Work Text:
“I do not pout,” Sunday says, his arms crossed over his chest. “Least of all about something like this.”
The eyes of his companions around the dinner table laser-focus on him and his wings jitter, eager to hide his face away behind a curtain of feathers. It has been 26 days since the first time he managed to eat with them, 15 since the nausea has not stopped him from taking more than three bites. It is back now in full force. Sunday places his cutlery down, adjusts its position next to his plate. Then he adjusts it another time.
“Spoken like someone who is currently pouting,” the Trailblazer says, their mouth full. “What kind of deal is it, even? Did you sell your soul or something?”
He clears his throat, trying not to hear every sound of chewing, every movement of metal against ceramic.
“No, nothing quite so dramatic.”
“Then why are you sulking?”
“I’m not-“ Sunday starts and his wings puff up enough to startle himself, enough to wince racked with guilt and clear his throat. “I apologize if I appeared ungracious. I am quite alright.”
The Trailblazer stops eating for a moment to stare at him but withholds any further comments because March elbows them in the side. Sunday feels the hit under his own skin.
It is unbecoming to raise your voice. You disturbed their peace. Did they not give you shelter? Did they not show you leniency undeserved? Ungrateful.
The food begins to sit uncomfortably in his stomach. A few bites only but that was too many. Taking beyond what he should. He folds his hands over his lap and conversation continues without him.
Apologize, the voice of those many faceless people says. Repent.
“I’ll have to excuse myself,” Sunday says, mechanically, and gets up with too much grace and not enough of a smile. “I wish you all a pleasant evening.”
Fifteen steps to the kitchen, six to clean and sort leftovers away. Thirty steps to the passenger cabin. He does not step on the threshold and the feeling of dread follows him all forty-four further steps to his room
You made a scene. Embarrassing. Unsightly. They see right through you. See you rotten and despicable and-
Sunday sits down on the edge of his tidy desk and counts more, counts to a hundred. He hums a tune, barely audible. It rings in his head before he finds the earbuds Himeko gifted him not long ago and lets music lead him away. A selection of tracks recommended to him, a long list to go down. Unfamiliar melodies, instruments he can barely even picture before his mind’s eye.
Things calm, the prodding of unpleasant thoughts relenting. Sunday breathes in and out and when the knock on his door rouses him he manages to answer.
March does not waste any time before depositing a plate into his hands. Coffee cake, the rich chocolate smelling divine, and a spoon with a handle in the shape of a cat.
“We don’t have to talk,” she says and frowns at him. ”But if you want to, we can. Promise I’ll stare at the wall or something.”
Sunday’s grip on the plate tightens involuntarily. There is pressure behind his eyes and a tremor in his lip but he smiles instead of bursting into tears over a slice of cake. The smile comes out lopsided and clumsy but the one he receives in return is all the more appreciative for it.
“We can,” Sunday says. “If you manage to find time in your busy schedule, that is.”
“Hey, I do stuff!”
He laughs quietly at the sheer indignation in her tone.
“You told me all about your plans to rearrange your collection of photos today, Miss March, I remember.”
“Oh,” March says. “You’re not actually making fun of me. Aw. Yeah, I started by rearranging them based on colors but it didn’t end up working out so I tried sorting them using other systems. Number of subjects, the dates I took them, all that. I had about four hundred just of the one time General Feixiao accompanied us to a trotter domain. Those guys sure were spinning a lot. Anyway, can I come in?”
She sits down on a chair instead of the bed and Sunday can’t help another glimmer of warmth. Leaving his space undisturbed, the covers without creases. He sits down as well, poking at the cake with the fork.
“Thank you for delivering this to me.”
“Well someone felt bad about badgering you so much during dinner but wanted to give you space.”
“Ah,” Sunday replies. “That is quite unnecessary. The fault was all mine.”
The look March gives him speaks volumes.
“It’s okay to admit you were upset, you know.”
“For others, yes.”
