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Chapter Text

A faint light emitted from her lamp. A glow that traced her gentle profile, rounding her face and adding extra shine to her bright eyes. Against the darkness she stood out like a sunrise, emerging so beautifully in front of him. He would tell her that was his impression, but she would laugh, and blush a little bit. She was not insecure, just not used to compliments. Maybe he should tell her anyway.

“You look beautiful”

It left his mouth in a whisper, so soft he was unsure if she had heard it. But the red of her cheeks said otherwise, as did the way she tried to hide her face.

“Thou looketh lovely as well” she said, her voice switching tones like a piano that had been trampled on by a cat. In any other occasion, to her this would have been a breach of character so heinous it could be considered equal to sin. But they were alone in her room now, so there was nothing to be ashamed about.

“I’m serious” he chuckled, trying to pry the hand off her mouth.

“So am I!”

They both struggled a little bit with each other, pushing and pulling but never too hard. Just enough to place strength, never to hurt. Eventually, the so-called fight ended with both of them laughing, realising the ridiculousness of it all. And to him, that laugh was like hearing the bells of Heaven.

I couldn’t have died now. But it would explain why an angel is beside me…

The light of the lamp showed him that young woman as she rolled in bed giggling like she had just heard the joke of the century. The beautiful person who had stolen his heart so long ago, taken it with care and permission, gently kept it. Even when she had tried to return it, when she claimed she did not want it, she took great care of it. No matter what she would have said, he could not believe that she had ever treated him unfairly.

And he had proof now, as they laid in her bed side by side - a bed that was smaller than his, and they had to huddle close to not fall out. It was all evidence, because this was the eighth time they had slept in the same room, unbeknownst to the rest of their coworkers. Their eighth night since he had become hers, and she had become his.

A secret couple.

Secret lovers.

“Thou truly knoweth how to charm a maiden” she said, rolling on her stomach. “Art thou sure thou did not lie? Am I verily thy first partner?”

“I’m a terrible liar” he said, cheek pressed against a spare pillow she had found a few nights before. “You would have known it immediately when we first kissed”

“Ah, ‘tis not a guarantee; thou might have never kiss’d yet still court’d a lady”

“True, true; but still…”

“Ay, I know”

Don Quixote flopped on her back, stretching her arms above the bed. Her fingers seemed to want to touch the ceiling, reaching out towards the bright green stickers that glowed in the dark. They came in various shapes, mostly forming Fixer emblems, Color insignias, even Association logos. Mementos from blind boxes she had collected a few months ago, the kind that they sold to children younger than the both of them.

It had been his idea to attach the stickers on the ceiling. Perhaps their faint glow could provide some comfort to her in the darkness, something to chase the demons of her Curse away. She had deemed the concept reasonable enough to ask the Manager, who then checked in with Faust and Vergilius. Within a few hours, her request had been approved. And the other day during the early hours of the break, she had asked Meursault to help her place the stickers, for the ceiling was quite high.

“How are they doing?” He asked her. “The stickers, I mean”

Don Quixote tilted her head, her arms flopping back on the bed.

“They make it lighter” she said, her tone quivering. “Although ‘tis too soon to say if it will help”

He nodded. She turned around to look at him, her smile soft.

“Still…thank you. For suggesting it. It means a lot”

“It’s really nothing…”

She placed an index on his lips, cutting off his humble words. It was cold, and he shuddered at the contact.

“It is enough” she said, her voice lowered. “It is enough for me. And I thank you for it”

That was the way it went, when they were together without anyone else to watch over them. Don Quixote remained Don Quixote, but the boundaries between her act and her actress blurred enough that she switched fluently between one and the other. And though she had been concerned at first whether the act would confuse him, he reassured her it did not matter: Don Quixote or Sancho, to him, were the same person at the core. Nothing about his affection would change no matter what.

He nodded, and she drew away her index. Her hand searched for his, holding it in the small space that separated them.

“I still have yet to get used to it…” she admitted.

“‘It’?”

“Us” her eyes lowered to look at their hands. “That this…is happening; I cannot wrap my head around it”

“That’s fair; it’s not like we really went public with it. It’s only been a few days anyway…”

Sancho hummed thoughtfully. She pressed their palms together.

“But I would like to do something more…”

“Eh?”

“Like, uh…” she paused for a second, searching for the right words. “Like a date? A romantic rendez-vous?”

Oh!

His face went bright red, chasing away stray thoughts he would sooner die than reveal.

“Y-yeah…yeah! Yeah, same actually”

“Hm?”

“I would love to- like to…” he shook his head, holding out their joined hands in front of their faces. “I also want to go on a date with you”

Sancho’s cheeks became faintly pink, their colour softened by the light surrounding her like a halo. Her mouth quivered, forming a sweet smile as she squeezed his hand.

“Then…shall we settle something, once we get the chance? Maybe a Nest tour or something within our budget?”

“I would love to”

Her smile seemed to widen, as their hands went back to resting below their field of vision. The grip did not loosen for a moment, nor was there an attempt made to separate the union, as they discussed the potential things they could do on such a hypothetical date.

Though it had been eight days since the two had gotten together, they had not broken the news to their coworkers or their Manager. Both inexperienced and loaded with personal baggage, the two Sinners had decided to take the relationship slowly; though they continued to be close during work, it was in the break that their love flourished, supported by the ease with which their personalities could more openly express themselves. Sancho and Don Quixote could blend together, and he could be…

“Emil?”

“Hm?”

Her hand was cold, but he did not mind holding it. He was used to its touch, to the point his own felt incomplete without it.

That was one thing that they often did, when they weren’t alone: hand holding; but also sleeping while leaning against each other, clinging to the other’s arm…any kind of contact that appeared tame, or ambiguous, so as to not drive attention upon them. It was all things that they had done even before those eight nights, so there was nothing unusual about it. But it had been a while since then, and he had missed those moments more than he had realised.

“How are you doing?” Sancho asked, as their fingers intertwined.

“So-and-so” he answered, his usual reply. “B-but I feel better with you”

She laughed. “You cheesy-! Where do you learn this stuff?”

“Around” he could feel the heat rising up to his cheeks, and she laughed again.

“Thou art really something. But verily, ‘tis one of the many reason I like thee”

The smile that accompanied those words was sincere. Warm, warmer than the sunrise, the kind of smile that only he had been granted the honour to see. And it matched the sparkles in her eyes, highlighted by the lamp’s light; a glow that by now he had forgotten the origin of, for the woman in front of him was all the light he needed. A sun grander than the one which greeted the City every morning. A star brighter than the ones he saw at night. A star that was beside him, so close he could feel her warm breath, touch her hand and hold it tight, share his best days and worst nights, accept hers in turn. A star that was his, as he was hers. And that promised him a life worth living, without the pressure of the outside world, of his past, of his personal demons.

Here in these rooms during the break, with her, he was just a man with a name instead of a legacy. His own first name.

Don Quixote drew closer, pressing a kiss on his lips. He returned in kind, indulging in the pleasures of desire and love for as long as both agreed on it. And then they parted, face flushed, still green to this new way of life.

“Goodnight, Emil” she said. His heart fluttered.

“Goodnight, Sancho”

Chapter Text

There is a secret about Mephistopheles that is openly known among Sinners. That being, the existence of an emergency button that when activated, would open the bus's main door no matter the occasion, even when it was not meant to be operational. It was supposed to only be used for emergencies, but it was also known that some Sinners used it in the night to walk outside, clearing their thoughts or sneaking out to deal with personal business. While it was true that for some it was enough to separate oneself from one's room to achieve peace of mind in the most turbulent of nights, sometimes fresh air was also a good alternative. Faust did not mind the abuse of the button, as she argued that at least, it was not going to get clogged or rusted over. Vergilius decided to let the issue slide once it became apparent what was going on; it was of no concern to him what the Sinners did, as long as they were ready during work hours and did not cause issues. So the open secret continued to be utilised every few nights by different parties, and no further comment was made on the matter.

As the environment had grown colder and the nights longer, fewer Sinners utilised the button. Their clothes were not built for such weather after all, no matter the time their turbulent minds would keep them awake. And so for a while, the front of Mephistopheles saw many a break in silence and in the dark. But one December evening, two figures approached the area; one dragging the other by the hand, almost missing the button in the dark in their rush to open it. The other let them act as they saw fit, limply following along.

"Come"

The door quietly hissed open, its sides disappearing slowly. Cool early morning breeze blew in, brushing against the two Sinners' faces.

"...are you sure you're not cold?" The timid one asked, their head turned away.

"I'm fine; what about you?"

They hesitated, considering their options. They could have lied and said that they were too cold, putting an end to the improvised outing. But the other's smile was too kind even in the dim light, difficult to refuse; it felt like an even worse sin to disappoint them with a lie. Besides, the person knew deep down, that this hand they held was all the warmth they needed.

"I'll be fine" they forced out a smile, their lips trembling. 

"You sure?"

"Hm hm"

"You don't have to humour me, you know; it’s fine-"

"Emil"

Sancho nodded towards the open door, the lines of her face softening. She squeezed his hand, biting back a shudder that ran through her as she felt the wind on her face.

"I trust you"

Though he still seemed uncertain, Emil decided not to push the conversation. He placed his free hand on the side of the bus door, palm almost in contact with the blade that had severed the metal. And then, after confirming that no one was around, he jumped. And Sancho followed, never once letting go of his hand.

December was nearing its end, but still the softer air of spring was far away. In the Northeast especially, cold winds raged on in the early morning, caressing the two Sinners as they stepped into the meadow Mephistopheles had been parked in. Though they had brought their coats with them, Sancho noticed that they were both still underdressed for the weather. And Emil specifically was shivering a little, his hand trembling in hers.

"Emil?"

"Hm?"

"Are you...alright?"

He looked at her, his cheeks already slightly flushed from the cold. He smiled softly, nodding.

"You?"

"I'm fine..."

She lowered her face, biting her lip. She knew she should have slipped on the mask, or at least let it show a little more. But there was a heavy weight on her body, preventing her from lifting a finger or putting in much effort. She wrapped her free arm around herself, tugging at the skin on the other.

"Hey"

Emil gently pried her hand off, intertwining it with his own. Carefully he directed her gaze towards him, and Sancho could not help the heat rising up in her face as she met his comforting smile, shiny eyes lined by eyebags, cheeks flushed from the cold.

"Sancho..."

He let go of one hand, traded place with the cold air against her palm. But before she could miss the feeling of warmth, his hand went to cup her cheek, tracing its round surface with a tender gesture.

"Sancho...I'm still here..."

Her vision fogged over; ashamed, embarrassed, she turned away. Her eyes looked around, squinting in the dark of the early morning, tired, blinking, awake. Images flickered in her vision, in the dark shadows of the trees nearby. She took a deep breath, relaxing her muscles.

"I know...I know..."

Her voice shook, her hands curled and uncurled. She took a deep breath, closing her eyes for a second, trying to dispel the phantoms. Though her body relaxed as she exhaled, her teeth remained gritted.

"It's ok...it's ok..."

Emil reassured her, nodding a little as he did. Once all breath had left her lungs, he kissed her cheek, as if rewarding her. The warmth left by his lips soothed her, and she basked in the feeling, squeezing his hand.

You're too kind...

