Chapter Text
reminisce
He can’t remember the last time that he felt like this. Some time. A lot more than just some time. Years, really. The first time he had a crush was back in elementary school. It was on a girl with eyes that shone like stars. He never said a word, of course. Back then, Saitama was too scared, of people, of monsters, of everything. A few months later, it disappeared, and the feeling never came back. But here it is now. The feeling that makes him want to cradle his head in his hands to cover up the flush that turns his face completely red.
He too has eyes that shone like stars. They are bright, brighter than human eyes can ever be. Unsurprising, since he is a cyborg. Sometimes, in the middle of the night, Saitama can see them sitting at the foot of his futon, trained on a notebook that he always seems to be scribbling in. White sclera has been replaced with black ones. He has yellow irises that light up during fights, which only further contributes to his hero name. But he is no demon. Far from it.
His name is Genos and he is a cyborg. Genos walked into his life a few months ago. Perhaps the word barging in with consent fits better. Unbelievably, horribly polite, even when forcing his way into Saitama’s tiny world. Demanded to become Saitama’s disciple, showing up with a backpack several times larger than him so they can live together, bombarding Saitama with a backstory heroes and villains would die for. Genos calls him sensei. Calls him sensei, even though Saitama has nothing to teach the boy besides a few cooking classes.
“Sensei?”
Saitama looks up from the manga he holds in his hands. Genos is standing there, in the doorway of the kitchen. He is as impassive as usual, if you don’t look at the crease of concern in between his blond eyebrows. Saitama’s heart skips a beat. He almost flinches at the occurrence; he still hasn’t gotten used to harboring these odd feelings yet. The cyborg once told him that he can track heartbeats. Does Genos see every time that his heart rate goes irregular? “Yeah, Genos?”
“Are you feeling well?” Genos asks. He fiddles with the hem of his pink apron. It’s the one that Saitama found on sale a few months ago, when fluids in the kitchen kept staining the cyborg’s shirts while he cooked.
Saitama stares. “Yeah?” He raises an eyebrow. “Why?”
“It is just – “ Genos lets go of the apron and points at the manga in his Saitama’s hands. “You are reading your manga upside down, sensei.”
Saitama looks down. Oh. So he was. He hasn’t even noticed. “Thanks,” he says, righting it and flipping a page he didn’t read. He flips a few more, anything to avoid meeting his self-proclaimed disciple’s eyes. He reads the words in each speech bubble. It’s comprehensible, but it turns to mud in his mind. They are clear, yet Saitama can’t seem to understand what’s happening.
“Sensei,” Genos says uncertainly. “Are you absolutely sure you are feeling alright?”
“Yeah, yeah,” Saitama mumbles, distracted. “I was just thinking. What are we having for dinner?”
Silence. And then, “curry, sensei.”
Saitama nods. “Cool.”
He keeps his eyes on the manga, knowing that the cyborg hasn’t moved yet because of the quiet. One more flipped page and he finally hears the heavy footsteps treat back into the kitchen. Saitama flicks his gaze to the doorway, relieved in a way that he doesn’t understand to see that it is void of machinery. Breathing out a small sigh, he rubs a hand across his face, hoping that clarity will shine upon him again.
Confusion is what he feels. Saitama doesn’t know what to do with these feelings, how to deal with them. Perhaps they will go away in time, but he doubts it. Living with the source of his affection, he knows, will only increase the infatuation. And he wonders. Wonders what Genos feels. Wonders if this might actually be fixable. Wonders if his feelings can actually be returned.
He tries not to think about it. Getting his hopes up will ultimately be his demise.
And then he’s back. “Sensei,” Genos starts. “If there is anything you would like to share, please do so without hesitation. I will try my best to help and find a solution.”
Saitama raises his eyebrow in what he hopes seems like perplexity. In an equable voice, he says, “sure.” He perks up his lips in a small grin and salutes to reinforce the act.
In response, Genos nods sharply and walks away. The way he nods is like a child would, overexaggerated and sudden, as if he doesn’t do it right, his intent will be misunderstood. It makes Saitama smile, and this time, for real.
