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It’s a sunny afternoon, late summer. Genos is carrying two bags of groceries, Saitama the third one. Saitama is in a cheerful mood. They have been able to make effective use of all the coupons he had in his wallet. Their fridge will be stuffed this weekend. Genos is thinking which dishes to cook with the many ingredients they now have. There’s a tiny smile on his face when he imagines sensei’s expression. The sun is behind them, the world golden. They’re walking in a comfortable silence, through the park that marks the border between Cities D and Z.
Saitama comes to a halt, and points at a bush on their left, the branches heavy with red fruits. “Look, Genos. Raspberries!”
“Yes, sensei.”
Saitama leaves the path and walks towards the shrubs. “They’re huge!” He drops his bags and picks one of the red fruits. Cans and boxes roll onto the grass.
“Sensei,” Genos warns.
Saitama doesn’t listen, and picks a handful. They’re the same colour as his gloves.
“Sensei, are you sure you can eat those? They may be poisonous.”
“It’s okay, kid. I’ve eaten lots of them in the past when money was tight. Heh, I totally forgot they were growing here.” He picks another handful and gobbles them up, a smile on his face. “Ah, they’re sweet.” There’s already a red stain on his hero suit. Genos sighs, and waits as Saitama disappears among the canes, returning with another handful. “Do you want one too?” He holds a big one up for his disciple.
“Ah – yes, please, sensei.” He’s fumbling with his bags, trying to carry them in one hand – he can’t put them on the ground, or these groceries will spill out as well.
“Oh, wait,” Saitama quickly judges the situation. “Here.” He holds it in front of Genos’ face, and the cyborg instinctively opens his mouth. Saitama smiles faintly. His gloved fingers touch Genos’ lips as he eats the raspberry from his hand, and he oppresses the impulse to retreat his hand. Instead he keeps looking at those lips, how they move as Genos chews the fruit, how he licks them afterwards, and then turn into a smile. He doesn’t realise he’s biting his own.
“That was delicious,” Genos says.
“I have more,” Saitama quickly replies.
Genos’ eyes flicker as golden as the sunlight, briefly, but distinctly. His grip on the grocery bags tightens, as if to say: You’re going to have to feed me again, I can’t use my hands right now – and Saitama holds another one up for him, carefully placing it between his lips.
Saitama finds it fascinating to watch his mouth, his lips, his tongue, his expression as he briefly closes his eyes to let the taste sink in, a mixture between bliss and embarrassment. His lips are pink now, and when he licks them there’s a tiny stain in the corner of his mouth that Saitama has to force himself not to wipe off. He quickly averts his eyes and says: “Put your bags on the ground, there’s no one here to steal them. If you help me pick more, we can have raspberries for dessert tonight.”
Genos needs a second to land on earth again. “Yes, sensei.” He seems… disappointed? “Raspberries for dessert sounds delicious.”
“Yeah. We can have them with the pudding you were gonna make.”
“Yes.” He follows his sensei among the canes.
“The best ones are hidden behind the leaves,” Saitama points, lifting a leaf, and Genos starts picking, imitating Saitama who eats every other raspberry he collects. Even so, within moments, their hands are full.
“I will get a bag,” Genos says. “The leeks are in a plastic bag, but they don’t really need one.”
“Go get it then,” Saitama says. He eats the raspberries in his left hand. They’re warm from the sun, and he feels as careless as a little boy again. He turns around when Genos returns with a plastic bag. “There’s stains on your cheeks,” he says, smiling.
“You have stains on your entire face, sensei,” Genos replies. “And on your suit,” he mumbles, knowing it’s up to him to get that out in the wash.
“Don’t worry about that now,” Saitama says, and he carefully drops the berries in the bag.
They find a rhythm where Saitama gathers while Genos holds the bag up. Saitama occasionally eats one, or feeds one to Genos. Sometimes his fingers accidentally touch his mouth. He had never thought about how the cyborg’s lips would feel, and he is both embarrassed and curious when he finds out they’re soft and warm. He will never admit he took his gloves off for that reason. When there’s a drop of red juice dripping from Genos’ bottom lip towards his chin, he isn’t really thinking when he brushes it off with his thumb, and licks it clean. Genos makes a sound as if he’s glitching, but no word is being spoken, and the picking is continued as if nothing happened.
