Work Text:
It started small. Meursault would rest a hand against Gregor’s shoulder after a battle and offer small praises that he couldn’t help but be flattered by. Things that would be expected of him, at first; ‘You’ve followed the rules accordingly’, or ‘The Manager’s orders have been executed well’. Then it became something else. Something that felt oddly personal — by Meursault’s standards, anyway. Words like ‘You’ve done well’, or ‘Good work’ (Gregor admits that the bar is exceptionally low). Sometimes he’d even sprinkle in observations about how Gregor had performed. He never pulled his punches, but he always seemed to have more compliments than critiques. Gregor found himself looking forward to it. He’d expectantly turn his head in Meursault’s direction after each battle, and, without fail, would see the 5th sinner approaching him, sometimes so soon afterwards that shards of whatever Identity he’d been using were still hovering in the air around him. Once, while still halfway in the throes of his Yearning-Mircalla E.G.O, he’d stared at Gregor with an intense look that the veteran couldn’t — or perhaps was just too scared to — name.
Then, one day, when Gregor had been too tired to anticipate Meursault’s approach, both of his hands rested against Gregor’s shoulders. Sneaking up behind the veteran like that would’ve gotten him stabbed if his arm was still as unpredictable as it’d been before he’d joined Limbus Company.
Meursault leaned down, and his voice had been right next to Gregor’s ear when he uttered the words, “Are you feeling alright?”
“Yeah, it’s — I’m… I’m fine.” He would’ve flushed at the way that he stumbled over his words if his face hadn’t already been as red as it could get.
Rodion approached him after Meursault nodded and walked away. “What was that?” Her voice had a teasing lilt, juvenile in the way that it sounded like a schoolgirl discovering her friend with their crush. Once Gregor realized what he’d unknowingly implied with that comparison, he’d almost dropped his cigarette.
“I have no idea,” he admitted.
That, too, became something of a constant, enough that Gregor found himself getting used to it. Looking at Meursault seemed to scare him off from that particular post-battle treatment — or maybe he just liked sneaking up on him — so Gregor had broken the habit of staring at him as he waited for his approach. Inquiries about Gregor’s condition became common, so too did insisting that the veteran go see Dante for even minor injuries.
After a particularly gruesome battle against an Abnormality in the Mirror Dungeons, Meursault didn’t settle for just resting his hands on Gregor’s shoulder — he’d wrapped his arms around the veteran from behind and asked (in a voice that was far too monotone for the situation) about his condition. He’d managed to sputter out ‘fine’, but only after staring at the 5th sinner in shock for a while. All that time he’d been pressed against Meursault’s chest. The steady rise and fall of his breathing had been soothing after such a long fight — Gregor had been too stunned to think about it in the moment, but looking back on it, he’d enjoyed it.
“So~?” Rodion sidled up to him as soon as Meursault was gone. Gregor was just as confused by Meursault’s behavior as she was, so all he’d been able to give her was a hopeless shrug. “Greg, c’mon, you’ve gotta give me something.”
“I don’t know.” His hands reached up to press against the still-warm spot on his chest where Meursault's arms crossed around him. He tried to play it off by grabbing his cigarette.
It was a rare occurrence, but Gregor slowly came to expect it. The aftermath of tough fights where they’d both taken a lot of hits were when it happened the most. Gregor never managed to get over going beet-red every time he felt Meursault’s arms crossing around his chest, drawing him close in a way that definitely had a name that Gregor was too scared to even think about, but he at least got himself to the point where he no longer felt like he’d die of asphyxiation from his short breaths. He found himself leaning into the touch a few times, when his sanity was low enough that he couldn’t restrain himself, relishing in the feeling of having someone safe at his back.
Yearning-Mircalla was shaping up to be a repeat offender for Meursault’s strangest behavior, as he’d once kissed a wound on the back of Gregor’s hand, licking away the blood that stained his lips with a smile. Gregor blamed it on the corresponding Abnormality’s desire for blood and absolutely refused to bring it up again after that. Meursault followed suit.
Gregor began to wonder if he should reciprocate. Maybe the amount of thought that he’d given it was excessive — he’d stared out his seat’s window with a look so concentrated that Rodya had warned him that furrowing his brows so hard would lead to wrinkles.
Just as Gregor mustered up the courage to say something back, routine was broken by another new development.
