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Sunlight streams in dotted patterns through Saitama’s window every evening. It sinks down behind his very own broken city, bouncing across shards of glass and disappearing behind deserted buildings. And it fills his whole tiny apartment with light, illuminated on every wall, so everything is yellow. A delicate glow settles upon Saitama’s darkening world, and for a second everything feels alright. Warmth brushes over his skin, and the tv new reports become muffled voices only. Saitama closes his eyes, because if only it always felt like this.
As soon as it grows dark, everything turns cold. Moonlight glares with freezing edges, and the stars are always covered by a faint dusting of cloud. And occasionally it rains, and Saitama can feel his own clothes get soaked beneath the precipitation. As if he’s there, shivering as rain falls into his eyes and turns him blind. As it slashes his skin and turns him blue. Saitama shakes from where he lies on his futon, as the rain pounds on his window, threatening to break in. And he’s unable to sleep due to the constant twitch in his legs, that seems to only grow when Saitama wants to relax.
So, that was how Saitama’s evenings went, a little bit of hope and a whole load of sadness.
And at first, Saitama didn’t notice the change. After all the sun still set, and the night still came. But suddenly it meant a lot less to Saitama than it did the day before. The correlation wasn’t as clear to him at the beginning than it is in hindsight, but the moment Genos dumped his things into his apartment, Saitama’s stomach no longer dropped in dread as soon as the sun filtered away, to illuminate another part of the globe.
That first night, perhaps he was simply focused on the pure strangeness of the situation he found himself in. Firstly, there was the fact he was no longer alone, which on a practical level wasn’t ideal. There was just enough room for one person to be living there, two was simply impractical. Yet Genos somehow made it seem as if he’d always been there, fluttering around Saitama, but never once getting in his way. It felt almost like a presence instead of a person -or cyborg, whatever. Either way, Saitama felt relief in the fact that he was suddenly thrust into a position where he was neither alone or in a social situation, he was just being, only with someone else around. It was almost comforting. But that’s hindsight speaking.
There were plenty of highly noticeable things that Genos’ presence brought with him the moment he moved into Saitama’s apartment. The first one was the notebooks, the fact that every word Saitama said seemed to be being recorded down, with a rushed elegance to Genos’ handwriting, that flowed from ink pen smoothly. The scratches of pen on paper used to give Saitama a headache. Now he blushes and rolls his eyes, speaking with eyes firmly on the movement of Genos’ pen, just to make sure he doesn’t miss a single word.
Another was the household chores, something Saitama still isn’t wholly used to. And when he had come home one evening from his weekly quotas, the eleventh night of Genos’ arrival into his entire life, he hadn’t expected to smell cooking. Cooking that smells good as well. Nineteen-year olds aren’t supposed to be able to cook, right? Saitama immediately entered the kitchen from when he stepped through the door, raising an eyebrow at the seen as he entered.
Genos had been stirring a pot of, something, Saitama can’t actually remember what it was anymore. And he was awash with sunlight, turning his hair a shade of golden that reminded Saitama of the sand on the beach, and of warm days with less worries, the ocean lapping at his toes as he stands and listens to seagulls hawking above him. It smells of seaweed. It smelt of seaweed. And, of course the apron was an interesting sight. Did Genos bring that with his things from home? Did a teenage cyborg who could kill a man in a second, really own a bright pink apron? And why did Saitama think that it looked good on him? (He still does think that, and Genos knows as much)
Saitama had stepped forwards, so he was stood behind Genos, looking over his shoulder to see what was cooking. There were only a few inches between their bodies, and Genos seemed to pretend he hadn’t realised Saitama was currently breathing down his neck, despite the fact Saitama knows that he has scanners whirling at a thousand miles an hour within his whole body, so that no one could ever creep up behind him. Or maybe he could turn them off, already comfortable enough in Saitama’s apartment to do such a thing. Saitama tapped him on the shoulder, and Genos fixed him with his golden gaze, turning his head only slightly to catch Saitama’s eyes. “It’s nearly cooked sensei,” he said, his voice still grating and loud, as if Saitama was an officer he was reporting to, and not a roommate. Genos never smiled, yet somehow, Saitama felt through the cold contrast of gold and black eyes a sense of warmth. As if he was trying to convey his emotions through these robotic functions. Saitama could feel the warmth radiate off Genos’ body in waves, no number of fans and cooling systems could stop that.
