#opmsecretsanta

His eyes flickered open, beams of sunlight pulling him from his deep sleep. Normally he received a minimal amount of sunlight, but as he sat up and blinked blearily at the wall, it did not occur to him to question his standing with the sun.

Genos forced himself to his feet, routine kicking in.

First, he would examine and oil any necessary parts of his cyborg anatomy. Then, before Saitama woke up, he would prepare breakfast so that he could consume it at his leisure. Sensei generally preferred a banana and some milk, but on occasion Genos could get him to eat a more hearty meal befitting his person.

A yawn suddenly erupted from his mouth, which in itself was peculiar. Genos had not yawned in years. He blinked, then blinked again.

My sensors must be malfunctioning, he thought. It was the only explanation as to why his eyesight was devoid of the informational screens. He moved towards the bathroom, feet slapping lightly against the hardwood.

Feet?

His brow furrowed, confusion filtering in through his mind. There was a strange pressure on his bladder as well, an indication that he’d forgotten to empty his food waste from the night before.

He glanced back the way he'd come and stared at the bed he had just vacated. Where he normally expected to find Saitama-sensei was instead his empty sheets. The only conclusion was that somehow they swapped positions during the night—that or Saitama had moved him, which was a possibility, had he not wanted to wake Genos. He looked Saitama who was still and buried beneath the covers, and nearly made to wake him, but quickly reconsidered. Saitama had worked hard the night previous; he deserved a break.

Genos scratched he back of his neck, fingers pausing at the scrape of skin.

Had he changed his suit to a more human model? He couldn't remember. Clearly, the symptoms of his malfunction were getting worse; it warranted a call to doctor Kuseno.

More than a little concerned, he pushed open the door to the bathroom to see what damage he had missed from their last monster fight.

He was unprepared to find Saitama’s face staring back at him.

“Sensei!” he exclaimed. The mirror echoed his words, saitama's face a similar picture of surprise.

This must be a trick.

“How are you here?” both he and the mirror asked. “Have you been trapped on another plane?”

Saitama’s mouth kept moving, echoing Genos,’ words. Genos stepped forward. The mirror followed suit. He stepped back; so did the man in the mirror.

He suddenly remembered the feeling of fingers on skin, feet on linoleum. Clarity sliced through cloud of confusion.

Then from outside the door he heard a shout.

“Genos!” his own voice sounded from outside the door. That was when Genos realized that something was very, very wrong.

“Sensei!” Genos called, lurching for the door, startled by the sound that came out of his mouth. He watched as unfamiliar fingers gripped the handle of the doorknob and pulled back, yanking the door clean off its hinges. Standing in the hallway his own body was staring at him, his expression of mirrored shock.

“What—?”

“Sensei—“

They both started speaking at the same time, then stopped abruptly.

“Is that me?” Saitama—Genos’ body—began. He sounded puzzled and more than a little panicked.

Genos looked down at his hands. His head started swimming.

This is sensei’s body, he thought deliriously. I am in sensei’s body?

His fingers started to tremble, the newfound knowledge making his heart lurch and pound uncomfortably.

“Sensei, I—” Hearing the words come out in Saitama’s voice made them both start. Saitama—Genos—looked even more disturbed.

“Is that really me?” He blinked, then blinked again, eyelashes fluttering rapidly. “I can barely see past the screen over your eyes.” He paused, took a breath. “Is this a dream?”

“We are both presumably conscious,” Genos answered uncertainly, fingers twitching by his side. It took him a few moments to realize that he’d been looking through eyes—real, human eyes—and he was breathing through lungs, with skin and bones and he—

—he  was in Saitama’s body.

A sharp thrill ran through him, a mixture of excitement and horror, and a smidgen of relief. Goosebumps pebbled his skin. A strangled sound escaped from his mouth. When he spoke, Saitama’s voice trembled in a way that Genos never wanted to hear.  

“How?”

He expected no answer from Saitama, and indeed; Genos’ body frowned at him, eyes flashing. If Saitama was attempting to navigate his systems, he would have some trouble; much of it relied on internalized commands synced to his brainwaves. Controlling it had been a very difficult task at first years ago.  

Saitama stepped into his space; Genos sucked in a sharp breath. Metal fingers brushed over his palms, then gripped them and pulled him forward. Genos went willingly, too shocked by what was happening to protest. His own face stared back at him, morphing into an expression of firm determination.

“What are you doing?” he asked—Saitama’s voice asked, ringing high with panic.

Saitama leaned forward and—

--slammed their foreheads together. Genos flinched backwards on instinct, fingers reaching to rub at the skin on his forehead. He looked at Saitama, eyes widening at the forehead-shaped imprint on his forehead from where it had bent under the pressure.

