Archive of Our Own ^beta

1. Dan Heng

The Astral Express is bizarre.

He’s been vaguely aware of this ever since he first heard of the path of the trailblaze, yet stepping foot onto the Express, wandering from car to car while wearing a runaway’s uniform – a former prisoner’s garb – has only cemented this view of his.

From the outside, it’s a train. Majestic, made of mechanisms and running on fuel that most people can’t even begin to comprehend, with wheels that spin on tracks invisible to the naked eye, yet a mere train nonetheless. Exceptional, a technological marvel, yes, but somewhat understandable. Realistic. Easy on the eyes, easy on the mind. 

The same cannot be said for the inside. The parlor car, the party car, the dormitory car – all places Mr. Yang had so graciously presented to him – abide by the laws of reality, yes, but the further he wanders from those three main points, the less those laws matter. Mr Yang told him about that, in fact – all while the strange creature masquerading as conductor clung to his pant leg, wagging their finger at Sunday, as though to emphasize the man’s words.

“Nothing here’s going to harm you, but we’ve all been spooked once or twice and it’s not the most pleasant experience,” he remembers Mr. Yang saying, his hands folded neatly atop his cane.

Sunday could only manage a nod, too unnerved by the glint in the man’s eyes – something that resembled concern so closely that it made Sunday want to hope it was real, hope it was meant for him. But it couldn’t be, not after everything he’d done to the trailblazers, and so he’d tugged on his gloves, bit back the foolish words clinging to his tongue and nodded.

Twice, like a fool.

Had it been Gopher Wood instead of Mr. Yang, he wouldn’t have escaped unscathed. There would’ve been a lecture, stern and harsh, or perhaps he would’ve brought out the ruler. 

The moment passed as quickly as it came and they’d continued with the tour, but even now, hours later, the thought persists in gnawing at him. It’s embedded so deeply within him, slithering through every corner and crevice of his mind, no matter how much he tries to banish it; not even the indistinct conversations echoing from the parlor car manages to vanquish it. Instead, it grows stronger and so does the tightness in his chest as he wonders what they’re talking about – if they regret taking him in, if they’re contemplating whether to simply drop him off somewhere and retract their promise of accepting him. 

It wouldn’t be difficult. Certainly easier than keeping him aboard.

He’d understand.

It’s not like he likes it here either.

Everything is too new and messy and loud and –

And perhaps such conditions don’t suit him. It wouldn’t be surprising, if they realized that he doesn’t suit this path – the path of the trailblaze, of freedom and autonomy. Of walking down a road built by your own two hands.

He wouldn’t begrudge it, were they to abandon him on another planet.

It’s these thoughts that make Sunday toss and turn till the sheets seem coarser than they actually are, till the sensation of creases in the pillow case brushing against his skin has nausea curling low in his stomach.

He cannot stand it and so he stands up, and so he –

Although it is not the wisest of decisions, Sunday finds himself with a hand on the doorknob of his room, twisting it open and pushing outwards. Even though he should be sleeping, even though the Astral Express crew had been kind enough to give him his own room, equipped with a comfortable bed and a desk and a wardrobe.

More than you deserve, you wretched failure.

The words slink inside his mind, as painful as a serpent’s bite. His wings twitch and he resists the urge to flap them, resists the urge to fan them out – it’s a foolish impulse, one he mustn’t heed. He cannot fight what isn’t there, cannot ward off a predator that resides solely in his head. His biology, however, doesn’t seem to know that. Thus it persists in wanting to defend him, to prove that he’s stronger, he’s not to be trifled with.

It doesn’t work.

It never does.

Sunday sighs. The sound seems to echo in the stillness of the night. It’s loud, startlingly so, and he realizes just how quiet everything is, without the spillovers of the others’ voices.

They must’ve gone to bed then, he thinks and there’s something like nervousness within his chest, something that has his wings twitching like he’s twelve again, sneaking into Robin’s room because he can’t sleep, because his bed feels too big and his room too empty, too dark. 

Even as a child, you troubled her. Disturbed her sleep. What kind of older brother does that?

Sunday doesn’t freeze, but it’s a close thing. He squeezes his hands into fists, wills his heart to calm. Only once it steadies does he step past the door at the bottom of the dormitory car, into the unknown that lies beyond.

Mr. Yang was not exaggerating, it seems.

The more Sunday advances, the stranger his surroundings become. He walks through empty halls littered with shadows that shouldn’t be there – shadows that lack origins. Occasionally, he sees moss winding itself around light fixtures, burrowing into the cracks where flooring meets walls. He lingers, interest piqued, but not enough to touch it. His skin prickles at the mere thought, gloved as his hands might be. He does, however, lean close enough to smell the earthiness of it, the irreplicable, damp scent of soil. 

The next car that he stumbles upon contains hundreds upon hundreds of butterflies, so densely packed onto the wall that none of its surface is visible anymore. Sunday blinks. Tries and fails to accept the fact that this particular species, famed for its swirling rainbow patterns, was supposed to have gone extinct decades ago.

And so he goes from car to car, not tolerating the strangeness of it all as much as welcoming it. It’s bizarre, it’s messy, it’s unexplainable – almost everything he’s seen defies order, defies classification. Sometimes the walls twist, turning concave, swirling and bending like water in an oddly-shaped glass. Sometimes the floor is transparent, leaving him to hold his breath as he pads across the room with slow, deliberate steps. 

He shouldn’t like this, shouldn't enjoy exploring such a twisted, blasphemous place, yet something about it soothes him. Calms his tormented mind. The sight of it, perhaps, reminds him of home.

A long forgotten, distant memory of a home, of a faceless mother singing as she grabs him and Robin by the hands, urging them to dance to the tune she’d made up on the spot. He can almost picture it, the messiness of their mother’s nest, the smell of grass, of nature, wafting in through the window. 

It’s a fragmented, hazy image, one shrouded in more mist than clarity, yet perhaps it’s not only a segment of his imagination. Perhaps it’s real.

It brings him some sort of comfort, false as it might be, yet it’s not enough to fully pacify the maelstrom inside his mind, for it staunchly persists and thoughts keep rushing through, half-baked and unsettled. 

He can’t help but wonder if he’ll get to see these halls again, if he’ll get to hear the notes of gently strummed violin strings sneaking out beneath doors of vacant, dusty rooms.

He can’t help but wonder if he’ll acclimatize to this. If the Astral Express will acclimatize to him. To his presence that not even his foster father could tolerate, only granting him the rarest of audiences when something was wrong. When he’d strayed from the teachings of Order.

Perhaps the Astral Express will do the same. He wouldn’t hold it against them, such distance – how could he, after he put them in so much danger? After he threatened them the way he had? They might be kind, but that only goes so far and Sunday is many things, but worthy of absolution he is not.

He’s never been.

Bright lights flood his senses and Sunday startles, rearing back. His wings splay out in a makeshift shield, feathers splayed across his eyes. His heart flutters in a frenzied staccato against his ribcage and he wonders, mildly, just where he’s ended up.

The last car had been dim. All of them were, really. Vacant and badly lit, yet somehow in top shape, no traces of dust or the wear and tear of time – none that he could detect, anyway, but he has a keen eye for details.

To end up in a hall so luminous that he has to cover his eyes – could he take it as a sign that it isn’t vacant? That he’s stumbled upon something distinctly more sentient than a few butterflies?

…

No, that’s ridiculous. Surely he would have been informed if something stranger than the conductor haunted the Express’ halls. Mr. Yang, at least, would’ve told him.

He would’ve.

This is not some sort of – of initiation ritual, or whatever those things are called. It can’t be.

The Astral Express is kind, he tells himself, like his heart isn’t beating out of chest. Like his wings aren’t still childishly, uselessly stuck to his face, hovering protectively. Like his mind isn’t homing in on the most awful, humiliating scenarios.

You’d deserve it too, after what you did –

The whoosh of a door sliding open, then a voice.

“Sunday?”

Mild-mannered and quiet, colored by surprise. A touch of fatigue, maybe.

Dan Heng.

Sunday’s wings retreat and he blinks, eyes straining to adjust to the light. This seems to be enough of an answer to Dan Heng. “Ah. You looped right back.”

The words have Sunday blinking again – not to clear his eyes, but because Dan Heng’s words make no sense to his frazzled mind. “I beg your pardon?”

Dan Heng covers his mouth as he yawns. “You went exploring, did you not?” He uncrosses his arms, gesturing vaguely to the hall they’re standing in. “Sometimes, the Express will take you right back to where you started.”

It takes a second for the realization to hit, but once it does, Sunday wants to blush. The fact that he doesn’t is a testament to his control, all things considered.

As it turns out, Dan Heng is right – he is right where he started, at the end of the end of the dormitory car. Snoring echoes faintly from one of the rooms. Meanwhile, behind him, the door he’d just come through has already slid shut, its window turning opaque.

Sunday stifles the ridiculous urge to tug on his gloves, to let his wings twitch. Being caught in the position of having done something wrong never feels any better, it seems. “I apologize,” he says stiffly. “If I somehow disturbed your rest –”

Dan Heng’s brows come together, ever so slightly. “Not at all. I wasn’t sleeping to begin with.”

Sunday isn’t sure what to do with that information. Or this conversation, really. It’s as if his people skills vanished the moment he stepped off Penacony, honestly. “I see,” he says. “Then I hope I have not disturbed the Express with my exploration, foolhardy as it was.”

“Foolhardy?” Dan Heng’s head tilts. “I suppose you could say that,” he says and something about the words makes Sunday’s chest tighten, but Dan Heng goes on too quickly for him to dwell on it. “Don’t go alone next time. There’s no actual danger, but getting lost and having to spend hours stuck in one location until the Express decides to let you leave is a real possibility.”

He – hadn’t known that. 

Did Mr. Yang keep this from him on purpose…?

“It once happened to March,” Dan Heng explains, pausing to rub at his temples every few words. “She was quite distraught to end up stuck in an empty industrial kitchen with nothing to entertain herself with – not even any utensils to throw at the wall. She was so bored that she ended up in tears.”

Throwing utensils at the wall? 

The Astral Express crew is truly a bizarre group. Such a thing would’ve gotten him more than a lecture, were he to have done it as a child. Let alone as an adult. He can almost feel his father’s unyielding gaze on him and so he swallows. His gaze darts around, desperate for a subject change.

There’s nothing, however, but Dan Heng. 

Dan Heng, standing in front of the door to the Archives, his arms loosely crossed as he takes in the sight of Sunday with inquisitive eyes. His pupils are two pools of black, not too dilated, yet something about his gaze makes the hair on Sunday’s nape rise.

Perhaps it’s simply biology. A survival instinct, protesting against such keen observation from someone with a draconic heritage as strong as Dan Heng’s.

Perhaps Sunday is tired. But he’s always been tired in some sort of way. Why would it matter now, when the rank of Bronze Melodia no longer weighs heavily on his shoulders? When there’s no Family to lead?

Now, when he’s given everything up to be a failure, a disappointment? A hedonist, chasing a path not predetermined by Order. By his father.

He doesn’t know what it is, can’t pinpoint it, not even as his eyes flick towards the floor, unwilling to face the other man.

Something about this spurs Dan Heng to break the silence. “How do you like your room?”

What can he even say to that? 

It’s a room. Sparsely decorated, much smaller than his private chambers in Penacony had been. Easier to breach, with no space for the elaborate puzzles and traps he’s so fond of. 