When Saitama broke eye contact, and moved away, he knew what it was like to feel cold again.
Other small things that made up Genos, were that silence no longer existed when he was around. Walking to the grocery store, his voice was always echoing in Saitama’s ears, its almost incredible he had so much to talk about. And when he wasn’t speaking, and the apartment was quiet, his systems always made a dull whirling sound, barely there. But once Saitama heard it, there was no way it could escape his mind. It was like a heartbeat, constantly in his ears, and funnily enough, Saitama didn’t seem to mind. It was something to listen to that weren’t his own thoughts.
Genos seemed to have a better eye for bargains than even Saitama. In fact, Saitama after a couple of months with Genos was noticing he had more money than before, even after he stopped taking rent money from the younger man, (He had felt bad, and anyway, he’d been able to pay for the apartment himself up to then, he could continue to do so) Saitama had spare cash to spend. He was glad he had a roommate who appreciated supermarket sales as much as he did.
The teenage angst was still readily available in heaps and bounds when it came to Genos. Whether it was pent up anger, which was easily dealt with through the killing of a few monsters, or a seething frustration at the injustice of the world, and everything else in between. Genos had it all, and at one point, during one of Genos’ long-winded rants, Saitama had just wanted to run his hands through Geno’s hair and kiss his forehead and tell him that it will all be alright so soon. That one day he’ll never have to feel pain again, Saitama would make sure of it.
That was three months after Genos’ had moved in, and that thought had caused Saitama to abruptly stand up, with Genos mid-sentence and leave the apartment. He didn’t return for two days, instead sleeping under bridges after beating all the monsters that reside there.
When he gingerly returned, the apartment looked like it had been cleaned five times over, scrubbed to the bone and shining bright white. He’d found Genos scrubbing an already clean oven, so he chuckled awkwardly and made up a lie about a family emergency. A family that Saitama had never mentioned before and wouldn’t mention again for a long time. But Genos accepted it anyway. When Saitama saw his hands later, he saw the metal he been rubbed away in large patches across the palms, leaving a matte finish instead of Genos’ usual shine. If it was skin, it would be bright red.
Seven months after Genos had moved in, and another rant on his tongue, Saitama had done exactly as he had wished to do four months earlier. Except in the real-life version he kisses Genos on the lips.
The most noticeable quirk of Genos, for Saitama at least, was the completely dedicated and entirely unfathomable hero worship of Saitama. Compliments was something Saitama received extremely few and far between. He was a bald, unknown hero from the evacuated part of City Z, there was no one around to compliment him. And now Saitama only had to open his mouth and Genos is gushing, reminding Saitama that he’s amazing, he’s wonderful, and that he loves being around the man.
The words made Saitama’s whole body hot, his blood suddenly burning within his veins and arteries. A blush that spread across his whole face would appear at least once a day, a mixture of being uncomfortable and embarrassed, and hell, maybe even happy. But then it made him nervous too. After all, soon Genos was going to realise that Saitama truly wasn’t all that he had built himself up to be. He didn’t belong on this pedestal of God-like descriptions that seemed to flow so smoothly along Geno’s very human tongue. Soon, everything would crumble and fall apart, Saitama would run out of things to say, and Geno’s would dry up too, until the silence is unbearable. Saitama would have just enthralled and disappointed Genos. As he does everyone. It would hurt, but Saitama had lived through the loneliness before Geno had arrived, he could do it again. Probably.
When Saitama had said this to Genos, moonlight flashing patterns across his metal chest and his voice so quiet the air had to pick it up and give the words to Genos, just for him to hear, Saitama watched as Genos’ face fell, and he felt his heart fall as well. And then Genos had reached across, from where they were lying on their shared futon, delicately picking Saitama’s jaw into his warm hands. There were always warm, like an overworked laptop, his core kept the metallic exterior at a constant body temperature. (It was perfect for the cold months, when winter rolled around, as it gave Saitama a fantastic way to avoid heating costs)
Genos ran his thumb across Saitama’s cheek, and let out a sigh, his golden eyes showing explicit softness, and a hint of sadness too. Saitama had never meant to make him sad. He’d kissed him gently, holding Saitama in place as he melted into Genos, could feel himself turn to liquid and be absorbed into Genos entire being, becoming a part of him between the wiring and cladding. And Genos pulled back, golden hair cast with streaks of black, extenuated in the darkness. “I can never not love you, Saitama.”