His arm had been lobbed off by an opponent. It’d grown right back, but apparently not fast enough to evade Meursault’s notice. “Does it hurt?” One of Meursault’s arms detached from where they were wrapped around him, and his fingers trailed along the hard chitin of Gregor’s augmentation. The veteran froze, face flushing, too surprised that someone would willingly touch his right arm to respond. Normally even accidentally brushing it against someone was enough to draw their ire. Gregor barely manages to shake his head. “Are you certain?” Meursault brings the limb closer and leans over the veteran to observe it. He swipes his thumb around the area where it’d been cut, searching for any lingering scrapes. Gregor wishes that he’d at least go in front of him instead of staying at his back. Reaching over him like that — one still arm wrapped around his chest as the other felt along the single most disgusting part of Gregor’s body without a hint of revulsion — was more than he could handle. Plus, everyone was staring at them.
“Get a room!” Heathcliff yells. That’s enough to make Meursault pull away.
All the Sinners became very invested after that. Gregor couldn’t escape their constant questioning, and a few of the more daring ones even started to pester Meursault about it. He only ever offered a question of his own in reply: “Am I obliged to answer?”. Dante never pulled rank and forced him to talk, despite the Sinners’ — particularly Rodion’s — efforts to talk them into it. It was a little disappointing. Gregor would’ve liked to hear his answer, too.
Meursault made a habit of sitting next to him. Normally his weird behaviors would end once they got back on the bus, but now they only seemed to get more intense. It wasn’t his typical PDA (and describing that as ‘typical’ with regards to Meursault was a thought that he wouldn’t have even entertained a little while ago), though it still felt… Well, it wasn’t something you’d do with your average co-worker — not that the LCB’s relationships with each other was anything you’d see in a normal workplace. Long periods of studying Gregor’s face mixed with ensuring Gregor took proper care of himself. Three meals a day, daily showers, the works. On a rough day where Gregor had struggled to find the energy to do much of anything, Meursault had even requested Dante to allow them to stay on the bus while the others handled a smalltime Syndicate that was trying to rob them — so tiny that it barely qualified as more than a group of Rats — despite the Manager’s orders for him to fight them with his Firefist Office Identity. Meursault objecting to Dante’s orders was apparently shocking enough for his request to be permitted. Outis had glared at them for that.
“Are… you feeling alright?” Gregor asked later on, when he decided that he should definitely be reciprocating. He worried that if seemed too passive, there was a chance that all of this could end — that Meursault could take him for being completely disinterested in him and leave him alone.
Meursault blinked. His expression didn’t change, but his slight pause made Gregor think that he’d managed to be the surprising one for once. “I am uninjured.”
“That was a rough battle, bud.” He took a drag of his cigarette, careful not to blow any smoke into Meursault’s face. Taking the first step was the hardest part. Now that he was past that, he began to feel a little emboldened. “Sure you’re not tired?” Meursault didn’t say anything. Gregor wondered how much soul-searching it’s supposed to take for someone to decide if they’re exhausted or not. Certainly not the amount that Meursault gave it. “C’mon, that was the last floor of this Dungeon, let’s get some rest.”
Meursault made room for him in his daily routine. Doing the same thing every day sounded a bit tiring, so Gregor didn’t always join him, but having some consistency to fall back on was nice. So was the freedom to come and go — the open space next to him as he read the morning paper; an invitation, but not a demand. Meursault even broke his routine a few times just to join Gregor in whatever he’s doing. He started cleaning his gauntlets a whole two hours early when he saw Gregor scrubbing at his augmentation; he started cooking when Gregor rifled through Rodion’s stash of snacks; he postponed taking his usual post-battle shower to sit with Gregor when he caught the veteran staring at his bloodsoaked augmentation with thinly veiled disgust.
Gregor couldn’t stop mulling over the ‘why’.
So, one night, once company hours had ended, he knocked on Meursault’s door. He wasn’t sure how the whole ‘one door leading to multiple rooms’ thing worked, but every time he opened ‘his’ door he always ended up in his room, so hopefully it’d work with another.
It did. The door swung open, and Meursault filled its frame. The room he saw inside was pitifully bare — not that Gregor had any room to judge. His was decorated with similar sparsity, with the sole decoration being a framed photo that hung above his desk.
“Mind if I come in?” he asked, taking a cautious look up and down the hall. If one of the others spotted him going into Meursault’s room at night, he’d never hear the end of it. It’s empty, thankfully.
