Chapter Text
There had always been just one motel room involved. Or hotel, if the case was high profile enough. Sigma worked tirelessly to complete every single Decay mission assigned to him as efficiently as possible. Of course, sometimes certain circumstances would arise, making obtaining information on particular assignments difficult. And on other missions, the topic of information was negligible. Those cases were the ones where Sigma instead partnered with Gogol as a second strategic mind or extra pair of hands with a gun. In turn, Gogol was occasionally dragged along as an escape route in Sigma’s more delicate exchanges of information.
No matter the circumstance of these partnered missions, there had never been any point in wasting money on two seperate rooms for lodging. Despite Fyodor having wired thousands of dollars from several offshore accounts, he’d always insisted that those funds be allocated elsewhere and that the most minimal transactions be made during Decay missions. Sigma grit his teeth and begrudgingly followed this rule. After all, Fyodor was right and logical–too many transactions could always be traced. However, this also meant that Sigma had to sacrifice his desirable evenings spent in quiet solitude for Gogol’s noisy accompaniment.
Right from the start of his missions with Gogol, Sigma knew that personal space had become something left to be desired. He still took as much control of the situation as he could though; he absolutely refused to stay in any establishments without two twin beds, knowing he might actually snap if he was ever forced to share even more of his already dwindling personal space with the clown.
The first mission they’d ever undertaken together was one that Sigma could still recall with great clarity.
Sigma had been assigned to use his ability on the CEO of an organization. His target wasn’t an easy one–he needed to stage himself as an official and get close enough to them to make the information exchange during one of their business conventions. When he searched for a case partner, he found that Fyodor, the ever isolationist, refused to set foot within a hundred miles of the party, tiredly insisting that he had other ingenious planning to attend to.
Much to Sigma’s growing irritations, Fyodor had instead sent Gogol along in his place. So the two, one in high spirits and the other quite tempered, made the journey across the country and staked out in the convention’s hotel for about three days.
Their stay was that of a terribly average business trip. During the evenings, there was seldom much to do and Sigma found himself unable to catch any sleep during the nights. He’d stupidly forgotten to pack a bottle of melatonin, subsequently suffering sleepless midnights brought on by his usual unsavory thoughts. The fresh dose of anxiety from being partnered with such a loose canon certainly didn’t help either. In the daytimes when they’d roamed the convention, Sigma had been utterly exhausted, mind sluggish and frazzled. In his state he’d slipped up his words and nearly risked everything, including his life. He was lucky that when his intentions were accidentally revealed, Gogol had possessed enough wits about themselves to hastily yank Sigma through their Overcoat and out of the spray of bullets.
The partnered missions that had followed were few but routine. Sigma eventually found himself in the presence of Gogol so often that he gradually adjusted to sharing such close quarters with them. Despite having adapted, Sigma was still relieved that their stays never extended past a week; five nights was still plenty of time for his nerves to be run completely ragged, especially with his sleeping troubles following him around.
Disorderly sleep had never been a new concept to him–he struggled even with the aid of prescriptions or melatonin. Now, in addition to his psychological shortcomings, when he shared a room during missions, he was forced to deal with another problem. Gogol, sleeping in very close proximity. Every time Sigma unintentionally disturbed the peace during their nights together, he couldn’t help but feel an intense wave of shame. Even though many, many occurrences arose over the months that eventually fell into a year, Sigma could never quite fully adjust to sharing such a vulnerability. He could still barely fathom the mere concept of Gogol having witnessed his sleeping fits of panic.
Of course outwardly, Gogol had never once seemed particularly bothered by Sigma’s nightly terrors. In fact, their demeanor toward this had always been...oddly easygoing. If Sigma didn’t know better, he might even say they seemed almost...understanding. Almost.
In reality, the nature of Gogol’s reactions didn’t truly matter–Sigma still violently cringed every time it happened, the strained voices in his mind whispering about his bothersome fits; his uselessness and inconvenience as a mission partner.
