Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Dante lingers behind everyone to watch the trained seagull for a bit longer. They knew seagulls were smart birds, but even Faust was surprised at the speed with which it learned tricks. It squawks, so Dante dutifully goes to open the door to the deck. It will then fly out, do its business, and handle whatever bird-chores it has before coming back. The door is a bit stiff, so they shove it open with their shoulder.

<Huh?>

The gull zips out, but Dante stumbles back into a seat, clipping themselves as they fall into it. The pain has returned, but unlike the cold rain and air outside, their shoulder bubbles with warmth. Rowing for their lives into the stomach of a Whale while showered in freezing ocean water and acid right after getting stitches seemed like a good idea back then, when everyone was in a hurry.

However, was that the most conducive environment for healing a puncture wound to the shoulder?

Definitely not.

Still, they’d been doing fine for a few days post an adventure that went soda pop bonkers, so they should’ve been in the clear.

<Oh no…> What finally ripped their stitches was pushing open a door for a seagull. <Oh no,> the moan again to themselves.

“Manager, it’s time to get some grub. Dante?”

<Hey, Ishmael. Just let out the bird.>

“Okaaaay? Food.”

Against the grey seas and skies outside, her hair waves like a brightly colored flag in what Dante tentatively calls their ‘vision’, dizzying yet enchanting.

<Gee golly, I think I’m about to hit the deck.>

“Huh?”

Dante pitches forward, knees slamming onto the floor, catching themselves at the last moment using their right arm and hand. With that, they manage to crumple forward, instead of piledriving their head into the ground.

“DANTE!”

Ishmael’s screech is all they hear before falling unconscious.

“EVERYONE!” Ishmael roars, and the rest of the Sinners dash out, pulled in by her strong voice. Heathcliff is the first to rush in, so she clicks her tongue and compromises. “Help me carry them!”

“What the hell?”

Multiple Sinners, seeing the most pressing issue handled, scatter to get other things in order, while some stay, desperate for entertainment.

Ishmael goes to throw one of Dante’s arms over her shoulder, when Heathcliff snaps.

“Do you have shite for brains?! Get the other arm!”

“What are you talking about?!”

The man doesn’t even bother trying to explain and simply supports Dante using their right arm and shoulder instead.

“There’s no way you’re that daft,” Heathcliff groans, right as the others rush in. “You stabbed them on the left, remember?”

“Uh… I’ll grab their legs.”

“Us two gonna princess carry them?”

“W-Well!”

Heathcliff, for once, doesn’t argue and grumbles as they end up side by side, him hoisting up Dante’s torso while Ishmael hooks her arms under Dante’s knees.

“Why is the Manager so heavy?!”

“Shut up and just carry them!”

“They’re like a bag o’ rocks!”

“Hah! Rich coming from the guy that swings around a body bag all day!”

“E.G.O.’s aren’t the same!”

“Careful, Heathcliff∼!” Rodya teases. “Don’t bring up a lady’s weight like that, you know?”

“Do we even know if they’re a lady or a bloke?”

“Better safe than sorry?” another voice says.

“Shut up, rich kid!”

Hong Lu giggles and moves in, poking the clockface.

“Stop it, Hong Lu!”

“Do you think they feel it, Ishmael?”

“Ask them when they’re actually conscious!”

Mersault, after watching them bicker for a few minutes, wordlessly goes to pick Dante out of their arms into a proper princess carry, followed by Gregor from behind.

“Oh. They are rather heavy.”

“... Did you not hear what Rodya just said?” Gregor asks, though his tone is more resigned than incredulous. “Just here to tell you all that Faust got our energetic girlie and kiss ass all wrangled together into bothering Vergil. Guy says he can patch up Manager-bud again.”

<Stop… arguing, guys…> Dante instinctively mumbles at the sound of shouting.

Somehow, Heathcliff becomes the voice of reason again, once Vergil and Charon shut the door currently leading to the clinic.

“… Did’ya ever write that ‘report’ or whatever Kiss Up and Genius said you had to about… stabbing them?”

“I hate this,” Ishmael mutters. “Why do you have to be the one who reminds me?”

“Oi, so you were gonna just faff around and ignore it?!”

“Heathcliff… being the responsible one?” Gregor is so shocked it's almost insulting to the other man.

“Real bold of ya gits to say this all right in front of me!”

Ishmael is now obligated to finish this stupid written report… Which she realizes she’ll need to hand over to either Vergilius… Or Dante. She knows how to use computers, but Limbus exists in a strange limbo. Paperwork is the most common form of communication (besides alarms), but the data needs to be input digitally.

Inputted by either Faust, Vergilius, or… Dante. She takes a few hours to procrastinate, mentally retrace her thought processes, and then get over the shame. The necessary paperwork is in the communal office, so she heads through that specific door.

<Oh, Ishamel. What’re you doing here?>

Damn it.

She fiddles with one of her ribbons, looking away from the clockface.

“The written report about, you know. Your shoulder.”

<Oh, I forgot about that! Lemme find the right forms for you.>

“Wait, do you need any help-!”

<I’m all good now. Shouldn’t be a problem.>

Dante leans over to look through their office desk, pulling open a drawer and rifling through it for a long time. Ishmael stands there, waiting in silence. She can’t tell if she’s the only one who feels awkward or if Dante feels that tension as well.

<Found it!>  The manager clambers up into a proud form, chest puffed. It seems like the forms associated with purposely attacking your manager were hidden away and or needed to be repurposed from other types of paperwork.

They go around their desk, set at the head of the room, then move down to a grid of smaller desks meant for the Sinners, should a rare moment of legit office work be needed. This room always makes Ishmael feel odd. There’s disgust yet relief at such a safe, familiar environment. Dante coming over, however, is something no boss from back then would ever do.

