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He’s so close.
Gregor’s heart pounded in his chest. He wondered if the feeling he was experiencing was love or just an early death coming for him.
Heathcliff’s figure loomed over him in the aisle of the bus. His calloused hands rested on his hips, thick hair curling up at the nape of his neck. His shirt hung off his strong frame loosely near his torso, secure at the top due to his dark harness. The tall man was oblivious to Gregor’s prolonged stare. He was discussing something with Rodya, who would look past Heathcliff’s waist now and again to grin at Gregor. Since Heathcliff couldn’t see him, Rodya teased him silently and relentlessly.
The news was in, hot off the presses. Gregor Samsa, famous war hero and valued member of Limbus Company, had a crush.
It was a recent development. Rodya only knew because she was the person Gregor went to first with his tangled mess of emotions. He poured his heart out to her, genuinely believing that he was experiencing some form of hysteria. It was only when Rodya explained to him the concept of falling in love that Gregor realized he wasn’t completely dysfunctional.
He felt like a teenage girl. He had never experienced puppy love as a kid. His feelings were overwhelming, and in an instant he felt the familiar trembling of his stomach from anxiety and disgust. He felt awful. He felt guilty. Somebody like him… liking somebody like Heathcliff, it sounded preposterous even in his own head. He choked down hatred and contempt, straightening in his seat and quickly averting his gaze from Rodya and Heathcliff.
He was left to his own thoughts. He closed his eyes, resting his head against the cool window and taking a deep breath. He tried not to think of Heathcliff, but his id failed him. Heathcliff filled his mental landscape. His piercing eyes, his sharp teeth, his scars that Gregor so desperately wanted to know everything about. Daydreaming took hold, and he thought about the two of them. He felt Heathcliff’s arms around him, pulling him close, nose in his ear. He pictured Heathcliff smiling at him, with his hands on Gregor’s shoulders while they danced. He pictured existing with Heathcliff without any interference from others.
How disgusting. The snarling voice of his own self doubt was a twisting knife in his previously happy mindscape.
Even in his fantasy, he couldn’t escape himself. In his visions, he closely examined his skin, he judged the way his eyes looked in the sunlight on their picnic date. Most of all, he focused on his protruding and monstrous appendage. It was tunnel vision; every imagined happy moment turned into a horror movie.
The claw unloosened. It flew at him, sailing right towards his forehead where he watched his dreams in the shadows.
His eyes flew open.
He needed a second to come back down to reality. Is it possible to get day-nightmares?
“... You could definitely ask Gregor for help. He knows a lot about that kind of thing!”
Gregor’s breath hitched. What is Rodya talking about? His body tightened up, and he sat up, feeling uncomfortable and cramped. He registered the sound of footsteps. His fear made them sound like cracks of thunder in his ear.
“Oi.”
Gregor nervously met Heathcliff’s intense gaze. He tried to commit it to memory. His eyebrows. His pores. His eyes lingered on the fullness of Heathcliff’s lips. He didn’t miss the softness in them. Did he use lip balm often? It stood out that Heathcliff had a feature that could look so delicate.
“Yeah?” Gregor replied curtly.
“Do you know anything about geography?” Heathcliff asked. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his dress pants.
Gregor nodded. When he was younger, geography was always his favorite subject. He loved learning about the world. He wanted to visit every place his mother taught him about.
“Righto then,” Heathcliff cleared his throat, “I’m busy, but can I take ya up on your wits later?”
“What for?” What was he talking about? What kind of weird conversation is this? Was Heathcliff tricking him? Was this some attempt at bullying? No, Heathcliff and Rodya wouldn’t do that.
Heathcliff’s response offered no information, “Project. Thanks, mate.” He nodded to end the conversation, walking off like it never happened.
Gregor’s eyes followed him as he returned to the back of the bus. His gaze lingered on his ankles and the back of his knees.
Rodya sauntered over from where she had been sitting, barely squeezing in next to Gregor. She lifted her arm so it rested on the back of the seat, grinning in the way that told him she was up to something. “Sooooo~” she started, leaning closer to the shorter man, “did that sound like a date or what?”
Gregor felt the tips of his ears grow hot. “It’s not a date,” he hissed, “it’s not anything. He just needs me to be useful.” The words tumbled out of his mouth, unintentionally bitter. He sighed, feeling disappointment brew behind his eyes.
Rodya yawned. “Greg, babe, you’re never gonna get anywhere if you keep acting so shy!” She was purposeful at keeping her voice low. In such a cramped space, it was easy for other people to get wind of their conversation. He knew she was trying her best, but he still felt paranoid about somebody overhearing. His armprickled with goosebumps.
