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The air is cool and has an odd scent to it, an indecipherable one. Don Quixote listens to the sensation, raking a hand through her bangs, yet finds nothing to put a finger on. The sky is cloudy, and its light tries to break through but fails, and the voices around are not quiet enough, and her fingers are just slightly shaky. The voices fade out for a moment as she concentrates on it, the scent and the shakiness. Neither of those, actually. A thought, rather.
It is complex. Even as she has come to an agreement with her very self, it hasn’t become any less complex.
Her amnesiac self – Don Quixote has her memories and memories of her, of course. Not only the memories, but also the emotions that followed; and not only this self, but also everything she had to go through and everyone that is – or once was and isn’t any longer – around her. Because that self was always her, too. But was it? Was it, really?
Don Quixote doesn’t know how to answer that question. The answer fleets her mind every time, dancing around on the very tip of her tongue as she’s whispering at the smudged window into the greyish sky, weighing on the eyelashes when she’s dozing off, tickling at the backs of her palms as she grabs the lance. It doesn’t feel like a game to engage in, something to chase, something to catch. It doesn’t weigh her down as much as it once did, either. It’s just always there, waiting for her to work it through, bitter and slightly sweet, but mostly tasting of void, a pit right behind her ribcage. Don Quixote has pulled one of the ribs out like a bad tooth, and now it’s healing, so slow, torturous.
Weird how it can be both different and the same. With memories or having none, the role she has put herself into turned out to be her salvation, which everyone has supported then – so it’s not like she’d be willing to abandon it. The Sinners have stayed themselves too, obviously, so the way they view her didn’t change all that much either, other than some newly added recognition maybe, – and she would never want or expect them to change, no matter how much annoyance they experienced towards her. Well, especially since most of them were getting along pretty well by now.
They haven’t stopped hanging around. It wasn’t surprising when Sinclair, or Ishmael, or Gregor, or Rodya, or even Heathcliff approached her. Whatever differences or conflicts they might have during their work hours weren’t a reason for any real hostility in a relaxed-ish setting – mainly. Most other Sinners kept being amicable enough to her as well, even if they didn’t find themselves in one another’s company too often. There were still issues when it came to Outis but… she, too, didn’t seem as antagonistic to her as she was before.
And some might’ve started hanging around even more, in fact. For reasons not so easily discernible. Ryoshu, to be specific. Never engaging in any conversations herself, never really trying to start anything at all, but still being somewhere around now and then – or was it really her doing? Because Don Quixote noticed getting slightly closer on her own. That amnesiac self was curious about Ryoshu, there is no arguing that – she remembers the feeling and it’s still there. She can even remember that Ryoshu was interested in that self, although it was more like intrigued. Don Quixote might be so bold as to presume they have something in common, some ideals or opinions, if Ryoshu taking her side and supporting her objectively reckless choices (more than it is necessary to serve her own purpose) is anything to judge by. Might it be the reason she never felt like she was too much of a bother for Ryoshu despite everything?
Assumptions – that’s all there is to them. Don Quixote never considered herself to be good at understanding people in general, so what was there to say about someone as emotionally guarded? It’s the same thing she encountered while trying to get to know Meursault. And Ishmael. And Hong Lu. And everyone on the bus, really, except for maybe Gregor who at least says it as is. Yet nobody else has kept that enigmatic air about them for this whole time.
Now, Ryoshu might be simply interested in her identity as a bloodfiend. Don Quixote doesn’t mind it, truly! She understands how it might be an object of curiosity for someone who likes knowing what makes others tick. It’s just, she isn’t sure if she should snap cast judgments about it, doesn’t matter how much she wants to, doesn’t matter if that would make it less confusing.
Don Quixote isn’t sure she could ever fully work through anything in her mind, though, – so maybe figuring out Ryoshu isn’t that pressing, or meaningful even. But it arguably is more fun than figuring out some other issues so she’s found herself pondering on that somewhat more often. The way Ryoshu was looking at others once in a while, the weird bond – if there even was one – she’s developed with the Sinners. Her way of speaking, the habit of giving out these riddles almost nobody could decrypt and of avoiding saying anything straight up. It would seem like Ryoshu takes herself too seriously to care at all – but then she would wait, smug and almost joyous, until someone translates her absurd jokes. It would seem like she has lost the feeling of wonder altogether after going through whatever hardship and trauma life has put her through – but then she would look out the window, at the sky painted muted pinks and oranges, with an expression that could generally be described as quiet awe.
Don Quixote couldn’t ask. It would be too serious for her role to do so, and even if she did, there was a high risk she would receive no answer other than something adjacent to it’s none of your business, because it really was. She could keep being around though – not even for the purpose of finding out who that woman really was. Ryoshu was just, fun and nice to be around, even if their only real time together was between the battles they had to take.
Don Quixote relaxes the hand gripping the lance and rubs at her arm, making an ow-ow-ow sound. It’s not really major of a fight, but she keeps noticing how the muscle tension she’s been dealing with recently affects her performance. It gets quite uncomfortable sometimes, especially when it didn’t only affect her arms but her back and even got to her face, twitching uncontrollably.
“You feeling okay?” Gregor asks from behind, not too far away. Don Quixote really wants to act as if she’s in great pain, just for the entertainment, but she holds herself back and faces him.
“Oh yes, my friend, thou should worry not about me! It is but a slight strain. Art thou truly fine as well, young Gregor?” she feels her expression shifting from joyful to concerned in just a second as she remembers one of the previous fights today, with Gregor getting wounded pretty hard but not hard enough to warrant the clock turning. Outis and Dante have been trying to get him to come into the bus for some aid which he has kept resisting successfully for now.
Gregor rolls his eyes, shrugs. “Just a cut and a bruise, nothing too serious. It’s gonna heal in two days max,” he lazily waves a hand, settles on the ground, his wounded leg set to the side, probably to make it bother him less, and fiddles with a pack of cigarettes. Don Quixote gives him a big smile.
“Splendid!” She might want to argue with Gregor and suggest he tends to his leg anyway, but she also ultimately believes he, out of all of them, is probably one of the few who can objectively decide just what he needs. It feels awkward to just go away but Gregor just returns a smile and bites on the cigarette filter.
After leaving Gregor be, Don Quixote looks around, stretching her neck. It’s more ritualistic than anything – she knows what she wants to do at the moment and she also saw just where Ryoshu has headed, her sleeve stained with some enemy’s blood.
She’s sitting not too far away from the bus now, on a metal block dented here and there, her feet barely touching the ground with the very tips of her shoes, almost dangling in the air. The smoke coming from her side is akin to the steam of an old train, thick, grey, going up, up, up. Don Quixote can never stop acknowledging this visual, for one reason or another. She seems painted like that, perfectly positioned for a picture, back stuck in a soft tilt forward, arms hanging down, bending where they catch onto her legs, and she must know it, too, always the one to appreciate anything pleasing to the eye and anything that is completely opposite of it.
