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It wasn’t often that Don Quixote found herself lost in her own mind. Usually, Don quite preferred to air her thoughts out loud, allowing her voice to untangle whatever issue she had mentally stumbled into, but right now was different.
It was around midnight she supposed, and everyone had returned to their quarters within Mephistopheles besides herself. She sat against a window, chin in her hand, as she stared at the unmoving nothing in the darkness outside the parked bus. Not a soul made a noise, and thus, Don Quixote kept her voice inside.
The thoughts plaguing her regarded a certain ginger-haired sailor wearing a white bow. Not her herself, but more so an event from nights before that had involved said sailor.
Fights were common upon the bus. Ryoshu would make some kind of comment, or Heathcliffe would break someone’s bones for some slight against him. Sinclair would try to settle everyone down and end up collateral damage. Hong-lu would say something unintentionally unsavory and get himself bashed in with the weapon of whatever sinner he had insulted. Then, there was Don herself.
Don was the type to jump in without thinking, preferring to deal with the consequences of actions later rather than in the moment, so she would usually end fights started by the other sinners rather than create one. Recently, one such fight had occurred.
Heathcliff, as per routine, had been angry. Angry at what? Don didn’t recall. Whatever it was, a certain sailor had begun to argue against him, with Ryoshu chiming in something or other. Without a thought beforehand, something sparked in Don Quixote’s head, and her weapon slashed through the throats of two sinners, before popping through the skull of another. She proclaimed her victory over their injustice.
It had been an injustice, but Don Quixote still found herself sitting against the bus window, brow furrowed, and stomach churning with a feeling she found quite unpleasant.
Don Quixote felt guilty.
Why? Don, in hindsight, realized that unlike Heathcliff, Ishmael and Ryoshu had not lifted a finger towards the man, and Don still took both out alongside him. While Ryoshu’s exploding head did not spawn much emotion within her, the slitting of Ishmael’s throat made Don feel uneasy, and she found herself regretting not thinking before acting as she usually did.
She lifted her head with a sigh, repositioning herself to where her head rested against the back of the seat, her golden eyes staring upward towards the ceiling of Mephistopheles. She scrunched her eyes shut tightly, and began lightly thumping her head against the back of the soft seat in frustration.
She didn’t like the guilt. She didn’t understand why Ishmael in particular was caught in her head. Not even just the events that transpired that left Don in such a state, but rather the girl in general. Her smile was rare, but it was something that lingered in Don Quixote’s brain a little more than she could make meaning of.
Before she knew it, She found herself walking towards the back of the bus. Don didn’t really remember even standing up, but she let herself take a back seat within her consciousness as her legs led her to a door.
Ishmael’s quarters.
Should she even try? Surely the sailor was asleep, it was almost 1 am at this point, and Ishmael did not seem like the type to stay up this late. If Don woke her up, she doubted this would go over the way she found herself wanting.
She lifts a tentative fist to knock.
Before Don would knock upon the door, the room suddenly opens, with an Ishmael in a nightgown standing before her. The two both jumped back, startled by the sudden entrance of another sinner before them.
“Jesus fucking christ,” Ishmael breathed out, closing her eyes and clutching her chest. She sighed, and then continued, “Don Quixote. Should I even ask what you are doing just… standing at my door? In the dead of night?”
Don was too startled to reply.
“Listen, I don’t want to know. I just want some water. Whatever it is, can it not wait until tomorrow?” The sailor lightly shouldered past the blonde.
Don couldn’t think, her jaw was open to respond, but no sound came out. She kept watching as Ishmael exhaustedly trudged further into the bus. Suddenly, she found her mouth speaking without her brain catching up.
“I wanted to say sorry,” She had murmured.
The strangeness of that statement was enough to cause Ishmael to halt. She swung herself around slightly, her hair flowing across the floor as she held one foot towards Don, looking at her sideways.
“You don’t talk like that,” was what she said. “Don Quixote does not talk like that.”
“Right you are, fair maiden! T’was not the voice of Don Quixote!” She hastily replied. “Some dastardly deed must be afoot, to have copied mine voice!”
Ishmael just blankly stared at her.
“Alas, the clock striketh 1, Don Quixote shall retire herself to her quarters. May lady luck shine on thee, retrieving a fresh beverage of thine desire! I bid thee adieu.”
She turned on her heel. She couldn’t handle this, she could barely come up with words to say. She was a mess, her stomach hurt, she was not expecting to actually speak to Ishmael right now and she had not expected to slip like that during such an important moment, she-
-was stopped by a hand on her shoulder.
“Come in,” Ishmael stated. “You’re going to tell me what that was about. I’m not going to just let you run off after all this weird shit.”
And thus, Don was swept into the sailor’s room.
The walls were a dark blue, with a few frames containing paintings of some sort. It seemed they were all of the ocean in some regard. Some sort of harpoon hung on the wall as well. The floor was covered in a light blue carpet, which led up to a decently sized bed, draped in a blue and white blanket.
It took a moment to realize that Don had actually never seen within Ishmael’s quarters.