There is a sensation in his chest. Like his lungs are being squeezed empty of the air they hold. It is not unlike being short of breath after a harsh workout back in the days when he still had hair. It may not be as painful, but it lasts so much longer. Saitama inhales slowly like Genos sometimes does when he is overheating. A breathing exercise, the cyborg explained. He hopes it helps.
It does not.
uncertainty
“Hey, Genos, do you think you have figurines made after you?” Saitama asks curiously one afternoon. The two of them were by the low-standing table in front of the television, one sitting in the formal seiza position while another is sprawled across the floor on his side.
Genos, who has his hands folded neatly in his lap, glances over at the bald man. “They are already available for purchase in both online and traditional shopping methods, sensei.”
Saitama whisks his head to the cyborg so quickly Genos’s shoulders twitch in alarm. “What?” He whines. “Popular, aren’t you? What’s next, full-sized body pillows?”
“They can be found among my merchandise as well, sensei,” Genos replies with a straight face.
Saitama groans. “They love you, Genos.”
Genos’s eyes remain unblinking. “That is not relevant to me, sensei,” he says. “They do not know me, and I do not know them. Their feelings toward me are redundant and should not be taken into consideration.”
Not relevant. Saitama wonders if his own feelings are superficial as well. The thought makes his stomach clench uncomfortably. They live together so surely the time they spent together must mean something. He hates this feeling of uncertainty and doubt. Most things didn’t aggravate him, but this level of insecurity is starting to make him nervous around his own disciple.
There are so many things he wants to ask the cyborg. But the domestic life they share is more important than his feelings. So he just snorts. “Keep talking like that and your fans are going to develop a praise kink.”
The cyborg pauses. Saitama finally rips his eyes away from the television to get a glimpse of his student’s reaction. His face is as stoic as ever, but his yellow irises are whirling in what he guesses in confusion. It’s confirmed when after a moment, he says, “I do not understand the meaning behind your words, sensei.”
Saitama lets out a huff of amusement and turns back to the screen. “I recommend you don’t search your database or whatever it’s called.”
A loud puff of steam erupts from Genos’s direction and Saitama startles. There is no visible emotion on his student’s face, but the cyborg seems to radiate embarrassment. Genos is avoiding his gaze by all means as he says stiffly, “I was not aware you knew such definitions, sensei.”
That makes Saitama laugh. “So that’s how you blush!” He exclaims and another wave of heat fills the mild apartment air.
Genos doesn’t reply, so Saitama grins and drops the conversation topic to allow the cyborg relief just once. Later, as he is brushing his teeth, the same uncertainty he felt earlier in front of the television crawls up his spine. It’s a disgusting feeling, and no matter how many times he tries to think about something else, his own mind is a traitor and spins back to the subject.
If letting out steam is how Genos blushes, then perhaps the cyborg really didn’t harbor any romantic relationships to him. The realization is crushing, and Saitama wishes he tried harder to evade coming to terms with the concept. The vise that holds his lungs only seems to constrict farther with the awareness.
Saitama doesn’t know when this strange feeling toward his cyborg apprentice started. In the beginning stages of their relationship, the only thing he felt was the need to get rid of this piece of machinery. Eventually, that annoyance turned to familiarity. Well, it isn’t as if it matters anyway. Saitama is stuck with these emotions, whether he wants them or not.
He may not want them, but they were a kind reminder that he still is human. His emotions have not faded. They were just numbed, at least, until Genos came into his life.
He ought to thank the cyborg, really. He may not be able to feel the thrill of battle, but his heart can race again. He never expected this. If someone told him he would be longing for a cyborg after his head went bald, he would have laughed and thought the person was mentally ill. Not anymore though. Every day, it becomes more and more clear that the feelings he harbors are not just a mere crush. It is more than just the type that develops on the school playground, or when you see a person with a particularly attractive face.
