Archive of Our Own

King opened the door and his ready smile immediately dropped into a grimace. “Saitama-shi, why are you wet?”

“Monster.” Saitama held out his arms. Water dripped from the sleeves of his hero suit to the floor, where there was already a puddle beneath his feet. “I had to get hosed down.”

Saitama started to move inside and a hand slammed against the doorframe, blocking his path. He merely blinked, looking up into the face most of the world feared.

King stared down his nose at Saitama, narrowing his eyes.

“Saitama-shi,” he said in a low voice, “Do you know how many electronics I own?”

Saitama thought on it. He scratched his cheek. “A lot?”

“Yes. A lot.” King cautiously lowered his hand. “Stay here,” he said sternly, “I’ll get a towel.”

He turned and headed back inside. While he waited Saitama kicked off his boots and unhooked his cape, folding it up in his arms.

King came back with a bundle of fabric in his arms. “Here,” he said, handing over a towel. He held up some spare clothes. “And you can borrow these.”

“Thanks, dude,” said Saitama, grinning as he starting wiping himself off. “You’re a lifesaver.”

“Try and remember that before you break any controllers,” said King with a hint of a smirk, stepping aside so Saitama could come in.

For a good thirty minutes, King was sure his suggestion would be ignored and he’d have to buy a new controller. Again. Saitama was losing like he always did, and getting just as infuriated about it; red to the scalp, veins popping, curses making less and less sense as the losses racked up. King didn’t let it bother him, which wasn’t hard; it was always amusing to see how fired up Saitama got, and it was fun to play against someone who put their all into the game, even if their “all” was just rapid button-mashing.

But as time passed the cursing quieted into mutters, and the button-mashing turned more into taps. Assuming his friend was getting bored, King set down his controller when the victory screen flashed.

“Did you want to play something else?” He glanced at Saitama and had to do a double-take. “Saitama-shi?”

Saitama didn’t respond. His face was still red, but more an unusual flush to his cheeks than the scarlet of fury. He kept his hands still on the buttons, his body rocking subtly like a drunken man.

King gently nudged his shoulder. “Are you okay?”

At first Saitama didn’t react, still wobbling with his eyelids dropping down over his pupils, until he suddenly shook his head and straightened up to face King. “Huh?”

King grimaced and leaned down for a closer look at him. “Saitama-shi, are you okay?”

“I...” Saitama blinked a few times then shut his eyes. They were squeezed shut, focus making his face tight. “I dunno.” He let the controller slip from his hands so he could press a palm against his forehead. “I feel weird.”

“Sick weird?”

“Mm.” He tapped his hand against his forehead and pressed down again. “Warm.”

King bit his lip as Saitama continued to wobble. His mind started to flash through lists of cold medicine in his drawer and nearby medical centers. “Maybe you caught something from being hosed down.”

“Maybe,” Saitama mumbled, dropping his hand and blinking hazily. “But I haven’t gotten sick in years.”

When Saitama kept wobbling, King raised his hand hesitantly towards his friend’s face. “Excuse me, Saitama-shi, but I’m going to feel your forehead.”

Saitama just mumbled something as King rested his hand over Saitama’s scalp. King felt his heart rate pick up at the sight of Saitama shutting his eyes and leaning up into his touch, but it was forgotten when his palm hit skin and he jumped at the intense warmth. “Y-you’re burning up!” He kept his palm there for a moment to confirm it wasn’t just the warmth of his own hand and grimaced as he felt sweat start to collect from Saitama’s face. “I—I have some medicine, just a second...”

Saitama chased after him as he started to pull away. “Wait, wait, your hand is cold and it feels nice...”

King hadn’t thought his hands were that cold, but he resisted getting defensive and kept his palm on Saitama’s forehead. To his surprise the skin beneath his hand started to feel cooler as the seconds passed.

Saitama let out a low hum and pressed closer. King jolted his hand back with a burning face.

“Y, you should probably get some rest.”

Saitama’s lip stuck out in what King tried not to label as a pout, but he sighed and pushed himself up. “I guess, yeah.”

King frowned as Saitama stood and stretched his back. “You don’t have to go if you still feel bad.”

“Nah, I feel way better. One of those weird things, I guess?” He twisted his torso and sighed in relief when his back gave a loud “pop”. “But I should still head back, just in case. I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Yeah. Is 11 fine?”

“Yup.” Saitama moved towards the door and paused, looking down at himself. “Oops. I should change.”

King waved his hand to dismiss it. “Just borrow those, they’re warmer. I’ll bring your suit by tomorrow.”

“Thanks dude,” said Saitama, looking oddly pleased as he stuffed his hands in the pockets of the extra large sweatpants. He shuffled to the door, tugging the legs up as they slumped down over his toes, and gave a quick half-wave as he leaned down to grab his boots. “See you.”

—

King was running late. Only a little, by ten minutes, but seven of them had been spent hiding behind a crumbled wall trying to stay calm at the sound of a mysterious creature hiding in the sewer. The last three had been spent in embarrassment when it turned out to be a stray cat.

Now he was just glad to have made it in one piece. He knocked against the door of Saitama’s apartment with the back of his hand, shifting his messenger bag with the other. The yellow hero suit was folded up inside, nestled beside his laptop and a handful of games he knew Saitama had been wanting to try.

Genos answered the door, which was no surprise. Nor was the stern look on his face. But the way he stood up straighter, blocking King’s way into the apartment, was new.

“King,” he said, emphatic yet monotone as ever, “I’m afraid sensei is ill.”

