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Summer time creeps by lazily, moving without rush like the easygoing breeze and pollen-coated heat. Flowers burst open at day and retreat with the sun at evening while the grass seems to grow greener by the moment. The heat doesn’t both either men. They are too cocooned in domestic bliss to feel a thing.
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Autumn comes quickly, eager and excited. It dances into view with vibrant reds and oranges, and Saitama thinks the season matches Genos completely. Cascading leaves of gold and red swirl in air holding the softest bite of cold. Genos says it is sad to see the flowers die. Saitama doesn’t remark on life and death, rather holds a leaf up to Genos, proudly stating that it is the exact color of his eyes. They kiss under dying leafs, and thoughts of ended life fly away in the breeze.
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Winter is harsh in terms of past temperatures, but Saitama is warm from his head to toes. Genos wears knitted tops and colorful scarves, his eyes dancing while his body remains unmoving, attached firmly to the other man. They wear each other like articles of clothing, arms draped over shoulders and wrapped around waists. Heads fit perfectly into shoulder and neck, thighs over knees, hands everywhere. The snow seems to last an eternity, but the two deemed their home a fort, and took shelter under blankets, not needing the cold as an excuse to cling together, but using it anyways. Is the silence winter brought, they were alone and drunk off of the whispered affection that never ceased.
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The beginning of spring is all melted snow and cautious sun. Dirt lay bare, naked without the fresh grass, and flowers still struggling to push themselves into bloom. A rawness covers the world, for it had gradually lost its vibrant life and ended buried under a blanket so thick, only to be exposed quite suddenly to a sun that returned unexpectedly.
Boots left tracks in the still damp earth. Saitama talked about small nothings, and Genos listened. When the flowers appeared, they would visit Bang’s grave. Festivals would be coming up. Mumen no longer faced icy roads, and his sprain was healed.
“We’re getting old these days. I’ll be wrinkly in no time, like a raisin.”
“You have yet to show any sign of old age, and with no hair to turn grey-
“I take it back. You’re still a cheeky little brat.”
They both laugh anyways, easy contentment surrounding them. Trouble did not find these two, trouble had burdened them enough already. Now they had peace, and peace suited them well.
“I would think your life expectancy to be, at the very least, a little longer than the average human’s, considering your ability to defy all natural limits.”
“Heh. It would be pretty cool to live to be 100. Imagine having a cake with 100 candles, I mean how big would the cake have to even be? No, hey, don’t give me the actual answer.”
“I was perfectly aware you were only wondering aloud, Saitama.”
“But you were gonna answer anyways ‘cause you’re a smartass.”
“If you were trying to insult me, I am sorry to say it only came across as a term of endearment.”
Saitama slowed his pace, letting his shoulder bump into a metal arm before sliding fingers in between fingers and clutching Genos’ hand. Soft smiles were decorated by light blush, cheekbones dusted in red. Saitama did not show wrinkles, but Genos admired the way age fell so gracefully on Saitama’s shoulders. His eyes had a matured glint to them. They knew things no one else would, they had seen what no one could understand. His features were all the same but still sharper somehow, his expressions deeper even. He had grown only more handsome to Genos, and in all honesty Genos could not imagine a Saitama he did not view as handsome. Wrinkles, liver spots, thin skin and bulging veins, they would all come perhaps, but they could not hide a beauty that was hidden from the start.
And Genos did worry. On nights when the silence got to him even through the soft sounds left by Saitama, he would see the image of himself unchanged and unaffected by age, standing alone in the world with his feet to a grave. Everybody dies in the end, but natural death, the slow decline in health as the clocked ticked steadily, this was something new to Genos. He had been robbed of his family violently, and prematurely. Bang’s death had been accidental, his clock breaking suddenly and his life over before it was supposed to be. Genos had walked through the roads collapsing and wet with human blood, he had smelled death, it had lingered on his hands, woken him from sleep. Death was part of life, but for those who constantly fought on the frontline, for the heroes that won the most battles, they were close companions with death, familiar in ways no one should be.