Saitama thinks it’s more than just that. So much more than that.
escalation
The tightness in his chest only seems to increase each passing day along with the cold weather. It increases when Genos is around and weakens when he goes away. It’s ridiculous, really. Saitama can’t even spend a few minutes in the same room as his cyborg apprentice without having phantom butterflies swirl deep in his stomach.
Sometimes, he catches himself wishing that he too had a mechanical body, so he can turn his feelings off and on whenever he pleases.
It doesn’t help that every once in a while, the cyborg will ask a probing question regarding his health. Saitama’s almost a hundred percent sure that his disciple is taking note of his physical condition with those burning yellow eyes that held technology Child Emperor would be jealous of. Perhaps Genos already knows what’s happening to him and is only playing the waiting game. But surely his acting isn’t that bad.
He buries deeper into the soft blanket wrapped around his shoulders.
“Sensei,” Saitama glances at Genos. His student is sitting in that neat position like always, a mechanical pencil in one hand and an eraser in the other. “Are you cold?”
Saitama frowns. He’s leaning against the wall, a manga in his lap. The icy feeling from the frigid wall seeped through the thin material of his sheets into his bare back. Putting on a few layers after stepping out of the shower was probably a better idea than walking around top-naked. “Kinda,” he finally says. “Winter and all, you know? I may have a little strength, but there’s still feeling in me, yeah?”
“I doubt ‘a little strength’ is nearly enough to summarize your limitless power, sensei,” Genos replies. Hesitantly, he sets down his utensils and pats his chest. “Sensei… I have a heating mechanism. I realize that you can cope on your own, but it is the middle of the winter, and I do not remember seeing heating bills this month. I am unsure as to whether or not you can attract a virus or fall ill, but perhaps we can avoid that if you – “
“Genos!” Saitama yelped, feeling a vein twitch beneath his skin. He resists the urge to bash his head against the wall behind him. “Twenty words or less, I’ve told you a thousand times!”
The cyborg opens his mouth and closes it. Saitama lets out a small sigh when he realizes Genos is actually counting each and every word. If his heart isn’t pounding in his chest at the idea of Genos wrapping his arms around him, he would’ve gone back to his manga. Saitama may not be the sharpest knife in the set, but he isn’t that dense.
“You seem cold so would you perhaps appreciate it if I warmed you up?”
Saitama jerks his head down to hide his blush. “Jeez,” he mutters, silently willing his flush to fade. Liquid adrenaline that should only run through his bloodstream during a battle made goosebumps rise on his skin. His hands are shaky as they grip tightly on the manga. “Stop embarrassing me and get your butt over here already.”
“Of course, sensei,” he hears his student breathe. Saitama squeezes his eyes shut as he feels warm metal arms cloak his shoulders. The feeling in his stomach is enough to make him want to throw up the dinner he ate an hour ago. He lets Genos shift behind him so that his back is pressed against the cyborg’s humming core. He opens his eyes to find mechanical legs by his side. It looks so much like something a couple would do that he almost chokes on his own saliva.
Slowly, as if unsure, Genos wraps his arms around the bald man’s stomach. “Is… is this okay, sensei?” He asks softly against Saitama’s ear.
He shivers at the air at the side of his head. Saitama presses the cyborg’s hesitant hands until they rest against his stomach firmly. “Take a chill pill, Genos,” he replies with a small huff of amusement. “I’m not some sensitive person, dude. Just don’t be stupid, and yeah, ‘kay?”
“Sensei is so accommodating,” Genos mumbles.
Saitama snorts. “Yeah, sure, whatever, man.”
“Are you warm, sensei?” Genos asks, cheek pressing against his smooth head. Saitama’s heart skips a few beats when he feels the warmth on top of his head. “Please let me know if you are uncomfortable.”
Saitama rolls his eyes and pats the cyborg’s hands. “Man, you sound like a service guy or something,” he grins. “I like this. Wish I had my own personal inner heater.”
“I like this, too,” Genos tells him. Saitama tries to ignore the way hope jumps up in his chest in excitement. He leans into Genos’s warmth. It’s cozy. He can fall asleep if he just closes his eyes and releases the tense grip he has on his manga.
