Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Saitama is munching on popcorn, watching an anime that he happened upon when the house phone rings. He jumps, scrambling to associate the sound for a few seconds; Genos will occasionally call if he needs Saitama’s opinion on goods and produce, but he’s been busy defeating monsters all day, and outside of him, it’s rare that Saitama needs to be reached.

He carries the bowl over to the wall where the phone is hooked and shoves it under his arm before putting the phone between his ear and shoulder.

“Hello?” he greets.

He’s met with silence.

His eyes stray back to the view of the television, and he fists his hand into the bowl, pouring popcorn into his mouth. While he’s chewing loudly, the person on the line begins speaking, and he barely catches onto the tail end of what they say. “What was that? Is that you, Genos?”

“Are you Saitama?” The voice is feminine, reflective of a sorrow that Saitama doesn’t yet comprehend. “I’m so sorry. Demon Cyborg, he—”

Roaring laughter pours from the television as the world crumbles from underneath him.

The funeral is loud.

Demon Cyborg is—was—hugely popular, so it’s no surprise that droves of his fans arrive to pay respects and ogle at the fallen hero. They span all along the length of the yard where it’s being held: sobbing, clinging to each other, lamenting on the loss of one of the best.

Heroes die all too often, and funerals are too expensive to dedicate to every fallen hero, but Genos is— was, he reminds himself—particularly dedicated to his craft. S-Class heroes like him receive special treatment.

As he’s staring at the person on the podium honoring Genos’ many contributions to the cities, a crowd of young women pass him by, in varying states of distress. One of them is openly sobbing, supported by the arms of her comrades.

The wind ruffles his cape, bringing with it the scent of their perfume. The application is heavy and suffocating, and Saitama’s eyes sting, beginning to blur.

Blinking, he turns his head to look at the heroes huddled away from the general public. Saitama doesn’t recognize most of them, but he sees Mumen Rider standing away from the group, his head bowed. Tears are streaming down his cheeks, and he looks exhausted. Saitama doesn’t recall Genos and him ever speaking with each other more than once or twice, so his sorrow is a mystery, until he lifts his head, and his eyes find Saitama

What he sees there rattles him to his core.

Pity.

Mumen starts walking towards him, but Saitama suddenly can’t stomach the thought of speaking with him. He pushes his way through the crowd, escaping Mumen’s attention for the oppressive air of those mourning someone they never really knew. Saitama envies them; tomorrow, they will forget this ever happened, and cling to another hero until they, too, fall.

He leaves before they bring out Genos’ casket.

The woman is still speaking, but Saitama’s mind has gone blank, her words floating past deaf ears. His mouth bone feels dry as he interrupts, asking, “how did he die?”

She tells him, and Saitama has to resist the sudden, inexplicable urge to laugh. Demon Cyborg—Genos—died by, of all things, a few exposed wires hanging from a crumbling edifice.

The building situated nearby had started to fall apart during the fight. Genos had noticed the child standing near one of the falling beams and swooped in to save him. As a consequence, he didn’t notice the wires sparking above his head; his brain was already exposed from a previous bought, and a few of the wires came into contact with his grey matter, killing him instantly.

“I’m sorry, sir,” she says, keeps saying. Her voice is unsteady, wavering into the receiver. “I was a huge fan.”

The sharp edge of the phone’s cheap, plastic casing digs into Saitama palm.

Saitama had seen Genos’ brain one time too many, and while he expressed concern over Genos’ variety of ways to nearly kill himself, he’d never really gave it further consideration. In their downtime, Genos was always able to repair any damage done, brushing aside his concerns with a laisse faire attitude.

“I see,” he forces out. “How…”—his voice falters—“how did you know to contact me?”

“He listed you and Doctor”—she sounds like she’s reading off of a piece of paper or a screen—“Kuseno as next of kin, who are notified immediately in the case that a fatal incident occurs.”

She then asks if he wants to pick up Genos’ belongings from his locker in the association, or have them sent via mail.

“Mail,” he croaks; she acquiesces almost immediately, and he rattles off his address.

“Thanks,” he adds, feeling a hollow void form a chasm in his chest.

It feels wrong to rifle through Genos’ things.

His gigantic bag—essentially his livelihood—is stuffed with spare parts and random paraphernalia that he had gathered over his time spent with Saitama. At the bottom of the bag he finds a book, wrapped in a thick, brown leather binding. The leather is aged, and when Saitama lifts it up for inspection, a piece of paper flutters to the ground.

It’s an address.

Saitama stares at it for a few seconds, and then sets it carefully on the ground next to him. He thumbs the clip tab holding the book closed, but after giving it some thought, he puts the paper and book back where he found it and shoves the bag back into the closet.

The box carrying Genos’ belongings arrives a week later. It remains in the corner of the hallway, gathering dust.

When Saitama boots up Genos’ laptop, he’s shocked to see a photograph of the two of them splashed across the screen. He used it only a week ago, and the picture wasn’t there at that time.

It’s not a very flattering image. Saitama is bent over, holding up the arm of a reptilian monster that they just defeated, and his expression could only be described as goofy.

Genos’ hand is raised, and his face is slightly blurred; he looks like he was turning his head towards whoever took the photo.

What’s interesting is that despite the dour surroundings, Saitama looks happy.

After staring at the image incomprehensibly, a sour feeling builds in the back of Saitama’s throat. He slams the laptop closed, shattering the screen and a few of the keys in the process. Afterward he stares at his hands, feeling the strength slowly drain out of him.

It takes him a week before he considers sending it to Kuseno for repairs, and by then, he stops caring.

At first, Saitama continues as if nothing is different. He leaves his house every morning with the intention of finding important hero work to do. Once, Genos challenged him to see who could kill the most monsters in succession day after day, and Saitama finds himself counting the numbers, filling his personal quota without a second thought.

He punches hard, and his destruction is off-balance and erratic, further desecrating the abandoned city’s crumbling streets.

Without Genos there to urge him to keep up the pace, he goes out less, and his number of kills start to dwindle.

The people shouting his name, cursing his existence, become louder. They tire him out faster.

Genos used to act a filter for the worst of the hatred directed towards him, and while Saitama prides himself on his ability to remain unaffected in the face of his adversaries, without Genos by his side, the effect of their words feels multiplied.

After a few weeks, he stops leaving his apartment entirely.

It doesn’t take long for people to notice his sudden absence. News of his disappearance bleed between the lines of other’s historic heroics.

He’s one of the most disliked heroes in the business, so it’s no wonder that news of him after Genos’ death rises quickly, and fades even quicker.

One afternoon he hears a knock on his door. For a split second, he can imagine Genos on the other side, coming back from a fight, or having lost his key. Then, the shock fades, and he ignores whoever’s on the other side, suddenly feeling drained and out of place in his own home.

The days feel long, and the nights even longer. Instead of doing things that keep him productive, he spends his evenings alone in the quiet, trying not to think. To forget.

The need for productivity—the need to keep busy —fades away, day by day, an endless loop of mindless indulgence that Saitama’s can’t, and doesn’t want to, shake.

Making meals is now little to no work. Genos worked much like a human vacuum, eating far more than Saitama thought was necessary. Dinner could take hours of preparation if he was feeling generous. Now the utensils sit in their placeholders, untouched; unused.

After a while, Saitama stops making efforts to cook. Dishes start to pile up in the sink, remnants of a part of himself that’s slipping away.

He quickly develops a taste for packaged food. It was easy to lose himself in the simple routine of preparing a meal, but it’s even easier to shove his dinner into the microwave and watch television instead. The food isn’t all that bad, and it’s a hell of a lot cheaper than buying fresh produce.

Before, Genos’ contributions, like buying groceries with his own salary, or paying for heating before Saitama had the chance, gave Saitama the needed buffer to start saving his money—something that had been previously unknown to him.

As a result, there’s a cushion of money under his feet, but Saitama starts to pluck out feather after feather, relying on money built up knowing while fully well that if he doesn’t change, soon it will become necessary to revert to age-old ways to save money.

It’s a valid concern, but he just wants to exist. He doesn’t want to think about anything: money, bills, hatemail, what he’s going to have for dinner, and the news. Especially the news.

Soon after Genos’ death, when he realizes no station will stop talking about him any time soon, Saitama starts to avoid news like the plague, taking pains to memorize the time tables so that he can watch what Genos used to refer to “a waste of time”, without being subject to what’s going on in the outside world.

It works, for a while.

One evening, his finger slips and his usual news station appears onto the screen, its headline painted across the page.

“Scientists say that the rate of attacks has been increasing exponentially,” the newscast explains impassively. Her eyes seem to slice straight through Saitama. “Heroes are constantly on the move, and there have been numerous protests outside the Hero Association, claiming that—“

The air suddenly feels like it’s been sucked out of the room. The newscast’s voice fades to the roaring in Saitama’s ears, a string of words that he can’t parse.

Seemingly before his eyes, the image onscreen is replaced by one of Genos; his body is contorted, displayed in horrific detail for the world to see. Saitama’s vision starts to swim. His breath catches in his throat.

He slams his finger onto the power button, his heart pounding so hard that it feels like it’s about to burst.

There’s a ringing sound in his ears long after the screen turns dark, and it takes him a few minutes to realize he still has pieces of the broken remote clutched tightly in his hand. He sets down them down with care, still trembling.

Saitama stares into space, trying desperately to tell himself that he’s fine, it’s fine.

Everything is fine.

Hours pass before his heart to calms. He calls it an early night and crawls over his futon. As he’s lifting the edge of the duvet, he sees a flash of color in the corner of his eye and turns his head, but there’s nothing but the moon’s bright beams casting shadows over his carpet.

After sliding between the sheets that he hasn’t bothered to wash in a few weeks, Saitama remains awake the rest of the night.

Genos’ presence resonates throughout the apartment in ways that Saitama hadn’t considered until after he was gone. He’s painted himself over every inch of the apartment, filling the space with his voice, his mannerisms, his smells—until Saitama could no longer differentiate between Genos’ space and his own.

Saitama moves the furniture around six times before he’s even somewhat satisfied.

In a following fit of pique, he throws out every gift that Genos has ever given him. They vary from key-chains to a ridiculous piggy bank, and looking at each item makes his stomach churn. Saitama hated receiving gifts that lacked any useful merit, but he would always indulge Genos’ rare displays of humanity, so his gifts began to collect, scattered throughout the apartment.

He collects them in a bag, carrying it to the door to be taken to the dumpster behind his building. As he pushes his shoulder roughly against the door, bag hanging from his elbow, he hears the echo of a sound. The click of metal against wood, scraping, mumbled words—Genos’ apology, a mark of his own hatred for his inhumanity.

Saitama’s head turns, eyes searching for a person that no longer exists in space he used to fill.

There’s nothing. There will never be anything like him again.

His head thumps against the wall helplessly, his eyes stinging. His shoulders quiver as he pushes his weight into the door, his chest heaving once in betrayal, and he gnaws on his lip until the feeling subsides.

No matter how hard he tries, memories of Genos won’t vacate his mind, haunting his every waking thought.

Saitama is eating ramen (out of a packet), watching dust filter through the sunlight with dull eyes, when he hears a sound like a sigh.

It triggers memories of Saitama lamenting about Genos’ inability to breathe and shift like a normal human being, but in rare moments, Genos could be found leaning on his elbow, or sighing into his hands, going back to age-old habits that no human being could seem to escape.

Clenching his fists, Saitama squeezes his eyes shut.

He had always prided himself for his independence, but now that Genos is gone, Saitama’s life has spiraled quickly out of control.

His depression is as bad as it’s ever been.

Most mornings, it’s a challenge to get out of bed. He’ll end up staring at his knees for hours, staring at his legs, willing them to move, willing himself to care .

When he does get up out of sheer necessity, like using the toilet, for example, or going out to buy the bare minimum to keep himself alive, the furthest he’ll go is the convenience store down the street. He doesn’t trust himself not to make a mess of things; so far, he’s shattered three dishes and two mugs, and every time he reaches to control his strength, it slips through his fingers like water.

He’s extra careful at the convenience store.

A young boy runs the counter there. He can’t be more than fourteen or fifteen, sporting bright, bleach blonde hair and a smattering of freckles along his nose and cheeks.

In the right light, his eyes reflect gold.

Saitama can’t bring himself to look at him. Instead, he stares at his own hands, examining fingernails that run short and jagged. It was a habit that he picked up as a kid when he was nervous, and it’s come back with a vengeance, occupying hours of his time, biting down until they bleed.

“Here you are, sir.”

Saitama’s head jerks instinctively, and he makes the mistake of looking up at him. His gaze is—there’s no other word for it— pitying . Saitama’s mouth twists, nausea rising in the back of his throat.

He rips his plastic bag from the kid’s hands and rushes out the door, trying to remember how to breathe.

He wakes up the next morning to Genos’ doctor—Kuseno—standing in front of his bed. Saitama blinks up at him, bleary from a combination only a few hours of sleep and malnutrition.

“Saitama,” he says in greeting.

Saitama says nothing. As he stares at him dumbly, Kuseno’s mouth turns down, and his eyes go soft.

I don’t want your pity , he thinks viciously, turning his head away. His fingers curl around the edges of the duvet, and he considers completely ignoring Kuseno’s disruptive presence when his words finally start to register with Saitama, and he realizes he’s been speaking for a while.

“—truly become a dump,” Kuseno continues evenly. “Genos would be disappointed.”

Saitama glances up at him.

Kuseno is gesturing to the space around them, indicating his displeasure with a single sweep of his arm.

Saitama blinks, seeing his apartment in the eyes of an outsider for the first time. Disposable cups and silverware litter multiple surfaces. Packages of food and snacks are sprinkled haphazardly around the floor of the apartment, stale crumbs acting as decoration.

The state is truly revolting; something Saitama would have never tolerated before…before.

Kuseno sighs.

“Come on, get up, Saitama.” He bends down, shockingly agile for his age, and tugs on the duvet. “It is three in the afternoon.”

Saitama feels a sudden flickering feeling of hatred for Kuseno build in the back of his throat.

Why did you have to make him into a cyborg? Why did you let him go on his stupid quest? Then maybe he’d have a life somewhere else. Maybe he’d be—

Kuseno’s hands pry him from the sheets, and Saitama goes with minimal pulling. He sits up, sweat clinging to his skin, and he knows he must stink something fierce. Kuseno walks to his right, towards the curtains, and pulls them apart, filling the room with belated sunlight. Then he yanks open the sliding door, and the following burst of fresh, humid air makes Saitama feel more awake than he has in a while.

“It’s already this warm?” he croaks. His throat stings; he coughs.

“It’s summer now.” Kuseno rubs his chin. “It was Genos’ least favorite season, if I recall.”

The last time Saitama bothered to check the date, it was still late spring. He feels sweat prickle on his skin. Perturbed by Kuseno’s ability to chat about Genos so casually, Saitama escapes, shuffling into the kitchen for a glass of water. There are only a few dishes that aren’t dirty or broken; looking at the mess, he feels ashamed that Kuseno—someone he has come to respect—is seeing him like this.

At one point in time, Kuseno called him a pillar of strength.

Genos needs you, he had said. You are his pillar of strength. Thank you for being there for him.

Wonder what he thinks of me now. The thought makes him smile listlessly into his glass. He tips his head back and drains it in one go, then sets it down on the counter, avoiding the cracks that have come to litter the surfaces of his apartment.

Kuseno observes him impassively from the doorway before sliding his hands up the splinting wooden panels.

“Take a bath,” Kuseno says. It’s more of an order than a suggestion. “I’ll make lunch.”

“I don’t have any groceries,” Saitama protests, but Kuseno corrals him into the bathroom, shoving a towel and a change of clothes against his back.

There’s no point in rebelling what is a perfectly logical suggestion. Even if he wanted to, Saitama feels numb, his emotions flickering weakly, grasping to gain purchase.

He turns the tap, watching as warm water gushes into the dusty tub. A faraway part of Saitama thinks it would be nice to be clean. The rest of him can’t be bothered to care.

He undresses and rinses off his body first, scrubbing the buildup from his skin. The soap stings underneath his fingernails, but it only makes him scrub harder, digging into his flesh for the pieces of himself he’s lost along the way.

Once he’s relatively clean, Saitama drains the water, and turns the tab to refill it before slumping against the bath’s edge. He closes his eyes, listening to the sound of rushing water echoing in the small space.

For a few minutes, he feels a certain sense of peace that has escaped him since Genos’ death. It’s almost nice.

Then the water starts to lick dangerously at the edge of the tub, threatening to overflow, and Saitama stands.

The water is scalding, but he steps in anyway, submerging himself until only the top of his head is visible. He stays underneath the water for what could be minutes, or hours, or days, until his lungs strain for air.

There’s a sound like someone’s clattering things beside the tub, and he can almost hear Genos’ voice, asking him if he wants help washing his back. He smiles hollowly, and bubbles burst from between his lips.

Rising out of the water with a gasp, he slapps his arm on the edge of the tub to steady himself while the resulting dizziness passes. Listening closely, he can hear Kuseno opening and closing doors on the other side of the wall; that must have been what he heard.

Leaning back, he lets his mind wander to nothing in particular. He meant to get out, but the warm water beckons him, and he slides back into the water, sitting still in the bath long after it has gone cold.

Kuseno’s knock on the door shakes him from his reverie.

Saitama grunts loud enough for him to hear and stands up. Stepping over the edge of the tub, he wobbles for a few seconds, staring at his pruning, wrinkly skin. Genos was always pristine, even after a bath.

After righting himself, he reaches for the towel to his left and runs it perfunctorily over his arms, legs, head, and torso. The clothes that Kuseno picked out for him are unfamiliar; he doesn’t remember owning a pair of dark pants like this, and then the anime chick on the shirt doesn’t ring any bells, but he shrugs and throws them on.

He emerges from the bathroom to the scent of home cooking. It is no surprise how alluring Saitama finds it after months of relying on a less than stellar diet.

Not only that, but Kuseno has cleaned up the worst of the mess littering his apartment, and he’s cooking with ingredients that Saitama is certain he doesn’t have. If he had, they’d have already spoiled.

“Did you go shopping?” he asks, leaning against the doorway. Kuseno glances at him and smiles.

“No. I had a feeling that things would be this way, so I brought food and a spare change of Genos’ old clothes.”

He gestures to Saitama, whose eyes widen at the admission. Goosebumps pebble his arms in skin-crawling horror.

He always wanted a peek into Genos’ past, but not like this; never like this.

“Are you calling me predictable, old man?” Saitama manages to say through clenched teeth. Kuseno is either ignorant to his struggle or purposefully ignoring him, electing to stare into the pot that he’s stirring.

“Why don’t you clean the rest of these dishes for me, Saitama?” he offers, a gentle suggestion.

I don’t need your help, Saitama wants to say.

Instead, he shuffles into place, his quickly deteriorating mood off-set by having someone else next to him in the kitchen after isolating himself for so long.

Saitama holds the dishes with extra care, not quite trusting himself just yet. As he lathers and rinses each dish, Kuseno starts humming something that’s vaguely familiar. Then, the memory slams into him like a swift punch. He jerks, old feelings rising, and something like nausea gnaws at his gut.

Genos, at one point when they started living together, began to hum a horrible pop song that he had picked up from watching the same commercial too many times. He did it unconsciously, naturally, and Saitama would keep quiet, not saying a word, secretly pleased that he was being so, well, human. The moment that Genos realized what he was doing, he would immediately cease, sending Saitama furtive glances to see if he’d noticed.

It was such a simple, small space in time that Saitama couldn’t believe he forgot.

The dish falls from his hand, landing in the soapy water with a splash.

“Why?” he whispers, squeezing his eyes shut.

Kuseno’s hand lands over Saitama’s shaking shoulders, comforting, solid. A sob works through Saitama’s throat.

“Why?!” he shouts, slamming his fist against the counter. Pieces of wood fly at his outburst, digging into his skin. He remains unhurt, but tears collect along his eye-lashes unbidden, dripping down his cheeks and into the water below. As he inhales, his throat constricts, raw emotion forming a hard lump.

“I didn’t even get to say goodbye.” He sobs, a harsh, broken sound, and the rest of his strength leaves him. His legs give out from under him and he drops to the dirty floor, his back hitting the edge of the counter as he slides down.

It takes all his willpower to grit his teeth against the angry spew of words he knows he’d regret saying, and jams his knuckles against the back of his eyelids helplessly, trying to quell the tears streaming down his face.

“We rarely do,” Kuseno says gently. His fingers brush the top of Saitama’s head. “He loved you. If he had the chance, I’m certain he would have been thinking of you in his last moments.”

“I’m an idiot.” Saitama shakes his head. “He’s so reckless. He was never careful, and I trusted him not to die.” Saitama brings his legs to his chest, curling into a ball, trying to make himself as small as possible. If he had paid more attention to Genos’ self-destructive tendencies, if he’d pushed more, pushed harder—

There’s no reason to consider what-ifs. Genos is dead, and Saitama wasn’t even there when it happened.

He bites at his skin of his knee until the metallic taste of blood fills his mouth.

“It is not your fault,” Kuseno states, lowering himself into a crouch. He brushes his palm down Saitama’s back, and gingerly folds his legs to sit beside him. After shifting closer, he allows Saitama to slump against his body.

Saitama doesn’t know how long they lie there, but he sobs and cries until his voice goes hoarse and his heart feels like it’s going to give out. At one point, he buries his face in Genos’ shirt, soaking it with his tears, and imagines that he can extract from it the scent of oil and metal.

Kuseno remains a steady presence, the only indication of his sorrow reflected by the sharp downturn of his mouth. After all, he has been mourning for months. Saitama has only just started.

Chapter Text

The meal the Kuseno prepares looks and smells delicious.

Saitama tastes none of it.

Finally accepting Genos’ death after avoiding it for months makes him feel no better than before. Instead, he feels raw, eyes red and puffy from crying. His appetite is virtually nonexistent, but he swallows every bite of the meal out of respect for Kuseno, who has helped him far more than he deserves.

“Are you feeling better?” Kuseno gently prods, swirling his spoon through his broth.

Saitama glances down at the table. The crumbs that once scattered along the surface are no longer present, and it is free of the dirt and grime that had built up over time. He scratches his finger along the edge of the table and shrugs.

He feels like shit, but it’s better than feeling nothing at all.

“Thanks,” he adds. “You didn’t have to do all this.”

“It is my pleasure,” Kuseno assures him. He sounds like he wants to say more, so Saitama waits, spooning some of the soup into his mouth, fuller still.

“Losing a loved one is difficult.” Kuseno folds his hands over the table, regarding Saitama carefully. “I know how you must feel; I’ve lost many over the years. Genos was like a son to me.” His head tips forward, and Saitama tries not to stare at his nose. “When I first met him, he was incredibly head-strong, despite his fatal wounds, he begged me to let him help in any way that he could. And I could not deny him the right to avenge his family.”

Saitama scratches the flaking skin on his arm, brushing the excess over the edge of the table. It feels wrong to talk about Genos like this, as if his existence no longer matters anymore. A part of him still expects Genos to appear from around the corner, a bag of groceries in hand, calling his name in that uptight way of his.

Saitama-sensei!

His head jerks. Kuseno raises an eyebrow knowingly and Saitama realizes that he hasn’t been paying any attention to what he’s been saying.

“Sorry.” He feels his cheeks warm. “What were you saying?”

Kuseno's following smile is strange. “It’s nothing, Saitama. Just an old man reminiscing. Excuse my manners; your wound is still fresh. I should leave you be.”

He pushes himself to his feet, bowl in hand, and Saitama stands to follow, leaving his sitting half-eaten on the table.   

“Thank you,” he repeats. It only takes a few minutes for him to gather his things together, and Saitama hovers awkwardly be his side. The sentiment feels inadequate; there’s more that he wants to tell Kuseno. The words form on his tongue— thank you for saving him— but all that falls from his lips is that simple, quiet thank you.

Kuseno brings his bag over his shoulder and inclines his head. 

“You have a phone, yes?" he inquires. Saitama nods. "You should have my number in case of any emergencies.”

“Ah. Hold on.” Saitama blinks and heads into the other room, searching for a piece of paper. He fishes out a notepad from a pair of pants he’d shoved it into weeks ago, forgotten. When he flips to a random page, there is already text written hastily along the lines. It’s from Genos: reminders about dinner, written only a few days before he died.

Kuseno takes it gently from his hands and scribbles his number on a blank page before holding it out for Saitama to take.

He does so gingerly. “Thanks.” Then, something occurs to him. “By the way, I’m…curious. Did Genos sing that song around you, too?” At Kuseno’s confusion, he clarifies: “It’s just, I heard you humming it.”

Kuseno’s brow furrows. “What song?”

“Ah.” Saitama blinks, puzzled. He was sure he heard it. “Never mind, then. I must be thinking of something else.”

Kuseno leaves him with a fridge full of groceries and an apartment that’s cleaner than he’s seen it in ages. Saitama is grateful for his aid, but when he looks at the laundry that needs doing and the dishes that are still sitting out, a deep, gut-wrenching exhaustion threatens to pull his mood back to the place he started earlier that afternoon.

Then, he remembers Kuseno’s words. Genos would be disappointed.

Saitama bites his lip.

Over the course of the next few hours, the dishes get put away, and he does his laundry. It drains his remaining energy reserves, but the accomplishment he feels afterwards is almost worth it.

A few days later, he finally sends the laptop to Kuseno for repairs, and receives it within a few days, good as new.

After booting it up, Saitama immediately dives into the HA database and pulls up his entry in the system, expecting the worst.

Before Genos died, he was near the top of B-rank, but after perusing the site for updated information, he learns that he’s near the bottom of B-rank all over again, which is…okay. It’s fine.

A cursory search of the forums informs him of what he already expected—that people speculated he disappeared off the grid because Genos was no longer there to give him free credit. The conversation about him dried up weeks ago, however; the threads are old, and most of the newest conversations that mention him have only a few replies.

Saitama closes the laptop with care and takes a deep breath. He stares at his fist.

Getting back into hero work feels like more work than it’s worth. He destroys the enemies as easily as ever, but the hollow feeling in his chest is worse now that Genos is gone.

He never realized how much he had relied on Genos’ praise until he was back to square one. He used to congratulate him after every punch, and while Saitama had brushed off his commentary as senseless flattery, now he misses it with an ache that is fierce.

Every minute that he stands over pieces of his enemy, civilians whispering behind his back, the feeling continues to grow.

He’s tired of being reminded, tired of feeling this way.

Was it ever this hard?

If Genos hadn’t been there to act as his support, Saitama doesn’t know how long it would have taken before he would have eventually cracked under the pressure.

Getting back into work also means watching the news again. The moment that he’s spotted, the media perks its head and starts reporting on his exploits. They speculate all sorts of wild things about him to interested viewers. Most of the time it goes straight over Saitama’s head, so he usually changes the channel.

One afternoon, he’s holding the remote towards the television when something flickers out of the corner of his eye. He cocks his head, following the movement.

Nothing.

Am I just seeing things?

After a long pause, he looks back at the television, and notes with surprise that the channel has already changed.

“Huh.” He doesn’t remember hitting the correct button, but he shrugs, settling down for a long program to wash away the darkness permeating his thoughts.

The days drag on, bleeding into one another. Without Genos, Saitama has nobody: no one to share in the silence with, no one waiting for him at home, and nobody writing in those ridiculous notebooks that used to litter every available space in the apartment. When he was alive, it got to the point that Genos was forced to find storage for them to save space. He ended up storing them in the abandoned room next door, and Saitama teased him endlessly about paying extra rent.

Thinking about how seriously Genos had taken his needling makes his heart twist. Saitama scrubs his hands over his face.

People in TV shows and movies talking about moving on , but he doesn’t feel like he’s moved very far at all. Genos continues to occupy too much space in his mind, clinging to him like a bad hang-nail.

His fingers pause over his eyelids as a blanket of sorrow settles over his shoulders.

I miss him.

When he wakes up every morning, just for a minute, he can pretend that Genos is just in the other room, rooting around for spare parts, or cooking in the kitchen. Then he blinks awake, and he remembers all over again that he’s gone.

It’s unfair; Genos wasn’t supposed to die like that. He wasn’t supposed to die at all. Anger swells within him, catching flame, before it sputters as quickly as it came.

Genos no longer exists in the space that he used to fill, and Saitama doesn’t know how to fill it without him.

Building a routine that doesn’t involve take-out and cheap packaging is surprisingly difficult.

Cooking sometimes takes hours, and in the kitchen where Saitama once found solace, he is now only reminded of the conversations that used to take place there; in a place that feels larger than ever now that he’s alone.

The first time he cooks, the dish is simple, but the confidence he used to feel when cooking lingers just out of his grasp.

Why can’t I do it? He squeezes a potato too hard, and mashed bits ooze between his fingers. Why am I losing control?

He stabs the knife through the cutting board twice before he manages to finish what should be a decent meal.

It doesn’t even taste very good. He knows he can do better.

The second time, it’s a little easier; the only mistake he makes it when he nearly stabs his fingers in his haste to hurry and finish cutting the vegetables. After the meal is made, he brings the spoon to his mouth and swallows the broth. It tastes pretty decent.

As he’s cleaning up, he feels something loosen in his chest.

He can do this. He survived for years without Genos—without anyone.

In the days that follow, the routine that he sets for himself is simple: get up, have breakfast, get dressed, and complete at least one task that day. He doesn’t always succeed, but having a goal gives him the needed boost.

Occasionally, if he’s bored and out of work to do, he’ll slip by Kuseno’s and waste the hours watching him hard at work.

“What do you do all day, anyway?” Saitama asks him one evening.

“I am often privately hired by people to research various things when I’m not searching for the mad cyborg,” he replies vaguely, lowering the mask hanging over his face.

Kuseno is covered in protective gear as he works over some masterpiece of his; the room is sweltering with heat, but Saitama is feeling empty, and his skin remains dry.

“Still haven’t found ‘im?” Saitama asks. That’s another addition to the list of things Genos will never get to experience: defeating the mad cyborg. “Do you have any leads?”

“None.” Kuseno sighs, brushing his stained fingers over his chin thoughtfully. “It could be destroyed, but it’s more likely that it—or he—is alive. I can’t take the chance of slacking off if it means more people will die.”

Saitama remains silent.

After an hour more, he leaves as quietly as he came, and runs through several cities over the course of the night. He isn’t exactly sure what he’s looking for—he’s not going to stumble into the mad cyborg, of that he is certain—but it’s enough to exhaust him, mentally and physically.

Stumbling into his apartment in the dark, he barely bothers to throw off his hero suit as he falls into bed. He sleeps deeply that night, and dreams of nothing.

When he wakes up, the light is on.

Huh. He blinks up blearily at the ceiling. I could have sworn I turned that off.

He flicks off the light and goes into the kitchen. Breakfast consists of a single banana and a glass of milk, which Saitama swallows greedily, having skipped dinner the night before. When he goes into the living room, the light is on again.