Unfortunately, this was a common occurrence. Around midnight nearly every night of a collaborative assignment, Sigma would be violently jolted awake by the rude impact of a hotel pillow being blithely smacked across his face. Scrambling upright with an outraged splutter, he’d barely register the flash of Gogol’s eyes standing over him in the dark. In his feverish state, he’d usually run a hand across his clammy forehead and refuse to meet Gogol’s eyes while grumbling hoarse grievances at having been awoken in such a vehement manner.
Here was where Gogol would usually reply, “ You were yelling again ” or some other variation detailing a mad thrashing of limbs or crying or constant babbling or sometimes all three. When Sigma would respond with mumbling obscenities to protest his rude awakening, Gogol would seem satisfied with a job well done. He’d simply turn around and silently climb back into his own bed, disappearing under the covers with a yawn, leaving Sigma to collect himself entirely alone in the pitch black of their shared room.
For Sigma, being shaken awake out of night terrors was usually a one way journey. Returning to sleep was seldom possible. Sometimes he’d remain wide-eyed and awake until the rising sun peeked through the cigarette stained motel curtains or drawn hotel shades. Other times, he’d simply rummage through his luggage for the melatonin bottle and down enough to force himself back to sleep through a bleak and dreamless realm. He was thankful for these nights–the movies of his past rolling through his nightmares were often entirely uncontrollable and most upsetting.
One time, when Sigma had awoken, he was gripped by resounding dread, rather than escalated panic. Too drained of energy, a dull ache had begun to pound his head with the fleeting memories of harrowing dreamscapes in the desert. Instead of forcing himself to lay back down and squeeze his eyes shut, he’d instead thrown off the covers and silently slipped out of bed. His tread was light yet heavy as he quietly padded across the room and disappeared beyond the bathroom door. A few minutes earlier, Gogol had chucked one of their pillows at Sigma’s head from across the room, effectively startling him out of his nightmare. They had already fallen back asleep by now as Sigma turned on the bathroom light and rummaged about before stepping into the shower.
The next morning when Gogol entered the bathroom he was greeted by an unexpected sight. Sigma was limply resting against the shower wall on the floor of the tub fast asleep. The lukewarm water was still relentlessly pouring over his soaked hair and pajamas, hailing against his side.
Total humiliation wasn’t an emotion Sigma often found himself victim to–but that morning was a memory he still cringed from when recalling. The embarrassment wrenched a tight knot in his chest, even though Gogol acted as though nothing were out of the ordinary. In fact, he’d cheerfully veered off the subject when a disoriented Sigma batted at the shower handle and peeled himself off the shower floor, staggering upright to face him. The man had definitely cracked at least one joke, though Sigma was more preoccupied with orienting himself than listening. Sopping wet, he’d then sleepily pushed Gogol out of the bathroom with a grumble and locked the door.
Turning towards the sink, Sigma had intended to quickly dry off and compose himself in peace, waiting for the burning flush of shame across his face to subside.
Not thirty seconds later there had been a flash of movement and Sigma jumped, letting out a startled squawk as Gogol’s hand materialized behind him in the mirror. Through the thin hotel walls Gogol’s fit of laughter was loud and clear. Heartbeat racing, Sigma had frowned but upon glancing back toward the mirror, a set of dry clothes had miraculously materialized on the edge of the porcelain sink. Letting out a breath of relief, Sigma shook his damp head, feeling a twinge of gratitude at Gogol’s apparent care.
That was a particular behavior of Gogol’s that Sigma had picked up on during their monthly missions together. Despite his carefree and volatile nature, Gogol had a tendency to dwell on Sigma's wellbeing; this usually being expressed through actions often disguised as mischievousness. While his usual habits could certainly be considered pesky and he possessed both an impulse for creating problems and a knack for touchiness too clingy for Sigma’s tastes, he was admittedly...useful. Reliable, actually and a powerful ally. His tendency to try and better Sigma’s mental state into more lighthearted spirits had never quite gone unnoticed. For some reason, the man had taken it upon himself to assure Sigma that he wasn’t alone in his troubles–demons and responsibilities were shared among Decay members, even if unspoken. Sigma had always been skeptical of this insistence. In all honesty, to this day, he’d never truly believed any of that nonsense. The truth was already buried within the depths of his mind. In reality, Gogol was the only other in the group which Sigma could ever fathom having a shred of relation to, despite what they insisted otherwise.
