Chapter Text
There were many things in Saitama’s life he had no control over: The weather, the variability of sales, the appearance and disappearance of potholes.... There were many things, however, he could control: His wardrobe for one, and who he let into his house for another. Now it might not seem like a big deal to be allowed in, but Saitama was protective of his apartment. It was shoddy, falling apart, and smelled like a cat lady’s 1950s workbasket magazine collection, but it was home. Things were aligned in certain ways, and had been so since moving into the ramshackle place five years ago. So letting any old loaf in could potentially disturb what was a pristine and balanced ecosystem. That meant to a certain degree, Saitama trusted you. Heck, maybe even liked you. It was a pretty big deal. He’d have signs or maybe even business cards to inform visitors of their extreme luxury, but facts were he didn’t have a lot of acquaintances. Only two or three of the already slim pickings ever wanted to come in. By that time they knew the deal; they knew it was a privilege. Living there was something that Saitama had never considered. Who would WANT to live there? But Genos did and at first it was out of the question, but… Every man has his crutch, and Saitama’s was a heavy stack of crisp, fresh bills from the bank.
Crisp bills couldn’t put a price on his sanity, he was finding. Nor did it drastically improve his standard day to day dress. Anyone who was close enough to Saitama knew the deal on his wardrobe. His clothing choice was largely based on comfort. Who gave a hoot what it looked like? If it was comfy, he wore it. End of discussion. Sometimes he pushed the envelope a little, but thanks again to that very magical and very vital ORGANIZATION system he had worked up he knew roughly what he was putting on. Listen, you only went out to get a sale with a tank top that said ‘baby got back’ once. The old ladies were not pleased, and even less so since he had chosen booty shorts to wear along with it. Old Ms. Nagisaki still muttered stuff like ‘crazy homo’ below her breath when they passed in the aisles. Well at least HE didn’t smell like denture cream and dog kibble.
The point was, Sai never expected that a newcomer to his small, secluded universe would be A) so forthright with their opinions and B) manage to fuck up five years of careful organization in two days. Truly, if there was a blue ribbon in the category of oblivious assholes, Genos had won it. Hell, Genos would have created it. Genos would be the supreme overlord of oblivious assholes with shining good intentions. But what could Saitama do when he came back from grabbing a soda and was greeted with a cheerful, loaded bomb of a statement from his ‘disciple’?
“Surprise!”
Oh boy. Oh boy, oh no. Saitama mustered up a smile, shifting in his sweatpants and sweatshirt, “Wow, uh… What a surprise?”
“I knew you would appreciate it, Sensei!” Genos sounded like an excited puppy, so determined to get a head pat for his good work. The apartment smelled. Not like the normal smell, but of acidic lemon cleaner and the tang of bleach. Air freshener sang in the air, some poor imitation of flowers. There were Grade A flowers and Grade B. These were Grade F. Thankfully, Genos was one who was eager to hear his own voice, and began to expound upon all the wonderful surprises he had made.
“After examining the room for two days and Sensei’s patterns, I have optimized the layout to offer the best functionality for Sensei’s needs. I also purchased more hangers and two small storage receptacles and have carefully organized Sensei’s clothes so that they are easier to find and offers more room for later purchases.”
It felt like the world had abruptly, and suddenly, been tilted on its side. Saitama leaned into the wall, pleased that it was still there and Genos hadn’t sledgehammered his way into optimization heaven. Who needs walls, he’d shout, PEE BY THE STOVE AND COOK IN THE TUB. “W-wow,” was all he could stutter in response.
“Sensei, are you alright?” Genos steps were thunderous and echoed with the clinks of metal and the soft whirr of electronics. Sneaky wasn’t something the cyborg could ever achieve, but he was pretty certain sneaky was the last thing on Genos’ mind. Heavy steps ended right where Saitama stood. A cool metal hand touched his shoulder, “Allow me to explain my reasoning, Saitama-sensei. I believe once you understand the layout better you will appreciate these changes.”
