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Saitama does not have friends.
This is not an earth-shattering fact. This is not something he had only discovered about himself yesterday. No, this is a reality he’s been living with for fourteen years.
And it’s fine. He doesn’t lose sleep over it. He doesn’t cry over it. He’s just fine with how his life decided to play out—well, it’s actually his own fault no one ever wants to talk to him. Which is also something he’s completely fine with.
Still.
Sometimes, Saitama thinks.
He sits in class, bored to death, doodling on a scrap of paper, and thinks. His mind wanders all the way back to kindergarten.
Saitama did not have friends there. Which kinda sucked since, you know, kindergarten was the place you were supposed to learn how to make friends at. That was the whole point. And then you needed to make said friends.
It’s a little weird that Saitama didn’t have any friends when he was little because he’d never been a shy kid. Quiet, much quieter than the rest of the children, but never shy. He always spoke his mind, he didn’t care about groups of people, and didn’t even mind interacting with others all that much. Hell, Saitama will go as far as to say he actively wanted to get to know some of the other kids—they spent their days playing and laughing and having fun, all while Saitama stood to the side and watched. He wanted to have fun, too.
But he never initiated any conversations himself. He would just wait for someone to take interest and approach him, and then Saitama would do one or more of the following: blankly stare, hum, make another noise vaguely resembling acknowledgement, stare again (but at the ground this time), maybe even reply if he felt like it (which, was not often). Apparently that was the wrong way to make friends.
And so elementary came around, and Saitama still had no idea how to make a friend or how to even hold a normal conversation. He was still just as quiet and just as lonely—not a lot had changed in that department. What did change was the environment around him—school brought with itself a whole new set of problems.
Defining qualities.
Some of his classmates were smart for their age, maybe even gifted with how easily they learnt the multiplication table and grammar. Some were social butterflies, always surrounded by a group of buddies. Some were athletic. Some were dancers, some singers. Some were just funny. A few knew languages, others knew how to play instruments. (And the exceptional knew both and sometimes more, and every teacher looked at them with stars in their eyes, and every student wanted to be their friend, and those kids were truly the gifted ones, and Saitama pretended his chest didn’t twist with jealousy whenever he looked at them.)
Everyone had something defining about themselves—an interest, a hobby, a skill. Everyone had something they were known for.
Everyone, except Saitama.
“So what’re you good at?”
He still remembers how that girl had just walked up to him one day and asked that completely out of the blue—after all, Saitama didn’t usually get noticed by others, so it was only natural the question had caught him off-guard. “What?”
She tilted her head, pigtails following the motion. “Like, what do you do?”
Saitama blinked. “What do you mean?”
She gave him a look like he was an entirely different breed of stupid. “You know, like…” She let out a huff, thinking hard. “Mori helps me with English, and Nakajima’s good at swimming, so…What do you do?”
Another slow blink. “I…” Saitama trailed off. Something I’m good at? I guess it’s… “I don’t know.”
He thought the girl would leave him alone after that, but she only pouted, the kind kids did when they didn’t get exactly what they wanted. “You’re weird. Are you just bad at everything?”
“Sorry,” Saitama said. He didn’t even know what he was apologizing for.
“Whatever.” Just like that, a childish, toothy smile replaced her frown. “It’s funny.”
Ever since then, Saitama sometimes caught his classmates pointing fingers at him or straight up laughing behind his back. Whenever he turned around, they’d always shut up, and he never could quite hear what they were saying, but he didn’t need to. He already knew.
And now he’s in middle school.
Bored, friendless, and just as uninteresting as ever. Still just himself.
Still just Saitama.
He presses harder on his pencil until it tears a hole in the paper. The face didn’t turn out like he wanted it to.
Thinking on it now, Saitama was involved in that monster attack a few days ago. It was definitely the most exciting, adrenaline-filled day of his life so far. He didn’t get any friends from it, and got beat up by upperclassmen, and then got beat up by a monster, and lost two hundred yen, and….
Well, he didn’t say it was something good that happened. Just interesting.
Saitama supposes that means he has exactly one interesting thing about himself. Hooray.
Doesn’t change the fact he’s still lonely, but, like he said, he doesn’t really care about the whole friendless outcast thing that much. Being alone is actually underrated. It’s nice, in a very specific way Saitama can’t formulate right now. It’s just…nice.
