Work Text:
Stelle did what was routine for their lazy days. Lounge on the couch in the party car, either playing mobile games or watching March and Dan Heng duke it out for the umpteenth time in chess. Even if March lost again.
This particular day it was the former. Unfortunately her game was a tad bit off. Nothing serious, and she’s thankfully not developing arthritis, but she died in a few intermediate levels and skipped a secret mission. Even though she’s watched play throughs and hates missing out on objectives. But again, it’s nothing serious. Only a minor setback. Her fingers will be ready to slay those levels tomorrow.
Stelle hears Himeko’s heels pad through the room, humming to herself in thought. Confused, a little concerned. It’s not until Stelle enters the boss of the current level that their navigator asks, “Stelle, have you seen Sunday? I was hoping to ask him for a favor.”
And Stelle promptly dies.
“Damn.” She mutters, putting the phone down to reply, “I think he’s still in his room.”
“Still?” Himeko echoes. Stelle, internally this time, cursed herself. Of course she wouldn’t ignore that slip-up. Of course her own cheeks are heating up. Of course Sunday is still losing his shit, the poor guy.
And of course, because Aha must be watching over her, March walks in with Dan Heng, chessboard in hand, “Why is Sunday still in his room? It’s been two hours!”
“What did you do this time?” Dan Heng glares accusingly towards Stelle.
Offended, the girl gasps, “It wasn’t even my fault! At least most of it.”
“So something did happen.”
Why are you so bad at shutting up?! Stelle mentally scolds, resisting the urge to slap herself. Though her embarrassment must be visible, because March shoves the board into Dan Heng’s hands and sits on the couch. Right next to her. Squinting, staring, analyzing. Stelle feels ready to make a run for it—only to remember they’re in a train in the middle of space. There is nowhere to run.
“Is something wrong?” A man’s voice comes from the entrance.
Oh for fuck’s sake.
“Mr. Yang, Stelle did something and now Sunday’s hiding in his room!” March accuses like a sister blaming their sibling. And Welt only furrows his brows, confused. Okay, now she wants to die for real.
“You say that like I assaulted him!” Stelle shoves March away, face now hot and probably pathetic-looking, “It wasn’t bad, alright? We just—we may or may not have accidentally kissed! That’s all!”
Aaaaand there it was.
Jaw-drops across their crew. Himeko giggles, Welt shakes his head, and March and Dan Heng look mortified.
“Oh my Aeons.” March breathes out. She proceeds to grab Stelle by the shoulders and shaker her wildly like she’s a pack of snacks, “You accidentally kissed Sunday? Sunday?! The same Sunday who hasn’t touched a video game since he was five? The same Sunday who freaked out when the movie we watched had a woman in a slightly skimpy outfit?! He nearly exploded when you called him cute the other day!”
“I know I know!” Stelle retaliates by shaking her with equal force, voice rising to exclamations, “That’s why I said it was an accident!”
“Lower your voices,” Dan Heng puts his hand up, shock still on his face but settled into curiosity, “Tell us how it went.”
.
.
—Few system-hours ago—
“Sundaaaaay,” Stelle sing-songed, plopping on the couch next to the halovian who was rearranging the conductor’s items, “You’re good at poetry, right?”
Sunday puts down the bottle of cleaner in his hand, giving her an inquisitive look, “I can manage it well. Why?”
“So there’s this poetry class in the Xianzhou, and they asked me to participate because Dan Heng is allergic to going back.” Stelle slaps a paper on the table, a blank notebook page, “Sooooooo. Can you help me? Please? Pretty please? With two cherries on top sprinkled with chocola—?”
“You do not need to beg, Stelle.” Sunday smiles, amused, “I’m willing to assist.”
The girl cheered, her delight making him more inclined to help. So they sat there, a mere inch apart, as Sunday wrote down tips and tricks in poetry. He spoke so eloquently, words smoothly falling from his tongue. It made Stelle drowsy, like she’s being lulled to everlasting rest by the most beautiful of sirens. Which, not too far off. Come on, it’s Sunday.
