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“Why are you doing that here?” Saitama sighed, eyes rolling towards Fubuki applying eyeshadow, makeup spilling out of her purse all over his table. Genos sat to her left, pen-laden hand poised over his notebook, unmoving. His gaze lingered somewhere between the mascara and a weathered golden tube of lipstick.
“I feel like it.” The esper responded, spreading dark powder over her lids with an expert grace that belied her inebriation. One sake bottle stood empty on the wooden surface, a second, smaller bottle nearing a similar state.
“Aren’t you just going home after this? What’s the point.” The hero wondered, lying back on the floor, manga resting on his chest.
“To look good.” Fubuki smirked around the rim of her compact. “But you wouldn’t know anything about that, would you Saitama?” She chided without malice, eliciting an amused snort from the object of her ribbing.
“Sensei is very attractive.” Genos stated quite matter of fact, abandoning his pencil in favor of the mascara. He curiously unscrewed the cap, pulling the little brush free of its container to investigate this foreign apparatus. Saitama gave a strained, deflective laugh and quickly buried his nose back into a volume of Shonen Jump.
Fubuki said nothing more. She dabbed her brush into the eyeshadow palette again, soaking in the loose powder to spread over the other eye. Genos idly rolled the tube between his fingers, yellow eyes following the movements of her hands as she blended blue and green into a smooth ombre from brow to lashes. She tapped out the brush onto a paper towel and snapped down the clear lid over her eyeshadow tray, setting them aside.
Genos lingered on the colors visible through the scratched, transparent surface while Fubuki rifled through her eyeliners, settling on a rich gold to draw swooping lines around her eyes.
Hazy memories from his youth came streaming in unbidden: lurking behind his mother, long blonde hair clipped back. She sat in front of a young woman, stacks of pink plastic palettes arrayed between them. Her mouth moved though he heard no words, young eyes too focused on the colors spread over the table in trays labeled lips, eyes, and cheeks. The darker haired woman flipped through a small booklet while they spoke, his mother’s manicured hand plucking the top tray from the stack to place in her lap.
“Genos, do you mind?” Fubuki cut through his reverie like a knife, hand extended. Genos knit his brows in confusion, belatedly realizing he was still holding the tube of mascara. His joints moved like they were coated in glue when he plopped the object into her palm.
Blizzard eyed her cyborg companion, searching the strange expression spread over his usually terse features, sensing something almost wistful, longing. She unscrewed the cap, focusing back on her reflection to stroke the dark liquid over her lashes.
Genos rested his hands on his lap under the kotatsu, still and quiet, eyes discreetly flicking between the makeup and the esper beside him.
“You can use it too, if you want.” Fubuki offered, deftly cracking apart his detached façade as she rubbed rouge across her cheekbones. Saitama glanced over the rim of his comics to see his roommate stiffen, eyes shaded by his long bangs. Protectiveness bubbled in Saitama’s guts, fingers twitching against the newsprint pages.
“I would not know where to begin.” Genos finally responded, shoulders slumping into a more relaxed posture, Saitama following suit. Genos picked up the eyeshadow palette regardless, tilting it this way and that to observe how the light shimmered over the shades.
“I can do it for you.” The esper smiled, glancing towards Genos with mirth in her eyes before looking back to her little mirror, quickly retouching her lipstick. She closed the compact with a snap and placed it onto the table.
Genos gently laid the tray back down, lips set in a thin, contemplative line. The proposal hung heavy in the air until the younger hero let out a low sigh.
“I accept.”
Curiosity compelled Saitama to sit up while Fubuki cleared a space before Genos. She begrudgingly extricated herself from the warmth of the blanket, perching atop the wooden surface. She hitched her dress hem up to her knees, legs to either side of the boy. Genos eyed the esper dubiously as she pulled him in closer, cradled his face in her palms.
“This won’t stain you, will it?” She asked, thumbs testing the texture of his skin. Her brows rose at the surprising give of his cheeks, how soft he felt under her fingers. She’d expected something closer to a porcelain doll: hard and cold. She released him to rifle through her purse, procuring enough hairclips to push his bangs back and secure them away from his face.
“I do not know.” Genos admitted, settling into his place as she held the palette to his cheek, scrutinizing her options.