Heaving a sigh, Saitama fought to bring a smile to his face as he looped his arm in Genos’, “All right, fine kid. You win. Tell me all about your grand scheme.”
“Thank you sensei!” There was a little snag and stumble when the cyborg nearly ripped his arm out of socket dragging him away from the comfort of the wall, but once he got his footing it was fine. Normally walking down the hall was of no import, but these ‘changes’ made every step feel like a pitfall. Where familiar comfort once had been, now an inky black void of uncertainty lay. Genos, thankfully, didn’t seem to do anything with the hall and even managed to lead Saitama through the doorway safely.
“As you can see -” Saitama snorted softly, but went unnoticed by Genos, “I have moved over the television to be flush against the wall and provided room for your anime shelf, which I have also rearranged to be alphabetically ordered.”
“Oh good. Terrific.” He muttered dryly. Wasn’t like there was a system already in place for those. No, really Genos, thank you so much for being such a biiig help . Despite the sarcasm ringing, er more like screaming, in the back of his skull, he remained quiet.
“The futons are now upon the wall immediately near the kitchen to ensure the maximum room around the apartment. The computer and desk I have put on the opposite wall to be out of the way, as before Sensei would always brush against it when going in or out of the room.” Yeah, it was like an anchor point, an old friend. There were fourteen steps from the sliding glass door to the computer desk, and then just a step or two to the door proper. When he had first moved in, finding that desk was like dry land. Like a holy pilgrimage to rid himself of urine practiced nightly. The fact it was gone left a bitter taste in Saitama’s mouth and a stabbing pain in his chest.
“Uh… Okay.” Following what Genos said, Saitama made slow movements, feeling his way around the apartment and rearranging the map in his mind.
“Is it to Sensei’s liking?”
“It’s not bad.” It was horrible. Okay, to be fair, the changes were easy enough to grasp, but it was the principle that kept screaming at him. This was not okay, no matter how you sliced it. Yet Genos sounded so pleased with himself, so very eager to impress his Sensei that, well… Saitama didn’t have the heart to say anything against it. Genos said he optimized it… And sometimes change could be good. Saitama could adjust. He could figure it out.
For a while, he did. Then one night, he was lying in the middle of the hallway door wondering where his life went down the drain. Waking up dazed in the middle of the night and wanting to go pee usually didn’t lead to face planting into hard wood. In his half awake state, he had went back to the floor plan that had been there for five years. When he couldn’t find the desk, he panicked… And then found the door jam. Well, the left part of his body found the door jam, and then Saitama found the floor. Floors sucked at giving hugs, just fyi. Genos however, was pretty decent at it. Sai was lifted and held in his cold, metal arms and squeezed lovingly.
“Sensei! What happened?”
“Uh well… I… I fell. Dude, I need to pee, though, so… Much as I appreciate the hug.”
“Yes Sensei!” Genos released him unceremoniously. Saitama flailed and caught himself before hitting the ground fully again, “Sensei!” With a defeated groan he plunked his head onto the ground.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
It was uncomfortably warm in the small restaurant, the scent of miso broth and sliced green onion stinging his nose. Saitama took a breath and leaned back, his hands clutching the wooden counter before him. There was just a light wind outside, enough that it made the thick plastic divider slap together. Sort of like a cheap, greasy version of a wind chime. Ever omnipresent was the clink of bowls and the slurp of patrons, followed by the sound of a knife chopping furiously and dashed with the bubble of boiling water.
“Saitama? Were you listening?”
“Huh?” He leaned back in and turned his head left from where the voice came. There was a disappointed sigh, “Sorry, you know me. I got distracted.”
“It’s hard to imagine a blind man has ADD.”
“Look, I might not get distracted with bright shiney, but noises sure as hell get my attention.”
“Well,” The man’s voice was muffled, probably rubbing his face again. Mumen did that a lot. Ah, there was the familiar little clickity clack as his glasses were removed, “Let me see if I got this straight. You met a man who wanted to be your student. You agreed to let him not only be your student but stay at your place?”