“What?” King flinched back with a twinge of guilt. He’d almost forgotten Saitama had felt sick, but even then he’d thought it had passed. He tilted his head up to look inside, but only saw the empty hallway behind the cyborg. “Can I see him?”

“Not without an extensive sanitation process—“

“Just come in,” came Saitama’s voice from the living room, more strained than King had ever heard it.

Genos paused and then begrudgingly moved aside, leaving room for King to kick his shoes off and rush forward to the living room.

The sight of it made the guilt come back as a stab. Saitama was wrapped in his heart-patterned comforter, a bag of ice wrapped in a towel laid over his forehead. A noticeable shiver ran through his shoulders even as he breathed heavily, sweat shining on his face. King hurried to pull the strap of his bag off his shoulders and let it drop to the ground as he knelt at Saitama’s bedside.

He grimaced when foggy eyes landed on him from beneath the ice pack. “How long have you been like this?”

Genos answered for him when Saitama only groaned. “Sensei has been sick since yesterday, but the fever began getting worse when he left the bath this morning.”

King hesitantly reached his hand towards Saitama’s flushed scalp. “Can I feel?”

Saitama cracked an eye open, let it fall shut, and nodded. “Mm.”

King gently lifted the ice bag from Saitama’s forehead and slipped his hand where it had been. At first he felt only the chill of the ice. Within a second it warmed until it was uncomfortably hot against his hand.

“This is bad, Saitama-shi,” King murmured. His brow wrinkled as his brain churned. There was a medical center a few blocks away, then a hospital after a few miles. The road was too messed up for a vehicle, but if Genos carried him and ran...

Saitama opened his eyes and blinked. They were clear, oddly so, the sick film across his irises completely gone.

King stared as the skin started to cool, same as it had the day before. The emergency plans slipped from his head. “Or... it was bad...?”

He kept his hand where it was for a moment longer. Before he could pull away Saitama shot up in bed, the comforter falling away as he muttered, “Whoa.”

Genos gasped and rushed forward. “Sensei! You need to rest!”

“No, no, I feel...” Saitama trailed off then pointed to his disciple. “Genos, scan me.”

The order got him a confused frown, but Genos did as he was told, orange circles spinning in his irises as his eyes darted over Saitama.

“Your temperature has returned to normal,” said Genos, brow furrowed.

King looked between the two of them. “What?”

Saitama smacked his palms against his comforter. “Yeah!”

“But... how?”

Genos’s frown grew deeper. “It’s risen a degree.”

“Maybe it’s... um...” Saitama grimaced. He searched the air, his eyes squinting further and further until they were nearly shut. “...It’s...”

King tensed as Saitama began to wobble like he had before. He raised a hand, letting it hover above Saitama’s shoulder, ready to catch him. “Saitama-shi?”

Genos bristled, scanning rapidly. “It’s rising again! Sensei—“

A hand shot out and King was tugged forward by the arm. Saitama clung to it like a sloth.

After a moment he let out a sigh of relief and blinked his eyes. They were clear again, focused and alert.

“...back to normal,” Genos murmured, the orange circles in his eyes calming until they faded into the gold.

The hand stayed on King’s arm. King tried to focus on Saitama’s face but he kept darting back down to the grip on his bicep. It was a gentle yet insistent grip, Saitama taking care not to hurt him but refusing to let go.

“King,” Saitama said, breaking King out of his reverie, “You’ve got, like, magic hands.”

The words took a moment to process. King blinked at him and at the hand still on his arm. “...it was me?”

“Yesterday too, right?”

King frowned, thinking back. He hadn’t thought much of what had happened the day before, but...

His eyes fell to his palm. He stared at it, wiggling his fingers.

Genos stepped forward into his peripheral, breaking his train of thought.

“King may or may not be magic,” said Genos, arms stiff at his sides, “but sensei should still see a doctor.”

—

The trip to the hospital was difficult.

People stared. Subtly, but intently. King was in his hat and face mask, but the sight of the bald man linking arms with the blond giant was enough to get some second glances. Saitama tried letting go when they entered the station, but it was barely a minute before he had to grab on again.

The crowd was sparse at the tracks and it was easy to get a seat once they got on the train. Normally King would be grateful. Now it just made them more obvious, businessmen and elders and teens all glancing at them while pretending not to look.

The most obvious gawker was a little girl wearing a mask much like King’s. She stood right in front of them, holding hands with her mother. She stared openly at the two men, their arms linked as they sat in silence on the rumbling train.

For a while King just tried to ignore her (Saitama had spaced out already and wasn’t concerned) but then he realized she was more staring at him—specifically at the glimpse of scars under the brim of his hat.

The girl sniffed. King realized she’d been sniffing for a while, a sound he’d been mildly annoyed by but ignored. And now that he was looking at her he could see the pins on her backpack, gacha prizes themed around the Hero Association, with one of them showcasing the S-class heroes including King.

She was still staring at the hint of his scars, sniffing hard beneath her mask, and King glanced away feeling sweat prick at his forehead. It didn’t seem like she would say anything if she hadn’t already, but little kids really had no sense of when to stop staring at people, and that paired with the fear of germs made him really wish the girl’s mom had stood somewhere else.

Though... King looked down at the hand on his arm. He remembered the claim of magic hands. They’d been riding the train for a while, and Saitama hadn’t even swayed.

He glanced at Saitama. Still spacing out. He glanced at the girl’s mom. Staring at the changing sign, waiting for her stop.

King hesitantly reached out and patted her head, his giant hand as good as a hat over her dark hair.