“I suppose we’ll find out.”
From his position, Saitama couldn’t see a damn thing Fubuki was doing to his friend. Instead of craning around Blizzard’s back to assuage his interest, he buried himself back in his book, content to await the resulting unveiling.
Genos, for his part, remained pliant and forgiving under Fubuki’s fingers. Her hands were so soft against him, tenderly holding his chin, tilting him here and there to better access his face.
“Close your eyes.” Fubuki whispered, thighs ghosting over the metal plating of his arms. Genos obliged wordless, falling back into half-remembered memories. Or maybe they were dreams- he was never sure what was real or fantasy. The fingers caressing him felt vaguely familiar, though it had been so long since he’d been exposed to a woman’s touch.
Oversized heels, too big to walk in for long without falling. A floral dress far too loose on him, hems dragging onto the floor, straps constantly sliding off a freckled shoulder. His mousy-haired older sister crooning over him, holding their mother’s pink palette and plastic applicators, miming a sales pitch.
Before he knew it, a cool substance pressed to his slack lips. The feel of it depressing the more sensitive skin sent pleasure signals into his cortex and for a moment, he swore he floated.
“All done!” Fubuki chimed, clacking the lipstick closed. She reached for the compact and handed it over before slipping out from before him, back to the lulling warmth of the kotatsu. She haphazardly scooped the makeup from the table directly into her purse, plunking the bag beside her before reaching for the sake.
Genos stared at his reflection in the small mirror. Gold dusted over his lids, blonde lashes painted black and rimmed in kind: more subtle than the dramatic blues and wings Fubuki gave herself yet it suited him, he thought. He noted the way the cosmetics on his cheeks made him appear flushed, providing more depth to his flat skin tone.
The most striking change proved to be in his lips, forming a perfect red cupid’s bow.
The ice inside him melted at the unexpected transformation, tugging his core into a quicker rotation. It pulled a strange fondness into his darkening eyes, curled his painted lips into a small smile.
“You like it?” Fubuki queried over the lip of her cup.
“Yes. Thank you.” Genos breathed, gazing down at his reflection a little longer before tearing himself away. He snapped the compact shut and dropped it into the purse between them. He glanced up to gauge his master’s response to his new look only to be disappointed: Saitama remained buried in his comic, the picture of disinterest.
In reality, Saitama hid behind his tome to shield his burning face. He’d known his best friend was good looking, but the sight of Genos in makeup turned his insides to jello. It was an embarrassing response; he needed a moment to recompose himself.
Genos hesitated, then began plucking hairclips from his flaxen locks. Before long, he resumed scrawling in his journal. Ice cubes clinked in Fubuki’s rapidly draining glass.
The news droned on in the background, interspersed by the rustle of turning pages and the distinct scritching of Genos’s mechanical pencil. They continued on this way, lingering in companionable quiet until Fubuki emitted a stilted snore. Both men looked up from their respective activities to find their companion with cheek pressed to the wood, drooling slightly from parted red lips. The pair shared a glance and a soft chuckle before Saitama closed his comic.
“We should call her ride.” Saitama stated, gaze lingering on his disciple longer than usual, flitting over his newly painting features with an interest that did not go unnoticed.
“I shall notify her lackeys to come recover her.” Genos replied, placing his pencil on the page to mark his place. He fished his phone free of his back pocket and informed the Blizzard Bunch of their leader’s state.
Arrangements made, Saitama draped the pliant esper over his back with the aid of his roommate. She barely roused from her drunken slumber, stocking-clad legs swaying as Saitama stepped into his loose sneakers. Genos trailed behind him, collecting Fubuki’s belongings strewn about the apartment, hooking her oversized purse over a steel spaulder.
Saitama’s breath condensed in the frigid air as the pair ambled through the cracked and worn streets towards the edge of the abandoned zone. Genos remained silent, brows creased in contemplation, fur coat draped over one arm, the esper’s heels dangling from his other hand.
Fubuki snored softly into Saitama’s shoulder.