For a moment, they sit there in soft silence. And then, Genos says, “sensei, may I hold your hand?”
This time, Saitama does choke. His cyborg disciple watches him with panic and worry as he accidentally flings his book all the way across the apartment to the opposite wall. He winces when it leaves a huge crack and crumbles to fall in a heap on the floor. “Damn,” he mutters.
“Sensei,” Genos is already moving around in agitation. “I am incredibly sorry, I should not have suggested such an – “
“Relax!” Saitama exclaims, grabbing one of Genos’s hands and curling his fingers between metal ones. He can’t believe this is happening, but now that it is, he won’t let himself be scared away so easily. “It’s all good, you just surprised me.”
Genos grows hotter behind him, and out of the corner of his eyes, he can see steam pouring out of his vents. “Is sensei sure?” Genos frets. “I understand if I was making too high of a demand, I will move away, just say the word – “
“Genos,” Saitama sighs, leaning his head against the cyborg’s chest. “Stay still, if you don’t mind, I’m gonna take a nap, okay?”
He hears the cyborg’s breath hitch. “I do not mind, sensei.”
Saitama grins and closes his eyes. “Great.”
He acts nonchalant, but inside, he’s buzzing with butterflies. And, to be honest, he’s not sure if he can pull off this little charade for much longer.
fear
It’s funny. Saitama always assumed that one day, he will be the one terrified for his own life because he has finally met a being that sent a thrill of dread down his spine. He never thought that such a weak little thing would have him near the edge of plunging into tears of frustration and horror. Except that is exactly what is happening. Perhaps he has gotten too soft. Too worrisome. There are a number of reasons why this has happened, but really, the cause is the last thing on his mind.
The life that he fears will end is not his own, but the little dot of metal glinting beneath the sun. It’s flying through the air, propelled by small arms that shoot explosions of flames. The shine of the metallic body catches in Saitama’s eye.
Genos.
His name is Genos, and one of his legs and arms are missing. Even from so far away, Saitama can see the way that his torso is sliced almost completely in half. Just looking at it makes his heart feel as if it’s about to explode. He’s not sure what he should do. Fear is acting as an iron grip on him. Run forward or away? He can’t move. He wants to, but he can’t, he can’t. He’s not sure if he can stand the idea of seeing the cyborg explode into a million tiny pieces.
The monster is too strong. His student asked him to stay out of the fight, as politely as ever while Terrible Tornado yelled at him for being distracted. Now, the esper is lying on a pile of rubble, unconscious, drowning in her own blood. The second most powerful hero defeated. Too strong. Disaster Level Dragon. Four S-Class heroes should be more than enough to take care of such a danger, but the Hero Association keeps on overestimating the capabilities of its heroes.
It's funny, really. Genos is designed to be the ultimate destructive weapon, and yet, and yet, all Saitama wants to do right now is protect him.
His hands are trembling. Saitama’s heart hasn’t beaten this quickly in a battle for a while now. But now, it’s hammering against his chest. The breaths he’s taking in are shallow and rushed. There’s a scream that is clawing its way up Saitama’s throat; he bites down on his lip almost hard enough to draw blood that hasn’t spilled in a long time to stifle it. If this is what feeling fear is like, he doesn’t want it anymore. Go away. Please.
He should step in. Perhaps if he does, he and Geno can make a quick trip to the doctor’s laboratory to replace a few missing parts and be home by dinnertime. He really should try to help. Move, body.
Do something. Anything at all. Even if the chances of success are slim. Do something. Just. Move. Move – move! Move!
And he’s moving. Somewhere far away, or perhaps not at all, there are shouts. He must not be moving quickly enough if people can still see him. One foot in front of the other. There’s no time if he walks. Run. Run. Run.
The wind is whirling by past his face. Dimly, he can feel the mute heat at the bottom of his soles as he sprints toward the monster. Saitama can’t see anything except for that little dot of metal in the sky. He pushes off the ground, cement splintering beneath him as he propels himself forward. Genos.