<Here you go.>

She accepts the stack, and to her relief, it’s not as serious as she thought it’d be. It’ll be tedious at most, but the Limbus Company’s bureaucracy can be extremely efficient at times. There’s the usual stuff, such as requesting personal information, the date the incident occurred, reasons for the injury-

“Dante,” Ishmael says, peeling a sheet of paper away from the pile. “This form is for damage to company property.”

<The clock wasn’t hurt by your harpoon, but I figured we should get that in writing, in case… Something happens in the future.>

“Do we need to include this?”

<This technically isn’t my head, so I think we should keep that.>

“But the clock is part of you right now--the ‘injured parties’ form should be enough.”

<Yeah, but Faust told me we should record all instances of ‘damage’, even incidents where damage could have occurred.>

“Hah. Can’t argue with that. I’ll finish it up here.”

<Sounds good. I gotta stay behind to balance our budget for this month anyway.>

She flips the pages back and forth between her fingertips as Dante meanders back to their work desk.

“Oh. You know… how to do accounting, Dante?”

<Seems like it,> Dante replies, fingers tapping over a calculator as they run a finger down a column of values. <Guess I learned how to do all of this before I became everyone’s manager.>

“That’s interesting.”

<Yeah. I’m kinda curious to find out what else I know, even with the amnesia.>

The conversation dies, so Ishmael picks a desk and starts filling in and signing forms. Outis and Faust said she needed to make a written report, but the ‘report’ honestly boils down to pre-written questions with blank boxes underneath. She’d filled in similar papers in high school and university, then even more while doing practice CPA tests. It’s easy enough until she gets to the meat. The clicks and beeps of a calculator in the background contribute to an almost peaceful environment, while the world outside soaks through the windows in colors resembling melted rubies, topazes, and citrine.

[Explain what caused the incident, such as any physical or mental contributors (this includes Distortions and E.G.O. manifestations).]

Easy enough to answer under the warm glow of sunset.

I was in a heightened state of agitation, knowing that someone involved with my past trauma (as mentioned in my contract) was in close proximity and directly linked to the Bough. Additionally, my thinking was impaired even more due to preexisting biases against the Middle caused created I formed during previous relationships. This caused me to attack a member of the Middle, using the Bough as my overall justification. The Executive Manager interrupted this assault to prevent future retaliation by the Middle. In the process of stopping my attack, the Executive Manager was injured.

It’s to the point and impersonal, just the way the higher-ups in all her previous positions liked. It somehow makes her take responsibility, but also absolves her of this sin.

But it doesn’t feel satisfying.

She decided to accept all her mistakes. This one just happens to be more recent than the majority of them.

“Dante.”

The clock rises up with flames softly rippling behind, as fingers stop flitting over yellowed plastic buttons.

<Do you need any help with the paperwork?>

“I’m sorry.”

<Huh?>

She can hear the singular ‘tick’ layered over Dante’s ‘voice’, confused and startled.

“For stabbing you.”

<Uh, I mean, according to Vergilius, because you sharpened your harpoon so much, the 'poke' was really clean and easy to patch up. Also, you made sure to miss the clock.>

“I want to apologize for hurting you. You… helped Queequeg fulfill her final wish for me. To make sure I still had a future.”

Tick.

Tock.

Tick.

Tock.

<Mmhm. I accept your apology, Ishmael. I should also thank you, though, for trusting me with your ‘compass’, even if only temporarily.>

“... Yeah. Um, I’ll get these over before dinner.”

<Okay.>

They both settle back into the flow of things and-

<... I FORGOT THE SEAGULL OUTSIDE!>

“What?!”

Dante dashes out, risking the integrity of their stitches yet again, while Ishmael chases them down before they reopen the wound.

Chapter Text

“I want to see the Manager in different clothes.” Rodya drapes herself over the back of her seat after speaking that desire out into the world.

“I wasn’t enough?!”

“Didn’t you need us to help you to begin with?” Gregor replies to Heathcliff.

Heathcliff sensibly shuts his mouth.

“Have you seen that hip to waist ratio!?” 

“I-I… I guess?” Sinclair mumbles. “I don’t remember much from when they crawled over to me after… Calw. But I think their waist seemed small?” He shakes his head and waves them off, after everyone pauses to check on him.

“You do realize that’s our manager, right?”

“When did you start acting like Outis? S’creepy.”

“Shut up, Heathcliff.” Ishmael frowns, but does pause to chew her thumbnail as she thinks over something.

“An elegant dress would look really nice I think,” Rodya daydreams. “But a chic masculine to androgynous style sounds good too.”

“I wonder if a hanfu would work as well?” Hong Lu’s unflappable smile warms up just the tiniest bit more.

“What would the Manager-bud prefer? Maybe they won’t wanna wear a dress.”

“May I interject?” Yi Sang says, finally piping up. “Over the course of our arduous journey as of now, the individuals we’ve met have not been sharply delineated by garments and the chosen gender they have decided upon for their interactions with the wider world.” Yi Sang glances out the window, as if the waves and sky are a board for his thoughts. “Due to the Manager’s amnesia, I do not believe they are even aware of ‘gendered clothing’ as a concept.”

Rodya pops up in her seat. 

“So our genius thinks we can dress Dante in whatever we want?”

“Unless it disagrees with their personal style.”

“I think if we decide to dress up Dante, we should make sure they’re all covered up,” Sinclair adds. 

“Oh  yeah, that’s a good idea,” Ishmael says. “Their regular clothes are like that.”

<Hm? Is everyone also up here for fresh air? I mean, to get to the deck for fresh air.>

“Manager~!” Rodya croons, sidling up to the other.
<No.>

“What?! But you haven’t even heard us talk!”

<I don’t want a repeat of the factory incident… I learned my lesson.>

“We just want to see you in different clothes!”

<Heathcliff wasn’t enough?>

“Heathcliff was fighting the whole time,” Hong Lu cheerily snitches. “But Dante will have fun with us too, right?”

“Do you even think before saying shite like that?”

“Consider it an additional activity to give us some respite from the overwhelming burden of boredom and nothingness.”