Even if he’s currently half-overhearing a hushed conversation between his classmates (how much until class ends? I’m dying for lunch. Hey, can I copy that?) and it makes him remember how no one ever turns to him to whisper an inside joke. He never gets to share a laugh with someone in the middle of class, or listen to a classmate complain how they’re going to die out of sheer boredom, and no one even bothers to ask him the time—
“Saitama, do you know the answer?”
Shit. Was he supposed to be listening? “Uh.” Saitama drops the pencil and shoves his drawing under a notebook as he stands up. “No.”
His teacher raises a condescending eyebrow at him. “And why’s that?”
“I just don’t.”
“Do you even know the question?”
“No.”
A girl breaks out into giggles behind Saitama. His homeroom suddenly looks a thousand times more tired. “Let me see what you have written down.”
“Okay.”
It’s not after a whole two seconds later that Saitama remembers the existence of his drawing. Alarms blare in his head, but, before he can actually do anything, the teacher picks up his notebook and inevitably sees it. Saitama tries not to wince.
“This isn’t art class, Saitama.” His drawing is snatched up just as quickly. Well, calling it a drawing is pretty generous—it’s more of a crumpled mess now. Saitama watches it get chucked mercilessly into the bin. Another laugh grates his burning ears. “You haven’t even written down the topic,” his teacher continues complaining. “Now at least try to focus on the lesson, or else you’ll get a bad grade, and you don’t want that, do you?”
“No,” Saitama says again. Honestly, he’s just grateful his homeroom didn’t slap or hit him in front of the whole class. He couldn’t care less about his grades. “Sorry.”
Thankfully, after that whole scene, no other questions are directed at Saitama (even though the teacher makes sure to side-eye him the rest of the lesson). Saitama puts in all his effort not to space out again—he really does!—but then the bell makes him flinch, and he realizes he’s been staring at a corner of the board and thinking about nothing for the past half an hour. He feels emptier than usual.
The classroom buzzes with chatter, while everyone’s distracted, Saitama gathers his things, throwing his notebook in with more force than necessary, and slips into the hallway. He can’t stop himself from sighing—the day just started, and he’s already been publicly humiliated. It’s not like he was caught doing anything bad, anyway…
“Hey, you!”
Saitama stops in his tracks.
Oh yeah, did he forget to mention?
Despite always being in the background and attracting as little attention as possible, he still managed to become a magnet for bullies. Not just the upperclassmen—but his own classmates, too. Saitama sighs again.
One thing after another, huh?
“…What.”
“This yours?”
Saitama closes his eyes for a moment, breathes out. Turns around. His classmate is holding up a wrinkled piece of paper. It’s a little torn around the sides and has a few holes, but Saitama will recognize his own shaky lines anywhere.
“You rummaging in trash?”
The guy only barks out a laugh, the sneer never leaving his face. “Answering a question with another question is kind of rude, isn’t it?” He turns the paper back to himself and makes a show of examining it, tilting it left and right. “Hmm…What’s this supposed to be? Some kind of hero?”
Embarrassment creeps back up Saitama’s cheeks. “It’s just a comic book character,” he grits out.
“Really? I couldn’t tell.” His classmate takes a few steps closer. Saitama pushes down the urge to back away. “You wanna be a hero or something, Saitama? You know they’re not real, right?”
“I know,” Saitama answers, struggling to keep his voice even. “It’s just a doodle.” And, okay, maybe he likes to imagine himself as a hero sometimes, in his own little fantasy world where everything goes the way he wants. Saitama would stand out then, be good at something. Maybe would even get a friend or two. It’s a pathetic thought, but…
“Then what, you wanna be an artist?” Another harsh laugh. “‘Cause I’ll be honest with you, this sucks.”
Saitama knows that, too. “What’s your deal?” he asks. “If you like it so much, you can keep it. I don’t care.” Saitama’s grip on his bag tightens. “Just leave me alone.”
“You’re no fun,” his classmate says with a pout. He begins to tug at the paper in his hands. Something heavy washes over Saitama, the weight settling uncomfortably on his shoulders. “What, you’re not even gonna try to get it back?”
