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The door is unlocked when he gets home. Genos puts his key in his pocket as he walks into the entryway, confused, and almost asks why, but Saitama beats him to it.
“Ah, you’re already back from the doctor?” Saitama’s voice carries from the kitchen as he wiggles his boots off with a quiet huff.
“Yes, this upgrade was primarily cosmetic, and thus relatively quick.” He shuffles his shoes back in line with the others next to the door, turning to Saitama as he straightens.
“Well, do you wanna come with me?” Saitama inquires, bending over for his own pair of sneakers. “They’re having this double clearance event at the convenience store over near the train station,” he starts, before pausing. With a quick glance at Genos, he suddenly becomes very focused on tying his shoe. “Or maybe you shouldn’t,” he mumbles. “You remember that that one Lawson where we had the whole – ” he makes a crunching motion with one hand, “ – the, the thing, with the canned fish? I think you might still be banned. But the sale’s storewide today…”
Genos has enough tact to be embarrassed, and he also has enough pride not to show it. That really had been a waste of good fish. But sensei shouldn’t have to work around his failing! (A good disciple is never inconvenient to his master, as the act of teaching is in itself an accommodation.) He hastens to correct Saitama. “You should go to the sale anyway, sensei! It’s more efficient to save money when you can, even if I’m unable to enter the store. Additionally, I was going to do the laundry once I returned.”
Saitama brightens. “Oh, that works out then,” he says, eyebrows faintly raised, and continues tying his shoes. “You want me to pick up those spicy noodles you like?”
Genos is preoccupied putting on his apron and mentally writing a list of things to accomplish in the upcoming hour, so he goes with a basic script. “It’s not necessary, sensei, a particular brand of noodles isn’t something that – ” He’s interrupted by Saitama’s voice rising up behind him.
“I know it’s not ‘necessary,’ idiot, I was asking if you wanted any.” The dull familiarity of a hand ruffles through Genos’s hair, pausing at the base of his neck before trailing down his back, and he turns around to see Saitama looking a little pissed but a lot fond. “Quit overthinking it. Do you want some or not?”
Genos blinks at him a couple times. “Yes, but – ”
“Ok cool, so we’ll get some.” Then he leans in closer with a squinty look. “Hey, wait, you look – good. Different? What’s different?”
Genos is happy to repeat himself. “Mainly, the protective covering on my neck and face, as well as some fine-tuning of the neurosensors in my upper torso and hands,” he elaborates. The doctor wanted to test the fracture resistance of one of his newer skin formulations, and a non-mandatory upgrade had seemed the best time.
“Ohh, cool, cool,” Saitama nods, very clearly not understanding any of it. “But you uh – nothing was wrong, then? Just improving things a little?” He looks over Genos appreciatively, pulling one of Genos’s hands into his own, as if he can see the new sensors himself.
He definitely doesn’t puff up a little at the weight of that gentle gaze. “Yes, sensei. Everything is functioning at full capacity.”
Saitama hesitates, eyes darting from Genos’s hands to his mouth, his waist, as though he wants to forget the sale entirely, before letting go with a quick squeeze. “Yeah. So. I’ll be back in a bit, alright?”
“Yes! Please return home soon, sensei!”
“I will, I will, I’m not gonna get lost or something,” Saitama mutters, his ears turning red as he breaks eye contact. “Have fun doing the laundry, ok?” he calls, heading out of the entryway with the door clicking shut behind him.
And with that, Genos pivots back toward the apartment. Laundry, of course, but first, maintenance. He blinks one eye, glances to the side and upwards in a pattern that unlocks his utility HUD, and flicks through the settings and preferences of himself with minor irritation before finding what he’s looking for. A small alert at the bottom of his most recent upgrade patch flashes the words “neurosensor calibration required” in yellowy-orange. Another pattern of blinks starts the calibration, and he returns to his ultimate goal, and its accompanying list. (Step 1, put on apron to protect clothing from possible stains or damage - completed, step 2, check the entire apartment to ensure no laundry is forgotten before beginning the wash - in progress;) he hunts through the apartment, gathering a couple towels and the odd sock or two that’s been lost under the table or futon. Completed - next is (step 3, sort laundry by color and size), and he trundles his way through the next three steps until in a few minutes, the machine is swishing away quietly.
