Chapter Text
“Sensei, what is this?”
Saitama glanced over at the slightly burnt, spiral-bound notebook Genos was holding up. “Ah, that’s nothing. Just put it off to the side.” He went back to reading the manga he’d found.
The two were unpacking Saitama’s few salvaged things for his new apartment at the Hero Association headquarters. Despite being told it was unnecessary, Genos had insisted upon helping, especially given that he would no longer be paying his master’s rent. He felt the need to compensate him somehow in exchange for his wisdom and training and, after doing the math, had unfortunately found that the combined cooking, cleaning, and laundry he would continue doing for Master would not add up to the same monetary value as making rent payments.
Saitama had been reluctant to agree due to his discomfort at having someone else go through his things. It was just…weird.
“But, Master, I never realized you could draw so well,” Genos said, opening the book back up to look in awe at yet another page of sketches. It reminded him of his own notebooks but were much more detailed and nonsensical—there were lots of pencil drawings of cartoon cats and dogs, along with mythical creatures and the occasional landscape. “I’ve never seen you draw before… Have you given it up?”
“Oh, nah. That’s not mine, dude. That’s something from my old girlfriend,” Saitama said, not looking up from his manga. “Like I said, just leave it to the side. I’ll put it somewhere later.”
But Genos paused. “I didn't know you’ve had a significant other before, either, Master.”
Saitama gritted his teeth behind his manga. “That was sorta rude.”
“Oh, I didn't mean it like that,” Genos said quickly. “I just… You never seem to take any interest when we’re out. There are often many women around so—“
“She was before this,” Saitama said, tapping his bald head. He shrugged. “I’m kinda all about being a hero right now. Just not thinking about that stuff, I guess.”
“Oh.” Genos looked back to the sketchbook and flipped through a few more pages, admiring the details and taking mental notes about some of the pen-stroke techniques for his own work. As he did this, something curious was beginning to take root in his brain. A worming, slightly foreboding question that Genos did not know if he should address or ignore. He decided on the former. “…You must think about her some still.”
“Why do you say that?”
“You kept this. You went out of your way to salvage it from the ruins of your home. Everything else you brought back had some value to you…” Genos stole a look up from the pages at his master.
“They’re nice drawings. I’ve had that book a long time. Didn’t think it deserved to be bulldozed,” Saitama replied, posture relaxed and voice becoming slightly higher as his irritation began building. “Now put it off to the side, will you? I’ll deal with it later.”
His pulse has risen slightly, Genos thought. Just a tiny bit. The same as when he’s being harassed by civilians about not being a true hero. This… bothers him.
That meant it was going to bother Genos, too. Probably more so than Saitama.
Not that there’s anything to do about it, Genos thought to himself, putting the book off to the side as his master had asked. He couldn’t fix something from Sensei’s past, especially something of the romantic nature, a phenomenon with which Genos had absolutely no experience.
Furthermore, perhaps this wasn’t something that needed to be fixed anyways. Broken hearts were something that lots of people lived with. Lots of people dealt with their own feelings, got over the pain at some point, and moved on.
Ah, but Sensei wasn’t ‘a lot of people.’ He was the strongest man in the universe, an unparalleled being that defeated each and every opponent he faced.
And maybe that made losing something—or someone—that much worse.
Is that why, maybe, he hasn’t seemed to move on? Genos asked himself, eyes darting back to the sketchbook even as his hands continued to unpack.
Master nearly always keeps a cool head and seems phased by hardly anything. In fact, in accordance with many psychological textbooks I’ve read, he appears to be detached.
The only times Genos had ever seen Saitama struggle emotionally were when the press and civilians accused him of being a false hero. He had expressed a desire, however small, for recognition of the good work he’d done. He’d appeared greatly pleased when Genos had divulged into his own admiration for him and his accomplishments as well as when he’d stated he would follow him through thick and thin, regardless of what others would say. He said he was a hero for himself—for fun—but Genos sensed something within him through signs other humans could not normally read like heart rate and hyperactive brainwaves that said he experienced a craving for connection with others.
It was a very human desire, a trait which should have disappeared if Sensei’s theories about trading his humanity for strength were actually true.
It was also something that Genos found himself facing every day—this worry that he had or would lose his humanity. He was almost entirely robotic now, save for his brain and a few muscles and bones that the doctor had managed to retain. How many human parts did being human require, after all?
From his place, still reading his manga, Saitama let out a customary sigh and slouched down even further, entirely relaxed.
Genos gave himself a mental shake and continued to unpack the box he was working on, forcing himself not to look at the sketchbook again. He had other things to think about, like his S-Class work and studying Master’s next fight and the cold that Dr. Kuseno had recently been trifling with. Not to mention how to balance it all so everything was given its due attention and time.
But the knowledge of the sketchbook, the contemplation over Master’s humanity and Master’s perception of his own wellbeing could not be forgotten, just pushed to the back of Genos’s mind. He knew it would return to the forefront to worry him. Inevitably, this would lead to him doing something about it, although what that something was he had absolutely no clue… Letting something like this writhe and fester for too long was not in his nature. He would find a solution.
Little did he realize just what that solution would entail.