“I told you, I don’t care.”
A shrug. “Your loss.”
The hallway fills with the noise of ripping paper. Chunk by chunk, piece by piece. Saitama forces himself to watch all the way through; he watches as the last of the scraps flutter to the ground, watches as his dreams are destroyed like they’re nothing. Like they’re just paper to be torn apart.
The crushing weight envelops Saitama whole. His head feels fuzzy. He only registers his classmate leaving after a minute has passed.
“Stupid,” Saitama mutters. He crouches down to collect the remains of his drawing—who the hell litters in the school hallway? Did that guy seriously have nothing better to do? Stupid, Saitama thinks again. At least no one was there to witness this.
Once he finishes picking up both his metaphorical and literal pieces, he makes sure to throw the trash out in a different classroom, just in case anyone from his class wants to play scavenger again. He almost kicks the trashcan out of frustration, but his conscience tells him it didn’t do anything to deserve that kind of treatment, and, yeah, Saitama supposes that’s right. He leaves it alone.
His next classes pass in a blur; it’s like his mind simply decided to turn off for a few hours, ignoring anything his teachers or classmates or the world itself were trying to tell him. Almost like he didn’t exist. When Saitama comes back to his senses, it’s only lunch period.
He glares at the sandwich in his hands like it has personally wronged him. His head feels even worse now—he knows he said he didn’t mind crowds, but today is just not his day, and Saitama can’t handle so many people and sounds and voices in one place and if he spends a second longer in here, he’ll explode. He scarfs down his food and practically runs out of the cafeteria.
Saitama makes his way to the second floor as he heads back to class. Food is still fresh on his mind—he wonders what he’ll cook for dinner today. Maybe noodles again? Or macaroni? Or should he spice it up a little…
And then Saitama bumps into someone.
Someone big.
C’mon, I just want this day to be over already, I don’t have the strength for—
“Dumbass,” a voice snarls from behind him, and a hand grabs Saitama’s shoulder before he can even think of leaving. “You not even gonna apologize?”
“Sorry,” Saitama says, voice as insincere as possible. “Can I go now?”
It doesn’t work, of course.
“Well now I don’t believe you.” The hand squeezes until it hurts. “It’s not as genuine if I just ask you to apologize. Maybe I’ll forgive you if you bow.” A predatory grin splits the upperclassman’s face. “Or do my homework for me, huh? How about that?”
Oh, no way in hell is Saitama doing that. He’s already been humiliated enough times today. Too many times. “Let go.”
“Then apologize better.”
It’s not his teacher making fun of him. Not his classmate ruining his drawing. Not the overwhelming noise in the cafeteria. Not even his sandwich tasting like crap.
No, the last straw for Saitama is this fucking asshole, who won’t stop touching him and who just won’t. Shut. Up.
“I’m not even sorry!” Saitama yells out. He slaps the hand off his shoulder; his insides feel like they’ve been set on fire, and the sudden rush of anger makes him lose control of his words. “Maybe you should apologize! And watch where you’re going next time, moron!”
The upperclassman’s eyebrows twitch, and his eyes flash with pure, unadulterated rage.
…That was definitely the wrong thing to say.
“You shitty kid!”
Saitama feels the gust of wind before he even processes what’s happening. Knuckles make contact with his cheek, again, then again, then again. He attempts to punch back, even though he knows it’s futile—he’s never been any good at this, and now his anger had made his reaction time even slower. He misses the other guy by a good forty degrees and earns another punch for it.
This is just like last time, except now he isn’t even losing to two people. He really does suck at everything.
“I’ll teach you some respect!”
The storm of emotions leaves Saitama as suddenly as it came. His brain refuses to cooperate with his mouth or limbs—he just stands there and takes the hits until he can’t feel them anymore, until he can’t feel. Until he goes back to the weird limbo plane he’s already visited so much today.
Next thing Saitama knows, he’s lying on the cold hard floor of the school. Pain dances across his face, and copper is fresh on his tongue, but at least he’s not being punched anymore.
Is it over?
He gets kicked in the side.
A wheeze slips out of Saitama, hoarse and desperate, and he shuts his eyes, if only to stop the stars from spreading (and maybe the tears from falling). He curls up, wrapping his arms around himself, and waits for the next kick.