“It’s more than adequate,” Sunday replies after a few beats. He doesn’t add a thank you, solely because he’s already expressed his gratitude to Mr. Yang when the man had shown him to said room. “It’s just that I couldn’t sleep. I thought a walk could clear my head.”

He isn’t sure what kind of answer Dan Heng is seeking, but this is all Sunday can give. All he has to give, really. He’s already abused the Astral Express crew’s kindness far too much; he isn’t about to demand better quarters, not when a cell is where he should’ve ended up.

Dan Heng’s gaze doesn’t waver as he considers this. “Alright. If it ever becomes less than adequate, feel free to customize it to your liking.”

“Of course,” Sunday says, dipping his head in a nod. “If that’s all, I shall leave you to –”

“Actually,” Dan Heng cuts in. A hint of something passes over his face, too quickly for Sunday to catch – maybe sheepishness, maybe not. “I was wondering if you’d be willing to help me sort the books I bought in Penacony. I’ve encountered difficulties with some of them.”

Sunday’s mouth opens before he can think twice of it. “If they’re books you bought from the reception area, then –”

“Ah, no,” Dan Heng says, holding up a hand. “I’ve already handled those. What I’m having trouble with is the books Stelle somehow managed to bring back from the dreamscape.”

Sunday blinks. His feathers twitch the slightest bit, perking up. “...The dreamscape?”

“Yes,” Dan Heng confirms. His lips quirk up into a smile, even as he shakes his head. “She’s done it, somehow. Brought them back in perfect shape. Would you like to see?”

Sunday…

Sunday should refuse. He should make his excuses and retreat to his room, should do everything he can not to impose on Dan Heng’s time – on any of the crew’s time. But –

But he’s curious.

Curious and sleepless and the latter will remain that way, he knows, for his chest is too tight and his mind too unsettled to succumb to the thrall of slumber.

He swallows and thinks of his room, the chambers Mr. Yang had presented to him with a too kind smile on his face. Thinks of the way he’d tossed and turned, the way his skin had prickled as his eyes kept darting around the room, taking in the narrow space that seemed, to his overwhelmed mind, both empty and crowded.

Perhaps in the Archives, with someone by his side –

It will be better.

Quickly, before the courage flees from him, he nods.

Dan Heng seems pleased by this, if Sunday’s reading the glint in his eyes correctly. Perhaps he is. Perhaps he isn’t. He’d excelled at reading people while on Penacony, but now that he’s left, all of those skills seem to have slipped out of his grasp.

Dan Heng inclines with his head. “This way.”

The door slides shut behind them with a soft noise as they make their way into the Archives. It’s dark inside, the only source of light being a databank terminal coloring its surroundings in a soft blue glow.

“Take a seat wherever you’d like,” Dan Heng throws over his shoulder as he moves a pile of books away from the console and into a box. “The chair, the floor, the desk – even my bed. Just don’t sit on the terminals like Stelle.”

“I wouldn’t,” Sunday says, mostly so that he utters something far worse, far more incendiary, like a prayer for this room – for the state of it. 

His eyes dart all over, unsure where to settle – on the towers of books that could rival a small child in height? On the half-empty, wrinkled bag of chips on Dan Heng’s desk? On the mattress that lies directly on the floor, adorned by so many pillows and blankets that some have tumbled onto the hardwood?

Ever so briefly, he misses Penacony. Misses the restrictive air of his office, the way he couldn’t relax even in his own chambers, the way he had to surround himself with puzzles and traps upon traps just to feel comfortable enough to work.

It only lasts a moment, yet the thought leaves him chilled – so much so that when Dan Heng hands him the books, Sunday lingers more than necessary, gloved fingertips brushing against Dan Heng’s bare ones, leeching warmth.

“These are the rowdiest ones,” Dan Heng explains, settling onto his desk chair. “I get a headache every time I look at them. So does Stelle – she was only able to read them while in the dreamscape and she did, but she doesn’t remember any titles.”

Shifting the books in his arms, Sunday takes his own seat in the corner of the room, his back against the wall. “And you need the titles to upload them to the database.”

“Precisely,” Dan Heng says. “I’m not certain if there’s anything you can truly help with, but I figured you might know more about approaching such an item than me.”

Sunday trails a finger down the spine of a book. Despite the glove, he can feel it – the melodious rhythm of Harmony, thrumming in response to his touch. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Dan Heng nods. “That’s all I ask,” he says and with that he turns, a steady tapping filling the room as he types away at the terminal.

Sunday breathes, takes one more moment to flick his eyes over the Archives, over the very little he can see of Dan Heng’s profile, bathed in pale blue light – then he gets to work.

Or at least he tries to, for the Archives are warm – they’re bound to be, with so many consoles and servers shoved into one tiny room, yet he hadn’t expected the way this warmth would tug at his eyelids, would slow his heartbeat – the way his eyes would droop every few seconds. 

When he tinkers with the books, it’s with slow, clumsy movements, more pawing at the covers than anything. The echoes of Harmony are light and fleeting, almost playful as they wrap around his fingers. Tapping echoes from Dan Heng’s desk, filling the room with a nice backdrop that Sunday’s mind, for once quiet, clings to with desperation, like a child with a lullaby.

Slowly, ever so slowly, Sunday’s wings sag, the tips falling onto his shoulders as his head dips into his chest and his eyelids finally slide shut, surrendering to the sweet allure of sleep.

(In the morning, Sunday wakes up covered by a blanket, the books deposited neatly by his feet and he’s apologetic, almost frantic with guilt. 

There isn’t anyone to address such sentiments to, however, for Dan Heng slumbers away at his desk, head pillowed on his arms. 

Sunday makes his way out of the room, careful not to disturb him, but not before draping the blanket over his sleeping form.)

2. March

Two weeks into his stay aboard the Express, Sunday finds that the party car is his favourite place by far.

The Archives are a close second, were it not for Dan Heng’s tendency to leave things all over the floor, to be put away later. The room’s ability to lull Sunday to sleep within twenty minutes of entering is also a drawback, for he doesn’t get a chance to read more than half a chapter from his preferred book before his body inevitably succumbs to the urge to rest.

He’s not even tired most of the time – he cannot quite explain the phenomenon, nor does he feel brash and unashamed enough to ask around about it. The Archives remain firmly on the second spot in the ranking and that’s that.

The parlor car, he thought when he first set foot onto the Express, would be the best for him. Unfortunately, it is not so. It’s a loud place, one frequented by guests. In fact, most of the guests the Astral entertains seem to gravitate towards this particular car, impressed by the view, talking to the rest of the crew, or trying and failing not to coo over the conductor, strange creature that they are.  

Thus, Sunday is left with the party car. Despite its name, it is quieter than most of the Astral Express’ other cars. Sure, there is a bar, but the only one to make use of it is Black Swan, whom he has exchanged the briefest of pleasantries with. She seems content to leave him be as long as Sunday does the same for her, so she is no bother.

Then there is the bartender, a robot named Shush with a temper so short it might as well be a fuse, but that trait surfaces only when Stelle is around. When Sunday interacts with it, the robot is nothing but cordial, if a little too eager to please.

There is the phonograph, placed into one of the corners at the far end of the car, surrounded by plush armchairs arranged in a loose semicircle. It’s his favourite location inside the party car, for his presence seems to ward off any guests that might want to change the vinyl.

Sometimes, the conductor passes by, either with a broom or a change of clothes, muttering something or other about needing to keep up with the trends. Sunday isn’t quite sure what he’s referring to and so he keeps quiet, busies himself with whatever’s on hand: a book, a newspaper, his phone.

He doesn’t –

Using it is not something he prefers; the vast emptiness of his contacts list evokes a strange, uneasy feeling that has his stomach swooping, but the device comes in handy when he has to appear preoccupied, so much so that he can’t even lift his eyes from the screen, let alone entertain a discussion.

Such as…

This very moment.

Sunday swallows, tapping at the screen with a gloved hand to refresh a page that did not need refreshing. This usually wouldn’t be possible, not on an ordinary phone, yet Ms. Himeko had refused to leave him alone, bringing him coffee each morning and asking him the same endless question – what kind of phone do you prefer? I can just get you a random model, but I want to know if you’ve at least got any sort of color preferences.

In the end, he’d caved. Had to, faced with such determined eyes, such considerate words, and with a heavy heart, he’d told her exactly the type of phone he wanted. Something expensive, something that could be used even with gloves. Somehow, his selfish request had made her smile.

Even now, thinking of it provokes a strange warmth in his chest – somewhat pleasant, yes, but not strong enough to overpower the unease curling low in his belly. There are eyes on him, after all.

Wide, gleeful eyes, sparkling with an energy that he doesn’t understand, that shouldn’t be directed towards someone like him. March’s eyes.

She’s staring at him. Has been ever since she walked into the party car, alternating between humming some tunes and pestering the bartender. Even as she sips at the drink Shush prepared for her, she stares.

Does she want to talk to him, he wonders. She hasn’t made any move to do so, but the possibility of her approaching won’t leave his mind.

He doesn’t fear it, not exactly, but a conversation with her will most likely not be the easiest of things. March is the most unpredictable of the Astral Express, to him.

Most people won’t hesitate to classify Stelle as such, but she is infinitely easier to understand. She thrives off chaos, off doing whatever she wants to. To predict how she’ll behave in a certain situation, one only has to go with the most reckless of options. She has strange, but firm beliefs and cares greatly for those she considers her friends, her family or under her protection. She forgave him simply because he’d apologized, because he’d promised to atone. She even went as far as to claim punishment wasn’t needed, not when everyone got away unscathed. 

She is a paradox of absurdities, of thought patterns Sunday can’t even try to comprehend, yet she is perhaps the simplest to converse with, considering how little she minds his slips of tongue, his pauses, the twitch of his wings when she manages to get a laugh out of him.

March, however?

She is kind and cheerful and protective of the crew in a way that reminds him of Robin – of the way Robin would jump onto his back as a child, flapping both sets of her wings as she tried to lift them both into the sky. Of her smile, playful and genuine, no matter how badly his attempts at humor went. Of her voice in his ear, telling him that the dream is over.

March seems like the same kind of person and that scares him, for he can’t attempt to befriend her. It would be grossly unwelcome after everything he’s done, after he endangered her friends so greatly, holding them captive in the dreamscape for a plan that bore no fruit – a plan that failed, leaving him with nothing but the status of a sinner, a wreck, a runaway.

By all logic, she should hate him. She should despise him.

And yet she hasn’t been anything but kind to him ever since Mr. Yang brought him into the Express, his hand wrapped loosely around Sunday’s shoulder as he guided him forward. It unnerves him, this kindness of hers, for it can only be a façade. 

It must be. 

There’s no other explanation for the way she greets him so enthusiastically, waving both hands whenever they happen to walk into the same room or smiling and beckoning him over, gesturing excitedly towards the empty seat between her and Stelle whenever he joins them for a meal.

It must be a lie, must be a part of some sort of plan to humiliate him, to punish him. Nothing he wouldn't deserve – nothing he wouldn’t put up with, considering how kind they’ve been, opening their home to him.

It’s this train of thought that roots him in place as she finally approaches, sliding into the armchair opposite of his with no grace whatsoever.

March waves. With both hands, as usual. “Sunday! Hi!”

He nods in greeting. Resists the urge to refresh the page on his phone. “Miss March.”

Her face scrunches up a little. “No need for that, I told you,” she pauses, a thoughtful look settling across her features. “It does sound kinda fancy, though.”

