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Saitama’s soulmate thought too much.
He decided this when he was fifteen, after filling up yet another sheet of what was supposed to be exam notes with stream-of-thought ramblings. The stuff they were thinking about was familiar, school subjects that Saitama had covered years ago. But his soulmate (and Saitama didn’t want to assume a gender) was working way harder than Saitama ever had back then.
Honestly, an entire page comparing political coups? Listing similarities and differences, accounting for outside influences and personal motivations, the success or failure of the overthrowers. It was crazy!
If only they were the same age, this stuff might actually be useful.
It was a good thing that they were so studious, though. If they spent so much time concentrating on studies they probably didn’t check in on Saitama very often. And Saitama’s thoughts for the last couple years had been full of… well… stuff that made him realize he couldn’t assume a gender for his soulmate.
Saitama didn’t start checking on his soulmate until he was ten. He knew about them, sure, everyone did. It would be like not knowing about birds, or trees. Soulmates were just a fact of the world. But he’d never thought much about his until he got old enough to think about his future.
He’d done it by accident a couple times before when he was younger. Sitting there with a crayon in hand, staring off into space, his arm has suddenly been pulled by something he couldn’t see, and before he knew it there was a startlingly detailed drawing of a woman’s face rendered in green crayon. His teacher had seen it and cooed, and said it was probably his soulmate’s mother. So Saitama gave it to his mother, who put it away somewhere special. Everybody told him that was just a thing that happened sometimes, so he forgot about it pretty quickly.
A couple years later, a few months after the funeral, Saitama saw his father sitting alone at the kitchen table. He had a single sheet of paper in front of him, and a pen in his hand. Even from the doorway Saitama could see his knuckles had gone white from the strength of his grip. As Saitama watched his hand began to tremble violently. But still, Saitama’s father didn’t move. Nothing but the shaking of his writing hand.
The next day Saitama asked a teacher what happened when your soulmate died. He could tell she didn’t want to answer, but it was the first time Saitama had spoken at school aside from his introduction. That evening he tried it himself, alone in his room. His hand moved by itself, like an invisible puppeteer was pulling it, and a rough sketch of bunnies eating clover appeared beneath his pen.
Saitama laughed. It felt hollow and empty, but it was still the first time he’d laughed since…
For a couple years it was like that. Nothing but drawings or the wavy lines of sleep. Sometimes they were the really detailed ones depicting a real thing, sometimes it was loose sketches for thoughts. But as time went on Saitama’s soulmate started thinking more and more. And soon it was nothing but words, a lot of them, all at once, sometimes so fast that Saitama’s shoulder would hurt when he stopped.
And Saitama got older too. He recovered, more or less. He stopped needing the reassurance every day that his soulmate was out there and fine.
Well, as “fine” as someone who read Heien-era poetry apparently just for fun could be.
One evening when Saitama was in his last year of college (he could have graduated sooner but he wasn’t exactly in a hurry to join the workforce), he grabbed a notebook and a pencil like he did once a week or so. His roommates were hogging the TV, he’d done as much homework as he cared to, and it was too much effort to go out looking for entertainment. He figured he’d see whatever his soulmate was fixated on today and then go to bed early.
Saitama sat down at the little kitchen table, pen in hand, and stared at the blank page for a moment to allow his thoughts to drift.
His fingers seized.
Clenched around the pen, so hard his knuckles went white. Fear like a wave of ice shot through him, his stomach dropped down to his feet, and for a flash Saitama saw the rest of his life laid out ahead of him. Empty, lonely, silent. Would he go like his dad had, drawing away from everyone around him? Would he even be able to take it?
And then his hand jerked, scrawling across the page, a thick heavy line. Then another, and another, so hard it tore through the paper. By the time Saitama managed to yank his hand back he had a huge angry scribble before him.
“Dude.” One of Saitama’s roommates (the better one) looked at him from the couch. “What are you doing?”
“I…” Saitama glanced at the scribble again. “I don’t know.”
His roommate came to join him at the table. “Whoa. Are you okay?”
“Yeah. This… wasn’t me.”
“Your soulmate?” His eyes widened. “Is she okay?”