She wonders if Ryoshu notices her stares sometimes, just like Don Quixote feels Ryoshu’s eyes on herself once in a while. She wonders, then, if she can even trust her judgement enough.
“Might thou, prithee, be so kind as to share one?” she asks, perching up next to Ryoshu. Ryoshu looks at her and chuckles. Such a soft sound it is, maybe just a little mocking.
"A drag or a cig?" she asks, burying a hand in the pocket of her coat. Don Quixote knows the more correct answer, Ryoshu doesn't like sharing her own, usually. Only once did she give her the one she's been smoking herself: not so long ago, when Don Quixote was drenched in blood, almost head to toe, and stenched of it too, in her Sancho self, bloody hair sticking to the fur on her shoulders and all. She passed her one, silently, when Don Quixote approached, and stared – first at Don Quixote, not at all secretive, not at all hiding, as she blew the smoke out; then at the blood staining the white paper around the filter for a few moments. She took a drag as well then and licked her lips after.
She isn’t too against giving her one, though, she isn’t stingy about them. Maybe it’s because they all share the budget anyway, but Don Quixote still gives her treats sometimes, when she gets any. She could buy a pack of her own, well, since shop workers staring down at her and asking for her age isn’t that big of a problem and doesn’t wound her that much, she tells herself… But it became some sort of a thing, between them two in particular. Don Quixote coming up, once in a while, sitting down somewhere near, Ryoshu passing her a pack and a lighter, them sharing that bitter-smelling space with little to none talking or eye contact. There would be times Gregor hangs around them, like they are in a smoking room of an office together, and then they would usually talk about whatever, all three of them. There are also times Meursault would join them as well, rarely speaking up, or even Outis and Ishmael. All of these occasions, really, are precious to her, it’s like they’re bonding in this specific way, in their little circle around such a silly thing. And it’s just as precious with Ryoshu alone.
“A cigarette, if you may; ah, thank you, young Ryoshu,” she answers, taking one out of the pack Ryoshu’s holding in a stretched forward hand. Ryoshu makes a snickering sound and brings a lighter to Don Quixote’s face. She inhales, deep and steady, and breathes out the same bitter smoke, away from Ryoshu’s face – although it couldn’t make much of a difference. “Oh? Art those different from before?” She examines the cigarette, its slightly glossy indigo purple strip of paper, clicks her tongue twice or thrice to taste it better, then makes a face – eh.
“Uh-huh,” Ryoshu responds, “Just bought the ones they had. G.E.”
Don Quixote holds it in between her teeth, turns her back to the metal block and jumps up, pushing herself up with her arms with a little muffled hah. It looks quite awkward, but again, it always does. It’s weird, being surrounded mostly by taller people even though she isn’t that short. Good thing they almost never comment on it – although it wouldn’t matter much if they did. Don Quixote has discovered the fun in bantering long ago.
“Good enough indeed! Indigo purple is a magnificent color! Such a radiant one,” she nods heatedly, kicking her legs on the metal block. It makes a hollow yet dull sound. “Similar to the great Fixer The Purple Tear’s color, this shade.”
“You would pick cigs by color?” Don Quixote notices Ryoshu’s eyebrows going up for a split moment out of the corner of her eyes and is genuinely surprised by that.
“Well, of course! How else would thou make a choice on it?” She grabs the pack lying next to Ryoshu and looks at it in her outstretched arm. It’s black, with an outline of something, presumably a butterfly, in the same deep indigo purple color. “There is no other such thing that would help. Mayhaps, the place of its production…” she turns it around and skims over the text, “ah, but it contains the District only. Unless thy mind keeps the knowledge on which are the best in their craft – which it does, I am assured,” she glances over to Ryoshu who taps at her cigarette thoughtfully, “Doth it hold any meaning for thou?”
“I don’t pick them based on the District,” Ryoshu says. Judging by the look on her face, she is amused. “Or based on color. It’s too vague of a measure, you’ll end up with useless crap.”
“Pray tell what, then?” Don Quixote takes another drag and searches through her head but no other possible criteria come to mind – her thoughts just drift back to being in awe of the fact Ryoshu’s fine with casually conversing with her at this point, and her hands twitch at that for only a second. She can’t help but smile, curious.
“The nicotine content,” Ryoshu says, and it’s so obvious in hindsight that Don Quixote gasps.
“Ah, yes!” she exclaims watching Ryoshu pressing the cigarette filter back into her long mouth curved in a barely there smirk, “I understand now!”
They sit like that for some more time. There’s nothing too interesting going on but Don Quixote excels at entertaining her own self so she finds herself swinging her legs slightly and trying to catch up on anything happening around. The manager, so hard at work as usual, is talking to Faust, their hands going wild. They were trying to get any information about where the bus is going next for the past hour in between some of their fights so Don Quixote is pretty sure it’s still the topic of discussion. She honestly thinks they can just drop it already, for it has been to no avail until now, but this time Faust never explicitly said she wouldn’t share any such intelligence, avoiding answering directly, like she’s toying with Dante, so Don Quixote understands their persistence and can’t imagine herself acting differently.
She looks around. Some of the Sinners are going inside at this very second – Gregor, to be specific, accompanied by Outis – and Rodya tagging along, probably just for funsies. It seems like despite his attempts at reassuring everyone it was alright, with the high regenerative capabilities of his, Outis still yelled at him and forced him to go. He falls onto his seat when he comes in, with an annoyed frown on his face and with Outis still talking behind the bus window, completely silently to Don Quixote.
Ishmael is drinking water quite aggressively not too far from here, looking like she is fully locked in on the water bottle, its body collapsing under the pressure. She’s been like this the whole day, so concentrated and slightly more on edge than usually. Don Quixote doesn’t know if she should approach her later or not. Sometimes it goes well – and then sometimes it does not.
And then there is Ryoshu, smelling faintly of smoke, sweat and blood, hair falling over her face. Her eyes seem closed, and she holds a cigarette in her mouth. Don Quixote can’t really understand how she smokes without using her hands. She tried it once, couldn’t stop herself from keeping breathing in, got a throat full of smoke and coughed for five minutes straight. Ryoshu was carefully watching and having the time of her life, it seemed. Then she passed her a bottle of water.
“Do you pick everything by color?” Ryoshu suddenly speaks up, her voice somewhat gruff. It’s not like it’s too unusual for her to start talking first, it’s just that Don Quixote keeps being surprised by it.
