ruri remains calmer, only partially peeking into view as she watches with quiet attention. The call isn’t long, but it leaves behind a bittersweet feeling, a mix of absence and closeness that lingers in the air even after the screen goes dark, like a soft echo in the room.

As the night goes on, the rhythm softens. The adults spread out across the living room, some sitting on the floor, others on couches, glasses half-finished and plates already empty. Ryūsui, relaxed, casually throws out indiscreet questions, aimed especially at Yuzuriha and Taiju, provoking reactions that range from nervous laughter to knowing looks. The topic of children comes and goes among casual remarks, never fully settling, more a distant possibility than an urgent matter.

On the floor, on a wide rug, Suika and Byakuya play. She sits cross-legged, offering him toys, showing him objects and books with patience, while the baby responds with enthusiastic sounds and clumsy movements. Sometimes he crawls toward her with determination; other times he gets distracted by any shiny object or by the lights on the tree blinking a few meters away. Suika laughs silently, fascinated, and Gen watches the scene with a soft, almost disbelieving expression, as if still processing that all of this is real.

The house feels different. Full, but not chaotic. There’s a warmth that doesn’t come only from the heating or the lights, but from the togetherness itself, from the presence of people filling every corner. At some point, Senkū gets up to adjust a blanket over Gen when he notices him staying still for too long with the baby on his chest. Gen doesn’t protest; he simply settles more comfortably, shielding his son even though it isn’t very cold.

There are no grand gestures or elaborate traditions. No speeches or solemn toasts. Just the slow passage of hours, the muted sound of laughter, the constant murmur of overlapping conversations, and two children sharing the same space without knowing that, for the adults around them, that scene alone is enough to redefine what Christmas means.

When the night advances far enough and fatigue begins to show in their bodies, no one seems in any hurry to go to bed. The feeling that lingers is simple and powerful: they didn’t celebrate the way they were supposed to, but even so—or perhaps because of that—the date became special. A Christmas built without intention, without expectations, simply by being together.

At some point during the night, Gen stops consciously following the conversation. It isn’t that the atmosphere has grown boring—far from it—but his attention fixes on something much more specific and delicate: the warm weight of Byakuya’s head slowly tipping as he rests in Yuzuriha’s arms.

At first it’s barely a movement at all, almost imperceptible. A slow sway, a forehead seeking support, eyelids closing for seconds that last just a little too long. Gen notices because he has seen it hundreds of times; he recognizes every sign that comes before sleep as if it were its own language. He leans forward slightly, watching him with a tired but tender smile.

That’s when he looks up and realizes he isn’t the only child who has drifted off.

Suika is sleeping deeply in Ukyō’s arms. Her small body is completely relaxed, her head resting against his chest, one little hand still gripping the fabric of his shirt as if refusing to let the day go. Ukyō holds her carefully, barely moving, aware that any sudden change could wake her.

Gen checks the time almost by instinct. It isn’t late for an adult, but for them it is. Far too late.

He rises slowly and approaches Yuzuriha.

“I think it’s time to put him to bed,” he says quietly as he holds out his arms.

Yuzuriha nods at once, just as gently. She hands Byakuya over with care, as if the baby were made of glass. Gen settles him against his chest, resting his chin on the soft little head that smells of milk and baby lotion.

“Are you turning in already?” Ryūsui asks from the couch, stretching. “You’re not even going to wait until midnight?”

Senkū answers without raising his voice.

“No.”

Ryūsui arches an eyebrow.

“What a cruel ending for Christmas.”

“Byakuya isn’t used to it,” Senkū continues. “We’re not going to mess up his sleep schedule for a date he doesn’t even understand.”

Gen nods almost automatically as he rocks his baby.

“And Suika is completely out too,” he adds, tilting his head in her direction.

Ukyō lowers his gaze to the girl and sighs with a tired smile.

“The trip wore her out,” he says. “And we’ve been trying to drop her afternoon nap… so this was inevitable.”