“I don’t know.” Saitama flipped to a new page, turning over two that the pencil had ripped, and placed his hand over it once again.
There wasn’t that seizing feeling this time. As soon as Saitama made himself relax his hand began its frantic motion, practically stabbing through the paper and covering it in lines until the lead snapped. Even then Saitama’s hand tried to draw more, dragging the bits of wood over the grooves of previous lines until Saitama managed to let go.
“Dude,” his roommate said again, which seemed to sum things up.
“Has yours ever done this?” Saitama asked. His hand was still shaking.
“Nah but sometimes when she’s mad I just end up writing like, AAAAAA.”
Saitama flipped through the pages of the notebook. His soulmate’s scribbles had even left an incident on the cardboard back cover.
“Give her some space,” his roommate advised. “She’d probably be embarrassed if she ever found out about this.”
Saitama waited two weeks. Fourteen days, he counted down. He’d wanted to wait only a week, but he felt so helpless knowing his soulmate was upset and he could do nothing. Surely two weeks would be enough for whatever-it-was to pass.
On the fifteenth day he sat down, in the library this time, with two cheap notepads stacked on top of each other to protect the table. It took him a moment to relax, to clear his head when he was so worried (the last couple weeks had not done his grades any favors), but once he did he began to write.
tungsten has the highest melting point but in its pure form can be brittle and hard to work tungsten carbide is a 9 on the Mohs scale but inhalation of the dust can lead to fibrosis and is difficult to process in large quantities carbon fiber is
Well that was more like it. Saitama had never seen his soulmate thinking about metals before, but it was certainly in character.
Saitama told himself to stop worrying about it. His soulmate was a teenager now, as evidenced by their recent worrying about entrance exams and their increasing interest in boys. Teenage emotions always ran high. They were probably fine, and in a few years when they found each other Saitama could ask them about it. Or not, like his roommate suggested.
It would be fine.
Genos made a difference, though Saitama was reluctant at first to admit it even to himself. He’d expected to be annoyed by his constant presence, but Genos had already been coming around every day for weeks. Hell, Saitama had given him a key. He shouldn’t have been surprised when Genos wanted to move in.
It was different, that was for sure, but it was a good different. Having someone to talk to, to eat with, who was willing (downright eager) to clean the bathroom when Saitama couldn’t work up the energy. There was an adjustment period, yeah, but Saitama didn’t really feel like he needed to “get used” to Genos living there. He just… slotted into place. Like he’d been made to fit.
Realizing he was starting to fall in love with him was an issue. But Saitama blamed it on loneliness and tried to ignore it.
A few months after they started living together, almost two months after Saitama figured out his attraction and affection had mingled into something deeper, Saitama was flipping through channels one evening while Genos wrote in his latest notebook. He didn’t much like being studied, but it was the whole reason Genos was here, after all.
Nothing was on. Saitama tried the different news programs, but it was just interviews about movies he wasn’t interested in. He looked at Genos again, scribbling away, and got the idea to check on his soulmate.
It had been a while. He felt guilty when he thought about them, especially whenever he caught himself fantasizing about Genos and wondered whether they’d been writing it. But it was only fair, his soulmate seemed to have a crush on one of their teachers. The times he tried recently it was nothing but “sensei this” or “sensei that.”
Over the last few years they’d developed an odd sort of obsession with robotics and metals. It was pretty interesting, pretty impressive if they were pursuing a career in it. But if they were still in school it was too early to start trying to find each other, so Saitama kept reminding himself that it was perfectly normal to go through a few relationships before you settled down.
He might as well try it, there was nothing else to do. Saitama found the beat up yellow notepad he used for shopping lists and sat down across the table from Genos.
Just a second, to clear his head, just like always. Then Saitama’s hand was pulled by someone else’s muscles into writing a string of numbers that he was pretty sure were weight measurements.
900 kilos without strain not that it’s unexpected it’s always like this one of these days I should ask sensei to do some tests but he’ll probably just say it’s a pain better to leave him alone
This “sensei” again. Saitama really didn’t have the right to be jealous, considering he had feelings for somebody who called him sensei, but it was hard to turn off. He heard Genos give a little exhale, the closest he got to sighing.