∞
Memories of one particular night often found themselves at the forefront of Sigma’s reminiscence. One late midnight he’d awoken to find coarse motel carpet beneath his toes. Confusion gripped his mind as he swayed on his feet, reaching out in the pitch blackness to feel the rough wallpaper in front of him. His heartbeat pattered uneasily against his ribs as his eyes adjusted and he peered through the darkness, glaring at the eggshell walls in front of him. What?
Slowly, his senses had reached out, mind sluggishly registering that although he was still in his room, he couldn’t quite discern whether he was awake or not. He was just about to turn on his feet when a foreign object jabbed between his shoulder blades and he let out a startled shriek, whipping around in alarm.
“WHOATZEHRE–”
“Good morning to you too!” Gogol had announced cheerfully, beaming as he clasped his hands together. “Well, night really.”
The rattling heartbeat in Sigma’s ears left his nerves thin as he flinched and wildly fixed his gaze on the faint outline of Gogol’s silhouette behind him.
“ Don’t ever do that again,” Sigma had gasped out a second later, consciously rubbing his cheek. “ What’s going on?
“ You were sleepwalking, I think,” Gogol explained, dropping his hands for a moment.
“ I...I was?” Sigma blinked. The waves of adrenaline had subsided, leaving him numb.
“ Yes!” Gogol had then feigned a shiver, clutching at his heart with a pale expression. “ It was so scary!!!!! You just got up and started walking around–you nearly scared me half to death!”
“You nearly scared me half to death,” Sigma had lightly frowned, unsure whether Gogol was playing or not. Evidently he was, given that when he laughed, his demeanor immediately melted.
“ It was only fair,” he grinned, flexing his fingers. “ Your normalish reactions are simply too good a sight for me to pass up!”
“ Right… ”Sigma had blinked, suddenly overcome with a creeping feeling of humility.
“ Sorry for waking you, ” he muttered, cheeks burning. Faint imprints of dreams surfaced in his mind. Biting sand and a mad scrambling through cabinets all the while the cold outline of a barrel pricked his spine. Suddenly, he was acutely aware of clammy sweat pooling along his body and he suppressed a shiver, embarrassment clinging to his skin as he crossed his arms. The faint racing of his skittish heartbeat echoed around his skull.
“ Ah–I don't mind, ” Gogol chirped. “We’re friends after all,” his lips curled into a smile. “Though we should really do something about that night terror problem of yours.”
“I'm fine,” Sigma immediately insisted, tone instinctively growing cold.
“ Yes yes, keep telling yourself that–now, you’re lucky to have me here to help,” Gogol declared, hands falling to his hips.
“I don’t need your help,” Sigma’s expression had dropped into a defensive scowl. He didn’t particularly like the direction of this conversation, gaze quickly darting toward his shoes over by the door. Gogol was the last person he wished to go all wishy-washy on at the moment. Their presence was suddenly overwhelming– he needed to leave , he couldn’t handle their unpredictability right then. Hell, he didn’t care that they were his most likely ally in the Decay, he still harbored reservations with any man mad enough to enter into the group’s cause–even himself.
Quickly pivoting, Sigma had locked his eyes on the outline of the doorknob. He managed only a single step before Gogol saw his escape and grabbed his shoulder, their fingernails digging into the skin beneath his sleeve. Caught, Sigma immediately froze as a faint wave of panic rippled through his chest.
“Let go,” he muttered numbly, refusing to turn back around and face Gogol.
”You can’t run from your problems forever,” Gogol warned.
“I’m not.”
“We all want to be free of our problems. We all have something. Bram, Fyodor, me–everyone in this place has a struggle. But we accept it–we’ve learned to flourish in it, run towards it to become our best selves,” Gogol had then grinned and Sigma drily wondered how long he’d been practicing that speech. A long time, probably, in his mind as a justification for his own horrific means to an end.
“You’re no different,” Gogol continued. “ You’re like us. You just need to face what has happened and run to it–let yourself be free.”
“Let go of me,” Sigma had insisted again, icy. He made a valiant attempt to block out their words from his mind.