Saitama glanced at Genos over the locks of dark hair, his disciple seemingly lost in thought, eyes downcast and fingers clenched around the straps of Fubuki’s bag. The few lampposts still functioning bathed his painted face in flickering light, mouth set into a thin line. Saitama hadn’t imagined Genos to be the kind to wear cosmetics, but it complemented his features well. The initial shock of his unexpected transformation had long worn off, and the hero felt his curiosity compel him to speak.
“You like it?” Saitama asked, gaze never leaving his friend as Genos turned to meet his eyes.
“Do I like what, Sensei?” Genos responded, brows knitting as he unconsciously adjusted the coat in the crook of his arm, the set of the bag on his shoulder.
“The makeup.” Saitama wasn’t able to look the guy in the face earlier, too busy attempting to overcome his embarrassing flusteration but now… well, he found himself mesmerized. Gold dust shimmered over luminescent eyes, locking in his teacher’s attention like a tractor beam. Small, blood-red lips parted in a wordless ‘oh,’ and he shyly looked back to the road ahead.
Saitama was almost grateful for his lack of scrutiny.
“I do.” His words came out as if inhaling again after being long submerged.
“Mm. You look nice.” The admission flew from Saitama’s lips so thoughtlessly it made his ears hot. He diverted his gaze almost fast enough to give himself whiplash.
He missed his best friend’s stunned double take and the warm glow pulsing under his shirt that barely illuminated a small, grateful smile.
Saitama didn’t miss the breathy, whispered, “Thank you, Sensei…”
They said nothing more to one another, waiting just outside the fence and concrete barricades in gossamer bubbles of their own thoughts.
Soon, a nondescript black sedan stopped before them and a broad, suited man stepped out to open the back passenger door. Saitama gingerly settled Fubuki into the backseat, tucking her legs behind the driver’s chair. She came back to lucidity for a moment when the hero hovered over her to snap the seatbelt into place.
“You’re.… you’re a nice guy, Saitama.” The esper half-slurred, awkwardly patting Saitama atop his smooth head. When he glared at her in annoyance, her only response was a knowing, lopsided grin.
“Yeah, whatever drunky.” Saitama sighed, slinking out of the cab and the reach of her needy hands. Genos soon leaned in, arms extended.
“Your belongings, Miss Blizzard.” He handed off her coat and purse, setting both shoes on the floor beside her feet. He froze in place when her cold fingers pressed to his sensitive mesh neck.
“What a doll you are.” Fubuki crooned, admiring his flawless face, loose with compliments in her inebriated state. “Oh! Wait. Gimme a.. a minute..” She exclaimed, struck by sudden inspiration. She released Genos as quickly as she’d captured him, digging into her bag with the single-minded focus.
Genos stood out of the swing of the door, brows rising into long bangs as objects clanked and shuffled noisily in the esper’s wake.
Before long, Fubuki shoved a small, cylindrical object into his palm. “Keep this. It looks much better on you than me.”
An electric heart whirred audibly inside steel ribs, Genos near paralayzed with the knowledge of what this gift could be. Fubuki grinned wide at the boy’s response, delighted, even as Mountain Gorilla closed the door and stepped back into the sedan.
Only when her car became a glowing pair of taillights in the distance did Genos trepidatiously unfurl his metal fingers, revealing a golden tube of Bésame Red Velvet.
For the first day or so, Genos could only observe his gift. He would roll it between his fingers, open it to twist up the worn, dark red stick and just stare before sheathing it and setting it aside. He scrawled notes across his book, occasionally glancing up to repeat the gestures. To Saitama, it was debatable whether he considered the lipstick a blessing or a curse.
After what felt like a week repeating this cycle of will he, won’t he, Genos retreated to the bathroom and emerged red-lipped. He made no mention of it, barely looking up as he quickly escaped into the kitchen to prepare dinner.
Saitama didn’t bring it up either, though the way his gaze lingered on Genos’s mouth whenever he applied his gift made it apparent his master noticed. In a way, Genos was grateful for Saitama’s lack of inquiry, the space given to allow him to take these tentative steps on a long dusty path that gradually grew more well-trodden with the passing days.
The ritual became so easy, so natural, that when Genos received a call to arms in City D late one afternoon, he completely forgot he’d dolled himself up. It wasn’t until after he obliterated the threat and found himself cornered by reporters that he became aware of his carelessness.