Saitama draws his arm behind his head and punches. Not too hard or else everything will be destroyed. But enough. Monster blood surges out from the other side, splattering the city and the people who shriek with terror on the ground. A coat of red falls upon the city, but that’s the last thing on his mind. Saitama’s eyes are still fixated on the cyborg, just in time to see the arm of the monster bash into Genos’s already partially destroyed body.
There’s a choked noise that makes it out of his throat as he watches his student try to deflect the blow with the one arm he has left. It’s not nearly enough. The metal splinters. Saitama grabs onto the monster, who is still wobbling on unbalanced feet, and using the momentum he can gather to launch himself towards his disciple. He’s sure he just made an even bigger mess with his take-off, but that’s of little importance compared to the state of Genos.
Genos lands in his arms in a heap. The force of being clobbered to the ground makes them both drop like a fly. Saitama’s feet sink into the hard material of the roads and before he can descend farther, he leaps for the undented cement.
For a moment, he stands there, unable to breathe. His heart is beating wildly, and he has to force himself to check for his disciple’s injuries. One arm almost completely obliterated while the other is nowhere to be seen, like his left leg. The right is still intact with mostly little damage except for the missing foot. There’s a slash right down his middle, so close to the core that keeps him alive. Genos’s face is wrecked, and Saitama can see the inner protection that the doctor created to shelter the brain. It’s dented.
His heart drops. Saitama usually doesn’t listen to Genos’s explanations, but from what he does know, the brain is the only thing that his student has left. It can’t be damaged. He raises a hand to gently brush the tip of his gloved forefinger against the dent to gauge the injury. It’s useless, of course. He is no doctor.
“Genos,” Saitama says, hoping, hoping that a response will rise. Say something.
“Genos,” he repeats. “Genos.”
He pats the cyborg’s cheek lightly. “We’re going to miss dinner if you don’t wake up.”
People are gathering around them. Saitama wants to shout at all of them to go away. What are they doing? Nothing but watching and taking videos with their phones. Useless, useless, useless. He is useless. What good is all this strength when he can’t bring himself to save the most important person of his life? In situations like this, there’s nothing he can do. Saitama wishes he can just punch the problem away. A punch can’t solve everything.
There’s a lump in his throat. The muscles in his face don’t move. Even when the best thing he’s ever encountered is broken, he remains placid. Traitorous face.
“Genos,” Saitama says again. “Wake up.”
When he doesn’t, the feeling in his chest only grows. Saitama has never been great at discerning emotions, but he’s sure he’s right with this one.
Wake up, Genos. I still need you for heating during the winter. I haven’t told you how I feel yet. I still need you for your superb cooking skills. I still need you.
It’s fear.
Genos, wake up. I want to see your eyes again. Open your eyes. Open –
And he does.
“Sensei, please don’t clench my shoulder so tightly.”
Saitama knows what this feeling is as well.
He thinks it’s called relief.
sardonic
Saitama did not understand why people chose to waste their time on such petty things until he started receiving this thing called “hate mail”. Now, as he flips through letter after letter, he finally gets it. He knows that he should throw the papers away. It’s not good for him and Genos might quite literally explode if he sees Saitama holding messages that contain such vulgar words.
There’s an odd feeling in his chest. He isn’t angry, or sad, or any of it for that matter. He just feels a little… empty. It’s the same every time the mail arrives. Saitama will take the box inside and dump its contents out onto the low-set table and sort through them until he finishes reading every single one addressed to him.
If he takes a moment to think, he realizes how pathetic it is. He doesn’t have to prove himself to anyone. He doesn’t have to justify his actions or words to anyway. He doesn’t have to chase after people to get them to listen to why he matters. He doesn’t have to show anyone what he can or can’t do. Let them think what they want. Let them do what they want.
YOU’RE A FAILURE AT EVERYTHING, AREN’T YOU?
I HOPE YOU DON’T BEAT CANCER.
FUCK YOU AND YOUR DEAD PARENTS.
IF YOU WERE SLIGHTLY MORE INBRED, I’D HAVE TO CALL YOU A SANDWICH.
