He was a bald man who fished alone in a skiff and he had gone forty-four days now without taking a fish. In the first twenty days a boy-machine had been with him. But after twenty days without a fish the boy-machine's mother had told him that the bald man was now definitely unlucky, and also strange, and to go with another boat that had caught four good fish in the past week. It made him sad to see the bald man come in each day with his skiff empty and he always went down to help him carry the coiled lines or the gaff and harpoon, incessantly chatting with little stories from home and from the ocean.

The bald man was lean and built with thin scars down his neck. Brown freckles dotted his tanned-burned skin where the sun reflected off the sea. He had good, solid hands that were thick at the wrist and in the places where cords had calloused his palm and fingers. Chestnut eyes hovered over a simple smile, his expression clear like a cloudless sky. His naked skin gleamed, and his laugh was rare, and only occurred in these quiet moments between them.

"Saitama," the boy-machine said to him as they climbed the bank from where the skiff was hauled up. "I could go with you again. We've made some money."

The bald man had taught the boy-machine to fish and the boy loved him.

"No," the bald man said. "You're with a lucky boat. Stay with them."

"But remember how you've gone fifty days without fish and then we caught big ones every day for two weeks."

"I remember," the bald man said. "I know you did not leave me because you doubted."

"I left only for respect of my mother. She worries."

"She hasn't much faith." he said, scratching his ear. "In me."

"Maybe not," the boy-machine said. "But I do."

He hummed, distracted.

The boy-machine looked him directly in the eyes. "I'm going with you tomorrow."

"No." He said, gaze wandering to the fish village cafe. "Listen to your mother. You are still young, a boy-machine only."

The boy-machine huffed, indignant. He dropped the gaff, nearly slicing off the bald man's foot.

"I am not a boy!" he exclaimed. His eyes narrowed at him, pale blond hair casting dark shadows over his brow. "I have told you before. I am nineteen. And I am not a boy. I am a man."

A point the boy-machine had contested hotly with his mentor for several months.

Shoulders hunched, he glared at the bald man. "And so, I am not your boy-machine. I am a man-machine. I am a cyborg." Wide, exasperated eyes burrowed into the bald man, prickling his skin.

"Tch. Yeah, yeah I remember I remember," he drawled, chewing the side of his cheek. "Your mother still said no though. And! I've known you since you were -ahhhh," his eyes spun into the corner of his eyeballs, reaching backward into some half-forgotten memory.

The boy-machine pursed his lips. "Since I was 15."

"Ah, yes. Still a boy then. You should listen to your mother."

He scowled, but relented, feeling it better to compromise for the sake of conversation. "...yes, sensei. Out of respect, though, not of duty. I am a legal adult," he said stiffly.

And I am going with you tomorrow, he thought stubbornly.

The bald man nodded, dragging his feet purposefully through the sand, the boy-machine standing still behind him, shoulders hunched.

"Hmm. A cyborg. All grown up. Okay," he murmured. He turned around to look back at him. "You going to pick up that gaff?"

The man-cyborg nodded.

"Then let's go."

"Yes," he plucked up the gaff from the sand, holding it deftly in between his metal fingers.

There was a moment of silence between them, only the dampened slurs of sand pouring between their feet and the waves fluttering far behind them.

"...can I offer you some udon on the Terrace?" he proposed carefully. The bald man glanced quickly at him. "Then we'll take the stuff home."

The bald man nodded, unable to turn down free food. "Why not?" the bald man said. "Between fishermen."

The man-cyborg smiled.

They sat on the Terrace on plain wooden stools, the bald-man's back turned to the public as they laughed and made fun of him for his failures. He was not angry, and reached over to his heated ally to quiet those fisted hands. No, mi cangrejo. Others, of the older fishermen, looked at him and were sad. But they did not show it and spoke politely of the current and depths and the weather. The man-cyborg, his companion of four years, shifted beside him comfortably. The bald man sat on the side, his hand touching the man-cyborg's bare elbow. He sat on the side with the first eye. The walnut eye, that did not shine in the dark.

"Saitama."

"Yes," the bald man said. He was holding his bowl in his hands, thinking of many years ago.

"I will go out and get sardines for you, for tomorrow?"

"No," Saitama said. "I am unlucky these days."

"I would like to go. Even if I cannot fish with you everyday, I would like to serve in some way, at least."

