Chapter Text
The sounds of the Express accompany him again that night.
Sunday is used to them now: The soft creak of the car’s frame, the low hum of the dim lights, the rhythmic click-clack of the train’s couplings as it moves—they are companions during the later hours, the persistent murmurs of the Astral train as it cuts through the expanse of space.
Before he boarded, Sunday always imagined the Astral Express as a sleek machine that sat well outside the realm of normal trains. A stuff of legends. A vehicle powered by an Aeon would inspire as much. So despite its well-maintained interior and its conductor’s strict disposition to cleaning, Sunday initially finds himself at odds with evidence of its wear and tear.
Specifically, the sounds of it.
It isn’t as though he is disappointed that the Express didn’t turn out to be as fantastical as the locomotive in his dreams. Sunday later admits to himself that he simply struggles to reconcile how Akivili’s miracle—a train propelled by the wonder that is the Trailblaze—requires occasional plumbing maintenance.
So, with no other recourse in the matter, he resigns himself to the mercies of this new symphony and falls into the lull of its music. After all, music carries the significance of stories, and what better story to hear about than that of the Astral Express? Of adventures across bygone eras, of new planets and ancient civilizations, of the wonders woven onto the rails, of the Express’ eventual decline, and its arduous path to renewal.
It is a story that unravels to him on some nights. Sunday listens to it like a child would a mother’s lullaby, finding solace in its gentle rhythm against the backdrop of stars.
It is also a brief escape from the noise of his borrowed room, from the skittering shadows and their incessant whispers, which paint fear and shame along the walls of his skull.
Before his journey, he didn’t have the luxury of idle thoughts. He was always thinking, the gears of his mind running a constant marathon. Sunday did not stop. Sunday simply plowed forward. He did not rest or make room for grievances. He did not let his thoughts stray from the Plan. Monday to Sunday, he schemed his schemes and made no allowances for consequences.
Until he did.
The scenery is unassuming at first. Perhaps it is a long-forgotten fragment of his childhood: a riverbank he and Robin must have spent time playing in. It is lush with vegetation, a tangle of greens that threaten to spill over the edges of the water. Sunday watches the landscape in vague wonder as the day settles into dusk around him, the setting sun casting long shadows across his path.
Then the whispers come. They start as a long tinny. Nothing more than a sliver of sound that curls at the shell of his ear.
They become a faint murmur, insistent and cloying, peeling at the corners of his consciousness.
Sunday feels himself take a step back, the sudden motion spurred by a movement in his periphery, before bursting into a frantic sprint. Why exactly, he didn’t know, but his body vibrates with need—a visceral tug at the pit of his stomach that fills him with the primal urge to flee.
The whispers become louder, a persistent droning that buzzes beneath the surface of his mind. They seep into his vision, flickering like shadows that dance along the edges of his sight. The once comforting scenery of the riverbank warps into a cacophony of unseen voices, indistinct yet rapturous, a discordant chorus of jeers and laughter.
Then he hears it: Gopher Wood’s voice rises above the clamor, sickly sweet, promises of paradise hanging from his poisoned lips.
Sunday trips at the suddenness of it. He stumbles, knees buckling as the ground rushes up to meet him. It is then that he feels a weight shackling him in place. The leaden heaviness drags him down like a suffocating blanket, stifling every movement and every breath. He lets out a strangled cry as he strains against limbs that betray him.
Then, just as suddenly as they start, the voices stop. Nothing is left save for a light tinny that rings in his ear.
Sunday feels his heart pulsing against his throat like a trapped bird. His breath comes in ragged bursts, burning white-hot in his lungs. In his panic, he only now notices something clutched in his fist. It’s soft… warm .
A light tuft of feathers escapes his grip. Sunday freezes. Terror, renewed and amplified, seizes him.
He slowly uncurls his fingers.
It is a Charmony dove, crushed lifeless in his pale hand.