“What, is the electricity going haywire?” He fiddles with the switch, but it responds normally. “Maybe it’s time I finally moved. This place is…full of…” his voice fades as his heart abruptly stops beating.

Standing in front of him, not two meters away, is Genos.

Chapter Text

Genos is standing directly in front of Saitama, but he isn’t looking at him. Instead, his gaze is focused where Saitama’s hand rests on the light switch. A faraway part of Saitama notes the expression on his face, born with a sorrow so deep and profound that it almost hurts to look at him.

The rest of him is still reeling. His heart pounds, dizzily. Adrenaline courses through his limbs, and they start to shake; he rakes his fingernails down his forearms in retaliation, squeezing his eyes shut.

This isn’t real. Genos is dead; he’s been dead for months. Either this is someone’s sick idea of a joke, or Saitama is going insane.

Maybe he—it—came through the door. Saitama’s eyes remain closed, hoping his brain will show him something that makes sense. No, I would have heard him—it?—coming in.

The sound of a soft sigh makes his eyes snap open of their own volition, a knee-jerk reaction.

Genos is gone.

Saitama stumbles backwards, where his back slams into the wall. His legs feel like gelatin underneath him, and slides towards the ground, taking shallow breaths.

Where? In his panic, his hand slips down the wall, fingernails scraping along the wood, dragging through the paint in rivets. His heart won’t stop pounding and he feels like he can’t breathe. He was just—

The room goes dark.

Blinking rapidly, Saitama tries to gather his bearings, but his chest feels tight, like his heart and lungs are being squeezed.

It’s rare for him to feel anything akin to fear, but this is Genos. If it had been a random monster that had wandered into his home, he would have simply raised his fist and ended the matter within seconds.

Genos is dead, he thinks fiercely, focusing on the beam of sunlight filtering through the curtains. When he tries to move, his limbs won’t cooperate; every movement saps at his strength, draining him until he feels as weak as a kitten.

He stays slumped against the wall, looking left, right, up, and down, straining to find something out of the ordinary, or an explanation for what happened, until exhaustion finally drags him under.

When Saitama wakes up, it takes him a few seconds to gather his bearings. He remembers eating dinner and moving around his apartment before…

He remembers Genos, and jerks upright.

I just fell asleep, he reasons, reaching up to massage his fingers into the back of his neck. The muscles are bunched tight. Of course I’d have a dream like that. It’s been a long few months.

Moving his neck takes momentous effort—it’s stiff, the tendons screaming as he turns his head. Sitting up makes his back throb; a painful reminder that taking a nap lying in an awkward position means hell in the morning after.

Once he rubs the feeling back into his legs, he stands. His eyes search and find the light switch.

He approaches it gingerly, and after a moment of brief hesitation, he flips it on, casting the room in artificial light. His eyes are immediately drawn to the parallel stripes lining the wall. When he inspects his hands, he notes the paint that is wedged underneath his fingernails.

People do strange things in their sleep. I’m pretty sure I’ve sleepwalked once or twice.

That was all it was: a strange dream.

Decided, Saitama walks forward and shoves the curtains aside in order to step outside and get some fresh air. Despite his minimal, if steady, income, Genos was the one to offer footing the electric bills, and Saitama grew used to the feeling of air conditioning. So, when the hot air rolls over him in one sweltering wave, he shudders.

“It’s already this hot?” Saitama steps out onto the edge, leaning over the metal bars. The town is as abandoned as ever, not a soul in sight. From his position, he can see the multitude of pot-holes and explosions of rubble scattered along the street. They’re a reminder that he’s been negligent with his repairs since Genos used to lend him a helping hand.

“That guy never complained about anything. I wonder if he would have gotten hot, made of all that metal.” Saitama considers it for a moment. “Probably not. He didn’t seem to react to temperatures much.”

The ache that arises whenever he thinks about Genos throbs painfully.

Saitama eyes catch sight of a flash of green, and turns towards the source. Lo and behold, his cactus is sitting innocently in the corner of the balcony, dry as a desert—but alive, surprisingly. In the past few months, he’s watered it only a scant few times.

As he reaches for his watering can, he sends his dying cactus a silent apology.

By mid-afternoon, clouds are rolling into his neighborhood, looming over his apartment.

Saitama’s been busy doing laundry, which includes his usual routine of drying his clothing on the edge of the balcony. When he notices the clouds hanging overhead, he shoves bundles of damp clothes under his arms in bunches and hurries inside, losing a sock or two on the way.

It takes two trips, and by the time he’s brought in the laundry, the darkest clouds are passing directly over his house. A few fat waterdrops land on his balcony, threatening what’s to come.

He hangs up most of the clothing in the closet, finding places to dry the rest around his apartment.

It’s already raining by the time he finishes. With nothing left to do, Saitama pauses in front of the window to watch the rain fall, distorting his vision of the ground below.

On rainy days like this, Genos would use the heat from his vents and incinerators to dry all of their clothes. The room would fill with warmth, beset by Genos’ quiet, but inquisitive conversation.

“You don’t have to do that, you know. I can dry my own laundry at the laundromat later. If it’s sunny, we can do it outside!”

“If there is anything I can do for you, sensei, I want to. If you are embarrassed, don’t worry. I will dry your underwear with pride!”

“Jeez, you’re so embarrassing, Genos. Give me those!”

Saitama remembers being annoyed by his behavior; as if he needed tending to. If only he’d had any idea how much he’d miss his unerring dedication.

His breath comes out in a sigh, fogging up the glass in front of his face. Thinking about Genos sparks the memory of his earlier dream. In it, Genos had looked—sad. Sadder than Saitama could ever remember seeing him. He’d almost forgotten how bright his eyes were, illuminated by a solid ring of gold.

Saitama presses his forehead to the glass, biting the inside of his cheek against the hot tears that spring in his eyes.

He never expected losing someone to feel like this. He hadn’t expected to care.

Saitama’s back hits the glass door as he slides to the floor, knees pulled up to his chest. Genos’ death sits painfully inside of him, like a festering wound eating at his insides.

Why? Saitama buries his head between his legs, his stuttering breath drowned out by the sound of the rain. Why did he have to leave me all alone again?

The second time he sees Genos, it occurs to Saitama that maybe it wasn’t a dream after all.

Saitama has been spending his spare time doing hero work in the outside world, increasing his rank while simultaneously coping with Genos’ death by drowning himself in said work. With the news in a constant buzz about new monster attacks, there’s no shortage of them to go around. People still hate Saitama with an intense ferocity, but it’s muted, as if underneath the insults that are thrown they’re grateful that at least somebody is rising to the challenge.

Saitama is covered in blood and gore far more often than not, and his suit is pain to get clean. He spends hours of his time scrubbing his outfit. If that doesn’t work, he goes to the local dry-cleaner, who is probably sick of his constant presence.

That’s why after a vicious battle against a horde of spider people, Saitama decides to treat himself. Since he’s been keeping himself in check health-wise, it’s been a long time since he’s indulged in something greasy and delicious.

The next evening that isn’t plagued by any monsters or frantic calls from the hero association to all available heroes, he goes to his favorite udon shop and orders three sets to-go.

Back at his apartment, he braces his back against the door and shuffles the heavy bag into the crook of his arm. It’s dark out, but Saitama’s eyes are sharp, and it takes minimal fiddling as he shoves his key into the keyhole and makes his way inside.

The light is on, but this time he’s sure he left it that way.

Wandering into the kitchen, Saitama sets each set onto the counter. He pauses to breathe in the scent wafting from the cartons, and then grabs them and takes them into the living room.

“Thanks for the meal,” he says, before realizing that he forgot the chopsticks. He stands and walks into the kitchen, reaching for the complimentary, disposable pair on the counter.

When he walks out, Genos is seated at the table in his place. Sitting in traditional seiza, his head is bowed, lips moving silently.

No, Saitama thinks, taking a step back. This isn’t happening. This is another dream.

He pinches himself. It hurts.

“What...” his voice fades, refusing to cooperate.

Genos isn’t looking at him. He has his palms pressed together, silent words still streaming from his lips. His eyes are downcast, fingers trembling against each other.

“Who…” he swallows, finally finding his voice. “Who are you? Why do you look like Genos?!”

Genos stares resolutely at the takeout in front of him and lowers his hands. He doesn’t react, failing to acknowledge Saitama’s presence.

“Oi.” Saitama stomps over his nerves and takes a few cautious steps closer. “Is this some kind of joke?”

Instead of acknowledging him, this—whatever it is, has the audacity to stick his chopsticks into Saitama’s well-earned udon.

“Wait!” Saitama feels anger spark, and reaches out, “that’s my—“

Inexplicably, before his eyes, Genos starts to fade. He still isn’t reacting to Saitama’s commands, but the instant before his image blinks out of existence, his head turns, and his eyes find Saitama, looking right at him.

No, that’s not right. There’s not a hint of recognition; Saitama realizes with a start that he’s actually looking through him, not at him—he doesn’t see him at all.

Then he’s gone.

Saitama falls to his knees, his huge, panicked breaths echoing loudly in his ears.

That wasn’t a dream. He grips his head with both hands and closes his eyes. That definitely wasn’t a dream. What’s happening?

It could be a monster, he reasons, but what would be the point of waiting this long to appear in front of him? And Genos looked…different. From what he was able to observe in the few seconds Genos appeared, the differences were notable. For one, his hair was longer, and he was wearing a style of clothing and a pair of mechanical arms that Saitama didn’t recognize. They were solid white, with streaks of silver lining the plating.

And apart from all that, there was that same, deep sadness lingering in his eyes. One that Saitama couldn’t pin-point.

Once Saitama calms, and eventually, when his body cooperates, he moves in front of his bowl of udon. There’s a divot, as if someone swirled their chopsticks in the broth.

Saitama swallows.

Definitely not a dream. But that wasn’t—it couldn’t be Genos.

Ears and eyes peeled for any further signs, Saitama lies in wait, but his apartment stays quiet. Eventually, because he’s starving—and because he deserves this, damn it—he eats the other two bowls of udon, leaving the one that Genos appeared in front of untouched.

Nothing makes an appearance that night, nor the next.

In order to keep a vigilant watch, Saitama leaves the apartment only when it’s necessary, and at random intervals. He doesn’t know what somebody would want by messing with him like this, but he’s certain it isn’t really Genos.

He’s dead, and ghosts don’t exist. Monsters and strange beings may litter the earth, but dead is dead.

Chapter Text

In the days that follow, Saitama's days are filled with boredom and restlessness. At night, he's plagued with insomnia, and he tosses and turns in his futon, the scant hours of sleep he manages to get disturbed by nightmares.

Most of them involve Genos. He refuses to vacate his thoughts, invading every nook and cranny.

This vision that he saw of Genos makes no more appearances, but eventually, the strange events start to occur with increasing frequency.  

Saitama will leave the room to use the bathroom, and when he returns, the book he’s been reading will have shifted a few inches, or a different page will be on display.

Soon, other things start to crop up: his dishware will move, dishes that were drying will be put away, or the laptop will be closed when Saitama had it open.

The fact that Genos doesn’t appear makes it worse. Without any clear evidence to support his theories, whether it be ghosts or illusions, doubts start to crawl in his mind.

Am I going insane? Am I really dreaming all of this?

It gets to the point where Saitama decides to start keeping track of the things he finds out of place, taking notes on a spare notepad he finds lying around.

It doesn’t take long for his findings fill the pages, using the remaining space to scribble out half-baked theories in the margins. It also helps to draw as a point of reference, so after a few days, when the notepad proves ineffective for space, Saitama makes the decision to rifle through the closet for one of Genos’ notebooks.

He finds one that’s half-filled lying in the corner of the closet, underneath a few pieces of equipment. After relieving it of dust, he tears out the pages that were previously filled and uses the remaining blanks to continue recording his observations.

His plan is simple. If a villain, or even a fellow hero, is attempting to mess with his head, he’ll take what information he can gleam from this and snuff out the enemy.   

It should be easy, in theory.

Actually tracking it and making use of the knowledge is, however, another matter entirely.

The nuances of its activity are so small that Saitama’s notes seen become convoluted. He considers a thousand impossibilities (was the television always tilted in that direction? Did he leave his bowl out overnight, or did he dream that?), his doubts increasing exponentially.

He pours over his notes again and again, scouring his writing for clues; anything that will lead him to a solution other than the obvious.

His saving grace is when he realizes that out of all that he’s written, there is a pattern: it is most active early in the morning and late in the evening, maneuvering sporadically throughout midday.

Almost like a real person.

Saitama immediately shoves that thought away. The information—good enough to be considered his first lead—is something to work with, at least.

With that in mind, Saitama attempts to come up with a timeline. Organization was never his strong suit, and after looking over his own notes for the umpteenth time, he regrets that he failed to provide dates for many, if not most, of his entries.

A week passes.

Saitama tries to sleep, succeeding most nights in just lying in bed, staring at the ceiling. He gets up every morning, marks down anything out of the ordinary, and goes about his day. Rinse, recycle, and repeat.

The days bleed into one another. Saitama does his best to keep track of what’s happening, but his doubts steadily grow. The scariest part isn’t that he doesn’t know who’s behind it all; it’s the idea that what's happening is a figment of his imagination, and one morning he’s going to wake up and realize that he's gone insane. That, or it really is Genos’ ghost haunting him.

No , he thinks, forcing the thought from his mind. That’s dangerous territory. Genos is dead. He’s dead . It’s just someone trying to scare me. They’re trying to emulate Genos, even if they got some of it wrong. So it’s possibly someone who knew him—or stalked him. A fan?

He needs to find out more, and the first and most obvious way to do that is to search through Genos’ notebooks. He might have mentioned something about a stalker, or a person from his past.

Saitama starts looking around for Genos’ key to the apartment next door. Once Genos’ volumes had reached the hundreds, Saitama forced him to move them to another location to save on space.

Genos had destroyed the previous lock on the door due to its fallible security, and installed a more sophisticated version to protect his notebooks from possible looters, creating two keys. He kept one on him, and offered Saitama the other, which he initially rejected.

It has to be around here somewhere, he thinks, and sets to work, combing the apartment.

Saitama finds the key to the apartment in Genos’ belongings, buried deep inside one of the pockets of his duffle bag. When he lifts it, it gleams in the light, untarnished; unused. 

He followed Genos into the room a few times, but the sheer volume of notebooks that Genos had filled in his spare time was unsettling, to say the least. Mountains of the damned things crawled up the walls, spilled wayward into the center of the room.

“Genos, seriously, why do you have so many of these? I can’t be that interesting.”

“You are more than interesting; you are brilliant, sensei. I only endeavor to write down the lessons you have taught me and capture that brilliance.”

It had made him uncomfortable, and acted as a sore reminder of Genos’ worshipful affection for him.

Now, it’s just another reminder of the things he’s lost.

He leaves his apartment and steps outside, heading to stand in front of the room next door. After a moment of deliberation, he inserts the key and turns it.

What greets him is the exact same room that he had left all those months ago. There are more notebooks than he remembers, but it’s the same scene. Satiama steps inside and kneels beside the first pile to pick up the nearest notebook—#354. Before he died, Genos was in the thousands, so the number on front is fairly old.

When he opens the notebook, he finds sketches of Saitama in different positions and varying stages of undress spanning multiple pages. Angles and calculations line the margins, with descriptions and accompanying arrows pointing to the different parts of his body. Genos would have had to have recorded these daily to get all of those sketches—they’re even numbered by date, Saitama realizes.

He slaps the books closed, cheeks growing hot, and then reaches for another one at random—#362. This time, he cracks open the spine gingerly.

Thankfully, it’s filled to the brim with text. Each page is filled with information pertaining to Saitama’s daily exploits, offering Genos’ half-formed conclusions about his the source of his power in between his observations.

From what information I have gathered, documented in #220 pg. 12, on the topic of eggs, Saitama-sensei dislikes the taste of fried eggs. He prefers raw eggs over rice with soy sauce as a treat. Could this possibly be related to his strength? His eating habits are not very peculiar, and he exhibits an appetite befitting a healthy human male. However, I will conduct tests on his favorite dish with this theory in mind.

Conclusion: The doctor informed me that they were indeed just eggs with rice. I will need to search for a new avenue of discovery now that Saitama-sensei….

That idiot . Saitama brushes his fingers over the familiar writing. He’s not even angry.

He reads the book cover-to-cover, tracing over the words that Genos wrote with care. He can see reflections of him in everything: every word, every note, every drawing. It’s all so clearly Genos , and as he’s reading, Saitama feels a sudden burst of anger, mostly at himself.

I had no idea that he was such a good artist. And his writing is really easy to read, almost like a novel.

Inspired by his own curiosity, he rifles through the piles of books, skimming over the words, absorbing the parts of Genos that he never thought to notice. He’d always seen Genos as an annoying, if dedicated disciple and friend, but now he realizes that he never really took the time to get to know Genos as a person, and not a cyborg obsessed with two things: Saitama and revenge.

Granted, he didn’t make it easy for Saitama to learn about the aspects of his personality, but Saitama still feels like he could have tried so much harder.

Resolved, he gathers a pile of notebooks into his arms and brings them back into his apartment, where he intends to read them one by one, no matter how long it takes.

Sorry, Genos , he thinks, blinking against the sudden onslaught of tears. I need to know more about you, even though I’m a little too late.

Between defeating a few monsters to keep his rank, Saitama spends all of his available spare time reading Genos’ notebooks. The content that Genos’ recorded ranges from ridiculous and laughable to pitifully sad.

Saitama suspects that Genos didn’t even pay attention to most of what he wrote; he just scribbled his thoughts, a continuous stream of feelings and emotions. Some of the journal entries begin scientifically, with hypotheses and test data, but soon divulge into Genos’ innermost thoughts.

Those are Saitama’s favorite.

#800 - Saitama-sensei asked me a question about my past. I do not remember much, having blocked it from my mind, but I responded to his request by…

#417 - Saitama-sensei’s fighting form is beautiful. One punch is all it takes, and the subtle expressions lighting up my sensei’s face will continue to sustain my passion as his disciple for ages. His body arches most gracefully, twisting with the power play of muscle hiding underneath his ill-fitting hero suit (would that I could, I would have it immediately burned and replaced). I have seen his naked form only once, and that was our first meeting. If only I had recorded the occasion…

It’s enough to make Saitama blush. Reading through the old volumes and seeing just how deeply Genos’ admiration for him went is still unsettling, but Saitama is relieved that in the newer editions, while Genos’ admiration is still present, instead of pages raving about his superiority, Genos is affectionate in a way that’s reflective of a friendship.

#1004 – It is rare that Saitama-sensei and I disagree. It is my shame to admit that I reached my breaking point and raised my voice at him. The way that Saitama-sensei looked at me—I had never seen such an expression on his face before… … he forgave me the moment that I apologized… …sensei is a forgiving person…

There’s an accompanying sketch next to the last entry. Saitama squints at the depiction of his expression, trying to parse what emotions he might have been going through. He remembers the argument that Genos’ records vaguely, but not what words were said.

“Of course I’d forgive you,” Saitama murmurs, imagining Genos furiously scribbling his expression in an effort to capture it. “We were friends, idiot.”

He buries his face in his hands, suddenly, desperately wanting whatever is haunting him to be a ghost. If that was true, then there would still be a piece of Genos left for him to hold onto; an echo that will keep sounding for Saitama to hear.

If it isn’t a ghost, Saitama wants it to stop now. Mind games have never been Saitama’s strong suit, and now that it’s a matter painfully close to home, he doesn’t know how to deal with it.

Saitama hears something slip almost soundlessly across the carpet. His eyes snap open.

Genos is sitting in the computer chair, facing away from him. Saitama’s breath comes out in a rush.

This is a trick. It has to be.

A stubborn part of him still hopes.

“What do you want with me?” he asks evenly. “Why are you doing this?”

Genos’ raises his hands to the keyboard and starts typing. The pose is so familiar that Saitama’s chest aches.

He stands up. “Genos, if that’s really you, look at me.” He steps forward, voice wavering. “Answer me.”

Genos’ shoulders lift and drop in a silent sigh, ignorant to his plight.

Saitama’s eyes fall closed, gritting his teeth against the angry words that threaten to pour out. When he lifts his head, Genos is gone.

He has to resist the urge to punch a hole in the wall.

“Whoever you are, the joke is already old,” he calls out. It’s most likely another hero with the power of illusion or something similar, in that they have the ability to project an image.

Then how would they be moving things around the apartment? It occurs to him that there could be multiple culprits, and if so, then there’s one sure-fire way to find out what heroes might have these abilities: the Hero Association database.

Saitama lifts himself off the ground and sits down in the chair that Genos’ vision just occupied. He adjusts it to his preferred angle and then gets to work.

After checking the database, he reaches the unfortunate conclusion that no hero has powers to project illusions that elaborate. While there are many illusionists, proximity or touch is a requirement to activate their powers, and none of them are strong enough to hold it for weeks at a time.

Saitama leans back in the chair with a sigh.

What am I doing? There’s nothing here. Exiting the page, Saitama moves his mouse across the screen restlessly, drawing imaginary patterns with the cursor. While he’s clicking around the screen aimlessly, he accidentally opens the document viewer. The program comes into view, prompting him to choose either a blank document or a page from one of the offered templates.

His fingers hesitate over the keys, unsure. He stares at the first page—a bank document, plain and simple—and thinks back to Genos’ notebooks.

On a whim, he double-clicks it. The page loads, the cursor blinking at him, urging him to continue.

He’s suddenly reminded of something people used to talk about in movies and on TV. They always said to write down feelings, claiming that it would help overcome a loss, or jump over a stressful hurdle. In doing so, someone could supposedly purge their feelings and take that first step towards recovery.

Saitama had never taken it fully into consideration. After all, there was nothing for him to complain about. He had a home, enough food to survive, and a purpose. What more did he have to say?

“This is stupid.”

He scrubs his hands over his face. When he opens his eyes, he stops short, and blinks.

Saitama is positive that he never wrote in the document. However, when he looks at the screen, the page is blank, save for one word:

Saitama-sensei

This is getting weird. Well, weird-er, he amends.

Saitama rests his fingers on the keys. After familiarizing himself with Genos’ notebooks, it’s reminiscent of how he would begin many of the entries.

Saitama-sensei , followed by the rest of the text. He can almost hear Genos’ voice calling out his name.

Saitama lets his hands fall to his lap.

It’s not a ghost, he tells himself firmly, resolve wavering. It’s not a ghost. If it was, Genos wouldn’t look so different. It’s those guys messing up their plans.

Making a split second decision driven by instinct and his building frustration, Saitama leans forward and starts typing directly under what’s already there.

Who are you?

He leans back slightly, fingers falling still over the keys. His expectations towards an actual response are nil, but it makes him feel marginally better.

Without little else to do but wait, Saitama makes note of the change, and then leaves the apartment to get some groceries, using the opportunity to see if there are any monsters around (he’s been lazy about watching the news with his time occupied by Genos’ notebooks).

It’s a beautiful, sunny day, with sweltering warmth beating down on Saitama’s back. He’s only wearing a thin, threadbare tank-top, but within minutes he starts sweating. The grocery store offers a cool respite, and Saitama takes his time filling his cart.

On his way home, arms full of groceries, he makes a stop at convenience store for some junk food that he’s unfortunately hooked on.

The same kid from before is working the counter. Saitama slides his purchase across and meets his eyes. As he fishes out exact change, he wonders how he ever saw Genos in him. His hair is a messy bird’s nest of a very light brown, and his eyes are blue.

He flashes him a brief smile before he leaves, and the kid returns it hesitantly.

Pushing his way past the glass doors, Saitama breathes in the humid air. Okay, I can do this.

He’s mentally exhausted, but after taking a trip outside of the apartment where he’d been cooped up for days, his mind feels clear.

Who—or what—ever is messing with him, he’s going to find it and destroy it.

For Genos.

When he gets back the apartment, he hesitates in the doorway, making a mental note to check around for anything that’s different, and detours into the kitchen to put the groceries away. While he’s shoving a package of rice in the cupboard, he spots the remote lying on the corner of the kitchen window, so he grabs it and flicks on the TV.

“…Metal Knight, the S-rank hero, moved in at the last second, decimating the enemy. His missiles also had the unfortunate side-effect of destroying dozens of resident’s homes. The pressure is on the Hero Association to better train…”

Saitama flips past the channel, uninterested in the exploits of other heroes. He finds a newscast that isn’t praising or criticizing their efforts, and then starts separating the groceries that need to be put away in the fridge.

Once he’s finished, he pours himself a rewarding glass of water and wanders into the living room, eyes on the television.

As he approached the table, his fingers brush over the top of the computer chair absently. Out of the corner of his eye he can tell that the screen is still on, displaying the same document. He turns to shut it down, tipping his head back at the same time to swallow some of the water.

He starts choking abruptly, liquid spilling down his chin as he stares at the screen in shock. Right underneath his text, there’s a reply .

How did you hack into my computer? Who is this? Reveal yourself or I will not hesitate to eliminate you.

Saitama wipes his chin with the back of his palm, eyes raking over the text. It’s painfully familiar; something Genos would say, probably.

He scrambles to get into the chair, nearly spilling the rest of his drink as his wrist slams onto the edge of the desk. He presses enter, moving the cursor below the previous sentence. Saitama’s hesitates for a split-second, but then he grips his anger by the throat and starts typing.

I’m Saitama and this is my apartment, he says. I should be asking you what you’re doing. What do you think you’re trying to do by making a Genos lookalike?

Saitama pulls his hands back into his lap and waits, eyes glued to the screen.

An hour passes with no response. Then another, and Saitama starts to get impatient and bored, almost convinced that he’s hallucinating.

This is pointless , he thinks, chewing on his fingernail anxiously. He feels ridiculous, talking through his own laptop as if it’s going to respond, and gets up from the chair.

The moment that he steps away, a flickering image appears beside him.

Genos is sitting in his place, fingers resting over the keyboard. His eyes are focused on the screen, his brows furrowed with obvious anger. Saitama lunges forward, but when his fingers connect, they go straight through Genos.

What the—?

Genos blinks out out of existence before he can take his next breath, leaving Saitama grasping at air. He swears, leaning over the seat of the chair. When he glances at the screen, his heart skips a beat.

I have no idea what you mean by that. Whatever foolish game you are playing, I suggest you do your research. Saitama-sensei is dead.

Saitama straightens, his mind reeling.

Seriously, what the fuck is going on?

Chapter Text

Kuseno is staring at Saitama like he doesn’t quite believe the words coming out of his mouth.

“I know it doesn’t make sense,” Saitama prefaces, launching into another explanation, trying to elaborate. “It’s like a ghost, but…not. And I checked the database; nobody has powers to project illusions that elaborate.”

Coming to Kuseno was a decision that Saitama hesitated to make. While he trusted his wisdom, it was easy to imagine that Kuseno might suspect him of losing his mind. His only hope was that the last time Kuseno had seen him, he’d been doing well.

After Genos disappeared, he took the notebook that he’d been writing in and once again observed his previous notes, trying to connect them to what had been happening. The night that it was revealed somebody—Genos, whoever—thought he was dead, Saitama didn’t have the guts to formulate any type of reply. He was almost afraid of what answer he might receive, and so he left the laptop alone, instead deciding that calling Kuseno and asking for help might be his best bet.

It would be nice to finally talk to someone about what was happening; he was going a little stir-crazy all by himself.

First, though, Saitama’s main concern now getting Kuseno to believe his claims. Once he reached Kuseno’s, Saitama only waited until he was inside the main living space before he started spilling his guts. Thinking back, it was probably the most he’d ever said to Kuseno, and the longer he spoke about what had been happening to him in the last few weeks, the higher Kuseno’s eyebrows rose.

Now, Saitama is waiting for the verdict.

Kuseno hums, regarding him carefully. Saitama is starting to sweat under his hero suit, but he resists the urge to fidget.

“Tell me again when you first saw him?” Kuseno asks, rubbing his chin.

“Right.” Saitama pauses for a beat. “I was just messing with the light and he suddenly appeared. He’s—whatever it is, it can interact. He turned off the light, and the second time I saw him, he messed with my udon bowl.”

Now that he’s with another person trying to prove that he hasn’t just gone insane, Saitama regrets that he neglected to take any photos—granted, there hadn’t been much of a chance to do so. He has a few sketches lying around, but they’re scribbles at best; nothing like the artistic expressions in Genos’ notebooks.

Kuseno glances down at the notebooks spread across his table, tracing over the lists that Saitama made.

“You said objects were moved?”

“Yeah, normal stuff,” Saitama replies, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot. He feels small under Kuseno’s scrutinizing gaze. “Pages of a book, the remote, a cup of water. Sometimes bowls and plates.”

Kuseno taps his finger against an item on one of the lists. “And you noticed that there was a pattern. A schedule, like a regular person might have. Like Genos might have had.”

Saitama nods reluctantly. “You don’t think it’s a…” He licks his lips. The word ghost rests on the tip of his tongue. “What do you think, old man?”

Kuseno leans over the notebook, his brows furrowed in concentration. After a few minutes of silence, he straightens, shaking his head.

“I’m afraid that there isn’t much I can say. I am regrettably unfamiliar with most heroes, as I am busy with my work.” He slides the notebooks towards Saitama. “But it seems to me that someone must be playing a horrid prank on you, Saitama.” Upon hearing this, Saitama’s heart sinks. After being haunted by this—thing for so long, he was hoping that Kuseno would be able to offer him something of merit.

“If you’d like,” he continues, “I will research this matter further and set up a proximity alarm.”

Saitama perks up. “Didn’t Genos have one of those?”

“Yes, but it was built into his system. This would function as a means of testing if the perpetrator needs to be within a certain range.”

Saitama acquiesces, but the feeling of defeat refuses to fade.

An element that he neglected to mention is the brief communication they had through his computer, but he doesn’t expect that to solidify his story in any way. With as little as Saitama knows, even to him it seems plausible that any decent hacker could probably get into his computer to mess with him.

Even so, a small, but stubborn part of him wants to believe that it is more than just some prank. Why else would Genos leave those weird messages?

Saitama-sensei is dead, he said.

“Thanks,” he tells Kuseno, accepting his offer for the alarm. He adds, before he can lose his nerve: “I have one more question, actually. Do you think…do you believe in ghosts?”

Kuseno’s eyes, when he meets Saitama’s, are understanding.

“There is some scientific discussion about the possibility of spirits.” He scratches his chin. “I myself have experienced many strange phenomena. As more mysterious beings are revealed, more possibilities are known. Once, people did not believe alien lifeforms existed.”

“What about you?”

“Me?” Kuseno smiles sadly. “It would be nice if Genos felt the need to keep me company after death.”

“I guess.” He pauses, thinking back to Kuseno’s earlier words. “What do ghosts have to do with science?”

“What was once considered the paranormal is now a daily routine,” Kuseno points out. “When I was a child, the only mysterious beings that I knew were those in science fiction. Now nothing can be ruled out entirely.” He smiles and turns, picking up pieces of whatever he’s working on.