<... I guess if you say so, Yi Sang. Okay, what do I need to try on first?>

There’s a pause, before Hong Lu’s truly ridiculous income and wardrobe come into play.

“I have a high-necked dress with gloves that Dante can wear, but it’s not tailored for them.”

“Had to wear clothes that didn’t fit for photoshoots sometimes,” Gregor says, “so all they did was use clips or whatever to cinch in stuff. They’re not gonna be wearing this for the rest of the evening, so we can do that.”

“I have some safety pins. I think so, at least. I’ll go get them.” Sinclair excuses himself for a moment, sneaking past Dante with an oddly determined look.

“I’ll go get the dress then, hehe! Rodya, Gregor—Black or red?”

“Black.”

“Black.”

“Okaaaay~!”

<Uh…>

“You should run while you can,” Heathcliff whispers.

<I think I’ll be fine. I don’t fight everything the way you do.>

“... Was that on purpose?”

“Show us what you’ve learned!” Rodya interjects, striding over. She flippantly gestures at Dante with a relaxed smile. “Should we go with something looser or more form-fitting for our manager here?”

“Um, I guess-”

“Tighter,” Ishmael says, cutting off Heathcliff. “We’re all usually wearing our coats anyway. Wait, they didn’t even change out of the coat while we were pedaling for our lives!”

<I mean, I didn’t think about taking off the coat until we were already pedaling, and then we didn’t have any time to stop, since a Wave was coming.>

“Good point. Let’s give them a different look!” Rodya replies, obviously enlightened by Ishmael’s observation.

Gregor sidles over to where Dante and Heathcliff are standing.

“Sorry. I was pushing for it too, but I didn’t think we’d all get this excited.”

“Oi, you just realized that now?!”

Dante just keeps staring ahead, watching the others collaborate in secrecy.

<Well, whatever makes everyone happy while we’re stuck on this boat.>

“I’m baaaack!” Hong Lu returns with a bundle of black fabric in his arms, clutching a small box in one hand as well. “This dress is high-necked, but the sleeves are kind of sheer, so I included some gloves. I also have jewelery with me, and once you’re changed, let me pick some out for you, okay?”

Hong Lu has returned in a surprisingly forceful fashion, leaving the rest of the Sinners silent.

“Now we just need to wait for Sinclair-”

“I’m here! I have some!” Sinclair rushes in, holding a plastic container of safety pins with clothespins mixed in as well, for some reason.

“Perfect! We’ll wait for you outside then, Dante.”

<Okaaaay,> Dante replies, parroting everyone else’s sudden childishness.

“W-Wait, out in the open?”

“There’s no one out there,” Ishmael explains, pointing to the sheer nothingness surrounding them. “It may seem weird ‘cause of the windows, but compared to the hallway where anyone could come out of a door at any moment, changing in the main area is the best compromise.”

“Alright, alright, let’s give ‘em some privacy,” Heathcliff says, shooing everyone out.

Dante starts loosening their tie and unbuttoning their shirt once the door swings shut, ambling over to look at the clothes Hong Lu dumped onto a seat before getting out. The fabric is a good thickness, yet soft enough to drape off the chair like a waterfall of cloth. Despite the dark color, it almost has a glowing sheen under the sunset’s light.

They kick off everything, and after looking at the construction of the dress, manages to figure out how to put it on. The zipper in the back must go all the way down, and they need to step into the dress to properly wear it. It’s fussy and just like Hong Lu warned, baggy on them, making it even more difficult to zip up the thing. They especially fumble with the clasp at the turtleneck, when they feel something bumpy on their skin.

Frowning, they grab at their PDA and use it as a makeshift compact.

<How did I never notice this?>

There’s a ridge of pale scar tissue, pallid and shimmering against the skin, right where the Clock joins to their neck. It’s morbid and makes Dante’s stomach churn, but they keep running a finger along that thick rope of tissue. It’s hypnotizing, the disgust and curiosity mixing together the more they look at the injury.

After all, there’s no other way to explain something like this, right?

It’s an injury.

Maybe they’ve been avoiding it ever since that night in the forest, so long ago now.

Don’t want to imagine how much it must’ve hurt back then, chopping off their head to stick this thing on.

They empathize with their past self, and how the jagged, tearing cuts that would’ve caused such an extreme scar must’ve nearly knocked them out from pain.

Dante knows pain very well now. They’ve experienced death over and over via a truly creative menegerie of causes, but the Dante who chopped off their own head was experiencing it all for the first time.

Alone.

They put down their PDA and manage to finally hook together the collar on the dress. As Hong Lu mentioned, the long bell sleeves are see-through, so they pull on black gloves that go up to their elbow, marveling at how the dark velvet contrasts with the smooth, translucent fabric.

Why does Hong Lu even have these clothes?

Dante’s not quite sure what’s considered stylish, but Hong Lu always wears his uniform and chooses clothes in other Identities with a sense of ‘cohesion’, while maintaining a look that’s almost impercetibly set apart from the others. Maybe that’s what’s called fashionable.

<I’m done!>

The Sinners barrel through the door, and Dante jolts back in surprise, foot catching on the hem of the dress and nearly sending them toppling to the floor.

“G-Got it!”

Dante drops straight into Sinclair’s arms, half bent over the other.

“Wow.” Gregor whistles, observing the two. “Not bad, kid. You too, Manager. Like out of a painting or something.”

Rodya moves over to pull Dante up, eyes wide with a big smile.

“This is gorgeous! Sinclair, gimme the pins!”

“Here,” he groans, digging the box out of his coat pockets.

While Dante is still dazed and looking at an equally confused Sinclair, Rodya pulls back any parts were the fabric is sagging and pins them in place from behind. Hong Lu goes over to observe Dante in the dress, oddly contemplative.

“Rubies in gold! Yes, that should work.”

“Not silver?” Ishmael inquires.

“It’ll clash with the clock and flames then.”

“Hmmm, will it look odd on the black?”

