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When he opens his eyes, Saitama finds that he must have kicked and rucked himself around as he slept, because he is facing the clear door to the balcony. Pale light filters through the gaps in the curtain, painting a buttery square right next to his hands. He squints, considers turning over and going back to sleep.
Then he realizes he can't, because something is pressed to his back.
Someone.
"Hey, man," he murmurs, brushing his finger back and forth against the blanket. "Genos. Wake up."
Genos, surprisingly, doesn't answer. Usually he's the one to wake up first. Saitama wants to lift his head, but the effort seems... a bit much.
It feels as though Geno's head is pressed between his shoulder blades. An ankle against his shin. Saitama's eyes track for the clock next to the futons. This one is silver metal with a creamy interface. 6:42. He considers nudging his roommate again. He must have rolled over in his sleep. Crossed the thin divide between their blankets. Seeking warmth.
6:43. Saitama stares at the clock. Then at the sun almost touching his hands.
He closes his eyes.
---
The day has turned to be a hot one: the air, dry, the sky, arrestingly blue. Far too hot for anything but bare sleeves and shorts, although Saitama regards the hoodie draped over the back of the couch with fond sadness.
Genos is in the kitchen, presumably pawing through the fridge to inventory what they need to get at the store. When Saitama pads around the corner, however, the cyborg pops up from where he'd been rummaging, gold eyes frowning. "Sensei," he says. Both greeting and question, right to the point. "Were you planning on shopping in Y City today? We have 3 more coupons for the supermart in the west district than for the one we've been going to here, but they've been known to price their vegetables higher and that's what we need most."
Saitama scratches his stomach. The cactus needs watered, he thinks, but he can't remember when he last did. He pictures the motions of it, the green of the can. It had been cloudy. When had that been? He stares out of the window. Not Tuesday. What was today?
"I'd like to pick up some eggs too. If we find some good deals, omelets would be suitable for dinner."
He hums. No, it hadn't been Sunday. Sunday, they'd fought that giant lobster thing. What had they done Monday?
A hand touches his shoulder. Saitama looks at it, then follows its arm to its owner. Genos tilts his head, then nods. "Do not worry about expenses, sensei. I'm willing to put some money toward food as well."
"Eh," Saitama replies, eyes sliding to the glowing struts of Geno's shoulders. He rather liked these arms. The doctor must have a good eye for... lines. Details. Aesthetics. Whatever. He doesn't - hasn't ever - had any standards to judge that kind of thing before, but even he can appreciate the sleek lines and angles. He wonders, for a beat, how much say Genos gets in his own appearance. "Well, uh, we won't go to crazy. Are you ready to go?"
Genos studies him a second longer. Saitama has no idea why, but apparently Genos is satisfied by whatever internal criteria he was looking through, because he nods and withdraws his hand. "Yes, sensei."
He feels cold for a second as Genos turns to close the fridge door. He chalks it up to drafts and goes to find his coupons.
---
The market is a twenty-minute walk away for a normal, unpowered person. Both Saitama and Genos could get there much faster if they so desired, of course, but the sun is shining, and Saitama feels disinclined to hurry. The sale isn't over until tomorrow, and they already missed the very start of it, so. He tucks his hands in his pockets and takes in the surroundings.
Genos matches him. Saitama catches him looking towards the same places. Reading the same signs. He could assume that it's just Genos being Genos, all that recording and note-taking and other nonsense, but he can't see that little blinking red light in the corner of his eye that indicates active video, and the expression on his face isn't the usual either. It would be rather inflectionless, if Saitama didn't know him better. As it is, it seems... quiet. Solemn, not sad. Content.
He asks himself when he was able to notice these things. Then he asks himself when the last time he cared to notice was.
They cross the road and join a steady stream of people. Saitama squints over the heads of a couple of schoolgirls, looks in the window of a florist, watches a cat in the window stretch and yawn. It's hot - he can feel a little trickle of sweat beading down his neck - but he almost wishes that he had his sweatshirt.
"And Amai Mask -" he catches the girl gushing in front of him. "Did you see him?"
"I don't know what they're waiting for," agrees her companion, whose voice sounds somewhat muffled, as though she's eating something. "Seems like he should have been made S-Class a while ago."
"Exactly," the first girl emphasizes. "In the latest Guide to Heroes: A Manual for Rank and Power, I read - "
Saitama tips his head towards them and raises his eyebrows at Genos. Genos's lips twitch, and Saitama has to break eye contact with a snort.
As they get closer to the square, the sidewalks get more and more crowded. "Man," Saitama finally says, stepping aside for a harried-looking older woman in a tie and suit, "Is something going on here? Did we miss some kind of monster attack? King usually says if there's some event going on."
"I've been monitoring the outgoing news reports for City Z, sensei, and I do not believe so," Genos replies, peering interestedly over the crowd. Must be nice to have those several extra inches of height. "If anything of importance happened, we would get text alerts from the Hero Association anyway."
"Would we? You always seem to get more alerts than me..."
"Many of them are simply for upcoming meetings and sponsor events that they want to parade the S-Class heroes at," Genos confides, reaching out to snag Saitama's wrist. The motion makes Saitama blink owlishly. "If sensei so wishes, I will see about having you receive additional updates. I have no doubt you would represent well at any public events. Let's move out of the way of the crowd, and perhaps we can better see where all of the people are coming from."
"No, man, I don't want updates." Saitama wrinkles his nose but allows himself to be led. His fingers slide against Genos's wrist in turn. The metal is cool and surprisingly... grounding. "You need, like, super-fancy clothes to go to those kind of things. The last time I owned a suit was before I started training. Have you worn a tie? They're terrible to upkeep. You know what they say, 'You can dress him up...'"
"I think sensei would look good in a tie and suit. You may find it different if you wore something properly tailored for you."
"That'd cost even more. And I don't want to deal with sponsors." Saitama mock-shudders. "I hear they get all up in your biz."