“What kind of stuff did people think about ghosts before all this?” Saitama asks.

“There were thousands of theories. The more scientific of those suggested infrasound, carbon monoxide poisoning, and even quantum mechanics, to name a few.”

“Huh.” The moment that Kuseno started talking about science-y stuff, Saitama was lost. He glances behind him and scratches at his collarbone absently. “Well, uh, thanks for all the help, old man. Did you want some of Genos’ things?” He points to the box of belongings, sitting on the table to their right. “I brought them with me.”

“Yes, thank you.” Kuseno nods to the item in question. “I will sort through that and return the rest to you.”

“Sure.” Saitama bounces on the balls of his feet and looks towards the door. “Guess I’ll leave you alone now. Thanks again.”

“No, thank you, Saitama.” His words are heavy, carrying a weight that goes beyond Saitama bringing him Genos’ stuff. Saitama swallows against his discomfort and offers a smile in return. “I will visit you within the week for the matter of the alarm.”

“Got it.”

They part. Saitama returns to his apartment, thoughts running in circles.

In order to discover the identity of who—or what—is haunting him, he implements a fairly simple plan: this thing looks like Genos, acts like him, and seems to be operating on a timeline that’s different from Saitama’s. For some reason, he thinks that Saitama is dead. So, if Saitama wants to get more information out of him, he’ll just have to play along.

That evening, when he gets home, he doesn’t hesitate to type a message onscreen:

This is the first time I’m hearing about it. How did he die?

There is no immediately response, but Saitama expects as much. He moves away from the computer to start dinner, keeping his eyes peeled.

Dinner consists of yakisoba noodles loaded with chopped vegetables and some seafood that he picked up the other day. If Genos’ physical body appears during that time, Saitama makes no note of it. He does, however, see the new lines of text on screen when he’s bringing his food into the living room.

His eyes are already following the text before he’s even sat down.

If you have the time to infiltrate my laptop, you could certainly research his death for yourself.

Saitama feels a chill run up his spine.

Could this be some form of hypnosis? Does somebody, somewhere around the world honestly believe that he died?

Saitama shoves his food onto the table next to the computer so he has free hands to start typing a reply.

Was it a quick death?

Genos’ reply, when it comes, is brief.

Cease this line of questioning and leave me alone.

Staring at the message, it takes Saitama a stupidly long time to realize his own insensitivity. If this is Genos, or someone trying to pretend that they’re Genos, he would be devastated that Saitama was dead.

He recalls the sorrow lingering in the vision of Genos’ eyes, and his fingers start moving on their own.

Sorry, I shouldn’t have asked that. When did he die?

After hesitating over his response, Saitama ultimately decides it’s the best he can do and hovers by the laptop. Whiffs of yakisoba remind him that his food is going to get cold. Grabbing it by the rim of the plate, he turns on the television and watches from his seat, occasionally sending the computer screen furtive, hasty glances. As much as he understands that this shouldn’t—can’t be real, he wants to know all the details about his supposed death, and why this version of Genos looks so strange.

Before, Genos was like a ghost—he didn’t react to anything Saitama said or did, but he was still able to affect what he touched. Now, it’s all so confusing, and a dangerous seed of hope stubbornly starts to grow.

That night, he doesn’t receive a reply, but the next morning when he checks, to his surprise, the document is gone. Aghast, Saitama searches through his files, but aside from the occasional screenshot that Genos took, and a few random documents, there is no evidence of the conversation ever existing.

A scream builds in the back of his throat.

Why didn’t I save it? He chews on his knuckle. Since there’s no evidence, that means that there’s no proof. For all he knows, this could be part of a larger, more elaborate ruse to make him lose his mind.

And if that’s the goal, it’s working. Saitama can tell himself as many times as necessary that what’s happening to him is a part of his reality, but truthfully, he isn’t sure of anything anymore.

After planting himself in front of the computer, he opens up the hero association database in a desperate bid to try and narrow his search again. When that fails, he expands his search instead to the web, perusing a multitude of fan-made hero websites.

With each and every site that he finds, Saitama tries a variation of illusion and mind control, but none of all the powers coming close. He’s quickly running out of ideas.

In what world would I be dead?

Saitama leans back in his seat and lets out a heavy breath. After exiting the page, Saitama moves his mouse across the screen, where it hovers indecisively over the document viewer. Ghost or not, I don’t even know how to reach him again.

Left with no other option, Saitama opens a blank document and begins to type out what he remembers of their relatively short conversation.

When he’s finished, his fingers hesitate over the keys, unsure. He stares at the first line—his name, plain and simple—and thinks back to Genos’ notebooks. So many of the entries began in the same way, mostly because it was all Genos wanted to write about.

Before he can second guess himself, Saitama erases the text.

Thinking back to what he’d originally intended to do with the document—talk about his feelings, or something—he types out Genos’ name, and then stops. The cursor remains blinking for a solid minute before Saitama can make himself type any more.

Genos was always a part of his routine, and therefore often the subject of his thoughts, but after his death, he became inescapable. These thoughts swirl in his brain endlessly, weighing him down until he feels like he’ll drown if he lets go for even a second.

Come on, Genos did this all the time.

He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. When he opens them again, the words flow from his fingertips.

As he’s typing, for a moment, pain bites into his chest like a knife, digging deep. He pauses. Then, it passes, and Saitama forces himself to finish the sentence. Then the next. And then another.

I don’t know if you’re a ghost, or somebody just trying to mess with me, but people say writing it down helps, so I’m just going to pretend for a second that you’ll see this and I’m not crazy.

I don’t know what you were feeling in your last minutes, or if you felt anything at all. I’m guessing a cyborg getting electrocuted would feel painless, but it’s never happened to me. Maybe if I’d been there, I’d have known, y’know? Maybe I could have pulled you and that kid out from under the building before anything happened to either of you.

I read all your notebooks by the way. Sorry. But it helped me realize that I didn’t really know a lot about you. I’d seen your sketches before, but I never knew how good you were. If you hadn’t met the mad cyborg, instead of fighting monsters, maybe you would’ve been a manga artist, and I would have been reading all of your manga. But if that happened, I guess we wouldn’t have met, huh?

I’m grateful for that, I guess. Out of all the people in the world, I think you’re probably the best thing that’s ever happened to me. You were always there for me, even though I didn’t deserve it, and you never stopped believing in me, not even once.

I don’t know where I’m going with this, Genos. Guess I just wanted to say thanks for everything. I’m sorry I couldn’t have been there for you more, and I’m sorry that you’re dead. I miss you

He stops typing on account of the tears blurring his vision. Saitama takes a deep breath a futile attempt to force them back, pressing the heel of his hand against his eyelids.

Agony renders him mute, holding his heart in its hands.

Losing a loved one is difficult¸ Kuseno had said.

It’s living with himself that’s the hardest. Life was never all that worthwhile for Saitama. Saving people gave him a sense a clarity: a purpose that drove him to get up every morning and continue on in hopes that his life would suddenly finds its worth. Genos became his first and only reason to keep living for himself instead of others.

Genos, Saitama thinks, if it’s really you, give me a sign. Tell me you’re alive.

He waits, desperate, destitute, but the apartment’s quiet is only interrupted by the sound of birds outside, now alive and well with the songs of summer.

Saitama breath comes out in a rush, his chest collapsing under the weight of it.

Unexpectedly exhausted, he stands, approaching the window to draw the curtain aside. The day is beautiful and sunny. And what with typhoon season starting soon, there will be more rainy days than he can count on one hand.

Peering up at the bright sky, Saitama reminds himself to enjoy it while it lasts. He suddenly recalls Kuseno’s words.

“Even if it was your least favorite season. How could you hate summer, Genos?” A smile rises from within him. “The beach is great.”

Saitama opens the door and takes in a breath of fresh, city air. Now that he’s taken a moment to step away from it all, he feels unexpectedly light.

Maybe there’s something to this feelings thing after all.

When he turns around, the last thing he expects to find is Genos standing in the darkened corner of the room staring at the open computer screen.

Before Saitama can move, before he can even open his mouth, Genos slams his fist into the wall.

“Who are you?!” Genos yells. It isn’t directed at him, Saitama realizes—he’s still staring at the computer.

Genos clenches his fists tightly by his side, raw emotion flashing across his face. He lowers his head, lips pulled thin against gritted teeth. “Whatever game you’re playing, it is not amusing! Saitama-sensei would never say—”

He presses the back of his palm against his lips, trembling. His face is wet with what Saitama recognizes are his tears.

Genos fist comes down on the edge of the desk with a bang, and Saitama jumps, flattening himself against the door leading to the balcony.

Okay, he thinks, thought firing at a rapid rate. This is happening.

Genos turns and starts walking towards the kitchen. He opens his mouth to say Genos’ name, and it’s no more than a rasping whisper between his lips.

It can’t be him. But what if—?

Then he tries again, and it comes out like a gasp.

Genos’ head lifts in his direction, and their gazes meet. Recognition sparks in his eyes.

His heart is hammering against his ribcage. Meeting his eyes, Saitama feels dizzy. Adrenaline rushes through his body, lighting it on fire, and it’s all he can do to stand still, to keep from rushing at Genos like a madman, demanding explanations and answers.

Genos makes a soft sound in the back of his throat, and Saitama starts moving before he can reconsider.

It takes three steps for his feet carry him to Genos, and a single second for him to pull him into a fierce, well-deserved hug.

Please let it be him. It has to be. Please.

He wants to say his name, but he can barely breathe as it is, choked by a mixture of fear, anger, and hope. Hot tears prickle at Saitama’s eyes, and he’s blinking rapidly, shocked still that after all this time, he’s breathing in the scents that associated with Genos.

Genos has gone still as stone. When he attempts to move, Saitama squeezes him in protest; metal groans under his strength, but he can hardly hear it over his pulse pounding in his ears.

“Sen…“ Genos begins, fingertips hesitating over Saitama’s waist. “Sensei…?”

“Genos,” Saitama hisses. He doesn’t fully understand what’s happening, but he’s committed himself to this; opened his mind to the possibility that this is Genos. If not, he wants to enjoy it while it lasts.

A loud creak alerts him to the fact that he’s nearly choking Genos. Saitama releases him and steps away, embarrassed to see the shape of his body forming indents in Genos’ plating.

He glances at his face. Genos is still staring at him. His mouth forms words soundlessly, going from looking surprised, to flabbergasted, and finally settling on suspicion. His eyes narrow, and his expression shutters. He pushes at Saitama’s chest, who stumbles back in surprise. The pressure of his palm—a real, physical thing—feels bizarre.

To Saitama’s shock, he raises said palm and aims the glowing light in Saitama’s direction.

“Who are you?” he asks. It’s a simple question, one that raises an excellent point that Saitama hadn’t considered until that moment.

“I’m Saitama,” he says. “Listen, Genos…” he trails off, the feeling and sound of Genos’ name lingering on his lips. A sharp thrill runs through him. “I don’t really know what’s going on, but I’m—“

“I will not repeat myself.” Genos’ voice is steadily rising, panic lurking behind his false bravado. “Whoever you really are, reveal yourself. I don’t know how you got into my apartment, but you have three seconds before I eliminate you.”

Saitama hears only half of his threat, the rest falling on deaf ears.

Now that he has time to get a good look, he can’t stop staring.

Genos doesn’t just look different; this time, he’s wearing Saitama’s clothes. He’s dressed in dusty jeans (Saitama’s), a hoodie (also Saitama’s), and as usual, the majority of his hair is pulled back into a small ponytail.

“Why are you wearing my clothes?” Saitama blurts, pointing to the articles in question. Genos looks down at himself, and for a split-second, the fury in his expression is replaced by embarrassment.

“That bears no consequence on the situation. You won’t be able to trick me. Saitama is,” he chokes on the word, “dead.”

“I’m not,” Saitama says slowly. He feels like the world is shifting under his feet and he’s going to pitch forward at any second. “I don’t understand it either, Genos.” He raises his hands in placation when Genos pitches forward and shoves his searing palm against Saitama’s chest. Heat starts to burn away the fabric.

He’s serious about his threat; Genos doesn’t joke around. Saitama knows this, but despite that, all he wants to do is take Genos’ fingers in hand and memorize their shape.

“I seriously thought I was going crazy,” Saitama mumbles, wrenching his gaze away from his fingers. “Maybe I still am.”

Genos makes a harsh sound in the back of his throat and presses his trembling hand over Saitama’s heart.  

“My sensei,” he forces out, “Saitama-sensei, is dead. I watched him die!” The words crack apart, breaking as tears spill over his cheeks. “I will incinerate you.”

He pushes his palm forward, but the threat of incineration never comes.

Saitama can see the anguish in Genos’ eyes, the pain; one that he knows too well. Gripping Genos’ arm by the wrist, he gently extracts his hand from his shirt.

“I—um.” His fingers tremble over Genos' wrist; it feels too real. Saitama bites his lower lip, willing himself to get it together. “I don’t know—what can I do to make you believe me?”

“I watched him die,” Genos whispers, then, louder: “Let go. I won’t be fooled.”

Saitama wracks his brain desperately for something that will convince Genos. It has to be something that only Saitama would know. He mentally combs his memory for what he remembers of the notebooks, but it’s sketchy at best, and Genos could easily assume someone read them in his absence.

“Incinerate—“ Genos’ voice pitches high in his outrage, and Saitama flails to respond.

“Wait, wait, wait! I can prove that I’m me! You can scan my body, right?”

“Correct,” Genos admits reluctantly. “You have the makeup of Saitama-sensei, but that proves nothing.”

Saitama feels like he’s about to explode. Questions burn the back of his throat, but he can’t ask any of them. He swallows thickly instead.

Somehow he has to convince his dead friend that he’s alive when he was never dead to begin with. It’s enough to make hysterical laughter bubble in the back of his throat.

“Let’s go outside and then I’ll prove it, okay? It’s me, Genos.” To Saitama’s horror, his voice cracks; it takes tremendous effort to recover enough to start speaking again. “It’s me, seriously.”

Genos’ jaw is tight, curls of latent steam drifting past his lips. Slowly, he lowers his palm, and then motions towards the door.

Saitama heaves a relieved sigh. It’s not much of a plan, but he hopes it will be enough.

Chapter Text

Saitama leads them away from home until he feels satisfied that the apartment is safe. Being only a few blocks away isn’t ideal, but he only has so much time to convince Genos, who he knows is fairly hot-headed, and it’s better than doing it in his apartment. He just hopes that nobody notices the ruckus and calls the hero association, mistaking this for monster activity.

Once he’s satisfied by the location, he turns away, raising a finger in Genos’ direction. After he pulls his ruined hoodie over his head, pushes his pants down past his hips, pulling them off entirely, he turns to chuck them in Genos’ general direction.

“What is the meaning of this?” Genos asks.

Not bothering to respond, Saitama walks across the street, clad in only his underwear, and gives Genos a thumbs up.

“Okay,” he says. “Incinerate me.”

“What?” Genos’ lips curl back into a sneer. He crosses his arms, drawing Saitama’s gaze to the logo of his oppai hoodie, reminding him that that’s his clothing. And Genos is wearing it.

Actually, he doesn’t remember having two of those.

It’s weird. Everything about this is weird.

“I’m serious,” Saitama presses, trying to train his focus onto more pressing matters. It was all he could come up with in such a short amount of time. “If it’s really me, then I should be able to handle anything, right? That includes your strongest attack.”

“I see.” Genos gives him a look that implies he thinks he’s an idiot, but he raises his arms obediently.

At first, Saitama thinks he’s going to shoot him like that, but then he sees metal shifting and reforming along the length of his body, revealing an alarming amount of guns. Then, as if a switch has been turned on, light starts filtering out from under Saitama’s hoodie, and clouds of steam burst out from under his clothing, sending waves of heat into the air.

Saitama gives a short prayer to the buildings in their immediate surroundings, certain that they’re about to be destroyed. Squeezing his eyes shut, he waits, the high whirling of Genos’ mechanics the only indication that the promise of destruction is waiting for him across the street.

A minute passes, and nothing happens.

Saitama opens one eye, chancing a glance at Genos. He’s still glowing, wisps of steam curling away from his shoulders, but he hasn’t moved an inch.

He looks…afraid. Like this is the last thing that he wants to be doing, that either of them want to be doing.

“Genos—” he calls, attempting to offer him reassurances, but his words are cut off as fire comes bursting out of Genos’ palms, spiraling straight towards him.

“Incinerate!”

Saitama is engulfed in heat. Stumbling back, he thrusts his arms forward in a futile effort to block the bright light. Even though it doesn’t hurt him, the feeling of being consumed by fire like this is...strange. It’s warm and toasty, but the heat doesn’t hurt him.

Eventually, when the flames licking his fingers start to ebb, Genos’ heaving form is revealed. Hot puffs of steam escape from his lips, and he looks exhausted, like that single movement took away all of his energy. Saitama watches him peer forward once the smoke starts to clear, and then his eyes light up when he sees Saitama safe—and now completely, utterly naked.

“See?” Saitama waves away the smoke with his hand, flashing Genos a small, hollow smile. “Does that prove it?”

Genos takes a step forward, something hopeful flitting across his face before he stops short, as if remembering himself. “Even though you survived, heat resistance is—was—not restricted to Saitama-sensei. How can I know this is isn’t a trick? I have many enemies that I would not put past a ruse like this.”

His expression hardens, and Saitama confidence falters.

“Give me a break, Genos,” he whines, “I don’t know what to tell you. I don’t even know if this is really you.”

He swipes his hand across his forehead to relieve himself of sweat, and when he looks down, he’s surprised to find that his fingers are trembling. He curls them into fists.

“That is my line,” Genos says. “I want to believe you are alive, sensei, but—“ He turns away, pain flitting across his face. “Why?” he demands, voice cracking. “If it truly is you, why did you trick me?”

He sucks in a sharp breath, attempting to collect himself. When he speaks again, his voice is so painfully hopeful. “How?”

Saitama doesn’t have an answer.

If this really is Genos, it’s possible someone transplanted his brain, or brainwashed him. Nothing else could explain what’s going on, and Saitama feels too tried to find a way figure it out just yet.

“I don’t know,” he admits. “But there’s no other Saitama but me. Can we just leave it at that, for now?” Saitama reaches up to rub the soot out of his eyes. He feels like a mess. There’s no way Genos is going to believe his half-baked excuses. “Seriously, I just wanna go home.”

He’s unprepared for the resulting impact of six-hundred pounds of cyborg slamming into him without warning. Saitama lets out an embarrassing shout, flailing backwards as Genos’ wraps his arms around his waist. His grip is tight and unyielding, his fingers digging harshly into Saitama’s back.

“Genos?”

He mumbles something unintelligible, and then buries his face in Saitama’s shoulder. After a few seconds, Saitama hears him sob. It’s a wretched, awful sound that tugs at Saitama’s heart.

“Oi.” He lets loose an awkward laugh, a lump forming in his throat. “You’re heavy.”

Genos shakes his head, letting out another shuddering sob. Saitama tries to recall how Kuseno did it when he started crying. Mostly, he reassured Saitama that everything was going to be okay, even when it was clear that it wasn’t.

Decided, he wraps his arms around Genos’ middle, leaning hesitantly into his sturdy weight. Solid and cold, but comforting all the same. “I’m here, Genos. It’s okay.”

Genos’ response is another warbling string of nonsense, but he isn’t shooting at him, so it must be working. Saitama swallows around a mountain of feelings trying to push through; he doesn’t have time for a meltdown. He’s standing outside in his birthday suit being hugged by his not-dead disciple, after successfully(?) proving that he’s who he says he is.

It’s all so unexpected that Saitama’s almost afraid he’s going to wake up and it’s all going to be dream.

Suddenly, Genos shudders in his arms, leaning more heavily into the embrace.

“Sai...tama…” he says, and his voice breaks unnaturally, robotically.

Saitama shifts backward to get a good look at him; then, without warning, the tension suddenly drains out of Genos’ body. To Saitama’s shock, he starts to sag, and he fumbles for a moment to adjust the weight of his body.

“Oi—Genos?” A single look shows that the light in his eyes is starting to fade, but before he can inquire further, Genos shudders, then falls completely limp into Saitama’s arms.

“Genos?! Genos!”

Terror is not something Saitama ever thought he would feel again, let alone associate with Genos, but watching Genos fall into unconsciousness is one of the more frightening moments of Saitama’s life.

After setting him carefully on the ground, Saitama’s first reaction is to slap Genos as hard as he reasonably can, calling his name.

“Genos! Come on, Genos, wake up.”

No response. Shit. It always works in books and movies.

He pauses to reassess the situation—and get dressed—at a loss as to what to do. Genos’ body is eerily still, almost like—

He doesn’t want to think about that.

After waiting a few minutes to see if he’s going to wake up, Saitama comes to the conclusion that clearly, sitting around isn’t going to work. He needs to go home, or call Kuseno. The old man has to know about every part of Genos’. Maybe he just needs a new suit, or a new core—

Wait. His thoughts come to a halt. Even Genos has a part of him that continues to run while he’s out cold!

Saitama scrambles to his knees and crouches over his body, pressing his ear to the center of Genos’ chest. After a beat, he’s rewarded with the steady thrum of his core, it’s pulse nearly indistinguishable to Saitama’s ears.

Thank god. He finally feels like he can breathe again.

Satisfied he won’t keel over any time soon, Saitama stands up, throws him over his shoulder, and heads for home, thoughts in a jumble. He’s just thankful that the town is deserted, because no doubt news of Saitama carrying what appears to be Genos’ carcass would spread like wildfire.

He arrives home without incident, and after setting Genos down on the futon in the living room, he tries to decide what to do next.

He observes Genos’ prone form, prodding his hip gently.

Why did he faint like that? Was it shock?

He dismisses the idea almost immediately. Shock would have been more likely to take effect the first moment that they saw each other, if that were the case. Probably. He’s not really sure. He would have asked Kuseno, but he doesn’t want to kill the old guy, too. Although he’ll need to know eventually—proving that this is really Genos—for now, Saitama needs to figure it out on his own.

First things first, there’s Genos’ abrupt entrance to sort through. Saitama hadn’t given it much thought as the events unfolded, but now that he has time to spare, it begs the question: where the hell did he come from?

Saitama glances around his apartment, trying to spot anything that might lead to any clues. Aside from the dirt and soot he brought in from their excursion a few minutes ago, nothing is out of place; the only thing that’s different is Genos.

Frustrated, Saitama sits back with a sigh. It would be helpful to look around for clues, but he’s loathe to let his sight stray too far from Genos.

Like this, his expression is soft, his face relaxed and expressionless. Saitama bends closer to peer down at his sleeping face, eyes following the dried tear-tracks on his cheeks. It looks like he hasn’t been cleaning himself properly; there are bits of oil dotting his chin, and some of the synthetic skin is starting to peel at the connector joints.

That’s odd. Genos is usually on top of this stuff.

He reaches over and gently prods at Genos’ forehead. The metal parts of his body are cool, but the synthetic skin is still warm—to keep his brain alive, he guesses. It’s oddly reassuring.

It’d be nice if he woke up, though. Unfortunately, all that’s left to do is wait.

Which should be easy, but in truth, it’s torture. Saitama is patient when it comes to the important stuff, but this is Genos. After about five minutes, he starts to fidget.

By the time thirty minutes have passed, his back and legs are aching something fierce from holding the same position, and he sort of has to pee. He starts to wonder if he should just start shaking Genos until he wakes up, but reconsiders when he thinks about all the ways that that could go wrong.

He could get up and do something productive, but whenever he thinks about leaving Genos alone, his insides ache, like someone has plunged a knife into his stomach and twisted it.

A part of him is still afraid that if he looks away, Genos will disappear again.

“Genos,” Saitama says, croaking the words, his throat gone dry. When that garners no response, he reaches forward and combs his fingers through the loose hairs tickling Genos’ forehead, taking the moment to revel in the fact that he alive again, even if he looks a little different. He’s alive.

He’s in the middle of leaning over Genos, checking on his core for the twentieth time, when from below he hears a gasp.

Genos’ eyes flutter open, startlingly bright, and Saitama jerks backwards when Genos tosses his head to the side with a soft groan. It's so normal, so—human.

Saitama watches, rapt, as he does rubs the sleep from his eyes. After a beat of silence, his eyes widen and he sits up straight, looking anxious.

“Uh—” Saitama waves his hand to catch his attention. “‘Sup, sleepyhead.”

“Sensei!” Genos whips around to meets his eyes, and his apprehension fades into a crushing relief. “You’re really here.”

“Mm. Yeah.” His gaze is intense; Saitama resists the urge to look away. 

“If this is a dream, I can think of nothing crueler.” Genos leans into his personal space, as if that will confirm his suspicions; then, to Saitama’s utter shock, he smiles.

His mouth falls open. Genos is lifting his hand to Saitama’s face, waiting a long second before brushing his fingertips across Saitama’s skin.

After months of being alone, the touch of another person feels electric; he can’t help but flinch. Genos expression falters. He pulls back, dropping his hands into his lap.

“I am sorry; I did not mean to make you uncomfortable.”

“That’s not—” Saitama searches for the right words, coming up short. He reaches out with his hand, but he isn’t sure where to put, or what’s appropriate, and ends up planting it on his shoulder, offering Genos a small grin of his own. “Genos, it’s okay.”

Genos nods, looking down at his chest, where Saitama’s hand migrated to his chestplate while he wasn’t paying attention, right over where his core’s beats the loudest.

“Sorry,” Saitama blurts, embarrassed and irritated with himself, “I was just—how are—" Why can't he speak!? "Are you okay? What happened?”

At that, the joy fades from Genos’ face, and he goes quiet.

Saitama can’t blame him. Neither of them seem to know how to progress from here. Saitama can tell that Genos is harboring some doubts, but he seems open to entertaining the possibility that Saitama is alive.

“I am fine. Groggy, which is unusual—possibly due to malnutrition,” Genos admits. Saitama makes a mental note to ask about that later; it's difficult to ask about Genos' health when he seems more interested in Saitama. He’s staring at him with unabashed reverence, black sclera shimmering in a way that suggests he’s seconds from bursting into tears. “I am also confused. Saitama, how are you alive? How did you fake your death?”

Saitama? It’s the first time Genos has used his name without an honorific, and it adds to the thousands of questions building on his tongue. Whatever happened to Genos has mixed everything up.

And how is he supposed to explain that? Would Genos believe any of it?

Not only that, but there’s the notes on the computer, the afterimages, and the whole haunting business. None of it makes logical sense; the only explanation that could possibly lend any clues is that Genos was actually a ghost, which is impossible.

Right?

“Is it a closely-guarded secret?” Genos continues, mistaking his silence for hesitance. “If needed, I can develop a protocol that will render it impossible for me to speak a word of it. Please, Saitama-sensei.”

Saitama glances down at himself to avoiding meeting Genos’ eyes, fiddling with the hem of his hoodie. It’s not that he wants to hide it from him, but he doesn’t know where to begin.

“No, it’s not a secret. Not exactly. The thing is,” he swallows, “uh, I dunno how to put this, but I was never dead.”

Chapter Text

“What do you mean?”

Genos leans over the table, bringing his face perilously close to Saitama’s. Heat crawls up his neck. His new hairstyle looks good on him, framing his face in a way that even Saitama can appreciate.

“Err.” After putting the appropriate distance between them, Saitama starts to explain. “You think I died, but Genos, the truth is, you died.”

“That’s not possible,” Genos protests, going ramrod straight. “You—“

“Just—let me finish. Geez.” Saitama folds his hands in front of him, resting his elbows on the edge of the table. “It happened when you were away on a job for the association. I wasn’t there, but I was told that during that time, you were—reckless, I guess, and your brain got exposed.” He takes one breath. Then another. “After that, a couple of wires hit you and…yeah.”

Genos stares, the expression on his face a mixture of wonder and disbelief. It makes the back of Saitama’s throat go tight.

“I think someone’s messed with your memories somehow,” Saitama continues, scratching at his chin. He leans forward, and Genos inadvertently does the same.

He goes on to explain the current situation from his end of the spectrum, including Genos’ sudden appearances, the way that he affected the world around Saitama, and how he was able to observe, but not interact. He even adds how he heard Genos humming the pop song while he was with Kuseno.

He ultimately decides to leave out a few key details, namely: how he spent most of his time holed up in the apartment consumed with grief, suffered from panic attacks, and broke down once or twice. Genos looks up to him as a teacher, so Saitama hesitates to reveal that he’s not nearly as cool and interesting as his disciple thinks.

By the time he’s finished, Genos is deep in thought, lines of worry etched onto his forehead.

“I never realized that you paid so much attention to me,” he says at length. A ghost of a smile flits across his face. “It makes me happy that you remember such fine details, and I,” he pauses, “hesitate to doubt you, but my memories are clear. You claim that I died and lived here, but I have been living here after you died, Saitama-sensei. In your memories, I ate your bowl of udon, correct?”

Saitama nods.

“I purchased that myself that very night.” There’s the slightest tremor in his voice. “But…I remember a sound.” He hesitates, and Saitama leans forward. “You said that things were moved when you were alone. That,” he stops, “that doesn’t make sense. I did—”

“What? What did you do?”

A pause. Then: “It’s nothing. More importantly,” Genos starts, shifting his gaze somewhere to the left, “I think the real question is: whose memories hold the truth?”

“I— Saitama digs his fingernails into his knees, leg bobbing. He wants to argue—Genos’ story is equally important, and it could help—but he has a point. He bites his lip. “I don’t know . And anyway, say that we’re both just confused. How could anyone manipulate memories like that?”

Just saying it out loud makes him feel queasy. The day that weird things started happening around him was when he started to doubt what he was seeing was real, but eventually he regained his confidence.

Now he feels like he’s losing his footing all over again, and truth be told, he’s still waiting for the shock to set in. Genos, the long dead cyborg is seated across from him, perched in seiza form, and if that wasn’t weird enough, he’s wearing Saitama’s clothes.

He should feel overjoyed that Genos is back—might be back—but after the initial relief has worn off, Saitama is having a hard time mustering up any emotion.

Mostly, he feels exhausted.

He looks down at the table, avoiding Genos’ heavy gaze, and lays his trembling hands flat over his knees, taking a deep breath.

“You are distressed,” Genos observes, matter-of-fact.

Saitama flinches. “I’m fine. It’s been awhile since I’ve seen you, so you can’t blame me for needing to take it slow.”

“You thought I was dead,” Genos repeats, gentling his tone.

“Yep. So did you.” He dodges the concern with ease. There’s an awful ringing in his ears now. “All your fans will be happy, I guess.”

Genos goes silent, staring at the table his palms flat against the tabletop, contemplative.

Now that he has a moment, Saitama takes the chance to observe Genos uninterrupted. Something’s been bothering him for a while now, and it’s not just the hairstyle, or the clothing that are throwing him off; it’s more than that.