“Stop right there!”
…And waits.
“Huh?” Saitama hears the bully drawl. “Who the hell’re you?”
“I’m a little-known student who commutes by bike!” Saitama cracks one eye open, confirms for himself that yes, there is a new person now, and yes, the bike is really there, and so, in his half-numb-half-delirious state, he can only think why is he allowed to have that? “But who I am is not important!” The kid raises his fists in a fighting stance. “What’s important is that I’m here to stop you!”
Saitama furrows his brows and squints in confusion, ignoring the mild spark of pain the action causes him. There’s absolutely no way that twig of a kid will win; he even looks like the typical nerd, what with the glasses and all, except…is that a helmet—
His breath hitches when a foot nudges his stomach (or, more accurately, his arms protecting it). “And what’re you gonna do about it?” The bully’s laugh rings out, loud and mocking. “You think you can win against me, huh? You’ll end up on the ground just like this guy!”
The kick finally connects. It’s way stronger than what Saitama had originally anticipated, and it makes him choke and cough and holy shit, holy fuck, that hurt like hell, I’m going to die here. “S-stop,” he whispers. Bile gathers in his throat. “Get out, go…”
“It doesn’t matter if I’ll win or lose!”
“You—“
“What matters is that I’m here to save you!” The kid’s attention shifts to Saitama as he shines him a bright smile. And for just a moment, Saitama actually believes him, believes he’ll be saved, and—that kid’s so stupid! the rational part of his brain interrupts. How is he planning on saving you if he’s gonna lose?!
The bully just laughs again. He steps away from Saitama slowly, cracking his knuckles, and swings. The kid dodges him. It turns into a cycle of punch, dodge, punch, dodge. A few close calls here and there, but overall the cycle stays unbroken.
Saitama’s jaw drops open as he watches the fight. He can’t believe it, but…this little guy is actually good? At fighting? Kind of?
But it can’t last forever. The bully manages to get a punch in (now Saitama understands what the helmet’s for) and the kid sways, stumbling away. It doesn’t take long for him to recover, and then he’s charging at the other guy to try and tackle—
Thump.
The kid is thrown easily to the floor. He lands right near Saitama as he cries out. Now with the fight temporarily stopped, Saitama gets to watch him struggle instead—he’s trying really hard to get up, but…his hands just keep giving out. Everytime he falls back down, he gasps, clearly in pain, yet he doesn’t stop.
“Uh,” the bully says, in a show of intellect, once he realizes two minutes of watching this is probably enough for one lifetime. He starts tapping his foot. “That was fun.” His voice holds absolutely zero emotion. “…I’m going now.”
Saitama can only stare after his retreating figure, wide-eyed. That’s it? He’s just gonna leave now that he has no one else left to beat up?
“Hey…” a voice croaks out beside him. Saitama tilts his head towards it and blinks. “Can you help me get up?”
Instead of answering, Saitama props himself up on his elbows, and slowly starts raising himself off the ground—most of the pain has faded by now (not really, he’s just ignoring it), so he stands up with only one hiss escaping him. Once Saitama makes sure he’s not going to fall back down or straight up drop dead, he offers his hand. The kid takes it. Saitama notices the leather gloves with a quiet huh.
“Thank you,” the kid says. A small silence stretches on before he continues. “I carry a first-aid kit in my bag, so…”
The offer is obvious. Saitama gestures for him to lead the way and follows him like a shadow, watches him rummage around his bag with no words shared between them. The kid decides to sit on the floor (even though they just got off it), and Saitama copies him, wincing as he crosses his legs.
“Sorry I didn’t come sooner.” The kid takes out a few bandaids—some plain, some colorful. When he sees Saitama nod at the plain ones, he holds them out for Saitama to take. “And that I didn’t really save you…oh! You’re bleeding!”
It takes him a second. Saitama brings a hand up to his mouth, and, true to the kid’s word, blood is flowing from his nose and lips like a river. The taste of copper suddenly becomes very obvious.
“Here.” The kid hands him a tissue. Saitama wipes away as much blood as he can, hissing again when he presses on his busted lips too hard. Shit, his face is going to be messed up for days.