The halovian is writing an example, slightly leaning toward the paper. Eager to see his neat cursive in action, Stelle leans as well. Cheekily, she gravitates toward his shoulder, face now centimeters away from his. She even makes the effort to curve around his wings so as to not alert him.
“This is simple, yet elegant. ‘Mark the day of veiled fright. Sound the word of frail—‘“ Sunday makes the mistake of swiveling his head quick, too quick for the other to move back and avoid—!
Stelle felt it. It wasn’t even direct. But her lips grazed the corner of his, something so feather-light it could’ve been passed off as an illusion. But it wasn’t.
They both jolted back as if burned. Stelle doesn’t know what expression she was making, but Sunday’s was clear as day. Petrified and embarrassed. Eyes-wide, hand hovering over his mouth. And then, as if his brain computed the entirety of the situation, his face blazed red.
(Despite the context, this look was absolutely adorable.)
“Shit,” Stelle cursed herself for letting that happen, even if her heart beating erratically told another story, “That was my bad, Sunday, I didn’t mean to—“
“Pl-Please excuse me!” Sunday squeaks and launches himself up, wings fluttering erratically as he damn near runs away. Leaving Stelle on the lone cushions. Stunned, confused, and just a teensy bit elated.
.
.
“Well,” Himeko is failing miserably at hiding her smile, “I suppose you need to settle things with him before any misunderstandings take root.”
“I know…”
“Please don’t be brash,” Dan Heng lectures, “The last thing he needs is to find another reason to overthink for hours.”
“I know how to read a room,” Stelle pouts, “I don’t like these assumptions you keep making.”
“Stelle.” March grabs her cheeks, forcing them to lock eyes. Her expression is dead serious, “With what you’ve told me, I’m saying this as your best friend. You need to be for real. No tippity-toeing this. And if things don’t go well, we can totally listen to sad music together and cry!”
While the others give confused glances, Stelle laughs. March takes that as a sign to let go, allowing the other girl to rub her sore cheeks, “I got a playlist just in case. But yeah, I get it, now can everyone please stop lecturing me like I’m five?”
Her supposed ‘family’ only laughs.
—Sunday’s Room—
What does this mean? Did she like it? Does she like me? Does she like me? Did she want to? Does she hate me? Did it disgust her? What do I do? What can I do? Do I apologize? Do I visit her room?
Curled up in bed while a million thoughts bounced in his head wasn’t on Sunday’s to-do list.
No matter how many attempts he made at calming down, no matter how many times he was close to reaching tranquility, a stray thought shattered that feeling like a bullet. His heart would begin to race anew, and he would bury his face further into his sheets.
It shouldn’t have felt good. It felt good. It felt nice. Exhilarating—no, no! You aren’t supposed to enjoy it! It was an accident! There was no meaning behind it!
Multiple feelings wrestled each other, fought each other away—and yet they would come back louder. Because Sunday’s damn stomach was fluttering and sinking, his nerves lighted up with feelings he had never experienced in his life.
He knew he held fondness for Stelle. Different from his admiration for Welt. Different from his gratitude for the others. The flip in his gut when Stelle complimented him, smiled at him—it was all different. It was specifically towards her. But Sunday never intended to act on it—his journey with the Nameless was not permanent nor would it last for years. He never thought to burden the girl with his feelings.
But now—but now this—!
Stelle’s breath was warm. Stelle’s lips are soft. Stelle smelled good today. Stelle stared at you when she thought you didn’t notice. Stelle’s eyes lit up when you agreed to help her. Stelle—
Enough! This is insane! Control yourself!
Oh but his hammering heart had a mind of its own, and it only made the shame threaten to keep Sunday in bed for the rest of the day. The smallest pressure he felt on the corner of his lips—it’s like he can still feel it—!
Agh!
What a mess the former head of the Oak Family had become. All over a ghost of a kiss.
