Chapter Text
—
The two moons sank and the one sun rose. It was bright and hot this morning, but the inhabitants of the surface couldn’t tell for all the clouds. It tried its best to make up for it whenever the sky granted an inch, so every now and then people walking around had to squint and shield their eyes.
The planet was small compared to their neighbors. There were just the right amount of kingdoms to name them alphabetically, and the rest of the planet (at least as far as modern explorers knew) was only ocean.
Kingdom Z wasn’t the smallest, but it was the poorest, at least speaking comparatively. Its technology was limited and its crime rates were only low because everyone was busy worrying about the high rate of monster attacks. They came from the forest and the mountains, great hulking things that spoke human language but lacked human empathy. Many of them had actually been people once, though just as many had been born within the recesses of nature out of the muck that sometimes gummed up the circle of life. They all only wanted violence, but for the things they needed—shelter, water, prey that didn’t have weapons—they came to the woods, making the wilderness around Z one of the most dangerous places on the planet.
So Saitama really had to wonder what this guy was thinking, coming out here alone.
Sure, Saitama was also out here alone, but he could handle himself. This guy looked like he was about to cry.
Said guy was a few inches past six feet, with slicked back blond hair that went to his shoulders. His hoodie and jeans looked like the sort of comfort wear Saitama tended towards, though much higher quality than he himself could afford. The man had had the hood of his jacket up until just a moment ago, and the harshness of his features contrasted sharply with the frightened tilt to his brow.
Saitama watched him walk by from the top of his tree, debating hopping down to talk to him. It was possible he was lost. On the other hand, maybe he was here for some shady secret meaning, and getting involved would just mean trouble.
He shifted on the thick branch and took a bite from his apple. He had a small sack of them in a hollow in the trunk, next to a pile of clothes and some toiletries in plastic bags. There were a few other hollows he kept his stuff in, but this was the tree he slept in, at least for now. He’d had a small shelter made from sticks and an old blanket until the recent storm. Now he was making do until he could gather enough wood for something a little more sturdy.
Saitama glanced up at a rustle in the branches and sighed as a squirrel passed by on a neighboring branch. It wasn’t even nervous around him anymore.
Living with squirrels. He tried to think of his lifestyle as “extended camping,” but sometimes it was just depressing.
He took another bite of his apple and looked back down to the forest floor. The guy had knelt down at the trunk of another nearby tree and was clutching his head like it was about to explode. “About to cry” was quickly bleeding into “crying,” and if Saitama didn’t interfere soon it would become embarrassing.
After a few quick bites and hurried swallows, Saitama tossed the apple core aside and moved to sit up. He’d just swung his legs over the branch to hop down when the forest quaked with a blood-curdling scream, a sound high and inhuman and foretelling of death.
The man had frozen solid at the sound. Then he started to tremble, so violently that Saitama could see it even from the treetop. Saitama grabbed branches to balance himself as he stood, scanning the area for the source of the noise.
Nothing. He pulled himself higher up and climbed until he was peering over the treetops.
There it was. Hard to miss it: a giant bird, or something like it, black feathers but sharp teeth pointing out from its beak. It was at least the size of a small office building, with talons as thick as tree trunks, and it was headed right for Saitama.
Saitama ducked back beneath the leaves and let himself fall to the forest floor, landing on bent knees without a flinch, though the blond man reeled back and thunked his head against the tree trunk.
He didn’t have long to be surprised before the ceiling of leaves parted and big black wings swallowed up the sunlight. The bird struggled for a moment, blocked by trees, and its talons swiped blindly and sent shattering branches flying. They bounced harmlessly off of Saitama but the man was struck either by just branches or the edge of a talon, Saitama hadn’t seen which, and he let out a scream and clutched at his bleeding face.
The bird focused on the sound and flapped its wings, hovering just above the trees, then shifted its beak as it targeted correctly. The man curled in on himself and braced for death as the bird monster swooped down with another forest-shaking screech.