"It depends. The reporters are the nosy ones, in my experience. Here." Genos finally succeeds in leading them to a relatively clear storefront with several ceramic sculptures on a wooden table. The man sitting next to it glares, as though they might steal his stuff. Genos takes no notice, shielding his eyes as he gazes across the plaza. Saitama knows that he's adjusting his eyes - or however that works - by the faint chirp chirp of his sensors. After a long moment, he turns back. "Unfortunately, it looks like a large portion of the crowd is heading into the building next to the market. A number of the rest are heading into the market itself. We should get there fine, but it will take longer than usual. Do you want to wait?"
"Ah, the best stuff might be gone if we wait. You have to be willing to take risks to get the good deals," Saitama confides. Genos gets the same fixed look as when he wants to write something in his notebook but can't. "Is it in bad taste to jump over the crowd?"
Genos shrugs. "We've done it before. I suppose it depends on whether sensei planned this trip to be incognito."
"What? People never stop me."
"No, but I have... gained attention on several times."
"That's because you're an S-Class smartass," Saitama grumbles, staring down. Genos's hand is wrapped around his. Why are they still holding hands? Is that weird? Does Genos even know? Whatever, he doesn't want to bring attention to it. "Come on, let's go in. The normal way. Chop chop, blondie."
"That is rude, sensei." He's definitely not imagining the amusement in Genos's voice this time. Saitama shrugs and plunges back into the crowd, patting his back pocket to make sure his coupons are still there.
The store, when they finally (finally) get there, is lively, and Saitama finds himself perking up. "It's good to read the fine print on these things," he's telling Genos, as they walk down the baking aisle. Neither of them really bakes but, hey, a deal's a deal, and Saitama doesn't dislike sweets. "Sometimes something seems like a good deal, but you have to get ten of it to use the coupon. If it goes bad fast, then you're out money. For other things, yeah, it makes more sense to buy them in bulk, as long as you have the space to put them."
"Yes, sensei." Genos has adopted that intent look he gets when he thinks Saitama is about to teach him something important. The joke's on him - Saitama has never had anything worth teaching to begin with - but if it makes Genos happy to believe that budgeting tricks are on par with revenge and saving lives, well, who's he to say otherwise. "Does sensei use any of the online couponing programs? I saw an ad for them the other day."
"No, no." He waves his hand. "I mean, they can help with some things, but I don't do a lot of online shopping, and, you know," he leans in closer and Genos takes the bait, all wide eyes and bated breath, "Viruses."
The cyborg snorts, leaning back. "Worrisome."
"Hey, don't be so sure." Really, Saitama assumes that he's got to have some pretty stellar firewalls - that's his brain in there, right, and what twenty-year-old isn't looking up questionable content on the internet? He takes a deep breath, then pushes on. "Anyway, what's the fun in some program doing it for you? Half the achievement is finding good deals on your own."
"As you say, Sensei." Crap, Genos looks kind of affronted, and the tail end of Saitama's train of thought finally catches up to whisper, hey, he has 'some program' doing things for him all the time. He's a cyborg, that's the whole deal. Was he rude? Was that rude? Damn, he doesn't want his roommate to think he's cruel, so he squeezes his hand - hey, wait, they're still holding hands, that's gotta be strange by now.
"I mean, you can use tech to augment it, I'm sure you can search things real fast. I'm just used to doing it the old-fashioned way." Genos's expression has shifted to disquiet to something with raised eyebrows and twitching lips, so Saitama just huffs and pulls his hand free. That's what he gets for being nice. "Shut up and shop, roomba."
---
They end up doing pretty well, all things considered. Plenty of vegetables, some packets of discount beef, a couple containers of ramen, a can or two of tinned sardines. They'd missed out on those massive bags of clearance rice, but everything else looks so good that he can't bring himself to be too bothered. "Very nice," he quietly crows, looking over the receipt. "It's always good to skim over the receipt on your way out the door," he tells Genos, who is carefully weighing the bags in one hand, looking pleased as well. "I try to take a second look when I get home, if I remember to, but taking a look now makes sure you didn't get overcharged for something or get charged twice for the same thing."
"Has this happened to you, sensei?" His disciple looks torn between concern and serious-eyed fascination.
"Eh, a time or two. Usually it's a mistake, but I did have one time where a guy was trying to overcharge people on purpose."
"Did he go to jail?"
"What? No, man, it wasn't that serious. I don't think his boss was too happy with him though." That sounds right, although this was a long time ago. He can't even remember what the guy looked like. "I think..."
He doesn't get the chance to finish, however, before a raspy voice behind them speaks up. "Oh, dear. You two are heroes, aren't you?"
They turn, and wow, that's got to be one of the tiniest, oldest ladies Saitama has ever seen. She looks up at them through a delicate pair of wire-framed glasses, and Saitama feels a pang of - something. People usually don't call attention to him when he's out and about, and on the rare occasion they do, he usually denies it, so he opens his mouth -
Just for Genos to gently crouch to her eye-level and say, "Yes, ma'am. This is my teacher, A-Class hero Caped Baldy." There's an odd note of pride in Genos's tone, and Saitama frowns slightly at him. Man, he hates that hero name. "I am S-Class hero Demon Cyborg."
The old lady clasps her hands, smiling up at them. "Ohhh, I thought I recognized you from somewhere. My grandson, he just loves heroes, it's all he talks about." She looks, Saitama muses, exactly like the kind of grandmother who is always baking. A little bit like his own, he thinks. It's hard to remember her. Had she worn glasses? When had she died? He'd been at her funeral. "Dears, if you do not mind, could I have you sign a piece of paper for him? He would be delighted."
"We would be honored, ma'am." They step to the side, Saitama shuffling behind, and he's both incredulous and amused to watch Genos withdraw a tiny notepad from his jeans. He knew he had to have something like that on him; anymore, he's convinced the cyborg keeps them around just to troll him. "Do you want me to write him a note...?"
Saitama watches them with half an eye, turning to scan the rest of the store. He's not really that bothered by this; as Genos himself said, S-Class heroes are always getting stopped when out in public. The price to pay for fame, or something like that. He shifts the bags to his other hand, carefully folding the receipt against his pant leg. It had all looked mostly fine, anyway, teaching moments aside and all that. What should they have for dinner tonight? Maybe some dumplings, they had gotten some nice cabbage...
"... Sensei?" He starts a little, then turns to see Genos tilting his head. "Here, you can sign this too. I left space before my signature."
