Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

His ears were ringing.

That was—a foreign sound. Saitama shook his head to make it dissipate, but the shrill noise wouldn’t ebb. It rung, resounding in his head like it was bouncing off walls and he felt almost a bit dizzy. Ehh, mustn’t tell Genos that; he’d insist it was because Saitama didn’t wear a hat and scarf out in the rain the other day.

Genos.

Where was he, anyway?

Saitama tried to sit up, surprised to find something heavy resting on top of him. Finally, he blinked open his eyes, not realising they’d been closed at all. Had he hit his head? Huh, cool. Maybe he could still get concussions…? Probably not though.

He put a little more force behind his next attempt to sit up. This time, rubble and debris fell off of him and he shoved away a large slab of concrete. He pressed a hand against his chest where the heaviest broken bricks rested, hoping to find the soft pain of a bruise forming, but—nothing. He tried not to feel disappointed.

He heaved himself up and assessed the scene that laid before him: drying molten lava from the monster, melted roads, crushed buildings—the usual. He winced and rubbed his neck, feeling a headache form as he imagined the lecture from the HA. Ah, well. That’s what they hired damage control people for.

Now civilians were around; other Heroes ensured everyone was evacuated as soon as a Demon level molten lava monster was broadcast. He remembered Tatsumaki flying Mumen Rider to safety; Metal Bat flinging stray kids over his shoulders and running them out of danger; King grabbing Fubuki to wrench her away from a fight she couldn’t win. (“Your men are safe. You have nothing to prove except your ineptitude as a leader if you let yourself die for nothing!” he’d said, which was—surprisingly honest coming from him, and Saitama was a little proud.)

And Genos—

He froze.

Genos.

Where was Genos?

Saitama lurched around, eyes sweeping the wreckage and trying to zero in on any sign of him. But there was just debris and dry lava—

“I won’t let you destroy anything else! Let’s see who’ll burn first.”

Saitama clenched his fists, nails digging into his palms. That—idiot. That stupid idiot. What was that dumbass Shounen Jump line? What was with his idiotic, self-sacrificing sense of justice?

Why didn’t he think about—

His thought was cut off when he finally caught a flash of orange illuminating a pile of debris. He flew to it and grappled with the fragmented rocks, tossing them out the way as quickly as possible. He clawed through bricks for what felt like minutes, but he knew it must’ve been a couple of seconds at most. Finally, mercifully, he could see the orange lights on Genos’s chest and he finally breathed again. He hadn’t realised he was holding his breath in the first place.

“Genos,” he breathed. He grabbed Genos’s one intact shoulder and shook him. “Oi, Genos! Wake up, man.”

He scowled down at Genos’s broken face; his synthetic skin was ripped apart and it was all black materials and wires and chips underneath. Little sparks erupted from snapped wires and Saitama wondered if it hurt when this happened.

The orange lights were low and saturated; he must be low on power.

Obviously, Saitama thought, frustrated with himself for his unnecessary thoughts.

“Genos,” he said again, a little sharper. “Genos.”

No response.

Could the kid run out of power? Could he die from that? Saitama had never asked about the technicalities of being a cyborg; he thought it’d be too… invasive. But now he wished he had because maybe he’d know what to fucking do. Because Genos was unresponsive and silent and broken and Saitama was useless.

Saitama gritted his teeth. Shit. Shit, what should he do? Was Genos—he breathed, right? Saitama pressed his ear against Genos’s chest and heard a soft, jittery buzzing of fans moving in his chest like a heartbeat. Saitama’s sigh of relief was shakier than he thought it’d be.

Dr. Kuseno. He had to get him to Dr. Kuseno.

But the rest of him—where was it? He was missing his right arm and everything below his waist. Saitama clenched his fist into what was left of Genos’s shirt. Cinders stuck to it; more worrisome were the holes burnt through his alloy torso, red hot with melted circles of plastic around them like cigarette burns – where the lava splattered.

Hefting Genos’s torso over his shoulder, he set to hunting down his other pieces before going to pay a visit to Kuseno.

A clinical hum of foreign machines and the ticking of a clock made him even more impatient.

Dr. Kuseno was full of questions but, upon seeing Genos – and Genos’s other broken parts, he took him without a word and started repairs. That had been nearly four hours ago, and Saitama had been waiting right outside the not-operating-room the entire time. He had pins and needles in his legs and his hands were starting to ache. He thought about unclenching his fists, but decided the dull pain was a nice feeling.

He tried to think about something else to take his mind off it, but as soon as he tried to think of his current manga he saw a flash of red hot lava encompassing Genos and his eyes shot open. He rubbed them furiously and grimaced, realising his red gloves were covered in oil and ashes – and now probably his face was too. Great. Wonderful. Fantastic.

He groaned and leaned his head against the wall behind him. It was cold, thank god. He didn’t want to be hot for a long time. Genos trying to outdo a fucking lava monster—just. No, thanks. He knew Genos wanted to get stronger, knew he wanted to prove his strength, but always taking things head on was—stupid.

Stupid Genos.

He looked at the clock. 5:40. It’d been just over four hours now. Awesome. How long did Genos’s repairs normally take? Not this long, he was sure. But then, sometimes Genos didn’t get back home for a good few hours, so maybe it did take a long time. And besides, Saitama had seen Genos broken before. Several times, in fact. He thought, after the first five times, that maybe the shock would wear off. He wasn’t used to being shocked.

It never wore off.

It just got worse each time it happened. He didn’t get it at all.

But Genos always turned out just fine. It was no big deal. He’d return, some hours later, with an armful of groceries and an offer to start dinner and everything was normal.

But…

He looked… real bad.

I might be sick, he thought, stomach bubbling painfully. He clamped a hand over his mouth and lurched forward, trying not to gag as he pictured Genos—

“Sensei?”

His head jerked up. There was Genos, standing upright, fully intact, face no longer cracked, eyes gold and bright like they were meant to be.

Genos, he tried to say, but nothing came out. His throat felt clogged full of something gross and he still felt bile trapped in his throat. He tried to swallow and choked on it. He cleared his throat as a final attempt; if this didn’t work, he’d just go make himself throw up to get it out of his system. Did he have a cold?

“Sensei…?”