She blinks at him. Surprised by the honesty, it appears.
“You’ve got special rules for yourself on top of the other special rules, huh?”
“Yes,” Sunday says. “It’s only through the unwavering patience of the people around me that I’m coming to realize that.”
“You still make it sound like it’s a chore to be patient with you.”
Ungrateful.
“I am… trying not think that way.”
“You better!” March says. “Unless you’re saying they listening to me and hearing me out is a chore and that’s why you’re afraid it’s the same for us-“
Sunday hides his laugh against the back of his palm.
“Still a formidable opponent, I see.”
“Opponent?!”
March continues on with her tangents, with anecdotes that carry on for a long time but are never boring. She dragged him shopping one of the first days into his stay and there is something comforting about not being treated with caution, about getting to pretend to be just like them, carefree, a part of this vast universe.
Sunday eats the cake in measured slow bites, flavor exploding on his tongue. In a different life, different time, he’d be devouring it fast, guilt-free. He would laugh freely and love freely, too, not bury himself in-
And it is later, when the Trailblazer has joined them to grumble an apology for bullying him again that Sunday clears his throat.
“I did not strike deal with the IPC,” he says, finally. “But I did make a bet with Aventurine.”
Their eyes are fixed on him again immediately but Sunday is prepared for it now, folding his hands on his lap.
“What kind of bet?” March asks, eyebrows raised. “Something fun or…?”
“I’m not in trouble or at least I don’t believe so. Mr. Aventurine seems much more interested in playing games rather than leading me into a trap. He has not yet informed me what this bet even entails, only to await further details via text after receiving my number. As unfortunate as our history may have been-“
He finds himself stopping as their expressions register in his mind. The worry has morphed into something else entirely. Both the Trailblazer and March seem to be stifling laughter with varying degrees of success. A mix of shame and indignation wells up in him, stomach-turning dread. Sunday takes a breath and forces his shoulders to relax.
“I am missing something, I gather?”
“Noooo,” March says and waves her hands. “Nothing at all. Nope.”
Sunday shifts and his traitorous earfeathers always jitter and flap now, no longer restrained by sheer willpower inside the dream. He reaches up to straighten them out, fix his earrings. A new set, a gift from the Luofu, casually placed on his desk after one night among many spent arranging the database with Dan Heng. Tangible reminders. There’s nothing to fear. They won’t hurt you for needing to ask.
“I see,” he says. “If it were something truly terrible you would let me know, right?”
“Yep,” the Trailblazer says. “It’s not. So don’t get your feathers too ruffled.”
Sunday accepts it. They coax him out of his room again and he finds himself minding less and less each time. The quiet corner in the party car has grown familiar but lonesome. There are other spots, all of them better shared.
“Feeling better now?” Himeko asks and offers a cup of coffee to him alongside everyone else. “Whatever it is, we can figure it out together.”
Sunday slips into the new routine, of being among people without feeling like an intruder. He stays quiet but smiles when they smile and listens well to every last sentiment voiced. Mental notes to make. Slotting into a puzzle that always had open space.
When he returns to his room Sunday goes through the other routines. Combing his hair and caring for his wings (right first, then left), brushing his teeth (a timer set, top left to bottom right), washing his face (everything applied evenly, starting from the right cheekbone).
When he lays down on his bed and stares at the ceiling the thought finds him.
“He just wanted my number,” Sunday says to the silence of the late night.
A new sensation burns low in his stomach. Giddiness, perhaps? Nerves? Confusion? Sunday finds himself warmed and heartened and lost once again. The shadows cast on his room are static and defined clearly, cut from the mold of the tangible. Flowers on the shelves, artifacts, curios. A telescope, miniatures of constellations, a vase painted upon with stars. One of Robin’s albums leans against the case of his violin. Their shadow is one and the same, spread across the walls onto the light switch and the door tightly shut.