“Ukyō mentioned earlier that your gifts haven’t arrived either, right?” Yuzuriha asks, glancing around.

“Yes, that’s right. No gifts means there’s nothing to stay up all night for. I suppose we can leave that for the morning,” Ukyō says. “Continuing the celebration tomorrow doesn’t sound bad.”

Ryūsui clicks his tongue.

“That’s the problem with surprise trips and international shipping.”

Senkū gives him a sideways look.

“That’s what happens when you invite yourself.”

Ryūsui laughs, not offended in the slightest.

At that moment, as if the conversation had been the final straw, Byakuya stirs in Gen’s arms and breaks into tears. It isn’t a desperate cry, but a tired, dissatisfied one—the kind that comes when the body has had enough.

Gen frowns slightly on reflex and begins rocking him more steadily.

“He’s sleepy,” he says. “Very sleepy.”

He adjusts the blanket around the baby more securely and turns slightly toward Senkū.

“I’m going to put him down.”

Senkū nods right away.

Gen walks off alone, leaving behind the muffled murmur of the house. Each step toward Byakuya’s room reduces the noise, as if the world were folding in on itself, until only the uneven sound of his baby’s breathing remains, along with the soft brush of his own footsteps against the floor. He closes the door carefully, unhurried, creating a separate space where time seems to move more slowly.

The room is dim. Only a small lamp, already on, casts a warm light that softens the shadows and makes everything feel more intimate. Gen sits in the rocking chair with a tired body, but the motion is automatic, learned through repetition. He adjusts Byakuya against his chest with silent precision and offers him the breast without needing to insist.

Byakuya doesn’t hesitate. He latches on immediately, as if that gesture were the final anchor he needed to fully surrender to sleep.

Gen lets out a slow breath. With one hand he supports his son; with the other, he gently wipes away the traces of tears still clinging to his cheeks. His fingers are soft, almost reverent, following the round contours of a face that has changed so much in such a short time.

Ten months.

The thought crosses his mind with unexpected weight. Ten months, and he’s no longer the tiny baby who spent nine inside his womb, contained, protected, entirely his before being shared with Senkū. Nor is he that small, red, wrinkled being they placed on his chest at birth, the one who made both him and Senkū cry uncontrollably, overwhelmed by the sheer existence of something so small and alive.

Byakuya has grown. His body weighs more now, his hands are steadier, his presence takes up space in a different way. He isn’t fragile in the same sense anymore; now he is curious, insistent, full of energy. Sometimes Gen feels like the growth happens too fast, as if each day steals a previous version of his son without asking permission.

The rocking chair sways slowly, a steady rhythm that matches the baby’s calm suckling. Gen rests his head against the back of the chair, watching the subtle rise and fall of his chest as he breathes. There’s something comforting in that moment, something that holds him even as the exhaustion builds.

He doesn’t know if Byakuya will ever experience Christmas in a way different from his own, or from Senkū’s. He doesn’t know whether that date will someday hold special meaning for him, whether magic will exist beyond the lights and decorations, but he hopes so. He hopes his son grows up surrounded by love, by care, by presence. That the world doesn’t weigh on him too soon.

That he gets to enjoy it all.

That he keeps, even if only for a while, that pure sense of wonder with which he now looks at the entire world, as if everything were new, possible, worth exploring.

Byakuya’s breathing grows deeper. His hands relax, his body fully surrendering to rest. Gen keeps rocking for a while longer, unhurried, holding his son as if the act itself could stop time.

Outside, Christmas goes on.

Inside the room, love is enough.

When Byakuya finally falls into a deep sleep, Gen remains still for a few more seconds, making sure his breathing is steady, that his body is relaxed. Only then does he rise from the rocking chair with almost ceremonial care. Every movement is slow and measured, as if the slightest mistake could break the spell of rest.

He settles him into the sleep sack with practiced hands, slowly zipping it up, careful not to catch the soft skin. Then he places him in the crib and stays there, leaning over the rails, watching him. The room is silent, broken only by the faint sound of the baby’s breathing and the distant hum of the house still awake.