“Mmm, t’be honest I thought he’d get bored.” Saitama’s fingers began to trace the wooden counter. Whorls and swirls of the countertop were like old friends, familiar textures he could immerse himself in as he waited for their food to get done, “But he didn’t.”
“Right, and not only did he not get bored, but he organized your wardrobe…”
“And the house!” Saitama sat up straight, slapping a hand against his knee as he did, “Like everything is all out of order and the other night I totally ate hardwood.”
“But the wardrobe, erm…”
“Yeah, I mean it’s all jumbled now. All that work we did last month was obliterated, Mumen. How bad is my outfit today? Like One to Ten.”
“Ten being you should light yourself on fire?” Mumen asked with a wry smile in his voice.
“Yes.”
“Eleven.”
Heaving a sigh, he tugged at the shirt he was wearing by the bottom hem. Not like he could inspect it, but it made Mumen giggle. “Can’t be that bad, man!”
“It’s pretty terrible, Saitama.”
“Explains why Genos was adamant about knowing if I was really going out like this.”
“Order up!”
Silence hung between them as long as the noodles they slurped. Saitama was, as always, a quick eater. He shoved the food in and slurped along, enjoying the textures and flavors. This was the best place for a meal. He tried to not be hyper critical, but when your palette was a little more powerful, things like too much salt or not enough seasoning really made a meal into a chore. Least this place always was good, and cheap. That’s what he really enjoyed.
“Do you want me to talk to him, about maybe… Putting things back in order?”
“Huh?” Noodles plopped out of his mouth into the bowl.
“Saitama! Come on, that’s gross,” Right, right. Grunting, he grabbed a napkin and mopped up his face as Mumen continued, “I mean Genos, should I ask him to put your clothes back?”
“No way. Look, it’s a pain in the ass, but I’m fine with looking like a slop. Seriously, who cares?”
“I’m sure Mrs. Nagisaki would have a very different opinion.”
“You can’t see it, but I just rolled my eyes behind the shades. Hold-Hold on.” He set his chopsticks to the side and tugged down the aviators in order for his eye roll to have full effect, “There. Did you see it? Mumen?” His companion snorted in agreement. Goody. Sliding his shades back in place, he fumbled for his utensils and started to eat again.
“Saitama, you’re not going to tell him? Really? I know it must be exciting that someone is taking you seriously, but you need to respect yourself more.”
Perhaps the only downside to not caring how he appeared was also not caring about what emotion he showed. The bite of noodles seemed cold and bitter in his mouth and he struggled to swallow.
“I spoke out of turn, I’m sorry Saitama.” Mumen’s warm hand pressed against his arm, emphasizing his remorse-ladenden voice.
“N-nah, don’t… Don’t worry dude. I’m full.” Setting the chopsticks crossways over the bowl, he pushed it further away from the edge. Mumen was a good man, a kind man, but sometimes he was too honest. Too sincere. That sincerity led him to say things that were just a little too barbed. Before Mumen spiraled into a loop of worry and shame, Saitama patted his gut and belched, “Man, good food. ‘Sides, I need to start working on my beach bod. No way am I fitting into that fried egg bikini of my dreams without shedding a couple pounds.” That earned him a pleasant laugh as well as Mumen’s hand retreating.
Saitama ambled outside and stretched while Mumen worked on paying for the meal. Maybe his friend was right… Setting boundaries was healthy, even if it meant potentially offending someone who was taking him seriously. This was his life, his home. Sure, it was nice to have some recognition, but if it came at the cost of his personhood, was it worth it? Wow, now that's some shit to put on a Hallmark card. Maybe not Hallmark. Something close?
“Mumen I had a wonderful Hallmark Card moment.”
“Tell me on the way to the store.”
“Well, you see…”
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
“See you next week, Saitama.” Mumen held the door open so he could slip through. The cool air of the apartment greeted him first in a gentle embrace. Thankfully, it didn’t smell like a cleaning conference had exploded inside. Genos must have decided to take it easy today.
“Sure dude, thanks for the help.”
“We can work on organizing your wardrobe too…” Mumen’s voice was laced with concern. Saitama grinned from ear to ear.