"Eh?" He swings his head towards the old lady. "You want mine, too?"
"Well, of course, dear." She blinks at him, eyes soft behind her glasses. She's a lot calmer than fans tend to be when they see Genos. "You are a hero as well, aren't you?"
He breathes out. "Uh, yeah. Here, give me that," he adds, making grabby hands for the pen in Genos's hands. Wow, his heart is beating a little faster than normal, he can feel it really going in there.
... It's nice, to be recognized.
Genos hands it over wordlessly - Saitama doesn't dare meet his eyes, but he does fiddle around for a kind-of stable surface to right on and ends up propping the little notepad on his thigh. He's finishing the last stroke when he hears, somewhere behind them: "Aw, look, dude, it's demon cyborg. And - ugh, god, is that that wannabe imposter?"
Saitama works hard to keep his expression neutral as he hands the lady the paper torn from the pad. Beside him, he senses that Genos has stiffened incrementally, eyes darkening. "Here, lady,” he says quietly. "I hope this makes your grandson happy."
"Oh, I'm sure it will, bless you," she says, patting his cheek in that same calm, grandmotherly way. He tries for a smile, keeping an eye on the now-steaming cyborg. The voice behind them is getting louder. "Have a good day now, dears."
"Lady, what the hell are you doing talking to that has-been? 'Ey, you, get outta here! No one likes you, we all know you're a fraud!"
Luckily, the old lady turns to leave; she doesn't even seem to have registered the voice jeering at them. Saitama waves at her, somewhat mournfully, before shifting to see some punk kid in dark jeans and flannel flipping him off. Don't people have better things to do than make a commotion in a public place like this? He sticks his hand in his pocket, balancing his grocery bags in the other hand. "Genos, are you ready to go? Let's go home."
"Sensei." Genos is glaring the typical daggers at the kid, but he drags his eyes away long enough to raise his eyebrows at Saitama. "Was there anywhere else you intended on going today?"
"Yeah, fuck you, baldy! Stop cozying up to S-Class heroes, it's creepy! Freak!" A few people have started to edge away, expressions ranging from annoyed to slightly alarmed.
"Nah. It's noisy here."
"Sensei is very right about that." Genos bends and picks up the bags he had rested against the wall while signing the notepad. "Let's be off-"
"Demon Cyborg, you should be doing better than hanging with a freak like that! He's taking advantage of you, and that makes you no hero at all! Listen to me, fuckers!"
What the hell. Don't yell at his roommate, asshole. For the first time, he wants to step forward, say something. Do people hear the words that come out of their mouths? He doesn't care what people say about him, but Genos. Genos is...
Oh, there's a metal hand on his shoulder. Was he about to step forward? "Come on, Sensei," his roommate says. This seems like an unusually passive reaction, coming from the man who regularly sets fire to entire city blocks, but the look on his face (when he risks shooting a look over his shoulder) is on par - cold, calculating, glimmering with destructive fury. The kid in front of them shrinks a little. "We have better places to be."
As they're exiting the store, Saitama ducks his head. He's looking for something to say, but Genos beats him to it. "Sensei, on the back of our receipt we received a coupon for an ice cream joint two blocks down the street. It's twenty-five percent off, and it expires tomorrow. If sensei is willing to let me pay, let's -"
"Um, yeah, fine," Saitama cuts across him, feeling a little dazed. What was it they called it? Tonal whiplash. Then he takes in the other (more likely) possibilities and feels himself relax a little. "Wow, man. That has to be the calmest you've ever responded to that kind of thing."
"Was I in the wrong?" For the first time, a flicker of uncertainty dances across those golden eyes. Either that, or he was hacking into that guy's bank account or something. Saitama really doesn't want to know. "Sensei usually says I should not make a fuss over such things..."
"No, no, I'm not complaining." He waves his hand. "I'm just - impressed, I guess."
"Oh?" Genos's eyes dim for a second, then - he's smiling, small, but that's definitely a smile. "I am honored, sensei."
"Stop calling me that, dude." They stop on the corner together, Saitama weighing his bags and trying to decide whether they needed to get this stuff home right away. They hadn't really gotten a lot of cold things, though. A cartoon of eggs, some fruit - it'd probably be fine, an hour wasn't going to make it spoil. "And hell, why not. What way is this place?" Genos gestures, and they fall into step as the crosslight turns green.
The place, as it turns out, looks fairly new - tiny, but the awning is pastel and the decorations in the cases are small and tasteful. They duck inside, Genos tsking when Saitama beats him to the door (or to the punch - heh) and holds it open. Then they stand together, eyeballing the flavors in the case.
"Are you going to get a normal one, or a weird one?" Saitama asks, squinting at the labels. "Would jalapeño ice cream be hot, or cold? You should try it and tell me."
"If sensei wishes to know, he should get it himself." Okay, wow. Saitama turns and throws him a mock glare, to which Genos shrugs. "I was thinking of getting the kitchen sink, myself."
"What? Lame. You can just pick out all of the good parts."
"I think all of the parts are supposed to be good, sensei."
"Said like a cop-out. Or soemone who's not a picky eater. Which is it?" He elbows Genos right as he's opening his mouth to talk to the girl behind the counter, sending the cyborg back a step. Whoops, a bit too much force. Genos gets that look in his eye - the one that usually promises trouble later - so he orders first instead, opting for a combo of cotton candy ice cream and something luridly orange that the girl tells him is dreamsicle.
Whatever that's supposed to taste like.
As they sit down, Saitama is still heckling Genos over paying. "You're always doing that," he crows as they choose the table closest to the windows, Genos cautiously testing the chair before sitting down. "'I'll pay for this, I'll get that. I've got my pride, you know. Maybe I'm mortally wounded."
"Sensei must be holding quite the grudge." Ah, there's that flicker of mischief. "Although one could argue that getting someone else to pay for treats is as good a comeuppance as any."
"No, dude, it just means you're a giant metal weirdo. You've gotta learn to be frugal. Fru-gal. Or at least let me pay once in a while."
"Sensei pays rent."
"Yeah, and you chip in -"
"And sensei is sensei. One cannot put monetary value on what you've taught me."
