silly-goomi

The rain had finally stopped, leaving the District 23 wasteland in a state of damp, silver shivering. Outside the porthole of the Mephistopheles, the fog clung to the gray grass like a shroud, masking the jagged horizon of the City. Inside, the bus was a tomb of recycled air and the low, rhythmic thrum of the engine—a pulse that felt more real than the one currently drumming beneath your skin.

You were sitting on the edge of the bed in the room you had once shared as a "married" couple, and now shared as something far more complicated. Heathcliff was where he always was lately: pressed against your side with a desperation that made your bones ache. His forehead was resting against your shoulder, his eyes closed, his breathing heavy and ragged. His fingers were tracing the scars on your knuckles—old marks from a childhood spent in the gutters—with a rhythmic, hypnotic intensity.

He wasn't talking. He hadn't spoken more than a handful of words since the incident in the main cabin where he’d broken down. He had become a creature of pure sensation, a man who seemed to believe that if he stopped touching you, even for a second, the universe would realize its mistake and erase you from existence.

You looked down at him. In the pale moonlight filtering through the glass, he didn't look like the Great Lion of the LCB. He didn't look like the man who had snarled at you in the Backstreets or the man who had pined for a ghost on the moors. He looked like a stray dog that had finally found a porch to die on, shivering even in the warmth.

"Heathcliff," you said softly.

The name felt heavy in the quiet room. He stiffened immediately, his grip on your hand tightening until it was borderline painful. He didn't look up. He just pressed his face deeper into the fabric of your coat.

"Don't," he whispered, his voice a broken rasp. "Don't say it. Don't tell me to go. I’m quiet, aren't I? I’m stayin' out of the way. Just... let me stay here."

"I'm not telling you to go, buddy," you said. You used the word buddy intentionally. You didn't use "husband," and you didn't use "Heath." You used the word that anchored him to the time before everything went wrong. "But we can't keep doing this. You’re holding onto me like I’m a liferaft, and we’re both starting to sink."

Heathcliff let out a shaky, hitched breath, his shoulders dropping an inch. He didn't pull away, but the frantic tracing of your skin stopped. He just listened, his body vibrating with the effort of remaining still.

"Do you remember District 20?" you asked, your voice drifting back through the years. "Before any of these? Before the contracts and the bus. Do you remember that one winter when the heaters in our block failed, and we had to sleep under a pile of damp newspapers in that crawlspace behind the bakery?"

Heathcliff didn't move, but you felt the tension in his jaw ease slightly. "I remember the smell," he muttered. "Yeast and rot."

"And I remember you," you said, a ghost of your old, jolly smile playing on your lips. "You were ten years old and already had the meanest scowl in the District. You’d spent the whole day fighting a group of older boys for a single meat pie. You nearly got your hand taken off by a vendor’s cleaver, and I had to tackle you into a pile of trash to keep you from going back for a second round."

You chuckled, the sound hollow in the small room. "You were so angry. You told me you didn't need my help. But that night, when the frost started creeping under the door, you were the one who shared that pie. You gave me the bigger half because you said I was 'too skinny to keep the wind out.'"

"You were," Heathcliff said, his voice a little stronger. "Looked like a stiff breeze would've snapped you in half."

"We were two peas in a pod, Heathcliff," you said, your hand moving to rest on top of his. "Didn't matter that the City was trying to grind us down. Didn't matter that we had nothing but each other and a stack of old news. We were just... us. You were Heathcliff—the boy with the loudest bark and the sharpest teeth. And I was the one who made sure you didn't bite off more than you could chew. We were equal. We were friends."

You shifted slightly, forcing him to look up. He resisted at first, his neck corded with tension, but you gently took his chin and tilted his face toward the light. His eyes were bloodshot, rimmed with a raw, jagged desperation that made the "soft spot" in your heart throb with pain.

"What happened to that boy, Heath?" you asked, your voice barely a whisper. "What happened to the lad who could stand on his own two feet without needing to hold onto someone until they bled? Where did he go?"

Heathcliff’s gaze flickered, darting away from yours. "He grew up. He realized that the world doesn't give a damn about 'two peas in a pod' unless they’re being served on a silver platter. He realized that everything he touched eventually turned to ash. Catherine... the moors... the Heights... everything I ever wanted just... slipped through my fingers like sand."

"So you decided to turn yourself to ash first?" you asked.

He flinched as if you’d slapped him. "I'm tryin' to save what’s left! I'm tryin' to keep you from turnin' into a ghost too! If I let go... if I let you go back to being just 'you'... you’ll vanish. You’ll find someone else, or you’ll get killed in some ditch, and I’ll be back in that crawlspace alone."

"Heathcliff, look at me," you said, your voice gaining a firm, grounded edge. "Really look at me."

He forced his eyes to meet yours. They were wide, pupils blown, searching your face for the adoration he had once discarded.

"You think you love me," you said.

He opened his mouth to protest, a frantic 'I do!' already forming on his lips, but you held up a hand to silence him.

"No. You don't," you said, and the words felt like a mercy kill. "It’s not love, Heath. I’ve known love. I gave it to you for a year, remember? It was warm, and it was patient, and it was a choice I made every single morning. What you’re doing now? This isn't a choice. This is a reflex."

Heathcliff’s lip trembled. "How can you say that? I’d die for you! I’ve been protectin' you, I’ve been followin' you—"

"You aren't protecting me," you interrupted. "You’re protecting yourself. What you’re feeling right now... it’s not affection. It’s anxiety. It’s a pure, unadulterated dread of losing another thing. You’re like a man who’s been starving for so long that when he finally finds a scrap of bread, he claws at it until he destroys it. You don't love the bread, Heath. You just fear the hunger."

You leaned in closer, your foreheads almost touching. You could feel the heat radiating off him—the feverish, sickly heat of a man in the grip of a psychological collapse.

"You’ve turned me into a fix," you continued. "I’m the thing that keeps the moors from swallowing you. I’m the thing that keeps Catherine’s ghost from screaming in your ear. But that’s not a relationship. That’s a hostage situation. You’ve replaced your own heart with an obsession because you’re terrified of what happens when the room goes quiet."

Heathcliff began to shake—great, racking tremors that started in his hands and moved up through his chest. He looked like he was about to shatter into a thousand pieces of jagged glass.

"It’s an obsession, Heathcliff," you repeated, your voice soft but relentless. "You’ve replaced 'love' with 'possession.' And the worst part is... you don't even see me anymore. You just see a hole that you’re trying to plug with your own body."

"You're doing it again," you said, your hand moving from his chin to his cheek. "The same thing you did with her. You turned Catherine into your entire world, your entire reason for breathing. You made her the sun and the moon, and when she left, the sky didn't just go dark—it vanished. You didn't just lose a girl, Heathcliff. You lost your 'self.' You never built a man. You just built a temple to a ghost."

Heathcliff let out a low, animalistic groan, his eyes filling with tears. "I had to! There was nothing else! I was a dog in the dirt until she looked at me!"

"And then you were a dog on a leash," you countered. "And now? Now you’re trying to put that leash in my hand. But I don't want it. I never wanted to own you, Heath. I wanted to be with you."

You took a deep breath, the air in the room feeling thick and charged. "You shouldn't have replaced your 'self' with 'love,' Heathcliff. You think that by clinging to me, you're being a good husband. You think that by being touchy and possessive, you're proving how much you care. But you aren't. You're just trying to survive me. You're using me as a bandage for a wound that needs stitches, not a blanket."

"I don't know who I am without it!" he cried out, his voice finally breaking. "If I'm not the man who loves you, or the man who loved her... then I'm just... I'm just the boy in the crawlspace! I'm just the mud on the boots of the City!"

"The boy in the crawlspace was enough for me," you said. "He was enough to be my best friend. He was enough to be the person I’d walk through hell for. But this man? This beast who can't let me breathe without panicking? He’s not my friend. He’s just a shadow of a man who’s too scared to stand in the light."

"I promised we’d be friends, whatever happened," you reminded him. You took his hands—the hands that had been clinging to you so tightly they left bruises—and you forced him to open his palms. They were sweaty and shaking. "And I meant it. I’m still the one who will watch your back. I’m still the one who will make sure you don't brood yourself into a coma. We are two peas in a pod, Heathcliff. That hasn't changed."

"But it has!" he choked out. "You don't look at me... you don't look at me like I'm the only thing that matters anymore. You look at me like I'm a... a problem to be solved."

"Because you are acting like a problem," you said gently. "And because I’ve realized that I can't be the only thing that matters to you. It’s too much weight, buddy. I’m just a man. I’m a 'jolly fellow' who likes cards and bad jokes and sitting on the roof. I can't be your god. I can't be your salvation. And if I try to be, I’ll end up resenting you until there’s nothing left but bitterness."

You held his gaze, refusing to let him look away. "I want to be your friend, Heathcliff. I want to be the person you can talk to when the dark gets loud, not the person you use to drown it out. I want to laugh with you again, truly laugh, without wondering if you're going to start a fight because I smiled at Gregor."

Heathcliff looked down at your joined hands. He looked at the lack of rings. He looked at the space between your bodies—the physical distance that he had been trying to bridge with his obsessive touch.

"I don't know how to be... just me," he whispered, his forehead dropping back onto your shoulder. "I don't know who that is. There’s just the anger... and the dread. The dread is so loud, [Reader]. It’s louder than the engine. It tells me that if I blink, you’ll be gone."

"Then let's find him together," you said. "Let's find the lad who stole the meat pie. He was brave, Heath. He was strong. And he didn't need a marriage certificate or a death-grip to know that I was his friend."

Heathcliff sat in silence for a long time. The ticking of the bus seemed to grow louder in the quiet room, each beat a second of a choice that felt like life or death. The fog outside pressed against the glass, but inside, for the first time in months, the air felt like it was starting to clear.

Slowly, almost painfully, he let go of your hands.

It was a small movement, but it felt monumental. He didn't pull away entirely, but he moved back a few inches, creating a gap of air between your bodies. He sat up straight, his shoulders square, his hands resting on his own knees. He looked at you—really looked at you—without the frantic, wide-eyed need to possess.

"You’re really stayin'?" he asked, his voice fragile, like spun glass. "Even if I... even if I try to be 'just a friend'?"

"I’m not going anywhere, buddy," you promised, and this time, you gave him a small, genuine smile. "But 'staying' means I get my own bed. It means I get to walk to the galley alone. It means we go back to being a team of two, not a parasite and a host. It means you start learning how to breathe without checking if I’m breathing first."

