Work Text:
saitama wasnt confused and he wasnt stupid (or at least thats what he thought mere moments ago).
he was just late.
like all the times before, and what he had thought would be times after, but the hours on the clock must have run out.
genos’ life must have run out, or , rather, it was snatched out.
something hot falls onto saitama face, and drops to his shoulders. smells like iron and oil, and—
saitama’s eyes dart to genos’ tattered body, a cold core in hand and cannot think of a time where he felt such tender sadness. never in his life had he been tasked with grappling this quiet thing that bubbled up like liquid and covered him in film. in calm. in the saltiness of summer and stillness.
and then he was walking to the body of his only student, of his only roommate, of his only—
pieces of machinery litter the concrete, all shattered and shining. genos is—was—the only person vibrant enough to gleam even in ruin. he is a better hero than saitama will ever be, strong enough to save others in the face of inevitable devastation.
oh. thats what this is.
devastation.
saitama was just strong. all he had was strength, the rest of him was empty, unlike genos who had the heart to bite the bullet. to fill something in saitama that hadnt been touched in so long.
strength doesnt matter if you aren’t there to use it.
and this isnt what genos’ would want, seeing saitama glowering at his dead body, one with the sadness, with the silence, stuck spinning.
no dice. the spinning in saitamas hear becomes more violent, more insatiable as he peers at his expiring peers and at genos until hes left with one singular spark of emotion.
rage.
he may have made a promise not to hurt garou but that was out the window after he finally processed what happened.
saitama is here now and genos is dead, his killer right in front of him.
and he would pay.