The subtleties lie in the way that he carries himself. He fills the space with his presence in a way that speaks of a hidden confidence Saitama can’t remember seeing in him before. He smiles. He calls Saitama Saitama .

What if none of this is real?

Panic surges inside him like a tidal wave.

“I’m going to the bathroom,” Saitama mumbles, pushing himself to his feet. Taking his eyes away from Genos for more than a few seconds makes him feel incredibly anxious, but he needs to take a second alone to collect his thought and convince himself he isn’t losing it.

This is all real. It has to be real. If it isn’t…

“Wait,” Genos calls, standing to follow as Saitama hurries out of the room. He doesn’t look back, just squeezes his body between the door and the wooden frame, careful not to slam the door shut behind him.

The sound of heavy footsteps alert Saitama to Genos’ presence outside the door. He’s aware that Genos is probably listening to his every move, which is comforting, in its own way. There were few boundaries when Genos was alive, and knowing that that particular status quo hasn’t been shifted gives him a sense of normality, as strange as it is.

After using the toilet, Saitama hovers in front of the mirror, gazing at himself.

“You are not crazy,” he tells the mirror. He shifts and turns to the look at the window, gauging how much time has passed. It’s still light out, suggesting that only a few hours—if that—have passed since Genos appeared out of thin air.

This is reality, right?

His reflection in the mirror offers no response.

His surroundings don’t have that fuzzy, dreamlike quality that would suggest he was sleeping. He pinches himself, as if it will help convince him of the situation’s reality.

Even if Genos did believe Saitama’s claim that he’s been remade, or tampered with, how would he find out the truth? What is the truth? There is still a sketchy in-between ambiguity about Genos’ story and his own. Saitama has a dozen questions that Genos might not know the answer to.

“It’s like we’re from different worlds or something.” His reflection looks a little freaked out at the suggestion, so he escapes out of the bathroom and steps out into the hallway. Genos has vacated the area, but Saitama can hear him fumbling around in the kitchen.

He peers around the doorway, watching him reach into the fridge. There’s a pause where Genos doesn’t move, and then he starts pulling out various items: condiments, meat, and some of the fresh vegetables Saitama hasn’t had a chance to use.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

Genos twitches, which is the equivalent of jumping out of his skin. “I thought that you would be hungry and decided to make you a meal.”

“Dude, you don’t have to.” He doesn’t really have an appetite, but Genos ignores him and continues with his work, constructing an elaborate sandwich that Saitama couldn’t possibly hope to eat all on his own.

“Cut it in half so you can have some,” he suggests.

“I require no sustenance,” Genos says, which is a lie; Saitama remembers how he mentioned he might have fallen because of malnutrition. It wouldn’t be a surprise to find out Genos hadn’t been taking care of himself.

“Eat it,” Saitama orders, irritated, and reaches for a knife in the bottom drawer. After squeezing in beside Genos, he ignores Genos’ valiant protests and cuts the sandwich in two.

“Saitama-sensei does not need to go through the trouble—“

“Eat.” Saitama sets his half on a plate and shoves it towards Genos. When he makes no move to take the proffered meal, Saitama picks it up and pushes it forcefully into his hands. Genos makes as if to grab it, but when his fingers curl around the edge, the plate falls to the floor and shatters. The sandwich scatters sauce over Saitama’s socks.

That’s the least of his worries.

The plate didn’t just fall. It fell through Genos’ hands.

“What the—did that just happen?”

“I—“ Genos falters, staring at his hands, flexing his fingers. The look on his face is not comforting in the least. “I don’t know how that happened. Saitama, you must believe me.”

There’s a sense of urgency to his voice, a panic that wasn’t there before. He presses his hand against his own chest, then the countertop, and sink, testing his connectivity to the world.

“I believe you, Genos,” is what Saitama says, but isn’t sure what he believes. He believes that Genos thinks he’s telling the truth, but he also thinks that there’s something more going on. Something that’s out of both of their control.

“I will scan my person for any anomalies,” Genos declares. His eyes flash.

Saitama nods, barely paying attention. He kneels down and starts picking up the pieces of the broken plate, examining each shard. His mind is racing, struggling to come up with a plausible explanation.

How did it fall through? This is so bizarre. It’s almost like when I thought he was a ghost.

Saitama drops the shard, his thoughts backpedaling.

He scrambles to his feet and heads for the hallway where the phone is hooked up on the wall. Realizing he doesn’t have the doctor’s number, he darts back into the kitchen, yanking the drawers open and tossing out everything that isn’t his what he’s looking for.

Number, number, number. Where did I put it?

“What are you doing?” Genos asks, starting to assist Saitama’s efforts. Following his example, he empties the drawers, setting each item on the countertop with much more care than Saitama offers, eyes flickering back and forth between Saitama and his work.

“A number. Kuseno’s number.” Saitama whips to face Genos. “Wait, don’t you know it?”

“Yes. Hold on, let me write it down.” Genos reaches across the countertop and snatches a pen and paper from the drawer. He scribbles down a string of numbers, then hands it to Saitama.

It’s trust like that, immediate and absolute, that reminds Saitama how lucky he is; how he doesn’t deserve someone like Genos.

“Thanks.” He snatches the paper out of Genos’ hands and walks to the phone, punching in Kuseno’s number without hesitation.

It rings. And rings. Seconds go by that feel like hours, and just when he’s sure he won’t answer, there’s a click on the other line.

“This is the Kuseno residence. Dr. Kuseno speaking.”

“Old man!” Saitama shouts, then reigns himself in. “Sorry. Doc, I have some more questions for you about Ge—about ghosts. Do you have time?”

There’s a pause on the other end.

“Of course, Saitama. What brought this on? Have you experienced more phenomena?”

“Uh,” Saitama glances at Genos, who’s gravitated over to his side, clearly listening in on the conversation. “Yeah. I’ve been seeing more of Genos—“ not a complete lie, “—and something weird happened with the laptop. It’s—I wanted to tell you before, but I wasn’t sure you’d believe me.”

“I believe that you are experiencing something traumatic,” Kuseno says, easing some of Saitama’s worry. You have nothing to fear. You can place your trust in me.”

“Got it.” For some reason, his chest feels warm. “Thanks. So a little while before we first spoke, I started…communicating with Genos through the computer. The laptop.”

“Genos’ laptop?”

“Yeah. I thought it might be a hacker or something, but it got me thinking. This is just curiosity, but is it possible that ghosts could,” he pauses, swallowing his courage, “I dunno, come into this world? Like, become whole again.”

“ You mean to ask if ghosts can come back from the dead.” Now he sounds concerned.

“Just—“ he licks his lips, “hear me out, okay? You said that people had theories about ghosts. Is there anything like that that you can remember?”

“I am no expert, but from my limited knowledge, there has never been a situation where ghosts essentially returned to the living. There have been cases of possession,” Saitama dismisses that, “ poltergeists ,” that doesn’t sound like Genos, “ and there is multiverse and interdimensional theory, as well as—“

“Wait.” Bells start going off in Saitama’s head. He clutches the receiver tightly, plastic bending under his grip. “What’s multiverse and interdimensional thing? I’ve never heard of that.”

“Ah, it’s likely that you have, although it may not have gone by that name. It’s quite fascinating. In short,” Kuseno explains, “ it is that there exists universes that are parallel to our own. How our world is becoming overrun with monsters, it’s becoming a very plausible theory.”

“What do you mean? Like there’s another me out there?”

“Possibly. Parallel, but not completely linear. Perhaps in another universe your favorite band stayed as a group, or instead of a brother, you had a sister. It’s theorized that ghosts are reflections of people from these universes, and they can neither see nor interact with us. That being said, some have claimed that beings from other dimensions pop in and out of our world at will.”

Movement out of the corner of his eye reminds him that Genos has been listening in the entire time. When he glances over at him, his expression is inscrutable.

“How would someone get to another world?”

“The conditions would have to be right for there to be a way for a, erm, spirit to cross over. A way for things to overlap.”

Suddenly it occurs to Saitama that he never asked Genos what he thought of the new layout; in fact, Genos never mentioned it, like it was nothing out of the ordinary.

Glancing over, Saitama’s eye catches onto the stain on his hoodie. He remembers that stain—he and Genos were out on patrol, searching for an elusive monster, and they stopped at a fast food joint for dinner. After challenging Genos to a friendly eating contest—which Genos promptly won—he accidentally spilled sauce on the white trimming. He could never quite get the stain out.

He looks down at himself, just to make sure. It’s the same stain. In the same place.

Suddenly, everything makes sense. The hair, the clothes, the ‘memories’—all of it.

“ Saitama ?”

“Oh, uh.” Saitama gazes at the wall, heart hammering in his chest. “Thanks, old man. That’s all I wanted to know.”

“…are you sure? You haven’t told me about the rest your interactions with this Genos.”

“It's fine,” he lies. “I’ll tell you later, actually. I have, ah, noodles. Burning. Sorry, I gotta go.”

“Saitama? You—“

When he hangs up the phone, he shoves it back into place with too much force, nearly burying it the drywall. Dust from the newly formed cracks scatter along Saitama’s forearm. “Oh. Oops.” He turns to Genos, his thoughts in a whirl. “That’s actually my shirt, isn’t it?” he asks, just so he's positive.

Genos’ eyes widen. He nods.

That can only mean one thing: Genos is dead. His Genos. It shouldn’t have come as a surprise, but even now, it is difficult to swallow.

“Saitama—“ Genos starts, then stops. Silence reigns.

"Sorry,” Saitama rasps, brushing past Genos. “Can you hold onto that thought? I need to go for a walk.”

“Of—of course.” Genos moves aside, watching as Saitama dips his toes into his shoes and laces them onto his feet. He shuts the door quietly behind him, leaving Genos standing stoic and still in the center of the hallway.

Chapter Text

Saitama comes to a standstill outside of the apartment door. For a few seconds, he feels the strongest need to turn around; to go back and pull Genos into a hug. But when he steps away and breathes in fresh air, the strings tied around his heart loosen.

Genos is dead, he thinks, sinking down onto the concrete, back facing the door. And he’s not coming back.

He never realized how much he was banking on it all being some sort of crazy misunderstanding until the truth hit him like a ton of bricks. Genos was so resilient and confident in his own abilities that sometimes, it was easy to forget that he was human, too.

Saitama sighs, scrubbing his hands over his face. He’s already roasting in his hoodie (although the hole offers a nice breeze) and a nap would be amazing if he could manage, but he can’t go back inside; not yet. He feels so out of sorts that he doubts he’d be able to hold any kind of decent conversation. Besides, he figures that Genos could use some time to process what’s happening—if he believes it. A small part of Saitama is still waiting for someone to pull out a camera and tell him that it’s all one big, sick joke.

After some deliberation, Saitama stands, stretches his legs, and then starts walking towards city Z’s downtown area. There’s something there that he’s been avoiding, and it’s about time that he finally made peace with it.

The outskirts of the town are quieter than usual.  

No monsters today, I guess. Saitama observes his surroundings carefully, but nothing shows its face. There isn’t even a hint of monster activity.

The only noteworthy thing that happens is when he has to step back as a group of giggling kids squeeze past him and another building. They scream and laugh freely,  weaving in and around the ruined parts of the city, knowing that they’re from the safety of their homes without really having ventured too far. One of the kids waves a plastic sword in the air, jabbing at an invisible enemy.

Saitama watches them for a moment, trying to remember being that age.

When he was a kid, he could have never imagined one day he would have a job fighting ferocious monsters next to a handsome cyborg on a daily basis. He’d always wanted to do something great, something special. Now he can—he has —but it’s not what he expected. He’s learned that things never are.

He turns and keeps walking.

It doesn’t take long for him to reach the stomach of the city, where the busy streets are teeming with people, all with a destination in mind. Saitama wanders past his favored shops, past the food trucks and the hospitals, and past the large market square that houses his favorite takoyaki. He walks until he reaches a small monument in the middle of the city’s national park, where a large stone parapet stretches at least twenty feet across on either side. In the middle, a medium-sized fountain pumps water into the air, surrounded by flowers of all shapes and sizes bursting from green grass.

Along the surface are names. Thousands of them, all belonging to the city’s citizens—and its heroes.

Saitama steps closer, tracing his fingers along the warm stone, feeling the loss and absence resonating within. He scans the length of the monument, looking for one name in particular. After giving it a good look around, he spots the plaque that was made specifically for the heroes on the opposite side.

He approaches it, and thankfully, there’s nobody around but him. He starts scanning the names, and when he finds the one he’s looking for, comes to a stop in front of it.

“Demon Cyborg - Genos”

A shudder runs through him. He shoves his hands in his pockets, staring at it for a long time. He expects to like he’s finally at peace or—something, but it doesn’t feel like anything’s changed.

After he’s absorbed all that he can, he walks along the monument, reading off the names in his head that catch his eye. A lot of them he can’t even pronounce. He’s curious to know if they were heroes like Genos, and how they died.

Eventually, he makes it back to Genos’ name full circle, but he stops short when he realizes that someone else is standing in his former spot.

“Mumen?” slips out of his mouth before he can help it. The cyclist turns toward him, surprise quickly transforming into relief.

“Saitama,” he breathes, turning to bow at him respectfully. “I haven’t seen you in a long time. How are you?”

“Eh.” Saitama shrugs. “Fine, I guess.”

“I see.” Mumen turns away, towards the parapet. “I see. That’s good.”

“How ‘bout you?”

“I’m doing well. Thankfully no one I know personally is on this monument, but I sometimes come here when I’m feeling down.”

“Ah.”

They stand together silently, and it’s a little weird. Saitama knows Mumen, but he wouldn’t call them friends. He’s about to make his excuses when Mumen opens his mouth.

“It may sound strange, but coming here helps strengthen my resolve to deliver justice to those who’ve caused these people to lose their lives to protect this city. Unfortunately,” he steps forward, pressing his hand to the surface, “so many innocent ones have also been lost in the wake. I’m sorry that Genos had to be one of them.”

“Yeah. Me, too.” Saitama watches him before turning to look at the list. Thinking back at how far Genos had come, his chest feels tight, but it’s not a bad feeling. It’s just…different. Better, maybe.

“Sorry, by the way, that I didn’t stay for the funeral.” He places his palm over Genos’ name, trying to imagine what it would have been like if it had never happened, if his name never had to exist on this wall.

Mumen watches him, and then places his hand firmly on Saitama’s shoulder.

“There’s no need to be sorry, Saitama. I understand completely.”

Saitama shrugs. He steps away from the plaque, movement out of the corner of his eye drawing his gaze to the left.

There are a few people milling around the general area, but nobody’s paying attention to the dirty bald guy with a hole in the middle of his shirt next to License-Less Rider. He looks to his right and spots a woman leaning over the monument, trying to reach the bushel of sunflowers.

“Excuse me.” Mumen abandons his position next to Saitama to go and help her, wasting no time in reaching across and plucking one of them for her.

“Oh, thank you so much. My wife loved sunflowers.” Her eyes widen. “Wait, you’re Mumen Rider, aren’t you?”

“Yes, ma’am.” He bows. She laughs. Their voices go quiet, sharing a conversation that Saitama can’t hear, but by that point, he’s stopped paying attention.

He looks away, back at Genos’ name etched into the stone. He’s lucky. Somehow, despite all odds, despite that he mourned—that the world mourned—Genos is alive. It’s a Genos from another world, and possibly another time, but it’s still Genos.

Is it wrong that I’m feeling happy? he wonders, glancing up at the blue sky. A sudden rush of emotion swells within him, and hot tears prick at the corner of his eyes. Worried that somebody might see him crying, he yanks his gaze to the ground and blinks rapidly, taking a shuddering breath.

“I’m sorry, Genos,” he whispers, clenching bunches of his shirt in between his fists. “But I’m glad. I’m really glad.”

For some reason, he was granted a second chance. He’s not going to waste it.

He leaves before Mumen’s finished talking with the woman. It’s easier that way. Even though he didn’t technically lie, he feels bad keeping Genos’ return a secret. And he’s worried; thinking about Genos being all alone in the apartment reminds him that he left just after something weird happened, and he quickens his pace.

But not before he stops for a box of fresh takoyaki.

The house is silent when Saitama returns. Dusk is settling in, sunlight painting the walls of his apartment orange. After closing the door behind him, he leans his elbow on the wall to pull off his shoes, wiping them on the mat before he steps over the threshold. He pauses, scanning the vicinity for Genos, almost expecting him to be waiting by the door like a lost puppy, but he’s nowhere to be found.

First thing’s first, he needs to change out of his hoodie. He’s been sweating something fierce, and as a result, he stinks. A shower would be nice, too, but that can wait. He walks towards the living room, taking off his hoodie along the way, and tosses it towards the hamper.

A peeks into the room living assures him that Genos hasn’t disappeared. In fact, he’s been busy. The closet next to doorway is open and Genos’ black duffle bag has been shoved haphazardly to the side, gutted of the majority of its contents.

Saitama sets down the takoyaki and looks at Genos, who’s sitting absolutely still. Below him, resting innocently on the table, is one of his notebooks.

“Uh, hi. I forgot to tell you,” Saitama prefaces, plopping down opposite to him. “While you were—I went through your stuff. Sorry.”

Genos hasn’t looked up since he entered the room. He shakes his head and opens the notebook to the first page, his mouth forming a frown as he reads the first few lines. It’s #1023, so Saitama hasn’t had the chance to read it yet.

“It is fine, Saitama-sensei,” he says, sounding like it’s anything but. Attention rapt, his eyes shift rapidly as he reads the first two lines. Wrinkles form along his brow, his confusion becoming more evident the longer he reads.

Without really knowing what to do, Saitama starts picking at the takoyaki. Occasionally he’ll look up at Genos, but he’s is so absorbed in what he’s reading that it isn’t until Saitama has nearly finished all the food that he finally blinks up at him, like he’s just come out of a dream. He takes immediate notice of Saitama’s state of undress, and his eyes go wide.

“What?” Saitama asks through a mouthful of food.

“Wh—“ he coughs. “Where did you go?”

“Just to the park. To visit your—er, his, grave. I guess it’s not really his grave, but I don’t think you—he—ever mentioned where his family grave was. If you have one.” He coughs, taking a moment to swallow his food. “Sorry for leaving so suddenly. But I brought food.”

He hands the container to Genos, who takes it from his hands reluctantly.

All things considered, he seems to be handling things surprisingly well. Saitama has to wonder if it’s affecting him at all, or if it’s just him who’s having trouble adjusting. Is he overthinking it? Is it really as simple as accepting his death and moving on with a new and improved version of Genos?

It doesn’t feel like it is, and he wants to ask, but thinking about it gives him a headache.

“What have you been doing?” he says instead, leaning in to take a look at the notebook.

“Reading. I am trying to comprehend what the doctor spoke of on the phone, but it doesn’t seem possible. And these notes aren’t helping.”

Genos closes the notebook that he’s looking at, then opens the next one sitting beside him, brows furrowed. “The writing is my own, but the details are skewed in some areas. For example, you were the one to destroy this monster.”

Setting down the notebook, he points to the page in question. Saitama reads the line, trying to understand what Genos is getting at.

“Okay, but that is what happened. I remember being busy with saving some people when you took off to fight the monster on your own.”

“I see.” Genos appears doubtful.

Saitama shrugs, shoving a ball of takoyaki in his mouth. Genos watches him, but makes no move to follow suit. Either he’s really not hungry, or he’s being stubborn.

“The most puzzling turn of events is that, while you were—in your absence, I—“ he looks embarrassed, but squares his shoulders, looking Saitama in the eye, “I destroyed all of my notebooks.”

“What? Why would you destroy them?” Saitama frowns down at the open page. “And how do you remember this stuff being different if you don’t even have it with you?”

“I have a very strong memory. I can recall my time with you in great clarity.” Genos re-reads the paragraph, and then continues down the page, tracing the words with his finger. “This, too. These events are slightly out of line. Here, I wrote that you took down the alien ship that decimated City A by yourself, but I was with you the whole time.”

“So…maybe you’re thinking about it the wrong way. You remember things happening differently because it was different for you, right?” Saitama drops his gaze to his lap. “It makes sense to me. And you never answered my question.”

Genos ducks his head in guilt.

“After you died, I felt nothing but anguish. I spent most of the my days in the storage room, reading about our life together. When I was at the very bottom in the pit of my despair, I became angry.” He clenches his fists. “So angry. Not at you, but at the world for letting it happen. After that, I destroyed all of my notes.” He looks at Saitama imploringly, “I deeply regret it to this day. It was foolish of me; I would never want to forget you, Saitama-sensei.”

Saitama doesn’t know what to think of his own death. He still gotten the details about Genos’ side of the story, but he has yet to offer it, and it feels weird to ask.

“Huh.” His eyes are drawn back to the notebook. If he were in Genos’ position, would he have done the same? “It’s no big deal. They’re yours. And the rest of the notebooks are still there, if you want to look. Maybe that will convince you, since you’re still having doubts.”

He jerks his thumb at the door, raising a brow in question.

“I would like that.” If Genos is shocked, he hides it well. “If the situation is truly as we have learned, my own notes will give me some insight.”

“Mm.” Saitama scrapes his fingernail in one of the table’s many divots. As understandable as Genos’ concern is, he’s irritated that he doesn’t believe him. Until now, he never knew what it was like to be on the other side of Genos’ unerring support.

“It is nothing you have done,” Genos urges. “Originally I thought I might be hallucinating, or your image was somehow being projected. I want to believe you, but your death was…difficult. Sudden. I’m afraid that if I allow myself to believe this, I will have the illusion ripped from me.”

“I get it,” Saitama says, meaning it. Two sets of memories: two Genos’, and two Saitama’s. It’s hard enough to swallow even with a mountain of evidence. “I really do. How ‘bout we go next door?”

Genos nods, and after putting away the leftover food, they head for the storage room together.

Once inside, Genos makes an immediate beeline for a specific section of his notebooks, and Saitama refrains from reading any out of respect, even though he really wants to. Instead, he settles down against the nearest mountain and waits, watching as dusk fades away into the night sky.

Soon, because he’s tired, and there’s nothing better to do than watch Genos read, Saitama starts to doze. Piles of books aren’t all that comfortable, but he’s slept through worse, and he’s fucking exhausted. When he was younger, he used to sleep for half a day before even thinking about being a productive member of society.

He jerks awake when his arm slips out from under his chin, sending books cascading to the floor. He squints up at the wall clock. Without even realizing it, he’s been asleep for about half an hour.

Genos appears to take no notice of the commotion, deeply rooted in the pages of whatever he’s reading. Saitama glances over, observing the notebook by his hip. After leaning over to take a peek at the text, he realizes that Genos has painstakingly made note of every difference he’s found between their two worlds. It seems too arduous a task to be doing it alone, but Saitama isn’t about to stop him.

Hours pass. As the moon rises high in the sky, the only source of light becomes the thin strips of moonbeams squeezing through the piles of notebooks. Its light casts a glow around Genos, framing his hair and face in white light.

Like a ghost, Saitama thinks sleepily. It stirs a laugh out of him.

Genos turns another page, tapping his foot restlessly. He hasn’t looked at Saitama since he started reading, and for some reason it makes him feel lonely.

Saitama’s inches his fingers impulsive across the floor, making it about halfway before he stops. He’s almost afraid that if he tries to take fistfuls of Genos’ shirt, his fingers will phase through. What will he do if it happens again? What if he looks away and Genos suddenly disappears, what then?

Will this all have been for nothing?

His eyelids feel like lead, but the thought of losing Genos keeps Saitama awake a little while longer. It isn’t until Genos notices his gaze that his eyes finally flutter shut, weighed down by exhaustion and Genos’ bright-eyed stare.

What time is it?

Saitama groans his way into wakefulness, waving his hand weakly in the air as if he can cast away the sunlight filtering in through the curtains. When he finally wrenches his eyes open, he blinks up at the ceiling, valiantly trying to remember how he got there. He can conjure up vague impressions of the events the night before, but memories slip from his grasp, his sleep-addled brain trying to drag him back under. Years of habit kick in and he starts thinking about the steps in his daily routine: get up, get dressed, bathe, and make breakfast.

Then he turns his head and sees Genos not even a foot away, tangled asleep in his futon, one arm thrown across his waist. His hair is no longer held up in that ponytail of his, and pieces cling to his cheeks and mouth endearingly. It all comes flooding back in.

He looks so—peaceful. It’s almost like nothing has changed. As if Saitama never spent long hours mourning, drowning in a pit of loneliness, whispering Genos’ name in the oppressive quiet as if it would somehow bring him back.

This isn’t a dream, he reminds himself, and for the first time, he really believes it.

Emotion swells within him, forming a tight ball under his ribcage until it’s all he can do not to give himself away. He doesn’t want to wake Genos, since who knows how long it’s been since he’s had a good night’s sleep. The only sign of his suffering comes in the form of a sob that escapes from between his lips, chest shuddering under its weight.

“I am sorry to cause you such anguish,” Genos says from his futon, nearly shocking Saitama out of his skin. “You have cried twice now because of me.”

His eyes fall shut against rising humiliation.

“I wasn’t crying, idiot. You were awake?” He moves to sit up, wiping away the ghost of a tear with his thumb.

“I couldn’t sleep,” Genos admits. He rolls over to look at him. “While you were sleeping, I researched information about this world. It was only an hour ago that I made an attempt to do so myself.”

By calling it ‘this world’, Saitama suspects that over the course of the night, something changed. He turns to look at the light filtering through the curtains to gauge how early it is. The last thing he remembers of the night before was being in the room next door, which means...

“How did I get back here?” At Genos’ sheepish look, Saitama narrows his eyes. “Did you carry me?”

“Yes.” Genos pushes himself upright and slips out of bed, wasting no time and immediately turning to fold the futon away. “I hope it was not presumptuous of me. I regret that I have been,” he pauses, focusing on smoothing the wrinkles from the sheets, “stubborn in my beliefs. A number of factors indicated that this isn’t my world, but I didn’t want to believe it was true.”

Saitama regards him carefully. The change of heart is startling, but what bothers him more is how stilted Genos sounds, and the way that he avoids meeting his gaze; he’s acting weirdly formal, folding the futon with more care than Saitama has ever given it.

“How different was it?”

“Surprisingly little, on a grand scale. There are some factors I did not anticipate.”

“Like what?” Saitama prods. He stands up and stretches his arms high above his head.

“Even if you are a different version of Saitama-sensei, my sensors have informed me that, biologically, you are exactly the same. And your personality appears virtually unchanged.”

He flashes Saitama a smile before moving to fold Saitama’s futon. It’s an elegant dodge to his question.

Saitama crosses his arms. “Then you believe me?”

“I do.” After he’s finished, Genos tugs at the hairband around his wrist and gathers his hair back into the same ponytail he wore the day before. He reminds Saitama of those male models he sometimes spots in magazine.

“Cool.” After an awkward pause, he moves to stand, realizing that he’s still shirtless. He shuffles past Genos and out a random pair of pants and a shirt from the closet.

Satisfied with his state of dress, he turns around and jerks his thumb towards the kitchen. “It’s a bit early for breakfast, but you still haven’t eaten, have you?”

“I’m fine,” Genos says. “Before that, Saitama-sensei, there are a few questions that I was hoping you could answer.”

“Shoot.”

“Now that I am certain this is another universe,” Genos’ begins, his brows furrowing. “How did I cross over? Do you have any clues as to how this might happened?”

Leave it to Genos to get right to the heart of the matter. It’s too early to think about things so complex, but Saitama does his best with what little he knows—which isn’t much at all.

“Kuseno mentioned that things had to line up,” Saitama says slowly. “I guess that means our stuff looks the same. This looks like my apartment to me, but I moved things around after he—you—died. Yours wasn’t any different than this?”

“Not recently, no. We arranged the furniture long before your death.”

“Hmm,” Saitama hums. Now that there’s been some time to adjust, he decides that maybe it’s time to broach the subject. “How was your life after I—he—died?”

There is a long pause before Genos answers.

“Meaningless, for a while,” he says at length. “I buried myself in hero work and my search for the mad cyborg. It helped for a while. While you wanted to forget and move on, I wanted to cling to the remnants of our past together. I could not imagine a life without you, and our time apart affected me greatly.”

“So you didn’t notice anything like I did?” Saitama presses. “I didn’t show up at all?”

“It is possible that you did, and I did not notice,” he admits, looking down at his hands. “I blocked much of what occurred from my mind. I remember only snippets of my life during that time. When I wasn’t out fighting, or repairing myself, I sat at home and did next to nothing. I do remember hearing strange sounds on occasion, but I stupidly assumed they were from a source outside of the apartment.”

Genos’ brutal honesty in delivering the information is helpful, but a little worrying. All he did was sit at home and stare at a wall? What kind of life was that?

Granted, not that his was any better at first.

“At least that part of the case is solved,” Saitama adds, a weak attempt to lighten the mood. “So you started using the laptop to takes notes?”

Genos smiles at him hollowly. “Yes. After there was nothing left to burn, I tried to use my laptop as a means to record my notes, but it was not the same. Knowing that I had destroyed my only connection to you made things a thousand times worse. I suppose I should be thankful; somehow that simple urge connected our worlds.”

“About that.” Memory of his final note comes back to him in a flash, and he can feel his face heating up. “After my last, uh, reply, did you delete that document? It was gone when I checked.”

“Ah. Yes. I’m sorry.” Genos bows deeply. “I—could not bear the thought of someone asking about our lives so thoughtlessly. Forgive me, sensei.”

Sensei? Not ‘Saitama’? That’s weird. Saitama has to bite his lip to keep from asking. He isn’t sure he wants to know the answer.

“No, it’s okay.” He waves away Genos’ concern, urging him to stand. “I was confused, too. I thought you were some crazy dude trying to trick me.”

Genos nods unhappily, appearing unappeased. Then his eyes shift away, clenching his fists.

“The last note that you sent on the laptop, that was for your Genos, wasn’t it?”

“Ah.” Satiama drops his gaze to the floor. “Yeah. You know how he died. I didn’t have a chance to say any of that stuff, so I kind of let loose, I s’pose.”

“Of course.” He doesn’t look any happier; if anything, saying that makes it worse. “If he was anything like me, he would have been thinking of you in his last moments. I am—sorry, sensei.”

“Don’t be.” Saitama swallows, struggling to wrap his mind around what’s happening. “You’re back, right? Everything’s—” okay, he wants to say, but he isn’t so sure. “We’ll figure it out.”

That seems to appease him somewhat. Genos nods smartly, moving away towards the kitchen. Presumably to prepare breakfast.

“I’m gonna take a bath, okay?” Saitama calls, walking towards the bathroom before Genos has even started speaking. He doesn’t need his permission, but after running off before, it feels weird not to at least let him know.

“I will have breakfast prepared for you when you finish!” Genos says in return. The sound of pots clanking together reminds Saitama of how long it’s been since he’s had a meal.

Saitama prefers bathing at night, but after what he’s been through, anything will do. That and the hot water feels amazing.