Her face fell for a second. But she erased the expression almost immediately, turning her gaze to her partner.

"So…did you bring me here just to charm me? Is this that idea you were talking about?"

"Ah, uhm, no! I- I mean...well, unless...ah, nevermind..."

Emil shook his head, his face turning even redder. Sancho's smile returned. He was cute when he was embarrassed. 

"I wanted to, uh...hm..."

He looked around quickly, hand returning to grasp her free one. It had gotten cold in the brief interval they had stayed apart, though she did not realise it until his sweaty fingers were grasping hers.

"Ah, here! Let's go!"

She nodded, inviting him to lead her.

---

Though it was not unheard of for Sinners to leave during the break, it was an unspoken rule that they were not to venture too far or cause mayhem. At the very least, if they were to leave the nearby premises, they were expected to return as soon as possible. But in spite of how lovestruck Sancho and Emil were, they were not foolish enough to attempt a daring escapade, pretending to elope to a district far away from all that was known, where they could leave their lives and their demons behind. Perhaps one day, when the months were kinder and the weather warmer, when they had more courage and more willingness to experience something new...perhaps then they could play pretend for a night. But for now, they settled on standing at the edge of the border, daring to fly under the protective shadow of Mephistopheles.

The meadow, though surrounded by trees, had a path that had been carved out long ago by human hands. It was the one the bus had followed, and as it crossed Districts and sceneries, it had at some point begun to descend. The sides were quite thin, but a brave soul could still sit among the trees, peeking through branches and trunks to observe the view from a slightly higher spot. It was there that Emil was taking Sancho; she realised such a thing as they climbed up the road.

They found a wide patch of grass, not too far away from Mephistopheles, not too close to the road. Emil looked around it, verifying something that the young woman did not understand. Then he turned towards her, gesturing at the horizon that peeked through the foliage.

"Is…this alright?"

She laughed. "You're the one who invited me here"

"Yes, but...it's fine, right?"

She approached him step by step, holding his hand with both of hers for support. An advantage of wearing Rocinante as opposed to the company footwear, was that those shoes were fit for the kind of climbing and running that the outing had suddenly required. Still she held onto him as she leaned in, capturing his lips into a kiss.

"Wherever you go, I will go as well; is that not what we agreed on?"

Emil nodded, and wrapped his coat closer against his body. He then led Sancho to the patch of grass near the edge, upon which they both sat down.

"You can see the horizon here, so I thought we could...watch the sunrise together; like...like we did that day when..."

He left the sentence unfinished, but Sancho recognised what he was talking about. Her face felt warm against the morning breeze.

When we first kissed...

It seemed like an eternity had passed since that moment. The day when everything had changed, the mutual infatuation they had desperately tried to hide from the other bursting out of their chest. She still remembered the gentle pressure of his arm, the warmth of his lips, and his breath against hers as they parted. Or perhaps she only still recalled because of how often they had repeated that gesture in recent days.

Sancho leaned against his shoulder, her own sinking.

"I never thought...we would get to this point so soon."

Or ever, she added to herself silently. The weight of the first rejection was still heavy, as was the foolish grief that had motivated it.

"Neither did I" Emil said. "I…didn't think you'd like me"

She smiled. Their hands were still intertwined, and she squeezed his, ignoring the sweat that pooled in his palm.

"Well, that makes two of us...if we count..."

She did not finish her sentence. Her head turned to bury into his neck, seeking warmth. Seeking refuge. Seeking certainty that this was all real instead of a happy dream, and that she had achieved her selfish desire. As if to further reassure her, she felt Emil’s free hand resting against her shoulder, wrapping her into a quiet and gentle semblance of a hug.

They did not move for minutes, years. The winds shifted, cold turned to warmth.

"Ah, Sancho"

"Hm?"

"There's…something coming up now..."

She turned her head slightly, not wanting to abandon his side. She noticed that the sky had begun to brighten, the shadows of the night softening.

"It could take a while" she pointed out, nuzzling back into his neck.

"Hm hm; but uh, still..."

She paused, deep in thought. In truth, no semblance of a dawn or sunlight could have compared to him. The light that shone through her shadows, broke her free from the well of darkness he had doomed herself in. Inspired her to take steps forward, instead of burying herself among the remnants of her family name. The same light that had held her as she cried, tearing herself away from another nightmare of blood and salt. That had comforted her, eased her into calm, and kissed her as she sought his warmth. The sun that had broken out of its own shadows little by little, had brought her here, perhaps to introduce her to its parents, show her just how lovely she was and how much she meant to him.

But Sancho did not need to see the sun that rose and set, nor to be accepted by it. Emil was here. And that was all that mattered.

"Hey, Sancho?"

"Hm?"

"How are you feeling?"

She could hear in his tone the meaning of his words. He was referring to her breakdown from that night, a moment that had been unexpected for both. They had never had problems sharing a bed, not as serious as now. But the nightmare that had shaken them awake had been violent and ruthless, as were the shadows of her past that scraped at her in her room, desperate to reach her through the protective arms of her sun.

"…better" she said, her voice low. "Better now"

His thumb stroked her hand.

"It's not your fault…"

"I…well…" Sancho bit her lip. "Emil, I appreciate your kindness, but..."

"I mean about today"

She looked at him, and he smiled, cupping her cheek.

"You feel guilty that you woke me up, didn't you? And that I went out with you just now"

The young woman tried to duck underneath his gaze, feeling her eyes growing heavy. But she could not bring herself to lie to him about something like this, something so important for their relationship. She nodded.

"It's stupid…"

"No; I would feel the same in your shoes. I can't blame you. But please know that I'm not mad, nor did I force myself to do this"

He gestured towards the light of the approaching sun, in the process of piercing through the darkness.

"I thought it might help to get your mind off of it; think of something...lighter, if you could call it that. the sunrise, our next work routine, the concept of a new day...the day we first kissed. Anything, really. As long as it made you feel better" he gently brushed her cheek, wiping a traitorous tear that had managed to slip down.

"Not really what I'd call a first date, but...it's still a good effort, right?"

Through the sadness in her soul, deep admiration shone through. And Sancho's eyes sparkled, caught in a lovestruck daze at the honesty of her partner who so sheepishly admitted the nature of their outing. A first date, just for her. Just to make her feel better.

This guy...does he value himself so poorly? Does he not realise a thing? How many times do I have to tell him, what else must I do to make him understand? Tell me, idiot, tell me! Tell me and I will make sure that you never forget who you are, and what your role in my life is!

In a flash, she had grabbed his body and ensured their distance shrank even more, her heart beating loudly in her ears at her own earnest attempt to be as loud as possible about her feelings. It was something she wished to do, it was something Don Quixote would do. And yet her face was flushed as bright red as his, and the bated breath that left his lungs made it difficult to restrain herself from pouncing on him or running away in shame.

Balance. That was the key when she was with Emil alone. Balance between her actor and mask, between the two extremes. She would be careful yet honest, loving and modest. As long as they both enjoyed it, she would act this way.

"Th- thou dost not need to go this far" she said, a little too quickly to be heard. Emil tilted his head, puzzled.

"Sancho, there's no need to-"

He was stopped by a squeal, his own: Don Quixote had grabbed his loose tie - why had he gone to sleep with it? - and pulled him closer still. Her mouth was a breath away from his, still she moved her head to avoid it, watching as puffs of air emerged from his red face. Seeing him up close, she was struck by how beautiful he was. She knew it well of course, but somehow she was always taken aback by that precious knowledge, as if it were always the first time that she noticed. His gentle eyes, his round cheeks, his soft skin, his small nose, his rosy lips...Emil always seemed to wonder why she had fallen for him. But in turn, she was unsure how someone so attractive could have chosen her.

Leaning in, she pressed a kiss on the corner of his lips. Then his cheek, then his nose. And she kept going, peppering kisses all over a side of his face again and again, as his disbelief slowly melted into acceptance. He hummed against her gentle pressure, arms wrapping around her; and the warmth of his touch expanded and enveloped them, shielding them from the cool morning breeze. 

As dawn broke before them, Don Quixote worshipped the light of her life, the sun that had broken through her shadows and offered his hand.

"Thou art my sun" she said at some point, as the light reached them as well, and his eyes became brighter. "And wherever thou art, I shall follow"

While the day fought off the night, Don Quixote embraced her own precious light, kissing his lips over and over again to sediment her praise upon his breath. And the memories of the broken past, for a moment, were all forgotten.

Chapter Text

There came a day when the Sinners were tasked with containing a Distortion within the confines of one of the City's Nests. It was nothing that they were not used to, save perhaps for the need to be more cautious than usual among the regular population. However, in the end that limitation ended up causing no issues, as the problem was dealt with swiftly with no casualties. In times when the Sinners were used to losing many, that factor was of great importance to them. There were joyous celebrations among the members of LCB, and Dante even let out a sigh that almost sounded human.

Jobs that were done so well deserved a reward. That was how some kept their employees motivated in this World. Still, the announcement of a day off from Vergilius during the celebratory meal that evening came as a shocking surprise. The group had to ascertain themselves at least four to nine times that his words had been true.

"It goes without saying," he added once the shock had worn off. "That you can all do whatever you want as long as you don't cause any trouble; if you so much as attempt something stupid, I will make sure that the memories of our resulting consultation will stay with you no matter how many times you die in battle".

Everyone nodded seriously. Not like they were planning on engaging in such behaviour anyway. They had suffered enough at the hands of their own stupidity.

"Your day off is tomorrow. You may go out and fool around the Nest from sunrise to sunset; by the time the sky has darkened, you should all be inside Mephistopheles. No exceptions are permitted, unless one of you is lying in pieces in the middle of the street. But that of course should not be the case, considering only stupidity could lead you to such a fate in a Nest"

Some Sinners complained under their breaths that twelve hours was not enough to explore all of the town. The majority covered the naysayers with exaggerated sounds of agreement, understanding that it was better than nothing.

A day off. Such a thing was a rare feat for normal employees of the City, let alone the Sinners of LCB. Even the Manager seemed to be glad about the prospect, possibly because they had been longing for a stress-free break for who knows how long. And no one could blame them: those long hours of rewinds and mental stress could send even the most patient person into hysterics. The fact they were still sane was a miracle.

Because of the excitement over the new opportunity, most of that evening was spent discussing plans and combing through the pamphlets Ishmael had painstakingly gathered. Various proposals emerged, including taking a long walk, visiting landmarks, tasting delicacies of the Nest, splitting bills. A group eyed the local shopping mall with great interest, clutching their feeble wallets. Others preferred to investigate cheaper options.

No matter the topic, there was always something to look for, to discuss, and all Sinners threw in suggestions, ideas, offers. None were discarded too quickly, as if to reflect the joy that was felt due to the freedom of choice granted to the group. And overall, while the day off had not officially started, that evening might as well have been a part of it.

All Sinners were excited, and all gained something out of that discussion. It would be foolish, really, to say that there was to be a competition on who got the most out of that day. But it is also important to note that, out of that group of thirteen, two people in particular were smiling as if they had won the lottery. They did not let their enthusiasm show, as they shared ideas with the rest of the group. But secretly, they communicated coded messages, delivered with certain phrasings and gestures that only they knew of. And then, when the two had gathered all the information they needed, one by one they slipped out of the conversation with the excuse of going to bed, feigning fatigue to bury their wide smiles.