“Sorry, sorry,” Saitama was saying, wincing, fingers scrabbling at his synthetic skin. “Fuck, that hurt. Haven’t felt pain like that in a while.”

“My sensory receptors are at a very sensitive level in the morning for inspection,” Genos explained, working on instinct. There was a cacophony of emotions rolling through him, but it was easier to focus on the immediate concern: Saitama’s safety. “I apologize for any undue pain. Are you all right?”

“Yeah. I thought maybe it would jam our heads into the right place. And prove that this was a dream. Which I think it isn’t.”

Saitama blinked rapidly, flecks of Genos’ oily tears dripping between fluttering eyelashes. Somehow his own expression seemed more becoming knowing that Saitama was behind its engineering—a thought too bizarre for him to analyze currently.

“What should we do?” Saitama continued, brows furrowing. Genos opened his mouth to speak at the same time his stomach rumbled. They both froze, and then Saitama chuckled. Stranger still, to see himself laugh.

“Guess I’m hungry.”

Genos was also aware of an increasing pressure on his bladder, for which he felt both fear and shame. It occurred to him that being inside Saitama-sensei’s person also meant dealing with less…desirable functions.

“You have to urinate,” he blurted, feeling hot shame crawling into his cheeks.

“Oh.” Saitama’s eyes went wide. There was no indication that he was embarrassed, one of the few things that Genos immediate missed about being a cyborg. His own face felt hot and enflamed. “I mean—” Saitama worried his lower lip. “I’d rather you see me naked than piss myself so…go ahead.”

Genos did not remember the next few seconds as they occurred. Noise filled his head. He felt like his brain was short-circuiting, aware of himself entering the bathroom, lifting the lid, unzipping his pants—

Suddenly, he was all too aware of his eyes falling to the organ clasped between his fingers. Heat ripped through him; he shivered. He’d always had an unhealthy interest in Saitama’s anatomy, but to have this chance felt simultaneously like a blessing and a curse.

Genos’ gaze did not linger, but a part of him lamented the fact that he did not have his recording capabilities on hand.

He finished using the bathroom, washed his hands, and stepped out into the hallway. Saitama had moved into the kitchen, and Genos found him pacing, holding an egg and a pot in his hand.

“Sensei?”

Saitama jumped and then egg flew out of his hand. Genos caught it—or would have, had it not been crushed between his fingers. He was beginning to understand why Saitama had been rejecting his various advances; if his strength was this potent, a lapse in attention could easily mean crumpling certain parts of Genos’ anatomy.

They stared at the remnants of the egg as it dripped onto the floor.

A laugh erupted out of Saitama.

“I can’t believe this is happening, dude. We swapped brains!”

Genos considered this for a moment. “Or bodies.”

Saitama shook his head, and froze when his phone started ringing. It was Genos’ phone. He pulled it out of his pocket and stared at the number.

“It’s from the hero association.”

“I suppose you should answer it. They usually only call for important matters.”

“But if it’s about monsters, I can’t fight like you do,” Saitama protested. “I can barely see past all your screen things.”

Genos pursed his lips.

The phone stopped ringing.

“Oh, oops.”

Then it started again. Startled, it took Saitama a few seconds to find the answer button and shove it against his ear.

“Hello?” he asked, mirroring Genos’ tone of voice. “This is Genos.” A pause. “I see. Yes. Right away, I’ll, uh, be there. Yeah, cool—I mean.” Genos felt his lips twitch as Saitama tried to recover. “Yes.”

When he hung up, he looked at Genos with wide eyes. “They want you at some kind of important meeting. They said it was standard.” If Genos wasn’t imagining things, there was a slight pout on his lips. “You never mentioned standard association meetings to me.”

“I never thought it worth mentioning. Usually it’s a checkup that also involves divvying out responsibilities or important information regarding the future—”

“Ugh, it’s still weird to hear myself talk like that.”

“—as well as update us on any new association requirements,” Genos continued. “Sometimes there are courses we must take, or lectures to attend.”

“Lectures?” Saitama wrinkled his nose. “Is that what you do all day over there?”

“Sometimes I skip them,” Genos admitted casually. “I don’t need lectures on etiquette or damage control. I am a hero; the rest is inconsequential.”

“Huh.” Saitama glanced down at his phone, then shoved it into his pocket. “Can’t we skip this?”

“They will reduce ranking if too many are missed. It would be wise to go.”

Saitama clicked his tongue. Genos hadn’t realized his body could produce such a sound.

“Hey, since you’re up there in rank, why don’t you come with me? It’ll be easier to act like you if you’re around.”

