Archive of Our Own ^beta

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.” 

Chapter Text

“You missed a spot.” 

“Oh,” Sunday blinks, suddenly pulled out of his daze. “My apologies.”

Dan Heng nods, acknowledging, before swishing his mop across the floor. He works methodically, each stroke a deliberate and fierce attack against the grime of the passenger cabin. Sunday thinks it’s pretty impressive, to say the least.  

It’s Chore Day on the Express: a bi-weekly endeavor that entails having the crew participate in cleaning and putting the train into some semblance of order. From parlor car to the engine room, every nook and cranny is to be scrubbed, polished, and dusted lest the conductor inflict their (adorable) wrath upon the train’s passengers. 

During the morning assembly, March 7th rattled off assignments, announcing that Sunday’s cleaning partner was Dan Heng. Dan Heng caught his eye from across the room and shrugged. Sunday shrugged back, a silent 'I suppose we're stuck with each other' passing between them before they wandered off to the kitchens separately. 

Sunday likes to think he is slowly getting used to the ways of the Express. After all, he's already had the pleasure of partaking in Chore Day once. He had been saddled with Himeko to organize the pantry, an otherwise harmless task that somehow led to a near-fatal encounter: sampling the navigator’s infamous special blend. 

He remembers it like it was yesterday. Himeko’s hopeful face, his first sip, the warm, bitter (sour) liquid flooding his mouth, the white spots suddenly obscuring his vision. A condensed montage of his life had started playing in his mind’s eye before he felt the heft of someone’s hand on his shoulder. 

Sunday vaguely registered Welt propping him up on his seat, the scent of leather and pine wrapping around him like a weighted blanket. Welt murmured a soft ‘are you alright’ as he gently plucked the cup from Sunday’s slack grip. 

About there is where he fully blacks out.

He feels the back of his neck heat at the memory. Just the idea of Welt’s Very Close proximity makes his stomach lurch, a strange mixture of unease and something else he wasn’t sure he understood.

And don’t let him get started on their semi-regular rendezvous. 

Since the first evening it happened, Sunday and Welt had (un)wittingly established a peculiar routine, with both independently gravitating towards the comforts of the Party Car during the quiet hours. It was a pattern that mostly emerged by chance, with neither of them acknowledging the recurring nature of their encounters, or how they fell into the habit so easily. 

Sunday finds himself content with that. And anyway, he isn’t particularly willing to talk about how they ended up with this arrangement. He vastly preferred just listening to stories about flying robots and animation and other things Welt Yang liked.

He is loath to admit that he enjoys a very specific feeling—the tightening in his chest whenever Welt's eyes glaze over with starry-eyed fervor. Sunday likens the sensation to a clogged artery. And a niggling part of his mind, the logical part, tells him that that should have automatically made it Not A Good Thing.

Sunday has endured countless social interactions, voluntary or otherwise, as Head of the Oak Family. He has rubbed shoulders with the most glamorous and influential figures from Penacony and beyond. Obscene propositions were as commonplace to him as rambling introductions, and he had long convinced himself that these encounters were a necessary part of his role, a currency to be exchanged for favors. 

Yet, with Welt, he felt different. A strange, unfamiliar warmth bloomed in his chest. It was like having his very own miniature sun caged within his ribs.

He tries convincing himself that he’s just hungover from the surge of gratitude he felt over being welcomed onto the Express. Other times—and he would have to admit this sooner or later—he’s convinced that it might actually be some approximation of infatuation. He isn’t sure yet. But he doesn’t like confusing one feeling for another, so Sunday refuses to give it a name. 

Robin would have rolled her eyes at him.

“You’re not very good at this, aren’t you?” 

Sunday startles, the mop almost slipping from his fingers. He barely manages to grab the unwieldy thing before realizing that Dan Heng is talking to him. 

He looks down at the patch of floor around him. Soapy water stretches from his side of the car corridor to the opposite wall, a mess he had inadvertently made while submerged in his own muddy thoughts. It has a comical effect when compared side-by-side to Dan Heng’s work which was, by all accounts, a gleaming expanse of pristine, almost sterile, chrome.

He sucks his teeth, guilty. “No, I’m really not.” 

Dan Heng inclines his head for a bit, then nods thoughtfully, more to himself than to anyone else.

“That’s fine. Here,” he reaches over and gently adjusts the mop. “It helps if you hold it this way. Less exertion on your shoulder without having to use too much force.” 

As Dan Heng steps into his space, Sunday finds himself bristling, annoyance lancing through him like a bolt of static. His jaw clenches shut, teeth making a sharp click as he forces himself to remain still. 

He waits for Dan Heng to continue, the lines of his shoulders coiled tight in apprehension.

But there is nothing. Instead, his cleaning partner is bent over his work with single-minded focus, scrubbing at a stubborn stain that won't budge. The car seems to shrink, silence amplified by the mop squeaking against the floor. It leaves Sunday feeling exposed, like a raw nerve freshly carved out. 

He waits, and waits, until tension slowly drains from him, replaced by a wash of shame.

Sometimes Sunday still forgets, after years of practicing to be perfect, that he is allowed to make mistakes. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, more for his unwarranted hostility than the mess. 

Dan Heng looks up and gives him a noncommittal shrug. If he is oblivious to Sunday’s short-lived ire, or just feigning ignorance, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he replies, matter-of-fact: 

“Mr. Yang had to teach me how to operate the washer when I first got here. We all have to start somewhere.”

Sunday’s expression softens into a tired smile. It occurs to him that he has been so consumed by overanalyzing every nuance, every gesture, that he’d forgotten the simple joy of acceptance. To allow himself to receive kindness as it comes his way. 

He likes to think that he wasn’t always like this, that perhaps the pressure of expectation warped him into something twisted and unrecognizable—a poor attempt at mimicking human affectation. He remembers a time from before, when he didn’t assume someone’s laughter was just a pre-programmed response to a perceived social cue. A time when he didn’t take someone's enthusiasm as an attempt to get into his good graces.

He thinks Robin’s Sunday would not have mistaken a simple offer of help—clumsy and awkward as it is—as barbed criticism. Robin’s Sunday would have embraced kindness like a cloud, not raised his hackles at presumed provocations.

As though he can read Sunday’s thoughts, Dan Heng glances up at him again, a hint of curiosity in his eyes. He readjusts the sleeves rolled up on his arms and turns towards Sunday, as if waiting for something.

