Chapter Text
  |
Sinner # 11 Sinclair |
|
||
|---|---|---|---|---|
“...I don’t know, it’s kind of…well…I guess it’s usually just the same few things...” |
Slick with social lubricant, Sinclair struggled to keep his grip on the antecedent. The question had provoked some muffled lurch of embarrassment in his prefrontal cortex, but not quite enough to hold back his tongue. Precious little could have by this point. There had always been too many thoughts grating around his skull, shaving off little pieces that packed his throat like sawdust. Eventually, if he ever wanted to breathe again, he’d have to retch them out, and the Weissbier had made for such an excellent solvent. . |
|---|
 |
Sinner # 11 Sinclair |
|
|---|
“...and I mean… you probably already *hic* guessed… right?... Just look at me… what do you think?” |
Guessed? Guessed what? It seemed like every time he’d tuned in long enough to catch his own drift, he’d drift back out again. How many hours had the two of them been here? Who’d invited who? Was he paying, or was she, or… Dante, somehow? Poor Dante, always picking up the bill and cleaning up the mess. He felt a twinge of pathetic kinship with their manager, and his hands began to probe loosely at a coat pocket for his wallet. The nauseatingly spongy texture of beer-soaked leather caused him to flinch, and he felt a bit of the foam behind his eyes dissipate. He looked up quickly to see if she’d noticed the squish. |
|---|
 |
Sinner # 11 Sinclair |
“...they’re usually about you-- |
|---|
SCHEIßE!”
|
Two blinding searchlights had him pinned. Quixote had leaned so far forward across her barstool that he’d nearly slammed his nose into her. Sinclair’s arms shot out wildly, whirling through the air until she caught him by the shoulder and held him fast. |
|---|
|
|
Sinner # 3 Don Quixote |
|
|---|
“I beg thy forgiveness, young Sinclair, for I had not meant to startle thee so!” |
He never had possessed quite the fortitude to keep eye contact with her for longer than a moment. Whether it was the quiet fear of her noticing something in his gaze, or perhaps just the absurd brilliance of her golden eyes, facing Quixote was an endeavor only marginally easier than staring down the sun. He turned his head away and focused on catching his breath. |
|---|
 |
Sinner # 11 Sinclair |
“Sorry! I didn’t mean to… I thought you were over… sorry…” |
|---|
|
The shock had provided Sinclair a sudden jolt of sobriety, and as he shifted back onto his barstool he became very suddenly aware of the firmness of Quixote’s hand and the gentleness of her laugh. |
|---|
 |
Sinner # 3 Don Quixote |
“Art thou quite recovered? For a moment I had nearly taken thy thrashing for a windmill!” |
|---|
|
Sinclair shut his eyes tighter in embarrassment, and the lilt of her giggling softened slightly. |
|---|
 |
Sinner # 3 Don Quixote |
“Apologies, dear Sinclair. Please, return to thy explanation. As thou hast so abruptly surmised, my attention is most forthcoming!” |
|---|
|
Sinner # 11 Sinclair |
“Right, of course…sorry...” |
|---|
|
Sinclair paused for a moment. Somewhere amidst the tumult he had finally lost hold of the initial question. |
|---|
|
Sinner # 11 Sinclair |
“...what, uhm, what were we talking about again?” |
|---|
|
Quixote narrowed her eyes to mischievous pinpricks, a pleased smirk sneaking across her lips. |
|---|
 |
Sinner # 3 Don Quixote |
“If I do recall truthfully, I had asked about thy most cherished fantasies… though I now suspect thou hast perhaps misunderstood my intent!” |
|---|