Chapter Text
There is something about Ukyo that Ryusui isn’t sure he can explain. He’s a restrained, elegant man, hard to read, so extremely self-possessed that Ryusui doubts he’s ever acted impulsively. Ukyo’s face, though, betrayed nothing of the years he claimed to have lived. Youthful, almost boyish in its smoothness - it could have been deceptive, but Ryusui saw the sharpness in his eyes, the quiet precision of his movements, the subtlety of his reactions.
And then there was the part that stung most: Ukyo didn’t seem impressed by him.
Not even a flicker of admiration, a hint of amusement at Ryusui’s flamboyance, nothing that acknowledged Ryusui’s usual charms. That, more than anything else, unsettled him. He was accustomed to leaving impressions, to drawing attention and admiration without effort. He prided himself on his charisma, his natural ability to make conversation, to draw people in, to make them laugh even when they didn’t particularly want to. But with Ukyo, it was like performing for an audience that wasn’t watching.
Ryusui tried anyway, as he always did, throwing out anecdotes and witty remarks, gauging for a smile, a raised eyebrow, a trace of acknowledgment. Ukyo’s responses were polite but distant, tinged with quiet amusement, as though Ryusui were a yapping little dog desperately trying to befriend a cat that kept swatting at his nose. Each interaction left Ryusui oddly unsettled - part irritation, part fascination, and, he had to admit, a prick of wounded pride. He was used to being the center of attention, the one who charmed his way through any room.
And yet here was Ukyo, completely unmoved, a puzzle he couldn’t coax open.
“Yeah, he is not into you,” Gen says, and Ryusui scowls at him. What does Gen know? Gen’s pining away over Senku, who has the emotional intuition of a damp dishrag. Gen raises an eyebrow, looking smug. It’s late in the day - Ukyo’s out hunting, and Chrome and Senku are off doing something at the iron mine.
That leaves Gen and Ryusui here in the lab, surrounded by papers, diagrams, and half-sketched circuitry, supposedly designing the command center for the ship while Kaseki selects trees to fell with the Power Team. In theory, Ryusui should be working on the layout for the bridge. In practice, he’d gotten distracted - he’d stopped when he reached the sonar station section of the schematic, fingers hovering just a little too long. Gen had picked up on his sigh immediately.
“I didn’t ask you your opinion,” Ryusui grumbles.
“No, but your entire body language did.” Gen grins at him. “You’ve been peacocking around him for days. It’s actually impressive how little he cares.”
Ryusui crossed his arms, jaw tightening. “What would you know? I know you’ve got your eyes on our spicy little scientist, and he probably only ever had wet dreams about rocketships.”
“That’s unfair,” Gen says with mock offense. “He’s also deeply aroused by solar panels and the concept of ion propulsion.” Then, smiling slyly, “But I know dear Senku’s a lost cause. You, on the other hand, look like you’re one bad rejection away from writing tragic poetry in the moonlight.”
Ryusui scoffed, but the jab hit a little too close. He isn’t used to being ignored. Worse, he isn’t used to caring about being ignored. And yet, here he is - stealing glances, making insightful comments, trying to remember everything he could about sonar. All for the slimmest chance of cracking that careful composure, of seeing Ukyo slip, even just a little. He’s seen Ukyo’s polite little smile, but he wants to see him laugh like he means it.
He didn’t even know why it mattered, but it did.
Damn it, it really did.
And maybe that was the real problem - not Ukyo’s indifference, but Ryusui’s own reaction to it. He was used to winning people over like a game, without real effort.
Gen’s watching him now with that same infuriating smirk, hands tucked into his sleeves. Ryusui has no idea why he was a mentalist; Gen’s true calling is clearly agony aunt or maybe the host of a dating show that specialized in public embarrassment. “You could just tell him you’re interested. Save us all the drama.”
Ryusui doesn’t look up from the diagram he’s pretending to focus on. “And if he says no?”
“Then you get over it. Or don’t. Either way, stop redesigning the bridge layout to keep him in your eyeline.”
“I wasn’t doing that.”
“You were definitely doing that. And dear Senku’s going to notice your changes eventually, which means I’ll have to explain it, and frankly, I’d rather die.”