“Something bothering you?” 

“Me? No, I…” Sunday flinches at the directness of being addressed. He is unaccustomed to this—this kind of unabashed, almost confrontational concern. It makes him feel like he is constantly losing his footing. 

“I noticed that you’ve been spacing out,” Dan Heng ventures. He leans against his mop and adopts a more relaxed posture; half preparing for a long conversation, half demonstrating nonchalance—as though he is taking care not to startle Sunday away. “If you have troubles worrying you, you should say so.”

Sunday stares, a flicker of bewilderment in his eyes. Trust his luck to conspire against him, pairing him with Dan Heng precisely when the young man seemed to actually want to hold a conversation. It wasn't that Sunday disliked talking to him. In fact, he probably would have been delighted to chat with someone who was ordinarily so reticent. 

It’s just that he really, really did not want to talk about his feelings , of all things. 

“Not exactly,” He allows. Just a tiny sliver of something. Maybe letting this slip would be enough to satisfy Dan Heng. 

It doesn’t. Dan Heng’s relentless pursuit manifests in a silence that presses down on him like a vicious smog. His gaze is unwavering now that he’s latched onto Sunday’s allusions, his focus already honed on to a new target. 

Sunday can feel cold sweat beading on his forehead.

“I don’t wish to impose on you. And it’s not really related to the Express. Everyone has been lovely.” 

“It’s no trouble,” Dan Heng retorts almost gently, though he squints as he says the words. Something like impatience hovers over his expression, but he smooths his features as easily as he would fix a crease on his sleeve. 

"I am just saying..." He drops his gaze, the motion smooth and practiced, as if avoiding eye contact was a well-rehearsed habit. Sunday suspects Dan Heng does so out of politeness, perhaps even a subtle acknowledgment for his discomfort. "It's only right that we listen to each other. We're on this journey together, after all."

The silence stretches between them. 

Sunday swallows the lump forming in his throat. He doesn't want to acknowledge how touched he is by the gesture, so he just stares at his blurry reflection on the passenger cabin floor. Some part of him wants to push this kindness away again, to tuck it into the back of his mind and let time erode it into oblivion. But that would be unfair. Unfair to Dan Heng and, hesitantly, he admits, unfair to himself.

Sunday isn’t exactly ready to bare his soul yet, so he settles for one of his latest worries, one that has a sheen of veracity to it. 

The image of Welt, tired and harried from running from his own dreams, flashes briefly in his mind. 

“It’s just. There’s an acquaintance in Penacony,” He begins, weaving lies around a truth. “I worry for him. He used to complain about being unable to sleep. We would often spend the late hours talking, trying to pass the time.”

“Now that I’m on this journey, well, I wonder how he’s doing and how he’s coping. Sometimes I even wonder if I did enough, just being in his company.” 

He thinks he does a good enough job, telling this version of the latest worry niggling in his mind. A fragile lie pinned against the frame of a confession. 

Dan Heng gazes out the car window, a thoughtful frown creasing his brow. It takes a minute or two, and Sunday almost believes he has dropped the conversation out of the lack of interest. But after a while, Dan Heng turns back to him, expression somber and contemplative.

“I can only speak for myself. But I know how it feels to bear the burdens of being alone." 

His tone becomes wistful. Sunday feels Dan Heng slip away, his voice fading into a hollow echo. It’s as though the very spirit of him had momentarily withdrawn, leaving behind an empty shell.

He isn’t sure what to make of it. How this young man can appear in front of him yet feel so far away? 

“During all those times, with different thoughts roiling in my head, every worry magnified in my mind, I think it would have helped if someone was simply there to sit with me.” 

“If you question whether you’re doing enough, I would answer from experience and say you’re doing plenty.” 

Something dims his eyes. A knowing wisdom that makes Sunday feel very young. 

“Your friend will be alright. I’m sure of it. “ Dan Heng looks at him with a sincerity that brooks no argument. 

And somehow, somehow he feels he has no other choice but to believe him. 

—

“I’m not sure this is the right way, Peppy.” 

“Woof!” 

The 76th identical wall of the Herta Space Station looms over him, its smooth finish a mocking reminder of his current predicament. 

He is, by all definitions of the word, lost . He suspects he has been for quite some time, long before the throngs of people that normally inhabited the station started thinning out. Sunday sighs, mentally berating himself for not having the nerve to ask passing researchers for assistance.

To be fair, they were engrossed in a heated debate about the ethical ramifications of introducing cloned species into a deceased planet. He figured it would have been rude to interrupt.

So Sunday, in his current state of helplessness, can only watch his new (and only) companion chase his tail briefly in circles before zooming into a new direction, presumably somewhere he can be more lost than he already was. Sunday sighed deeply.

“Yes, Peppy. Give me a moment.” 

He tries his phone again but to no avail. The navigation app sputters, its interface flickering erratically on the screen. Sunday surmises he would need to have Himeko examine it again as it seemed synchronization with the Express's system had failed.

He curses his rotten luck for the nth time that week but realizes this situation was borne entirely from his stubbornness. And pride , his mind had unhelpfully supplied.

His task was supposedly simple: Retrieve a month’s worth of supplies from the Herta Space Station Medical Cabin. After which, he would immediately head back to the Express. It had taken him some time to convince the crew that he would be fine on his own, that he had an amazing sense of direction, and that he could easily navigate through a space station, thank you very much.

“Are you sure? I can accompany you," Welt offered, piping up from the chaos of his and March 7th’s card game. From the looks of it, he was winning the round by a mile and would soon have the free time to spend wandering around.

Not that Sunday explicitly wished for it, but that's beside the point. 

Now, after spending approximately two hours away from the Express and with still no Medical Cabin and supplies in sight, he regretted not taking up the offer. At least if he did, he’d be a lot less lost and have Welt within his general vicinity at all times.

Sunday flinches at his thoughts. Shameless.

“It will be fine, I said. It will be easy, I said.” 

It was through his sheer luck (which was, again, not really all that good) that he ran into the Pomeranian “Peppy” (“Oh, you have an identification card!”, “Woof!”) in one of the station's many empty corridors. Peppy’s offer of company wasn’t exactly enthusiastic, but at least Sunday wouldn’t have to confront the chilling emptiness of this metallic space vessel on his own. At his approach, Peppy had simply tilted his head quizzically at him before imploring him to follow. To where? He wasn’t sure. Why? He wasn’t sure either. Sunday realized that he was becoming increasingly unsure about a great many things these days. 