Perhaps he’s blowing it out of proportion. Perhaps Stelle is moving on as usual, finding something else to cure her boredom. Maybe she thought nothing of it. Maybe if he were to walk out right now nothing would—!
Knock knock knock.
Someone visiting? At a time like this?! No, no, don’t be rude. It’s okay. Deep breaths, clear your mind, calm yourself. No rash behavior. No ignorance. No weakne—
“Sunday…?”
And the same voice that was haunting him for hours on end, was the same voice outside his door.
Sunday’s heart sank.
Why now of all times?
After a minute of silence, where Sunday prayed to Xipe that Stelle would leave on her own, there was a deep sigh. And then, “Hey, look, don’t freak out, alright? I just wanna talk.”
Sunday’s throat feels blocked.
He’s worried. He’s honestly frightened.
What if his feelings give away too soon? What if Stelle rejects him completely? Is that more reason to let her in? Give away and be done with it? But…
“I’m sorry.”
What?
Why is Stelle apologizing?
“I, uh…shouldn’t have been that close. You’re not used to it yet, I get it.”
Her voice is soft. So kind and somber, a voice that was unlike her playful and blunt self. Sunday felt his chest twinge.
“Did it, like, really bother you?” Then a thin layer of something that did not suit her in the slightest. Hesitation. Fear. As her voice lowered enough that Sunday had to lean in to focus on her words, “Did you…hate it?”
Overpowering his anxiety, his worries, his doubts—overpowering all of it was guilt. For making Stelle feel this way. For being the cause of her sadness in any shape or form. His heart threatened to crack and burst with a swirl of emotions that was almost too much when Stelle kept going.
“It’s alright if you did, it’s fine—I wouldn’t blame you! I don’t wanna make you uncomfortable or make things awkward. And me talking to you is probably doing just that—so I’m sorry again, and I’ll leave you alone now—!”
“Wait!”
It jumped out of his mouth before he could think twice. Sunday didn’t want her to leave. He didn’t want her to simmer in this gloom. Not because of him. He throws the blanket off, now sitting on the edge of his bed. Still afraid. Still alien to these feelings. But his innate desire to help and care triumphed over the uncertainty.
Sunday takes in a deep, unsteady breath, “I…am okay.” Realizing he sounded too meek, he raised his volume, “I did not. Hate it. I was…caught off-guard. I’d never have those gestures given to me, accidental or not. I apologize…for the misunderstanding.”
…
Why is she quiet? Is she surprised? Did it disturb her? Was my wording correct? Was it too accepting? Did I—?
“Oh. Okay.” Stelle replies blankly, not a hint as to what she could’ve been thinking. Sunday’s throat tightens again, his brain preparing another hurricane of self-deprication until she asks, “Can I come in?”
Sunday’s heart lurches.
She wants to come. In his room. Right now.
Stelle.
In his room.
Oh, Aeons.
It’s not the first time she would be here. Previous times, however, she was with the other Nameless. It was never just her. It was never them. Alone. Together.
Pull yourself together, you pathetic overthinker! There is nothing wrong with a friend checking in on each other in the comfort of their rooms. It is completely normal, and utterly innocent.
Inhale. Exhale. Calm your nerves. Leave the gloves alone, stop fidgeting. All is well.
“Yes. You may.”
Thanks to multiple years of training his outward appearance in front of others, Sunday puts up a half-decent calm façade. The young woman walks in, cautiously, like stepping into a frightened cat’s room. He notices her face light up again like it did before.
That doesn’t mean anything.
She softly closes the door, hands in her jacket’s pockets, taking little time to survey the room. It was no different than before, everything was clean and comfortable. Everything organized to the top.
“I, uh…” Stelle seems at a loss of words, surprisingly. She shrugs, nervousness in her smile, “Wanted to say something. Confess.”
Confess. Confess. Confess.
As the ear lended to struggling citizens, as the speaker of advice and motivations, confessions were a sign of sin. Wrongdoing. As minimal as forgetting to wash the dishes, as large as committing blasphemy. When someone had come to Sunday to confess, it was in hopes of being led down the right path and given forgiveness.