The girl was staring at him with glittering eyes, and King waited just a moment to see if maybe she would stop sniffing, if maybe he really did have some kind of power to—

She sneezed.

King flinched his hand back.

Thankfully they were pulling into their stop moments later. King hurried to his feet, Saitama tugged along only from lack of resistance, and power-walked out of the train car into the crowd of the station.

—

The hospital was just a few minutes from the station and not too crowded. King and Saitama got into an office without much wait, and they sat on chairs side-by-side with Saitama still holding on. He took off his mask and sighed as he wiped sweat from his cheeks, pretending he didn’t notice Saitama glancing at him as he did. He knew he probably was a mess, sweaty from nerves and heat with his hair flattened by his hat.

As he tried to fix it there was a knock on the door and then the doctor stepped in, not looking at them as she slid the door open and shut while reading Saitama’s file.

“Sorry for the wai—“ The doctor looked up from her clipboard and immediately stopped. She stared at the two of them for a long while, mostly at King and the hands clinging to his arm. “...King?”

Saitama raised his hand (leaving the other still on King) when King’s heartbeat started to quietly rumble. “He’s here with me.”

The doctor blinked away her surprise, looking at Saitama like she hadn’t even noticed him. “Ah... oh...” She glanced at her clipboard. “Saitama-san, isn’t it?”

“Yep. Nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you. I’m Dr. Okako.” She pulled up a chair and a rolling cart with a laptop on the metal tabletop. She sat in front of them, offering a smile. “Let’s figure this out, shall we?“

They both nodded in response as she started to type something on the keyboard.

“So you’re getting a fever when you two are separated.” She looked to Saitama. “We’ve seen quite a few cases like that this week.”

“For real?” said Saitama, raising an eyebrow. Dr. Okako turned the rolling cart so they could see the screen.

“This creature was running around sneezing on people.” On the laptop was an image of a monster, a shapeless thing that was slimy and green with pink spots. “Did you happen to see it?”

Saitama stared hard at the photo for a moment then pulled back with an “ohh” of realization. “Oh yeah, I got that one. It was super gross. No blood, just snot...”

King shuddered.

Dr. Okako blinked at him, mouth getting pinched at the mental image, but she turned the cart back around. “...I don’t understand what you mean, but... it sounds like you got a strong exposure.”

Saitama grimaced. “Some did get in my mouth...”

King gagged. “Eugh, Saitama-shi!”

“Not like I wanted it to!”

The doctor looked amused, but she typed something else on the laptop, possibly taking a note of that. “Definitely a direct exposure, then,” she said with a nod. “Then what’s happening to you lines up with the other victims.“

She pushed the cart aside, turning her full attention on them again with her hands folded on her lap. “The good news is it’s not contagious. So far people have recovered within a few hours of exposure to their designated person, but you may require more time.”

Saitama frowned. “Designated person?”

“Well...” Dr. Okako glanced between them. “What sort of relationship do you two have?”

They looked at each other. King shrugged and offered a “friends” while Saitama confirmed “friends, yeah,” with a mumble thrown over his words.

The doctor nodded and rolled her chair closer to Saitama.

She glanced at King as she leaned closer to the confused Saitama. “Excuse me for this, King-san, but it’s a matter of medical privacy.”

“Oh...” King raised an eyebrow. “Okay...”

Dr. Okako was a practiced whisperer. King had no idea what she’d said under her breath, but it made Saitama’s face go red.

“S-Saitama-shi are you okay?!”

“Fine,” said Saitama, sounding choked.

Dr. Okako rolled her chair back and typed something else out, the amused look back on her face.

“You’ll have to remain in constant contact, if possible,” she said, “I believe that more direct physical contact would speed up the process...” (Saitama gave a choked grunt.) “...but if you continue as you are now, then you should recover fully within a few days.”

“A few days?” King repeated weakly. His mind swam at the idea, flooded with the issues of logistics and the thought of being so close to Saitama for so long.

“I suggest you take some time off from work.”

“We’re heroes, so...” Saitama trailed off with a pinched frown. “...wait, do we get sick days? Or benefits?”

“I don’t think so,” said King, his brow furrowed. “Though the H.A. covers damages and any medical bills from fights.”

“What the heck..? Eh, we have time anyway.”

“Is there anything else you’d like to talk about, as long as you’re here?” asked Dr. Okako, glancing for just a fraction of a second at Saitama’s bald head.

“Nope,” Saitama said quickly, and he stood up fast enough that King was jerked along with him. “We’re good now, right?”

“Yes, just stop at the front desk on your way out.”

Saitama nodded and headed for the door. King stumbled along after him, arm still tight in his grip.

“Wait,” said Dr. Okako, standing up suddenly, “before you go.”

The two of them watched as she shuffled through her papers. Finding what she needed, she held out a clipboard to King with a very serious look on her face.

“Could I have your autograph?”

—

The ride home was even more quiet than the first. Saitama’s grip was more hesitant, and he sat further away while they rode on the train. King wanted to ask what the doctor had said to him, and even tried a few times, but whenever he started to speak Saitama suddenly asked a quick question and then went back to not talking.

As soon as their stop came, Saitama leapt to his feet, dragging King along through the station until they made it to his apartment in record time. King was googly-eyed and panting for breath as they stepped inside, not sure he’d even touched the ground for half of it.

It took a while to realize how quiet it was beneath his heavy breathing. The whole way back from the station Saitama hadn’t said a word, even in response to King pleading for him to slow down. Now in the entryway Saitama was slow to kick off his shoes, one hand wrapped loosely over King's sweaty arm.

