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Sinclair remembered her during this time, before a time where she was at complete peace with herself. He could see her, still—white button-up crisp against her skin, the coat with the company's crest draped over her shoulders with that effortless poise she always carried. Before they were more than workmates, before the claim of soulmates was even whispered between them, they were just coworkers.
He had tried too hard then, endlessly, to make her laugh whenever proximity allowed it, while the rest of the bus chattered with indifference. It was a careful, private performance: a glance, a shift of his shoulders, letters whispered under the pretense of casual conversation. Every time her eyes curved into those private smiles, hidden beneath the smoke curling from her cigarette, it felt like music. Heavenly arpeggios pulled taut across his chest, each note trembling in the quiet of the bus, the scratch of tires against asphalt fading into irrelevance.
Sinclair was nostalgic for those simpler times, and he cares for his other friends truly but—
"Thou must recount thy glorious feats!" Don Quixote nearly vaulted across the aisle of the bus, hands clasped at her chest as though she were addressing a knight returned from conquest. “Pray, future Sir Sinclair, regale us with tales of thy valorous Fixer escapades, forsooth!”
The bus had not been designed for theatrics like this, from what he remembered from Vergilius' words. Yet here they were, all cramped knees and rattling windows, the road outside a smear of colors while warmth overtakes the inside of the bus.
Sinclair—future Sinclair—leaned back against the seat with a languid ease that did not belong to the younger version of him. He had taken on sun in a way that made his skin warmer, richer; his hair fell longer past his collar, a cascade of pale gold that caught even the bus’s ugly lighting like it was stage glow. His coat, large and worn and green, slung open just enough to imply breadth beneath.
He smiled. “If I recount them all, Don, we’ll miss our stop.”
Don gasped as if he had offered her a sword instead of a playful tease. “Such modesty! A true heroic trait!”
“Hero,” Heathcliff scoffed, though he leaned forward with an interest he pretended not to possess. “Let’s see if the lad's all shine or if he’s got the scars to back it.”
At that, Sinclair shrugged off the coat.
It was unceremonious, that was what made it distracting. The heavy fabric slipped from his shoulders and pooled at his boots, pulling his sleeves up to reveal arms that bore the memory of battle in faint, pale lines. Muscles shaped by repetition and survival flexed subtly as he rolled his shoulders.
Hong Lu blinked. “Oh my,” he murmured pleasantly, as if admiring porcelain. “How industrious.”
Yi Sang regarded him with quiet curiosity, not quite sure on what to say. Even Outis, who had been bombarding the man with questions regarding the future war just moments ago, said nothing at all, but her gaze lingered a second longer than necessary. Rodion whistled low.
Ishmael crossed her arms, unimpressed. “You’ve been busy.”
Sinclair let his eyes drift, until they found her.
Ryoshu was still on her seat.
She sits angled toward the window. Pretty like she’s chosen the seat for the lighting rather than the view, cigarette balanced between her fingers, smoke climbing in slow spirals that veil the lower half of her face. The bus rattles on, a steady industrial hum beneath the chatter, and outside the glass, the City drags by in streaks. Inside, it’s warmer than it should be, thick with bodies and noise.
Her glare is surgical. It slices cleanly through Don’s bright-eyed reverence, through Rodion’s open appraisal, through Heathcliff’s half-muttered insult. It stops at Sinclair’s arms and stays there.
Ah.
He had wondered how long it would take.
Jealousy on her is never loud. She doesn’t pout (she does in other scenarios). She doesn’t snap for the sake of it. It condenses instead. Becomes pressure.
He watches it bloom and, privately, enjoys it far more than he should.
“Not curious about me?” he says mildly. He doesn’t lean forward, doesn’t raise his voice. He just lets the words fall into the space between them, casual as if they’re discussing rations or the weather.
“D.M.W.M.,” she replied without missing a beat. “Too much audience. Ruins the frame.”
There’s a faint shift in the bus as it hits a dip in the road. Don steadies herself against a seat, eyes still shining as if this is the most important development of her week. Rodion, meanwhile, has the sort of grin that means she’s about to poke something sharp.
Rodion laughs, leaning over towards her direction. “Aw, Ryoshu, don’t tell me you’re bothered. He’s just showing us the goods!" She joked. "Thought you of all people would get all exc-”
The cigarette snaps between Ryoshu’s fingers before Rodion can finish. A clean break. Ash scatters over her coat like she’s dusted herself in snow.
“Tasteless display.”
She says it flatly, but there’s a slight tightness to her jaw that betrays her. Sinclair notices. He notices everything about her, especially when she’s pretending not to care.
“Is it?” Sinclair asks, tilting his head. The bus light catches the scar on his cheek, gilding it faintly, making it look almost ornamental. “I thought you appreciated art.”
Her eyes sharpen.
It’s subtle, that shift. The way her focus narrows, the way the smoke pauses at her lips before she exhales. For a moment, the bus feels smaller, as if the aisle has shrunk and the others are only background noise in a painting that’s suddenly too crowded.
Don, blissfully oblivious to tension as a concept, clutched Sinclair’s discarded coat. “Sir Sinclair, prithee, thy cloak bespeaks a thousand trials! Might I examine—”
Ryoshu stands.
The movement is so abrupt that her blade nearly slides off the seat next to her. It scrapes faintly against vinyl before settling. Heathcliff lets out a short huff of laughter that dies quickly when he sees her expression.
She crosses the aisle in three strides, precise. No wasted motion. She snatches the coat from Don’s hands before the other woman can even register what’s happening and thrusts it back against Sinclair’s chest.
“Cold,” she mutters. “Wear it.”
Up close, she smells faintly of tobacco and unsurprisingly, his old soap. They've been busy at least, it almost made him smirk.