Sunday digs his fingernails into the soft skin of his wrists the spots below his ribs where his body gives the easiest. It has to hurt to be penance-
The covers rustle as he gets up, smoothed down again easily. Sunday slips out of his room on socked feet. The sleepwear fits him loosely, March insisting he be cozy before anything else. You need it, she said and he frowned and disagreed and still picks the clothes he can bury himself in now. He needs it, the help and the comfort, however childish he feels in the realization.
The conductor gives him a stern look as he passes them by and Sunday makes another mental note to lighten some of their workload tomorrow. He finds the kitchen empty, his tea restocked. Herbal, tonight, as his thoughts spiral around what he tries to lock behind a thousand doors.
“A busy mind to quiet?”
Sunday jumps but the gentle tone of voice registers fast. He cups the mug of tea between bare palms and takes it to the small table near the window.
“Pretending otherwise would be futile, I suppose,” he mumbles. “What about you, Mr. Yang?”
Welt’s smile is more gentle concern than whatever it was that lingered in every last of Gopher Wood’s gestures. No trace of that patronizing air, that smugness, every last conversation a competition Sunday was expected to lose. Welt knows but the knowledge is not leverage in his hands.
“I got more than enough sleep on my return trip yesterday, anything more would be excessive. Now the goal is to get back to a better schedule.”
“Ah, that seems wise,” Sunday agrees and clutches his mug. “I can’t say that I have been successful in emulating that example.”
Welt shakes his head, the small tablet he was reading on turning off after a moment of inactivity.
“I can say that you still have a habit of selling yourself short.”
And it used to ache more, the feeling of I don’t deserve for you to be so lenient. Be angrier. You should want to hurt me for what I did, break me down until I’m dead or cleansed of sin.
Sunday swallows around the lump in his throat. The tea is scalding and he thinks of downing a mouthful to sear his own traitorous tongue. He sets the mug down, for now.
“You look like you’re going to ask me why we’re all being so nice to you again,” Welt says and smiles. “And just like last time I’ll tell you that we can all see how adamantly you’re trying to be your best self. You’ve come a long way even since joining us.”
And even as the guilt yells of the shame of it all, the you’re an adult and a criminal and get yourself together, Sunday gives in to the burn behind his eyes for a while. He laughs, quietly, a few tears spilling down to his chin, and he fails to stifle a few pitiful hiccups.
“And I still don’t know what to say in response.”
“You can tell me what’s on your mind,” Welt says. “That’s a start.”
Sunday blows on his tea, gathering himself slowly, steading himself under the crushing weight of gratitude.
“I am thinking of exploring a connection but afraid of complicating things for the Express.”
“What kind of connection?”
“Mr. Aventurine of Stratagems seems to have taken an interest in toying with me. While I don’t assume there is much danger to-“
Welt’s expression falters immediately and he does not catch himself in time, the fond amusement clear as day.
“Mr. Yang,” Sunday says and sighs. “Do you have something to add?”
The jitter in his wings does not calm until he reaches up and straightens out the feathers one by one. The steam rises from his tea, the taste of mint lingering in his dry mouth.
“I don’t expect Mr. Aventurine to become a problem for the Express,” Welt says, hesitant and deliberate. “Everything I have seen of his ‘endeavors’ seemed much more… personally motivated.”
The phrasing itches under Sunday’s skin. He presses his fingers together in a rhythm and pattern. Skip one, two, reset. His face burns.
“Ah.”
“In any case, there’s no need to ask permission.”
“That is not what I meant to do,” Sunday replies, skip two, one, reset. “I merely would like to avoid causing more problems for the Nameless by making selfish choices.”
“Well, chasing your own happiness is the kind of selfish all of us would encourage. As for choices…”
And Sunday sighs, deeply.
“Making choices we won’t regret.”
“Yes.”
