Archive of Our Own ^beta

After having lived with master Saitama for only a brief span, Genos had become intimately familiar with many of his sensei's idiosyncrasies.

Far be it for him to sit in judgment of his master, of course.

Although the somewhat uncouth tendency to pick at his nose, or stick a finger in his ear to dig out brown and crusty wax – doubtlessly, Genos had thought in those early weeks, an illustration of master's complete transcendence of social norms and fears of ostracism, an utter obliteration of the ego, in the same way that a Bodhisattva would achieve enlightenment by leaving behind earthy concerns – had been difficult to tolerate.

Perhaps the most notable thing about master, outside of anything having to do with the fantastical physical prowess that still eluded any means of genuine study or explanation, was his intensely imaginative subconscious mind.

It was one of the few things that could set Sensei's heart racing.

Normally, master's pulse was an even, steady drumbeat. Even more so than Genos' core.

Genos himself could set time by the rhythmic pulsations of plasma that thrummed through his chest, coursing outwards into titanium capillaries reinforced with magnetic containment fields that channelled super-heated gas and regulated his miniature nuclear reactor.

It was an odd thing to know one's self so intimately, to watch, gazing down at your own paralyzed, still diaphragm as you were vivisected painlessly, you stripped and discarded like a collection of burnt-out light bulbs, all to make room for the next upgrade that inched him closer to the place where master had stood the day that they met. Running after Master Saitama's shadow, already far on the horizon.

But Master Saitama's heartbeat was even more regular. The thump and whoosh of blood, the even flow of his breathing, in and out of his nostrils, as he sat watching some drivel poured out from the squat television's speakers as insipid daytime talkshow hosts prattled on.

Not even in the most gruelling and arduous of battles had Saitama ever been winded. No ragged breathing or sweat beading up or even the most minute perturbation of his heart-rate.

In a way, it was frankly galling.

Even freed from flesh, Genos was not liberated from its weaknesses. His brain still buzzed as a result of the hormonal secretions that set fire to his artificial heart. There was still fear even in the resolution, embraced, perhaps, too easily, necessary for self-immolation. When taxed by the use of his modular firearms or a particularly vigorous assault, even his core heated, could melt in nuclear fire, straining and shrieking as the metal gave way and his systems opened up to exceed full capacity.

If he had a heart, it would be racing.

There were only three conditions under which master's heart raced.

Frustration. Bang, seeking to gain a new pupil, thumping master on the head time and time again until the grind of his teeth sounded out like concrete being crushed to powder, and his face was flushed crimson with rage.

The fighting games in which he indulged with King, losses piling up despite superhuman reflexes.

And dreams.

Master dreamed so loudly.

Only a few nights in to Genos' stay with master, he had been laying awake on his sleeping roll. Toxic fatigue chemicals that strained purely organic beings were flushed by regulators inside of his myriad internal cybernetic systems, likewise responsible for cleansing the hydraulic fluids and organic oils that sluice through his body. A few hours of sleep were necessary, of course, to moderate the functions of his brain, allowing various somatic processes to be completed, while the mind, according to Dr. Kuseno, likewise required a period of unconscious decompression.

So it was easy, observing Master Saitama in his futon, immaculate figure twisting and contorting in sleep so that his limbs were splayed out in all directions and drool poured down his chin and cheek, leaving it stuck to his pillow or the floor on a particularly rough night.

That first night, Genos had heard it.

Master's heartbeat, traced throughout the night in the intimate darkness of that room, the only lights the switches and displays on the various electronics in the room, rimming buttons with pale red and green light. Only thermal imaging and night vision allowed Genos to discern the slumbering man's features with the curtains drawn up.

Slowing at first, his heart settling into sleep, pulsing in his wrist, just above the cuffs of his flannel night shirt, and in his throat.

Then, when the REM cycle started up, obvious from the quivering of master's brow and subtle rolling flicks of his eyelids, an explosion.

Not so different from the fabled King engine.

Master was dreaming, and what dreams he must have been enjoying to provoke such a sound.

Each night from that point on, Genos would attune his senses, parse every neural readout by performing clandestine sleep studies of brainwaves, monitor physiological changes, REM responses, nervous tics, arousal and somnolence patterns.