“Trust me on this one!”

“Alllright.”

Dante’s arms are raised to give Rodya space, which gives Hong Lu time to slide some thin gold bangles over one wrist. One bangle has a singular ruby inset into a sunburst design etched onto the metal. Then Hong Lu starts using Dante as a ring holder, sliding gold bands over varying fingers on each hand. He fusses over the hand opposite the bangles, and eventually takes off a ruby ring.

“Alright~! No earrings, so this is going to be the centerpiece.”

Hong Lu pulls a necklace out of the jewelry box that makes everyone choke. It’s a lavalier necklace, where even the chain itself is forged in the same delicate, coiling style. A small ruby is set into each swirl along the chain, and nestled into the pendant is a faceted ruby the size of a bird egg.

“That’s… Isn’t that a pigeon blood ruby?!” Sinclair shrieks.

“Wow, so you recognize the color, Sinclair?” Hong Lu tilts his head at the younger man, holding up the necklace between two hands. The sunlight scatters sparkling shards of red off the stone and onto his face, like glowing freckles.

“My mother had a pigeon blood ruby. Not as big, but I remember her talking to my father about insuring it,” Sinclair says. 

Dante wishes they had a jaw to drop.

<This is just for fun, right? There’s no need to pull out something-?!>

“Catch, Ishmael!”

“Huh?! Ah, got it!” Without breaking her stride, she moves over and clasps it around Dante’s neck, before they can protest more.

“Woah, good taste, Hong Lu!” Rodya exclaims.

Even Heathcliff leans in, taking in how Dante looks.

“Yeah, even I can tell it’s not bad.”

<What does it even look like?> There’s no mirror here, their room doesn’t have a full length mirror either, and barging into a Sinner’s room that’s dependant upon someone’s mental state is probably not the best idea. Dante shifts around, trying to get a good look out of genuine curiosity.

The bell sleeves go in a gradient from solid black into a sheer fabric towards the edges. There’s lace at the ends, and Dante knows there’s a slight scalloped edge at the turtleneck. Everything else is as far as they can see. As in, all black.

“The dress is all silk, which is why you can see a slight glow under the light,” Hong Lu explains, raising Dante’s arm so that everyone can see how the fabric shimmers.

“I can’t see shite,” Heathcliff complains.

“Neither can I,” Rodya admits.

“It’s because this is the real thing. If I had a fake right next to this, you’d be able to tell.”

<I guess I’ll make a note of that.> They default to what’s most comfortable, one hand resting on their hip as they type on their PDA.

“Wait, hold that pose!” Ishmael exclaims. “Everyone, that looks good, right?!”

<Hm?>

“Don’t move!”

<A-ah, okay.>

She looks over, then gestures to Hong Lu.

“I know this looks good, but not why. Sinclair’s useless, since we know he took that dumb maracas class for his elective or whatever.”

“Hey! It got us through the casino at least!”

Hong Lu has no qualms explaining to Ishmael, as expected.

“It’s because of our Manager’s straight posture, and how they’ve got their feet at an angle while keeping their torso facing forward. The hand on their hip balances out the raised arm on the other side. You’re a natural, Dante!”

Gregor peers a bit longer at Dante, then nods at Rodya.

“You’re right. They do have a good figure.”

“Like I said! Hip to waist ratio!”

“What the hell am I looking at right now?”

Vergilius stands in the doorway, blinking at the fashion show that’s sprung up.

“Need to go vroom-wroom,” Charon sings from behind. “Wow. Dante pretty.”

<Uh.>

“I don’t care if you wanna dress up the Manager, but we can’t have this shit distracting Charon while we’re moving.”

<O-Of course. Uh… I guess, I’ll put on whatever you guys want tomorrow too, then?>

The Sinners present all grumble and agree.

<Hong Lu, lemme return this all to you later, after I take it all OFF-?!>

This time Gregor’s the one who catches Dante and breathes a sigh of relief.

“I keep telling you you should still eat stuff. You’re thin.”

<... I can’t taste it though.>

“So?”

<... Fine.>

They stumble back up to their feet, sighing.

It’s simple enough changing back, but when they approach Hong Lu’s room, they’re still wearing the ruby. They’d been too terrified of putting it down then somehow losing it.

<Hong Lu, I’m here.>

Dante tilts their head as their hear muffled thumps behind the door, before it pops open. Hong Lu stands there, bright-eyed, their greenish iris especially vibrant.

“Hello, Dante! That’s the dress, right? Why’re you still wearing the necklace, though?”

<Didn’t want to lose it by accident.>

“How thoughtful!” Hong Lu takes back the folded dress and gloves before glancing behind, and Dante rubs their face as they follow the man’s gaze.

They can’t get over how dependant the rooms are on each Sinner’s mentality, but even here, they can sense Hong Lu’s room, even if they can’t properly see it.

Cool, almost cold.

A clear separation between each living zone in the room.

Yet despite that focus on clarity, perception becomes hazy and blurred in the area.

<What were you doing? While waiting for me?>

“Oh! I was looking for other outfits to dress you in tomorrow! A hanfu wouldn’t accent your figure as much the way Rodya likes, but I believe it would be charming in its own way.”

<You’re really excited about this.>

“Hm. I guess I am,” Hong Lu muses to himself, clearly amused. “I dressed up people back home, so I must’ve been feeling nostalgic.”

It’s hard to imagine Hong Lu in any sort of subservient position, such as dressing another person, but what does Dante know about the inner workings of the ultra rich? On the other hand, it’s nice seeing Hong Lu so… aware?

Whenever Dante tugs on Hong Lu’s chain, before the pain hits them, it’s always the one they need to double check. It’s the same with when they were trying on the dress. Hong Lu suddenly took initiative.

<Um, you said Rodya wouldn’t be interested in a, a ‘hanfu’?>

“Yes. Even if various acroutrements can be added, I don’t believe the plainer style is her preference.”