“I’ll call you whatever you’d like to be called,” he says for lack of a better reply. To call her March, even at her own request, feels – improper, somehow. Like he’s overstepping. Intruding.

Of course you’re intruding, you’re nothing but a cuckoo bird sneaking into someone else’s nest, a snide voice spits, venom dripping from the words.

Sunday bites the inside of his cheek. Halovians are not birds, however similar the two species might be, but other than that, the comparison is apt, is it not?

“I dunno,” March leans forward, taking a sip of her drink before continuing. “Miss March sounds cool, but it’s too formal! Why would we use miss and mister and all that old people stuff? That’s only for people with creaking joints like Mr. Yang.”

Too formal? If they had titles, Sunday wouldn’t hesitate to use them; politeness is the least he can do after they were kind enough to take him in.

“It’d be really weird if my friends called me Miss March,” March decides, nodding to herself. “That stuff only happens in Xianzhou dramas.”

Sunday blinks. His wings tilt toward his face, itching to cover it. “Friends?”

March, who’d been reaching for her drink once again, freezes mid-motion. Her eyes widen. “Well,” she starts, scratching at her neck. “I’d certainly like to be. What do you think I’ve been saving you the best parts of breakfast for,” she adds with a small huff, gaze darting from his.

Sunday doesn’t say anything. Can’t, not without sounding like a lunatic.

“I must apologize,” he says once he manages to speak, drawing on all the social etiquette drilled into him. “I must’ve misinterpreted your –”

“No, no, no,” March interrupts, forming an X with her arms. “No more apologies! You’ve said sorry so many times since boarding that you’re starting to make me feel like I should apologize too!”

Sunday blinks. His mouth opens. Closes. His feathers quiver, uneasy, as they inch closer and closer to his face. “What is it that you’d like me to say then?”

March lets her arms fall back down. “That,” she says slowly, her brows furrowing, “Is a good question.” 

Sunday briefly wonders just how wrong it’d be, to get up and walk – walk with deliberate, unhurried steps – to his room, abandoning this wreck of a conversation.  It’d be humiliating, would have him tossing and turning as shame pricks at his skin, but surely it wouldn’t be worse than wallowing in this purgatory, waiting for this bubbly woman to decide his fate, would it?

Still, he remains seated. Out of cowardice, out of a selfish desire to suffer for his transgressions – he can’t be sure. All he knows is that he stays in place as if his feet have grown roots, have sunk into the ground beneath them.

“Oh,” March exclaims, so loudly that his wings dart away from his face, puffing out. “I know! Let’s make it official! With a photo,” she adds, holding out her fingers in the shape of a frame.

“It?”

“Our friendship, duh,” she tells him slowly, like he should already know this. Like the fact she sees him as a potential friend, not an enemy, isn’t monumental.

She must mistake his silence for hesitance, for she leans forward, eyes wide and imploring. “C’mon, just one picture. Pretty please? Nobody will see it but us, I promise,” she wheedles, tone increasing in pitch with every word. “I’ll put it in my Astral Express Family Only album!”

Sunday simply stares, the words friendship and family lodged into his chest so strangely that he can’t tell if they sting, if they soothe. Nevertheless, the sensation leaves him breathless. 

“I –”

March’s eyes narrow. “That better not be an apology.”

Despite himself, Sunday exhales through his nose. “It isn’t.”

“Good, good,” March nods, trying to appear serious, as if her hands aren’t creeping towards the camera hanging from her belt. “Those are out of style, just so you know!”

“Of course,” Sunday says lightly. Then, growing firmer, “I simply hope you do not feel forced to add a picture of me to such a personal album.”

“Forced?” March asks, utterly lost. “What are you talking about?”

Don’t mess this up, don’t offend her when she’s being so nice to you, you wreck –

“By our circumstances.” At her blank look, he adds, “Just because I’m a passenger on the Express doesn’t mean we must befriend each other. Especially not after –”

“Yeah, alright, I’m gonna stop you there, cause I don’t really get it,” March interjects slowly. “I mean, yeah, you’ve done some bad things, but you know better now, don’t you? And,” she adds, finger wagging into the air, “You’ve already apologized, like, a bazillion times!”

His gaze drops to his lap, no longer able to look her in the eye. Instead, he gazes at the white, unblemished fabric of his gloves. “Yes,” he agrees mildly, “I suppose I have.”

A bazillion times and it still doesn’t feel like it’s enough, he doesn’t say. 

Doesn’t have a chance to say, for March goes on. “You really have. And we accepted them, each and every time,” she tells him, then shrugs. “So, why wouldn’t I want to be your friend?”

Such a simplistic way of thinking – it’s almost admirable in its naivety, almost impressive just how much faith she places not only in him, but in the world in general.

His father’s teachings dictate that he refute her; jumbled suggestions of how to debase himself, how to dismantle her argument rush to the forefront of his mind, but he holds his tongue, for there’s something…beautiful about this perspective of March’s.

There’s beauty, he finds, in such optimism. Beauty, but not only that – in his chest curls the barest sense of warmth, something he’d thought long gone. Forgotten.

“You’re right,” he says eventually. Clears his throat. Adds, ever so hesitantly, the consonants awkward on his tongue, “March.”

It sounds – foolish. Makes him feel foolish too, stripped bare of the protective layer of politeness. But then she grins so widely that it must hurt, her eyes crinkling. “You said it! You said my name!”

“And,” he starts, trailing off as his eyes flick away from her and towards his own hands again, “I believe we could take a picture. It would be – not too bothersome.”

At this, March outright jumps onto her feet, whooping with joy. “I have so many ideas,” she gushes. “C’mon, let’s try the lighting by the window, I wanna see if the shadows are gonna make us look like overworked IPC goons –”

(In the end, they return where they started – the corner with the phonograph – and that’s where they take the picture, March holding onto his arm and grinning all the while.

Eventually, down the line, he asks for a copy of it to put in his room, first of the many he’ll frame.)

3. Stelle

“Heeey,” comes a voice, slightly muffled by the knocking of a fist – not knuckles, no – against his door. “Can I come in or are you gonna throw something at me like last time?”

Sunday freezes. Warmth flares to life in his cheeks as they turn redder and redder – a color he can see, standing in front of a mirror as he currently is. His wings, still wet, spray droplets all over his shoulders in a valiant attempt to rise to his face, but the melting snow stuck to them weighs them down and so they droop.

“I do not recall such an incident,” he says, tone as level as can be. 

A small part of him can’t help but laugh at how low he’s fallen, reduced to speaking with someone through a door, all of his manners forgotten. Discarded, just like he was. The other, larger part, however, is focused on wringing the water out of his gloves – anything to dull the urge to crawl out of his skin.

“...If agreeing will get you to open the door, then, yeah sure,” is Stelle’s dry reply, bringing him out of his thoughts. “I dreamed that up or something.”

Sunday sighs.

He wouldn’t usually permit himself such a lapse of composure, but the day has worn him down and Stelle’s still stuck outside, unable to see him; most likely unable to hear him too, considering how thick the doors of Goethe Hotel are. It’s this thought that has him exhaling freely, momentarily heedless of the eyes that might be watching – criticizing – him. 

“If you really want me to go away, I will, but I’ve brought towels and stuff,” Stelle offers.

Sunday pauses at this, head tilting towards the door. He can’t peer through wood, but he can imagine the sight that’ll greet him – Stelle, fishbones and snow tangled in her hair, holding a stack of towels as if presenting offerings to a deity. All folded properly, of course. Sunday never expressed any sort of discontent, but she must’ve picked up on it nevertheless, for she always takes the time to arrange the things she brings him into the neatest shapes possible.

He gazes down at himself, considering.

His outer jacket clings to him, sodden, and he cannot help but be grateful for the several layers of clothing that keep him from feeling the awful sensation of wet fabric directly against his skin. Wetness clings to pants in patches, from his ankles to around his knees. His shoes aren’t even worth mentioning – they’re beyond salvation, he realizes, watching as water drips from the leather boots, forming a small puddle on the floor.

Simply put, he’s a mess.

He shouldn’t let her in – should do the very opposite, in fact, and send her away, shielding her from this disgraceful sight. From him.

But she fell into the snowbank too, didn’t she?

And she’s seen worse. She’s seen him hit by the very train he now resides in, seen him fall from the sky. Not to mention that she’s brought more towels – he’s already used everything in his nightstand, in the huge wardrobe that came with his room.

“...It’s unlocked,” he finds himself saying, even as doubt gnaws at him.

“Woo,” she deadpans, then kicks it open. With her foot. 

Sunday has to blink as he takes her in – the little of her that’s visible, that is, for she’s carrying so many towels that even her face is hidden from sight. 

“I asked for all the towels they had on hand,” she explains from behind the mountain of fluffy white towels, folded neatly one atop another. “I had a feeling you’d need them.”

Something stirs in him, dulling the prick of shame at being seen in such a deplorable state – a strange kind of warmth, one that’s been with him ever since he stepped onto the Express, ever since he fell asleep in the Archives on that first, turbulent night. It’s a sensation that he’s slowly becoming familiar with, one that won’t leave him be. That makes the breath catch in his chest, no matter how many times he experiences it.

“Thank you,” Sunday says eventually, unevenly. 

Stelle dismisses his words easily, making her way into the room to place the towels down onto the nightstand. “Eh, don’t sweat it. It’s on me, anyway – we wouldn’t have slipped if I hadn’t messed around.”

Sunday dips his head in a nod, reaching for his gloves, starting to wring them once again. Water trickles into the bucket between his feet as he works. “I believe it’d be wiser to let Miss Lynx man the sled next time.”

Stelle snorts, leaning against the wall with crossed arms. “You know she doesn’t even have a permit, right? I’m pretty sure she got that thing from Sampo, actually.”

Sunday tilts his head, meeting her gaze in the mirror. She’s changed her clothes, he notes. Her usual outfit’s been swapped with a pair of long-sleeved, thick pajamas, and a pair of slippers. “Sampo?”

Ever so briefly, her eyes flit away from his. “My, uh, business associate. A very trustworthy guy – as long as you don’t buy anything from him.”

Sunday straightens his gloves, leaving them to dry on the windowsill. “Then how is he your business associate?” he asks, more to keep silence from descending than anything.

“I threaten him a lot and he tells me what I want to hear,” Stelle says, completely serious. “We work well together.”

“Ah,” he replies, a beat too late, yet as tactful as can be. “I see.”

“I can feel you judging me, you know,” Stelle tells him, shaking her head.

Her voice of disappointment – false as he’s learned it often is – used to send his heart into the most frenzied of rhythms. Even now, a pang of alarm runs through him and his wings instinctively fan out, only to fling beads of melting snow onto his face. A hiss escapes him at the sheer coldness of it, at the way it almost seems to sting his skin.

“...Cold, huh?” Stelle says, drawing his attention. Sympathy glints in her eyes when their gazes meet and he can’t help it, the shiver creeping down his spine at the possibility of something worse than mere sympathy: pity, revulsion.

“Yes,” he says, trying not to think of the way his clothes are clinging to him, of the wetness seeping through his boots and into his socks. Of the gross way the fabric is brushing against his skin, every soaked fiber akin to a sharp needle.

Her gaze lingers on his wings, on the way they attempt to move every few minutes, only to fail disastrously, pathetically, burdened by snow and soaked to the bone as they are. “Why didn’t you dry those first?” she asks, gesturing vaguely towards his head.

“It’s difficult,” he says, slow and halting. He can’t remember the last time someone bothered to ask about this part of his anatomy, to pose a question not driven by their fascination for his appearance. 

