Work Text:
Hero Association Headquarters, Class S conference room, meeting, nothing. Saitama hated these things; one rubber sole tap-tap-tapped softly on the linoleum, fingers drummed on the table, ears blocked news both significant and far from it. Monsters, charity, rankings. He wasn’t an anxious person, far from it, opting instead to dip languidly into the waves of inattention more often than not--more often than Genos, at least--but just sitting in this room made him feel claustrophobic.
As if he were still in high school.
Absentminded doodling on a pad he’d practically had to barter for. Genos would fill him in on whatever he needed to know as it approached in importance. Goddamn sentient Palm Pilot. Did people still use Palm Pilots?
“ Baldy.”
“Yeah? What?” His cheek shot up from its resting spot on a forearm. That inflection suggested he’d been addressed more than once.
“I said ,” Flashy Flash was sneering, “if anyone’s gonna take part in the H.A.’s stupid outreach in City Z, it should be you.”
“Me?” Saitama frowned. “Why not any of the other chuckleheads living in Z? Genos lives in Z; make him do it.”
Temperately, but with a look Saitama would have called subtly withering, Genos began to state: “I already--”
“He already volunteered, egghead. The Association needs two of us, and your track record with charity work is slim. Man up and pass out some damn pamphlets for a couple hours.”
And as with every insult or instance like this, Saitama was more than ready to let it pass through him, but--
“Saitama-Sensei is not a man.”
Almost self-righteously. Saitama’s heart dropped a good foot-and-a-half into the bottom of his gut.
Some snarky laughter around the table, a few oooh ’s, the kind he used to hear after being called to the principal’s office as a kid. They thought it was a joke. Insubordination. Saitama was going to throw up.
“Since when does the toaster sass you, Baldy? You finally update his operating system?” Tanktop Master asked, to the chortled approval of his peers.
Saitama hoped his face didn’t look as red as it felt in this dim light. “Must be a glitch,” he offered back, shrugging. From the corner of his eye, he watched Genos’ perplexed expression, the tedious parting of his lips as he readied himself to explain. Motherfucker. Saitama stood, snatching Genos up alongside him by the back of his fringed collar. “Anyways, yeah, I’ll do the stupid outreach. Catch you guys on the flipside. We got a 2-for-1 sale to get to.”
“The meeting isn’t over yet, Saitama--” the H.A. representative began to say as they flurried out the door, but Saitama was gone. Wouldn’t have heard through the ringing in his ears, anyway.
The hall outside the conference room was abandoned. Saitama released Genos when the door shut behind them, stalked stiffly over to the picture windows opposite.
“Sensei?” Genos implored, to no response. He followed slowly behind.
Saitama couldn’t find the words. He’d been irritated with Genos before, sure; all the cyborg ever did was backed by the best intentions, no matter how frustratingly earnest. He was a good housemate--understanding, and kind, and, in spite of all the evidence against him, perceptive. Genos knew when to shut up, didn’t he?
Saitama was afraid he’d wheel around and sock the cyborg through three layers of concrete, so he crammed his palms tightly into his armpits and locked them in, shaking.
“Sensei, you shouldn’t let them--”
“Why would you say that?” Saitama wheeled around, unable to control his tongue. “Why, why would you just--in front of everyone--”
Genos blinked, big, golden eyes glowing foolishly.
“After what you told me yesterday, I thought… I assumed you’d prefer they stopped referring to you with masculine terminology. I was merely correcting the offense when I knew you wouldn’t.”
“No! No, no, no!” Saitama shook his head furiously. “That isn’t fair! I told you , Genos; that wasn’t an open invite to go fucking shout it from the rooftops!”
“Why did you inform me of the change in identification if you did not intend to follow through with it, Sensei?” The question was genuine, and that fact only made Saitama want to fling Genos through the window behind him.
“Because you’re my friend!” Saitama’s voice faltered. “I trusted you to--to--”
“To keep it a secret?”
Saitama stood stock still, worried if he took a step he’d smash his foot through the floor.
“I don’t know,” he croaked dryly. “Yeah, I guess. I told you I was scared, and you…” For a moment, he forgot himself, pulled one of his hands out from its restraint and gestured vaguely. “You, like, betrayed me or some shit. That sounds so stupid. And they didn’t get what you were saying, so whatever, but…”
Saitama couldn’t remember feeling this upset in recent memory. In a way it was relieving just to know he still could.
Genos seemed to understand, slowly. His face fell, and then his whole upper half followed suit as the cyborg dipped into a reverent bow.