I’m bothering him I know I’m bothering him but I have to keep doing this, it’s the only way I have to protect the only people I have left
And then Saitama’s hand stopped. It had never done this before, not in the middle of writing. He didn’t have enough time to be scared before he moved over a line and wrote:
what are you always thinking about so hard?
It wasn’t like normal. When Saitama channeled his soulmate’s thoughts it felt like his hand was being moved by someone else, but this time it was definitely his own power. Except he hadn’t chosen to write it; he was thinking it and it just spilled out.
The puppet-hand feeling he was so used to happened again, this time writing:
Revenge. Strength. My sensei. Shopping.
Saitama snorted and wrote, I think about shopping a lot too.
Why are you so sad?
Saitama blinked. It was a second before he wrote back.
I’m not?
You are. Your thoughts are always lonely, or melancholy.
Was that true? Saitama didn’t think he was sad. Sure he was alone a lot and he sometimes thought about how he didn’t have any friends outside of hero work… about how he didn’t have much of anything, really… about how hard it was to be happy…
He wrote, I didn’t know.
There was a sound like a hiccup from across the table, and Saitama glanced up from his paper conversation. Genos had pressed a hand to his mouth, pen gripped in the other, and thick drops of oil were trailing down his cheeks.
Saitama dropped his pencil. “Oh, dude, you okay?”
Genos nodded, but Saitama was already on his feet. “I’m fine sensei, I… I just read something…”
Saitama went to retrieve the heavy-duty tissues from the kitchen. He sat next to Genos when he returned, hand on his back in an attempt to be comforting. He didn’t know what to do, even though this happened on a semi-regular basis. Genos was so intense about everything.
Funny. The words his soulmate had written sprung to mind. Revenge. Strength. My sensei. Shopping. That was pretty much what Genos spent his time on too.
Maybe the reason Saitama fell for him was that Genos subconsciously reminded him of his soulmate? They were both younger, both overthinkers, both smarter than him…
Genos had been writing while Saitama got the tissues, but now he set his pen down and reached out to close the notebook. Saitama’s eyes automatically followed the motion, and he saw a few short lines in Genos’ precise handwriting that looked like a conversation.
He only glimpsed it, only for a second before Genos shut the pages, but he knew what he saw.
Revenge. Strength. My sensei. Shopping.
Saitama’s mouth went dry. Genos was still sniffling and wiping his tears, he hadn’t noticed anything.
“Genos?” Saitama heard himself say.
“I’m okay, sensei,” Genos reassured him. “I apologize. I… There is someone I wish to help, but I can’t. Not yet.”
He swallowed, not easy with his suddenly-parched throat. “Were you talking to your soulmate?”
Genos glanced at the notebook, almost guilty. “Yes. It was the first time we’ve been writing at the same time.”
“What did he say? What did you say?”
“Not much. I think it was a surprise for both of us. But…” Genos grabbed another tissue for a new crop of tears. “He’s- he’s so sad, all the time, and… It’s been getting better, the last couple months, but even if I was there I don’t know if I could help.”
“You do.” Saitama felt like he was watching this play out from a distance. From a stage inside his own head. “You are.”
Genos looked at him in utter confusion. “Sensei?”
“I didn’t know. I thought it was normal. It’s normal for me.” Saitama shook his head. “But then you cried when I told you about some of it. And King too, he didn’t cry, but he didn’t leave me alone for like three days afterward.”
Genos was still crying but he’d given up on the tissues, letting the tears fall freely as he stared at Saitama with wide eyes. “Sensei?”
Saitama got up on his knees and reached across the table. On the yellow notebook, in his own handwriting, was the same conversation he’d seen in Genos’ journal.
Genos took the notebook in both hands, staring at it as tears stained his shirt. “This… But it can’t be… Can it?”
“Do you have another explanation?” Mostly for something to do with his hands, Saitama wiped Genos’ cheek. “I dunno how I didn’t figure it out sooner. I’ve been reading you think about cybernetics and stuff for years.”
“But then,” Genos sniffled, “that guy you’ve been thinking about? That’s me?”
“Uh.” Saitama felt his ears getting hot. “Probably. What kind of- Never mind, I don’t want to know.”
