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Saitama could tell from the hazy, dim light filtering through his eyelids that it was still early morning. He could also tell, from the muted rustling in the kitchen, that Genos was back from his trip to Dr. Kuseno’s lab.
He blinked open his eyes and lifted his head a bit, catching movement and sounds that indicated Genos was getting himself a glass of water from the sink. He lay his head on his pillow again and listened, hearing the slight slosh of liquid, a little content exhalation, then the clink as the glass was set in the sink basin.
A slight squeaking accompanied Genos as he made his way to the living room, to the futon Saitama had spread out for him the night before. That was different, and Saitama scrunched his brow in puzzlement as he drifted back to sleep.
***
When Saitama woke up again, the room was filled with the bright sunlight of late morning. He rolled over to see that Genos’ futon had been folded and put away, and he could hear and smell the sounds of breakfast cooking. As he sat up, he heard Genos call out, “Good morning, sensei! Breakfast will be ready momentarily.”
He hummed an acknowledgement, and stretched. There was something itching at the back of his mind that he’d wanted to ask…
“Sensei, please put away your futon and prepare the table!”
“Ah, sure Genos,” he called back, and promptly forgot everything else with the rumble of his stomach.
***
It was later that afternoon, as Saitama was flipping through his limited channels, and Genos was scratching away in one of his notebooks, that he remembered to ask about Genos’ checkup.
“Hey Genos, how’d it go yesterday? Any cool new upgrades?”
He nearly didn’t register the long pause as Genos hesitated. It was unusual for him to remain silent after a direct question though, and Saitama set the remote down and turned around to face his disciple.
“Genos?” he prompted.
Genos set his pencil aside and folded his hands in his lap before he answered. “Nothing extraordinary, sensei. Dr. Kuseno performed routine analyses on my systems, recalibrated the targeting and efficiency of my blasters, replaced a few parts with minor cosmetic damage that had the potential to evolve into structural issues down the line, and installed silicone cushioning for improved grip and traction while running.”
Saitama tilted his head. By Genos standards, that explanation had been surprisingly brief. But there was something else…
And then he remembered waking up that morning. And hearing a different sound along with the usual ones of Genos moving around their shared space.
“Genos,” he said slowly, “does that mean,” he paused again as he scooted over to Genos’ side, looked down to his feet folded neatly under him in his usual seiza, then back up to his face, “does that mean,” he repeated, licking his lips, “that you have toe beans?”
Genos hadn’t turned to face him, but his profile clearly showed his grimace. He took a steadying breath in and said, in a tone dangerously close to a whine, “Sensei, please. They’re to better mimic the natural gripping action and stability the toes of the human foot provide, both in the regular stride and in a running gait—”
“Yeah, yeah,” Saitama cut him off. “Enough with the techno-babble. Take off your socks and show me.” He couldn’t help the excitement in his voice.
Genos just sighed, and shifted out of his kneeling position to cross his legs in front of him, then slowly pulled one of his socks off. He hesitated again, and stuck his foot out for Saitama to inspect.
Saitama grabbed it, yanking it into his lap, and immediately began poking Genos’ toes. “They’re so squishy!” he exclaimed.
He squeezed them each in turn, then prodded the rest of the foot. The padding was still the shape of a human foot, so not quite as much like cat toe pads as he would’ve imagined, but still.
Genos had toe beans and they were adorable.
When he finally looked up again, Genos had his eyes squeezed shut, shoulders hunched, and fists curled into balls. Also, his arms and chest vents were pulsing yellow. Saitama had a brief, horrified moment to wonder if he’d gone too far.
“Genos?” he asked quietly. “Are you okay? Did I hurt you?”
He watched as Genos heaved out a shaky breath and muttered, “N-no, sensei. I’m fine.” But when he blinked his eyes open to look at Saitama, there was a sheen in them that looked like tears.
“Genos!” Saitama exclaimed, worried. He pressed one hand flat to the bottom of the foot still in his grip and leaned forward. He meant it to be a soothing gesture, but his fingers curled a bit as he tried to shift closer, and Genos suddenly barked out a loud, unfamiliar sound. Saitama froze as Genos immediately clapped a hand over his mouth, eyes wide.
“Genos,” Saitama said, slowly, “did you just laugh?”
Genos kept his hand in place and shook his head in emphatic denial, but the pulsing lights leaking out of his arms and chest began to cycle even more brightly, revealing the truth.
Still drawing out his words, Saitama tilted his head and asked, “Are you,” he smoothed his hand over Genos’ foot and felt him restrain a twitch, “ticklish?”
Genos managed to croak out a raspy reply of, “Sensei! I’m not!” but Saitama ignored him.
Instead, he attacked.
***
Some time later, they were laying on the floor. Genos was flat on his stomach, still breathing hard, but the lights in his torso and arms were only glowing a dull yellow as he cycled down to relaxation. His hair was sticking up in all directions though, and both of his socks were now missing.
Saitama lay perpendicular across him, staring up at the ceiling. He had a few scuffs on his forehead where Genos had elbowed him during their struggles, but of course, he was uninjured. They’d also cracked a leg off of the small table, but that could be fixed easily enough, and it wasn’t enough to derail the warm, contented feeling in his chest. He hummed a little, a small smile quirking his lips.
“Genos?” Saitama asked.
“Hmm?”
Saitama felt the rumble of his reply through his own chest. He stretched, then let himself slide off Genos’ back until his butt hit the floor, and he sat up. Genos rolled onto his side, head pillowed on one arm, looking at him expectantly, waiting for Saitama to continue.
“Genos,” he repeated, looking down at him, then he stopped. The warmth in his chest was spreading, and he wasn’t sure what to do with it. It almost felt like a cramp, but he hadn’t had anything like that happen for years. More than three years, actually.
He closed his eyes and cleared his throat. When he opened them again, Genos was watching him, intently.
Saitama plastered a smile on his face, and reached out to tousle Genos’ hair. “It was good to hear you laugh,” he said, brightly. He stood, and stretched again. “What do you say to nabe for dinner?” He moved off to the kitchen without waiting for an answer, and started collecting the items they’d need.
He’d pulled the pot out of a cupboard and was searching for a package of stock mix he knew was in the pantry when he heard the now-familiar squeak of silicone toe beans on his kitchen floor step up behind him.
Saitama turned to find Genos looming. He wasn’t even that much taller, but he still managed to loom. It must have something to do with the intensity of his gaze.
“Sensei,” he said, “thank you.”
“For what?” Saitama blurted, too quickly.
Genos ignored that, and stepped closer, reaching out to envelop him in a tight hug. The feeling in Saitama’s chest clenched, almost painfully.
“Thank you,” Genos murmured into his shoulder, “for making me feel human again.”
Belatedly, Saitama lifted his arms and squeezed back.