But their faces are close now. Close enough that her breath mingles with his. Close enough that she can see the dark flicker in his eyes when she steps into his space.
He did not put the coat on.
Instead, he lowered his voice. “You don’t like them looking?”
Her jaw flexed. “I.”
He smiled again, softer this time, fond of the way she was acting. “You’re glaring at everyone.”
“And?”
“And it’s cute.”
The bus went silent.
If fury could manifest physically, it would have been the flush climbing her throat, cheeks, ears, and chest. She turned sharply, returning to her seat with the dignity of a general retreating from an unfavorable battlefield.
Sinclair slipped the coat back on at last, but his attention remained on her. He answered Don’s barrage of questions with ease, weaving half-truths and veiled anecdotes of smoke and blood, of commands barked in the Second Smoke War, of survival. He did not dwell on the parts that still lived under his skin. When Heathcliff pressed for more action, he offered restraint. When Yi sang praised his composure, he deflected.
But when Ryoshu shifted in her seat, restless, he noticed.
Later, when the bus quieted and Faust announced in that smooth voice of hers that rest would “optimize combat readiness,” for tomorrow's task, Sinclair found himself walking the narrow hallway toward his old room. He felt as if the door itself creaked in recognition.
He stepped inside and whistled low. “Smaller than I remember.”
There’s a moment where the air shifts, almost imperceptible. The room is small enough that it keeps the warmth in, small enough that every breath seems to land somewhere and stay there. He notices it the way he notices everything now—like a soldier, like someone who’s learned that rooms can turn on you if you’re careless.
There was a pang then. Quick. Uninvited. It flickered across his face before he smoothed it away, as if wiping condensation from glass. The room smelled faintly of dust and old paper, of something that had once been boyish. The bed was narrower than he remembered.
“You look dissatisfied,” Ryoshu said from the doorway.
He did not turn immediately. “Just nostalgic.”
She leaned against the frame, arms crossed. In the softer light, without the others, her jealousy had refined into something more private. Hungrier. It didn’t flare anymore; it simmered. She wasn’t glaring at a crowd now. There was no audience to posture for. It's just him, and the way he filled a room too easily.
“You enjoyed the attention,” she accused.
He huffed a small laugh under his breath. “Did you hate it that much? You're not my only friend in this bus.”
"Don't call me that."
He turns then. Really looks at her. The way her fingers flex once before settling against her blade, the way her jaw sets like she’s bracing for impact.
Sinclair crossed the room until he stood before her. Close again. Always close if he had a choice. “You could’ve said something you know.”
“I did.”
“Not to them. To me, I would've happily spent more time with you if you had asked.”
Her gaze flickered to his mouth, then away, like it burned. “You still require constant reassurance at that age?”
There’s a softness in the question that doesn’t match the wording. A thread of something else—of nights that didn’t end cleanly, of memories she half-remembers and half-refuses to.
“No.” His voice lowered. “I require you.”
That stilled her.
It’s subtle, the way it happens. Her shoulders lose a fraction of their tension as the sharpness in her eyes dulls just enough to show what’s underneath. The bravado, the irritation—it thinned. In its place was something far more dangerous: vulnerability she would rather carve out of herself than display. Especially after everything that went down, from what she could recall anyways.
“C.O.C.K.Y.,” she muttered almost soft.
He smiles at that, not smug—just pleased. “And you were jealous.”
“Of those fools gawking?”
“Of me talking to our friends.”
The engine outside coughs once. Somewhere down the corridor someone laughs—Don, probably. The sound doesn’t reach this far properly, it feels like they’re underwater.
There was a pause before her fingers curled in the fabric of his coat. It’s not aggressive, not gentle either. Just certain. “You are mine.” The words slipped out before she could sand them down into something less embarrassing.
His breath caught— a soldier hearing distant artillery and recognizing the pattern. He reached up, brushing a strand of dark hair from her face. He does it carefully, like she might pull away if he moves too fast. “Always, sweetheart,” he murmured.
Her composure fractured in increments. She stepped closer, palms flattening briefly against his chest as if confirming solidity, warmth, reality. He doesn’t move and allows her measure him. Lets her check that he’s here and not smoke, not memory, not some cruel trick of the bus. Or maybe he was the one checking on her in that way.
The others might have seen a spectacle earlier. Broad shoulders. Sun-touched skin. A coat dropped just so. She saw the boy he had been and the man he became, she saw the cost etched faintly in his smile, in the way his eyes track corners before they relax. She saw the discipline under the charm.
“I hate sharing the frame,” she admitted, trying her best to ignore the endearment.
“You never have to.”
He leans in, slow enough that she could step back if she wanted. He leaned his forehead against hers. It was not hurried nor was it crude. Just the quiet press of their skins, the small exhale that passes between them.
Outside, the bus engine idled. Voices drifted faintly down the corridor.
The world is turning as it always does as life continued outside their bubble.
Just the way he liked it.
Contained. Warm. Noise at a distance.
He tilted his head, brushing his lips gently against her temple. Not a conquest nor a spectacle. No audience. No performance.
Just hers.
She exhales against him, a sound almost annoyed at itself. Then her arms slip around his neck, reluctant but firm. He feels the tension in her hands ease by degrees, the way she does after unclenching after holding onto her blade for too long.
And when she finally relaxed into him, Sinclair allowed himself a rare, unguarded smile—small, unseen by anyone but her. Satisfied by the knowledge that even across time and smoke and war, Ryoshu would always burn brightest when she thought she might lose him—and that he would always step close enough to let her know she wouldn’t.
"Do we still have each other like this in the future?"
Sinclair's smile dropped, eyes staring at the white of his walls.
"Always."