Saitama started to cry then, entirely against his will, and he’d never planned for anyone to be around to see him like this. He pressed his face against Genos’ shoulder, to try and hide the tears, and the shame that came with them. Genos massaged the back of Saitama’s neck, and slid his other hand up and down Saitama’s arm. It was the most vulnerable Saitama had ever felt, and for once he remembers a moment like that fondly, not with self-hatred.
That was three months ago, nine months after Genos had moved in.
-
Saitama loved the way Genos fought against the monsters that slink within the cities. He thought it was beautiful. He loved the way he could see the build up of power, could hear the motors whirring if he listened closely enough. And then the explosion at the end of it all, bright flames that consumed entire beings. It looked effortless, and it had a definite exquisiteness that Saitama could never replicate with the singular punch and explosion of his own power, spreading blood and guts across every surface. The charred bones of enemies were much more attractive than the results of his battle methods.
So, that’s why he allowed Genos to fight against him, in more increasing patterns. Genos was a decent challenge for Saitama, the practice fight raising his pulse more than the average enemy.
But mostly, he just liked to witness completely personally the power that Genos possessed. He wanted to feel the fear that Genos’ enemies did, liked to watch the way he moved, with elegance, as he danced around Saitama. He liked the unpredictability, the power, the anger that tinged Genos’ golden eyes that he had never been able to hit Saitama once. And Saitama enjoyed winning too, that was always a nice bonus.
He appreciated the admiration that Geno would gush afterwards.
“Sensei, you’re the greatest fighter I’ve ever witnessed.”
“I dream of being as strong as you, Sensei.”
“Fuck, Saitama, fuck! You’re a fucking God!” (Okay, that one had come during an ever so slightly different activity. Similar amount of physical exertion, however)
Saitama however, found amusement in how Genos’ systems seemed to slow down after particularly tough training. It was as if he were buffering. His overall systems would work fine, walking and breathing, but his whole brain seemed to slow down. It made Saitama wonder how much of him is robot, and how much of his emotions had been replaced by electrics.
But Genos’ would often be left stuttering over his words, pausing for extended periods of time over the most basic of questions. It was like he was drunk, unable to properly function anymore and doing just enough to seem fine. His eyelids would droop, and his feet scuffed the floor as he walked, swaying slightly. The sight made Saitama smile, and he’d let Genos lean on him as he walked along, feeling the fanning system blow warm air on his skin slightly as Genos kept himself pressed to Saitama’s side.
It was after a particularly long and arduous training session that Saitama kissed Genos for the first time. Four months after Genos had moved in.
They’d ended up sat next to each other on Saitama’s tiny balcony. Genos had said something about needing fresh air, before his outer body began melting. Turned out that was his attempt at a joke, but Saitama had rushed out after him, just to make sure he was okay.
The evening sky was beginning to turn dark, but Genos had this permanent glow about him. It kept a summery feeling in Saitama’s stomach, stopped the dread of the night, that previously would have only been lit by the glare of the tv playing the same news reel on repeat all night long. Saitama could no longer imagine what his life had been like during those times, or how he lived without the warmth of colour that Genos carried under the cold metal exterior. Genos was a mixture of a oxymorons and metaphors that Saitama’s poor grasp on language could articulate. But God, would he try.
And then they were sat, pressed together side to side outside, Genos keeping Saitama warm as he continued to cool himself down. And his drunk sleepiness was infectious it would seem, spreading into Saitama’s own mind, so he felt dizzy in Genos’ presence. Saitama closed his eyes and sighed, leaning into Genos’ neck, wishing he could stay like that forever.
Saitama brought a hand upwards, letting it rest across Genos’ jaw, and rubbing his thumb across silky skin. And over Genos’ lips, pulling the bottom lip downwards slightly. And doing that again and again. Genos wrapped an arm around Saitama’s waist, pulling him closer into his body. Somehow, it didn’t feel that hard. It barely felt metal at all. Perhaps Saitama was just used to that by now, either way, he felt safe in Geno’s arm.
They didn’t speak because they didn’t have to.