He can’t help that Ukyo’s damn nice to look at, okay? He’s got the most incredible eyes Ryusui’s ever seen - sharp, focused, but kind too, a blue so vivid it feels unreal. Like the waters around a reef, or ice floes in the arctic, deep and clear, the color of distant places and untouched horizons. They’re the color Ryusui associates with adventure. And they’re made even sharper against the pale cut of Ukyo’s skin, the nearly silver fall of his hair. He looks like he stepped out of a dream Ryusui didn’t know he had, something clean and cold and quiet, and entirely unreachable.
When they’d first met, just after Ryusui had been revived, Ryusui had made his move. He wasn’t one to wait. He’d found Ukyo finishing up making a new batch of arrows, had snapped his fingers in front of his face, and leaned in, flashing a grin and said, plainly, “I desire you.”
It usually worked. Or if not worked, at least provoked a reaction. A blush, a laugh, annoyance - something. Ryusui was a lot, and he knew it. But he was also handsome, clever, and confident enough to get away with being a lot. People reacted.
Instead, Ukyo had raised a single eyebrow and said, “I’m a wait-for-the-third-date kind of guy,” in the same tone he might use to comment on the weather. Then he’d turned and walked off to go spar with Kohaku, leaving Ryusui standing there like a fish gasping on the beach.
He hadn't recovered since.
And worse, Ukyo hadn’t treated him any differently after that. He hadn’t teased him, hadn’t flirted, hadn’t avoided him either - just treated him the same way he treated everyone else: with polite attention, with quiet thoughtfulness, with maddening calm. Ryusui knew the difference between disdain and restraint. He’d grown up surrounded by people who hid their dislike behind manners - bodyguards, investors, distant relatives. He could tell when someone was barely tolerating him.
Ukyo didn’t seem to dislike him. But he didn’t seem particularly moved by him either. It was like shouting into a canyon and getting no echo back.
Gen watches him suffer with the kind of amusement only a man in mutual unrequited love could provide. “You’re spiraling,” he says lightly, raising one eyebrow. “It’s honestly more entertaining than I expected. There’s something poetic about watching a playboy fall for a man who’d rather go hunting than let you flirt with him.”
Ryusui finally looks up. “Don’t you have something better to do?”
“Not even a little,” Gen says sweetly. “We can lump this under my responsibilities of helping with the emotional stability of the group.”
“Funny; I mostly feel driven to murder.” He’s also feeling the urge to cough; something feels stuck in his throat.
“Anyway, dear Ukyo is a friend of mine,” Gen says, ignoring the threat. He must get that a lot, Ryusui thinks spitefully. “He’s a pretty level guy, but he was more integrated into the Empire of Might, sort of against his will. All I can say is don’t fault him for being wary.”
Ryusui’s heard this, mostly in whispers. The two factions - the Kingdom of Science and the Empire of Might - are still merging, and he’s heard the rumors of everything this entailed. Ukyo’s still someone treated with slightly terrified awe, and to be frank, his skill with the bow makes Ryusui understand why, even if Ukyo seems to be a peaceful person.
Even now, months after the merge, Ukyo walks through the village like a ghost of two worlds. People respect him, admire him, fear him, all at once. There’s a gravity to him that goes beyond his skill with the bow, like no one’s really willing to test him. It seems lonely.
“I do respect him,” he says. Ukyo’s looks are just part of the package. Like he said, he can’t explain what it is about Ukyo that he finds so magnetic, but there’s something there. Maybe it’s the weird mash of contradictions that make him up as a person, the clear intelligence in his eyes, the way he holds people at a polite distance.
“Well, I’m not the one you need to convince of that,” Gen says, and then looks up when he hears the chatter of voices. One of them is clearly Senku’s, explaining something to Chrome. Gen’s face softens, his expression fond. “Excuse me, dear Ryusui,” he says, and leaves. A moment later, Ryusui hears him calling out to Senku.
That was deeply unhelpful, Ryusui thinks.
—
But it did introduce room for thought, at least. Ukyo comes back to camp a few hours after Chrome and Senku, holding a brace of rabbits. He’d spent the afternoon helping Francois prep them for dinner, and Ryusui couldn’t help sneaking glances at his sure, tight movements.