They stood there until King finally stopped wheezing. When King toed off his sneakers Saitama still said nothing, staring at the sliver of empty floor beneath their shoes.

“Um...” King cleared his throat to break the silence, then coughed a bit longer because he actually needed it. “Ah, ahem... should we... watch a movie or something?”

Saitama nodded.

It was an awkward squeeze down King's front hall with Saitama’s hand still on his arm. King shuffled around until he was leading the way, Saitama dragging his feet behind him.

It was equally awkward to coordinate grabbing the remote and sitting down without letting go of each other. When they finally got to the floor, Saitama only had his fingers laid over King’s wrist.

King flicked on the TV and readied himself for the debate of what to watch, but Saitama straightened up like he’d remembered something. “Can I borrow your phone?”

“Oh. Sure.” King dug into his pocket, unlocked his smartphone, and started to hand it over then thought better of it and pulled back. He opened the phone app first instead, award of just how many idol games he had installed on his home screen. “Calling Genos?”

“Yeah.”

King passed Saitama his phone and Saitama squinted at it until he remembered the number, mouth moving as he recited it to himself along with tapping on the screen.

It barely took a ring to get an answer. King could hear the distinct, smooth “Sensei?” even without the phone by his ear.

“Yep, it’s Saitama.” He turned a bit away, keeping his fingers barely brushing King’s arm. “So, I’m sick. I gotta stick with King. Long story.” There was some rapid talking on the other end, and Saitama’s shoulders stiffened. “No, just... not right now. Okay?” Some more talk from Genos. Saitama nodded a few times then remembered to actually talk. “Yeah. ...no. ...yeah. ‘Kay. Yup. Bye.” Saitama hung up with a sigh of relief. He turned back towards King and handed back the phone. “Thanks.”

King accepted it back with a small frown. Saitama had been barely touching him for a while, and when their hands brushed his palm felt sweaty, and King could see a tint of red in his cheeks.

“You should sit closer, Tama-shi,” said King, his brow furrowed as he pressed his arm more into Saitama’s hand.

Saitama grimaced, but he scooted closer. King tried to ignore the reluctant way Saitama hooked his arm around King’s, making an effort to pretend it didn’t hurt his feelings.

With that pretense in mind, King started flipping through the movies available to stream. Saitama stayed quiet. He looked at the ground as King sorted through titles.

“...sorry about this.”

King looked to him in surprise. Saitama had practically mumbled it. They were close enough to be bumping knees, but Saitama seemed to be actively leaning away.

“It’s not like you to apologize.”

Saitama shrugged, his eyes still averted.

King stared at him a moment longer. When Saitama said nothing more, King, clicked a show at random and pressed play. “...don’t worry about it.”

The show was boring. They stopped halfway through.

Most of the day was spent in silence. Gaming together while touching proved too much, so King played on his own while Saitama worked his way through King’s manga collection. He laid on the floor with stacks of books beside him, his leg tossed over King's knee.

They had to get up a few times. Mostly for the bathroom, which King had been dreading, but it was about as awkward as a urinal if he kept his back turned. Otherwise they just hung out quietly on King's living room floor, King replaying games he’d beaten a thousand times to avoid having to move.

The whole time King glanced regularly at Saitama, checking in on him but also wondering what was on his mind. Saitama was never the most talkative guy, but he wasn’t really quiet, just brief.

Not that King could think of much to say either. When Saitama put aside a volume King tried asking what he’d thought, but Saitama said little, saying either he liked it or he didn’t then grabbing another book.

It was almost a blessing when he heard Saitama’s stomach rumble. It actually provided some direction.

“Are you hungry?” King asked, as though he hadn’t just heard the answer.

“Yeah.” Saitama set down the volume he’d been reading. “Didn’t even realize. What time is it?”

King hummed and looked at his watch. “4:30... kind of early, but we could eat.”

He frowned when he remembered how empty his kitchen was. He wasn’t much of a cook.

“Delivery?”

Saitama sighed and laid out on the floor, unconsciously kicking his leg up off of King. “Too pricey.”

King quietly grabbed Saitama’s leg and pulled it back onto his lap. Saitama twitched but let him. “I’ll pay.”

Beside him, Saitama shifted just enough to look up at him. He laid back down and buried his face in his folded arms. “...noodles, then.”

—

The food didn’t take long. The delivery girl seemed confused as Saitama handed over the money, King standing close behind him with his back turned and a hat pulled over his eyes, but she didn’t ask any questions.

When they got back to the living room, King moved to toss two cushions beside each other on the floor. But when he sat down, Saitama suddenly broke away and sat at the opposite end before King could stop him.

King started to protest and Saitama promptly tossed his leg over King’s beneath the table, grabbing his food without a word like nothing had happened.

Saitama wouldn’t meet his eyes when King passed over his chopsticks. King bit his lip and tried to ignore the ache in his chest.

It wasn’t like they were the closest friends in the world. Pretty close—at least he liked to think so—but they’d known each other less than a year. And it wasn’t like they were touchy-feely with each other, but...

He wished Saitama didn’t seem so... disgusted.

With a sigh, King snapped apart his own chopsticks and popped open the top of his take-out. A burst of steam rolled out into his face. King grimaced and leaned away from it, realizing the distraction of food would have to wait a few minutes.

He glanced across the table. Saitama was muttering to himself, apparently having broken his chopsticks unevenly, again. Otherwise Saitama just looked at the table, waiting for his own food to cool down.

King tapped his chopsticks against the edge of the plastic bowl and half-mumbled, “So... do you feel any better?”

Saitama looked up. “Huh?”