“I agree with that sentiment.” Genos nodded smartly. “They did not question the last time you arrived with me.”

It was decided. Neither of them felt particularly inclined to try eating while trapped in each other’s bodies, so they immediately dressed and headed for the association.

Genos had to control his speed when he realized that Saitama’s legs could go much further than his own—a fact he had not noticed until just now. He was beginning the understand that there was a lot he did not understand about Saitama-sensei, despite their closeness.

They arrived at the association without trouble, only to find it once they walked inside.

“You!” shrieked the smallest of class S heroes, Tatsumaki. She pointed a vicious finger at Genos as she hovered above him. Genos’ first instinct was to analyze her, but quickly remembered that in this state he was essentially powerless.

“Hey, what’s the big idea?” Saitama asked, instinctively. Tatsumaki turned to him, but before she could speak, Genos coughed, drawing her attention back towards him.

“Um, S—Genos let me to join him today,” he began slowly, trying to work in Saitama’s language and failing miserably. “It was short notice.” He tried to smile, and wasn’t sure he succeeded.

Tatsumaki glared at him, eyes glinting with vicious intent.

“Fine!” she snapped, throwing her hands into the air. “But don’t say anything unnecessary or I’ll throw you out myself.”

“Of course,” he said, anger burning deep in his stomach. Saitama was unnerved, watching the exchange with curious eyes. He didn’t say a word, for which Genos was grateful. He had never been the most graceful in his dealings with Tatsumaki, and he didn’t want any trouble to arise when they knew nothing about their… situation.

The meeting room was nearly full when he arrived. Tatsumaki floated in front of him and took her seat. Eyes followed Genos as he seated himself at the end of the table, and it took him a few moments to recognize the meaning of their gaze.

“Thanks, Genos,” he whispered, gesturing to his seat. Recognizing his cue, Saitama raised himself from his slouch.

“You’re welcome…sensei. I’m happy to give up my seat for someone like...you.” He eked out the words, less convincing than Genos would have liked, but no one questioned them.

The meeting began. Genos didn’t hear a word of it, too focused on Saitama seated by his side. He squirmed every so often, watching the people around them with more than the vague interest he had showed the first time he’d been around. It was strange not to be able to analyze every person in the room; categorize their strengths, their weaknesses. He felt blind, but instead of being put out, he felt a strange sense of relief.

“Genos?”

He realized that eyes were focused not on him, but on Saitama in Genos’ body.

“Huh?” he asked rather eloquently. “Sorry, what?”

“Your report,” the man drawled. “You have been keeping up with your reports, but I want to hear it from you; have you noticed any upticks in recent monster activity?”

Saitama exchanged a panicked glance with Genos.

“Uh,” he straightened, “Yes. I think so.”

“Really.” The man’s brows furrowed. “You registered nearly no activity in the last week.”

“Yep. I did…but just today I fought a whole bunch of them.” He shrugged, still casting furtive glances at Genos for aid. “Haven’t had a chance to file them, y’know?”

“Yes!” Genos piped in. Sweat was building on the back of his neck. “Sai—Genos dealt with them very quickly on our way here. Barely worth mentioning.”

“It isn’t up to you to decide what’s worth mentioning,” the man said, planting his hands down onto the table. He pointed at Genos. “Why are you here, anyway? That’s Genos’ seat.”

“I want him to sit there,” Saitama said. “My sensei should only have the best.”

It was getting easier, the lines coming smoother. No one seemed to believe that he was Genos’ tutor, but their eagerness to finish up saved them from questioning. The man leading the meeting sighed.

“You shouldn’t even be here. This is a severe breach of conduct. Next time, Genos, come yourself.”

“I will,” Saitama said, his expression pinched.

The meeting continued. Voices and faces blurred as boredom kicked in and Genos’ mind began to drift. Usually he carried impeccable attention, but today he felt inexplicably out of it. It didn’t feel right to sit in this body here, occupy this space. This was Saitama’s body; Saitama’s fingers, hands, arms, legs, feet. His face and voice.

I could say anything, he thought suddenly. And it would be in sensei’s voice.

He could say things about Genos. Praise or reprimand himself, speak utter nonsense, or the words Genos longed to hear, that Saitama had yet to say. That either of them had yet to say.

He felt a sudden pressure at this side and became instantly alert. No one was paying attention to their side of the room, but it was immediately obvious why Saitama had woken him when he listened to what they were saying.

“Switching bodies?” Metal Bat sneered. “I’ll beat anyone who tries to take my body.”

“Hmph.” Tatsumaki crossed her arms. “You’d be more useful to us if you swapped bodies with a flea.”

“What was that?!”