Knowing that Genos and breakfast are going to be waiting for him makes him feel antsy, but when he sinks into the warm water, tension that Saitama didn’t know he was carrying bleeds out of his body, and his concerns momentarily fade away.

After his initial rinse, he sits in the bath until his fingers to start to prune, at which point he imagines Genos must be nearly finished. Bracing himself on the edge of the tub, Saitama steps over the edge, drains it, and then pats his body dry, moving to pull on the same clothing he was wearing a little bit ago.

The smells that greet him when he steps out of the bathroom make his chest go tight. Genos used to cook breakfast on mornings that he was able, even after Saitama told him it wasn’t necessary.

Miso soup, rice, toast, and eggs are ready and waiting for him when steps into the kitchen. Genos glances up at his arrival, in the middle of putting the finishing touches on each dish.

“Breakfast is ready, sensei.”

“Some of this is for you, right?” Saitama says, and it comes out like a threat. Genos is going to eat; he’ll make sure of it. “You need to start eating properly. And we should probably get you repaired. Your skin’s looking kinda ragged.”

“Of course, sensei.” Genos slaps a hand over his neck, an unconscious movement that confirms Saitama’s suspicions: Genos knows what’s wrong, but he’s been ignoring it. Addressing it now would only cause issues, so aside from giving Genos a firm look, he leaves it be.

As they sit down to eat, Genos doesn’t hesitate to take a healthy portion for himself, which allows Saitama to drop his concern and focus on his own meal. Rice, eggs, and some grilled fish are all he usually eats, so it’s average, as far as breakfasts go. The only difference lies in the way that it’s cooked. A little longer, with a little more care.

“Thanks for breakfast, Genos.” He bites into the fish. “It’s good.”

“It is the least I can do, as your disciple.” His eyes flicker down. “I still am your disciple, yes?”

“That’s right.” He waves his chopsticks lazily in the air while he speaks. “I mean, we never really did any teacher/student stuff all that often, but I guess the title still stands.”

“I see.” Genos breathes a sigh of relief, pausing to shovel more rice into his mouth before he speaks again. The words come out in a rush, as if he’s been holding back. “I just wish I knew how this happened. Was it just your apartment that caused the anomaly? Did it involve more? I fear that things could return to how they were if we don’t isolate the cause.”

Saitama blinks, swallowing his food uneasily.

“Yeah. That’s probably a good idea.” Then it occurs to him: “Actually, I just remembered something that could help. While you were doin’ your thing in your world, I started making notes about all the weird stuff that was happening to me. Hold on.”

He stands and starts rifling through the piles of notebooks littering the floor, searching for one in particular. He never numbered the one that he used, but since Genos was meticulous in ordering them, it doesn’t take long for Saitama to find the one with a blank face.

“Here,” he says, setting it down onto the table. “All the stuff you messed with in this world. Probably. Some of it might have been me being paranoid, but maybe there’s something in here that can help us.”

Saitama flips to the first page and slides it across the table. Genos tugs it closer and starts flipping through it himself, taking in the information with an impassive eye.

“This is perfect, sensei. Thank you.” Slowly, he brushes his fingers over the hastily scribbled words with reverence. “This does appear to be my routine. The items here were used by us simultaneously, and must have acted as a,” he searches for the word, “link between our worlds. Chance connected us, but why ?”

“Beats me, man. I still have a ton of questions.” Saitama cocks his head, scratching a patch of skin behind his ear. “Y’know speaking of, I thought it was funny that you ordered the same set of udon as me. Why was that? It’s not even your favorite.”

“Ah.” Surprised, Genos averts his gaze. “That was because it was your favorite. Earlier, you expressed similar confusion at my choice of clothing. It was for the same reason. As I mentioned, I wanted to… retain our memories together, even if it was the smallest of details. I attempted to enjoy the things you did, which included reading your favorite books and eating your favorite foods.”

“And my clothes.”

Genos bows his head deeply. “I am sorry, Sai—sensei,” he corrects.

“No, it’s fine!” Saitama protests, raising his hands. “Seriously, stop apologizing.”

“It was incredibly presumptuous of me,” Genos hastened to say.

“Dude, seriously, it’s no big deal.” It is sort of a big deal, because seeing Genos wearing his clothing makes Saitama’s stomach churn in a way that he doesn’t understand,  but he chooses not to reflect on it for too long.

“I actually missed those weird quirks of yours. It was lonely without you here.” He pauses, swallowing against a lump of emotion. “I missed you, you know.”

“I missed you, too,” Genos says, reaching between them to brush his fingertips against Saitama’s. “So much.”

Genos suddenly goes quiet. He bites his lip, curling his fingers into fists, but it’s no use fighting it; it’s as if all the emotion that he’s been fighting has taken hold, and his eyes start to water. He lets out a short, harsh breath, closing his eyes.

“Oi.” Saitama reaches, but stops halfway, unsure. “You okay?”

“Sorry. I’m sorry,” Genos babbles, wiping at his eyes in a futile attempt to quell his tears. “I don’t know what is wrong with me. I’m not even sad.”

“Do you need water?” Saitama approaches his tremulous state with care. “Tea?” A pause. “Maybe I should leave?”

“No!” Genos shouts. He looks embarrassed by the small burst of honesty. “No, I would like you to stay. Unless you would prefer to leave, then—”

“Idiot.” Saitama gaze softens. He hesitantly reaches between them, covering Genos’ hand with his own, offering him silent support.  “I’m not going anywhere. And neither are you.”

Chapter Text

After Genos’ minor breakdown, the tension between breaks, and then eases.

The Genos that was acting polite and overly formal disappears, and leaves behind the Genos that Saitama remembers. He starts acting like his normal self, fretting and hovering over Saitama an endless amount. When Saitama stands up to do the dishes, Genos sweeps them out of his hands, doing them himself despite his many protests. Then, when he tries to get a glass of water, Genos places it in his hands before he’s even stepped into the kitchen. It’s familiar, amusing, and most importantly: normal.

After everything, Saitama could do with some normal.

He stands at the kitchen doorway, watching Genos scrub away at the dishes and sipping at his water. He watches as droplets of water splatter onto the hoodie and the jeans that he’s wearing. Saitama’s jeans.

He’ll need his—Genos’—clothing, if he intends to stay. Genos’ clothes are buried in the back of the closet, but he’s certain that some outfits are at Kuseno’s for the many times that he went to visit and came back wearing new parts.

Not that there’s any way for him to leave at the moment. They still haven’t talked about it; his plans, now that he’s here, if there are any plans.

Just thinking about it makes his chest go tight.

“By the way, Genos,” he starts, “there are some things behind your duffle bag that I forgot to tell you about. Genos’—your stuff that the association sent over. I put ‘em in a box. Err, also, Kuseno has some of them. Sorry.” He points in direction of the closet. “They’re in there.”

“I see.” Genos’ eyebrows raise to his forehead. After setting the dishes to dry on the drying rack, he wipes his hands on the towel hanging over the sink, taking care not to make a mess. “Thank you for letting me know.”

Nodding at him, Genos turns and then leaves the kitchen, disappearing from Saitama’s vision. It doesn’t feel right to follow, so he wanders into the kitchen, sipping on his glass of water.

He hears Genos step into the hall and cross the threshold into the living room; then he hears the closet door creak open, and after an elongated pause, the dull thump of Genos knees hitting the floor sounds. There’s the sound of rustling and shifting, and after a long period of silence, Saitama leans out the doorway to take a look, his curiosity piqued.

“Did you find ‘em?”

“Yes,” Genos answers immediately, but his voice is quiet. “I found the belongings you mentioned.”

“Ah.” Saitama moves closer so he can see what is Genos examining. “Those were returned after you—“ his throat closes around the word.

“Died,” Genos finishes, even quieter now. He sets down what he’s holding and picks up something to his right. It’s the leather book that Saitama originally found in his duffel bag,which he shoved in the box that he brought to Kuseno’s. He didn’t seem interested in most of it, and left the book in particular untouched.

Genos draws his fingers over the leather binding and thumbs the tab. Saitama waits, but Genos doesn’t open it.

“What is that?” he asks, despite his better judgment. “Something from your past?”

“That’s right.” Genos finally forces his thumb under the tab, and it falls open with a click. From where Saitama is positioned, he can see the yellowed edges of the pages, streaks of brown denoting where it looks like it was burned. “Something I thought I destroyed.”

“In your universe?”

“Yes.”

Genos carefully flips to the first page, his eyes following the words slowly. He flips to the second page, and then the third, mouthing something that Saitama can’t hear. The other Genos—his Genos—never mentioned his past, and Saitama never tried very hard to get it out of him.

Talking about another Genos as if they aren’t the same person makes his skin crawl. Saitama shudders, then scratches idly at his arm.

What was I like? The thought occurs to him before he can help it. He knows so little, and he has to wonder what he did in the other world, who he was. If he was the same person.

Suddenly, more than anything, he wants to know.

“You never call me Saitama,” he blurts. Now that the dam has opened, he can’t stop the words from streaming from his mouth. “I mean, you’ve called me Saitama without the ‘sensei’ a few times. You were still my disciple, right?”

“Yes.” Genos looks up at him, his eyes shining with unshed tears. He swipes his thumb over the corner of his eye, and it leaves behind a dark streak. “Is something wrong?”

“No, uh,” Saitama glances down at his hands, “It’s just strange, is all. I could never get Genos to stop calling me anything other than ‘sensei’. How did he—I—do it?”

“Ah.” The following pause is painfully long. For a moment, Saitama doesn’t think he’ll answer, but then he starts speaking. “There was no particular method. It seemed like the natural progression of our relationship.” He cocks his head at Saitama. “Would you prefer I stopped calling you Saitama?”

Yes. “No. I don’t know.” Saitama bites his lip. It feels like there are pieces missing, but he doesn't know where to find them, or how to make them fit. “It’s just kinda weird. Was your relationship different than ours? How did he die?” He regrets the words as soon as they leave his mouth. “Sorry, you don’t have to answer that.”

“No, it is fine.” Genos takes a sustaining breath. “I...I don’t mind, sensei. I should have told you before, but I was,” he pauses, “distraught.”

“It’s no biggie,” Saitama assures him. “Take your time, man. I get it.”

“I know. That’s why I feel you should know.” Genos looks down at the ground in a futile attempt to hide his devastation. Saitama moves into the room fully and sits in front of the table, waiting patiently. As patiently as he can, at least. He’s about to hear how he died, that which always seemed an impossible feat. He’s never been crushed, or eaten, or wounded to the point that he would require severe medical attention. Drowning or poison isn’t out of the question, but it seems unlikely.

Genos takes a deep breath. Saitama holds his.

“Saitama died of a heart attack,” he states. “More specifically, it was hypertrophic cardiomyopathy.”

Of all things, that is not what Saitama expects to hear. He blinks rapidly, processing the information. “What’s that?”

“It’s a heart disease that strikes very suddenly,” Genos replies evenly. “A portion of his heart thickened without any obvious cause, creating functional impairment of the cardiac muscle.” His eyes flicker, and Saitama wonders if he’s reading off of his memory banks, relying on dry medical text to hide away the hurt. “It is the leading cause of sudden cardiac death in young athletes. He was fine that morning, but later, when we were fighting a monster, he suddenly collapsed.”

Genos is trembling. Saitama opens his mouth to inquire further, but then thinks better of it. He isn’t sure he really wants to know the rest of the story.

“That’s… rough,” he says instead, laying his hands flat on the surface of the table. He starts picking absently at the surface. “I wasn’t there when Genos died, and I—I don’t know if that would have been worse or better.”

“I understand completely. And I am sorry, sensei,” Genos tells him sincerely. “But I am here now, and I don’t intend to die anytime soon.”

Saitama nods. When he glances down, he notices the deep scratches his fingers have left on the table. There’s a spot of blood on his forefinger, along the cuticle.

His head is spinning, heart fluttering against his ribcage. Thinking about his death makes him feel ill.

“Do you think it could happen to me? The—The heart thing.”

The words leave his mouth before he can reconsider them. When he looks at Genos, his eyes have gone bug-eyed.

“We—“ Genos stands, knees knocking roughly against the table. “We need to go to a medical center immediately for a diagnosis.” His eyes illuminate briefly. “It’s the weekend, but the nearest emergency clinic should provide us with sufficient attention.”

“Wait, Genos—“

“If need be, I will use my hero status in order to receive treatment.”

“Genos, seriously—“

Genos’ eyes are flickering rapidly, his words sharp; panicked.

“Your vitals are at an acceptable level, sensei, but many patients were in a state of relaxation. I will grab your hero suit—“

“Genos!” While Genos is in the middle of having his freak-out, Saitama stands, approaching him like one would a wild animal. At his shout, Genos’ eyes refocus. “Just calm down. Dude, I’m not gonna die. I’ll get it tested or whatever, but we don’t have to rush.”

The other Saitama died months ago, if their timelines are the same. He’ll be fine. Probably.

“But—“ Genos’ voice cracks. “If you died again, I do not know that I could recover. Please, sensei.”

“I—“ He hesitates. He can’t possibly argue with him. Not about this. “Fine. Okay, we’ll go,” Saitama promises. “But I don’t think my insurance would cover something like that. Not all the way, at least.”

Ever since the monster attacks began, the prices on hospital bills began to steadily rise; now, “unnecessary” treatments that aren’t life threatening get fairly expensive.

“Heroes of class A and above benefit from the Hero Association’s best health care,” Genos says, like it’s obvious.

“Yeah, but that doesn’t change anything. You’re class S.”

“Sensei, as I said, it also includes class A heroes.”

“Okay, but I’m class B.”

Genos’ eyes widen, his lips parting in shock. “I see.”

“What, was I a different rank in your universe?”

“You were class A, rank ten.”

Saitama frowns, considering the time and effort it would take to become rank A. Before Genos died, he was rising to the upper ranks of class B, but even if he hadn’t, at the pace he had been moving, it would have been impossible for him to make it to rank ten in the same amount of time.

“So he reached it earlier than me, whatever.” It bothers him more than it should. “What about Kuseno? Couldn’t he help?”

“It is true that while he is not a doctor, he has a great amount of experience in the field.”

“He had to be to make you, I guess.”

“That being said, I am not sure he would have proper equipment. If there was only a way that I could give you my coverage.”

“I don’t know if it works like that, and besides—“ Saitama points at him. “—you’re dead.”

A troubled silence descends upon them.

“That will pose a problem,” Genos ventures.

“Yeah.” Saitama scratches his head. “We could explain that, I guess. First we should see Kuseno, I s’pose. Is there anything I should know about your body?” That comes out very differently than he intends. He tries again: “Your parts look different. More modern.”

“Aside from firepower, I should function the same.” He fists his hands by his side. “I have not yet found my revenge. I presume it was the same in this world.”

“Ah. Yeah, not yet. He might have different info on the dude, but otherwise it’s the same.”

At the mention of a different lead—one that could help Genos locate the mad cyborg’s whereabouts, his gaze flickers back and forth between his leather book and the pile of notebooks. Saitama gets the obvious impression that he wants to explore that avenue further, so Saitama stands up, moving into the kitchen.

“Before we worry about getting me tested for hypo-whatever, I’ll wrap us up some lunch to take on the way. You grab some of the notebooks lying around and keep reading up on this place.”

“I can help,” Genos says emphatically, standing to follow.

When Saitama turns around, Genos is stepping into the small kitchen before he can dissuade him, his bulk taking up a fair amount of the space available. Their eyes meet. Saitama is finding it hard to breathe all of a sudden.

“No.” He pokes his finger in the direction of the hallway. “I can tell you want to read those books some more. It’ll just be easier if you let me do this.”

Genos looks as though he’s about to argue, but then he appears to think better of it, turning around silently to follow his instructions.

Saitama turns back to work. He’s tempted to make one of Genos’ favorite dishes, but he doesn’t have any of the ingredients save for the basic essentials, so he settles for onigiri, made with the leftover ingredients in the fridge.

First, he takes out some pickles and fish, then starts chopping. The solid thunk of the knife hitting the cutting board, and the simple, repetitive motions is a therapeutic process, and after a few minutes of puttering around, some of the tension begins to bleed from Saitama’s shoulders.

It’s an easy, simple dish, one that he’s fond of, and the ingredients are easy to slice and dice. After the pickles are cut into bite-size pieces, he reaches into the lower cupboard, pulls out the flat-bottomed fry pan, and sets it on the burner to preheat.

When he hears a thump coming from the other side of the wall, Saitama pauses in his work and listens, but it’s quiet not a moment after.

For his size and weight, Genos has always been surprisingly unobtrusive. He didn’t even hear him leave the apartment.

Returning to work, Saitama adds some sesame to the pan and then checks on the rice. Soon, the scent of fresh rice wafts throughout the kitchen, and after washing and salting his hands, Saitama busies himself with folding the ingredients into the rice. He’s reminded of how Genos was always appreciative of his cooking, praising even the simplest of dishes.

“That smells amazing, sensei.”

“It’s just stir fry. Nothing special.”

“It was prepared by your hands; nothing could be more special. Thank you for the meal.”

He’s ripped from the memory when he hears the door slam shut, signaling Genos’ return. His arms are piled high with books. A flew slip onto the floor when he pauses at the doorway.

“That smells amazing, sensei,” he says.

“It’s just onigiri,” Saitama recites, staring at the plate. His heart is pounding. “Nothing special.”

“Saitama was an excellent cook, so I don’t doubt that it will still be delicious.”

Saitama looks up at him, catching the tail end of Genos’ smile. It’s one of the many that he’s seen over the course of the last few days, and it’s unsettling, to say the least.

One Saitama, one sensei. Two different people, with two different lives. He bites his lip.

What did kind of life did you have that you would smile this much?

“Thanks.” He turns back to the dish. It is finished within minutes, and by the time that Saitama has wrapped the rice balls in plastic and put them in a lunch box, Genos is deeply rooted in one of his notebooks, his eyes scanning the pages at a rapid rate.

“Lunch is ready to go,” Saitama says, setting the box of freshly cooked onigiri down in front of him to showcase this. It takes a moment for Genos to respond.

“Thank you, Saitama,” he says absently.

Are you talking to me, or him?

Although he’s ready to go and see Kuseno, Saitama is loath to rush Genos, so he sits down on the opposite end of the table, brushing aside a few of the notebooks, and watches TV in the meantime. Saitama occasionally looks at him, but Genos seems absorbed in his reading, trading the first book for the second, and then the third.

“The food’s gonna get cold,” Saitama cautions after a while, watching him read. He observes the way that he turns the pages, fingertips barely daring to skim the words laid out. Genos catches him staring then, and he sets the book down, embarrassed.

“Ah. I kept you waiting. Are you ready, sensei?”  

“Yeah.” He looks away. “It’ll take a while to get there, but it’s still pretty light out.” Saitama cranes his body to look outside, gazing at the dark clouds piling over the city. “Is there anything you think we should pick up from the store?”

“Whatever ingredients sensei desires,” Genos answers. “I’m fine with anything.”

Saitama was hoping—foolishly so—that his answer would give him more clues about how their lives were different, but Genos is always succinct, failing to give Saitama the headway he needs to broach subjects like their daily lives.

The differences between his and the current Genos manifest most obviously in his physical appearance. The arm model that he’s wearing is fancier than Saitama remembers. Whereas his previous models were clearly made for destructive power, this one is slim and sleek, with silver veins providing a mock outline of where his muscles would be. That, and it’s white; if he didn’t know any better, he might have assumed it was for medicinal purposes.

The shoulders are the only notable, dead giveaway to the extent of its power. Large vents covering the length of curves remind Saitama of his propensity to pour out steam like an engine.

A thought occurs to him.

“Wait, if we’re going to go out, what if somebody sees us? How should we explain you coming back?” Saitama asks. “There was a funeral for you, and there were a couple of witnesses when you died.”

“We could claim my death was orchestrated as an experiment, or for my protection.”

“Experiment?” Saitama leans his elbow on the table, propping his chin on his palm. “I think it makes the most sense to say we were hiding you from something.”

“Of course.” Genos purses his lips, gaze sliding off into the distance. “Following that logic, then, it would make sense to claim that there was any enemy after my life that required me to hide my existence. And with your help, that we eradicated the threat, thus allowing me to return.”

“That’s not a bad idea. But I don’t think we should mention me. It wouldn’t help your story and people would probably find a way to blame me for it.”

Genos’ eyebrows furrow in confusion. “Why not, sensei? Your heroic deeds should not be ignored!”

Saitama’s eyebrows shoot to his forehead.

“Seriously?” he asks. “Man, that’s a terrible idea. People would—you know how they are.”

It doesn’t sting to talk about his lack of a fan base, but sometimes it sucks when he remembers that despite all the work he puts into being a hero, the recognition he receives is never positive. Genos would do better without his name being attached to such a scheme. It will be difficult for the public to swallow his story in the first place; granted, he has a lot of fans that will be overjoyed to see him.

Thankfully, after giving him an odd look, Genos lets the subject drop, and moves onto the particulars. “Once we finish our visit to Kuseno and ensure his cooperation, we will draft a plan of action. For now, I will wear a hood to avoid detection.”

“He’s gonna freak out.” Thinking of the old man seeing Genos for the first time makes Saitama smile. “We’d better prep him. Wouldn’t want him to have a heart attack or something.”

“Indeed.”

It’s raining again, so Genos wears a large raincoat that covers his arms and face, and Saitama suffers through the rain because, well, he’s not all that concerned about getting wet. It’s a welcome change from the earlier heat.

They avoid the any main routes, keeping an eye out for paparazzi or any newscast, and thankfully, no monsters that aren’t dealt with a single punch make an appearance.

Later, once they arrive, it occurs to Saitama too late that in his haste to get to Kuseno’s, he hasn’t thought of a solid plan for introducing Genos back into his life. They come to a stop in front of the dome, standing cautiously to one side before heading in.

“So I’ll just—go in? You stay back and then when I signal it, you can follow. How’s that sound?”

Genos nods stiffly. “It is a solid plan, sensei.”

He hangs back behind Saitama, staying in the darkened hallway that leads into the main facility. Saitama walks into the room, calling Kuseno’s name. He spots him in his usual spot—drowning himself in work, no doubt—and has to shout to catch his attention.

Kuseno starts, clearly surprised to see him, but he greets Saitama cheerfully enough, a kind smile spreading across his face.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” he asks, setting down the piece of equipment he’s working on. “You look well, Saitama.”

“Mm.” Saitama rubs the back of his neck and scuffs his shoes on the floor. “Actually, there was something I wanted to talk to you about.”

“What is it?”

“It’s about Genos,” he says, which isn’t a lie.

“I see.” His eyes widen imperceptibly, turning to face Saitama fully. His eyes are understanding, and it makes something in Saitama’s chest grow warm. He doesn’t really consider the old man more than an acquaintance, but it—it’s nice to have someone who understands. “Were there any questions you had?”

“Well,” Saitama shifts, shooting a glance behind him. “It’s, uh, you see…”

He hadn’t realized how difficult it would be to approach the topic. Kuseno likely wouldn’t believe him if he claimed Genos was alive, but at the same time, he can’t have Genos waltzing out into the open and sending him to an early grave.

“Genos is…so, as it turns out, his death was a little more complicated than we thought?”

“What do you mean?” Saitama glances behind him again, and Kuseno follows his gaze. “You do not have to be afraid. Whatever it is, I am certain I can handle it.”

“Okay.” Saitama takes a deep breath. “So, I was going to try and give you more time, but I don’t really know how to do that, so I’ll just say it: Genos isn’t dead anymore.”

His confession is met with silence. Kuseno blinks at him, his confusion evident.

“I’m not sure I follow. What do you mean by ‘anymore’?”

He sounds suspicious, and rightfully so. Saitama tries to conjure up a reason that will make sense in the limited amount of time that they have, but before he can bother to even try to explain the situation, Genos steps out from the hallway.

“Doctor Kuseno,” he greets stiffly.

“Genos!” Saitama hisses. This was not part of the plan. Granted, it was a loose plan, but a plan all the same.

Kuseno’s eyes widen. He stares at Genos, then at Saitama, and the expression on his face isn’t comforting in the least.

“Saitama,” he says, “what have you done?”

“Nothing!” Saitama tries for reassuring and ends up sounding defensive. “Nothing, I promise. It’s—it’s complicated.”

“Truly a situation worthy of your expertise,” Genos adds, fists clenched tightly at his side. He looks awkward, like he doesn’t know what to do with himself. Likely, he’s aware of the toll that his death would have on Kuseno, but in his world, things between the two were hunky-dory.

Kuseno hasn’t taken his eyes off of Genos since he stepped into view. Shock transforms into sorrow, and then he settles on betrayal. He steps towards them, his expression thunderous.

“What have you done?” Kuseno repeats. He looks like he’s about to be sick. “Why did you rebuild him?”

“Oh,” Saitama realizes what this looks like, and tries furiously to backpedal. “I swear that’s not what’s happening, old man. This is Genos. I mean, our Genos is dead, but this Genos is here now.”

“Saitama.” Kuseno sounds tired. “I cannot under good conscious allow you to continue this. I understand your grief, but this is…”

“Doctor Kuseno,” Genos interrupts. “I am no android, nor am I merely a functioning husk of my former self. It’s me. The circumstances are unbelievable, I admit.” He shoots Saitama a nervous glance. “Perhaps Saitama-sensei would do better to explain the situation.”

“Yeah.” Saitama takes a breath and fiddles with the edge of his cape before speaking. “So, remember when I said that weird things were happening? Well it turns out…”

He goes on to explain the situation, taking pains to sound as clear-headed and convincing as possible. No doubt Kuseno assumes he’s lost his mind after Genos’ death. The only thing that seems to sway Kuseno’s disbelief is when he suggests they run tests to prove Genos is who they say he is.

“That’s his brain in there,” Saitama urges. “I bet you can tell, right?”

“You must have models of the schematic still in the lab,” Genos inserts. The confidence with which he speaks of Kuseno’s space causes his disbelief to waver.

“I do. Wait one moment, please.” Kuseno turns and starts walking towards the consoles on the opposite side of the room near where Genos’ old hair-dos rest. He doesn’t break down, doesn’t start crying, but as he’s booting up one of the monitors, Saitama notices that his fingers are visibly trembling.

“Come here, if you would… Genos.”

After sharing an uneasy glance with Saitama, Genos marches to Kuseno to stand loosely by his side.

“If it is really you, you are familiar with this process.”

“That’s right, doctor.” Genos nods and steps over to an examination chair in the center of the room. He hoists himself onto the edge, then scoots backward until his head is resting against the back.

“Begin whenever you are ready.” It’s casual; a practiced phrase. When Kuseno looks over between the two of them, he seems to have collected himself. His expression is inscrutable as he takes control of the machine arms surrounding the chair with confidence, maneuvering three near Genos’ head.

Thankfully, he doesn’t open him up. Saitama doesn’t think he could handle seeing Genos’ brain put out on display. Instead, Kuseno pokes and prods, conducting various tests, and then he attaches a bunch of wires to Genos’ frame that feeds information into the large monitor by his side. Saitama keeps looking at Genos’ face for any indication that he feels pain (Saitama isn’t entirely certain he isn’t about to try and dismember him), but he appears calm, staring at the ceiling placidly.

“Well?” Saitama asks.

Kuseno remains silent for a number of minutes, staring at the screen.

Genos shoots Saitama nervous, questioning look, and Saitama just shrugs at him. He’s understandably nervous, but he knows just as well as Saitama that there isn’t much else they can do but wait for his verdict. Saitama hates waiting, so he starts wandering the lab, wasting time by fiddling with various bits and pieces of equipment he finds lying around.

As he’s examining a metal finger that he found lying on the floor, he hears someone behind him gasp. He has his money on Kuseno. Saitama turns around and finds Kuseno’s back bowed and shaking. He’s hunched over Genos’ prone form, his fingers running over the cool metal of his shoulder with reverence.

“Everything all right?” he calls, walking back over.

“Yes, sensei.” Genos’ answer is prompt, but it’s not even half of the story. Kuseno lifts his head and looks at Saitama, something like gratitude glimmering in his eyes.

“I did not want to believe it,” he says in lieu of an explanation. “That Genos could return is…impossible. I should have suspected it as soon as Saitama asked me about ghosts.” He smiles down at Genos. “Even if you are from another universe, you are one and the same.”

He pulls Genos into a brief, but fierce hug before releasing him. Genos, for his part, seems relieved.

“I am sorry to have caused you grief, doctor.” Genos bows his head, but Kuseno lifts him by his chin.

“Nonsense, my boy.” There are tears in his eyes, but he keeps the majority of them at bay, addressing Genos with a tone that is indescribably fond. “I am relieved to see you alive. However, that does beg the question. Many questions, in fact.” His lips quirk. “But first and foremost: what do you plan to do? Now that you have learned the truth, do you intend to stay?”

“Of course,” both Saitama and Genos answer at the same time. They trade looks of mirrored surprise, and Saitama’s cheeks flood with heat.

“Sorry,” he says.

“No, it is what I had intended,” Genos replies, matter of fact. “A universe without sensei is not a universe in which I prefer to live.”

It’s exactly what Saitama wants to hear, but it’s almost too good to be true. How can Genos trust him so blindingly?

“So you’d just gladly leave it all behind?” he asks, despite himself, despite everything.

“There is little difference between our respective worlds,” Genos says stubbornly. “I imagine it would be no different.”

“I—I guess.” Saitama isn’t about to correct him, having no evidence that holds to the contrary; and even if he did, he wouldn’t want to. If someone had asked him a year ago if it would have mattered if Genos left, and he isn’t certain he would have cared. Now, things are different.

Irrevocably, his thoughts turn toward the other universe—the other Saitama. His feelings for his other self are complicated. And then there’s that heart disease thing.

“There’s one more thing,” Saitama says, interrupting Genos in the middle of whatever he’s saying. “It’s about the other me.”

The happiness in Genos’ expression fades, his jaw tightening.

“Doctor.” Genos grips Kuseno by his arm, looking up at him imploringly. He looks between Kuseno and Saitama like he might disappear while he isn’t looking. “It is possible that sensei has a condition that, if unchecked, could very well kill him. Please; we need your help.”

“Why don’t you explain from the beginning, Genos?” Kuseno says, easing him back against the headrest. “What is this disease you’re talking about?”

“It has a name I can’t even pronounce,” Saitama says. “Hypotropical something.”

“Hypertrophic cardiomyopathy,” Genos corrects. “It’s most commonly found in athletes, and sensei is, as you know, very athletic.”

Saitama almost wants to disagree; after gaining super strength, his routine kind of fell apart. But when they’re out fighting, he has to admit that all the jumping around he does sometimes work up a sweat.

“I have not practiced medicine in many years,” Kuseno cautions, but Genos won’t be deterred.

“Please,” he says sincerely, bowing his head. “You are the only one we can turn to.”