“Can you tell if you’re getting better?” asked King, more clearly.

Saitama hummed, looking down at the table as he thought it over.

“Not really,” he said, “I’ll test it.”

“Huh?”

Before King could question him Saitama had pulled his leg back and pushed away. He sat waiting, staring blankly at his bowl of noodles, until his eyes started to go hazy and his blinks became uneven.

King cursed and got to his feet, ducking around the table to drop down behind Saitama. He scooted forward until Saitama’s back was against his chest.

“Don’t do that, Saitama-shi,” King muttered, leaning them both forward as he reached for his abandoned bowl. When King pulled back Saitama stayed bent over the table, covering his face with his hand.

King let him be, assuming he was still recovering from the fever. Eventually Saitama straightened up. His face was still pink and he shifted awkwardly between King's legs.

After a long and heavy sigh, Saitama muttered, “Isn’t this, y’know... bothering you?”

The question hung in the air within the slim space between them. King considered the question, or rather considered the answer; “no, not at all” or “I’m only bothered you don’t like it” were probably too much.

“It’s strange,” he said eventually, “but I don’t mind.”

Saitama hummed and hunched his shoulders.

“And the doctor said being more direct would help,” King went on, shifting a bit closer to make sure they were still touching.

“Um. Yeah.”

King leaned back enough to hold his bowl near his chin, blowing on the steam. He winced in embarrassment when Saitama twitched at the air blown at his head. “Uh, sorry... I’ll try to, um... well, don’t lean back too much.”

Saitama fidgeted with his chopsticks and stared into his own bowl. “‘Kay.”

With extreme care to not splatter any broth on Saitama’s bald head, King started to eat, scooping up a few noodles at a time. The bottom of the bowl was hot but not unbearable, so he shifted his fingers and palm as much as he could while holding it to his face.

He noticed Saitama still wasn’t eating and swallowed his bite to speak. “Your food’s getting cold.”

Saitama nodded and silently started to eat.

Time passed too slowly until nightfall. They both skipped the shower for the night, no discussion necessary.

King changed into sweatpants and loaned some to Saitama, though they were way too big, even with the drawstring pulled tight. Saitama had to bring them up around his waist to keep from tripping on them.

When the futon was laid out, there was only the matter left of how exactly to sleep.

King’s mind jumped to spooning. Immediately his knees locked up, and he stood beside the futon with his heartbeat rumbling through his Doki Sis t-shirt.

Saitama sighed and tugged at his arm. “C’mon, lay down.”

Giving him a confused look, King did as he was told, kneeling down onto the futon. Saitama waved for him to lie all the way down. Making sure Saitama’s hand stayed on his arm, he rolled over onto his back.

When Saitama laid right on top of him King’s heartbeat picked up tenfold. It beat so hard that Saitama shifted up and down with his moving chest.

“Uh... one sec.” Saitama shifted so he was more at his side, with one arm tossed over King’s chest and his leg across King's thighs. “There.”

King swallowed hard and willed his heart to quiet down. “A... A-are you comfortable?”

“Mm.” Saitama nodded, his chin bumping King’s shoulder. “You?”

“Y-Yeah,” said King, pretending he’s wasn't obviously freaking out.

Saitama seemed so small like this. And warm. And firm. And other thoughts, other thoughts, time to calm down and think other thoughts...

“I can move if you want,” said Saitama. He didn’t yet, though his hand shifted, getting ready to leave.

“It’s okay,” King said quickly, “I-I’m just not used to it. It’s comfortable.”

“...yeah,” said Saitama, “Me neither.”

King hadn’t specified that what he wasn’t used to was being held, or even touched at all; yet somehow he felt like Saitama had meant the same.

It helped to calm him. King tried to focus on the empty dark, and on the sounds of the city outside.

He found his ear more drawn to the soft breaths the brushed against his neck. Saitama was close enough to share a pillow, though he kept to his own.

King rolled his head to look at him. Saitama was little more than an outline beside him.

“You’ve been so quiet.”

He felt Saitama look up more than saw it, a rustle against his shirt sleeve.

“...It’s just awkward.” Saitama laid back down with his cheek pressed to King’s shoulder. “I feel bad, making you do this.”

“Sometimes we have to rely on others, Tama-shi,” King murmured.

Saitama had nothing to say to that, going silent again in the dark.

A lump rose to King’s throat when Saitama curled closer against him.

“G’night, King.”

King nodded and shifted on his pillow. “Good night.”

He didn’t actually fall asleep for at least an hour. Judging by the quick breathing against his chest, Saitama didn’t either.

—

King woke up first.

His back was sore. There was something poking into his shoulder blade and something heavy on his chest. It took a minute to realize they were both Saitama, the smaller man laid flat over his chest with one hand tucked under King’s back.

At some point in the night Saitama must have gotten more on top of him. King raised his head to see Saitama’s sleeping face, the bald man’s cheek pressed into King’s chest.

King chuckled at how soundly Saitama was sleeping, Saitama’s cheek squished up into his nose and a trail of drool hanging from his lip. He snored but not too loud, just enough to make King grin when he breathed in.

It felt... good. Waking up to someone like this.

It felt good to wake up to Saitama like this.

His grin fell into a strained smile. The fluttering in his chest felt gentle yet cold, a bittersweet feeling that soaked through while he watched Saitama sleep.

It ached to keep looking, both in his heart and from the strain in his neck, but he had to. He wouldn’t get the chance again.

On an emboldened whim, he lifted his hand and brushed Saitama’s cheek.

