Chapter Text
Among the sinners there exists unspoken rules. Some are shared by all thirteen, others are more quietly kept between just twelve.
Though certainly counted among their ranks as a sinner, Dante, the appointed manager, was… different. There were simply things they would never grasp no matter how many times it was described. There were sensations too painful and strains too heavy to hold. If they knew of them, they would try, unendingly, to fully grasp the extent of their sinners' suffering. They did so through rewinding the clock among their many other connections.
Yet, what they failed to see was a boundary that existed within the sinners' minds. It was a thin line standing between the opposing sides of comprehension, normalcy, and the loss of self, corrosion. While it only takes a brief step to cross, one must pass through it in order to reach the other side. It came about through E.G.O use. It was the act of one's ego returning to themselves after being overridden. The process isn't always an instantaneous change like it could be in battle. It could be more gradual; like the high of a drug wearing off. The shift back to proper awareness, as a result, could often be rather ugly.
These were but mere musings from the scholarly among them. The rest simply accepted it as another facet of their arduous task.
Though, none told Dante. Why, some refused to speak of it even amongst themselves. It was troubling, but rather uncommon. Dante never seemed to catch on, so there was never any reason to treat it as anything more than an unfortunate part of being a sinner.
It would only burden them further. Though none dare say so aloud, all seemed to understand that their manager was of a certain disposition— a worrier. That was the sort of person Dante had become. They fretted over the sinners even when given numerous reasons as to why they shouldn't. If they knew E.G.O came with such additional risks, it could affect their leadership in battle and make things unnecessarily difficult. They were the sort who gave direction and guidance without unnecessary cruelty or callousness. While some of the sinners easily trampled them, they always strived to find the best outcome with the least casualties.
It made them approachable, strange indeed, but easy to talk to. They were a light, and not simply due to the flames of their head.
Sinclair in particular was drawn to it like a mere insect.
Upon boarding the bus after a hard fought battle, he found himself lured towards Dante with his weapon set well aside. They sat still in their seat, fresh from a rewind and still somewhat shaken after a particularly rough run-in. He could see their fingers twitch as they glided across their tablet, scrambling to input this and that into their ever evolving notes. It always felt like such an admirable thing to Sinclair. Even without a head, even without memories, they made the most of what they could do and strived to learn each and every day. Sometimes, it was about the city. Sometimes it was about the sinners.
Himself, even.
Sinclair was drawn to them.
He thought it was admirable. He thought it was ad… mir…
Even without a head, even without memor… they strived, did, learned, evolved– they—
They were sitting there. Quiet and focused.
He found himself lured.
Were they warm? Could their body still give off such sensations?
They strived to learn each and every day.
Please.
A beacon.
His thoughts were still being leeched away.
Approachable, easy to talk to.
Grant him salvation.
"Dan… te…?"
To onlookers, he was simply Sinclair. Perhaps distressed, perhaps pallid, but distinctly himself— distinctly whole. To Dante, they could only assume his near fatal loss at the hands of backstreets thugs was particularly harrowing. They set their tablet aside and placed their full attention onto the sinner. There were no eyes to greet him and no lips to speak, but it still felt so much like them.
They were so attentive; understanding. To him, to everyone, it just wasn't enough.
Why? Why ever look elsewhere when consumed only by him?
His eye, wavering gold, stared at the results of a mind twisted by lingering corrosion.
Fusing Dante to their seat were strips of red flesh. What began as little more than thin spider's webs began to pulsate and swell with every movement, gradually claiming more and more of their body. Sinclair stood by and watched, compelled and repulsed all at once. Red meat wrapped around their legs in throbbing boils fit to burst. Their back was fused to the seat by a thickened sludge of blood and sinew. Tissue wrapped around the bulk of their clock seemingly to try and suck away whatever humanity still lingered. The sight was no different to an infant on its mother's breast. It drank Dante in, slowly, steadily, draining them of all that they were simply to feed its own needs.
What would remain? When stripped of everything, would they still be Dante? Their head was gone, but they still remained. What about the rest of them?
Sinclair could feel his heart slam against his ribs in tune with the flesh. Was it terror? Excitement? Exhaustion? He could feel his face contort with terror as it flushed red from a frenzied, wretched heat that churned in his stomach. He couldn't breathe nor could he stand. The longer he stared the more nauseated he became.
To feed its own needs.
Webs pulsating, growing, wrapping.
He wanted to purge the contents of his stomach then and there. But something drew him in; closer.
It looked so warm.
Dante really did yield a heartbeat. They were warm– they– their head meant nothing, they were still a person—! A... a...
