Work Text:
On a blistering summer day, Genos witnesses a man collapse in the park. He waits exactly twenty seconds for any of the other two-dozen people in the area to take notice of the guy and see if he’s alright. No one else seemed to have seen, or if they did they certainly weren’t making a good show of caring. So Genos puts his book away and kicks himself up from his spot in the grass and makes his way over.
The man is sprawled in a way Genos would call cartoonish if circumstances were less concerning. He doesn’t respond to a gentle toe in his side. Genos calls out and gets no reply. Eventually the teen kneels down and does his best to drag the man off the path and into a shadier spot under a large tree.
He rests the man’s head on his lap and pulls out his water bottle; pours a small handful into his hand, letting droplets fall onto the forehead beneath.
It wasn’t surprising the man fainted. Jogging in a full tracksuit, in this heat? Genos shook his head as the man began to flinch at the cold water, rolling his head back in forth. When he seemed lucid enough, Genos tilted his head up with one hand and pressed the lip of his water bottle to the man’s mouth.
He sipped willingly enough. Not wanting to let him drink so much he upset his stomach, Genos then closed the lid and pressed the cool bottle to the man’s forehead.
“You’re an idiot for running in this weather,” he said. “In an outfit like that, nonetheless.”
No reply, but the man’s hand lifted from his side to meet Genos’ own, feeling at the water bottle. His skin was hot and rough against the back of Genos’ hand. “Hmmg?”
“You passed out. How are you feeling?”
“Oh…” He made a noise, something between a sigh and a snort, nose wrinkling cutely. “Gotta… Jog. I jog every day.”
“You should have waited until tomorrow. It’s dangerous to exert yourself too much in weather like this.”
Finally, the man opened his eyes. They were dark in the shade, and seemed to stare through Genos, rebellious. “I can’t skip a day. I’m training.”
Genos tilted his head at that. Removing the water bottle, he let the man sit up. He left one hand on the guy’s back to make sure he didn’t fall over, expecting lingering dizziness from passing out in the heat. “What are you training for?”
To that, he received no reply. After a few minutes the man tried to get up and leave, but Genos could tell what he was up to. He’d start running again if allowed. So the teen grabbed him by the jacket and scolded him, and forced him to rest against the tree.
The guy wasn’t really happy about it, if his stubborn silence was any indication, but he did stay. Genos crossed his legs and pulled out his book and read for half an hour, listening to the man’s deep, desperate breaths. Then, deciding that was enough, he got up and left without another word.
—
A few days later, Genos saw him again. He circled the park twice, then three times, then stumbled over to the duck pond before collapsing by the water. He lay on his back, staring up at the empty sky, breathing so hard Genos could see even from a distance.
—
“You never answered my question.”
Genos caught the man right after his elbows had buckled doing push-ups. The guy rested with his face in the grass, probably grateful for the unusually cool weather, which made the ground firm and forgiving against the bright, cloudless afternoon.
When he looked at Genos, there was barely a spark of recognition. Genos had to chase it, leaning over moreso so his shadow fell over the man’s eyes. He tilted his head. “You collapsed some weeks ago. From the heat. I asked you what you were training for, but you did not reply.”
“Oh. Uh… hey.”
They stared at each other. Genos squinted his eyes. He didn’t understand this guy.
“How old are you?”
“None of your business.” His tone was an attempt at annoyance, but it fell flat - very much so. In the next breath, he sighed, “Twenty-three. You?”
“I’m nineteen.”
“Huh, you have a serious face for a teenager.”
Genos nodded once. “I have been told that. What number were you on?”
The man pushed himself up onto his knees, giving Genos an oddly blank stare. “Push ups? Uh… Fuck. I forgot.”
Genos shrugged, then walked over to the bench nearby and sat so he was facing the man. “I suppose you’ll have to start over then.”
“Oi! It’s your fault, kid - you distracted me!”