“Okay okay fine–I release thee!” Gogol declared theatrically. Then their hand fell back at their side. Unrestrained, Sigma immediately hurried toward the door.
“ You’re not alone, though,” Gogol had called after him. The words briefly whirled in Sigma’s mind as he hastily tugged on his shoes. Then he’d pulled open the door and stepped outside into the freezing air without another word, setting off for a walk down the row of motel doors to clear his head.
∞
Most ordinary people weren’t able to remember the initial formation of a particular habit. Sigma was different. He could easily recall the date of his very first mistake when handling the traveling details for a mission away from base operations in Russia. The case was in Italy. The details of the target Gogol was after and Sigma’s complicit role was irrelevant.
Tiredly sliding the keycard through the lock and pushing open the hotel room’s door, Sigma had rubbed his eyes as he swept inside. He heard Gogol kick the door to a close behind them and raised his head, only to behold that the room was startlingly smaller than usual. He’d blinked, noticing the second and more important discrepancy with a jolt–the expected two beds was in fact, one. A single twin pushed against the center of the wall in the middle of the room.
Pausing, Sigma’s exhausted mind had been barely able to process the sight as he stood in silence, merely able to stare.
“Ah, home sweet home,” behind Sigma, Gogol had yawned and trudged around him, dropping his duffle on top of the nearby minifridge. Then he lifted his arms over his head in a stretch, letting out a contented squawk.
A few seconds later, Sigma finally managed to open his mouth, blinking furiously.
“ I must have made a mistake with the reservations, ” he’d verbalized to nobody in particular, moreso an echo of his thoughts. “ Fuck.”
With a heavy sigh, he rubbed his eyes and set his bag on the floor against the nearest wall. The two’s flight had been excruciatingly long and they’d arrived in the city well past two am. Despite the current room predicament, the utter exhaustion gripping Sigma won him over–there was absolutely no way in hell he was getting his aching feet to carry him back down to the front desk and argue with the clerk to be given a different room.
Gogol however, had an entirely different outlook on the scenario. Sigma turned around just in time to watch them kick off their shoes and gracefully flop face-down onto the mattress with a groan. Their white hair had already been sprung loose, long locks splayed across the backs of their shoulders.
“ Well you clearly aren’t moving for the rest of the night,” Sigma had observed with a slightly raised eyebrow.
“Nope,” Gogol replied, muffled by the comforter.
“Alright, well...um...I can sleep on the floor tonight.” Sigma offered.
“ Ha?” came a stifled noise from the sheets.
“We can take turns,” Sigma sighed. He padded around to the bedside next to the alarm clock on the nightstand. “I sleep on the floor tonight, you sleep on the floor tomorrow.”
“What are you on about?” Gogol had blearily raised his face from the comforter, squinting sideways up at Sigma.
“I need a pillow for the floor,” Sigma didn’t bother repeating himself, merely reaching across the bed.
“Ohhhh nooo no–don’t do that!” the mattress dipped as Gogol rolled over and propped himself up by the elbows. Sigma paused at his words of protest, studying him with a narrow and skeptical look. Gogol merely gazed back with wide-eyed exhaustion.
“Why?” Sigma had blurted.
“My mission tomorrow is too important. I don’t want you dying because you got distracted complaining about your back,” a pout pulled at Gogol’s features.
”I don’t complain...” Sigma countered, frowning a little. He was suddenly quite unsure of himself.
“Come oooon, it's more comfortable. And I don’t want to sleep on the floor tomorrow,” Gogol chided, resting his chin in his palms.
Ordinarily, Sigma might have mulled over Gogol’s proposition for far longer with far more curiosity but at the moment, he was much too exhausted to muster an argument. Instead, he let out a noncommittal grunt and tiredly fixed Gogol with a narrow glare, weighing his options. He hated admitting when the clown made more rational judgements than him.
“ We can both fit,” Gogol had continued .
“Uh huh,” Sigma did not sound impressed.
“–and I prooomise I don’t kick,” Gogol hummed.
“That’s not what I’m worried about,” Sigma had unconsciously raised his thumbnail to his teeth.