He leans back on his heels, smooths a nonexistent wrinkle out of his apron and feels the satisfaction of a list completed settle over his shoulders. Okay, next? Genos takes a half-step toward nothing in particular, trying to decide what to do. He had made a list of tasks for the next hour, mostly laundry-themed, not his usual outline of the day. According to sensei, spontaneity was an important battle technique. The precise wording might have been “Don’t plan everything so much! Just do what makes you happy, geez,” but he can easily extrapolate his sensei’s true meaning.
He glances at his HUD. Calibration is at 97%. Ordinarily, he would start something for lunch, but it’s a little too early, and Saitama-sensei might bring new ingredients from the sale; he’d rather wait until he gets back before preparing something. A stray piece of clothing fuzz floats through the air, catching on the tip of his bangs. He bats at it instinctively, only to snap his hand back in shock. One finger must have touched his forehead, which would be nothing remarkable on any other occasion, but he felt it, far more intensely than usual, a feather of sensation where he’d usually get nothing at all.
Maybe his haptics were malfunctioning? It’s really his own fault if they are, for rushing to leave the doctor’s rather than running calibration properly at the lab, but he’d insisted that it would be fine. He’s just not used to the new sensors yet, he thinks. There’s absolutely no possibility that Kuseno warned him, and he merely ignored it. He does it again, this time brushing his hand down one cheek, and gasps. His hand is textured, the way it’s always looked, but never felt, and registers as gentle for the first time in – a while. In a rush of impulse he presses his other hand to the opposite side of his face, letting out a huff as he squishes his cheeks together. It’s more intense, but no less surprising.
Part of him is trying to stay on track, but he hadn’t made a track for today, exactly, so his fingers run down the line of his jaw, dripping sparks of sensation in their path. Genos wanders a loose path over to their futon, and drops to his knees, feeling out the lines of his face. The pads of each finger give easily when pressed against his skin, almost velvety, and the armor that covers each knuckle and joint is nowhere near as cold and steely as it looks. Then again, he couldn’t say whether his hands had always been warm. It wasn’t something he had known before now.
Genos gets a little lost in trailing his fingers over his cheekbones, across the bridge of his nose, for long enough that he realizes what he’s doing, and he breathes in, once, deeply, trying to steady himself. The exhale comes out too breathy, more of a sigh. A thought tumbles through his fuzzied mind; what about his neck? He’d had a black utility covering before, one that stood up nicely to the blast chamber of his everyday life, but he knows for a fact that the old covering wasn’t as sensitive as his face, and the doctor had installed the neurosensors for this skin only a few hours ago. Even his old face wasn’t as sensitive as he is right now. One shaking hand runs down his chin, into the softest chokehold imaginable, and the rush of feeling, warm and feathery, knocks him from any attempt at proper posture. He spills into an awkward mess on the futon, legs splayed beneath him and his hands too preoccupied.
It feels so much. He can’t decide what to do first. Run a finger along the dip of his collarbone? The edge of his armor just barely drags against his skin, so delicate, it doesn’t even hurt, what about his lips? They’re so much more – mmh. He mashes his fingers clumsily against his mouth, hardly thinking, sighing at the stimulation. It’s like scratching an itch that’s been ignored so long he gave up on being satisfied. At some point a hand finds its way into his hair, and oh, that’s nice. It’s so soft. He runs his fingers through it as it parts and settles along a sensitive spot behind his ears, falls back against his forehead. There’s the tiniest pressure when he pulls a little that sends shivers up his back.