Byakuya sleeps with his brow relaxed, his mouth slightly open, one hand curled into a small fist. Gen feels that familiar ache in his chest, a mix of tenderness and awe that never quite fades, no matter how many times the scene repeats itself.

That’s when the door opens with extreme softness.

Gen looks up immediately and, upon recognizing Senkū, brings a finger to his lips in a silent gesture. Senkū nods and steps inside, closing the door behind him. He comes to stand beside Gen, the two of them facing the crib, sharing the same small space, their full attention focused on that tiny figure.

For a few seconds, neither of them needs to speak.

Gen, in a low voice, almost like a stray thought slipping free, wonders aloud whether Senkū ever imagined this: a house full of noise, of people coming and going, of disrupted routines; a baby who seems determined to put himself in danger at every opportunity, turning each day into constant vigilance.

Senkū shakes his head. He hadn’t imagined it.

His life, before Gen, was simple in its structure. Small. His world consisted of his father, Taiju, Yuzuriha. A handful of people, clear bonds. Everything else came later. Ukyō, who had been Gen’s best friend and who, without realizing it, became part of Senkū’s own circle. Ryūsui and the entire Nanami conglomerate, an impossible presence to ignore. People in Japan like Tsukasa, Hyoga—names and faces he never thought would intersect with his life, but who ended up there simply because Gen knew them.

His life expanded without him noticing.

He hadn’t thought about children either. It wasn’t an idea that had taken up space in his mind. And yet, here it is now: a small person sleeping peacefully in front of them, breathing calmly, completely unaware of how radical his arrival was.

Gen brought into his life experiences he never thought possible. People, bonds, situations that were never part of his calculations. Even chaos. Even exhaustion. Even that strange, profound sense of fulfillment that logic can’t quite explain.

They stay there a little longer, watching their son, sharing the silence, as if that moment alone were enough to summarize everything that changed—and everything that, despite it all, is worth it.

Gen breaks the silence first, never taking his eyes off the crib.

“Are you feeling nostalgic about all that?” he asks quietly, a near-smile hidden in his tone.

Senkū answers quickly—too quickly.

“Of course not.”

Gen lets out a soft laugh, barely a breath of air. He doesn’t argue. His attention returns to his baby, to the slow rhythm of his breathing, the way his chest rises and falls with perfect regularity.

“I guess I am,” he murmurs. “I never imagined having a family like this.”

There’s no drama in his words, just bare honesty. He falls silent for a moment, as if sorting through memories he rarely allows himself to voice.

He isn’t close to his parents. He never was. He grew up learning early on that affection could be conditional, that love could disappear the moment it stopped being convenient. The entertainment world only confirmed it: relationships built on mutual benefit, smiles that fade when they’re no longer useful, bonds that don’t survive once the spotlight is gone.

That’s why Senkū was different from the very beginning.

He never asked Gen to be anything more. Never demanded that he soften or simplify himself. He loved him even when Gen was complicated, contradictory, loud. He loved him directly, with brutal honesty—and without realizing it, Gen did the same. He loves him with every part of himself, even the ones he doesn’t always show.

Senkū remains still in front of the crib, his hands resting on the pale wooden rail. The dim light of the lamp casts soft shadows across his face, tracing lines Gen knows by heart. There’s something different in his expression—not nostalgia exactly, but a kind of deep contemplation, as if he were observing an experiment whose results he could never have predicted.

“Byakuya Ishigami,” he says.

The name lands with weight, not as a word, but as a certainty. The baby sleeps without stirring, breathing with the calm of someone who doesn’t yet know how fragile the world can be.

“Senkū Ishigami.”

This time he isn’t looking at the crib, but at his faint reflection in the window glass. He recognizes himself there—and yet, not entirely. The man he is now doesn’t fully resemble the one he once thought he would become.

He pauses. The silence stretches, comfortable, expectant.

“Gen Asagiri.”

The name sounds different. Not wrong, not foreign—but separate. As if it belonged to another line, another invisible column.