In a room where glowing tree stood at the centre, golden fruits reflecting its light, the two Sinners sat atop the bed covers, pouring over a list and a notebook covered in check-marks and scribbles; on both items, they had spent more time than they would have liked to admit.

"I am still of the opinion that thou shouldst not have to pay for all the meals" Don Quixote huffed, as Emil read over the notebook once more. "I am not as destitute as one would assume; I too can save responsibly!"

"The cafe was my idea" the young man said, looking at her. "It's only right for me to pay if I'm taking you somewhere; is…is that not how it works?"

"Verily, 'tis proper etiquette; but I refuse to be spoiled by thee, without returning the favour!" She crossed her arms. "I shall repay thy kindness one way or the other, I shall! The idea to venture to the shopping mall was mine own! So, by thy decree-!"

"Don Quixote"

"Hmph!"

"You don't owe me anything"

"'Tis not for thee to decide-"

She was cut off by Emil cupping her face, gently in order not to scare her. While she was momentarily paralysed - taken aback by his sudden gesture - he drew closer, a small shy smile blossoming on his face.

"Do you know why that is?" He asked.

She shook her head, trying in vain to retain her pout. But her strength left her as he closed the distance further, touching her nose with his own as he whispered:

"Because every moment spent with you is payment enough"

A heartbeat passed. And then, when Emil parted, it became clear that both Sinners had turned bright red at his confession, their expressions facing anywhere but each other. At some point they ended up fixating on particular spots: Don Quixote the tree, and Emil the notebook.

The days they had spent as a couple had been many; but still, moments of bravery such as these tended to be considered too scandalous to calmly bear.

"So, uhm..."

After some silence had passed between them, Don Quixote cleared her throat. She changed the subject.

"What dost thou think about...the plan?"

"It looks fine to me" Emil nodded, putting the notebook down.

"The backup plans as well?"

"Yes; everything is good"

Good...

Don Quixote bit her lip.

"Forsooth; planning is necessary to achieve perfection"

"Perfection?"

His surprise caught her momentarily off guard. Her voice lowered, and she tapped her fingers nervously against each other.

"Well, as thou knowest...'tis our first date"

First date. She chewed on that word a little longer, savouring its sweetness. Something that she had only read about in magazine columns, a childish fantasy that had been idealised in spite of its apparent impossibility. Even before she had donned Rocinante, she had heard of such a rite, common among humans; and admittedly, though she had never wanted to mention it out loud back then...she was intrigued by the concept. Bloodfiends, barely communicating with others outside of the Family, had no experience nor the need to engage in such rituals after all. Not to mention that, as far as she was aware, no one in her Family had ever tried them.

Sancho wondered if the person she had been back then could even fathom the idea of herself answering her own questions; the idea that she was going to be the one Bloodfiend lucky enough to experience a first date. The concept of having a boyfriend to share it with, who loved her as she loved him, more than what words could describe. To have them schedule it together down to the last detail…

Father, Dulcinea, Bari, everyone...could you have imagined such a fate for me? Would you have supported me?

In the midst of her thoughts, she felt something warm placed over her hands; his warmth, the clammy sensation of his palms. And it was then that she realised she had been trembling slightly.

"Are you ok?" He asked.

His pressure momentarily subsided the irrational movement of her fingers. But they could not stop the thoughts that swirled around her head, nor the uneasiness crawling up her throat.

Sucking in a breath, Sancho nodded. But she was too obvious: Emil frowned, closing the notebook and placing it aside before drawing nearer.

"If there is anything about this that you want to rethink, Don Quixote...we can talk about it"

Too kind. Too gentle. Far too sweet for her. And yet here he was, trying to comfort her over something he did not yet understand. Because he was only human. A human deeply in love with a creature who had never thought she could feel so strongly over someone like him. Had her older self known about the circumstances, she would have looked away in disgust. But the current Sancho did not have the luxury of living through the same situation.

Emil tried again, his voice this time a little more firm.

"If you think we're moving too fast..."

Sancho's eyes widened in horror. Quickly she grabbed his hand, shaking her head.

"No, no, it's fine, I'm fine! That's not it! I'm just...tired..."

Her head sunk low, as if to emphasise her words. At least, that was what must have gone through Emil's mind, as he nodded and pushed the notebook away.

"We're done anyway; we should...go to sleep now. Do you want to...?"

He left the question unfinished, but the look on his eyes, as they wandered across the room, said it all. She nodded, her cheeks burning red. Flustered. Embarrassed. Mortified. But he did not suspect a thing, as they helped each other move the paper onto the floor before undressing and climbing into the bed. There Emil embraced her, holding her tightly in his arms, as he closed his eyes and whispered a gentle "good night". He was soon fast asleep, curled up to the side. But Sancho laid awake.

His warmth enveloped her like the flames of a bonfire. It burned through her skin and charred her bones. And her face was still bright red, still felt hot, as tears gathered in her eyes, and she had to stretch out her neck in hopes that if they fell, they would not touch him. That their built-in frustration would not harm him. She bit her lip and sighed.

Some things never changed.

---

The light of dawn crept in, illuminating the streets of the Nest. Around this time, crowds of employees had begun to pour into the outside world, moving from convenient stores and takeaway restaurants to jobs that would - for many - keep them locked in cramped spaces on tiny chairs for hours on end. After the first wave, a new one would follow, of latecomers and early shoppers, of schoolchildren and parents. Adults would run from one road to the other, the fear of unemployment or loss of their Nest visa embedded deep in their hearts, spurning them forward.

Fear. The Ruler of the rush hours in the morning, a kind of emotion that was never covered in any introduction weeks. But such was the condition one had to prepare themselves towards, when living in the Nest. A life of Fear of everything, from a small career-ending mistake to a random unforeseen disaster that would at best, with luck, end your life as quickly as possible.

Within this environment, the Sinners had scattered, chasing the high that came with temporary freedom. Alongside them were Don Quixote and Emil, who had left quickly, and crossed a wide distance before deeming it proper to be able to hold their hands unseen.

Twelve days. Twelve days the two had been together, and yet they were still dancing around a makeshift necessary secrecy. Perhaps one day they should discuss it properly with their Manager, with their coworkers. They were the last people to be unaccepted as an item after all. But that would have to be discussed on another day.

It took some time before Don Quixote and Emil found their first destination of the day: a cafe that had been advertised in the pamphlets as being the ideal place for a quiet snack, though the other Sinners had deemed it to be too far to their other destinations, or too out of their budget when paired with the convenience of the shopping mall. Limbus Company provided each Sinner with a generous recreational salary in exchange for their work; but it was often the habit of some to blow it on the next available destination, when they were not paying for new clothes and underwear out of pocket.

Between Don Quixote and Emil, they had realised they had enough money to at least attempt a quick meal at the cafe. Not to mention that, considering the special occasion, it was worth investing in. Even then, discourse on who would pay for what still had not been concluded fairly. At least, not in Don Quixote's opinion.

As they examined the front of the building, the young woman  turned towards the other, squeezing his hand.

"Art thou sure about payment?"

Emil nodded without missing a beat. "It was my idea, as I've said; we agreed that the person who brings the other pays. As is etiquette"

"'Tis not as important as thou thinkest" she mumbled. "We are not squires of different seniority"

"Ah, but still...I- I mean, it's the best option, right?"

He dug into his pocket, pulling out the shiny card that LCB members used to withdraw money from their private company deposit.

"I've barely used it this year; and also I- I should probably use it more, in case someone up there decides to dock my pay because I don't spend it..."

As the expert Fixer dictionary, Don Quixote could not deny that she had heard of Offices that dared such fiendish acts. Another aspect of the City that highlighted its cruelty, a state she had grown to believe and accept more and more in recent weeks. Of course, she doubted that their Company worked by similar rules, but she also did not wish to use Emil to test that truth.

"I shall concede then; but I shall not stand by and reduce mineself to a spoiled maiden. I will provide mine gratitude to thee eventually!"

"Of course"

Quaint, quiet and popular with locals. Those were some of the adjectives that Ishmael’s pamphlets had used to describe the cafe. The food was also sweet and delicious, perfect for breakfast and filling enough to last for hours in your stomach. In short, there was no better place from where to begin their first date.

First date...Don Quixote's head spun just thinking about it, and she found herself holding onto Emil's arm for support. Her heart was bursting with joy and anxiety. It leaped into her throat and she gulped to swallow it down. She had had plenty of time to prepare herself for that day, let it all fully sink in, and yet...

First date. The natural progression for a relationship such as theirs. A romantic relationship. Them. Her and Emil. Someone she liked. Someone who liked her. First date.

All these concepts, no matter how many times she repeated them, did not seem any closer to sounding true. And who could blame her for such a thing? The course of events that had seen her as a protagonist seemed straight out of a tale. A Bloodfiend that could love, a Bloodfiend that loved a human, a human that loved a monster…A dream that had seemed impossible had flourished, continuing its natural course, expanding and developing before her very eyes. Still she held onto Emil, as if any moment she might sink into the ground due to some unknown generational punishment.

"It's going to be ok" he reassured her, planting a kiss on her cheek. She did not know if he understood the root of her sudden anxiety; but his words comforted her somewhat, loosened the grip she had on him. And once they had ensured they were both doing well, the two entered the cafe without another word.

A bell jingled, announcing their presence. Don Quixote jumped at the sound, turning red at the realisation of her own reaction.

¡Pinche idiota! ¿Tienes cinco años? ¡Contrólate!

Her boiling frustration was soon drowned out by the voice of an older woman who, having been cleaning a table nearby, immediately stopped what she was doing to greet them both.

"Hello there! Please, come in, come in, don't just stand there!"

The two obeyed, further stepping in. She beamed at them, her hands on her waist.

"Well well, it's not everyday we get a sweet little pair like you two at this hour of the day" she laughed. "Especially Fixers! I don't think I recognise either of your uniforms...you're not from around here, are you?"

"Verily we are not" Don Quixote nodded. Her tongue was more tied than usual, her face beet red. The praise reserved for her line of work and the deep respect she harboured for her righteous peers died in her mouth.

"W- we're from Limbus Company" noticing her difficulty, Emil took charge of the conversation. "I, uhm...Our apologies; we're not...used to, uh...eating in public..."

The excuse was flimsy at best, but still the lady laughed.

"Relax relax, no need to make excuses; you think you're the first lovebirds I've seen in my line of work? Come on now, let's get you settled somewhere. Limbus Company you said? Hm hm, I've heard something like that alright. Definitely not from here, that's for sure. Ahhh, you're the folks who took care of the mess down the road the other day? Ha, no need to pretend, Fixers have really big mouths when they come to eat here, and they drop a lot more words than they think because of it..."

The lady continued to chatter as she laid out a table in the back, and somehow managed to also fit in the midst of her one-sided conversation the routine mention of the daily specials as well as what ingredients they had at the moment. Even after she had wished them a cheerful good morning and left them to their own devices, she was still talking; though this time at least, the words were directed at her younger coworker. Once she was really out of earshot and out of view, having disappeared behind the counter's back door, Don Quixote breathed out a sigh of relief.

"I have been told I have formidable breathing control; but verily, she hath beaten me in every lane"

Emil chuckled. "Still, it's nice to see happy civilians who love their job, wouldn't you say?"