The following day, it seemed every tabloid and forum wondered the same thing: who was the lucky girl leaving lipstick all over Demon Cyborg?
“Doesn’t it bother you?” Saitama asked after the fourth gossip round table, his roommate scowling at the television over his laptop.
“They can only offer baseless conjecture.” Genos replied, gold eyes dropping back to his screen, fingers clacking furiously. “They do not know me; their opinions do not matter.”
Saitama hummed, leaning back on his elbows, allowing the warmth of the kotatsu and his friend’s mechanical body to lull him into a lazy doze. “Must be nice..” He mumbled, more to himself than anything else.
“You accept me as I am, and that is all that matters to me.” Saitama heard Genos say, the admission making his heart skip despite this not being the first time his disciple slathered him in sappy praise. Saitama’s throat went dry, unable to respond. Instead, he reached under the table to gently pat his roommate’s knee before rolling over onto his side to nap the afternoon (and his bubbling feelings) away.
While winter deepened and snow collected in the streets, Saitama noticed the way his best friend’s eyes lingered on cosmetics displays and storefronts of dresses. How his pace slowed and he seemed lost in day dreams for long periods after the exposure. Saitama certainly couldn’t miss the sudden appearance of soft, lacy undergarments in the shared laundry where Genos wore none before.
He didn’t know why the knowledge affected him so strongly, made the heat rise in his ears and pool in his cheeks. It lingered in his mind: the accumulation of factors that began to shape an evolving picture of his young disciple, one that pivoted closer and closer towards fondness and attraction.
Those thoughts overflowed from his lips partway through dinner.
“Hey.. so umm… this new look.. what brought it on?”
Genos looked up from his meal, cheeks stuffed full of rice and chopsticks hovering over his dish. He contemplated the question, slowly chewing. He focused on the pattern of wood grain between his dish and the cup of steaming green tea.
A young boy leaned over a shoulder in the kitchen, watching perfectly manicured hands whip a white mixture in a metal bowl. Layers of a dark red cake cooled on a rack nearby. A kind face peered back at him as he hovered close, curious, scarlet lips splitting into a wide smile. “Do you want to learn? I have two more to make for the bake sale.” He heard, voice melodic and soft, like from a dream. He nodded, and his mother stepped back to slip the yellow apron from around her neck and drape it over his, lace the straps tight around his middle. “You can be the housewife today.” Fleshy fingers with blue polished nails chewed to nubs stroked over the worn fabric, heart so swollen up into his throat it felt like it would burst out in a sea of butterflies.
“It’s okay if you don’t wanna talk about it.” Saitama murmured when his companion remained stock still and absolutely silent. Saitama pushed his food around his plate, plucking a large mushroom from the dish into his mouth.
“It is… complicated.” Genos finally responded, laying his chopsticks down upon the rest.
Saitama made a small hum in the back of his throat, continued picking at his food. He figured the conversation ended there, but several moments later Genos took a shaking breath and continued.
Saitama immediately knew Genos would go over twenty words.
“Lately, I have remembered more of my youth: from the days before I became a cyborg. I have spent the past four years thinking not of myself and my old desires, but of justice. I did not consider worthwhile the things I had once craved, the yearnings that died along with my family.” Genos glanced up to meet his master’s eyes, locking onto him with the intensity of a heat seeking missile.
“It was not until recently that I found the space in my heart to explore what I had only just begun to realize before my life was taken from me. You have taught me to take pleasure in daily life, to enjoy living for more than just my quest for vengeance. I did not consider myself to be anything except what I was assumed and given, but now… I find myself eager to become… more. To chase the dreams I believed I had buried, despite my trepidations.”
It was hard to look away from that penetrating golden gaze, reflected into softness around Saitama’s eyes at the admission he’d sparked such a change in Genos. His roommate’s confessions churned something old and congealed inside Saitama: memories of his own youth spent frustrated and confused that had eventually knitted into the fabric of who he was today.
He smiled, though he felt frays in the yarn that stitched closed ancient wounds.
“You know… if you do decide you wanna do more.. like, dress differently or um, change your body or something… I’ll support you. 100%.” Saitama stammered, fiddling with his chopsticks to give his hands an outlet for his second-hand anxiety. “You’re my best friend, and I’m.. your teacher, after all. I wanna help you however I can. Okay, Genos?”