“Mmmhmm, whatever you say~”
The door closed on their conversation, leaving Saitama in silence. From the sounds of it, the patio door was open - the chimes outside were much louder, and there was the rustling of cloth. Sweet fabric softener livened the air with flowery notes. Now those were some Grade A flowers. They lured him closer and closer to his doom. “Genos, I’m ho-- OW!”
When would he be able to walk through his damn apartment without running into something again?! An angry, pained cry growled out of his throat as he hunched over. Something had knocked him square in the hip as he walked through the main doorway.
“Sensei! Please watch where you are walking!”
“Ha…” Okay, this was the final straw. No more being mister Nice Saitama and letting Genos walk all over him. Even if it was great to have a roommate, if it meant being covered in (accidental) bruises then that was a no go! “Genos, what did you --”
“I put everything back as it once had. Sensei… I’m sorry.”
“-- You…. You’re sorry?” Saitama stuttered to a surprised halt, slack-jawed and confused. Aliens. Had to be aliens. They must have come and given Genos a personality transplant or some good old foresight. Damn it, if he had only gotten their address, he would’ve sent them a bouquet and a thank you card. ‘Dear Extraterrestrial, thanks for fixing my roommate and making him less of a dingus. Ps, could you take a grainy picture of yourself so I can go on talk shows and rave about how I saw you? It’d be hilarious. Love, Saitama xoxo’.
“Yes, I… Sensei I have a hard time understanding boundaries and picking up body language,” Yeah that was pretty obvious by now, dude. Genos’s voice stumbled and halted to silence. If not for the growing whirr of fans, he’d have thought the conversation was over. In a voice, much smaller than seemed possible for a cyborg built for battle, Genos confided, “You see I... am on the autism spectrum and these things are, are… Difficult to grasp. I am sorry for invading your personal space as I have. If you would like me to lea--”
“- Genos.” Saitama reached out towards the voice and found something soft. Fleshy. His face? Oh. Genos’ face had flesh on it? His arms and hands were cold, articulated metal. It did make sense that he had a soft fleshy face instead of a terminator mask. But, now he was curious. How far did this go? Without thinking, his fingers trailed backward until they were tickled by hair and found the soft shell of his ear. Genos’ sole protest was from his fans kicking into high gear, but nothing physical or verbal, “Genos, it’s cool dude. We all make mistakes. I should have set some boundaries myself, but I was really… Really happy to have someone close to me again. Thanks man. So unless you wanna leave, you don’t gotta. All right?”
“Y-yes… Of course.” Saitama pulled back his hand and grinned, giving the cyborg playful double pistols. There were those fans again, whining and whirring like a modem trying to load dirty mags on dial-up. It was time to put away groceries. There were meat and milk, after all, and they would spoil if they didn’t get in the fridge soon.
“Sensei?” Saitama was at the door to the kitchen when Genos spoke again. Stopping, he hummed loudly in response, “Might I ask for… one thing?”
“Yeah dude, of course!”
“... Please let me burn the shirt you’re wearing.”
“No way, it’s a classic!”
Dear Diary,
I have gained enough information that I am certain I will create a much better living arrangement for Saitama Sensei. After all, his current living facilities are not only subpar but also infested with mold and cobwebs. While Saitama does not seem particularly bothered by these things, I am certain a clean environment will do him good.
Sensei is leaving, so I must get to work! (scratched out) what the hell is he wearing?!
Sensei had a peculiar taste in style, and that was to say absolutely none. Genos couldn’t help but eye the current day's outfit with barely concealed contempt. The sweatshirt and sweatpants look was bad enough, but the print was horrible. Someone had been possessed (because really how else would this have been made?) to print a ‘Chicken Flavored’ Nissan instant ramen package as a top. As in, it was one giant picture, all grainy and weird, with a muted yellow like honey mustard sauce. Then, the sweatpants were covered in cartoony cabbages on a white background. It was topped with the piece de resistance - purple crocs. At some point, he would need to discuss with Sensei how he came upon these clothes, but that was for another day.