After a while, the bag is as good as full, and they can’t really find any red ones anymore.
“We picked them all,” Genos says, embarrassed.
“The pale ones will be ripe tomorrow,” Saitama says. “It’s not that we’re not leaving any for other people.”
“I’m going to have to write that down,” Genos says, fumbling in his pockets for his notebook.
“Let’s to home,” Saitama says. He picks the groceries up from the grass and puts them back into his bag, and carefully carries the one with the berries in his other hand.
Once they’re back, Genos places the fresh food in the fridge and the cans in the cupboard, while Saitama rinses the berries in a colander. As he looks for their largest bowl, Genos gauges the pile and says: “That’s too much for dessert, sensei.”
“We could eat some now,” Saitama says.
“It will still be too much.”
“I’ll think about that while I’m changing.” Saitama points at the stains on his hero suit. “I can’t understand how you’ve managed to stay clean.”
“Not my face,” Genos says, a small smile tugging the corner of his mouth, and Saitama quickly leaves for the bathroom, because he’s suddenly reminded of that awkward moment when he unintentionally brushed his thumb over his lips.
He drops his hero suit on the floor, then decides to be helpful and fills the sink with lukewarm water, so that the stains in his suit can soak before Genos washes it.
“Hey Genos,” he says as he returns in shorts and a shirt.
Genos looks at over his shoulder. “Yes, sensei?”
“I was thinking, we could try to make jam,” he says. “My mum used to make it when I was little.”
The golden eyes start to glow. “Yes, sensei!” He beams as if Saitama has given him a present.
They need help from Google to learn how it’s made, but with only sugar as the other ingredient and the need for some empty jars, they don’t see why they couldn’t give it a try.
Genos cleans the jars, while Saitama weighs the raspberries.
“We need equal amounts of sugar and fruit,” Genos says.
“How do we know how many jars we need?”
“We don’t,” Genos replies. “Let’s start with what what you’ve got there. We can always make more later.”
“Ok.” He pours the fruit from the colander into a sauce pan, then weighs the sugar. “I’m trying to remember how my mum did it.” Warm, fuzzy memories bubble to the surface, of an equally golden day, tiny Saitama sat on a stool, watching his mother make jam. She was wearing an apron, just like Genos. “I feel we’re forgetting something.”
“This is how Google told us to do it, sensei,” Genos says. A neat row of glass jars is waiting on the counter top.
Saitama shrugs as he looks at the mountain of raspberries in the bowl. “Look how much we’ve got left.”
“I can think of many other things to make with raspberries, sensei. I could bake a pie.”
“Let’s not overdo it, okay. We might even fuck up the jam.”
“Is the stove on?”
“Oh.” Saitama has no idea why he’s so distracted. He turns around, sees the sun reflecting on the windows of the opposite building, the day still golden. He doesn’t want it to end, doesn’t want this to end. “Yeah.”
Shoulder to shoulder they watch the sugar slowly dissolving in the fruit mass as it heats up. “Do you think we have to stir it?”
“Probably,” Genos says, and he rummages in the drawer for a ladle. He hands the tool to his sensei, who stirs slowly as they watch the raspberries turn into a jelly mass.
“Looks good,” he says.
“Smells nice too,” Genos says. He’s standing very close, his broad shoulder resting against Saitama, who, for once, doesn’t care, doesn’t push him away for invading his personal space.
The reflecting sunlight from the opposite building reaches the kitchen, reaches Genos’ metal parts, making him radiate golden light. Saitama glances aside, bites his lip like he did earlier that day, again without noticing. The jam bubbles softly as it’s starting to boil. Saitama stirs gently, notices how the jelly consistence becomes thicker. He tries not to think about anything else, focusing on the red mass.
“Sensei,” Genos’ voice is quiet, almost timid. “I think it’s ready. Four minutes, the recipe said.”
Ah, Saitama thinks. He breathes in, for the first time in ages it seems. “Yeah. Ok.” He takes the pan off the stove and brings it over to the other side of the kitchen.