“It isn’t that I don’t want to help you, Genos, but I have no experience in this particular field. A medical doctor would you serve you better.” At Genos’ crestfallen look, he sighs, mouth forming a smile. “But if it eases your concerns, I can certainly provide you with an in depth scan of Saitama. I will have to modify the machine to accommodate him, but it can be done.”

“How soon?” Genos asks, nearly begging.

“A few hours, at the very least. Genos, Saitama,” he nods to them in turn, “make yourselves at home. I’ll begin work immediately.”

“Thank you, doctor. I truly appreciate it.” Relieved, Genos steps back and gives the doctor space. However, instead of leaving, he hovers at the edge of the room, watching Kuseno putter and mess with whatever calibrations are necessary to adjust the scanners. Saitama doesn’t understand it, but he does know that hovering behind Kuseno while he works isn’t going to help their situation any.

“Is there a, uh, living room or something where we can hang out?” Saitama calls. “Maybe watch some TV?”

“Upstairs,” Kuseno answers, pointing towards a doorway at the opposite end of the lab. “You should find all you need there.”

“Thanks.” Then, without further ado, Saitama grabs Genos by the hand and starts bodily dragging him towards the door.

“Wait,” Genos casts a glance behind him, “Sensei—”

“No buts,” he chirps. “You’ll worry yourself sick sitting there waiting for something to happen. It’s better if we take our mind off of things instead of worrying about it for no reason.”

Genos doesn’t outright disagree with him, but he looks put out. Saitama squeezes his fingers, careful not to accidentally injure him, and even after he no longer has to drag Genos away from Kuseno, he keeps holding onto his hand; his fingers are cold and it’s like dragging a stiff piece of cardboard, but it’s...good.

They make it upstairs without incident. Genos walks over to the couch and sits down, leaving Saitama to fiddle with the TV. It’s about the same size as his own, and after messing with the controls, he figures out where the channels are and puts on the news.

“...giant monster are in the middle of attacking city hall. Heroes from nearby cities have come to aid efforts, but it seems nigh impossible to quell the flow. Some hypothesize that this is a planned attack, while others...”

“That sucks,” Saitama says, frowning. He cocks his head at Genos. “What city is this?”

“City Q, I believe. It is not far from Kuseno’s lab.”

“City Q has it bad, huh,” Saitama drawls. “They don’t look so hot.”

Pillars of smoke clouds pour into the sky, covering the buildings in a heavy smog. Even from the distance that the newswoman reports, the screams of its citizens can still be heard in the background.

It’s not pretty. Saitama can’t stand to hear suffering and do nothing. He turns to Genos, his expression firm.

“I’m going to help.”

“No!” Genos exclaims. “What if your condition manifests?”

“We don’t even know if I have a condition, Genos,” Saitama points out. “I can’t just sit around here and do nothing. Normally I’d leave it to the other heroes, but it doesn’t look like things are going well.”

“Then I will go with you.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

Genos’ eyes narrow.

“I am going with you,” he states, enunciating each word, his tone banking no argument. It’s strange to be stood up to by Genos, who would normally be bowing at his feet, but Saitama doesn’t dislike it. It’s refreshing.

“You won’t be able to help,” he cautions. “Not if you don’t want to be discovered.”

“Don’t worry; I will observe you from a distance. But if you need my help, I won’t hesitate to assist.”

On one hand, Saitama really doesn’t want to risk bringing Genos along. Knowing that they’re about to dive head first into danger makes him almost rescind his offer to bring Genos; he’s still not sure how comfortable he is with putting him in danger. On the other hand, Genos is a capable adult, and it would be nice to be by his side in the heat of battle again.

“Fine,” Saitama finally agrees, albeit reluctantly. “But nothing too dangerous, got it? We’re gonna go in and out. Wreck some monster face and come back in time to get that scan done.”

“Yes, sensei!” Genos replies smartly, straightening.

“Okay.” Saitama looks at the television one last time, committing the layout of the city to memory. “Okay, let’s go.”

Chapter Text

The city is in chaos by the time that they arrive. Not that that’s anything new, but the damage appears much, much worse up close. Monsters decorate the streets, mindlessly tearing apart buildings and structures, digging into the concrete and tossing pieces around, chasing citizens; creating havoc wherever possible.

Saitama punches three lesser monsters into submission before he’s even gotten to the edges of the mayhem.

“Is it always this bad?” he asks, directing the question at Genos.

“I am not sure,” Genos answers, shoving his hands into his pockets. He’s still wearing the raincoat to disguise his familiar physique. The rain has stopped, but there are dark clouds still hanging in the sky, threatening more to come. “City Q has always had issues with monster attacks, but this is far more than is typical.”

“Huh.” Saitama approaches a nearby pile of garbage and stamps out a small fire before returning to Genos’ side. “Let’s get closer. Hopefully the news people won’t bother me too much this time. They really bum me out.”

“Why would you feel depressed by media coverage?” Genos asks. His intention is sincere, and the look that Saitama gives him suggests how ludicrous he finds the question.

“You really have no idea?”

Before Genos can answer, the building in front of them explodes and a giant worm-like creature comes crawling out, leaving a trail of bubbling green goop in its wake.

“Guess there’s no time to chat. Stay back, got it?” he orders, his tone sharp. Geno nods and steps backwards, giving Saitama the room needed to shoot straight at the entity from the ground. It doesn’t take long; as usual, one punch destroys it. Then another monster appears; he punches that one, too. Then there are two, and then three, and before he knows it, he’s knee deep in monsters. At first, it appears chaotic, but then he notices that they’re coming at him in groups, trying to match weaknesses with strengths. He’s never seen anything like it.

This is definitely weird.

Saitama continues to approach the center of the city, jumping from building to building, gauging the severity of each mob of monsters before deciding which to take down. He can see other heroes doing work alongside Watchdog Man—and good work, at that, so he doesn’t want to get in their way and piss anyone off.

A part of him knows he shouldn’t care. Normally he doesn’t care. It’s just that with the whole Genos thing, he’s weirdly aware of not only how Genos sees him, but how the world sees him.

It sounds ridiculous, even to himself. He never used to worry about this; then again, he never used to have a friend like this.

Are we friends?

The thought halts him in his tracks. He lands squarely in the middle of the street and stares at his gore-covered fist as if it will provide the answers he’s looking for.

I assumed we are, but maybe he just thinks of me as a tutor. He stopped calling me Saitama.

A scream echoes from somewhere nearby. Satiama brushes off the remaining chunks from the last monster he just killed, putting the thought aside.

Most people have evacuated, but there are stragglers that haven’t the means to escape and got caught in the crossfire. Genos has been following him throughout the city, urging pedestrians here and there to safety under the guise of a helpful citizen. If anyone has recognizes him, which is unlikely, their panic has kept them from saying anything.

“Hey, Gen—“ he starts, but stops before he can continue with his blunder. “Genos,” Saitama hisses once he’s in range. “How are you doing? Are they any people left?”

“I am well,” he answers seriously. “There are only a few pedestrians left in the area. If you would like, I can compile a list of their locations and rank them by immediate need of assistance.”

“That’d be cool,” Saitama says, shooting him a small smile. “Thanks, Genos.”

Genos ducks his head at the praise. “It is nothing, sensei. Actually, I have one question—”

Just then, a rumbling sound starts from under Saitama’s feet. He stumbles, struggling not to fall as the ground cracks, forcing his feet aside. Genos catches him by his arm and helps him stay upright.

Saitama turns to thank him, but the words die on his tongue when he sees what’s happening a few blocks away. The quaking they just experienced isn’t just coming from one specific location—it’s all over different parts of the city. Buildings are breaking, their edifices crumbling. Saitama looks around, trying to pinpoint where it’s coming from; then he feels it.

“Something is here,” he states, just before the ground beneath his feet crackles and bursts, sending Genos flying in the opposite direction. A thick, rubbery tendril erupts from the ground, wriggling threateningly in the air.

“Sensei!” he shouts, scrambling to his feet. “Sensei, are you alright?!”

“I’m fine!” Saitama calls, turning towards the source of the wreckage. What he sees causes his breath to catch his throat.

It’s huge.

About half as tall as the monster known as Beefcake that destroyed City D with only its foot, it’s covered in layer of dirt and grime so thick that it’s impossible to tell what it looks like underneath. Pieces of old equipment, like cars and bicycles, are scattered along its skin, oozing down the oily length of its body, dripping large droplets of the gooey substance onto the concrete below.

It pulls itself up from the hole that it has created and lets out a rumbling growl that Saitama can feel reverberating deep in his chest.

“Well, crap,” he says. His heart is pounding. He can hears screams—hundreds of them, possibly thousands, and he lurches forward, fist curled and at the ready.

As he approaches, he sees the heroes doing their best to injure it, but many of the blows are being absorbed. The creature moves slowly, but with purpose, bringing its claw down against the crowd of heroes at its feet in one massive move, and Saitama feels the earth shift, rippling under his feet. He keeps going, climbing over rubble to reach it.

Once he’s near the base, he’s close enough that he can see the press further off to the side reporting the news. They’re not exactly in range, but it’s still far, far too close.

“Oi!” he calls, cupping his hands around his mouth. “Down here, you big…slimy thing!”

It doesn’t react to his jeer, which is not unexpected. Saitama sighs; it’s going to be easy, but it isn’t going to be fun. It’d be nice if it at least looked at him.

Bracing himself with his feet, Saitama crouches, then shoots into the air, waiting until his momentum has reached its peak before he raises his fist. The creature shudders, its skin oozing in a massive wave as it slowly turns and trains one eye on Saitama.

He meets its eye, and he can see his own reflection staring back at him. He sees himself pulling his fist back, ready to land the final blow. His pulse is pounding in his ears, distorting the sound around him.

His fist is poised, but he hesitates.

Thoughts start to flash in the back of his mind, too quick to process. He thinks of the hospital, of Kuseno and Genos. His heart's still pounding, and he can’t tell if it feels normal or not. His raised fist trembles, and just like that, all the strength leaves his body, and he’s falling, plunging towards the ground.

His feet skid across the concrete as he lands, and it takes him far too long to right himself. Saitama stares at his fist, then his fingers are reaching for his chest before he can help himself, feeling the beat of his heart.

I’m okay, he thinks, fingers gripping the fabric tightly. He can’t stop thinking about what Genos was saying, about his heart. I’m okay. Nothing’s going to happen.

“Sensei!” There’s a shriek from the other side of the road, which reminds Saitama that Genos was watching him, and if he saw him fall, then that means—

“I’m okay!” he calls, but his voice is lost among the screams echoing all around him. A shadow passes over Saitama. He looks up and sees the monsters claw hovering directly above him, but he isn’t worried about that. Genos calls his name again, sounding even more distressed, and he sees sparks flare under his coat.

“No! Genos!” Saitama shouts, taking a step forward. His foot slips through a puddle of slime and then he’s on his back, staring at the claw slowly coming down. Shit.

“Incinerate! ”

Hot, boiling flames barrel past Saitama, passing over the beast’s claw, headed for the middle of its body. It turns, faster now that there’s a greater threat, skin bubbling and popping as Genos fires at it again and again. The heat is intense, stronger than anything Saitama’s ever felt. He’s sweating underneath his suit.

Crap, he thinks, pushing himself to his feet. It shudders, its groan reverberating loudly. Saitama can feel it deep in his chest; it’s dying. Half of the monster is charred, the awful stench of burnt flesh and whatever else it holds wafting onto the city streets. Saitama gags, cupping his hand over his nose.

“Wait, is that Genos?!” a voice shouts. Saitama follows their gazes to where Genos is standing. His raincoat has been shredded, and bits of melted rubber are still dripping over his metal plating. People start shouting, running towards Genos. The fury on Genos’ face fades, leaving behind trepidation.

Crap! Saitama dashes towards him, making it in record time. “Let’s go,” he barks, grabbing his arm. A camera flashes. The voices are becoming more frantic in realizing that Caped Baldy is with Demon Cyborg—or what appears to be him.

“I am sorry,” Genos says miserably. “When I saw you fall, I thought—” He stops, and Saitama doesn’t need to hear anymore.

“I’m fine,” he grits out, yanking Genos towards a smaller street with enough rubble that it will be difficult for anyone to follow them. They keep running long after the voices have faded, hopping from building to building, trying to get as far as possible.

When they reach the outskirts of the city, Saitama stops, drawing Genos to do the same. Even this far away, it still stinks. He rubs the underside of his nose with his finger.

“Sensei,” Genos starts, his hand landing on Saitama’s shoulder. “What happened?”

“I couldn’t do it,” he blurts. His throat closes around the words.

“What?”

“I couldn’t kill it. When I got up there, I thought about—about that thing you talked about. My heart was beating hard, which is normal, but I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I thought what if—what if this is it? And then I just…couldn’t do it.”

“Saitama,” Genos says, and it sounds like pity. Saitama turns to him, his fingers gripping the fabric of his suit above his heart.

“It’s stupid. I was scared.” His voice trembles, words coming out choked. “Why was I scared?”

Genos is silent. Saitama can’t make himself look at him. He sniffs, staring at the ground, and that’s when Genos wordlessly pulls him into a hug, his arms still warm from his attack. Saitama goes stiff in shock, but Genos continues to hold him, relentless, until the tension starts to leak from his shoulders and Saitama tentatively returns the embrace. He leans his head on his shoulder, taking comfort in the solid weight of his body.

“I’m sorry,” he rasps.

“You should never be sorry, sensei. You could not help how you felt.”

“Still am,” he murmurs. “If it wasn’t for me, people wouldn’t have seen you.”

“That was my fault, sensei. And it was bound to happen either way. In some sense, this is simpler. We will just have to alert the press that I am returning and then we will be left alone.”

“Yeah, I dunno if it’s that easy, Genos.” Saitama inhales, then pulls away, wiping at his eyes. “I guess we should head back, though. There might be people still waiting for you to show up on screen.”

“I believe we still have some time before Kuseno finishes his tests. Why don’t we go get something to eat from a nearby city?”

It’s offered gently, and if it was anyone other than Genos, Saitama would be annoyed by the suggestion.

“I’m not a kid,” he says, bumping their shoulders together. “First, though, we need to get you a new disguise. If you still want to, that is.”

“It might be easiest to reveal myself now.”

“Yeah, guess we should treat it like ripping off a band-aid: the faster, the better.”

“Precisely. But before that, I have one question, sensei.”

“Hm?” Saitama rocks back onto his heels, bracing his hands behind him on rubble jutting out of the ground.

“Why did you destroy those monsters with one punch? There were photographers scattered throughout the area.”

Saitama shoots him a look to indicate his confusion. “What do you mean? How else would I kill them?”

“You ignored your usual routine,” Genos presses. “I understand the need for speed in a situation like that, but even with the large monster, you made no attempts to play up your act.”

“Act? Genos, what the hell are you talking about?”

Genos blinks at him.

“You have no idea what I am saying.” His brows furrow. “I see. I have made an error in judgement.”

“Dude. What’s this about my act?”

“Forgive me, sensei. I spoke out of turn.”

Genos starts walking, quickly increasing his pace, but Saitama won’t be deterred. It’s obvious that he’s hiding something, and while Saitama wants to respect his space, he knows it’s about him.

“Come on.” Soon, they’re running, going in a direction that has probably been carefully calculated by Genos. “Tell me what it is. What’s this about an act?”

“We should go back Kuseno’s,” he says in lieu of an answer.

“Genos!” Saitama snaps, pulling on his arm. Genos comes to a stop too late, the metal straining not to bend when Saitama pulls on it. “Shit, sorry, I didn’t mean to do that.”

“It is fine,” Genos says, avoiding Saitama’s eyes. “Kuseno should be able to fix it. Which is why we should leave.”

“Genos, please. It’s obvious that you’re hiding something from me. What was I like in your universe? You can tell me. Seriously.”

Genos shakes his head. “News from the other universe has not been pleasant so far. I am afraid that you would not like what I have to say.”

“You can’t make that decision for me. If it’s about me, I have a right to know.”

Genos appears to consider this, then reluctantly meets Saitama’s eye.

“I believe I understand why you did not reach a higher ranking now. Originally, I was confused by some of the writings in my notebooks. There were no mentions of our plans, and the routine we had set up for you.”

“A…routine?”

“Yes. Soon after the battle with the Sea King, it became apparently to both Saitama-sensei and I that our usual way of defeating monsters would not end well for you. You lamented the fact that you didn’t have any fans briefly, but brushed it off as inevitable.”

Saitama remembers this after some thought. So far, so good.

“I was not satisfied by that. I was watching the news with you when a hero came on TV and started doing some ridiculous act. It was completely pointless and fool-hardy, but it inspired an idea. I suggested that you try doing such an act to interest fans in your exploits instead of destroying everything in one punch.”

This is news to Saitama. Genos never mentioned anything about putting on some show back after fighting the Sea King. In fact, Saitama was gone most days, trying to work through his own feelings when it came to his popularity and the hate mail he’d started receiving. He wonders, if he’d stayed, would things have worked out that way?

“Initially, you rejected the idea,” Genos continues. “You thought it was a lie and not true to yourself. However, I was not about to give up. People were associating your hard work with others and blaming you for their failures when you performed at a level that none ranking above you could hope to reach. I begged you to brainstorm with me, and you finally agreed, albeit reluctantly.”

“I agreed,” Saitama repeats slowly.

“Yes. With my help, you would play up the difficulty of fighting monsters that were at a higher than average strength and landed the finishing blow most often on ‘accident’. The public referred to you as ‘their favorite goofball’ hero, which I rejected as a ridiculous assumption. You are a spectacular hero. I tried to get your name changed from Caped Baldy, but they insisted—“ he stops, realizing he’s digressing. “In any case, it was working. You became popular. You were…happier, I think.”

It doesn’t sound like him. He’d enjoy being popular—wouldn’t anyone?—but putting on an act? Pretending to be something he’s not? It doesn’t sit right with him.

“I don’t know if I could do that.”

Genos smiles. “That was what you said. Since you had reached rank A, we were planning to, in a sense, reintroduce you with your original strength, barring any playfulness, but then—then you died.”

“Oh.” Saitama finds that he doesn’t have a response to that. With lack of anything better to do, he starts walking in the direction they’d originally headed. Genos’ footsteps indicate that he’s doing the same.

“I had no idea we did any of that stuff,” Saitama says. He realizes too late that he’s used the word ‘we’, but Genos doesn’t call him out on it. “Thanks for telling me.”

“Again, I should not have presumed it would be the same.”

“Hey, Genos.” Saitama spins around to look at him. “If we’re going to live together now, we should talk about this kind of stuff, right? You don’t need to act so concerned all the time. Relax.”

“That is true,” Genos admits. “I will attempt to do so.” He flashes him a brief smile. “If you have any other questions, feel free to ask.”

“Got it.” Saitama returns his smile with a small one of his own and then turns back around and starts walking. He doesn’t have the heart to ask anymore; a twinge of hot jealousy sparks inside him at the thought of his other self.  “Where are we headed, by the way? Kuseno’s? I’m not really hungry right now; not after fighting that thing back there.”

“Yes, unless you have a better idea.”

“Nope. I could use a shower, actually. My suit’s not too bad, but my gloves are covered in blood.”

“You should allow me to replace them,” Genos says, eyeing them with distaste. “I could fashion a much stronger, more resistant fiber than rubber. They would even be fire proof.”

“Then if I got incinerated again I’d still have my gloves for coverage?” Saitama smirks and elbows him in the side. “I think I’ll pass. I’ve had these for too long; it wouldn’t be right.”

Saitama glances at the sky and then starts walking faster, encouraging Genos to do the same. They jog, increasing their pace at their leisure until they’re running, covering the distance at great speeds. Saitama hopes that no one will see them zooming by if they go fast enough.

Back at Kuseno’s, Saitama heads to the bathroom to wrangle out some of the stink clinging to him, and Genos goes to find Kuseno. He finds him in the middle of scribbling something down on a piece of paper when he heard Genos’ approach.

“Ah, you are back. was going to take a small break to eat and started writing a note, but since you’re here...”

“How is the machine?”

“Functioning,” he says. “Whether or not it works, we will soon find out. Is Saitama upstairs? Where did you two go?”

“Yes. We went to City Q to aid efforts in eradicating the monster problem, and Sensei was troubled by thoughts of his possible condition.”

“If he truly has heart problems, he should not have been out there in the first place,” Kuseno points out.

“I tried to stop him, but he insisted.” Genos’ fingers curl into fists. “I think Saitama-sensei wanted to prove to himself that he was in good health by defeating a multitude of monsters. I am not sure it worked.”

“You said that he was troubled. What did you mean?”

“He faltered when fighting a large monster, and I panicked, exposing my identity when I incinerated the monster.”

“I see.” Kuseno pauses, absorbing the information. “Will that be an issue?”

“It will be troublesome. I worry about Saitama-sensei. I was hoping for peace and quiet while he and I came up with a plan of action, but I’m certain news will have spread by evening.”

“My boy,” Kuseno’s lips quirk into a smile. “The moment you stepped in front of the camera you sealed your fate. You will likely have to issue a statement for your return.”

“I know. I have already planned on how I will do it.”

“Oh?” Kuseno raises an eyebrow. “Do tell.”

“Oi,” comes Saitama’s voice from the stairwell. “I used your shower real quick, old man. I hope that’s okay.”

“I don’t mind, Saitama.” He steps away from Genos and beckons Saitama forward. He has a towel wrapped around his waist, droplets of water still sliding down his chest.

Genos is staring. Saitama realizes it’s the first time he’s been half-naked in front of him in a long time and feels heat crawl up his neck. “Ah, sorry. Should I get changed? My suit’s kinda gross, so I thought...”

“It’s fine.” Kuseno smiles. “In regards to the scan, it will be easier this way. Your suit blocks most of your skin, after all. But before we do that, I was going to go eat, if you don’t mind waiting.”

“Oh, ‘course not.” Saitama waves his hand. “Go eat. Thanks for doing all this, by the way.”

“It’s my pleasure. Please, make yourself comfortable.”

When Saitama looks over at Genos, he’s still staring, his eyes intent on the center of Saitama’s chest. Is it the heart thing?

“Don’t worry, Genos,” he assures him. “I’ll be fine. Just because he had it, doesn’t mean I will.” He swallows, lowering his gaze to the ground. “Right?”

“It’s possible,” Genos says, sounding like he isn’t sure he believes it. Saitama shifts, sending the towel inching down his waist until he yanks it back up with his hand. Genos’ eyes follow the motion, and Saitama feels oddly exposed. He was never very conscious of himself around Genos. One memorable time, Genos walked into the living room when Saitama was completely naked and eating stale potato chips off of his chest.

It feels different, now. He’s starting to sweat under his gaze.

“Y’know what, I should get dressed,” he says, shifting from foot to foot. “Do you have any old clothes lying around here?”

His words snap Genos out of whatever trance he’s in. He glances away, his lips pressed thin.

“I can check,” he says, sounding a little strangled. “Kuseno must have kept some of my effects.”

He turns on his heel and starts for the stairway, leaving Saitama standing awkwardly by the examination table.

Saitama slips onto the table with a sigh and looks around. The lab is creepier when no one is around. Genos was only fifteen when he came here, meaning that he spent a good chunk of his life in this lab, being tested on over and over until his cyborg body was ready for battle.

He can’t imagine living a life focused solely on revenge. It leaves a sour taste in his mouth.

Which is why it’s so weird that this—this version of Genos is so much brighter than he was in this universe. He’s happier.

Why wasn’t I able to do that? He slides his fingers over the cool metal, watching his heat disperse across the surface. Aren’t we supposed to be the same person? What does he have that I don’t?

He wants to know, but at the same time, he’s afraid that the truth will rattle his already frail expectations of himself. The way Genos describes him—he sounds like how he should have been. Ready to take on the world and try new things, to become the hero that he always wanted to be.

Turns out, he’s nothing like that at all. In comparison, he’s...

“Sensei, here.”

Saitama nearly jumps out of his skin as Genos thrusts a pair of shorts and a T-shirt into his arms. He spreads the T-shirt wide; the arms are gone in typical Genos fashion, which draws a small smile out of Saitama.

“Thanks, Genos. I’ll just change here if you want to close your eyes.”

There’s a quiet, intense silence where Genos says nothing, his eyes boring holes into Saitama. Then he nods and his eyes go dark, but he turns around anyway. Saitama turns around as well, quickly shoving the pants and shirt onto his body.

“Okay, done. How do I look? I feel kinda silly.”

Genos turns around and his eyes go wide. The clothes are a little big on him; the deep V exposes some of Saitama’s pecs, and if it were just a few inches lower, his nipples would be showing. The one thing that bothers Saitama the most, and is typical of Genos, is the lack of underwear. Neither of them mention it.

“You look…good,” Genos says lamely. He’s staring at Saitama’s chest again. Saitama gets it; the heart thing is freaking him out, too.

“So, where is this scanner, anyway?”

“Ah.” Genos looks around before pointing to a machine off to their right. “For a full body scan, Dr. Kuseno used to hook up by body to sensors and electronic devices intended to reach the electronic signals, but since you are fully human, I expect that he has modified the sensors to have a better range.”

“Huh.” Saitama approaches the machine curiously. “So I just hook up to this? Can’t we do it now?”

“Do you know where to put the sensors?” Genos asks, cocking his head. Saitama gets the distinct impression that he’s being teased.

“Maybe I do. Hold on, lemme try.” He turns away and picks up the small suction cup things, gently placing them along his face. Two go above his eyebrows, and three he sets on his cheeks; five more go on his chin. When he turns back around, he spread his arms wide. “How does it look, Genos?”

“Sensei is very creative,” he says calmly, but his lips are twitching, like he’s on verge of laughter. Saitama approaches him until he’s only inches away, still covered in a ridiculous amount of sensors.

“Come on, don’t I look good?”

Genos’ lips tremble. He bites the lower one, and Saitama’s eyes watch as his teeth worry the skin. In a last ditch attempt to get a reaction out of him, Saitama rips a bunch of the sensors from his skin. Whatever Genos sees there must look strange, because a sound erupts from the back of his throat and he lets out a bark of laughter, lips stretching into a wide smile.

He’s laughing. Saitama has never seen him laugh. His lips part in surprise. For all he tries to be serious, Saitama sometimes forgets he’s just a kid.

Genos quickly reigns himself in, disturbed by his own lack of professionalism.

“Saitama—sensei,” he corrects, effectively evaporating Saitama’s good feelings. “You should put those away. The doctor will probably be back soon.”

“Right,” Saitama says. What was he thinking, trying to make Genos laugh? All he thinks about is the other him, the one that isn’t like the Saitama of this world.

The one that isn’t a failure.

Chapter Text

Along with the scan, Kuseno has Saitama run on a treadmill. He pulls one out of an old pile of machinery that he intended to discard. It’s aged but looks well used, which means it must have been a part of their routine at some point. Maybe when Genos was human Kuseno made him get into shape before he went full-on cyborg.

The thought is amusing, but with his concerns rooted to his own health, he doesn’t have the patience to ask. With Genos’ help, they quickly get it in working condition, and after he’s hooked up to some sensors, Saitama immediately starts running.

After that, they break for lunch, eating the onigiri that Saitama made, and then conduct a few more rudimentary tests, and he gets a full body scan just as promised.

The results, unfortunately, are mostly inconclusive. 

With equipment not suited to the types of scans that medical doctors use, Kuseno shows them clear results, but they are far from what will give them a definitive answer. Genos seems crestfallen, and Saitama is silent, looking at the results of the scans as if it will offer him the answers that he wants to hear.

“You appear to be in peak health, from what I can tell,” Kuseno says, pointing to different parts of the scan. Saitama leans down to look at where he’s pointing. Along with the results of the scan, there’s a helpful diagram that he’s printed, which shows a 3D image of the skeletal structure and the layout of Saitama’s body. “Normally this condition would be diagnosed based on medical history, such as your symptoms and family history. Saitama, are you aware if any of your family members had issues similar?”

He shakes his head. “I don’t think so.”

Genos makes a sound of discontent. He’s looking at the diagram, fingers tracing the arteries surrounding his heart as if he can detect the problem by staring at it hard enough.

“I see,” Kuseno says, moving to gesture to the treadmill test’s results. “We have conducted what functions as a layman’s physical exam, but since we have no means to do an echocardiogram test our best bet is to look at the results. Additional blood tests and X-rays may give us more information, but as I said,” his lips quirk downward, “I lack the proper equipment.”

“It’s fine,” Saitama says, feeling overwhelmed by the amount of information he’s meant to comprehend. He leans back with a short sigh and watches as Genos lean even closer to the diagram, his eyes flashing. “Anything else you can tell us?”

“Your heart muscle, which is here,” he points at Saitama’s chest, “does not look abnormally thick, which would suggest that your blood flow is not obstructed.  Your heart valves appear to be moving normally as well. The tests are not completely accurate, but I see nothing that stands out to me at a glance. Genos,” he says, turning to him, “have you found anything of note?”

That, at least, calms Saitama’s nerves. Kuseno doesn’t mess around when it comes to results; if he had something to show, he would tell them about it.

Cautious hope flits in his chest. Maybe he won’t have to worry about dropping dead anytime soon.

“No,” Genos admits, responding to Kuseno’s question and sounding miserable for it. Saitama lays a hand on his shoulder, offering him a firm pat. “I am sorry, sensei.” His fingers go tight around the edge of the table. “After what happened, I should be more apt to deal with this situation—“

“I’m gonna stop you right there,” Saitama interrupts. “You couldn’t have known that this would happen, dude. You thought I was dead. And from what it looks like, I don’t have the hypo thing.” He projects a confidence that he doesn’t exactly feel, adding a hesitant, “probably.”

Genos looks doubtful, but the relieved look that he offers Saitama for his consideration makes him feel oddly warm. He scratches the back of his neck, letting his hand slide down Genos’ shoulder absently.

“We’re gonna be okay,” he adds, squeezing his metal triceps lightly. “You don’t have to worry so much.”

Genos turns to face him. His gaze is piercing and intense, as if Saitama might disappear the moment he takes his eyes off him. He feels an odd warmth surface in his chest.

“I will not lose you again,” he states. The warmth continues to collect in Saitama’s chest and he looks away, not entirely sure why he’s feeling so good when, by all accounts, this is an unhappy situation. 

“’Course.” He nods, then turns to Kuseno. “Thanks for everything, doc. You were a big help.”

Genos faces Kuseno and bows deeply. “Indeed, doctor. I will keep in touch.”

“It is my pleasure.” Kuseno rubs the underside of his chin, flashing both of them a smile. “I’ll let you take these diagrams with you. If you have any other concerns, I’m just a phone call away.”

“Yeah.” Saitama nods, turning to Genos. “Let’s go, Genos.”

They return to the apartment, newfound information in hand. Saitama goes to use the bathroom and Genos makes a detour into the notebook room to further reading on his universe. Saitama decides to leave that to him and picks up on his most recent manga series, which he abandoned in the wake of Genos’ death.

It isn’t until they’re both settled into their respective reading material that he hears the familiar sound of a drone landing beside his apartment.