“See ya soon, bud. Gonna get me a soda.” Genos waited patiently, sitting seiza with a tense body as he stared holes into the door. Okay, from Five….. Four…. Three… Two…. One. Yes, Saitama was officially going to get a soda. Heaving a sigh, the cyborg hopped up and donned his ‘war tunic’ - a bright pink apron with an adorable egg on the front; a white bandana around his head; big, floppy plastic yellow gloves; and a little tote that looked like a smiling ducky. Though, now it was a ducky that had been speared and eviscerated with lemon and flower scented cleaning products, dusters, garbage bags, a bottle of bleach, and a whole platoon of steel scratchers.
Cleaning when Sensei was there was too difficult. The man always demanded that Genos relax, that the place was clean enough, and for the life of him the blonde simply couldn’t fight it. He simply couldn’t tell his Sensei how WRONG he was, even if the evidence was literally growing around them by the second. It wasn’t like the whole place was filthy. No. Certain areas were bright and clean, typically ones that were used frequently. But the further you got out from those well-worn tracks (there were literal walkways worn into the wood floor), things got bad. Got real bad. Genos had seen some shit living in hostels and low-end hotels, but nothing like this. There were cobwebs in the corners that could have made a haunted house cry, and the cockroaches had somehow evolved into super-roaches. They were larger, more cunning, and Genos was fairly certain they had a social hierarchy going on. He didn’t like it. No sir.
But perhaps the biggest issue was Sensei’s guard about the furniture placement. He stubbornly declared that the layout he had now was the best, but Genos had to watch day after day as the man nearly careened into the desk, or bashed his shins on the coffee table. It was a never ending story of nail-biting misses and daring feats. Frankly, he was unsure if his core could handle any more hijinks. Yet trying to argue with the bald man was like trying to teach a fish algebra. Pointless and it started to make Genos feel a little insane. Was there something about almost breaking your leg on the coffee table? Perhaps it was a game with Sensei? Perhaps it was a way to keep his wits sharp and his reflexes toned? Genos had attempted this sort of training, but other than a few new scratches, it didn’t seem to add any help. Sensei just needed to be persuaded into a new arrangement, and that was task two of the day’s work. #1 - Clean. #2 - Organize.
Genos began to work, moving every piece of furniture in order to sweep under it and then mop. The relics he found, oh boy. There was a remote Sensei claimed he had lost; as well as the replacement he had also lost. A whole colony of starved dust bunnies had been living in the war-torn waste that was below the tv-stand. They made a final ditch effort to survive by assailing Genos’ nose, making him sneeze and flail around frantically until he bumped (gently) into some furniture. While it wasn’t ON his to-do list, he hastily added alphabetizing the knocked down Anime shelf. The bunnies also had a stockpile of four chip bags, two of which still had chips in them. Genos had almost thrown them out, but recalled Sensei was very frugal… So of course, he pulled open the bag and tried one. It was stale and tasted nothing like corn or cheese. Even Sensei would throw these out. There was also a collection of socks that were perfectly fine, including two singles that had been hiding from Genos for some time.
By the time he had finished cleaning, the room smelled like a lemon truck had an unholy child with a flower field and both had gone sour from some fungal disease. Genos forced the squeaking sliding glass door open and allowed fresh air to draw some of the smell out. This was stage one of the prolonged war effort, but Genos was not a quitter. Grabbing his ducky tote and straightening his apron, he marched into the kitchen like a man bent on revenge. Or like Sensei going to get a two-for-one sale. People practically ran to the opposite side of the street when Sensei was on the coupon-warpath.
Much like the living area, the kitchen was decent. It was clean and maintained, the dual burners rough and stained, but clean enough to eat off of. The counter was cluttered with spices that hadn’t been put away (or even touched) and a red mug that boasted the owner was ‘The world's best Granddad’ that was stuffed full of whisks, tongs, spatulas, and spoons. Genos was still unsure why Saitama had such a cup, and when asked, his enigma of a teacher only laughed. Beside the counter and away from the stove was the little sink. A few dishes left from the morning’s meal were stacked neatly inside, as well as some dirty utensils. The old sink looked positively depressed, with hard water stains around its drains like bags below its eyes and a drooping spigot held together with hello kitty duck tape and hope. At one point there had been a handheld sprayer, but Sensei claimed it had broken and instead of fixing it, he had knotted the rope and left it lying there like a reminder of what was in store if the other appliances thought about breaking.