Saitama squints suspiciously, cheeks stuffed with ice cream, and - ugh, he's immune to things like meteorites and extreme temperature swings, shouldn't he be immune to brainfreeze? He swallows, with difficulty, then points his spoon at Genos. "No, it just means you're a big cheese."
Genos only shrugs. "It strikes me that there are worse things to be."
There's really nothing he can say to that, so he crowds his ice cream to his chest defensively, turning to look out the window. The flavors he got actually go pretty well together, and outside the sun is cheerful and the people walking by are a good cause for distraction. He points out a person here and there, making up weird professions or hobbies that these people must certainly have - and, after a few goes, he pulls Genos into it. To his shock, like a jolt at the bottom of his spine, he's laughing - and, more than that, he's genuinely having fun. This thought throws him, and he stares into the crumpled bottom of his discarded bowl, poking at the last few rapidly melting drops of ice cream.
It's been so long since he - since the moment felt like this. New, aware. He chews on his lip, eyes flicking to the cyborg in front of him. Genos, who puts up with his messes, who insists on paying rent and buying treats. Who plays stupid games with Saitama and goes couponing with him.
Genos, who came back again and again, always by his own insistence. Back to Saitama, who let everything go.
To Saitama, to whom he had curled against in his sleep.
He traces the sunshine falling on the table and drops his eyes. "Genos," he says. Soft. Quiet enough to be masked by the cars moving by, if Genos so wishes. "Was - could this kind of be like a date?"
His companion doesn't answer for a long time, face trained toward the street. Saitama looks at the planes of his face, wondering, feeling a hint of nervous nausea flip the ice cream in his belly. Genos is wearing silver gauges today, and they glitter in the sun. His eyes land on golden hair, the metallic struts leading down his neck and disappearing into his shirt. A second flutter, this time of shame, worms its way down. That was more the face of a hero than his.
An eon seems to pass before Genos lowers the spoon from his lips. Taps it against the glass of his sundae bowl, eyes still placid, posture still relaxed. He's still not looking at Saitama when he asks, "Did you want it to be?"
Saitama drops his gaze and rubs the tabletop, looking at the crumbs dotted along the patterned fabric. Yes. No. Should I want this? Should I be afraid? Excited? He's not sure what answer fits the best. He's still not sure when his hand reaches out of its own accord and lands on Genos's knee under the table. He squeezes, gentle. It feels like a human knee. Nothing to suggest the layers of metal and cogs. All he feels is the general shape and the texture of denim.
It's not a bad knee, as knees go.
... What is he thinking? What is he doing?
Yet, before he can pull away, there's a hand against his wrist, thumb pressing on the inner part where the veins rise just below the surface of the skin. Saitama stills. It's not - there's nothing threatening about this. Nothing pressing...
"Breathe, sensei." When his gaze jerks up, Genos is still facing away, but he catches a glimmer of gold - the cyborg looking at him from the corner of his eye. The advice, however, seems sound. Usually he knows what he's talking about, so Saitama obeys, taking in a breath, holding it, letting go. Genos gently squeezes his hand.
This seems like a good time to ask about the morning. About the futon, the body pressed to his back. He wants to ask, but... no. No, he doesn't.
"Let's go home, Genos."
"Yes, sensei."
---
Days pass. Saitama only knows this by the passage of the sun, the repetition of ritual. Futons. Breakfast. Shopping. Monsters break the rhythm, but not for long. Never for long.
Genos, though. He begins to realize that it's getting harder and harder to remember a time when he lived alone. His disciple has wormed his way into all the nooks and crannies of Saitama's life, an extra pair of boots by the door, a series of fruit-and-egg magnets on the fridge he doesn't remember buying - all the little physical reminders of being. It makes him feel off-kilter, giddy almost, and isn't that something?
Look at the present. Right now, he's sitting upside-down on the couch, manga in his hands. He's been on the same page for the past minute, words running together like broken egg yolks. If he tilts his head, he can see Genos beside him at the coffee table, busy scrawling in his notebook. At least, he was writing earlier. His motions have changed, though - Saitama thinks he's sketching something, but he can't really see at this angle. Whatever it is, he's been working on it for a while.
"Saitama?"
Guiltily, he drops his eyes back to his book before answering. "Yeah?"
Genos shifts. Saitama lifts his book up higher, pretends he's not watching for those tiny cues, the movement of Genos's arms. The rain taps steadily on the window, throwing rippling light across the table. Rain today, rain tomorrow, the forecast had assured. Or was that last week? The sensation, color and sound, creates a staticky, detached buzzing in his head, dulling his senses enough that he misses what Genos asks him the first time. Fortunately, the cyborg asks again without prompting. "What was the moon like?"
He drops the manga back to his chest, abandoning the pretense of reading. "I thought I told you about it before."
Genos taps the pencil against his notebook. Saitama still can't see the contents; there's a metal shoulder in his way. "Please, tell me again, if you don't mind."
"Eh. Okay." He turns his gaze away, looking at the tidy bookshelf, the drooping vine on top of it. Mumen gave him that... he thinks. "Um." He chews on his lip. "Like, how I got there, or what the moon itself was like?"
"... The latter."
There's something odd in that response that Saitama can't quite identify. "Uh, sure. It was..." Hell, he makes for a shitty storyteller. He doesn't know why Genos wanted to hear it again. Suddenly uncomfortable, he throws his legs across the couch, reorienting his head on the armrest. "Well, it was cold." He thinks. He can't really make out temperature changes anymore unless he focuses. It's easiest in the sunlight. "It was very... pale. Like, lots of greys. Dusty, too." Although that could have just been from his sudden impact onto its surface. "Kinda bouncy."
"Bouncy? Oh, due to reduced gravity."
"Yeah." He's still bummed out that he lost that piece of moon rock. Imagine how many groceries that could have paid for.
"Was it difficult to launch yourself back towards earth?"
"Not really? I mean, I could still see it pretty clearly." He mulls on that for a moment, then feels compelled to explain. "It was kind of beautiful. Earth, I mean."
Genos stops sketching, lifts his head. He's not looking at Saitama, though, instead staring at their door. Did he hear something? "Go on, sensei," he finally prompts, and Saitama shakes himself.