Saitama pulled his face away from Genos’ neck, barely able to open his eyes as he presses his lips to Genos’. At least in theory that was the idea. He found himself dragging his lips across Genos’ face, which was entirely cooler than his body, until they were nudging against Genos’ own.
They stayed like that for a while, tentative in each other’s movements, worried for what it may mean, as Saitama purses his lips and looks for something a bit more, rubbing circles across Genos’ cheek continuously, as if that were his only purchase to reality. He continues to run his lips across the cyborg’s. And its Genos who pokes his tongue out, hot and wet and pressing so carefully against Saitama’s lips.
And then he withdraws, but Saitama is quick to follow, chasing Genos’ lips with his own tongue, never stopping the movement of his thumb or opening his eyes as he pushes his tongue against Genos’ lips, which felt too soft with this new sensation. And Genos was quick to react, opening his lips ever so slightly, and letting his own tongue slip against Saitama’s.
The feeling made Saitama’s whole mind go blank, and the entire world disappear. So that the monsters and the heroes and the people in between no longer existed. And instead it was just him and Genos and the stars in the sky. He could feel his head swirl, as he continued to slide his tongue across Genos’, saliva sliding down his bottom lip. It could be either of theirs. He never wanted it to end, and he wanted so much more, too.
But, it felt like it had only just started when Genos stood up suddenly. His face had been bright red, tinged with embarrassment, his eyes wide with shock.
“I um, sorry. I better get to sleep,” He had choked out, his eyes flicking all over the scene, but never towards Saitama, “Goodnight sensei!” And he disappeared inside without a single glance back, his movements rushed even in the darkness.
Leaving Saitama outside, the cold of the night seeping into his bones for the first time in a long while.
-
A week after Genos had moved in, and Saitama found himself carrying his fragmented metal shell back to the apartment. It was late at night, with golden eyes lighting the way before Saitama’s feet. The streetlamps didn’t work anymore, and no one bothered to fix broken cities anymore. Everything just ends up destroyed now. Genos looked as if he could never be fixed, wires hanging out of arm sockets that no longer held any arm.
He was continuously growing cooler in Saitama’s arms, as though the life was seeping out of him. Although Saitama wasn’t entirely concerned. He is certain he has attained burn marks from when he had originally collected Genos’ body into his arms, systems screaming and over hearting, as wires tried to connect to something that was no longer there. Ripped away. Saitama almost laughed at the way Genos struggled, the disgruntled expression Saitama had never seen on his disciple’s face, but an expression he could appreciate none-the-less. As long as he knew Genos wasn’t in pain, it was okay to chuckle.
Saitama had received a glare in return to his quick and quiet laugh. And that only amused him more. “Come on then, big man,” Saitama murmured, huffing as he gathered up Geno, letting him slip into his arms.
He hissed at the contact and could feel his flesh liquidating. But not once did he complain about having to do such as thing as carry an S-rank hero through the cities until he was able to get home. For some reason he was receiving dirty looks, despite the fact it was him saving Genos in the first place.
Often enough, Saitama felt he had had enough of the hero business.
They had arrived quickly enough, Saitama just about not dropping him despite the electric shocks from broken wires catching against his skin. Carrying Genos was more painful than fighting any monster, not least due to the cloudy look in Genos’ eyes, and the way his constant humming had been replaced with faint spluttering’s and coughs. He almost felt entirely human for Saitama, as the sun set all around them and darkness was just as quick to take its place. It was winter after all.
It was winter, and Genos’ body was burning him.
Steam rose, obscuring his vision, and he could feel the drastic drop in the temperature of Genos at the action, not so he was freezing, but perhaps average body temperature. Saitama missed the warmth for a second, but the relief that Genos wasn’t going to combust or melt or anything else detrimental came up trumps. They’d both survive the walk home.
He arrived in his (their?) apartment not much later, barely a sweat broken over Saitama’s forehead, and he sighed lowly. He didn’t know even the basics of robot care, or robot injuries more specifically. He knew there wasn’t much he could do about them really, with wires trailing lose, and metal chunks missing. The best he could do was return him to that doctor that Genos never shuts up about and hope also that maybe he would stay there with him, and leave Saitama alone. Perhaps this was a blessing in disguise.
The churning in his stomach suggested otherwise.