He doesn’t know much about Ukyo, but he wants to. He’s only got the loose outlines of him as a person - that he was a sonar operator, before he was petrified. He’d mentioned once, off-handedly, that his mother was an Olympic-winning archer, and she’d taught him, which is where the skill came from. He knows his hearing is incredible - Ukyo had once said, in passing, that he could hear a person’s heartbeat from five feet away if he wanted to. Ryusui had laughed at the time, but now the idea of someone being able to hear the desperation thudding in his chest makes him feel a little sick.
Maybe it’s the fact that it’s dark out now, and the camp has gone quiet. Most people are already asleep, the fire little more than a low, flickering core of embers. The moon hangs high and sharp above the trees, casting silver light across the clearing. Something about the stillness makes Ryusui feel like he can ask for the truth.
Ukyo is sitting across from him, quietly picking at the remains of his dinner. He looks vaguely perturbed, his eyes distant as he nudges the food on his plate with his chopsticks. He’d mentioned once that he used to be vegetarian in the modern world. Given their current options, it can’t be easy. Most meals now lean heavily on roasted game, smoked fish, and foraged roots. There's not much room for preference when survival's on the menu.
Ukyo never complains, but Ryusui sees it in the way he eats: slow, mechanical, disconnected, like he’s forcing his body to cooperate with a world that never asked him what he wanted from it.
Ryusui watches him for a moment. The firelight catches in Ukyo’s pale hair, makes the edges glow faint gold. “Is there some reason you seem so unimpressed by me?” Ryusui finally asks, his voice quieter than usual.
Ukyo raises an eyebrow, glancing over. Then he tosses a stripped bone into the fire, where it cracks sharply in the heat. “Is that really a question you want an answer to?” he asks, calm and mild as ever.
No, Ryusui thinks. Not really. But he’s asked anyway, and now it’s too late to back down. He nods.
Ukyo sighs and sets his plate aside with deliberate care. For a moment, he doesn’t speak - he just looks at Ryusui, eyes unreadable, sharp and assessing even in the firelight. Then he tilts his head slightly, letting the shadows draw long across his cheekbones. “You know, I’m not unused to people finding me this feminine little thing they expect they can order around,” he says after a long moment, sounding more tired than anything else. “I was in the military, despite the fact that I’m a pacifist. I don’t particularly need men to look at me and assume I’ll fall at their feet, just because they’re handsome and confident.”
Ryusui’s throat is dry. “That’s not what I meant to do.”
“Hm, well, then maybe don’t go around telling guys you just met that you desire them,” Ukyo says. There’s no sharpness to his voice, and he doesn’t even look particularly irritated. “I can’t stand people who decide if I’m desirable just because of my looks.”
“You’re an amazing person, too,” Ryusui tries. “It's not just about your looks.”
Ukyo just smiles at him. It’s not warm. It’s not cruel, either. It’s empty, practiced - one of those polite, noncommittal smiles you give when someone compliments your shoes at a funeral.
“I don’t need your praise,” he says gently, and Ryusui thinks, that’s kind of my problem, isn’t it?
Ryusui has built his entire life around being wanted, admired for what he can do, who he is, how he walks into a room and owns it. He gets by on charm and brilliance and confidence. And yet none of that seems to move Ukyo in the slightest - not his looks, not his status, not even his genuine admiration.
There’s an ache in his chest that’s been building all day, low and slow, like something coiling tight behind his sternum. Now it feels like it’s crawling upward, pressing against the base of his throat. He coughs once, lightly, and curls his fingers into the dirt beside him, trying to ease the pressure. The fire crackles softly between them. The silence stretches, taut and brittle.
And then the cough comes back, sharper this time. He turns slightly, bringing a hand to his mouth, trying not to draw attention, but he can’t stop it. His breath hitches. It’s hard to draw in a full inhale. He rubs at his throat, trying to loosen whatever’s stuck.
Ukyo straightens slightly. “Are you alright?”
Ryusui nods too quickly. “Yeah. Just…something caught in my throat.” He coughs again. And again. His lungs feel tight, like there’s pressure blooming beneath his ribs - hot, dense, aching.