"Like. You know how astronauts always say it looks like a little marble?"
"I have heard that, yes."
"Well, I mean, I could kind of see why? I mean, from the moon's surface like that, it was surprisingly small. Like you could just pluck it up -" he mimes picking something out of the air - "And tuck it away in your pocket all snug and safe."
And it had been beautiful. Warm, shining, rich blues and greens, and in that moment when he sat up and looked into space and the countless stars beyond, it had seemed ridiculously fragile. Absurd, to think that hundreds of millions of people and animals and plants lived on that tiny little hunk of rock, hurling with reckless abandon around the sun. That that little thing hovering in front of him was where people lived and ate and laughed and died, day after day.
Beautiful and terrifying.
"Oh, and there was no air. I had to hold my breath."
And what a thing it had been, to take that first breath when back on earth.
Like being born.
Like dying.
---
He comes out of the shower one morning to find Genos at their table, sorting through mail. He eyes the carefully laid stacks and decides he doesn't really care - almost all of it is for the blonde cyborg anymore, save for the junk ads, bills, and credit card fliers. He drapes his towel around his shoulders and wanders into the kitchen, squinting at the plaid apron hung neatly by the fridge. He doesn't... remember that being there. No, but he'd definitely seen Genos wearing it...
"Sensei, you have three envelopes I have judged to be junk mail, a flier for coupons for a multipurpose store in city H, and a letter from the Hero Association. I received one as well, so I decided to wait so that we could open them together." Saitama cranes his head back around just in time to see his disciple brandish said letter with large, blocky, formal print upon it.
"Oh?" He meanders back, crouching next to his roommate. With deep suspicion, he studies the other piles of mail, then nearly goes cross-eyed when Genos wiggles the letter in front of his nose. "Watch it, man." Letter in hand, he frowns at the logo on the front. "What do you think it is?"
Genos pauses, caught in the act of slitting open his own. He offers a careful shrug. "I am not sure, sensei. I heard nothing amiss in the last S-class meeting. It cannot be too important, or they would have called." He pulls out the letter and starts reading, eyes flicking over the text.
Saitama copies him, albeit much more slowly. His eyes scroll down, but he feels like the words are skipping off of his brain. Invite... Sunday at 11:00... formal wear... representative. "Dude, what is this?"
"It appears to be an invite for the bi-yearly sponsor's gala hosted by the HA." Genos lays his own flat on the table. His eyes have gone dark, which probably means that he's doing some internal calculations or some shit like that. The one time Saitama asked, that's... kind of the answer he got.
"Lame."
"Indeed. However, attendance is mandatory for A-Class and S-Class heroes."
Saitama feels his lips curl in a grimace. Fortunately, his roommate looks to be feeling the same way. "We went to one of these things before, right? That was the place with all the little sausages and cheeses on sticks." He thinks. The shitty mask guy had been oozing around too, and they'd ditched halfway through.
"... That would be what you remembered."
"Eh? Well, whatever." He scratches his chest, watches Genos's eyes flicker back and away. "As long as we can duck out halfway through. And this time, let's bring some doggy bags. I bet they throw out all that leftover food at the end. What a waste."
"There's one more thing, Sensei. At the end of mine, it requires S-Class heroes to bring along a plus-one."
"Yeah?" Saitama re-scans his own. "Doesn't look like mine has that."
Genos mutters something under his breath, quick and low enough that Saitama doesn't catch it. Then, louder: "What does Sensei think?"
"What? About who you've gotta bring? I don't know." He scrolls through his list of people they know. The list is small, but Genos has to know other people, right? It can't be that hard. "I'm sure you'll find someone, man. There's probably a lot of people who would want to go with you."
The cyborg is silent for a long minute, eyes glowing like banked flames. Saitama goes to ball up his letter, then thinks better about it and slides it across the tabletop instead. I'm getting hungry. Huh, is it my turn to make lunch? What did we have yesterday? He misses what Genos says to him, of course, and feels his ears flame a little in embarrassment in being caught. "What?"
With a sigh, Genos places his palms flat on the table. Saitama eyes this action; it looks like the other is trying to remain calm, but they've cumulatively broken several pieces of furniture (usually on accident) at this point. They don't really build sturdy furniture these days. What a shame. "Sensei, both you and I are mandated to go to this gala. Would it not make sense for you to be my plus-one?"
His plus-one? Saitama blinks. Then, tentatively, he says, "I don't know, wouldn't they pitch a fit about that? I think the point is to bring someone who isn't a hero." Maybe. He doesn't really know (or care) much about the politics of who's doing what in the HA.
"Hmm." Genos's eyes dim for a second, like he's focusing on something else. "I don't know any outright rules against it. If it makes sensei more comfortable, I will inquire further."
"Um, yeah, you do that."
---
That's what he tells Genos, anyway. Then, as usual, he promptly forgets about it for the next few days.
He doesn't really want to go, of course. Those kinds of things are a drag. The ritzy food is the only thing that would make it worth going, of course, and even then just barely - so, yeah. A problem for tomorrow's Saitama, and all that.
Time drags on, moving in that way that it does - hours sliding by unnoticed as long as he's not staring at a clock. The monster attacks are few. A mechanical thing that kind of looked like a giant gumball machine that Genos had gotten all excited over. A horse-thing with eight legs that panicked and tore out of the city in twelve seconds when Saitama tried to jump on its back. A flock of sentient talking sparrows promising to take over the city. Nothing out of the ordinary, in any case.
He doesn't really see too much of Genos. As dinner approaches and he realizes how dark it's getting outside, he wonders if the cyborg had gone to go visit his doctor. Did he need repairs? All limbs had still been attached. Was something else wrong? Did he need upgrades? Did Genos and the doctor have some sort of secret pizza night, and Saitama had just never noticed?
He's staring into the distance, standing in the middle of the kitchen and trying to puzzle this out, when his pocket buzzes. He starts - staring with confusion at the ladle in his hand, when'd he pick that up? - and pats his flanks before realizing that it's his phone.
I will be late getting home. I thought this would be over quicker.
As he scrolls, another notification pops up.