“Ah?” Don Quixote takes a second to process the question, “Well yes! I have quite the adoration towards colors!” she stumbles over her words, thinks of her reputation and laughs in wafts of smoke, rubbing at the side of her face, “Not because– Not only because of the Color Fixers. Although they brighten my days in ways so alike! Whenever I find myself in a situation of being powerless to choose – a beverage, for example! – I rely on the color adorning it, for it hath never led me astray. Such as yellow! Ah, what a wonder it is for such a color to exist.” She flings her arms up in excitement, almost grazing Ryoshu, then squeals out an awkward apology and takes another drag. “Setting forth for an adventure, every so often I found the yellow my only constant and unchanging companion – first the sun, later the moon and the stars,” she glances up at the sky and searches for one of them in between the thick clouds. The steady beat of her boots’ heels against the metal reverberates through her body gently, and it’s comforting, as well as the fact that Ryoshu isn’t stopping her from doing it. “Oh, but what delightful sceneries my eyes hast seen – the most marvelous ones are always before the hardest of battles, I say! The moons that thine eyes witness when thou art prepared to fight for the goodness of justice– Ummm,” Don Quixote cuts her story, no, pointless chatter off sharply and draws back a little. Peeks a glance at Ryoshu just to check – the woman isn’t the type to enjoy it. There seems to be no visible annoyance.
She stays silent for a while anyway, and Ryoshu does as well. She lights up another cigarette and offers one to Don Quixote. Don Quixote weighs out just how appropriate it would be to accept it in her head and hesitantly takes it, expressing her gratitude with a nod and a smile. Ryoshu lifts her face up to the sky, squinting just a bit, then talks.
“I don’t enjoy yellow as much,” she says, letting out a cloud of smoke as if specifically in the sun’s direction.
“Ah, which doth thou prefer, then?” Don Quixote asks. Ryoshu doesn’t seem mad so isn’t it great? “As an artist and an aesthete, thou must have a favorite.”
“I enjoy red a lot,” she says with a chuckle. Blood, is what she probably means. Whatever intuition there is inside Don Quixote, it points out the odd intonation of her voice, and Don Quixote contemplates on just how sincere her words are.
“Red, too, is an expressive color! That is a wonderful pick indeed,” she agrees, “I, myself, take a liking to red. But it must be even more indulgent to wield in painting. I wish I could try my hand in art hereafter.”
Ryoshu laughs, and it’s somewhat longer than her usual chuckles. “Have you never tried art?” Such a long life lived, and not a single thing created. Don Quixote can only imagine her words meaning something like this.
“I have, I believe,” Don Quixote ponders, a cigarette pressed against her lips. Her mouth tastes like ash but it’s the least surprising thing. “Albeit a while ago and quite briefly. I can’t imagine I was any good at it.”
“Oh, you’re already good at it alright,” Ryoshu says. A gust of wind steals the ash off her cigarette and carries it away like little snowflakes. Don Quixote giggles at it, but her voice goes down an octave, very rapidly. At least Ryoshu can respect her for how adept she is with a weapon. It’s always flattering, coming from her.
★
It’s the second time Don Quixote killed many of them and it might not even be the last time. However much she didn’t like Hohenheim’s offer – more like a statement than an offer, truly, – she can’t deny it’s a correct, rational decision that holds the potential to save all of them, even Don Quixote herself – from being put down like a rabid animal one day, for she isn’t capable of holding herself back.
She wasn’t fully… there mentally, during that fight. She was conscious and aware and tried so hard to take it under control, put her entire being in it, but her essence was leading her, broken down under the weight of the deep, visceral, ungovernable thirst and the cries, the screams, the begging in her mind. She doesn’t trust LCE’s blood supply to be able to help that, in all honesty, – not if something were to happen to Rocinante at least. It might be of help anyway. It’d be better than nothing.
But it feels terrible anyway. Even with other Sinners’ support and the dream of winning against herself one day, she feels terrible. Guilty, too.
She remembers the fight well enough, although blurry, as if she was watching it from the bottom of a lake. Hohenheim was correct once again, the Sinners did put their lives on the line, so well they fought, so vigorously they swung their weapons, so bravely they shed blood. She watched them fight before, from the sidelines too, but rarely did she have to stand against any of them. Her blood screamed, but she could still perceive and remember their movements. At first, it went so well for them, every attack of hers dodged and most of their blows landed where they had planned to. But no normal human – not like these were truly normal, she thinks, but the point still stands – could continue fighting for too long against a Second Kindred that’s losing their mind and is also familiar with the enemy’s attacks.
She started getting through to them very fast. She doesn’t remember clearly who was the first to go – she thinks it was Sinclair – although she knows they died of blood loss after making some sort of a rash move and getting their abdomen torn open, blood splashing to the floor in a neat streak.
Don Quixote shudders slightly at the thought and tries to speed her thoughts up a bit or even a lot. She doesn’t really want to watch the slaughter she has committed second by second in her mind. What she needs is to remember if there was anything important, because something did catch her off-guard, made her stop, for just a second.
She looks out the window, at the sceneries passing by their bus. This road is a little bumpy, making her jump once in a while and her lance, propped up not too far from her, knock against the wall. She already hit her head on the window, too, when she leaned too close, and got a laugh from Sinclair at her tiny cry. They should be going off duty and having dinner pretty soon, maybe half an hour more or so. Don Quixote really wants to go back to her room and lay around for a minute, maybe doze off. Her body hurts, still, from the fighting and the dying, it’s not too bad but still noticeable, the strain in the back and all, not to mention the pain of the thirst, almost subsided but there. Good, she thinks, it should hurt more. Then shakes her head from side to side, disagreeing with the thought, and hits it on the window once more.
So, they didn’t stop there. And Dante didn’t get to rewind the clock before the fight was finished, so the ones who died didn’t come back until later. The smell of the blood spilled might’ve made Don Quixote even more mad, if the memory of what she was feeling is to trust. She lashed out at whoever was the closest to her, and the floor shook faintly under her attack, the tip of the lance almost hitting it. Meursault, with a sharp exhale, took it upon himself to endure this attack, mostly by himself.
Then Ryoshu dashed forward, trying to guide Don Quixote away from him. She parried the next attack, wearing a tight-lipped smile on her face and determination in her eyes. Ryoshu moved fast and precisely, she always did. Less predictably than some of the others. Don Quixote can appreciate the chance to fight, especially one on one, in hindsight, and thinks about offering Ryoshu to duel some day, when they get the chance.
To Ishmael, also. And possibly Meursault. Sounds like a great time. Don Quixote lets out a dreamy sigh and props her knee up on the seat, barely avoiding kicking sleepy Sinclair. Maybe, him too! Duelling is a fun possibility – especially if they’re able to avoid injury.