“Feathers are fragile – head feathers even more so. Handling them is an exercise in patience, especially if they’ve come into contact with water, and so I decided to leave it for last. This is how it works for Halovians, at least,” he adds, compelled by her silence, wishing he had gloves to tug on. “I’m not knowledgeable enough to speak on the habits of other species.”

Silence descends once he finishes, only to be broken by an intrigued huh from Stelle. 

“An exercise in patience, you say,” she drawls, all while drawing shapes onto the floor with the tip of her foot.

“Yes,” he answers, unease already curling in his gut at the look on her face. It’s a subtle expression, one that he wouldn’t be able to read at all if he didn’t know what he was looking for, but it’s plain as day now, having spent a month with the Astral Express crew – Stelle is up to no good.

“Does that mean it’d go faster with some help? Cause, like,” Stelle raises her hands into the air, fingers wiggling. “I know how to handle birds. Ask Qingque – I was the one she came running to when that bird spirit thing cursed her.”

Sunday stares. He isn’t about to tell her that none of her words make any sense. It would be beyond rude, yes, but also a waste of time, for Stelle listens to no one. “I wouldn’t dare impose,” he tries.

“You’re not an imposition, you’re my favourite chicken boy.”

Another sigh escapes him, much more doleful than before. “...I’m not a chicken.” It’s futile, more of a token protest than anything, but he has to say it, for the sake of whatever dignity he has left.

Stelle, as usual, waves him off. “Okay, but you’re still my favorite,” then, before he can even attempt to digest that, she adds, “So, can I help or not?”

Sunday looks at Stelle, then at her fingers, bent and brushing the air as if sorting through something. A shiver runs through him as images of where those fingers have been – inside trash cans, that is – flash to the forefront of his mind.

He should refuse, even goes as far as to open his mouth, excuses ready – but nothing comes out, not even as he reminds himself of how shameful it’d be, to require assistance for such a personal task. How shameful it’d be, exposing himself so readily to a person he’s only known for a month or so – a person who’d be entitled to hurt him, punish him, were she to desire it, for all of his transgressions.

He remains voiceless, however, lips closing helplessly, for he wants the help. He longs for fingers gliding through feathers, for gentle hands repositioning crooked primaries. He wants the careful tapping of a towel against soaked wings, wants the warmth and comfort of something he hasn’t had since his mother died, since Robin left.

“Alright,” he says – rasps, more like. The word is nothing more than an exhale, but Stelle hears it anyway.

She shoots him a thumbs up. “Cool. You should probably take that jacket off first. And those pants. And the shoes,” she trails off and shakes her head. “Actually, it might be better if you ditched the whole ‘fit. It’s a banger, don’t get me wrong, but it’s also kinda…wet.”

Sunday’s eyebrow doesn’t twitch – such mannerisms were trained out of him a long time ago – but it’s a close thing. “Yes. I’m aware. Very much so.”

“Then go get changed,” she deadpans, though the slight quirk of her lips  elies her amusement. 

Sunday goes.

He takes a change of clothes – folded with acute precision, as most of his belongings are –  into the bathroom and disrobes. He uses a clean towel to wipe any lingering traces of water from his skin, then leans over the sink and gives in to the urge he’s been suppressing ever since he fell into the snowbank – the urge he oh so carefully concealed during his explanation to Stelle. 

Sunday inhales as deeply as can be, then lets his head wings puff up to the best of their ability. Then, as he exhales, he starts shaking, both his body and his wings. He draws back after a minute, takes stock of himself in the mirror. His cheeks are a little flushed from exertion but it is much easier to move now – his entire body seems lighter without the weight of those awful beads of water.

Sunday takes a comb to his hair, arranging the messy strands into something resembling his usual style, all while his second set of wings unfurl from their place around his torso. They aren’t soaked, he’s glad to note, but he runs his hand through them a few times anyway, just to check. Once they’re stretched enough, he lets wind around his body once again, reaching for the change of clothes waiting patiently on the toilet seat.

Donning his new – thankfully dry – garments, Sunday returns to the bedroom only to be greeted by Stelle sitting cross-legged atop the bed, phone in hand.

She looks up as the door creaks. “Oh, bird boy, you’re back,” she pauses, eyes narrowing. “With messier feathers.”

Sunday swallows back any attempts to deny such a thing. Even now, several planets away from his father, he cannot bring himself to lie. Something cold slithers down his spine at the mere thought and his palms throb with it – with the phantom pain of a ruler. “I dried them,” he goes to say –

but he’s spared from having to explain himself, for Stelle changes the subject. “Anyway, I looked at some tutorials online and, not to brag,” she says, bragging, “But I’ve got this in the bag.”

What if she took that sweet time you spent fawning over yourself in the bathroom to look into the best way to hurt you? That’s what you deserve, isn’t it –

“...I will be in your hands, then,” he says, mouth dry. He wishes, not for the first time, that he still had his gloves on.

She pats the spot in front of her. “C’mere.”

Sunday sits down on the bed, his back to her. Silence, interrupted solely by the creaking of the mattress springs, descends.

“Wouldn’t this be easier from the front?” Stelle asks after a beat.

The answer is yes. Traditionally, the two Halovians engaging in this kind of behavior would be facing each other so that they could groom at the same time. He and Robin used to do this daily, even when their wings did not need any maintenance, just so that they could seek refuge within each other as they adjusted to the environment of their new father’s mansion. Soon they had to stop, for Sunday was whiskey away to lessons and so was Robin, except hers were so different that their schedules never quite intersected.

It’s been years since someone touched his wings. Someone other than him, tugging and pulling at such sensitive feathers – it unnerves him. Scares him, even, but the most frightening part is that he yearns for it. That when his wings quiver, they do so with not only agitation, but also eagerness.

It’s shameful. Disgraceful. Dirty, to want to be touched kindly, to long for something as messy and chaotic as human interaction. Still, he remains rooted in place, with Stelle’s hands hovering around his head.

“Okay,” she says, more of a hum than an actual word. “Let’s get started. Prepare for your socks to be knocked off,” she announces, as theatrical as can be.

“What a frightening prospect,” he attempts to say, only for his entire body to freeze as Stelle trails a fingertip down the side of a primary.

Every single one of his feathers puffs up, spreading in a display of – of something. Wariness, delight, shame. There are so many things swirling inside of him that he can’t focus on them. He can’t focus on anything, in fact, save for Stelle’s fingers gliding through his wings, poking and shuffling crooked feathers into their place.

The tension he’d been carrying around all day seeps out of him as she works and he slouches, shoulders and wings both drooping. Even breathing comes easier to him, his chest as light as the feathers she’s oh so gently arranging.  Now and then she brings up a white towel, using a corner to dab at the moisture still clinging to his coverts.

Stelle hums under her breath, even goes as far as to praise herself a little, muttering hell yeah, I’m so good at this and I should be ranked platinum in bird care –

Something along those lines.

Sunday would be offended, were he able to fully register the words. As it is, his mind is blank and he simply lets himself float in this haze of sensations, in this labyrinth of feelings he can’t even begin to explain, all blooming to life within his chest.

He doesn’t notice it when his eyelids begin to droop as well, lulled into an even deeper relaxation by Stelle’s deft, gentle fingers. He does not think of putting a stop to it, not even as his breath slows, and his wings sag to the point that his primaries are brushing his pajama-clad shoulders.

“Yeah, okay, go to sleep, bird man,” he hears distantly, the words more gibberish than anything. “I’ve got you covered. Your feathers too.”

Sunday drifts into a pleasant sleep.

(When he wakes, it’s to Jarilo-VI’s sun painting the room in an orange glow as it sets, and to Stelle, on her side next to him, scrolling through her phone.

A phone that she thrusts in his face, so insistent she is on showing him some sort of video.

“Look,” she demands, staring at him with unblinking eyes and pointing aggressively towards her screen, where a paused video of a dove frolicking in a small puddle resides. “It’s you today in the snowbank.”)

4. Himeko

“Miss Himeko,” Sunday tries for what feels like the hundredth time, “Perhaps it would be for the best to capitulate here.”

Himeko doesn’t even look away from the recipe book as she answers. “No such thing, Sunday. We can do this. Stelle asked for chocolate chip cookies, so that’s what we’ll make…or we’ll die trying.” 

Sunday eyes the bowl on the table. His eyebrows quirk ever so slightly at the mixture that greets him – or rather, its color, for Himeko has managed to turn a combination of butter, sugar, eggs and flour into something resembling soil.

In both color and texture, it seems, for it crumbles when he pokes it with a spoon. He hasn’t cooked a lot in his life, but he’s almost certain the ingredients they used aren’t meant to do that. “It is not us I’m worried about,” he says at last.

Himeko, still scanning the page as though it holds the words of the divine, waves a hand into the air. “Stelle will be fine, don’t you worry. It’s just a little cold.”

A little cold, yes. One that she caught by throwing herself into every snowbank she saw on her way to Belobog, all while cackling and shouting for someone to memorialize the moment with a picture. Dan Heng had sighed, muttering something or other about brainless children, but he didn’t hesitate to reach for the shovel when Stelle took too deep of a dive.

Sunday and March waited in the background, holding up towels and the one blanket they’d been able to stuff in March’s bag. It wasn’t of much help, it seems, for Stelle still managed to get sick – so much so that Mr. Yang himself put her on bed rest. She’d protested, scowling and crossing her arms all the while, but eventually acquiesced. With one condition, that is – someone, anyone, had to bring her cookies.

Which brings Sunday to this very moment: in the kitchen, assisting Miss Himeko as she attempts – and fails, spectacularly so – to produce edible baked treats.

Sunday places the spoon into the sink, careful not to trail any crumbs of the weird concoction onto the counter. Although it makes a little clink once it makes contact with the bottom of the sink, Himeko is unbothered, flipping through the cookbook with a frown on her face.

Sunday has been with the Astral Express crew for a month now, yet he still struggles to come to terms with it – with them. Their baffling willingness to forgive and accept him within their midst, their unwavering conviction as they  walk down paths of their own making with no fear for what might lay in store – peculiar. Bizarre. He’s unable to comprehend it, at times, even after so many days by their side.

He finds that he wants to repay such kindness in some way – to show them that he is not here just to be a leech – and so he has taken up arms in the kitchen for the first time since he was nothing more than a nestling, hiding behind his mother’s skirts. If his father were here to see him, he’d probably drag Sunday into the prayer hall by the strings of his flour-covered apron.

Even now, as he disposes of Himeko’s mysterious mixture, guilt niggles at the back of his mind, as suffocating as the smoke of their previous, almost successful baking attempt.

“Okay,” Himeko walks closer, her grip on the cookbook wrinkling the edges of its pages. “I think I know where we messed up this time – we forgot to preheat the oven.”

Sunday, very diplomatically, elects not to mention that they hadn’t made it so far as to require an oven. “I believe we also neglected to add the chocolate chips.”

Himeko’s eyebrows rise as she scans the page again,  running a finger over the text. “Oh,” she says a few seconds later, “You’re right. Do we still have any? I saw Pom Pom sneaking some earlier.”

That…is a good question, in fact.

Considering this is their seventh or eighth attempt, keeping track of their ingredients should’ve been a priority from the start, yet somehow that detail had slipped from their minds.

“A moment, please,” he says, moving towards the designated counter for supplies. His eyes roam over the surface of it, skipping past the open bags of flour, the jars of sugar and the packets of butter to land on the bag of chocolate chips. Sunday peers inside with a frown, then shakes his head. “We’ve run out, it seems.”