A few more turns and several dead ends later, he was just about ready to abandon his search and use a Space Anchor to return to the Express. It didn’t help that he seemed to be drawn towards sparsely populated zones exclusively, but the added complication of Repulsion Bridges made it even more difficult for him to keep track of where he was going. 

A feeling of weak resignation settles in his bones. It calcifies and corrodes like a creeping disease, leaving him feeling heavy and sluggish. Sunday hates it. He scrubs at his eyes with the heels of his palms, feeling the sting of self-doubt more than ever. This minor setback, this small failing, started gnawing on him. He can’t help but wonder if he was too over-eager. If he overestimated himself. If there was ever really a point in contributing if he couldn’t even handle a simple errand. 

He feels nauseous, the pressure building at his temples.

Sunday summons a deep breath to calm down, but feels something catch; a quick snag that pulls at his sternum. 

He knows what it is before it hits him. His vision starts tunneling, the corners tightening with each inhale. 

One. Two. Three. 

Sunday counts slowly, trying to will the panic away from his system. A low hum vibrates from somewhere in his chest. It moves outwards, prickling at his skin, his scalp—every nerve in his body tingling with frantic energy. He fumbles with the rings on his fingers, counting each twist under his breath in a desperate attempt to ground himself. 

He’s okay. He’s fine. He can get through this.

Seconds stretch into minutes.

He doesn’t know how long it takes, but by the time the wave of dizziness begins to recede, he finds himself latched onto the nearest doorframe, fingers curled around the edges as if to anchor himself. Sunday squeezes his eyes shut and tries to get ahold of the rest of his senses: the thrum of the overhead lights, the air, metallic in his mouth, Peppy’s paws, perched on his boot.

The automatic doors give a muffled hiss as he enters a passageway, only vaguely registering the way he staggers in with Peppy nipping at his heels. His heartbeat is still loud against his ears, but the prickling feeling in his limbs has faded into a numbness that persists all the way to the back of his skull. Sunday counts again, grasping at the numbers that teeter at the edge of his mind. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. 

The world slowly rights itself beneath his feet, and the mosaic of colors in front of him finally comes back into focus. But Sunday is exhausted. 

He leans against the wall and waits for the black spots in his vision to go away. At his feet, Peppy looks up at him with beady, black eyes as if inquiring. 

“I’m okay,” he says, more to himself. Peppy tilts his head, spins around once, and makes a prompt exit out the door. 

Sunday sighs again, adding a mental note to tell someone that a tiny dog is loose in this floating hunk of metal.

A few more minutes crawl by before the disorienting haze begins to lift. He accepts the lightheadedness as an unwelcome companion for the time being, at least until he can find his way back to the Express. He takes a shuddering breath and pushes away from the wall to inspect his surroundings. 

If there was any chance that he would be more lost than he already was, then this was it.

The room he entered is spacious, with elevated pedestals pressed flush against the walls. Each one displays an object held aloft by glowing shafts of light. Sunday inches closer to get a better look, scanning for any sort of inscription that can tell him where he is or what the room is for, but there are none. 

He suspects the lights serve as some form of containment. For what, he doesn’t know, but the disparate collection of seemingly unrelated artifacts emanates an aura of otherworldly strangeness. It is not exactly malevolent, but Sunday feels a growing sense of unease form at the pit of his stomach, nonetheless. 

He finishes observing the artifact called the “Unbearable Weight” when a peculiar flash catches his eye. 

One pedestal cradles fragments of a shattered blade, each piece frozen in mid-air. The surface is cracked and fissured, with the deep, rust-red patina of a sun-kissed earth. As Sunday leans closer, a faint heat shimmers around the fragments, like a lingering echo of a flame.

Something calls to him, a whisper on the wind. 

“Sunday?” 

Sunday's head snaps around, his eyes darting towards the source of the voice.

Welt stands at the threshold, leaning heavily against the doorframe, breathless. He raises a hand as if signaling for a short break. 

Behind him, Peppy yips. 

“Mr. Yang?” Sunday starts, surprised.

He is distinctly aware of the absurdity of his thoughts, so much so that his mind is already balking, but he immediately registers three things: the askew glasses, the tousled hair, the heaving chest. 

He doesn’t need to look at a mirror to know how red his cheeks have gotten. Sunday can feel the heat creep up his neck all the way to his wings. He presses his lips into a hard line, suppressing the traitor smile that’s threatening to break his face.

Something inside him snaps, a bizarre, almost hysterical tension. He looks up at the ceiling briefly and closes his eyes as if in surrender. His heart can only take so much in a day, after all.

He blurts out, “We have to stop meeting like this.”

It takes Welt a long moment, confusion rippling across his features before the joke finally sticks. Sunday can almost hear the gears in his mind click.

“Well,” Welt chuckles, a playful lilt coloring his voice, “maybe if you didn’t startle all the time.”

Sunday releases a breath he didn’t think he was holding. 

He is grateful for the relief that washes over him despite already having too many conflicting feelings piled on his plate. It’s a welcome sensation—loosening the tightness in his chest rather than adding to the suffocating pressure. Thank the Aeons for Peppy. 

Thank the Aeons for Welt.

“We were worried when you hadn’t replied to any messages.” Welt approaches, finally regaining composure. He clears his throat audibly and adjusts his scarf.

“Ah.” It shouldn’t be possible for Sunday to flush even harder, but he does. He takes a peek at the phone in his pocket and sees a stream of notifications. Stelle’s glaring all caps and several missed calls take up most of the screen. 

He probably got them whilst in the midst of his earlier crises. Sunday purses his lips. “I forgot to check.” 

“That’s okay.” Concern flits over Welt’s features, a crease of worry appearing between his brows. He reaches over and lightly brushes the hair from Sunday’s forehead.

“Alright?” His voice is soft, gentle. Sunday’s jackhammer heart stutters. He drops his gaze, his shoes suddenly far more interesting than the intense scrutiny in Welt’s eyes.

“I’m fine, just… I got lost for a bit. I didn’t realize I would take so long to get back.” 

Welt inclines his head, seemingly considering. He takes a moment to scan the constellation of objects surrounding them and sighs. “At least you got to see something interesting on your trip.” A faint smile twitches across his lips, then falters as his gaze falls on the broken blade.