“Is it not hot?”
“The handle? No.” He tilts the pan, pours the jam into the first jar – and spills most of it. “Oh fuck.” He looks at Genos with a rueful expression. “Not gonna work. Guess that’s not how my mother did it.”
“We need a funnel,” Genos says. His eyes squint as he gauges the loss. “Do we have one?”
“I have no idea,” Saitama says. He feels bad for spilling. It’s a mess. A shame too. He hates wasting food. He sticks his finger in the curdling jam, brings it to his mouth. Next to him is Genos, crouching in front of the cupboard, searching for a funnel or something alike. He doesn’t need support to keep his balance, but it feels like he’s leaning faintly against Saitama’s leg. Maybe it’s the lack of space, Saitama thinks as he tastes the jam. “Hey, Genos, it’s delicious.”
Genos gets up, a dusty funnel in his hand. “Look what I found.” He flinches as he sees a red dripping finger in front of his face. “Oh.” Without a second thought, he wraps his lips around Saitama’s finger, sucking the jam off before it drips on the ground.
“…Genos.”
If the boy could blush, he would now. Instead, his sensei is averting his eyes, his entire face.
“I’m sorry, sensei. I wasn’t thinking!”
There’s an awkward silence. Saitama puts the pan back on the stove, washes his hand, picks up a cloth, and starts cleaning the jar and the countertop. Genos rinses the dust off the funnel. He looks up, cautiously. “Sensei, your shirt.” An elongated stain ruins the white fabric. “It’s my fault.”
“Don’t worry,” Saitama says. There are worse things now to think about. To not think about. “Let’s see if this works.”
It does. Genos holds it up, Saitama pours the jam in. Genos screws the lids on, places the jars upside-down.
“Why’s that?”
“To produce a seal,” Genos says. “So it won’t go bad.”
Saitama looks over the counter, across the living room, through the open sliding door. The sky is still golden, the sun still reflecting from the other building. Why has he never noticed that before?
“Sensei?”
“Oh. Yeah. There’s still some left,” he says, pointing at the pan.
“We’re out of jars.” He glances at the large bowl, still filled to the brim with raspberries. “We’ve been too greedy, sensei. We picked too many for just the two of us.”
“You can bake your pie tomorrow,” Saitama says. “What do we do with this?” He points at the saucepan.
“I’ll get a spoon.”
“You want to eat it?”
“It was delicious,” Genos says, and for an instant Saitama thinks he sees a smirk on Genos’ face, too faint to be certain. There it is again, that sinking feeling.
Genos scoops a spoonful of jam from the pan, and holds it in front of Saitama. Saitama, who hesitates, because he doesn’t want to eat something from a spoon that Genos is holding up. Not like that. Not with that look. During that moment of wavering, a thick drop of jam falls on his shirt. Again.
He looks up. Genos is so tall. He never noticed before. It must be because he’s standing so close, he thinks, in that kitchen that’s already small for one person, let alone an adult guy and his massive cyborg. “It’s an old shirt anyway,” he says, which is exactly the opposite of what he meant to say. The spoon still hovers in front of his face, and he takes it in his mouth. The jam is perfect, still a bit warm, and sweet. It feels like a sin to eat it just like that, without buttered toast. It feels like a sin for multiple reasons, but he prefers not to think about that.
Genos scoops again, sticks the spoon in his own mouth. He smiles, closes his eyes for a moment.
The same spoon, Saitama thinks. He’s only got one. And Saitama doesn’t mind when the next spoon is for him again. He doesn’t mind sharing a spoon with this guy, like he’s stopped minding sharing his flat with him a long time ago. They share the spoon, and there’s jam everywhere. The first clot drips on Genos’ shirt and onto his apron, and then one on the floor, and another one on Saitama’s already ruined shirt. Saitama chuckles as he takes the spoon from Genos’ hand and feeds him the next one. He misses – deliberately? – and smears it onto Genos’ cheek. “Oops.” He smiles a silly smile, and uses his thumb to get it off, remembering how he did that earlier, and how he felt, doing that, and what he did next. He licks his thumb, feeling hot all of a sudden. Genos’ tongue appears in the corner of his mouth, reaching for the rest. Saitama bites his lip. He teases Genos with the spoon again, pulling it away when Genos leans in to take it in his mouth. Another glob drops on Saitama’s shirt, and there is Genos’ hand, catching it, scooping it up, touching the muscles beneath the fabric. He feeds it to his sensei, who licks it from his palm.