“You’re the only one who isn’t on the same page.”

Gen takes a second to process it. He tilts his head slightly, shifting his weight onto one leg, slipping into that relaxed posture he always adopts when he’s caught off guard.

“Sorry I can’t carry your last name,” he says, smiling as if to keep it light.

Senkū turns toward him.

“That can be changed.”

He doesn’t say it like an idea tossed into the air. He says it like a conclusion.

Gen feels the shift before he fully understands it. There’s something in the air—a different tension, a stillness that grows almost dense. The room seems smaller, more intimate, as if everything had folded inward to make space for just the two of them and the baby sleeping between their worlds.

“Are you proposing to me?” Gen asks.

His voice is low, incredulous—not because he doesn’t want it, but because he never expected the moment to arrive like this. In silence. In half-light. Beside a crib.

“Yes.”

Senkū pulls a small white box from his pocket. It isn’t flashy. It doesn’t shine unnecessarily. It is what it is: something meant to last, not to impress. He opens it carefully, as if even that motion might wake Byakuya.

The ring rests inside—simple, clean, without excess. Chosen perfectly.

“I didn’t plan this to be… spectacular,” Senkū says. “I don’t care if it is.”

He lifts his gaze to Gen. His eyes don’t waver.

“But I realized something,” he continues. “Everything important in my life arrived without me looking for it. You arrived that way. Byakuya arrived that way. None of this was in my calculations.”

He gestures lightly around the room: the crib, the toys, the rocking chair.

“And yet,” he says, “it’s the only thing I’ve never wanted to change.”

Gen feels his chest tighten. Breathing becomes just a little harder. His eyes fill before he can stop it.

“I don’t need you to be perfect,” Senkū goes on. “I don’t need you to fit into any idea of what a family should be. You already do. You have for a long time.”

He inclines his head slightly toward the crib.

“I want us to be united that way too. I want our son to grow up without ever wondering why our names aren’t together. I want everything we are to be on the same line.”

Senkū’s voice doesn’t tremble. It’s steady, clear, completely sure.

“Will you marry me?”

The room seems to fall into absolute silence, as if even the world were holding its breath. Gen can’t answer right away. Tears spill soundlessly down his cheeks as he tries to smile, as he tries to say something coherent.

He covers his mouth with one hand, his body betraying him with a silent sob.

“Yes,” he finally says. “Yes, Senkū-chan. Of course I will.”

The answer doesn’t need embellishment. It’s complete just as it is.

Senkū exhales slowly, as if he’s been carrying that question for years without realizing it. He closes the box carefully and sets it on the dresser, far from the edge, as if even the object deserved rest after fulfilling its purpose. He steps closer to Gen without touching him yet, respecting that fragile, almost sacred moment while the emotions settle in his chest.

Gen wipes his tears clumsily, laughing without sound, shaking his head slightly as if he still can’t quite believe it. Then he looks back at the crib, as if anchoring himself to something real, tangible.

That’s when Senkū takes Gen’s hand, carefully, as though moving too fast might shatter the moment. His fingers are firm, warm. With his other hand, he retrieves the ring and pauses for a second, studying it as if committing the gesture to memory forever. Then he slides it slowly onto Gen’s finger—a simple, precise, final motion. The metal settles into place, discreet, real, weighing just enough to remind him that this isn’t a dream.

Gen looks up, eyes still shining, and Senkū says nothing. There’s no need. He leans in just enough to brush against him first, to confirm that Gen is still there, that this is shared. The kiss is soft, restrained, almost silent—a brief touch that holds promises, exhaustion, love, and an entire life they’ve already begun together. There’s no rush, no spectacle. Only certainty.

Byakuya sleeps deeply, unaware of the promise just sealed beside him. His small chest rises and falls with the same calm as always, as if the world were already exactly where it should be.

The house is still chaos. Life is still unpredictable.

But now there is something more.

A shared last name waiting for its moment. A family that chose to exist. And a quiet, gentle, real kind of magic—one that doesn’t need lights to shine.