Ryoshu fought well but, even with her sheer power and others helping, Don Quixote still got the advantage pretty quickly. With the next hit she plunged the lance into Ryoshu’s left shoulder, and while Ryoshu was able to stab a knife into her side, too, the bloodfiends can get back to health way too quickly.
“You want to drink?” Ryoshu rasped out suddenly.
Don Quixote replied with a sound similar to a growl. “The thirst…” she said, broken off, then pierced through Ryoshu’s chest. Ryoshu twitched and coughed up blood, the droplets of it landing across Don Quixote’s face.
She licked her now bloodied lips, startled for a second, stuck in between the complex feelings. There still was a battle against her own self inside her mind. She didn’t see the first one dying right in front of her, but like that, up close she could gaze at the wound, at the blood dripping out, at Ryoshu’s face. Yes, that… might be the moment she faltered. Because the Sinners kept silent for a moment, and Dante’s ticking, one she didn’t pay attention to at the moment, stopped. They must’ve thought she came to her senses.
Ryoshu smirked, with bubbling blood running down the side of her chin. “Will it help if you do?”
Another growl has certainly come from Don Quixote’s throat when she twitched and moved to bite into her neck, the cheering of the family getting louder, louder; that was when the Sinners continued attacking her. She couldn’t take her time to just drink – so she threw Ryoshu aside, licking her lips once more.
It was just as blurry afterwards, but there were no more sparks of any moments that seemed important to think about until Vergilius entered the room and tore her to shreds like it was nothing.
There was… nothing too important in these memories, after all. The thinking part of her was probably just taken aback by Ryoshu’s words – because, what did that mean, truly? Was there a plan she wanted to execute? Did she want to check something out? Was it something that Dante commanded for? Did she just want to be fed on, for the hell of it?
This is confusing. But what is more confusing is that, the pain from the metaphorical pulled out tooth – or the rib – flares up once more. She hurt them once more and she knows it wouldn’t probably, couldn’t possibly be the last time she does. Hohenheim said the Sinners were willing to lay their lives for her but she doesn’t want that, never does. There’s a string, no, a chain, but one maid from the most fragile of metals between all of them now. And a wrong move, a tug too violent might lead to her snapping it. Maybe not the first one. And not the second one, either. But one of those, in the future might end the second-chance family she’s found or, best case scenario, get her purged from it.
Don Quixote bites at her thumb, realizes she’s staring at a stain on a window, rubs at it with a sleeve. She doesn’t want to see herself as a beast that has to wear a muzzle at all times, lest it tears the life away out of every passerby. But what else is she, really, if only Rocinante keeps her from becoming her Father, yet so much worse?
The dream is there, of course. It got tested several times already, it went through doubt, and pain, and hunger, and fear, and loss. She believes in it wholeheartedly, and everyone believes in it as well – even Father, until his last breath, did and died with a kind, loving smile, with sunshine in his eyes, believing like he did back then. But it’s everyday that it keeps being challenged – and it both stings and makes her sick.
Yi Sang taps her on the shoulder, and Don Quixote is torn out of her thoughts with a little start. She turns back to him and stares at him, big-eyed, brows up.
“Are you, perchance, feeling famished?” Yi Sang says. Don Quixote makes a noise in her throat, and Yi Sang pokes at her with a bag of something. “I believe I have heard the clamour of your stomach. A while has passed since our prior meal.”
Don Quixote makes a confused face and tries to listen to the sensations in her body. “O young Yi Sang, thine offer is most generous, and I can feel no other thing but gratitude towards thee! There cannot be a chance I refuse, forsooth,” she smiles widely, clapping her hands, although there’s no feeling of hunger she notices within. Yi Sang might be trying to feed her because she’s a bloodfiend who’s had a breakdown recently, she thinks. But this tiniest smile on his face is so genuine and kind it makes her force the thought to the corner of her mind and take whatever he’s offering her – in this case, a round bright orange cookie shaped almost like a daisy.
“What is this little, um… pie here, young Yi Sang? Such soft texture and vivid color!” she presses hard directly on its center, and the sticky outside transfers onto her fingers. Her stomach growls, noticeable to her now, – Yi Sang wasn’t wrong.
“Yakgwa”, he says, watching Don Quixote play with it before trying, “The Lunar New Year’s custom as it was in the community of mine, growing up. Seollal has come and gone by,” his gaze shifts somewhere outside the window for just a moment and then goes back.
“Seol-lal…” Don Quixote tries to pronounce the word, like she’s tasting it, until the thought strikes her, “As it was??” she almost jumps up, “Didst thou keep those for so long a time??”
“Oh, no,” Yi Sang laughs. She can hear a faint giggle from Sinclair as well – he never could sleep when anything social was happening. Someone else is laughing too, although she can’t discern who yet. “I would not have done such a thing. Just two days ago did I come across them, but was unsure of whether the time was right – to treat my friends to them, that is,” he blushes just a bit and gives a timid smile.
“Oh thank thou, young Yi Sang! My gratitude! AND, and my best wishes for the new year to thou!” she grabs his hand with the clean one of hers and shakes it, almost too furiously.
“May you have many blessings, ser Don Quixote,” Yi Sang nods at her, voice song-like.
“Awww…” Hong Lu says, approaching, hands pressed together beneath his chest. “We celebrated it too! But I didn’t get anything to share with you for celebration… I don’t even have any red envelopes to give,” he pouts a little, like he’s genuinely upset.
“I would not consider it a celebration regardless,” Yi Sang makes a humming noise, “It is but a small token of gratitude I want to pass to each one of you. Nonetheless,” he stops and looks around, pausing his gaze at Hong Lu, “I would like to have a celebration with all of you, if a possibility does arise.”
Sinclair elbows Don Quixote gently and says “finally, a party, huh?” in a teasing voice which isn’t that funny but Don Quixote also just opened her mouth to cry that out – so she can do nothing but laugh.
Yi Sang leaves her with the pie to go around the bus giving the other pies in the bag out to Sinners. Don Quixote, after thoroughly getting her hand sticky, finally bites into hers; it crunches and then gushes under her teeth just slightly, with sesame oil and sugary syrup. She looks around with mouth covered in sweet crumbles, and everyone she locks eyes with smiles or at least nods at her in response. Sinclair giggles once again, maybe at her dirty face, maybe at her wide-eyed stare. Meursault lifts a hand with a yakgwa in it and waves at her, as amicably as he always does. Ryoshu tilts her head to the side and gives her a chuckle. Dante complains about how they can’t have any and how much of a shame it is since it looks beautiful. Don Quixote feels bad for them.
The Sinners don’t seem mad. Ah.