"Ay; 'tis rare in our line of work..."

As she spoke, Don Quixote turned the page of the menu with a thoughtful look, fully focusing on what kind of meal she could order. And it was only then that she noticed how she was using the same hand that had picked up the small book in the first place, flipping through it on the table. The reason became clear, as she turned towards the other one.

Their hands were still joined. Somehow she had forgotten about it. Yet that warmth that spread in her palm was welcoming and kind, and she could not find it in her heart to willingly part. A life without that sensation felt wrong. How had she been able to live before it? Had there ever been a life back then?

She should untangle herself from his fingers.

She did not.

There was not even an attempt at losing his grip, nor at grabbing his attention or pointing out the matter. But she did not scold herself over her lack of inaction: after all, if Emil had said nothing, then it was fine.

Because it was fine.

It was how it was meant to be.

There were dating. They were together. Couples always held hands.

Before long, a young woman about their age came to collect their orders; she was quieter than her superior, and a little shyer: she kept her eyes glued to her small notepad as she spoke. But her voice, repeating lines that must have been rehearsed many times, was clear and concise.

At first, Don Quixote wondered if the young girl had been placed in that lime of work against her will. But then, when she inquired about the specials, a strange spark overcame the waitress; without missing a beat, she began listing off the necessary information, weaving words together with a shy yet passionate tone as if she had made all the food with her own hands. And perhaps she did take kitchen duty on occasion, for a script could not explain the details she dropped with every cake she discussed.

The two listened to her recommendations and insights, nodding at every word, completely enraptured. By the time she was done talking, Don Quixote felt even more conflicted about a final decision than she had been before.

"Both the parfait and the crumble are quite inviting" she mumbled aloud. "Verily, 'tis a hard choice"

"They are popular" the waitress nodded with a small smile. "My brother designed the recipes himself"

"Hark! Thy sibling participated in the crafting? Fie, this hath only but made the choice more difficult to stipulate..."

"We'll take both"

Don Quixote's head rose so quickly she almost heard a snap.

"Emil!" she squealed. "You've already ordered-"

"It's fine'" he reassured her. "If it's too much, we'll take it to go. I wouldn't be offering if I couldn't afford it"

She wanted to protest his words, but remembering that there was a witness present, she found that decision to be unwise.

"Fine, I shall order both" she pouted. "But thou must order the additional beverage thou wert considering"

Emil hesitated at first, and her pride swelled up at the sight, vindicated. He eventually agreed on her challenge, adding another drink to his order; puffing her chest, Don Quixote proceeded to ask for both of her choices, ensuring she did not express any uncertainty.

The young woman took every order without blinking, as if couples contending for more food was a natural occurrence. She then thanked them both and rushed back behind the counter, to communicate the orders. And after that, Emil and Don Quixote were left alone, as it was still early, and there were no other patrons to be found in the cafe.

"Thou art a noble courtier, Emil" Don Quixote said, resting her chin in her hand. "'Tis the reason it is so hard to compete with thee"

"Ah, I just do what I think is best" Emil said, his face flushing a light pink.

"And pray tell, how dost thou defined this mythical 'best'?"

"Well, uhm..." he scratched his cheek with his free gloved hand, and she felt his palm getting sweaty. "Well, for me at least, the best would be, uhm...making you happy"

An instant of silence followed his sentence, so deep that you could have heard a pin drop. And then, Don Quixote's mouth fell off its hinges, as she let out a piercing shriek.

"EEEEEEEEEEEH!?"

Emil rushed to cover her, begging her with hushed whispers to lower her voice. Though there were no patrons to be disturbed, it was still rude to disturb the workers.

"Silent? Silent!? How dost thou expect me to be silent, when thou speakest so earnestly with nay a hint of shame on thy countenance!? Forsooth, thou should be arrested for thy crimes against mine heart! I cannot take anymore of thee!"

Emil seemed to shrink before her. Suddenly, the hand that had been holding hers slipped from her grasp, as he pressed its back to his mouth in a weak attempt to hide himself.

"D-Don Quixote, I didn't know you were offended by it..."

The cold sensation of the air hitting her palm was akin to an electric shock. Like a stab going through her hand, pinning it to the fable, bleeding, shrivelling up. The sensation was horrible, though whether it was due to the cold or the dependency she could not tell for sure. But what worried her even more was the look in Emil’s face as he uttered those words. His expression was almost scared, mortified, and it struck through her like an arrow. Her cheeks went bright red, her body rose to cross half of the table; for a misunderstanding had occurred, and she could not let it stand uncorrected.

"I- I am not offended by thee! I am offended by mineself, and my inability to match the strength of thy sword of kindness in battle!"

As soon as the words had left her mouth, the young woman retracted in her seat, trying to cover her burning face. Though she had to speak out to lessen his embarrassment, she still felt the need to chastise herself at how easily she had thrown away her pride for a human. They say that love makes one go insane, and perhaps that was the truth. For what kind of version of herself, of Sancho, would have been so earnest about her own powerlessness?

As if to throw salt on the wound, her words were followed with more silence. And the hand that laid on her face did not receive the warmth she craved. Part of her wished she could push through. Pry open his shield, hold him again. Take action to heal herself, restore her peace of mind, ensure that she was just as capable as he in matters of the heart. But instead she waited. And waited. And waited, until...

"...Your drinks"

It was useless to do anything. Emil shifted back to a more optimal appearance, his face still dusted pink, but his voice kind as he expressed gratitude to the young waitress. His smile was adorable. Don Quixote almost felt jealous. Almost.

They sipped their drinks in silence. They really were as delicious as they had been advertised, the taste melting into Don Quixote’s mouth and nursing her inner wounds. Considering their work duties, this might be the last most delicious thing she would get to taste for months, so she ensured to savour every drop.

Although...a drink like this...it is not worth tasting it alone…

Se looked at her partner, who seemed to be lost in thought, gazing at the table with a pensive expression. Considering her previous words, she could not easily count on him to break the tense atmosphere between them. But she did not want it to remain.

This was supposed to be their first date. A moment they had planned for, carefully and meticulously. She could not allow for it to be spoiled.

It has to be perfect. Everything has to be perfect. For...

"Emil?"

"Hm?"

She nudged the glass towards him, offering a sweet smile.

"Wouldst thou like to sip it? 'Tis quite delightful"

"Ah, sure. Uh, do you want to try this one?"

"Ay, if thou dost not mind"

They swapped glasses with quick gestures. However, no sooner had Don Quixote placed her lips around the straw, that her face went red once again.

Joder, joder joder, desde que puso su boca aquí...

A look at Emil was enough for her to tell he had realised the same thing. And so the two spent a few minutes staring at the table surface, mute, face the colour of fresh tomatoes.

Do we have to end up like this every five minutes?

---

It took another intervention from the waitress to unfreeze the young couple. The topic of trying each other's food went a lot more smoothly, and soon the two went from sharing plates to sharing stories about meals and family - the happy memories that they could remember at least. When those ran out, conversations switched to focusing on the LCB, which in of itself also counted a bit as a family.

So focused they were on the conversation, they barely noticed when they had run out of food and drinks. And it was only when Don Quixote's eyes wandered to the nearby clock that she noticed how time had flown past them.

"Ah, it hath been a while" she said, her eyes widening. "Perchance we should take our leave soon, before the crowds close in"

It was nearing midday, the time for lunch breaks and leisure. Considering the pair had chosen the popular shopping mall as their next destination - they had deemed it worthwhile to check the recently open store of Fixer memorabilia - the risks of being overwhelmed by surrounding workers and students on break increased the more they let time pass.

Emil followed her gaze, and noticing the clock as well, nodded quickly.

"I'll go pay"

Don Quixote pulled a face again, but did not say a word. She swore she would take note of the money he spent on her, in order to return the favour. He simply smiled at her, caressing her palm with his thumb - at some point during the meal, as they had eased into lighter conversations, their hands had joined again.

"I do what I can for you; it's not an issue. Don't worry about it"

It was more than that. A matter of pride, of innate chivalry sense that dominated her every move. But she chose not to say nothing more, deeming the discussion not worth repeating for the billionth time. She merely pouted and nodded.

"Forsooth, onwards then; but I swear on mine honour, I shall repay you"

He laughed a little, and his smile was so bright she felt her frustration waver. But the warmth in her heart lasted little, as he looked at their interlocked hands with a regretful expression.

"I need to let go now...only for a second, I promise"

Don Quixote did not know why he worded it that way, and she was not sure if she wanted to ask. Hiding her disappointment she nodded, her face flushed and turned away. His release was slow, the tips of his fingers grazing her up until the last moment, when he went to the counter. Her hand still felt his pressure long after he had left, as if he had marked her hand as his own.

But that is ridiculous. It's not a big deal. It's just a hand...

She began piling up the plates on the table. It was not needed, and the shy waitress from before said as much when she rushed over. But Don Quixote mustered a smile and a broken excuse about showing gratitude to those who had worked so hard for their food.

Her hand had grown cold.

When she reached Emil to join him at the entrance, as they waved goodbye at the kind staff, the first thing she did was interlock their hands once more. His fingers slotted along hers, like pieces of a puzzle, drowning out the uncomfortable feeling.

And Sancho wanted to punch herself for being so easily swayed by the warmth of a human.

---

The streets were definitely more alive. The same could not be said for most of the citizens they passed, common workers and Fixers who rushed around seeking matters beyond outsider understanding. But there were also some joyous faces holding food or shopping bags, chatting with friends and family and lovers, treasuring the day without fear. Some would grimace at such a carefree reaction, claiming that in the City, times of merriment were better suited for when one survived a perilous situation. But for one thing, it is difficult to know what the person passing by you in the street has gone through, what their life is like, what perils they might encounter on a daily basis. And for the other, there is no reason to envy or scold those who are happy; no matter the world you live in, there is no shame in savouring the bright sides of the day. If anything, one is better off envying the person who can smile.

Sancho had many times felt that envy clawing at her. She had also noticed that some clouds settled on her fellow Sinners at the sight of a happy family, a happy couple, any citizen of a Nest or even Backstreets that showed a little light in the perennial darkness. To her knowledge, they were not mad at the person for existing; in fact, it would be more apt to say that they were more mad at themselves, for not being able to be born as that person, and thus live a life where they could be the one smiling in such a way.

Normally, though she understood her coworkers' feelings, she would not have preoccupied herself much with the same emotions: having lived at least two centuries watching the world change around her, she had grown used to expecting dissatisfaction over having lived a different and less fulfilling life. She knew that she could not change anything, and it was better to forget one's frustrations than to let them fester. Envy brought nothing. Looking at others and their paths was meaningless: she had her own dream and her own future to look up to after all. All that there was to do was accept everything as it was, and smile at the fortunate who did not share her misery. Be grateful that they were happy.

At least, that was what she had expected to do at the sight. But she had not expected to see so many families around her.

As the oblivious Don Quixote, she remembered feeling drawn to these bonds, whenever she saw a happy group, for reasons she did not yet understand; there would be a rock settling in her stomach, and a nervous prick at her fingers and eyes, as if being overwhelmed by the presence of smiles. She would of course shrug it off, as the blessing of ignorance allowed her to simply categorise those feelings as weird colds or allergies. But now things were different. And the wounds of the genocide were too fresh to simply dismiss.

