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Dante, with all that they have ever known, has oft found themselves in rather… odd situations. Some absurd, comical and ridiculous, others far more perilous and threatening. If they stretched their mind to its limits, all could, in theory, reasonably sit beneath the umbrella of “odd” Yet, though they remain lost to the deeper machinations of the city, perhaps the strangest of all situations sat within a humble bus. To Dante, it was unquestionably their home, for their truth had yet to claim them. It was where they worked, their mode of transportation, and where “rest” took place.
“Rest” itself became an odd word to Dante. Traditional modes of sleep eluded them, and the sole option at their disposal was, they would say, less than desirable. Dreams of the unconscious were different to the dreams of the sleeping. Did such a notion make sense? Not terribly so, but that was the explanation they gave to their sinners when asked about their resting habits. They do partake in the common rituals, just without the element of sleep. It was once a source of perturbation. Some found it strange, some found it fascinating. It, like many quirks to Dante, eventually fell into the realm of normal and mundane. It was normal for Dante to remain awake as sinners departed to their quarters. They didn't question it, Dante didn't question it, and that was that.
Yet, there were times where odd situations would arise. They knew not when, nor how, but during particularly long trips, the sinners found Dante to be a beacon on a stormy night. After exhaustion saddled their bodies with pain and ache, they would steadily gravitate to their side. A few were shy, nervous in their approach, unwilling to cause trouble or make fuss. Others were far more brazen and bold, charging at them like a bull seeing red until their weight pinned Dante to their seat.
Shoulders, lap, side, head, Dante could feel pressure on any given point as the sinner of the moment chose their resting spot. Whatever drew them so close? Dante couldn't answer. But their obedience to the sinner's whims meant that, much like their very being, “Dante” and “rest” became synonymous with one another. An association formed, and it became mundane like everything else. After all, so long as the sinner woke up to defend the bus, it didn't matter much how they chose to occupy themselves between trips.
In truth, it also didn't matter to Dante. Not that they didn't care, they would never think as much, but they found themselves almost… fond of the practice. Burdensome as it was to their body, the touch of another was ever fleeting and oh so warm. To gaze at the sleeping form was, in a way, a chance for them to live vicariously through another. The soft breaths against their neck, the knitted brows of a bad dream, and the occasional snoring were human. Undeniable and unquestionable.
There was a time where envy arose. A bitterness would well up in their chest as they watched others do what they simply couldn't. In due time, this melted into appreciation. Why would they feel upset? They had no frame of reference for how it would feel to sleep. Such an opinion formed when they realized that sleep could, and often was, a source of anxiety for many of the sinners.
They, decidedly, weren't missing out on much.
Still, the fondness remained and they accepted their duties as manager wholeheartedly. If it meant being a pillow, they wouldn't complain. Not much, that is.
It didn't erase how “odd” it truly was.
Each sinner took their resting with varying levels of confidence and alertness. Dante did their best to accommodate their needs, but only so much could be done when their only action was to either sit still or shuffle in their seat. Few complained about the quality of their pillow-ness, but all seemed to return eventually.
It was something Dante felt grateful for.
It gave perspective and sensations often distant or overlooked.
A web of nerves stretched across their skin, bristled and tickled by their twelve sinners. They acted as the carvings placed upon Dante's heart. In how they act and how they rest, Dante finds the vulnerabilities lying beneath battle torn faces. They do not poke these wounds. They simply observe as they pass them by.
Yi Sang was shy in his approach. Perhaps among the least common faces, his never-ending battles with proper sleep often prevented him from seeking solace. Even so, under a single blue moon, he would approach Dante in silence, shuffle to their side, and rest his head upon their left shoulder. Not to sleep, but to rest. Weary eyes would remain open, rarely shutting for more than a few scant seconds. He would shiver, at times, and Dante would wonder, hope, that their own fleeting heat kept him at least a little warm. His were hands that gently grasped the frayed edges of their coat. It was never more than a pinch, for Yi Sang never wanted to intrude. He couldn't hold on too tightly. But Dante noticed. It was his own form of reassurance amidst the torrent of ill fated dreams. When his weight grew heavier, and his breathing evened, Dante would remain still to not disturb him.
Rest was a precious thing.