<In that case, should I just try it out right now?>

“Really?!”

Dante’s face would’ve startled if they didn’t have the clock, but luckily they have the best pokerface in the City right now. A sudden burst of emotion from the usually constant Hong Lu. The man’s eyes crinkle up at the corner just the tiniest bit more, and the smile curls up a bit further.

<Yeah. I don’t mind.>

“Okay, come inside! You don’t need to take off everything either.”

<Why would I… need to worry about that?> they ask as they walk in without thinking. The film of separation breaks, and they stand with Hong Lu inside a cavernous courtyard, filled with various large buildings.

“Follow me.”

Dante wordlessly trails behind, looking all around. This isn’t a room—this is a whole compound. Is Hong Lu so used to luxury, that Mephistopheles had no choice but to create this from Hong Lu’s subconscious? Is the man just incapable of living in a singular bedroom?

They try to focus on different things, but their vision just starts blurring, as if they’re trying to mentally picture things, instead of directly perceiving them. The film of separation still exists it seems, just pushed back to accommodate Dante.

“Inside here~!” Hong Lu pushes open a thin yet ornate door with intricate geometric carvings, then steps in first, before offering his hand to Dante.

<Huh?>

“Careful, there’s a step!”

Dante grabs Hong Lu’s hand midstep and barely avoids tripping over the raised threshold. They sigh, then stare at the room.

It’s more like a warehouse of treasures, stacks of locked chests, wardrobes, countless jewelry boxes, and what smells like odd medicines. Hong Lu returns with a set of robes, and now Dante knows why the man said they didn’t need to worry about undressing.

They have no idea how the ties would work and how to properly rest the folds over their body.

“You just need to take off your coat and that dress shirt, and I can figure out the rest.”

At this point, Dante can’t say no to Hong Lu, who seems like an excited child with a new toy, so they do as they’re asked. Their turtleneck undershirt seems form fitting enough for Hong Lu to have no issues.

“Okay, put your arms through these sleeves…”

There’s more than one layer, but Hong Lu deftly dresses Dante, taking care to how the collar overlaps and tying things in place with specific knots. Dante’s left standing there, taking in the experience of hands pressing against them with gentle movements. 

It’s… soothing, they realize.

A moderate loss of control in a safe environment.

“Okay! Wait here!”

Dante watches Hong Lu skip over to a corner of the warehouse, and they can’t help but feel glad that them agreeing to this little thing was able to brighten the man’s mood that much. Something crashes then slams, to Dante’s concern, but Hong Lu strides back, pushing along a full length mirror.

“How does it look? The dress looked nice, so I was curious if a masculine style would work too.”

The person reflected in the mirror looks like Dante, but they can’t help but peer in a little closer.

All black, with a light colored inner layer. It doesn’t have any extra embroidery, but the way the exterior mantle flares out adds enough flair for the look to still be striking. The hem is long enough that only Dante’s shoes are showing, and the loafers are neutral enough to fit in.

<Oh, we still need to take this off,> they say, gesturing at the necklace.

“Hm, you’re right. More subdued gold jewlery would work better for this outfit. Maybe you should just keep the ruby.”

“Absolutely not! Having something this expensive just lying around would kill me.”

“No. You should keep it.”

<Hong Lu?>

The man’s face in the mirror is in its usual smile, but Hong Lu’s voice has subtly changed.

“If something happens, you can… sell that, right?”

<Probably?>

“So keep it. In case a time ever comes that we’re in desperate need of funds.”

<We have our budget.>

“I know.”

Hong Lu doesn’t elaborate, and instinctively, Dante knows Hong Lu is right.

Maybe something happens and they get funding from Limbus cut due to exterior circumstances. As Executive Manager, Dante would be the only person in a high enough position to do something like pawn off a necklace to support the LCB without causing issues in the chain of command and so on. They touch the ruby at their neck, yet can’t help but also press their pointer finger to the hidden scar on their neck at the same time.

“Anyway, you look so nice in a masculine style as well, Dante!”

<Thanks. For the compliments and the necklace.>

“Of course!”

The heaviness lifts from Hong Lu’s voice, as the the man starts explaining once again the materials used and the overall aesthetic the designer had in mind while designing the garment. He slips back into the extra cheery mood that Dante was happy to have given Hong Lu.

However, it feels like two heavy responsibilities have suddenly been foisted upon them.

Then again.

They’re the Executive Manager of the LCB.

It’s their job.

Chapter Text

Hong Lu slurps it all down.

It goes down warm and burns even hotter in his torso.

He consumes from an overflowing fountain and laps at the dredges on the ground. It mixes into the dirt to form a thick paste, but he doesn’t care.

<Hong Lu. Over here.>

A muffled voice beckons to him, as if behind layers of curtains. A voice with a sweet sound, but also one attached to obligation.

He shakes his head and keeps pulling, scraping this feast into himself.

He’s not hungry, but this is like junk food whetting his appetite. Too sugary, too fatty, too greasy—too anything, and that’s what’s so addictive about all of this. The mischievous pleasure of dabbling in something forbidden.

It’s so hot, yet doesn’t burn.

Proof that he’s been given the temporary privilege to engorge himself.

We don’t know when we’ll get to eat this again, so be as ravenous as you want while you can.

<Hong Lu, you won’t have any space leftover for dinner,> the voice attempts to scold.

So strict!

Not wrong, but still so strict!

He grumbles and flops down in protest.

<Wait, don’t-! No! Oh… G-gosh darn it… Can anyone please help out?>

Some other voices reply, but the hazy one has sharpened into a dejected mumble.

Hong Lu rolls around a bit more, enjoying his absurd tantrum, before finally crawling up.

“I’m done, Dante.”

<That’s great. Can you, um, get off of Heathcliff for a moment?>

He goes to rub his eyes-

<NONONONONONO! Don’t touch your face right now!>

Only now does Hong Lu realize his uniform is soaked through with blood and coated in a thin layer of viscera. In fact, his hands are still shoved deep into Heathcliff’s thoracic and abdominal cavities. How long was he playing for the blood around him to have dried into a myriad of shades underneath and around?

