There was an objective quality Genos had come to associate with his more distant memories.
Some images were vivid: a beam of sunlight with dust floating in it. Pork dumplings on a plate, steam curling out of them. A dog running across grass. These were factual recollections, he was sure of it, but they were detached. Like watching someone else through a window. A television with the sound off.
More recent events were overshadowed by chaos, crushed under rubble and drowned out by screams. Genos was fragile once, and that he had escaped at all was, in retrospect, a statistical anomaly. His body became a weapon and in the early days, he had nightmares. He dreamed he was back home and moving through the house like a ghost. It was the way he felt in his own memories. No one could see him. He wasn't there.
Certain things could not be preserved in human memory. There was too much time, too much distance for voices to echo across. Genos clung to his experiences in the moment, while he could. While they were still real.
It made sensei uncomfortable when he stared, but Genos couldn't help it. Sensations were fleeting. Saitama was on top of him, one of his hands on Genos' chest, fingers splayed. He held himself up and Genos down, into the futon and the worn blanket. His other hand was busy.
They might very well be done already, if Genos was setting the pace. On nights when sensei let affection soak into him, instead of deflecting it, he softened. He was pliant and didn't mind praise being whispered to him. Genos didn't have to drown his feelings in a flood of obscenities, which was good, because they were impossible to contain most of the time. For now, he had to be content with the display above him.
The crease of focus between sensei's eyebrows, eyes shut, tension in his shoulders. A soft grunt slipped out of him, and he caught his lower lip between his teeth to silence himself. The gold light of the sunset warmed the room, and his bare skin. It suited him. Pinned beneath his weight, Genos touched him wherever else he could reach. He dug his fingertips into Saitama's hips, raked them down the sweaty thighs pressed to his armor. He didn't have fingernails, but he could leave faint red marks, if he tried.
He wanted to see. If he couldn't work Saitama open, watching him do it himself was almost as good. Saitama might let him, if he asked. Might lay on his back, knees bent and legs spread to make room for Genos between them. Sensei was self conscious the first time, but maybe it had been long enough for him to forget the embarrassment. It was dark then, and Genos watched through his night vision. He touched Saitama's hands as they moved, stroked his arms to feel the ripple of muscle, the strength in them. Neither of them lasted very long that night.
Watching would be good. But then sensei couldn't be on top of him, rutting against him. The friction was not satisfying, but it would be enough to bring him to climax, if it continued. It had happened before. Every second ticking by on his chronometer was torturous.
"Sensei," he pleaded. He was so hard already. Drops of lubricant leaked out of him and were smeared between them, on sensei's abdomen. Grip unapologetic on Saitama's thighs, Genos looked down the line of his own body. He rolled his hips to watch Saitama's cock slide against his. The answering groan sent a throb of desire through him, and he looked up to see the reaction for himself.
The hormones that fogged his brain were synthetic and commanded by subroutines, but the lust darkening Saitama's eyes was real. If the things Genos felt were approximations, the heavy fullness of Saitama's cock against his armor was unambiguous. His lips were parted and inviting, red from his teeth scraping against them. When Genos tilted his chin up in unspoken request, Saitama's heart rate increased in answer, but he remained just out of reach. He pulled further away, rose up.
Slick fingers curled around him, and Genos closed his eyes and thought about where they had been. His jaw went slack as he rolled his hips, thrust into sensei's fist with a groan. It was slippery from too much lubricant - the one area he had accepted it was not advantageous to be stingy. Genos clutched the blanket beneath him, going still and silent as a force of nature moved above him. He opened his eyes, held his breath.
Saitama sank down onto him, took Genos into the soft heat of his body. It was one of the moments he wanted most to preserve, those vulnerable intimacies he hoarded. Sensei tilted his head back and moaned into the open room around them, and Genos reached up to touch his lips, like he could map out the shape of the sound.
They moved together, Genos holding Saitama's hips to keep him close, desperate not to miss a single panting breath. To stay deep inside him and tease out every low gasp and hiss of his name. His hand crept along Saitama's thigh, but before he could reach his intended destination, powerful fingers circled his wrist.
"Sensei, please," he whimpered in frustration. "I want to touch you."
Saitama leaned in, licked the sweat from his upper lip. "Are you close?"
"No, but - " Saitama cut him off with a shake of his head but said nothing, eyes closed and head bowed.
"Saitama," he begged. At the sound of his name, sensei opened his eyes to watch Genos' mouth as he spoke. Saitama released his wrist to brush his hair away from his face. They kissed and it tasted like the tea they had been drinking.
"I want to make you come." Genos whispered against his lips. Saitama started moving again slowly, hips rocking into Genos palms.
"You're going to," he groaned.