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Don Quixote and Sinclair chat idly in line as they wait to order. It wasn’t rare for them to go out together on their days off, the two of them enjoyed each other’s company; not to mention the fact they both had relatively similar tastes in food and drink, although Don Quixote most commonly preferred any drink she could get to be stacked to the ceiling with whipped cream, whereas Sinclair was happy with a slightly more reasonable amount.
They, along with a vast number of others, were lined up for a semi-popular boba shop that had opened several months ago. It wasn’t so popular that they would sell out by noon, but enough so that passersby would become curious and stand in line upon hearing what it was they were waiting for, and it was popular enough to have garnered such a crowd in the first place.
As they move up, another pair of people standing diagonally— the line had accidentally split in two— walk forward as Sinclair and Don Quixote do. Sinclair and one of them bump into one another, shoulder to shoulder.
“Oh,” Sinclair says, a brief flash of anxiety passing across his face, “I’m sorry. Are you alright?”
“Can you watch where you’re going?” They say, voice accusing. Sinclair flinches. “We were ahead of you.”
Don Quixote steps forwards, frowning. “That is not correct,” she points at where they were standing, a few paces behind herself and Sinclair, “you were standing there, and we were here. Thy had been several steps behind us but merely off to the side! And I would say that such a harsh tone is unnecessary!”
They roll their eyes, arms crossed. Just before they can open their mouth again to reply, Sinclair interrupts them.
“Ah, no, Quixote… it’s alright. It was my fault for being in their way anyways…” his gaze is at the ground. He can’t even force himself to meet their eyes. “You can go ahead. I’m sorry.”
“But—” she interjects, and Sinclair links their arms together.
“It’s okay. It doesn’t make that difference in the wait anyways.”
She pouts as the pair now ahead of them shakes their heads at her, but doesn’t continue; Sinclair distracts her by bringing up the Purple Tear, and that works well. The line doesn’t move quite at the pace that Don Quixote speaks at— it’s impossible to move that quickly— but it does feel as if it goes faster as Sinclair happily listens to Quixote go on and on about the Purple Tear, jumping from tangent to tangent about workshops and Fixers, restaurants nearby, even discussing their other coworkers.
Sinclair orders honeydew milk tea with grass jelly and tapioca, Don Quixote orders a strawberry banana smoothie with whipped cream, boba, and four different types of jellies. As per her request, the whipped cream is like a tower on top of her drink, and the worker altogether gave up on attempting to put the standard plastic wrap lid on her drink. They had also ordered popcorn chicken and fries to share.
Don Quixote had been hyper focused on eating and drinking, but Sinclair felt as if there must have been another thing on her mind, given how her brow was furrowed like she was trying to solve a particularly difficult problem. He dips a fry in mayonnaise and watches her, staring daggers into their popcorn chicken as if it had offended her somehow.
“I believe I see it now!” She exclaims, setting her boba on the table with a clatter; Sinclair flinches at the sudden noise, but listens intently as she continues. “The difference between you and I, that is!”
“What do you mean?” Sinclair asks, setting his drink down as well, although much more quietly.
“When you are treated poorly, my companion,” Quixote gestures wildly with her hands as she speaks, voice loud and boisterous, “how do you feel you should conduct yourself thereafter such criticism?”
“I… suppose I would try and figure out what about me was so aggravating to them, and change it.” He replies, voice soft.
“Do you see? That is where we differ!” She slams her hand on the table as if this further demonstrates her point, “When another criticizes me in a harsh manner, I do not wonder if something is wrong with me. Rather, I find myself thinking what is wrong with them, to treat me poorly as I do not deserve!”
“It isn’t as if I feel I should be treated poorly,” Sinclair counters, with a frown.
“But you so readily accept that treatment and consider it a fault of your own that you are treated in such a manner. That I cannot understand, although I do take great note of it when I see it. As is expected of a bringer of Justice such as myself, I possess no uncertainty in my actions. I know very well what it is I must do, how I must act, and how I must align myself to the moral code that I follow. This, of course, is very well not the case for every individual who walks the same streets of the City that I do; they lack security in their own selfhood and in their own actions, and even minor criticisms cause that feeble and fragile selfhood to collapse like a house of cards!”
“…I feel as if you’re insulting me.” Sinclair says, eventually.
“Oh, t’was not my intent,” Quixote quickly replies, a glint in her eyes as she takes a noisy slurp of her drink, “but, if the shoe doth fit, I would suggest wearing it, or perhaps, resizing thine feet!”
Sinclair gives her a flat look. “Now I really feel like you’re insulting me.”
She continues without acknowledging his slightly bitter quip, “T’would not be my fault when another lashes out at me! However, that does not mean I will simply dismiss them, as that would be improper for me to do so! They are deserving of understanding, as it is more than likely that they are having a difficult time, and are taking it out on the nearest target,” she smiles wider. “However, that would not, and will never be, a reason for treating me in any manner other than what I deserve— which is with respect, kindness, and chivalry, as with any other!”
“So what you’re saying is…” Sinclair can’t help but feel insulted, “I let others hurt me because I feel like I deserve it?”
