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The day had closed, and the Sinners had long since retired to their rooms. Storms crackle, carnival music swells, strong waves collide behind their respective Doors. Dante sits alone in the front of the bus, too absorbed in typing away on their PDA to retire to their own room, almost used to the noises from the Backdoor. But the war rages above it all. They hear the screaming clearly, and can imagine the blows rattling the bus, and that is not unusual, they reason, for the sounds of the Smoke War to be louder than the rest. There are two Sinners whose rooms mirror it, after all. Though, the way their hands tremble at the dying words of those long gone, almost decipherable, wasn’t normal.
They consider turning in for the night rather than powering through on something they could easily continue on the road, or even in their room. Dante doesn’t need much convincing, it isn’t the first time this has happened. They remember when the combined storms kept them up a whole night, and no doubt the goings-on in their rooms keep the Sinners up too.
With no warning– or perhaps the unyielding cacophony of war was the prelude– a volley of gunshots rings out clearly, something sending tremors through the bus, and frantic words spook Dante.
”Get off! Get off my arm!” The strained yell of Gregor’s voice finds them. Dante flinches, turns, and sees the man slamming a Door closed. “Cig- just-“
<Gregor?> They call out. Nothing about the ticking of their clock expresses their worry how they want it to. They’re up out of their seat, but there’s still the length of the cabins to traverse before they could reach him. In the back of their head, they feel a more pressing concern over that than they’d expect.
He freezes, gripping on just as tightly to a pack of cigarettes as he was his arm, twitching beyond his control. His glasses lay uneven over his nose, and his pupils shrunk despite the dark. “Damn it,” his voice shook with conflicting exhaustion and adrenaline. “Dante..” He exhales, and takes a step forward. “You’re awake..?” It almost sounds like dread beneath the scratchy quality of his words, which he covers with a chuckle.
They can see him trying to make something reassuring or humorous to say to them. As his attempts fail him, he breaks eye contact to fiddle with the box, tensed brow further furrowing as what would be minor frustration becomes desperate. He’s overwhelmed. A cigarette is shoved into his mouth, and the lenses of his glasses fill with glare as the click of the lighter goes. It’s silent as he holds the flame close to the end of his cigarette and glances back to them. “You should.. You should be sleeping.”
Dante feels themself take a heavy breath, still nervous. Shoulders falling slightly, wary, they ask, <you’re twitching?>
Gregor sighs, gaze tracing the marred floor rather than meeting theirs. The smoke of his cigarette clings to the lenses of his glasses before dissipating. He staggers over the threshold between the Backdoor and the cabins, and his ragged breathing permeates the bus. It’s their duty as the manager to check in on their Sinners, they remind themself. <Gregor, are you alright?>
The man’s fingers dig into the bundled fabric just above the carapace of his arm, and he forces another laugh. He fixes his posture, but doesn’t properly meet their face as he turns his head to look out the windows. “Manager Bud,” his tone is placating, the nickname trailing off. “I just needed a midnight smoke.”
<Oh…> They quietly tick. It’s probably not true. … They won’t deny him this.
“Don’t mind me, okay?” He asks in an equally muted tone.
They adjust themself where they stand, stiff and awkward as Gregor slips into Faust’s seat. The manager can’t bring themself to sit again, on edge after he burst out of his room like that. ‘ His arm ’. Dante knows how it– for lack of a better term– can act, and they know what being in his room does to his arm. However unfortunate it is for Gregor, or however comfortable he is with it happening, Dante has had to use that E.G.O. of his before. He still holds his arm tight, its rugged surface glinting from his cigarette as it calms.
In the small creases of his hands, scratches and calluses collected. Dante’s focus travels up and caught the light as well, the smouldering ember acting as the only light on him. In its glow, his hair shines as it falls over his shoulders. Free of his hair tie for perhaps the first time they’d seen, they hadn’t noticed its length before. Gregor’s lips looked chapped. The thought doesn’t feel bizarre to the manager, with all the time he spends with a cigarette in his mouth. His eyes are ringed with sallow bags, avoiding them still, and a tension is kept in his brow.