Sunday’s eyes follow his, before sneaking a quick glance back at Welt. He doesn't know what it is, but he sees a light reflect in his eyes, a fleeting glint, like the pulsing ember in a dying flame. Welt’s eyes shutter, so suddenly, so quickly before Sunday can even ask if something is wrong. He arranges his features into a careful expression. Genial. Kind. Mr. Yang. 

Sunday’s breath hitches.

“We should get back. Stelle is likely tearing through the Base Zone as we speak.”

There’s a finality in Welt’s tone. A punctuation mark that makes no room for clarification. Sunday gets the hint that he shouldn’t ask about the object and whatever significance it has to Welt Yang. 

So he doesn’t 

“Of course. I apologize for the trouble, Mr. Yang.”

Welt blinks, the formal tone a minor jolt. He pauses and recedes into his thoughts for a moment, before giving a firm nod. "Just Welt is fine," he says. 

Sunday begins to protest, the usual perfunctory words tumbling out automatically, but self-assertion seems to take hold of him at the last second. He realizes that he wants this. This small thing. To set aside formality and establish a burgeoning sense of closeness to this man, no matter how temporary their time together might be.

This indulgence feels selfish, a betrayal of his penance. But if he were to stray from the correct path again, Welt might as well be the one to pull him back from the precipice.

“Alright,” he declares. “Then Sunday should be fine, too.”

Welt makes a face, a boyishness creeping into his features. Sunday feels his heart squeeze at the sight of it. “You're sure? I wouldn't want to be impolite.” 

“You weren’t exactly shy about calling me that earlier,” Sunday points out, raising an eyebrow. He doesn’t know where the confidence comes from, but he’s glad for it.

Welt laughs again, and Sunday thinks he wants to get used to it very much. 

“Touché. Sunday it is, then.”

And that was that. 

Chapter Text

Someone outside of his room is yelling. 

Sunday forces one bleary eye open. He considers the sound: a harsh industrial drumbeat accompanied by insistent scraping. His brain is too steeped in the fog of sleep to come up with coherent thoughts, but the hollow, echoing clang triggers a mental shortcut. It’s Stelle. In the trash chute. Again. 

He rubs harshly at his face before pushing up onto one elbow, thinks that he does not want to get up, actually, and lets himself drop back into the soft embrace of his bed. With a decisive roll, Sunday tugs at his blankets and burrows deeper into them, wings fluttering to cover his face in a cocoon of softness. 

As though to spite him, several metallic booms begin to sound from the wall. 

He emerges from his room looking every bit like a sick chihuahua. His halo sputters, a dying neon sign around the messy nest of his hair. Sunday rounds on the source of the noise: March 7th and Stelle, crowded around the right wall. The latter has half of her body wedged inside the trash chute, blocking the path to the shared bathroom. Both girls (Stelle, only partially, because of her proclivity to abject ridiculousness) turn toward the sound of him dragging his feet.

He forgoes all dignity and rubs away the crust of two-hour sleep from his eyes. 

“Any chance we could ask for your help?” March 7th finally asks after several beats.

Sunday squints at her brightness. Many thoughts cross his mind—one of which is his growing desire to choose violence—but he catches himself as the vestiges of his conscientious mind rap nervously on his skull. 

Sunday counts to ten.

“Do I have a choice?”

And that is how Welt finds them at 7:26 in the morning. Stelle, still contorted and struggling inside the ill-chosen crevice, with March 7th and Sunday, arms locked around her waist. 

“What.” Welt says simply, not entirely comprehending. Stelle greets him with a small wave.

Sunday takes in the telltale signs of a sleepless night: the dark circles around his eyes, the slumped shoulders, the desperate grip on the coffee. He gives Welt a small, apologetic shrug. Sunday could certainly relate. After all, he'd been right there with him in the Party Car up until just a few hours ago, discussing subjects as inane as Movie Edition Clockie SoulGlad™ variants to pass the time. 

It takes a few seconds, but Welt composes himself enough to grasp what is happening. He clears his throat and squints faintly at the messy tableau before him. 

Sunday feels his spine freeze at the small movement. 

Well , he thinks. Someone is decidedly not in the mood.

“Stelle dropped a relic in the chute again.” March 7th all but whines. 

On account of March 7th preparing to reposition herself for another round of pulling and Stelle still being stuck in a wall, they don’t notice the split second it happens—but Sunday sees the shift. Welt closes his eyes, inhales a deep breath, and returns to his default, more personable self. A single tap of his cane is all it takes for Stelle to dislodge from the wall, relic cradled firmly in her hand.

Welt nurses his coffee and smiles at them tiredly. “Be careful next time, alright?” 

“Thanks, Mr. Yang!”

Sunday’s eyes trail after Welt, watching him make his long-legged way down the corridor. 

Huh. 

He files this moment away for later perusal. 

—

The Xianzhou Luofu pulses with life under the warm glow of its artificial sun. The air hangs heavy, laced with a heady blend of scents from spiced meats grilling over flames and the delicate floral notes of osmanthus tea wafting from open doorways. Conversations inside shops spill onto the busy streets, the indistinct murmurs overlapping with shouts of vendors and the occasional trill of Cycranes flying overhead. 

Sunday watches a cluster of them as they cast fleeting shadows on the crowds below. Though familiar with the hustle and bustle of Penacony, he is immediately overwhelmed by the Luofu's vibrant, unfamiliar rhythm. Even the surroundings shimmer with an energy he can’t quite understand, as though a living, organic thing were simply buoying him along. 

He absently tugs on his scarf, a small anchor in the sea of unfamiliarity.

“Somebody grab onto Sunday,” Stelle yells over the din. Sunday jolts at the sound of his name, face twisting in panic. 

“I’m fine, please, you don’t need to—” 

Too late, Dan Heng has already volunteered. He grabs hold of Sunday’s shoulders and gently steers the man out of the path of a boisterous gaggle of workers. Sunday is positively embarrassed . His wings snap shut over the lower half of his face in a vain attempt to hide his already ruddy cheeks.

“I’m not a child,” he says, almost petulant, but March 7th tuts from behind him. 

“We’re not taking any chances after your last trip to the Space Station!” She says, waving her bubble tea around. “You’re lucky Peppy found Mr. Yang.” 

Sunday shrinks further into his wings. He feels like he could die of shame. 

From behind them, Welt's amused voice drifts to interject. “Now, now, let Sunday enjoy his first Luofu visit.” 