Heathcliff nodded. It was a jerky, uncertain movement, but it was a start. "I’ll try. I... I don't know if I can do it all at once. The dread... it’s like a tide. It comes in and it just... it covers everything."

"When the tide comes in, you talk to me," you said. "You don't grab me. You don't lick the blood off my arm. You talk. We use our words, like the Manager is always clicking at us to do. We act like the men we’re supposed to be."

You reached out and gave his shoulder a firm, friendly pat. It wasn't a lingering, possessive touch. It was a "jolly" touch. The kind of touch that recognized him as an equal, as a comrade, as a boy who had once shared a meat pie in a crawlspace.

"Go to sleep, Heathcliff. On your own bed."

He looked at his bed, then back at you. For a second, the panic flared in his eyes again, the urge to crawl back into your space almost winning. He looked like he was about to beg. But then he looked at your face—the calm, steady, and utterly loving gaze of a friend who had saved him from himself.

He stood up. His movements were stiff and clumsy, like a man learning to walk after a decade in a chair. He moved to his bed and sat down. He didn't reach for you. He didn't ask for a promise. He just sat there, his hands folded in his lap.

"Goodnight... buddy," he said. The word sounded strange in his mouth—heavy, and unfamiliar, but right.

"Goodnight, Heath," you replied.

The next morning, the galley of the Mephistopheles was unusually quiet.

You were sitting at the long table, drinking a cup of coffee and talking to Gregor and Rodion about the supply run in the next District. You felt lighter. The "soft spot" in your heart was still there, but it wasn't a wound anymore; it was just a memory. You were being "you"—the jolly fellow who could make even a war-zone feel like a home.

The door to the galley opened, and Heathcliff walked in.

The entire room went still. Rodion froze with a piece of bread halfway to her mouth. Sinclair gripped the edge of the table so hard his knuckles turned white. Everyone waited for the shadow to fall. They waited for the hand to land on your shoulder, for the growl that would silence the laughter, for the obsessive proximity that had become a hallmark of your relationship.

Heathcliff walked to the counter. He didn't look at you. He didn't look at anyone. He poured himself a cup of tea, his hands steady despite the tension in his shoulders.

Then, he turned around.

He didn't walk to the seat next to you. He didn't try to squeeze onto the bench behind you. He walked to the far end of the table and sat in the empty chair next to Sinclair—three seats away from you.

"Morning," he grunted.

Sinclair nearly jumped out of his skin. "M-m-morning, Heathcliff! Would you like some jam? Rodion found some jam!"

"No. Tea’s fine," Heathcliff said, taking a sip.

You looked at him from across the table. He didn't look happy. He looked like he was in physical agony, his fingers white-knuckled around his mug as he fought the primal urge to move closer to you. He looked like a man battling a demon in the middle of breakfast.

But he stayed. He stayed in his own space. He reclaimed his own boundaries.

You gave him a bright, genuine, jolly grin—the kind that finally reached your eyes. "Tea look alright, Heath? I think Faust got a new blend from the last Nest."

Heathcliff looked at you. He didn't give you the adoring, pathetic gaze. He didn't give you the obsessive, terrifying glare. He just gave you a short, sharp nod. "It’s better than the last lot. Less like battery acid."

Gregor looked at you, his eyes wide with a silent, profound question. What the hell did you do?

You just winked at him and took a sip of your coffee.

It wasn't a miracle. Heathcliff’s anxiety wasn't gone; it was just... acknowledged. He was still watching you, his eyes tracking your movements with a hunger that would take years to fade. He still looked like he wanted to scream whenever you laughed at something Gregor said.

But he was choosing to be a "buddy." He was choosing to find himself.

A week later, you were on the roof of the bus. You were alone, watching the sun set over the jagged ruins of a forgotten District. The wind was cold, carrying the scent of old smoke and distant rain.

You heard the clatter of the ladder. You didn't tense up. You didn't feel the need to prepare a defense.

Heathcliff climbed onto the roof. He didn't rush over to you. He stayed by the edge of the bus, leaning against the rail about five feet away. He pulled out a cigarette and lit it, the small orange glow a tiny beacon in the gathering dark.

"Peaceful," he said, blowing a cloud of smoke into the wind.

"Yeah," you agreed. "Best view in the City, if you ignore the fact that we’re parked next to a landfill."

He looked at you then. The moonlight was just starting to catch the edges of his face, softening the harsh lines of his scowl. He looked more like the boy from District 20 than he had in years. The jagged edge was still there, the trauma was still deep in his eyes, but the "placeholder" was gone.

"I found that meat pie vendor’s old spot," he said suddenly. "In my head, I mean. I remembered... I remembered that you didn't just tackle me to save me that day."

You laughed—a real, booming, jolly laugh that seemed to push back the fog. "Oh? What else was it for?"

"You tackled me because you wanted the last bite of the pie," he said, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. "You were just as much of a greedy bastard as I was."

"Guilty as charged!" you said, raising your hands in mock surrender. "I was starving, Heath! You weren't the only one with an appetite in that crawlspace."

He smiled. It was a small, awkward thing—a muscle he hadn't used properly in a lifetime—but it was real.

"We’re still in the pod, then?" he asked, his voice low.

"Always, buddy," you said. You didn't reach out to touch him. You didn't have to. The connection was there, steady and solid, built on twenty years of shared gutters and ten Cantos of blood. "But like I said... give the peas some room to grow. I think we both look better when we aren't squashed together."

Heathcliff took a long, slow drag of his cigarette and looked out at the horizon. He wasn't the sun, and he wasn't the abyss. He was just a man. A broken, angry, complicated man who was finally learning that he didn't need to own someone to be worth something.

"Yeah," he whispered, the smoke curling around his head like a halo. "Room to grow. I think I can do that." You sat there in the silence, two friends under a bruised sky. Two peas in a pod, finally finding their way back to the dirt they came from—together, but finally, beautifully, apart.

The transition from a shadow to a physical weight was slow, then all at once.

It started with a hand on your shoulder during briefings. Heathcliff wouldn't just stand behind you anymore; he would lean in, his heavy palm anchoring itself to your frame as if he were afraid you might float away if he let go for even a second. Then it was his hip bumping into yours at the galley table, his leg pressing firmly against yours under the wood, constant and unrelenting.

Now, he was simply... attached.

If you were sitting, he was leaning over you. If you were standing, his hand was hooked into the back of your belt or resting at the small of your back. It wasn't the gentle, romantic touch of a husband. It was the desperate, white-knuckled grip of a drowning man holding onto a piece of driftwood.

And you? You were the driftwood. You were the jolly fellow who simply laughed and adjusted your stance to accommodate his weight.

"Careful there, Heath! You’re gonna tip us both over," you’d chuckle, patting his hand where it gripped your bicep. You didn't pull away. You didn't tell him to give you space. You just kept talking to Hong Lu about the latest curiosities found in the Backstreets, your voice steady and bright, while Heathcliff’s fingers dug into your skin until it bruised.

You still had that soft spot. You saw the way his eyes darted around whenever you moved more than three feet away. You saw the tremor in his hands when he thought you weren't looking. You knew that this—this suffocating, constant contact—was the only thing keeping the Great Lion from turning into a pile of ash.

So you let him.

The other Sinners were not blind. They had watched the evolution of your "arrangement" with a mixture of pity, confusion, and eventually, a deep, unsettling discomfort.

One morning in the galley, you were trying to flip pancakes. It was a difficult task, considering Heathcliff was standing directly behind you, his arms wrapped loosely but firmly around your waist, his chin hooked over your shoulder. He was so close you could feel the heat radiating off him, the scent of rain and cheap tobacco filling your senses.

"Heath, buddy, I need a bit of arm room if we want these to be edible," you said, your tone light and teasing.

Heathcliff didn't move. He just tightened his grip slightly, his nose brushing against the crook of your neck. He gave a low, rumbling grunt—a sound that was more animal than human.

"Five more minutes," he muttered.

You laughed, the sound echoing through the quiet room. "Five more minutes and we’ll be eating charcoal! But alright, you’re the boss."

At the table, the others were watching in stony silence.

Rodya was mid-bite, her fork hovering in the air as she stared at the two of you. Her usual playful expression was gone, replaced by a look of profound unease. Next to her, Gregor was nursing a cup of coffee, his bug-arm twitching rhythmically. He looked tired—more tired than usual.

"You know," Outis said, her voice cutting through the air like a blade, "efficiency is significantly hampered when two units attempt to occupy the same physical coordinates. Sinner #7, your behavior is... irregular."

Heathcliff didn't even look at her. He just buried his face deeper into your shoulder, his fingers twitching against your stomach.

"He’s just cold, Outis!" you said, flashing her a brilliant, jolly grin. "The Mephistopheles has a bit of a draft this morning, don't you think? I’m just acting as a portable space heater."

"It’s not a draft, kid," Gregor sighed, setting his mug down with a heavy clink. "It’s a damn circus. You can't even move your arms."

"I’m doing just fine, Greg! Look at that flip!" You tossed a pancake into the air and caught it perfectly, despite Heathcliff’s weight shifting with you. You beamed at the table, the "jolly fellow" personified.

But Gregor didn't smile back. He looked at Heathcliff—at the way the man’s eyes were closed, his expression one of agonizing, desperate relief—and then he looked at you. He saw the way you were holding yourself, the subtle tension in your neck, the way you were performing for them to hide the fact that you were being slowly consumed.

"It’s not right," Rodya whispered, loud enough for everyone to hear. "It’s not... it’s not what buddies do."

The "buddy" word made Heathcliff flinch. His grip tightened, his nails catching on the fabric of your shirt. You didn't wince. You just reached back and patted his head, your fingers tangling in his messy hair.

"We’re a new breed of buddies, Roddy! High-intensity friendship," you joked.

No one laughed.

The obsession reached a new peak during a stop at a K Corp. checkpoint. The atmosphere was tense, the air thick with the smell of green liquid and sterilized metal. The Sinners were given a few hours to rest in a designated lounge area.

You were sitting on a bench, leaning back and closing your eyes for a moment of peace.

Within seconds, Heathcliff was there. He didn't sit next to you; he sat between your legs on the floor, leaning his back against your chest. He took your hands and pulled them around his neck, forcing you to hold him.

"Heathcliff, people are staring," you murmured, though you didn't pull your hands away. You let them rest against his collarbones, your thumbs tracing the line of his jaw.

"Let 'em," he rasped.

A shadow fell over both of you. It was Meursault. The large man looked down at the two of you with his usual impassive gaze, but there was a flicker of something—logic, perhaps—trying to process the scene.