The pride is not new. Sunday used to instinctively squirm away from it, flinching and tensing in the thought of unworthy. The mentions of Welt’s son, somewhere so far away that he will never reach him again. Sunday still falters in the thought, in the prospect of becoming a parasite, a cancer, leeching and replacing what was sacred before his presence defiled it. A childish wish and yet like the sleeves long enough to curl his fingers into Sunday finds himself securer in it.
“Thank you, Mr. Yang,” he says and drinks his tea when it is the right temperature, tasting every flavor in full.
Sunday deletes another message, adding to the ever-mounting pile in the trash. Dear Mr. Aventurine and Hey, Aventurine :D and WHY CAN’T THIS BE EASIER all entombed together in the depths of his phone and he places the device face down on his chest and takes a deep breath. A room of his own, filled with signs of life and even moreso signs of care.
I got your gifts, Sunday also doesn’t write as his mind once again traces over flowers and pretty things that arrived with short notes, you’ve been kind and thoughtful and I don’t know what to do with that. It must be difficult for you to give so much of yourself. I want to do the same. I’m sorry.
Instead, he writes-
When will I get to know what our bet is about?
Aventurine’s reply comes only nine minutes later.
Up late, hm?
That does not answer my question.
Disgruntled, aren’t we? You’ll know soon enough ;3
Sunday forces down the fluttering in his stomach. Effortless, always, anything Aventurine says. Dancing through life with steps light as air.
Not disgruntled. Curious.
Excited, even?
Maybe. Are you free this week?
The file gets attached so fast Sunday wonders if something went wrong at first. He taps it, nonetheless, and finds himself a guest in Aventurine’s schedule.
Pick a date, handsome :]
Sunday starts the letter and then folds the paper for a later time. He picks up the phone and calls, instead, when the converter tells him it is evening in the distant skies he is trying to reach.
“Hello?” Robin asks, her voice a tad tired, a dash weary.
Sunday clears his throat.
“Hello.”
“Oh! Brother, I got worried. I thought someone stole your phone. You never call.”
“That’s-“ he starts but the protest dies on his lips. “I’m sorry. It’s easier for me to text.”
“Mhmm. I know. I’m glad to hear from you in any way.”
Coward, he keeps repeating to himself, you’re a coward. But today you called. Today you took a step.
“How are you?” Sunday asks.
Robin’s voice never fails to calm him. Her songs travel the cosmos but the familiarity of her laugh, of the little complaints and fonder notes, reach him now, too. Sunday listens, his head leaned against the cold hull of the train, and smiles easily.
“It’s good to hear you’re well,” he says.
“What about you, brother?”
And he chuckles nervously, his fingers wrapping tighter around the phone.
“I have a date tomorrow.”
Robin makes a sound not unlike a squawk and before Sunday finds it in his heart to be offended she explodes into a million questions. Who and when and what and where and-
“Oh, I knew he liked you!” Robin says, triumphant, after coaxing information out of him. “Most handsome man in Penacony, do you remember? Oh, I was so happy for you then, too. Where is he taking you? Are you nervous?”
The first instinct is to deny, to hide himself, to assure her. But this is not Penacony and Robin’s wings were enough to catch their fall.
“I think I’ll do alright,” Sunday says. “But I am nervous.”
“He already likes you! There’s nothing to fear. If you managed to overcome all your differences then you won’t scare him away just because you’re a little shy, brother.”
“Shy? I don’t-“
“It will go great, I know it will. Trust in yourself as much as everyone else trusts in you!”
It feels like a coil unwound, suddenly, in the solitude if a comfortable room with his phone still cradled in his hands. Robin talks more, late into the night, and Sunday finds his tongue lightened by layer upon layer of patience granted.
“Mr. Gopher Wood did not approve of my preferences,” he admits eventually. “Looking back, I am not sure if that was him or the Stellaron. I am not even certain it matters.”
Robin stays quiet for a long while.
“I think,” she replies, “he is lucky he died before I could get my hands on him.”
