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Genos bolted up from the futon, his mind reeling with the echos of the voice that haunted his dreams. Every night had been like this for the past two weeks. The dreams had started off as glimpses, distant and foggy as nightmares tended to be. But these last few nights they had grown into something more. Something more real, more tangible, to the point where Genos could no longer choose to ignore them.
His systems began to calibrate, switching from his sleep mode and adjusting his visual outputs to night vision. The living room glowed green in front of him, the neon light from the microwave alerting him that it was still far too early to be awake. Rain was still falling, humming through it’s deluge from behind the sliding glass door. There had been storms all week, a spring monsoon as a background to his nightmares. A muted grumble erupted from the futon beside him, Saitama had rolled over in his sleep, arm outstretched towards Genos’ pillow.
His master had a habit of reaching for him in the middle of the night, something about his internal heating system being unfairly warm and cozy. However, tonight there was nothing but ice in his artificial veins. The voice hadn’t been the worst part of his dreams, the images that came along with it were far more terrifying.
The dream always started out the same, he was in the apartment, in the kitchen actually, trying to make dinner, and Saitama would call out to him from the living room. Genos would set down the pot, walk out of the kitchen, turn the corner and his master would be sitting there, in the floor, bleeding.
Blood would run rivers from his ears, the corners of his eyes, his mouth. It soaked through his hoodie and onto the tatami mats, into the pages of the manga he held in his hands. It soaked red ribbons into his clothing, thick and congealing, coagulating as it ran, turning burgundy and black. But Saitama sat, a smile plastered on his lips, pristine in his visage, unaffected by his mortal wounds, the cause of his destruction still undetermined by Genos’ frantically scavenging eyes.
Genos would run to Saitama, who would continue to smile as his lifeblood left him. The cyborg could not stop the bleeding, and even as he held his master in his arms, Saitama seemed oblivious to his personal distress. The smile was there between his soft lips and behind his even softer bloodshot eyes.
“What’s wrong Genos?”
The question would bubble with blood from his throat before his head fell back in final defeat.
And then the voice would start to laugh again, echoing in the metal of Genos’ artificial skull, a bouncing juggernaut, gaining and building and scraping away at the sanity that he had so preciously stored and guarded as his life had crumbled to ashes around him. It was as if the last thread to his sanity had been cut, and he felt all the aftermath acutely, the ripping of his soul from his breast.
Saitama had become Genos’ anchor in the storm, but when the line was cut, when his life began to drift again in the tumultuous sea, fear gripped him. Genos had struggled so long to find solid ground, losing it, letting it slip from his fingers into oblivion, well, it pushed him into madness. And so despite it’s inappropriateness the blonde boy would start to laugh. A sickly hollow sound, with a tinge of mirth, a breathless, a gasping howl that made his lung burns and tears roll down his cheeks.
That is how he knew he was dreaming. That was what called him to the present, the imperfection which awoke him every evening. His tears. They were warm and rolled graciously down his cheeks, dripping into the corners of his mouth and salting his tongue.
But he hadn’t cried salty tears in the last four years. He hadn’t really truly cried at all. The oil that lubricated his visual input systems was a poor substitute, he could rid himself of gallons of the substance and never once feel the same relief he had when he was made of flesh and bone. Crying used to be cathartic, but the machinery of his body, refined as it was, could only duplicate a shadow of the action. Even with his cries everything was kept at a distance, as if he was watching himself through two pane glass.
That was another problem with the dreams, another reason they felt so real. Living in a machine, still some days felt like a dream to him. Ever since his replantation into the cyborg body, there had been a thin haze of reality around every encounter. Like a virtual reality hood that mimicked what he was supposed to feel, but could never quite touch. It was no one’s fault this minor flaw in his being. He was the most advanced cyborg that the world had ever seen. He had the most weaponry, the best tracking systems, the most accurate targeting matrixes. So if he complained about not being able to detect the softness of a warm cheek, or the smooth warmth of a hand in his own, who would really care. They had put him in a body ill suited for love, but it had wormed its way into him nevertheless.
And now these dreams destroyed him, as the object of his affections was taken, over and over again.
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He tried to slow down his systems, breathing slowly in and out. He didn’t even count the number of times he glanced over at Saitama to confirm: Still there? Yes. Still breathing? Yes. Blood not pouring out of every pore? Check. Logic was the only thing that could calm his frantic mind. Logic was methodical, safe, firm, something even his irrational brain could lock onto. So what was logically happening here?