There was a massive THUD and a shower of feathers so fast that it seemed to happen before Saitama had even struck it. The bird lay stretched across the forest floor, several trees broken in half by its body and falling atop it like a final insult.
Saitama sighed, recognizing a few of the trees as some of his storage spots. Hopefully the bird’s blue blood wouldn’t get on his clothes.
He turned at the sound of a strangled sob. The man was still crying and whimpering, clutching his face and making himself as small as possible.
“Hey.” Saitama reached out his foot and nudged the man’s shoe when his voice failed to get his attention. “Hey, it’s okay, I beat it.”
The man made a small gasp and turned towards him, lowering his hands a little, but he kept his eyes squeezed shut. Tears were leaking out his tightly pressed eyelids, a mixture snot, blood and drool dribbling down his chin.
Whatever had hit him had left three shallow cuts over his left eye. The blood trickled down his face and dripped onto his blue pullover, only slightly washed away from the hot tears spilling down his cheeks.
“It doesn’t look too bad,” said Saitama. He tilted his head, inspecting the man’s face for further damage. “Can you open your eyes?”
The man took a few more harsh breaths then did his best to open them. He squinted up at Saitama, then blinked as he realized he could still see.
It really wasn’t bad; the blood made it look worse than it was. The blue of the man’s eye was undisturbed by gash or fluid, meaning it hadn’t broken through his eyelid. It would leave some scars, but would heal pretty fast.
The man was looking between Saitama and the corpse of the bird now. The look in his eyes was so stunned that it made Saitama a little uncomfortable.
“Who…” The man swallowed thickly and spoke again. His voice was a little more steady. “...who are you?”
“I’m Saitama.” Saitama didn’t often deal with politeness or introductions, but it looked like some attempted normalcy would calm this guy down. “What’s your name?”
“I, I’m king,” said the man, looking baffled by the question somehow.
“Hey King,” said Saitama as he held out his hand for the other man. “Nice to meet you.”
The man—King—stared at his hand, that baffled expression still in his face, but eventually he took it and allowed himself to be pulled up.
King stared blankly at the bird for a while. He seemed to rock a little on his feet. Saitama wiped his hand on his shirt, which was already ruined anyway, and shifted to stuff his hands in his pockets.
He looked up at the guy and gave him a little nudge with his elbow. “You should probably get home, monsters show up a lot out here.”
“Huh? Oh.” King blinked out of his short daze and looked around, his eyes just skimming over Saitama like he couldn’t look right at him. “I, I’m lost.”
“Just go straight that way.” Saitama pointes behind them, northward towards the nearest road. “I put a rock every two trees to mark the path, you see it?”
He got a weak nod. “Yeah…”
“Follow the rocks, you’ll be fine. That bird scared off anything else around here.” He glanced down at the man’s soiled jeans. “...you’ll see a river not too far that way, too.”
King stiffened and his face burned. “Th. Thank you.”
But he still didn’t move. His legs still wobbled somewhat. Eventually he blinked out of a daze again and looked down at Saitama with a small frown. “What are you doing out here?”
Saitama could have asked him the same thing, but he had work to do and didn’t want to prolong conversation any longer. So he just folded his arms and shrugged. “I live here.”
King was obviously even more confused at that but just nodded. He took a cautious step forward towards the trail, stumbled a little, caught himself. Then he was walking forward slowly and carefully like he thought there were mines under his feet. Or, more likely, monsters.
Saitama watched him for a moment then turned away, ready to scavenge among the shattered trees and maybe decide if the bird was edible.
—
The week following the incident was quiet. Monsters appeared every now and then, but without civilians nearby they were merely routine, and Saitama easily took care of them and then went back to building his new shelter with just a flick of his wrist to clean off the gore.
No other people came by until Saitama was done gathering wood and had his shelter halfway built. It wasn’t much, just sticks balanced the best he could to hold up his blanket. Part of it had fallen over again and he was in the middle of propping the logs back up when he heard the clanking shuffle of armor and the crunching of leaves behind him.