While Genos was not one to engage in tawdry voyeurism, he had allowed his obsession with ascertaining the source of master's almost unfathomable powers to overtake him in those early days.

Watching Saitama so intently as he slept did seem to be crossing a line, but every data-point was vital. There was simply so much information to examine, though delving into the subjective reality of another's subconscious mind and the phantasmagoria that made master's heart race was beyond any hero whom Genos knew.

Over time, with the realization that there were many paths to strength, just as there were many kinds of strength in turn, observation of his master had not lessened, but changed in nature. A concern for master's despondency, now recognized as a somewhat distressing lack of affect as opposed to the sagacious calm of a master martial artist or guru, was one reason.

Master did not look after himself properly. Could barely fix himself a solid meal using the near-expired produce and meagre offal that he managed to secure, outside of rare treats of greasy fast food. And such ascetic practices – like the french fries he consumed – were not the source of his strength, it soon became obvious.

It was to Master's benefit that Genos had begun to live with him as his pupil. Someone had to look after master, at least in his own way, just as Master looked after the city, though he was merely a “hero for fun” who extracted no such joy from battle, nor acclaim for his defence of the citizenry.

However, after the defeat of several key members of the monster association and the hero killer, Garou, whom master had inspired to amend his ways, master's heart beat differently.

Genos noticed it while preparing dinner one evening, while put upon by both Tatsumaki and her sister Fubuki, who could barely stand to remain in a room together, let alone be crushed together on the threadbare couch in Master's cramped living room.

Despite the sisters' acrimony, and the occasional bouts of cattiness that were surely an imposition on, and waste of, master's time and generosity, Genos had managed to remain uninvolved. His concern lay with the appropriate spice mixture and textural combinations to make master's dinner ideal.

Blue-white flames from the gas burner caressed the wok in which Genos was tossing the melange of ingredients that would soon join the rice, nearly ready in the cooker, when master arrived home, slipping in through the front door with nary a greeting and unzipping his green tracksuit jacket to hang it up on a hook on the entryway wall.

Genos, of course, would not allow his master's return to go unacknowledged and unheralded.

“Greetings, master!” he crowed with only a slight side-eye towards his superior, and distant subordinate, in the Hero Association. Regardless of rank, they should show master due deference.

Master merely inclined his head, polished smooth dome coming into full view and reflecting the light, as he waved in a nonchalant fashion, still fully expressionless.

“Hey, Genos,” he said in a monotone as he slipped off his running shoes, when he caught sight of the sisters bickering.

“Oh, you people are here again,” Saitama noted blandly. “It's not polite to show up to people's houses without asking.”

“You should be glad I'm gracing you with my presence, Baldy,” Tatsumaki spat, arms folded and chin upraised as if even looking upon master was too generous a gift.

A propensity towards distraction was not a fault that Genos would identify in himself, but on watching his master pad into the living room and receive such ungracious treatment, he found that he'd succumb to it. A slip of his hand caused the cybernetic limb to dip into the focused flames on the heating element of his gas-fire range.

Sensors pinged a notification into his neural net, indicating that the external temperature of his armoured digits had spiked, cooling systems compensating instantly. Nothing more than a little soot and discoloration, easily scrubbed or scoured away by some steel wool.

But in that moment as the flames kissed machine flesh, master's heart leapt. Mid yawn of boredom, he swung around into the living area, but a crease appeared in the flesh of his brow, deep enough to be obvious to someone who was intimately familiar with the many and varied detached and disinterested expressions that defined master's life.

Though he was not familiar with the unique flicker of something in master's eyes – nothing like the anger that consumed him when grappling with King or Bang, a bubbling aggression fit to erupt – but a different kind of unappealing languor.

After setting down the wok on the unused burner, Genos washed his hands in the sink, finding that the utterly undamaged metal wasn't even stained. Rice was next.

As he plopped down on the floor, ignoring Fubuki and Tatsumaki utterly, though the began clamouring for his attentions, master occasionally cast his gaze towards the kitchen.

And in those moments, when Genos was able to look back between his final preparations, he realized just what that look entailed.

It wasn't apathy, or lethargy, or evening anger or detachment.

It was death.