Saitama rolled out Genos’ futon, grabbed the pillows and blankets from the draw they were stored. All without placing Genos down, as Saitama was too used to the warmth that he was providing him. But alas, that is what he must do, as he gently laid Genos out on the futon, pulling on his mangled limbs in an attempt to make him look at least a little comfortable.
A small jolt of electricity ran up Saitama’s arm, when he accidentally grazed against some wiring, just as he was starting to move away. The sensation caused Saitama to jump backwards in shock and surprise, and then to laugh at the very predicament he was in. No one, ever, in the entirety of his twenty-six years of life, could have predicted his life to turn out like this. The strongest man in the world, tucking another extremely strong man/cyborg into bed. It was a sight that would need a photo to provide proof it happened, and Saitama flicked out his phone, took a picture of Genos sleeping, like this was some sort of sleepover. He should draw a dick on Genos’ forehead in permanent marker.
But the sight of Genos sleeping, well more passed out in this case, it halted him from trying to humiliate Genos in anyway more than that monster earlier that day had done. Because, in the dark, with the sound of shallow breaths that could easily be his just as much as Genos’, Saitama realised that Genos was very much human, just like him. And Saitama’s aim was to protect humanity, and if Genos was human, then Saitama was going to protect him too.
Saitama smiled at the revelation. Perhaps having Genos around weren’t such a terrible thing after all.
-
Saitama didn’t move from his seat on the balcony, his knees drawn up to his chin, arms hugging his legs. His back ached, and his bare feet were cold, but he didn’t move. His lips still buzzed from where Genos’ had been right there, his tongue swiping across the roof of his mouth over and over again in an attempt to scrape away the taste.
But nothing worked.
He couldn’t get that singular moment out of his mind, couldn’t stop his stomach from turning over and over, again and again. His whole chest hurt, as if his heart was constricted. Why did he always do the wrong thing? Now the best thing in his life was going to leave him by the time morning comes. Saitama closed his eyes, trying to breathe in the frigid air, but it only hurt his lungs, sending shivers down his spine and turning his ribs to ice. He’d have to go indoors, lest he wants to freeze on his own balcony whilst avoiding the person that he had never invited to live with him.
Saitama sighed, and for the first time in a long while, wished morning would never come. Because once the sun was up, he’d have to deal with his problems, and Saitama wasn’t sure he wanted to do that.
His knees creaked slightly as he stood up, hand gripping the wall (not too tightly) in order to keep him steady, his head swaying from all the thoughts trapped inside. A headache was pinching somewhere, and his eyes were dropping even as he walked inside, silently shutting the door. He was exhausted. Sleep would fix everything.
Saitama saw Genos, lying on his own futon, his back facing Saitama and his breathing coming out slowly, and completely evenly. The hum continues despite everything. The sound settled Saitama’s nerves, and he was able to get to sleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.
And he woke up to the sounds of Genos clattering around the kitchen. For a second, Saitama forgot about the night before. That was until he felt the burn across his lips, and the skip in his heart. Saitama groaned, rubbing a hand along his face, and he hoped that they could come to a silent agreement to never talk about it.
Except, Genos was never silent.
He spun around as soon as Saitama entered the room, eyes wide as if he was unprepared for him to even be in the same building as one another, as if they weren’t living together in an apartment made for one. Saitama had to sigh, lowering his eyes to look at his feet, not knowing how to react to the golden stare directed at him. He could feel the gaze penetrating his skin, and he had to briefly entertain the idea that Genos did indeed possess lazer eyes, and maybe soon his skull would melt. That’d be a good reason to avoid conversation. But alas, the heat in Saitama’s cheeks was caused only by his own blood that boiled under his skin.
“Sensei, about last night. I’m sorry, I didn’t want to-“
Saitama was quick to cut him off, in any attempt to stop the upcoming conversation. It was a mistake, and nothing other than that. Saitama couldn’t let himself dwell on it, because it meant nothing. It’d be best if he just forgot about it entirely and move on with their lives. Just looking at Genos, he can remember the way his lips had parted, and how he’d trailed a tongue over Saitama’s lips. Saitama suspected Genos could somehow get memories deleted from his storage, whilst Saitama would have to live with that moment forever.
“It’s fine, Genos, don’t apologise.”
“But Sensei, I’m just saying that-“
“We can just forget about it Genos. It was my fault anyway, but it doesn’t mean anything. We were tired,” Saitama continued to roll, trying to control the conversation before Genos could throw it totally off course with his too truthful honesty. Saitama didn’t need that brutal reality right that second.