“Maybe I don’t want to get anywhere then. OK?” He snapped low enough for only her to hear. “Listen to me. He’s out. Of. My. League.” He emphasized each word. He slouched down in his seat, staring at the ceiling and reaching for his cigarette. “I’m too ugly for anybody to love me anyways.”
Rodya bit her tongue. She looked over her shoulder at the bus behind them. Yi Sang, Sinclair, and Don Quixote were all engaged in deep conversation, Yi Sang orchestrating while the other two stared at him starry-eyed. In the far back, Ryoshu and Faust were silently sitting next to each other. Faust had a book open on her lap. Ishmael and Heathcliff were loudly bickering. Meursault watched them indifferently. She thought deeply about Gregor’s problem here, focusing on Heathcliff for an idea. Inspiration. An answer. She didn’t want Gregor to feel the way he did. She would never admit it aloud, but seeing him so beat up over his appearance made her stomach hurt. To her, Gregor was precious. Cute. He was endearing. He was like a lost puppy that somebody took in and nursed back to health. She needed a way to show him that… Something classic and easy, and out of sight. Because none of their friends could know about this.
Then, her idea came to her. She hadn’t even started praying yet. She twirled back into the seat, gripping Gregor’s shoulder. “Greg. Greg. Gregor.” She shook him around gently.
He grumbled, looking up at her dejectedly. “Leave me to rot…” he muttered.
“Sleepover. Tonight. Me?” she asked, trying to force the words out faster than her brain could form the sentences.
A sleepover? Gregor rubbed his thumb and pointer finger together, mulling it over. He had never had a sleepover before. He was worried this was a setup to one of Rodya’s elaborate schemes. He thought it over in silence.
“It doesn’t have to be just us…” Rodya added, “I can invite Sinclair! Or maybe…” She realized that Gregor and her didn’t have a lot of mutual friends. They were friends with everyone, but they hung out mostly with each other.
Finally, “Sure, we can have a sleepover,” Gregor huffed. “Where will we sleep?”
“My room!" Rodya chirped. “Come to my door at 7, OK?” she requested, “and bring a pillow and blanket from your room! Oh, and snacks!” She beamed cheerily.
Gregor sighed, fearing what he had just gotten himself into.
⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯
Later that night, Gregor waited outside of Rodya’s room, shivering. He could hear the distant sounds of thunder and rain coming from Heathcliff’s room, another mystery he was hungry to know more about. For now, he ignored it and kept his eyes focused on the dark wood entrance in front of him. He raised his hand and knocked gently again. He had been waiting for nearly two minutes. Did she forget about their plans?
Just when he was about to return to his room, the door flew open and Rodya pulled him inside. He gathered himself, taking in his surroundings. She was chatting away. “Sorry, Greg! I got caught up getting ready…” Her long thick hair was pulled back into a ponytail, tumbling over her wide shoulders. She ran a hand through her locks, eyeing Gregor.
“Cute pajamas.” She took note of Gregor’s striped sleepwear.
“Shut up,” he huffed. “I got you snacks.”
“Ahhh-! Hot chips? Thank you, thank you, thank you!” she squealed, easily picking Gregor up and twirling him around the room. “Come, sit down. We can gossip freely now!”
Rodya’s room was extravagant. Gregorenvied her mental willpower to have her room constantly look so… Well, nice. His own had been in a state of disarray. Unmade bed, trash everywhere, cracks crumbling the walls. Outside the window in his dark navy room, fire raged outside. He knew that none of it was real. That it was just a reflection of his own emotions. But sleeping in there freaked him out. He envied Rodya’s soft carpet and silk bed sheets. He knew why her room looked the way it did, though. It just reflected the things she wished for years ago. Things that she most likely still desired. The things that had driven her to kill…
It was best not to think about that. Gregor sat criss cross applesauce on the floor, looking at the rug beneath him.
“So…” Rodya started. She had the bag of hot chips in her lap now, happily plowing through its contents. “Let’s talk about you.” Yup, this was definitely a Rodya scheme.
“Is this going to be about Heathcliff again?” Gregor asked, smiling awkwardly. “I thought we already discussed it. I shouldn’t try anything with him. I don’t want to get hurt,” he explained for what felt like the millionth time.
“Why do you think you’ll get hurt?” she prodded further.