Was this the same?
Taking his silence as a sign to continue, Stelle does just that, “I meant it when I said kissing you was an accident. Sorry about that, again. But—what I’m trying to say is that I didn’t…regret it.”
Sunday’s brain short-circuits.
“You…what?”
Surely not? Surely he must have misheard?
Stelle takes three steps forward. Short steps, but enough to close half their distance, “I liked it, Sunday. I may or may not like you.”
Sunday feels his heart freeze for one singular second. Then it’s pounding against his ribs, so loud and rapid he subconsciously worries about a heart attack. His mind, once swirled with doubt, is singing with joy and fear and trepidation anything and everything he could feel in response.
She likes you she likes you she likes you she likes you she likes you.
He feels his mouth tingle where that kiss was laid. Wanting to feel it properly.
Sunday’s breath shudders, “You’re way too composed to be confessing this.” A feeble diversion. To make up the vast difference in their reactions.
Stelle doesn’t look nearly as disheveled as he does, in fact something must be very clear on his face, because her nervousness is almost completely replaced with confidence. She takes two steps forward. Long ones. Enough that her shoes are an inch away from his.
“I’m good at putting a nonchalant front.” Stelle extends her hand, “Can I borrow your hand real quick?”
She’s going to take your hand she’s going to hold it you were not prepared for this you were—
Minutely trembling, Sunday lifts hand towards her. She takes it, soft yet eager, as the havolian tries to keep his chest from bursting at the spot. He watches, anxiously, as Stelle pulls it towards her chest why is it going there don’t tell me she’s going to—!
And places it right above her heart.
Sunday, admittedly, would wonder if the house of a Stellaron was made to have human systems. But this…this was proof enough. Her heartbeat, fast, heavy, telling. Words that were not needed were instead shown through his gloved fingertips. Sunday’s mouth parts, surprise taking his features. He meets her eyes and sees her blushing.
“This stays between us, okay?” Stelle asks—no, demands, “I have a reputation to uphold.”
Sunday nods, body responding faster than his mind. He clears his throat, face burning, “Of course.”
He’s not sure for how long he was battling his inner monologue, nor how long Stelle’s heart beat under his fingers. The rhythm being his only reminder that this was reality and not some far corner of the dreamscape. In that time, Sunday had mustered the last of his courage to ask, albeit quietly, “May you—will you…” His stare darts to her lips once, twice. It’s enough for Stelle to get the hint. She giggles, cheeky and amused, even fond. It has Sunday floating all over again.
“Course I will. For real this time.” She leans down, noses brushing, the scent of rose water and underlying natural smells coming to Sunday, consuming him. They stare into each other’s eyes. Three seconds. Six. Ten.
And finally, Stelle dives in.
Sunday lets out an embarrassing noise, but all thoughts of shame fly out the window as they’re centered on her completely. Warm. Soft, slightly chapped. Smells good. Stelle. Stelle. Stelle.
He feels her hands find his shoulders, gently rubbing where they land. He feels her press closer, feels his hands grip the bedsheets with nowhere else to go without accidentally crossing an invisible boundary. He’s pliant, letting her take the reins. Just to feel these lips more. Just to be able to return the confession. I like you. I might have something more than that. But I like you.
It’s in the way Sunday chases her lips when they part. It’s in the way he doesn’t fight Stelle’s hands guiding his own to her waist. It’s in the way Sunday’s body feels like it’s boiling alive, hands shaking and bottom lip trembling ever-so-slightly. Stelle doesn’t mind. Stelle doesn’t comment. She takes in everything he has.
She does laugh when Sunday hides his face with his wings, and when his breath comes out in pants. But she doesn’t point out the mist in his eyes nor the apprehension in them. She only caresses his hair, hums a tune from one of her games. She lets Sunday kiss her again when he initiates. Again. And again. And again.
Even though Sunday was in his room for another hour, no one went to check on him this time.