Chapter Text
It’s not the endings that will haunt you
“Pay attention!”
Genos blinked, surprised. He had been paying attention. Perhaps not on the presumed spotlight per say, but his eyes had not strayed far from where they should have been. The back of his teacher’s bald head just seemed to attract his focus no matter how hard he tried to concentrate on the lesson. But he realized that maybe, just maybe, he was not as good at hiding what he was thinking as he stared at his teacher.
His teacher’s placid expression was replaced by one of irritation that showed up an abnormal amount of times during the school day. Genos played with the idea of stress causing the premature balding, a thought that he knew for a fact that Saitama would not appreciate.
Genos liked seeing emotions on his sensei’s face. It sparked something inside of him, something he didn’t understand and made his heart leap. The need to put time to research why this was happening was almost overwhelming. Maybe that was why he was so fascinated with his gym teacher. Other than the strange strength the man seemed to expel, anyway.
If Genos had been even just a little bit more interested, he would have purposely caused trouble to evoke a reaction from Saitama. But Genos was careful and diligent; acting out for the sole purpose of retaining attention from another person disgusted him to no end.
“I know this is different from the usual gym class,” Saitama was saying with a twitching eyebrow. “But you’re gonna be thanking me when you don’t get your girlfriend pregnant!”
That, perhaps, was not the best phrase to say to a group of hormone-ridden teenagers. Genos would have worded it slightly differently. The class exploded into laughter and the frown on his teacher’s face deepened farther. He was about to jump up and apologize when the person who sat behind him beat him to it.
“Sorry, sensei,” they said through bouts of giggles. For a moment, Genos sat there, confused, before whirling around and setting his eyes on a built student with his sleeves rolled up recklessly in an imitation of what looked like a tank top. He wanted to scold them all, for disrespecting Saitama-sensei, for laughing at those wise words (to be honest, interesting may have been slightly better definition), for just dismissing everything too early.
And in the middle of that hurricane of frustration was the calm, the hollow feeling that stood in the caverns of his chest. Why couldn’t Saitama talk to him for once? Because he did not stand out. He was remarkably bright, years more mature than all his fellow high school classmates, but he was not the brightest. There were those two in robotics who had similar names with talents that surpassed far above his. There was that child, and he said this with certainty that the boy could not be more than ten years old, who was called a genius.
Genos had to get better. He was not good enough yet.
But the place where they should lie,
Genos ducked under the bench. A small puddle of water collided with his knee, but he could hardly care. His eyes were trained on the man shooting hoops on the pavement. Saitama had the worst form he had ever seen and yet, each one went in with little to no effort, as if the forces of gravity were bending in the man’s favor. His posture was far too casual and the way he threw the poor orange ball like a frisbee made Genos wonder how, exactly his teacher was able to teach an entire school.
But now that he had peace and quiet and was alone with his thoughts, Genos could not remember the last time that Saitama gave out good advice. It was a miracle the school sport teams even managed to compete against the other schools and come out on top. Although that may be due to the sheer number of talented players.
He was alone with his thoughts, and his mind was spinning with the way the afternoon sun shone against his teacher’s body. It took conscious effort to not imagine the way sweat would run down Saitama’s toned physique.
Genos marveled at how easily Saitama made each shot. He couldn’t decide if it was due to an unholy amount of training or if the teacher was a luck magnet.
Nobody in the school took Saitama seriously. They had good reason not too. Most of the time, the gym teacher would sit on the bench and pick at grass while the students played whatever sport the session was running through. None of them had ever witnessed the bald man’s genius. And in a way, he was relieved.
Saitama always went to the back of the school to train when the after school clubs finished. It was strange, watching somebody like his teacher become so serious with his training regimen. From what Genos could see, it was just a few ordinary muscle building exercises. One hundred push-ups, one hundred sit-ups, one hundred squats, and thirty laps. He knew, because he counted.
Genos wanted to talk to Saitama, but he couldn’t think of what to say. But, crouching behind under a bench and watching like a stalker was not going to do much for the situation, was it? The prospect of striking up a conversation with the teacher made his heart pound.
So he took a deep breath and stood up.
The things that simply faded
He can still recall Saitama’s face, even years later, when the other has undoubtedly forgot long ago. The sharp edges and dull eyes will be forever burned into his memory, whether he wants to forget or not. In the back of his mind, he will always reminiscence on the way that the morning sun seemed to shine so brightly against his former sensei’s bald head. Genos knows that Saitama would not appreciate this fact. His old teacher didn’t appreciate much facts about anything even remotely related to his baldness, but Genos treasures it.