If master's irregular heartbeat and queer expressions were anything to go by, something was manifestly wrong with him, and whatever that problem may have been, it was only growing worse by the day. They became all the more commonplace, Master side-eyeing him on occasion, though at times it appeared as if the man was looking past or through him like Genos was half ephemeral, phasing in and our of existence. When he turned to glance behind him, expecting, perhaps, to take note of whatever it was that had captured master's attention, Genos saw only white-washed walls and furniture, or scattered pedestrians milling about when they were out for a run to the supermarket. In domestic or public contexts, master's expression in those moments was the same.

Master could not afford to be distracted, though.

Especially by Genos himself, which seemed to be the case.

As if they had been spliced together in some hideous genetic experiment, he was nearly attached to his master after a few weeks, the other man becoming more attentive, at least in his own bland fashion, spending progressively more time with him.

It was only sensible that Genos reciprocate.

Again, Genos took to ... analyzing master as he slept. The dreams, when they came, were, if anything, even more potent, but they would end, frequently, with sensei bolting awake. Sweat would dot his brow as he rose, a snarl in his sleep turning to a thin, tight line on awakening before he threw off his sheet and wandered into the bathroom to cup water in his palms, drink, and splash another handful over his head.

Then back to bed.

But not back to sleep.

Master was troubled.

Even feigning rest, his eyes closed and other enhanced senses amplified by the rerouting of power, Genos knew that. The distress was obvious.

Master slept less and less, even as he dreamed more and more.

Perhaps that was why he was spending more time out of the house.

And, in turn, why he appeared to have run afoul of Tatsumaki.

"Stupid Baldy!"

The Tornado of Terror was in the midst of a rage, the aesthetic enhanced by her stalking the confined living area of Master's new living room, an allowance from the hero association at the request of a handful of S-class heroes.

"It doesn't make any fucking sense!" she spat in apparent lamentation over her failed attempts to “educate” master as to the superiority of her powers as an esper, cool and elegant as opposed to master's “brutish.”

Very few things in life made sense, and Genos was prepared to accept that – embrace whatever might come, however outre or seemingly inexplicable – since he found Master Saitama. All that mattered was how one responded to the unfathomable, like the superlative heroism that allowed sensei to transcended the limitations of mortal flesh and short-circuit the time-space continuum and laws of causality in order to rescue the S-Class heroes and then claim none of the glory for oneself.

In response, was one to be unflappable, calm, stoic, practically embodying the virtues of detachment like his master, or would one–

"He's got to be a fucking alien!" Tatsukami crowed, voice high-pitched like the scream of a woman watching something, or someone – a friend, a lover, a father, a dream, a world – die.

The diminutive woman plopped down to the sofa, only to hover an inch above the cushion, her body wreathed in undulating bands of emerald energy, crackling and sparking like flames. Lithe, toned legs crossed, her dress plastered to a heaving chest and firm, fine musculature.

"Or a genetic experiment!" she continued, all while Genos largely ignored her, scooping jasmine rice from the rice cooker as part of the egg fried rice he was preparing, adding it to the wok on his gas stove-top.

Master enjoyed egg fried rice. It was a frequent dish.

Assorted objects from around the living room were now circling the other hero's head and body, rings like the orbits of planets or electrons whizzing around the nucleus of a cartoonish, child's depiction of an atom.

Hopefully he would not have to replace that video game system that appeared to be on the verge of cracking.

The game inside of it was some limited edition visual novel lent to Master by King.

Tatsumaki's fingers snapped – along with the spine of a now limp and contorted action figure version of Genos, which master had insisted on buying when it was released with the latest wave of Hero Association merchandise. Presumably not because she had just shredded his vertebrae in proxy, her expression became gleeful, pouty lips turning up and spreading to unveil teeth.

"I've got it," she enthused, standing up in mid-air. "Radiation. He was exposed to some kind of fucked up radiation that gave him powers. That's why he's a baldy. Not just working out. It all makes sense."

"Trying to make sense of Master Saitama," Genos noted in the midst of adding proper proportions of sesame oil and soy sauce, "is an exercise in futility. I have studied him, and under him, extensively only to find that I must uncover my own path to strength."