“Damn,” Himeko sighs and for a second he’s alarmed, his heart skipping a beat at the possibility that her anger – her disappointment – might have been something he caused, but then she softens, an easygoing smile slipping back onto her face. “It’s fine – we’ll just have to improvise.”

“Improvise? We’ve nothing to improvise with –”

Mirth dances across Himeko’s face as she leans closer to him, her voice dropping to a whisper. “That’s because I tend to hide the good stuff from you kids. I’ve got a bunch of chocolate goodies over there,” she adds, pointing towards a cupboard. A tall one, right beside the coffee machine.

An appliance only she dares to use, Sunday realizes.

“Hiding it in plain sight,” Sunday says, somewhat impressed. “I see. How ingenious of you, Miss Himeko.”

The words slip out of him unbidden and he regrets the slip of tongue as soon as it registers in his mind – he sounds too earnest considering their topic of conversation: a candy stash. They’re true, however; he’s viewed her in such a light ever since learning of her history, ever since hearing the tale of how she fixed the Express with nothing but her own two hands and an unshakable will.

The tale hadn’t been offered to him, no. It came with files he instructed the Family’s assistants to compile when news of the Astral Express making its way to Penacony began trickling down the grapevine. 

It makes shame run down his spine, heavy and cloying, to realize that he’s been shaping his views of them with this information, gathered with ill-intent – with the burning desire to thwart any attempts they might make to stop him.

Sunday’s fists clench, despite himself. Despite their voices echoing through his mind, reassuring him that he’s apologized enough, that there is nothing he has to do to be worthy of anyone’s kindness, let alone theirs.

“Hey,” comes Himeko’s voice and then there’s a hand on his shoulder, callused and warm. “Are you alright? You’re a little pale.”

“Ah,” he scrambles to answer, “Please, don’t mind me, I was just lost in thought –”

“Come here,” Himeko says, unwilling to hear any such excuses. She gestures towards a chair, guiding him in its direction. “Here, sit down. Just for a few minutes, alright? It’d make me really happy if you did,” she adds because she knows him, has seen through him faster than Stelle ever since their paths first crossed in Penacony.

And so he concedes defeat and takes the proffered seat, even as he burns with something like embarrassment at being coddled in such a way – by the woman who hit him with a train, no less.

Himeko takes a moment to rake her eyes over him, gaze sharp. Eventually, she finds whatever it is she’s looking for; a smile flickers across her face as she nods, apparently satisfied with him. 

Sunday exhales lightly as she turns, making her way across the kitchen to her cupboard of chocolate goodies, whatever that might mean. He tugs on his gloves and tries to breathe through the mix of guilt and panic and shame. It always gnaws at him in some capacity, yet it’s chosen now, of all times, to pursue him relentlessly.

“Perhaps I should take my leave,” he says, aiming for an even tone. Somehow, miraculously so, he manages. Perhaps it’s the effect of Himeko’s presence, a firm and sturdy pillar.

“If that’s what you want,” Himeko answers, not looking at him as she examines the back of a biscuit pack. “Baking’s much more enjoyable with a friend, though.”

Sunday’s fingers freeze around the fabric of the glove they’d been tugging on. His wings twitch, feathers fluttering with an emotion he cannot name. Memories rush through his mind, jumbled and dusty, so old that he’d thought them lost to the passage of time – memories of running around the kitchen with Robin hot on his trails, of trying to make breakfast together only to end up spilling something or other onto the floor and the table.

She’s right.

Himeko is…right.

Despite every miscalculation of the quantity of sugar needed, every lumpy inedible, unnaturally colored cookie, there was a sense of – delight, almost. Something light and refreshing that took root within him, that tugged at the corners of his lips and coaxed him to share Himeko’s chuckles with some of his own.

Even now, the feeling persists, washing away the bitter taste of guilt off his tongue.

Sunday lets go of his gloves and concentrates on breathing past the storm within his chest. Desperate for anything to distract him, he lets his eyes dart around the room. 

The counters are out of the question, too messy for the sight of them to do anything but aggravate this strange state of mind he’s found himself in. The sink provides no comfort either, for it’s been involved in their experiments for far too long to be in the pristine condition they’d found it in, and so he lets his gaze fall on Himeko.

Himeko, who’s humming under her breath just like March tends to, all while rummaging through the cupboard. The painfully focused moue of her face provides respite – there’s something else for his thoughts to focus on and that is whatever she might be planning.

He watches as she works, sorting through her stash and pulling out more and more packs of plain chocolate biscuits. Easy going confidence exudes from her every pore and with it comes a sense of tranquility that he hasn’t felt in ages. The weight lifts off his shoulders as he sits there, just breathing –

And he does not feel ashamed. Not of his apron, stained with egg yolk and flour. Not of their experiments, all of which have ended up in the trash. Not of Himeko, who’s holding up the recipe book, glancing at it with a furrowed brow and five packs of biscuits in her arms.

Not even of himself.

They…aren’t doing anything wrong, are they?

His wings puff up with the realization.

They aren’t.

They’re just cooking for a friend – yes, that’s what they all are, what they’ve been trying to be to him – who’s sick and they’re not the best at it, but it could be worse. The kitchen isn’t on fire.

Nobody’s hurt.

Nobody’s going to be hurt either, not by a ruler, not by kneeling on the hard floor and praying for hours.

When he breathes, it’s with the startling realization that his eyes have begun to sting.

“We’ve got this in the bag, Sunday,” Himeko says, drawing him out of his thoughts. She shoots him a victorious grin, holding up the biscuits for him to see. “We just need to grind these bad boys into a fine powder and mix ‘em with the butter and the flour and the rest.”

Sunday blinks. “...Our cookies will still be missing the chips, though.”

“But they’ll have chocolate,” she retorts. “Besides, knowing Stelle, she’ll eat them anyway. She’d eat them burnt and all.” A shiver passes through her as she adds, “Welt and I had to stop her from eating something she found on the ground once.”

Sunday doesn’t gag, but he wants to. “That’s,” he begins, then trails off. There’s no polite way to express his thoughts in this situation. Logic dictates, then, that he should keep any and all impressions to himself, but he – he finds that he doesn’t want to. 

Finds that he wants to prolong this conversation instead of allowing it to fade into awkward silence.

Himeko sighs, sending him a commiserating look. “Yes, that’s Stelle for you.”

Sunday has an idea.

He shouldn’t act on it, should keep the words in his mind to himself for they go against every bit of manners ever instilled in him, but –

But he says it anyway. Something – perhaps the light atmosphere permeating the kitchen even now – compels him to do so.

“She is a trailblazer, is she not? Walking down less treaded paths is her duty.”

Himeko stares at him. 

For a second, he wishes he could take it back, wants to hide behind his wings and let his cheeks explode with color, but then her eyes crinkle, mirth clear in her gaze – in the way her lips curl.

“Yes,” she says, amicable and oh so kind, so steady. “Trailblazing new ways to get hospitalized.”

Sunday considers this. When he next speaks, it’s not with an attempt at humor. “She would actually enjoy that, I believe.”

Himeko grimaces. “Let’s make sure she stays away from that, shall we?”

“And how do you propose we do that, Miss Himeko?”

“Well,” she says, moving dirty bowls into the sink and clearing the way for yet another experiment, “It’s simple. We occasionally spray her with water and we do our best to keep her happy and well-fed. For now, that means cookies. In the future,” she shrugs, “It might mean a three tier cake covered in gold.”

“Of the edible variety, I hope,” he says and he’s being verbose, very much unlike himself, but he can’t help it –

Something about Himeko makes him feel – comfortable, maybe. Safe, even.

Himeko laughs, pausing her struggle to rip a pack of biscuits open and flapping her hand. “I wouldn’t let her eat actual gold, she’d chip a tooth.”

“Our cookies pose the same danger at the moment,” he reminds her as he stands up, strong and steady on his feet, to aid her.

“At the moment,” Himeko echoes, pushing a few packs his way. “This attempt might go better.”

“You’re placing more faith in our abilities than I am,” he tells her before he can think better of it and it’s startling to realize that he enjoys this – this back and forth, this change of quips with no goal, no risk of consequences.

“It'll go better this time,” she says, shaking her head with an easy smile. “I just know it!”

To the detriment of Himeko’s merriment and overall trust in their culinary capabilities, it does not go better. In fact, they, once again, don’t make it to the point of needing to preheat the oven.

It starts off well – certainly better than their last two attempts – but only because Himeko takes it upon herself to handle crushing the biscuits, thus leaving the vital task of measuring out the flour and sugar to Sunday. He checks with the recipe book and the measuring cups every few minutes, going as far as to hold the transparent cup up to the lightbulb. Himeko shoots him an amused glance, her gaze soft enough that his wings tilt towards his face, but she doesn’t comment on it.

“Alright,” he says slowly, glancing at the cookbook to check the steps he’s almost memorized by now. “We’ve got the flour, the sugar and the crushed biscuits to substitute our missing chocolate chips. All we’re missing is –”

“The butter?”

Sunday nods. “That and something to stir with. A whisk will do,” he adds, casting his gaze across the counter.

“Huh,” Himeko says, looking over. “We’ve lost the whisk.”

“It appears so, yes.”

“It’s probably in the sink with all the other stuff,” she says, then hums, turning around to reach for a cupboard. “There’s something else we could use, though,” he hears and with a flourish, she presents a mixer.

Sunday blinks. “I have not manned such a thing before.”

“Ah, me neither,” Himeko admits with a laugh. “They don’t really let me cook around here. It can’t be that hard to use, though, can it?”

Sunday peers at it – at its two buttons, one for starting the machine and the other for adjusting its speed. At first, he doubts, but then he remembers Himeko’s preferred weapon – the suitcase he can’t quite make heads or tails of.

If she can master that device, surely a mere kitchen appliance will be nothing. “I suppose not.”

In the end, however, it’s this very kitchen appliance, small and unassuming, that bests them. 

Perhaps Himeko had underestimated its strength. Perhaps she hadn’t gripped it tight enough.  Whatever the cause might be, the result is the same. The moment the mixer’s rotating whisk touches down onto the bowl, it does so with enough force to send said bowl flying.

Not onto the floor, but towards the nearest wall, which their attempt at a mixture splatters onto. The nearby floor turns white, littered with both flour and sugar. It’s the butter, melted beyond room temperature, that clings to the wall.

Silence reigns.

Sunday watches egg yolk dribble down the wallpaper, his wings twitching.

Himeko’s the first to speak, sheepishness and surprise coloring her tone. “...I guess it is that hard.”

The egg yolk has made its way onto the flour, combining with the flour and sugar to turn gooey. “Perhaps,” Sunday says and he should be angry, should panic, but all he can do is look and smile like a fool. “We should order in.”

Himeko quirks an eyebrow. In her hands, still gripped tightly, lies the mixer. “Bakeries do that?”

“Some of them.”

“Well then,” she laughs, bringing up a hand to scratch at her neck. “Let’s try that.”

“Yes,” Sunday says and he smiles, even though he’s a mess, standing in a dirty kitchen. “Let’s.”

(In the end, Stelle does not get food poisoning, nor does she get hospitalized, but she does eat so many cookies that her stomach hurts.

She complains about it the entire evening. Everyone remains by her side anyway.)

5. Welt

Sunday awakens with a gasp. 

