Nobody Needs to Know - Undertale (THG AU), Grillster

[thecrazyalaskan]

Title: Nobody Needs to Know
Author: fireweed15
Fandom / Setting: Undertale: The Hunger Games AU
Characters / Pairings: Grillby Cionaodh, WD Gaster (pre-Grillster)
Word Count: 4391
Rating: T+
Warnings / Notes: TW: references to in-universe homophobia; Written for Round 9 of the Hurt / Comfort Bingo: Forbidden Love
Summary: The relationship between Victor and Avox has always been that of a master and his servant. This was tradition, as much as the traditions that dictated the kind of marriage was "proper" for a Victor. Neither found themselves to be much for tradition, even when the risk to life and limb was almost too great to bear.

-- --- --

0.

Given Snowdin's track record, Grillby wasn't as up on the traditions of the Games. Now it was being thrown at him with lightning speed, and he was barely able to keep track. Now he was being herded into a small conference room, devoid of tables or chairs—but filled with Avox.

The sight of so many silent masked beings, Human and Monster alike, stunned him for a moment, and he slowly turned to his guide. "'m sorry, what's this?" His voice sounded impossibly loud.

"Ah, yes!" His guide's voice was even louder, and her chipper tone was impossibly incongruent with the somber air filling the room. "It's a fine Capital tradition—consider it part of your winnings!"

"Winnings?" Grillby echoed numbly.

Misinterpreting (or perhaps entirely ignoring) his unenthused tone, she continued to prattle about Victors being gifted with an Avox. The repulsive idea of owning someone, combined with the already volatile cocktail of emotions swirling in the pit of Grillby's stomach, led him to simply ignore her, letting himself be herded around the room.

At length he stopped, considering the Avox in front of him. There was something in the quiet way he carried himself, the vaguely scholarly air— When Grillby spoke, his voice was soft, still more than a little hoarse from disuse. "You served me and…" He swallowed, the memories still too raw to touch. "Us before? In training?"

The Avox nodded before presenting Grillby with a small card. He looked down at it; it was titled "Credentials," and read like a resume—skills, understood languages, previous owners.

"I see you've taken a liking to Sixty-Six." Grillby tried not to groan as his guide's voice cut into his thoughts. "Yes, he's a fine Avox—especially for a political prisoner."

Grillby saw an almost microscopic wince shape the Avox's features just under his mask, and he felt himself moved to something he could only describe as pity. "I liked his work before the Games," he said, returning the card to him. "If I could—"

"We'd be happy to have him sent back to your district with you."

"Please do," he confirmed, allowing the Avox to step out of line from his peers.

His guide, ever the sycophant, praised his eye for— Grillby simply tuned her out once more, watching the Avox, his Avox it would seem, out of the corner of his eye. After a moment, he asked, so quiet it was a miracle he could hear himself, "I'm guessing you want to get away from that shite?"

Much to his surprise (and a bit to his perverse sense of delight), there was a single, slight nod from the Avox.

•••

I.

The pomp and circumstance of returning to Snowdin left a foul taste in Grillby's mouth, and his mood was thoroughly sour by the time he and Sixty-Six the Avox arrived at him home in the Victor's Village.

"Here it is," he announced, words clipped, dropping his bag in the entryway. "It's not much but—" He waved a hand vaguely. "Whatever room you want, it's yours."

Sixty-Six nodded once, slowly, in thanks, before tilting his head forward slightly, hands folded in front of him.

It was the posture of a servant, and seeing it made Grillby's flames crackle irritably. "Don't—don't do that." He waved a hand indicating all of the other. "You're not my fucking servant."

His hands fell to his sides, and he blinked slowly behind his mask. For a moment, Grillby was expecting him to speak until he remembered that he couldn't. "Look—you're not my servant, I never wanted any of this… You're—you're a housemate, okay?"

Before the other had the chance to respond, in whatever way was possible for him, Grillby turned on his heel and disappeared into the house.

•

When he woke, the master bedroom was dark, and the house felt like a gaping maw that was going to swallow him whole. More of the same in a way—hell, part of him wished the house would just up and do it already.

Now that he was awake, even partially, he became distantly aware of the soft sounds of someone puttering about the kitchen, to say nothing of the smell of something cooking. Emotions somewhere between intrigued and wary, he rolled himself out of bed and dressed in a loose shirt and pajama bottoms, slowly putting on his glasses as he made his way to the kitchen. “‘s that you?” he called.

He rounded the corner and found himself face to face—face to mask, at any rate—with Sixty-Six. The Avox’s hands fluttered slightly before he stepped out of the way, half guiding Grillby to the seat at the head of the kitchen table.