He fell into their arms, back propped up by their hands whilst his legs curled up on the seat. It was sudden but painful for neither. Dante caught Sinclair and hoisted him up with all the strength they had left. They neither questioned nor admonished him. They simply held him where he wanted to be and waited for, what they assumed to be, a post battle daze to finally end.
For Sinclair, it was every bit as warm as he imagined it to be. He let the flesh steadily claim his body along with Dante’s. It climbed up his clothes and burrowed through fabric to latch onto his skin. It was a familiar sensation for him and he reveled in the blinding haze that had fallen over him. The E.G.O's final, desperate, whispers spoke to his needs. They were weak, but there was something so... intoxicating about his hallucinations. These, too, would fade, but for just a little while, was it okay to indulge?
Could he be their everything? If only for a little while?
Sat on their lap, Sinclair could catch his heavy breath and see them much closer. His panting fanned across their chest and neck as his body struggled to keep up with his mind. Hatred, repulsion and guilt swirled with desire, yearning, and satisfaction into a truly vile emotion. One side would eventually have to give in. He knew which one he wished it was.
Sinclair could hear their steady heart and feel a pulse against him. It wasn't as fast as his, but they soon synchronized with time. It was just another reason why they were his. He was the one to eat them whole. He pulled from their essence and life, he consumed, he drank, he…
< “Sinclair?” >
He could still hear a mother's voice mixed with theirs. They weren't the same, that much he was certain of, but something tried to meld them together. It failed, his rationale was much too strong, but it left him contemplative. Memories of nurturing comfort flooded his mind as it slowly fragmented into meaningless shards. As he sat, eyes widened and bloodshot, his hands ran across their torso. His fingers crawled like children across unknown terrain. It was curious, exploratory, lacking in any real connotation outside of utter innocence. Dante didn't move at his touch. Not even so much as a twitch. They let him continue to graze their stomach.
It was vacant.
Why was he troubled by this?
His eyes darted rapidly between their stomach and their head. His fingers soon twisted the fabric of their shirt. Dissatisfaction replaced the emotions within him, and a subsequent disgust did much the same.
No. No, no, no.
His breathing came out as ragged heaving. He needed to pull away. He couldn’t succumb. Not here, not like this.
But a thought settled in his mind. One that brought Sinclair such horrid peace. It erased his shame and disgust and left him with only... happiness.
Oh, to sink even deeper. To let the lingering voices comfort him one more time.
Happiness was simply so hard to find on the bus. He wanted to share its fleeting nature with them.
Could he fit in the spaces between? Was there room in their heart for someone like him? It wasn’t fair, he thought petulantly. They already dug through his heart. They saw the worst of him and deemed it worthy of care. If he asked, would they let him do the same? Could he see what lies within? Could he be a piece of their existence? What sits beyond the clock? Who was the person beneath?
< “Is everything alright?” > they questioned. < “Still dizzy?” >
The flesh’s beat was so loud. It gradually drowned out everything around him. He could feel it in his fingers down to his toes. The flesh bound them together, connecting organs and limbs through thin lines until all Sinclair could feel was Dante. Their voice was still clear above the cacophony of beats. It was still soothing. Their gentle ticking was a lullaby, and their hold cradled him.
Ah… if he could be reborn, could it be as a part of them?
Could he be so selfish? Could he revel in these horrid thoughts?
Vacant.
What was wrong with him? He was terrified. He wanted to push them away. He didn’t want to become one, he—
He was being dishonest.
He wanted to be the one to eat them whole.
He took everything that was there for himself.
He could be their everything, surely; a product of them. Something less like himself and more like… them. Admirable, strong, so quick to grow and adapt.
To clothe himself in their flesh and nestle into the muscle, tissue and fat of their belly was to achieve safety. It was so be reborn.
Was there any true way of being closer? He could think of no such thing.
He knew it was wrong. But, connected through flesh and blood, he felt his mind slip. This was salvation. It was a release from suffering, many self inflicted and others forced upon him.
If he had to claw his way inside, then he would.
No, he couldn’t… No, he would.
When his eyes connected with their head, Sinclair noticed a shift. Dante had finally moved.
They had unraveled.
As their head lulled to the side, Sinclair was helpless to watch as it pulled away from their neck. Brittle bones cracked, joints popped, and the sound of weak muscles tearing apart overpowered the sounds of a beating heart. He could hear everything, no, he could see everything. Dante’s head, for but a moment, was held on by a thin strand of persistent neck skin.
Then, a snap.
Their head finally fell right into his lap.
No face. No eyes. Still them. Still Dante.
They were staring at him.