Gregor’s shoulders stiffened. He shrunk into himself. “Well, because I’m ugly, Rodya,” he spat. The words felt acidic. He might as well be upfront if she was going to skirt around the topic. “You see it, right? I mean, look at me.” He gestured at his body, stocky and underwhelming. He was so overcome with loathing at that point that he couldn’t help but laugh. It came out easily. He learned then that the sounds that came from a laugh and a cry were similar.
“... You really feel that way about yourself?”
Awkward silence filled the room.
“I mean, it’s no secret,” Gregor mumbled. He didn’t feel like laughing anymore.
“Gregor…” Rodya sighed, “You’re amazing. I promise you.”
She fell silent. Neither of them made a move to say anything.
“Wait,” she spoke up. “Just a second.”
She jumped up from her spot on the floor, walking over to her white vanity. She plucked a hairbrush from the surface and bounded back over quickly. She sat on her knees behind Gregor, hovering over him with the brush in hand. “Lemme brush your hair. Please?” She stuck out her bottom lip and pouted.
Gregor shifted in place awkwardly. “Uh, go ahead, I guess.”
Rodya ran a hand through Gregor’s hair. She picked up a section of the thick waves and examined them closely. “Gregor, your hair's a mess!” she teased, before regretting it. That probably wasn’t a great thing to say to her friend who was just venting about how hideous he was. But she felt bad, so it was OK, right? She started to slowly and gently work the brush through his hair.
Gregor leaned into her touch, the sensation new to him. As a kid, Hermann never brushed his hair. It was short until he was old enough to do it himself, and even then he hated brushing it because of how knotted it would be. Thinking about his mother made him go quiet again, reminiscing about her and his childhood.
“Why do you think you’re ugly?” Rodya asked, “tell me.”
Gregor was pulled away from the images of Hermann’s open arms. He did his best to look up at Rodya, but it was hard to do without moving his head. He chose to stare at the color of her walls, a light redthat reminded him of roses. “I’ve never thought about it,” he admitted. “Probably my mother. She always said stuff like that for so long that I guess it just became a fact of life to me, aha...”
Rodya hummed, urging him to keep going.
“It’s kind of pathetic how everything in my life goes back to her, actually.” He fidgeted with his hands. He would’ve smoked, but Rodya wouldn’t like it. “You probably think I’m crazy, but sometimes I really miss her. Or what could have been, I guess. Which is sad. I’m an adult now, but I guess that kid part of me still wants his mom to hold him and call him pretty. I never got to feel like a princess as a kid. Which is a dumb thing to be traumatized over 30 years later, but…”
“I never got to feel like a princess either,” Rodya sympathized, soothingly curling Gregor’s hair around the end of her brush. “I was always too busy looking for food, wondering if we would eat that night. I think I felt more like a knight, but I would’ve been the worst knight ever.” She sighed. “Me and you can be princesses together,” she promised. Gregorcould feel her smile above him, even if he couldn’t see it.
“Thank you, Rodya,” Gregor hummed. He relaxed his body, focusing only on his friend brushing his hair. He didn’t mind how she tugged when fighting against the stubborn knots. He just appreciated the calming sensation of the prongs scraping against his scalp and loosening the mess.
“Annddddd… Done!” Rodya declared. She gathered Gregor’s hair in her hand and secured it with a ponytail holder and ribbon. “Very pretty.” She spun Gregor around, meeting him at eye level. “Do you feel pretty?”
Gregor chuckled. “I can’t see myself.”
Rodya took a moment to grab a hand held mirror. “Gregor?” she asked.
“Yeah?”
“Just know that you deserve somebody who really wants to be with you.”
She held up the mirror, letting him see his styled hair. “There…” she whispered. “See, Greg? You’re beautiful.”
Gregor looked at his reflection. He recognized himself, but the version he saw was different from what he was used to. His bangs curled inwards against his forehead, and up around his ears. His hair was silky, flowing over his shoulder. For once, he actually believed Rodya when she said he was beautiful. He felt beautiful.
⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯
Gregor had fallen victim to Rodya’s plan. It worked flawlessly, and he was clueless the entire time.
The next day, Gregor actually made an effort to brush his hair again so Rodya’s hard work wouldn’t be wasted. He got her help again to tie in the ribbon. He chose a pretty pink color, the color of pomegranate.
He nervously stared at Heathcliff’s seat, going over what he wanted to say. It was painfully casual, but Gregor’s anxiety made him treat this situation the same way he would treat walking up to a hungry bear.
He put himself on autopilot, walking down the aisle to Heathcliff’s seat. He stood in front of him, intentionally paying attention to keeping his posture loose and relaxed. “Uh, hey, bud.” He smiled awkwardly. “How about that geography date?”