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It’s rare that Gregor cries. Enough so that when he does, Rodya can’t look away. It’s not because she doesn’t want to – she’s not like Ryōshū, after all, her urges aren’t that twisted – but something about that sight always gets her frozen, mesmerized. Like a little kid in front of a sweets shop. Even with her hand rubbing soothing circles across his back and she’s murmuring soft little comforts in his ear, she still can’t help but stare. As though hoping for something, maybe more. The aftermath of corrosion is always nasty, another unfortunate little thing that doesn't need to be added to her head. But somehow, Gregor’s is a little different. A little…
Rodya forgets to breathe for a moment, watching him trying to blink back tears. His human hand shakes over his face, jaw clenched tight against a sob. Gregor’s in pain, real pain - crying like he usually never does, messy and trembling all over. It would be wrong to think of anything but the pity she’s supposed to feel, especially when he’s this close to her. So fragile. Weak. Vulnerable. But Rodya’s heart betrays her anyway, pounding faster with each drop she gets to see. She finds herself leaning closer, burning need outweighing concern. Gregor, he – he cries so prettily she thinks, fascinated, despite the unmistakable writhing in his buggy arm. Something throbs inside her, hot and spreading, and she forgets the thing she’s supposed to feel until another little sob breaks into his voice.
“Oh, Greg. You look like poor Sinclair after he corroded,” she says gently. She strokes his hair like she did for him, all sweet and caring. Sinclair had cried as well, but not like this, like she was made privy to some secret she wasn’t supposed to have. It makes her feel good. Worthy. Almost special, even. “Let’s go back to my room so you can relax. You can even have some of my Syrok if you’d like.”
Gregor shakes his head, bringing his hand to his face again. “No,” he mumbles. “’ M fine. I just – just need to be alone for a bit. I-” He wipes away his tears, eyes red and shimmering. “...Sorry. I know. I must be even more of a pathetic sight right now.”
The little quiver in his voice sounds so weak and small that Rodya has to bite her lip briefly. Poor thing. He's in so much pain. She wants to help him, comfort him. Do so many things for him. To him. “It’s okay, babe,” Rodya hears herself say. She gently pats his back. But her eyes are locked onto his face, the helpless quiver of his mouth, all the tears he can’t hide. “I get it. But lemme at least walk you to Dante’s room, alright?”
More tears stream down his cheeks as he nods. Large and wet and beautiful. Rodya doesn’t stop staring. And when she finds herself with her hand between her legs that night, it’s all she can think of.