“I want you to cut out the weird, old-timey talking like you did earlier. I’m tired, I can’t sleep, and I just want you to talk normally and tell me what the hell you were doing at my door, and what you’re on about..”
She ginger had crawled up upon her bed while speaking, pulling her bed’s blanket up and around her shoulders to create a sort of tent around her form. Don supposed she was cold.
“Don Quixote doesn’t-”
“Sit down,” Ishmael interrupted. When Don just stared back at her, she tapped the bed beside her. “Just sit down. I’m not going to make you just stand there. Sit.”
Don hesitantly complied, slowly approaching the bed. She climbed up, letting herself take a seat besides the taller girl. She felt her heart beating, was this part of her guilt? Her adrenaline was rushing in some weird way, she felt her face begin to warm and a strange knot in her throat.
“Don Quixote.”
Don snapped to attention, back into her reality.
Ishmael was looking at her with tired, green eyes. “I’m exhausted, Don. I can’t sleep at all. Do you understand what insomnia is? I haven’t been able to fall asleep since we got back from that dungeon. Please, just tell me what you want.”
It had been a day since they had lost the golden bough, along with that red-headed girl. Don’s thoughts drifted to Ishmael meeting the fate that Yuri had. She shuddered as the Ishmael in her mind had her head lopped off of the False Apple.
Don had done the same thing, huh?
“I’m sorry,” Don’s voice quivered out, breaking the silence.
Instead of interrupting this time, Ishmael stayed silent, her eyes carefully watching the blonde’s expression.
“You didn’t do anything wrong, arguing isn't… something that deserves being nearly beheaded over,” Don stammered out. “He was hurting people! I had to step in but I took it too far! That isn’t what Don Quixote stands for!”
Ishmael continued to quietly stare, but something in her expression had softened somewhat.
Don could feel wetness climb out from her eyes and down her face as she continued to go on, “And then, when Yuri… her head she… they cut it off, I saw Gregor’s face, I….” Don’s hands went to her face, her fingers curling as she covered her eyes.
“What if that’d been you?” Don found herself shouting. “I did the same thing, you were innocent and I killed you!”
Something soft was draped around the crying girl’s shoulder, a warm hand grasping her shoulder within it pulled Don towards Ishmael. Don’s head was directed towards the girl’s shoulder, where she silently continued to let her tears fall. A hand interlocked its fingers with Don’s, raising both up slightly in between the pair, where Ishmael tightened her grip.
“Is that all this was about?” The ginger sailor asked, a softness having entered her voice. “Don, we all know sometimes you don’t think before you act.” Ishmael resisted the urge to use the word ‘constantly’ instead of ‘sometimes.’
Ishmael let her head droop over Don Quixote’s. “Besides, we can’t die. Even if sometimes I’d like to mash some of these people to a bloody pulp, Dante can always bring them back.” Ishmael murmured. “It ultimately is a small thing to get this upset over. It’s okay.”
Don felt their heart tighten. She looked down at her hands, one clutching the girl next to her’s own, and the other sitting empty and limp within her resting lap.
“Yuri didn’t come back,” Don finally spoke up again. “If something went wrong, or Dante goes away… you might not come back.”
Ishmael felt the grip on her own hand getting stronger. The strange shaped puzzle pieces in her mind were starting to create an odd picture, but one that made sense nonetheless.
“I never expected this from you,” Ishmael stated softly. She slowly loosened her hand from the other sinner’s, moving it within the blanket huddle to Don Quixote’s other side. It found Don’s head, and comfortingly began to stroke its way through messy blonde hair. “You don’t understand it yourself, do you?”
Don shook her head ever so slightly. Though some weight had lifted off her shoulders, the feelings she felt weren’t going away. The tightness of her chest and throat, the pace of her heartbeat… Surely some guilt must have gone upon her confession? Was this guilt at all, even?
“Can… can you help me understand it?” Don quietly asked.
Ishmael flashed a soft smile to the other sinner. Even in the dark, Don could see that smile that had lived in her mind’s eye for so long. She found herself smiling as well.
“Not tonight,” Ishmael stated. “But sure, I’ll do my best.”
Don felt her smile grow larger as Ishmael moved herself across the bed to her pillow, pulling the blanket with her and settling her head onto a pillow.
“Thine cooperation is utmost appreciated!” Don stated as she began to stand up, most of her sorrows having faded from within her body. “Don Quixote must depart, and-”
“Come here,” Ishmael interrupted. “Bed’s big enough.”
The blonde’s expression faltered and her face flushed, but she listened to the other sinner’s request, slowly crawling across until she reached Ishmael’s side. Don pulled half the blanket across her and laid her head on the second pillow.
“I don’t want to make you walk all the way back to your own room after that,” Ishmael sounded more tired than she had before.
Don smiled. “Request granted, now a request of mine own… please don’t expose me as capable of speaking the modern tongue.”
A giggle. “Dummy. Okay,” the sailor whispered as her mind began to fade. Somehow, with the other sinner beside her, she felt sleep was able to claim her more easily.
She could get used to this.