“No, Saitama, you’re not listening to me!” Genos looked visibly frustrated suddenly, eyebrows drawn downwards, and fists clenched. Saitama would almost feel scared, if he didn’t know that he could easily dodge any attack that came his way. Though the atmosphere that surrounded Genos presented an obvious turn for the worse for their relationship. Saitama prepared himself for Genos moving out, and wanting nothing to do with him ever again, and for Saitama to be able to forget last night in the most bittersweet way, as he realises just how easily he can be discarded by the people he thought may care. An uneasiness settled in his stomach, because this was the end of his new life, when it had barely even begun. He could feel his own palms grow sweaty.
“Genos, wait please,” He had one last gasp effort to change Genos’ mind, for him not to go, “You don’t have to leave, I have a bad memory, by this afternoon I will have forgotten it,” Saitama said in a tumble of words, his head pounding.
This was when Genos crooked an eyebrow, and tilted his head, “Leave?” he said incredulously, as if that was the craziest thing Saitama has ever said. “Why would I leave you Sensei?”
“You,” Saitama could feel his throat go dry, as he felt himself become unable to evaluate what was happening around him, “Aren’t you leaving?”
“No? Oh, do you want me to leave?” Genos said, his voice dropping along with his eyes to the ground. Saitama wanted to laugh at the situation unravelling between them.
Instead, he shook his head, “No! No, no no. That’s the opposite of what I want!” He rushed out, a blush patterning over his cheeks as he saw the way Genos looked back up, golden eyes glowing, absorbing the ever-flowing sunlight and projecting it as his own form of energy. So Saitama was bathed in his look alone. Saitama could feel the planets align, and he knows that everything that happened before this moment and everything that will happen after is what is meant to be. The fear of consequences left his body, and he speaks his mind with a greater purpose, “Can I kiss you again? I didn’t sleep, it’s all I could think of. Even in my dreams, you’ve been infiltrating my mind, my heart, I feel as if I couldn’t –“
It was Saitama’s turn to be cut off, Genos crossing the space whilst Saitama had been rambling nervously, and deftly stopping him from further embarrassing himself by kissing him. Genos had taken a hold of Saitama’s face within both his hands, cradling him ever so softly as he ran his lips across Saitama’s. And Saitama could feel his whole body regain the heat that had been lost in the night, so his bones were on fire, and dissolving into ash within his body.
Saitama could feel himself slipping, and a strong arm came around his waist to hold him upright. His whole mind was dizzy until it hurt. But the greatest urge was to simply keep Genos’ lips against his, to taste his tongue, and to run his own tongue against the metal framework, to know if Genos tasted of steel or the strawberry shower gel he used.
Saitama wanted to know it all. And, he wanted Genos to know too.
They only broke apart when the smell of smoke filled the room, followed closely by the fire alarm, and lastly sprinkler which soaked through their clothes.
So instead, they had run out onto the street, where the sun was shining bright with it’s early morning glow, pink clouds etching across the orange sky, and they kissed in the deserted roads, knowing no one would see.
-
On this day a year, Genos had dumped a huge green duffel bag into Saitama’s apartment. And an entire lifetime had been lived between that moment and this.
Saitama smiled as he leaned his back into Genos’ chest, from where he sat on the floor between his legs. Warm arms were wrapped over his stomach. The TV glowered, the sunset blazed every colour of a fire, and Genos’ body hummed.
“You’re glowing, Saitama,” Genos mumbled into Saitama’s neck, from where his head had been resting on his shoulder. Saitama felt his whole body heat up like the burning sun.
He turned his head and looked into golden eyes. Red, orange, yellow, gold. Gold, yellow, orange, red. The universe was connected by colours and pretences, and nothing was entirely definable. Saitama too was connected, his skin thrumming from the warmth of Genos, absorbing the heat and emitting his own soft red-orange colour.
“It’s all you,” he murmured back, pressing a soft kiss to soft lips. Golden hair, golden eyes, golden skin, silver, silver, silver. Human and robot, neither were too dissimilar.
A year ago, Genos had dumped a huge green duffel bag into Saitama’s apartment. And Saitama will thank every God known to man that they had led his life to that moment.