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In the quiet bus, Sinclair’s eyes snapped open. He jolted up from the seat with a gasp, panting as he clutched his halberd so tightly that his knuckles became paler than his face. The sudden reaction, fortunately, was enough to allow him to ground himself and push his mind away from an otherwise inevitable panic attack. With his feet firmly planted on the ground, as if the bus was still moving, he focused on his breathing.
Just a nightmare...God, get a grip already!
The panic was soon replaced with a reprimand, sounding suspiciously akin to one of his colleagues’ tone. He didn’t pay much attention to it, rather preferring to focus on his present state of being; where he was, what time it was, and who else was around.
It didn’t take long for the young man to answer his doubts; from his rapidly clearing memory, he was able to recall that Limbus Company was currently in the middle of its company-mandatory rest hours, so no one except him and Manager Dante were at the front of Mephistopheles. The latter also seemed to be sleeping (although Sinclair wasn’t sure if he could call it that, with all due respect). Sinclair also concluded he must have fallen asleep just as the break had started, and everyone else had been too tired to wake him up and send him to his quarters. He couldn’t blame them, though he did feel a bit mortified about the ordeal.
How long ago was that...
Sinclair’s eyes shifted to the windows nearby. He noticed they were fogged up, a factor that at first alarmed him. But, reasoning that someone as powerful as Vergilius would have sensed danger, the young man reasoned it was probably just a weather condition. To confirm his hypothesis, he inched closer to one of the windows, and wiped the condense with his free hand. His eyes were immediately greeted by the sight of large white carpets, sprawled where just a few hours prior there had been grass and mud and the remnants of old stony paths.
Snow.
Sinclair performed rapid calculations in his head; sure enough, Limbus Company had reached another winter. And, if he recalled correctly, they were travelling through the northern districts where the weather was at its coldest. Maybe Vergilius had insisted on the break purposefully to avoid incidents, although knowing Mephistopheles, it was doubtful that the bus’s worst enemy could be ice. Perhaps he was just being nice. It was hard to tell with that man.
Nevertheless, the poor lack of light indicated that there was still a while to go before dawn. Therefore, none of the other Sinners would have been awake by now, let alone ready to mentally and physically endure another series of work tasks. Sinclair didn't mind much; the quiet that a long time ago used to unnerve him, now had long since revealed itself to be the lesser evil alternative. Not to mention that staring at the snow was somewhat relaxing.
The young man sat down on a bus seat again, watching the white world with a melancholic expression. He had forgotten when was the last time he had been at peace at the sight of all that snow...
“Young Sinclair! Good morrow to you!”
Of course, in Limbus Company silence could never last long. Whether it was due to a client, or an opponent, or a co-worker, there was always a loud sign of life around every corner. Sinclair should have expected it, he knew it deep down. But the one thing he had learned after almost a year of working besides Don Quixote, was that even now she still found ways to be unpredictable.
“Ah!” He turned his head quickly. “Good- Good morning, Don Quixote; you’re up early”
“Ah, a valiant knight such as I requires little sleep! A couple of hours, ‘tis enough for full replenishment!” The young woman patted her chest with more enthusiasm than was necessary. “But if I may be honest with thee, I have been call’d”
“Huh? By whom?”
Don Quixote’s eyes then began to sparkle. She pointed at the window next to Sinclair, and her finger was trembling.
“Why, by the fair snow of course!” She said. “Would thou not say that we have been bless’d by Lady Winter this fine morrow? Such craftsmanship, ‘tis truly a miracle of life!”
Sinclair wanted to point out it was just snow, but then thought against it. Maybe she wasn’t used to the weather, and he didn’t want to offend her.
“It does look nice” he nodded, looking at the scenery. “It seems to have happened overnight; I hope we won’t have any problems today”
Don Quixote continued to vibrate, and it was unclear whether the poor bus isolation system had something to do with it or she was really that excited at the sight before them. Sinclair, after all, had to admit that their outfits were not the best suited for below 0 Celsius weather, and he could only hope that this factor wasn’t going to impact the Sinners in potential snowy battles. He was still pondering the implications when he felt a tug on his arm, so strong it almost caused him to fall off the seat. He looked back, and was met with a closeup of Don Quixote’s enthusiastic face, her eyes so bright they could rival the morning sun.
“Young Sinclair!” She said. “I beg thee to join me in exploring this wondrous new landscape!”
The young man blinked, trying to ignore how the problem of poor heat wasn’t bothering his face anymore.
“I- excuse me?”
“Our fellow companions have not yet stirred, nor will the terrifying man await for the fair sun to reach its peak. ‘Tis now or never, my fellow Sinclair!”
What...why is she speaking like we’re going to run away? Is it that serious for her? Snow isn’t nice once you’ve felt how cold.it is...