Saitama might’ve been more offended his disciple looked so surprised at the admission if he weren’t preoccupied with his own past. Genos internalized none of his master’s consternation, chest filling with a burgeoning warmth and safety he hadn’t experienced before. The way Genos’s face morphed into something akin to contentment pulled hard at the seams in Saitama’s soul.
Saitama quickly shoveled more rice into his mouth to avoid spilling all over this still-tender boy the things his heart yearned to say.
Over the next few weeks, Genos wore Fubuki’s gifted lipstick down to a nub.
Saitama spent Christmas Eve out; he left early in the day and told his disciple not to wait up. Genos tried not to look too disappointed, but his master sensed it. He reached out to ruffle the boy’s hair and promised that Christmas Day would be just for the two of them.
That knowledge and the unusual warmth in Saitama’s gaze kept Genos going as he cleaned and prepared food for the following day, leaving his young disciple to mill away his time between journals and a visit to Professor Kuseno.
Saitama stumbled into their apartment drunk, deep into the wee hours of the morning. He set a monstrous, poorly wrapped present on the desk, atop his roommate’s computer. He draped his heavy winter coat over the chair, slipped into pajamas, and nearly tripped over Genos in the dark trying to get into his futon. The heat emanating from his roommate was too much to resist in his inebriated state, so when a pair of dim, golden eyes blinked open and wished him a sleepy ‘Merry Christmas’, Saitama scooted closer.
“Merry Christmas.” He mumbled back, sliding under the lifted blanket to rest his forehead into the bowl of space between his disciple’s bent arm and chest. Genos’s hand hovered, hesitant, before hooking over his master’s bicep to pull him in the rest of the way. Saitama offered no resistance, just flushed cheeks and a tired smile. Relaxed, he began snoring into Genos’s chest in under a minute.
When Saitama awoke, the sun streamed in far enough to stripe painfully over his eyes.
God, he’d drank too much last night with King. When he sat up in definitely not his own bed, Genos kneeling in a full-on reindeer kigurumi at the low table, Saitama thought he must still be drunk.
“Good morning, Sensei. Merry Christmas.” Genos chirped, a slow smile forming across red velvet lips. Genos gestured to the place beside him, where a perfectly wrapped box sat adorned with a glimmering, golden ribbon surrounded in a mouth-watering breakfast bonanza.
Saitama blamed the lingering alcohol for thinking Genos looked so damn cute right now (OK so he was always kind of cute, even when he was irritating).
He scrambled out of bed. “G’morning. Merry Christmas..” He slotted himself into the proffered seat and pointed towards the gift. “For me?” It was rhetorical (of course it was for him), but the little chuckle and nod he garnered was well worth it. Saitama picked it up, feeling the heft of the box, pondering what could possibly be within before setting it aside to eat.
Breakfast, of course, tasted just as good as it looked: oyakodon and miso soup, along with a healthy slice of marinated, cold tofu. Genos outdid himself (again). Sated and incredibly grateful, Saitama flopped back with a loud sigh, patting his belly.
He laid there long enough for Genos to collect the dishes and ferry them into the kitchen.
“You can leave those – I’ll do ‘em after presents. The one on the desk is yours.” Saitama called, inching to grasp his own gift while doing his damnest not to leave the floor. He slid it closer, holding it onto his chest while Genos reluctantly left the mess to return to the living area.
“It’s rather large… and heavy.” Genos commented as he lifted his gift and settled onto his cushion, box directly before him. Saitama pushed himself to sit, nervously eying his companion as he pulled the ribbon and began peeling back the holographic snowflake paper.
Saitama turned back to his own present, shredding paper to blanket his insecurity in his gift choice.
Genos worked more slowly, methodically, curious. Receiving gifts from people he cared about was a rarity worth savoring, and a gift from Saitama he considered a treasure. He removed the wrapping in one piece, revealing a plain moving box. He peeled back the packing tape and opened the cardboard flaps just in time to hear Saitama shout excitedly.