As he sat, he realized what it was that he'd been smelling—traditional elemental dishes, the kind of which he'd not had since… he tried not to think about it. Part of him was overwhelmed with sincere gratitude for the gesture; the bigger part of him bottled up the feelings, still half expecting them to be exploited if not by another Monster or a Human, then for the Capital's sick amusement. When he spoke, it was as if resigned to torment. "Why did you make this?"

If Sixty-Six was offended by the tone, he didn't show it; instead, he gestured simply to the place setting before waving one hand in a circle and the other miming putting food in his mouth.

Some of the gesturing was understandable in its meaning; the rest was recognizable as Hands, the universal sign language used among Monsters. Between the official and pidgin signs, the meaning was clear enough—"It's been that long since I ate?" he murmured.

Sixty-Six nodded solemnly before turning and picking up a small serving tray from the counter and passing quietly behind Grillby. The motion caught the latter's eye and turned to watch him. "Wait, where are you—are you going to eat in your room?" The Avox paused before shrugging one shoulder slightly. "No—c'mon, at least sit at the table."

After a moment of hesitation, SIxty-Six joined him at the table, sitting an arm's length away and waiting until Grillby started to eat before following suit.

At length—"This is good," he complimented, softly. "I… Thank you. For making this."

He blinked behind the mask for a moment before seeming to brighten, then nodding in reply.

•••

II.

There was a laundry list of things Grillby tried to avoid, and close to the top of that list were mirrors and bothering his wounds from the Games—which of course meant that today he had to deal with both.

His glasses were carefully balanced on the sink's backsplash, and his hands trembled as he tipped a healing salve onto a rag. It didn't get any better as he lifted it to his face. Try as he might to be gentle with it, the salve burned terribly, and he threw the rag into the sink, swearing coarsely.

Perhaps, then, it shouldn't have been a surprise that the sound drew attention. At length, he heard someone knock lightly on the doorframe, and he all but forced himself to look in the mirror to see who. "Oh… Sixty-Six…"

The Avox took this as permission to enter, standing an arm's length away from him. He pointed, indicating the salve in Grillby's hands, and picked up a clean rag from the stack on the sink.

"You… want to deal with this?" Grillby asked, indicating his face—specifically the scarred, almost charcoal swath of fire covering his right eye and cheek.

He nodded solemnly, tipping the salve onto the rag and lifting it slightly, waiting for permission. "Yeah, go ahead," Grillby mumbled, reaching down to grip the edge of the sink ahead of the pain.

Sixty-Six lifted a free hand to give him a countdown—three, two, one—before bringing the rag up to his cheek.

The pain that followed was white hot, and Grillby recoiled sharply. "Fuckin' hell—!"

Sixty-Six pulled back for a moment before, with a surprising amount of tenderness, given the amount of vitriol Grillby was throwing in his general direction, turning the latter's face back to his and trying again.

The gentle pressure of the Avox's hand kept him from jerking back again, though it didn't stop him from gripping the edge of the sink so tightly steam curled up from his knuckles. "You'd think the Capital would have invented pain free burn treatment by now," he groused, the words coming through clenched teeth.

Sixty-Six nodded sympathetically as he slowly worked his way over the wound. The ever-present mask did its job, hiding his face from view—but Grillby found himself wondering what was underneath it. Was his expression pitying, or was he rolling his eyes at the pathetic, needy Victor who couldn't care for his own wounds? He swallowed hard before forcing words that weren't pain-laced obscenities out. "Thank you. For this."

He paused for a moment, as if processing the words. For a moment, Grillby forced himself to consider the idea that he'd never been properly thanked before when Sixty-Six nodded again, slower this time. After a moment, he pulled his hands back to sign—indicating himself, his eyes… a moment of hesitation before indicating the injury, then miming the shape of a videoscreen.

Oh shit. "You saw that happen live, huh?" he mumbled. He couldn't say he was surprised. The Games being required viewing, even for Avox, he had to have seen it. It was hard to miss three Tributes torturing a fourth, not to mention his suspicions that the Capital ate that shit up…

Sixty-Six nodded solemnly before laying the rag over the edge of the sink and signing to indicate he was finished.

Grillby latched onto the sign like a lifeline. "Hell, done already?" He didn't wait for a reply. "Thank you—again, for that. It… It feels a lot better already." His pride was a little battered, but it was better than the wound getting worse from lack of treatment.

The Avox canted his head in a way that Grillby imagined was like offering him a smile as he picked up Grillby's glasses and polished the lenses before offering them to him. Grillby murmured his thanks before putting them back on. The world was so much clearer—not just because of the glasses themselves, but because of the careful way that Sixty-Six had cleaned them of dust and ash.