Though Sinclair’s experienced mind was filled with drawbacks, his eyes couldn’t separate themselves from Don Quixote’s face. The resolve he had gathered to speak out seemed to grow fainter and fainter the more he stared at her enthusiasm, and the warmth of her hands was a more welcoming presence than any kind of heating pad (though he couldn’t bear to admit it out loud). Somehow, the young man felt like had been cornered with kindness, to accept the innocent request of one who, to her credit, might have never experienced snow.
That can’t be helped. It wouldn’t be nice to disappoint her...yes, that’s a good reason to accept. Just this once. Just this once...
He used that crumb of conviction to nod, and he had barely done so when she dragged him out of the seat with a gleeful yell, which rang in his ears alongside the clang! his halberd made as it hit the floor. From the corner of his eye, the Manager didn’t seem to steer in spite of the noise.
“Joyful day! Forsooth let us go then! Onwards to the white wonderland!"
Sinclair followed after her, stumbling on the metal floor as he tried to regain his balance. It was only as they landed on the rough snow, and the young woman began prancing around like a reindeer in ecstasy, that he noticed she had let go of his hand only then. He stared at it, thousands of thoughts swirling around his head as he opened and closed it slowly.
It felt cold.
-----
To some extent, the first few minutes they spent outside felt like a blur to Sinclair.
Perhaps acknowledging the little time they had, Don Quixote had made it her mission to do as many activities as possible; those were a little unusual, even for someone who had apparently not seen snow in years, if ever. Among the snowy plane, the young woman ran and danced, throwing snow in the air, rolling around it, and even piling up snowballs on top of one another without rhyme or reason. She was laughing all along those actions, shouting in glee like a child. And in spite of the simplicity of those chaotic actions, the ensemble made Sinclair remember moments long gone. He would like to say it was that bittersweetness that spurred him to join her, teach her how to make a small snowman, and how to throw snowballs.
The first instance had been a bit of a blur. The latter, though tiring, was clear as day in Sinclair’s mind.
Don Quixote was a diligent student, and everything she learned only made her more excited. She soon became even better than the young man, crafting the largest snowmen and making the cleanest angels Sinclair had ever seen. At some point, her throwing had gotten so good she ended up involving him in a short snowball fight. There was not a clear winner, though Don Quixote insisted she had won the game. Regardless, it was a lot more fun than the other was expecting.
Perhaps because of how many activities that had crammed at once, the two Sinners soon grew tired. So they sat down in the snow, where the plane seemed on the verge of a steep hill, watching as the light of dawn peaked little by little through the clouds.
“‘Tis quite impressive, is it not?” Don Quixote remarked. “In spite of a nefarious barrier, light always triumphs! ‘Tis a metaphor by nature, of good versus evil, of proof of the existence of good! Wouldn’t thou say so?”
“Hm hm”
Don Quixote was captivated by the sight. However, Sinclair at some point switched his focus to something else. A matter that was not as bright, nor as easily condensed in such simple metaphors.
The young man had known of this matter for some time now. He had buried it as soon as it had emerged, but day after day he realised that was not going to be a viable strategy for long. And it was starting to break him, weighing more than the existence of the Matter itself. He didn’t want to think about it “yet”; but that morning...
He sighed inwardly, placing both hands at his side. Only then did he realise his right hand fingers had brushed against Don Quixote’s nearby hand. He froze, ashamed, but she hadn’t seemed to notice.
It wasn’t a big deal after all. Not to her at least.
“Young Sinclair, thy palms seem close to numbing. Does thou need a source of warmth?”
“Eh, no…no it’s f- fine”
“Thy words speak another truth! Have no fear, Young Sinclair, for we shall forge warmth together!”
And she took his hand without another word. Hers was just as cold, but her intention was sincere. It was not meant as a big deal. It wasn’t a big deal to her.
To her.
But it wasn’t as simple, on the other hand. It could never be that simple. Because there was something about the way she laughed, the way her eyes sparkled, the way she jumped and hummed along to a mysterious tune, that made Sinclair feel a certain kind of happiness. Even in spite of who they were, what their lives were. And though the young man knew it wasn't supposed to be this way, he could not find a way to reject this Matter. He was weak, and pathetic, and an embarrassment of a person.
So, in spite of the feelings that brought him joy, still Sinclair hung his head in shame. For his heart seemed to question things that were not supposed to be put in doubt.
“Sinclair?”
“Eh?”
Broken from his deprecating thoughts, Sinclair realised he had squeezed the young woman’s hand. His cheeks flushed in embarrassment, but Don Quixote only smiled.
“Thou seemed lost in the treacherous pits of the mind. Does thou require a break? Or perhaps a shoulder onto which to pour all thy heart?”
“Oh, no no” the young man shook his head. “I’m fine, really, just...a bit tired. But thank you”
“Then shall we go back inside?”