Saitama blinks. What did that last one mean? He debates whether or not to give it a quick search, even though he knows he will end up on the computer anyway. With a few taps on the keyboard, the emptiness only grows. That was a good one, he muses to himself as he gently sets the open letter onto the growing pile on his right.
Just as he is about to pick up another one, his phone buzzes. Genos. A muscle in his jaw ticks. He accepts the call and presses it to his ear. “What’s up?”
“Sensei, is cabbage the only item on the shopping list?” Genos asks on the other side. Saitama can hear his student’s heavy footsteps along the road. He must be on his way home.
“Yeah,” he replies.
“What a relief,” Genos huffs out a sigh.
Saitama scratches his head. “Why?”
“It is just that it was the only thing I bought from the supermarket,” Genos explains. “I was not sure if you wanted something else, but I came across a few of my fans and the thought of calling you to confirm slipped my mind.”
He snorts. “I thought you said your memory is perfect.”
“Near perfect,” Genos corrects. “Supposedly. That is ideal, but machinery can never achieve perfection. And… the group was saying some things towards certain heroes that were not appropriate.”
“Ah, well,” Saitama glances at the pile of mail that still sits at his feet, unread. “Take your time, yeah? You better not come home with a missing limb.”
“Yes, sensei!”
Before the conversation can progress to a new topic, Saitama quickly hits the end call button. With his phone still clenched in his hand, he leans back and throws his arms over his head. He hits the ground with a loud thump, but the pain that shoots through his body is nearly nonexistent. As he stares up at the ceiling, he dimly wonders how many letters he can go through before Genos gets home. Maybe ten or so.
Blindly, he reaches out and grabs a letter off the unread pile. The stack tumbles over and hits his leg, but he ignores the papers that fall into his lap. With a smooth motion, Saitama rips the mail open and pulls out the letter. It’s naïve, but he can’t help but hope that in this mountain of hate is a person who appreciates him. He tries not to get his hopes up. They are almost always shot down.
THE WORLD WOULD BE A BETTER PLACE WITHOUT YOUR FUCKING BALD HEAD POLLUTING OUR AIR.
KILLYOURSELFKILLYOURSELFKILLYOURSELFKILLYOURSELFKILLYOURSELFKILLYOURSELF.
NO OFFENSE, BUT I WANT YOU TO DIE, FAGGOT.
Saitama raises his eyebrow. How can he not take offense to that? He switches the envelope in his hand for another. The writing almost makes him smile. Ah, now that’s a creative one.
YOU ARE READING A LETTER. IT TELLS YOU TO DIE. THEY TELL YOU TO DIE. YOU USED TO IGNORE THEM, BUT THIS TIME, DEMON CYBORG ISN’T HERE PROTECT YOU AGAINST THE MASSES. YOU WONDER IF YOU ARE BETTER OFF DEAD. OUT OF THE CORNER OF YOUR EYE, YOU SEE THE GUN DEMON CYBORG ALWAYS KEEPS BESIDE HIS PILLOW. YOU PICK IT UP, CURIOUS. IT’S SOMETHING –
It’s too much writing and he can already feel his attention slipping. He skips a few lines.
– AND HOLD IT TO YOUR HEAD. BANG, BANG! YOUR FINGER IS ON THE TRIGGER, READY TO PULL FOR A THIRD TIME, BUT IT’S TOO LATE, AND YOU’RE ALREADY COLLAPSING ONTO THE FLOOR. YOU ARE ANYTHING BUT STRONG.
He huffs in amusement. Genos would find that ironic.
YOU ARE WEAK. THE WEAKEST HUMAN ON EARTH, THE COWARD WHO TAKES SUICIDE AS THE WAY OUT. WEAK, WEAK, WEAK. ANYTHING BUT STRONG. LOOK FOR A GUN.
He lets the letter fall from his fingers onto his chest and then to the floor. He wonders if a gun can kill him. If Genos’s S-Class worthy technology can not make even a scratch on his skin, what can a gun do? In a way, the letter is right. For right now, Saitama is the only one who can kill Saitama. But the question is, does Saitama want to kill Saitama?