“Oh, is it that time already?” The last time he received the mail felt like just yesterday.

Genos used to make a mad dash for the mail every time it was delivered so he could incinerate the worst of Saitama’s hate mail. It was his favorite pass-time, and he didn’t think Saitama knew when in fact he knew right from the start. It made Genos feel better though, and Saitama had no urge to see what was inside the envelopes.

He still remembers seeing a few letters addressed with Genos’ name not long after his death. He’d been rattled by the sight, unable to bear looking through what would likely have been very heartfelt letters addressed to the late Demon Cyborg.

Saitama stands and approaches the door. Outside, the sun is starting to set, dipping down behind some of the taller buildings. He leans over the balcony and watches the drone land safely on the ground near one of the potholes.

“Are you fetching the mail?”

Genos’ voice startles him.

Saitama nods, and starts walking towards the stairs, taking them a few at a time. Once he’s in front of his apartment, he kneels by the drone and rips off the hood. Inside there are just a few letters, all of them addressed to Saitama.

“There are surprisingly few,” Genos notes, leaning over his shoulder. Saitama fishes them out of the box and then pats the body of the drone before sending it on its way.

“What do you mean?” he asks absently, fingering the sealed flaps on one of the thickest. It’s better to get it over with before he steps inside; then he can recycle them, at least.

“Usually you receive more. However,” he holds his hand out and Saitama hands him one of the letters, “I suppose your popularity would be lessened if your fan base is smaller.”

As if he has one. Saitama raises his head, on the edge of laughter, but Genos’ expressions halts him.

He looks angry. The furrow of his brow deepens as he continues to scan the letter.

“What’s wrong?” Saitama asks casually. “Is it that bad?”

“Who would send this?!” he snaps, turning the letter around for Saitama to see.

He hunches slightly to get a closer look.

It’s pretty average, as far as hatemail goes. The sender first talks about how Saitama doesn’t deserve to have Genos so close to him, and then goes on to say that he is to blame for Genos’ death. He feels a twinge of discomfort reading the words, but it’s nothing like the fury evident on Genos’ face.

“Don’t worry, sensei. I will locate the sender and I will make them apologize for slandering your name like this. How dare they say such things about you? Don’t they understand how much work goes into being a hero, let alone—“

“Genos,” Saitama interrupts, plucking it from his fingers. “Don’t worry about it. This is normal.”

“Normal?” Genos parrots incredulously. “This hasn’t been normal since—” He stops, eyes lighting with recognition. “I see. This is because you took a different path from my—Saitama-sensei.”

“Yeah, I guess.” He looks down at the letter that’s now burning in Genos’ hand and fights to bury the hot twinge of jealousy that surges inside of him. It’s ridiculous how inferior he feels to his own self.

“Hey,” he says suddenly, “let’s have dinner. I’ll go shopping and get us groceries since you’re back and all.”

“That is an excellent idea. I will join you, sensei.”

“You’ll be exposed, remember?” Saitama points out.

“Had we not agreed to ‘rip off the band-aid’ in regards to my disappearance?”

“Oh.” Saitama blinks. “Right. I guess we could do that, but I’d be pretty annoying to deal with those reporters right now, y’know?”

Plus, he’s tired. Saitama always feels tired, but lately it’s been worse. He hasn’t been sleeping well, and Genos’ appearance hasn’t done anything to assuage those symptoms. He’s had nightmares on more than one occasion where he finds a Genos that’s alive and well, only to lose him in increasingly horrific ways.  

He glances at Genos. He returns his gaze with a look of understanding and nods.

“Yes, sensei.” He bows his head. “I’ll have the apartment cleaned by the time you return.”

 They part. Saitama leaves right then and there with his wallet in his pocket. Genos marches up the stairs and Saitama watches him disappear into the apartment, tempted to rip the door open and run inside to make sure that this isn’t another figment of his imagination.

The whole world saw him earlier. It can’t get any more real than that.

Dealing with the press is going to be unpleasant. Saitama dislikes the way that they function in their current society. He likes to stick to news stations that give him the facts and little of the fanfare. That way, he can avoid the rumors about heroes and the criticisms for the association.

It’s a job, he adds silently, swinging his hands at his side. The grocery store isn’t far, but the evening sun is hot, and he wants to be back with Genos.

He thinks of his breathtaking smile, and the hoodie that he hasn’t changed out of. The strands of hair that escape his ponytail and brush his cheeks. His lips, forming Saitama’s name, eyes bright and shining.

His heart thumps, harder than before.

Saitama curls his fingers over his chest, heat crawling up his neck and filling his cheeks. What am I thinking?

He never noticed Genos before—not the way he does now. There’s something between them that he can’t place—something that sets him apart from his Genos. The sense of familiarity between them stretches deeper, striking Saitama in a way he doesn’t yet understand.

He wipes the sweat from his brow, quickening his pace.

He opens the door to find Genos kneeling on the floor, scrubbing away at the wood in front of the doorway.

“Having fun?” he asks, shutting the door quietly behind him. Genos perks up, twisting his body to look at Saitama.

“I am nearly finished,” he states seriously. “I apologize for being so slow.”

“Dude, it’s fine.” Saitama waves his free hand, adjusting the heavy bags over his elbow. “Did you catch up on any more reading?”

“Not yet.” Genos sets down the wood polish and the sponge he’s using and stands. “Let me help you, sensei.”

“Oh. Sure.” Saitama hands him a few of the heavier bags and heads for the kitchen. When he turns around, Genos is already squeezing past him, eggs and a bag full of instant rice in hand. Saitama sucks in a sharp breath, leaning back against the counter.

For some reason, it’s hard to breathe when Genos gets this close to him.

Saitama puts the eggs away and moves towards the pantry. Genos’ free hand brushes his arm, his fingers cool against his skin.

“Genos,” he stammers, because he doesn’t know why he feels this way, why he can’t seem to shake the effect that Genos’ presence has on him.

“Yes?” Genos turns, and their faces are close; inches apart. Saitama licks his lips. 

“I, um.” He’s forgotten how to think. “Stir fry. I was thinking we could make something with the leftover stir fry for dinner.”

Genos blinks, then yanks his head away, avoiding Saitama’s eye, steam drifting lazily from the vents in his shoulders.

“That sounds wonderful, sensei.” His voice sounds slightly strained. “What did you have in mind?”

Saitama turns around and places his hands on the counter. He shrugs. For some reason his mind is blank, like he’s distracted.

He looks at Genos and watches him put groceries away, methodic and logical in his approach.

“What about you? Do you have any recipes you remember?” Saitama asks. “We could add some oil. That’s your favorite, right?”

Genos’ head jerks, and he looks at Saitama, his eyes wide.

“I did not realize you remembered such a small detail.”

“Oi.” Saitama lightly punches Genos’ bulky shoulder with his knuckles. “I pay attention sometimes. You wrote about it in your notebooks one time. You thought it was weird.” He leans back against the counter and folds his arms. “It’s not that weird. I mean, you’re a robot, so you’re gonna like oil, right?”

“Your logic is infallible,” Genos says, a mixture of dissatisfaction—at himself, Saitama realizes—and amusement. “I don’t think you can eat oil, however.”

“Guess not,” Saitama replies. He cocks his head towards the ceiling. “Maybe we could make you an oil salad.”

“It’s hardly necessary, but,” Genos pauses, fingers gripping the edge of the counter, “thank you.”

While he’s thinking of a solution to a minor problem, he misses the expression on Genos’ face; fleeting, and almost desolate.

“Sensei,” Genos starts the next morning. He’s staring out the window, framed by the morning sunlight, his hair tied loosely. Strands float and catch on his cheeks when he looks back at Saitama. “I believe we have company.”

“Huh?” Saitama approaches the window and peers out, venturing closer than Genos. It’s immediately obvious why; there’s a woman outside his apartment, snooping around the desecrated streets. He thinks ‘snooping’ because she’s taking careful steps and digging through the nearby trash. “Who would be all the way out in City Z for some trash?”

“I think she is a part of the media,” Genos says grimly.

“Really?” Saitama frowns. “How do you know?”

“There is a camera hanging around her neck, and she seems like she’s looking for something specific. Evidence of your address, maybe.”

“My address?”

“You remember how I was partially exposed to the media? I think she’s trying to find old mail that you might have thrown out.”

“Well she won’t find it. I recycle,” Saitama points out.

Genos nods, distracted.

“Perhaps it would be best to reveal ourselves now.”

“Yeah,” he says, but a small, vicious part of Saitama rears inside him at the thought of revealing Genos to the world, of losing this time with him.

He instantly feels shame for thinking so; Genos deserves to live a normal life.

What’s wrong with me?

He inhales, then exhales, releasing his clenched fists.

“Let’s go, Genos.”

Once outside, they find her peering into the empty garbage bin next to his apartment. Saitama coughs politely to signal his approach, but she jumps nonetheless, spinning around the face the two of them.

“W-Who—” Her eyes gravitate towards Genos. “It’s you.” Her mouth stretches into a wide smile. “It’s really you! Demon Cyborg! I’ve been searching for you everywhere.”

“In the trash?” Saitama asks. The reporter ignores him.

“Demon Cyborg, allow me to introduce myself.” She thrusts her hand out boldly between them. “My name is Fumi and I would love to get the full story on your reappearance. Less than a year ago the world mourned your death. Was it all a lie?”

Genos ignores the outstretched hand and stares at Fumi, his lip curling in clear distaste.

“Unnecessary. I only wanted to get your attention so you could spread a message.” Genos straightens to his full height, nearly towering over the reporter. She blinks, fear entering her expression.

“I had to fake my death due to external forces. Thanks to Saitama-sensei’s help, they have been eradicated. That is all.”

“That’s all? But what about—”

Genos turns away and makes for Saitama’s apartment. Saitama moves to follow, glancing back at the flabbergasted reporter still standing there, her mouth hanging open.

“Wait!” she calls, but Genos has ascended the stairs and disappeared. Saitama, following at a slower pace, takes only one step, bracing his hand on the railing, before she notices him.

“You!” she calls, approaching quickly. “You’re Caped Baldy, yes? Why would Demon Cyborg need your help?”

Her response is full of disdain. It’s nothing Saitama isn’t used to, but this time, it stings. He feels the cement railing crack under his fingertips, then, after a beat, he ascends the stairs, taking one step at a time. He doesn’t answer her question.

Genos is here because he wants to be, he thinks, but then he’s reminded of the other world; the one where Genos belongs, the one that has the other Saitama.

The better one.

“Hey, Genos,” Saitama starts upon entering the doorway. He kicks the door closed behind him and lifts his head just in time to see Genos’ grip the bathroom doorknob, only to have his arm phase through, pulling him with it.

Chapter Text

To say Saitama’s heart stops would be putting it lightly.

“Genos!” he shouts, standing frozen as Genos tumbles through the closed door. Once he’s out of sight, Saitama’s feet start moving on their own, and then he’s yanking open the door, fingers slipping frantically against the doorknob.

He finds him lying on the floor, palms flat against the tile, looking dazed.

“Genos! Are you—” okay, he wants to say, but how can he be when he’s disappearing?! “What—what the hell was what?”

“I don’t know,” Genos admits. “I didn’t think it would happen again. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“So it wasn’t a fluke,” Saitama says. The sound of his own voice, awash with despair, spurs Genos into action. He stands, taking Saitama’s hands, pulling them close to his chest.

“Sensei. I’m here,” he says. “I will not leave, Saitama. I promise.”

“You don’t know that.” Saitama’s voice wavers, and worse yet, his vision starts to blur. “You’re disappearing, Genos.”

“I will find the cause,” Genos insists, despite how blind he is to what’s happening; how blind they both are. His seeks to instill confidence in Saitama, but as he squeezes Saitama’s fingers, he can feel the slight tremor at the motion. He isn’t sure which one of them is the cause.

“I do not know what’s happening,” Genos continues, “but I promise you: I will not disappear.”

You can’t, Saitama thinks, the words clogging his throat. You can’t leave me again.

He opens his mouth to speak, but the words won’t form properly on his tongue. He can’t articulate what it means to see Genos suddenly fade through things like his body is moments away from disappearing from this world entirely. 

Genos is still hovering in front of him, so close, murmuring words of comfort. His hands feel cool against Genos’ fingers.

Saitama pulls one hand free and feels at Genos’ chest, for his own sanity, seeking out the hum of his core.

When he looks up at Genos, he’s even closer than Saitama remembers.

He doesn’t know what possesses him to do it. Maybe it’s the way that Genos is looking at him, like he’s the most important thing in the world. Maybe it’s because Saitama knows it’s the other version of himself gets to have all of Genos’ affection wholeheartedly, without any stipulations.

Maybe it’s because he realizes he’s in love with a Genos he can’t have.

He thinks about how unfair it is that he should be jealous of himself when he’s dead, and his body moves on its own.

When Saitama kisses him, Genos goes completely and utterly still.

It only takes a second for Saitama to realize the err of his ways and scramble backwards, his face burning hot.

“I’m sorry, that was stupid. This is stupid,” he stammers.

His tongue feels uncomfortable in his mouth. Saitama feels the distinct urge to get up and make a dead run for the nearest exit; anything that will tear him away from the situation that he’s just worked himself into.

He kissed Genos.

The Genos that looking at him, staring, like he doesn’t know how to process what Saitama just did, isn’t helping any. Beads of sweat roll down the back of Saitama’s neck, and his stomach twists uncomfortably.

“I get it. I mean,” Saitama lets out a mirthless laugh, “you like him. You don’t like me. Not like that. He knew you.”

Genos opens his mouth, and then closes it, the expression on his face one of pure incredulity. Saitama can’t look at him, can’t believe he just kissed Genos. What was he thinking?!

“I’m—not him. I get it, man,” he continues, as the silence reigns on, suffocating in its intensity. “It was so stupid, just forget I ever did it—”

“No!” Genos shouts. It’s so loud that both of them startle. Genos leans forward. “No, sensei—Saitama. You also know me.”

It’s like a switch has been flipped. All Genos’ former hesitation flies out the window, his tone pleading. He reaches out and takes hold of Saitama’s hands, bringing him closer, ignoring the way that Saitama leans in the opposite direction, still childishly refusing to look at him. “You are not different people. You are my sensei just like he was my sensei.”

There is still a great deal of confusion in his voice, but Genos speaks frantically, urging Saitama to understand.

“You know that’s not true,” Saitama says, trying and failing not to sound bitter. “In this universe I just got lucky. I’m not like him!”

He gestures at himself with a sweep of his hand. Genos follows the path of his hand and furrows his brow.

“I’m not as smart or popular,” Saitama adds, because Genos doesn’t look like he’s getting it. “People hate me. You obviously had a better life there when you were both happy.”

Genos’ eyes widen at that, going silent, staring at him. The severe look on his face hasn’t faded, and as they stand there, staring at each other, Saitama breathing hard and trying to rip his hands free of Genos’ iron grip without tearing his fingers off. The longer that Genos waits, unspeaking, the more it feels like he can see straight through him, and Saitama hates it.

He finally manages to yank his hands out of Genos’ grasp and moves to stand, but Genos takes hold of his shirt, following him, not letting him run like he desperately wants to.

“Saitama, you must not think such things. They are completely untrue. While I was…happy, I am also happy now. With you. You are the same, Saitama,” he states, like it will make Saitama believe him.

“You never call him me Saitama. Just him. That’s his name, isn’t it? You guys were probably really close and I’m…I’m just sensei.”

He sounds like a spoiled brat, the way he’s talking about it. He should be happy that Genos is with him. And he is happy. But that doesn’t negate how inadequate he feels around all the evidence that points to him being just a copy of a better version of himself. The successful one, not the failure.

“You are one and the same,” Genos repeats, his voice edging onto an unhappy whine. “I would not stay with you if that were the case. Please be reasonable, Saitama!”

“I am being reasonable,” Saitama shoots back, tearing from his grasp for what he hopes will be the final time.

He walks away from Genos, into the kitchen, but realizes his mistake when Genos follows him, using the limited space to press in close. Steam is billowing gently from his shoulders and some of the warmth brushes past Saitama’s already warm cheeks. He closes his eyes, taking a deep breath.

This is the most embarrassed he’s felt in all his life.

“There’s not enough room in here for the both of us,” he says. He stares down at his feet so he doesn’t have to look directly at Genos.

“Saitama.”

“Stop calling me that,” he blurts.

“Saitama,” Genos repeats stubbornly. He braces his hands on either side of Saitama, palms flat against the counter. “Saitama. Saitama.”

Saitama chances a glance up at his face and once their eyes meet, it’s like he’s trapped, unable to avoid his gaze any longer. His face is serious, but his eyes are wide and pleading. Saitama can see his irises moving, evidence that he’s running one of his scans.

He wonders what Genos sees, and then abruptly decides he doesn’t want to know.

“Saitama.”

“Quit it.”

“Saitama. Saitama.” His voice drops low, a rasp of his name, cherished and reverent. Saitama swallows, placing a hand on Genos’ chest.

“Seriously, Genos. I’m not…”

“You are,” he insists imploringly, leaning forward. His body is so bulky and hot that Saitama can feel the warmth emanating from his chest. “There are differences, yes, but the person I admire…the person that I love is you.”

Saitama inhales sharply, breath hitching. His chest feels like it might cave in, and his heart won’t stop pounding.  

“But I’m not him,” he says, ignoring how Genos’ confession shakes him to his core. “The way you talk about him…he was everything to you.”

The sound that comes out of Genos’ mouth encapsulates his frustration. He steps away from Saitama, giving him space to finally breathe. He doesn’t realize he’s been holding his breath until it comes out in an unsteady rush.

“You are everything to me,” Genos declares. He lurches forward, like he wants to do—something, but resists, fingers curling up at his side. “How can you not see that?” He sounds genuinely distressed. “For all your supposed faults, you care more than he ever did. When I—”

Genos pauses, averting his gaze.

“When you what?” Saitama asks, despite himself. What does Genos mean by him caring more?

Then it hits him: before Genos died, he didn’t care.

Okay, maybe not exactly like that, but he didn’t know Genos. He never made an effort to ask him about his life; he took it for granted that Genos was always there for him. He’d always assumed their relationship would build with time. So, when all he had was time, he started reading his journals and learned a lot of things he should have already known.

“I should not speak ill of the dead,” Genos finally says. His shoulders slump and he shifts away, his stance soon reverting to that of the polite student he’s always tried his hardest to be.

“Genos—”

“It is okay,” Genos says, suddenly weary. “As you said, it was a mistake on your part. It is fine."

Saitama reaches out, but Genos takes a step back.

“Genos.”

It’s like their positions are suddenly flipped, and Saitama is the one struggling to reach Genos. The sudden change is startling, so much so that Saitama is pulled unerringly back into his orbit, despite having done his best to escape it.

Genos is staring at a spot on the wall past his head. He looks miserable. Saitama feels like an asshole, and has no idea what he’s doing, but seeing Genos like that is too much to bear.

“Tell me, Genos.” Saitama lifts his hand, his fingers brushing the side of Genos’ face. He startles, jerking away from his touch.

“Saitama—”

“Come on, man. Tell me at least he did something stupid like I just did.” Genos doesn’t immediately respond, and Saitama leans in close, bumping his fist lightly into his shoulder. “It’ll make me feel better about being an idiot.”

Genos finally looks at him, and then his shoulders dip.

“I confessed to him,” Genos admits. It’s not what Saitama is expecting to hear. “He was accepting, but he did not…feel the same. I could tell. He wanted me to be with him, but not in the way that you do. Did,” he adds dejectedly.

It reminds Saitama that Genos just told him he loved him a few minutes ago. And Saitama brushed his feelings aside because he was jealous of a version of himself that doesn’t even exist anymore.

He opens his mouth, words left hanging on his lips because he doesn’t know if he has the strength to say them.

At the end of the day, at the end of all this, Genos died, and then he came back. Saitama has never known another person that has been as lucky as him.

That Saitama is dead. Genos is alive.

What am I doing? he thinks abruptly. 

He thinks about how he promised himself he wouldn’t waste this chance. Genos came back, and he’s acting so afraid, like it fucking matters. Genos is back, he’s back. Alive. So what is he doing, letting things go like this?

Saitama takes one step, bringing him into contact with Genos’ chest.

“Saitama—sensei—” Genos tries, overcorrecting himself, unsure.

Saitama cups the sides of his face and kisses him.

It’s just a soft press of lips. Saitama doesn’t have any experience in kissing people. He doesn’t think Genos does either.

It takes only a few seconds for Genos to respond.

He surges forward, pushing Saitama back against the counter. He’s too excited, and their lips slide apart, Genos’ lips catching the corner of Saitama’s mouth. Genos grunts in the back of his throat and grips Saitama by the sides of his face, holding him still while he kisses him.

It’s really awkward, and it’s also amazing.

Saitama plants a steadying hand on Genos’ hip, pulling away so he can breathe. They’re just kissing normally—no tongue involved—but he still feels out of breath, and he can tell how red his face is.

They stare at each other for a few seconds. Saitama brings his hand up and cards it through Genos’ long hair, tugging on the band holding his hair into that stupid ponytail of his.

“You said you loved me,” Saitama says. He still can't believe it.

Genos ducks his head, but Saitama’s hand hasn’t moved, and he ends up nuzzling into his palm. The steam is coming out faster now. Saitama is going to start sweating at this rate.

“It was—” Genos peeks up at him through his lashes. “I said it without thinking. You would have every right to be angry with me”—there is the barest of pauses, and Genos’ lips twitch up—“Saitama.”

“Why would I be mad?” Saitama frowns, letting his hand fall. “I literally just kissed you, so I’d say you’re in the clear. Besides,” he pauses, rubbing the back of his neck, “I kinda care about you a lot. So, yeah.”

Saitama doesn’t usually do feelings. But with Genos, he figures he deserves his honesty.

Then Genos smiles, soft and sweet, so unlike anything Saitama has ever known that he reaches out again, intent on kissing him and letting him know exactly how he feels.

Within the span of one second and the next, Genos falls forward. It takes Saitama a second to realize that Genos isn’t trying to kiss him; no, the panicked look on Genos’ face tells him all he needs to know.

It’s his entire body that fade this time, losing their physical appearance, looking almost ghost-like before he falls straight through Saitama—straight through the floor, dropping down below in a way that is utterly terrifying.

Saitama can’t breathe. He makes a sound, something between agony and surprise, and raises his fist. He doesn’t even give it a second thought before he shoves his fist into his floor, punching a hole through it, revealing the abandoned apartment below his where Genos is lying on the floor in a daze.

“Saitama,” he says, his brows furrowed. “I—”

His voice cuts off as he fades again, his body shimmering, flickering. He falls once more and Saitama drops down, punching through the ground more aggressively, gritting his teeth against a scream, destroying the floor in an attempt to reach Genos.

When Saitama finds him, he’s in the basement of the apartment complex, clinging to the ground like he’s afraid it will fall out from under him again.

“What the fuck!” Saitama exclaims, an anger he’s never felt before igniting inside him. He’s never felt anything like this before—not for years, not for eons, it feels like. “Why is this happening? Why now? What the hell—”

He breaks off, the rush of emotion swelling painfully. His vision blurs, tears clinging to his eyelashes. He swipes furiously at his eyes, and flinches when Genos touches him, pulling his hands away.

“I…” Genos holds onto his hands, less for Saitama’s comfort and more for his own, he suspects. He looks terrified. “I don’t know. But I will—I will find the source.”

His confidence is less sure this time, the terror of slipping through multiple floors still plain on his face. Saitama never wants to see that expression there again.

“You don’t know what this even is!” Saitama says. “I don’t even know what this is. We should—fuck. I don’t know. I don’t know!" If he had hair, he’d be tearing it out. One minute, they were kissing, exploring a new aspect of their relationship, and now…whatever this is. "We should find somebody. We have to find somebody. Someone's gotta know something. This isn’t normal. You shouldn’t be disappearing, like—” Like you’re going to leave.

“Let us go to Kuseno,” Genos offers. “He is the only person I trust to help us right now.”

He smooths his thumbs over Saitama’s, an uncertain gesture that he doesn’t seem to be aware he’s doing. Saitama threads their fingers, telling himself it has nothing to do with his own comfort and everything to do with how Genos could disappear, and if maybe he holds on, he’ll stay.

Maybe it’s both.

“Okay.” Saitama pulls Genos closer, letting his instincts lead the way as he wraps his arms around his bulky shoulders, burying his face in Genos’ neck. He’s so warm, so real. “Maybe the old man will have some advice, at least. There has to be a reason.”

If there is, it’s not a fair one, he thinks, feeling suddenly so, so tired and empty that he would cry again if he could manage it.

Genos hugs him back, lips brushing the space above Saitama’s ear. They stand like that for a while—as long as Saitama can stand, wanting the comfort of holding Genos while the threat of his disappearance looms above them.

Chapter Text

They can’t get to Kuseno’s fast enough. When they arrive, Kuseno greets them with ill contained surprise.

“Genos. Saitama. It feels like it was just yesterday that I saw you. What ever is the matter?”

Below, the comforting tone of his voice does nothing to dissuade Saitma’s fears. He leans on his knees, catching his breath, having run faster than he’s run in a very long time.

“Genos,” he says through wheezing breaths, “Genos is—”

When he does manage to catch it, he still can’t bring himself to say it. He can’t breathe, choking on the notion that Genos maybe isn’t meant for this world; that maybe he was never meant for it, and it’s all been a cruel, cruel twist of fate that allowed him to stay as long as he had.

Why is he disappearing? Why is he—?

“Genos,” he says again, more of a plea this time. Genos’ and lands on his shoulder, warm and real.

“Doctor, we need help.”

They explain the situation as quickly as possible. At first, Kuseno looks as though he doesn’t believe them, but then the hand on Saitama’s shoulder fades and Genos stumbles forward, tripping into Kuseno directly, and it becomes clear after that that something strange is going on.

“Come with me,” Kuseno says, wasting no time.

Kuseno takes Genos to his workstation and conducts various tests similar to the ones he usually would when giving him a diagnostic. Saitama hovers beside them whole time, occasionally reaching out to touch different parts of Genos with the excuse that he’s just checking to make sure parts of him aren’t fading.

In reality…in reality, he doesn’t know. This whole time, during this whole thing with Genos, none of it made sense, but nothing, nothing, is as terrifying as this particular unknown.

There’s a sinking feeling in his chest every time Genos’ and his eyes meet.

Genos looks just as scared as he is.

Eventually, Genos gets sick of Saitama’s constant hovering—or at least, that’s what Saitama assumes—and grabs the hand hovering over his bicep.

“Sorry,” Saitama says. “I’ll stay back and let old man do his thing. Sorry,” he says again.

The change in their relationship is still completely new and fresh. He shouldn’t be pushing it.

“There is no need.” Genos takes his hand in his and threads their fingers, obliterating Saitama’s doubts. His fingers feel cool against Saitama’s sweaty palms.

Kuseno glances briefly at their clasped hands but says nothing. Normally Saitama wouldn’t be interested in PDA, but in this instance, it’s the only thing keeping him relatively calm. Emotions he’s not used to having have bubbled to the surface. Mostly, there’s anger.

He’s so angry.

I just got him back.

His fist tightens around Genos’. It’s only one he sees Genos flinch slightly that he realizes he started bending his fingers the wrong way.

“Ah. Sorry.”

“It’s fine, Saitama.” Genos tugs his hand back when Saitama tries to pull away. “In fact, it is more than fine. Please do not let go.”

Saitama can’t help the tiny smile that arises on his face. It reminds him of the past, when Genos would scramble for crumbs of attention when Saitama wanted nothing to do with him. He feels bad about his past behavior and resolves to make an effort from then on.

“You’re crushing my hand again.”

“Ah...sorry.”

Kuseno turns from his monitor and faces them. “I’ll save my congratulations for after these current events. Speaking of…”

Genos perks up. “Doctor?”

“Your results have come back normal thus far,” he says apologetically. “It may yield different results if we are able to isolate the events in question, which may be our best option at this stage.”

“Is there nothing else we can do?” Genos asks. The hand around Saitama was goes tight, and this time he makes sure not to crush his fingers.

“You are from a parallel universe,” Kuseno replies. He appears calm, but when he sets his hand on the nearby table, it trembles. “This is unprecedented. I have a few theories, but…”

He trails off. Saitama leans forward.

“What are they, old man?”

“Please, Doctor Kuseno.”

“It is only theory,” he says again. “There is thought that those who come into another universe in those brief instances do so because of similarities in a shared space. This lines up with what occurred between you two in Saitama’s apartment. However—”

“However?”

“—the opposite occurrence is what sends travelers back home.”

“What do you mean?” Saitama asks.

“Genos is not from this universe. It is possible that he is essentially torn between worlds, having crossed over but belonging to another. This may be his body’s way of trying to return what it recognizes as his world.”

“Return?” Saitama says, his voice slightly faint.

“No!” Genos slams his fist against the examination table. “I have no desire to return to a world that does not contain Saitama–sensei. I will have to make it stop.”

“I’m not certain it’s something you can control, Genos,” Kuseno says. He shakes his head. “But it is only a theory. I have limited equipment here; it may be your best option to contact the Hero Association and pool together their resources.”

“We don’t have time for that,” Saitama says. “Genos is—“

As if on cue, Genos starts to fade. His hand slips from Saitama’s, and he falls through the table with a heavy thunk.

Saitama doesn’t know what expression he’s making, but when Genos looks up at him, his eyes widen with alarm. “Saitama, I—"

“…Let’s go.” Saitama’s fists clench. “I don’t care if I have to beat every hero on the roster. I’m not letting you go back.”

With anyone else, it would be creepy of him to say that. The possessive tone of his own voice feels wrong. But Genos’ eyes light up, and he smiles.

“Sensei…your dedication moves me.”

“It’s love,” Saitama says, without thinking.

“Huh?”

Saitama hears Kuseno chuckle behind him. His face begins to heat with a blush.

“I said it’s love, damn it!” His fists are tight by his side now, and he won’t look at Genos. “If you’re trying to disappear, then maybe I need to make it clearer why you should stay, Genos. I’ve read every one of your stupid notebooks, and wore your stupid clothes; I wouldn’t do that for just anyone, you know! You’re—”

There are thousand ways to describe what Genos means to him, but none of them can encapsulate his feelings in that moment. Genos moves out from under the examination table and stands, eyes locked onto Saitama. They hear Kuseno shuffle a distance away, but neither of them pay him any attention.

“You’re—” Tears sting Saitama’s eyes. Dammit, dammit, don’t cry! You never cry.

Genos cups his cheeks with both hands and presses his forehead into Saitama’s.

“I won’t leave you. I swear it.”

Saitama’s hands come up over Genos’. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep, idiot.”

Genos’ skin begins to glimmer again. Saitama steps back, immediately on the move. There’s no time to waste gawking over something they can’t change just yet.