“ I also pinky promise I won’t drop you into a pocket dimension if you accidentally kick me ,” certainly a strange notion for persuasion. Gogol wiggled his eyebrows and enthusiastically patted the covers. Sigma finally caved, too mind-numbingly exhausted to argue further.
“Fine,” he sighed in heavy defeat.
Pleased, Gogol had sat up and began shoving the covers aside. He settled back down a moment later, taking up one side of the bed as he lay on his back and pulled the sheets up to his chin. Sigma was moments away from simply passing out on his feet so he slipped off his shoes, leaving them at the beside before gingerly climbing onto the mattress and under the covers. In all honesty, he was feeling quite relieved at this turn of events. Truthfully, he hadn’t wanted to sleep on the uncomfortable floor and for once he felt glad that he’d succumbed to Gogol’s chiding.
The mattress dipped as Sigma had shifted beneath the sheets, turning on his side to face the window across the room. He curled into a tight ball, trying his best to ignore Gogol’s presence behind him. The exhaustion aching his body was slowly winning against the rapid flutters of anxiety in his chest. He closed his eyes, adjusting his cheek on the pillow.
“ Goodnight,” Gogol had offered up from behind him, startlingly close.
Sigma merely grunted in response and somehow curled up tighter into himself . The space on the twin mattress was quite minimal and worries instinctively plagued his thoughts as Gogol shifted around beside him, adjusting into a more comfortable position. As the rustling of sheets soon ceased and they settled down for real, Sigma’s mind could only race; fearing the violent symptoms of his night terrors–a thrashing fit or a slip of words or...or anything , really, would be enough to wake Gogol, and he really didn’t want that. As minutes in the darkness progressed, Sigma tried to soothe his pestering worries with logical reasoning; Gogol had been through Sigma’s routine countless times previously–there should be no reason for Sigma to feel embarrassed. Nonetheless, humiliation prevailed and Sigma suddenly found the world narrowing around him as he desperately wished to be anywhere but sharing a bed with the clown.
A violent jolt of alarm seized his heart when he felt a second warm spine press against his. Gogol couldn’t really be faulted for that–the mattress was much too small to comfortably fit both of them. After a passing second Sigma’s nerves quelled, acknowledging that the brush of human warmth at his back was...nice. Eventually, as he drifted off into sleep, his thoughts twisted Gogol’s presence into a soothing reminder that he wasn’t truly ever alone.
The following morning had been entirely mundane. Nothing ordinary about their routine had changed in the slightest, much to the relief of Sigma’s persistent anxiety. However, there was something amiss. Sigma had been surprised to wake only once–in the morning, when the beams of sunlight had stretched across his eyes. His haunting nightmares hadn’t shown their faces at all during the night. Coming to this realization, Sigma was tinged with enough disbelief to color him skeptic. He even asked Gogol to confirm that nothing had occurred over the course of their shared sleep.
Polishing their revolver as they lounged in the room’s provided chair, Gogol had laughed at Sigma’s uncertainty and assured him that he’d been a perfectly sound sleeper.
The two didn’t discuss the matters of the bed any further than that. Neither found a particular reason to. A silent and mutual understanding had seemed to hang between the two of them. When the last two nights of their shared mission came and went, Sigma’s slumber remained bleak and undisturbed. Dreamless sleep had been relieving; peace at last. This brief tranquil had only been brought on by Sigma’s own anxieties of accidentally disturbing Gogol–Sigma knew that. Nevertheless, he was eternally grateful for a break from the terrors and would bathe in any relief that fell upon him.
It was nice. He needed this kind of silence from his mind more often.
∞
A few months later, another intel mission had fallen into their hands from Kamui. Gogol and Sigma had dutifully set out to track down their target–a man from the states. When Sigma pushed open the door to their shared hotel room somewhere on the east coast, the sight of a single queen bed had been entirely expected. On the other hand, Gogol had been terribly delighted about this discovery, very very excited about the premise of a bigger bed. Bouncing into the room, he set about reaching through his Overcoat to retrieve the alcohol in the TV cabinet without breaking the seal–no extra charges applied. Their flight had been long and Gogol poured himself a shot before flopping down in one of the lounge chairs in the corner by the windows.
