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Dante breathes a sigh of relief as Yi Sang’s skin stitches itself together over his bones, several corpses strewn around the dark alley alight with small, multicoloured lights they’ve found themselves jumped in. Still in a daze from the revival, they hardly notice a nearby storefront opening to the carnage.
“Hey!” A short woman with blonde hair calls out to them. “You, with the clockhead! You killed all these folks?”
<Huh?> Rubbing their head, they turn to her, and completely out of options to respond with, give her a thumbs up.
“Oh, good! These folks have been terrorising these streets for ages. Glad you got rid of them, really!” She cocks her head, curly hair bouncing. “Are you guys fixers or something? What are you guys doing working out on Christmas? I’ll tell ya what, I’m just about to close up shop here but as thanks for getting rid of those guys, I’ll reopen the bar for a couple hours and y’all can enjoy yourselves for a bit. Drinks on me.”
At the mention of a “bar”, several sinners have begun crowding around them. <Th-thank you for the offer, but it’s really not a good idea.>
Rodya slings her arm over their shoulders. “They say that’s a totally great idea!”
<What? No! It’s a terrible idea, you guys are going to put them out of business!>
“And thank you for your kindness and generosity,” Ishmael chimes in. “Right, manager?”
<Not you too! Faust, help me out here!>
“Ah, um…” Faust steps forwards. “The manager has some reservations regarding the situation at hand.” Rodya slings over Faust’s shoulders and whispers something into her ear — she goes a mild shade of pink. “We… are… quite bloody from the previous altercation. It would be best for us to… clean ourselves off before any attempts to enter your establishment.”
Cheering erupts from the back of the crowd, Don Quixote and Heathcliff giving each other a crisp high-five as they already begin running back to the bus. Don Quixote hoists herself onto his back, declaring “gallop on!” as Heathcliff breaks out into a full sprint with her on his shoulders, yelling out a “fuck yeah, free booze!” as he runs off into the distance.
Don Quixote, unfortunately, can no longer be subjected to the regular hose-down she used to be so excited for, and instead Vergilius greets her with a large pack of wet wipes that she cleans herself off with as she blabbers to him regarding the exciting turn of events. Out the side of the bus, Faust turns on the garden hose haphazardly attached to Mephistopheles’ engine and points it at Gregor, who complains about the pressure being too high and the water being too cold. Rodya calls him old — he huffs and tracks his way into the bus once his clothes stop dripping red.
Sinclair asks to go next, and then shoulders past Gregor to make a beeline for the Corridor.
“Oh, shoot,” he says, rubbing his good shoulder. “Is someone going to go check on the kid?”
<I’ll go.>
The sliding door that opens to the Corridor reveals Sinclair sitting just outside his room’s door, back slumped against it with his head on his knees. He hears footsteps approaching and wipes the tears from his eyes quickly.
“Hi, Dante,” he says, voice cracking. “You don’t have to check up on me, I’m- I’m fine.”
<You don’t look fine,> they say. <Are you… going to be joining us?>
Sinclair sniffs. “I thought I’d be fine. I really, really thought I’d be okay, but I… I can’t. I don’t think I can.”
Dante sits next to him, half-reaching out to pat him on the shoulder. <I think you can. If you want to, that is.> They sit there in awkward silence for a moment, attempting to comfort him by patting him on the back. <Um… speaking as someone who doesn’t really have that many memories, I think it would be good for you to join us. Make some new memories to override the old ones, you know?> Sinclair hugs his knees tighter to his chest. <It’s really up to you, though. I hope you’ll join us, but if not… uh. Good night. I hope you feel better.>
Sinclair nods, tears running down his cheeks. Dante stands and, feeling the compulsion to, ruffles his hair before they go, and he lets out a soft chuckle between sobs.
It only takes fifteen minutes for everybody to be gathered outside the bus in varying levels of formality — Faust remains in her work uniform, while others wear more casual clothing all the way to Ryoshu simply donning her sleep-wear. Hong Lu and Rodya are wearing objectively terrible-looking green-and-red sweaters, which presumably earns Hong Lu a punch on the shoulder from Heathcliff from whatever comment about “common-people clothing” he’s made. Dante does a quick head-count in their mind — there’s thirteen people gathered around the door, fourteen including themselves. Outis comes up behind them and confirms the count.
