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The teacher and his disciple sat on the swings, waiting for the tide to recede. It was morning. The swings were battered, rusted; there was no one else around.
Saitama straddled the swing on the left. He angled himself toward Genos, keeping his disciple just within his peripheral vision, but his gaze drifted more toward the glow slowly rising in the distance.
Genos held the iron chains of his swing with both mechanical hands, silent. From somewhere far off came a sparse, muffled hum of noise. But the wind picked up quickly, threaded with a chill, brushing ripples into the water's surface that widened as they went.
Saitama turned his head toward Genos. Genos lifted his eyes to meet his teacher's.
"Saitama-sensei," the disciple said, very quietly.
All of that—those things had been destroyed. Burned to ash. Scattered to powder. Slipped through their fingers and fallen deep into the heavy, waiting ground.
"Genos." Saitama reached out. He didn't pull his disciple into an embrace, didn't touch him. Instead, he closed his fingers around the iron chain of Genos's swing.
Those things were gone. But they were still here, together.
"Sensei's apartment is gone too…" Genos murmured. The wind combed through the golden ends of his hair. Somewhere impossibly distant, the low roar of construction rumbled on—muffled and buried deep beneath the pale, high sky.
"Everything's back to the beginning, huh," Saitama said, and smiled. Around Genos, the smile came unbidden—a simple, natural rarity. "But we've both grown a little, Genos. You and me."
"Sensei…" His disciple shook his head, barely.
"Still… guess we made it in time. That's what matters." Saitama let out a breath and tipped his head back to look at the sky. A pair of birds skimmed across the slow, undulating crests of the clouds.
Silence. Still no one passed by. No one noticed them. Everyone was caught up in the aftermath—rebuilding, recovering, reunions, and whatever parties might follow.
"Sensei—what should we do now?" Genos spoke again. A familiar decisiveness had found its way back into his voice, something of the boy who'd knocked on his door for the first time.
"Oh? What about what?" Saitama kept his eyes on the sky. He found himself remembering the streets they'd walked together on their way to the supermarket.
"A great deal has changed, Sensei."
"Same as always. We go home and make hot pot." Saitama paused. "Or you wanna eat out? Udon?" The apartment was almost certainly about to be confiscated by the Hero Association, but Saitama couldn't bring himself to care. They'd figure something out.
At his side, his disciple nodded. "I'll follow Sensei's lead."
"Man… you're back. That's really good," Saitama said. He almost never said things like this—and yet it came out as plainly as any other mealtime discussion they'd ever had.
Saitama rose to his feet and offered Genos his hand. Genos took it and stood.
Side by side, talking quietly about this and that, the teacher and his disciple walked into the distance, over mud carved into furrows by the retreating tide. The pale light spilled across their backs as they went.
I found you before the stars did.
And no matter how far—I will always find my way back here.