Work Text:
Optimism is a terrible thing.
Papa’s brand of cheerful lovin’, of reminding his Ghouls all he would do for them, laid a blanket of calm over Sunshine’s concerns. But their faith was not one to stretch beyond reality. Trust in Papa only went so far, and soon the blanket grew threadbare and thin, fluttering at the corners, threatening to be swept away.
She was already unlike the others when she left the stage. Her silences stretched and swelled and roiled until they burst into frantic tears, breathless shouts, misplaced anger. Words she couldn’t connect to her own mouth. Every dressing room looked different, but every set of walls saw the same emotional crash. They held the same trembling Ghoul in its corners. The pack calmed her like they always had, but that comfort was just a sticking plaster, useless when tugged and stretched. They took her to the bus in the centre of their cluster. Different tarmac, same stumbling feet. They’d feed her, dress her for bed, and leave her alone with her pillow.
Just how she needed it.
Overwhelmed, Papa called it, when she asked him why she felt this way.
“It’s a lot, baby. A lot to take in at once. I felt the same—kind of. Yeah. It gets easier.” He’d smiled, and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “We're all right beside you. Pinky promise.”
She’d asked the older ones whether Papa had been like her, long before the title of Papa became his. She asked whether he’d broken down in the dressing room after every early show, clamped his hands over his ears whilst they rang, watched his dress shoes blur through a haze of tears. Whether he’d understood it.
Aether, who took everything about Sunshine with a thoughtful pause, bit his lip on the exhale.
“Not quite the same as you,” he’d said. “He struggled, sure. As everyone does. Not that I knew him so well back then. But I know he had a few rough nights, at the start.” He’d smiled too. “His was a big crowd to begin with. Yours is even bigger.”
“Did it go on this long?” she’d asked. She didn’t look up from the floor.
Aether wouldn’t lie to her.
“No, honey. It didn’t.”
Settle into it was a phrase the pack threw around, whenever her questions spilt over. They shared their own stories of a settling period—Aether’s doubt, Rain’s wordlessness, Cirrus’ panic—but none quite matched the severity of Sunshine, much as they tried to stretch the truth until it did. It wasn’t a deliberate twisting of events, but an attempt at comfort that Sunshine appreciated, even when it made her want to cry.
She’d had quite enough of crying. It was beginning to darken the skin around her eyes.
Her overwhelm felt physical, sometimes. Headaches and stomach aches and dizziness and exhaustion. When she complained of these, Papa would frown and put his hand on her forehead, or a Ghoul would caress her whilst they smelled for sickness. It was always the same result—no fever, and Papa would kiss her, offering a hug if she was up for it. No stench of illness, just the same scent Sunshine had always had. Warm, heavy; sharper than most. Same as the day she was Summoned. It was as if, Swiss once told her, with ill-advised honesty, the smell of flames and blood and a bitter incantation had never quite faded away.
But what did fade was memory, in sudden bouts of unsettling size. Some things, like that image of home she went to in her mind, and the words and the feel of the songs she knew, stuck firm. It was the everyday that slipped and muddled. Where did she put her pyjamas? What did she eat for lunch? What’s the route to the backstage bathroom? Did she brush her teeth?
Running her tongue along her gums didn’t help. Something coppery shrouded the taste of toothpaste. It sometimes soured her food.
Nausea was as persistent and unwelcome as an upset stomach; it snuck up on her one night, thick and hot, throbbing, demanding. No time to ask for directions. She could remember, she told herself—she was sure it would come back to her. Had she not walked the route twice, three times, before the show started? Trailing in the wake of half the pack? She would remember once she stumbled out of the dressing room. Not every corridor could look the same.
A sign, a human sign, if this venue’s bathroom door had even had one. She couldn’t remember. With one hand clasped to her mouth, she moved in a blur as her stomach twisted and screamed. This way, or that? A swinging door or the corner to the left? She would have sobbed if bile wasn’t rising in her throat, and her breath wasn’t caught in a panic. She took the corner, because she couldn’t stand the thought of shouldering open a door.
A fresh wave of it knocked all sense of direction away. She tripped over nothing, threw out a hand, shoved it into the wall as it happened. Up came hot liquid, splattering through her fingers; up came the water from the bottle on her podium, the pre-show fruit, her lunch, her breakfast. Ginger tea from in between. Breastmilk from the morning. She coughed, and in the pause that followed a retch, the sob forced its way out as if she’d vomited that up too.
“Something’s wrong,” Cirrus said that night. She whispered it, but anyone who cared to listen would hear it. The bus had fallen into its midnight hush.
A sigh, so distinctively Papa that Sunshine smiled into her pillow.
“It sure is.” He sounded tired.
A huffed breath from Cirrus’ nose, that must have preceded a glare. “Don’t say that like it’s normal. She’s getting worse.”
Fabric shuffled, and Sunshine caught the scent of defensiveness.
Aether’s measured voice joined it. “Which we have well established,” he said.
