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The light of the sun is bleeding from the sky above them, acrid smoke dissipating under the lour of night.
Genos takes a tentative step forward, testing the roll of gravel under his boots as he studies the man in the distance.
It’s undeniably him, Saitama's features but twisted in all the worst ways, cruel suggestions of what they had been.
He’s still wearing his same suit, the colour faded and grimy. Holographic displays train on the places where it has ripped, skin scraped raw and scabbed underneath, shifting with his breath.
Genos calls his name, rough and thick in his throat, dropping short in the dead air. He refuses to look down, to see the casualties of his games, bodies twisted and prone in the street.
Saitama turns, gaze flitting over him. Genos swallows as the man moves in his direction.
There’s that same somnolent cant to his eyes, but they’ve become vacant, clouded over as if he is not really there.
He counts each stride without meaning to, immobile, gauging the distance between them in luminant coordinates.
Saitama steps into his space with a practised lethargy, divinity roiling beneath the movement, dangerous.
There’s sweat gleaming on his skin, beading above his lip.
Fingertips brush over his shoulder, up to his neck, the weight of his hands on him so familiar but heavier somehow, leather rasping dry in his ear.
“Genos.” It becomes a refrain, a curse on his lips. “Genos.”
His smile has changed while Genos was gone, sunk into something twisted and serpentine, teeth shining with crimson.
He steels himself against a primordial shiver.
Saitama catches his chin in a gloved hand. The fabric is limned with dark stains, and Genos closes his eyes as a thumb brushes over his cheek.
For a moment he can almost believe it’s him, still pretend while he is near and warm and sure, secluded in the umbral quiet.
The rancid scent of his gloves burns in his nose, and he forces his eyes open.
Saitama is watching him, close enough that Genos can see the dust that clings to his lashes.
His chest aches, anxiety pooling in his limbs, and he does his best not to move, not to push him to anger.
Saitama’s eyes have dulled, like he’s no longer seeing what’s in front of him.
Genos breathes, realising with stark certainty that he won’t be leaving this place. Maybe he had come knowing that, not knowing what he could do, only that he would not leave him again.
Then the hand is no longer gentle, tightening, gripping squeezing his jaw, hard enough that he’s trembling with the effort and Genos cries out, gold light climbing his arms.
The unbearable hum of energy is surging under his skin, crimson and frothy. Saitama ignores it, concentrating on the give of metal under his heel, the grit of dirt as he presses down.
Steely fingers are scrabbling, scraping at his boot and he kicks down, listening to the way he chokes in answer, like a huffed laugh.
There’s a stale taste on the back of his tongue, dry in his throat. He shoves down again, and there’s a crunch, echoed by a low moan that dissolves into hoarse breathing.
The wires from Genos’ detached arm are tangling in the dirt, and Saitama crouches to gather them. He tugs the ends, watching as the fingers twitch in response.
He holds it up; waves, salutes. He grins down at Genos, but the other doesn’t react.
He drags one silver finger over the slope of his shoulder, listening to it sing along the fractured silver. Genos’ breath is broken, shuddering under each inhale.
He discards the metal limb to crawl closer, tracing with his own hand down to where the core lies in the cavity of his chest. He strokes its edges gingerly, watching the way the light flees under the shadow of his hand.
Genos stares up at him, blank rings of pale gold, devoid of calculation.
He can see his surrender there, long before it leaves his lips.
“Sensei.”