Faust was confident in her approach. Not bold or boisterous, but assured and certain. She sat at their side and took refuge inside her mind. Whether she slept or not was anyone's guess, but it always came with a sudden and unceremonious weight against Dante's shoulder. Like a machine shutting down, Faust would simply drop and let Dante take care of the rest. Was it an innate trust that they would carry her weight? Perhaps so. It wasn't like they had ever let her down. In the scarce few times she approached them for rest, they would always remain a rock for her to hold on to. Faust was a capable woman. She need not rely on them for support. Even so, Dante would be there when she did. Her hair would tickle their neck. At first, they would shiver hard enough to wake her. At some point, they would miss the ticklish feeling. Like a cat nuzzling up to them, Dante soon found Faust's soft hair to be a permanent fixture in their mind.
Rest was a necessary thing.
Don Quixote was, one could say, a little too aggressive in her approach. She would call for them, draw all eyes to her, and march to their side. Flopping her head onto their lap, she would regale them tales of fixer valor… roughly until she passed out. Often halfway through a story, Dante would be left to ponder the resolution as Don Quixote curls up and softly snores. She talks while she rests, and Dante can often glean new information about her fixer stories through these dreamy mumblings. Though more unruly than other sinners, once she slept, there was a remarkable peace that she exhibited. Though, compared to an awake Don Quixote, that wasn't saying much. Dante could only wonder what she saw in her dreams. Grand adventures? When her fists bundle up their coat and tug it to and fro, they have a feeling that their wish holds merit. It's harsh, but in turn Dante doesn't worry so much about shifting about while she sleeps.
Rest was a lively thing.
Ryōshū, as Dante grew used to, was seldom at their side. Encounters were fleeting, but distinctly memorable to them. They would happen ever so rarely that they once feared of driving Ryōshū away with their eagerness. After an arduous fight, and when the mood strikes her well, she'll approach their side and lay her back upon their lap, legs kicked up onto the seat and a cigarette hanging between her lips. Ryōshū would warn them, firmly, to not move a muscle, and they would listen without protest. Terror made for particularly memorable experiences, no? Though, the moment her eyes shut, Dante finds that they have more freedom than they initially thought. Per her request, they never squirmed, but the bumps of the bus made it difficult to tell what was Dante and what was Mephistopheles. The faint smog from her burning cigarette was warm and spiced. It simply felt right against their skin.
Rest was a frightening thing.
Meursault was a peculiarity among peculiarities. From a glance, it was not him who rested on Dante, but rather it was Dante who rested on him. He still sought their side. He still asked for permission. But, given his bulk, however, the exchange was more one sided than they would have liked. He "leaned" against their right side, shut his eyes, but remained staunchly tense. Dante could feel the muscles wound tight, drawing close to rest but never quite letting it take him. Despite his reservations, he seemed to get something out of their quiet exchanges. Was it his own enjoyment? Were they reassuring? They never asked, thus they never got an answer. But Dante didn't entirely need answers. When his breaths grew even, it was more than enough for them to continue placing their weight against his. Apprehension and confusion gave way to tranquility. Meursault would find peace at their side, and be prepared to act when necessary. It worked well for him.
Rest was a certain thing.
Hong Lu was remarkably reserved. At least, he was so to start. Eager as he was to see what the other sinners saw in such moments, something innate held him back. That is, until the dam broke. Once he found his head on Dante's lap, he deemed it suitable. More than that in fact. Again and again, he would take to the comfortable spot like a man starved and occasionally make requests of Dante. It was how they began combing their fingers through his hair. The silky locks, tangle free and only occasionally clumped with blood, became a favorite playing pastime of theirs too. They knew well that Hong Lu seldom slept when at their lap. Yet, his eyes would sometimes shut while he leaned into their touch. When rest grew too deep, and he failed to fight the urge to fall even deeper, he would leave Dante to other ventures on the bus, perhaps in hopes that departure would make him less likely to rest. They never pushed him to stay.
Rest was a fleeting thing.
Heathcliff was one that surprised Dante. Given his propensity towards making his own space, sharing it with another seemed unbelievable to them. They barely managed to play it cool, relaxing as his arm slung around the back of their neck. He didn't lean much into them as they expected, but his spread legs bumped into theirs whenever the bus hit a particularly steep pothole. He wouldn't comment on it and neither did they. Especially since Heathcliff seemed to have a mind of its own when he fell asleep. His leg would glue to theirs, his hand would grasp their coat, and faint snores told of a man that, for all his energy, still needed rest. He mumbled names in his sleep. Those he wronged and those who wronged him. By Dante's best guess, they were bleary and colorless dreams. His knee was a grounding one, always fighting for space. His hand was domination. Yet, Dante never once thought he wanted to hurt them in this state.
Rest was a tender thing.
