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Saitama’s body lay crumpled and small in wrinkled loungewear--his favorite obscene sweatshirt and heather gray sweatpants down below--while nighttime sounds played on a track outside. Cars, buses, distant trains honking their brassy songs into the March darkness. King tried not to feel the prickle of his presence quite as potently as he was, but it was a hopeless effort. The occasional rustle of the couch cushions and soft whistle of Saitama’s breath behind his neck had King’s proverbial engine thudding just below hearing range, thank God.
“Don’t forget to check out that room you got the key for earlier.” Saitama was so close King could hear his lips dully smack on each syllable.
“I won’t.”
It was late. Saitama was tired and frustrated after two hours of clean losses; he’d retired to the couch while King played a single-player adventure game. King was tense, but if his junior was aware of the change in mood, he didn’t seem phased by it. Saitama simply watched, softly offering reminders but never veering into backseat driver territory.
As King engaged in a tedious puzzle of sliding blocks, conversation sparked, lazy.
“Genos got so riled up over a dumb smear article about me the other day while we were in line at the grocery store.” Saitama’s voice was, as per usual, even and moody. King pretended he didn’t detect those more complex tinges of shame and, even quieter, appreciation. “Wasn’t even a serious magazine. The same kind that thinks the Queen of England’s in cahoots with aliens.”
“That is a very secretive family,” King murmured, thoughtless, before realizing the implications of his agreement. “I’m sure it was complete garbage. Genos didn’t cause a stir, did he?”
“Nah.” Here the fondness in Saitama’s voice was clear as day, and King’s mouth went dry. “Went on a little rant at the lady at the checkout counter, but she was so starstruck to have him there that she couldn’t have cared less.”
As far as King knew, he was the only person Saitama had confided in about his creeping feelings for the cyborg. In his own words, it wasn’t anything meaningful as of yet--just butterflies where once there were none.
King didn’t mind Genos; the young hero was much more intimidating than he was genuinely disagreeable--but hearing Saitama talk about him in such an uncharacteristic croon made King more than a little twitchy. Unspoken between them as of yet, they both knew if Saitama made a move, Genos would welcome him with open arms.
Jealous was the wrong word for what King felt. He knew how little he had to offer compared to Genos, in all his dashing capability, but there was still some sour kind of resentment bubbling inside him ever since Saitama had confessed. King found himself growing all the more upset as he played on, now battling a tricky miniboss. If only Saitama’s tastes didn’t so drastically lean towards vanity and aggression! Distracted, King let his character fall prey to the impact of a great steel ball and chain, and the screen faded to black with a somber jingle.
“Damn,” the man muttered, setting his controller down on his knee. “Do you want to--”
King was cut off by the feeling of fingers lacing through his hair. He didn’t dare speak.
“D’you like your hair long like this?” Saitama asked.
King swallowed hard. “I guess.”
“It was shorter when we first met.”
King hummed distantly, hit a button with his trembling thumb to start over from his last save point.
“But I still had hair then.” Saitama’s voice went low. “Do you remember?”
“Of course.” Of course! The scene had replayed in King’s mind for years, once in shame and nowadays in admiration, fantasization.
“Did I look good like that?”
King didn’t answer for a long moment. He didn’t know how.
“You looked like… like you were covered in monster guts,” he finally said. Not necessarily a lie. “I didn’t really notice the hair under all the blood matting it together.”
Saitama snorted. His hands continued to file through King’s long blond locks, loosely braiding a strand, one-handed, before letting them fall apart.
“Do you really miss having hair that much?” King asked, trying to be delicate. For whatever reason, this was one of Saitama’s few sore spots.
“Yeah. I mean--I wouldn’t call myself vain, but…”
“You look good bald, Tama-shi.” Not too forward, right? King didn’t think so.
“I felt more like… me… with hair. I dunno; it’s silly.” Saitama gently twisted King’s hair into a loop around his finger.
Some unfamiliar feeling sparked up in King’s gut--recognition, of some vague sort. He would have to tread carefully, he knew.
“You don’t feel like you, looking the way you do now?”
“Nah. It’s dumb. I know I’m the same me,” Saitama replied, hasty. “Deep down, I guess. But…”
For a long few moments, he went silent, fingers sliding softly through King’s long hair.
“But?” King parroted. Saitama’s nerves were palpable, and this made King calm, somehow.
“But… I dunno,” the hero snorted back. “I wish I had hair like yours.”
“Or like Flashy Flash?”
Saitama laughed at that. “Beggars can’t be choosers. But I like yours better.”
King’s heart throbbed. He wondered what might happen if he were to wheel around and kiss Saitama right on the lips. Would the hero’s hands tangle deeper into his hair, tugging at his roots and filling him with jolts of pain and pleasure?
He lingered on the thought too long; Saitama’s next words registered stiltedly, making his response less than tactful.
“King, I’m--I’m not really a guy.”
King blinked. He turned around, and Saitama’s fingers fell from his head. “What are you?”
“Nothing.” Saitama wouldn’t meet his eyes, but he didn’t look upset. He scratched his cheek. “A little bit of everything. It’s called being non-binary.”
