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Nothing is perfect. And as such, nobody leads a perfect life. In a world such as the current one, aspiring for a perfect existence is wishful thinking that gets you nowhere, and you are better off forgetting about such a pipe dream before it’s too late. But everyone knows those things by now. Especially someone like poor orphaned and traumatised Emil Sinclair, who had by now died more times than he had eaten meals in his lifetime.
In spite of knowing that he was far from perfect - and he was aware of that, painfully so sometimes - Sinclair was hoping for at least some pity from the universe. But perhaps it was foolish of him to think that someone like him could hope for a fair life. Or maybe he was just the universe’s preferred punching bag.
Young Emil Sinclair was, for the first time in his life, in love. He had hypothesised an infatuation, but somehow it had morphed into a conclusion spelling out “love, most likely”. And that wouldn’t be an issue if he was the only one who knew. He could meditate on this turn of events in his own time, do whatever that entailed. However, that option was no longer possible; because he had told someone, albeit accidentally. And sure, that someone was Ryoshu, one of his least talkative co-workers. But it was still someone, and he did not want to push his luck. He had to figure out what to do now, before disaster occurred.
---
“I think I love her”
At first, Sinclair had not registered Ryoshu’s presence in his room. At least not entirely. The words had slipped out of his tongue before he could stop them; he was confirming the truth to himself out loud, for it was a grand reveal meant for his ears. And it was then that he realised that the older woman was present, and had heard every word.
The implications of the situation took a few seconds to sink in, as it does for a deer when it sees the lights of a car fast approaching. And then, as such an animal would do, Sinclair ran out of the room with all the strength his legs could muster, bursting into the front of Mephistopheles with cheeks red from the strain and the embarrassment. Ryoshu followed a few seconds later, though no questions were asked to either of them. The assumption that he had overslept was enough, it seemed. And that was the smallest mercy Sinclair could have been granted that morning.
It did not placate the young man however. He could not stop thinking of the events from that morning, from the blessed to the most unfortunate. And several times he found himself tearing his eyes away from Ryoshu and Don Quixote, scared that something about his face would have given everything away, yet just as terrified of looking elsewhere in case something came out and he became a laughing stock.
Wings, what the hell is wrong with me! Get a grip, you’re not a teenager anymore!
The only thing that reassured him, as it often happened in cases like these, was reason: Don Quixote was not the kind to compromise them. She was (probably) unaware of Sinclair’s feelings anyway. As for Ryoshu, SANGRIA aside, she was not fond of long conversations. Telling her anything had the same effect as entrusting a secret to a wall.
But in that fairy tale, when telling the story to the earth, the earth grew wheat and the wind brushing through them still spoke to all that listened…
Be reasonable. Cool head. Don’t build up stupid fantasies! At this rate you will compromise yourself through your paranoia!
Wings, I’m screwed…
In spite of his efforts to fight it, the fear persecuted Sinclair throughout the work day; it earned him a couple of concerned remarks, a less than stellar performance and a few more mortal wounds than his usual. He brushed off his distractions as fatigue, which was accepted as an excuse by the Manager. The same was used to justify Don Quixote’s conduct, for she too was showing minor signs of mediocrity compared to her usual. She seemed to be lost in her own world all throughout the day, a little less enthusiastic than usual. To some extent, that was for the best: the less her and Sinclair interacted that day, the better. It hurt a little, but that could not be helped.
By the time the sun had begun to set, and Vergilius had reminded everyone about their new destination, Sinclair had managed to shrug off most of his paranoia. Tired and worn down, his only hope lay in whether he could get some rest, maybe fall asleep for a good eight hours as opposed to the usual hellish routine his fragile mind often subjected him to. His plans were simple, but rest was not meant to be elaborate if one didn’t need complex systems. So with that simple resolve, Sinclair dusted off his clothes, and headed for his room as everyone else did. He contemplated taking a shower that evening, though he reasoned it was better to allow for others to do it before him in case he hogged the bathroom all to himself. It was bound to happen, with the amount of thoughts swirling in his head. In any case, he needed to put aside his halberd, and towels and other supplies needed to be gathered…
“Kid”
Sinclair had barely touched the door of his room when he heard a voice behind him that made his blood run cold; he turned around, and sure enough Ryoshu was there, sporting an unreadable expression, her stance neutral. He immediately went as white as a sheet.