Sancho's eyes clouded over. Her breath hitched. She clung onto Emil, trying her best to regain composure. She had to focus on what mattered. She had to remember where she was. What she was doing.

Today was different. Though the pain could not leave so easily, as the fact of being an inhuman Sinner was impossible to shrug off, today she was meant to be happy; because she was on a date with her boyfriend, their first date, and they had planned everything perfectly.

"How are you feeling?" She asked Emil as they walked, to break the ice, to turn away from a passing group of five.

"Ah, I was worried I had eaten too much, but at least we are walking most of that off, haha"

Don Quixote hummed, her eyes turning towards the nearby signpost.

"'Tis for the best, to ensure that we shall not go hungry during lunchtime; however, if thou art unwell..."

"Oh, no no, I'm fine, I'm fine. Don't worry about it"

Her eyes narrowed as they looked at him. "Art thou certain?"

"I am; cross my heart"

He accompanied his words with the sign itself. Don Quixote's expression did not change.

"Thou art aware that performing such signs indicateth that thou hast sworn a solemn vow of truth. If thou hast lied, the Wings couldst not save thy soul from eternal damnation"

"Wh-what!?"

The young man's face went as white as a sheet, his hand shaking in hers.

"D- Don Quixote, I swea- I promise I'm not lying!"

The reaction was not unexpected coming from someone like Emil; for all the growth he had experienced, he was still in many cases as scared as a little boy. But that quality that, by his words, should have put her off, instead only caused her heart to stir. There was something far too endearing about his manners. She covered her mouth and looked away.

This guy...he can be so juvenile and yet...ah...

And yet she liked him. Perhaps she liked his flaws more than he did. If the person she had been could see her now, she would be recoiling in disgust.

Ah, pobrecita, el amor cambia tanto...

"Is something wrong?"

"Nothing, nothing"

Don Quixote shook her head, and instead pinched her partner's cheeks with a smile.

"Thou art so adorable when thou art embarrassed is all!"

"Ah-! I was not embarrassed! You scared the hell out of me!"

"'Tis good that I did then! Containing such a place within thy body is no good for thy health!" 

They continued to walk, to observe the world around them. Their hands were still joined together, never parting for a second. Gradually they had grown closer, their shoulders almost brushing together. Though they had often been walked side by side, this was the first time that they were so close. It was a new feeling. Don Quixote hoped she could experience it for many more days to come.

"Ah, here we are"

The mall had already been spotted long ago. Its massive height meant that if one were to look at the sky in certain roads, they could see the crystalline structure emerging from the top of surrounding buildings. But even then, neither the pamphlet nor the far away view could compare to the sight of the structure itself: it extended in height and length for metres and metres, looking akin to a tall cylinder of glass. Colourful posters hung on its side, detailing new store openings, sales, and restaurants. Some of those showed people, some the objects only. Don Quixote wondered how much work it could have taken to get them plastered.

"It's amazing" Sancho breathed out, her eyes as wide as her mouth.

Emil hummed, seemingly as surprised as she.

"Have you- hast thou ever seen such a giant?" She asked.

"Ah, not really; Calw didn't have shopping malls this big, and my parents preferred to go on business trips on their own. My sister was old enough to take care of me anyway..."

There was a slight twinge of sadness in his eyes as he remembered his family. It was not uncommon, so Sancho said nothing; but she was ready to intervene if the sadness were to take root.

"What about you?"

His face cleared, the moment passed. So she recomposed herself and shook her head.

"Nay, they were before mine time"

She looked back at the building, and mustered a small smile.

"…I think Father and Nicolina would have loved it"

The words, though pronounced by her, felt like a stab into her heart. Her wounds could not be prodded at safely yet, so it seemed. Instinctively she hugged herself with her free arm.

"…Sancho?"

The grip on her hand loosened slightly as he looked at her, ready to aid. But the sensation put her in an even more state of alarm, as she quickly released herself and shook her head.

"I'm fine. I'm fine..."

She gripped his hand, her own trembling, and gritted her teeth. With some effort, she swallowed the knot of grief in her throat.

"...It's ok"

Emil brushed their arms together, an attempt to offer something akin to a hug without making her feel too exposed. They had not yet discussed about the extent of PDA that they were comfortable with, and being in a semi-secret relationship meant the boundaries could not yet be tested. But even then the young man seemed to want to demonstrate his closeness to her.

I'm here. He said, a small smile on his face.

Sancho looked back at him.

I know. Thank you.

She tightened her grip on his hand and took a deep breath, visibly relaxing. When the worse was over, she donned her mask once more and pointed at the building before them.

"Onwards then! To the shopping giant!"

No sooner had she said so, that she broke into a run, dragging poor Emil with her without warning. The semi-protest he let out was soon drowned by their laughter as they rushed inside, pausing only once they were past the sliding doors. They must have looked so insane to onlookers, and their height might have given them the impression that the foolish runners were really been nothing but children. However, little of that mattered to Don Quixote. For she was happy, and Emil was happy.

"Art thou alright?" She asked, slowly recovering from her laughter.

"Hm hm, you?"

"Ay; shall we go?"

"Yes"

Their hands were still joined as they walked in.

---

The mall seemed to be even bigger on the inside. The sunlight shone through the glass, lighting up hundreds of hallways and stalls. From the ceiling hung a large transparent structure - a kind of chandelier, Don Quixote reckoned - which various onlookers could not help but stop and stare, mesmerised by its intricacies. She figured that in absence of the sun, it lit up to offer the missing light to the building. And though she was thankful that it was a clear day, she hoped she could see the sight some other time.

Even without that potential spectacle, there was still a marvellous world to gaze at in wonder. She was never one to praise humanity's architecture, though they had achieved quite the number of accomplishments over the years, but she had to admit that the place was quite the sight. She never thought that such large buildings and such a multitude of hallways could be used for the common people. Hopefully the mall would continue to operate in this way, instead of being overtaken by the umpteenth corporation with nefarious intents.

Beside her, Emil was studying the digital map that was displayed at the entrance. The surface was covered in small multi-coloured dots, with writing so small the young man had to zoom in quite a bit to garner anything.

"It- it's very big" he mumbled, a little embarrassed.

"Forsooth" Don Quixote nodded, getting closer. "Allow me to aid thee"

In two it was easier to spot details on the large map. After some searching and fiddling with the controls, they finally managed to locate the Fixer store on the second floor, between another series of shops that had more recognisable titles.

"Did you note that down?"

"Ay, I did. Let's go"

The walked quickly through passersby and promotional stores, searching for the right escalator. It was in the midst of this that Emil suddenly stopped, bringing Sancho to a halt as a consequence.

"Emil, what are you-?"

"Can I have one please?"

She turned perplexed, realising a little to late that he had ben talking to the woman at the counter. She smiled and they exchanged a few pleasantries as she worked on a package that Sancho could not see. The young woman bit her lip, feeling her stomach stir unpleasantly.

Ah! ¿Qué te pasa ora? He's not doing anything weird, that’s just Emil for you...

"Sancho?"

"Ay! Yes!"

The mask bounced around on her head as Sancho nervously switched in and out of character, her face heating up.

"Qué- I mean, what is it-?"

¡Idiota!

Her self-deprecation was quickly cut off by something being thrust right under her nose. She noticed Emil's face had turned bright red.

"I- usually people give this at the end of a date but uhm...I took my chance! Here! For you!"

Backing slightly, the young woman took in the sight of what was in front of her. Her eyes sparkled, and her mouth opened a little to let out a gasp.

A rose. A single red rose, the colour of blood, with small thorns and a dark green stem. A ribbon was tied at the middle, yellow like the sun, decorated with two pink heart stickers.

"Please don't think that you need to repay me for this, it's only a couple of Ahn. It's no trouble at all, really..."

Sancho looked at him, then at the rose, then him again. Finally, she took the flower in her free hand, gently placing her fingers so that she was not pricked. For a few seconds she twirled it, examining it as if it were a precious object. And in a way, it was. To her. To the rite itself they were performing.

Flower handling. She had heard of such an act: in storybooks and newspapers alike, there had always been a flower of some kind used to symbolise love and devotion. She had even read about festivals dedicated to giving flowers to loved ones. The thought of getting to experience such a miraculous rite…

"Scheiße"

His sharp whisper cut off her thoughts. She looked at him, only to notice that the grip on her hand had tightened and his gaze was fixated on a corner of the mall. Sancho quickly turned, a question pending on her lips. It was quickly cut off as she froze: next to another stall, staring right back at them, was none other than Ishmael.

Joder.

That was her first thought, similar to that of her partner. And then, immediately after, came the dreaded question.

How long has she been standing there?

Panic activated before reason: without warning, Sancho gripped Emil's hand and rushed out of the mall, heart beating fast. They ran out and then continued to run for a few minutes, until they reached a nearby park that had been part of their dating plan. Only once Rocinante came in contact with the grass did the two pause, catching their breath, their faces pale as if they had seen a ghost.

"Mierda, I should have known" Sancho bit her lip. "Everyone was talking about the shopping mall the other night; it was stupid of me not to think they could see us"

"San- Sancho..."

"Wings, I should have planned it better; why didn't I think of that? Maybe we should have run there first, and then head straight to the cafe for lunch! …But if someone had gone there for lunch as well then we would be screwed"

"Sancho..."

"And now we can't even go back there! Ah, there might be others! What if she's told everyone that she saw us!? Ah, we're...we're-!"

"Sancho, please"

Hands took her heated face, and the young man pressed their foreheads together.

"Breathe, Sancho; it's ok, it's not the end of the world. We're not going to get lynched if someone finds out"

Her breathing was shallow, far too much for it to be associated solely to her running.

"But I…I didn't want you to..."

"I'm fine Sancho, I promise. I don't mind. Do you mind?"

"N-no" her voice trembled. She shook her head. "N-not much..."

"It's ok. Listen. You know Ishmael. She's not that type of person, and there's no guarantee she knows anyway. There's nothing to worry about, Sancho. Nothing is going to happen to us, whether or not someone finds out"

Tilting his head, he pressed a small kiss on the palm of one of her hands. He was warm.

"I'm not going anywhere"

And she knew that. She knew it well. But there is a reason that fears are known as irrational in some cases, and the burden of her past sometimes made it difficult to distinguish reality. The anxiety of discovery combined with her fear of loss, with the knowledge of loss. And as a result...she became a mess.

Yet Emil did not falter. He stood with her, holding her in his hands, guiding her as she took deep breaths. Slowly they restored calm to her mind and buried the irrational anxiety that had so cruelly enslaved her. Soon, to any outsiders, there seemed to have been no issue at all, and the two were simply engaged in a loving exchange.

"How are you?" Emil asked.

Sancho nodded. Her hands placed themselves over his, once more seeking their warmth.

"Thank you..." her voice was quiet. But be smiled and nodded before parting.

"You would do the same for me"

That was true. And she would do so much more as well.

The present issue resolved, the two separated to stand side by side. They examined the park around them, noticing how it was quite devoid of human life. Sancho reasoned that the weekday would have made it difficult for many to spend this time of day outside, though she welcomed the calm contrast to the chaotic shopping mall they had escaped. Even so, the discrepancy reminded her of the reason they had left, and her stomach turned into knots.