"Fuck you, blondie, I've figured him out now!” Tatsumaki insisted, nose upturned. “It's radiation. Cosmic radiation or something like that. Has to be. Nothing special about him. Just the weird, freaky radiation. Probably gave me a brain tumour just being near him."

Perhaps that was the truly galling thing about master.

Not that he caused brain tumours, of course.

That, in a sense, he really wasn't special at all.

No, unlike the alien overlords, monsters – heroes and otherwise – whose hidden potential had been unlocked by genetic manipulation, torture, mystic arts and ki manipulation, or even cybernetic enhancement, Master, however unfathomably special, was in many ways the most normal of men.

With normal problems: paying rent, making it on time to the supermarket when a Saturday sale was being held, finding roommates.

Genos set the table, portioning out a plate to Tatsumaki – who, again, had to float over her chair in order to reach a proper height – and Master when he emerged, unslept, red-eyed, yawning and wiping a dribble of snot from under his nose, from his bedroom.

Perhaps that was where Genos had erred.

Master was... a normal man.

Thick as it was in the moment when King stared down the deadliest creatures that the Monster Association could conjure, a static tension flooded the living area of Genos and Saitama's apartment. Master and student sat across from one another, the silence stretching out like a gossamer thread that threatened to snap at any instant, sending both of them hurtling into an abyss of darkness and howling winds, even as the sheer claustrophobic air, enough to drive most men into fits of hyperventilation, crushed down on both of them.

Dread resignation and solemnity marred both their features, and neither breathed.

The sound of master Saitama's heartbeat and the paired pulsations of Genos core, along with the faint sounds of wind and traffic that penetrate the flimsy walls and cracks in the windows, were all that Genos could hear, every noise as portentous as the King Engine.

“Genos,” Saitama began, his tone rich and severe, with his fingers steepled in front of his mouth and brow pinched downward in one of his most deadly serious expressions.

Genos was currently face down, bowing with his palms to the ground and head upturned to scan his master's features.

“Are you telling me that I need to get laid?”

This conversation had not progressed in the direction that Genos had intended or in any way anticipated.

“No master! Your intimate dalliances are entirely your affair and I would never imply anything so uncouth.” That actually made it sound like Genos was sex-negative. Simply because he did not have genitals, or, in turn, the inclination to employ them, did not mean that he looked down upon those who did.

“That is not to say that I would judge you if you wished to indulge in such activities!” he insisted, bolting upright from his position of supplication and abasement to clasp his hands together in show of apology.

“Oh, 'cause it kind of sounded like you thought I needed to get laid,” master noted blandly, now brandishing the speed dating pamphlet that Genos had supplied to him in what was, in retrospect, an overly presumptuous decision. Apparently, master had misconstrued the implications.

Genos raised his palms as if that was sufficient to ward off even a glancing blow from his master. “If one of these dates was to lead eventually to your becoming involved with someone to the point that you wished to engage with them in such a fashion, I would not have any objection and would, of course, vacate the apartment to facilitate it.”

“I mean, it would be kind of weird if you were here too,” Saitama said as he plucked up a magazine from the rack under his coffee table and began flipping through it.

“But that was not my aim, master,” Genos assured stiffly.

“Okay.” Master shrugged, returning to watching television, occasionally glancing down at his magazine article on hair loss miracle cures.

Also, he stuck a finger into his ear, scraping about to possibly pick out a scab.

“I merely mean, master,” Genos continued, trying to salvage something from this situation. “That you live a very isolated life and I have noticed that you may be lonely at times, which is why I suggested attempting to find companionship.”

“I've got you, and Bang, and King, even that little girl and her big sister who keep hanging around.” Master was now scratching at his belly, shirt riding up to expose the finely sculpted lines of his abdominal muscles, before he slumped backwards and groped for the remote that lay on the chair behind him.

Dutifully, Genos interceded, retrieving it for him. Master deserved to be served.

... That had alternative connotations that were particularly distressing given the nature of their current conversation.

“I don't really need anyone else.”

“That is tremendously affirming of you, master.” Genos handed over the remote, noting, as he did, his master's features. Deep bruises rimmed the man's narrowed and bloodshot eyes. “However I wish to ensure your good health.”