No wonder it tasted so warm.

“Oh dear. I’ll need to apologize once he’s up and about again.”

“That’s putting it lightly,” Gregor says, shuffling a bit closer and trying to avoid getting his feet tangled into Heathcliff’s entrails. “You were really feasting on the guy.”

“It tasted so good though.”

Some of the other Sinners groan and or press their faces into their palms.

“Define ‘good’,” Rodya asks, also peeking at what remains of Heathcliff. “Why’d ya also roll around in him?”

“I’m not quite sure,” Hong Lu lies, maintaining a level of dignity. Faust won’t blow his cover, he’s fairly sure.

As expected, the woman stays silent, while Dante nearly trips over Heathcliff’s lungs and a thyroid gland in the process of reviving the man.

“What in the bloody hell is wrong with you?!” Heathcliff screams before his organs have even sealed back into his abdomen. “That shite fucking hurt!”

“I’m sorry~!” Hong Lu chirps back.

“You owe me a goddamn drink once we’re done with work today.”

“Okay~!”

<Are you doing that on purpose, Hong Lu?>

“What are you talking about?”

<Maybe you’re not eating enough for every meal…> Dante muses to themselves.

“I assure you, I am.”

<If you say so.>

“Of course the faffer’s not eating enough! Muppet was even gnawing on my bones,” Heathcliff argues. “Also why are you so picky?! What’s wrong with my lungs?!”

“Oh, you spent your childhood in T. Corp, so your lungs have an especially high amount of contaminants due to pollution, which is only exacerbated by the smokers we work with.”

“You-!”

Gregor has the decency to drop his cigarette and grind it out with his heel, but Ryoshu keeps puffing away.

“Don’t worry Heathcliff. I attacked you, so you’re in better shape than the peccatula at least,” Hong Lu reassures, but it seems like he’s finally tired out the man.

“...Whatever you say.”

“Here you go~,” Hong Lu trills, placing a paper cup next to Heathcliff.

“You know I only said that ‘cause of the Idenitity, right?”

“It’s just coffee, and you seem like you still need it.”

“Can’t argue with that,” Heathcliff replies, making small marks on the form with a ballpoint.

Hong Lu likes doing reports in his room, but Heathcliff prefers working in the small dining hall. Sometimes the room becomes very lively as Yi Sang, Sinclair, Heathcliff, and Gregor all congregate together to help each other out.

It reminds Hong Lu of a study hall for adults.

“Hey, why were you so excited to chow down on me after Corroding? With that toothy E.G.O.?”

Was what Hong Lu did really that shocking?

“I was blind.”

“Huh?”

“When that one Corrodes, I can’t see anything, but all my other senses are heightened in exchange,” Hong Lu explains, with the slightest touch of fondness in his voice. “It’s rather refreshing to experience things without vision, and my palate was refined just a bit more.”

“So I tasted that good?” Heathcliff scoffs.

“Like sweetbreads and foie gras prepared in a variety of ways,” Hong Lu honestly answers. “I was also reminded of the first time I had pâté with caviar. The accoutrements were crème fraîche, chives, and blinis.”

Heathcliff takes a deep, deep breath, hands scrunching up into fists, before he exhales, with the rest of his body loosening up as well.

Hong Lu watches calloused palms and fingers extend out, those prominent scars shifting over bones and tendons.

“Should I help?”

“Least you can do. That one hurt.”

“Alright. I’ll go get a pen.”

Hong Lu ambles back, humming to himself. There’s a velvet-lined box in the warehouse, where he peruses over his options.

That pen is frosted white, with gold hardware and a diamond embedded in the cap. But then what about the antique crafted from celluloid? It’s rather plain and bit rugged, but the vintage nib writes as if the paper is oil slick. A bit like Heathcliff, he supposes.

But then… Hong Lu smiles at the cheapest one of the bunch, carefully kept in it’s own felted pouch within the box.

… Not this one.

Another one has a translucent body, reminiscent of smokey quartz.

Actually, there are other nicer options too.

Heathcliff scowls when he sees what Hong Lu is holding upon his return.

”Really? After what we went through?”

”Hm?”

”That bright shade of blue on black. Those are W. Corp colors.”

“Oh, silly me!”

”At what point do I stop getting pissed?”

”That’s dependent on you.”

”Hah, I know. Get to helping, then.”

”With pleasure!”

They go over the day’s events chronologically, each one filling in any gaps the other might have missed, or adding in details of what occurred while someone was incapacitated.

Such as being cannibalized.

Today had a bit of excitement, to everyone’s relief, considering how desolate and boring the Great Lake is.

Hong Lu relaxes, head dipping down and lips curled up at the corners as he explains once more to Heathcliff what happened.

‘Sight’, but not with eyes.

Blindness.

A ravenous craving for something with neither shape nor title.

Succumbing to that instinct and consuming with abandon, taking full advantage of a lax caretaker.

However, now that Hong Lu knows what hunger is, he can confidently say it was just a craving.

”Maybe I feel hunger here, because food is just food.”

”What’re you talking about? People eat  because they get hungry,” Heathcliff drawls.

Hong Lu hums to himself, brainstorming appropriate metaphors to use for the current situation.

”At home, food isn’t for pleasure, but neither is it for survival. It’s just fuel. Like how we give Mephistopheles humans for Enkephalin,” Hong Lu says, scribbling out a small diagram that’s pretending to be simple. “The bus can’t taste the humans and doesn’t get hungry. We just look at a gauge that tells us when it’s low on Enkephalin, then give it something to extract fuel from.”

Heathcliff looks at the scribbles, parsing together Hong Lu’s words in his head.

”So… you didn’t get hungry at home, ‘cuz they just kept you always topped up or somethin’?”

”Wow, you get it!”