And yet…

No. Don't sink. Focus. Focus!

Sancho shook her head. She could not allow the first date to end catastrophically. As long as there was daylight, things should be done. The day should be saved. No mistakes were allowed.

"Dost thou would like to partake in a short walk around the botanical garden?" She asked, her character cracking slightly. Emil tilted his head in thought before nodding.

"Ah, our backup plan? Of course! At the very least, there should be less people at this time of day, right?"

It was probably meant as a way to reassure her, but it only made Sancho more nervous. She nodded curtly and then turned towards a nearby map, taking his hand and inviting him over.

---

It was fine.

It was wrong.

Everything was alright.

It was all going terribly wrong.

She was alright.

She was the worst partner ever.

Thoughts tormented Sancho as the two walked along the cobblestone path. She should have been focusing on the surrounding flowers, their names, their colours, their types. It was a topic she was interested in, she had picked that attraction as a backup plan herself. She liked flowers. She was the one who had helped Nicolina settle her own private garden, in the days when La ManchaLand was but a lonely castle in the Backstreets. She should be recognising the flowers, discovering new ones, discussing the information she knew and what she could learn. She should be remembering Nicolina and wondering if she would have liked this place, what patterns she could have created based on the flowers, which ones she recognised from her past life, if she liked any...

Enough. Enough sullying the memories of your Family for your own gain.

She was doing nothing of the sort. Instead she was wallowing in a pit of guilt, that grew deeper and deeper the more she meditated on the choices that had led them to this garden. It should not have bothered her. She was happy. She liked the place. Emil also liked it, she could see it in the way he walked and talked. So it was fine. A minor setback did not mean the whole date was ruined.

It's fine. Stop thinking. It's fine. Idiota. Stop overthinking, you're ruining it you’re ruining it you're ruining it-

Up until now, Sancho had managed to mask the feelings harbouring deep into her heart. She glided alongside Emil from path to path, gazing at every flower long enough to capture its details. Playing the part of a model girlfriend she stood and observed, smiling and nodding as if she were a researcher. Perhaps she was too formal, too like her Sister. But it was better than causing a scene by exposing her grievances, her doubts.

Besides, it did not matter what she felt. Because it was a good day. It was a nice moment, and Emil was happy, and smiling, and he was showing her around...

Oh.

"Sancho!"

Emil squeezed her hand, pointing at a rosebush.

"Look! Isn't it like the one I gave you today? You think the species might be native to this Nest? Let's take a look"

He dragged her along without waiting for her answer, before bending over to read the little tag clipped at the edge of the fence. He read it aloud, like an obedient student, and yet the way he looked back at her as he repeated the necessary information they were looking for was akin to an excited scientist child. As if by learning about native roses he had discovered the secret of unbinding her from her lineage.

...I see now.

Sancho smiled as Emil talked to her about the roses, nodding and adding monosyllabic words when prompted. She did her best to sound courteous, genuinely interested in the topic. Yet her mind was elsewhere, and when Emil finally looked away from her, she had to turn her head away in case she were to start crying.

Their roles had reversed. The burden of the louder person, the one who was meant to be the most excited and curious about the world…somehow it had fallen on Emil all of a sudden. The directors must have talked to him when she wasn't looking, deciding that rather than push her they were better off recasting her. So they flipped the scripts, without consulting her, without even asking her if she was alright. It should have been comforting.

It was not.

It was insulting.

And yet in the absence of those casting directors, Sancho could not find it in her heart to scold Emil. For what crime could he have committed? All he did was fill in the void she left. And the only one to blame for that, is the one who dug it and left it open in the first place.

---

As the afternoon drew to a close, so did Sancho's strength. The unusual facade, perhaps because she was not used to maintaining it, soon began to crumble. And it reached a point that even Emil had to abandon the role imposed upon him.

"...Do you need to talk about something?"

He must have realised that something was wrong long ago, judging by his tone, and simply lacked ideas on how to approach her about it until now. She could not fault him for his hesitation: even she didn't know what she would tell herself.

The young woman bit her lip. She twirled the stem in her hand.

"I…I don't know" she shook her head. "It’s so stupid...nothing to worry about"

"I don't mean to sound insensitive, but considering how you look right now, I- I would have to disagree about that" Emil frowned. "If there's something going on, please tell me; we have to rely on each other, right? We promised"

In a way they had. Not to mention how Sancho felt tired of carrying the weight of her burdens, of watching helplessly as it cruelly taunted the delicate thread of their relationship. She had already proven that she could not handle her own trauma and related anxieties on her own. Those other ones...

Ah. In a way, they count as the same category however...

Her face grew warm at the realisation. She was aware that trauma's consequences could spread, infect a lot of aspects about her life, even the ones she would at first assume unrelated. But to have it happen was all the same mortifying. Perhaps even boring: why did it always have to come back to that?

"Ah! Sancho, wait!"

Emil pointed behind her, squeezing her hand.

"I- I mean…There's an ice cream parlour there; should we get some?"

Sancho looked at him, dumbfounded, then at the stall in question. Her worries momentarily were pushed to the side at the sight of it; and then they were replaced by a wave of embarrassment, as she noticed how much her hands were shaking from excitement.

Ugh. How juvenile…

"Uhm, how about we go buy some, and then we can tall about...stuff afterwards?"

Sancho' eyes widened in admiration. It was perfect. She would have kissed him, had she not been scared of being caught. The mask returned to her face as she smiled.

"'Tis a great idea, mine Emil! Onwards, let us journey to the sacred land! But I shall be the one paying this time!"

"I…alright"

He smiled at her in turn, that sweet smile of his. The one that spoke more words than any other confession could have, declaring his admiration and affection for her. It was far from the first time she had seen it; but still it made her stomach bubble every time, from the butterflies that overcrowded it.

With newfound joy, Don Quixote gave her partner a peck on the lips, before dragging him to the ice cream stall as fast as her legs could carry her. She was vibrating, stuttering from excitement rather than the impromptu exercise; so she had to repeat her orders three times in total because of it, much to the seller's amusement.

In another time, a few minutes prior this act would have embarrassed her; but now, all she could think about, as juvenile as it sounded, was Emil and the ice cream. The sweet young man who laughed at her excitement; the sweet mouth-watering flavour she had not tasted in months. And to Hell with the cold of the month, as well as all the disgusting fiends that dared slander the good name of ice cream because of its royal title! For the cruellest sin is being unable to understand the pleasure of eating ice cream unbothered by the circumstances, the temperature, and the company.

Some time later, Emil and Don Quixote were sat on a bench, eating their ice creams in shared silence. The latter at first had wanted to take her time eating, as shameful as she felt doing such a thing, for she was still unprepared and uncertain about how to express her thoughts. But gradually the sweet flavour and the company softened her anxious spirit, and the frozen mind was finally allowed a crumb of peace. As she enjoyed her sweet treat, she reasoned that it did not matter what words she used: Emil wanted to help her, wanted to understand; he would help if needed. Besides, though her burden was heavy, he had seen much worse of her. He could handle it. He had promised.

The cones took a bit to reach an acceptable level that allowed easier discussion without melting distractions. Emil had at some point turned towards her, and reassured her she could speak when she felt like it. Perhaps he had wanted to offer more comfort, or perhaps he had been concerned over her speed: apparently, Don Quixote had been told that she always ate her ice cream too fast. Perhaps it was both. He was that kind of person after all. She smiled and nodded.

Eventually, the ice cream had gotten low enough for her to need to nibble at the cone to reach the deepest parts. It was a good place to stop, also because she was not much fond of the crusty exterior anyway.

"Emil?"

"Hm?"

He looked at her, straightened up, and nodded. He was ready. And yet it was then that her tongue tied itself again. She huffed.

"Wings, I thought it would be easier" her frustration caused her to yank the mask off.

"Take your time" he reassured her.

Sancho still boiled in frustration, but she motivated herself with a few deep breaths. Her lip was bitten hard, almost drawing blood. But at last, she had gotten a clear head. And so she spoke, every once in a while taking a bite of the cone to swallow the bitter knots.

She opened up her heart, spared no detail, for both of their sakes. No matter how ridiculous her insecurities sounded to her, or how much the honesty struck her as juvenile and stupid, not once did she hesitate or eat up her words. Her hand clutched onto Emil’s like a lifeline, giving her courage. Rescuing her from the pit of anxiety that she was gradually digging herself into.

Once she was done, she waited in silence for the other to say anything. Her breath was shallow, the remnants of the cone almost crumbled in her hands. But she did not run or look away. All things considered, the fact she had managed to open up so candidly so soon was an improvement for herself.

You did one thing right at least for today. Keep it up, Sancho!

"I see..."

Emil smiled, laughing awkwardly.

"It seems that we are on the same boat then, aren’t we?"

"...huh?"

"I would be lying if I said I wasn't nervous as well you know" Emil shrugged. "I mean, you’re you, and I'm me...I know what you're going to say, but let's face it: Sancho or Don Quixote, you're...you're simply amazing. And I'm scared that the further we go, the more you might realise that you…made a mistake; or maybe I could mess up, or you could get bored of me...something like that"

Sancho's eyes widened; it had never crossed her mind that Emil could harbour his own insecurities over them. Of course she knew he was not the most headstrong; but she had been so preoccupied with her own hang-ups, she had forgotten that, for all the wonderful qualities she adored, he still tended to be more anxious than she was.

"Emil, I..."

"There's no need to tell me; I know it's not true" Emil shook his head. He raised their joined hands..

"I know because, even when I'm at my lowest, you never let me go. And because of today, especially.

"Today…Even though you were scared and uncertain, even though you felt pressured by everything…you still kept by my side. While you were ensuring that I was happy, you never let me go. It was our first date, for both of us, for us as people, and even though it was not perfect or extravagant, I…I enjoyed myself a lot. I think it was one of the best days of my life. And I know me saying this won't make our insecurities magically disappear, but...I hope you can find it in yourself to believe that we did well; you did well. We made it through our first date, in one piece, satisfied. And I wouldn't have it any other way"

The seriousness of his words was a trait that seldom he showed with anyone else. Sancho had realised it in recent days, as their relationship had continued to develop in private. Perhaps it was love, perhaps it was growth. Whatever the case, it was something she was happy about, though she felt a pang of envy at how easily he seemed to be able to speak.

"I want to believe that I won't be like this forever, that I can be less anxious about every important milestone we take, but…I think it might take a while before that happens" she confessed. She had by now finished the cone, and her empty hand only held the clean napkin that had wrapped around it. She placed it next to his gloved hand, absorbing more of his warmth.

"It doesn't matter; if it's a lot of work, we will give it our all. We promised that, right? We knew it wouldn’t be simple. It doesn't mean we don't have to try"

"But relationships are meant to be lighter. And happy..."

"Sancho"

The sun had started to set. Sancho had barely realised it at the time, too immersed in her own self-doubt. But now she could see it clearly, for the golden rays shone on Emil like heavenly light. They brightened his hair, his eyes, his smile. And all of a sudden, Sancho found herself wondering if a monster like her was even allowed to fall for such an angelic creature.

Emil was a fae. Emil was something more. He had to be, to have a soothing voice, warm hands, and a smile that rivalled the sun itself. To be able to communicate so much through his shy gestures of affection, through the way he looked at her with quiet admiration like a moon overlooking the world, through the way he kissed her like light did grass in the early morning. He called her the most beautiful person he had seen. Had ever checked a mirror?