“No it's fine”
Sinclair retracted his hand, sinking it among the fabric of his trousers.
“It’s fine; I’m…happy to be here. With you”
From the corner of his eye, he noticed the other’s expression shift from concern to happiness. And he had to turn his gaze away, lest the guilt in his heart grow and devour him.
That atmosphere did not last long. Suddenly, the two young adults heard a yell.
Sinclair’s blood froze, but he mustered the strength to quickly stand up and look around them.
“What was that?” He asked, to no one in particular. “Robbers? Assassins?”
“Ay ‘t seems, though to-day these titles are but one and the same" Don Quixote also stood up, her eyes wary. “Our joyous festivity must have attracted a jealous party”
Sinclair couldn’t tell if the young woman was making a joke or speaking sincerely. Nevertheless, they didn’t have much time to think about their course of action.
“Manager is asleep; we can’t rely on them right now" he said in a low voice. “And we can’t risk our lives on a random party without our weapons. We should hide”
He looked at the other for confirmation.
“Thou hath a good mind” Don Quixote said. A small pause followed her sentence, as if she was about to protest but thought against it. And sure enough, she grabbed Sinclair’s hand almost immediately after.
“Then we shall hide! The foliage will disguise our distinguishable figures!"
Did you wonder what would have happened if we woke up Vergilius in the chaos to bring everyone else to the battlefield? , Sinclair couldn't help but ponder, having recognised the flicker of fear that had showed up on her eyes for a second. But before he could word his thoughts aloud he was dragged towards a nearby shrub, and shoved unceremoniously somehow both behind and within it.
“Make room, make haste Young Sinclair!”
The young man obeyed as quickly as he could, allowing Don Quixote to easily slip beside him. Thankfully they were both small enough to squeeze into it, so as to perfectly blend among the snow and the evergreen branches. All that was left to do now, as pathetic as it sounded, was pray for a miracle. Sinclair was not sure of what kind, but any would have worked at that moment.
Anything would go right now. On top of choosing not to fight, and also going for a terrible hiding spot, our footprints must be everywhere by now…someone would have to be very stupid in order not to realise people were here.
As they stood crouched, with seconds ticking by, Sinclair began to realise a few things. The first was that, in spite of the noises they had heard, the voices didn’t seem to grow louder or the footsteps heavier. Perhaps they had been lucky, or perhaps they had overestimated the opponent. Regardless, it was better than the alternative, and for that he was thankful.
The second thing was that, although the voices had begun to grow so faint that at face-value they couldn’t have implied anything else other than the potential danger had passed, neither of the two Sinners was moving. However, Sinclair reckoned this was a wise decision, as it was still too early to tell whether their situation was a trap or pure luck. When gambles couldn’t be afforded, one should naturally opt for a safer route. It wasn’t cowardice if it doubled as common sense. This train of thought was sedimented by the fact that even Don Quixote was still by his side. And speaking of…
The third thing he noticed. With the danger drawing further and further away, the young man’s mind had wandered elsewhere. More specifically, he had grown suddenly aware of how close he and Don Quixote were pressed together within the bush.
Upon such a realisation, Sinclair felt like he wanted to stab himself with his halberd; though they were companions, personal space was still something to consider. Especially when, to his knowledge, they were of opposite sexes. However, he soon noticed that, even if he had realised his mistake sooner, there was nothing he could have done, for the bush was too small to allow space for him, Don Quixote, and the imaginary Respect Women Barrier. Even so, just for his inability to not have found a better hiding spot sooner, the halberd still seemed tempting. Pity he had left it on the bus.
Luckily, Don Quixote didn’t seem to mind. If anything, the young woman’s thoughts seemed to be elsewhere; though she was staring at Sinclair, her expression was aloof. He couldn’t tell whether she was still listening like he was, or she had forgotten where they were. Even so, for some reason, Sinclair felt like he needed to reassure her. Maybe so he could reassure himself with no shame. But before he could make a move, he instead felt a rough hand pressed over his own, squeezing the back a little.
“Thou hath nothing to fear” Don Quixote whispered, her eyes shining bright. “For we are part of the strongest council of justice in the land, and no villain could desecrate us and stand unblemished”
Sinclair had rarely ever heard her speak so quietly before. Usually it was due to fear, or fractured pride. The concept of low volume and Don Quixote were simply not the type to go together. Yet Sinclair saw the impossible, right in front of his eyes. A quiet firm of compassion. And once again, her kindness left him at a loss for words.
Don Quixote continued to stare at him, her big round eyes seeming even bigger and brighter than ever. Sinclair could feel his stomach doing backflips as he returned her gaze, his face turning red, his palms starting to sweat.