“Now, now,” the meeting’s leader said, calming them. “We’re not certain whether this is a monster or a human, but there is a clear motive. There have been numerous reports of people having swapped bodies with those they were recently in contact with, such as daughters with mothers, or husbands with wives.”

“That does not explain our situation,” Genos whispered. Saitama shot him a look.

“How can it be reversed?” Saitama asked in Genos’ voice. The leader pursed his lips and shook his head.

“The affects seem to wear off with time. However, our main concern is finding this person before important people have their bodies swapped with the wrong person. I aim to issue…”

But Genos had stopped listening. He was thinking, planning, wishing desperately he had his sensors so he could compile a list of those who had reported themselves swapped.

“What should we do?” Saitama asked quietly.

Genos glanced at the table. The meeting was nearly over, so they could probably slip away early if they managed to make their excuses.

“Hey, does anyone know where the bathroom is?” he asked, speaking just loud enough for Saitama to hear.

“Huh?” he blinked. “Oh! Yeah. Hold on, I’ll show you, Saitama-sensei. Right this way.”

They stood and stepped out the door. No one really noticed them leave, so they were off like a shot, headed towards home, minds whirling.

“What should we do?” Saitama asked. He didn’t sound happy. “How long do you think it’ll be until it wears off?”

Genos barely heard him. He was thinking about Saitama, an ugly feeling burning a hole in his chest. He looked at his own body, a frown etched on its face, and sighed.

“I’m sorry you are stuck in such a shameful state, sensei,” Genos said.

“Hey,” Saitama started, slowing to a stop. “It’s not a shameful. Being a cyborg is pretty cool.” He gently shoved his fist against Genos’ shoulder. “Huh. My body feels a lot harder from this side.”

“You have immense strength and stamina that I did not realize you possessed,” Genos said. “I broke your door, earlier.”

“I noticed.” Saitama’s—Genos’—lips twitched. “It can’t be that hard to live like this.” He scratched the back of his neck. “We’re always together anyway. Though kissing you is going to be kind of weird if it’s kissing me.”

That drew a smile from Genos. “I am not sure,” Genos he replied wryly. “I have often wondered how my own lips feel to you.”

“Probably the same as mine. They’re pretty human.”

“Hm,” Genos hummed doubtfully. He stepped forward, and Saitama followed suit. They were in between cities, surrounded by forest, so there were no passersby that might see them.

Saitama laid his hand on Genos’ chest, and spread the metal fingers.

“I can feel your heart beating, but it’s different,” he remarked, eyes flashing. “I’m sort of getting used to this bio-scanning thing. Are you nervous?”

“I would be lying if I said I was not.” Genos grasped Saitama’s wrist gently. The metal was cool near the fingers, the warmth that kept his biological center alive heated mostly along his torso. “This idea seems almost absurd.”

“Look at it this way. When will we ever get this chance again?” Saitama asked, eyes bright. Genos’ own voice cooed at him, his own face forming a grin.

He leaned forward and met his own lips. A bizarre sense of unease built up inside him, but it wasn’t unpleasant. His lips felt much smoother than Saitama’s in a way that—he thought—indicated very obviously that he was a cyborg. When they pulled away, he felt somewhat disappointed.

“Well that was weird.” Satiama licked his lips. “Was it weird for you?”

“Strange.” He touched his lips. “My own body seems even less human from this perspective.”

“Hey.” Saitama pulled him in for another kiss, lingering. “Your body is great. Really cool, honestly. Anyone would want to be a cyborg. Besides, I wouldn’t have met you if you weren’t like this.” Suddenly he wouldn’t meet Genos’ eyes. “And I always thought you being a cyborg was kinda hot.”

A type of heat that Genos had not experienced in years flared and grew inside him.

“Really?” He was shocked at the sound of his own voice—Saitama’s voice—speaking back at him. “I had no idea sensei was aroused by my body.”

“Of course,” he said. Steam slowly leaked from the vents in his shoulders. “I’d like you no matter what you looked like.”

A part of Genos that he hadn’t realize had been tied into knots loosened. He felt inexplicably light all of a sudden.

“Sensei,” he blurted, taking his hand and nearly crushing his fingers in his excitement. He had things he wanted to say, but he didn’t want to say them here. “Let’s go home.”

Saitama looked up at him. When their eyes met, a strange feeling came over him, and then he was suddenly staring at Saitama from his own body. He blinked, flabbergasted, shocked by the sudden change in sensory. No longer could he sense the distinct feeling of wind brushing his cheeks, or the scent of wildflowers growing on the hillside. No; they were delivered to him through artificial means, but when he looked down at their clasped hands, Genos felt much less disheartened by that fact.

“Let’s go home,” he repeated, in his own voice.