The question popped out before he could stop it—"What's your name?"

For a single moment, their worlds seemed to hang in the great cosmic balance—ignoring, of course, the fact that the question was highly personal and deeply inappropriate, to say nothing of more likely than not grossly illegal. "You don't have to answer that," he mumbled. "Really. Just… Y'know it feels wrong calling you a number. Or… Avox." Shit—now that he'd started his thoughts were determined to get out before he could stop them. "So if you—I'd rather call you by your name."

Sixty-Six seemed to hesitate, looking down at his folded hands before signing—gesturing to himself, indicating something leaving (or was it disappearing?), and then a great expanse of time… then he lifted his face to, for the first time since Grillby had met him, meet his gaze before fingerspelling. G-a-s-t-e-r.

"Gaster?" Grillby echoed.

He nodded once, gesturing in a way that, broadly, suggested that it was an old nickname.

Now it was Grillby's turn to nod in understanding. "Well then—Gaster." Saying it felt… oddly right. Chalk it up to finally having something to say other than "Sixty-Six." "Thank you—for trusting me with that."

•••

III.

Nights were the worst.

They were terrible in the Arena, to be sure—but more often than not, he'd been longing for a night like the ones in the Arena. At least the nights in the Arena weren't filled with terrifying nightmares—drowning, losing limbs, drawn out torture…

To say he woke up screaming more nights than not was an understatement, and tonight was no different. When he woke, his flames were burning brightly, agitated, and smoke had filled the room. A cross breeze cut through the room, and his gaze snapped to the source—"Gaster?"

Gaster, halfway through opening the window to let the room vent, glanced over his shoulder. Now that Grillby was awake, he moved to stand beside him, one hand on his shoulder and the other offering his glasses.

The latter Grillby accepted, despite the lenses instantly clouding with soot. "Are you okay?" he asked.

Gaster nodded before microscopically squeezing Grillby's shoulder, wordlessly turning the question back to him.

"I haven't been okay in a long time," he mumbled. "What—not that I don't appreciate it, but…" He waved some of the smoke away. "Why are you even awake? It's late."

Gaster hesitated for a moment before signing—sleep no, dreams… bad.

"You have nightmares too?" Grillby murmured, sympathy coloring his voice.

Gaster shrugged slightly, almost dismissive, before fussing Grillby's bedclothes back into place, offering whatever aid he could think to—Tea? Or… His digits glowed a pale green—healing magic, the only kind certain Avox were allowed.

"No thanks," he declined. "I don't want to take advantage of it."

The glow dissipated as he nodded in understanding before he started to sign again. I'll let you sleep—

"Hey." Without thinking, he took Gaster by the wrist. After a moment, he released him again, looking more at his hands than at Gaster. "If you… This is gonna sound crazy, but… I don't want to be alone, so could you please…?" He shifted slightly, making room on the bed for a second Monster—"If you want. I won't be offended if you say no, and you… I wouldn't blame you."

After a moment (a long moment), Gaster nodded again and carefully removed his house slippers before settling into the space Grillby had recently vacated for him. The mattress was soft, and the space very warm, given who had just occupied it. Ash colored the sheets, but neither called attention to it as Gaster signed his thanks.

"Thank you for this," Grillby mumbled as he pulled off his glasses and laid them on the bedside table before settling back down, watching Gaster do the same. "It… I think it'll help. With my… dreams."

Gaster nodded in understanding, his mask crinkling slightly as he laid down. After a moment, he lifted a hand to sign. I have nightmares too.

The signs gave Grillby pause. "Do you wanna… y'know. Talk about it?" he offered quietly.

Gaster hesitated for a moment before indicating his mouth and throat. The gestures were vague, not even proper signs, but they said everything—

"Ohh—I-I'm sorry," Grillby mumbled, averting his eyes. "You don't have to talk about that if you don't… wanna…" Stupid—! Of course he wouldn't want to talk about what happened when they made him—

Gaster reached out and patted his arm, wordlessly accepting the apology, before briefly covering Grillby's eyes with his hand, a gentle suggestion that he try to fall asleep.

Having nothing else to say, Grillby nodded, letting sleep—blessedly nightmare free—come to claim him.

•••

IV.

Grillby was quick to discover, though, that Gaster was a voracious reader, especially when he read through all of the books and publications in the house in short order. As such, it was with nothing but the best of intentions that Grillby suggested he visit the library.

Of course, there was the saying about the road to Hell being paved with them, as he was quick to discover when Gaster returned hardly more than hour later, expression crestfallen. "What's the matter?" Grillby asked. "I thought you were getting a library card."