“Saitama-san, here,” Kuseno’s voice cut in from nowhere; so too did a rubbish bin appear beneath his nose. He grabbed his, nearly dropping it when his fingers slipped—was he sweating?

He retched into the bin, unexpectedly; this was a foreign feeling. Last time he threw up was back when he was training and his regime was too much for his body. He’d crawl up the stairs to his apartment and throw up in his toilet and pass out there until the next morning when he’d do it again.

Not much except bile escaped his throat and after a few minutes he finally stopped retching. He caught his breath, a little embarrassed that he did—whatever that was in front of Kuseno. “Sorry,” he said hoarsely.

“No trouble, my boy. No need to apologise over a panic attack. Here, water,” Kuseno said, holding a glass out in front of him. When had he gotten that?

Saitama chugged the water back in a few swift gulps before he shook his head. “Panic—ah, nah, I just felt kinda sick. Sorry about that, doesn’t normally happen.”

Kuseno raised his eyebrows. “You don’t know yourself very well, do you, my boy?”

Saitama blinked. “Uh.”

“Dr. Kuseno,” Genos chided, looking between them nervously.

“Never mind,” Kuseno said, waving a hand. “You needn’t fret though. Genos is perfectly fine now.”

“Huh? I wasn’t worried.” Saitama stood up again, not remembering when he’d sat down. His legs were a little shakier than he could recall them being for a long time. “Thanks, doc. You worked hard, huh?”

Kuseno smiled, eyes crinkling at the edges. “Always for Genos,” he said easily, giving him a pat on the arm.

Genos smiled back at him. “Thank you, Dr. Kuseno.” He looked at Saitama, and his smile faded into a frown. “Let’s go home, sensei. You don’t look well.”

Saitama waved him off. “Don’t worry about me, Genos. You were the one who was hurt.” Saitama inclined his head towards Dr. Kuseno. “Thanks again, doc. Hopefully Genos won’t be in pieces when he sees you next.”

“I’m not that bad,” Genos insisted, wrongly, Saitama thought.

Saitama shrugged and turned to leave. He heard Kuseno mumble something to Genos, and then Genos’s heavy footfalls echoing in the corridor as he jogged to catch up with him.

The sky was indigo and littered with stars by the time they got home.

Saitama missed the lock three times before Genos asked, “Are you okay, sensei?”

“Huh?” Saitama glanced up at him. “Oh. Uh, yeah. I just… the key.”

“Let me try,” Genos said, grabbing the key. Their fingers brushed and Saitama took too long to pull away.

He unlocked the door easily and Saitama forced a chuckle. “Ah, sorry ‘bout that. Must be because of that energy drink I had earlier.” He nearly stumbled over the threshold. He unclipped his cape and hung it up before asking, “Hey, want dinner? I’ll cook tonight.”

Genos followed him and hovered in the kitchen doorway. “Maybe I should—”

“Nah, you’re the recovering patient. Lemme do it this time,” Saitama said, rifling through the cupboards. “Wha’d’you want? Soup?”

“Saitama-sensei—”

“Soup’ll be good. ‘S good for you,” Saitama said, grabbing a pot. He pulled it out and flinched when the rest of the pots and pans fell out, clattering against the floor. “Ah, shit.” He tried to grab them but dropped them again. He moved to try again, but Genos stilled him by grabbing his arm.

“Sensei, stop,” he said, too softly, like he was talking to someone who wasn’t the strongest man in the world. Saitama opened his mouth to retort but a weird noise escaped instead. He looked up at Genos, bemused by the shocked, wide-eyed expression on his face. “Sensei,” he breathed, “y-you’re… crying.”

…

Huh?

He raised his hand to his face. “Don’t be—”

stupid.

His cheek was wet.

He rubbed his eye and stared at his hand.

It was wet.

“Sensei—!”

Genos grabbed his shoulders and stared at him for a moment. His brows were furrowed, his eyes were wide, and he hesitated for just a second longer before wrenching Saitama against his chest.

“Oi, Genos, what are you—?”

“Dr. Kuseno said that earlier you had a panic attack.”

“Huh?” Saitama blinked and felt a strange tickling feeling against his cheeks. “Oh. Yeah. I don’t think that was—”

“It was, sensei. I had them a lot for a few years.” He tugged him even closer, and now Saitama’s face was squashed against Genos’s shoulder. Saitama’s eyes burned and his face burned and he wasn’t sure if his throat or eyes stung more. “You – you’re human, sensei. You’re the strongest person I’ve ever known, but you’re human and it’s okay to… feel… things,” he choked out. “I-I know this might be weird, but… it’s okay. I don’t think any less of you, sensei.” He pressed a hand against the back of Saitama’s head.

It was warm.

And Saitama felt too warm all of a sudden. The kitchen door was growing increasingly blurry, even when he blinked away the—tears. And he – he was crying, wasn’t he? Hot, thick tears spilled down his cheeks and soaked into Genos’s hoodie. He pushed against Genos’s chest because he should just go wash his face and have dinner and pretend this awkward moment never happened. This was—really lame, and pretty pathetic, and Genos was hugging him and it was confusing and it was—

Nice.

“Le’ go,” he tried, voice muffled against Genos’s shoulder. He breathed in and choked on it and it sounded, mortifyingly, like a sob. “I don’t need—I’m—” Another sob escaped, unbidden, and he couldn’t hold it down. It turned into another, and another, until he had no choice but to bury his face in Genos’s shoulder in an effort to muffle it all, but somehow they just started coming out louder. He gritted his teeth like he could make a gateway to hold them back but then the ugly noises came from his nose and his chest and he was shaking and couldn’t stop the hot tears from streaming down his face.

He grabbed fistfuls of Genos’s hoodie.

“Do-don’t do it again,” he managed, words pathetically congested and broken.

Genos stilled, surprised. “Do what, sensei?”

Saitama sniffed like he could pull all the crying back inside. “What you always do,” he mumbled, too embarrassed to look up. “Throwing yourself into fights.”

“But I’ve got to get—”

“Stronger, yeah, I know,” Saitama said shakily against Genos’s chest. “You won’t get stronger if you die.”

Silence followed his words and Saitama tried to stop sniffling because it was the only sound filling the dark kitchen. He let go of Genos’s hoodie to rub his sleeve under his nose.