They consider the discontent built in their chest, at the lie maybe, or at the man’s state. <Gregor?>
The man’s pupils fix on them, and for a moment, they feel as though they’d prodded an abused animal one too many times. “What’s up?” He asks, sounding as defeated as he did biting.
They almost hadn’t noticed that they actually spoke. Thusly, they didn’t know how to continue. <This isn’t the first time this has happened, is it?>
He shifts, and a beat of silence passes where he holds eye contact. It doesn’t last, though, and that discontent returns, twisting into a guilt as they feel an ache in their chest. “I don’t like lying to you, Bud,” he mutters around his cigarette.
Dante sighs, finally taking a few steps forward and sitting on the bench Yi Sang, Don and Sinclair shared. They can’t think of something comforting to say, but they’ve never been the best with that. “It’s a nightmare to sleep in there,” he says with a begrudging chuckle. “And that’s the point, isn’t it…”
<I’m sorry,> their hand goes to hold the back of their neck. <I didn’t have any say in what your rooms are like.> They don’t know why they felt the need to say that. Then again, they never thought about what they said, did they.
Gregor looks at them for a moment before letting out a laugh, it’s almost relieved. Or maybe it’s simply humoured. “I know,” he replies, something of a smile lingering on his lips. “You’re lucky.”
They hear themself tick, a wordless question they much rather they hadn’t asked. “You don’t have a room like ours. Nothing in that clock to torment you at night,” Dante can’t tell if there’s a bitterness in his voice, or if it’s the strain that had been present the entire conversation.
<I-> they can’t say they want a room that treats them like the Sinners’ do. No, but there is longing tangled around their heart. For their relief? <I don’t like that you have to endure that every night, alone.> Dante decides that will do to explain the feeling.
He raises a brow, tired eyes searching their expressionless face for hints of emotion he knows isn’t there. They place their hands in their lap, clasping their nerves between their palms. Gregor leans back as he takes a long drag of his cigarette, and he notes, words as soft as the sigh that came before them, “you don’t show that very well.”
They falter, but before they’d collected themself, words come out. <I’m sorry,> it’s an understatement. Dante’s always known their clock limits their expressiveness, but they have an inclination that he doesn’t mean just that. They have tried to be amicable, but they haven’t really been able to connect with any of their Sinners’ struggles. Only moving one bough to another; their pasts being pried out from between their ribs and caught in the web of the bus team’s journey.
<I know I haven’t been empathetic.> Maybe they were desensitized. Maybe that’s a cruel thought to have in the face of a man who has to sleep in his past. <I don’t want you to be alone. Can I prove that to you?> They don’t know when they’d decided it, nor why they’re voicing this now.
They take a deep breath, a hand shifting to their chest as something inside it tugs again. Gregor is silent for a brief moment, and then there’s his little smile. Tired, just as his eyes are. “You trying is a start,” he says simply. “I’d be glad if you did.”
Their gaze briefly flits from his face, two small ticks telling of their consideration. No, not quite consideration, they, without question, want to support him, empathise, and show that they don’t just think of their Sinners as shields or tools. They really do. <You’re tired.>
“What was that, Manager Bud?” He asks, gravelly, but no less kind than any other day, and smoke escaping his lips as his head tilts.
Dante pauses. Mulling over their words, or the order to say them, or perhaps whether they should or not. This indecision isn’t something they are used to when it comes to things like this. <You’re tired. I am too, it’s been a long day.>
He straightens, taking the cigarette from his mouth with tense digits. “I can leave,” he assures. “No worries.”