The tears always make it through but Sunday giggles, too, unrefined, at the thought of her bloody vengeance. A bird grown tired of cages, of the predators out in the yard. Perhaps its nest is blood and bones but it is a shelter yet.
“He would stand no chance,” Sunday says. “Not for a second.”
Aventurine’s enigmatic gaze softens the moment he turns towards the doorway.
“Oh my,” he says and his lips twitch up. “And here I thought I was dressing to impress, angel.”
The burgundy of his shirt should clash with the vibrant diamond pattern of his jacket but Aventurine wears it all with unmatched confidence and ease. He peers over the rim of his shades and it is only after drinking in the familiar sight for what could be an eon that Sunday remembers he was asked a question.
“I wasn’t sure how formal you intended for this to be,” Sunday says and clears his throat. “And, well…”
Aventurine smiles wider. He gets up from the plush red couch with a flourish, strolling closer, moving through the Express as though he owns the place. Sunday’s heart flutters alongside his wings and he does not care to hide it.
“And, well…?” Aventurine nudges. He stops right in front of Sunday and his eyes linger on the black sweater, the golden belt, and the skirt March insisted suits him so perfectly.
“Perhaps I also wanted to impress you,” Sunday says. It comes out breathier than intended. Shy, Robin’s voice echoes and he is, nerves jittery and excitement squirming in his stomach and Sunday lets it be, lets it sit.
Aventurine regards him with a warmth that is unguarded and open and Sunday is not content to bask in it.
“I got your gifts,” he says. “Thank you.“
In the distant passenger cars voices grow louder and then fainter again. This is only them in the dim light and Aventurine’s hands do not look all that steady either when he reaches up to take off his glasses.
“Felt so indebted you had to humor me, hm?”
“No,” Sunday says and it is firm and certain. “I wanted to spend time with you. I’ve enjoyed our conversations.”
Aventurine blinks.
“I’ll win this bet yet, doll, with the way you’re talking.”
“Please enlighten me what the terms are. “
“Mhmm, maybe later. For now let’s be on our way, shall we? Busy evening ahead of us.”
And Sunday shivers as Aventurine pushes a strand of his hair behind his ear, fingertips lingering near the base of his wings. He can only nod, head in the clouds.
The buzz of a second glass of wine warms him from the inside out and Sunday pulls his legs up onto the bench. The picnic blanket is draped over them now, checkered and fuzzy. He rests his head on Aventurine’s shoulder, hums happily as he feels an arm loop protectively around his waist.
“What a view,” Sunday mumbles, the city below moving tireless over an ocean of spectral fires.
Aventurine plays with some of the feathers tickling his cheek.
“You can say that again.”
His gaze rests on Sunday heavy enough. Beyond the shadow of a doubt, beyond the gnawing guilt. Sunday flushes. Unbecoming. Gullible.
“Hopeful,” he whispers back, only to himself.
“Hm? What was that, darling?”
Sunday shifts until he can straddle one of Aventurine’s thighs, settling comfortably on his lap. Anxiety still spikes in every fiber of him but Aventurine doesn’t protest or tense up. He only raises an eyebrow, a quizzical smile on his lips.
“May I?” Sunday asks.
Aventurine beams, rubbing his fingers along Sunday’s jaw.
“May you do what, pretty bird? The answer is probably yes.”
“Kiss you.”
Aventurine laughs, the skin around his eyes crinkling and his chest heaving with it. Sunday gets a second, only one, of painful shameful embarrassment, before Aventurine places a finger on his lips.
“No, no,” he says. “No panicking. I won, that’s all.”
Sunday swallows, eyes wide, waiting.
Aventurine leans their foreheads together.
“I bet,” he says and grins, “that you’ll be brave enough to take the first step.”
He tastes like red wine and sweet fruit, Sunday thinks kissing Aventurine. Unfair and unjust and unbelievable. He tastes so good, feels so good, touch firm but caring against the curve of Sunday’s hips.
They both win, of course.