Gaster shrugged, hemming and hawing before finally signed. I'm not allowed.

"What do you mean, 'not allowed?'" Grillby echoed.

Because of my classification— It was all too easy for Grillby to imagine air quotes around the word, had it been spoken— I can only read that which my master allows. They say strict orders—no books for the political prisoner.

What hurt more—the sharp edge to the signs, or the vaguely pained expression hidden under the mask? Grillby rubbed his eyes, the snap of pain behind his scars only mildly distracting now, before sighing. "I'm sorry—I didn't realize they would be that way."

Gaster shrugged, the gesture speaking volumes about how used to it he was. The silence that followed was a heavy one.

"I think I'm gonna take a walk," he said at length, heading for the door.

I'll come with you—

Gaster started to follow, but Grillby stopped him, hands resting on Gaster's shoulders. "I appreciate the offer," he said sincerely. "I think, though… I'd rather be alone. I want to think."

You're sure? Gaster asked. In the months he'd been away from the Capital, he'd become more comfortable in asking questions like these, in expressing doubt in Grillby's decisions if he worried they were poor ones.

"I'm sure," he insisted. "You go about your day—I'll be back in a few hours, yeah?"

Gaster nodded in understanding, and the pair parted ways.

•

As promised, Grillby returned, this time with a paper-wrapped bundle under his arm. "Back," he called through the mostly empty house.

Gaster emerged from the kitchen, signing in greeting before noticing and pointing to the bundle. What's that?

"Got this for you," Grillby said simply, holding it out to him.

Gaster accepted it, slowly, and after a little wordless prompting from Grillby, tore the paper back. Behind his mask his eyes widened when he saw what it was—books. Three volumes, different subjects, and a novel. His gaze lifted to Grillby, and he started to hand the books back, shaking his head.

"Those are yours," Grillby insisted, nudging the pile back into Gaster's chest. "Well, they're from the library and checked out in my name—but you can read them."

Gaster sputtered soundlessly, almost lost, before shaking a Y handshape between them. The question was obvious.

"I don't care what they say you did," Grillby replied softly. "You said the rules were that you could only read what your master lets you. Well… I know we're housemates, but I'm letting you read these, and I'll return them when you're done. Deal?"

Gaster nodded vigorously, sniffling and lifting a hand to swipe at the tears threatening to spill over and onto his mask, before signing profuse thanks.

It was a fucking crime the way they treated him that this was something like being given the world, but damnit if Grillby didn't want to see him smile more.

•••

VI.

It was a sleepless night. At least this time Grillby had company…

The pair of them sat at the kitchen table, a lukewarm kettle of tea sitting between them. Grillby sipped at his mug intermittently, hoping the tea would help but knowing it wouldn't.

In the two AM silence, the light knock of Gaster's knuckles on the table was louder than any cannon. Grillby gave a small start, but directed his attention to Gaster. "What's up?"

I want to… show you something, he signed slowly.

At this hour? Grillby thought, sipping his tea, before nodding slightly. "What is it?"

Gaster stared at the woodgrain for a moment before indicating himself. My face—without… the mask. If you please.

The signs gave Grillby pause, and he set his mug aside. Technically speaking, what Gaster was proposing was even more illegal than Grillby knowing his name. "Are you okay with that?" he murmured at length, thankful for the drawn curtains.

Gaster nodded. I trust you completely, he signed. If you don't want to, I won't, but…

"If you feel okay with it," Grillby encouraged, "then please…"

Gaster nodded and lifted his hands to loosen the mask's ties. After a few moments, he lifted his gaze to Grillby's again, allowing him to truly see him for the first time. A pair of deep fissures ran up from the top of one eye socket and down from the bottom of the other, and Grillby winced internally. Whatever had happened to him to get those must have hurt terribly—was it from when he had been forced into being an Avox? The possibilities were too gruesome to bear. Instead, he smiled warmly and lifted his mug in a quasi-toast. "Nice to meet you officially."

It was by unspoken agreement that Gaster wore the mask less and less around the house after that.

•••

VII.

There was a photo that hung on an otherwise bare wall in the living room that Grillby, from time to time, found himself revisiting.

If he recalled correctly (and he always did when it came to this photo), he had just turned thirteen. It was a quiet moment with his mother, wrapped loosely in a quilt as they sat on the porch swing. They were captured in profile, both looking an unseen distant point. Grillby sat close to her, and his fingers were loosely wrapped with hers. Given enough mental fortitude, he could feel his mother pushing against the wood and rocking the swing that had brought them so many quiet moments like this one, the weak winter sun on their shoulders…

He wanted to say he could feel her hand in his, but a different hand, this one on his shoulder, interrupted his thoughts. He turned his head to find himself catching Gaster's gaze. Gaster signed in apology, then hesitated before indicating the photo. It was a fair enough question, Grillby supposed—he'd only ever seen him staring at it sadly…

"My mother," he offered quietly in explanation. "This is… the last photo I have of her, before she…" He choked on the words, swallowing them.