“A Switch?! No way!!” Saitama gasped, staring down at the box in his hands in absolute astonishment, eyes glistening. He could play Splatoon with King now! Saitama didn’t think he could ever afford to get his own—guilt coiled in his belly. “Dude- this is too much, you didn’t have to spend so much on me…”
Saitama expected a retort, his usual assurances that he would shower his master in cash if the man allowed it… but there was only silence.
Genos stared into the box as if waiting for a stone to splash in a deep well, eyes wide and hands clenched to the cardboard rim. “What… what is all this?” He asked, voice barely a whisper. Within lay a basket of makeup and brushes nestled in an array of clothing in lace and silk, some plain, some patterned or studded with sequins.
“Oh uh.. umm.. it’s.. I asked Fubuki’s opinion on makeup for you and she ended up giving me some of hers and showed me where the good deals were... Then she gave me a ton of her old clothes she said would look good on you…” Saitama stuttered, flushing at the recollection of how quickly she’d figured him out, her enthusiasm in helping him collect the enormous array of items Genos now sifted through. “I’m not sure what’s gonna fit but maybe there’s something in there you like…”
Genos barely heard his master, his voice far away from the roar of his core in his ears. He pulled the basket of makeup out and set it on the table, taking a moment to admire a cute pink case with a partially peeled red sale sticker filled with delicate application brushes before moving on to the clothing.
A red, silky fabric caught his eye and he plucked it from the box immediately, lifting it free. Between his metal fingers hung a delicate, dark red slip, mid-thigh length with a slit cut on either side and intricate lace and bead work over the bust.
It was the same shade as his treasured Bésame Red Velvet.
And it was his, along with everything else inside. Better than he imagined and expected. More than he would have done for himself.
“Thank you, Sensei…” Genos whispered, overwhelmed with a relief and gratitude that filled his conduits with heat. The pressure overflowed from his face in thick tears, bubbling over his porcelain skin.
Saitama grabbed the tissues from the bookshelf in a blur of motion, gently pressing one to his friend’s cheeks before the oil dripped onto the brown fur of his reindeer costume.
“Does this mean you like it or you hate it?” Saitama breathed, tenderly dabbing at his tears until the threat of stains ceased.
“I love it.” Genos sighed, lips ghosting against Saitama’s wrist as he leaned into his master’s palm, leaving a red smear over his skin. The hero couldn’t pull away, not with the way Genos gazed deep into his eyes, held him transfixed like he’d synched into the orbit of a brilliant star. He allowed the tissues to fall away, slowly stroking over warm, synthetic skin with a thumb.
God, Genos was gorgeous.
“Sensei, you are blushing.”
Saitama withdrew with a thin laugh that did little to mask his interest. Genos did not pursue his master when he escaped into the kitchen, instead returning his attention to his gift and the possibilities before him.
Genos shucked free of his kigurumi, sizing and sorting every clothing item in the box into ‘keep’ and ‘donate’, meticulously investigating each piece and visually measuring it against his frame. He dropped the discards back in the box and retrieved the red slip he’d initially gravitated towards. He shimmied in carefully, vigilant not to tear the delicate fabric or catch it in his joints or metal edges.
He slid his sensitive fingerpads over the slip, reveling in the texture, the way it draped over his hips and pulled tight around his chest. Noticing the cups sat lopsided, he gingerly shuffled them to their proper place, lining his chest plates into it at best he could. He didn’t quite fill them in as he’s sure Fubuki did, but perhaps with a modification…
No matter how hard Saitama focused on cleaning up, it proved impossible to ignore his roommate dressing in the living room. Especially now, with him standing in a tight slip, holding both hands over his bust. Squeezing them.
Saitama choked and immediately stared back at the sud-filled sink. “Hah.. hey.. you know.. I’m curious why you didn’t try to talk to me about this kinda stuff before?” He began, scrubbing a mixing bowl. “I mean.. you know about me, you’ve seen me naked a bunch..” Saitama tried not to think about the time he’d left his packer pinned to his dirty laundry and Genos neatly placed it back with his clean clothes.
Genos peered in at his master through the passthrough. “Yes, but I did not feel it was my place to pry.” Saitama glanced up from scouring a pan at his disciple’s words, but was quick to dart back to his work when his ears turned as red as his disciple’s dress.