<Alright, let’s go then.>
She heads to the front of the crowd to lead the way back to the inn, and Dante watches as the sinners trail past them. Vergilius leans on the bus in a dark grey turtleneck, pulling the zipper on his leather jacket higher up over his chest as the winter night air howls against them. He waits for Charon to exit and lock the doors, the girl in question bidding her customary goodbyes to the bus. “Stay here, okay, Mephi?” she tells it, before fumbling through her pockets for the keys.
“Wait!”
The three of them turn their heads to the source of the noise. Sinclair stands at the top of the bus-entrance stairs in a neatly pressed button-up and brown slacks, adjusting the straps on his suspenders. “Are we leaving already?”
Charon trails away from the given path several times — Vergilius refuses to be of any help to make sure she doesn’t wander off entirely during the short five-minute walk to the inn. Sinclair relents and ends up holding her hand the entire way there, their gloved hands intertwined as he all but drags her in attempts to keep up with Dante and Vergilius. The entire trek takes about three times longer, and by the time they arrive at the inn, Dante’s pulled their coat tight around themselves. Vergilius spares them not more than a glance, and by the third time Sinclair’s chased Charon down an alleyway, he turns to them.
“Do you like Christmas, Dante?”
They shiver. <I wouldn’t know.>
Vergilius hums, and crosses his arms. After ten more seconds, he clears his throat. “Are you that slow?” he yells out into the alley.
“SHUT UP!” comes Sinclair’s distant remark.
Finally making it into the inn reveals, as they’ve expected, the sinners ordering as many drinks as possible and overall causing a commotion in the small establishment. Meursault, Ishmael, Don Quixote and Heathcliff are gathered at a round table, Heathcliff face-down with the other three still upright. Ryoshu slams her hand down on the desk, sliding shot-glasses out to the three still standing — Meursault and Ishmael stop it with their hands, while it simply slows to a stop as it hits Don Quixote’s elbow. “Nine!” she declares, capping the bottle and setting it down next to her, setting up three shot glasses in a row.
“My blood has seen more gin than a fucking distillery, you hear?” Ishmael slurs.
“Oui.”
Outis claps her on the back. “That’s the spirit! Do not give up, or else you will be a disgrace to everyone here!”
Yi Sang hovers by Meursault’s shoulder. “Please do not give up, my good friend, lest I become fifty-thousand Ahn poorer and Outis fifty-thousand richer. I believe in you.”
“Oui.”
<You’re um… drinking, Don Quixote?> Dante asks. <I thought you were afraid of water.>
“‘Tis not water,” she slurs in a deep voice. Her starry eyes unfocus for a second, before raising the glass in her hand. She stares at it blankly for a second before smiling, placing a hand beside her mouth muttering to them, “...It is vodka.”
Vergilius stops by their table, Charon trailing not far behind. He taps two fingers on the table in front of her. “I think you’ve had a bit too much to drink, my lady.”
“Ahaa… I am fine , really, my good sir Vergilius. In fact, I feel so fine that I could sing!” Before he can stop her, she downs the glass quickly, and Meursault and Ishmael shrug before following suit. “ OHHH~”
“Mm. Too much.” He picks her up and slings her over his shoulder easily, only to be met with cries of “Put me DOWN you impotent scum, or I shall have you face my wrath! Fight me like the true Fixer that you are or I shall curse ye entire bloodline!!!”
He ignores her pleas and her kicking. “Charon thinks it's too noisy here, so we’re heading back to the bus. Make sure they don’t kill each other while I’m gone.”
Dante nods at him.
Still ignoring Don Quixote attempting to struggle free from his grasp, he stares at them a second longer. Reaching into his pocket with his free hand, he suddenly tosses something towards them. “...Merry Christmas, Dante.”
They catch it, luckily. It’s an apple. <Thanks. You too.>
He turns to leave, Don Quixote still hounding on his back. They look down at the apple, and then at the door closing behind the three of them.
What the hell does he expect me to do with this?
In their distraction, someone comes up behind them and suddenly kisses them on the side of the head — they yelp and whip around. “Merry Christmas, Dante!” Rodya grins, holding a bundle of greens above their head. “You know what they say~!”
They tap on the side of their head. <I don’t, really!>
Hong Lu trails behind her, coral lipstick smudged on his cheek. “She’s been doing that to everybody! It has been quite fun to witness how others react. If you and another person are underneath the ‘mistletoe’, the two of you have to kiss! How fun!”
They genuinely cannot tell if he’s drunk or if this is exactly how he normally talks, cheeks flushed under layers of blush and lipstick marks. <How… exploitable?>
“Indeed! Come along now, Dante, there’s something exciting going on!”