In vain the young man tried to reassure himself that it meant nothing, that she might want to ask him about something mundane or play a trick on him; but he knew how to read her: even when she had nothing to seemingly show, the look on her eyes said it all. Still, he tried to give himself the benefit of the doubt.
“I-is there a problem?”
Aside from the two of them, the hallway was empty. Ryoshu took out a cigarette pack from her pocket, and used it to gesture towards Sinclair’s door.
“Let’s talk”
Ryoshu was a wall. Ryoshu didn’t like talking.
The young man could not ignore the truth any longer, lest he test her patience. So he opened the door, and she walked in without waiting to be invited. He was about to offer her the only chair in the room, but the older woman didn’t stop at the entrance; she paced around the space, with a strange expression on her face as she examined the walls and the furniture around her. For several minutes she seemed to have completely forgotten the motive of their meeting. She scrutinised ever centimetre of every surface, muttering to herself as she did, though it was too low for Sinclair to hear.
After what felt like an eternity, the young man finally spoke up:
“Is there…something bothering you, Ryoshu?”
“Artistic Inspection.” was the curt answer, in SANGRIA. Eventually her eyes fell on the tree in the middle of the room, and she approached it curiously. She spent a few more moments staring at it from a few different angles, before a smile formed on her face.
“Light And Dark. Nice”
He thanked her a little hesitantly and closed the door behind him. At least she seemed to not mind the decor. He had not been ready for impromptu judgement, and he didn't think “I’m not sure why it’s like this” would be a justifiable response to an artist like her. Not to mention, given their topic of conversation, perhaps being subjected to an artist’s disgust was not preferable.
After propping his halberd against the wall, Sinclair sat down on his bed and took a deep breath.
“Is there something you needed to hear from me, Ryoshu?”
“Ah, right”
Ryoshu nodded to herself as if only then remembering. Turning towards the young man, she fiddled with her pack until a cigarette slid from the small hole on the surface, into her ready fingers. Once the box had then disappeared into her coat, she fished out a lighter from another pocket and clicked it a few times until a flame sparked; this she used to light her cigarette, before stashing it away. Having done so, she inched the now smoking cigarette to her lips, and took a few puffs. One, two, three. At her fourth, she met Sinclair’s marveled gaze, her red eyes staring into his soul.
“Talk”
Ryoshu was a woman of few words, that much has already been said. Often she preferred to use acronyms as opposed to fully fledged sentences, after all. And Sinclair had spent enough time with the other woman to learn how to distinguish certain patterns to her gestures and tones. Yet, even in spite of all this, he didn’t need that knowledge to know what she was talking about. His face became red.
“Wh-why?”
She flicked her hand towards the door.
“Someone Else Then?”
Sinclair gulped and shook his head. Ryoshu nodded, as if saying “Thought so”, before taking out a few more puffs of her cigarette. She was a master at tracing shapes with the smoke, and even in that occasion she proved her skill: through maneuvers that Sinclair still did not understand, she puffed out a simplified image of a face with a short bob and a triangle for a smile. She then looked at the young man, raising her eyebrow.
Sinclair laughed nervously. “Was it that obvious?”
She shrugged, and took another puff.
“Only Now?”
“Well, not exactly; I had a feeling for a while, but…I was really certain today. Like, it hit me hard. And it wasn’t even light as well. I knew that I had sunk to the bottom. I really, really like her”
Ryoshu didn’t say anything. Sinclair took it as a sign to continue.