The skin beneath his fingers was soft. As he explored he felt bumps here and there, blemishes too small to make out unless you looked up close or felt for yourself. They fascinated him more than anything. Another reminder that the strongest man in the world was just a person.

Then he brushed down too hard and Saitama snorted awake, blinking blearily as he came back to reality.

King’s eyes widened and he snapped his hand back down to the futon with a thwump.

Judging by the confused look Saitama was giving him, he’d been too late.

“King?” Saitama smacked his lips, squinting at the other man. “Were you touching my face?”

Immediately King’s Engine kicked into high gear. Saitama pulled himself more upright on King’s chest.

Saitama’s brow furrowed as he took in King’s frightened face. “Why?”

Sweat dripped down King’s forehead and pooled in the wrinkles made by his downturned mouth.

Saitama kept looking at him intently. He suddenly seemed a lot more awake.

“Because...” King swallowed. A drop of sweat caught in the corner of his lip and he twitched to shake it away. “Y’know...”

King grimaced when Saitama leaned in closer, looming near.

“It’s, um—just, got curious,” King sputtered. He forced a laugh that came out too loud and bitter. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

Saitama froze above him. The intent look was suddenly blank and vacant, his usual expression.

It should have been reassuring. But it felt off.

“...oh.” Saitama slowly drooped onto King’s chest, until he was laying his face flat again on top of him. “...right.”

He pressed his face down into the creases of King’s t-shirt. King fidgeted beneath him, fingers twisting in the sheets as Saitama laid limp across him.

“We’ve been touching too much, huh?” he said, staring pointedly away. “Starts to mess with your head.”

Saitama said nothing. His face stayed buried in King’s chest.

It went on so long that King started to get worried. Was Saitama mad? Or maybe going back to sleep?

When he looked he saw it was neither, Saitama’s scalp tinted pink and steadily getting darker.

“Saitama-shi?” He sat up a little, Saitama shifting on him as he moved but keeping his face down. “Are you feeling sick?”

“A little,” Saitama mumbled, just loud enough for him to hear.

“What?” King sat up all the way and pulled Saitama up with him, wrapping his arms around Saitama’s back. “Is this not enough? I-is it getting worse?”

“Maybe… I feel…” Saitama grunted and hugged him back. King grimaced when he felt something wet against his shirt but didn’t complain, remembering how much sweat had been involved when he went to visit Saitama before. “I… I feel really shitty.”

“W-what do I do?” King hugged him tighter, wondering if he ought to take off his shirt, get more skin contact, even though the thought of it made him dizzy. “How bad is it? Are you okay? Sh-should we go to the hospital?”

“I dunno.. gimme a minute…”

King waited. Saitama’s face still looked pinched, and his scalp was becoming a deep red.

He squeezed Saitama tighter and pressed his face against Saitama’s head, wrapping himself around the smaller man. Saitama’s hands fisted bunches of his t-shirt. Saitama ducked his head down, leaving King’s face behind, blond hair trailing after his scalp.

Saitama took a shaky breath, his nose bumping against King’s chest. “I don’t want… this.”

King’s heart sank.

“This is stupid,” Saitama went on, his voice muffled by King’s shirt. “You don’t wanna do it and that... stupid... the monster... it...”

The words trailed off into incoherent babbling. King clung to him tighter and when that didn’t seem to help he finally bit the bullet and pulled off his shirt, fighting down the embarrassment of his soft chest and gut, and tugged the sweat-soaked t-shirt off of Saitama. With them out of the way he grabbed Saitama and held him as tightly as possible, shivering at the dampness of Saitama’s bare skin.

“Come on, come on,” King whispered, eyes squeezed shut so tightly that he was seeing spots. “Why isn’t it working?!”

“L…” Saitama rolled his head towards King horribly slow and took a wheezing breath. His eyes were out of focus on King’s face. “Let go.”

“What?! No!” King gathered Saitama up in his arms and got to his feet, legs wobbling from the effort of supporting Saitama. “I-I’m getting you some water then we’re calling an ambulance, okay? Hold on to me, okay?” Saitama’s head had fallen slack again and King turned his face up to make eye contact, only noticing now how violently his own hands were shaking. “Okay?”

“This sucks,” Saitama mumbled, eyes wet and foggy. “This sucks so bad.”

“I know, but you gotta hang on, okay?” said King, pulling Saitama up and lurching towards the kitchen. His movements were stiff and jerky with Saitama held up against him, his arms that only ever held controllers already strained from the effort. “We—we’re gonna… get… hgh… you… some… water!”

Saitama was still mumbling, but his words were so slurred that King could only understand bits and piece. “Guhhrhmb… wasn’t even… bhhg d…”

King finally got them to the kitchen and leaned his back against the counter next to the sink, smacking a hand down blindly until he grabbed onto a glass. He struggled one-handed with holding the glass and turning on the faucet until he finally got it half-full with tap water and pressed it to Saitama’s lips. “Here, here, drink!”

He tilted it up for Saitama and cursed as his shaking hand pushed it too far and he splashed water over Saitama’s chin. Still he managed to get some inside and Saitama drank until he forced his head away and coughed, his smaller frame shaking against King’s. King hurried to put the glass down and it slipped out of his hand, but he ignored the crash behind him and wrapped his arms around Saitama’s chest again, pulling him up and burying his nose in Saitama’s shoulder.

He whimpered as Saitama started mumbling again. He needed to call an ambulance but his whole body was shaking and he couldn’t move. His heart thumped louder than he’d ever heard it before, and he could feel it reverberate through Saitama’s back into the arms King had wrapped around his chest.