Nightmares were not uncommon to Genos, but his nightmares usually came in the form of remembrance of his parents and that fateful day. Marred in guilt for not already exacting his revenge though they were, he could usually be relieved by the strong arms of his master, a comfort and a reminder that sometimes it was ok to take his time, that rushing in against an unknown foe when he still had so much to learn and so much strength to gain could get him killed. Genos usually felt safe in Saitama’s presence, the man’s seeming indestructibility played a major role in that. Had he always been this fearful for Saitama’s life deep down? It seemed improbable. Even when they had gotten closer and taken their relationship in this… new direction he had never found himself worrying for his master’s life. In fact, thinking on it now, it was a thought that had rarely crossed his mind since he met the man that lay before him.
So then why? Why were they so vivid, and why did he keep having this dream every night?
Why now was he sitting here, at 3 in the morning, staring at the peacefully sleeping Saitama like he could melt away before his very eyes and turn into that bloody nightmare with every blink? It was enough to send a chill down his artificial spine, if that was in fact a thing that could happen to Genos.
He faked a shudder anyway, hoping the action would help him feel better.
It didn’t.
Genos rubbed the bridge of his nose. This didn’t make any logical sense. And when things didn’t make logical sense that just meant more research was necessary.
Taking extra precautions not to wake his master, Genos leaned over, grabbed his laptop, and began typing.
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Saitama instantly felt weird waking up on his own accord. Genos had made it a habit of gently waking him up every day at 10 am (or at least attempting to). Was it before 10 am? Unlikely given the amount of sun pouring in through the sliding glass door. A quick glance at the clock confirmed it was in fact 12:10, about time for lunch. And yet, the sounds and smells that usually accompanied lunch didn’t fill Saitama’s senses. Instead, they were filled with the incessant tapping of metal fingers on a keyboard. It wasn’t unusual for Genos to get caught up in his research of this or that or the other thing, but he usually made an effort to still carry out his regular daily routine. Saitama guess it was probably alarm clocks in his head or something. So then, what could be so important that he had missed two, at least, activities today?
“Oi, Genos, you ok?”
Genos’s head quickly snapped around, like Saitama’s voice had pulled him out of a trance. For a split second Genos had looked rabid, like a wolf injured and cornered by a hunter, ready to fight to the death if need be.
It was the most fear Saitama had ever seen in those robotic yellow eyes.
A cold pit formed in Saitama’s stomach and remained there, unthawed even by Genos’s softening expression.
“I’m sorry, master. I must have lost track of time. Please forgive me for not waking you sooner. I will start on lunch right away.”
His voice sounded distant to Saitama’s ears, like he was still lost in the laptop that now sat shut on his familiar lap. He got the vague feeling that Genos hadn’t slept all night, and that if he were fully human the younger man’s perfect face would bear the tell-tale dark circles of lack of sleep. There were some things that Genos could hide being the cyborg he was when you didn’t know him, but Saitama knew him better than anyone. Well, except maybe Dr. Kuseno, he understood all the sciency mumbo jumbo and all that, but Saitama was fairly certain he knew a side of Genos Dr. Kuseno would never see, so in this instance Saitama was going to go ahead and say he knew Genos better. The point was, Saitama could tell something was wrong, and he didn’t like that Genos was trying to hide it.
“What’s going on Genos? What were you researching?”
Saitama carefully watched as those glowing yellow eyes stared back at him, cool and calculating as he knew Genos was running over every possible scenario, rolling his mind over every syllable he was about to say. The thought of it almost made Saitama’s head hurt. He just usually said whatever came to his mind first and hoped for the best. Things were much easier that way.
Something in Genos’s eyes told Saitama he had reached a conclusion, which was soon confirmed when Genos started speaking slowly, carefully, like every word was a wire on a bomb.
“I was researching… the meanings of dreams…”
Fighting monsters on a daily basis was easy. Holding in his laughter against those honest eyes was not.
Saitama cleared his throat to stifle the giggle building there. He should have known it was something silly, his disciple turned lover often took things people thought of as trivial way too seriously. Especially when Saitama wasn’t awake to stop him.
He scooted closer on the futons, the side of Genos’s catching on his knee a bit as if saying “stay back!” Saitama ignored it. What did it know? They should probably invest in a double futon soon anyway.
“Genos, is this about your nightmares?” He tried as gently as possible to rub those metal legs he loved so much, knowing Genos probably couldn’t feel it but hoping maybe it made him feel better somehow anyway. “We’ve talked about this before, you’re in training, there’s no reason to feel guilty.”
“No, it’s not that, it’s just…” Genos sounded exasperated, like he didn’t want to so much as think about the dreams much less talk about them now, usual for a man he usually had to limit to 20 words or less. “I’ve been having… different nightmares… about, about you…”
Saitama immediately screwed about his face. Nightmares about him?
“Nightmares about me? About me what, leaving you or something?”