On another day, he might have reprimanded Cirrus’ spark of anger. Sunshine had heard it many a time. Aether let it slide now, and Sunshine wondered if he felt the same panic that lay beneath those sharp words. He wasn’t one to express it like Cirrus did. But maybe he understood enough to let her off.
Sunshine was more than used to people panicking about her.
That was the first thing she knew, besides burning lungs and roaring flames. Papa, his paint smudged and running, just as naked as she was. Sobbing as he bled. N-not dead, he’d gasped, as if he was trying to convince himself of it.
Not dead. She made it. Thought I'd failed.
Too long, he’d cried. Took too long.
“I spoke to the doctor again,” Papa continued. He, too, was undeterred by Cirrus’ snap. “He, uh—he did not say much. Made some notes. He would fly to meet us, if it were not for…”
He trailed off. A soft growl rose from Cirrus, but this time, it was in agreement with Papa’s hesitance to name the reason. The project’s budget did not quite cover flights for a doctor, if his only purpose was to see a touring Ghoul. Even if Papa himself demanded the budget be stretched.
Sunshine did not doubt that he’d tried.
“He will do some digging, if we keep him updated.” Papa’s voice had lost its deliberate whisper, falling into low weariness. “Not long.”
Not long until we’re home. It had become a mantra.
“Not long,” Cirrus echoed.
Sunshine blinked. Her Ghoul eyes could usually make out every fold of the curtains, even in the dark, but it all seemed a blue-black smear tonight. Would that blurriness vanish if she opened the curtains? Would she see the aisle beyond it, the bunk across from hers, the bucket left on the floor? She thought about reaching up and tugging them back, just to know whether this fuzz was a fluke.
Her arm was too heavy to lift. Her eyelids were much the same. As she drifted to the sound of her Papa’s muttered voice, Sunshine wondered whether she cared to see at all.
It was a show someplace she couldn’t name, on a day she wouldn’t remember. The band took the steps off the stage like they always did. Laughter, adrenaline, sequins and stray confetti—this was the buzzing comedown, the dregs of excitement before exhaustion hit. On the steps, Dewdrop offered his hand. Sunshine accepted. His sticky palm squeezed hers, but the wordless calm made Sunshine’s chest ache. He wasn’t chatting or sharing a joke. The idea of an aftershow debrief had never formed. Dew understood the inevitable, and how no merriment could steer Sunshine away from it.
In the dressing room, she took her helmet off and placed it on the bench. She stood for a while, gazing into its wide, black eyes, and everything around her seemed to fall away. The noise, the clutter, her desperation to get out. It faded into the background, replaced with a ringing in her ears. That must have been there since she left the stage, but she hadn’t noticed it. She hadn’t noticed much.
Dew’s hand, hot and firm. Where had it gone? When had she dropped it? She almost looked up to find him again, but something forced her still. Exhaustion, perhaps. She’d never felt so tired. Her head began to throb in time with their last song, and Sunshine felt like laughing; if she let the throbbing take over, she was almost back up there again, in her last moments of fun—when the music drowned out her racing heart, and cheers and screams propelled her onwards and onwards no matter what was waiting for her at the end. Maybe if she let herself drift, she would find her way back to it. Maybe she wouldn’t have to do everything that came between. Change, cry, wash, shout, eat some food, throw it up, dig her fingers into her arms to awaken the bruises from yesterday—
The room stretched ahead of her, more vast than the arena she’d just left behind. Larger still than the length of the nave. Her mask fell away into the distance, blurring in a glare of black, and Sunshine became both dizzy and utterly still.
Vertigo, swooping, as if she clung to the edge of the highest seats. Lights like a thousand stars.
In the distance—“Papa!”
She fell through the arena all at once.
And she woke lying down, blinked into fluorescent glare, groaned at the pain in her head. Her body lay on the hard, cold floor, but somebody’s hands were in her hair, cradling her in their lap. She had no time to thank them before more hands touched her shoulder and hip, and muttered apologies were drowned by the movement that followed. She was turned, slowly, until she rested on her side, and the legs beneath her cheek shuffled to make her comfortable.
“... carry her out—”
“Stay until—”
“ —sleep. That’s what Google—”
“Call…?”
“ —can’t see her.”
She closed her eyes when the fragments did not piece together. It was no good trying to understand. Sunshine didn’t always understand the others, anyway. It didn’t matter now. She needed to sleep, even if it was right here on the floor. She wouldn’t need to be hugged or rocked to help her this time. Her limbs were too heavy to move, and her head was so comfortable, despite the nausea and the pain that came in and out like the tides of the sea. Maybe she was in a boat—that might be why the world kept tipping.
In her dreams, she heard nervous laughter. It sounded like nothing was funny at all. “When you do those, eh—those health and safety courses… the first aid shit. It’s an hour, tops, to tick it off the H-R list. You don’t actually—you never think you will need it. Not properly. Maybe a little burn on that fucked kettle in the Bishops’ kitchen, or—or somebody twinges their back with a heavy box. I don’t know. But not—never this. Not hold their head, keep the airways… you know. All that.”
