Chapter Text
It was a few hours before dinner time. It was also about that time when Genos decided to start cooking. It was a nice process that he enjoyed, and it kept him engaged if there were no battles to be fought. Going into the kitchen, he went to check for the ingredients that he needed, otherwise he needed to take a quick trip to the store. He went through the fridge and cabinets, and his predictions were correct. He made a small pout and closed the cabinet doors with a hushed and obviously annoyed sigh. “Teacher, we seem to be running out of bonito flakes for the broth,” he said, taking the extra set of the apartment keys that were sitting on the counter. “I’m going to supermarket to get it. Some others we need are also missing.”
“Oh, do you want me to come with you?” Saitama asked, rising from his seat at the low table as he turned his attention away from the TV. “Or should I stay back and get the other stuff ready?”
“I made a record of the ingredients,” he responded, already heading out the front door with a hand on the knob. “Please, leave it to me, Teacher. Dinner is my responsibility tonight. I will return shortly.”
“Mm. Alright then. Hope you don’t get sidetracked by anything on your way back.” Saitama followed him for a few steps and saw him out at a glance through the short hallway, the door swinging shut but leaving a gentle click. Clearing his throat, he went into the kitchen and stretched out his arms. “He says that, but might as well start now…”
It was best to prep the things they already had while he was out getting the rest of the ingredients. Lying around and waiting for Genos to come home didn’t feel like a good idea, despite the supermarket being only a few blocks down the street. So he took out the spring onions and chicken from the fridge, and a knife and a cutting board from one of the cabinets, and set them all on the kitchen counter, first taking out the spring onions from its bundle to wash them under the sink for a few seconds.
He gave them a little shake after taking it out from under the water. As he set them down on the board, his hand somehow brushed against the knife’s handle.
“Ah!”
The thing fell, having a little spin before slipping off the board. Without thinking, he reached out and grabbed it with his bare hand, right at the tip of the blade. “Oh! Close one,” he breathed, and set it back on the counter. A close one indeed. It would have been a disaster if it fell and scratched the floor. There’d be a price to pay for that. Or worse, he could have caught the whole thing in his hand. “…”
Would it really have been bad if he did? He had handled projectile objects with his hands before when he was fighting that Bone Joint guy, but all those times were with his gloves. And with handling sharp things like knives, it was no question that you had to be careful. It was just how it was before he attained this immeasurable power.
Saitama frowned at the things strewn about on the counter. Could he really be invulnerable to injury, to pain? Were weapons and extraterrestrial means not enough to leave something as minor as a scratch—not even a God-level monster that is able to level entire cities with one fell swoop? As good as it sounded, could he even get sick anymore? Minor scars from when he was younger remained on his person, and that was all. No other injuries were presently healing ever since he broke through his limits. He may have smacked himself pretty hard once or twice, too, but that was because that little shit of a mosquito just would not die; he wasn't exactly going full force.
A dry smirk tugged at the corners of his mouth. Scoffing at himself, he joked, “Ha, guess the only one who can beat me is…me,” and dared to look down at his hands. He squeezed them into fists and released them, watching the blood slowly pump back into his palms. He couldn’t recall the last time he saw blood that wasn’t forcefully drawn from someone else’s veins. It might have been a little more than a year and a half by now, maybe less. Who’d remember trivial things like that?
Can I really…
Staring at the knife, his mind began to wander. Just one time, he thought, just one time, and after that he can move on and never think about it again. It was always a wonder to him, of whether or not he could still hurt himself, mostly because he never considered it. He was well too attuned to his daily routine while living in his modest 1k apartment: get up, get dressed, errands, TV, eating, reading, and going back to bed, with the sporadic morning 10k run if he was feeling up to it. That was it. Nothing else crossed his mind, other than going to the occasional sale at the supermarket with his self-proclaimed disciple.
He didn’t try to deny it. He was genuinely curious. Who could blame him? The man was practically indestructible, as far as he was concerned. Before, it felt absolutely invigorating to him that he couldn’t get hurt. He was on top of the world, invincible, feeling as though nothing was in his way now. It felt like that for the first few weeks. (Or days? Had it been days? It was a blur. All of them felt the same to him now.) But his high eventually died down, and pretty soon his drive and his sentiments toward…just about everything, had become muted. Stagnant. And what used to fill him up to the brim barely left a drop at all.