He sits up and presses trembling hands to his eyes. Cold sweat trails down the side of his face, sliding against his bare fingers. His heart flutters in his chest, slamming against his ribcage as if trying to break through. Part of him wishes it would, just so that the horrible images in his mind could dissipate.

They don’t, however, no matter how many breaths he takes, how hard he digs into his own skin. Remnants of his nightmare linger, clutching onto him with sharp claws. Part of him can still feel it – Ena’s oppressive presence, the way THEIR strings dragged against his body as they embedded themselves into his limbs, as they tugged and pulled him onto his knees so that he was laying prostrate before them, imploring forgiveness he didn’t deserve. The weight of THEIR attention endures, forcing his shoulders as close to his body as can be, his back bowing inwards as he brings his knees up, curling into them.

It’s ridiculous.

Foolish.

Nothing even happened.

The Aeon wasn’t truly here – can’t be, not after he failed to truly resurrect THEM. Everything he’s just witnessed is a product of his mind, of its effort to sabotage him and ruin even the mildest of his days.

Sunday lets out a shaky exhale. Frustration wars with the remains of panic inside his chest and he lowers his hands from his face, instead clenching them into the bedding. It’s fine, he tells himself. Stop acting like a child. You’re fine.

The words are too callous to qualify as comfort or encouragement, yet they’re certainly kinder than what he used in the past, when he only had his father to guide him, to shape his thoughts and reactions.

Opening his eyes is a mistake. The room is dark, dreadfully so, and the mere shape of what must be his desk chair is enough to have him rearing back, wings fanning out in alarm. Sunday unfreezes as the realization of what exactly scared him settles in and his cheeks flood with warmth. It’s not the most pleasant sensation to experience, not when his skin is still slick with sweat and his nerves are frayed. It pricks at him, this nauseating mix of warmth and dampness, and so he reaches into the darkness.

His fingers hit the blunt edges of the nightstand and he leans to the side, groping blindly for the lamp switch. It’s a gaudy, awful thing, this lamp – one that Stelle and March insisted on buying when they’d managed to talk him into going shopping for decorations. Unlike any of the lamps he’s seen before, it cycles through several lighting modes, each with its own hue. The shifting colors add a touch of absurdity he doesn’t particularly fancy to his room, so he keeps it off most of the time, yet now he longs for it –for that bit of silliness so uncharacteristic of him that his mind could never conjure on its own. For reassurance that the nightmare is over, that Ena is not in the room with him. That he has nothing to atone for.

His feathers flutter, his body tensing. He pitches more to the side, muscles straining in protest. It’s ridiculous, the way he’s acting and the fact that he could’ve just gotten up and turned on the lights like a normal, well-adjusted person only sharpens the sting. Yet he perseveres, for he has only the suffocating press of fear against his lungs, his chest.

All the effort is worth it, however; his fingers brush plastic. The lamp holder. He reaches out to grab it, hands closing around it –

Only for the base to tip forward. The lamp topples to the ground, glass spilling across the floor like bits of splintered ice. A deafening crash echoes through the room and Sunday flinches, arm snapping back to his side. Breaths wheeze out of him, startled at first, then turning harsher with frustration.

He can’t even turn the lights without making a racket, a mess. 

Aeons, he is a mess. 

All because of a little nightmare – a mix of sensations and images brought forth by his mind to torment him, to put him in his place. It stings, but it’s true – it must be. There’s no explanation for this sickness that plagues him, that won’t let him rest. Not a week goes by without such an apparition to taunt him, to force the bitterness of fear upon his tongue, his heart. It’s been four months since he joined them and he still can’t rest easily, not without the soothing presence of someone else. Not without leaving his door ever so slightly cracked, letting faint voices trickle from the Express’ other cars into his room.

…

Oh, the others.

It’s late, isn’t it? He isn’t certain of the hour, but everyone must’ve already gone to bed, if the silence of the Express and the lack of noise from Stelle’s room is anything to go by.

Sunday resists the urge to sigh; he can only hope they slept through his racket. While he might not be as worried about the prospect as he used to be, it still weighs on him to think that he’s bothering them in some way. Disturbing their rest, making a mess – both prospects are enough to have him tensing sometimes.

And now?

Now he’s guilty of –

Knock knock knock. Sunday’s heart stutters, his eyes flitting towards the door – or at least the vague direction of it.

“Sunday?” Mr. Yang’s voice filters through the door. “Are you alright? I heard a crash.”

Guilt seeps into him, pricks at his skin with sharp claws. “Everything’s alright, Mr. Yang,” he says, something close to the truth, but not quite. He doesn’t want to lie to Mr. Yang – not when the man’s taking his time to check on him – but he’d also hate to keep him up for a problem that ultimately doesn’t exist. “I just – dropped something.”

Mr. Yang, however, mustn’t share Sunday’s views on the importance of sleep. “If it’s glass, at least let me turn the lights on for you. I don’t want you stepping on it.”

Sunday pauses. Swallows. The man’s offering, so it wouldn’t be an imposition. If anything, prior experience shows that Mr. Yang enjoys helping his – friends. 

Yes, friends. 

That's what they are, he and Sunday. To refuse his offer would be beyond rude. Even besides that, he is right – Sunday risks injuring himself by moving around in the dark and the last thing he wants is blood all over the carpet. “Some assistance would be appreciated,” he says at last.

The door slides open with a whoosh. The sound seems louder than usual in the dead of the night, but the lights flick on before Sunday has the chance to dwell on it. Light filters in from the hallway as well and Sunday has to squint, meeting Mr. Yang’s gaze from across his now brightly-lit room.

The man isn’t looking at him – which is a mercy, considering his current, less than stellar appearance – but at the floor. “Quite the nasty fall, huh.”

Sunday peers over the edge of the bed. The lamp itself has survived just fine, remaining as pristine as the day he’d bought it, but the same can’t be said for the lightbulb, which lies in shards. Some of them have even infiltrated his slippers, he notices. 

He really would’ve cut himself, he realizes, and his stomach swoops with – relief. Gratitude. Unease at the mess, at the fact he’ll have to clean it, all while avoiding his slippers.

“I’ll get the broom,” Mr. Yang says.

Sunday startles, gaze darting back to him. “I can do it myself.”

Mr. Yang blinks. Surprise flickers across his face as if the thought hadn’t even occurred to him. “Barefoot?” he asks, then huffs out an amused breath when Sunday isn’t able to hold back a grimace. “I think not.”

“Still –”

“It's no trouble to me, Sunday, really. It’ll only take a moment.”

The person he was four months ago, clad in a perfectly pressed suit and loyal to nothing but Order, would’ve said no. Would’ve snapped at the man for even offering.

The him of today, with clammy palms and a still frenzied heartbeat, merely tugs at the wrinkled sleeves of his sleepwear. “If it truly is no bother…”

“It isn’t,” Mr. Yang reassures. “Stay in bed, Sunday. I’ll be back in a moment.”

And with that he leaves. Sunday listens as his footsteps get fainter and fainter and swallows down the urge to do something ridiculous like getting up, slippers and socks be damned, to follow. 

Luckily, Mr. Yang returns shortly, dustpan and broom in hand, the latter of which seems to have gained new decorations, Sunday notes inanely. The girls must’ve gotten their hands on it – and on some stickers. It’s only a broom, a badly decorated one, yet for some reason, warmth curls in his chest at the sight and his lips twitch. 

If Mr. Yang notices this peculiar reaction of his, he doesn’t comment on it. Instead, he occupies himself with cleaning the shards off Sunday’s floor. It’s a quick affair, so much so that Sunday doesn’t even feel the all too familiar trickle of nerves down his spine. Someone’s looming over him while he sits in bed, disheveled and sweaty, yet his heart calms, his palms begin to dry.

Maybe it’s the company – Mr. Yang, who welcomed him into the Express, who lends him books, who’s willing to spend hours regalling Sunday with tales from his home world, from the planets they’d visited before. Mr. Yang, always kind and gentle and forgiving, even when he doesn’t deserve it. 

Or maybe it’s one of the Express’ many traits. He doesn’t know, nor is it important. All that matters is that he isn’t alone, that he can be certain of his surroundings – certain that he isn’t a puppet toyed with by the fallen Aeon he’s worshipped for most of his life. The fallen Aeon he’s let down.

“That’s all,” Mr. Yang says, redirecting Sunday's thoughts to the matter at hand – something concrete, real.

“Thank you,” Sunday says because if there’s one lesson from his childhood that's stuck with him, it’s that politeness matters. “You didn’t have to,” he adds quickly after, not quite meeting the man’s eyes. “I could’ve handled such a task myself –”

“I know,” Mr. Yang cuts in, a small smile on his lips. “But I wanted to help. And I’m glad I did.”

Sunday, faced with such sentiments, he freezes, unsure how to return them. How to respond. How to put it into words, just how utterly light two mere sentences are making him feel.

Mr. Yang must’ve gotten used to Sunday’s sudden silences, for he goes on, unruffled. “I know it’s quite late, but would you like to join me for some tea? I’ve got a new blend I’d like to try,” he adds, a subtle persuasion.

Sunday blinks, considering. His eyes ache with the dull throb of exhaustion, but a fitful rest is unlikely with the tone his mind’s decided to set for the night. “I’ll be a moment,” he replies. “In the parlor car?”

Mr. Yang nods, shoots him another smile, another look that Sunday’s heard the others classify as parentally dopey. He isn’t quite sure he understands, for nothing about it seems parental. It isn’t cold, isn’t harsh. When he looks at Sunday, it isn’t with icy anger in his eyes, nor does he speak harshly afterwards. He doesn’t pull Sunday or the others aside to admonish them. 

It’s a strange look, one that makes Sunday want to preen himself on it as if praised, as if he’s got something to be proud of. As if he’s something to be proud of.

It’s a strange look, all things considered, yet its name is so foolish that he can’t bring himself to utter it and ask for an explanation.

“Sunday?”

“Ah, one second. I’m a little more…rattled than I thought,” he manages to put together. More truth than excuse; something about the atmosphere – the cozy, sheltered feel of it – is loosening his tongue.

He swallows, getting up. There’s no need to get lost in thought, he tells himself as he reaches for a new pair of slippers, for some socks.  It’ll only do you harm, just like the nightmare.

Mr. Yang makes a thoughtful noise, but other than that, their walk to the parlor car is silent, accompanied only by the soft tap of a cane against the floor. 

It’s only after he pours the tea, approaching the table with two cups from which a delicious scent wafts, that Mr. Yang breaks the silence. “Trouble falling asleep?”

Sunday shakes his head. His hands come up to cradle his cup, a small shiver going through him at the pleasant warmth of it. “Trouble staying asleep,” he corrects. The phrase sounds clunky on his tongue, informal as it is. Heat rises to his cheeks, ever so slightly. “Is this blend good for solving such matters?”

“Ah, no,” Mr. Yang gives a quiet laugh. “It’s just apples and some spices. Cinnamon too, I think. Good for tasting good,” he adds with a twinkle in his eye, the one he gets after a joke he’s particularly proud of.

Sunday refuses to give him anything resembling a reaction. Instead, he simply takes a sip of his tea. It’s hot, almost uncomfortably so, but not enough to scald.

“Be careful with that,” Mr. Yang says. A reprimand, yet his time remains gentle, just like it always has. It doesn’t flatten with disappointment or anger, doesn’t make him feel small. “You’ll burn your tongue one day.”

Sunday blinks. Feeling oddly chastised, his eyes dart away to the window – to the vast cosmos behind it. “We shall wait for that day to arrive, then.”