“I was jealous.” At least Genos was smiling through his tears now. “But I didn’t feel like I had the right to be, because I had feelings for someone else too.”
Saitama buried his face in his hands and let out a wet laugh. The moisture in his face-holes had come back full force, he was in real danger of starting to cry too. “Except you didn’t because I’m me.”
He could hear Genos smirking. “Yes sensei.”
It was all too much to process. Ten minutes ago Saitama was sitting with his roommate and crush and self-proclaimed student and checking on his soulmate, like he had a dozen times before. Now those people were one person and his feelings were returned and… where could he even start?
He’d daydreamed about meeting his soulmate before. Thought about what he was gonna say and do and wear. All the questions he had, all the-
Saitama’s head jerked up. There was one thing he hadn’t been intending to ask about, but now he realized he already knew the answer.
“Four years ago,” he said. “I- I was checking your thoughts and it was just… awful. Anger and pain. That was…”
Genos rubbed one last tissue across his face, tears drying up as his expression grew serious. “The day the Mad Cyborg attacked. Yes, I think so. Or… not long after, I felt nothing but those things for some time.”
“I’m sorry,” Saitama said. “I thought it was better to leave you alone. Give you space. But I should have tried to help.”
Genos smiled, softly. “You did.”
“I didn’t even try to find you!”
“How could you have, sensei? I didn’t know where I was. I was so preoccupied with what happened and my new body that I didn’t think to ask Dr. Kuseno where his lab was actually located for months.”
“But I didn’t-”
“Sensei,” Genos said firmly. “You helped.”
Saitama couldn’t exactly argue with that tone. “How?”
Genos’ eyes fell to his hands, clutching damp tissues in his lap. “When I was… recovering. Learning to use my body. Learning to walk again. I found that I could still channel your thoughts as easily as I ever had. I didn’t have to worry about how inflexible my joints were, how imprecise my fingers were. All I had to do was put a pen in my hand and you would move it for me.” He looked up and gave that soft smile again. “Besides, you did enough worrying for both of us.”
Saitama couldn’t hold the eye contact for long. “Sorry. It’s just-”
“You were afraid I was dead, I understand sensei. And I didn’t mind, I was glad.” Genos hunched his shoulders. “Maybe that sounds selfish. Whenever I wrote your thoughts it was always, ‘I hope you’re okay, please be okay, are you okay?’” His voice dropped. “'Please don’t leave me.’”
Saitama gulped.
“It reminded me that I wasn’t alone. I still had someone who needed me. Who wanted me to be okay.”
“I… I still shoulda tried.”
Genos shook his head. “I don’t think I was ready to meet you then. I think… I think, sensei, we met exactly how we were meant to. So that I’d know how amazing you were before I knew you were mine.”
Saitama’s heart started pounding suddenly, jumping up by what felt like at least ten beats. “That sounds good.”
“What does?”
“You. Saying I’m yours.”
Genos’ eyes widened and his pupils did that size-changing thing that Saitama strongly suspected meant he was recording. “D- does it?”
“Yeah.” Saitama leaned in. “'Cuz it’s true.”
He met Genos’ lips, soft and warm, slick with oil where Genos had inadvertently smeared it. They fit perfectly against Saitama’s, like they’d been born for it. Or designed for it. Whichever.
“Sensei,” Genos murmured when Saitama pulled away. He swayed forward, like he wanted more, but Saitama didn’t give in to the temptation. Not yet.
“Um. So. You probably know already,” Saitama gestured at the two notebooks and the abandoned pens. “But I love you.”
“Sensei!” Genos threw himself into Saitama’s arms, sobbing openly. Whoops, that had a bigger impact than intended. But Saitama couldn’t say he minded, not really, not when he’d been reading Genos overreact to stuff since he was twelve.
This was who Genos was. Thinking too much and fixating on things and crying because he felt all his feelings to their fullest extent. And Saitama loved him. He’d been born to love him, and then he’d fallen for him anyway on top of that.
“I love you too,” Genos proclaimed between hiccups. “I love you so much!”
Saitama hugged him, as tightly as he dared. “We’ve been helping each other this whole time,” he said. “But can you… help me a little more?”
“Anything, sensei!”
“Call me Saitama.”