Chapter Text
“Did you get the thing?” Saitama asked lazily, his face half-buried in his pillow. Genos had just returned from the store on the edge of town, parting seas of people as they averted their gazes, whispered in hushed tones as he walked through the crowd.
“They weren't on sale, Sensei,” he lamented, “but I got a box full.”
“Hm,” came that muffled voice again. “Put it in the...thing...”
Genos nodded, though he knew it went unnoticed. They had settled into an almost-silent routine; Genos could see through all the vagueness. That was how Saitama got when he became this way: vague. In words and action.
He had tried his best to cheer him, but usually it amounted only to more vagueness: a sad handjob on their shared bed, a sighed thanks, and then fitful sleep that spilled over into the next afternoon and evening. Hardly romantic, hardly satisfying for either of them. Genos longed to know what it all meant; he had offered his body as a therapy, a respite from whatever was keeping Saitama so deflated, but he had been mostly denied. As if Saitama knew what it would mean to Genos. And Genos knew it could not mean the same to his sensei.
Genos wanted to offer him so much more, but Saitama wanted for nothing. He had no desires, it seemed. He had not even asked Genos to go to the store to get his soda; he had simply not protested when it was offered. Genos sighed as he unpacked the box of soda, stacking them neatly on the bottom shelf of the fridge. Saitama hadn't really left home in weeks, save for the occasional trip out onto his balcony to shoo away some annoyances.
People kept coming by, blathering some speech about taking him down, the faker, the poser, but they could not get in more than twenty words before they were punched to oblivion. On the days that Saitama could not rouse himself from beneath the blanket, Genos would engage in those fights in his stead. The sidewalk in front of their building had become a killing field. Neither of them was sure why they were getting so many visitors.
“No fans today so far,” Saitama said through a yawn. Genos smiled weakly, happy that at least his sensei was still capable of making jokes. “Maybe they've forgotten about me.”
“Maybe they've realized that you aren't a faker.”
“Might as well be,” he mused on, folding one leg over the other as he turned over onto his back. “Haven't been to HQ in a month.”
“We can go whenever you wish, Sensei,” Genos reminded him. He had been trying for a while to get him to return to his life as an active hero, but to no avail.
“No point,” Saitama grumbled, staring at the ceiling.
“Do you want a soda?” Genos asked.
Silence, of course.
Saitama wanted for nothing.
It was mid afternoon when they got their first visitor. Saitama was sitting, finally, at the desk, with Genos on his lap.
“Contact might make you feel better,” was always Genos's reason for the way he climbed onto him, how he wrapped him in his metal arms and warmed him with his core. He suspected Saitama knew the other reason.
“Ha,” Saitama huffed, scrolling through some online shopping emporium. “You're like my pet.”
“Would I be a cat or a dog?” Genos joked, eager to keep a pleasant conversation going, eager to pull his sensei out from under his ever-growing cloud.
“Neither,” he said simply, leaning closer to the laptop, making Genos move out of the way a little. “You'd be a Genos.”
“Sensei-”
“Do you think we need a new futon? These are on sale.”
“Oh,” Genos sighed. They had tried it in the past: some new thing to brighten up the place, like changing his surroundings would make Saitama smile more.
They had a new red carpet, a new black tablecloth and all-new chrome cookery. Bought on a close-out sale, of course.
“I think the one we have is fine, Sensei.”
“Yeah?” Saitama craned his neck to look at it, all unmade, dented from their many nights of sleep. Stained with him, scratched from Genos's metal plating. Genos felt Saitama's arm wrap a little more tightly around his slim waist. “You're right. I've been spending too much money. Thanks, Genos.”
“Yes, Sensei.”
They sat like that for a while, eyeing purchases they would never make. Saitama was playing with the belt-loop of Genos's pants, mindlessly, aimlessly, like he couldn't know what he had done to his disciple. Maybe it was a signal, he considered. Some need of attention. Genos dropped one hand onto Saitama's chest, feeling for a heartbeat.
He was always relieved when he felt it. Silly, he knew, but sometimes his sensei looked so lifeless...He shook his head.
“Sensei,” he cooed, trying to sound cheerful, like it would ever change the outcome. He ran his hand down Saitama's chest, down to the space between his body and Genos's leg. He was met with that same old lack of enthusiasm.
“Genos,” he sighed, leaning his forehead onto one of those thick metal arms, “You don't have to do that.”
“I want to, Sensei,” was what he always said. “I want to make you feel better...”
“It does, for a little while.”
“But then?”
“But then...I don't know,” he said, squirming in the chair, “I finish and I feel sort of empty. More than before...”
“I'm sorry, Sensei-”
“Don't-”
They were interrupted by sound. Any number of projectiles, slamming against the sliding glass door of the balcony.
“You have got to be kidding me,” Saitama groaned, pushing the chair backward. Genos stood up reluctantly, wishing he could spend a bit more time on top of his sensei, a bit more time trying to figure out how to make him feel less empty. “I don't wanna...”
“I will take care of it, Sensei,” Genos said, patting that shining bald head with one warm hand. “Go get yourself a soda.”
Genos sauntered out to the balcony, nearly happy to leave his sensei to forget their little exchange. Empty. Is that really how he made him feel? Or was that just sensei? An empty man so full of greatness, of strength. Of love, Genos wished.
It was a team of them this time. They looked like a bunch of gymnasts, all stacked in a formation, twirling electric batons in their nimble fingers.
“We are the Flying Circus of City C!” the one at the head of the pyramid shouted.
“You're a mouthful, is what you are,” Genos spat at them, hopping down from the balcony to get closer.
“Shut up!” the man coughed, tossing his baton in Genos's direction. It was effortlessly dodged. “We are the best team of heroes from Class A, and we've come to drag the villain Saitama out by his ears! Or else!”
“The vil...”
“Where is he?”
“'The Villain Saitama?'”
“You're his lackey, are you not, Demon Cyborg?”
“I don't know what you're talking about, scumbag, but you'd better get off of our sidewalk!”
“It's just like they said on the news, sir!” one of the gymnasts shouted to their leader. “He sends out his cyborg to threaten people!”
“Why are you attacking our home if you're in Class A?”
“Don't play dumb with us, kiddo,” the leader yelled, hopping down from his spot atop the pyramid. He wrapped one nimble hand around Genos's synthetic neck. “Bring him out here or we bring the building crumbling down on his fake, bald, poser head!”
“Don't talk about Saitama-sensei like that,” Genos snarled, making quick work of warming his palms to send the group running and rolling away in desperation, trying to put out the flames that so accosted them.
He took the stairs to get back to the apartment. He could have just jumped, but he was in no rush to tell his sensei what he had heard. When he got back into the apartment, Saitama was on the futon again, shirtless as ever, drinking one of his sodas. Genos smiled at that, at least.
“Sensei-”
“Genos,” he interrupted, solemnly. He pointed at the television. “We're on the news.”