Mr. Yang, in the middle of taking his own sip, snorts. “Well said.”

And that should’ve been the end of it, yet Mr. Yang persists. “Nightmares?” He asks and it’s enough of a non-sequitur that Sunday could ignore it, could answer evasively, but he’s tired –

And so he dips his head in a nod, shame slithering down his spine one vertebra at a time. “It’s childish,” he says because the least he can do is admit it, “But yes. Night terrors and I have become close.”

It still grates on him to expose his own weakness and so does the ease with which he lays it bare, even after months on the Express – a place where no one seems to think badly of him, no matter what it is he’s lacking. Mr. Yang merely hums, taking another sip of his tea.

His eyes linger on Sunday as he does, gaze soft and contemplative. “It’s not only children that suffer from nightmares.” He drops a few sugar cubes into his cup, stirring them with a nearby spoon. “Adults do as well. People you’ve passed by on the street, leaders of armies, political figures – everyone’s susceptible to their mind playing tricks on them.”

Sunday’s gaze darts to the phonograph. A question bursts from his lips unbidden. “Even you?”

Mr. Yang’s eyes crinkle at the corners. “Especially me.”

The admission leaves Sunday feeling bashful, of all things. “I see,” he says, gaze set on the nearby phonograph.

“Do you want to talk about it?” More sugar cubes drop into Mr. Yang’s cup, one after another. “It could help.”

“Help?” A laugh leaves his lips, breathless and hollow. He doesn’t mean to react in such a way, really, but it’s amusing. How would talking about it fix anything? Fix him? “There’s no helping a flightless bird, Mr. Yang. I’ve tried.”

He’d tried so hard.

Every single day, both he and Robin tended to that dove – making a cozy little nest in its cage, sharing their food with it, drying Robin’s tears when it wouldn’t eat anything but the cereal, but crumbs of bread. Days upon days of effort and while it might’ve healed, it never quite managed to soar again. Its fate had been set in stone from the moment it tumbled from its home.

Sure, perhaps the dove could’ve walked another path, could’ve avoided ever plummeting to the ground, had its parents been kinder, had it not fallen out of the nest on that fateful day. But it hadn’t.

And so it had ended up under their care, growing in a cage, cursed to never take flight unless they permitted it. Which they did on the day of Robin’s departure, only for the poor dove to crash to the ground once again. Back then, he swore he’d never let anyone or anything suffer such a fate.

Ah, how foolish he’d been.

Hypocritical too, for he’s the one suffering such a fate now and not only that, for he can’t even take to the skies anymore. Abandoned by his father, by his Aeon, plagued by a mind so fractured he can’t distinguish reality from dream upon waking – perhaps he really is nothing but a puppet. Ena’s, his father’s – it no longer matters. His strings have already been cut. There’s nothing left for him to do but accept his fate. Accept that he’s been discarded. That he’s walking an aimless path when he was primed to revere Order. To maintain it. 

“You’re not a bird, Sunday,” Mr Yang breaks the silence. Sunday’s eyes flick to him just in time to see him shake his head, his brow furrowed. “Nor are you flightless.”

“Aren’t I?” he retorts. It’s too late to back out now that he’s started the conversation, now that he’s laying himself bare in front of the one person he respects most on this train. “What is it that differentiates me from an injured dove, Mr. Yang? My body might be fine, but to say the same of my mind –”

“You’re not an injured dove either,” Mr. Yang cuts in, firm. Final. His gaze lifts from the tea, eyes blazing with something Sunday can’t name. “And even if you were, you would’ve gotten better with help.”

“Help,” he echoes – no, spits back, the word full of derision. It’s foolish – his retort, this conversation, him for bringing it up and ruining both of their nights.

“Yes. Help,” Mr Yang says, like it’s that simple. Like anything’s ever been that simple. He sighs, pushing the cup aside to fold his hands together. “I’ve been meaning to bring this up since I heard you talk about that charmony dove – you couldn’t have saved it, Sunday.”

Even though he’d been expecting – wanting – to hear such a reproach, something in him breaks. “Mr. Yang –”

“No, listen,” he says, waiting for Sunday to fall silent, his mouth a thin line, before continuing. “You two did your best, but you were just children. You had no way of knowing what to feed it, what kind of care it needed or how to rehabilitate it. Frankly, it's a miracle it survived as long as it did,” Mr. Yang leans in, holding Sunday’s gaze. “A miracle that you two brought forth with nothing but your own hands and the love you held for that bird. Sometimes, that love is enough. Sometimes, it isn’t. No adult stepped in to guide you, so you couldn’t have known. But you did your best regardless, Sunday. You tried. You’re still trying, even now – for yourself.”

His eyes sting. His wings curl close to his face, feathers brushing against his cheek. His chest hurts with the way relief flows through it, cool and soothing – balm settling over wounds he wasn’t even aware he had.

“Oh, Sunday,” Mr. Yang murmurs, impossibly gentle and he realizes there’s wetness clinging to his lashes, making its way down his face. Despite it all, he can’t even bring himself to feel embarrassed – can’t focus on anything but the weight lifting off his shoulders. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to –”

Perhaps this is what some part of him, small and hurt and cast aside, has been longing to hear. An acknowledgement of his efforts. Praise. Reassurance, maybe, that it wasn’t his fault. It wasn’t him who killed that dove by imprisoning it in a gilded cage – wasn’t his best intentions that led to its pitiful death. That he did everything he could and it wasn’t enough, but it was his best. That there’s still hope for him and his fate isn’t the same as the dove’s. 

“Let’s stop talking,” he says – whispers, voice trembling.

“You’re right,” Mr. Yang agrees easily. “It’s not the time for such heavy topics.”

But he doesn’t settle back into the couch, no. Instead, he slides away from his cup and closer to Sunday. His arm comes up, hovering around Sunday’s shoulders and his mouth opens, probably about to ask for permission –

Sunday doesn’t give him the chance. He leans in, folding his wings and dropping his head onto Mr. Yang’s shoulder. It’s silly, something he’ll definitely be chastising himself for later, but right now, he doesn’t care. Can’t bring himself to, not when his whole body’s shaking like a leaf caught in a storm and he needs a pillar to lean on, someone to take the weight he’s unable to bear.

Mr. Yang doesn’t reprimand him for the lack of control, but then again, he never has. He simply grabs hold of Sunday’s shoulder, his arm curving into a soothing band of warmth around Sunday’s back as he draws him closer. “You’re alright,” he says, the words soft and measured, only for Sunday’s ears.

Sunday remains silent, nothing escaping him save for wheezy, hitching breaths and a few noises he’ll never admit to making, pitiful as they are. 

Mr. Yang holds him through it all, refusing to let go even when Sunday’s wings flap agitatedly, grazing his arm. Any attempts to apologize come out garbled, barely resembling words and Mr. Yang brushes them off with a shake of his head, a squeeze of Sunday’s shoulder.

And so he sits there, surrounded by warmth, by steady pressure on his shoulder and the aroma of tea, wafting from cups left untouched. A thought curls into his mind, slow and hesitant: maybe this is how a father should act.

It’s a betrayal to every value that’s ever been instilled in him, a callous disregard of everything Gopher Wood’s done for him and Robin, and, despite it all, no remorse stirs to life within him.

Not even a hint.

There’s just the hum of the cosmos that cocoons them in its embrace, the sound of their combined breaths and peace, soft and all-encompassing.

Sunday has never known what it’s like to soar, but this – this must be something akin to it.

+1

Sunday shuffles out of his room with stinging eyes and lids that droop every few seconds in a wordless plea for him to shed his silk robe and crawl back into bed. As much as he’d like, it simply isn’t possible. He can’t sleep, for he is plagued by something.

And he isn’t referring to nightmares this time. No, those have become rarer than he thought possible, only making an appearance every so often.

He goes to stifle a yawn, only to stop and let it form instead. His wings come up, covering his mouth. Manners matter, even when one thinks they might be alone. Especially then, for this is the Astral Express and, after a year aboard, Sunday has learned to anticipate things beyond human comprehension, such as Stelle dropping from the ceiling or rolling out from under nearby furniture. Or March’s attempts to herd a group of trotters into her room, all without Himeko noticing. Or, even worse, Dan Heng and the occasional eerily silent, menacing outlaw he sneaks aboard.

It would’ve bothered him before, the idea of getting used to something as chaotic as the things he’s just described, but now? Now the memories merely bring a smile onto his face – one that remains there as he gets closer and closer to the reason for his early morning. 

Sunday pauses a few steps from the kitchen door, far enough as not to trigger its sensors. He holds his breath, leaning his head towards it. From inside, noises abound – a myriad of them, from thumps to yells to screeches, accompanied by the pitter patter of socked feet. Part of him’s tempted to retreat to his room and leave them to their fates, whatever those might be, but then voices ring out –

“Wait –”

“March, don’t –”

“Hush, you two, I’m trying to work here – ahh, help!” 

And he knows he has to intervene, lest they cause irreparable damage to the train. Or themselves, really. Anything’s possible when these three bright minds collide, he’s come to learn.

What greets him as the door slides open, is, to his surprise, the kitchen, still standing. No smoke, no flames, no disaster in sight – save for the bowls and measuring cups that adorn each and every surface available, surrounded by dirty rags and whisks.

Sunday frowns at the sight, displeasure bubbling underneath his skin as his gaze pivots towards the culprits. They’re in the back of the kitchen, all of them gathered around the counter that houses Himeko’s coffee machine – used to house, it seems, for they’ve unplugged and moved it in a corner.

“...Good morning, everyone,” he says evenly. “What seems to be the cause of all this racket?”

They freeze.

Even March and Dan Heng do, hands hovering awkwardly in the air. Both of them seem to be holding a piping bag filled to the brim with colorful frosting.

Sunday is not a sadistic man – far from it – but he can’t deny that the sight brings him a degree or two of satisfaction. “Well?” he prompts.

“Uh,” March tries, trailing off.

Clearing his throat, Dan Heng attempts to lower his arms, fails, then puts them back up. “We were just making breakfast,” he says.

Sunday tilts his head, letting his gaze roam pointedly around the clean counters – or lack thereof. “I don’t recall breakfast being such a troublesome affair.”

“Yeah, well, it’s not every day that we –” March starts, only to gasp. Her eyes narrow into a glare. “Ow! Stop stepping on my foot, you – you HSS experiment!”

“It’s not me,” Stelle says, not looking her away from whatever it is they’re shielding from him. “It’s the weight of karma.”

“Karma?!” March puffs out her cheeks. “For what? I haven’t even done anything, You’re the evil one on this train!”

“Dunno if I’d classify you almost blowing our cover as non-evil, but okay.”

“What cover? He’s literally right here,” March retorts, pointing at him. 

Stelle, her body still facing the counter, moves her head to give him a glance and a wink. He nods back in greeting and, seemingly satisfied with the interaction, she turns back to March with the blankest of expression. “What are you pointing at? There’s nobody there.”

“Huh?” March squeaks. Her eyes flick repeatedly from Stelle to Sunday, then to Dan Heng. “Dan Heng, you can see him, right? He’s standing right there in his weird glossy robe, right?” she says, more plea than question.

“Nah, you’re losing it,” Stelle deadpans, overlapping with Dan Heng’s sigh.

“I’m right here, March,” Sunday volunteers. He ignores the oh so small voice chiding him for his involvement in this foolishness and raises a hand, waving at her.