☆
Days blend together. They stop to feed Mephistophiles once in a while, then keep going, then get a break for a quick shopping once every three days or so, whenever the time and the place is suitable for it, so everyone can get what they need, then keep going once again. Sleep in their rooms, wake up to venture into the Mirror Dungeon, come back when it’s almost night time, eat, then return to the rooms, except for whoever is on the guarding duty that night. Don Quixote gets one about that time and spends it humming random melodies that come to mind and scribbling in a notebook she bought some time ago. Maybe she really ought to try art, she thought while looking at it and a pack of some drawing equipment that seemed like both crayons and pencils, on a store shelf together.
These turned out to be pencils. Don Quixote is happy, really, because the paper in the notebook she’s bought is disturbingly thin, too similar to rice paper, and the crayons might be too heavy on it. She had her doubts in the beginning and even bit a piece of it off just for a taste. Now there is a big bite ripped off the first page of the notebook, and it doesn’t feel embarrassing as much as it feels funny. It’s not like she’s planning to show anyone this notebook – for now, at least.
There are already several pages filled up corner to corner with random drawings – more precisely, about half of the notebook. The first pages are all dedicated to the Colors’ silhouettes and faces – her eyes began to hurt while drawing them because she was staring at the book pages so hard trying to get it right. She wanted to draw some comic strips about them, too, but they only ended up as some colorful blobs, visibly drawn over to be indistinguishable. She used the free space on the pages to write the prompts she’s had (some for a long time) for later. There are some animals then – a big dog with its muzzle askew, a weirdly-shaped horse, a seagull. There’s also a page of when she was scribbling absent-mindedly, trying to end up with something that looks like a human face, which quickly became too similar to Father, and her soul stung for a moment. Don Quixote didn’t have the heart to leave him alone on the page, just like this. She added Dulcinea, and Nicolina, and Curiambro, and Bari, as she remembered them, painfully wringing out details out of her mind to add to the drawing, eyes watering. She hesitated and left it for an hour or so – then drew herself too.
This time she tries to sketch out anything she sees, like the seats, the pattern of metal and plastic panels on the bus ceiling, a lone tree she sees outside, her own lance, Dante’s face as she remembers it. Then she gives up on seriously trying and crudely recreates other Sinner’s faces from memory, laughing to herself at the silly expressions she gives them. The colors in the pencil box are not nearly enough to do something in any way impressive, of course, there are only six of the most basic ones – and it’s not like her skills in drawing would allow her to do it anyway. She quickly grasps it and starts using one or two colors for a picture, which is limiting. But it’s fun, helps to pass the time and also can easily be interrupted for some time by running across the bus when she starts feeling woozy and sleepy.
After the thinnest rays of sun show themselves, albeit far, far away, someone’s steady footsteps appear in the hall, slowly getting louder and closer. Don Quixote meets the first incoming Sinner – who is, very predictably, Meursault – while laying on her back on the seats, head hanging down and hands pressing the notebook to the back of the seat in front. She stops drawing, cranes her neck to the side to see him and waves with both hands, both full.
“Good morning, Don Quixote,” he says mildly, not even lifting an eyebrow.
“Gug mughffff–” she attempts and realizes (not soon enough) that there’s a pencil in her mouth, sideways, held by her teeth. Don Quixote doesn’t want to spit it out and drop it on the ground so she fumbles around with her hands, trying to grab it in exactly the same way she holds the other one. “Good morning to thou as well, young Meursault! My heart so hopes thy sleep was serene and undisturbed.”
“Thank you,” Meursault replies, in such a genuine voice. He walks over to the driver’s seat and presses the button for opening the bus door – he wants to collect the morning newspapers from the post box fixed to the bus, one for him and one for Don Quixote. Don Quixote sits up normally and watches him step outside after the door has finished screeching quietly while flipping through the pages of her notebook, the ones she’s used already. She kind of wants to show some of her drawings to him, although isn’t sure if she should go back on the promise she’s made to herself – that is, to not show it to anyone yet.
Meursault puts one of the newspapers next to her and sits one seat away, legs crossed in the ankles, to start reading. He holds it with both hands and plays with the corner of it, like he usually does. She gets it, really – it’s way easier to do something when your hands are busy with some kind of movement, she thinks. The paper’s rustling is soft and pleasant. It always feels so cozy, this routine they’ve adopted. She puts her feet back up, on the seat, knees pressed to her chest. She would sit there for a couple of minutes, just basking in the first sunshine and the silent presence of another person, but she’s too sleepy for it today, and the paper sounds and Meursault’s calm rhythmic breathing makes her lids heavy and heavier still.
Don Quixote barely catches the moment she starts dozing off but catches it nonetheless – the pencils in her hand fall out with a quiet noise. She yawns, shakes it off like a dog would and hits herself on the forehead with the newspaper a couple of times. Meursault turns his head to her for a second, probably just to ensure that everything is fine, then goes back to reading. That’s what she should do as well. Amongst the Wing this, district that that quickly turns into indistinguishable noise in her mind there’s always something that catches her eye. So it’s a way better strategy than sitting there falling asleep slowly but surely. And, if she’s lucky enough, she’d find something Meursault would want to discuss, even if briefly.
There’s almost nothing like this today though, as if the whole City has taken a break and stayed home for the entirety of yesterday. She comments happily on the article about some Nest’s big animal shelter being saved from fire by a couple of passersby, a low-ranked fixer among a group of manual labor workers. Meursault makes an affirming noise at it, but doesn’t seem to have anything else to add. Don Quixote flips through almost to the end and puts the newspaper aside, disappointment pulling her lips into a little momentary pout.
She goes back to drawing for some time after that, the little notebook on her knees. She tries drawing a cat for some reason, then turns the page over to the one where Meursault’s round – or, rather square – face, in blue and green, is scribbled in the corner. She shows it to him after some deliberation, and he inspects the drawing closely. “I think it’s good that you are drawing, art is a well-known therapeutic method,” he says after a while, with a voice way more serious than Don Quixote has expected for some reason, “Your strokes are unsteady and too short. It would do you good to practice on this. Although, as a beginner, your understanding of facial structure is limited,” Don Quixote knows he’s looking at the crooked eyes, one somehow way lower than the other, “I would say that the color choices and the shapes you implemented add to the expressiveness.” A perfect criticism sandwich, that’s for sure. Don Quixote feels happy and excited yet slightly sheepish for some reason, so she giggles, exclaims an over-enthusiastic “I thank thee!” and bites at the end of the pencil. He knows a lot about it, too, she thinks, maybe it would be fine to ask him some time.
Asking Ryoshu is an option but a really intimidating one. And she doesn’t know if she could handle her unrestrained criticism, because she surely wouldn’t be as gentle as Meursault. It would do Don Quixote good – as if she’s actually trying to get into serious art! this thought almost makes her laugh out loud – to train a little first. It’s such a silly thing, making plans about something so… so grandiose. So overambitious. She catches that thought as well and tastes it: is it really so absurd, compared to everything else she wishes for? Is it really so stupid, to seek solace in something like that when it hurts between the ribs, especially if she’s encouraged to?