“Let’s hurry. I left my suit at our place. It’ll take us a couple minutes to get there, and then we can head to the Association headquarters.”

“Certainly someone must be able to help.”

At Saitama’s behest, they hurry, moving as fast as they ever have. Genos is a blur, barely keeping up with him. If it weren’t for the fact that Saitama doesn’t trust himself to carry Genos and run at full speed, he would pick him up and drag him there even faster.

By the time they reach the apartment, Saitama is really starting to freak out, his breath bursting from his chest not out of exertion, but out of fright. They head inside and he makes a beeline for his room to grab his hero outfit. He may just be a low ranking B class hero, but that doesn’t mean he can’t make them listen. He doesn’t want to make trouble and bring too much attention to himself more than he already has, but if it’s for Genos, he’ll do anything.

“Let’s go,” he says at the door. He goes out first, then turns around and wait for Genos.

Genos nods and begins to step over the threshold. The moment his foot leaves the apartment, he begins to flicker and fade.

“Genos!” Saitama cries. Genos hastily steps back, and just like that, his physical form reorients and solidifies, but not for long. Just as Saitama follows him back inside, Genos fades.

He can’t take this. He can’t. He can’t. He used to remember the way it felt to feel nothing, and now all the feelings he got used to losing clamor inside him, trying to find space where there is none.

“Stop—just stop!” Saitama cries.

“I am trying!” Genos yells. He pats himself down, a futile but furtive effort. “Maybe we…”

His eyes light up.

“Saitama—” he starts.

Then he disappears.

It’s not like before, where he faded into a ghostly state, translucent but still there. This time, he disappears completely.

He’s gone. Not there.

When he returns, he hits the floor with a loud thud, like he’d been spat out by the universe itself.

“Why does it want you back?” Saitama says, feeling like he’s going to burst. “Why can’t you stay? We have to—we have to find a way for you to stay!”

“I…” Genos trails off, shaking his head slowly. He sounds suddenly exhausted, like all the fight he had in him has been sapped away.

He rarely lets on when he doesn’t feel well, preferring to deny it until it’s not possible to do so. Saitama wonders how much the phasing is taking out of him; how much he’s hiding it to keep him from worrying.

“A moment ago, I had a realization. The way I came here,” Genos says, pushing aside some of his exhaustion to focus on the matter at hand. “Doctor Kuseno mentioned that I came here because of a shared space. In the apartment I shared with Saitama—in our apartment, there were two futons neatly folded.”

Genos points to Saitama’s messy futon by the window and then slowly guides his finger to the opposite side of the room, down the hallway where the other futons are stored away.

“The sheets on one were yellow,” he says.

Yellow sheets. Yellow sheets. Why doesn’t he remember yellow sheets?

“If we—if this space can return to what I remember, maybe that will—”

Saitama doesn’t even wait to hear what he’s going to say. He bursts to his feet and sprints down the hallway into the closet. He tears through his belongings until he finds the extra sets of sheets he never uses.

One of them is yellow.

Saitama runs back into the living room and drops down next to his messy futon. He begins folding it, then afterwards shoves it into place where Genos had pointed. He finds the second futon that he hadn’t bothered to pull out and dresses it in the yellow sheets.

Once that’s all done, Saitama looks at Genos, who’s been sitting on the floor in the same exact position since he disappeared.

They stare at each other. Genos’ brows knit, his eyes distant and alight with his scans.

“The hole in the floor,” Genos says. “You punched a hole in the floor.”

“Shit. Shit, I did. Damn it!”

Saitama doesn’t waste time, hurrying to run out the front door and begin gathering scraps of wood. It’s not something he can fix fully, but he can at least do something to make it match what Genos remembers.

Things continue like that for over an hour. Genos will make mention of something that doesn’t reflect the reality in his memory, and Saitama will do everything he can to fix it. It’s surprisingly exhausting, though Saitama hardly moves from the room. Mostly, it’s the pain of seeing Genos flicker and fade, barely holding on enough not to fall through the floor. At first it kept happening faster and faster, but the more that he changed the space, the more solid he seemed.

“I think it’s working!” Saitama yells, even though Genos is only a few feet away. “Genos, how do you feel?”

“Solid! I believe.”

A few more minutes pass where Saitama follows Genos’ instructions to the best of his abilities with what he has available. Thankfully, it seems like everything is within his reach. All it takes is a little arranging here and there.

Hope blooms in his chest when Genos doesn’t fade for a solid five minutes.

“I think…I think you have done it, sensei!” Genos says, after a long period of waiting.

“We’ve done it,” Saitama corrects. “And that’s ‘Saitama’ to you!”

Genos grins. It’s not a small one either; it’s a wide smile that takes up the whole lower half of his face. He looks bright, and beautiful, and for once like his age. Saitama wants to kiss him. He wants to kiss him for hours and hold them until they get sick of each other and then—

The grin suddenly drops off Genos’ face, and then his eyes snap to Saitama’s face. Something lingers in his gaze that Saitama can’t pinpoint.

He disappears. Reappears. Disappears.

It keeps happening, only for flashes of a second.

There, and then gone. There, and then gone.

“Genos!” Saitama yells, and he hears his own voice is fraying, breaking apart at the edges. “Genos!”

The next time he appears, Saitama gathers him into his arms and squeezes him against his chest like he can keep it from happening again through sheer willpower alone.

“I thought this was helping! I thought we were doing it!”

“Saitama,” Genos says slowly, like he’s trying to soothe him. “Saitama, it’s…it is going to be okay.”

Something about the way he says it is off. Whereas the two of them had been scrambling for an answer, Genos abruptly sounds sure of himself, which sets off alarm bells in Saitama’s head.

“Don’t say that,” Saitama says. Not like that.

“I think Doctor Kuseno was correct,” he continues. He lifts his head, gently prying himself out of Saitama’s grip so he can look in his face. He smiles. “I think I understand now. You would need to change everything about this world to keep me here. There’s too much the both of us have experienced differently.”

“Don’t say that!” Saitama snaps. “You belong here. With me. I don’t care about your world, and I don’t care about the other me! I don’t care about any of that! Will you just—please!”

Saitama never believed in God, but now he wonders if this is all some cruel trick by someone with much more power than them. Why else would this be happening to him? Why else torment him like this?

“Saitama,” Genos says, interrupting his thoughts. He meets Saitama’s eyes, and he looks ill. Worse—he looks resigned. His eyes can’t express his thoughts as well as a regular human, but in them Saitama can see his grief laid out on display.

“Saitama,” he repeats, his voice wavering dangerously, attempting to maintain the smile that keeps slipping off his face.

He flickers. He’s gone.

There.

Gone.

There.

No.

“Saitama!” Sudden urgency enters Genos’ voice. He takes the frozen Saitama by the shoulders and gives him a shake. “I have to tell you something.”

No, no, no.

“Unless it has to do with keeping you here, I don’t want to hear it!”

He’s disturbed by the way his voice is breaking. Why does Genos’ sound like that? Why does he sound like he’s given up?

“We’ll figure it out,” Saitama bursts, interrupting Genos’ is next words. “I’ll figure it out. I will. I’ll—the Hero Association, somebody there must have dealt with something like this. If we—if I can just get you settled here, I can going get help. We can figure this out! Genos!”

“Saitama, please,” Genos says, saying his name was such gentle finality that Saitama’s heart breaks a second time.

“No matter what,” Genos begins, a single, oily tear sliding down his cheek, “I want you to live. And—” he brings Saitama’s hand up to his mouth and presses a single kiss to one his knuckles “—know that I will always love you.”

One minute, Genos is a solid weight in his arms. He shimmers, horrifying in its beauty.

Then he’s gone.

Chapter Text

Saitama stares at the space Genos’ was just occupying and waits.

He keeps waiting. There’s nothing else to do.

Blind hope keeps him stone still for an eon, until the setting sun glints off something metal in the distance, forcing Saitama to shift his gaze away from the spot. Then the realization hits him all at once.

Genos hasn’t come back.

He isn’t coming back.

Again, he thinks, an odd sort of numbness crawling up the back of his neck. I lost him again.

Saitama doesn’t know how long he sits there. It could be minutes. It could be hours. He shifts away from the sun, but he doesn’t move, waiting for Genos to come back, or waiting for some sign that he didn’t just imagine everything that happened to him.

That would be better, he thinks. It would be better if it had all been a dream; then at least he would have something to blame.

At some point he feels something wet slip down the back of his hand. Saitama looks down, and sees a drop of oil resting on his knuckle.

It was the tear that Genos cried. Saitama can’t remember the last time Genos cried. Had this version that he knew for just a short while cried often? Had the other Saitama noticed? Had he cared?

The sight of it makes something inside Saitama crack open, revealing a yawning void of helplessness and misery.

He can’t breathe. He can’t say anything. He’s not even sure he can cry. Ragged gasps leave him uneven bursts, and eventually, Saitama just stands up and walks into the kitchen. He takes out a glass of water and fills it. He drains it and then sets it on the counter.

I want you to live.

I love you.

The Association can’t help them. He knows that. He knew that, even when it seemed like their only option. This was all just strange, cruel luck.

Genos is dead.

Genos is gone.

The futile, vast existence that is the rest of his life extends before him.

If I can't even save the one person that matters most, what kind of hero am I?

Saitama moves out of the kitchen, his throat lodged with a lump so large he doesn’t dare speak, and he marches right out the front door. He turns, walks up to the other apartment door and rips it open without bothering with the lock.

The now familiar sight greets him: mountains of journals, all handwritten. The last and most substantial piece of Genos he had.

Now, he may as well have nothing.

Saitama had grieved. He had mourned. He had started trying to live his life in a world without Genos, and now he’s supposed to do it again?

He picks up the first notebook within his reach. He gazes at the cover, taking Genos’ familiar handwriting, and then abruptly pulls it apart. Then he reaches for another and does the same. The next one he finds he tears to shreds too. The next he punches into smithereens.

If there’s nothing he can do, then the least he can do is repeat what Genos did when the other him died. Then, it will at least be the same for both of them.

A hysterical bubble of laughter erupts out of him. He rips his way through a dozen notebooks before he’s even taken a breath, and the only reason he slows down is the way his vision begins to blur. It’s not tears. He doesn’t think he can cry.

He’s angry. Furious enough that he’ll probably spend the next month ripping through as many monsters as he can find.

“What do I tell Kuseno?” he mutters impassively.

For the better part of a half hour, Saitama rips through Genos’ notebooks one by one, page by page. He could destroy the whole room in one go if he wanted to, but he decides it’s better like this.

The worst part about it is that as he works through the first couple dozen notebooks, it doesn’t even feel good. He doesn’t feel satisfied. He watches Genos’ words and their history together flutter and float around him and he feels…

Nothing.

“Damn,” Saitama says. “I’m probably gonna regret this later.”

He pauses with a notebook in his hands. He’s found an unexpectedly low number: #5.

With trembling fingers, he goes to pull it open, but his strength is back to working against him; the pages begin to rip as he pries at them, and then he drops the book to save it from another further damage.

Genos’ words stare back at him.

Not his old Genos. This Genos.

As stated in issue #1 and #4, in deciding to take it upon myself and examine my own notebooks for irregularities, I can find nothing of note in this volume. Saitama is indeed terrifyingly beautiful.

Saitama snorts. He can’t help it.

Man, this sucks, he thinks. I didn’t get to say goodbye again.

That’s what does it. A soft, wounded sound escapes him, and he starts sniffling, rubbing at his eyes in continuous motions, like it’s just a few stray tears getting in his way. Sniffling quickly turns to hiccupping gasps of breaths—a weak attempt to stave it off—and then his chest heaves.

Saitama stands there while his heart bleeds out into the void caught in his chest, consuming every last drop.

One hand Saitama holds over his eyes against the flow of tears, like it will help. He drops to the ground, his other hand crumpling the pages of the notebook.

When he can finally see again, he picks up the page crumpled in his hand and reads. It draws another stiff laugh out of Saitama, and he ends up reading the rest of the notebook, keeping an eye out for Genos’ additions. After that, he picks up another notebook and reads that, too.

It’s all pointless. But it’s therapeutic, in a way, and it’s something to do—continuing where Genos stopped, keeping him alive for a few moments longer. Saitama has to wipe the snot off his face several times until his tears dry up, and soon he’s reading notebook after notebook, following along alternate universe Genos's journey of discovery.

After what feels like hours, Sataima wrenches his head away from his current notebook. The sun has set too low and he can’t see what he’s reading anymore.

In the end I guess I’m glad we got to spend some extra time together, Saitama thinks, but it feels forced. It’s not real.  

All he really feels is regret. Regret that he didn’t say everything he needed to say; regret that he didn’t even get to say goodbye.

“Fuck,” he hisses. “Fuck, fuck, fuck. Fuck fuckfuck, fucking fuck!”

By the end, he’s shouting; he tips his head towards the ceiling and screams behind his palms laid on his face. Then he slams his fist into the ground, hard enough that something shatters in his apartment next door.

He doesn’t care. When he lifts his hand, he feels tired. Really tired. Exhausted.

I guess it’s a lot when your best friend dies a second time, he thinks hollowly.

He attempts to read for a while longer, but his energy peters away. The day’s exhaustive events weigh down on his shoulders. While Saitama is used to feeling like shit most days, he’s not used to feeling weak.

And right now, he feels so weak. Weaker than the early days when he was still training and he could barely move a muscle when he went to bed.

“I guess when it counts, my strength amounts to a whole lot of nothing.”

He looks at his hand tiredly, listing forward, fatigue forming into lethargy. He yawns, a few stray tears slipping down his face now that he’s unguarded and empty. He blinks as the world swims for a second.

I guess I should sleep, he thinks. He traces the remnants of Genos’ life written in the notebook with his fingertips and then gently closes it.

Maybe if he’s lucky, he won’t wake up.

Saitama drags his body to his door and rips it off its hinges. He can’t bring himself to care about breaking it when Genos is gone. It’s not like there’s anyone who would try to steal. The city is empty.

He gives the ruined door a glance and drags his feet to his own apartment door. When he steps inside, he looks around. He peers into the kitchen where the glass on the counter fell and then walks into the living room.

For a moment, he considers going to the Hero Association again. Finding someone who can help him bring general spec.

I could take a bath, he thinks. Saitama walks into the bathroom, decides against the effort, and then walks back into the living room, listless and searching.

When he walks over to the balcony to shut his blinds, something catches his eyes. On the windows connecting the living room and the kitchen, there’s a notebook.

When did that get there?

Saitama flips through it. The number is so high, he realizes it might be the newest addition. It only has a few entries from his Genos, and the parallel universe Genos kept it going.

I will find a way to stay here, was the last thing he wrote.

He always filled those notebooks so quickly. Saitama still can’t figure out how he found the time.  

Saitama sits down in front of the notebook at his small table. He flips to the last page. Inexplicably, he recalls the laptop incident that started this all.

Has Genos already returned to his universe? Would it happen that quickly?

If he has, maybe he's trying to get back here.

That’s just the kind of person Genos is. He tried to keep Saitama calm in the end, but he wouldn’t start moping until he'd lost all hope.

Maybe he’s trying to come back already, and Saitama has been wasting his time.

He scrubs his shirt across his face to wipe away the mess and finds a pen, scrambling together some type of resolve.

I want him back. He decides, screw it.

Send him back, he writes. Old Genos, new Genos, it doesn’t matter to me—he’s just Genos. Send him fucking back to me.

As he pulls his pencil away from the page, his fatigue reaches a new low. He feels so tired he knows that if he closed his eyes he would falsely right there, but underneath the mountain of exhaustion, rage boils up.

“Do you hear that, universe?” Saitama yells, lifting his head. “I’m not gonna rest until that idiot is back in my arms, got it?” He sucks in a huge breath, his anger flaring with a fiery, volcanic heat. “Genos is mine! Got it?! And I’ll—I’ll write it down!” He scribbles the words haphazard along the lines. “Genos…no matter what shitty universe he’s from…or where he’s supposed to be…belongs with me! I’ll write it down as many times as you need, okay?”

He thinks about the laptop again. All these notebooks—they're another part of it.

He'll finish was Genos started.

Saitama bursts from his seat and charges back into the room next door. He grabs the first notebook he sees and starts writing. If Genos could do it, so can he.

It’s Saitama here.

The guy I loved is dead. Genos is dead. Well, I guess he’s not technically dead—but he’s gone. He’s gone he’s gone he’s gone

He stops. Doesn’t erase anything he wrote, but tries again.

Genos, the guy I loved, is gone, and I want him back. I need him back.

Saitama starts writing about Genos. His Genos, and the other Genos. They’re both the same person, if not with slightly different experiences. He writes his way through the last few pages of that notebook, and then he grabs a random one and starts writing in that, too.

If there’s nothing else he can do, at least he can do this.

Genos was hiding that he was back, and he showed himself because I made a stupid mistake. I got scared about that heart thing. It was kind of cool, because he told the reporter that found us that I helped him. That was nice.

I kissed him. I thought it was pretty dumb of me at the time, but Genos kissed me back. Then he told me he loved me.

He kept smiling at me. It was so weird at first. I need to see Genos smile again.

Tears sting at his eyes, but he keeps going. He finds any notebook Genos has added to and writes his own notes. The exhaustion is all-encompassing now, and Saitama bites his tongue to ward away jaw-cracking yawns, forcing his hands to keep moving, his fingers to keep writing.

I’ll make him stay, Saitama writes, recalling the notebook in his apartment. He glances around, realizing he doesn't have it. He left it in his apartment. Crap.

He leaps to his feet and makes a mad dash for the door. Something causes the building to rumble—a monster, maybe—but he ignores it. He doesn’t know why he feels like he needs to run, to get there as fast as he can, but as soon as his fingers wrap around the door handle, the rumbling gets louder.

“Shit,” he hisses, ripping it wide open, right into a bright flash of light.

Something crashes into his living room. He takes a step back just as wood splinters and cracks, pieces flying in all directions from the sudden and swift impact on his living room table.

“What—”                                                                                 

Saitama squeezes his eyes shut against the pieces that fly in his face, and when he opens his eyes, across the room Genos lies on his back in the middle of it all.

Absolute silence follows the impact while the dust settles.

Saitama opens and closes his mouth uselessly. Genos shakes his head slowly, then pats himself up and down. He turns his head; when he sees Saitama, he lets out a sound of disbelief.

“Se…sensei?” he says, the first to speak. “Saitama-sensei?” His eyes light up. “Saitama!”

Then Genos hugs him.

Genos is hugging him.

Saitama’s mind is achingly slow on the uptake. It’s all happening so fast, and he’s so tired that at first, he only registers the weight of another person and not the identity behind it.

“Saitama!” Genos yells, too loudly. He practically blows Saitama’s ear off.

“Genos?” He forces the syllables out. It must be a dream. Some sort of villain trying to trick him.

“It’s me. It’s me, Saitama, Saitama, Saitama!” he cries, saying his name like a mantra. “Saitama, you did it. I don’t know how, but you did it!”

“I… I don’t… Genos? Genos?” His vision blurs. Everything goes hazy as emotion slams into his chest. His voice keeps cracking like he’s twelve. “Genos, is that really you? You’re real, right? ‘Cause if you’re not, I’m gonna be mad.”

“I’m real, sensei. You brought me back!”

Genos’ eyebrows pinch like he’s unhappy, but he’s smiling. Oily tears spilled down his cheeks, and Saitama is weak to his own fragile motion. A sob erupts out of him as he crushes Genos to his chest. The crunch of straining metal is like music to his ears. His chest aches from how hard he starts crying. It would be funny how much Genos has reduced him to a blubbering mess from one hug if he wasn’t so scared it was just going to happen again.

“How?” He touches Genos all over, starting from his shoulders and ending on his face. He brushes his fingers over his hair and that stupid ponytail. “How? Are you going to disappear again? What do I need to do? Tell me. What do I need to do to keep you here?!”

“Saitama, I’m here. I am here, I can feel it! You saved me!”

“What are you talking about? Seriously, explain it to me.”

Genos cups his cheeks and kisses him. It’s not a goodbye kiss. And it’s enough to stall Saitama’s tears.

“I’m not going anywhere, Saitama-sensei. I’m staying here!”

“How do you know that?!” Saitama yells, feeling like hell split apart if Genos doesn’t start talking.

“Forgive me. I have just been overtaken by my own happiness. I remember everything now, Saitama,” Genos says. He hugs Saitama again, squeezing him before he releases him and leans back. “When I was ripped from this world, I felt suspended. Time didn’t seem like it was moving. Then, out of nowhere, I started to remember.”

“Remember what?”

“I now remember the events of this world and my own,” Genos explains. “I don’t know what you did, but just before my arrival, I felt the strangest feeling. It felt like a part of myself had returned, and when I think about myself in this world it’s just…me.”

For a solid few seconds, Saitama just looks at him. “You’re kidding me. Are you trying to say you absorbed Genos’ memories or something?”

“I do not know.” Genos settles into seiza, and it would be hilarious seeing his disciple sit in the middle of his hallway, crushing pieces of cheap wood under his heavy robotic knees any other time. “What did you do, Saitama? How did you accomplish this?” A pause. Genos’ expression settles into something achingly familiar. “I should have expected as much—quite frankly I’m disappointed in myself. Your aptitude and genius know no bounds. Your strength has the highest reach. If anyone could have discovered the cause, it would be you. I’m ashamed as your disciple that I doubted you even for a moment.”

If Saitama wasn’t so happy, he’d start crying all over again.

“Shut up,” he croaks. He grabs Genos, pulls him to his feet, and kisses him. “Just shut up. And don’t you dare leave me again, Genos.”

Miraculously, Genos doesn’t disappear after that. He stays, and declares that he will stay from that point on.

It takes a while for Saitama to accept it.

That night, they stand watch for any anomalies. They don't even sleep. Saitama grills Genos on different facts about his life. Once it’s deemed safe for him to leave the room, they even go into his notebook room and he starts asking him about things in various notebooks that he thinks only his Genos would remember.

“Why are there notebooks that have been destroyed?” Genos eventually asks. A large pile of notebooks lie on his right, and he keeps adding to them each time Saitama works through another.

“Oh. I got mad.” Saitama shrugs. “I was pretty broken up about you leaving.”

He scratches the back of his neck. Genos’ expression goes softer than he’s ever seen it.

It’s definitely the same Genos from before, with his ability to speak his mind more, but there’s also remnants of his other self(?) mixed in.

Saitama reaches out across the beam of moonlight coming through the window separating them and takes his hand.

“You’re here,” Saitama states.

Genos nods slowly. Saitama can tell he’s being scanned, but he doesn’t care. “I’m here.”

The next day, they get groceries, but that’s it. Saitama is shaky on testing anything out, and instead he makes Genos wear his old clothing he had stored away—the ones that are most familiar. His hoodie that Genos popped into his universe wearing got destroyed a while ago. Once they’re sure of his stability in their world, he’ll let him wear his as often as he wants.

“You know, I’m not usually this fragile,” Saitama says that evening. Above him, Genos is pouring over more of his notebooks.

Their working theory after a phone call with Doctor Kuseno is that Saitama helped merge the Genoses by writing in his notebooks. He matched all their experiences in this world, like he actually wrote him into his universe or something.

It sounds like bullshit, but the idea that someone could hop over from another parallel universe sounds just about as crazy, so he chooses to believe it.

Genos hums, a thoughtful sound. Saitama’s eyes flutter shut as cool metal fingers brush across his forehead. Yeah, he’s in Genos’ lap, and he’s not totally proud of how happy it’s making him.

Or maybe he is. It’s not everyday Demon Cyborg lets someone lie in his lap.

“I’m serious.”

“Of course, Saitama. I understand completely. I don’t doubt your strength at all.”

“When you say it like that, it doesn’t make me feel better, you know.”

“Like what?” Genos blinks at him, genuinely perturbed, but then he smiles.

“Like that! Like you’re saying it just because it’s what you should say, not what you believe.”

“It is what I believe.”

“What’s with that look on your face?”

“I could say the same, sensei. You’re smiling.”

Saitama touches the edge of his lips and forcibly wipes it off his face. “Well, I guess I’m feeling pretty happy right now.”

The news breaks the next day. Articles and headlines and forums immediately explode with rumors and speculation. Fans all around the various cities celebrate his return. Genos’ phone starts ringing like crazy.

“Demon Cyborg’s returns marks another secret the Association holds from the public,” Saitama reads aloud. On another tab, the hero forums are already flooded by the dozens. The number of threads about Genos’ return has reached ten pages already.

“How frivolous of their time,” Genos says flatly when Saitama mentions this.

It doesn’t take long for letters to start pouring in. Saitama’s involvement isn’t mentioned, and honestly he really, really can’t bring himself to care even a little bit.

“The Hero Association pro hero member Demon Cyborg’s unexplained absence adds onto the growing unrest, with the monster sightings on the rise—”   

“This is ludicrous!” Genos explodes, later in the day. They’ve moved on from reading forums, and now they’re watching the news. “I specifically mentioned your involvement, and they omitted it entirely!”

“It’s fine,” Saitama says.

Undeterred, Genos marches to Saitama’s tiny TV and swings his wrist forward like he’s intending on incinerating it whole. Saitama reaches out and yanks his hand away, pulling him down onto the futon. Genos goes willingly, and Saitama wipes away the frown lines forming on his forehead.

Then Genos kisses him.

Oh, yeah. He can do that now.

“I don’t care that I wasn’t mentioned. Honestly, it makes things easier.” Saitama grips his chin delicately with his forefinger and thumb, pulling him into another kiss. “Dude, your fans would send me worse hate than they do now if they knew I had helped you.”

“You are forever humble, Saitama.” He kisses him again. A hungry look enters his eye. “I would incinerate them all if given the chance.”

“Stop saying stuff like that after you talk about killing people,” Saitama says with a chuckle. He returns Genos’ kiss with one of his own; their lips meet slowly, sweet pecks that never fully deepen. Genos’ lips linger on his, eventually catching on Saitama’s dry lower lip.

“No disappearing?” Saitama asks, taking a breath.

“Not an atom in my body has showed any indication that it will,” Genos replies smoothly. Though Saitama knows his scans don’t work like that, it makes him feel better regardless.

“Your lips are dry. I will return with lip balm,” Genos says, seemingly out of nowhere. Steam gradually pours from his shoulders while he steps away from Saitama and gathers his things.

“Wait, you’re leaving now?” Saitama sits up partway. His heart starts pounding. Genos left for the first time the night before to grab snacks, so this isn’t the first time he’s leaving. But. “You’re all over the news.”

“I will return, Saitama. Don’t worry.”

Saitama isn’t worried. He tells himself he isn’t.

“Can you call me when you get there?” he says, hoping it sounds casual.

“Of course. Doctor Kuseno sent me a software download and I already installed the tracking software on my person while you slept last night. I’ve added the complementary app to your phone.”

“App? My phone doesn’t get apps—”

Saitama looks down at where his phone should be on the new table. In its place is a larger square device that lights up when he taps on it.  

“When did—? Genos, this isn’t my phone! Why is the screen so shiny?” Genos walks away to the door, steam exiting faster now. “Wait, Genos! You didn’t need to replace my phone! Are my contacts still here? I mean, it’s just you and Kuseno and Mumen, but still—oi!”

Genos stops at the door, turning towards Saitama slowly.

“Saitama, I will return. I promise. I just…need a moment. Kissing you has overloaded my functions.”

“It’s not that big of a deal. It’s just kissing.” Saitama blows a kiss to Genos, who, hilariously, reaches out and very seriously catches it.

“It is not just kissing,” Genos says, holding his fist to his chest. “You must consider the impact you have had on my life. On multiple occasions you have saved my life, provided me with strength and your valuable teachings—”

“Valuable is probably giving me too much credit.”

“—and brought me into a universe that has you in it. I have yet to repay any of it,” Genos continues. “I reflect on my inadequacies constantly—”

“Oi, you’re not inadequate,” Saitama says firmly. “You don’t need to repay me. Cut it out.”

“—yet I cannot bring myself to change anything about our situation.” His lips stretch into a smile Saitama is still getting used to seeing and he laughs helplessly—for just a second, but Saitama strains to commit it to memory. “I won’t be gone long. I promise.”

Saitama stands there afterwards, his face a much darker red than Genos’ forever pale complexion.

He glances at his phone. It’s completely different from the standard issue Association cell they gave him. It has apps. The one on the front page looks like a tracking app Genos was probably talking about.

“That kid is crazy,” he says to no one, but taps on the app anyway. The corner of his mouth pulls up.

Genos takes a long time. Saitama worries the entire time—he didn’t use the app, and he’s not going to start tracking him, damn it. That’s weird!—chewing his nails and flipping through comic books unseeing, and he’s beyond shocked when Genos walks into their apartment with a new haircut of all things.

Saitama just stares.

“Does it look awful?” Genos says, meeting his gaze evenly.

The ponytail is gone. He now has an undercut, and the top half of his head has been cut shorter, just a tad more than his old cut.

“I wanted something new,” he adds uncomfortably.

“You look…you look good, Genos,” Saitama says, walking up to him and dragging him into a kiss.

Intimacy is a new thing for Saitama.

For one, he’s just not used to it. It helps that Genos isn’t either. As they settle into a routine that feels more like what he’s used to—he lazes around mostly, Genos goes out and finds work—they work in new routines.

The Association started questioning them right away, very keen to figure out how he survived when they had a body on their hands. Genos just claimed that Saitama helped him fake his death until they believed him. It’s not like the truth would make any real sense, and Saitama gets the feeling they might just try to exploit such a thing even if it was possible to re-create.

“You saved me,” Genos had said, with absolute certainty. “The truth doesn’t matter, because that is the truth.”

Everything is different now, and it’s nice. Weirdly relaxing, too, after worrying for so long. Sometimes they’ll spend the entire day dancing around small displays of affection and warmth, casually leaning on and touching each other in ways Saitama is starting to crave. They sleep together, too, and if Saitama needs some time to himself, Genos quickly acquiesces.

Saitama is almost afraid to say that it’s good. That he’s happy, for once.

Maybe this time it will last, he thinks, a little sourly. He hears the door to the bathroom open and cranes his neck back to stare at Genos’ bare, metallic calves. “All done?”

“Yes. I’ve drawn the bath for you since it’s about time. And if you would like, Saitama, I thought—”

Steam pours from his shoulders. It’s the closest thing to a blush Saitama will get when his expression goes carefully blank.

“—you would allow me the honor of washing your magnificent and shiny bald head, since you do not have any hair.”

Saitama feels his eyebrow twitch. “Oi. Just for that, you’re not gonna just wash my head—you’d better be ready to wash my whole body. And then I’m gonna wash yours, got it?”

Steam pours out of his shoulders faster. “Yes, Saitama!”  

“And Genos?”

Genos turns from where he’d been headed back towards the bathroom. “Yes?”

“I love you.”

The room may as well be a sauna now. Genos takes a single step, and out of the corner of his mouth Saitama spots a grin slowly forming.

Yeah, it’s good.