Genos took the chance to duck his head and meet Saitama’s eyes. Saitama scowled and fought not to look away. He looked ridiculous, he knew he did.

“You were worried,” Genos said, “about me.”

Saitama blinked. “Well—yeah, of course,” he mumbled, unable to keep his gaze steady this time and letting his eyes drop to the kitchen tiles. “You’re my friend.” Did he sound normal? He hoped he did. Did that sound really weird? It did, didn’t it. It definitely did.

“Saitama-sensei,” Genos said, softly, placing his hand against Saitama’s cheek and—and Saitama just realised he was pretty much in Genos’s lap. Great. “I’m sorry. I’m reckless. I’ll be more careful from now on.”

“Ah… yeah. Good. Great.” He patted Genos’s arm awkwardly and pulled it away from his cheek. That was—a bit too weird.

Right?

“You do that,” he added uneasily. “While you work on—self-reflection, I’ll. I’ll cook dinner.”

“I really think you should let me handle that tonight, sensei,” Genos said, staring intently at Saitama’s trembling hands. Saitama wrenched away his hand that had still been entangled in Genos’s hoodie. “You can do it tomorrow.”

“Um—sure. Okay.” Was there a non-awkward way to stand up? Probably not. He slid back against the floor, out of Genos’s lap, and picked himself up.

Genos stood just after, gazing down at him from the one inch of height he had over him. Saitama rubbed his cheek with his sleeve, feeling self-conscious.

“’Kay. Cool. I’ll—go see what’s on TV.”

He moved to leave the room and just as he reached the doorway, Genos said: “By the way, sensei, you have oil on your nose.”

Wh—

He spun around to stare at Genos.

Oh, yeah, earlier at Kuseno’s place, he’d rubbed his face and—all this time—“You didn’t think to mention that?” he snapped.

He heard Genos chuckling as he ran to the bathroom.

When he shut the door behind him, he slid down it and buried his face in his arms. Urgh. Today had been—something. Genos… had never looked so damaged before. It was—hard to look at. And he didn’t think any amount of wreckage would ever get to him too much. And he hadn’t… felt this strongly about anything in a long time.

Or anyone.

His face felt too warm again and he pressed his fingers against his cheek where Genos’s hand had been.

Damn it.

Chapter Text

If Saitama were a coffee, he’d probably be a decaf cortado.

A cortado because nobody ever wanted one or what it was or that it even existed; decaf because he was boring and sent people to sleep and annoyed them.

Cortados were fine though. He liked ‘em. And he drank decaf a lot because he slept too much anyway. Besides, he probably got his lifetime fill of caffeine while he was at uni. Ugh, uni. Uni was awful. He hated it. Sure, he now had a shiny degree in biochem and a minor in business, but it felt pretty useless despite how damn hard he’d struggled for it.

Also, his certificate wasn’t shiny at all. It was buried in his shelf amidst his old PS2 games and the dust on it was thicker than the paper itself.

He had a degree in biochem and he was working in a coffee shop. Cool. Great. Just where he wanted to be when he was 23. Life was fantastic. Especially when he was trying so hard not to drink caffeine but his head throbbed thanks to his second all-nighter in a row because he was marathonning One Piece and that group of teens in the corner were squawking about memes.

But that was what he got for working in a coffee shop on a university campus.

Kill me, he thought.

“—Excuse me?”

The words sounded far away and it took a moment for him to register that someone spoke other than that obnoxious kid in the corner. “Huh?” he said, looking up to find a bemused blond guy staring down at him. He blinked slowly before shaking himself and pushing off the counter, standing to full height and still having to look up a little. “Oh, hey. Sorry.”

The guy frowned, looking disapproving. Hey, who was he to judge? Just ‘cause his hair was tidy and he was wearing clothes not covered in coffee stains and cat fur and he didn’t have bags under his eyes and—wasn’t a mess.

“What can I get you?” he asked, moving to grab a takeaway cup ‘cause this guy looked like someone who’d be on the move.

“Double espresso,” he said.

Saitama paused, waiting for the ‘please,’ but the guy just stared blankly at him. He clucked his tongue. “Oookay,” he said, “to go?”

“Yes.”

Saitama was meant to ask for their names but he couldn’t be bothered asking for this guy’s, and he wasn’t busy enough to need to call out names to go with drinks. Thank god; he hated trying to pronounce some names. Once there had been an Irish—English?—girl called Frith and, boy, was it fun trying to call that name.

It wasn’t.

“One sec,” he mumbled, glad to turn around and busy his hands. They were littered with a few scars here and there, many of them burns from when he first started brewing coffee.

He hadn’t been very good.

At all.

Thank god for Mumen and his mother for the crash courses in coffee making before he’d applied for this job. Fubuki looked like a woman who could drink five shot of espresso mixed with the blood of her enemies and still look like an ice queen. Wasn’t he lucky to have such a demanding boss.

That was rhetorical. He wasn’t lucky.

A tablespoon of ground coffee beans—Kenyan, today—for each ounce of water. He tampered the coffee with his fingers to even it out. He would’ve asked how sweet the guy wanted it; he seemed pretty bitter and Saitama almost wanted him to look like he’d sucked a lemon. But he decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe he was just having a bad day.

As always, he tested the crema atop the espresso to make sure it held when he ran a spoon through it. Caramel coloured and stripy, he decided it was pretty darn good and slid it across the counter.

“Espresso’s done, dude,” he said, because the blond was staring at his phone with his brow furrowed enough to crease his temple. Must’ve been studying for exams or something. He was too young to be a teacher. “That’ll be £1.80.”

He looked up, momentarily looking as if he’d forgotten he was there, and then he pocketed his phone and rearranged the stuffed folder under his arm. He grabbed the espresso, sticking a lid on it right away—and left.

He just. Left.

Saitama stared as the door shut behind him. If it wasn’t built to slow down, it would’ve slammed.

Huh.

What a dick.

It was a busy day.

Well, exams were approaching, so students and teachers alike were flocking to their nearest source of caffeine to fuel them through the next couple weeks. It didn’t help that Saitama didn’t have many co-workers—not right now, anyway. Mumen was on a zero hour; he was doing a part-time degree and he already volunteered at a local charity. Saitama couldn’t remember which one. His other co-workers… Saitama could barely remember their names.