Despite this, Genos took enormous comfort in the invincibility Saitama seemed to possess. Death could not separate them like normal humans. They would have each other for a long time.
“Careful, you’ll crush the buds.”
Saitama led Genos, pulling his body in slight direction so his feet would not step on the tiny green plants. Genos watched the ground, his boots sinking heavily into the mud with Saitama’s. Between their footprints the plants struggled to catch the sunlight and push higher.
“If it was all a dream, if this entire world wasn’t real and you suddenly woke up, what do you think you would do, sensei?”
“Oh. Uh, depends. Would we still know each other?”
“No. We would have never met.”
“Then the first thing to do would be to go find you, I guess.”
Genos pressed Saitama’s palm to his lips, a kiss that did not interrupt their walking.
“I promise I would find you too, Saitama-sensei.”
“I believe you.”
And he did. Saitama could never, not after all that had transpired, doubt the unwavering devotion and loyalty Genos showed him. He would question Genos as to why the younger had chosen him of all people to follow, but these days Genos didn’t even give his full answer anymore. He would just smile and look so fondly at Saitama, or kiss him with exasperation. Sometimes he would hold him as if he could actually be hurt, and say because I love you until the sun set and dreams bubbled up from behind closed eyes.
“Oi! We’ve been waiting for you two! Hurry up!”
But they didn’t. They continued at a slow pace, smiling at the noises of frustration Fubuki made. King stood out among the blizzard group like a tower, and Mumen could be seen waving to them from the back. Heroes in causal wear mingling and enjoying the warm evening, ranks and statuses left behind for the most part. New faces stared shamelessly at the two as if they were ghosts, while older familiar smiles greeted them and offered drinks.
“I apologize for our tardiness. My sensei and I were occupied.”
“Yeah, if ‘occupied’ stand for se-
“Fubuki! Genos shut up.”
Genos smirked anyways, Fubuki laughing into her hand while Saitama scolded him.
“Oh come on, its not like it’s a secret.”
“No, but I really don’t want to talk about my sex life in public and honestly your interest in it is pretty creepy.”
Fubuki huffed, still smiling as the blush on Saitama’s face faded slightly.
“Technically it is our sex li-
“Genos!”
The blush returned on Saitama’s face twice as bright and he made a halfhearted attempt to hit Genos lightly. Genos only dodged and ended up on his other side, kissing his head innocently. Fubuki didn’t both to muffle her laughter. King had appeared behind her, eyes on his game and only half listening, not willing to comment on the topic at hand.
“Ah, Saitama! Genos! I hope you have some cups!”
Mumen handed the two a bottle, Saitama’s eyes widening. Genos displayed the two little cups he seemed to pull from the air.
“Dude this is really nice sake! Don’t tell me you’re just giving it to us?”
“Don’t worry about it, you deserve it! Enjoy yourself!”
Mumen began engaging King in a conversation, making it impossible for Saitama to continue arguing without being rude. Genos simply smiled contentedly, placing a cup in Saitama’s hand and pouring from the bottle. Genos enjoyed it when other people showed their appreciation for Saitama, but only Genos was allowed to truly spoil him. Saitama held his own cup in one hand, and took the bottle from Genos, pouring for him before placing the bottle on the ground. They drank, small sips with small smiles and gentle eye contact above the rim of the cup.
“Would you like more, sensei?”
“You really don’t need to call me that when we’re in public. Or ever.”
Still, Saitama lifted his cup as Genos reached for the bottle.
“Please hold the cup very still, sensei.”
“Huh? I a-
Soft lips caught him by surprise, but Saitama did as he was told as Genos poured without spilling, and kissed far too deeply for a public event. Someone whistled, Saitama guessed Fubuki, or Sonic if he had showed.