The group barrels through Central Starskiff Haven like a pack of sugar-crazed raccoons. They plunge into throngs with reckless abandon, leaving eddies of startled pedestrians in their wake. Sunday, trying to maintain some semblance of order, glances back at Welt for guidance. How did Himeko make this look so easy? he wonders, feeling a rising tide of panic. He’s supposed to be in charge while she handles the Express's maintenance, but Sunday is quickly realizing that "chaperone" might be a title he wears poorly.

When he does manage to catch Welt’s eye, the man has the audacity to give him an encouraging thumbs up. 

“I’m sure he would enjoy being thoroughly unlost ,” Dan Heng remarks dryly, still piloting him through the dense Luofu crowds.

He couldn't pinpoint the exact moment it happened, but somehow, the young man had become his unofficial Express buddy. Dan Heng would teach him how to do chores (the specific way Pom-Pom wanted the pillows to be fluffed) or thrust intriguing Data Bank entries at him just as he was feeling bored. 

The way he hovers over Sunday yet maintains a respectable amount of distance is uncanny. Sometimes Sunday wonders if he is just out of touch and unable to tell the difference between being helped and being coddled. He feels a flicker of warmth at the attention. It’s… touching. But beneath that warmth, a familiar resistance stirs. He isn't a child; Sunday is the older one. His Big Brother tendencies simply will not stand for it. 

“I think I can manage on my own, Dan Heng,” he finally grits out, lightly digging his heels into the ground.

Dan Heng blinks, as if re-orienting himself after a long swim through a sea of faces. He gives a small nod before letting go of Sunday’s shoulders, probably thinking he had navigated them safely through the worst of the crowds anyway.   

"Anyone want to pick up anything before we see the General?" Welt asks, glancing around at the group. "We've got a little time before our appointment."

Sunday momentarily lost track of their mission in all the commotion. This isn't strictly an outing; General Jing Yuan had summoned the Astral Express Crew to request a favor. Something about delivering a token of goodwill to a planet called Jarilo-VI. Sunday remains uncertain about the nuances of the interplanetary relationship, but the rest of the group seemed to relish any opportunity to visit the Luofu. 

Stelle checks her phone briefly before answering. “We can still make a few stops. March has definitely had her fill of Immortal’s Delight though—considering this is her third one.”

“Hey!”

“Alright, let’s remember to keep an orderly conduct. We’re visiting the highest seat in the Luofu after all,” Welt chides gently, attempting to corral the Crew into the Exalting Sanctum as best as he can.

Sunday watches the man’s back as he ushers the group forward. By now, he’s had some time to analyze Welt Yang—or at least the persona he chooses to present. Sunday understands that Welt deliberately veils his deeper emotions, maintaining a cheerful facade for the sake of the younger Crew.  

Whether it is simple paternal instinct or a sense of responsibility that drives his actions, Sunday isn’t sure. But he knows weariness when he sees it. It hides in the corners of Welt’s eyes and in the quiet upturn of his lips. Sunday has had a better opportunity to see it on the nights they happened to meet at the Party Car. Usually when Welt sought solace in the bottom of a glass or two.

Sometimes, when Sunday feigned interest in the passing stars, he would catch Welt removing his glasses, rubbing tiredly at his face. In that brief, unguarded second—like a moment sealed in a slice of light—Sunday glimpses a wave of vulnerability wash over the older man. 

He hates to admit it, but it affects him a tad too much.. 

“Doing alright?”

Welt moves to stand beside him, voice soft. "I hope we aren't running you ragged,” he continues, amber eyes glinting in the light. “It's been a while since our last visit, and the younger crew is determined to see everything. I'm just trying to keep up."

Sunday watches the aforementioned younger crew quickly flit between the stacks of the Spare Time Bookshop, pointing at scandalous titles or pushing scrolls into Dan Heng’s arms. He smiles, a quiet contentment settling over him at the mundanity of it all. Sunday hopes it lasts. 

“Not at all. I’m just—” He struggles, trying to find the words. “Just getting my bearings, is all. My opportunities for exploration have been limited thus far, so it’s taking a bit longer to adjust” 

Welt clears his throat, as though turning over thoughts in his head. He stays silent for a moment. 

“I wouldn’t mind having you tag along on missions more often if you’re open to it,” he finally says, pushing his glasses up his nose. “Though I understand Stelle and March 7th can be a bit of a handful. Perhaps we could arrange a few expeditions of our own, independently.”

Sunday smiles up at Welt with his Polite Smile, ready to oblige as always, but something is off. His thoughts snag, like a record skipping. He mentally rewinds the conversation, hanging onto Welt’s last few words like a gospel revelation.

Whatwhatwhat.

Sunday rummages his brain for some sort of explanation, but logic is, at the moment, sand that slips through his fingers. Surely he is jumping the gun. Surely he is misunderstanding this whole situation. Surely Welt did not just ask him out. He backtracks, frantically scrabbling through his thoughts like a frenzied dog digging for a bone. 

“Whu,” is his intelligent reply. 

“I mean, I was just suggesting.” Welt’s eyebrows raise as though he didn’t expect Sunday to be absolutely flummoxed (which he is, by the way). As though being asked out (??) was to be expected. “Of course you’re free to decline. I just thought you’d like to venture out a bit more.”

Breathe, Sunday. The man is asking you out, not out-out. Just the regular out. As in out to an outing. Outdoors. As in out the doors.

“Nonono that’s uhm. That’s really—” Sunday stammers, feeling cold sweat pooling at the base of his neck. Somewhere in the far depths of the universe, another version of himself probably got a promotion. Or won the cosmic lottery. Or achieved World Peace. Or something. Meanwhile, he is stuck in this very Awkward™ situation trying to collect brain matter presently leaking from his ears.

“You know what, actually—”

“Hey, you two, we should get going!” March yells from up the path. Dan Heng and Stelle have already disappeared around a bend, waiting for them.

Sunday’s train of thought is derailed. The words drift away from him like dandelion seeds. Up, up and away. He stares, slack-jawed, the wind a hollow rush in his ears. His mind is a void. Serene. Calm. 

A gloved hand waves in front of his face. 

“Give it some thought?” Welt arches a brow and steps ahead of Sunday, eyes shining with something like amusement. 

Sunday is overcome with the urge to throttle the man for blindsiding him.