"You bought me udon," Saitama said, gracing the man-cyborg with a small upturn of his mouth. "You have already made me happy," he said, slurping noodles through thin lips.

"How old were you when you first took me in a boat?"

Saitama wrinkled his nose, thinking. "21. I was a little green then, nearly killed you when I brought in the wild boar-fish that broke the boat in pieces. I'm glad you came out alright." Or your mother would have flayed me alive.

He nodded. "I can remember the tail slapping and banging, wood chips flying around the mast and the noise of clubbing. I can remember you pushing me into the bow where the wet coiled lines were and feeling the whole boat shiver with your strength." The man-cyborg's teeth caught his bottom lip in a bite. "And the noise of you clubbing him like chopping a tree down," his voice lowered here, husky and dark, quivering as he whispered "..and the sweet blood smell all over me." and you

"Hmm. I was just hitting the thing...you really remember all that?" Saitama wondered, dot-brown eyes watching him closely.

"I remember everything from when we first went together."

The bald man looked at him with his sun-burnt eyes, brightened suddenly with inner light. Ducking his head, he blushed, satisfied.

"Genos."

"Yes, sensei?"

Saitama sipped on cool water, hiding a smile.

"Some sardines would be nice, I guess."

"Yes, sensei!"

better to fail, let the shadow-man consume

these will not tame him

leave him to old dust

take him back

They sat on the boat, back to back. Five lines at multiple depths were strewn across the ocean. The day was bright, sunny.

They had gone all the way past the land into open waters of great distance. Saitama had insisted. He had felt a good current today, and led them into deep purple-blue waters that glittered all around them. To their left was a clear horizon, cutting crisply across the sea. To their right lay the blurred outline of the shore, far away enough to lazily look over in favor of white, pearly clouds that encircled the sky above them. Saitama leaned back, unconsciously resting on his companion. His wavy hat brushed against Genos' neck. Genos stiffened.

Genos' harsh gaze burrowed straight ahead of him above the dark waters, saving his good eye from the bright rays of fractured sunlight radiating from the sea. He felt Saitama's head loll onto his shoulder, and wondered if he slept with his body against him like this, the bright sun spooling its light around them. Genos relaxed, and chanced craning his head back to see if he could rest in the crook of Saitama's neck.

His pale hair spilled onto Saitama's burly shoulders, Genos' face turned into Saitama's skin, wondering if it tasted like sea salt.

"Genos?"

Genos whipped his head forward. Hair curtained his eyes as his shoulders hunched, him taking great pains not to move his back and let Saitama's head fall.

"Yes, sensei?" the man-cyborg said quietly, relishing the pressure of this man's body against his shoulder.

"Have any of the lines moved?"

"No."

"Good, good..." Saitama murmured, drifting back off to sleep. Genos waited. Patiently.

The sky star softened as noon passed, and the yellow-white light of day was slowly fading into the golden glow of twilight. An hour or two passed. Saitama hummed softly in his sleep, a broken melody escaping his lips as Genos listened closely.

Genos licked his lips, nervous. The lines had not moved all day. But this day would not go to waste.

He tensed his shoulder muscle, where the majority of Saitama's weight from his upper body rested. He reached back with his bone-and-flesh hand and held his breath, creeping behind the man's bald, smooth head to support him. Genos quietly twisted in his seat, taking great care not to nudge Saitama or disturb his sleep. He opened his legs, spread wide and feet braced against the boat's wooden bar, above Saitama's slumbering form. Saitama's arms were folded loosely in his lap. Genos bit his inner lip, moving his left shoulder to burden it with the bald man's sleeping head. He slid forward two inches in his seat, stealthily, snugging Saitama's curved back against his chest. He removed his hand from Saitama, whose head freely acclimated to a new position in the crook of Genos' neck. Genos breathed, careful to exhale away from Saitama's face, inhaling slow and smoothly. His hands rested lightly on Saitama's clothed hips, he daring to graze the skin of his face across Saitama's cheek. Genos relaxed, savoring the pressure of Saitama's body against his.