Ukyo watches him closely now, concern visible in the small lines that have formed at the corners of his eyes. “You sure? I might not like you much, but I don’t want to watch you choke to death.”
Ryusui clears his throat again and forces a grin. “I’m fine. Don’t worry. Probably just karma for being too dramatic.” But even as he says it, he can feel the tightness in his lungs, like something wrapping in between his ribs.
He forces another swallow. His mouth tastes bitter. His tongue feels thick.
He can’t help glancing at Ukyo again, and that’s a mistake. Ukyo’s still looking at him, thoughtful and composed and untouched by everything Ryusui is choking on. His forehead is creased, and Ryusui wonders if he can hear his heart, beating out of time, or the scrap of air in his suddenly ragged throat.
“Francois might have some tea left over,” Ukyo says, and stands up. “Let me go ask them. That might help with whatever is going on with you.”
Fuck, Ryusui thinks, watching him walk away. Ukyo’s so remarkably kind, even to someone he doesn’t particularly care for. The thought makes another wave of coughing slam into him, and oddly, he can feel something in his mouth he is pretty sure wasn’t there before.
Dizzily, he spits into his hands. For a moment, he thinks he’s spit out a clump of blood. But after a second of prodding at it, he realizes it’s a silky, red petal. He stares at it, dazed. It glistens in the firelight.
“What the fuck,” he says after a long moment. His voice is hoarse, like he’s been screaming. He’s pretty sure he wasn’t eating any flowers. His hand is shaking as he traces the petal with his thumb.
He’s not much in the practice of panicking, but that was in the modern world, when he could hire anyone to explain what the problem was and then hire more people to fix it for him. The petrification was strange and alarming, but everyone was in the same boat as him there. He’s pretty sure he hasn’t heard of anyone else spitting up flowers since he woke up, unless everyone’s really committed to keeping this new activity secret for some reason.
Maybe it’s a fluke. Maybe this was in his dinner, and just got stuck in his windpipe weird when he swallowed, and he just hadn’t noticed.
Yeah, Ryusui decides. That’s it.
The silken edges wrinkle and tear under the pressure of his palm as he closes his hand around it. When he opens his hand again, the petal is a crumpled, sticky smear of red and gold veins.
He wipes it off on his pants just as Ukyo returns, quietly holding out a steaming cup. “Here,” Ukyo says, his voice level, eyes flicking briefly to Ryusui’s face. “Francois had some left. Said it should help.”
Ryusui reaches up with his free hand - the one not guilty of hiding something impossible - and takes the cup. “Thank you,” he says, sniffing the steam rising off of it. Ginger tea, with a touch of yuzu and honey. Francois used to make this for him all the time in the modern world, and he’s surprised by the wave of nostalgia that hits him. His old life - the glittering cage of it - isn’t something he’s often wistful for.
Ukyo doesn’t sit back down. He lingers just a moment, watching him again, quiet. “Try to get some rest,” he says. “Night, Ryusui.” And then he turns and walks toward his tent, vanishing into the dark.
Ryusui stares into the fire. The ache in his lungs hasn’t eased; the pressure hasn’t gone. If anything, it feels heavier now. Like roots curling through the spaces between his ribs, like something growing.
He takes a sip of tea and tries not to think about it.
—
He is absolutely not going to ask Senku about this. One, because Senku will charge him an arm and leg for a consultation, and Ryusui distinctively feels like him and Gen have gotten pretty good at scamming drago out of him. Two, they’re mostly in the building stage of things - the ship, the mine, the engines - and Senku’s getting twitchy lately. He needs something new to poke at. Ryusui’s not about to offer up his lungs as a science project.
Gen is out. He’ll tease him and tell Senku everything. Chrome’s worse; the boy couldn’t keep a secret if his life depended on it. Francois is a trusted constant, yes, but he’s not sure he wants his butler hovering with quiet concern every time he so much as clears his throat. And Ukyo - well, he’s done enough there. He’s not about to drop a pile of bloody petals in his lap too.
So he picks Ruri.
She seems like a good compromise. She carries centuries of village knowledge in her head. She’s wise, discreet, and genuinely likes helping people. And more importantly, she has the bedside manner of someone who understands that some things need to stay secret.