“Not even luvvsi,” Saitama mumbled, a bit clearer now that he’d had water. “Was gnna ignore it it’ss fine.”

King blinked his eyes open against Saitama’s shoulder. “Not even what?”

“Luvv,” Saitama mumbled, his eyes closed and his breathing heavy. “It shouldn’t be thuss big deal it’s not even luhnn.. hn.”

King lifted his head. “Lovesick?”

Saitama’s eyes opened and rolled onto King for a moment, near coherent but not at all near enough. He shut them again and gave a strained, quiet, “Hn.”

For a moment, the only sounds were King’s heart thumping and Saitama’s shallow breathing. Then King grabbed Saitama by the chin and shoved their lips together, and all the sound became muffled through blind, panicked action.

“Mgh!” Saitama’s protests finally broke through, and when King didn’t pull away Saitama jerked back, his strength still more than enough to overpower King while sick. The look in his eyes was distressed, but it was a look, not a mindless fog. Saitama swallowed and gave a shuddering breath with his lips twisted in a wobbled frown. “Don’t!”

King pushed in again, not listening, just kissing Saitama again and again. Saitama whimpered and jerked his head away again.

“Stop!” Saitama shook his head a bit too hard, wobbling when he made himself dizzy. “It’s not working, I know it’s fake—“

“Saitama!” King grabbed Saitama by the chin again but Saitama kept himself firmly in place. “Saitama, let me make you better!”

“Gh…” Saitama reluctantly relaxed and let King maneuver him, though his eyebrows were twisted up as though pained. King felt a pang at the sight of Saitama’s wobbling mouth and wrinkled chin but kissed him again, and again, and then again, until he realized the wet feeling on his cheeks was no longer just sweat.

King pulled back and his shoulders immediately slumped at the sight of tears soaking Saitama’s face. His eyes were bloodshot and bleary and snot ran from his nose, and as King watched he sniffed hard and then made a strained, choked sound close to a sob.

There was a box of tissues on the far end of the counter and King carefully slipped away from Saitama, leaving one hand on his shoulder, to grab from it then come back. With his hand still trembling he wiped at Saitama’s face, tossing the dirtied tissues away to fall where they may then gently pressing at Saitama’s cheeks again.

“Tama-shi,” he murmured, “Tama-shi it’s not fake, I like you.”

Saitama sniffed again, blinking big tears from his eyes. He’d calmed down but his face was still blotchy and red, and when he spoke his voice was strained. “You like me?”

“I do.” King tried his best to keep his voice soothing. He was completely out of his element and would normally be halfway through a panic attack admitting something like this, but Saitama needed him. He couldn’t worry about that now. “I do like you, I promise.”

Another sniff. “But… it messes with your head.”

“I was just saying that,” said King, wiping the start of another tear away with his thumb. “I didn’t know, I’m sorry. I’ve liked you for a long time.”

Saitama blinked. It pushed fat tears from his eyes and sent them rolling down his cheeks. “Oh...”

“Right now we need to make you better, okay?” King punctuated it with another kiss, then another, and his heart lightened when he finally got a small press back. He murmured against Saitama’s lips when he pressed in again. “Let me make you better.”

It was unpleasantly wet from tears and sweat and spit, but King kept kissing him anyway. Saitama clung to him and kissed harder. King started to forget the action had a purpose, thoughts fading back into the fog of his mind. The small whimpers he got when he pressed in close made him dizzy and he could only bring himself to pull away when Saitama started to tremble like his legs were giving out.

Saitama took a sharp breath and pulled himself more upright. He clung to King like a lifeline, but his face was no longer burning and the tears had stopped.

He leaned up for one more kiss and then sighed, resting his weight on King.

“This is super embarrassing,” Saitama muttered, wiping the heel of his palm over his face. “I never cry.”

“Well, you were kind of delirious,” said King with a weak shrug.

“Yeah.” Saitama chuckled. “I was probably gonna die.”

King gave a strained, near-hysterical giggle.

Another sigh eased from Saitama’s lips and he relaxed further into King’s chest.

The kitchen seemed so quiet now that disaster was over. The light soaked in through thin curtains, softening the edges of every surface. For a moment King got the same feeling that he’d had barely an hour ago, if even that, when he’d woken up to Saitama’s sleeping face.

It got a little muddled with the fading panic and oncoming exhaustion, but, still. It was nice.

“Man.” Saitama sighed and looked down at himself. He was covered in sweat, light catching on his skin and giving it an odd sheen. “I really need a bath.”

“Oh...” King started to let him go then stopped himself. “Ah, right.”

King pulled him up and Saitama staggered forward, putting his arm around King’s waist to support himself.

“Are you okay?” King asked, keeping an eye on Saitama’s jerky steps as they moved carefully to the bathroom.

“Yeah,” said Saitama, squeezing his waist. “Just worn out.”

When they got into the bathroom, Saitama was quick to kick off his pants, barely having to do more than undo the drawstring before the oversized sweatpants fell right off. King tried to look away and ended up looking in the mirror right when Saitama pulled off his boxers, getting a flash of the other man’s behind as he bent over.

King hurried to look straight up at the ceiling as his face burned, clearing his throat. “Um... should I, uh—“

“Get in with me?”

With a jolt King looked back down at Saitama, forcing his eyes to stop at the other man’s face. Saitama’s expression was hard to read, but his eyes looked hopeful and difficult to refuse.

Yet even with his eyes locked, King could see how toned Saitama’s body was, the muscles in his shoulders and arms firm and extra impressive compared to King's flabby biceps.