Feel free to have dinner. There are meatballs prepared in the fridge on the second shelf. If you make pasta, you can save a small portion for me, but I don't think I'll be that hungry.
"Sure, dude," Saitama mutters into the empty space of the kitchen, putting the ladle back into the canister that holds all of the big spoons. After standing there aimlessly for a minute more, closing out of his phone, he turns and opens the fridge. A Tupperware looks back at him, right where Genos promised it would be. "When'd you get here?" he asks the meatballs, cracking the lid. Thankfully, they don't answer.
He debates eating them straight out of the container - not the weirdest thing he could do, it's his apartment, he's alone - but it's Genos's message rather than shame that motivates him into pulling out a pot to heat some water. He flicks on the lights, fiddles at the sink, retrieves another spoon and pokes the water to get it to boil faster. He's idling past the sink again when he catches sight of a flash of blue. Curious, he reaches onto the countertop, pulls the thing out.
It's a little baby-blue radio. It's got to be Genos's, for all that it looks strangely retro; he sure as hell doesn't remember buying the thing. Maybe a fan had sent it? Genos got an awful lot of mail, after all. He fiddles with the dials, uncomfortably aware of how tiny they are; many an alarm clock has met its fate at his unwary fist, but he doesn't want to break something that's not his.
After a few tries, sound finally crackles out of it. "Where would you go? Not long ago, I've been thinking out loud..."
"There, not too bad," he tells the radio, patting it gently and sliding it back into its resting spot. He was never much of a musical person, but it's surprisingly nice to have the sound filling up the room, creating a gentle bubble of space. On a whim, he unclips the apron from the side of the fridge and pulls it over his neck, fiddling with the ties.
"Forever is a long, long time when you've lost your way..."
It's not so bad, the here and now, the water frothing over the heat. He pulls out another pan and forks a few meatballs into it, bobbing his head to the music; into the water goes a pinch of salt and a half-box of noodles he finds in the pantry. Timer set on his phone, he washes the couple of dishes from the morning that were resting in the sink, watching the last remains of daylight draining from the sky.
Saitama is so wrapped up in his thoughts, in the comfortable stillness, that he's still standing there with suds drying on his wrists when his phone beeps - and he starts, badly, when he goes to pick it up and a knock sounds from the door. Good thing he's got good reflexes - or not, because he goes to grab it with such force that he ends up swatting it the entire way across the kitchen and into the wall. He cringes, oh god, he's probably broken another one, how many is this now? They don't make these things to withstand force, geez, he scrabbles for it and misses the "I'm home," from the door until he straightens and Genos is standing there, watching him, head tilted to the side with a smile tipping the corners of his mouth.
Defensive, he clasps the phone to his chest. "Uh," he says, feeling the tips of his ears starting to burn, then, "Don't look at me, man, you're the one home early. And, um, what are you wearing?"
At first glance, Genos had looked the same as usual. Same blond hair, same bulky shoulders. But, on closer look, he's dressed in colors that are far paler than usual - silvery pants and a rather formal waistcoat-thing. As Saitama sidles out of the kitchen, squinting at his roommate, Genos looks down as well, as though expecting his clothes to have up and run away when he wasn't looking - well, there's a weird thought to dump in his hindbrain, no, stop. "It's a formal suit, sensei," he says after a beat. Almost self-consciously, he runs a hand through his hair. "Where did you think I was?"
Well, that's not a "I told you earlier," at least. "... With the doctor," Saitama replies, still looking the cyborg up and down. He's even wearing a tie in some shimmery brown-purple material. "Mm. I thought maybe you guys had pizza night or something and I forgot." His mouth twists on the last word, just the slightest bit.
If Genos notices, he's tactful enough to ignore it. Instead, he replies as he shrugs out of his jacket. "If the doctor and I had pizza night, sensei, I would have invited you."
"That's cool," Saitama says, distracted by the sight of Genos hanging that jacket by the door. How much had that thing cost? He probably doesn't want to know. Pensive, he retreats into the kitchen, clicks off the radio. "So, why the fancy kicks?"
"The HA gala is tomorrow, sensei."
"Oh. Is it?" Well, that's embarrassing. "Geez, I still don't have anything to wear. Maybe I kept my old suit around, and I won't have to go to the thrift store..."
"There is no need, sensei." Saitama throws him a look that is both flat and somewhat... Satisfied? "I figured as much, having seen nothing of the sort while cleaning, and sensei himself said he has not worn a suit in some time, so I took the liberty of getting one for you myself." He half-turns, revealing what Saitama had not noticed earlier - a black garment bag, neatly hanging from the door handle.
"Dude." Saitama takes a few steps back into the kitchen, clicking the heat off of the stove before the pasta turns to mush. Huh, his hands are strangely shaky. "How many times have I told you not to spend money recklessly? You can't just go out on a whim - hey." Somehow, Genos is already standing in the kitchen, the bag slung over his arm, and hey, has he always been a little taller than Saitama? That can't be fair. He tries to fix a scowl on his face, probably fails. "Are you listening to me? You're supposed to listen to your teacher, you know."
"Sensei." Genos seems to have recovered his footing, metaphorically and literally. It's like trying to knock a cat off balance, really. "Would it be preferable for me to consult you earlier?"
"No, man, just don't get me anything at all." He reaches under the counter, rifling for the colander - it provides a good excuse to look away. "I know you probably spent way too much on that, and I haven't even seen it." He’s being overly aggressive about this, maybe. But still.
"It's an investment."
"Like hell it is."
"It is," and damn him for sounding so earnest. "I am confident that sensei is only going to rise in standing at the HA, and this won't be the first nor the only formal event that you are requested to attend. This," and he gestures with the arm still holding the bag, "Is, as I said, an investment. And if sensei is so worried about it, let me assure you that as long as you take care of it -"
"That's a loaded statement right there, bud."
" - As long as you take care of it, it will last." Piece said, Genos brandishes the bag in Saitama's direction. "Just take a look. If color is a point of contention, we can take it back to exchange it to something more suitable to your taste, but I did not think you would object too much to the color scheme I chose."