“The thing is, and please don’t tell anyone, but…ok, maybe I should start from the beginning”
“Quickly Uncover And Concisely Conclude”
“Right, right. I’ll try…”
He thought for a few seconds. And then he began to speak.
“One day, I realised I felt something different when she was nearby. And that I liked her presence, and spending time with her. And she made me feel funny, you know”
Ryoshu mumbled something in his words. Sinclair turned even redder.
“Not like that!”
The older woman smiled, without saying anything else. He turned away and continued speaking.
“But yeah, I think it meant I liked her. But it’s not like I could act upon it, right? I mean, there’s our jobs and all, and I didn’t know if she…anyway, I decided to leave it be and wait for it to fade away. Except…it didn’t. It got worse. And then one day…”
Sinclair paused. His hands, which were tightly clasping each other, had started to sweat.
“Well…one day…”
His face was burning. Tugging at his collar, he finally mustered the courage to speak.
“K.I.S.S.”
Kissed In Snowy Shrub.
Ryoshu hummed thoughtfully. Sinclair looked back at her, wondering if he was going to have to translate his own improvised SANGRIA. But she nodded, her smile widening.
“Good Improvisation Too” she said. “But also, congratulations”
“I- thank you?” He twirled his thumbs. “Just to be clear, she leaned in first. I’m not a pervert!”
He was met with no protests on that front. And so he continued.
“But anyway…so, we were meant to talk about what happened, but we never did. And like, my feelings kept growing, I think the fact she maybe felt the same made it worse. I- I know I should have talked but…ah, anyway I tried the other night. And then, this morning, something just…clicked. Like ‘ah Scheiße, ich liebe sie’. And that’s it…yeah, that’s it”
“Good job”
Ryoshu nodded, and then gave him the signal to wait as she continued savouring the cigarette. Sinclair was tempted to take a puff himself, both out of despair of the situation and also just because the smoke was making him sick and he might as well hurt himself more than he already was. Then he realised it would be stupid to do that, and thought better. He instead waited as he had been told, using the time to meditate more on his situation.
It really is a mess. To think that at first I was hoping that it would go away…yet the opposite happened! Wings, I really am the universe’s biggest punching bag, huh? To think that this is what is causing me the most problems at the moment as well! If a tragic character such as me was in a play, going through hell and lament, only to drop everything just to mourn an inflated crush, they would be booed off stage…
“Chick, Speak Sincerely”
Sinclair straightened up his head, fists closed tightly against his legs. He looked up at Ryoshu, as she puffed her cigarette one more time. And then she spoke. Not in SANGRIA, not even that briefly. And her expression was serious, searing itself into Sinclair’s brain.
“Tell me, tell yourself: are you sure? Do you really like Don Quixote?”
The young man tilted his head, confused. He had just admitted it to her. Still Ryoshu kept staring at him, and he figured this was the moment where he was supposed to think over everything. Like a junior detective who was supposed to piece together the case with the available evidence.
“Take your time”
She wiggled her cigarette as she spoke, indicating that he had around two minutes and a half. He nodded and laid down on the bed, staring at the branches of the tree that stood above him.
Did he really like Don Quixote? Enough to call it love?
Sinclair closed his eyes. The image of that young woman was there to greet him, pictured so clearly it was like he had printed her photograph in his brain. He could see every detail of her face - the blonde hair, the sparkling eyes, her bright smile - and the rest of her. He recalled especially her hands, cold and coarse from holding a lance. Yet comfortable, easy to hold, and his fingers twitched when remembering how this latter experience felt.
Then there was her voice. It would be foolish to say that there was anyone in the bus by now who had not memorised it. Bright and loud, composing sentences out of words that barely anyone used anymore. Still it was a voice that he cherished, and that he hoped to hear everyday. It felt wrong when she wasn’t at her most enthusiastic, like the world had unjustly punished her. He had forgotten when hearing Don Quixote became to him an experience rivalling peace and if he were to say it out loud, he would be teased and declared insane. Although, was love not often associated with insanity, madness? Was there really something unusual about how he wanted to hear her speak to him?