—

He fully admits that General Jing Yuan is not what he expected. Sunday likes to think that he constructed a pretty solid profile in his mind: a grizzled elder man, tempered by years of battle experience. Perhaps stooped and gnarled from being centuries old. He likely sports a smartly trimmed beard and a sleek cane with a concealed blade. As a self-defense measure, of course.  

It's a generous image, one that he attributes to the dramatic flair of Penacony's many genre films.

What he doesn’t expect to see, though, is a spry thirty-something-year-old-looking man—a fairly handsome one at that. Jing Yuan has classically good looks: heavy lidded eyes, broad shoulders, and the easy grace of a cat stretching underneath a patch of warm sun. 

Which is why, at this precise moment, Sunday finds it difficult to tear his eyes away when the man's handshake with Welt lingers a touch too long. 

“It’s wonderful to see the Astral Express Crew again.” His voice echoes throughout the chamber, radiating with both authority and ease. In another life, Sunday the Oak Family Head would have loved to learn from his example. 

Sunday, Repentant Fugitive, Chance Passenger of the Astral Express, and Hesitant (!!) Welt Yang Admirer, has some very different thoughts though. 

Jing Yuan straightens, a knowing smile on his lips. “I trust your journey hasn’t been too difficult? The Realm-Keeping Commission was kind enough to keep me abreast of your activities.” 

“For the record, it was Stelle’s idea to rig a Cycrane with my camera.” 

“To get the picture you wanted.” 

Dan Heng sighs, dropping his head into his hand.

Jing Yuan chuckles. “Well, I’m personally very glad that you feel at home at the Luofu. Though, I worry that Mr. Yang has his hands full at times.” 

It really shouldn't be what Sunday fixates on, but his brain, as it often does, has other plans. The moment stretches, almost viscous: Jing Yuan's hand reaching, fingers grazing Welt's arm, a feather-light pressure. The smile he gives Welt is breathtakingly radiant. Sunday almost feels like squinting from it.

“It may be hard to believe, but they’re not that unruly.”

Welt, Aeons bless him, is shockingly dense. None of this seems to register as anything more than basic courtesy. He returns the smile, less dazzling, but no less potent in its effect on Sunday.

“Mhm.”

The general leans back, a lion assessing his subjects. His eyes settle on Sunday and for a brief moment, he looks as though he is weighing something in his mind. A quiet assessment. Sunday bristles under his gaze. 

“I apologize for my rudeness,” Jing Yuan says, his voice smooth. “I wasn’t able to catch your name…?”

“Oh, my apologies. This is Mr. Sunday. He is a guest traveling with us on the Astral Express.” 

Sunday doesn’t miss that Welt has omitted the details of his origins, understanding the need to conceal his fugitive status. Once again, he thanks the Aeons for his mindfulness, the man’s apparent obliviousness to affections directed at him, notwithstanding.

His chest constricts. Out of relief? Pressure? Heartburn?  Who knows.

“It’s a pleasure to meet your acquaintance, Mr. Sunday.” Jing Yuan’s eyes flash with something unreadable. Sunday isn’t sure what to make of it. “A friend of the Astral Express is always welcome aboard the Luofu.”

A familiar, almost ingrained rhythm clicks into place within Sunday. The attention of an authoritative figure triggers a reflex and summons the regal bearing he once wore so effortlessly. His posture straightens, hand moving to rest on his chest.

“Likewise. It is an honor to have an opportunity to meet the Divine Foresight.” He bows, a crisp inclination of his head. Golden eyes meet the general’s. Jing Yuan smiles, slow and deliberate. 

The air becomes charged with a palpable tension. Stelle coughs. 

“Well,” Jing Yuan claps his hands together, a sharp sound that seems to reverberate throughout the chamber. “That’s enough pleasantries. You’ve been briefed with the general nature of our request, yes?” 

The Crew nods in affirmation, snapping awake from the moment’s trance.

“Excellent! I will confer with Mr. Yang regarding the finer points of the Jarilo-VI delivery. The rest of you are welcome to explore the Luofu further should you so desire.” 

“Oh, you mean, you don’t need to discuss this with everyone?” March 7th asks, a crease forming between her brows.

“You may join in, of course. I just wanted to be mindful of your time, as diplomatic intricacies can sometimes be rather dry.”

The niceties barely veil it; Sunday recognizes it instantly. Quick and efficient dismissal. He feels a prickle of annoyance, his eyes narrowing, but Dan Heng steps forward before he can react.

“Understood, general,” he says, levelling his gaze with Jing Yuan. There’s an edge of a challenge to it. It’s clear that Dan Heng doesn’t appreciate being shut out either, but a subtle nod from Welt suggests acquiescence.

“We’ll wait for you at Aurum Alley, Mr. Yang.”

“I’ll leave you and Sunday in charge, Dan Heng. And please get me one of those Shantak Moa Drumettes.” Welt gives them a smallish wave as Jing Yuan leads him up towards his desk on the raised dais.

“C’mon, Sunday! You’ll love the Berrypheasant Skewers.” 

As he turns to leave, a foreign knot of something coils at the pit of Sunday’s stomach. 

He notes that he doesn’t quite like it. 

Chapter Text

“Uh, Sunday? You okay, buddy?”

Sunday tears into his Songlotus Cake, the initial amusement of its playful, squeaky bite twisting into something unsettling. What began as a harmless prank—the surprise laughter the snack emits—now felt disturbingly violent. He'd already demolished two, each bite followed by a pathetic, deflated wail that made March 7th wince. His third cake met the same grisly fate.

“I don’t blame him. I’d probably want to go into a food-induced coma too after seeing the general flirt.”

Sunday stills, a fourth cake already halfway into his mouth. He didn’t expect it to be confirmed so easily, but Stelle’s sure tone is enough. Silly (and ridiculous) as she is, she is also someone who doesn’t throw half-baked statements around.

“So General Jing Yuan was flirting with We—Mr. Yang?” He must have had a dubious expression on his face because she casts him an annoyed look in response—as though the highest official on the Xianzhou Luofu making eyes at Welt Yang was the most obvious thing in the world. 

"Oh yah, heesh down purdy bad," Stelle says, mouthing around a Berrypheasant Skewer. She finishes off the last of her food with a flourish. Beside her, Dan Heng huffs. He cups her chin and wipes a stray crumb from her lips. Stelle seems only too happy to oblige him. 