He turned and saw a pair of royal guards. The gleam of the metal over their chests and the deep red of their tights and tunics looked completely out of place among the littered leaves and tree trunks. Saitama recognized their uniforms as those of Kingdom Z, but otherwise couldn’t tell much about them besides one was very tall and wide and the shorter, skinnier one had notably long eyelashes.
They had both stopped and were staring directly at him.
“Um.” Saitama cautiously removed his hands from the log he was balancing and faced them. “Hi.”
The one with the eyelashes stepped forward. “Are you Saitama?”
Saitama raised an eyebrow and scratched at his ear. “Yeah.”
“Your presence is requested at the castle.”
They stared at each other. Saitama’s lip quirked up and monotone laughter spilled from his mouth.
“Hahaha.” His laughter died out as the serious expressions continued their intensity. “Ha… oh, you’re not kidding.” His hands fell to his sides and he searched them for answers. “Uh. Why?”
“You have been asked for by the king himself.” The soldier looked like he didn’t get it either, his eyes glancing over Saitama’s in-progress shelter, but to his credit he stayed professional. “You must come with us immediately.”
“Seriously?”
“Yes. While His Majesty did not share his reasons, he stated it was of utmost importance.”
Maybe he was in trouble for something. Or they were looking for some other Saitama, not that his name was common. But the guards were staring at him intently, still standing straight and tall with their armor catching the light that slipped through the leaves, and the looks on their faces meant business.
Saitama glanced back at the pile of branches that was to become his home. He was pretty neutral towards the kingdom (he didn’t think much about royalty, or leaders, or much besides easing boredom and where he’d find food next) but he had hoped to finish this today.
Saitama adjusted a crooked log. “He can’t take a rain check?”
Eyelashes guy blinked at him. “...the king?”
“Yeah.”
“...no. His Majesty cannot take a rain check.”
Saitama sighed. Oh well. No sense in causing trouble for himself by putting up a fight.
He stepped away from his shelter and stuffed his hands in his pockets. “All right, lead the way.”
The way he was lead took them out of the forest to a dirt road, where a surprisingly nondescript black van was waiting for them. Saitama has expected maybe an airship, or at least some kind of royal insignia, but now he just got the feeling he was being kidnapped.
“The king requested discretion,” said the taller guard in a deep voice, apparently noticing how Saitama had looked at the vehicle. He moved to the double doors at the back and turned the handle to hold one of them open, almost dwarfing the van beside his broad, armored shoulders. “Please step inside.”
It still felt suspicious, but Saitama could break out of the car with a punch to the wall if he needed to, so he went ahead and stepped inside.
The interior was a lot nicer than he expected. The seats were lined with red velvet, as were the walls and ceiling, though the floor was lined with a thin, soft purple rug. When Saitama sat down he sank a good few inches into the cushion. He made little “ooh”s of amazement as he shifted and burrowed deeper into the plush seat.
The two guards stepped in with him and shut the door behind them, sitting on the other bench lining the wall of the van. The big guard took up nearly half the seat. It was like looking at a ham next to a string bean.
Eyelashes knocked his hand against the little window to the driver’s seat and they began to move, Saitama tilting just a little from the movement of the car and then straightening himself up.
He wished that the van had back windows, or that he’d thought to bring a book. The guards either had no answers for his questions or were staying discreet with what they did know, and besides that couldn’t seem to hold a conversation. Saitama eventually gave up and relaxed into the cushion, tempted to lie down for a nap.
The temptation would have won out if the ride had been longer, but it was a surprisingly short time, maybe twenty minutes, before he saw them passing through a back gate from the view through the windshield. A few security posts later and they’d arrived at what he was pretty sure was the castle. It was difficult to tell from the limited outlook.
The van drove around to a small parking garage with a few similar vans and pulled up to double doors made of heavy, dark wood. The doors of the van opened and Saitama felt even more suspicious at the sight of the shadowed room, but no one grabbed him or ordered him around. The guards only stepped out and then asked him to follow, the large one even offering his hand to help Saitama down to the concrete floor.