Sigma had innocently betrayed nothing as he set down his bags in the entryway and lightly asked whether Gogol thought they should change rooms as the receptionist must have made another mistake with the reservation.
At this, Gogol had obviously snorted and insisted that changing rooms wasn’t necessary–after all, they’d shared a bed in the previous mission and that circumstance had gone swimmingly; Sigma hadn’t kicked them even once during the night! Then, after they’d replied to him, they downed their shot. Brazenly reminded about the alleviation of his nightly symptoms, Sigma had suppressed a slight flush of embarrassment and quickly changed the subject.
This mission had been assigned an unusually long number of days. With each passing night, Sigma gradually grew more comfortable with Gogol’s unmissable presence denting the mattress beside him. Nearly a week later, when the two had finally obtained the information they’d come for, their case was finished and they abruptly headed back home to snowy headquarters. With Gogol suddenly absent as Sigma returned to his cramped apartment, he soon found himself half-wittingly wishing that their time together could have been longer. After all, peace and comfort were valuable things.
∞
The anniversary of their very first mission came and went, then came around again. Two years after their initial partnering, they were sent on another mission, about six months from their previous assignment in the states. A place somewhere in England that Sigma remembered having rather enjoyed due to his lack of night terrors. Life went on. Over the passage of time since Sigma’s initiation into the Decay, his dynamic with Gogol never took any particularly drastic changes. When placed in the same room together, their interactions fell between the same lines as ever, if not mildly intensified. Gogol had faithfully remained the ever bothersome troublemaker, pestering any colleague who’d foolishly lowered their guard. Sigma had carefully maintained his reservedness, the warmth of his personality falling in tandem with his more calculative side. Inevitably, he and Gogol clashed–though never in a terribly serious way–and the world went ‘round. At least, that was what one could glean from the outside looking in. Reality revealed an invisible bond that had grown between the two of them, a natural progression from the level of trust and responsibility required in handling the Decay’s messy matters. They looked out for each other and seldom did one partner with anyone else than the other–their efficient dynamic in the field was simply the most effective.
Three years had passed. Fyodor had once visited Sigma's tiny apartment during a snowy afternoon, bearing a gift of red wine, for his twenty first birthday. Sigma hadn't even remembered. In the end, nothing pivotal came about that night. After all, Sigma had shared numerous drinks with Fyodor in the past. They merely spent the evening sipping from glasses and engaging in a philosophical yet grounded discussion about the manner of the Decay's cause.
∞
The next intel mission was located in Switzerland and presented discrepancies identical to the American one many months prior. The hotel had somehow mysteriously given the pair a single queen bed. Arriving in the room, Sigma had felt an immense sense of relief knowing he’d be free from his nightmares for at least several nights as the two worked by day to infiltrate another convention for the rich. However, his anticipation of this comfort turned out to be in vain–his subconscious had other ideas.
Sigma’s downfall was the very same as what had previously aided him–he’d grown too comfortable with the presence of his colleague within such personal space. He no longer worried about accidentally lashing out or talking in his sleep. The fear of accidentally disturbing Gogol was what had kept him calm during the nights, his worry so great that his nightmares were scared off and replaced with a dreamless sleep. Now with this particular stress alleviated, the terrors had faithfully returned to haunt Sigma during the evenings of this next mission.
The two of them had undergone their usual assignment routine. By day they scouted the city and wandered about the streets for lunch. When the first night eventually fell, they ate dinner at a cheap restaurant and then returned to their hotel room to recuperate and plan the following day’s adventure–retrieving information from a high-security inmate in the local prison. While Gogol was cheerfully skipping around the hotel room doing their own thing, Sigma set an alarm for tomorrow and disappeared into the bathroom. After a shower he changed into more comfortable clothes and climbed into the bed under the covers, grateful to be off his feet. Shortly following, Gogol finished their own shower and then joined him, flopping back onto the mattress. Sigma had tiredly sighed and turned to face the wall.