And then there was the variety of her voice. From loud the young woman could descend to gentle whispers, tones so soft and so unlike her - in a good way - that he doubted many others had heard such things. Those were some moments he treasured, and deep down his heart felt the selfish desire to always be the one you hear that voice, in private if possible. He was allowed a crumb of self-indulgence, he reckoned.
These were all physical qualities that attracted him to Don Quixote. But to speak in this manner would be assuming that one could fall in love with the sun because of its brightness. Sinclair knew that at the end of the day it was all a bonus, for there were many other characteristics that endeared Don Quixote to him. Like her sense of justice, flawed as it may be, and how resilient it stood in front of the deadliest of foes. How she never gave up in spite of adversaries, defended herself and her comrades without hesitation. How her passion for Fixers and adventure was so tightly connected to her it was considered disastrous to mention either topics in a conversation in their free time. Yet Sinclair had been tempted many times to let her talk, just to hear her enthusiasm, see her eyes sparkle. He could listen to her ramble incessantly about her passions everyday, though once again he failed to understand where that sudden switch had come from.
But perhaps the most important characteristics Don Quixote had were her determination and her kindness. Even when things got tough the young woman never lost hope, she thought of others and even if she was not always correct, she cared enough to help them. The times she had intervened for the sake of others, how her heart broke at the sight of injustice, it was all a quality that should be present in everyone but so often was it taken for granted. Then of course there was her kindness towards her coworkers; she wanted to help Heathcliff with his dilemma. She had helped Sinclair when he was at his lowest. And that moment in particular repeated endlessly in his head. A crumb of his devotion might have sprouted from her intended kindness, as brutal as her methods had been.
“I owe her my life” he said. “But that’s not why I love her; like…I’m beyond thankful, but I don’t like her because of that specifically. I love who she is, her ideals, the way her eyes shine. She is a kind person who upholds justice, even at the cost of herself. And I…I think that’s really amazing”
His face grew warm, his palms were sweating again.
“She was the one who helped me first out of the hole I had dug myself in. She made me come to my senses. And she supported me in my quest for redemption, for as little good as it did to me. But she never gave up on me becoming better. I hope one day…one day, I can be someone like that, to her. Someone who can drag her out of a pit, help her like she helped me. I owe her so many favours…
“I-I mean! I want to be that kind of person to everyone! Like in general, I want to be able to help people like she does, with a little more reason. But…we’re talking about her and…and that’s what I feel. I don’t…I don’t know how else to explain it. When I look at her…I think to myself, she’s such an amazing person. I…want to be able to share a bed with her forever…”
His voice grew quieter and quieter as he spoke, growing flustered at his own words. Though innocent, they still spoke delusions of grandeur, and it was even more embarrassing to say such things in front of an older woman. Ryoshu grinned at him, puffing two intertwined circles made out of smoke. Sinclair turned his head away.
“Th-that’s a bit too much to think about, Ryoshu!”
“But you want it, right?”
The young man hesitated for a few seconds. Then he nodded quickly.
“Is it…filthy?”
“All love can be filthy in our times” The other shrugged. Her gaze trailed at the ceiling, as she tapped sprinkles of ashes off her cigarette with a finger. “A pure flower cannot bloom safely in pollution. It must be guided to a long and healthy life, unless one prefers it as tainted”
Sinclair tilted his head.
“So you’re saying, I shouldn’t be scared of those feelings? I shouldn't suppress them”
Ryoshu gave him a look that said “Do whatever you want”. But it was not meant to be unkind.
“Youngsters Must Coexist Alive” she said. “You have a whole life ahead of you. Let her know. If she rejects you, I can help”
“Huh? Really?”
The cigarette blew out, and Ryoshu wrapped it in a tissue and squashed it with her bare hands. She grinned.