"Look at me, Sancho"

 She had never wanted to stop looking. Not once, in her life, had she willingly torn her eyes away from him without it hurting. And so it was not difficult to keep obeying, as Emil drew closer, pressing a gentle kiss on the back of her hand.

“Tell me…when I'm around you, have I ever stopped smiling?”

Chapter Text

It had been clear to Sinclair, ever since that first night they had shared a bed, that Don Quixote made sleep more bearable. There was something magical about her presence; it cast a spell in every room she was in, lighting it up with life, chasing away nefarious phantoms. A fire that did not burn, did not harm.

Maybe that fire was simply her enthusiasm, marked by her sparkling eyes and her contagious smile. Or maybe it was her voice, loud and booming, gentle and quiet in their most private moments. Or perhaps, it was simply the way she huddled close to the young man, how she hugged him. Her embrace was tight, warm, a welcomed presence in his world despite how flushed it left him. A kind of act he had never experienced with such meaning before, and yet he was not sure how he had lived so long without it.

Maybe it was everything, and so much more. After all, this was Don Quixote. He would expect nothing less than perfection from her.

It was funny. That first night, the young woman had praised his singing, his room, called him otherworldly. She had deeply admired him like one would a divinity. And despite everything that had happened between then and now, it seemed that her feelings in that regard had remained unchanged. There always seemed to be that spark of admiration in her eyes whenever they talked, whenever she was in his room. And yet, Sinclair had always considered her to be the most magical of the two.

No amount of singing power could compare to the effect that she had on him; to the magic that she wove with her presence alone, with her voice, her touch. Her warmth was all it had took that first night, for him to feel safe, protected, peaceful. And now that everything meant so much more, her effects reverberated all the more strongly. And his heart stirred, as his mind wandered and wondered, how could he have been so blessed with her. With that wide smile, those sparkling eyes, the gentle touch of her cold fingertips, her enthusiastic grip, her encouraging words, words of affection…

When it was only them, it was as if everything they did was for each other. Everything they said to each other, every look, every touch, it all was another affirmation of their love. Lulled like a fool, Sinclair fell with every sign, sinking deeper and deeper into her spell. But where others would have panicked or tried to run, the young man put up no such resistance. Instead, he welcomed her affection with open arms, timidly meeting it with his own. His loving gaze, his small smile, a hand that intertwined with hers, holding it tight. It was not enough to him, it could never be enough. But he hoped still, in spite of it all, that even a fraction of what he felt could be transmitted to her.

In every exchange they shared, no matter how pure or how scandalous, Sinclair found his home. And he would not trade it for anything else in the world.

Of course, it would be foolish to state that her evening presence was enough to chase away the demons of the past: they both still suffered, even when they were together. However, the knowledge that they were together, that they trusted each other enough to confide their worries and be vulnerable, these truths were enough to alleviate the burden. Regardless of the pain, of the anguish, in the night they never let go of each other. They were always nearby to talk to, to listen, to assist if necessary. Of course, if Sinclair could, he would have willed for both of their traumas to stop affecting them so deeply. Torn the feelings of guilt and despair into pieces, or at least reduce their grip. But if such a method existed, the young man had not yet found it.

In those rooms, their presence alone was comfort. And so, it was easier to discuss topics that normally would have been too difficult to do otherwise. In the safety of each other's arms, they opened up about difficult matters: Sancho's motherhood burden, the toxic family expectations placed upon Sinclair, the realisation that their families, though suffering cruel fates, had not been the kindest to either of them. Sometimes, all one could do was listen and be there. Other times, more words were shared to ease the difficult conversations, to reassure the victims of their fates. Either way, those conversations were a symbol of the high trust they placed upon each other, of how deep their affection ran. The mere fact that they could be this open was enough proof of their devotion to one another.

It was within such safety, that there was finally confidence achieved to ask certain personal questions.

---

One night, as they laid in Sinclair's bed, Don Quixote approached him with a topic that, in hindsight, should not have surprised him as much as it did. He had forgotten that it would not be so obvious to others.

“Emil?”

“Hm?”

“Prithee, may I ask thee something…”

They were facing each other, fingers brushing together. Her eyes shone in the dim light of the tree, among the shadows cast by it upon her face. They gave her a slightly colder glow compared to the red hue of her Bloodfiend nature. Still her eternity appeared unchanged to he, a lowly fae who could only hope to one day reach her radiance. Ethereal, beautiful, there she laid, looking at him. His Don Quixote. His Sancho.

Perhaps she really was more of a fae than he. Such a denomination would probably be incomprehensible to her, having given him the title. But if he could be one for his singing, she had to have such blood as well merely for existing. He could not think of a single woman that had made him feel so enchanted. Maybe she had lured him with a spell…or maybe, simply, he has fallen for someone he trusted and admired - who happened to not be entirely human by coincidence - as some would. Love can twist your heart to many degrees without your knowledge.

“What's wrong?”

He reached out and took her fingers in his hand, stroking them with his thumb. He could not deny any request she gave him.

“Are you alright?”

“Ay, ‘tis not about me. I promise”

It was always difficult to read her, especially when she dropped her character. But she did not seem to be lying at least.

“Then, what is it?” He asked her, trying to be gentle.

Don Quixote bit her lip, seemingly hesitating only now that the answer was within reach. After a long pause, she looked at him.

“Wherefore dost thou insist on calling thyself Sinclair, in stead of thy given name?”

The young man tensed up. Again, in hindsight be should have expected such a question to be asked by her; not only was she his partner, and the only one he allowed to call her by his first name. But out of the other Sinners, she was one of the few who had unusual naming conventions.

Sinclair bowed his head, meditating on how to word his answer. The more he thought about it, the more it dawned on him that it was not as easy as he had expected. He didn't even know if it made any sense outside of his own mind.

“I'm not sure how to explain it...”

“’Tis not a matter dost should answer posthaste” Don Quixote insisted. She placed her other hand over his, squeezing slightly.

“If I do not understand thee, the fault lieth on me. Prithee, speak thy heart. If I have difficulty understanding thy words and meaning, I shall say so “

It was a miracle, how only a handful of her words could be enough to genuinely convince him. To inspire courage within.

Sinclair took a deep breath, carefully piecing together an appropriate answer. After a silence that he thought longer than necessary, he finally spoke.

“I…I don't think I deserve to call myself by my name yet”

The young woman remained impassive to his sentence, as if he were merely talking about his day. She only shifted to prep herself up on her arm, before nodding; a sign for him to continue. The young man squeezed her other hand, swallowed, and continued his tale.

---

Emil had built upon that philosophy when he had buried his family that day in Calw. After days of digging into the earth, covered in filth and worm and plant sprouts. After having pieced together the destroyed and decayed bodies of his family in piles, before lying them in the deep graves he had made as his face grew red from the strain. He had not allowed himself to cry even once throughout the whole process. Nor eat, nor drink, nor sleep. In his mind, it was a fair punishment for his sins.

He had not wanted to be judged by the family he had destroyed. So, he had held onto his despair, feigning strength, atonement. It felt right, to pretend to be a stranger, to be someone else. This way, he did not have to appear as the victim, when he himself had sent the poison in his home. When he had been the reason that Kromer had stormed his house and torn the world of light to pieces.

After fleshy guts and metal limbs had been hidden by mounds of dirty, finally he laid down. And there among the patches that had once been his garden, the young man cried like a child; he sobbed until all his tears had drained, and he was left wailing on the dirt pitifully. His heart ached, as did his body. But at least no one for miles was able to hear him.

Emil wept and wept, voice strained, eyes dry, stomach eating itself out. He was tormented by his guilt, his despair, his anger, and the memories. The flashes and flashes of the last moments that he had seen his parents and his sister, as they were massacred by Inquisitors in armour and that bitch with a face-splitting grin that laughed as he stared in horror. That smile had taunted him, taunted him, for he had found himself unable to look at anything else. And what was he supposed to have been looking at back then anyway? The alternative was the corpse of his mother, stabbed through with nails, wires covered in blood emerging from her neck. Or the body of his sister, torn limb from limb, torso sliced in two, her insides spread across the floor. Or his father, slammed against the wall, pinned by nails, as a tall man ripped his head as if it had been the cork of a bottle. It had fallen down, rolled next to the young man's feet. And Kromer had been close enough to step on it.

The images were burned in his mind in shades of red and grey. Yet Emil could not tell if they were there because of his view of the corpses, if he had actually seen it all happen as he recalled; after all, the young man had not been able to look at any of that carnage for more than a few split seconds, for the simple fact that it was too violent for his sense to bear. Bile had been rising in his throat at the sight of all the red on the floor, the walls, the white armour, and the metallic smell was overbearing. However there was a smaller part still, that grew stronger and stronger as Kromer spoke to him, dragging his attention away, and eventually, forcing him to run away in fear. That part that had still been connected to the world of light, that now screamed and tore at his skin with nails of steel, burned his flesh with tears of acid.

That part that said, you do not deserve to look at them. Because you killed them. You sent Death at their door, for your own selfish gain.

Emil, now crouched next to the patches of earth he had spent days digging up, surrounded by that which had once been his home, once had been quiet yet alive, filled with cheer and laughter...There, Emil remembered it all as he cried. He cried out for his mother, his father, his sister, even the dog that he had been forced to bury alongside them, robotic pieces gathered in an old shoebox. He was tormented by the sights that no child should have to witness, and he tore at his own skin as he choked on shadows of sour tears. He should not cry. He did not deserve to cry.

But he had to. He had to, or else he would lie down and never get up again. And while Emil craved death, craved more than anything to bury himself in the earth alongside his family...Emil was also scared. He was scared of ascending to Heaven, seeing his family, having to deal with their rage, their disappointment. He was scared of going to Hell, being greeted by the flames of the picture books from his childhood, being tortured for eternity because of one mistake. A costly, awful mistake, that had led him to commit familicide. 

Pathetic. To think that a murderer could be afraid of consequences.

But he could not let himself move on unpunished. Wherever he may have to go, he knew his family deserved retribution. And so, once he had finished feeling sorry for himself, he went quiet and stood up. With the anger that had begun to fester in his heart, with a pocketknife in his filthy hands, he approached the graves of his family, and made a pact.

He swore he would kill Kromer.

He swore he would kill Emil.

He carried a ring on his finger, a symbol of his heritage. It bore his name, carved out in the metal, Emil Sinclair. That ring, he removed from himself, and buried it in an unmarked spot in the earth; a place where the dirt was soft enough to dig in with his broken nails. Then he brandished the pocketknife, and with trembling hands, he sliced open his left palm. He had to grit his teeth to suppress the yell that crawled out of his lungs, the pain and the tears that he did not deserve to express for the worse sins he had created.

Blood dripped down his arm, onto his sleeves, onto the earth. He let it drip, as he continued to carve onto his palm, the following cuts a little less deeper than the first one. He drew out sinful blood. He drew holy symbols.

Crosses.

An exorcism, performed on his damned soul. Casting out the filth that had been his namesake, to purify his body for redemption.

