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The piggy bank had seen better days, Saitama had to admit. It was held together with more glue and band-aids now than pottery, and large chips were missing, big enough that the coins could fall out if you tipped it the wrong way. But Saitama only put random change in it when his coin bag got too full, which was rare, so there was no need to replace it.
The heart-print comforter, too, was on its last legs. The colors had faded over the years until the hearts were more orange than red, and it was patched in several places and stained with tea or oil or monster blood. But it was still intact, and the lumps provided easy places to grip rather than any discomfort, so there was no need to replace it.
Saitama did not seek out change in his life. He liked things the way they were, and if he didn't like them he'd change only what he didn't like.
That was perhaps why it had taken so long to tell Genos how he felt. It was easy having Genos around to talk to, and do things with, and share chores. It wasn't very long before Saitama realized his feelings for Genos were different from friendship. But he didn't say anything, didn't change anything, because he was happy. There was no need.
"Sensei," Genos said, chiding, "You need to do something about your pig."
"Huh? Why?"
Genos gestured at the bank, which had toppled over on its side after one entire leg crumbled.
"He's fine. He's resting."
"Sensei, they still make that design. We can purchase a new one very cheaply."
"Nah," Saitama said, balancing the pig on three legs and a manga volume he'd already read. "This one is fine."
A week later the pig disappeared.
“Genos?” Saitama peered behind the TV stand, in case it had fallen. “Where's my piggy bank?”
The silence from the table was discouraging. “The- the one by the TV, sensei?”
“The only one I have. Did you move it to dust, or something?”
“No...” Genos' pencil scratched on the page of his journal.
“Genos.”
“Yes sensei?”
“Did you throw away my piggy bank?”
The pencil stopped.
Saitama had put off confessing his feelings because he was content to keep things the way they were. What he forgot, and what he kicked himself for every day after he realized, was that Genos might not be happy. He was younger, he was more impulsive, he questioned himself more. It was easy for Saitama to tell Genos cared for him, but Genos couldn't tell Saitama felt the same.
When Genos, tearfully, admitted he couldn't stop falling in love with Saitama, Saitama had replied, “Then don't stop?”
They fell into their new arrangement, much the same as the old one but with only one futon. There was some adjustment, some growing pains, but once they got used to each other Saitama never made a move to change it, because he was content.
“I'm sorry sensei,” Genos said quickly. “I- I broke it, worse than before. I can buy you a new one.”
“I could have fixed it,” Saitama said. “You didn't have to throw it out.”
“I'm sorry, sensei.”
He sighed. “It's... it's okay. It's not a big deal. I just had that since I was a kid, you know?” Saitama brushed a little ceramic powder off the shelf. “But it's not a big deal.”
For the next week, Saitama couldn't stop his mood from sinking every time he looked at the TV stand. Once they passed by a display of banks at the department store; it was just like Genos said, they still made the same design. But they'd changed the eyes, modernized it a little.
Even if they hadn't Saitama didn't think he'd have bought one. Genos offered, but Saitama refused.
On Friday Saitama was a little surprised to be woken up with a full course breakfast. Genos had let him sleep in, so it was more like lunch, and when he was finished Genos encouraged him to get dressed.
“I made plans, sensei.”
“Plans? For what?”
Genos tilted his head. “For your birthday.”
“It's my birth- What's today?”
Genos laughed this time. “The 24th.”
“Holy shit it is my birthday.”
They went to the park, and the aquarium, and the fanciest coffee shop Saitama had ever seen, and then the market to pick up anything Saitama wanted to put in a hot pot. That last part wasn't too different from Sale Day, but this time Saitama wasn't allowed to look at prices.
Considering he hadn't celebrated his birthday in over three years, it was the best one he'd had in a long time.
Finally, after dinner when Saitama was too full to keep his eyes open much longer, Genos gave him a small gold-wrapped package.
“I thought the whole day was my present.” He didn't try to refuse it, though. Genos had almost gotten him used to getting spoiled.
“Well, I planned this for you weeks ago. I felt bad though, because I had to mislead you a little.”
“Mislead? What?”
Genos handed him the scissors. “Open it, sensei.”
Carefully packed away in a little wooden box and cotton fluff, was his piggy bank. The same exact one, cracked and chipped and missing a leg, but all the damage had been repaired. Saitama took the little round pig in his hands, turning it over and watching the way the new patches caught the light. It looked like the cracks had been filled with gold.
“Genos? What... How...”
“It's called kintsugi, sensei, have you heard of it? They mix gold dust in with the lacquer as a way of embracing the flaws. Celebrating imperfection.”
“It looks amazing.” Where the flowers had been scraped off was repainted, and the missing foot was completely replaced with a gold one. “Geez. It's like it's worth more than when I got it the first time.”
“Possibly,” Genos said carefully. Saitama finally looked up at him, and saw he was sitting in tight seiza. “I'm sorry I made you think I'd thrown it away. I didn't want to ruin the surprise.”
“I love it, Genos. I- I was just gonna let it sit around and be broken forever. But you made it better.” Saitama placed the pig where it belonged before returning to sit beside Genos and hug him. “Thank you. I love you.”
“I love you too, sensei.” Genos turned his head to accept a kiss.
“I'm not gonna be able to top this for your birthday.”
“It's not a contest, sensei.” He smirked. “I'd win, anyway.”
Saitama laughed. “Just for that, I'm gonna blow you away.”
“Sure, sensei.”
“You'll see!”