“You thought that me getting laid would be good for my health?” Master cocked his head, setting the magazine down on his chest. “I don't know, Genos. You're not a doctor – and I don't even think that you can get laid, so shouldn't you be worried about yourself?”

“I merely noted that you are-” It was time for Genos to unveil at least part of the truth, which he prefaced by again dropping to all fours. “You are not sleeping well, master, and you seemed to be troubled by dreams. I hoped that companionship might be of assistance to you.”

Saitama's brow rose. “So you think that I need to have sex to stop having wet dreams and get a good night's sleep?”

“Master,” Genos pleaded, “please cease discussing sex as I did not raise the subject and do not wish to think of it.”

“Okay.” Shrugging, Saitama again went back to watching television. And now scratched his belly-button, dipping a finger inside.

This conversation was becoming increasingly frustrating.

“Master,” Genos gritted out inhuman black titanium nano-weave clawed fingers crunching into his palm. Master was being so terribly infuriating about this. “I am merely concerned for your wellbeing.”

“Why?” Saitama's eyes were still focused on the television screen. “I mean, it's not like anything can hurt me.”

“Because you are a person who deserves to have his well-being cared for!” Genos crowed out before he could stop himself and think to adopt a more suitably deferential tone and phrase his concern more delicately.

After all that master had done for the world, and all that he had imparted to Genos himself, befuddlement over being cared for – the failure to realize that he deserved to be cared for?!

Infuriating.

But too forward.

While Genos himself was more than used to awkward silences as he hung, limbless like a carcass that had been carved up, watching as Dr. Kuseno laboured over his workbench, sparks bursting up from the replacement parts over which he was fussing, there was an intensely discomforting span of time, dragging on interminably, wherein master merely gazed on him.

Saitama's expression was particularly galling, so dull that it left Genos' core slowing, made him feel as if radiation alarms should be going off, warning klaxons blaring. Even at the best of times, master was inscrutable, but detached judgment seemed more fit for the arrogant Sweet Mask, when he ripped off his facade and unveiled his truly odious character.

Genos did not like this expression on his master's face.

At last, master leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees and resting his chin in his palm.

“Okay, it's you.”

A horrifying admission.

“Has my presence become burdensome, Master?!” Genos yelped, jerking to his feet so that he could bow, the whir and grind of his torso actuators nearly allowing him to fold over at a hundred and eighty degrees. “I will vacate the apartment immediately in that case.”

“You're really quick to jump to conclusions,” said the man who assumed that Genos was introducing him to speed-dating so that he could bang someone.

“I will work on correcting that tendency, master,” Genos assured, withdrawing a notepad from his pocket to make certain that he addressed that execrable quality.

“But, like I said, it's you.” Saitama sighed as he flopped backwards, arms spread out like a starfish. “My dreams. They're weird and about you.”

Genos now twiddled his slackened fingers, shifting from foot to foot in utter discomfort. Of course, if it was what master needed, Dr. Kuseno could likely devise some suitable modification to Genos' chassis.

“I am flattered that I should be on your mind, master, but I have not considered you in that way previously.”

“What?” Saitama asked.

“What?”

Saitama shook off the response. “You're not listening.”

“I am listening very intently, master,” Genos insisted.

“I keep seeing you.”

“We do live together, master,” Genos observed the obvious while master waggled his arms and legs, which did nothing to dispel the impression that he made of being a starfish. “It is natural that we should see each other frequently.”

“In my dreams, Genos,” master clarified blandly, arms and legs grinding to a halt at roughly forty-five degree angles before he rolled himself back into a seated position. “Try to keep up, okay?”

“Okay, master.”

“They're just... weird.” Scratching absently at his bald head as if he'd developed precancerous lesions due to inadequate use of sunscreen and failure to wear head protection (something that Genos would have to look into), Saitama appeared utterly baffled. “Lots of things that don't make sense. Like, I'm holding that core your took away from me after you headbutted me, but I'm staring at the sun and thinking that my stomach aches. Or I'm in space, and I'm holding your head and it's talking to me. Or there's all this black rain and I'm stuck in a crater that's filling up. Or-”

Holding Genos' head and filling up holes.

Master's subconscious truly was that of a normal man.

A normal gay man.

But Genos did not judge.