Sunday’s eyes snap open to the darkness of his room, the nightmare hanging over him like a shroud. He feels the bile rise in his throat before he can think and retches all over the sheets.
In the morning, March 7th pats him on the shoulder sympathetically.
“Don’t worry, sometimes I still get motion sickness too.”
That is how on his tenth night since boarding the Express, Sunday’s nightmares start.
Perhaps this punishment is fitting. He thinks it would take many other penances to make up for what he has done, so Sunday takes this as a start. He holds it close to his chest and cradles it in the quiet of the evening when he can bear it.
And when he can’t, well, he listens to the Express.
After the crew has gone to bed and Black Swan has graciously tucked herself into some unknown memory, Sunday sits in his designated spot with his book, Akivili’s Symphony, and the lights streaking across the car window. He doesn’t mind this chosen aloneness much. He might even grow to cherish it.
There is something to be appreciated about the slow passage of time—particularly when one isn’t preoccupied with maintaining balance in a world that constantly shifts beneath his feet. Sunday starts savoring the sights and sounds that typically fade into the background of a busy day. He watches dust motes dancing across shifting planes of light, eases into the sagging comforts of his well-worn chair, and simply enjoys the quiet hum of existence.
Which is why when the Party Car door hisses open, Sunday finds himself shutting his book in surprise, an audible snap that reverberates across the room. He cringes at the sound, feeling as though he was just caught with his hand in the cookie jar.
“Mr. Sunday?”
Welt Yang appears from around the corner of the bar. He blinks rapidly, disoriented by the sudden change in light. His gaze sweeps across the room, a ripple of alarm crossing his face as he registers the unexpected presence.
“You’re up late,” Welt comments, tone even.
“Ah. Yes.”
Sunday takes a moment to process what he is seeing, which is Welt Yang sans his usual coat and scarf. Instead, it’s Welt Yang in a heather grey t-shirt, plain pajama bottoms, and, Aeon-forbid, rubber clogs. The sight stuns Sunday so much that he belatedly notices the tremor in the hand gripping Welt’s cane.
Truth be told, Sunday usually doesn’t make it a habit to be hyperaware of his traveling companions’ states of dishevelment. In fact, he tries not to even mentally make a note of them—Stelle’s occasional bedhead notwithstanding. But there is something to be said about how Welt has his back slouched, chest withdrawn in an expression of timidity. His eyes are ringed with a weary red, their usual luster strangely absent. Sunday watches the older man squint in the dim light, mouth pressed into a thin line, as though he is about to say something but thinks better of it.
The most telling sign that Welt might not be fully in control of his expressions is more subtle, but Sunday has seen it enough in his meetings with elders of the Family. A reserved sort of wariness. Uncertainty brought about by his presence. It’s a crinkling on the bridge of the nose, almost unnoticeable if not for the fact that Welt is so caught off-guard by Sunday just being there that he doesn’t think to school his features.
Sunday clasps his hands in front of him, unsure of what else to say.
“I’m sorry. I couldn’t sleep.”
At this, something in Welt’s eyes softens. A comprehension dawning. He nods once in acknowledgment and walks over, straining a bit as he drags the chair across from Sunday and promptly deposits himself into it. Unceremonious. Graceless. And in Sunday’s honest opinion, not-very-Mr. Yang-like.
“I hope you don’t mind,” he says, voice rough. There’s an edge to it that Sunday can’t place. A ghost of apprehension. “I couldn’t sleep either.”
Welt rubs at his face (also not-very-Mr. Yang-like) with his free hand, and leans back, eyes staring forward. Sunday, in his quiet bafflement, barely registers that he is looking at the bar.
“Are you alright? Are you possibly injured? Should I get someone?” Sunday hates that he doesn’t sound as composed as he should be, but between being surprised at this sudden intrusion and Welt’s disorienting shift in demeanor, he actually thinks that he’s doing a damn fine job at sounding at least a little bit calm.