In lieu of a verbal response, Meursault opened the door a little further and stepped aside. Gregor takes the invitation. The sole source of light came from a window (Gregor doesn’t understand how that works, either) that revealed a bleached white cityscape. People mulled about with their heads hung low in attire that seemed deliberately innocuous, and the letter ‘N’ was painted on a building directly adjacent to the one they were ‘in’. He tried not to stare at it for too long — it wasn’t what he came for.
“Listen, Meursault, bud, uh…” He rubbed the back of his neck. “There’s a word for” — he gestured from himself to Meursault, then back and forth a few times to get his point across — “this.”
“Qui. Love.”
Gregor choked on his own spit. In between coughs, he managed to get out, “I — Well, I was — I was gonna say intimate, but…”
Was this a confession? Or was it the establishment of a relationship — simply giving a name to something that was already there? Gregor didn’t know. Maybe… Maybe he’d like for this to have a name, though.
“Does that dissatisfy you?”
“No!” He winced at his sudden exclamation. “It’s fine. I…” There was a brief urge to keep the fondness (the love) he’d developed for his new lifestyle — one that’d been born from alterations made to make space for Meursault, and Meursault altering to make space for him in turn — a secret. To hold his cards close to his chest so they can’t be used against him or yanked away. But he reconsidered. Refusing to give a real answer might give Meursault the wrong idea; it might make him back off. “I don’t mind… Hm, well, I like it.”
The following day, Gregor gives Meursault a hesitant peck on the lips. He wouldn’t call it a kiss, but it’s enough to have all the other Sinners’ eyes snapping to them at once. Once again, he’d managed to be the surprising one.
‘Love’. Meursault had toyed with the idea a few times. He’d had a lover, once — or someone that loved him, anyway. Being the focus of her attention hadn’t stirred anything within him. The only explanation he had for why she’d continued to stick around when he didn’t express much interest in anything was that she found his aloofness alluring. Like his emotions were a prize to be captured. She’d even messed around with the idea of getting married, rolling it around in her head and asking him again and again about how he’d feel about it. He responded the same way each time: it didn’t matter.
When that had passed, he’d tried all forms of love. One-night stands, committed relationships, open relationships — anything that someone would offer him, he’d try, just to see if it’d bring him any joy.
He’d accepted the love of others frequently, always on the receiving end. Scarcely had he initiated anything.
The thought of starting something began to draw his fancy. Meursault wondered what it’d be like for him to be the one lavishing affections onto another. When he entertained this fantasy, the one that his eyes were always drawn to was Gregor. There’s no real explanation that he has to give. There are plenty of superficial ones, of course, but none of them feel true. Yes, Gregor is shorter than him, and many people preferred a lover that they were taller than; he’s the mild sort that doesn’t object to much, who would stir up the least fuss over a sudden change in disposition from Meursault; he’s attentive enough to the feelings of others that he would recognize Meursault’s advances for what they were. Perhaps those were all things that he would say if the Manager demanded an explanation for what would seem (to his co-workers, anyways) as completely uncharacteristic behavior. None of them were real. Meursault himself wasn’t sure what the reason was. It was just another fancy that struck him suddenly, then refused to leave until he saw it fulfilled.
His E.G.O — the volatile things that they were — complicated the matter. Gregor became intertwined with his thought process while he was under their influence, to the point that it was near-impossible to focus while using them. Meursault always fulfilled his orders, of course, so long as they were possible, but it got significantly more difficult. With Yearning-Mircalla he felt the urge to dig his roots into the veteran; with Electric Screaming he wanted to curl around him, watch him like a hawk, ensure his safety and permanent place by his side, even in the City where things tended to get ripped away quickly and without a moment to think; with Regret he never entertained the thought of attacking Gregor for a moment, not even while corroded, as if acknowledging the veteran as a fellow survivor of a harsh Wing.
Even without E.G.O, Gregor became a permanent fixture in his thoughts, to the point that he was willing to break his daily routine without prompt. It wasn’t a deviation from normalcy to be with Gregor if he was just going to spend the entire time thinking of him anyways. He interrupted the usual seating arrangement of the Sinners (abandoning his own preferred seat in the process) to be closer to Gregor. Things escalated beyond the point of ‘just another fancy’.
As he looked down at the head of brown hair resting against his shoulder, fast asleep despite it being company hours, Meursault found that he didn’t mind it.