“Perhaps you would benefit from consultation with a specialist in the analysis of dreams, or psychotherapeutical techniques,” Genos interrupted tentatively while conducting a database search for hero therapists.

“Nah.” Folding his arms as if hugging himself, Saitama drummed his fingers against his bicep. “I don't really see the point in that. They're just dreams.”

“They are not just anything if they bother you, master,” Genos noted with more solemn resolve. He rose from the ground, dusting off his pants which were more a fashion statement than functional, and perched, bird-like, on the edge of the sofa. “ As I said, you deserve to be cared for.”

Seeming to pull over that notion, largely perplexed, master rose and joined him on the couch. With his slouch, hands folded between his spread thighs, his posture was utterly atrocious.

“That's nice of you, Genos, but with those dreams – I don't know...” Master licked his lips, eyes focused on the flooring.

“What is it, master?” Genos asked, palms to his knees to keep them from bouncing. Odd the amount of nervous energy that was prickling up and down his artificial spine. He hadn't felt that since he was ... human.

Master's folded hands twitched as if he was trying to catch hold of something, the flesh around his knuckles going white before he looked up. A quirk of his lips was not a smile, nor a frown, but it was emotion of some vague sort.

“I guess I've just got this feeling in my gut that you're the one who needs to be ...”

“Cared for?” Genos supplied.

The lightless quality returned to master's eyes, like a fog rolling in, thick and soupy, so that it blotted out the sun.

“Protected,” he corrected, mouthing the word as if it confused him, but, of course, master's natural instincts towards protectiveness were but one indelible mark of his heroism.

“Those are possibly the same thing.” They did not feel as such, but perhaps that was merely his own disconnection from the human experience due to the loss of his own flesh and blood.

“Okay.” Reaching for the remote on the floor, master shrugged off such concerns, and perhaps that was the lesson that his master had to teach him. That there were some moments, and some experiences, meant merely to be lived and not parsed out and analyzed. Was to understand a thing to rob it of its wonder and beauty, or its horror, or did intimate knowledge intensify the affect?

“That seems as equitable an arrangement as our splitting of the rent.” With a prim nod, Genos leaned backward, trying to give the impression of relaxation as he raised his arm up and let it rest along the upper edge of the couch.

“Seems so.” Eyes on the television screen, master began flipping channels, surfing through waves of mass-media trash and pablum that dulled the intellects of men less strong-willed and focused.

Master spoke with such simple profundity. Truly it was a model of efficiency that Genos should seek to emulate, as opposed to prattling on, aggravating his sensei and consuming so much of his precious time.

Although that resolution seemed unsatisfactory, Genos was willing to sit there watching television, his back stiff despite the fact that his spine was all titanium weave, and let the matter rest.

Rest, in fact, seemed like something that master was capable of doing in short order.

With the television's volume turned down and the sun setting beyond the window and squat balcony to their left, master's slouch grew progressively worse over the next hour, his posture, as ever, quite atrocious.

His eyes would flutter as if they stung, rimmed red and bruised black. Small things, trivialities, were all that remained for a man as inscrutable and powerful as master. Breaths became shallow, whistling through the crease in master's parted lips.

An hour after that, after gathering up a spare blanket from the hallway cupboard wherein Genos had stashed the linens that he laundered for them, the cyborg covered his master's slumbering form. Powerful limbs askew and snot dripping from his nose – which Genos wiped delicately with some tissue, Saitama had somehow managed to stuff himself into a corner of the couch.

The night did not pass without terrors, but in those moments, Genos set a cold and cruelly-clawed hand to his master's shoulder, wondering absently if the other man could even feel it, when nothing in this world could wound him. He gave voice to all the things that master had prevented him from saying when first he begged Sensei to train him, his overly-elaborate origin story and a thousand fragments of memory that had been shattered along with his body.

Shards of time and self vomited from his mouth, and as he spoke into the darkness, master would again grow still, the creases in his furrowed brow unfolding. Master would not remember a child who had been stripped piece by piece, family, body, care, or even the secret fears over the Hero Association, its purpose, and his purpose, but that was why Genos could speak of them.

Sometimes, that, too, was all that Genos needed: a voice in the darkness, a hum, a murmur, a heartbeat.

It was for the best that Genos required so little sleep.

So he waited for morning.