He corners her after she gets out of Morse code training with Gen - they’ve been teaching her both Morse and reading so she can handle communications when they set out across the sea. She’s remarkably quick at both.
“Beautiful priestess,” he says, aiming for charming and falling flat. “May I trouble you for a moment of your time?”
“Of course,” she says hesitantly, looking like she’s wondering what he could possibly want.
“In private,” he adds, and when her forehead creases, he says, “I just have some questions.”
She doesn’t look reassured, but she follows him to the watchtower built into the mountain, overlooking the view. From up here, they can see the sweep of the sea, the jagged line of the forest, the clouds piling low over the mountains. The wind is stronger this high up - biting, carrying the coming scent of fall. It’s unlikely anyone would hear them up here - Ukyo’s the only possibility, but he’s in the middle of teaching the villagers how to read, so it’s a safe bet that he’s occupied.
“Have you ever heard of people coughing up flowers?” Ryusui asks without preamble, and Ruri stares at him, her blue eyes huge.
“Oh dear,” she says softly after a long moment.
Ryusui feels a slow, cold crawl down his spine. “That’s a yes, then,” he says, trying to keep his voice light. “Not just me being dramatic.”
Ruri walks toward him, slow and careful, like he might shatter if she moves too fast. She doesn’t say anything right away, and that silence is somehow worse than being laughed at. “How many petals have you coughed up?” she asks quietly. “Or are you at whole flowers already?”
“Just the one petal, last night,” he says, wondering what she means by whole flowers, and Ruri sighs heavily, leaning back against the railing wrapping around the tower. The wind is tugging at her blonde hair.
“It’s been a long time since we had a case of this,” she says finally. “When I was a child, there was a young woman in our village, Beryl. She was quiet, sweet, always kind. I liked her very much. I think she fell in love with someone. No one ever knew for sure who it was - the village is small, but people are private about love when they know it won’t be returned. One day she started coughing up petals. Red, at first. Then white. Then whole flowers. Wild orchids, I think.”
Ryusui listens, a growing knot tightening behind his ribs.
“She was sick for a long time. She refused to say who it was, and said she didn’t want anyone to be blamed. She tried to hide it, but by the end, she could barely breathe without pain. And then one morning, she walked to the river and...” Ruri trails off, and swallows hard. “We never found her body,” she says finally.
There’s a long silence. The wind whistles through the slats in the tower wall, rattling loose ropes. Below, the forest stretches endlessly, golden leaves just starting to turn at the edges. From up here, it all looks peaceful. Manageable.
“Well, I don’t like that much,” Ryusui says finally, and Ruri laughs, a little hysterically.
“I’m sorry I don’t have better news about it,” she says apologetically.
“Maybe I just...got a flower petal in my mouth somehow,” Ryusui says, grasping for logic, for anything remotely rational. “We’ve been working near the woods, right? All sorts of wild plants out there. It could’ve just blown into my food.”
Ruri doesn’t argue with him, but she doesn’t agree, either. She watches him, calm and quiet.
“I mean,” Ryusui goes on, trying to make the words sound solid, “I can’t think of anyone I’m suppressing secret feelings for. That’s not really my thing.”
He’s always been loud about his wants. He prides himself on it. Ambition, desire, need – he names them, claims them. Ryusui Nanami doesn’t do subtle, doesn’t do hidden - he lives at top speed, with full volume.
So if something is growing inside him - something so overwhelming it’s taken root in his lungs - it can’t be love. It can’t be anything like that.
Ruri tilts her head slightly. “It doesn’t have to be a secret,” she says gently. “Sometimes people just...don’t realize. I mean, look at Senku and Gen.”
He scoffs, but the sound is thin, uncertain. “Not realizing I’m in love? Come on, I’m not that oblivious.” And yet, something doesn’t sit right. Some uncomfortable grain of possibility has taken root behind his ribs, next to the flowers he’s suspecting are forming there, and it won’t leave him alone.
“I’ve had a lot of time to think about this curse, since Beryl died,” Ruri says after a long moment, looking back out over the mountains. “And I don’t think it comes from love that’s unwanted. I think it comes from love that has nowhere to go. It builds up, and bursts out of you.”