“Forgive me, Saitama-Sensei. For you to have put your faith in me and only ended up with it shaken, if not shattered entirely by my negligence--my not knowing better is inexcusable.” When Saitama said nothing, Genos continued: “I cannot promise you your trust was not in vain, and I wouldn’t blame you being wary with it for a long time. But at least allow me the chance to prove myself to you, Sensei. You mean too much to me for this mistake to--to--”
Little black dots of oil pooled and hit the floor. Saitama didn’t notice them until Genos softly sobbed, and the very sound filled him once more with revulsion.
“Stand up and look at me.”
Genos did as he was told.
“Stop crying, Genos.”
Genos did that, too, though he seemed a little appalled by the demand. Saitama generally wasn’t the sympathetic sort, but he’d never been quite so blunt.
Saitama looked at the floor. “Apologizing was enough. Don’t convince yourself you’re the victim here. Not that I’m saying I’m a victim; I just… I don’t feel like you get to cry about this one. Maybe that’s insensitive of me.”
“N-no, Sensei,” Genos said quickly, swiping a hand over his eyes and only succeeding in smearing black all over his cheeks. “You’re right. I’m sorry.” He cast his gaze downwards just when Saitama lifted his. “That’s all I can say.”
“Okay. I--”
I forgive you , he wanted to say, bring all this to an end. But he ached. He felt flighty, and fearful, and all off-kilter. He felt hurt. The invincible Caped Baldy, mysterious Class S adversary who brought his foes to their knees in one punch, felt hurt.
“Okay,” Saitama murmured.
They tiptoed around one another for the rest of the day.
Saitama didn’t like feeling as if parts of his existence were secret. The easier route involved benevolent silence, folks not knowing because they never thought to ask. Maybe if King, per se, walked up to him one day and asked how he identified (though that wouldn’t have been like King, of course), Saitama would tell him. But the truth was the other heroes weren’t the kind of people he wanted knowing, not without having full confidence in it himself. When he stopped keeping himself up at night over the thought of walking into a store and coming out with a skirt, maybe the Association could know, and fix his paperwork.
“Sensei?” Genos said very softly over a previously silent dinner.
“Yeah?”
“You… mentioned wanting to purchase some new clothes,” the cyborg carried on, “eventually. Once you felt less frightened.”
Saitama swallowed his noodles before nodding once, slowly.
“I wanted to inform you that, if you wouldn’t mind, I… I’d like to join you, when the opportunity arises.”
“For studying purposes?” Saitama asked carefully, taking a sip of his beer. “Or for moral support? As a bodyguard?”
This last suggestion came out more bitterly than intended.
“Neither,” Genos said. “Or--none of the three, Sensei. Though it would not… directly affect my ability to track down the Mad Cyborg--”
Saitama raised an eyebrow.
“--I believe accompanying you on such a mission might be… enjoyable. Partaking, if I was so inspired.”
“You want to go shopping with me. That’s what you’re saying.”
“I was attempting to, Sensei.”
Saitama smiled, just a little. “Well, your wardrobe is a little monotonous. Might be fun to chop the sleeves off something a bit more garish.”
“My thoughts exactly, Sensei.”
Saitama felt warm, all the way from the top of his shiny crown to the tips of his toes. Cozy, almost; something verging on comfortable in his skin. It was the first time he noticed feeling it, but it wouldn’t be the last.
“Yeah, okay.”
And they wouldn’t end up going until about a month later, spur-of-the-moment and possibly fuelled by a little late-night delirium after fighting a few too many nocturnal beasts. Passing by a storefront, open late so close to the holidays and on a weekend, at that, and sauntering in with Saitama in the lead. Filing nervously at first through racks of clothes until Genos broke the ice, picked up a shirt and, completely straight-faced, asked if Saitama thought it might suit either of them. It read “DISCO THOT” in big, garish pink letters. Saitama laughed until his stomach hurt (a rarity); even Genos exhaled in a way that sounded suspiciously humored (unfathomable).
No, for the time being, it was all far more tentative than that. Quiet until they went to bed, and, side by side on their futons, Saitama cleared his throat and spoke.
“I appreciate you doing your best to understand,” he uttered into the dark, “and I just wanted to let you know that I forgive you.”
Saitama heard the unmistakable hiss of steam, released like a sigh of relief from Genos’ shoulders.
“I do not take that lightly, Sensei,” the cyborg replied. “Thank you. Sleep well.”
“Okay,” Saitama whispered.
And he slept well.