“ Light,” he muttered, staring at the void blue wallpaper. Obliging, Gogol rolled over and leaned down off the bed to reach through their Overcoat in a rumpled heap on the floor. They hit the light switch across the room and darkness settled over the two of them. Burrowing under the sheets, Gogol offered a muffled goodnight from the other side of the queen bed. Sigma quietly grunted in response before curling up and adjusting the covers up to his neck. Then he’d let his eyes flutter shut and drowsiness began to settle across his thoughts. In the bed he was comfortable, and warm. He was rather eager to find himself asleep with the mundane dreams of an ordinary man, and to wake in the morning from an undisturbed slumber feeling refreshed.
These wishes were never granted. Flashes of terror and snapshots of memories had seared his sleeping mind, sending him spiraling into his past of horrid loneliness under a scorching sun. Several hours later he was unknowingly babbling in his sleep again and when the alarm clock on the nightstand finally glowed red with the numbers of three am, he wrenched himself awake. Snapping out of hell, he shot bolt upright in bed, the trailing end of an incomprehensible tirade falling from his mouth in a yell of fury and fright. The only noises in the waking world that greeted his violent outburst were the sounds of his own labored breathing as sweat dripped down his brow and his trembling fists gripped the sheets.
His heart had jackhammered painfully against his ribs and his clothes were uncomfortably stuck to his cold clammy skin. His eyes struggled to adjust to the darkness–he could see nothing beyond the faint glow of the alarm clock. Blackness swathed the room and he panicked, struck with the horrible fear that he might still be asleep. His sweaty palms curled tighter around the covers and his eyes glazed, chest rising and falling in unsteady gasps.
“ Fuck fuck fuck–no, no–god I can’t–” the spill of jumbled curses filled his mouth as panic seized his throat. There was a sharp stabbing in his chest as he struggled to calm his labored breathing–pained gasps deafening against the silence of midnight. The sweat rolling off his cheeks began to feel more like tears as his heart ripped itself apart inside his ribs. Gripped by maddening impulse he’d been moments away from wrenching the covers off and scrambling out of bed but before he could move, something heavy and strangely warm landed across his lap.
Startled, Sigma choked on his saliva and let out a strangled gasp as Gogol’s presence suddenly hit him in a cascading wave of realization.
“ Hello?” he had groggily croaked out, wiping the back of a clammy hand over his running eyes. The response to this had been the arm in his lap shifting as Gogol sleepily patted the covers around Sigma’s waist. Gaze blindly snapping down, Sigma could barely discern the highlights of bleached hair splayed across the pillow directly beside him–much too close for comfort.
“Are you awake?” Sigma had murmured quietly, struggling to clear his throat of choked tears.
“ Hhhgmm.”
“Shit–’m sorry,” he whispered shakily, mentally furious with himself. In response, Gogol had tiredly murmured something muffled into his pillow that sounded like, “idokayjusgobackosleep.”
“I can’t,” Sigma muttered hoarsely. “Need my bag–pills–” the rapid pounding of his heartbeat in his ears was ringing. He remembered that he’d brought a bottle of melatonin in his suitcase specifically in case of emergencies like this one. However, as he moved to strip off the sheets and slide off the mattress, the warm arm draped around his waist tightened in protest.
Sigma had frozen, staring down through the blackness at the limb imprisoning him to the bed. He wiped the last dampness from his eyes and heaved an irritated sigh.
“Don’t do that, ’m not in the mood for games right now–n–now….” he paused from the pain in his chest. Then, “shit,” he briefly raised his hand to cover his mouth as he hiccuped a second time. A faint snicker rose from beside him in the darkness, muffled by the pillows.
“Not funny,” Sigma had frowned. “Let me go please.”
Instead of complying however, Gogol groggily raised his head from the pillow, bangs mashed all over his forehead. Then, without warning he rolled over onto his side, even closer, subsequently wrapping both arms around Sigma’s midsection.
“Stay. Bed’s warm, rooms cold,” he grunted sleepily, without much explanation. His face was pressed against Sigma’s thigh and he definitely wasn’t entirely lucid.
In his own groggy state, Sigma hadn’t been able to form an excuse not to. Honestly, Gogol was right. Bed warm, room cold. Besides, Sigma was exhausted–thoughts fried and body aching from the return of his persistent nightmares. Besides, the comforting warmth of another person was now within his reach–something more suitable to chase off the horrible loneliness ripping at his ribs and the desert sand clogging his throat.