The white fabric turns completely red. Saitama should probably go and throw it away, but he just glares at it. Why is this guy still here? Why is he helping him? What does he—
A pack of bandaids is shoved into his face. Saitama blinks again, takes them, carefully feels his face up, and places the bandaids on the spots that sting (there’s quite a lot of them). It’s a slow, methodic process. Saitama would almost call it relaxing if not for how lost he was feeling right now.
“I’m Satoru.”
Saitama raises his gaze back up. He’s supposed to start participating in the conversation somehow, isn’t he? Saitama works his mouth a little before he comes up with, “That was stupid, Satoru.”
“What?” Satoru lets out a startled laugh. “Hey! Not even a thanks?”
“No,” Saitama deadpans. He places another bandaid on his nose. “I didn’t think you’d actually beat him.”
“Ah.” Satoru finally drops the enthusiasm. He shifts on his legs a little. “I guess that’s fair. I don’t really look like the strong type, huh?”
Saitama doesn’t grace that with a response. He’s staring so hard at Satoru it’s almost a miracle he doesn’t manage to see through the guy. “You knew you wouldn’t win,” Saitama says. “So why’d you do it?”
Satoru’s jaw falls open, but nothing comes out. He tilts his head to the floor, seeming to be lost in thought, and then looks back at Saitama again. “Do you like heroes?”
No, is what Saitama always tells people. Yes, is what his instinctual response has been his whole life. Saitama wants to say it, he does, but then he’s hit with a memory of ripping paper and shredded pieces falling to the floor, and his walls immediately spring back up. “Why.”
“I want to be a hero,” is all Satoru says. Like it’s a fact, an axiom. Like he really will be a hero. Like it’s not something he gets made fun of on a daily basis.
Saitama’s chest sparks with what’s left of his anger, which is, admittedly, not much. “That’s even stupider.” His voice holds no edge to it. “Heroes aren’t real.”
Satoru just smiles. “Maybe not yet,” he says. “But I’d like them to be.” He leans back on his hands, smile growing softer, and looks up at the ceiling. “One day, it won’t just be me saving people, but a real hero. Like Mumen Rider.”
“What?”
“My hero name. That’s who I’ll be.”
Saitama huffs. “You’re crazy.”
All he gets in response is a shrug. “So what’s yours?”
“I don’t have a hero name,” Saitama lies.
“No, no.” Satoru chuckles. It’s a kind sound. “I meant your name, your actual one.”
“Oh.” Saitama doesn’t know why he hesitates. He’s not really sure what’s going on at this point. “…Saitama.”
“Saitama,” Satoru tests. He thrusts out a hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Saitama!”
Saitama shakes it, uncertain. “We already met, like, ten minutes ago.”
“Now we’ve officially met!”
And when Satoru grins as wide as that, as if them ‘officially meeting’ is some kind of milestone, well, Saitama can’t bring himself to argue.
He still doesn’t understand why, exactly, this random kid is sticking with him and talking to him and—and helping him, but it’s…nice. It’s nice. Maybe this is how—
“Oh my god!” Satoru jumps up from his spot on the ground, frantically dusts off his pants, and rushes to his bike. “I’m going to be late to class!” He fails to get on the bike a few times, missing the pedals, but succeeds in the end. Before he leaves, he shines Saitama another warm smile, and waves. “I’ll see you later, okay, Saitama?”
Saitama’s eyes widen (later? Does that mean…) and he mouths a quiet okay. He watches on as Satoru pedals away (seriously, how is he allowed to have that?). The red tissue is still clutched firmly in his hand, and he looks at it, then looks back at where Satoru just was, then at the tissue, then…
Saitama lies down.
This is it. His brain has finally melted.
He wants to say this was a horrible day and that he’s glad it’s over—and he is, but…he managed to talk to someone today. About heroes, of all things. They even shook hands. So, really, maybe it’s not all bad.
Saitama shifts into a more comfortable position. He’s not even in that much pain anymore, he just feels…confused. And weird. But in a good way? Man…he hopes later is soon.
Saitama thinks he hears the bell ring. His last conscious thoughts are of the bandaids speckling his face, the feel of leather on his fingers, and a start of something—not quite friendship, not yet, but…something nice.
…Wait, don’t I have class right now?
And then he’s out.