The laughter came again, but it was shaky and thick. If Sunshine hadn’t been so tired, she might have looked for who was speaking and offered them a hug. That was how it worked in the pack.
The comfy lap was gone, and so were her trousers. She must have whined about it or shuffled her legs, because somebody held her still, and another hand stroked her hair.
“Shh, sweetheart. I know it’s cold. We’ll get you wrapped up soon as we can.”
That was Cumulus, whose scent was mixed with something sour. Sunshine whimpered and reached for her. She wanted to be cradled, like she had been in the early days, when her skin was still raw and peeling. Cumulus would cradle her on bad nights too, holding Sunshine tight against her breast. Maybe she'd offer her milk tonight. If it wasn't offered, then Sunshine would ask, because Cumulus had always told her she could.
Somebody else folded a blanket around her bare legs. She wanted to ask why she was undressed, but she was too sleepy to open her mouth. Whoever did it will have had a good reason. They'd all dressed her at the beginning, before she learned how to do it herself, when her hands wouldn't cooperate and she didn't quite get the necessity of clothes. It didn't matter now. She hummed, enjoying the blanket against her skin, and wondered if she could keep it when she got that long-awaited hug.
It was Aether who lifted her, and Rain who covered her in another blanket, hiding her head. She couldn't see Papa, but he walked ahead of them through the corridors that all looked the same. Cirrus was glued to Aether's side. She adjusted the blanket when it slipped, held Sunshine's hand when she groaned. Cirrus’ arm shook. She smelled of salt. So did Papa—so did Rain. Funny, that. Hadn't the show gone well?
In the bus park, the floodlights had gone out. Sunshine preferred it that way. She could close her eyes and let Aether's gentle purr lull her into a doze.
—and she found herself at last in Cumulus’ lap, her head resting in the crook of an elbow, smelling fresh milk and a pleasant hint of sweat. She pushed her head up as much as she could, and Cumulus helped her reach, muttering soft praises and shushing her, though there was no need for any of that. She hadn't been upset tonight.
Sunshine latched on with a satisfied hum, letting her tongue curl around the nipple. She didn't drink right away. She lay there, enjoying the familiar scent, the comfort of having Cumulus in her mouth, hoping this wouldn't make her sick.
How long she lay, latched but not drinking, she didn’t know. Her exhaustion swelled but a cloud began to dissipate. In a daze, she grasped onto that spark of clarity, then dropped her tongue and opened her mouth.
“Did I pass out?” she asked, quiet and close to swollen grey skin.
Cumulus’ thumb stroked circles in her back, round and round and round. Sunshine felt the thump of her heart against her lips.
“You had a seizure,” Cumulus said. She took a breath, in and out. “That’s what Papa said it was.”
Damaged, they'd concluded. From her Summoning. Left too long without air. Too long spent grasping in the dark for Papa's hand, burning inside and out. She hadn't died, like the one before her, but it had been a near thing.
And a brain without air, be it human or Ghoul, would forever remember that deficit. Quirks and oddities made up its ghost. Sunshine's had scrambled around until it gave her something new to fear. It gave her a guard rail on her bed back home, waterproof covers on the mattress—watchful eyes, new pills to take, quilted pads on hard corners. Sweet, colourful. Unassumingly decorative. As if, to the unknowing eye, this had all been somebody's plan.
Papa apologised, one cloying afternoon, soon after the decision had been made. He cried before he'd said the first word. He took her hands, small in his own, and Sunshine didn't point out how he gripped them as tight as he had done then, when he pulled her out, up, out, but not quite fast enough.
“I shouldn't h-have done it,” he said. He powered on through weeping eyes and a runny nose. “Should never have. After—the last, I—”
He broke for air, his breath shuddering. This might have reminded him of something. He sobbed, and Sunshine took him in her arms, letting his apology smear on her T-shirt.
It took her a while to get her words out, nowadays. And this occasion had more need for caution. She thought about it, her cheek resting where she'd nuzzled against Papa's hair. Finally, with a measured voice and a tightening hug, she told him the truth.
“I've never blamed you.”
His cry was open-mouthed. He shook and clung.
“I-I'm sorry, baby, I'm so sorry—”
Sunshine recognised his words as a broken dam, with which there was nothing to do besides let it pour. She'd been in that place herself, many times. Speaking and sobbing and rambling on because tears weren't enough to say it all. She let her Papa do the same, much as she longed to stop it, to remind him again that he had never been at fault. That even though she would be left behind, she understood.
Sunshine told him another truth instead.
“Love you, Papa. Love you to bits.”
He would tell her the same later, when his breath returned to him and he'd dried his nose. Sunshine trusted that.
“I think I'm lucky,” she added. “All the… the bullshit aside. I'm alright.”
Papa's laughter shook them both. Disbelieving, maybe, that alright had ever applied to her.
But how could it not, when he cared enough to cry?
“I'm glad you brought me here, even with the hiccups.” She tightened her arms. “Pinky promise.”