"Sinner #7," Meursault said. "Your proximity to Sinner #14 is exceeding the recommended social distance for non-combat operations. It is also obstructing the walkway."

Heathcliff looked up at Meursault, his upper lip curling into a snarl. He didn't move. Instead, he grabbed your wrists, pulling your hands tighter against him. "Find another way 'round, stone-face. He’s stayin' here."

"I am merely stating a fact," Meursault replied. "Your behavior suggests a high level of possessive anxiety."

"I said move," Heathcliff growled, his hand moving toward the bat resting at his side.

You quickly intervened, giving Meursault a sheepish, jolly shrug. "Sorry, Meur! He’s just a bit wound up from the checkpoint guards. We’ll scoot over, yeah? Give the man some room, Heath."

You nudged Heathcliff with your knees. He didn't move an inch. He just stared at Meursault with a murderous intensity until the larger man simply turned and walked the long way around.

"You’re gonna start a fight one of these days, buddy," you sighed, your voice gentle.

"I don't care," Heathcliff whispered, his head falling back against your shoulder. "I don't care about any of 'em. I just... I need you to stay still. Don't move. Just for a minute. Stay still."

You looked down at him. You saw the dark circles under his eyes, the way his skin looked sallow in the harsh fluorescent light of the lounge. You realized he wasn't just obsessed; he was starving. He was trying to eat a year’s worth of affection in every single second, terrified that if he stopped, the hunger would kill him.

So you stayed still. You became the statue he needed you to be, even as the other Sinners walked past, their whispers like the buzzing of flies.

The danger of this "new normal" became terrifyingly clear during an encounter with a group of Nest insurgents.

The battle was a chaotic mess of flash-grenades and high-frequency blades. You were in the thick of it, your rifle barked rhythmically as you provided cover for the front line.

Heathcliff was no longer a Sinner in this fight. He was a ward. He stayed within arm’s reach of you at all times, his bat a blur of violence that shattered anything that came within ten feet of your position. He wasn't even looking at the enemies anymore; he was looking at you, checking your stance, checking your breathing, checking for even the slightest hint of a scratch.

"Heathcliff! Go help Yi Sang! He’s getting pinned down!" you shouted, pointing toward the scientist who was being cornered by two armored units.

"He can handle himself!" Heathcliff screamed back, stepping in front of you to swat away a stray bullet with the flat of his bat.

"He can't! Move, Heath! That’s an order from the Manager!"

Dante’s clock ticked a frantic warning. <Heathcliff! Support Yi Sang immediately!>

Heathcliff ignored the ticking. He ignored the screams. He only moved when an insurgent managed to get a lucky shot off, a grazing blow that sliced through the meat of your upper arm.

The world seemed to stop.

You hissed in pain, clutching your arm. It wasn't a deep wound, just a shallow cut that bled freely, staining your sleeve red. "I’m fine! It’s just a scratch!"

But Heathcliff had seen the blood.

A sound escaped him—a high, keening wail that turned into a roar of pure, unadulterated slaughter. He didn't just attack the insurgent who had shot you; he demolished them. He turned the person into a smear on the pavement in a matter of seconds, his bat striking long after the body had stopped moving.

"Heath! Stop! They’re dead!" you cried out, reaching for him.

He turned on you then, his face splattered with gore, his eyes wide and vacant. He dropped his bat and grabbed you, his bloody hands clutching your face, your shoulders, your wounded arm. He was shaking so hard his teeth were chattering.

"You’re bleedin'," he whimpered, his voice small and broken. "You’re bleedin' because of me. I didn't watch... I didn't hold you close enough..."

"Heath, it’s a scratch. Look at me, I’m okay!" You tried to give him that jolly smile, but it felt heavy, like lead.

He didn't listen. He began to lick the blood off your arm, his tongue rough and desperate, like a dog trying to heal a wound it didn't understand. It was a gesture so intimate, so raw and grotesque, that the battle around you seemed to falter for a second as the other Sinners stared in horror.

"Heathcliff, stop!" you gasped, pulling your arm away. "That’s... that’s too much, buddy. Please."

He looked at you, the blood of your wound smeared on his lips, and he looked like he was about to shatter into a thousand pieces. He didn't apologize. He didn't pull back. He just leaned his forehead against your chest and sobbed—great, racking heaves that shook his entire body.

You looked up and saw the Sinners.

Don Quixote looked like she wanted to cry. Sinclair had turned away, his hand over his mouth. Ryōshü was watching with a narrowed, contemplative gaze, her hand on the hilt of her sword.

And Gregor... Gregor just looked at you with a profound, aching disappointment. Not in Heathcliff, but in you. Because you weren't stopping it. Because you were letting the dog drown you both.

That night, after the wounds were bandaged and the bus was back on the road, you were sitting in the galley. Heathcliff was, as usual, sitting on the floor at your feet, his head resting on your knee. He was asleep, or at least pretending to be, his hand gripped firmly around your ankle.

The door opened. It was Gregor, Rodya, and Faust.

"We need to talk," Rodya said, her voice unusually somber. She didn't sit down. She just stood there, her arms crossed over her chest.

"A bit late for a chat, isn't it, Roddy?" you said, your voice low so as not to wake the shadow at your feet. You gave them a tired, jolly wink. "Heath’s had a long day."

"That’s exactly the problem," Faust said, her eyes cold and analytical. "Sinner #7’s psychological state has deteriorated past the point of operational safety. His fixation on you is no longer a personal matter; it is a liability to the Company."

"He’s just protective," you defended, your hand instinctively dropping to rest on Heathcliff’s shoulder.

"Protective?" Gregor barked, a harsh, humorless laugh escaping him. "Kid, he was licking blood off your arm like a damn animal. He ignored orders from the Manager. He almost got Yi Sang killed because he wouldn't leave your side."

"He’s hurting, Greg. You know what he’s been through."

"We all know what he’s been through!" Rodya snapped, her eyes flashing with a sudden, rare anger. "But that doesn't give him the right to turn you into his personal security blanket! And it doesn't give you the right to let him do it!"

You blinked, the "jolly" mask flickering for a second. "What do you mean?"

"You’re enabling him," Faust stated flatly. "By refusing to set boundaries, you are validating his obsessive delusions. You are providing him with a reward for behavior that is inherently destructive. You think you’re being kind, but you are merely building a cage for yourself and calling it a sanctuary."

"I'm not in a cage," you said, your voice rising slightly.

"Aren't you?" Gregor asked, stepping forward. He pointed at Heathcliff’s hand, which was still clamped around your ankle even in sleep. "Look at that. Can you walk away right now? Can you go to the roof and have a smoke with me without him breathing down your neck? Can you even take a piss without him standing outside the door?"

You opened your mouth to answer, but no words came out. You thought about the last time you’d been truly alone. You thought about the last time you’d had a conversation that wasn't interrupted or monitored by a dark, silent shadow.

"He needs me," you whispered.

"No," Rodya said, her voice softening into that maternal pity you hated. "He wants you. He needs professional help. He needs a doctor, or a therapist, or a swift kick in the teeth. What he doesn't need is a 'buddy' who lets him act like a parasite."

"You need to distance yourself," Faust commanded. "For the safety of the team, and for the preservation of your own psychological integrity. If you do not, Vergilius will be forced to intervene. And you know how he handles 'instability.'"

The mention of the Red Gaze sent a chill down your spine. You looked down at Heathcliff. He looked so small like this, curled up at your feet, his brow furrowed even in sleep. You still felt that soft spot—that aching, beautiful, terrible mercy.

"I’ll talk to him," you said.

"Talking hasn't worked, kid," Gregor said, turning toward the door. "Actions. That’s all he understands. You gotta push him away, or he’s gonna drag you down into the dirt with him."

They left the galley, the silence they left behind feeling heavier than the noise.

The next day, you tried.

You were on the roof of the bus, the wind whistling through the luggage racks. Heathcliff was, as always, standing right behind you, his hand resting on your shoulder.

"Heathcliff," you said, your voice steady. "I need you to go down to the main cabin."

The hand on your shoulder tightened. "Why? I'm fine here."

"I need some space, buddy. Just... half an hour. I want to sit here and think."

"You can think with me here," he said, his voice dropping into that dangerous, low rumble. "I won't say a word. I’ll just stay right here."

"No," you said, turning around to face him. You didn't smile. You didn't give him the jolly wink. "I need you to go down. I need to be alone."

Heathcliff’s face transformed. It was like watching a building collapse in slow motion. His eyes widened, his lip began to tremble, and his breath became short and shallow.

"Alone?" he whispered. "Why? Did I do something? Was it the blood? I’m sorry about the blood, I’ll never do it again, I promise—"

"It’s not the blood, Heath. It’s... everything. The others are right. You’re too close. You need to step back."

"The others?" Heathcliff’s eyes flashed with a sudden, jagged jealousy. "Gregor? Was it the bug-arm? Did he tell you to do this? I’ll kill him. I’ll bash his head in—"

"Heathcliff, stop!" you shouted, grabbing him by the front of his coat. "This is about us. This is about you. You’re suffocating me! You’re making it so I can't even breathe!"

The word suffocating hit him like a physical blow. It was the word he had used on you, back in the Backstreets, when he had broken your heart.

He stumbled back, his hands flying to his chest as if he’d been shot. "Suffocating? You... you think I’m suffocating you?"

"Yes," you said, though the word felt like ash in your mouth. "I do. I need you to leave me alone for half an hour. Go."

Heathcliff stared at you. He looked like a man standing on the edge of a precipice. For a second, you thought he might jump—that he might throw himself off the bus or attack you in a fit of rage.

Instead, he simply turned and scrambled down the ladder, his movements frantic and clumsy.

You sat on the roof and breathed. For the first time in weeks, the air felt clear. You watched the horizon, you listened to the wind, and you tried to remember who you were before you became a placeholder for a dying star.

But thirty minutes later, the silence was broken.

It started as a low, mournful sound, like a wounded animal. Then it grew into a full-throated howl of agony coming from the main cabin.

You rushed down the ladder.

Inside, the scene was chaos. Heathcliff was on the floor, his head tucked between his knees, screaming. Not words, just raw, visceral noise. He was clawing at his own arms, his nails leaving red welts in the skin. The other Sinners were standing back, looking on with a mixture of horror and helplessness.

Dante was hovering near him, the clock spinning wildly. <Heathcliff! Stop this! You are damaging yourself!>

You pushed through the crowd and dropped to your knees beside him. "Heath! Heath, I’m here! I’m right here!"