<If you couldn’t tolerate your room alone, please let me join you,> they keep their tone level, though that was about all that they could. Their heart was racing without fear, nor the adrenaline of battle. Was this fear? Of what, part of them muses. Their hands struggle to find stillness, and fidget with their tie. <Company is,> they hesitate. <better than none.>
Gregor shifts in the silence following their offer. The quiet stretches on, as all the pauses this night had. For a second, he was looking for any sign of their intention, though that look soon fell from his face. He’d already tried that. Then it turned conflicted, his lips just barely part, brows that never quite stopped being furrowed raised in what could be concern. Missing forethought once more, they quickly add, <you don’t have to agree.>
That flattens out his expression. The tip of his arm scrapes against the floor, harsh on the tripwire they felt the in-between became. He places the cigarette back in his mouth, and he slowly stands. Muscles strained, they note. “That sounds nice,” he says.
They are glad, briefly, that they didn’t have a head to bear the face they’re sure they would have just made. He steps into the aisle, almost calm as his shoes clack on the metal flooring of the bus, following him as he walks away. Dante lightly pulls on their tie, laying it flat on their chest rather than how they’d left it. They aren’t sure if they had expected relief with his answer, and weren’t sure if they found relief, though something fluttered more prominently than the murmur it had been in their chest. As they stand they find their thoughts circling. There is a distant wonder if it’s the surplus of feeling that came with a situation like this that was the reason.
His steps faltered, and Dante quickly started down the center of the bus, seeing the man turn and disappear through a Door upon eye contact. They’d agreed, and they could dwell on things later. Despite a tension in their lungs, they keep walking, the clicking of their shoes suddenly rather lonely.
They find it weird to see a Door still open, slowing unintentionally before it. More discomforting sights were Gregor’s memory of war, practically an ear-splitting volume now, and the effect of it on the man now resting at the far wall of it has their stomach churn. He meets their gaze, with no words, nor energy behind his deep inhale from his cigarette. Dante ticks wordlessly, a sound to acknowledge him below the clamour from the window. Amid the littering weapons on the floor, they notice a small band.
<Your hair tie fell out,> the manager evenly tells him, moving a pace forward and kneeling to pick it up.
“Ah.. Did it?” With an unsure tone, Gregor’s attention falls to the little thing in their hand.
They approach, briefly stalling before they neatly sit themself down beside him. Words wouldn’t string into sentences in their head, eaten away at by the environment. The noise they could learn to ignore, they think. Their fingers turn over the hair tie in their palm before they glance to the man beside them. The sordid uniform looks as though it weighs him down. The mass that his arm had become, chained and covered in cloth, doesn’t move. Adorned in seals like an award-winning technology— not war medals, nothing that honours him— “Looks worse up close, doesn’t it?”
He mused, the irony in his persisting smile fading as they realise he was facing them. While their clock couldn’t form any amusing expression, he must have noticed them staring. “I promise it’s not that bad,” he assures softly.
Dante finds themself speechless for a moment. They nod to show they are listening. <Would you like me to put your hair up?>
Gregor adjusts himself, exhaling a plume of smoke. They can’t parse his emotion for a moment, but his words interrupt their attempt. “That’d be nice, actually. Thank you, Manager Bud.”
They pause, considering the vulnerability he chose to have, before pushing themself closer to the wall and tucking their legs to their side for him. None of the Sinners truly wanted their lives to be lived through while collecting the golden boughs, to allow anyone that close. Maybe this wasn’t the same type of closeness, but they can’t help feeling glad that he allows this. Their fingers fidget with the elastic while he repositions as well. They don’t flinch at the scraping of the chains on concrete.
Another moment passes where they hesitate underneath the noise they won’t acknowledge, muffled just barely by the glass of the window. The manager, rather irrationally, notes how the red light would hide any blood matting his hair. The thought spurs them to lift their gloved hands as if to sift through the strands and assure themself there isn’t any. They falter as they school themself, then Dante gently hooks their fingers around the loose locks that fall over his shoulders and brings them back. It irks them, however slightly, that they don’t get to feel the texture of the strands. What a small comfort that they are denied. Not that it matters– this is for Gregor.