Ryusui isn’t sure what to make of that. He’s got a lot of feelings - a lot of love, a lot of drive, a lot of desire - but he always finds an outlet for it. The idea of bursting at the seams from something he didn’t ask for sounds so unpleasant.
Ruri sighs. “Anyway, please let me know how it’s progressing,” she says. “I can’t promise I can help you solve this, but I can at least listen.”
“Yeah,” Ryusui says distantly. “Thanks.”
Ruri bows slightly and descends the stairs, the wooden boards creaking beneath her feet. He watches her go, a strange hollowness yawning out behind his breastbone, like something’s been carved out of him and left unfinished.
The odd, disconnected feeling doesn’t leave him as he finally drags himself down from the watchtower and starts walking back toward camp. Everything feels off. The air too crisp, the ground too firm beneath his boots, the colors of the trees too sharp. The world is still turning around him - same people, same tasks, same place - but he feels unmoored.
“Oye!” Kaseki calls as Ryusui steps into the shipyard. “Ryusui, come look at this!”
Grateful for the distraction, Ryusui moves toward him. Kaseki’s squinting at part of the ship’s hull, gesturing at a complex section of the design where the rudder meets the frame. It’s technical - exactly the kind of problem Ryusui’s good at solving. He throws himself into it, heart pounding as he focuses on the measurements, the angle of the curvature, the wood’s tension under stress.
For a while, he forgets about the petal, about Ruri’s story, about the way the air felt too heavy in his lungs. For a while, he feels normal again.
Until a hand taps gently on his shoulder.
Ryusui turns and finds Ukyo standing just behind him, expression unreadable but intent, eyes scanning his face.
“Hi,” Ukyo says quietly. “How’s the cough?”
Ryusui opens his mouth to answer, but nothing comes out. His throat closes abruptly, like a fist tightening from the inside. He gasps reflexively, and then the first cough escapes, harsh and sudden. He stumbles back a half step, nearly bumping into a pile of wood, one hand flying to his chest.
“Hey - Ryusui?” Ukyo’s voice sharpens with concern.
Another cough forces its way up, then another, until he’s doubled over, one hand bracing on a workbench, the other curled tightly in his coat. The coughs tear out of him like his lungs are trying to expel something foreign, something soft and living.
Ukyo moves closer. “Okay. Sit down - come on. Easy.”
Ryusui tries to wave him off, but his legs feel weak. His knees give slightly, and Ukyo grabs his elbow, guiding him to a crate near the edge of the yard. His hand is steady and warm. “Breathe through your nose,” Ukyo says calmly, crouching beside him. “Slowly. You’re okay. I’m gonna go get you some tea.”
Ukyo doesn’t wait for permission. He slips away, fast and quiet, while Ryusui struggles to straighten up and keep breathing. His vision is spotted, ears ringing. When he finally manages to spit into his hand, there it is again - another petal. This one slightly curled, deep crimson, like it’s been pressed in a book for weeks.
He crushes it quickly in his palm, heart hammering.
Ukyo returns not two minutes later with a mug of steaming tea - ginger again. Ryusui stares at it for a beat, then reaches out with a shaking hand to take it.
“Thanks,” he rasps. His voice is hoarse, like he’s been screaming.
“If you’re sick, Senku can really only make antibiotics,” Ukyo says.
“Hopefully it’s just a cough,” Ryusui says to his mug of tea. He’s not used to feeling shy, but he’s tired and a bit wrung-out now, and Ukyo’s eyes are very intense.
“Your heart rate is a bit fast,” Ukyo says accusingly.
“I did just almost hack up a lung.”
“Do you want me to get Senku?”
Ryusui mostly wants to be left alone. “Nah,” he says. “I always get a bit sick with autumn coming. It’s the changing weather, I think.”
Ukyo watches him for another long moment, then finally says, “Well. Let me know if it gets worse.”
With that, he turns and walks away, leaving Ryusui alone with the sharp taste of ginger and the tight, aching pressure behind his ribs, like something beautiful and terrible is still trying to bloom.
Fuck, he thinks. What the hell is he supposed to do with this?