The second you touched him, the screaming stopped. He lunged at you, his arms wrapping around you with a strength that was terrifying. He buried his face in your chest, his body racking with violent, silent tremors.

"Don't leave," he choked out, his voice barely a whisper. "Please. I’ll be good. I’ll be quiet. Just don't make me be alone. The dark... the dark comes back when you aren't there. The moors... I can see the moors..."

You looked up at the other Sinners. Gregor looked away. Rodya looked like she was going to be sick. Faust simply watched, her expression unreadable.

You realized then the hard, cold truth.

You hadn't set a boundary. You had just proven to him that his obsession worked. You had proven that if he suffered enough, you would always come back. You had fed the monster, and now it was too big to kill.

You sat there on the floor of the main cabin, holding the man who had broken your heart, while he clung to you like a parasite.

"I’m here, Heathcliff," you whispered, your hand stroking his hair. "I’m right here."

You gave the others a small, lopsided smile. It wasn't a jolly smile. It was the smile of a man who had accepted his sentence.

"He’s just had a bad dream," you said. "He’ll be alright. We’re just... buddies."

The aftermath of the "intervention" was a strange, heavy silence that settled over the Mephistopheles.

The Sinners stopped trying to talk to you. They stopped inviting you to card games. They stopped sharing jokes. It wasn't because they hated you; it was because they didn't know how to look at you anymore. You were a warning sign, a cautionary tale of what happens when mercy becomes a trap.

You spent most of your time in the room now. Heathcliff wouldn't let you leave for more than a few minutes, and you didn't have the strength to fight him anymore.

He was touchy—more than ever. He spent hours just tracing the lines of your palms, or resting his head on your chest to listen to your heartbeat. He would follow you everywhere, his hand always connected to yours, his eyes never leaving your face.

Sometimes, in the middle of the night, you’d wake up and see him watching you.

"Are you still there?" he’d whisper.

"I'm still here, Heathcliff," you’d reply, your voice a hollow echo of the jolly fellow you used to be.

"Promise?"

"Promise."

He would sigh, a sound of pure, selfish contentment, and pull you closer.

You were the sun, and he was the abyss. And as the Mephistopheles rattled through the City, you realized that the abyss hadn't just caught you in its orbit. It had swallowed you whole.

You were the jolly fellow. You were the light of the bus.

But as you sat in the dark, with Heathcliff’s bloody, obsessive hands holding you tight, you realized that the light was finally, irrevocably, gone.

And for the first time in your life, you didn't even want to find the match.

It started with the eyes.

At first, you didn't notice. You were too busy being "you"—the man who laughed with Rodya over a flask of stolen nectar, the man who helped Sinclair sharpen his halberd, the man who sat on the roof with Gregor and watched the smoke from your cigarettes dance in the wind. You were the sun of the Mephistopheles, and for the first time in a year, you weren't shining specifically for one person.

But Heathcliff was always there.

He didn't snarl anymore. He didn't tell you to piss off. He didn't mention Catherine. Instead, he simply... existed in your periphery. If you were in the galley, he was at the far table, pretending to clean his bat while his gaze burned holes into the back of your head. If you were in the main cabin, he was leaning against the wall near your seat, his arms crossed, his dark eyes tracking every movement of your hands, every flicker of your smile.

He had become a ghost that refused to haunt anyone but you.

"Is it just me, or has the mutt gone a bit... intense?" Rodya whispered one afternoon while the two of you were sorting through supplies. She nodded toward the doorway, where Heathcliff was standing, motionless, watching you count crates of Enkephalin.

You looked up and gave Heathcliff a bright, casual wave. "Hey, buddy! You waiting for the Manager? I think Dante’s in the back with Faust."

Heathcliff didn't move. He didn't wave back. He just stared at you, his expression unreadable, before turning and walking away without a word.

You laughed, turning back to Rodya. "He’s just being Heathcliff, Roddy. Probably just bored."

But it wasn't boredom. It was gravity.

The "buddy-fication" had meant you moved out of the shared room. You liked your cot in the galley; it smelled like coffee and old wood, and it was far away from the heavy, suffocating silence of the room you had shared with a ghost.

One night, you woke up to the feeling of being watched.

The galley was dark, illuminated only by the faint, rhythmic ticking of the bus’s engine. You sat up, rubbing the sleep from your eyes, and nearly jumped out of your skin.

Heathcliff was sitting on the floor at the foot of your cot.

He wasn't doing anything. He was just sitting there, his back against the cabinets, his bat resting across his knees. In the dim light, his eyes looked like two bottomless pits of coal.

"Heathcliff?" you croaked, your heart hammering against your ribs. "What are you doing? It’s three in the morning, man."

"Can't sleep," he said. His voice was different—lower, raspier, stripped of its usual bravado.

"So go to your room, buddy. This isn't exactly the most comfortable spot for a nap."

"I'm stayin' here," he grunted.

"Why?"

He didn't answer for a long time. He just reached out, his hand hovering over the edge of your blanket before he pulled it back as if he’d been burned. "People walk through here. The bug-arm. The blonde kid. Anyone could get in."

You chuckled, though it felt a bit strained. "Heath, we’re on a bus full of the City’s most dangerous lunatics. I think I’m safe from a midnight snack raid. Go to bed, buddy. You’re gonna be a wreck for the mission tomorrow."

"I'm stayin'," he repeated, his tone final.

You sighed, laying back down. You still had that soft spot for him—that lingering, traitorous warmth that reminded you of the nights you had spent trying to soothe his nightmares. You couldn't find it in yourself to be angry. You just felt a weary kind of pity.

"Fine. But don't blame me if your back is killing you in the morning."

You fell back asleep to the sound of his breathing—steady, heavy, and terrifyingly close.

When you woke up at dawn, he was gone, but there was a cup of tea sitting on the floor where he had been. It was cold, and it was exactly the way you liked it.

The obsession truly manifested on the battlefield.

The mission was in the ruins of an old L Corp branch. The hallways were narrow, filled with the screeching of mechanical 'security' that had long since lost its mind. Combat was frantic and bloody.

Usually, you were the one protecting him. You were the one who took the grazes, the one who redirected the fire so he could land his heavy swings.

Today, the roles were reversed with a violence that shocked the entire crew.

You were aiming your rifle at a group of approaching drones when a stray blade from a cloaked unit whistled toward your throat. You didn't see it. You were focused on your target.

CRACK.

Heathcliff didn't just parry the blade; he annihilated the unit. He threw himself in front of you with a speed that defied the weight of his gear. His bat connected with the cloaked enemy’s head with a sickening crunch, sending sparks and gore flying across your vest.

He didn't move on to the next target. He stood directly in front of you, his back to you, his shoulders heaving.

"Heath?" you called out, trying to move past him to get a better angle. "Nice hit! But stay mobile, buddy, there’s more coming from the left!"

He didn't move. He moved with you. Every step you took, he stayed exactly one foot in front of you, acting as a human shield. He ignored the drones firing at him. He ignored the cuts opening up on his arms. He was focused entirely on ensuring that nothing—not a bullet, not a blade, not even a speck of dust—touched you.

"Heathcliff, get out of the way! I can't see the targets!" you shouted, your "jolly" persona finally slipping into genuine frustration.

He didn't listen. He was a madman. He took a bullet to the thigh, his leg buckling for a second before he forced himself upright, his bat swinging in a blind, territorial arc that forced even the other Sinners to back away.

"Stay behind me!" he roared, his voice cracking with a desperate, raw edge. "Don't you dare move from behind me!"

The battle ended in a bloodbath. Heathcliff was covered in wounds—nothing fatal, but he was a mess of bruises and shallow cuts.

As soon as the last enemy fell, he turned around and grabbed you by the shoulders. His grip was bruising, his fingers digging into your skin. He looked you over with a frantic, wide-eyed intensity, his chest heaving.

"Are you hurt?" he rasped. "Did they touch you? I saw the blade, I saw—"

"I’m fine, Heathcliff," you said, gently but firmly prying his hands off your shoulders. "I’m perfectly fine. But you’re bleeding all over the floor. Go see Faust."

"I don't care about the blood," he snarled, his eyes searching yours for that old adoring gaze. "I saved you. I kept you safe."

You gave him a friendly, appreciative smile—the kind you’d give a stranger who held a door open for you. "You did a great job, teammate. Really. But you need to watch your own back too, buddy. We can't have our heavy hitter going down because he was playing bodyguard, right?"

You patted him on the arm and walked over to help Sinclair, who was shaking from the adrenaline.

Heathcliff stayed where he was, his hands still shaped as if they were holding you. The "buddy" comment hit him harder than any of the bullets had. He had bled for you. He had offered his life as a sacrifice.

And you had thanked him like he was a casual acquaintance.

The obsession didn't stop at guarding you. It moved into the domestic.

You went to your cot in the galley after a long day of travel, expecting the usual quiet. Instead, you found your things moved.

Your books, your spare clothes, your rifle-cleaning kit—they were all gone from the galley.

You marched to the room you had once shared with Heathcliff. You pushed the door open, your brow furrowed in confusion.

"Heathcliff? Did you move my—"

You stopped.

The room had been transformed. Your side of the room, which had been stripped bare when you moved out, was now overflowing. He had brought in extra blankets—the softest ones from the bus’s storage. He had placed a small rug by the bed. He had even moved your favorite armchair from the common area into the corner.

But it was the walls that made your blood run cold.

He had taken the photos you’d once tried to show him—the ones of your family, the ones of the Sinners at a rare celebratory dinner—and pinned them up. And right in the center, held up by a piece of jagged metal, was the silver ring you had left in the drawer.

Heathcliff was sitting on his bed, watching you. He looked like a man waiting for a verdict.

"What is this?" you asked, your voice quiet.

"It’s your room," he said. "It’s where you belong."

"Heathcliff, we talked about this. I like the galley. It’s better for everyone."

"It’s not safe," he said, standing up. He walked toward you, his presence filling the small space. "You’re out in the open. People can see you. I can't... I can't watch you from there."

"You don't need to watch me, buddy," you said, trying to keep your tone light, though the "soft spot" in your heart was starting to feel like a bruise. "I’m a grown man. I’ve survived the Backstreets. I’m fine."

"You aren't fine!" he shouted, the sudden volume making you flinch. He immediately looked horrified that he’d raised his voice, his hands reaching out as if to catch the sound. "You aren't fine. You’re... you’re drifting. I can feel it. You’re getting further and further away, and if I don't... if I don't keep you here, you’ll vanish."

He stepped closer, his face inches from yours. He smelled of iron and rain. "Please. Just stay here. I won't talk. I won't touch you if you don't want. I just need to know you’re in the room. I need to hear you breathing."