Don Quixote sighs at it voicelessly. She doesn’t think she should ponder on these at such an early hour – then realizes she doesn’t know what time it is. She looks behind, at where the sun has started to rise, and smiles a little at the yellowish clouds.
“Young Meursault,” she calls out, turning around in the seat, on her knees, to look outside, “young Meursault, why haven’t thou done thy exercises this morning just yet? I didn’t think thou would ever disregard it.”
“Hm?” Meursault says. “I didn’t disregard them. I was planning on doing them later.” Don Quixote gasps, partly teasing, but mostly surprised. She glances over at Meursault with her brows high up and tilts her head to the side. He understands her meaning before she has the chance to speak. “It was too cold yesterday morning,” he adds, voice mild. Don Quixote is happy at the thought he became so much more communicative than before.
“It was, indeed! I was shivering long after,” she puts her arms around herself, vivid memory in her mind, “I would not have opined the cold bothered thou, truly.”
“The cold doesn’t bother me but, not after having just woken up.” There’s a small pause in the middle of his statement that Don Quixote usually notices when he’s admitting to something he might not want to admit.
“I see! Hm hm hm! When I must have these shower days…” she shivers at the thought, staring at a sunlit building, “I despise the feeling thereupon, when thou hast freshly left the gentle warmth and now ought to handle the cold as though the whole world hast turned to ice…” Meursault nods at her in understanding or maybe agreement.
“S.S.,” says the voice from somewhere behind. Don Quixote yelps.
“Young Ryoshu! I bid thou good morning!” she says. Ryoshu says “morning” back, so casually and smooth, sticking a cigarette in her mouth. “H-hast thou been here for some time?”
“She has,” Meursault replies after a long pause, since Ryoshu doesn’t move to take the unlit cigarette out, “Not for long. About a minute and a half. You were talking and I didn’t want to interrupt.” It makes sense. Don Quixote breathes out and smiles widely.
“I haven’t noticed thou come in anywise… Thou art early today. What was it that thou hast said? ’S.S’… ’Salutations, Sinners’?” she assumes, rubbing at her chin.
“I think she means ‘same shit’,” Meursault says instead of her once again.
“Yeah,” Ryoshu responds finally, “Feels gross.”
Don Quixote jumps up and claps her hands. “I attempt to get clothed as soon as I am done – yet there art times mine garments happen to be besmirched, and oh how it prolongeth the suffering of mine…” Meursault nods at it, and Ryoshu smirks in a way that seems understanding, as if they both truly get it. Don Quixote returns to drawing slightly peeved by the memory but satisfied.
Just a little later Meursault deems it warm enough and an apt time to go outside for a stretch. He has his own set of exercises he does every time, and she either copies him or not depending on the day. Don Quixote starts out doing the same ones he does but derails halfway to practice cartwheels — der Radschlags — she’s learned about not too long ago. Ryoshu watches them, leaning on the bus and smoking. Sometimes she does her own thing alongside them but today it seems like she’s not in the mood to move, so even after finishing two cigarettes she stays here.
They didn’t have the time to hang out together recently, Ryoshu and Don Quixote, and just looked at each other once in a while. It’s quite unlucky, she thinks. She has something new she wants to ask about, and even though it isn’t something pressing or time-sensitive in the slightest, she is so curious. No, not only that, Don Quixote corrects herself, – she wants to spend some time together. Doing anything, pretty much. Smoking, sitting together, training, goodness she wants to fight her. She also wants to just talk. She wants to get Ryoshu to talk herself, to reveal anything about herself. She’s already used to people around that bus not wanting to say anything about their pasts and tell on themselves until they can conceal it no more, Don Quixote isn’t sure if she would be up to it if she had her memories back then. But fucking hell was this one intriguing. She looks at Ryoshu after doing a botched cartwheel, and she looks back with an absent-minded head tilt. She doesn’t seem to be fully there mentally so Don Quixote decides to steer clear of bothering her, however much she wants to.
When they go back, it’s cooler inside yet pleasant – the air doesn’t feel as stale. They could’ve closed the door and waited for someone to open it back up for them, but Charon likes it way better when she comes back and it’s well ventilated. When the Sinners argued with Vergilius to let them leave the bus in the morning (without going far, obviously) before he’s here, she interrupted another one of his no’s and said it herself. He sighed deeply, looked at her with a face clearly conveying disagreement and then agreed anyway.
There are also two more Sinners that came out of their rooms, Yi Sang and Ishmael, and even more begin to filter in – must be about seven thirty. Don Quixote greets them with a lot of hand waving and smiling, and she even does the same when Vergilius walks in, hands in the pockets of his pants. It’s not on purpose but she doesn’t back down when she realizes it’s him, so he snorts a little and greets her as well.
When Gregor comes in, looking a little disheveled, Don Quixote runs up to him – he was the one who taught her how to do a cartwheel, although he refused to do one himself – to show what she’s got as of now. She thinks for a second if the space between the seats is enough to do it and forgets that thought immediately as she cartwheels towards him announcing “der rad-schlag”, her voice breaking for a moment halfway. Gregor recoils back with a shocked face, dodging her boots flying towards his face, and she apologizes profusely as soon as she lands both of her feet, grabbing at the sleeve of his shirt. He gulps, immediately looking more awake than before.
“That’s a good one–” he starts speaking before Vergilius cuts in.
“No radschlags on the bus,” his voice is loud but not too sharp. It’s not a warning – or at least it seems like this because he sounds quite exhausted. Don Quixote shivers nonetheless and scurries towards her place.
Ryoshu smirks from her seat, crossing her legs. “K.J.,” she mutters, quiet enough for Vergilius not to hear it (although it’s up to debate if his ears can miss anything anyone is saying, however quiet). Don Quixote turns her head around, eyebrows high. Ryoshu scrunches her nose, such a tiny movement, and chuckles, looking directly at her with her head lifted up a bit. Don Quixote to stifles a laugh as she gets into her seat, barely remembering the pencils scattered around it in time.
☆
They stop for some shopping in the evening. They’ve actually planned to do it yesterday, but it turned out to not be on the cards. Since there were no pressing emergencies among the Sinners (like Gregor running out of cigarettes or Rodya desiring a little treat), nobody was too against it – but then again, it’s not like they had the choice to disagree.
Don Quixote runs around every single shop she sees. Today fortunately turned out to be exactly the day this month’s issue of the Great Fixer Magazine (with figurines attached!) went on sale, but it doesn’t mean it already got to every single store in the City. She has to barge into and search about five shops before she finds it and yells so loud the shop worker flinches and Sinclair comes running to her from a nearby store, alarmed thoroughly.