But heeey, he was head barista. Was that what his job title was? Something like that. Mother would have been so proud to know he was a beast at grinding coffee beans.

After he slid a hazelnut latte to a girl with red-rimmed eyes, his day became increasingly painful because—

“Oi, dumbass,” came a squeaky voice.

Saitama breathed in deeply through his nostrils before looking up. He tilted his head and said, “Huh. Weird. I thought I heard a lost child’s voice.”

“Shut up!”

Saitama leaned against the counter and looked over it to see a very short, green haired girl with sharp eyes. “Hi, Tatsumaki. Usual?”

“Yes,” she said, glaring from beneath her lashes. She tilted her head and her hair bounced. “You seem tired.”

“Worried?” Saitama said as he drizzled vanilla syrup in the mug—generously, he thought; more than she deserved. But he was a giver and he knew she liked coffee sweet. It was kinda cute, really, how someone so frosty liked so much sugar in their drink. She was like a hedgehog.

“Of course I’m not worried about some shitty barista.”

Or a porcupine.

Saitama steamed the milk as he tamped the espresso and pulled it. He poured in the steamed milk and followed it with the espresso—with milder beans (Arabica), because Tatsumaki couldn’t handle bitter coffee. He grabbed the caramel syrup and trickled caramel syrup over the top and made it look like a gremlin.

“Tat-su-ma-kiii,” he called dryly. “That’s £2.50.”

She stuck her chin up, as if somehow it’d make her stop looking like a twelve-year-old trying to peek over the counter. She grabbed her caramel macchiato, huffed, and practically stormed out of the coffee shop, nearly crashing into someone on her way out.

“Careful!” she snapped, somehow managing to hold onto her portfolio and her coffee without any mishap. She glared icily at the unfortunate bystander before shoving past. If she was storming before, now she was a tornado.

Ha.

Saitama forced himself to stand up straight as another customer approached. “Hey, what can I get’cha?” he asked.

“Double espresso.”

Saitama looked up. Ohhh, it was this guy again. The monosyllabic blond one. “Oh, hiya. Sure thing. Just gotta make that lady’s hot chocolate and I’ll get on yours. Uh, y’wanna wait here or shall I call you?”

Blondie blinked slowly. “What.”

Saitama raised an eyebrow. “It’s kinda busy in here,” he said, gesturing to the group of students with their heads buried in textbooks. One girl was sniffling and another held a tissue to her nose. Cute. “It’s pretty loud.” One dude on his laptop emit a pained groan and Saitama wondered if he should ask if he needed a refill. “So, do you want me to call your name when it’s done?”

“It’s fine. I’ll just wait here.”

“Okie dokie,” said Saitama as he turned to make a hot chocolate. He slipped in three extra marshmallows and smiled at the girl as he handed it to her. “£2.50, please.”

“Thank you,” the girl said and slid the change into his hand before grabbing her drink. She turned to leave, almost walking right into Blondie’s chest. She stumbled and looked up at him with wide eyes. “Oh, ah—sorry,” she stuttered, then quickly side stepped and half-jogged out the shop.

Blondie stared.

Saitama raised his brow as he started on his espresso. “Smooth, dude.”

Brown eyes—ridiculously light brown eyes, actually, huh—flashed to him. Saitama would’ve raised his hands in surrender if he weren’t juggling a scalding pot of coffee.

“You could’a said something,” he said.

“I’m not very talkative.”

Saitama grunted. “I can tell.” He put the takeaway cup on the counter and the £1.80 was already on the table. He blinked at it before scraping it into his palm. What, did the guy not wanna even hand it to him? Jeez. Blondie grabbed his drink and turned away. “You’re welcome!” Saitama called.

He paused for a second but didn’t turn around.

Asshole.

Blondie had been coming in every day for the last two weeks and then didn’t show up for three days.

In fact, barely anyone came in those three days, apart from a handful of professors and campus visitors and a couple groups of friends discussing their projects and exams. Saitama yawned around his decaf cappuccino before rubbing his stinging eyes. He’d stayed up all night on Skype with Mumen and King playing Overwatch and maybe he was regretting it now. Mumen had tried telling him to go to bed a few times, but he was sure that every new loot box would have a legendary in it.

None of them did.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. It took him a few moments to fish it out of his jeans. The stitching was frayed in the pocket so his stuff tended to get stuck.

Mumen
Did you get any sleep in the end?

Saitama
nope

Mumen
Saitamaaa, you’re meant to be fixing those bad habits…

Saitama
don’t try to guilt me over text with your ellipses. it won’t work bro

Mumen
It works a bit.

Saitama
i’ll get some sleep tonight dw man. i work with coffee anyways so it’s ok

Mumen
I worked with you. I know you don’t drink caffeine.

Mumen
Promise you’ll get some sleep tonight. And don’t skip your meds.

Saitama
yes, mother

Mumen
Thank you.

Saitama rolled his eyes but he couldn’t really argue back. He did skip his meds a lot. And stay up late. But he didn’t like sleeping. It skipped too much time and he already felt like he wasn’t doing anything with his life.

“—okay?”

“Huh?” He looked up, realising he’d slipped into resting his head in his arms on the countertop. He looked up and everything took a few moments to un-blur itself. Ehh, did he need glasses? Or maybe just sleep… “Oh. Sorry. Hey.” He stood up, wincing as his spine crackled. Served him right for his shitty posture, really. ‘S what Bang always said.

He hadn’t been to karate lessons for a few weeks now. Ugh, Bang would be pissed. He should really volunteer at more classes and help teach sometimes. Like he said he would. But he just—couldn’t be bothered. The only reason he bothered coming into Hero’s Coffee was because he got paid for it.

“—alright?”

He shook his head. Shit, he’d missed it again. “Sorry, what did you say you wanted?” he asked, grabbing an espresso sized takeaway cup.

Blondie—oh, it was him—frowned. “I didn’t. I asked if you were okay.”