Why not?
Then came the daily routine. He thought of it as a requirement rather than a choice. He needed some reason, any reason to get out of bed, and sure, finding and beating up monsters were fine for the hell of it, yet every win made him sink deeper into the grasp of an unfamiliar emptiness as he came to realize that every fight no longer had that punch, that feeling of a worthy challenge that wasn’t going to run away with its tail between its legs, and he wasn’t sure if he was able to regress. Hell, he wasn’t even sure if he wanted to. Three years down the drain, what was the point in throwing away all that hard work? But what was the point of finally making it to the top, only to find nothing?
Maybe just…
He heard his breathing get louder, now; he automatically took the knife in his hand and held it over his forearm with a death grip, almost cracking the handle. There was no uncertainty in his wrist, or any part of him, really, but he felt a lump form in his throat that he couldn’t quite swallow. “Just once wouldn’t hurt, unless I’m completely wrong,” he said quietly, a slight tremor wired into his voice.
Nothing could possibly be waiting for him. The thing would shatter into pieces, which was what he expected, no doubt about it. And yet, the possibility of it piercing the skin danced about in his mind. He didn’t want to say it, let alone think about it, but the chance of it actually happening would give him some relief. The chance that he still had some limit, that he was merely a superhuman, because at least the term “human” would still come into play. If that were true, he’d have to find someone who was as strong as him, or at most someone who could hold out for more than five seconds. But for now, that chance seemed too far-fetched to even come close to being plausible.
There’s no way.
With his breath becoming more forced and erratic, he carefully touched the blade onto his skin, tensing against the cold metal. He hastily sucked in a good take of air through his teeth, and acting upon his impulse, for a moment, he vaguely recognized a certain feeling he hadn’t truly felt in years.
Just once…
He lifted up the knife, nice and high.
Just once—!
“I’ve returned, Teacher,” Genos announced, slipping off his shoes and walking into the living room to check on him. “I’m sorry to keep you waiting, I had to—Teacher?” To his surprise, he didn’t find him lounging on the floor. And the kitchen light was on. “Teacher?” he called out to him again, suddenly alarmed, rushing inside the kitchen to see a knife wielded in Saitama’s hand, about to make another deep cut through the skin. With widened optics, he shouted, “Teacher! You’re…you’re prepping!”
“Ah. Welcome back, Genos,” Saitama casually greeted. He put the knife down to go to the stove and check on the pot of water. There were tiny bubbles at the bottom, but it wasn’t boiling just yet, so he returned to the cutting board. “Yeah. I got tired of waiting, so thought I’d get this out of the way. Already sliced the onions for you. Oh, and did you get the bonito flakes?”
“Yes, I did, as well as frozen noodles and the…” He trailed off, glancing down at the contents of the grocery bag, and immediately snapped his attention back to his teacher as he set it down near the stove. A metal hand extended to rest on the man’s shoulder, who briefly stopped his next cut to look him in the eye. “You really didn’t have to.”
“I know. Surprisingly enough, though, a lot can get done in thirty minutes.”
“What? Thirty min—I meant to be gone for fifteen, I am so—!”
“Genos, don’t worry about it. Just start making the broth, the water’s starting to boil. I got this one.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.”
Silently conceding to his collected request, Genos nodded once, with some hesitation, and went to take out the rest of the ingredients from the grocery bag, along with some small bowls he got from the top cabinet to measure them accordingly. But, just to make sure, a small “Teacher” escaped from his mouth, “Are you really—?” and was answered with a raised hand.
Then Saitama pointed at the pot, a stern signal for the boy to stop and focus on the broth while he kept at the raw chicken. Feeling bold, he took a swing at the leg, splitting apart the cartilage in one try, but made sure not to take the cutting board along with it. “I’m telling you, I’m fine,” he sighed. “It keeps me busy. Better than doing nothing. Besides, what can go wrong?
“It’s not like I’ll slip and cut myself.”