She doesn’t know which Fixer it would be exactly – the figurines come in a blind bag, chosen randomly from the specific issue’s raffle. Don Quixote’s hands itch to open it up immediately but she contains her excitement, although barely, and decides to wait up until she’s on the bus; trembling with the sheer awe, she dropped the figurines down in the dirt and the dust or even broken off and lost a piece way more than twice or thrice. It’s simply not worth it, honestly, however strong the temptation is and however red her cheeks are.
When she walks over (skipping would be a better way to describe it) to the next store she’s planned on visiting, gripping the bag like her life depends on it, she passes Ryoshu sprawled on a somewhat remote bench. The edge of her coat hangs down, nearly on the ground, and a sleeve is caught on the bench back, like she’s posing on purpose. Ryoshu seems to be watching people passing by but her gaze is fixed to one spot so Don Quixote isn’t sure what is actually the case here. The look on her face isn’t so somber it would stop Don Quixote from bothering her for the time being – but she still falters, unsure.
Ryoshu notices her seconds after, waves lazily and brushes her coat away so someone would be able to take a sit beside. Well, not someone – it’s a clear invitation in Ryoshu’s book. Don Quixote didn’t plan on stopping for a smoke break with Ryoshu, but she’s mostly done with whatever she wanted to do, the bag quite heavy in the hand, and it’s been only twenty minutes of the forty minutes Vergilius has given them. Ryoshu seems to be done, too. There are some things lying near her boot, supported by a bench leg.
“Hee-hee, young Ryoshu,” Don Quixote approaches, swaying the empty hand like a pendulum, “I take notice that thou hast found all thou wanted? Is that why thou ensconced thyself here all alone?”
“Mhm,” she replies noncommittally, “Want one?”
“Thou art scheming to spoil me, dear friend,” Don Quixote laughs as she plops down, “I would in no way decline thy gift.”
She takes the cigarette offered, holds it in between her teeth and lights it, noticing how Ryoshu makes no move to take one herself. She wants to comment on that but her eye remains just as thoughtful as it was before and Don Quixote remains not knowing what she is to do, yet not excruciatingly so.
It’s okay, she thinks, they don’t have to talk about anything at all, forsooth. It isn’t like she’s uncomfortable, she can appreciate friendly silence – she could, even before La Manchaland and regaining her memories. Don Quixote might be in a more talkative mood today and might also be very curious about what got Ryoshu pondering like that but she doesn’t want to disrupt Ryoshu’s line of thought, whatever it is she’s thinking about.
“I got a drink for my guarding duty tonight,” Ryoshu says anyway, “Ever tried those?” She pulls a can out of the bag, a curious tone of blueish green. It shines prettily in the light though, and Ryoshu looks at it like she’s admiring it, too.
“Ah, I have seen those! I have had one, only once, and… ugh, the flavor was not to my liking,” Don Quixote remembers it, so strangely sweet and medicinal and a bit sour, altogether creating a horrible sensation in her mouth. “I do not recall having a reaction of any kind to it, sadly. At least the sugar was indeed enough to remediate mine temper. Dost thou like those?”
“They’re fine, but I prefer coffee,” she throws the can back, uncaring of how and where it lands. The can clatters when it hits the ground.
“Ah-ha! I have noticed thy liking towards coffee,” Don Quixote has indeed noticed that: if there is such an option, Ryoshu would always go for a cup. “Forsooth, I am also a fan of it myself! Although this mind of mine could never fathom drinking it as is, no cream or sugar.”
Ryoshu snickers. “I don’t get how you can drink instant coffee. It tastes like liquid dirt to me,” she retaliates fast. She must’ve thought about it already. Don Quixote gasps, a little too theatrical, and chokes on the smoke a little.
“W-Well, yes, I suppose!” she takes another drag after coughing for a second, “Yet I have had many a coffee throughout my life, hence I have come to believe if thou take a coffee of any sort naked, it would have that same issue thou art describing.”
“Would it now,” Ryoshu says with a smirk, “It’s an issue of H.A.D.F.T. then.”
“Of what?” Don Quixote doesn’t even get to fully process the acronym before asking on reflex and Ryoshu doesn’t repeat it or wait for Don Quixote to decrypt it either.
“Having A Dreadful Fucking Taste,” she finishes in a pleased tone.
She could’ve gotten it if she took time to think, is the first thing that comes to mind. The second one is the plan to act deeply hurt, and Don Quixote even tries it until her own laugh cuts her off.
“Thou wound me so, young Ryoshu… I might wind up having to challenge thee to a fair duel,” that’s a prod, among everything else. It seems pretty timely to ask about training together in such an opportunity.
Ryushu narrows the eyes and lifts up her head, seeming thoroughly challenged. “Ready when you are.” The lines around her eyes become sharper – she definitely enjoys the idea.
Don Quixote smiles at her, wide and probably very toothy, then makes a little ah sound. “That reminds me, I wanted to query thou about… uhh,” she quickly trails off though, unsure. Ryoshu says nothing at that but looks like she’s waiting. Don Quixote chews on it for a couple of seconds. “Didst thou offer me a drink, back then?”
“What drink? Coffee?” Ryoshu seems genuinely perplexed, and the smile lines disappear a little. Don Quixote scrunches her nose, immediately doubtful.
“Of blood. That time ye all battled me last,” she says, looking down and breaking eye contact, “I do not have a clear enough memory of it, truly, yet…”
“Ah, this. Yeah,” Ryoshu replies casually after Don Quixote goes silent to take a long drag. The cigarette has almost burned down.
“For which purpose?” she says immediately and looks back at Ryoshu for a second, in search of anything. “Wast thou fearful?” she suggests, in a slightly quieter voice. Ryoshu snorts at that.
“Do you think I know fear?” she clicks her tongue. You probably do, Don Quixote thinks, even if that’s not the case here. “Clockhead said we’d have to Q.Y.T. I thought that’s the plan.”
“Quench mine thirst, thou meant? But we know not whether the bloodfiend bite would be reversible, still,” she rubs at her temple thoughtfully, trying to not lose the theatrics and failing for a moment, “If the kind of mine feeds on a human, they become a bloodbag quite quickly.”
“Eh,” Ryoshu voices out, dismissively, “Didn’t think about that too much. You were raging.”
“Ahhh… I know I have made quite a trouble for ye, verily,” Don Quixote sinks back into the bench, twisting the burnt down cigarette in her fingers. She knows her voice sounds sad and piteous but there’s nothing she can do about it.
“Watching you fight is hot,” Ryoshu says after keeping silent for a moment and then passes her another cigarette, “So it’s nothing.”
Don Quixote stares at her, eyes huge, hand frozen mid-air.