You looked at him—really looked at him. This wasn't the man who loved Catherine. This was a man who had hollowed himself out and was trying to fill the void with the memory of your love.

You still had that soft spot. You still remembered the way he had looked when you first met—lost, angry, and so desperately in need of a kind word.

"Okay, Heathcliff," you sighed, your shoulders dropping. "I’ll stay. But just for tonight. And you need to stop following me into the bathroom, man. It’s getting weird."

The relief that washed over his face was almost painful to witness. He nodded fervently, moving to your bed and peeling back the covers for you. "Anything. Whatever you want. Just stay."

You laid down, and for the first time in weeks, Heathcliff didn't sleep on his own bed. He sat on the floor next to yours, his hand resting on the edge of the frame, guarding the door until the sun came up.

The "soft spot" you had for Heathcliff didn't mean you stopped being friends with Gregor. In fact, the older man’s calm, grounded presence was the only thing keeping you sane as Heathcliff’s behavior became more erratic.

One evening, you were on the roof with Gregor, sharing a thermos of coffee.

"He's getting worse, kid," Gregor said, his voice low as he glanced at the ladder. "He’s like a dog that thinks everyone’s trying to steal his bone. And I hate to say it, but I’m 'everyone' right now."

"He’s just going through something, Greg," you said, taking a sip of the coffee. "He’s processing. He doesn't know how to handle... well, everything."

"He’s not processing, he’s obsessing. There’s a difference." Gregor looked at you, his eyes full of concern. "You’re too good for this, you know? You’re a jolly fellow. You should be out there finding someone who actually knows how to love you back, not babysitting a ticking time bomb."

You smiled, a genuine, warm thing. "I’m okay, Greg. Really. I can handle him."

You reached out and squeezed Gregor’s hand—a gesture of pure, platonic friendship.

A shadow fell over both of you.

Heathcliff was standing at the top of the ladder. His face was pale, his eyes wide and bloodshot. He looked like he was vibrating with a suppressed, violent energy.

"Get away from him," Heathcliff whispered.

"Heath, we’re just having coffee," you said, not moving your hand. "C'mon, sit down. There’s enough for three."

"I said get away from him!" Heathcliff roared.

He didn't go for Gregor. He went for you. He grabbed you by the waist and hauled you back, away from the edge of the roof, away from the veteran. He placed himself between you and Gregor, his bat held low, his teeth bared.

"Heathcliff, that’s enough!" you snapped, your voice sharp for the first time. "You’re acting like a child!"

"He touched you!" Heathcliff screamed back, his voice breaking. "He’s always touchin' you! He looks at you like... like I used to! He’s tryin' to take you! I see it! I see the way he looks at you when you’re laughin'!"

Gregor stood up, his bug-arm sparking slightly. "Heathcliff, mate, you’re losing it. He’s his own person. He can talk to whoever he wants."

"He’s mine!" Heathcliff shrieked.

The word hung in the air, ugly and heavy.

You stepped forward, placing a hand on Heathcliff’s chest. You could feel his heart hammering—fast, erratic, like a bird trapped in a cage.

"I am not yours, Heathcliff," you said softly. "We filed the papers. We are teammates. We are buddies. That’s it."

Heathcliff’s face crumpled. The rage vanished, replaced by a devastating, hollow despair. He dropped his bat, the heavy metal clanging against the roof. He sank to his knees, grabbing the hem of your coat with both hands.

"Please," he whimpered, burying his face in the fabric. "Please don't say that. Don't say 'buddy.' Call me anything else. Call me a bastard, call me a dog, call me a placeholder... just don't call me that."

You looked down at him, the "soft spot" in your heart finally breaking. You didn't pull away. You reached down and tentatively ran a hand through his messy hair.

"Heathcliff..."

"I’ll do anything," he sobbed into your coat. "I’ll be whatever you want. I’ll never mention her name again. I’ll burn every photo. I’ll... I’ll leave the bus if you tell me to. Just... just look at me like you used to. Just once. Please."

Gregor watched in silence, his expression one of deep, weary pity. He turned and walked to the ladder, leaving the two of you alone in the moonlight.

You stayed on the roof with him for hours. You let him cry, you let him cling to you, you let him mutter his desperate, obsessive apologies into the night air.

You didn't give in. You didn't say "I love you back." You didn't put the silver ring back on.

But you did stay.

"Heathcliff," you said eventually, your voice gentle as the wind. "I still care about you. You’re important to me. That’s why I let you follow me. That’s why I moved back into the room."

He looked up at you, hope flickering in his tear-stained eyes.

"But the man who loved you like that... he’s gone," you continued, your words like a soft, inevitable rain. "He died in the galley that Tuesday. He died when he realized he was a placeholder."

"I can bring him back!" Heathcliff pleaded. "I can—"

"No, you can't. Because I don't want to be that man anymore. I like the man I am now. I like being the 'jolly fellow' who doesn't have to carry the weight of someone else’s ghosts."

You reached down and wiped a tear from his cheek. "I’ll let you stay close, Heathcliff. I’ll let you watch my back. I’ll even let you sleep on the floor of my room if it helps you breathe. But I’m not your husband. And I’m never going to be your 'everything' again."

Heathcliff stared at you. He saw the kindness in your eyes, but he also saw the distance. He saw the "soft spot" that would always be there for him, but he also saw the wall you had built to protect your own heart.

He realized then that his obsession was his only tether to you. If he stopped watching you, if he stopped guarding you, if he stopped being the shadow in your hallway... he would lose even this.

He leaned his forehead against your knee, a broken, defeated sound escaping his throat.

"Okay," he whispered. "Okay. Just... just don't leave. Just let me stay."

The dynamic on the Mephistopheles shifted once more.

You were still the "jolly fellow." You still laughed with Rodion, you still shared cigarettes with Gregor, and you still helped Sinclair with his gear. To the rest of the world, you were the light of the bus.

But you were a light that was now constantly followed by a dark, silent moon.

Heathcliff was always there. He was three paces behind you at all times. He sat at the table next to yours during every meal. He stood outside the shower when you went in. He watched you sleep from the floor of your room, his bat always within reach.

He didn't try to cross the line again. He didn't ask for a kiss. He didn't ask for the ring. He just... watched.

He had become your guardian, your shadow, your most devoted and dangerous "buddy."

Sometimes, when the bus was quiet and the others were asleep, you’d reach out from your bed and rest a hand on his shoulder as he sat on the floor.

"You okay, Heath?" you’d whisper.

He would lean into your touch, his eyes closing, a look of pure, agonizing relief crossing his face. "Yeah," he’d whisper back. "I'm okay. You’re here. I'm okay."

It wasn't love. Not the way it used to be. It was something heavier, something more broken, something born of regret and obsession.

But as the Mephistopheles rattled through the City, carrying its cargo of broken souls, you realized that this was your life now. You were the sun, and he was the dying star that had been caught in your orbit.

You let him stay. You let him watch. You let him be obsessed.

Because even if you didn't love him like a husband anymore, you were still the only one who knew how to handle the dog that had finally realized it was home.

The Mephistopheles was never a quiet place. Between the roar of the engine, the constant ticking of Dante’s head, and the bickering of twelve dysfunctional Sinners, silence was a rare commodity. But for Heathcliff, the bus had become a vacuum.

He sat in the seat that had once been "yours"—the one directly behind him where you used to lean forward and rest your chin on his shoulder, whispering some ridiculous joke about the way Vergilius looked like he’d swallowed a lemon.

Now, that seat was empty. Or worse, it was occupied by Sinclair, who was currently asking Faust for help with his homework. You were further back, huddled in a circle with Rodion and Gregor, the three of you dealing out a deck of cards that looked like they’d seen better days.

"I’m in for two!" your voice boomed, followed by that hearty, jolly laugh that used to be his anchor.

Heathcliff gripped the handle of his bat until his knuckles turned white. He had told you to be "jolly" somewhere else. He had told you he was sick of your adoring eyes. He had told you that you weren't Catherine.

The universe, in its cruel irony, had listened.

He watched you through the reflection in the window. You looked healthy. Your cheeks were flushed with life, your eyes bright with the thrill of the game. You weren't the pining, tragic husband anymore. You were just a man among friends. And every time you called out "Nice one, Greg!" or "Your turn, Roddy!" It felt like a serrated blade sawing through Heathcliff’s ribs.

He was the one who had the ring in his pocket. He was the one who still woke up in the middle of the night reaching for a warmth that had moved to a cot in the galley.

He had won. He had his "freedom."

So why did he feel like he was the one trapped in the moors now?

The mission in the "conservative" Wing was wrapping up. The LCB had successfully navigated the cultural minefields, largely thanks to the "legally bound" status of two of their Sinners. It had provided the perfect cover for infiltration.

Vergilius had called a meeting in the main cabin.

"The contract with the local authorities is concluded," the Red Gaze stated, his eyes glowing with that familiar, terrifying intensity. "As of midnight tonight, the legal requirements for the marital status of Sinner #7 and Sinner #13 are no longer necessary for operational success."

Heathcliff felt his heart stutter. He looked over at you.

You didn't flinch. You didn't look at him with a desperate hope that you might stay "bound" anyway. You just gave a sharp, professional nod. "Understood, Mr. Vergilius. I’ll have the internal LCB dissolution papers filed by morning. No sense in keeping the paperwork cluttered, right?"

You laughed—a short, breezy sound—and patted Heathcliff on the shoulder as you walked past him toward the front of the bus. "Good run, buddy! We really fooled 'em, didn't we?"

Buddy.

Heathcliff stood there, frozen. Even Dante’s clock seemed to slow down, the ticking becoming a heavy, rhythmic thud. <Heathcliff? Are you alright? > the Manager clicked.

"I’m fine," Heathcliff snarled, though his voice lacked its usual bite. He turned and followed you, catching you just as you were about to descend the stairs to the galley.

"Hey!" he barked.

You stopped, turning around with a polite, inquiring smile. "Yeah, Heathcliff? Need help with your gear? I can sharpen that bat of yours if you’re busy."

"The papers," Heathcliff said, his voice low. "You’re really just... filing them? Just like that?"

You tilted your head, your "jolly" expression softening into something more like curiosity. "Well, yeah! I mean, that was the deal, wasn't it? We did it for the mission. And you were pretty clear about how much you hated the... well, the 'domestic' side of it. I figured you’d be the first one wanting to sign off."

You chuckled, rubbing the back of your neck. "Honestly, I was worried you’d beat me to it! I didn't want to make it awkward by being the one to hesitate."