His colleagues like to talk about the old days. The years before, in middle school, in high school, when they were so free, of responsibilities, of the pressure weighing down their shoulders. So carefree and unburdened that they did not even realize the feeling would never last. Perhaps that had been the ultimate doom in the end.
“Are you feeling okay, Genos?”
Genos almost jumps at the voice. He doesn’t though. Not only will his pride not allow that, but the days of Saitama’s sudden appearances had trained him to stay still even under the sensation the end of something short and bright was about to arrive. So instead, he slowly turns around from where he stands staring out at the city to the female voice.
“Yes, I am, thank you for asking,” Genos replies with a curt nod. It is one of the new recruits. Or, if one prefers, another of Genos’s steadily growing fan club. He wishes that she would just leave him to his thoughts and view of the setting sun.
Silence is slipping away, silence that he used to share with Saitama, is slipping away, right beneath his nose, through his tightly laced fingers. He should have latched on tighter, more carefully. But he was not as mature as they all made him out to be.
Even though he makes it so very clearly that he wants her gone, she stays. And when she opens her mouth again, the words are hesitant, as if she knows her presence is not wanted, but ignores the clouds of doubt and persists. “You’re always here,” she mumbles. “My friends all say you look cool like that, but I think you look sad.”
Maybe it is the familiar bluntness that cracks at his walls. Or maybe it is because she likes to wear a ridiculous hoodie so similar to what he wears. But it doesn’t matter anyway. “Would you like to dine with me tonight?” He asks.
Regret traces through him the moment he says the first syllable. But looking at the fading sun hurts his eyes and all he wants to do is stare into the shades again.
Genos watches through the reflective glass at the way a smile slowly inches up her face. So different. She may wear the same awful hoodie and have a somewhat similar blunt language, but her smile carries too much hope. He can’t help but push up a mirror of what smile he would have liked to see up in his mind, and it’s so, so different.
She is saying something, but it turns to mush in his ears. As he follows her out of the room, something aches in his chest.
I should visit the doctor.
Straightforward words and awful hoodies are going to be the death of him.
Without a final wave goodbye.
The numbness from sitting too long was nothing compared to the nervous butterflies fluttering in his stomach. There was a tingling sensation that Genos was sure that didn’t signal good things. If he stood up too quickly, his head would start spinning and the world would flash before his eyes. Carefully, Genos shook out his legs, blinking away the stars and holding onto the bench for balance, all the while wincing at the feeling of pins and needles nudging their way into his body.
When the dizziness passed, he turned his focus back to his sensei. He had not been noticed yet, and from Saitama’s rare steeled face of concentration, he didn’t think he would be anytime soon. Genos walked to the edge of the basketball court, anxiety making his skin crawl.
Breathe in for four seconds.
Hold for seven.
Breathe out for eight.
Repeat.
He ran through the exercise fifteen times before giving up and switching to another one. There were only so many breathing drills in the world, and by the time his stomach stopped clenching, Genos wondered if he had used all of them. Unlikely, of course, but it definitely felt like it.
“Sensei!” Genos called out.
Saitama’s head whipped into his direction so quickly Genos almost flinched back. The ball bounced off the ring of the hoop, the first missed score, and missed the side of Saitama’s face by less than an inch. It took all of his willpower not to start shifting on his feet. In a fraction of a second, the serious face was gone, replaced by a familiar one that was worn everyday in front of dozens of classes.
“Hey?” Saitama said hesitantly, more of a question than a greeting. He looked confused, rooted to where he was standing, and unsure of what to do with his hands. “Uh, what’s up?”
Genos took the initiative and rushed over to the gym teacher. “Saitama-sensei,” he said and bowed.
Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Saitama scrunch his nose. “Don’t talk to me if you’re gonna bow,” Saitama grumbled.
“I apologize, sensei,” Genos stood. “I am sorry for watching, but I could not help but notice that you are perhaps the best player I have ever seen, sensei! Your posture and form may not be conventional, but your technique is perfect, and I have not yet seen a shot missed, aside from the one that I distracted you from. It is not just basketball that you are brilliant at, either! I never noticed before, but – “
“You talk too much!” Saitama suddenly blurted in annoyance, eyebrows twitching with frustration. “Twenty words or less! Get to the point, kid!”
Genos paused. As expected of sensei, he thought. He should have practiced his words before speaking them aloud. But, twenty words? How could he express his intent and still be taken seriously?
But, if that was what Saitama wanted, that was what he was going to give. He turned the words through his mind once more. Was it good enough? It would have to do.
“Please make me your personal disciple!”