“No,” Quixote corrects, “The actions of others are not within your control— what I am saying is that you do not, within thineself, correct their criticism of you, regardless of whether or not it is truthful to your character, as your character is severely lacking stability and foundation.”
“Are you sure you’re not insulting me?”
“I jest not,” she replies, sipping her drink. “Although I do on occasion find myself wondering… my companion, could it perhaps be that you do not hold yourself very high in opinion? Or rather, could it be that you possess a deep hatred for thineself?”
Sinclair feels as if no matter how much time he spends with Don Quixote, he’ll never quite quell his instinct of being taken aback at her blunt and direct nature. He sighs, “I suppose both are true.”
“What exactly is it about yourself that you dislike so, my companion? I find you quite agreeable even if I do not necessarily understand your viewpoint at times and frequently question your lack of foundation.”
“What? I— I mean, to be honest, that’s exactly what I dislike about myself. I know I’m… unsure of myself, and I really would like to be sure of myself, but the fact of the matter is, it doesn’t come as easily as I want it to. And that’s the whole problem. Everyone around me seems to be secure in themselves even if they don’t care about themselves much.”
“You lack a moral code,” Quixote supplies and Sinclair can’t help the flood of bitterness.
“Yes, and you don’t need to keep saying it like that.” He chews on his straw, indignant but all too aware of the fact he can’t quite correct her even if he wanted to. He had no choice in the matter and that in and of itself was frustrating.
“Have I offended you?” She asks, dipping a piece of chicken into ketchup and putting the entire thing into her mouth at once. Sinclair watches as she chews, her cheeks now not unlike a chipmunk’s.
He sighs. “Not purposefully.” Taking a sip of his drink, he adds, “It’s just that I’m painfully aware of my numerous personality flaws without them being pointed out to me. I’m trying to change, Don Quixote.”
“I never once implied that you were not doing so,” she replies, swallowing her food. “I do apologize if it seemed as if I was; I was being truthful when I had said I found you agreeable. I quite enjoy spending my time with you, my companion!”
“You enjoy spending time with basically everyone…” Sinclair mumbles, bitter and, surprising himself, slightly jealous. He pauses, taken aback at his own audacity. “Sorry.” He’s always had this bad habit of jealousy. He understood, logically, that other people would exist in her life and that would be fine. They weren’t best friends, either, they were coworkers who were friends who just happened to spend a decent amount of time together on their off days.
No, underneath all of that, perhaps there was a deeper fear— one that had far less to do with Don Quixote and more to do with Sinclair himself. A nagging worry, one that could keep him up at night if he lingered on it too long. He did not want to be in his lonesome, and he was terrified of the idea that anyone— not just Quixote— would choose another over him so many times that he would be left all alone.
There was no denying that he was jumpy, and at times not the best conversational partner, and maybe not even the best person to hang out with, but that didn’t mean Sinclair enjoyed being alone. Quite the contrary, in fact. He feels himself frown.
“I do not understand why it is you’re apologizing!” Quixote has ketchup on her cheek. “What you said is correct, I do quite enjoy spending time with our coworkers! Do you find that strange of me, Sinclair?”
“No, I… I don’t think it’s strange.” He bites at his straw again, taking a sip of his milk tea. “I— I suppose I was a bit jealous. I’m happy to hear you enjoy spending time with me and that you think I’m a decent person to be around, but it’s hard to feel like that means much when you feel that way about… well, just about everyone.”
“I see,” she replies, thoughtfully. “I shall keep this in mind then! I offer my utmost thanks unto you for sharing. However, I do not believe my frequency in spending time with others would negate the joy I feel upon spending time with you.”
He feels his cheeks get warm. “...thank you. I know that’s true, it’s just…” he sighs. “It’s difficult sometimes.”
“I personally cannot relate, however I extend my sympathies!” She grins, and offers him a french fry, reaching over to dip it in mayonnaise how he prefers it. Despite the shyness he feels he can’t help a smile, letting her feed him. “If there is anything I might do to aid you, please inform me post-haste! I should not like it if my companion suffered silently by my side.”
Happiness bubbles up in his chest, accompanied by a flush in his cheeks and a shy smile that wouldn’t ebb. “Thank you, Don Quixote. I’ll let you know if I think of anything. It means a lot that you even offered. Ah…” he takes the napkin sitting on the table and leans forward to clean the ketchup off her cheek. “You had something on your face.”
“Oh! I thank thee! I had not noticed.” She beams at him, and then says, with her head tilted, “I will remain by your side throughout your journey, as steadfast as I always have been!”
Sinclair can’t help a laugh. “We’re coworkers, Quixote, I certainly hope you’ll be there. But,” he pauses, thinking of how best to convey the genuineness of his words, “Thank you. And… well, I’m not sure how much I really could help, but if you need anything, I’ll be happy to try and help. Or at the very least, be there for you.”
“I thank thee, and I can only hope I will be able to return such a sentiment in kind!”
You already have, Sinclair thinks, but doesn’t say. He’s still unsure of himself, and he does hate himself… and Quixote wasn’t necessarily wrong when she said he lacked morals, and that he felt as if he deserved poor treatment. But those were all things he wanted to change. Those were all things he could change. And, looking at Don Quixote across from him, Sinclair had a feeling he wouldn’t need to tackle all of that alone.