Ishmael was, for all of her assurance, tentative with her initial approach. It never happened inorganically. She would always happen to be nearby, happen to be close, and happen to lean upon them for rest. After fighting sleep like her life depended on it, she would slump back and to the left, right where Dante remained. The first time, she was belligerent against accusations of softness. Afterwards was another story. She couldn't be bothered to care, and if Dante didn't either, then no problems existed. Her hair, bountiful and plush, carried the scent of the sea. They held memories of bygone days, and it left Dante with a distinct sense of melancholy. Ishmael's sleep was oft turbulent, but leaning against another helped her find a way forward. Once satisfied with her rest, she would take the time to thank Dante. It was curt, embarrassed, but she wouldn't go without giving her gratitude first.
Rest was a relentless thing.
Rodion was, in many ways, a pioneer. She took to Dante first. Casual, relaxed, she poked what one could assume was their cheek and playfully asked to borrow their shoulder. When they accepted, unaware of what it would become, she happily took her rightful spot. Her head would press to their clock, and she held their arm the whole time. At some point, always, the limb would grow numb and cold. They never moved it once. Rodion stirred rather easily. Though she played off her sensitivity, Dante knew she was wary about truly falling asleep. Particularly curious sinners would find out upon one eye peeking open to stare directly at them. It was enough to cement in Dante's mind that moving was a poor idea. The longer their shared time went on, the better accustomed to her whims they became. Soon, the chill of her hands felt warm in its own way. Perhaps, one day, she would truly find rest.
Rest was an uncertain thing.
Sinclair, from Dante's memory, was a bit of an accident. After a spat, he was "knocked" into the afterlife. Dante, naturally, pulled him from it. When he awoke, he was on their lap, panicking at his position. He apologized, naturally, and Dante reassured him. They didn't know what that strike did to him, but at some point he would return to their lap to lay his head down. He promised one time was enough, but that quickly became two, then ten, then more. His face would always be somewhat flushed, but once sleep took him, he was as calm as could be. With hands bundling up their clothes, he clung to them as if searching for another. Dante knew they couldn't replace what was lost, but for a few moments, the nails digging into their skin reassured the sinner that all was okay. It hurt, as many things did, but the pain was fleeting. The cycle would then repeat again and again. Dante never minded too much.
Rest was an evolving thing.
Outis was… staunchly against the activities of the sinners. If the sinner didn't wake on their own, chances are Outis would be the cause. As a result of certain complaints, Dante thought it best to snip the problem in the bud. By doing what else besides inviting her along! She protested, she fought, but she eventually accepted so long as distance was maintained. To their shock, she remained steadfast in her conviction. Close as they sat, it was never too close. Dante didn't mind. They found that Outis’ arms, crossed, still pressed to their side. They didn't really believe that she slept when settled at their side, so much as she was playing guard against the other sinners. It was comical, really. Her elbow against their side was harsh, but reminding. Dante could never get too comfortable. They could never get too close. They were colleagues first and foremost. As bitter as it could be, they were… grateful for the boundary.
Rest was a brutal thing.
Gregor found it difficult to join the other sinners in their habit. Calm as he was, it didn't entirely extend to physical touch. Still, per another sinner's insistence, he aimed to give it a try. His approach was full of questions, searches for reassurance in the face of doubt and fear. His unwillingness to cause discomfort extended to how he leaned against them. Shoulder to shoulder was the most he could manage at first, his insect arm always at bay. Sleeping seemed to be out of the question for a time. But, suddenly one day, Gregor fell asleep. In what astounded the entire bus, he leaned his head onto Dante's right shoulder and remained there until it was time to leave. Gregor's reaction was to laugh it away, but Dante knew a storm of emotions lie beneath. Was he afraid, distraught? Or had he truly relaxed for a spell? They recalled the clink of his glasses against their head and the ash of his cigarette dusting their coat. Perhaps… he did?
Rest was a sorrowful thing.
Between the sinner's habits and their spells of rest, Dante learned what most already understood. Without their memories, without their head, they had to glean what so many intuitively knew. Rest was complicated. Their paces behind the world did not trouble them. That is, not any more. Because, for now, they were their own person. They did not carry the memories of their old self, nor the burdens that came with it. All they had were the sinners and the city they lived in.
To carry their sins upon their back is a burden “Dante” will not shake.
But what could be said about their true self?
Did they want to know?
Or did they wish to remain?
As countless weights press their body, each seeking solace, revival, answers, rewards or acceptance, Dante finds the answer elusive. When they have already given a lifetime of pain to keep them alive, could they so easily let it slip from their fingers?
The soft ticks reflect their rumination. It stirs a few, but all remain in their restful states.
Just as the bus continues onward, so too does their journey.
And few can outrun the inevitability of a destination.