Forgetting things you’re sure you knew,
Genos stares at the ceiling, head aching and mouth dry. No matter how much he tries to focus on something else, his attention keeps on drifting towards the door. The bed is suffocating. The girl lying at his side makes his lungs short of air. This job as a manager, this life, no matter how fulfilling, is not what he wants. The people who look up to him, hold their heads so high, so high, just to see him, are not people he wants to spend the rest of his short life with.
All the presentations, interviews, client – they make him sick.
He glances at the window. The sun is not up yet. The world is coated in darkness, and he wants to close his eyes, if only for a little while. But his body is wired to wake up at the same time everyday, no matter how low the sun hangs. Habits formed years ago don’t die easily.
It takes effort to sit up. Too much effort, especially after what was supposed to be one of the better nights of his life, with a potential girlfriend. Genos stands, all too aware of the way the back of his shoulders ache and the cold tiles beneath his feet.
There is a hollow feeling in his chest, and for a moment, he is frozen, waiting for the emptiness to eat him whole. And, just as quickly as it came, it is gone, and Genos is free to continue with his morning routine. It is the same one he has been doing since the beginning of high school.
Exactly thirteen minutes later, he is out the door. The girl he left behind is not a member of his floor, so hopefully, hopefully, they won’t see each other ever again. It’s petty to run away, childish to panic, and his past self would have scowled in disgust at the fashion he handles the situation. But his past self is naïve and young, and what does he know?
That , his mind whispers. Is a bad mindset. Eliminate it.
On the bus to work, he pulls out his phone and is about to send a text to the girl to apologize when he realizes he doesn’t even have her number. They were not even close, and yet, he still allowed such unholy events to happen. How irresponsible. Genos almost runs a hand through his hair before he remembers that that would not change anything but the neatness of the mop on his head. He pulls up the list of emails of employees and takes a painstakingly long time to locate her name. By the time the bus stops at his stop, the email is sent, and the problem is taken care of.
The sky is brightening, and it makes the back of Genos’s eyes ache. Not a good sign. Perhaps a trip to the clinic on his way home will be in order. There are two girls, young and in high school, staring at him from the back of the bus. They remind him of his classmates from years ago, ones who were immature and rude. They come up to him before he can even hope that his stop comes faster.
“Hi,” one of them says cheerfully. “We couldn’t help but notice how hands – “
“I am married,” Genos says bluntly.
They blink at him before flushing in embarrassment. “Sorry, sir, we didn’t know,” the other apologizes. He doesn’t respond and they rush off of the bus.
There are people watching him now, with curious eyes, admiring eyes, disdain eyes. Genos pays them no attention, because he doesn’t know them, and what they know about him is what they perceive. Which, is nothing at all, really. Their opinions don’t matter and never will. The moment he starts caring about what people think is the moment he is destined to get hurt.
Instead of inside, he looks out the window. There is a basketball court in the distance and if he stretches his imagination, he can imagine his teacher there, with his awful form and perfect shots. What he wouldn’t do to see that again.
A question with no answer
“Excuse me?” Saitama almost looks offended. “I know that you kids don’t think I’m all that great at sports and stuff, but don’t mock me!”
“You misunderstand!” Genos quickly corrected him. “I am being genuine, sensei! Please, I – “
Saitama holds up a hand. “Hold up,” he mutters. “Let me process this. Man, you’re gonna give me a heart attack.”
“I apologize.”
“Stop saying that!”
“I apolo – “
“Okay!”
Genos stared. Was it that easy? There is hope humming in his chest, and he does not want to get excited over miscommunication. His sensei is rubbing the back of his neck, an expression on his face that clearly states, what the fuck is going on. Saitama might not have been easy to read, but Genos has seen that look countless times over the school year. Perhaps the stress of teaching was finally weighing on him.
“You will teach me?” Genos asked, heart beating unbearably quickly in his chest. All the effect that those breathing exercises had established on him was being thrown out the window.
Saitama sighed. “I mean, isn’t that what I’m supposed to do? Help when a student asks for help?”
It was a rhetorical question, but that didn’t mean Genos didn’t want to respond to it. “Yes, I suppose so, sensei,” he agreed, and Saitama shot him a dirty look. “Would you prefer that I call you ‘shishou’ now, sensei?”
Saitama scrunched up his nose. “No way, that’s gonna make people wonder and get me arrested. Just – stick with what we’re doing now, yeah?”
And, he realizes then, it really was that easy. Because Saitama was Saitama, and Saitama would much rather spend his time playing video games than argue with a high school student about trivial things.
And a song stopped halfway through.