Normal Genos returned momentarily, his eyes glowing wide and his fans kicking into the high gear that told Saitama that if it were blood rushing through Genos’s veins, he’d be blushing his perfect face off.
“No, no, no, nothing like that, sensei.” Genos sighed heavily, sounding utterly exhausted. The younger man went to blink but kept his eyes closed, seemingly more relaxed now. “I guess it sounds kind of silly to say out loud, but I’ve been having dreams about someone murdering you, in the most horrible way, and I rush to your side and you die in my arms… and there’s just so much blood that I…”
“Genos, shhhhh…” The next thing Genos felt were big, strong, familiar arms around him. He kept his eyes closed, drinking in the moment with all the senses his mechanical body provided. The faint smell of sleep and sweat still lingered on his Sensei, that deep musky aroma that he had to admit got more than a few of his fans moving. But there was something… else mixed in with his favorite scent. It was faint at first and slowly got stronger. Sort of a, metallic tang. Maybe he was just imagining it? Maybe Dr. Kuseno had put a new coating on one of his parts and he was just now noticing it? It kept getting stronger and stronger, overpowering his senses.
It was the scent of blood.
Genos’s eyes flew open, and that’s when he noticed Saitama was not holding him, but slumped on him, bleeding profusely just like in his dreams. But he wasn’t dreaming, right? He couldn’t be. He had definitely been awake moments before. Or had he been? He had been so tired from researching all night, had he simply dreamt he was awake? His mind spiraled in panic, thoughts racing over each other, all while he looked into the face of the man he loved as he died, slowly and painfully in front of him, blood gushing from his mouth as he tried to say something, the words stifled in his ears by the gurgling from the blood.
“Genos! Oi, Genos!”
Saitama had noticed Genos’s fan whirl up in response to his embrace and was getting ready to really take Genos’s mind off of things when he pulled back and noticed the blank, panicked expression on his lover’s face. He looked ready to cry, but not like he was moved by what Saitama had done, like he was caught in a terrible alternate reality, trapped in his own mind. The more Saitama did to try and snap him out of it, the more pained Genos’s expression got. Saitama was beginning to get scared, an emotion he hadn’t felt in a very, very long time.
Saitama rubbed the back of his neck, looking around the room and all around Genos, trying to figure out something he could do, anything he could do to help him. Throwing water on him probably wasn’t a good idea, slapping him was clearly out of the question, should he call Dr. Kuseno? Did the good doctor make house calls?
Maybe it was the rubbing of his own neck that made him notice it, but suddenly Saitama noticed something dark on the side of Genos’s neck. “God damn bugs! Leave him alone, he’s having a hard time right now!” Saitama flicked the bug away, taking extra care as Genos flinched away from him not to injure the young cyborg. He went to go get a Kleenex to pick it up (he should probably call Kuseno while he was up, he thought), when he heard Genos shuffle from the futon he had just left.
“Sensei?”
It was the first actual words Saitama had heard him say in the last 5 minutes of panic that weren’t just stifled groans. Saitama spun around, rushing to the younger man’s side.
The faraway, blank expression was gone, although Genos still looked ready to cry. “Genos, Genos are you ok?” Saitama held him as tight as he thought he could. “You started freaking out and I didn’t know what to do so I started freaking out and there was this bug on your neck and so I flicked it off…” He trailed off, his throat almost hurting from talking so much so fast.
“Saitama-sensei, I don’t know what’s going on but whatever it is is intercepting my neural transmitters and does not in fact seem to be a dream like I previously… wait, what did you say? A bug?”
Saitama held up the tissue, honestly just relieved to see Genos returned to what he was going to assume was normal.
“Yeah, I found it on your neck. You were freaking out so I tried to avoid damaging you as much as possible…”
Genos’s attention had already moved to the bug in the tissue, a look on his face that he was running several analysis that were invisible to everyone but Genos. Saitama decided to do his own inspection on his lover’s neck, noticing a small nick in the metal where his fingernail must have caught him.
“Sorry, it looks like I got you.” Saitama said softly next to Genos’s ear. This morning had been a literal roller coaster of emotions, and Saitama was ready to put the whole ordeal behind them. No sense dwelling on the past, whatever had happened was done. The analysis could wait.
Saitama placed a gentle kiss on the spot he had hit on accident, hoping Genos would get the message. Gensos’s fans started up in response, telling Saitama at least some part of him had noticed his advances. “Come on Genos, how about we go back to bed?”
Genos, still half distracted, started with what sounded almost like his version of an automated response. “Sensei, it’s already past noon, I know you would like to sleep all day but…” Genos looked up to see Saitama cocking an eyebrow at him, realization slowly washing over him that he had not in fact been talking about going back to sleep.
“Oh.”