“We try to avoid looking at them if we can help it. Since Dan Heng is an old friend from a previous life, and Mr. Yang being, well, Mr. Yang. You know how it is.”

At this, Dan Heng nods sagely. Sunday makes a mental note to unpack that loaded statement later. 

“Anyway, it’s all very awkward because Mr. Yang is about as dense as a brick wall.” 

Sunday hums in agreement. That, he can’t argue with.

His momentum shattered, the food now sits like a stone in his gut, twisting with the ugly feeling that had taken root earlier. Sunday wrinkles his nose. Jealousy. The word feels foreign and raw, exposed to the light. He hates to admit it, but this unfiltered experience is new. He knows envy, certainly, even the sting of it. But this—this is different. This is about more than just wanting what someone else has. This is about… affections.

Sunday, no matter how he puts it, is used to being at the pinnacle. To being weightless in the deluge of yearning. To being wanted instead of wanting. He’s had casual relationships before, most of them passing curiosities he indulged in to learn. To reference. To use. The experiences were, generously put, clinical. Like slipping on a glove to match the forecast.

Most times he would pluck a name from the cellars of his memory; a vintage association he knew was ripe with charm. Guaranteed to intoxicate. He would play out the pantomime of the experience until his next audience was completely ensnared. Trapped in a perpetual haze of adoration they can never quite escape from. 

Meanwhile, he slips away from the dream, unscathed. 

Halovians are inherently charismatic, often commanding the attention and affections of whomever they chose. Their natural allure was simply a matter of when, where, and whom. Compounded with his shrewdness, it made Sunday positively revered. 

For him, it was easy. It was even easier with Gopher Wood as his teacher. 

He hates it.

Sunday stares down at his half-eaten cake, feeling sick with emotion. He knows it’s stupid, but he blames Gopher Wood. Blames him for his not being able to handle something as banal as jealousy. Blames him for his being stuck sitting underneath this beaten down umbrella, scarfing down food he can’t even taste, stewing with all these feelings he’s struggling to hold. 

He refuses to acknowledge that he is pining. He doesn’t even think he’s crossed the threshold of infatuation yet, though Sunday is clearly miserable with the idea of Welt being in the proximity of someone with such obvious interests. Never mind that he can’t quite discern them himself. 

Is he being unreasonable? Possessive? He would hate to think he is. But while Sunday Head of the Oak Family doesn’t do clingy, he also can’t deny that there is a simple wanting that ran beneath everything. Like a small, streaming current. There are still parts of his mind wired to vie for control, for the constant reassurance that things were running within his purview. It just feels safer that way. 

But he also knows that if he wants true change, he has to learn to let things go. 

Sunday sets his cake down and sighs deeply. 

“Good of you to stop before you totally wiped my savings.” 

“Please don’t exaggerate. I paid for the last two.” 

March 7th pouts beside him, making a discreet grab for the cake. 

He blows a stray lock of hair from his eyes, somehow exhausted from all the mental exercise. Sunday isn’t used to this anymore—all the thinking and processing. It has been ages since he last took the time to properly assess where he sat in the grand scheme of things. And, though it is hard to admit, he thinks he’s been happier this way. Doing menial things, just living in the present. Taking the day as it came.

Normalcy isn't an escape. Sunday knows his own mind is a minefield, and even simple routines offer no guarantee of safe passage. But they did make it easier to connect with the world around him, to find a sense of stability. They were straightforward and uncomplicated. Like a ship's bow that pointed forward, a promise of progress even as he constantly felt lost at sea.

Sunday’s expression softens into a small smile as he nudges the cake towards March. 

Well, if anything, at least he also has this new family to help him navigate what’s next. 

He’s still grappling with the awful feeling churning in his gut, and even more unsure about this insistent thing he has for Welt. But, there’s also a part of him, the part that is new and curious and alive, that wants to relish in it—the liberating sense of simply being able to feel . 

—

Sunday throws his head back against his pillows when he feels skin touch against skin. 

He thinks that maybe Welt rumbles out his name, but his heart is too loud in his ears. A persistent drum, each frantic beat keeping time with Welt’s rhythm. Sunday gasps out a breath when the older man’s palms slide roughly up his thighs, slow and deliberate, each caress sending tendrils of heat shooting up his spine. He reaches forward, fingers fumbling around Welt’s face, his neck, his bare shoulders. Everything is fire under his touch, too hot that he feels like he’s burning. 

“Please,“ he moans, a whimpered plea against the back of his hand. Welt makes a low sound in response. Sunday is anchored, Welt’s hands a steady pressure against his knees. He isn’t going anywhere.

He searches frantically for some sort of stability, hands roaming and clutching at the sheets in a desperate attempt to gain control. His hips buck, jerking involuntarily at the sensation of something wrapped around him. It’s unbearably warm. Molten . Sunday’s toes curl as the heat pools deep at the pit of his stomach. His entire body is coiled tight, waiting to be unfettered. 

It takes the smallest sensation, the feeling of teeth grazing skin, to make Sunday lose his grip. He recoils, back arching in spasms as Welt’s hands drag his hips closer. His entire body shivers with release, convulsing against Welt’s frame as a moan tears out of his throat. 

Sunday jolts awake, a thin sheen of sweat clinging to his skin. Panic overtakes him; he glances at the empty space on his bed. He is alone. 

Oh. 

The realization hits him like a freight train. He throws an arm over his eyes, a strange mixture of shame and relief washing over him.

“...Fuuuuuck me.” 

—

When Welt first invited him to join the Astral Express, Sunday’s first thought was: ‘Huh, what a nice man, letting me tag along on their journey even if I did, essentially, summon a celestial being to attack them and threaten to trap everyone in an eternal dream’. Or something of that nature. He can’t quite remember the words exactly. 

So, to put it simply, he was fully prepared for a series of bad confrontations, outright rejections, and whatever negative reactions the Crew might have in the process of integrating him within the group. Sunday even had the foresight to create a little cheat sheet for himself, just to be prepared for anything. Especially for any unexpected interactions that might occur between him and each Crew member. An Emergency Handbook, if you will. 

What he wasn't prepared for was the constant, mortifying awareness of Welt Yang that plagued him aboard the Express—Aeons help him—complete with vivid, sexual fantasies that made his face burn even after three showers. Sunday briefly considers throwing himself onto the Star Rail.

“Mr. Sunday, Pom-Pom doesn’t appreciate you always eating late.”