Rodya drags them by the wrist away from the now two-player drinking competition. “Greg’s doing karaoke! You gotta see it.”
No way. <He hasn’t done that since->
“Yeah!”
<Is he drunk?>
“Nope! Good ol’ sober Greg karaoke! We’re tryna not crowd him so he doesn’t scamper off, but you can’t miss it, okay!”
Now that’s something to see. The somewhat quiet man has a set of pipes, as everybody had found out by chance after their first failed golden bough mission. On the small stage at the other end of the small inn, Gregor is adjusting the microphone stand to be at his height, clearing his throat into it repeatedly. At his request, the stage lights stay off, and the inn remains flooded in the same warm glow as it always has been. Dante stays a decent distance away from the stage, enough to plausibly be still distracted by Ryoshu’s drinking game.
The music comes on, a slow rock ballad with electric guitars and a slow drumline that could be mistaken for a heartbeat. Gregor’s hair is still damp, loose around his shoulders as he clears his throat into a tissue one final time.
His voice is captivating. It’s clear, smooth, unlike his usual raspy murmur at all, and rings out easily even without the support of a microphone. Everyone in the inn turns to hear him sing, and he closes his eyes in the limelight.
Ryoshu’s stopped pouring drinks — Ishmael and Meursault agree to a tie, and Outis huffs in annoyance. Sinclair sidles up to Dante’s side, pulling out the chair next to them, and barely under the sound of low-quality speakers Dante can still hear him whisper along to the lyrics, only an octave higher. He probably thinks they can’t hear him.
About a minute in, he nudges Dante’s side. They nearly jump from the contact, lost in the music. When they turn to him, he gestures towards the few people in front of the stage — Heathcliff, nodding along to the rhythm, leaning against a small ottoman in front of the stage that Faust sits on, with her hands folded in her lap. A safe distance away is Hong Lu, and a less safe distance away is Rodya, mistletoe in hand, creeping up behind Faust.
To basically nobody’s surprise, Rodya kisses her on the cheek. “Mwah!” she giggles. “Merry Christmas!”
Faust blinks at her.
Faust then grabs her by the collar and kisses her on the lips.
“Holy shit!” Sinclair yells. He swats Outis’ hands away from her attempt to cover his eyes, and the rock ballad instrumental continues onto its climax — Gregor sings over the silence of the sinners staring, mouth agape, as Faust and Rodya continue to make out for the entire duration of the chorus. Heathcliff takes several steps back as Faust’s back hits the seat, Rodya clambering over her. Rambunctious applause erupts from the crowd.
Rodya pulls away at last, laughing. “What the heck, Fau?”
“Faust wanted to know what it felt like,” says Faust. “And I would say that the outcome of the experiment has been successful.”
“Well… Let me know if you ever need to run more tests.”
“I believe that, for the sake of reliability, the experiment must be repeated before any definitive conclusions can be made.” Faust tangles her hands through Rodya’s long hair and clutches the back of her ugly green sweater before she kisses her again, and the small crowd in the inn is filled with cheering and hollering as the song comes to an end.
Ishmael links arms with Meursault, leaning against him as she stumbles towards the stage, before punching Rodya on the shoulder and grinning. The brunette yells and rubs her arm, Faust watching the altercation go down from her place lying on the ottoman. Rodya gets up, and then points in the opposite direction. Foolishly, Ishmael falls for the ruse and turns the other way — the mistletoe hidden up Rodya's sleeve comes out and she dangles it between Ishmael and Heathcliff, who is drunkenly yelling song recommendations to Gregor.
When she turns around, Ishmael catches one glimpse of the greens and punches Rodya, this time with far less friendly intent.
Dante watches as Gregor yells and jumps off the stage to separate the two from fighting. Sinclair giggles as he blocks Ishmael's next blow with his forearm, Meursault lifting her off the floor and restraining her entirely as Heathcliff stands there like a deer in headlights. "You're not going to separate them?"
<Well, I think she had it coming.>
Behind the bar, Outis is teaching Yi Sang how to mix a drink, and he's failing rather miserably. The commander's voice carries out over Gregor and Ishmael yelling, and Rodya's laughter, as she chastises him for managing to curdle milk in the two seconds she's looked away from him. Sinclair laughs beside them, and they finally take a seat in the stool next to him as the familiar sound of infighting echoes out behind them.
Maybe Christmas isn't too bad after all.