Genos tasted like strong sake and black tea washed away with traces of peppermint toothpaste, his skin felt the way water looked, and his hair tickled Saitama. Once, Saitama had thought that kissing was just a motion, nothing else besides movement of two people, contact of lips. He found it boring, and failed to see why the lips were such an intimate point of contact when no emotion was produced. And then Genos kissed him, and he kissed Genos, and he knew that the way his heart floated out his throat and stars appeared in his vision meant that he had been completely wrong. They weren’t connecting skin, they were exchanging vows and breathing in butterflies, and it made them hopeless and desperate as love did.
When they did part it could never be a complete separation. Fingers and hands took over, steadying each other. Genos brushed the skin around Saitama’s ear, smiling in a way that the elder could not scold or argue with. Resigned, he drank from his cup, and the ceramic was a poor substitute for Genos. He drank deeply from the atmosphere around him, but only lightly from the liquid. He inhaled the laughter of others, breathing in the smiles not faked, the friendship budding. Old friends leaning in close, sharing words, sharing moments. New memories forged by the light heat of the sun, leaving imprints in soft earth.
A petal fell in Saitama’s cup, and Genos reached out, lighting fast to retrieve it. Saitama stopped him. Saitama said nothing to Genos’ unspoken question, he just smiled. The cherry blossoms had such a short life, it deserved to live a little longer before dying on the ground. Saitama wondered if it would taste just like how the new spring felt. The balance of early life and possibilities and the fragility of one petal. Genos watched Saitama watching the petal, content for no other reason other than his pleasure at being alive. He wasn’t just lucky enough to have what he needed anymore, he had what he wanted.
Saitama watched the petal, and he smiled at nothing. He thought about mosquitoes and how they would be roaming the air soon. They would bother him (they were pests after all) and he would swat at them, lazily trying to avoid being inconvenienced. They didn’t make him think of Genos, but they did remind him of his and Genos’ first meeting. And out of all the strange and not always pleasant experiences Saitama had lived through, it was funny that one of the smallest occurrences had led to the biggest outcome. A mosquito, a cyborg, a connection. It felt too uneventful to possibly be the start of everything. Although to any normal human their meeting was eventful and strange. And Saitama understood that, he knew perfectly well that his life was not normal. Because of the way he lived, monsters and cyborgs and all the crazy shit in the world became his normal. But god, he learned so fast that Genos wasn’t normal, and he learned so quickly how incredible it could be to just enjoy the connection two people could have. He had been willing to stop there, to not ask for more, to accept so happily that the universe had pushed Genos and himself together and given him this gift. And then he wished he could take it back, wished he had never gotten comfortable with peace because it didn’t just slip through his fingers, it was yanked from his grasp and left him bleeding from the violence of its departure. His life entered a state of horrible confinement, and from Genos he gained only heartbreak, and gave only heartbreak. To loose the privilege of sunlight, the interaction of smiles and laughter, the changing of the seasons, Saitama was ready to let that become his new normal.
And of course it was Genos who said no, who said enough, who said you do not deserve this. He stretched beyond his limits, reaching, and finally grasped onto Saitama, shaking him by the shoulders as he screamed I love you and pulled Saitama from the darkness despite the damage it caused to his body.
Genos acted like Saitama was a gift to his life, when it had been Saitama who had been salvaged so tenderly despite not only his brokenness but also his uselessness. It was together that the two began to think less about themselves deserving less, and more about each other deserving more.
“We should come back here, when the flowers have bloomed.”
They smiled, childlike easy joy on faces still struggling to not focus on past troubles. Genos nodded.
“Yes. I would like that.”
What he didn’t say out loud but what still understood was the hopeful future of returning not only when the flowers bloomed, but the next year when they bloomed as well. And the year after that, and years and years later for as long as time would move forward for a beating heart and a running core.
Days would turn into weeks, and those weeks into months, and eventually those months to years. Years would become decades, and maybe even those decades to centuries. The future wasn’t always clear but that didn’t change the reliability they had found in each other. Whatever would come would come.
And they were unafraid.