Saitama brings the still-steaming pot of pasta to the sink, grateful for something to occupy his hands with, trying to ignore the steady flush he can feel creeping up along his neck. "I don't wanna," he retorts, wincing a bit at how childish he sounds. "Speaking of suits, I was just planning on showing up in my hero outfit, what's wrong with that? It's never been a problem before."
"The letter pointedly requested formal attire. And besides, some of the outfits I've seen are hardly what I call... appropriate."
Fair, but still. "I don't even want to go," grumbles Saitama, setting the strained pasta on the washboard. "What are they going to do? Drop me a few ranks? I don't care."
"Sensei." Now Genos sounds exasperated for the first time, and something in Saitama curls up a little at that tone. "We agreed to go together, did we not?"
"Did we? I mean, as in we'd leave together and probably stand awkwardly in the corner together, sure, but I'm... I just don't see the point in it, you know I'm terrible around those kind of people." The few times any kind of businessperson or sponsor had tried to talk to him at those kinds of things ended up in some strange faces and hasty excuses to go elsewhere, and after a little while even Saitama can read between the lines, okay. "It'll be okay, dude, just go yourself and bring me a doggy bag or something, people love to talk to you."
He's still studiously not looking at Genos's face, but he here's the soft click, whoosh of Genos's shoulder things emitting steam. With his fork, he pokes at the meatballs. They look good, but now he's considering just throwing them back in the fridge. Then - shit - there's a hand settling gently along the space in between his shoulder blades. "I needed a plus-one, sensei," the cyborg murmurs, and god, that tone shouldn't even be allowed, "And I asked you, remember?"
"You know I remember things worth shit." The answer comes out far more bitter than he wants, but he can't take that back. "Funny joke, dude, but there are plenty of other people who would go with you."
A few long seconds of silence fill the kitchen.
He still can't turn, can't look, can't talk. He can't. He'd been feeling so good five minutes ago, and now...
Just leave him alone. Just -
"You really didn't get why I asked you to be my plus-one, did you?"
Saitama goes still, and, feeling like his feet are weighted with cement, finally turns. Looks Genos up and down in his clean white suit. It's crisp, pressed, turns his roommate - who is already overly formal anyway - into someone he feels like he doesn't really know. He feels a flicker of - something - swiftly followed by shame. How was he supposed to show up with someone who looked like that? Like he belonged?
He realizes Genos is waiting for an answer, swallows hard. Making eye contact feels far more difficult than anything else he's ever done, but he tries anyway. "You're going to tell me anyway." It doesn't come out like a question, and the cyborg seems to take it as such. His eyes dim.
"Does sensei remember that time we went shopping and got the ice-cream coupons?"
"...Yes."
"Sensei asked, as we were finishing the ice cream, if this was like a date."
Another wash of - some prickly feeling he still can't name - sweeps from head to toe. It was a joke, he wants to say. You weren't supposed to hear that. I was being stupid. None of these answers comes out, and Genos takes a step closer.
"And you know what I thought?"
"What," Saitama whispers. Soft. Scratchy.
"I... thought it was brave."
Saitama feels the breath catch in his throat. Genos - he's so close, his hand inches from Saitama's arm, and - he can't help it. He flinches, hard -
And Genos freezes.
Those golden eyes are wide, serious. He can't meet that gaze, he can't do this. He can't be here, can't breathe.
"Sensei."
He feels his hands curl into fists at his sides, and realizes, abruptly. He's terrified.
"Sensei, I -"
"No," he interrupts, but he can't be him, can't be his voice, all low and rough - "Don't."
The silence that stretches between them doesn't so much fill the room as it does swallow it. Swallow them. He sees Genos swallow, shift back just a fragment of a step, and that's it. That's enough.
"Just. Just go."
Genos stares at him for a long moment, finding - something - in his face, before nodding and turning. He picks up his jacket at the door, swings it limply over one shoulder.
The quiet presses on Saitama long after the door swings shut.
---
Once again, he's alone. It doesn't matter much.
He lies, curled on the futon.
The local news station runs a report on the HA event. Glossy-eyed, he stares at the tv. The faces that parade past the camera begin to run together, laughing and joking, bright suits and dark dresses. Their statements sound like no language he's ever heard, until one snippet breaks through.
"And now, a statement from S-Class hero and rising star, Demon Cyborg..."
He turns off the tv and turns on his other side.
He can't sleep. But it doesn't matter.
Genos doesn't return that night either.
---
Time no longer passes.
The radio by the sink remains silent.
The rain falls.
---
His phone pings. Dragon-level Threat. Monster at Y City in district 37. Respond.
---
Respond.
---
He should... get up. He was a hero. He can still fight monsters.
---
Respond.
He... should get up.
---
Respond.
---
S-Class Hero Demon Cyborg reported on scene in City X. Heroes under A-Rank advised to keep their distance.
He closes his eyes.
---
Get up.
---
Respond.
---
The phone pings one more time. One S-Class hero reported on scene. Remain on standby for further details.
But he should be used to that.
---
Assistance requested.
--
But does he want to be?
--
Get up.
---
He pushes to his feet.
---
Once there, he watches Genos fight. As always - and he can say this now, to himself - it's a thing of beauty. Fire and chrome. Genos's opponent, some scaly reptile thing with way too many legs, stands up for a time against the fire, but eventually Genos clocks it a good one in the jaw and it goes down, tumbling, howling. Genos stands lightly in the aftermath, waiting at a distance to let the police and cleanup crews do their work. His normally neat hair is mussed from the motions of fighting.
Saitama knows the moment he realizes that he's being watched; the struts of his back glow a deep, luminous red for a moment, and his shoulders slowly raise. He starts turning, and Saitama panics.
"Stop."
Genos freezes.
Saitama lets out a shallow breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding in, shocked into action. "Don't move. Don't turn." He stands slowly, brushing bits of rubble and dirt from his legs. Genos, to his surprise, obeys, fingers curled loosely at his sides.
He's quiet, so quiet, and Saitama stands there watching him for a long moment, framed against the warm colors painted by the setting sun. He looks, looks hard - sees the S-Class hero that so many idolize. But he also sees his roommate, who humored him, who cooked dinner with him, who got too serious and tried so hard, who never complained about his messes and his poor memory.