“There’s still some on your cheek,” Saitama says as he looks up, golden eyes piercing into his own. He inches closer and leans in, lapping it up, hands on Genos’ shoulders. His tongue brushes over Genos’ lips. The golden irises dilate. Vents whirr, steam escapes. He breathes hard, his fingers clasping the metal plates of Genos’ shoulders. His tongue, Genos’ lips. The metal arms embrace his back when their lips touch. Genos tastes like raspberry jam. He pushes his tongue in, wanting more, not of that taste, but of Genos. He closes his eyes as they kiss, and feels Genos’ arms pulling him in, pushing him against the cyborg body. Saitama’s fingers trail down, following the lines along the plates, the soft silicon and the hard metal, and up again, to Genos’ chest, his clavicles, his neck, lingering at his jaw. The artificial skin is velvety against his palms as he cups Genos’ face, hungry to feel more of him, gently pulling his hair. Genos moans softly into Saitama’s mouth, and Saitama feels a quiver reaching all the way down to his gut. He opens his eyes and breaks the kiss. The sun is gone, but Genos’ eyes are golden and bright. “Sensei,” he whispers, and Saitama says: “Genos,” and they kiss again, bodies pushed against one another in the small space between stove and sink, the sky outside darkening as the blue takes over from the orange hues, but inside, in that tiny kitchen the gold still lingers, pouring from Genos’ vents, glowing from his eyes.
I don’t want this to end, Saitama thinks. Their teeth click against each other as they’re greedily devouring each other. Ever, he thinks. Somewhere deep in the back of his mind he wonders if he could have seen this coming. He pants, but doesn’t realise it. All he knows is that he doesn’t want this moment to end, this kiss, this embrace. Genos doesn’t feel like a human, but he sure kisses like one, hungry and greedy, exactly the way Saitama kisses him. The jam is forgotten, the jars still upside-down. Genos wipes them aside when he lifts Saitama onto the countertop, still connected with their lips. Saitama raises his legs, wrapping them around Genos’ hips, forcing him to maintain contact. Genos is willing, eager as he ruts into Saitama, and now it’s Saitama who moans into Genos’ mouth. A metal hand, finger pads soft silicone, slip underneath Saitama’s shirt.
“Sensei,” Genos breathes in between two kisses.
Saitama’s answer are two hands behind Genos’ head. “Genos,” he says, voice strained, body yearning. He pushes his forehead against that of the cyborg, eyes locked onto those golden spheres.
“Yes, sensei,” Genos replies. His hand slides deeper underneath Saitama’s shirt, higher up his back, and to the front, descending to where he makes Saitama gasp, touching him ever so lightly.
“Genos – I…” He forces himself to open his eyes, to look at his disciple. “Is this alright?” He doesn’t just ask for the boy. He wants to be reassured, that he’s not making some major mistake, but Genos smiles, so honest and deep that Saitama can’t help but smile back. Why did I never see this, he thinks. Why did I never notice? He feels Genos’ lips on his own again and opens his mouth to receive another kiss. He loves this, he realises. He loves kissing, he loves making out, and he loves that it’s Genos, of all people. He loves feeling Genos’ hips grinding against his own, and the thoughts that provokes, things he’s never thought before, but that now send an electric pulse to that searing spot between his legs. He doesn’t dare think of the implications of what’s happening now, but he loves that there are sudden possibilities that never before crossed his mind. He takes Genos’ face between his hands and releases himself from their kiss.
“Genos,” he says, as he looks down his shirt, and the stains that mirror his own on that of Genos. “I think we need a bath.”
“Together, sensei?” The boy’s smile is nothing but smug, and Saitama loves it.
“Please,” Saitama says, and he tugs the cyborg in again for another kiss.