Genos began to scrub, his fingers working into long forgotten groove and grottos that were sandwiched full of crumbs and gunky oil. In the corners, the cobwebs hissed and tried to consume his duster once or twice, but finally fell after a couple of whacks. Washing the dishes took little effort and he was able to use his hand cannons to dry them quickly. In all, the kitchen was a much easier area to clean than the rest of the house.
Things looked good, so far. Much more tidy. Reorganizing was the next step. The anime shelf was alphabetized and set up where it was before. That left the layout of the room. The first order of business was to take the desk and move it away from the door. It would be situated on the long wall where it would reside safely. The futons, which were currently stored there, would be placed in the desks’ area and the little coffee table would be stored in the corner beside the closet and the wall shared with the kitchen. Rearranging was done in a snap, and already Genos felt better. The room was clean and the walkways much wider and clear of junk and potential ankle twisting or leg breaking shenanigans.
All that left was… Clothes. Sensei took a long time shuffling through his wardrobe and Genos could see why. As soon as the closet door was opened, at least five shirts, two pants, a bundle of socks, and what could only be described as ‘cat puke ala tank top’ tumbled out. Perhaps the only blessing was that it obscured the rainbow selection of crocs that Sensei had accumulated. Yes, it turned out blue wasn’t the only color those shoes defiled. Purple, Lime Green, and crusty banana yellow all found home in the wardrobe.
“I could throw them away… Say they caught on fire. Perhaps the cockroaches could have confiscated them for low income housing? No… Sensei would be sad.” Besides, as sophisticated as the roaches were, even they would refuse to live in those stinky, worn out things. They had pride. Genos admired that.
Sighing, he grabbed what other loose articles were heaped up and threw them onto the ground. Then he started to pull off what was in the hangers. There was a set of build in drawers and Genos also divulged those of their contents. Mostly socks and underwear, though there was a bottom drawer filled with random articles. A few naughty girly mags and then…. Well Genos didn’t know what to call the shirts. The only similarity they had very, er, interesting slogans.
“Baby… Got Back?” Genos held the tank top out at arm's length as if it would hiss and bite him, his face caught between surprise and mortification. He quickly tossed it down, blushing from ear to ear as he dug into the pile for like colored items, “P-perhaps it was from a girl Sensei was dating? She might have l-left it. Or… A man? Oh, uhm… A prank gift? Or…” Genos gave his head a shake and kept working. Prior to this fateful day, he had bought a few storage things to help out Sensei, and had kept them in the hallway closet. Sensei didn’t seem to ask about it, so he assumed it was fine. Fetching them, he set them into the small wardrobe space, pleased to see his measuring had been correct. The two containers sat snugly side by side, but increased storage capabilities immensely. By the time Genos was done, all the clothes were organized by weather type and then color, with tops and bottoms separate.
Genos was proud of all the hard work he had accomplished, so when Saitama opened the door and walked in (still in that outfit from hell), he couldn’t help but chirp, “Surprise!”
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Dear Diary,
Today I am watching the house so that Saitama Sensei can go out and have dinner with a “friend”. I have ascertained from certain articles of interest that Saitama is not into dudes. Yesterday a large man, who Saitama said smelled like a gorilla, was trying to get Saitama to buy a magazine subscription to Badi. Saitama declared he had ‘no use for such things’ and slammed the door in the man’s face.
Perhaps his flirting on our first meeting was a mistake? Or perhaps he is more reserved with his intentions? Or maybe he really does not like Badi as a magazine? Personally I find their health stories to be of interest and once I have a stable location I will be ordering a subscription.
“All right, Genos. I’m heading out with Mumen. Don’t burn the place down, okay?”