Heathcliff felt a wave of nausea. "You aren't... you aren't even gonna talk about it? A year. We lived in that room for a bloody year."

"And we were great roommates!" you said cheerfully, reaching out to give his arm a friendly squeeze. It was the same squeeze you gave Don Quixote when she was being particularly loud. "I learned a lot from you, Heath. Truly. But like you said, I’m a 'warm body.' And now that the bus is heating up and the weather’s turning, I think we’re both better off with a bit more legroom."

You winked—a casual, platonic wink—and vanished into the galley.

Heathcliff stayed at the top of the stairs, the gold ring in his pocket feeling like a hot coal. He realized then that he hadn't just pushed you away. He had trained you. He had spent a year teaching you how not to love him, and you had proven to be his most attentive student.

The next mission took them into the heart of a District 14 Nest. It was a messy affair—corrupted tech-mobs and rogue security bots. The air was thick with the smell of scorched metal and ozone.

In the past, combat with you had been a dance of mutual protection. You would always be a step behind him, your rifle covering his blind spots, your voice a constant stream of "On your left, Heath!" or "Watch out, love!"

He had hated the "love" part. He had told you it was distracting. He had told you to focus on the enemies, not on him.

Today, you did exactly that.

Heathcliff found himself swarmed by three security bots, their electric prods sparking dangerously close to his neck. He swung his bat, shattering one, but the other two closed in. Usually, this was the moment a well-placed shot from your rifle would blow the head off the nearest bot, followed by a "Got him, Heathcliff! Go for the legs!"

Instead, he heard your rifle crack on the other side of the courtyard.

He glanced over his shoulder. You were perched on a balcony, providing cover fire for Gregor. The veteran was pinned down by a larger drone, and you were methodically picking off the smaller units surrounding him.

"Clear, Greg! Move to the pillar!" you shouted.

Heathcliff took a hit to the shoulder—a sharp, burning sting of electricity that sent him to one knee. He looked back at you, expecting the frantic cry of his name, the sudden shift in your aim to save him.

You didn't even look his way. You were focused on Sinclair, who was struggling with a shield-bearer.

"Dante! Get Meursault to the flank!" you called out, your voice calm and tactical.

Heathcliff gritted his teeth and hauled himself up, swinging his bat with a desperate, localized fury. He didn't need you. He didn't want you. He was Heathcliff of the LCB, the Great Lion, the man who survived the moors alone.

But as the battle wound down and the Sinners gathered to lick their wounds, he watched as you hopped down from the balcony and jogged straight to Gregor.

"That was a close one, Greg! You alright? That drone almost had your good arm," you said, your hand landing on Gregor's shoulder with a familiar, easy warmth.

"I’m fine, kid. Thanks for the save," Gregor grunted, though he looked at you with a softness that Heathcliff hadn't seen him show anyone else.

You laughed, ruffling the older man’s hair. "Anytime, buddy! That’s what teammates are for, right?"

You eventually made your way over to Heathcliff. You looked him over with a professional eye, noting the scorch mark on his coat. "Ouch. Looks like that prod got you good. You want me to tell Faust to grab the med-kit, or you got it handled, Heathcliff?"

"I got it handled," he spat.

"Righto! Just checking. You did great out there—those swings were brutal!"

You gave him a thumbs up—the same thumbs up you’d given the vending machine that morning when it actually worked—and walked away to check on Sinclair.

Heathcliff watched your retreating back. He wasn't your priority anymore. He wasn't even your second priority. He was just a Sinner on the field, another unit to be monitored and supported according to the Manager's plan.

He had told you to stop looking at him like he was the sun.

Now, he was just another star in a sky full of them, and you were no longer looking up.

It was 2:00 AM. The bus was silent, save for the low hum of the ventilation and the occasional groan of the metal frame.

Heathcliff couldn't sleep. The room—his room—felt too big. The air was too still. He found himself sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at the empty pillow where your head used to rest. He remembered the way you used to hum in your sleep, a low, rhythmic sound that he used to find annoying. Now, the silence was deafening.

He stood up and walked to the galley, hoping for a glass of water or perhaps some of that cheap booze Rodion kept hidden behind the flour sacks.

He found you there.

The galley was lit by a single, dim lamp. You were sitting at the small table, a mug of steaming cocoa in your hands and a book open in front of you. You looked cozy. You looked... content.

"Oh! Hey, Heathcliff," you said, looking up with a sleepy, friendly smile. "Can't sleep? The engine’s a bit louder tonight, I think."

"Something like that," he muttered, moving to the counter to fill a glass with water. He stayed there, his back to you, listening to the soft sound of you turning a page.

"I filed the papers," you said quietly.

Heathcliff’s hand tightened around the glass. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. Dante signed off on them an hour ago. We’re officially... well, not 'officially' anything anymore. Just Sinner #7 and Sinner #13. It feels kind of good, actually. Less weight on the shoulders."

Heathcliff turned around, his eyes dark. "Was it really such a burden? Being married to me?"

You looked at him then, and for a split second, the "jolly" mask slipped. Your eyes weren't adoring, but they weren't cold either. They were just... tired.

"The marriage wasn't the burden, Heathcliff," you said softly. "The pining was. The trying to be enough for someone who was already full of ghosts... that’s what was heavy."

You took a sip of your cocoa, your gaze returning to the book. "I’m a jolly fellow, Heath. I like to laugh. I like to be around people who laugh back. I spent a year being a placeholder, and I did it because I thought that maybe, if I was warm enough, the ice would melt."

You looked up again, and this time, you gave him a small, sad smile. "But some ice isn't meant to melt. Some ice is just part of the landscape. And I realized I was freezing myself to death trying to change the weather."

"I... I never asked you to change," Heathcliff said, his voice a rasping whisper.

"You didn't have to ask. You told me every single day. Every time you pushed me away, every time you mentioned her, every time you told me I was 'suffocating'... you were telling me that who I was wasn't what you wanted."

You stood up, stretching your arms over your head. You looked lighter. Your hands, bare of any rings, moved with a grace that Heathcliff had never truly appreciated.

"So I stopped. And honestly? I’ve never been happier. I like being friends with you, Heathcliff. You’re a great fighter, and you’ve got a twisted sense of humor that’s actually pretty funny when you aren't trying to be miserable. I like being 'buddies.'"

You walked over to him, and for a terrifying second, Heathcliff thought you might hug him. He wanted you to. He wanted to feel that warmth again, even if it was just for a second.

Instead, you just patted him on the arm. A firm, platonic, teammate pat.

"Get some sleep, Heath. We’ve got a long haul tomorrow."

You walked out of the galley, leaving him alone in the dim light.

The "buddy-fication" of your relationship had an unintended side effect: your friendship with Gregor flourished.

Without the emotional drain of trying to save Heathcliff’s soul, you had more energy for everyone else. You and Gregor became a fixture on the roof of the bus. You shared stories, you shared cigarettes, and you shared a kind of quiet understanding that comes from two people who have survived the City’s grinders.

Heathcliff watched them one evening from the window of the bus.

You were sitting close to Gregor—not "husband" close, but close enough that your shoulders were touching. You were laughing at something Gregor had said, and you reached out to playfully shove his arm. Gregor caught your hand, his bug-arm moving with a surprising gentleness, and he said something that made you beam.

Heathcliff felt a roar of static in his brain. It wasn't the "Catherine" roar. It was something different. It was a sharp, possessive, ugly thing that wanted to storm up there and rip you away from the veteran.

He climbed the ladder, his boots slamming against the metal rungs.

"What’s so bloody funny?" he demanded as his head cleared the roofline.

You and Gregor both looked over. You didn't look guilty. You just looked... annoyed.

"Just a story about the smoke war, Heathcliff," you said, your voice losing that warm, intimate lilt it had just had with Gregor. "Nothing that would interest you."

"I’m interested," Heathcliff snapped, stepping onto the roof.

"Really?" you asked, tilting your head. "I thought you hated 'aimless chatter.' You used to tell me to shut up whenever I tried to tell you stories."

Heathcliff winced. "I... I’ve changed my mind. Tell me the story."

You looked at Gregor, then back at Heathcliff. You gave a little shrug. "Well, Gregor was just telling me about this one time his unit got lost in a fog bank in the District 11 outskirts. It’s a long story, though. We were just about to head down and get some dinner."

"I'll come with you," Heathcliff said.

"Oh! Well, okay," you said, standing up. "But I’m sitting with Sinclair tonight. I promised to help him with his combat drills."

You started toward the ladder, leaving Heathcliff standing there with Gregor.

The veteran took a long drag of his cigarette, the tip glowing bright orange in the twilight. "You’re doing it again, mate."

"Doing what?" Heathcliff growled.

"Chasing a bus that’s already left the station," Gregor said, blowing a cloud of smoke into the air. "He’s happy, Heathcliff. For the first time since I’ve known him, he’s actually, genuinely happy. Don't go messin' it up because you finally realized you’re thirsty after you poured the water down the drain."

"He's my husband," Heathcliff said, though even to his own ears, the word felt like a hollow shell.

"The papers say otherwise," Gregor countered, his voice quiet. "And his eyes say even more. He doesn't look for you in a room anymore, Heath. He looks for a laugh. He looks for a friend. He looks for someone who sees him, not a placeholder for a ghost."

Gregor stood up, patting Heathcliff on the shoulder—the same damn pat that you gave everyone.

"You got what you wanted. You’re free. Now let him be free, too."

A week later, the bus was forced to stop near a stretch of desolate wasteland in District 23. It wasn't the moors of Heathcliff’s home, but the resemblance was haunting—gray grass, rolling fog, and a sky that looked like a bruised plum.

Heathcliff was spiraling. Every time he saw you laugh with someone else, every time you called him "buddy," every time he saw your bare hands, he felt like he was being erased.

He found you sitting on the edge of the bus’s roof, your legs dangling over the side as you watched the fog roll in.

"You’re really okay with this?" he asked, his voice coming out as a strangled cry.

You didn't look back. "With the fog? Yeah, it’s a bit spooky, but it’s kind of pretty in its own way."

"Not the fog! This! Us! Me!" Heathcliff stomped over, his shadow looming over you. "You spend a year tellin' me you love me, tellin' me I’m everything, and then you just... you just stop? How does someone just stop?"

You finally turned around. You didn't look jolly. You looked... sad. But it was a distant sadness, like looking at an old photograph of a person you used to know.