So he had silently complied with Gogol's request, gingerly shifting around in Gogol’s grasp and settling back down under the covers. He rested his damp cheek on the pillow and squeezed his eyes shut against the tightness welling in his chest. Meanwhile, Gogol had haphazardly readjusted the covers and sleepily scooped Sigma into their arms, his nose brushing the fabric of their collarbone and their chin gently nestling his crown. A brief moment of hesitation passed through Sigma’s stiff body before he utterly dissolved. Tears dripped through closed lids as he tucked his face away against Gogol’s heart and curled into their embrace. For the first time in his life, he allowed himself to be held. He locked his shaking palms around Gogol’s waist and clung to them, his chest heaving with suppressed hiccups as he begged for a comfort filled sleep to take him.
In the following waking hours of morning, neither of them discussed what had happened. Sigma was both too embarrassed and mentally strung to bring up the subject while Gogol appeared to understand that for once, talking about the course of events wasn’t his place. Although the two of them had awoken still entangled together, Gogol merely unwound himself and hopped out of bed to get dressed, cheerfully babbling. Meanwhile, Sigma had thrown off the covers with a mixture of shame and disorientation. Then he’d begrudgingly accepted the situation and rolled out of bed to trudge across the room and bring out the leftovers from the minifridge to eat breakfast.
Between the two of them hung a silent yet equal string of understanding–only a blend of emotions and ideas wordlessly shared through menial actions.
During the remaining nights of this mission, Sigma had firmly refrained from letting himself be cuddled for a second time. However, that didn’t mean he cut all contact–no. In fact, he welcomed the anchoring feeling of Gogol’s spine curled against his as they lay facing opposite walls in the darkness. Comforting, sleepy head pats administered in only the most upsetting circumstances had also been begrudgingly accepted.
After this Decay mission that had proved pivotal for their relationship, the bed sharing tradition steadily continued into the future without any hiccups. Sigma had tried to avoid as much personal contact as possible during the nights on their assignments but more often than not he was unsuccessful. Ever so often he’d find himself with new past nightmares of abandonment and Gogol would usually wordlessly pull him back to bed and forcefully cuddle him to sleep.
Thankfully, as a couple years crawled by, Sigma’s nightmares eventually faded into obscurity, along with these personal entanglements. Of course he’d never forgotten those comforts, appreciating them to the ends, but he was vividly aware of the danger in holding such sentiments, emotional and personal. Building such a tightly knit connection with the sort of person who’d join the Decay wouldn’t be the wisest choice. Sigma had known that eventually something would go wrong–someone would leave, die , be injured–he could never rely on anyone but himself to carry through.
Eventually, there was a last mission with Gogol too, the final time they shared a bed on a quick weekend spree in Minsk. Merely a week following the closure of this last mission, Fyodor had sent Sigma off to manage the Casino stationed in Japan. There, Sigma was handed the responsibility to maintain both himself and his worth, far, far away in the depths of the lonely clouds. He’d dutifully fulfilled this new assignment of course, working faithfully to build a new life from the ground up. He was rather proud of his success as well, having accomplished creating such a comfortable atmosphere to spread his influence across the community he’d built. Finally, he could feed his desire for a real identity–one that wasn’t tied to that horrid scorching time in the desert.
Months passed, folding into a year. Sigma could go a long time in the sky without ever touching the ground. Still, his mind ever so often wandered back to the topic of Gogol. He sometimes briefly pondered their whereabouts, wondering how they were holding up on the soil in the hell of reality as he took charge of the lofty heavens. Gogol had visited the Casino several times since Minsk and nothing drastic had ever changed between them or Sigma. After all, their visits were always short but nevertheless quite sobering to him, who might’ve completely forgotten his tethers to the Decay–the organization that pillared his whole second life! In fact, he could have completely forgotten himself in this clouded fantasy if he hadn’t been able to glimpse Gogol’s brilliant grin surprising him around the corner of a Casino hallway once or twice every year.
Then, everything came tumbling down.