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She trains, and she gets better. Slowly but surely. Blister by blister, bruise by bruise.
Doa is already good.
Doa moves with natural grace, with the feral instinct of a forest animal, and when reason goes out in her eyes and the bloodlust sets in, she is lost in a blur of speed and want and death.
Rin isn't jealous, she concludes, swallowing the lump of fear in her throat, reminding herself of the girl inside the fighter, of the crying, shaking bundle of confusion and fear she's soothed through the nights. She can't fight as well as Doa and never will. In the end, she is glad for it.
She gets behind Manji's defences. Slowly but surely. Excuse after excuse, image by image.
Doa is already where she wants to be.
There are no fences between her and Isaku, and when they touch, talk, exchange glances, it is with natural closeness as reflexive as breathing.
She isn't jealous, Rin concludes, turning her head when Doa reaches up to nibble at Isaku's lower lip, reminding herself of the desperate dependence, of the subservient silences and sheepish smiles. Manji isn't Isaku, and will never be. In the end, she is glad for it.
So she isn't jealous, Rin concludes, and in the end she is glad. Then Doa puts a hand over hers in a gesture so natural and warm that sends ripples throughout her body, before leaning in close, close and leaving again without feeling the pull, the empty space. And maybe she is jealous after all.