”I swear to Wings…”

”At the LCB though, no one feeds me. I only know I need to eat when I’m hungry.”

”You do realize that’s what most folks in the City do, right? Hell, that’s how humans work in general,” Heathcliff mumbles, most likely thinking about the time they accidentally wandered into the Outskirts. “You’re still a person.”

”… I suppose I am.” Hong Lu answers. He stares at a person next to him that’s shamelessly human, full of strong emotions always flowing and bursting out in unbridled waves.

He giggles, and rests his chin on a palm to get a better look at the other. Silky locks of hair pool onto the tabletop like ribbons of black satin, and the harsh, atrocious lighting above reflects a speck of green off his eye onto Heathcliff’s cheek, as if it’d bounced off a shard of glass instead.

”No wonder you were so delicious.”

”My bat’s ‘bout to meet yer’ brains.”

”Ah, let me call over Dante first then!”

<Are you sure that’s enough?> Dante asks, hovering around Hong Lu after adjusting the man’s portion sizes. <If you’re so hungry you’re eating teammates, there’s gotta be something going on.>

“After speaking to Heathcliff for a bit, I don’t believe the incident is linked to any physiological issues. Thank you for your thoughtfulness, though, Dante!”

<Alright, alright. Don’t force yourself to finish if you feel full. You’ll get a tummyache.>

“Of course.”

Hong Lu finishes his plate after Dante leaves, but impolitely keeps the spoon held to his mouth for a few seconds too many.

“Hm. Maybe I don’t need to eat Heathcliff again.” 

Chapter Text

“I don’t want to hear it.”

<... I haven’t even said anything yet.>

“I don’t want some apology just so you can feel satisfied with yourself.”

<Still->

“Don’t make me repeat myself.”

Dante goes silent.

“I chose to do all of that myself,” Vergilius explains, looking over his shoulder while slouched against a seat. He’s the only person besides Dante left in the main bus area now, and Dante wonders how the man is able to pinpoint where their nonexistent eyes are.

Vergilius shuts his book with three fingers, perfectly catching the volume in a single hand. The soft whumpf of the pages as the cover snaps shut breaks Dante out of their stupor, to the man’s satisfaction.

“That whole mess was my decision. So throw away that useless guilt.”

Moonlight catches off a glittering red iris, dancing and lively despite the man’s sallow complexion and phlegmatic disposition.

So Dante nods, then leaves the man alone.

Before the door is even done creaking behind them, they’re moving towards the second person on their list.

<Heathcliff?> they call, before knocking on the door. <Heathcliff.>

There’s no response.

Technically, as their manager, Dante’s sure there’s some way to enter a room without a Sinner’s permission, but they’d rather never get to that point.

Once again, they knock six times upon the door before grumbling sounds from behind. There’s no thunder, at least.

The door flings open, and Heathcliff stumbles out, rubbing the sleep from his eyes with too much force. From behind, however, Dante only sees a slight drizzle and the outline of Wuthering Heights. Even in the colorless T. Corp and under grey skies, the monochrome manor seems warm-toned the way weathered wood should look.

Someday, it’d be nice to see this scenery soaked in sunlight, grass and trees glittering like peridots while wet with droplets, a light-colored manor, and heather shining so brightly the flowers leave afterimages upon one’s eyes.

“Oy, which-?! Ah, Clockhead.” The man blinks a few times, then uses the door frame to straighten up. “What is it?”

<Uh… Can we talk for a bit? You’re not in trouble, I just…>

“Wanna play manager?”

<Yeah. That sounds about right.>

“I should eat something, anyway.”

<Maybe I’ll have something too, or Gregor will scold me again.>

“Whatever ya’ say.”

The two meander down the halls in silence, and Dante fiddles with their PDA, trying to stave off the awkwardness. They almost wish Don Quioxte was here like before, if only to fill the silence.

“So, uh… Never thanked ya’ for…”

<Faust helped as well.>

“It’s been what? Months? There’s no way.”

<It’d make her happy.>

“That’s exactly why,” Heathcliff seethes. “She’ll never let it go.”

<... Hair coupons.>

“I-?! Dammit!”

As expected. They’ll all be able to hold that over Heathcliff’s head for as long as they’re colleagues.

The man bolts for the fridge, while Dante peruses the nutritional drink that everyone else complains about. It’s apparently a meal in a bottle, however, and they can’t taste it, so who cares?

“Seriously, how can you drink those things?”

<Not sure.>

“It tastes like shite.”

<Good thing I can’t taste it.>

“Yer’ gonna regret it when you’ve got a real noggin back.”

That’s hitting a bit close to what Dante wants to talk about, and they roll their invisible eyes at the man’s bizarre instincts. Heathcliff settles down with a plate of reheated potatoes, a dish of butter-flavored paste, along with salt and pepper shakers. Dante’s already started their drink, so the man starts slathering butter and seasonings onto each potato, eating directly with his hands and even consuming the thin skins.

<You mentioned my head, right?>

“Yeah?”

<Someday, I’ll get my head back then possibly become a completely different person, and the LCB might disband as well once our contracts have all been fulfilled.>

Heathcliff stops eating, butter still on his fingertips.

“So what?”

<I mean, we will probably get all the Boughs one day.>

“And? What about that ‘Monolith’, Distortions, and all the other barmy shite they’re hiding?”

<Our contracts?>

“... We’re mostly a lot of blighters anyway, plus I bet all of us won’t be arsed to find something else even after we’ve got our contracts finished. I mean, I gotta earn enough for me and Cathy after we get this done.”

<But some of us might leave.>

“Not all.”

<I might leave, depending on who I was before I got this head.>

“Dunno what kinda bloke you were before becoming the manager, but it can’t have been too different.”

<Faust is always mentioning stuff about how I’ll react once I get my head back, though.>

“I guess. Do we have to believe everything the lass says?”

<No. I guess not. But, either way… we have to acknowledge that this won’t be for forever.>

Heathcliff goes silent, so Dante pushes forward.