“I’m...” King grimaced and slid a hand over his soft stomach. “I’m not really...”

“Dude, I care so little,” said Saitama flatly.

“...okay.”

Saitama smiled and then turned to start the bath, setting it to hot.

King still fought the urge to look as he pulled off his pants one-handed, his other arm held out for Saitama to hold on to. He tried to keep himself in the mindset of a bathhouse when they sat on the floor to wash themselves, water flowing into the drain at the center of the tile.

For a while it worked. But when King got in the bath and Saitama came in after him, sitting right in his lap, the bathhouse mindset went promptly out the window.

Saitama laid back and stretched out his legs, breathing out slow. The water was a bit too hot but still bearable, and King planned to blame it for the sweat pricking at his forehead if asked.

The pounding of his Engine wasn’t as easy to explain.

“Relax, King,” said Saitama. “You’re comfy.”

Saitama shut his eyes and leaned back. King’s eyes darted down before he could stop himself. Saitama was lean and toned all over, his skin glowing and healthy.

And naked. He was also naked.

King forced his eyes back up, his heart beating louder.

He had to relax. King took slow, deep breaths and tried to focus on the water against his skin.

‘This is so surreal,’ he thought, flinching when Saitama moved a little in his lap.

King risked a peek down. Saitama’s eyes were still shut, his face calm and incredibly content.

It got his chest fluttering, even as it threw him for another loop.

“I don’t think any of this has hit me yet,” King admitted, leaning his head back against the wall.

Saitama bit his lip, obviously resisting a smile, and gave a little snort. King raised an eyebrow. “What?”

Saitama opened his eyes and grinned up at him. “Well something’s hit me.”

King stared at him for a few seconds when he suddenly realized what he meant and jolted, straightening up and away and accidentally knocking a bottle of shampoo into the water with his elbow. Saitama snickered the whole time, though the tips of his ears looked pink.

“S—s-s-s—“

“Dude, it’s okay,” said Saitama with a laugh. “It actually makes me feel better.”

King faltered. “B-better?”

“Just like, proof you’re being for real, y’know?” Saitama hummed and leaned back against his chest. “I don’t believe all this yet either.”

When he closed his eyes again, returning to his contentment, King slowly started to relax.

“Don’t think I can do anything about it right now, though,” said Saitama with a small smile.

King immediately tensed again. “Y-you don’t have to!”

Saitama just chuckled and raised a hand to King’s shoulder, stroking gently at his arm with the pad of his thumb.

Steam rose from the tub and fogged the mirror. It gave the room a gentle haze, like a subtle filter laid over a photo.

“Sorry I’ve been weird,” said Saitama softly. His thumb still rubbed slow circles on King’s arm. “This whole thing pissed me off, I guess.”

King frowned. “Really?”

“Mm.”

When Saitama didn’t explain, King tilted his head to get a better look at his face. “Why?”

Saitama glanced up at him through a cracked eyelid, then looked away to a far wall.

“Well... I was trying not to make a big deal out of it.” He nodded up towards King. “Liking you.”

King gripped the side of the tub, his heartbeat picking up at hearing it again.

“Then all this happened,” Saitama continued, “and it felt like the universe making fun of me.”

He sighed. “I’ve never really wanted anyone before. And no one’s ever wanted me, so...” A small crease formed in his brow. “Didn’t think it would work out.”

His mouth twisted in a subtle frown. His eyes looked distant.

King swallowed down his nerves and shot his trembling arms around Saitama’s shoulders, squeezing him tight.

“Neither did I,” said King, pressing his face into Saitama’s neck. “I didn’t think you’d...”

He bit his lip. He couldn’t say more without his voice shaking.

“Were you freaking out this whole time?” Saitama turned his head, pressing his cheek against King's hair. “Sorry, man.”

“...not the whole time.”

Saitama snickered and turned a little more, lifting King’s head to give him a kiss.

It wasn’t the most comfortable kiss, with their necks turned to reach each other. But it was miles above the first ones, with no more tears or taste of panic pricking at their tongues.

Saitama pulled back first, needing to breathe and fix his posture. King rubbed his back in the hopes of easing the weary look in his eyes.

King pressed a kiss to Saitama’s temple. “Just lay back for a while, I’ve got you.”

“Corny,” Saitama muttered, teasing, but he did as he was told with a smile on his face.

—

It was late afternoon, and the setting sun peeked through the balcony window. The day had passed without much fanfare. After the bath they’d mostly laid together, busying themselves with books and games or just kissing until they happened to stop.

And now they stood by the door, staring tensely at their interlocked hands. On a silent count of three, King let go.

Then they waited. Saitama stared at his own hand for about a minute with his brow furrowed over his eyes.

King warily looked him over. “Still feel okay?”

“I think so. ...yeah.” Saitama’s shoulders slumped in relief. “Hahhh... finally.”

King let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. “Okay... I guess it worked.”

“Yeah. Glad that’s over.” Saitama looked to the side, scratching at his ear. “I mean. The bad parts.”

King chuckled. “Yeah.”

He shifted his feet. He was already excited to see Saitama again, but also: it had been a long day. He was ready to get some time to recharge.

Saitama seemed to feel the same, stepping down into the entryway and slipping on his shoes.

“I’ll see you later,” said Saitama once they were on and tied. “Can I come back tomorrow?”

King smiled. “Of course.”

Saitama smiled back, then turned towards the door.

As he laid a hand on the doorknob he stopped, looking back over his shoulder.

“Next time we hang out, let’s just touch ‘cause we want to.”

Then he left, grinning all the while at the look on King’s face.