“Of course, Sensei! Are you certain I cannot accompany you? I would--”
“Genos, dude. I like you,” Genos sat a little straighter as his heart leapt into his throat. Sensei didn’t mean it like that! , “But I want to hang with my friend. We’re getting groceries too. Tonight we can have hotpot! Sound good?”
“Yes, Sensei! Please be safe!” And then there was silence. Not complete. There was still whirr of his fans and the soft underlying buzz of electricity in the walls. Yet it was deafening and Genos sunk down below its weight. Saitama-sensei had been distant, and a little angry, ever since he had organized.
“I will make this right. I must.”
Putting everything as it had been was a little more difficult than Genos had anticipated, but after checking and double checking his mental pictures and previous cleaning schedules he was certain he had gotten the room in order. As he worked, the guilt seemed to lift off of him little by little until, by the time he was hanging laundry outside, it was gone.
“Genos, I’m ho-- OW!”
The cyborg had just enough time to turn and watch his teacher walk, boldly without a single care in the world, into his desk. Wincing in sympathy, he was by the other man’s side in a blink, hands held nervously in front of himself, “Sensei! Please watch where you are walking.”
“Ha…” Saitama looked like a tomato that was being slowly squeezed - sweaty and red and like he was about to pop. Suddenly, despite ever sensor telling him it was not so, cold weight seized Genos’ chest. He couldn’t breathe. There wasn’t enough air, no he was going to suffocate. It didn’t matter that the cyborg was mostly machine, his brain was human. “Genos, what did you---”
“I put everything back as it once had been! Sensei… I’m sorry.” The words burst from Genos, stumbling and vying to get out first like school children rushing for the door at the last day of school. Wild with energy and the fear they would be called back.
“-- You… You’re sorry?” Tomato-sensei cooled, the red flush leaving as he stood up straighter. He still wasn’t looking directly at Genos, but more like over his right shoulder.
“Yes I…” Genos was faced with a decision: tell the truth and potentially irk his roommate even more, or keep it a secret and leave the mysterious weird organization episode in the dark. It would be easier to just apologize and not explain anything, but… That didn’t seem right. For all the trouble he had drug his poor Sensei through, Genos felt the man deserved to know more about why he had done such a thing.
Genos was capable of defeating monsters three times his size, of blasting searing flames out of his hands, and of running faster than almost any vehicle in existence.
But of all the things he had faced, talking like this scared him the most.
“Sensei, I have a hard time understanding boundaries and picking up on body language.” His voice stumbled, refusing to exit until he cleared his throat and soldiered on, “You see I... am on the autism spectrum and these things are, are... Difficult to grasp. I am sorry for invading your personal space as I have. If you would like me to lea--”
“-Genos.” Oh. My God. Genos froze, his fans kicking into hyper overdrive as his roommates hand touched his cheek. I thought he wasn’t into dudes! Wait, does this mean he is? But he’s… He’s. If he could have blushed, Genos was certain he would have become an admirable tomato.
“Genos, it’s cool dude. We all make mistakes. I should have set some boundaries myself, but I was really…” Not for the first time, Genos wished his teacher would stop wearing those damn aviators. He wanted to see the man’s eyes, to watch his expressions closely, “Really happy to have someone close to me again. Thanks man.”
“Y-yes. Of course.” And then the oaf smirked and gave him a double pistol hand gesture. What was worse was how it made his fans stutter and body quiver in surprise and delight. But there was still something that was bothering Genos, a little voice in the back of his head that kept screaming ‘BURN IT’.
“Sensei?” Genos waited until the man stopped walking and acknowledged him, “Might I ask for… one thing?”
“Yeah dude, of course!”
“... Please let me burn the shirt you’re wearing.” It was a pastel blue tank top with a cartoonish, winking disembodied cat head in the center. What really set it off was the hideous neon pink letters ‘TASTEE PUSSY’ floating around said cat head. Crocs? Fine. Aviators? All right. That abomination? Hell no.
“No way, it’s a classic!”
I should have thrown all of them away.