He inhaled Saitama, the scent of ocean salt and sweat and skin flooding Genos' senses. Genos breathed deeply, like he wanted to swallow Saitama with his breath, hungrily. Genos prayed, he prayed, prayed that no fish would disturb the lines, nor wake Saitama from sweet slumber.

you are mistaken

he is mine, he is mine, he is mine

can not tame him with a wild soul

no

bring him back to light

Saitama's vision blurred as his sleepy eye lids begged to be glued shut. He felt hot breath against him, and thin hair tickling his nose, and knew who was beside him.

Hot, but tempered sunlight bronzed his exposed body. He felt light pressure at his waist, a cold metal hand careful not to brush his skin and the warm one that dared to keep only a hair's width between their flesh. Saitama kept his breath steady, and long. He knew Genos would wake him if the lines moved. He knew Genos would stay alert, all day, with no complaint. The quiet rustle of their clothes moving against each other trickled into his ears, and he almost smiled. His half-lidded eyes drifted shut, and Saitama pretended to be asleep.

mi cangrejo

he is coming back to me

Saitama opened his eyes.

And felt, not for the first time, confused.

He tried to get up, but only succeeded halfway, his body somehow drained of energy. He noticed Genos, the fleshed angel, lying beside him on thick grass, its brash young color flooding his vision with bold green.

"Genos?"

Genos murmured, his replies slurred, barely making it past his flushed lips. They were in the field again, the garden. Saitama sighed, his head almost throbbing.

He leaned back down on the thick grass, momentarily dazed.

"Genos.."

Genos stirred.

"What was that?" he said, turning to look at his companion.

Genos was gazing at him, blond lashes curled softly around his eyes.

"Those were mine. From me," he said, voice aged with fatigue

Saitama blinked, understanding coming slow for him. "Yours? You mean," Saitama's simple voice quieted to a whisper. "Your memories? Those were yours? From you?"

Genos nodded, small stalks of grass lightly scratching his face as he moved, his body folded onto his side, facing Saitama.

Saitama dipped his head in acknowledgement, and turned his gaze upward at a blue sky he was certain didn't exist. Clear. Only a single puffy cloud in the corner of his eye. His lids drifted shut, and were immediately assaulted with red-hot images of a scorching earth and a final battle between two Genos' of great and terrible power. To the death. He wrenched his eyes open, choosing for now to think of better things.

mi cangrejo

of an old skiff, lost at sea, a man and a boy,

no, he thought. a man and a man, lost at sea, neither one caring if they ever returned to land. Only that they returned together.

He sighed, then shifted his head to turn again to Genos, his guardian angel, whose eyes still bore into his. who had been looking at him this whole time.

Saitama gave him a watery smile, and spoke, his voice uncommonly tender in his mouth.

"What does...mi cangrejo mean?"

Genos sucked his lips, cheeks pink. "It means...my crab. In spanish."

Saitama sniffed. "What...I used to call you that?"

Genos stared intently at Saitama, failing to mask his intimacy.

"Yes."

Saitama sighed, turning his head away from him, only the blue sky filling his vision.

"Genos," he said.

"Yes, sensei."

"Genos..." Saitama reached out a hesitant finger to smooth over Genos' cheek, a weak pretext of moving his hair from his mouth. Saitama bit his tongue between his teeth, his gaze momentarily strengthened as dark brown eyes gazed deeply at Genos

"You've always loved me, haven't you."

Genos' eyes at last drifted shut, wistfully longing for the other man's touch, lips soft and wet as his breath left heated from his dry throat. He gritted his teeth shut, watching as Saitama pulled his hand away. Genos closed his eyes once more.

"Yes, sensei."

Saitama nodded, almost absent-minded, but heady with thought.

"Oi, Genos..."

"Yes, sensei?"

Saitama's eyes pierced him. "Did you used to call me something?"

Genos hesitated.

He looked down.

But only for a second. It was not for too long that he could look away from Saitama, not when Saitama was looking at him like that, like he used to. Like he remembered.

Genos swallowed.

"I...I don't remember," he said softly, reaching across the space between them to rest his fleshed fingers above Saitama's brow, Saitama's heated skin burning through him. Saitama closed his eyes as Genos' fingers swept over them.

Genos stared at him, gaze soft, eyes half-lidded, voice a small flower that bloomed only in the dark.

"Mi flor de mar..." he whispered.

mi anemona

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Notes:

"Hermit crabs and sea anemones share an unusual and intimate underwater relationship. Young hermit crabs will often pick up a young sea anemone to attach to their shell and they become partners for life."