He jumps off the rubble he'd been perched on. It's not a far jump - not that distance really matters - but the space between them could span time and space. Eons. For all his power, he's not the strong one, not with the light-years of difference. It would be so much easier to turn around, to flee. No one could ever catch up with him. Not even the cyborg in front of him, for all his upgrades, all his determination, but.
Is that what he wants?
I thought it was brave.
So, instead, he takes another step forward. And other. He walks across the bits of upheaved pavement, broken bricks, battered signposts; all the debris of battle, discarded. The cleanup teams have gotten good at what they do, he knows; within a week, things should be mostly normal. Reconstruction, these days, was a highly skilled job. Between the monsters and the bodies recruited by the Hero Association, if they weren't better, most cities would be nothing but rubble. He tries to picture this place as it was, finds he can almost see it.
And, before he knows it, Genos is right before him.
"I'm..." He's so close, close enough to reach out and lay his hand along the curve of Genos's spine. He does, sees the golden cords of light glimmer under his white shirt. It's warm, but he no longer remembers how warm regular humans are. It's been so long since's he's touched something that wasn't trying to kill him. Then he sees his own hands, all the wreckage they've made -
He should pull away, but his fingers betray him, curling into the soft fabric. Genos, before him, is as still as a Greek statue.
Saitama shakes his head. "I'm no good, you know," he says. He feels Genos stiffen, incrementally, presses on. "I'm stubborn. I'm unwilling to go out of my comfort zone. I get bored easily. “He swallows. His mouth is parched. "I give up on others; I've got a shitty memory. I don't seek help; I'm indecisive."
He senses Genos wanting to turn, to open his mouth, and his other hand comes up, curling together. Another step, and he'd be close enough to rest his forehead against the struts of Genos's back, right under his neck - so he does. "I've let good things pass me by," he whispers, throat dry, eyes damp. He thinks about that empty, lonely apartment.
"Sensei," Genos says, that one word devoid of incrimination, pain... neutral. Saitama closes his eyes.
"I told you to leave." The truth, plain and cold, stretches between them. "I was afraid of not being alone. But I was also afraid of... destroying this thing more." That little flutter of hope; a home, shared together.
"Are you still afraid?"
Yes. No. The wind curls around them, sealing them in their own little world. He can't answer - and then he nearly rips the fabric of Genos's shirt in two when the other shifts. Don't go.
The word that drops from the cyborg's lips has the older man looking up in shock. "Saitama." He feels, for the first time, how some of those monsters must have felt in the face of his punches - right before they split apart. Genos's face is tilted - not looking back, not quite, as though he wants to but is trying not to. He senses the way Genos shifts his weight, the tension rolled around his shoulders. All those small tics that should have been near impossible to replicate in a metal body. A miracle of bioengineering. "I get jealous, you know."
That's... not what he was expecting. "Eh?"
Genos nods. He's wearing blue gauges that glitter in the low light. "Jealous. And envious. I'm reckless; I have trouble reeling myself back once I commit to something."
He's... oh. No. "Don't," Saitama rasps, but it comes out as a whisper. "Don't do this."
"I hold grudges," Genos steamrolls over him. A golden light threads down his neck, then fades. "I'm impatient and greedy. If there's something I want, then I won't let myself be persuaded against it."
Saitama keeps his hands still, frozen. He's damaged too much with them. Too much more with his words, with his off-kilter brain. When Genos turns - slow, steady, as though trying not to frighten off a scared animal - Saitama holds stock-still and lets him, afraid to move. Genos's hands, when they close over his own, are startlingly cold; the rubber pads along his fingers cushion themselves along his wrists. He keeps his eyes squeezed shut. Whatever look is on the cyborg's face, he... doesn't want to see it. Doesn't want pity. Doesn't want hate and anger.
He could take it from anyone else. Just not Genos.
"Please, Saitama. Look at me?"
No. He can't.
"I'm right here."
He can't. This will pass, Genos will go, he'll be alone again.
"It's all right," Genos breathes. He's so close, close enough that the whisper hangs in the thin space between them. A hand gently cups his cheek; almost unable to stop himself, he lets his face turn and drop into it. He feels something cold streak down his cheek, shudders.
"I'm here. I'm here."
The fervor of that last statement startles him, once more, startles as it shouldn't - on reflex, he obeys, and those molten eyes meeting his are blurry. Oh no. He can't be - crying.
A thumb traces his cheekbone. "I know," Genos says, and when Saitama takes that last step forward the cyborg's arms are steady around him. "I know. But I'm here."
---
It's dark by the time they get home. Saitama hasn't bothered with the lights for a long time, and he doesn't now - Genos can see well enough in the dark, he knows, has heat sensors or whatever he uses to navigate, and the room is small and familiar enough that he. He doesn't really need it, and besides, something about the dark feels comfortable, safe.
He doesn't think he's up to looking at his reflection in the mirror, anyway. Not quite yet. But maybe soon.
They pull out only one futon by unspoken agreement. Saitama steals both pillows, curling on his side and hugging the second one to his chest. It has no particular smell when he pushes his face into it, but he pretends. His breath whooshes out of him in a soft grunt as a heavy metal head lands in the space between hip and rib cage. He means to protest, but somehow it becomes unimportant when he considers the words, the shape of them.
He kneads the pillow closer, then, with a free hand, reaches over. His fingers brush against hair. He knows the color well by now, knows how the light occasionally renders it a bit to plasticky, too synthetic-looking, but by touch it feels surprisingly real.
"Don't worry, Sensei," Genos murmurs. About what, Saitama means to ask, but he only ends up tangling his fingers up to the knuckles. Genos stretches a shoulder. It nudges against Saitama's spine. "I'll take care of you."
His eyes track the faded cracks snaking their way through the ceiling. Somewhere beyond these walls, on another city, the sun is starting to set. He pictures trees, flowers, clouds, the park at daybreak. Children playing. Workers closing up stands. Couples walking home. When he opens his mouth, the quality of his voice almost startles - low, soft. "It's rotten work, Genos."
"No," the equally hushed voice replies. "Not to me."
The house is so quiet. Saitama closes his eyes.
"Not if it's you."