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Saitama's pretty unflappable, so when he walks in one morning to find Genos rearranging what seems to be his intestines on the table, he does nothing other than to pause for a moment. Genos’ so absorbed in it that he does not brighten up when Saitama comes closer the way he usually does, and Saitama doesn’t know whether or not to be flattered that Genos doesn’t consider him as a threat. He gets closer to try to peer at what Genos is doing and Genos startles.
“Sensei!” and where he’s meant to slot a cog into his chest, he slips.
Saitama reacts, catching it. It’s a peculiar thing, small and easily overlooked, but somehow feels vulnerable in his fingers. Barely the size of his fingernail, with little groves in its side, strangely intricate. Saitama gets distracted by its fragile nature and when he looks up, Genos is glancing at him from under his modified hair. “Thanks sensei! I would have gotten it, but my hands are busy right now.”
Saitama continues playing with the cog and eyes the jumble of polished metal knick knacks on his table. “Maintenance?”
Nodding in response, Genos takes apart a complicated looking set of cylinders before reassembling it into the exact same shape. There’s a contented lull in the air, interrupted by only the faint protests of the failing fan and the metallic clinks where Genos takes out a part and switches it. Saitama is unable to take his eyes off Genos’ fingers. They are agile, capable of handling such delicate work with quick mobility. There are questions he wants to ask, if they are as tactile as actual human fingers, like the ones Genos had before, but it’s too troublesome to ask, so Saitama keeps them for another day.
The purpose of the parts escapes Saitama, but it’s amazing how they assemble to make Genos as he knows him. Strong and naive, and with a desire for revenge that saddens Saitama when he thinks about it.
There’s a lot about Genos that Saitama doesn’t know. But what he does is enough. Genos calls him sensei, and if he goes to the laundry shop, he’ll dry clean Saitama’s suit without prompting. He does the housework with little complaint and mechanical efficiency, like an elf from the fairy tale, and Saitama can no longer remember the last time he took out the trash. (Genos hums too. Saitama had thought it was the whirring of his engine, but he recognised it as a tune that Blizzard was singing that day.) it was so easy to fall into a routine with Genos, and it’s almost frightening because just as he didn’t know how he would live with a housemate in the past, he doesn’t know how to live without Genos now.
“Sensei? Can i have my cog back?” Genos doesn’t smile, and humour flies over his head because he lacks the subtlety of a hammer, but Saitama imagines he hears amusement in his voice.
“Ah, sorry Genos I was distracted.” Before he can fully decipher his own actions, Saitama shifts closer to Genos, still toying with the cog.
Genos looks like a puppy when he tilts his head in confusion, brow furrowed. “Is something the matter, sensei?” Sunlight catches on his hair, and the core fibres are striking, reminding Saitama that Genos is not anything organic.
But Genos is the most sincere person Saitama has ever met. He says what he thinks, blunt and tactless, and societal niceties escapes him in the most charming ways. In this light, the golden of Genos’s eyes gleam, and Saitama closes the distance between them.
“Where does this go?” Saitama hears himself ask, and he’s leaning over Genos, unsure of what he’s actually doing.
Genos’s fingers are warm. Saitama had expected them to be cold to the touch. They circle Saitama’s wrist and guides him to his chest, and when he speaks, his voice is soft. “Here, sensei.”
Genos doesn’t need to breathe, but Saitama does. When he exhales, he stirs Genos’ fringe. Even though Genos doesn’t normally do anything human like blinking, he closes his eyes.
The professor has done an exceptional job of Genos’ face, even giving him lashes the same colour as his hair.
“Here?” Saitama asks, and feels with his fingertips. He slots the cog in and a shiver runs through Genos, a hiss escaping through his mouth. Perhaps the part isn’t as unimportant as he thought it was, if it is able to elicit such a response.
Saitama leans forward, and he catches the familiar scent of oil and cleaning product, the sharp tang of metal that he smells even in his sleep. Then, he rocks backwards and removes his hand, shaking out his wrist. “Maah, Genos did that hurt?”
Genos shakes his head, then opens his eyes. Impeccable work, Saitama thinks, for Genos’ pupils have dilated in the short time that his eyes are closed. There’s barely a ring of golden and the contrast against his blacks resembles a solar eclipse.
They settle back into silence, Genos wiping certain machinery with a ridiculously pink cloth that Saitama bought while on sale, and Saitama watches him, contentment blossoming in his chest.