A look of relief passes her face, but then she shakes her head, hair falling into her eyes as she does. “No, no, I can’t believe you. Who’s to say you really aren’t a hallucination, huh? I can’t take a hallucination at its word!”

“It,” Stelle echoes. “Ouch.”

“Yes,” Dan Heng chimes in tiredly. “The dehumanization of a hypothetical hallucination is, truly, the most pressing matter here.”

Sunday, despite the early hour at which he went to bed, yearns for a nap. The day hasn’t even started properly. He can’t bring himself to be too annoyed, however, for these antics are somewhat entertaining, nonsensical as they might be. “Would a hallucination have dressed up before talking to you?” he tries, gesturing towards his robe, his sleepwear, the socks and slippers he’s put on. 

March shoots him a disbelieving look. “Yeah? Obviously? The real Sunday won’t come out of his room unless he’s wearing, like, at least two layers. Why would Halulu Sunday be any different?”

He shouldn’t be – it says a lot about his sanity that he is, but Sunday feels oddly touched by her words.

“Halulu Sunday,” Stelle repeats, thoughtful. “I kinda like the sound of that.”

“I don’t,” Dan Heng says, rubbing his temples with two fingers. Dried frosting clings to the edges of his sleeve, Sunday notices. “He’s right there, March, and he’s very much real. Stelle’s just being a bully.”

“Whaaaat!” March exclaims. Her hands go to her hips as she levels Stelle with a fierce glare. “How dare you!”

“I haven’t bullied anyone in my life, I don’t know what you two are talking about,” Stelle says dryly. “I’d like to talk to my lawyer, in fact.”

“And I,” Sunday pipes up, drawing everyone’s eyes to him. “Would like to know what’s going on, if possible.”

“It’s not possible, sorry,” March tells him cheerily. 

Even now, her effortless ability to flip moods like a well-tuned Clockie astounds him, so he’s only able to manage a slow nod at her answer.

“I mean,” Stelle drawls. She throws a long, pointed look at whatever it is she’s shielding with her body. “Is it really? Impossible, that is.”

March makes a confused noise – one that Sunday will deny to his grave that he considers adorable – while Dan Heng only hums. “I suppose you’re right,” he says at last. “There’s no point in hiding it any longer.”

“Wait, wait,” March cuts in, excitement sparkling like stars in her eyes. “Does that mean I can tell him?”

Dan Heng’s gaze flits towards him for a moment. “He’s already here, isn’t he? We can’t exactly shoo him away.”

March cheers, shoving the piping bag into Dan Heng’s hands. He grabs it, sputtering all the while – noises that March ignores as she turns towards Sunday, teeth glinting in the light as she grins. “So, it’s been a year since you joined us, right?”

Sunday blinks. He had known it’s been a while – he has a calendar in his room and crosses each and every day off for a reason – it’s still somewhat startling to hear it put so bluntly. A year, away from his father’s clutches, from the constraints of Order. “Yes,” he says, a few beats too late.

She doesn’t seem to mind it, however, simply taking his hesitance in stride. “Yeah, well, I saw this thing online about everything being cake and one thing turned into another,” she waves a hand into the air as if to say you know how it is, “Then into something else completely once Dan Heng caught wind of my plans, but the the gist of is that we made you a cake!”

“To celebrate,” Dan Heng clarifies. 

Sunday stares. “Celebrate?”

“Yeah,” Stelle answers him, arms crossed as she moves away from the counter to lean onto the wall, revealing the thing behind her: a cake with three layers, each one covered by thick pink icing. Strawberry flavor, he guesses. On the very top rests a candle in the shame of the number one, not yet lit. “Ta da.”

Sunday just…keeps staring, unblinking. Frozen. Not even his feathers are moving.

“I know it looks a little bit basic, but it’s better on the inside,” March blurts out, anxiety bleeding into her voice. “There’s chocolate filling on the first layer, then dark chocolate and almonds on the second, then vanilla on the last!”

“We weren’t sure what to add –” Dan Heng goes to say, only to be interrupted by Stelle, who’s spreading her arms and waving them in the cake’s direction as if to advertise it.

“So we added everything!”

“Yeah, yeah,” March nods, her head bobbing up and down rapidly. “We even tracked down Robin to ask about allergies. Sneaking into the concert venue was kinda difficult, but I managed,” she adds with a wink. “All I had to do was, uh, borrow a reporter’s badge!”

“Aeons above,” Dan Heng mutters, but it sounds fond.

Sunday thinks he might feel that way too – fond, that is – but he doesn’t know. So many feelings have sprouted within his chest, winding their roots around his ribcage, that he simply cannot be certain of anything but the overwhelming fullness of it – by the ridiculous desire to walk over and wrap everyone in a hug, to coo and chirp at them the way he only did as a child.

“Oh,” is all he musters. Warmth blooms onto his cheeks, both at the lackluster response and the situation, and he tears his eyes away from the cake.

“Guys, look!” March urges, her voice almost a coo, “He’s blushing!”

“My bird friend is so cute,” Stelle says. Despite the monotone, an undercurrent of warmth clings to her tone and Sunday’s wings twitch towards his flaming face.

March crosses the room. Her arms find one of his, gripping it loosely as she pulls him towards the counter. “C’mon, you’ve gotta try the cake! We wrote you a little message at the top, yeah? Come see!”

“Maybe we should wait for Mr. Welt and –” Dan Heng tries, only to be interrupted.

The door slides open with a whoosh. Himeko walks in, carrying a bunch of colorful, cone-shaped…things with strings. A similar one lies prim and proper on her head, so they must be some sort of – accessories. A peculiar kind of hat, maybe. 

Sunday doesn’t have long to dwell on it, for she darts to the side, allowing Mr. Yang to enter, holding the phonograph and a few discs to his chest.

Himeko takes them all in with a glance, then sighs. It sounds amused, if a bit miffed. “You guys gave it away, didn’t you? I told you to keep quiet.”

“We tried,” March protests, her cheeks puffing out once again. From this close, she looks like one of those fishes from the documentaries Dan Heng keeps recommending him. “But someone kept stealing the piping bag, so I had to fight him, you know?”

“You were using it wrong,” is all Dan Heng has to say, as mild as ever. 

“There’s literally no universally acclaimed proper way to hold a piping bag, what are you even talking about –”

Sunday’s wings brush closer, this time towards his mouth as he fights off a laugh.

“How many times has Pom-Pom asked you not to fight in the kitchen,” the conductor scolds, making their way in between Himeko and Welt’s legs. All the while, their little hands flap through the air, agitation clear. “What if you got hurt!”

Sheepishness sneaks onto March’s expression. “Sorry, chief, it just had to be done.”

“One day, you three will bring down the Express,” Mr. Yang pipes up. A mere few months ago, Sunday would’ve tensed. Were today not the best of days, he would’ve tensed. As it is, he just laughs – a sharp, breathless exhale.

A snort, most people would call it. A simple thing, yet to him it’s freeing, it’s growing wings from clipped feathers and taking to the sky.

“Soon,” Stelle promises and with that she takes the phonograph from Mr. Yang’s hands. “Where do we want this?”

“Anywhere that’s not full of icing,” Himeko tells her wryly.

“I’m starting to feel discriminated against,” Stelle informs them, as serious as can be.

“Good,” Dan Heng says, gesturing her over to the counter he’s begun to clear of bowls and whisks and whatever else they’ve used. “Come here, I’ll make some space.”

“Alright,” Himeko raises her voice ever so slightly, effortlessly seizing control of the room. “Why don’t we clear the table too while we’re at it? We need somewhere to eat. Oh, also, don’t forget to put on your party hats, yes?”

“Aye, aye, captain,” Stelle salutes, followed by March, and with that they’re both off, collecting dirty kitchenware and dumping it into the sink faster than Sunday had thought them capable of being. When it comes to chores, that is.

“Stelle, no, that’s not how you hold that, put it down before you break it –” Dan Heng cuts himself off. He shakes his head, sighs, then goes to join them.

Sunday watches them for a bit before his eyes flit to the two people that’ve remained by his side. 

“Good morning,” he says, unsure of how to begin. How to address the fact that everyone agreed to this celebration, that they all planned and organized amongst themselves to prepare this cake – no, not just that, but this entire party for him. His eyes sting not with sadness, not with exhaustion, but with something like tears nonetheless and he can’t understand why, not when he feels so light, nothing more than a feather in the wind.

“Morning,” Himeko says, as good natured as always, “And happy one year aboard!”

“Happy one year aboard,” Mr. Yang echoes with a nod, with a smile and a gaze so soft it almost hurts to meet. “Here’s to many more.”

Sunday swallows past whatever’s lodged in his throat. “You didn’t have to go as far as to organize this – this party. Thank you.”

“Why wouldn’t we?” Himeko asks easily. “You’re one of us – family, if you’d like.”

“Exactly,” Mr. Yang agrees. “There’s no reason not to celebrate your presence. We love having you here,” he adds, not breaking eye contact.

“Oh,” Sunday says and it’s foolish, but it’s the only thing he can say when faced with such statements, so heartfelt and honest and –

And believable.

It’s not only a desire, not just him wishing he was able to believe them – he actually does.

They’re happy to have him here and he – faced with a messy kitchen, a cake that resembles an escaped lab experiment more than anything, unruly people who disregard Order as easily as breathing –

He is happy too. To stand by their side, to participate in their antics, to brave the unknown that lies ahead – he wants to do all of that and more.

Overwhelmed by it, in fact, to the point that his lips crack into a smile, unbidden. “Yes,” he says and it’s breathless, “I’d be amenable to that.” Then, out of the pure desire to be understood, to respond to an offer he didn’t think was possible for someone like him, he adds, “Family. If it’s alright.”

He would’ve hesitated before, if not outright refused such an offer, but…

Accepting the Astral Express into his heart won’t replace his soft spot for Robin, nor will they repair the wounds of his childhood, tumultuous as he now realizes it might’ve been. 

They can’t.

But that’s fine.

He doesn’t need them to.

No, all he needs – wants is to have them by their side, to lean on their courage until he is able to stand on his own feet, to have a place to belong. To enjoy late night talks with Dan Heng in the cozy blue warmth of the Archives. To discuss books with Mr Yang and go shopping with Himeko. To train with March and rein Stelle in. To chase after her when de-escalation and distraction methods fail.

A place where he won’t be admonished, won’t be monitored, won’t have to make himself as small as can be to fit an impossibly misshapen mold.

Despite all odds, despite how messy and disorderly it all sounds, he yearns for it like never before.

“Glad to hear it,” Himeko’s saying, her hand a grounding pressure on his shoulder. “Welcome to the fam – now the group chat can truly live up to its name.”

“Just wait till Stelle starts calling him her feathery chicken son,” Mr. Yang remarks, snorting to himself.

Sunday can’t help himself – he chuckles. It’s a reserved, quiet thing, but it’s there. It’s real. “It will come to that, won’t it?”

Himeko and Mr. Yang don’t answer. Instead, they stare at him with wide eyes, which soon soften with – the same look, the same emotion he’s seen directed towards the others: fondness, as clear as day. Affection.

Heat flares to his face once again. His gaze flits away, seeking a distraction –

“Someone better come over and help me figure out how to play music on this thing or I’m eating it, gears and all,” Stelle’s voice rings from the other side of the room, “Just saying.”

Sunday latches onto the threat for the lifeline it is. “Please excuse me, my assistance is required,” he says evenly, like his wings aren’t inching towards rosy cheeks.

And with that, Sunday goes, the sound of soft laughter following him the entire time.