Gaster again signed an apology before offering something he clearly meant to be a comfort. She means a lot to you.

"You have no idea," Grillby replied, pulling off his glasses to wipe away the soot pricking his eyes. "She's… She was amazing, considering… everything."

Everything? Gaster echoed.

He loosely crossed his arms. "Snowdin isn't exactly a forgiving environment," he replied, the soft crackle of his flames underscoring the point. "That, and… one other reason."

This caught Gaster's attention, and he canted his head to one side—and in that moment, Grillby knew he'd said too much. "Uhh… It's—" Fuck. He lifted a hand to rub the back to his neck. "I'm… not interested in women. At all—I never have been."

The silence that followed settled around them, heavy and oppressive, and Grillby could feel dread coiling in his stomach like a snake. His mother had reacted with nothing less than love—what if Gaster wasn't so kind?

When Gaster finally started to sign again, it was slow, deliberate. I understand.

A rush of emotions, all vast and perhaps a little too complex to name, washed over Grillby. "You do?" he mumbled.

Gaster nodded, indicating him before signing in a roundabout way that suggested an attraction to men and women. The word was erased from our histories, he added, which spoke to why there was no equivalent in Hands.

"I won't tell anyone about… this," Grillby promised. "About you and me being… y'know."

Gaster nodded before signing the same thing. Was the relief Grillby felt because he knew he wasn't going to be outed to a Peacekeeper, or was it… more deeply rooted than that?

•••

VIII.

It was so much more than that.

Grillby sat on the edge of his bed, fingers twisting nervously. Any… second… now…

As if cued, Gaster knocked, then gently pushed the door open, a basket of laundry in hand. He paused when he saw Grillby looked up at him, somber, before setting the basket down to sign. What's the matter?

"What are we to each other?" he asked quietly. After a moment, he scooted over and patted the bedspace next to him. Would having Gaster next to him make this easier, or harder?

No matter the answer, Gaster accepted, thinking carefully before replying. ...Housemates? I mean… You're my employer—

"Do you consider me a friend?" The words were impulsive, and he stopped, took a deep, shuddering breath, and tried again. "I won't be offended if you say no."

I do, Gaster confirmed, the emphatic signs underscoring his sincerity. The first I've had in… I don't know how long.

Part of Grillby wanted to content himself with that, but he'd come this far—he couldn't bear to leave the question unasked. "Do you think we'll ever be more?"

Gaster canted his head to the side, signing slowly. I don't understand?

"I feel… so much." Grillby stood, pacing the floor wildly. "These last five years have been hell—the Reapings, losing my mother, the Games, the godawful fucking nightmares, the pain—" He stopped in front of Gaster, wheeling his gaze on him— "and then when I look at you, I talk to you… I don't feel any of that. I feel… like everything's gonna be okay."

The words—raw, honest, real—hung heavy in the air. At length, one that felt like an eternity, Gaster lifted his hands, trembling slightly, to sign. I don't… what are you…?

He could feel soot pricking the backs of his eyes, and he made no effort to suppress it. "God help me, I think I love you."

Gaster blinked rapidly, hands twisting for a moment before he signed. Are you… You're serious?

Grillby nodded solemnly, lifting his hands to sign in return—Very. He signed it expansively, testament to how deeply he felt.

Gaster stood and wrapped Grillby in a tight embrace, his shoulders shaking. At first he hid his face in Grillby's shirt collar; after a moment, he pulled back and pressed a kiss—heady, desperate, sincere—to his lips. Grillby all but melted into the kiss, wrapping his arms around Gaster's waist as the latter pressed the handshape for I love you into his chest.

So this was what everyone was talking about…! "I could get used to this," Grillby murmured, breaking the kiss, his flames crackling brightly.

Me too, Gaster signed into his chest, but what about…?

Their gazes fell on the windows. In the house was one thing—but outside their front door was a world that had strict rules for them to follow. Grillby, a Victor, meant to guide the younger generations of his District to glory in the Games and to marry and father children to carry on his own legacy; Gaster, a voiceless non-person meant to serve the elite. Their budding relationship was as illegal as it was taboo.

Grillby's arms wrapped tighter around Gaster, drawing him into his chest. "They don't need to know everything… Nobody does."