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“Did you look like this, before?”
The question had been odd. It was a rare kind of question, one that Saitama didn't usually find himself asking. He didn't know where the thought came from, or the initiative to ask. It was unlike him to ask such things, especially of his partner. Genos wasn't the one for sharing small snippets of his past, to quietly let go of that information when he felt content. No, those small treasures of memories were kept close and out of reach. The wounds were still sore, and the memories still left sleepless nights. Saitama was the only person he was willing to let in, to a degree.
At least now, Genos had someone to soothe him back to sleep, hearing whispered words of love and sweet nothings. Saitama never expected an explanation, just content in holding his lover until the tears stopped and the shaking ceased. But there was always the option to sit, to talk, to listen. More often than not, Genos remained silent. Rather letting himself cry and shake than let the words out. But Saitama wasn't going to be the one to force him to say the words too painful to speak.
But, this question had a rather… Specific answer. It was more loaded than Saitama probably intended.
It was a curious affair, how the question arose, laying on their futons pushed too close together, sitting just on the edge of the sunlight peering through the balcony window. It was almost silent, except for the feather-light whisper of the curtain and the low, consistent hum of Genos. They just lay there, the window half open, steadily letting the breeze in.
They were close enough to hear each other breathe, bare legs wrapped around one another despite the severe heat. Saitama’s hands were wrapped around Genos’ face, caressing a thumb under his eye. Neither minded how close they were, making the effort to be as close as possible. Genos didn't mind the hand running through his hair, or the intent stare that Saitama was giving him. It was as if he was trying to soak in every inch, every secret, every moment.
Genos brought a hand to his own face absent-mindedly.
“Not exactly,”
Saitama ran his thumbs over his cheeks. “I didn’t expect there would be much difference,”
“More so than you think,” Genos smiled, closing his eyes, cupping the hands on his cheeks.
“What, were your eyes a different colour? Barely broke five foot?”
Genos laughed, appreciating his light-hearted teasing. “How much like you to guess my deep dark secret,”
Saitama laughed along with him. “Deep dark secret, hm?”
Genos smiled and nodded.
“When you say it like that, you make it sound like you were a girl or something,”
His face dropped.
It took a moment for Saitama to notice his partner’s stiff expression, soft laughter dying down, a worried look on his face.
“…Genos?”
He looked away.
A wave of panic rose through Saitama, sitting in his stomach and bubbling painfully. He meant for his words to be light and empty, to mean nothing, but his mind wouldn’t stop spiralling. He’d made a massive assumption on Genos’ part.
“… I haven't overstepped, have I?” Saitama asked in his confusion. “I’m sorry…That was, out of place and… A weird thing to say, I won’t mention it again,”
Before Saitama was able to give himself a chance to feel guilty, Genos moved to wrap his arms around him, pulling him closer as he grasped tightly onto his loose shirt. Their eyes didn’t meet, but Saitama could feel Genos take in the small features of his face. An apologetic hand came to rest on Genos’ back, rubbing smooth lethargic circles.
A small, steadying exhale comes from Genos. It’s a moment before he speaks again, finding the ability to say the words, to allow a small gaze behind the curtain.
“It’s not… An entirely incorrect statement,”
Saitama kept himself quiet, hoping his expression read how he wanted, encouraging and curious.
“My mother thought she gave birth to a daughter. She thought she had raised a daughter… It was a request of mine, to Kuseno, that I would rather be his grandson… I didn't like who I was, Saitama,”
Genos had spoken so soft, so considered. Saitama silently pulled his lover closer to his chest, cradling his head against him, hands carting through blonde hair.
“Are you happy?”
“Of course,”
“Good,”
He truly treasured any moment that allowed him a peek into Genos’ inner workings, to be trusted in a way that he was rarely afforded. Genos really had too much patience for him. Slow movements had him placing a hand under Genos’ chin, taking in the uncertain look, before carefully kissing those lips. A small, barely audible sigh leaves Genos, fingers still playing with the hem of his shirt.
“Thank you for telling me,” Saitama said quietly.
Genos could only nod. “I’ve… It’s difficult, to find an appropriate time. But I’ve also wanted to…” A stressed sigh leaves him, giving a moment to think. “My cowardice continues to be an issue… I didn't want to keep this from you, forgive me for not telling you sooner,”
“Hey, stop that.” Saitama playfully scolds. “You don’t have to share these things out of some, sense of obligation. I just want to listen when you’re ready,”
Genos finally met his gaze, his eyes fluttering, a small worrying frown covering his forehead. The motion of his core rattled his poor shoulders, his fingers twitching anxiously. Saitama sighed, caressing his lover's face.
“Thank you, Saitama. I love you,”
“I still love you, y’know? Nothing's going to change…”
All Saitama wanted, all he hoped was that his words brought calm and reassurance. He felt the other relax slightly against him, leaning that little bit closer.
“I imagine you had freckles,” Saitama said into the silence. A thumb ran over Genos’ cheek, over the bridge of his nose. A bashful look took over Genos, his eyes darting once again.
“Not just here, but all over your shoulders,” Curious hands glided over metal, pulling at the neckline of his shirt. Genos let out a small snicker, keeping prickling tears back.
“I did,” He whispered.
“I’m bordering on being a mind-reader now, huh?” Saitama laughed, kissing him where freckles used to be.
He didn’t miss them, nor did he miss the colour of his eyes, or his weak, pliant old body. He didn't mourn for the person he used to be. They were dead, buried under flaming debris and melted rubber. He held no remorse for leaving himself with only his brain, no remorse for a body he didn't want. He was thankful, those fading memories of covering mirrors and pulling himself away from the building’s edge.
But in his relief, he was grieving. Grieving the lost details of a face that only stood out to him as a blurred silhouette. Grieving a voice that he no longer remembered, the sound of his mothers laugh just... No longer there. It was haunting, to have those things taken from you.
But from what he remembered, he knew she would have loved him all the same.