“You’re the one doing an awful job taking care of yourself,” Genos rebutted. He pulled out a water bottle from his bag and tossed it to the man, who caught it easily, if incredulously. Genos then pulled out his phone. “I’ll count for you. You run after this, don’t you? I can time you this time. Based on my very rough observations, you’ve been gradually shaving an average of ten to twenty seconds off your runs.”
“…Huh? What, wait, have you been like, stalking me or something?”
Genos gave him a look. “The public park is a public space. I study here. You train here. Why don’t we both continue doing those things.” He then made a gesture, clearly ready for him to resume his push-ups.
The man grumbled, but did so.
—
“What’s your name, kid?”
Genos looked up from his notes, catching the sweaty man’s eyes. Oh. They hadn’t exchanged names yet, had they?
“I’m Genos. And you?”
“Saitama. What’cha drawin’?”
Genos frowned, then turned his notebook around to show. Saitama took it as he explained, “It is not a picture, it is a schedule. I’ve been making notes about your training, and gathering information based on your times and the toll it seems to take on your body-”
“That’s kinda creepy, kid…”
“-so that I could calculate a more efficient method of executing your training,” Genos finished. “You prefer to start in the early mornings, but often by the time you get to your ten kilometer run, it’s mid-afternoon, which is when the day is hottest. I suggest stretches and running five kilometers to start your day, doing your muscle training next, taking a short break, then finishing the day with the last five kilometers of your run.”
Saitama scratched the back of his neck, looking skeptical. “I… I dunno kid. I’m really not good at remembering stuff. I’d probably just forget any real schedule.”
“You do not have to remember it,” Genos stated simply, taking it back from him and wincing at the stains of sweat his fingertips had left. “I will remember for you.”
—
After two months, Saitama asked, “Why are you doing this?”
They were seated in a different section of the park this time, near a playground. Genos’ classes had changed and so had his schedule, and regretfully it meant he could only join Saitama at the tail end of his training on most days. Lately, he’d gotten into the habit of meeting the man at the end of his five kilometer run and having a lunch of homemade bentos, which Genos prepared before his first class in the morning.
Upon hearing Saitama’s question, Genos hesitates in pouring the man’s drink, looking up at him. “What do you mean?”
“Helping me out ‘n stuff… Like…” He glanced at the food, and for the first time Genos notices it - the sense of something unsaid, painted in the color on Saitama’s cheeks. A silent message the teenager had been missing and could not decode. Not quite yet. “Making me a workout schedule, hanging out with me every day, and like… making me food. I’m just some guy. You saw me collapse from heat stroke; how’d that lead to this?”
Genos sat up and thought about it. He said, almost bashfully, “I have been told I can be obsessive over new projects.”
The atmosphere shifted again, and Genos got the idea he might have said something wrong. Saitama’s shoulder hunched as he stared down at his food. “Heh, really? I can believe it.”
The blond bit his lip. He wasn’t good at stuff like this - talking. Well, no, he was good at talking. Even Saitama had commented (i.e. complained repeatedly) about the boy’s eloquent manner of speech. What Genos wasn’t so good at was stuff like small talk, or rather… He wasn’t good at talking about feelings, or his relationship with other people. There was really only one person Genos was close to. Or, one other person. He supposed Saitama counted now.
So he wasn’t sure what to say, despite knowing he should say something. After another minute of silence, he offered, “I think you are a very interesting person.”
Saitama snorted. “I mean, I’d hope so. Who’d wanna do a project on something boring?”
“I don’t mean it like that,” Genos grumbled, shifting closer. He saw Saitama tense and worried further at being misunderstood. “Saitama, I have found people do not interest me much. I have never been interested in making friends since… I got older. Even when I was young I had trouble getting along with people my age. But you are interesting to me.”
The look on Saitama’s face makes it obvious he doesn’t believe the teen, but the blush on his cheeks makes Genos think he said something right. He offers Saitama a small smile before turning to his food, and lets himself feel triumphant when Saitama eats as well and compliments the dish.