His eyes flicker to his student’s stacks of notebooks sitting on the low-set table beside his head. Saitama wants to look through them, even if it is a little creepy to find so much information about yourself that you didn’t even know. Genos is so dedicated and patient with him. He turns his attention back onto the ceiling. Genos. Genos is so dedicated and patient with him. Genos makes him feel things he hasn’t felt in years.
So, for right now, he thinks Saitama should stay alive.
abnegation
“What the hell is going on between you and Genos?”
Saitama freezes, his chopsticks halfway to his mouth. He’s so shocked that he can’t force out words. Instead, he gapes at her. Fubuki is eyeballing him with her arms crossed over her chest, unimpressed. They stare each other down for a full ten seconds before she closes her eyes and sighs. “Don’t tell me that you haven’t noticed. Do you even know what I’m implying?”
He opens and closes his mouth several times. Of course he knows what she’s implying. Saitama has thought about this topic for hours on end. Whenever he isn’t doing anything, or about to do anything, his mind just seems to drift to Genos. But there is no way he is going to admit that to Fubuki of all people.
“Not really,” he finally manages to say. He shoves the noodles hanging from his chopsticks into his mouth. If he still has hair, the heat would be enough to give his tongue a first-degree burn. With what he hopes looks like nonchalance, Saitama props his cheek onto his palm and chews. He thought that when she invited him to a restaurant and offered to pay for the food, her plan was to convince him to join her gang, or whatever it’s called. But this? He did not want this.
Fubuki lets out another long sigh. “What was I expecting?” She mutters as she shakes her head. “You’re so dense that you can barely tell a cat from a dog.”
“I can!” Saitama huffs indigently through a mouthful of food. “Jeez, give me some credit, woman!”
She ignores him. Saitama is ready to punch a hole through the table when she begins to mutter under her breath. But before his fist can fly, Fubuki’s eyes light up and she turns her attention back to him, a wicked grin spread across her face. “Let me just put it like this,” she says with her hands folded under her chin. “You have a thing for Genos, don’t you?”
Saitama knew she was going to delve into the topic further whether he likes it or not, but he didn’t expect her to be so blunt. In a very inept way, he chokes. Fubuki watches him with dull concern as he downs the entire glass of lemonade by his bowl. When he coughs out the last of the noodles, he rasps, “say what now?”
“You like him, don’t you?” Fubuki’s grin only grows as she watches Saitama struggle.
“No! What are you talking about – “
“You know,” Fubuki muses. “I would even go as far as to say you love him.”
Love?
Does he love Genos? It makes him pause for a fraction of a second. How do you know you love someone? As quickly as the surprise comes, it fades, and for the rest of the evening, the two of them somehow wind up on debating which S-Class hero is the most talented. Really, he’s just glad that he’s stirred clear of the awareness of something so confusing like emotions.
Saitama tells himself to just forget about it, because the more he thinks about it, the more anxious he’ll get, and the stranger he’ll act around his cyborg apprentice. But as he curls up on his futon a few inches away from Genos’s face, he can’t help but wonder.
Love, huh?
He stares. Genos’s eyes are closed, but he can imagine how brightly they can burn in the dark room if they were open. A light in the bleak obscurity that he calls his life. Genos makes him feel. With the cyborg, Saitama feels things that he thought are long gone, things that he thought are completely erased from his thin range of emotions.
But love? No, he is not in love. He does not like Genos in that way. He does not love Genos.
It’s hard to convince himself when the only thing he can see is his student’s sleeping face. So he closes his eyes and lets black surround him. He does not like Genos in that way. He does not love Genos. He told that robot gorilla that he isn’t into dudes and he will stick with his answer. No person, no matter how cyborg they are, will ever change that.
No, not love.
Genos makes him feel things he doesn’t want to feel – that’s what Saitama has narrowed it down to. Stop, he wants to shout. Stop it. Whatever it is, whatever this is – it’s not love – and he hates it. He wishes he can solve it with one punch. Stop, stop, stop, stop – if anything, it’s jealousy – stop. It’s –
Not love.