Saitama felt his eyebrows furrow together. “Huh?” The fuck? “Uh. Yeah?” he said, uncertainly, because why the fuck was the blond porcupine asking if he was okay? “Um—are you?” He asked because he felt he should. Maybe this was a formality thing? Ehh…

Blondie was frowning too. He shook his head, adjusting his folder, and—bowed, suddenly. The fuck. “I’m very sorry for my rudeness,” he said and Saitama leaned back even though he was behind the counter.

“Dude, why are you bowing? Stop.”

“I have been so focused on my studies that I forgot my manners, but that’s no excuse. Please forgive me.”

“Bro, really, it’s fine. Please stand up,” Saitama said, glancing around nervously as a few girls turned to stare at the scene unfolding.

“Please tell me your name,” Blondie said suddenly, eyes glinting in the low lights of the coffee shop. “I’m Genos.” He stuck his hand out, the motion so determined Saitama was sure he heard the air slice.

“Uhh… Saitama.” He grabbed his hand and shook it, remembering to make it firm halfway through. “Nice to meet you?”

“It’s nice to meet you too.” He inclined his head.

Saitama half-wished he’d go back to how he acted before. “Yeah, cool. So, uh – coffee?”

Genos stood straighter, eyes widening just a fraction as if he’d forgotten. “Oh—yes.” He glanced at the chalkboard menu on the wall.

“You wanna try something different?”

Warm brown eyes dropped down to meet his own. “I’ve—never drank coffee much. I only really started during exams. It’s—a bit bitter, actually. I’m not sure I even like it.”

Saitama tried not to be offended. “Well, espressos aren’t the coffee people normally start with,” he said, offering a small smile. He leaned against the counter. “They’re pretty intense and strong, but if you make ‘em right they aren’t too bitter.” He shrugged. “But it’s mostly older professors who drink it. ‘S more like fuel than something you drink for the taste of it.”

Genos stared at him just long enough for it to get weird. Saitama nearly moved away when Genos spoke again. “What would you recommend?” he asked. “For a—coffee beginner.”

He was kinda surprised the guy asked. “Uhh. Teenagers normally drink frappuccinos, so get one of those if you like cold drinks that don’t taste like coffee? Unless you get a coffee flavoured one…” Wait, stop. Rambling. Don’t do that. “My favourite’s probably cappuccinos? Or cortados—both of those are pretty… normal?” He rubbed his neck, feeling a little self-conscious. “Uh—lattes have more milk; they’re pretty mild. And you can get flavoured syrups. Hey, yeah, I drew a li’l graph actually!” he said, grinning a little, and turned to gesture at a smaller blackboard with chalk etchings of coffees and their measurements of espresso and milk. Saitama wasn’t much of an artist, but he thought it looked—

“Amazing,” Genos finished his thought, but with a bit more of a hyperbole than Saitama thought of it.

He rubbed his neck, chuckling. “It’s not that great. I’m no artist,” he said, “but thanks, dude.”

“You seem quite good to me,” he said, finally looking away from the blackboard to meet Saitama’s eyes again. “You do all those—patterns with the coffee.”

Saitama raised his eyebrows. “Oh, you noticed? You always seemed too distracted.”

“I’m sorry,” Genos said, looking chagrined again.

“’S not your fault. You had exams, right? Lots of students are having mental breakdowns.”

Genos scowled. “It’s no excuse,” he insisted. “But thank you for your understanding, Saitama-san.”

Saitama blinked. “Oh, uh. Saitama’s fine, man. So, anyway, what d’you want?” he asked, if only so Genos would stop staring at him and look back at the menu or something.

“I’ll try whatever Saitama-san thinks I should,” he said. “Oh – and I’ll drink it in today, please.”

Saitama rolled his eyes. “Saitama,” he said again, and then faltered when he instinctively picked up a takeaway cup. “In?” he asked.

“Yes, please. I don’t have to rush to the library today.” Genos made a face like he tried to smile.

Saitama felt his lips twitch. He quickly turned around to prepare a cappuccino. Since Genos had noticed the rosettes he carefully designed atop coffees, he decided to make one that looked like a bear. He liked coffee art; it was pretty fun. He actually had a few followers on Instagram because of his excessive coffee photos. Hey, guess I’m good at something, he thought, then lightly sprinkled chocolate powder around the bear drawn with milk before sliding it over the counter to Genos.

“What did you make?” Genos asked. He took out his phone and took a quick photo of it. Saitama felt oddly flattered.

“Why don’t you try it?” Saitama said.

Genos looked almost determined, for some reason, but he obligingly lifted the white cup and took a sip. Ah, it was probably really hot, but he didn’t seem affected by it. He licked his lips afterwards and Saitama leaned forwards, finding himself hoping Genos would like it.

“So?”

“It’s—nice,” Genos said, and Saitama grinned. “It’s not nearly as bitter as the other one I’ve been having.” He paused. “I like it.” He took another sip, bigger this time.

“Careful, you’ll be finished in no time,” Saitama said, chuckling.

“I wouldn’t mind getting another one,” Genos said in between sips. “I’ve been awake since 5:30 anyway.”

Saitama raised his eyebrows. “Not good for a student,” he said, but then—he couldn’t really judge. “I stayed up all night playing Overwatch though, so.”

“Ah.” Genos brightened a bit. “I got Overwatch recently—do you play on PC?”

“Yup.”

“Let me give you my battletag,” said Genos, but then paused. “Ah… I left my notebook behind.”

“Hey, no worries. You wanted another coffee, right? I’ll write my battletag on the cup.” It might be nice to play with someone new. Tatsumaki rage quit all the time, King was just infinitely better than him, and Mumen spent too long saying ‘hello’ to enemies during every match.

“I’ll have another medium cappuccino then, please,” Genos said with a smile, eyes bright—and wow, his eyes really were a light shade of brown. Almost—gold.

And that was almost really gay.

No. Not even almost. That was really gay.

Oh well.

This time, Saitama just did a couple rosettes with a tulip design in the middle atop the cappuccino. He wrote his battletag, onepunchman#2567, on the cup and handed it to Genos.

“I’ll add you when I get home,” Genos said, smiling still. “See you tomorrow.”

“Ah… yeah, bye,” Saitama said.

Genos left the shop, bell above the door ringing in his wake, and Saitama felt like he’d just drank caffeine for the first time in years.