Saitama chuckled nervously, rinsing the dish in his hand to set into the drain. “Man, for being such a nosy brat most of the time, you’re considerate when it counts.” He stared down at his wavering, flushed reflection in the sudsy water. “Maybe that’s part of why I like you so much…”
Genos abruptly gripped the ledge and leaned into the kitchen. “You like me?”
“Yeah, of course I do knucklehead. I wouldn’t be sharing this apartment with you if I didn’t.” Saitama scrubbed the next dish, avoiding his best friend’s intense stare, though the glow of it mirrored in the water-filled sink.
“Like me, as in, romantically?” Saitama could practically feel the vibration of Genos’s core from this side of the pass-through, and he was certain the steam pouring in wasn’t from the hot water. Saitama set the last plate into the drying rack and pulled free the sink stopper, draining dirty water.
There was no sense in hiding from Genos and his own burgeoning feelings anymore, so he yanked off his dish gloves and slapped them down decidedly. He met his friend’s intense gaze with one of his own, determined to free the ghost that lingered in his mind these past few weeks.
“I do. You wanna go out?”
Genos’s answer apparently was to lunge through the opening, take Saitama’s face into his hands, and ferociously smash their lips together.
Saitama wound his arms around his disciple’s waist and effortlessly pulled him into the kitchen, mouths still connected, tangling together awkwardly. With Saitama out of practice and Genos lacking in experience, it took some doing to slot them together into an optimal kissing position. But where there’s a will, there’s a way, and before long all sense of time vanished between their heated mouths.
When Saitama pulled back to breath, lightheaded almost to the point of wooziness, he noticed their fervor smeared Genos’s lipstick all over the place (and himself, he’s sure). Genos seemed just about as dazed as he, hair mussed and eyes dark, steam trickling from the vents in his spaulders, chest purring and aglow.
“I take it your answer is yes?” Saitama chuckled, swiping the excess red from the corner of Genos’s lip with his thumb.
Genos nodded dreamily, arms draped around his master’s neck. While he remained unsure and anxious about the things to do with himself (his self-worth, his body and presentation, the future of his quest for vengeance), he was certain of one thing: Saitama would be behind him. 100%.
“May we kiss more?” Genos whispered, fingers idly tracing over the back of Saitama’s neck, making the man shiver. He leaned in to bump his forehead to Genos’s, closing honey brown eyes, squeezing his boyfriend carefully, as if he was something precious.
“Mmm, yeah. Sure.” Saitama mumbled against Genos’s mouth. “We can do whatever you want.”
If there were other ways to while away Christmas Day than making out and messing around, neither cared much to try.
Fubuki lounged in her chaise late in the evening, indulging in reality television and picking at chocolates from the mountainous stacks of fan gifts. Something solid thumped into her high-rise apartment window, then seemed to reevaluate and politely tapped several times on the glass.
She absently swung open the window with a flick of her wrist, thinking it another delivery drone with more presents (hopefully wine).
Instead, an absolutely adorable little robotic child flew in, carrying a box. Fubuki stared at the tiny thing with blonde, puffy hair and black and gold eyes. It wasn’t until she noticed the G printed on its black shirt that she realized who this belonged to.
“Oh my god! Did Genos have a baby?!” She shrieked, ignoring the package placed on the table to scoop the minibot into her arms and squish its pudgy cheeks. “Too cute, too damn cute!”
It hardly struggled as she stroked its mop of hair and cooed over it, though it made a distinctly Genos-like scowl and swatted her hands off when it finally had enough. It pointed to the box.
“For you, from nii-san.” It said, it’s sour face wavering when Fubuki floated a chocolate in front of it. That seemed to be all it needed to smile and snatch the treat out of the air, plopping onto the wooden surface to nibble at it like a little hamster.
Fubuki plucked the note card free from the top of the box and set it aside before eagerly removing the opaque lid. Inside lay a small, perfectly frosted white cake, sprinkled with crushed candy canes around the red piped words ‘Merry Christmas.’’ Fubuki smirked and floated herself cutlery and a plate from the kitchen.
“You want some cake, little bean?” She asked the minibot, who seemed more than a little excited at the prospect. She smiled and sliced into it gingerly, slipping a sliver of moist red velvet cake onto her dish.
The note contained only two words in Genos’s succinct scrawl: Thank you.