It was hard to tell when it happened. It was all a blur to the young man, one with no beginning or end. At some point, within that corner of the world the two were sharing, Don Quixote had leaned in. And Sinclair allowed himself to be charmed, to be guided by the heart that thumped loudly in his ears. And it was then that their lips met, captured in a soft, simple kiss. The first one of his life. One that he never thought he would have shared in this line of work.
-----
“<You should’ve been more careful. Who knows what could’ve happened if you had gotten lost! Or worse!>”
“Manager, I propose that we punish them for their insolence!”
“You’re always saying that, but one day it’s gonna be your head on the line Oty”
“As if I am brain dead enough to get caught indulging out of company grounds!”
“So you admit you’d disobey? Dear dear, what a terrible example you are~”
“Rodya there’s no need to anger her” Ishmael gestured at the two blonde Sinners, who were seated in one of the front rows with their heads lowered. “They made a mistake and fooled around outside, but they were lucky enough to not cause problems for any of us; end of story”
“As long as no one tells the guy we’ll be fine” Heathcliff nodded. “I won’t squeal if none of you do”
The Sinners all agreed, even Outis relented. At the end of the day, what united them all was the fear of the Red Gaze and the consequences it brought. Some were aware of them, some feared to know. A select few felt like it was unfair for Don Quixote to have a fourth strike on her count, and dared not to offer her as a guinea pig.
The two guilty Sinners didn’t say anything. Their heads were low, feigning sleep, but on a closer note Sinclair looked scared out of his mind; apparently the first thing Manager had noticed when they woke up - if it could be called that - was his discarded halberd and the opened door of the bus. They had panicked and asked Faust to look for him, in the process causing a chain reaction that alerted all remaining Sinners of the issue, thus revealing not only that Don Quixote was also missing, but that the two must have sneaked out for some childish entertainment in the snow. Though they had gotten away with a light scolding, the disappointment etched in the Manager’s tone sank deep into his soul. Worse than the usual knives that robbers threw at him, or that time a Godforsaken Crusader had stabbed him through the ribs.
Not soon after, Vergilius and Charon appeared. They seemed to be in a good mood, which made the Sinners even quieter than they would have been. Although the silence had been initially deemed suspicious, Faust had quickly defused the situation. Sinclair continued to stare at the floor, eyes half shut.
“At this point, I’m not even going to say anything” the Red Gaze said. “Mephistopheles didn’t implode overnight, and you’re all in one piece. As long as both those facts are true, we can move along”
“Charon wants to leave” the smaller companion said as she walked towards the driver seat. “Mephi is cold and hungry”
The Sinners scrambled to their seats, and even Manager rushed back to their previous one. Their rears had barely touched the surface of their designated spaces when the bus whirred to life, immediately ploughing through the snow as if it were butter. All things considered, that was to be expected of such an unusual creation.
Out of the Red Gaze’s perception, Sinclair felt safe enough to open his eyes. He looked around, taking in the usual sight of his colleagues and his manager, ears picking up the small talk that some were having. He could even see a few glimpses of the outside world, the snowflakes that were starting to fall once more, the white plains, the grey morning sky. The scenery beyond the cliffside was blurred, but it didn’t matter. He had seen it already before.
And Don Quixote...
She was sitting next to him, her head leaning against the window. Sinclair couldn’t see her expression, but he found himself unwilling to put much thought of it. Focus on her face seemed to stir his heart, and his head reminded him of what had occurred between them. He recalled clear as day the feeling of her chapped lips, her warm hand, and the way her eyes shone like the experience was a most precious thing.
But was it, he wondered. Was it really anything at all?
Sinclair’s head leaned back, opposite the young woman. Soon after they had parted, they had been found. There had been no time to discuss the event or what it meant, and there was no telling when they would be able to talk alone. He had no guarantee if Don Quixote would remember it by then, or care enough to give him an explanation. And that uncertainty scared him. It scared him more than how his insides twisted themselves at the thought of her in the snow, with snowflakes in her hair and a contagious laughter of joy. Because at least he knew he liked her, no matter how heinous it was to do so.
Sinclair’s thoughts continued to spiral and spiral, until suddenly he felt a warm touch against his upturned palm. He turned around, and noticed that Don Quixote had placed her hand over his own. It was cold, colder than the snow. Yet Sinclair felt warmth spread in his chest.
When he looked at her, the young woman had one of her eyes opened; she smiled at him, like a kid giving out a secret only for his ears. Her grin was softer than usual, which only sealed the meaning of her gesture even more. And at first the realisation made the young man turn away, his face growing red. Yet he smiled as well. It was the first time that acknowledgement of that particular Matter had made him smile.
His body relaxed, as both his and her hand closed around each other’s. And Sinclair closed his eyes, leaning his head towards her side.
It was true, there was no telling when they would be able to discuss the Matter. But for now, what could not be communicated with words was sufficient.