Genos loses track of how long he lies there. It’s been years since he’s felt this relaxed, and he is incredibly alright with staying here on the futon, exploring the various ways he can touch, so he doesn’t react as he probably should when the lock in the apartment door jiggles. There aren’t any proximity alarms going off, it’s fine. Everything’s just fine. He hears Saitama’s voice, talking in the kitchen as he puts away groceries, and that’s great too. But it’s only half of a conversation; Genos doesn’t realize that he expects an answer until he’s suddenly a lot closer.
“Genos? Genos – hey!” He blinks open his eyes to Saitama leaning over him. “Dude, everything ok?” he says, looking rather unworried, which is as worried as he’s capable of looking. A small ping in his heads-up alerts Genos that his sensei’s heart rate is significantly elevated. The realization that he’s sprawled over their futon with no explanation arcs through him, scratching away whatever pleasant daze he’d been in. The laundry’s definitely been done for a while, shit.
He scrambles to sit up properly. “Everything is alright, sensei! I didn’t hear you – come in?” The last word turns into a question, his eyes widening with his own surprise. He can’t remember the last time he forgot his surroundings so thoroughly, even without his alarm system.
Saitama levels a look at him, not quite trusting his reply. “You sure you’re good?”
“Yes!” he half-shouts, hoping that if he’s loud enough Saitama will believe him.
“Alright,” he relents, the wariness not quite leaving his face, and goes back to putting away the groceries, while Genos sets about hanging the laundry up to dry. They switch places, and the TV turns on as Genos heads into the kitchen, assessing a potential method of attack. It looks like curry is out, but they have some interesting options considering the sheer amount of eggplant Saitama bought. In another few moments they’re back to homeostasis.
It’s only when they’re sitting after lunch, Saitama clearly heading toward a nap and notes on how stir-fry affects sensei’s energy levels consuming most of Genos’ thought process, that Saitama speaks.
“Ok, yeah something’s up,” he remarks, sounding much more awake than he appeared.
Genos turns toward him with a question. “Sensei?”
“You’re being all weird with your neck.” Genos snatches his hand away from his neck, where it had drifted up and down without thought, until he noticed Saitama noticing.
“I didn’t intend to,” he starts, turning toward him wide-eyed, but Saitama is quick to reassure him.
“I’m not blaming you or anything, chill out. It’s just – what are you doing? It’s weird.”
“I didn’t wait for the doctor to calibrate my neurosensors properly,” he comments. He pauses as he considers why he’s doing it, anyway. “I think they’re slightly oversensitive, but it can easily be fixed.”
“Oh.” This seems to satisfy Saitama, who goes back to falling asleep. He looks the same as he did five minutes ago, but this time Genos is listening, and he writes a very detailed nothing in his notebook as he watches Saitama’s heart rate ticking up up up. He waits, patiently, until the silence stretches to breaking and Saitama says what he’s already thinking.
“Okay, actually,” he starts as he pushes himself off the floor, over to Genos’ spot by the table. “I figure I’m allowed to ask, since I’m your – you know, we’re together, and we live together, and do – we kiss, and stuff, and...” Genos doesn’t bother standing, holding back his words so he can watch Saitama sputter over his own.
He can’t quite hold back a smile though. “Shut up!” Saitama complains.
“I didn’t say anything, sensei, please continue,” he returns, the very paragon of a dutiful student.
Saitama makes an indistinct grumble. “You’re saying it with your face! I’m trying to ask you something.” He pushes his palm into Genos’ face before he has time to react – and he thought his own hands were soft. They’re hardly a candle to Saitama’s crackling fire.
He sighs, immediately relaxing into Saitama’s grip. He’s so gentle, he thinks, as his eyes fall shut and his head lolls forward, dropping to his chest when Saitama’s hand snaps away. Genos blinks, popping upright and looking away as quickly as it happened. Not that it helps. Saitama peers at him instead, bending almost double to squint into his face. “See, you’re being weird.”