With this, he erased that frightened boy Emil, who had led the slaughter of his family, whose name had last been screamed out by his mother, begging him to run away. That scream would continue to haunt him, but gradually it would also be erased. Replaced by the placeholder, the title that belonged to his family. That which should be kept and cherished, pure and unblemished.

Sinclair.

Emil died that night, in an unmarked grave like all sinners. But his family would live on within that soulless vessel, within the household name that had carried their lineage for generations.

---

“It's true, that Kromer is dead now. But it does not bring my family back; and it does not undo what we have done to them, the premature death they did not deserve. And so, I will keep...I will keep on carrying their name. One day they will be laid to rest in my memory, as in the earth. And only then will I return to being Emil Sinclair, and I can say that I have absolved his soul of his sins enough to deserve another chance at life”

After uttering those last words, the young man fell silent, his face warm against the pillow. Indeed, it was easier to justify your own reasoning in your head, compared to speaking it out loud; no matter the relationship of the listener, something was bound to sound off, incomprehensible at worst. He hoped that at least a fragment of his reasoning could reach her, or that he could explain it more clearly the more he repeated himself. 

Don Quixote was silent for many more minutes, an unreadable expression resting upon her face. She seemed to only later realise that he had finished, and was waiting her judgment. So she straightened herself up and nodded slowly.

“Forsooth, I think…I think I comprehend thy reasoning”

Sinclair's eyes widened. He stood up.

“Are you sure?”

“Thou hast appointed thyself with a title assigned by thy family. And thou aimest to bring it honour as a form of redemption”

She fiddled with the buttons of her shirt, her voice growing lower. Her eyes trailed to an unidentified corner of the room, as if attempting to shield herself from the holy light of the tree.

“I...am familiar with such a mentality”

Sinclair's heart stirred.

Of course...Out of anyone else, you would know what it’s like…

He reached out to take her hand.

“Yes...you and...”

He did not finish his sentence. But she nodded, her hand curling into itself.

“My Father gave me his name, as he passed” said Sancho, her expression melancholic, her eyes glazed over. “Or rather, he gave me permission to own it; but it's not just that. I don't want to just utilise it. I want it...I want him to live through it. I want to bring that name to places he has never seen before, to fight, to survive. And I want that name...to see a world where his dream can be realised. I want to...repent...”

She sighed. Sinclair’s expression softened.

“Sancho, it wasn't your fault-”

“I know, I know; I know he saved me, and I know there was nothing I could have done to avoid his fate...but it still hurts; do you not feel the same?”

Sinclair hesitated. But then he nodded, hand closing over hers.

“Every night...the bystander that I was taunts me...”

“Exactly”

Sancho raised her head, her eyes were clouded with tears.

“Father saved my life, but in doing so he doomed himself; and I had no choice, I know there was nothing I could do, we both knew when we duelled, and considering everything we all had already done...but...ah, I just...we had our disagreements and our fights, but I never wanted him to...I never meant to...”

She choked on her own words then, instinctively bowing her head in an attempt to suffocate the noise. Sinclair wrapped his arms around her, enveloping her in a tight hug as she trembled, trying in vain to hold her tears.

“I know it doesn't mean anything coming from me...but I'm sure that he would be proud of what you're doing now, Sancho”

She nodded, whimpering.

“I…I think your family would be proud as well...Emil”

Emil.

That was what he had called her that night, when they had gotten together. She did not have to, and he never asked her. But when she had first done so, even though he knew he should have said something...he had not protested. It had been a while since someone had said that name. Someone who wasn't his boss. Someone he...

Sinclair held her tightly still, his face burning. He knew, he knew, and yet he still found himself shrinking in embarrassment at such an acknowledgement. As if he was not allowed to feel so strongly over her, even after all this time.

“Sancho...”

“Hm?”

“Why do you call me that?”

He did not part from her, though he desired to see her face. He did not want to show his own, lest it betray his guilty secret.

Sancho did not reply for some time, deep in thought. After a while, she reached out a hand to stroke his hair.

“Well, it's nothing particularly meaningful; I thought that...it was appropriate to switch nomenclature, now that we are...together; like how you call me Sancho on occasion...”

She paused, briefly.

“Why do you do that, anyway?”

“Hm?”

“You call me either one when we're alone; Sancho, Don Quixote...”

“Does it bother you?”

“No, I just...why the change?”

“Well…”

It was not too difficult to explain, though its simplicity embarrassed Sinclair a little. He leaned against her.

“I- I'm not sure how to explain it, but sometimes when you look at me...it feels like you want to take a break from how you present yourself to others; you've acted all day, and now you want to set the name aside, and be known by our true one. I think it is good for you to remember thar you're much more than the mask you present. And also...you never said anything about it, so...”

He heard her chuckle.

“That's true; I never minded; I still don’t”

He hummed, stroking her arm.

“But, uhm...don't think that means I don't respect you or anything; Don Quixote and Sancho, to me, are the same person. They have the same likes and dislikes, even if they express it differently. Their smiles are the same. Their...their passion, their strength...it's all the same to me...”

He hid his face into her hair as he spoke, feeling his cheeks heat up. He had said such words before, but then they had flown out of his mouth so fluidly. Now, as he tried to express those important thoughts once more, it was if his courage had been completely drained out. Depriving all meaning from each letter.

Wings, those words sound so meaningless...

Yet, Sancho did not seem confused. She laughed again, lightly, happy. Parting from him, she turned her head and pressed a kiss on his cheek, the smile evident on her lips.

“No matter the name, you like me that much?”

He was still holding onto her. Her tease caused him to tighten his grip a little, as his face flushed. He nodded shyly.

“Then...I would say the same for you too...”

Sancho smiled and took his hands. In bed he had taken off his gloves, exposing the naked skin to her, though it was prone to sweat so easily. He had to do it, for it was ridiculous to sleep with them. However, in her presence, the lack of the leather separating their hands in bed always caused his stomach to stir in ways he had never felt before.

Flipping them to see the palms, the young woman’s eyes immediately fell upon what had been obviously her target all along: the left hand, littered in scars, the remnants of the exorcism he had cast upon himself that night. The lighter cuts and accidental scratches had healed without issue, now so small they were barely visible at a glance. But the larger cross he had carved at the centre of his palm was an ugly colour, as the position had led to it opening many times in his daily life, in training. Secretly, in spite of still standing by the ideals that had led to his self-harm, the young man had hoped that the Manager's rewind ability could have erased the evidence of what he had done. But it seemed that it did not restore the body to before he had met the manager, and so the holy symbols stayed. Still they remained as evidence of that night, of the ritual he had undertaken to cast away the dead Emil. As it should be. As it has to be.

How unsightly it looked, in Sancho’s hands.

His partner’s fingers ran along the scars, delicately so that she did not apply pressure to the wounds. She furrowed her brows.

“The other ones are faint…but this one… Does it still hurt?”

“No; at least, it hasn’t in a while. It took some time before it stopped opening with every action I did. Although…I don’t think it’s ever going to heal now. Dante…The Manager, it…it doesn’t work”

It was better this way. That was a thought he had as he looked at it. He did not dare word it out loud.

Sancho nodded thoughtfully. Her voice lowered in volume, until he could barely hear it.

“So I'm not the only one...”

“Hm?”

His partner let his hand go. She seemed to hesitate, her expression thoughtful, lip trapped in her teeth. After a moment, she nodded to herself and took a deep breath, before rolling up one of the sleeves of her loose dress shirt. By the time the fabric had reached the elbow, the light of the tree had already revealed what she had wanted to show. And though Sinclair should have been familiar with such a sight, considering what he had witnessed with others in La Manchaland, he had to bite back an odd sound between a gasp and a hiss.

The pale skin was covered in patches of dark scars, curled around her arm like rough tongues. They bore a rugged texture, like unpolished leather, colours shifting from brown to black.

“There’s more” she said matter-of-factly unphased by his reaction. “On my other arm, I mean; on my legs as well; and…my torso”

Sinclair bit his tongue, resisting the urge to cry out once more.

“Do they...hurt?”

She thought about it, then shook her head.

“Sometimes it feels like they do, but it's only my imagination. My…memories, of back then. You never really forget what it’s like to burn so…ah, anyway. They do…I guess, itch? Sometimes. Not as much as before”

She began rolling her sleeve back, calmly, her voice steady.

“Years later, Father said that, had I not turned, I would have probably died slowly and painfully in those ashes. Becoming a Bloodfiend freed my lungs of their poisoning, but it cannot really heal ruined tissue. And my body kind of stopped healing it altogether, it’s…weird to explain. Basically, my flesh stayed charred, for the most part.

“I…did some tests, over the months. I have nerve damage on my torso. If you were to stab me in certain points, I would not feel a thing. As for my limbs…it’s a miracle they work at all. I can’t feel that much outside of my hands and feet though”

He nodded. He did not know what to say.

“Point is, uhm…what I want to say is that, you’re not the only one with scars, that we know of. Dante…Dante didn’t fix any of this, as you can see. They also couldn’t. So…yeah”

Her lips suddenly pursed, and she clicked her tongue.

“Ah, shit, it's not really the same thing...”

“It's fine”

The young man took her hand with his left one, giving it a light squeeze.

“I appreciate it, really; although, I…I'm sorry you...”

Got burned? Almost died?

Sancho shook her head.

“It's alright; I guess...ah, it's stupid. Maybe I just wanted...well, I wanted you to feel better. About the fact that it’s alright that you have scars; you’re still here, and that’s what matters”

“But so are you”

“Hm?”

“You are also still here” he looked at her, and smiled. “And for all that it's worth, I'm glad that you were spared...Sancho”

The young woman looked away, her face turning a deep red.

“You need to stop being so flattering sometimes...” she muttered. “Don Quixote is the one who charms”

“But then, Sancho, shouldn’t you be able to do the same?”

“By proxy, yes, but you...you are you!”

“Hm hm” he kissed her forehead. “We both are ourselves”

She puffed her cheek, tapping her finger against his hand. And then her eyes lit up as she looked down; he could hear the cogs whirring in her head, but said nothing. He was curious to see what would happen.

“You...are you; and I am me...” she said to herself. “You are you...”

Her thumb traced over his scar again, lightly.

“Hey”

“Hm?”

“So…I don't have the authority to police you on the promises you made, but...” she raised his hand. “You...Emil...you don't have to wait to return from the dead; you are allowed to be yourself, to live your life. Your parents raised you to be a person; no matter what, that goal never changed. So…even if it's just with me, even if for a little while...”

She pressed a gentle kiss on his palm.

“Emil...please live”

There was no need to summon him, and Sancho must have already known. For it is only with the darkest rituals that one can expel themselves from the body, replace it with an empty husk. Humans with pocketknives can only choose to pretend to exorcise the ugly parts out of them, like ancient medicine believed to clear blood of impurities. So deep down, though he pretended, Emil always knew who he was. He wore a pseudonym to hide himself, but it was he who wore the cloak, carried it around, and bore the weight of his sins as he made his way into the world. He was there when Kromer died, when he saw the horrors of the Great Lake, when he reached out to Sancho and pulled her towards her fleeting dream. And he was there now, as Sancho cupped his face, and kissed him.

By any name he went by, that young man was still Emil. Just as Sancho was Sancho, even with the mask of her father donning her face. And in each other's arms, they could loosen the boundaries of the naming conditions, becoming both, becoming one.