When they were let in through the heavy doors they first seemed like they were inside an office or maybe the front hallway to a factory, the walls plain white with fluorescent bulbs lighting their way. The guards stopped a few times to enter elaborate passcodes to sliding doors and then they came to a series of stairs that they had to climb single-file, the larger guard having a bit of trouble fitting, making soft grunts as he climbed behind Saitama.
The top of the stairs brought an obvious shift. They stepped through another set of doors and were suddenly in a brightly lit hallway lined with plush red carpet and portraits hung upon the walls. Saitama looked over his shoulder as the doors shut and saw them essentially disappear into the wall, their smooth surface painted to look like any other bare wall of the hallway.
He raised his eyebrows at the sight but turned back to watch where he was going, his eyes skimming across the paintings on the walls and the pattern of lanterns which were held up by sculpted silver vines. Though he wasn’t about to snatch anything off the wall, he had to wonder how much they were worth and how someone managed to spend more money than he’d ever had on a single hallway.
But then they reached the largest doors Saitama had seen, solid mahogany with the crest of Kingdom Z carved halfway up to the high ceiling. It took both guards to open the doors (though the large one seemed to have an easier time than the other) and Saitama let out a low whistle as they opened into a glittering golden room with white pillars and fine chandeliers seeming to form a path to an high throne.
They stepped inside, the guards coming to a halt just by the door as Saitama stared in wonder around at the elegant room.
“There you are,” said a deep voice from the other side of the room. The floor stretched so far that Saitama couldn’t make out the figure seated in the velvet. “Thank you. Please leave us.”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” said the guards together, both bowing deeply and then making their exit.
Saitama turned around in time to see the heavy doors shut behind him.
He stuffed his hands in his pockets and turned back around. No one else was in the room except him and the source of the voice.
He knew he was out of place amongst the gold, wearing old sneakers and a promotional Soy Sauce t-shirt, but he stepped forward and spoke loud enough for his voice to carry to the other end.
“So, I think—oh.” Saitama stopped at the unexpected echo. The acoustics of the room was incredible. He spoke again, a bit quieter, but still totally audible. “I think there’s been a mistake.”
He heard the voice again as he kept walking forward. “It’s no mistake.”
It sounded a little familiar, but he only really recognized the man when he’d made it halfway across the floor and the face was in clear view.
“Wait, you’re… that guy! King?” Saitama brightened up at the sight of the healing scratches over the man’s left eye. “You look healed up now, that’s good.” He paused, realizing again just where the man was sitting. He scratched at the back of his neck, an old habit. “Should you be sitting there?”
The man said nothing. Saitama stopped his idle scratching and made himself notice the details of the situation. The man’s hoodie and jeans were gone. In their place were fine fabrics, likely silk, including a sleek black cloak over a bluish-silver tunic, detailed with a deep purple sash and silver buttons. Even his boots, ankle-high and pointed, looked like they’d been sewn together with silver thread. And with the outfit taken in his eyes slid up to see a portrait of him in even finer clothing, glittered with real gold laid over the paint, including in the crown laid delicately over his blond hair.
In conclusion: yes. Yes he was definitely supposed to be sitting there.
“Oh.” Saitama’s voice was weak, like he’d suddenly come down with a cold. “Oops.”
He couldn’t tell the source with how it echoed around the room, but he thought he heard a drum, quiet but powerful like a timpani played at a steady, constant rhythm.
The man (the king, the king not—) lifted his chin and spoke a simple yet strong command. “Step forward, Saitama.”
Saitama moved forward cautiously. His mind races to remember what he’d learned in elementary school about proper behavior around royalty: posture, eye contact, how deep to bow, etcetera. Unfortunately all he could remember was that there were a lot of things he didn’t remember, so he walked towards the throne with sweat at his brow and overwhelming embarrassment over mistakes he hadn’t even made yet.
