In Theory [Senku x Reader]

"It always seems impossible until it's done." — Nelson Mandela.

"I'm going to die—this smells almost as bad as the school bathrooms."

Senku, without so much as glancing up, lets out a short, amused breath. "Hah. If our school bathrooms smelled like this, you should've probably reported that to a health inspector."

Taiju grins, utterly unfazed. "Oh, man, is it that bad? I can't even smell it anymore!"

You shoot him a dubious look. "That's not a flex, Taiju. That's actually very concerning."

He only laughs, rubbing the back of his head in that sheepish, good-natured way of his.

You don't press further. Frankly, knowing Taiju, he could develop an immunity to just about anything through sheer willpower alone. If not for the complete lack of scientific precedent, you might've been tempted to document the phenomenon.

"You're exaggerating," Senku remarks flatly, finally sparing you a sideways glance. "It's just a little nitric acid."

You squint at him over the cloth clamped over your nose and mouth. "Just a little nitric acid? Senku, my eyes are actively trying to evacuate from my skull. This is a war crime."

His lips twitch—so minuscule you'd miss it if you weren't accustomed to cataloging every micro-expression he deigns to show. "If this is enough to kill you, then I hate to break it to you, but I'm afraid you won't be living too long."

"Oh, fantastic. What a relief." You wave a hand vaguely in the air as if that will somehow dispel the acrid fumes clawing at your sinuses. "And here I was worried about longevity. I'll just drop dead now, save us both the trouble."

Senku hums, entirely too unbothered. "That'd be pretty inconvenient. You're at least semi-useful sometimes."

You scoff, "You could at least pretend to care about my suffering."

"Oh, I care," he continues, absolutely unconvincing. "It's just that your suffering is really funny."

You scowl but hand over the adjusted cup of distilled alcohol—just a little farther than necessary, out of pure, petty spite.

"Theoretically," you begin, watching as he leans over and takes it, "if we account for the volatility of ethanol at this purity level—"

You gesture vaguely, already anticipating his response. "Not that you'd need the reminder, but molecular interactions at this concentration mean—"

Senku hums, tilting the cup, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips. "Right. Surface tension shifts slightly with impurities, but assuming you've kept your distillation column efficient—"

He lifts the cup a little higher, scrutinizing it under the light. "Then we're looking at something around 95% purity. Give or take a negligible margin of error."

"Well, assuming you didn't botch your reflux ratio, that tracks," you remark dryly, arms crossed. "Not that I expected anything less from myself."

Senku huffs. "Yeah, yeah, your genius is duly noted." He turns, making his way toward the wooden stump where the petrified swallow rests.

"Has anyone ever told you you're more tolerable when you're not talking?" you deadpan.

"All the time!" Taiju chimes in, grinning.

He says something to Taiju, but you actively tune it out on principle.

Maybe suffocation would be preferable.

With a sigh, you resort to shallow breathing, trying to minimize your suffering.

The shed reeks of acid—sharp and unforgiving, the kind that worms its way into your sinuses and clings to the back of your throat like an unwanted houseguest. It's the olfactory equivalent of a full-frontal assault, an invisible enemy with no regard for personal space. If not for the makeshift cloth pressed over your nose, you might've already keeled over.