—
He thinks about the question Saitama never answered. As the months stretch on - sometimes slow, sometimes fast - Genos often ponders the question and attempts to find revelation on his own. By watching and analyzing, and listening, and learning.
Saitama seems like an average man. He’s average height, average build (though, proudly, Genos notes the beginnings of a strong musculature forming beneath Saitama’s tracksuit). Saitama’s voice is often easy in tone, unassuming as a calm stream with a strong undercurrent, hidden amongst the dark rocks below. He has an impressive temper but short tantrums, often forgetting about things that made him mad just as quick as he got riled up. It was… endearing. The way he snarked at Genos, sometimes careless in his comments but never speaking in a way he might deem harsh. It seemed against Saitama’s nature to be cruel.
And he was… nice to Genos. The teen couldn’t quite understand why. His behaviors were often regarded as overbearing the small handful of times Genos was forced to work with his peers. He understood he had a tendency to push himself into situations and work headfast towards a goal once he was set, even against the intentions or wishes of those he was working with. However, despite sometimes complaining about Genos’ self-prescribed assistance with his training, Saitama never said anything suggesting he wanted Genos to stop or go away.
So Genos stayed.
He stayed and watched, and contemplated this man who got up early every morning, ate a light breakfast, and pushed himself to his limit. This man who was slowly making progress, and losing his hair over it… literally. That was a… dramatic few weeks.
Even after the loss of his hair, Saitama persevered, though his bald spot became a sore one. Genos quickly learned to be careful when teasing him about it (though in the end… he could never quite keep himself from doing so). It surprised Genos to realise he was the only one who seemed to get away with it.
There was something about it all, though, that made Genos wary. Something in the steadfastness of Saitama’s routine. His willingness to adjust, so long as the basics stayed the same. His unwillingness to slack off, despite his relaxed, even lazy nature. It made Genos think of the day Saitama fell in the hot summer sun, alone in the busy park with no one even sparing him a glance.
Something about Saitama was bizarrely intense - Genos admired him for it. But at the same time, it was that resolve which worried Genos. It felt like that moment they were eating lunch, and Genos couldn’t tell what was wrong, but he could feel it, that tension in the air like something was unsaid, or waiting to happen. What was Saitama training for?
It seemed like if he ever stopped, even for a moment, he might collapse again and never get up.
There was a sense of tension that never left. Expectation. Desperation. What was he running towards? Why did Saitama get up every day and push himself so hard? Where had he found the strength to start on something like this… alone?
And why, if it was so important, did he allow Genos to become a part of it?
—
“Oh. Nice outfit.”
Genos ran his finger beneath the seam of his sports bra, noting how the tight garment had left imprints on the skin of his torso. In a few hours his skin would be red with it. For now, though, the top was comfortable in the warm weather, and the breeze felt good on his exposed midriff. Genos pulled two bottles of water from his bag and tossed one to Saitama, who caught it easily despite staring at his companion. “I wanted to run with you today, Saitama!”
“Really? It’s… kind of a long way, kid.”
“I am used to running exercises,” Genos said simply, checking his shoelaces and securing the string of his sweat pants. He took his bag - packed light since he had to carry it while running - and went to stand beside Saitama. “Please, let me join you. I promise I won’t slow you down.”
Saitama gave him a heavy look, seeming lost. “Why are you doing this?”
Genos stared back, then took a step closer, shrugging. “I want to stay by you while you do this. It seems more fair. May I?”
Genos did not know what Saitama needed, not really. Maybe he would never say the right thing that would help. He was never good with people, or friends, or even with his family - connecting with others and knowing how to be there for him had never come easy to the teen. But Genos wanted to be there for Saitama. If he could help, he wanted to. If he could do or say anything that might assist Saitama in achieving the goal he strove for… Genos would always try.
Maybe they could both make it through, if they stuck together.
Saitama sighed and turned away, but Genos could see it - the way his cheeks betrayed a smile, however small. Genos felt his heart race.
“Sure… okay. Yeah. Ready to go, Genos?”
“Yes, Saitama!”