“Suffering Inspires Masterpieces Performing Lonely Emptiness”
That was the last she said, before walking out of the room. And so Sinclair was suddenly left alone with his thoughts, wondering what he was supposed to do with this improvised assistance.
If you were to tell someone to take advice for Ryoshu, you were better off listening to a dead crow. She was an artist, not a psychologist. Still, while not always the most…normal person in the room, to put it lightly, she was not mean; she had been the one to offer they talk after all, and throughout it all she had been available and patient. Her attention had been on the topic at hand; not to mention that her advice, as brief as it might be, was fair.
She’s right: I shouldn’t keep hiding myself from Don Quixote. I did promise to talk to her one day about what happened that day in the snow, but it is also right for her to know about the rest. Considering what happened today, it’s clearly a bad idea to keep it to myself anyway…yes, I’ll tell her. I have to. I will.
But now? We are so close to our next Golden Bough, we need to focus on that first…maybe it’s best to do it once we’ve finished the new mission. Yes. During the rest, I’ll tell her! I’ll explain everything and confess and…ah, courage Sinclair! No…Emil! Courage! You have some time before we reach our destination, try to think of something! Maybe don’t overthink it though, you just need to be yourself…right! Myself! I need to be myself! Yes!
Wait…
…
…Wait, seriously where are we going?
He remembered that it had been explained that morning, but the district name had been replaced with static in his mind. Maybe it was that paranoia that had fogged up his brain. Regardless, it didn’t hurt to ask the Manager. It wouldn’t be suspicious to confirm information.
Sinclair stepped out of his room, heading for his less intimidating superior’s. He knocked a few times until he heard it unlock from the inside, and soon came face to face with a flaming clock wearing a simple black shirt and jeans. Dante must have taken off their cloak for the evening.
“I’m so-sorry to disturb you Manager” Sinclair uttered out, intimidated by the situation all of a sudden. “I just want to be sure, uhm…where are we going?”
Dante did not seem suspicious. They answered matter-of-factly, as if they were a professor giving a lecture.
“<Our next stop is P Corp. Although we’ll need to use a Warp Train to get there, according to Vergilius>”
Ah yes! Yes, I remember now! The Warp Train…
Sinclair shuddered at the thought. But he quickly regained his composure.
“Thank you, Manager. uhm…good night…?”
“<Anything else?>”
“No Manager”
“<Alright. Then, good night Sinclair. Sleep well>”
The young man nodded politely and closed the door behind him. He then made his way back to his room, where he slumped on his bed and rolled to the side.
After the mission. Definitely. I’ll tell her immediately after we get back to the bus, no ifs or buts. Even if I have to tear her away from the rest of the Sinners, or pry her body from a devastating fate…I will tell her how I feel! And then! Then everything else will come later!
He nodded to himself, fast enough for his head to hurt. He wondered if he should practice the words that were to be said, then thought against it.
Acting naturally is better. And also, I need to focus on our work first and foremost.
Fatigue washed over him at the thought, reminding him that despite his mediocre performance he still had not rested since that morning. He had to sleep, recover energy. Prove that he was still up to the usual tasks.
…would it be alright tonight? Can I do it without…
A hand reached out to the side, a part of the bed which had by now grown cold. Yet Sinclair still remembered the presence of the night before, curled up by his side and holding onto him as if he were a large teddy bear. He wondered what Don Quixote’s face looked like as she slept, he wondered if he could see it again someday. He couldn't stop the smile that fought its way on his face, hiding it with the back of his hand.
Wings…don’t be weird, Emil!
He turned around, wrapping the blanket close to his body. It was nothing like that hug, but he could pretend it could be. Maybe that illusion could be enough to fend off the nightmares tonight. Maybe the resolution he has taken that day would help.
Emil could only pray, as his eyes fluttered shut. Sometimes, hope was enough. And for now, hope is all he had.
He was not perfect after all. No one was.
(Part of him would disagree on that. But that was another story).