“Oi, dumbass, you’ve been staring at the door for two minutes.”

He rolled his eyes. “Hi, Tatsumaki.”

;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;

He collapsed into his computer chair when he got home.

The low buzzing of the fans inside his computer whirred to life with his desktop. He flicked the light switch of the lamp on his desk and it flickered a few times before staying on. If he jostled it at all, it’d turn off.

He opened battle.net and almost immediately saw—

1 pending friend request. ▽
DemonCyborg#2702
has sent you a friend request ∆

Saitama sucked in his breath and hit accept. Wow, that felt a little bit too eager. Just to balance it out, he clicked Genos’s battletag and typed:

onepunchman: demoncyborg… little bit edgy lol

He received a reply before he could even tab down.

DemonCyborg: I made it when I was 14.

DemonCyborg: Want to play together?

Before he could answer, Genos sent him a group invite. Saitama shrugged. It was only 11:30, might as well play a couple matches. He accepted and they went straight into quick play.

“I bet he picks Genji,” he mumbled to himself and cackled when he did. “I fucking knew it.”

onepunchman: knew youd pick genji

DemonCyborg: Genji’s good. I have no idea what you’ll pick.

onepunchman: eh i don’t really have a main i just pick whatever the team needs

He ended up picking D.Va, got called OP several times, got POTG, and somehow stayed up until 4am playing Overwatch with the dude from the coffee shop.

“I wasn’t sure you’d be in today.”

Saitama looked up and straightened upon seeing Genos ambling up to the counter. “I’m in every day,” he said.

“How much sleep did you get?” Genos raised his eyebrows.

“Ehh… like five hours?” He paused. “No, four.”

Genos shook his head. “We shouldn’t have stayed up so late.”

“We wouldn’t have had to if you had switched off Genji after our three loss streak.” Saitama stuck his tongue out. Genos paused, looking lost in thought, and Saitama started feeling self-conscious. “Anyway, I never asked—what is it you study, anyway?”

Genos shook himself out of whatever reverie he was in and looked surprised. Saitama wasn’t sure why. “Oh. Um, I do Mechanical Engineering.”

Saitama raised his eyebrows. “Wow, dude, that sounds amazing. You must be really smart.” He certainly wouldn’t end up stuck working in a coffee shop.

Genos flushed. “I’m—not really.”

“Uh huh, okay. I still think it’s impressive. What d’you wanna drink anyway?”

“Um. A large cappuccino again, please.” Saitama set to work on it and Genos asked, “What did you do? Before working here.”

“Oh. I studied here too. Did biochem. Minored in business studies. Hated both of them.” He was gonna do a robot design on top of the cappuccino since Genos did engineering. Could he make robots? That’d be so cool.

“Wow, I had no idea. That’s amazing, Saitama-san.”

“Not really. It was really hard and I’m pretty dumb. Hey, can you make robots? We could enter Robot Wars.” He slid the coffee over to Genos—in a cup, because he’d been drinking in a lot lately. Over in the corner by the window that overlooked the pond, next to the weird orange abstract painting on the wall that didn’t look like anything in particular.

“Actually, maybe I could? But probably only one like those robot dogs made at Christmas when I was a kid.” He looked at the coffee and his lips twitched. “You drew a robot.”

“I did,” agreed Saitama, “and I loved those robot dogs. My friend had one. I was so jealous.”

Genos looked up at him and smiled, then glanced to the door. “You’re not too busy today,” he said slowly.

“Yeah, thank god. I hate too much human interaction.”

“Well,” Genos continued, “would you like to take your lunch and sit with me? I can show you my plans for my next project.” He obviously ignored the second part of Saitama’s sentence, but hey.

Saitama—should probably stay behind the counter, just in case… but it was 2:30pm, so he probably had at least half an hour until tired students flocked in for a coffee after their afternoon seminars…

He nearly fell across the counter when a kick landed against his backside. He scrambled to not fall right in Genos’s chest and then turned around to glare at Tatsumaki. “What the hell,” he said.

“Just go,” she snapped, folding her arms. “You haven’t had lunch today anyway, so go eat a damn croissant and look at your boyfriend’s pictures.”

“He’s not my—I’m not—ahh, whatever.” Saitama ran his hands through his bird’s nest black hair and grabbed two blueberry muffins. “C’mon, Genos.” They went and sat in the corner Genos frequented and Saitama slid one of the muffins in front of him. “’S on the house.”

“Are you sure?” Genos asked, eyes wide as if Saitama had just given him the keys to a new car or something.

“Dude, it’s fine. We’re allowed to eat ‘em if they get stale or anythin’ anyway. These ones aren’t though, don’t worry.” He took a bite of it and said through chewing, “I made this batch.”

Genos grabbed the muffin and took a bite. With crumbs all over his face, he turned and exclaimed, “They’re amazing, Saitama-san!”

Saitama blinked a few times, caught off guard, before laughing. “No one’s ever been so into my cupcakes before. Here, tissue.” He tossed him one. Genos hesitated for a second before wiping his face, surprised to find crumbs there. “Show me your robots, dude.”

Saitama was hovering in his closet, staring at the central heating system with as much disdain as he could muster, because it just broke earlier. He’d been in a competitive match in Overwatch when his power cut out and by the time it came back on, the heating just—didn’t.

He could not afford to fix this piece of junk that had broken twice before already. He shook his head. Losing that competitive match pissed him off more than losing his shitty heating. He could just wear a blanket around the house.

He went to turn his PC back on when his phone vibrated in his pocket.

Genos Kuseno (demoncyborg) started following you.

Huh, really? He hadn’t updated his Instagram in a while now. Saitama tapped the notification and it took him to Genos’s page. It was a myriad of hipster sky photos, mechanical contraptions he was working on, and… recently, several photos of Saitama’s coffees.

He paused. Glanced over his shoulder to make sure Tatsumaki wasn’t behind him—not that she could see anyway—and tapped the first photo of coffee. It was the one with the bear design and it looked really nice against the worn old wood of the countertop table.

❤ tornado, fubuki001, atomiccoffee and 205 others
demoncyborg #coffee #coffeeart #heroscoffee

Saitama’s lips twitched.

onepunchman great caption dude

He opened another photo, the one of the robot design this time, but before he could look at it his phone buzzed again.

demoncyborg @onepunchman The picture speaks for itself.