With care, they funnel his hair into one hand, working the band onto the other. The movements are easy, although their gloves lack some of the grip bare hands would have, something about them calming to Dante. They wonder if it’s the same for him. The manager tracks his steady breaths, each rise and fall of his shoulders, as a way to tell themself they are doing it right. They certainly don’t know if they have done it before. <How is that?> Their voice is quieter than they thought it would be.
“Mm,” Gregor shifts, back straightening as he seemed to come back into focus. “That’s alright,” he confirms.
The ch-ching of a register comes from them before they think, responded to by a bout of laughter from Gregor. Warm and slightly scratchy, genuine, homey, entirely throwing them off from the apology they wanted to utter. He turns himself to face them, with one of the largest smiles they’ve seen from him— or- the proximity probably made it seem bigger. “What was that, Manager Bud?” He’s humoured, words lilted and jovial.
<I didn’t mean to do that,> they press their palms into their clock, ticking quickly.
What a fumble.
He chuckles as his posture relaxes, shoulders slouching just slightly. There is still fatigue in his eyes, but they think they’ve softened. They feel as though their chest is lighter now that he’s more relaxed; their arms not held with the tension that tangled up in their heart. Dante hopes he’s feeling similar, if only to know they were doing their job as executive manager. The sound of their head against the wall is drowned in the gunfire and screams manufactured behind the window. They were right about being able to tune it out, they suppose.
It’s easy to tell when he moves. Not much, but they don’t blame him for trying to get more comfortable. Gregor pushes himself back against the wall, palm scraping on the ground— the cause of the small flinch they make being more the nearness of his hand than the dragging chains— with a heavy breath through his cigarette. They catch his glance, heart dutifully taking note of the lingering smile in its own little panic, though the man seems intent on settling and getting sleep rather than anything else. By all means, they should too, what with all their late-evening scribing. Yet, the lulling tiredness that invited them to their office before this ordeal is gone.
Ordeal? The word is amiss, far too rude a term for the sudden situation. Dante dismisses the thought to try their own hand at sleep. Again, their hand plays at their tie, which they hadn’t taken to have been a nervous habit, but maybe it was their effort to contain the butterflies in their chest. Lacking fatigue, they find themself with an odd comfort in a place so harsh: Gregor. His allowing them to try and build report, letting them into his nightmare, the way they brought out that warm, unbridled laugh, and his own comfortability with them at his side. The pair sit there, surroundings cold and sordid, yet he seems a hearthfire in it all. They look to him as their mind wanders, then their breathing stutters.
His eyes closed, lids heavy and breathing soft with each swell of his chest. Glasses slightly askew, the fading smoulder of his cigarette forgotten between his cracking lips before he’d fallen asleep. The way they tick mirrors every irrationally fast beat of their heart, something like giddiness— warmth and fuzziness blooming through their entirety— or pride overtaking them. Their own reaction takes them by surprise. The peace that blankets him is a reassurance to their efforts, a well of yearning to share it. Dante presses their gloved hand against their chest and silences themself, the way they’d come alight with joy disorienting. Should they have had a face, it would match the loud red of their coat. By the Wings, calm down, Dante!
They shake their head, a losing battle against embarrassment. The manager shifts to distract themself— maybe achieve sleep– placing their legs in front of them and easing their hands to the ground. That one of them rests just next to his, is an accident they choose to ignore. With that outburst of fluttering, light-footed joy fettering out of their system, they feel a silent sigh leave them. Time drew later, and it was for them to be punctual in the morning. Regardless of obligation, the lure of sleep snags at their collar and rids them of weighted worry for their dear Sinner. It’ll be alright, in the end. They’re here for him, and Dante finds the idea that he is too a little easier to believe at his side.
So, the manager closes their ephemeral eyes, and falls into sleep like falling into step with a friend.