"I didn't 'just stop,' Heathcliff," you said softly. "It was a slow death. Every time you told me I wasn't her, a little piece of that love died. Every time you pushed me away, another piece went. I just... I ran out of pieces."

"I can be better!" Heathcliff blurted out. It was a pathetic thing to say, a desperate, childish plea, but he didn't care. "I’ll wear the ring. I’ll... I’ll stop talkin' about Catherine. I’ll listen to your stories."

You looked at him for a long time. The wind whipped your hair across your face. You reached out, and for a heartbeat, Heathcliff thought you were going to touch his cheek.

Your hand stopped an inch away.

"I don't want you to be better for me, Heathcliff," you said. "I want you to be better for you. Because if you’re only doing it to get me back, then you’re still just using me as a placeholder. You’re just replacing the ghost of Catherine with the ghost of who I used to be."

You stood up, your movements easy and fluid. You looked so much taller than you had a month ago.

"I’m not that person anymore. I’m not the adoring lad who will take your insults with a smile. I’m just a jolly fellow who wants to live his life. And I like the man I am now a lot more than the man I was when I was with you."

Heathcliff reached into his pocket and pulled out the two rings. He held them out, his hand shaking. "Please. Just... try. One more time."

You looked at the silver band—the one that had meant everything to you once. You reached out and touched it with a fingertip.

"It’s a beautiful ring, Heathcliff," you whispered. "But it doesn't fit me anymore. My hands are lighter now. I can reach out to my friends. I can hold a rifle without it getting snagged. I can... I can breathe."

You stepped back, away from the edge. "Go back inside. It’s going to rain."

You walked to the ladder and descended, leaving him alone in the gray grass and the rolling fog.

Heathcliff sat on the roof until the rain started—a cold, biting drizzle that soaked through his coat.

He looked at the two rings in his palm. They were just circles of metal. They didn't have power. They didn't have souls.

He realized then that he had been right all along: he had married you out of duty and want. But he had been wrong about what he wanted. He hadn't wanted a placeholder. He hadn't wanted a warm body.

He had wanted a sun. And he had spent so long complaining about the glare that he hadn't noticed the world was freezing until the sun had finally set.

He walked back to the room—his room—and opened the small wooden drawer. He didn't put the rings in the back. He placed them right in the front, where he would see them every single day.

He walked to the mirror and looked at himself. He looked like a man who had survived a storm, only to realize he had lost everything in the process.

He heard your laughter from the galley—a bright, booming sound that made the whole bus feel a little less like a prison. You were telling a joke. You were happy.

Heathcliff closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against the cold glass of the mirror.

He wasn't a placeholder anymore. He wasn't the center of your universe.

He was just a Sinner. Just a teammate. Just a "buddy."

And as the rain hammered against the roof of the Mephistopheles, Heathcliff realized that being your friend was the hardest mission he would ever have to survive.

Because every time you smiled at him with that casual, friendly warmth, it reminded him of the love he had thrown away—a love that was no longer a ghost, because it had finally found a home in someone else’s laughter.

He reached out and touched the glass, his fingers tracing where your reflection would have been.

"Goodnight... buddy," he whispered to the empty room.

The only answer was the ticking of the clock and the distant, joyful sound of a man who was finally, beautifully, free.

The ring on Heathcliff’s finger was a lie. Or, rather, it was a ghost.

It spent most of its existence tucked into the deepest, grimiest corner of his coat pocket, clinking against loose ammunition, spare change, and the occasional shard of a shattered E.G.O. gift. He had a million excuses. He said it was a safety hazard. He said it would get caught in the gears of the bus. He said it would get lost in the guts of whatever Abnormality they were currently gutting.

You knew better. You were a jolly fellow, a man of simple pleasures and high spirits, but you weren't blind. You knew that wearing a gold band meant admitting to the world—and more importantly, to himself—that the space in his heart, that jagged, storm-swept crater reserved for a girl with hair like the moors, had been legally occupied by someone else.

And yet, you were the bus’s resident sun.

The Mephistopheles was a place of gloom and doom. Between Dante’s ticking clock, Faust’s cold logic, and the general air of existential dread, there wasn't much room for laughter. But you made room. You were the type to slap a hand on a shoulder and offer a booming laugh even when the K Corp. bullets were whistling past your ears. You loved Heathcliff with a terrifying, loud, and boisterous intensity that seemed to defy the very laws of the City.

"He’s just a bit rough around the edges!" you’d tell Rodion when she caught you nursing a bruised wrist after Heathcliff had shucked off your touch. "A diamond in the rough, yeah? Though maybe more of a jagged piece of coal right now."

Rodion would look at you with that pitying, maternal sadness that made your chest ache more than Heathcliff’s snarls ever could. "You’re a good lad, honey. Just... don't let him use up all your coal to keep himself warm, alright?"

You’d just laugh, the sound echoing through the bus’s metallic corridors. "Don't worry about me, Roddy! I’ve got plenty of fire to go around!"

But everyone saw it. They saw the way your eyes followed him during combat, always checking his six, always ready with a word of encouragement that he would inevitably spit back in your face. They saw the way you’d bring him tea—specifically the way he liked it, even if he claimed he hated tea—and how you’d just grin and wink when he told you to 'piss off and drown in it.'

Dante’s clock would tick a mournful, syncopated rhythm whenever you walked by. The Manager couldn't speak, but their ticking felt like a sigh. <He doesn't realize what he has,> they would sometimes click to Gregor.

"The kid’s a light," Gregor would grunt, his bug-arm twitching as he watched you try to coax a smile out of Heathcliff in the galley. "And Heath... well, he’s spent so long in the dark he thinks the sun’s an enemy."

The marriage hadn't been a romantic affair. It was a matter of convenience, a "duty" born out of a specific contract requirement that needed two Sinners to be legally bound for a mission in a particularly conservative Wing. Heathcliff had been the one to suggest it—not out of love, but out of a sudden, desperate panic. He was drowning in the aftermath of his own memories, and you were the only thing solid enough to grab onto.

"It won't mean anything," he had told you on the night of the "wedding"—a cold, sterile ceremony in a back-office of the LCB. "I’m doin' this for the job. And because I don't want to wake up in a cold bed every night. But you need to know, right now... you aren't her. You’ll never be her. I’ll never love you like I loved Catherine."

You had stood there in your best vest, a lopsided grin on your face, and simply nodded. "I know, Heathcliff. I’m not trying to be a ghost. I’m just me. And if 'just me' is enough to keep your feet on the ground, then I’m happy to be here."

He had looked at you then with a flicker of something—guilt, perhaps, or confusion. But then he had turned away, pocketing the ring before the ink on the papers was even dry.

For a year, you tried. You tried to be the warmth he lacked. You were the "jolly fellow" who took every insult as a joke, every rejection as a challenge to be kinder. You smoothed his coat, you cleaned his bat when he was too tired to move, and you whispered "I love you" into the crook of his neck every night, even when his only response was a grunt or a command to turn over so he didn't have to see your face.

You were a placeholder. You were a warm body. You were the sun trying to melt a glacier that didn't want to be melted.

The breaking point didn't come with a shout. It came on a Tuesday, while the bus was parked in the gray drizzle of a District 20 Backstreet.

The mission had been grueling. Heathcliff had taken a heavy hit to the ribs, and his mood was fouler than usual. He was sitting on a crate in the galley, methodically wiping blood off his bat. The air smelled of ozone and wet metal.

You approached him with your usual bravado, a bright grin plastered on your face despite the exhaustion deep in your bones. You were balancing a plate of hot food you’d managed to scavenge from a nearby vendor—a small luxury in the middle of a war zone.

"Special delivery for the LCB’s grumpiest Sinner!" you announced, your voice booming in the quiet galley. You leaned in, bumping your shoulder against his playfully. "C'mon, Heath. Eat up before Don Quixote smells it and decides it's a 'quest' to finish your leftovers."

Heathcliff didn't look up. He didn't even pause his rhythmic scrubbing. "Not hungry."

"Oh, nonsense! You haven't eaten since the morning. I even got the extra spice you like," you persisted, leaning a little closer, your hand reaching out to instinctively brush a stray hair from his forehead. "You did great out there today. I saw that swing you took at the—"

CLATTER.

Heathcliff didn't just move; he exploded. He shoved your shoulder back with a violent, jagged force that sent you stumbling. The plate flew from your hand, shattering against the metal floor. The food—the spicy, hot meal you’d spent your last few credits on—slumped into a pathetic heap.

"God, you’re suffocating!" Heathcliff snarled, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. He finally looked at him, and his eyes were full of a genuine, sharp-edged loathing. "Do you ever stop? Do you ever just shut up and leave me be?"

You blinked, the breath knocked out of you. You started to reach out, your "jolly" persona already trying to find a way to laugh it off. "Heath, I was just—"

"I told you when we signed the papers, didn't I?" he interrupted, his voice rising. "I told you what this was. You’re a placeholder! You’re a warm body so I don't have to think about how empty this bloody bus is! Stop acting like we’re some grand romance in a storybook. Stop lookin' at me with those pathetic, adoring eyes. You aren't her. You’ll never be her. You’re just... you’re just there."

He stood up, towering over you, the bat gripped white-knuckled in his hand. "Go be 'jolly' somewhere else. Go find someone who actually wants your 'love,' because I’m sick to death of pretending it matters to me."

He stepped over the ruins of the meal and stormed out of the galley.

The silence that followed was absolute. You stood in the center of the room, looking down at the broken ceramic and the spilled rice. For the first time in years, the "jolly fellow" didn't have a comeback. You didn't have a joke. You didn't even have a smile.

The grin you had worn for a year didn't shatter; it just... faded. It went out like a candle in a sudden draft.

"Right," you whispered to the empty room. Your voice wasn't shaking. It was just hollow. "I think I get it now. My mistake, mate."

The change was instantaneous, yet subtle enough that it took Heathcliff a few days to realize what had actually happened.

The next morning, Heathcliff woke up to a cold bed. This wasn't unusual, as you were often an early riser, but usually, there was a cup of tea sitting on the nightstand, or a folded note with a silly drawing on it.

Today, there was nothing.

When he walked into the main cabin, he expected the usual "Good morning, Heath!" accompanied by a slap on the back or a quick, affectionate squeeze of his arm. Instead, he found you sitting with Sinclair and Hong Lu. You were laughing—actually laughing—at something Hong Lu was saying about his family’s gardens.

"Morning, Heathcliff!" you called out when you saw him. It was the same tone you used for Meursault. "Sleep well? The Manager says we’re heading out in ten. Better get your gear ready, buddy!"

Buddy.