“I know what non-binary means,” King said, perhaps a little too quickly. He shook his head. “Tama-shi, I’m so--I don’t know what to say. I don’t know if I’m reacting the way you want me to, but… I’m happy for you. Is that silly?”
Saitama was blushing. He hid his wry smile in his sleeve. “Maybe a little. I don’t mind.”
“Thank you for telling me. It… it means so much.” King cocked his head. “Does anybody else know?”
“Just Genos.”
Of course.
“I’m sorry I kinda… threw this at you out of the blue. I’ve been wanting to tell you for a while now.”
“It’s fine, Tama-shi. Of course it’s fine. I’m just happy you did.”
Saitama didn’t try to hide his smile now. It was warm, made his eyes crinkle. “You’re taking this a lot better than Genos did.”
King felt a mix of defensiveness and triumph blaze inside him. “He wasn’t disrespectful, was he?”
“No, God no. Never. Just didn’t get it. I had to help him along, and it was… tiring.” Saitama’s voice softened. “And scary.”
“I spend a lot of time online,” King offered, smiling softly. “There’s not much I haven’t seen.”
Saitama hid his pinkish face again, looking more vulnerable (and, regrettably, more kissable) than King had ever seen. “I’m trying to go forward in figuring out how I can look more like I think I’m supposed to without hair. I don’t want you to be surprised if things start… changing.”
“I won’t be,” King promised. “I’ll stand by whatever you do, Tama-shi, always. What do you think you’ll do?”
Saitama said nothing. King was ashamed of himself for wondering if Genos would be the first to know this information, too.
“I think it’s most important I tell you to expect it ‘cause I won’t be out to the Association for a long, long time. Maybe ever.” Saitama sounded sharp, though his tone remained low. “I’d only ever experiment as a civilian. As Genos’ roommate, and as your friend.”
“S-sure.”
“So… if I come over, and I’m… wearing something, or I look different…”
“You could come over wearing a gorilla suit and my first thought would be whether it gave you a handicap in Smash Bros,” King said.
Saitama laughed. Such a rare sound. As he often did these days, King fell just a little bit more in love. Something struck him, though.
“If you want me to acknowledge it, though, when the change eventually does come, I will.” King scratched the back of his neck. “I know it might make you uncomfortable to have somebody make such a fuss over you.”
Saitama sat up with a groan and some popping joints, ran a hand over the smooth dome of his head. “Keep it lowkey. God knows it’ll come as a relief with all Genos’ boasting about me. Ever since it clicked with him, it’s all he talks about.”
“I see,” King said.
“Speaking of,” Saitama said, glancing down at his phone, “I oughta head home. Dinner’s almost ready.”
King’s heart throbbed as he followed Saitama to the door, watched as he slipped his shoes on.
Saitama turned, and King considered leaning down to kiss him right then and there.
“Saitama?”
The hero blinked at this unconventional address.
I love you. I love you. I love you.
“I’m… I’m proud of you. I don’t mean to sound condescending, but--”
“You don’t, man,” Saitama smiled, giving King the lightest bump on the chest he could muster. King instantly knew it’d still bruise. “I’m so glad you know. It’s a weight off my shoulders, for sure.”
King gave Saitama a kind nod as he made his way out, waving one last time before King shut the door behind him.
--
“I’m home,” Saitama’s voice sounded from the front hall.
Synthetic blond bangs bouncing on his forehead, Genos poked his head out from the kitchen to greet his master. “Welcome back, Sensei. How was King?”
“Good,” Saitama replied in a singsong croon.
“You appear to be in high spirits, Sensei.”
Saitama stepped into the kitchen and sidled up at the stove beside his disciple, cheeks a healthy pink. “I might’ve told King about the, uh…”
Genos blinked in immediate understanding, alert. “About your recent change in identification? How did it go?”
“Real good.”
“I’m sure King internalized the information much more efficiently than I,” Genos said, hardly concealing the bitterness in his voice. “So long as he did not disrespect you, Saitama-sensei, I’m pleased for you.”
“Of course he didn’t. Gosh, you’re both such worrywarts.” Saitama nudged Genos with his shoulder, unaware of the brand-new dent he’d placed in the cyborg’s chassis. “Can I help with dinner?”
“Certainly not. Please have a seat, Sensei. I’ll have it to the table in just a moment.”
“Don’t gotta tell me twice. Thanks again, dude.”
Genos watched as Saitama kicked up his feet on their rolled futons, taking to the apartment floor with a happy sigh. The cyborg couldn’t help his core warming at the sight and sound of his master in such a good mood.
“Sensei,” Genos said, a little awkward, “I have observed your overall emotional wellbeing is improving as you confide further in myself and others, and I--I find it to be very satisfactory. I am proud to call such a self-assured person my Sensei.”
Hiding his face beneath a lazily draped elbow, Saitama smiled to himself. “Hard not to be cheery with you big losers buttering me up like you owe me money.”
“I am extremely timely with my rent payments, Sensei,” Genos said, bringing a pot of soba over to the low table.
“I know you are, Genos.” Saitama sat up. Before tucking into Genos’ cooking, he texted King.
S [Sent 7:48PM]: thanks again for being cool dude
K [Sent 7:50PM]: Of course. :)