He clicked back to his newsfeed to find Genos had already uploaded a new photo. Wow. Then again, he did spend a lot of time on his phone and—

Wait.

That was a photo of him.

Like, of Saitama. Saitama with muffin crumbs on his face and a coffee in his hand and he was – was he laughing?

Why did Genos even—

demoncyborg Had lunch with @onepunchman yesterday. Everyone should try the coffee in his shop. It’s great.

Oh my god.

He opened private messages and hastily tapped one out to Genos.

onepunchman
dude omg take that down

demoncyborg
Why?

onepunchman
i look ridiculous

He paused. He never really cared what he looked like, but. Agh. What was wrong with him?

demoncyborg
No you don’t. You look great.

His face heated up and his fingers hovered over the touchpad. A weird noise escaped his throat and he tossed his phone on his bed, burying his face in his arms.

What the fuck.

Today… wasn’t gonna be a good day.

Saitama splashed some cold water on his face in the coffee shop’s bathroom, hoping it’d wake him up. His head felt full of cotton wool and his body felt like lead. His feet dragged all the way to work and he wasn’t sure he’d even make it the whole way.

It was just one of those days.

“Saitama! Get out here; we need your help!”

He gave himself a moment to lean his forehead against the mirror; the cold glass soothed the dull ache throbbing in his skull. He wanted to sleep.

“Saitama!”

Buuut it didn’t look like that was gonna happen any time soon, did it. Okay then.

Pushing himself off the wall, he hauled himself out of the bathroom. As soon as he opened the door, a cacophony of conversations buzzed through his ears and it sounded worse than his computer fans on a hot day. He could tell why Tatsumaki and Mumen needed help though; it was packed.

“Thanks, Saitama—hey, you okay?” Mumen asked, tilling up the customer’s request while gazing worriedly at Saitama.

“Yeah, yeah, ‘m good. Tired is all,” he said, waving him off.

Mumen hesitated a second, but then nodded. “We’ll talk during our break,” he said. “I’ll take the orders, you and Tatsumaki and make the coffee, okay?”

“Mmhm.”

And so he went on autopilot for the next—half hour? Maybe. But he gazed emptily down at the latte he was making, barely remembering the caramel syrup before putting its lid on and handing it over to a dude in a dog onesie.

Students. He shook his head.

Finally, thank god, the line died down and most of the louder customers left with takeaways rather than sitting in. The line trickled down enough for Tatsumaki to take over while Mumen pulled Saitama aside.

“You’ve not been sleeping well for a while now, Saitama,” he said, quietly.

Saitama shrugged, skin prickling at the attention. “’S nothing to worry about, man. But thank—”

“Don’t brush this off, Saitama,” Mumen said, uncharacteristically stern. Saitama stared at him. “Have you been taking your medication?”

Saitama huffed and looked away. “Dude…”

“Saitama.”

“Holy shit,” he mumbled, body deflating as he sighed. “No.” He didn’t look at Mumen because he knew he’d see disappointment and he just didn’t wanna deal with that. He hated moments.

“Why not?”

But it had been like this since university because Saitama couldn’t afford his own dorm and had to share. And, really, he should count himself lucky for getting Mumen as a roommate when a real weirdo who called himself Sonic lived down the hall. Saitama never did find out if he had tonnes of Sonic the Hedgehog memorabilia in his dorm – and he’d never know.

Sad, really.

But hey, y’know, thinking back he really should’ve been subtler about the whole… depression… thing.

Ergh. Even calling it that sounded attention seeking.

“Saitama.” Whoops, he’d tuned out again. “Why haven’t you been taking your meds?”

“Because I don’t want to.” That sounded childish, didn’t it? “And sometimes I forget.”

Mumen scowled. “When I broke my leg and wasn’t sure if I’d be able to cycle competitively again, you never gave up on me. Why don’t you treat yourself with the same respect?”

“Dude, you’re making this sound way more dramatic than it is.”

“It needs to be made clear to you that it’s a bigger deal than you think it is,” Mumen insisted. “But if you don’t respect yourself enough to do it for you, then please take them for me. Or King, or Tatsumaki, or Fubuki. As long as you take them.”

Saitama’s face felt too warm and prickly again. He hated this kind of situation. “Ugh, Mumen… c’mon,” he mumbled, “it’s—not important. I’m still alive, so…” he trailed off when Mumen recoiled. “Wait, bad choice of words. I didn’t mean I’m gonna not be alive or anything—unless a freak accident happened, I guess, but—”

“Yo, Saitama, a customer asked for you,” Tatsumaki cut in, pausing when she saw their faces. “Didn’t realise you were having a moment. I’ll tell him you’re busy.”

“I’m on it. And we weren’t having a moment,” Saitama said, his easy stroll belying the painful thumping in his chest. He didn’t want to make Mumen worry. Ugh, damn it. Now he just felt worse.

“Um—I didn’t ask her to get you, I just asked if you were here,” a familiar voice said.

Saitama blinked the clouds out of his vision and found golden-brown eyes gazing down at him. “Oh, Genos,” he said. “It’s okay. I know I make the best coffee here.”

“You do not!” Tatsumaki shrieked, but she knew he did.

“Hey, did you take down that photo of me?” Saitama asked, scratching his neck.

Genos looked surprised. “No, but if it bothers you that much then I will.”

Saitama shrugged, still too warm. He swiped a clammy hand across his forehead and used it as an excuse to wash his hands again and turn away from Genos. “It’s fine, I guess. But your Instagram looks so, uh. Artsy? It kinda ruins it.”

“Not at all,” Genos said in a rush. “And you looked—good.”

Wow, no one had said that to him in a long time. Saitama flushed, shrugging one shoulder awkwardly. “Uh. Thanks, dude,” he said. “Anyway, what can I get you?”

“Oh—um.” He looked up at the menu. “Can I try a cortado?”

Saitama raised his eyes slowly, and blinked. He probably looked like a fish. “A cor—really?”

Genos tilted his head. “Are they bad?”

“Uh. Well, they’re my favourite coffee, so probably,” he said, chuckling weakly.