Sinclair wanted to scream. To throw the head off him, run and hide in the safety of his room. But he was stuck. He was bound to them, rooted deep and unable to be free. The warmth felt scorching. His shame had returned and doubled in the time of its absence. Yet, alongside it was a depraved joy.
This was well and truly wrong. He shouldn’t be seeing this. Dante was supposed to be safe and untainted by corrosion. He was supposed to protect them. He wanted to protect them. To pervert their image and distort the soul who showed him guidance? What was wrong with him?
And yet, he still felt so terribly giddy. There was a lightness in his chest that was impossible to ignore. Tears brimmed at the edge of his eyes as soft chuckles shook his body.
Was he glad that Dante was finally his? Even at the cost of their entire being?
At some point, it felt impossible to tell what were mere hallucinations, deep seeded wishes, or true corrosion. The hold of the flesh consumed him too. It took all that he was and drained it from him.
And he could only laugh.
“Haha… hahaha… haH HAHA!”
He was well and truly crying. Tears poured down his cheeks, mixing with the drool falling from his lips. His dry chuckles soon turned to howling. He held Dante’s head close to his chest, body trembling with every laugh. Their own body was slowly being taken over, chewed up, and spat out. Their voice faded long ago. Nothing but a husk of weak, decaying muscle remained. It was grey, cold, and soft but overly so. Yet, still, their arms held him for as long as they could. When they, too, rotted away, Sinclair could no longer laugh. In its place was a strangled cry of anguished glee.
The manager. His manager. They truly gave him everything.
He could do no more besides pressing his lips to the top of their clock head before it crumbled into his hands. When his lips no longer had purchase on the head and his final tears rolled…
< “Sinclair?” >
He jolted, immediately squirming in terror before Dante was able to calm him down with a somewhat panicked hold. His breaths felt uneven again, and his body was drenched in a cold sweat. Still, he remained curled up against Dante’s chest. Their hold never once wavered on him. He looked around them and found that the bus was empty. It was simply him, Dante, and all of the internal feelings momentarily kept at bay crashing in all at once. His face and ears immediately ran red as he realized that, one, he kept Dante in the front of the bus for far longer than was necessary. And two, they had likely seen him just after a corrosion. Did he say anything to them? He couldn’t tell by looks alone.
< “Awfully long rest you had there. Is everything okay? You aren’t hurt are you?” >
“Ah… I um– s-sorry. I didn’t say anything weird, did I?” he stammered
Dante tilted their head. It remained fixed on their neck this time. < “No? You just started crying. I assumed it was a nightmare. We all have those from time to time, so I hope you don’t mind me staying with you. Didn’t want to embarrass you.” >
They bashfully rubbed the back of their neck with their newly freed hand. Sinclair could see the strain it had been put under just to keep him settled. He lowered his eyes. His only solace was the fact that Dante remained in the dark. The others must have realized as much and safely left him behind.
“I’m so sorry, Dante. This won’t happen again. So… could you please forget what you saw today?”
The ticking of their thoughtful silence followed. Their head tilted up and down as if looking at him. Under their scrutinizing gaze, Sinclair couldn’t help but feel strange.
Having hallucinations about one's manager tends to do that he supposed.
< “Sure. But do you want to take a few minutes to talk? You still seem a little frazzled. I won’t ask for details. Just worried is all.” >
Sinclair thought for a while. Of himself, the E.G.O, and Dante.
There was something buried in him that manifested in that dream. He couldn’t pick from what was true and what was a result of the E.G.O’s lingering effects. But seeing them in such a state was…
Terrible. Terrible and appealing. He felt his heart beat faster.
"Dante…? Could you tell me how your day went? I-I mean, if you're okay or not?"
< "Me? Well… I can't say it's been very remarkable. But everyone is alive, so I would say it's been a good day." >
Sinclair chuckled somewhat bitterly with the knowledge that he likely made the day harder. "That's some pretty low standards."
< "I-I didn't mean you guys are bad! Just that… I'm happy if you all are safe. As safe as possible given the circumstances." >
Sinclair's breath paused. He looked down and fiddled with his thumbs. After sufficiently peeling away some of his skin, Sinclair returned with a question spoken softly.
"Even me?"
Dante didn't hesitate. An answer came so easily.
< "Especially you, Sinclair." >
A surge of panic immediately hit him. He scrambled for a response knowing it was a bad idea. Rodya told him over and over again not to panic so blatantly, but he couldn't help that!
"D-Don't say things like that when I'm in your lap!"
Dante took his frantic babbling well. They consoled him, but took amusement in the situation itself. They were never cruel about it. It felt… right to talk to them so freely. Like this was enough for him.
It wasn’t, but everything was normal again.
The rules remained unspoken.
They didn’t need to know.