<When Vergilius helped us, you said you didn’t like leaving ‘family’ behind. Is that… how you see us?>

Dante tilts their head, intrigued by Heathcliff’s deep, garnet-toned blush. The man’s got his teeth bared, before he swings his gaze to the side, folding his arms at the same time.

“Yeah, so what? That’s what we called our mates in the Backstreets. I’m traveling with you all right now, so… Yeah…” Heathcliff mumbles something else that Dante can’t hear, but they assume it’s the word ‘family’.

<Will you… Be okay? ‘Cause at the end of the day… It might be dangerous to call us ‘family’. I mean, I’m sure you’ll be very happy with Catherine!>

Heathcliff’s arms stay folded, but he goes to face Dante again, this time with narrowed eyes, his usual scowl carved even deeper into his countenance than normal.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

<Just…> Dante shuts up. They want to say they’re all just coworkers, and it might be bad for Heathcliff to depend on them.

At the same time, though, Dante believes in the bonds they’re forming.

The way they’ve peered into each other’s sins without judgement, Heathcliff pulling Ishamel from the membrane, all of them checking in whenever Sinclair gets close to Christmas-related things, how they instinctively supported Heathcliff the moment Hindley started insulting the man, Mersault and multiple Sinners agreeing to abandon the Boughs at Wuthering Heights for Heathcliff’s sake, Yi Sang leaning into them even if they’ll never reciprocate that dedication-

Dante’s knee starts jumping up and down under the table.

They want their Sinners to find happiness, whatever that may be.

Whether he wanted to or not, Heathcliff’s already tied a piece of his happiness to the LCB.

Yi Sang may see them as a reborn League of Nine (or ‘thirteen’, in this case?), but he values them all as companions and seems to accept that the LCB will change someday.

Heathcliff, however, calling them a single ‘family’ unit, feels strange to Dante.

It heats the chest yet drops the stomach.

They’re not upset at being called ‘family’. In fact, maybe they’re a bit proud of that.

Their merry little band of Sinners, supporting each other nigh unconditionally.

Dante’s wish for their happiness is unconditional.

And that unconditional wish is also what pulls them towards what most certainly will be gruesome sights and situations.

They will bear that pain for each Sinner, no matter what, and while the unknown price they pay each time scares them, it feels… Worth it.

That feeling of being irreplaceable to all these people.

To be wanted and needed despite being so flawed.

It’s similar to the ‘‘Aspect’ promised to them.

Instinctively, they crave it.

“Clockhead?”

Dante snaps up.

<Sorry. Got a bit distracted.> They want everyone to find happiness, which is why they’ll risk saying this. <At the end of the day, officially we’re all just colleagues, right? That’s why I’m saying it might be dangerous for you to see us as ‘family’.>

Heathcliff pauses, blinking a few times at his scarred arms and hands.

Then he gets up, knocking back the chair without a care. It clangs and bounces off the ground, and by the time it stops moving, Heathcliff is stomping out.

<Heathcliff?!>

“Don’t talk to me. Wanna be alone.”

<Wait, Heathcliff!>

Dante walks behind the man, unsure whether to jog and catch up, or stay behind. Before they can decide, Heathcliff’s gone into his room and slammed the door shut, leaving Dante in a stupor.

Lightning and thunder crash from behind, Mephistopheles rattles from the shock, and Dante can feel the shock from the impact roll out and reverberate in their ribcage.

<Heathcliff, you alright?!>

Dante knocks on the door.

“Fuck off!”

And that’s their cue to scramble away.

“Sooooooooooo, what’s going on?” Rodya asks.

Gregor is to her side, also grimacing at the clamor coming from Heathcliff’s room.

“We can’t sleep while that’s going on.”

<Sorry, it’s my fault. I wanted to talk to him about something, but I upset him instead.>

“I think that’s putting it lightly, Manager-bud.”

A particularly loud bout of thunder rattles the bus yet again.

<Let me go talk to him again.>

“Don’t think that’s a good idea,” Rodya interjects. “Sometimes you just need to leave people alone to cool off. We’ll manage.”

<Alright. I’ll take your advice.>

They all wander back to their rooms, and Dante settles down. Out of habit, they start organizing the Identity cards. Without meaning to, they stop on the Wild Hunt.

<Ugh… I messed up.>

They’ll apologize in the morning.

Sleep refuses to come as always, so Dante moves up to act as lookout.

They sit in one of the bus seats, then groan and flop over the back.

Sleep usually refuses to come, but maybe due to the stress, they start fading.

The PDA rests in their lap, the slight weight comforting nonetheless.

Yet despite the rare bout of rest, it’s just as quickly broken, in the most unexpected way possible.

“Oi, Clockhead! You alive?!”

<Whuh-huh?! Oh, Heathcliff?! What are—I’m sorry!”

“The hell are you apologizing for?” the man mutters, hands jumping off of Dante’s shoulders. He glances around, then settles into the seat across from Dante. “I should be the one saying ‘sorry’.”

<Uh, why? I definitely pissed you off.> Dante’s still shaking their head, trying to clear it.

Heathcliff’s face once again turns garnet, but this time he forces himself to maintain eye contact.

“Got lost in my head ‘gain.” The man sighs, then laces together his fingers. “You said it’d be ‘dangerous’ for me to see you all as ‘family’. What did ya’ mean?”

<Oh, like, what if something happens to us and makes you sad? Kinda risky to make what happens to us linked to how you’re feeling, right?> 

Heathcliff stares, then promptly drops his face into his palms, groaning the whole time.

<Heathcliff?>

“I was the fucking muppet this time.”

<Uh. Hm? You called Don that before.>

“You don’t need to know, you knobhead.”

<... It’s a clock.>

“Shut up.”

<Okay.>

When Heathcliff returns to his room, the sound of the storm stills, and Dante drifts away once again, dreaming of purple heather flowers and two people holding hands, while twelve others are whooping and hollering the entire time.