He reached the steps and the king raised his hand to wave him closer. Saitama wasn’t afraid—he could fight his way out of anything, and besides that he hadn’t done anything wrong—but the cold stare in those heavy eyes made him feel like whatever was about to happen would be a massive hassle.
Saitama walked up the steps (was he supposed to take his shoes off? Ugh, too late now) until he was right in front of the king. He moved even closer at another wave. That drum was louder now, seeming to come from the king himself.
The king glanced around as though someone could be watching behind a pillar. Satisfied, he leaned in close to Saitama.
The king’s intense look faded into wide-eyed panic and his voice dropped several decibels. “I need your help!”
Saitama stared at him. He blinked a few times, thinking each time he did he’d open his eyes to that intense look again. It didn’t happen. “Huh?”
“You defeated that monster in the woods with just one punch!” The king looked around again, leaned back in. Up close his face looked sweaty. “Didn’t you?”
“Yeah?”
“No one can—I mean, that’s…” The king swallowed and tugged at the collar of his cloak. “That’s something only I’m supposed to be able to do.”
Saitama tilted his head a little bit away from the man. More sweat was forming at the king’s brow, his eyes constantly darting towards the doors. “...I’m not getting it.”
The king leaned back and took a deep breath. He folded his hands in front of his face, not quite prayed but not mere nervous twisting of fingers, either.
Once he’d settled down a little, he spoke again. His hands stayed folded in front of his chest. “You didn’t recognize me.” He glanced again at the doors. When no one came in, he looked intently in Saitama’s eyes. “Have you heard about me?”
Saitama was still tilted away, but he shrugged. “I mean, I knew we had a king…”
“I’m the strongest man alive.” As soon as it came out of his mouth the man winced. He swallowed and gave a wheezy little breath. “That’s… what they call me.”
Saitama didn’t say anything, just looked at the man’s face and his wringing hands, but it was likely obvious he found it hard to believe.
“It’s all a lie,” the man whispered, so quietly that if it weren’t for Saitama’s trained senses he wouldn’t have heard it beneath the mysterious drum. A hysterical giggle popped out of the man’s mouth. “All of it! I’ve never fought in my life!”
Saitama nodded, starting to understand, at least a little. “But I have.”
The king nodded so quickly Saitama almost worried for his neck. “I’m not strong,” he continued, “I—I’m not, I… but… but you are!”
Saitama nodded. There was no need for false modesty when it came to his strength. Since his training, it was difficult to even overstate what he could do.
Still, this was a pretty absurd situation and he didn’t feel very interested in being a part of it. “Uh, I don’t think I…”
The man’s hands shot out and grabbed him desperately by the forearms before he could refuse. Saitama let him, withholding a grimace at the sweat on the large palms.
“Please! I’ll give you anything!” The man’s eyes were so wide and his brow so creased that his forehead became more wrinkle than skin. A pallor shined through his natural tan skin, as though he were about to be sick. Still he whispered every desperate word from his throat. “It’s out of hand, they, they don’t think they need to protect me anymore!”
Saitama frowned. “Who?”
“Security, and, and the guards and…” The king realized he was starting to raise his voice and quickly lowered it and leaned in closer to Saitama. “But there’s monsters and assassins and I need someone here! Someone who knows…” He wheezed and finally let go of Saitama to clutch his chest. “But people can’t find out or everything will be ruined, everything will—“
Saitama swiftly put his hand over the king’s mouth. “Calm down.”
Surprisingly it worked, and he immediately stopped talking, taking slow breaths through his nose until sweat stopped pooling at his temples and even the drum quieted down.
Saitama searched his eyes, the tired bags beneath, the frazzled tangle to his hair. Somewhere in the back of his mind a switch was flipped. The man was King again, just some guy. A guy who was lost and in way over his head.
He pulled his hand away. It felt weirdly warm at his palm after pressing against the man’s lips, but he ignored it. “Feeling better?”
King took another deep breath. His shoulders slumped so they were to his chin instead of his ears. “Yeah, I, I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine.”
