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It’s the third time this week that Heathcliff has noticed Gregor. Which is a funny thing, because the old fart likes to keep to himself. Sometimes, he gets roped in, but usually nothing of his own volition.
This, though. This thing that has been happening lately? This is different. Maddeningly, annoyingly different. The first time could be anything. Even the second time he can see as coincidence. But a third time?
Third time’s a pattern, and Heathcliff is good at recognizing patterns. He knows why Gregor does it, this whole buggering off by himself. Whether it’s drinking at a bar or walking through a crowd, it’s pouring off of him, palpable like Sinclair’s nervous sweat. The fear of being seen even when he's clearly one of 'em. Heathcliff hates it, and not just because it's wrong.
It’s like looking into a mirror that a swing of his bat can’t fix. And for better or for worse, he's never been good at letting go. As soon as the bus-feeding thing is over, he marches right up to where Gregor is. Lad's already secluded himself, wiping the bloody gunks off alone. It’s not a pretty sight, but neither of them are. Only Ryoshu would crave smelling like some asshole’s fresh remains.
“Need some help?” he asks, as casual as he can. Gregor shoots him a funny look, one that Heathcliff can't read just yet. He knows that he’s wary, though, the careful way his eyes are watching him. Always is when it comes to his arm. But Heathcliff gets it. It’s like when someone asks him about his ring. It makes his hackles rise up in all the wrong ways.
“What, with this old thing? Nah, wouldn’t want you to get all messed up,” he finally says. He laughs at it like it’s a joke, but Heathcliff can hear him hiding behind it. “Besides, I’m almost done. Not much left to clean anyway.”
Heathcliff looks at his arm. Apparently not much means a layer of grime that looks painful to scrub off. He knows Gregor prefers to just grumble about his problems. He makes it obvious as day he's not used to expecting help.
Bad habits are hard to break. Hell, Heathcliff is still trying to be better about it.
“It’ll be easier with the both of us,” he says. “And I know you’re itching to take a smoke. Been seeing you go for your back pocket even when dodging a swing, Gramps.” He triumphantly smirks, as if he caught Gregor red-handed. Already, he can hear Don Quixote declaring him as the next Agatha.
Gregor’s eyebrow does something that lets Heathcliff know he’s amused. “I’m only 35,” he sighs. Still, it’s enough for him to relent. “Fine, fine, just.. be careful. Don’t want you caught on the wrong end of this thing.”
Heathcliff doesn’t miss how his voice goes soft and flat. Poking at an old wound does that to you. Even more is choosing to be vulnerable - Heathcliff knows how hard it is. Especially if it's something you've always had to run from, even when you want nothing more than it. He peels off his jacket, turning it into a makeshift towel. Gently, very gently, he brings it to his arm.
It’s a sharp, prickly thing, hard and fleshy at the same time. There’s a thump, thump that sounds like a rabbit’s beating heart. It’s skittish, and admittedly weird, but nothing so unusual. It’s something that’s living. Something they all share.
As carefully as he can, he gives it a good scrub here and there, trying to rub off the grime, doing what he hopes - thinks - that Gregor might want. He doesn’t know how much he can feel with the arm, but it’s a vital part of him, like his head or his heart. Doing anything less would just be wrong. Despite what others say, he’s not some dumb brute.
Slowly, the chitin turns smoother, glossier. The more Heathcliff cleans it, the more he feels like it's something valuable. It brings back the way Cathy used to - the way she would always clean her tools with that same sort of care. Just as precious as fine jewelries or family heirlooms. Gregor’s arm is neither of those, but in his hands, it feels just the same.
A smile makes its way to his face as the carapace starts to truly shine. The polish of it is like a brilliant gem from a crown. Even the hair on it looks all spry and nice, like it's raring to go on a date. His arm really is a pretty thing, a rich brown that would put even the fanciest wood to envy.
“That fun, huh?” Gregor asks. He’s following Heathcliff’s hands the way one would to a small kid. Smiling and cautious. Anxious. Afraid. Like any moment, this good feeling is going to end.
Heathcliff wipes another stubborn splotch from the shell. He's not the best at showing care, but he knows how to do this. “Feels nice when you do a good job,” he says. He remembers how fuzzy he felt when Meursault complimented him.
“Even when it’ll just get all dirty again?”
A flinch inside his chest, one that he can't forget. Heathcliff knows that voice. It’s the one inside his head. The one that always whispers to him every time he's about to get something good. The one that sounds like Hindley and Linton and Josephine, and sometimes even Cathy and Nelly. The one that sounds like himself on his ugliest, most wretched days, when the parts forming his heart is threatening to fall apart.
His scars throb, and his hands instinctively curl into fists. The anger he wields for his bat now molds into a shield for his heart.
“Doesn’t matter. It’s still something nice,” he says. “We all went through hell together. Don’t tell me you don’t deserve it.”
It feels funny, saying those words with that bite in his voice. Deep down, he still has a hard time believing it for himself. It doesn’t feel like a lie, but it also doesn’t feel like the truth, either. Just a formless thing in the middle that Heathcliff is scared to give shape to.
Still, he makes sure to meet Gregor’s eyes as he says it. At the very least, he can believe it for him.
Gregor stills, in the way he usually does when he needs a smoke or is faced with something he’s never had. There’s a real fear there of getting what he’s always wanted. Like a kid hesitant to eat his first cake in case it's a trick, in case someone might take it away again.
For one moment, Gregor doesn’t look at him, instead choosing to stare down at Heathcliff’s scarred hands. His arm thrums, warm and steady like a rabbit’s hiccupy thumps. The silence around them turns loud. Solid.
And then, slowly, like the first hint of sunrise, Gregor smiles at him.
"Heh. Suppose I do deserve a fella willing to waste their time on me, eh?"
In that second, Heathcliff feels himself go terribly hot and cold. His smile does something to him that his mind isn’t ready to accept. His heart is racing, throat dry and tight. Not the type that comes when you're about to die. That would be better. That, he’s used to.
Instead he feels like a bloody school kid again. The fuzzy, heart-pounding feeling is suddenly terrifyingly new. Heathcliff doesn’t understand. He’s seen Gregor smile before - a weak, lopsided thing that brought more pity than anything. But something about this one makes him want to stare at it forever. Something about this one makes him want to trace it with his thumb--
A flush rises to his face, and that’s when he knows he has to leg it. He does one, two more quick wipes before mumbling a pathetic “good 'nough to me”. It sounds more like he’s choking on his spit instead, which makes that dumb flush burn harder. Doesn't matter. He makes himself keep walking, even as Gregor says something back. Probably about him acting all weird; which whatever. He is. What’s more important is that he doesn’t look back.
Because if he sees it again, if he sees him smile again…
Then he knows for sure it’s not going to be just a smile anymore.