Genos dies a little inside. The warm feeling flooding through him is only psychosomatic, in a tiny turn of luck; but what if it’s not? What if he’s actually blushing? Did the doctor add that in too, purely so he can experience the full human humiliation of Saitama seeing how he feels? He shrivels a little more. “I apologize for my overreaction, sensei, I’m not used to the precision of my new sensors yet, and it could take up to several days before they register as –” He stops, trying to fit the most meaning into the least words. “ – before it registers as myself.”
Saitama doesn’t speak at first, face impassive, before softly poking one of Genos’ cheeks. “Does it feel that nice?”
Genos frowns. “No, you’re poking me,” he accuses, and Saitama sniggers as the finger at his cheek turns into the swipe of a palm up his neck. Genos can’t help tilting his jaw upward, wanting to keep him there. Saitama leans down to the floor and kneels until he’s sitting next to Genos, and the snickering fades into a smile as soft as the fingers running through Genos’ hair.
“What about this? That feel nice?” Saitama is scratching his head now.
“Y-es,” Genos lets out, a little slower than he would normally, unsure if he should thank him or not.
“Ok what about this?” His hands run down to the back of his neck, trailing along the line of Genos’ spine.
“That’s – very nice, sensei.” He hadn’t tried that one on his own, and there’s a soft spot at the base of his hairline that makes him tip his head forward almost unconsciously.
Trying different ways of touching, Saitama’s hands wander over Genos’ face and neck, carrying calm with every fingerprint until an arm is propped on the armor of one shoulder just to keep him upright. A little pleased sound emanates from somewhere. Genos’ eyes snap wide as he realizes it was him. When had his eyes closed?
“I apologize!” he stumbles out, but Saitama just waves him off.
“No, that was cute, lemme do it again. It’s like I’m putting you to sleep,” Saitama muses, his voice pulling Genos out of his thoughts as he runs his hands down his neck, over his chest, around his waist. He moves to cover Saitama’s hands with his own. Genos’ sensors are nowhere near as finely tuned here, but his fingers make up the difference, feeling the infinitesimal creases where Saitama’s fingers splay out to hold him. He trails an index finger across Saitama’s, lets the edge of his armor catch on his thumb.
Then Saitama’s pulling them both toward the futon, a silly grin planted on his face. “Hey, Genos, c’mere.”
“There’s no need, this is – pointless, sensei please don’t,” he protests, or tries to, but his own hands betray him, only weakly grabbing at his notebook before giving up and letting himself be dragged by the waist. He ends up strewn chest-high in Saitama’s lap, watching with mild confusion as Saitama drapes his arms over each of his own legs, jostling until they fit together neatly. Genos tips his head back, looks up into warm brown eyes that still hold an echo of a smile. The barest hint of knuckles drifts down his cheek, and a thumb traces the line of Genos’ cheekbone. So careful. Genos thinks about mountains, buildings, monsters, the craters left behind those hands like afterthoughts. He lets his eyes close.
At some point he’s aware of his hand being moved, lifted with care that he’d almost forgotten until recently. Breath whispers over his fingers, and oh. He’s being kissed. That wakes him up a little. Genos lazily refocuses on Saitama’s lips hovering above his palm, and meets his gaze, feeling something close to pure contentment. Fingers brush a tiny strand of hair away from his eyes, back in line with the rest of his bangs, and he slips into tranquility as the tenderest of touches smooth across his skin.
Saitama takes a breath, holding it before speaking. “I’m really lucky – ” he blurts, then sighs instead. “I’m really glad you’re here, Genos,” he murmurs, as he folds Genos’ fingers into a loose fist.
Genos looks back at him, incredulous, “I’m the lucky one, sensei,” he breathes, marveling at how Saitama barely presses lips to his knuckles, reverent; like he’s holding something priceless.
The sensors are new, still. They’ll take a few days to properly calibrate and will deactivate when he’s in battle mode, the way they always do. But this moment will stay, as impossible as the delicacy in the indestructible hands that hold him.