“Then I want to try it.”

Saitama cleared his throat. “Oh. Okay.”

In went the Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee beans which he ground. He prepared them, tamed them, and then steamed the milk. He made a tiny amount of steamed milk just to draw a little design on—another robot, a chibi one that was meant to resemble Genos—and slid it over to him.

“Is that an android?”

“Uh… yeah, it’s meant to be you.” Saitama smiled, feeling foggy. He leaned on the counter. “Like I said: I’m no artist.”

“It’s… really cute,” Genos said.

“Excuse me, can I get a medium decaf latte, please?” came another voice, and Genos retreated to his corner while Saitama served the next customer.

He was on autopilot with cotton wool clouds in his head all day until closing time loomed. He was mopping the floor while Tatsumaki was cleaning the machines. Mumen left an hour ago for a meeting with his agent after evoking a promise from Saitama that he’d take his meds.

“Right, we’re all done. You wanna tell your boyfriend he’s gotta go?”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” he said, a bit delayed, as he leaned against the mop. He realised he’d been cleaning one tile for the last five minutes.

“Okay,” Tatsumaki said. “Oi, idiot.” He looked up – like an idiot – and she stood on her tiptoes to touch his forehead. Her frown deepened.

“You’ll get wrinkles,” he said.

“Shut up.” She pulled her hand away. “You’re burning up.”

“Oh,” he said, “really?” It was good news really; he thought he’d been feeling weird because of his whole skipping meds thing.

“Can you get Blondie to walk you—oh, you wouldn’t ask. Blondie!”

What. “Wait, no, Tatsu—”

Genos looked up, standing up from his seat and pocketing his phone. “Yes?”

“Could you walk this guy home? I think he’s sick. He only lives a bus ride away.”

“I’m fine,” Saitama cut in. “Why are you worr—”

“I’m not worried,” she snapped.

“I can get him home,” Genos said. “No problem.”

Tatsumaki nodded and shoved Saitama over to him. He staggered and Genos caught him by his arms.

“Don’t come in tomorrow either,” Tatsumaki called, “I don’t want you spreading germs and putting off customers.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Saitama said with a wave of his hand as he pulled himself into a standing position.

Wait, no he wasn’t. Suddenly he could see the ceiling and everything spun out of where it was meant to be.

Ah. It stopped.

“How sick are you?” Genos asked.

“I didn’t think I was,” he replied, blinking white spots out of his vision. “’S probably lack of sleep.” And meds.

“You should take better care of yourself. Which bus do you take home?” Genos had wrapped an arm around his back in case he fell over and, wow, he was warm. Nice.

“Huh? Oh, the 163,” he said, wincing as the wind bit at his cheeks. “Don’t you lecture me too. Mumen already did it.”

“Good. You obviously need it.” Genos managed to drag him to the bus stop just at it started drizzling. Wow, never mind. It was only drizzle for a moment before it started falling heavier, curdling with mud in between pavement cracks. It hit the pavement heavy and they both scooted further beneath the bus stop shelter. Saitama shuddered. Fuck winter. “Here,” said Genos, and suddenly something warm fell around his shoulders and wrapped around his neck.

“Huh? Your scarf—dude, no, you keep it.” He started unravelling it but Genos stopped him with a hand on his arm.

“No, you need it. Just return it in a few days when you’re better.”

Saitama huffed, burying his face in the black and white scarf as he huddled in his threadbare coat. Maybe he should invest in a new one with his next paycheck—aw, but he’d been saving up for Fifa 17…

Finally, the streetlamps flickered to life, bathing the bus stop in a soft yellow glow. Gazing up at the dim light just made him feel sleepier than before and he slumped against the back of the bus stop. Thankfully the cold would keep him awake.

He wasn’t sure how long he stared at the light by the time he heard a bus pulling up. The thick puddles washed over the pavement as it drove through them and then its doors stuttered open.

Genos insisted he get on the bus first so he rolled his eyes and did so. He went to the back of the bus and Genos slid in beside him. He yawned. “You really—” yawn “—didn’t have to get on my bus with me. ‘S only about seven stops.”

“You look like you’ll pass out,” Genos said, tapping something into his phone. It was buzzing a lot.

“Who’s that?” Saitama asked without thinking. Ah, it was none of his business—

“My father,” Genos said, smiling. “He worries when I’m out late. I don’t do it often.”

“Aw,” Saitama said, sounding insincere but meaning it. It really was sweet. “My friend Mumen is basically my mum.”

Genos made a half-amused, half-bemused face, clearly wanting to ask something like but what about your real mum but he didn’t.

Saitama yawned again. His head kept drooping but he forced himself to keep looking up at the streetlamps whizzing past. Only five… more… stops…

“Saitama-san, we’re off the bus. Where’s your place?”

“Nyuh?” He blinked several times. “Huh?” Had he fallen asleep? They were off the bus; it was driving out of sight, and—“Are you carrying me?”

“You fell asleep.”

“Y-you just woke me up anyway, dude, why didn’t you just wake me before—”

“Where’s your place, Saitama-san?”

“Oh my god,” he mumbled, squirming his way out of the embarrassing piggyback. He didn’t want his landlord to think he was drunk or something. He’d get kicked out. “Put me down. It’s—I’m upstairs, number 18.”

Genos didn’t put him down. He carried him up the stairs like it was easy even though Saitama knew he weighed 154lbs. He buried his face in Genos’s shoulder and clenched his eyes shut. Nobody had ever carried him before. This was—mortifying.

“We’re here,” Genos finally said after five minutes of silent torture. He slowly let Saitama get to his feet.

He scrambled for his key and unlocked his door. “Um. Thanks, dude. You really didn’t have to do this,” he said, rubbing his neck awkwardly. Genos said nothing, just looking at him. “Uhh. You wanna come in? It’s a bit late for coffee, but…” What the fuck was he saying. He didn’t invite people in.

Genos smiled and Saitama’s fist clenched around his key. “That’s okay, Saitama-san, but thank you.” He wandered towards the stairs and gave a short wave. “Get better soon.”

“Uh—yeah. Thanks. I will,” he said, a bit belatedly when Genos was already half-way down the stairs. He went indoors, locked the door, and immediately slid down it.

What the fuck.