Heathcliff froze. He stared at you, waiting for the "just kidding" or the cheeky wink. But you had already turned back to Sinclair, helping the younger boy adjust his coat with a friendly, platonic ease.

Throughout the day, the pattern continued. During combat, you still watched his back, but the frantic, desperate care was gone. You were a professional. You were a Sinner. You called out tactical positions. You shouted, "Nice hit, Heathcliff!" with the same enthusiasm you gave Outis or Ryōshü.

In the evening, when the bus settled into its nightly groan, you didn't seek him out. You didn't try to sit in the seat behind him. You went to the roof with Gregor.

Heathcliff watched from the window. He could see the two of you through the glass—the glow of Gregor’s cigarette and the silhouette of you leaning back against the luggage rack, your head tilted back in a genuine, carefree laugh. You looked... happy. Not the "trying-to-be-happy-for-him" kind of happy. Just... jolly.

He felt a strange, hot prickle in his chest. Jealousy? No, that was impossible. He didn't want your attention. He had told you as much. He was relieved that you were finally leaving him alone.

But then, he saw the hands.

He saw you reach out and pat Gregor’s arm to emphasize a point. It was a casual gesture, one you had done to Heathcliff a thousand times. But when your hand caught the moonlight, Heathcliff noticed something was missing.

He stomped out of the bus and up the ladder to the roof, his boots clanging against the metal.

"Where is it?" he demanded, ignoring Gregor’s confused blink.

You looked up, a friendly, easy smile on your face. "Where's what, Heathcliff?"

"The ring," he spat, pointing at your bare left hand. "You’ve worn that bloody thing every day since the District 20 mission. Where is it?"

You looked down at your hand as if noticing it for the first time. You chuckled, a warm, rolling sound. "Oh! That? Yeah, I tucked it away in the drawer in our room. Well, your room, I suppose. I’m thinking of bunking in the spare cot in the galley for a bit—it's closer to the coffee machine."

"You... what?"

"The ring," you continued, rubbing the back of your neck. "I realized it was a bit of a nuisance, wasn't it? Kept getting caught on the trigger of my rifle. I remember you saying you never wore yours because it was 'suffocating' or whatever. I finally took your advice! Much more comfortable this way. You were right all along, mate."

You gave him a thumbs up. A bright, cheerful, "jolly" thumbs up.

"Anyway, Greg and I were just talking about that old smoke-war story. You want in? We’ve got an extra beer."

Heathcliff stared at you. He looked for the hurt. He looked for spite. He looked for the "I’m doing this to make you mad" glare.

He found nothing. Your eyes were clear. You weren't punishing him. You had simply... accepted the terms of the contract. You were no longer his husband; you were his friend. You were his "mate." You were a "jolly fellow" who just happened to share a last name and a room with him.

"I... no," Heathcliff grunted, his throat feeling like it was full of dry sand. "I’m going to bed."

"Suit yourself! See you at breakfast, buddy!"

The following weeks were a slow-motion car crash that only Heathcliff was witnessing.

To the rest of the Sinners, things seemed better. You were even more helpful than before. You were the glue of the group, organizing card games, helping Yi Sang with his research, and spending long hours in the galley with Gregor. The atmosphere on the bus lightened. The "pity" that everyone had felt for you dissipated, replaced by a genuine appreciation for your presence.

But for Heathcliff, the bus had never been colder.

He would sit in their shared room—which was now just his room, as you had officially moved your things to the galley—and stare at the small wooden drawer. Inside, he knew, sat two rings. His gold one, and your silver one. Two circles of metal that meant absolutely nothing.

He had what he wanted. He wasn't being "suffocated." No one was trying to touch his hair or whisper sweet nothings into his ear. No one was looking at him with "pathetic, adoring eyes."

But he found himself staying up late, listening for the sound of your laughter from the other side of the bus. He found himself intentionally performing well in combat, his eyes darting toward you, waiting for that specific, adoring gaze—only to find you giving him a casual nod of approval before turning to help Sinclair.

He tried to provoke you. He’d be extra rude, extra snarling, extra dismissive.

In the past, you would have approached him with a soft, "Hey now, let’s get you some water, you’re getting cranky."

Now, you just laughed. "Haha! Classic Heathcliff! Never change, man. Hey, can you pass the salt?"

He felt like he was screaming into a void. You were being nice. You were being jolly. And it was killing him.

One night, he found you in the galley alone. You were cleaning up after a late-night snack with Gregor. You were humming a little tune, your sleeves rolled up, looking utterly at peace.

"I don't like it," Heathcliff blurted out, standing in the doorway.

You turned around, a smudge of flour on your cheek. "Don't like what? The stew? I thought I put enough pepper in it this time."

"This!" he gestured wildly at the space between them. "The way you’re actin'! Like we’re just... just people who work together!"

You tilted your head, your expression one of mild, friendly confusion. "But... we are, aren't we? I mean, I know we have the papers and all, but you were pretty clear about the 'placeholder' thing. I realized I was making things uncomfortable for you by being so... well, 'suffocating,' like you said. I’m just trying to be a better teammate, Heathcliff. Isn't this what you wanted?"

Heathcliff opened his mouth to say yes. The word was right there. It was what he had asked for. It was the truth.

But looking at you—looking at the way you weren't reaching for him, the way you weren't looking for Catherine’s ghost in his eyes, the way you were just you—made the word stick in his throat.

"I never said you had to stop... being you," he muttered, looking at his boots.

"But I am being me!" you said with a bright, cheery grin. "I’m a jolly fellow, remember? I’m having a great time! Gregor’s been telling me all about his time in the army, and Hong Lu promised to show me how to play that board game from his home. I’ve never felt better, honestly. I think taking the pressure off our 'arrangement' was the best thing we ever did."

You walked over and patted him on the shoulder. It was a firm, friendly pat. A "good job, teammate" pat.

"You look tired, buddy. You should get some sleep. Big mission tomorrow, right?"

You walked past him, your humming resuming as you headed toward your cot in the back.

Heathcliff stood in the kitchen, the scent of your soap—something citrusy and bright—lingering in the air. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the gold ring. He looked at it for a long time.

He realized then that he had been a fool. He had thought that by pushing you away, he was protecting the memory of Catherine. But Catherine was a ghost. She was a storm that had already passed, leaving nothing but wreckage in her wake.

You were the sun. And he had spent so long complaining about the heat that he hadn't noticed the world was freezing until you turned your light away.

A month later, the bus was parked on a cliffside overlooking a valley in District 21. The moon was full, casting a silver glow over the metallic hide of Mephistopheles.

Heathcliff climbed the ladder to the roof. He expected to find you there with Gregor, as usual. He had a speech prepared—something clumsy and angry and probably full of insults, but something that would hopefully get you to look at him properly again.

But when he reached the top, Gregor was alone. The veteran was leaning against the rail, staring out at the horizon.

"Where is he?" Heathcliff asked, his voice sharp with a sudden, irrational panic.

Gregor didn't look back. He just blew out a long cloud of smoke. "He went for a walk. Needed some air, he said."

Heathcliff turned to leave, but Gregor’s voice stopped him.

"You know, Heathcliff... I’ve seen a lot of things. I’ve seen men lose limbs, lose families, lose their damn minds. But I’ve never seen a man throw away a treasure quite as fast as you did."

Heathcliff bristled. "Shut it, bug-arm. You don't know anything about it."

"I know that he used to look at you like you were the only thing in this City worth saving," Gregor said, his voice quiet. "And I know that now, when he looks at me... he looks at me like a friend. Like someone he can actually trust not to kick him when he’s down."

Gregor finally turned around, his prosthetic arm gleaming in the moonlight. "He’s still jolly. He’s still the light of this bus. But that light isn't yours anymore. You told him you didn't want it. You told him he was a placeholder."

"I was angry!" Heathcliff shouted. "I was... I didn't mean it like that."

"Doesn't matter if you meant it," Gregor said. "You said it. And the thing about people like him—people who give everything they have with a smile—is that once they realize they’re being used up for nothing... they don't get angry. They don't scream. They just... stop."

Gregor stepped closer, his eyes hard. "He’s not 'punishing' you, Heathcliff. That’s the worst part, isn't it? He’s not even mad. He’s just done. He’s moved you into the 'friend' box because that’s the only place you’re safe to keep."

Heathcliff didn't have a response. He just turned and climbed back down the ladder, his heart feeling like a lead weight in his chest.

He found you about half a mile from the bus, sitting on a flat rock overlooking the valley. You were whistling a low, mournful tune—one he recognized from his own childhood in the Backstreets.

He sat down next to you. You didn't flinch. You didn't move away. You just gave him a friendly nod.

"Hey, Heathcliff! Beautiful night, isn't it? Look at the way the fog rolls over those hills. Reminds me of a painting I saw once."

Heathcliff didn't look at the hills. He looked at you. Your profile was sharp against the moonlight. You looked peaceful.

"I... I found the rings," he said, his voice cracking.

You laughed softly. "Oh, yeah? I was wondering if I’d left them in that drawer. You can toss 'em if you want, or keep 'em for the next contract. I don't think we’ll be needing them for a while, though. The Manager says the next few missions are in the more 'liberal' Districts."

"I don't want to toss them," Heathcliff said, his hand shaking as he reached into his pocket and pulled out both bands. He held them out in his palm.

You looked at them, then back at him, your expression one of genuine, friendly pity. "Heath, buddy... you don't have to do this. I told you, I’m not mad. We’re good! We’re mates. You don't have to feel guilty about what you said."

"I'm not feelin' guilty!" Heathcliff barked, the old anger flickering for a second before dying out. "I'm feelin'... I'm feelin' like a bloody idiot."

He took your hand—your bare, scarred, warm hand. He tried to slide the silver band back onto your finger.

You gently, firmly, pulled your hand away.

"No," you said. Your voice was kind. It was the kindest thing he’d ever heard, and it hurt more than a blow to the ribs. "I like my hands the way they are now, Heathcliff. They’re lighter. I can reach out to people better this way."

You stood up, brushing the dirt off your trousers. You gave him a bright, jolly grin—the kind of grin that reached your eyes but didn't hold a single drop of the adoration that used to live there.

"C'mon, mate. It’s getting cold. We should head back to the bus before Charon decides to leave without us."

You started walking back, your gait bouncy and light. You were humming again.

Heathcliff sat on the rock, the two rings clutched in his fist. He looked at your retreating back—the "jolly fellow" who had once been his world, and who was now just his friend.

He realized, with a soul-crushing finality, that he had finally stopped being a placeholder.

But only because there was no longer a place for him to hold.