Welt simply looks at him. A slight grin tugs at the corner of his mouth. “I’m fine. Just tired.”
His gaze slides back to the bar, cool and casual. An attempt at calm reassurance.
But Sunday being Sunday, notices it first. It’s a minute tell. Imperceptible if not for the uncharacteristic fraying of Welt’s mask: a single muscle in his jaw twitches.
Somehow, this is enough to kick his social maneuvering skills awake. In a second that feels like a thousand, Sunday runs countless scenarios in his mind about how he can placate one apparently irate Welt Yang. He is supposed to be used to these kinds of situations, what with his talents as the Oak Family Head. He is a paragon of composure, a veritable master of social graces. Sunday prides himself on his ability to field the anger of a mob in his sleep.
Unfortunately, they are not Welt Yang. Sunday suddenly feels unmoored. Lost adrift in this sea of confusion.
Surely this means he should dismiss himself and bid Welt a good night? Or will Welt take offense and think Sunday is rejecting his company? But that isn’t Mr. Yang-like, right? Then again, this Mr. Yang hasn’t acted like Mr. Yang all night.
Sunday buries his face in his hands in frustration and groans.
“Are you alright?” Welt’s voice drifts over his head. A hand brushes his shoulder lightly. “Should I get someone?”
Amusement tinges his tone now. It occurs to Sunday that maybe he is overthinking it, after all. That’s enough mental gymnastics for the day, he chides himself, letting momentary relief wash over him.
“By all means, please feel free to find levity in my misery.” He looks up from the gaps in his fingers and sees a flicker of Welt’s usual expression. Kind. Very Mr. Yang-like. He opts not to bother to explain his bewilderment or understand it, really. Instead, he goes with the most neutral response he can think of:
“I am also a bit exhausted.”
“Mhm,” Welt replies, as though agreeing that this should explain everything away. He thinks for a moment, tilting his head to the side. “You should read your book. I think I’ll go back and try to get some sleep, after all.”
Which is a blatant lie, as far as Sunday is concerned. Welt Yang isn’t going to ‘try and get some sleep’. Welt Yang is most likely going to put himself in the difficult position of weathering through his bout of insomnia. Alone. In the confines of the room he just fled from. Just to make Sunday feel comfortable.
A feeling settles in his chest. Something akin to youthful defiance. He isn’t entirely sure why he is so indignant about being dismissed—never mind that Welt is the one who volunteered to leave. Sunday bristles, wings ruffling involuntarily.
“Mr. Yang, I’m just a passenger on the Express,” he starts before he can think. The words take on the shape of Sunday, the Oak Family Head, rather than Sunday, Repentant Fugitive and Chance Passenger of the Astral Express.
“Honestly, I’d be much more comfortable with you doing what you usually do when you can’t sleep than whatever it is you’re trying to do right now.”
Maybe it’s his exaggerated tone or the way he waves a hand flippantly as he says it, but Sunday cringes as soon as the words leave his mouth. Discomfort floods the space, punctuated by the distant click-clack of the train’s couplings; evidence of the Express’s betrayal. His once cherished sounds echo traitorously in his ears, now only serving to stretch the awkwardness of the moment. Sunday finds himself praying to any Aeon who listens for the ground to swallow him whole.
It takes a beat, maybe two.
Laughter bubbles up from Welt. A flashing of white teeth, so full and open and unlike his usual expressions that Sunday finds himself stunned into silence. Welt's laugh is a warm cascade that washes away the tension that lingers between them, it’s a revelation, a glimpse into a part of him that Sunday has yet to see.
It leaves him so struck with the desire to preserve the moment in his mind. To encase it in amber—a candid memory backlit by the blue ether of space.
For a long moment, Sunday doesn’t really know what to do with himself.
“All right. Then if you won’t read your book and you won’t let me leave—” Welt sinks back in his seat, a smile playing on his lips.
“— then maybe I’ll tell you a story.”