“If it’s the only way to get you back to your senses one day, it’d be better if you just D.A.M.N.* before you wipe everyone out?” Ryoshu tries again, with a questioning intonation in the end, as if that was the issue that got her bothered.
Don Quixote bites her lower lip and accidentally tears off a scab. She doesn’t fully understand the acronym – but the context clues are there. She cares about them all, she really does, something in her screams out, she’s admitted to it just now.
Ryoshu also really does notice Don Quixote fighting and thinks it’s hot – this thought is even louder. She grabs the cigarette Ryoshu’s still holding up for her and puts her mouth around it, trying to mask the onslaught of whatever this is with a forcefully steadied hand.
“Don’t suggest such a thing to a bloodfiend ever again, I beg of you,” Don Quixote clears her throat after lighting the cigarette up and taking a long drag. Ryoshu laughs and crosses her arms, like she’s content, like she’s got what she’s needed.
“Does having bloodfiend blood do anything to a human?” she asks instead of saying anything about Don Quixote's plea, in a mild, level voice, “I think I’ve heard something about that before.” Don Quixote furrows her brow – it’s slightly disorienting to go from a topic such as that to just discussing some theoretical situations.
“I don’t think so?... I have not known many humans before, and I definitely have not had them try my blood. It would probably taste quite vile anyway,” she thinks about Bari and what they had – and doesn’t recall such a thing happening.
“Oh-ho,” Ryoshu lights up her own cigarette now, throwing her head back for a second to blow out the smoke in a thin straight line, “It’s easy to check.”
She brings her hand towards Don Quixote’s face, suddenly. It’s a slow movement but the slowness doesn’t take away from the confusion. The hand stops just beside her cheek, without touching, and Ryoshu gives her a questioning look. She waits – for what? It’s as if Don Quixote’s head has gears in it which she uses to think, and they turn heavily, so heavily, making a screeching noise.
She makes a little ah noise, teeth compressing the cigarette filter, nods silently when the gears finally come into their places, brings the cigarette away. Ryoshu’s hand resumes its movement, and she swipes her thumb against Don Quixote’s lip, against Don Quixote’s already smudged blood. It stings a little when Ryoshu hits the tiny wound with her nail – but it’s not like it is unpleasant and it for sure hurts way less than Don Quixote plunging a lance through Ryoshu’s chest.
Ryoshu takes the cigarette out to free up her mouth and breathes out, pressing the thumb to her tongue. Her eyes, sparkling curiously, tear away from Don Quixote’s face, lowering to where her finger meets the lips. Don Quixote can’t help but lick over where Ryoshu’s just touched. Ryoshu looks back at her and chuckles – possibly at the thoroughly confused expression adorning her face, or at the situation as it is, or maybe there’s something else she finds funny. “How was it?” Don Quixote asks, quietly, after almost burning herself on the face with a cigarette she forgot about. It comes out somewhat strained.
“Pretty nice,” Ryoshu says casually and clicks her tongue like she’s tasting a fine liquor.
Don Quixote nods, tries to get any words out for a second but only manages a distressed sounding noise before composing herself. “Forsooth, I am joyful it doth not seem to have an effect of some sort!” she puts a cigarette back in her mouth to clap her hands happily. “I am also quite astounded thou dost not find the flavor vile, for the bloodfiend’s blood is–”
“Ahhh, S.U.” Ryoshu cuts in and rolls her eyes, as if she’s annoyed, “Come ‘ere.”
“Dost thou mean… shut up?” Don Quixote swallows nervously after taking a drag, scrambling to understand what is happening, not getting it anymore and being unsure of whether this is due to how her head is spinning under the nicotine’s influence. Ryoshu clears it up by grabbing her by the shoulder, nails clenching hard enough to press into the bone, and drags her closer, closer, until she can feel Ryoshu’s breath.
“You keep looking at my face – and my mouth,” she blows out the smoke just to the side of Don Quixote’s face. The grip on her skin and the look in Ryoshu’s eyes – they somehow make her feel small, but in a weirdly exciting way. Do I , she wants to say earnestly, because she hasn't really noticed that. But Ryoshu’s gaze, and her smile too can only be interpreted as a challenge – as a dare. And everything she says now, it’s deliberate and pointed. So Don Quixote waits for a couple of seconds, just to try to decrypt all of that once more, then lunges forward, probably way too fast, and presses their lips together for just a moment.
It’s a quick one, mostly close-mouthed. Ryoshu moves the hand on Don Quixote’s shoulder to the back of her head, making her lean even closer. She handles Don Quixote too mindfully to assume she plans on forcing her to stay here – but it’s a proposition of it, no doubt. Don Quixote ponders on it with the only part of her brain left that is not overwhelmed completely to the point she can barely process the sensation, decides to indulge Ryoshu (and what the hell, her own self) for a few more seconds and then maybe… what? Maybe what? Ryoshu bites at her lower lip just a bit, exactly at the place where the wound is, and judging by the taste of it draws some more blood.
She breaks it before Don Quixote could decide and laughs immediately. “You’re panting,” Ryoshu says, and her voice is somewhere between simply stating the fact and teasing.
I am, Don Quixote thinks, damn, I am. She doesn’t answer before taking a deep drag, trying to concentrate on the taste to bring herself to the ground from this overexcited high. “Haaaah, young Ryoshu,” she begins, with a smile quite feeble and her eyes timidly locked with Ryoshu’s yet again, “thou hast given me quite the startle with this! Hm hm hm, I apologize, were I not to the expectations thou hast had of me…” she cuts herself off, another wave of realization hitting, presses a hand to her mouth and turns her head to the side. “Fuck, that’s insane,” she groans, trying to be quiet.
Ryoshu makes a noise that sounds like a chuckle and seems to be planning to speak too, but she doesn’t get to. “What’s insane?” Gregor says as he’s approaching. The sudden appearance makes Don Quixote jump and almost drop the cigarette. “What’re you talking about?”
“Oh, hi– Um, salutations, young Gregor!” she barely avoids stuttering and waves with both hands. Ryoshu lets out a relaxed “yo”, nothing more than simply acknowledging his presence. “Hast thou finished with, ah, shopping?”
Gregor furrows his brow and doesn’t say a thing for a moment. “Yeah, I have, hope you have too,” he finally speaks up and points toward the bus like he’s in a rush to get to it, his feet already moving, “I’m just, gonna go, actually. See you both later.”
“Wait, art thou leaving?” Don Quixote asks like the answer to this question isn’t the most obvious thing at this point.
“Don’t wanna know what’s that you’re discussing – and you don’t want me here either,” he says, so considerately quiet as he passes their bench. Don Quixote probably makes a face so pathetic Ryoshu laughs again on an exhale.
*D.A.M.N. – Drain All Matter Needed