Saitama pressed his knuckles to his face and tried to think. This was a weird situation. Manageable, but weird.
“Ok.” He met King’s eyes. They were calmer now, but still tilted, reminding Saitama privately of a frightened bulldog. “You need me to protect you. But, like. Secretly.”
King nodded, wringing his hands in his lap.
Saitama continued, circling a finger in the air to the rhythm of his own words. “So I’m gonna be your bodyguard… without… being your bodyguard.”
The man’s voice was strained, but he murmured a quiet, “Yes.”
“Then you need me nearby.” Saitama gestured to the extravagant room. “But I don’t know anything about court stuff or… whatever.”
King nodded again.
“What would my job be?” Saitama lowered his hands. He slipped one back into his pocket and gave a small, uncertain shrug. “Is there a royal janitor?”
King took a deep breath. He took so long that his chest seemed to strain his shirt. The stalling was so impressive that Saitama didn’t even mind the suspense, his eyebrow raising higher with each second that passed of King just filling his lungs.
Finally it was too much and he hideously coughed out, “My lover.”
Saitama turned on his heel. “Nope.”
“Not—not for real!” King’s hand shot out again and he grabbed Saitama by the shirt. He couldn’t tug him back but he clinged tightly to the cheap cotton. “Just for appearances!”
“No.”
“Please!” Saitama glanced back to see King had his hands together, sincerely begging. “I’ll pay you. I’ll pay you more than you’ll know what to do with. And, and you can have anything you want, and you’ll live in the palace and you’ll never have to sleep in the woods again.”
A steel triangle was hit somewhere in Saitama’s head, the ringing tone harmonizing his thoughts at the words. Never again.
A roof. A floor. A bed. A—
Wait. Never.
He straightened up, cautiously squinting at him. “This sounds like a permanent gig, y’know?”
King grimaced and gave a weak shrug. His voice was high and strained as he muttered, “Is that so bad?”
Saitama chewed at his lip. He glanced at nothing, letting his thoughts fumble through his brain. After a moment’s consideration, he tilted his head to give a cautious look to King. “Can I say no?”
King wilted. “You can… but... I hope you won’t.”
Saitama nodded. “Then I will.”
He got an excited gasp from that and King’s hands tightened around themselves. King shuffled in his chair like an excited dog who’d been told to sit and stay but who really, really wanted to move. “You will?”
“Not like I’m busy,” said Saitama with a conceding nod of his head. He stuffed his other hand in his pocket and toyed with the inner lint. “...what’ll I have to do?”
“You just sit near me,” said King, trying to stay composed, “and I’ll introduce you as my companion.” He swallowed. “And, and sometimes I’ll… touch you.”
Saitama leaned back with the start of a suspicious squint and King hurried to clarify. “Like on the shoulder or something! Just so we look like we’re close!”
His sincerity was obvious. Saitama supposed it was awkward for him, too. With a final sigh, Saitama pulled out his hand and flicked it open-palmed to King.
Saitama gave a quick, determined nod, lip tilting up in a smirk. “No hands below the belt, and we’ve got a deal.”
King stared at the hand like he had before in the forest, wide-eyed with parted lips, but this time it melted into an extreme relief that wobbled a little at the edges like he might cry.
He took it and shook rapidly, smile splitting across his face. “Thank you! Thank you, Saitama!”
Saitama let the man shake his whole arm and practically the rest of him in his enthusiasm, smirk fading back into his default blankness purely from habit. His eyes caught again on the elaborate portrait hung above the throne, clinging to the details of gold and the intense expression preserved in strokes of paint.
A fresher spot laid over the painted King’s face, three white lines where someone had added his scars within the same week that he’d gotten them, before they’d even truly healed. The significance of that was lost on Saitama, but something about the portrait’s whole appearance made him nervous, like it was waiting for him to dress up in gold and hop in beside King.
As King finally let go of his hand and the lingering vibrations where he’d been grabbed faded, Saitama wondered if maybe this wasn’t a good idea.
—