Sunday blinks, startled from his reverie. He looks down to see the conductor glaring at him, brandishing a pair of tongs like a weapon. Sunday offers an apologetic smile. He’d been trying to savor the quiet of his late lunch, but he'd clearly caused some kind of problem.

“I apologize. Am I causing you trouble? I’ll try to tidy up better.” 

“It’s not that. Pom-Pom thinks meal times should be shared with the Express Crew and passengers. Please join us during the allotted time. I’m sure everyone would enjoy your company.” 

With that, Pom-Pom makes their slow, wobbling way back into the kitchens, leaving Sunday to blink guiltily behind them. 

He sighs and leans back into his seat. Sunday tries his best to attend meal times as much as he can, but Welt seems to have the conviction to always be infuriatingly present. This, to his dismay, does very bad things to his heart. It was hard to eat, even harder to concentrate, when the man seemed to be so hellbent on sitting either right next to him or across from him. Several times, Sunday tried to sit himself firmly between any other two members of the Crew, but they almost seemed to always scoot over for Welt (???). What was up with that? Can’t Sunday be seated with anyone else? 

He had also endeavored to try and keep their interactions at the bare minimum. Nothing more than the perfunctory hellos and good mornings as they passed each other in the train cars. This goes without saying that Sunday avoided nights in the Party Car altogether, preferring to hole himself up in his room with as many Data Bank Entries as Dan Heng could spare. 

It is getting increasingly difficult to stay awake on his own though. With Welt’s conversation as company, at least he could throw in an obligatory comment, or be jolted awake by an interesting story, or (and he tacks this on as a very hesitant afterthought) be distracted by the way the light hits Welt’s face at a very specific angle. 

Sunday is doomed. 

He realizes he is even more doomed when, on one seemingly uneventful day in Dan Heng’s room, the younger man slides a specific Data Bank entry toward him. 

“Mecha?” Sunday asks, wings fluttering. He doesn’t like where this is going. 

“I thought you might want something to discuss with Mr. Yang.” 

Sunday bites his inner cheek as a thousand thoughts run through his mind. He wants to ask why Dan Heng would assume they were even talking about this sort of stuff, but his traitor mouth veers in another, more uncomfortable direction.

“We aren’t exactly talking.”

That catches Dan Heng’s attention. Green eyes flick quickly at him, searching for the bluff. There are none. Dan Heng purses his lips. “Okay. Why. Is it because of the whole flirting thing with the general?” 

Sunday remains noncommittal, neither confirming nor denying. He can’t help but feel a prickle of unease though. It’s Dan Heng, of all people, who picked up on this. He makes a mental note to be more guarded around him in the future.

“Of course not,” Sunday says slowly, fiddling with the Data Bank entry in his hands. “Who Mr. Yang chooses to… cavort with is none of my business.”

Dan Heng coughs, a strange sound that seems to swallow the word "cavort" mid-utterance. He eyes Sunday, gaze narrowed and calculating as if testing the air before speaking further.

“Well, that’s funny, because I thought you were trying to flirt with him too.” 

Sunday freezes, his spine snapping to rigid attention. "What," he breathes, the single word sharp and clipped.

Dan Heng’s lips press into a hard line. He hedges his response. Sunday wants to shake him by the shoulders to get on with it.

“Please don’t tell me you’re denying it. Even March has said, and I quote,  you ‘Look at him like the sun shines out of his ass’. I think only Stelle hasn’t noticed, but that’s because she’s Stelle. And maybe Mr. Yang, because as we’ve established, while he’s great at most things, romantic, he is not.” 

For a long while, Sunday doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t even think anything. Everything has gone white. He’s fairly certain Dan Heng has said more words than he's ever heard him say in the past month or so, but his ears won’t stop ringing. His hands feel numb. And he strongly suspects he is going into shock. 

“Breathe, man.” Dan Heng, says, rubbing soothing circles on his back. 

“What even is going on,” Sunday sobs out, he buries his face in his hands, feeling all the heat finally rush up to his face. He can’t even look at Dan Heng.

“...I’m sorry. I didn’t think you were trying to hide it.” A pause. Then, “To be fair, you weren’t being that discreet.”

“Please just eject me from the train, Dan Heng.” 

Dan Heng actually smiles at him. “Sorry, I’m morally compelled not to.” 

Sunday feels achingly stupid, unable to reconcile that he had been so transparent. He learned better than this. A few months away from Penacony, and already the carefully constructed walls he'd spent years building were crumbling. He groans, hands flying to his face as if to catch the pieces of himself that were scattering. Sunday feels like shattered glass, consciousness fragmenting, each shard drifting further away. The room swims in front of him, the familiar surroundings suddenly, strikingly alien. 

Dan Heng, ever mindful, takes one of his hands and gently squeezes his fingers. The pressure is a small, tangible sensation amid the swirling disconnect. Sunday focuses on the feeling to reel back his mind. He takes a slow, deliberate breath, and another, until he feels like he has been sufficiently put back together again. 

“You okay?”

“Yes,” Sunday sniffs. Dignity be damned. “Just caught off guard.” 

A beat. 

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Sunday looks up at Dan Heng. There is no judgment. Just a careful, neutral expression. 

This is the second time he's been offered this unspoken understanding, and while he hadn't explicitly refused the first time, a sense of inevitability settles over him. Piling on the secrets feels pointless now, a complication he no longer wishes to entertain. At the very least, he can count on Dan Heng being tight-lipped about this whole… thing. 

Sunday squeezes his eyes shut, a grimace twisting his features. He can’t keep avoiding this. The longer he puts it off, the more his brain would default to thinking up worst-case scenarios. He almost grumbles under his breath. 

“It’s more of me being a complete idiot and not knowing what to do with these… feelings.” The words tumble out of him haltingly, as though he is dragging them out by force. He levels his gaze with Dan Heng’s, trying to guess whether the young man might be making light of his situation, but there is only earnest concern. 

He bites his lip, wondering what on Earth he did to deserve to be surrounded by such kind people. 

“I rationalized that putting enough of a distance between us would make the feeling fade, or that I’d lose interest. Eventually.”

Dan Heng's expression remains thoughtful for a moment. Then, as if becoming aware of their still-joined hands, he carefully turns Sunday's hand over in his own. Sunday doesn’t pull away. 

“I’m not in any position to tell you how to deal with this but,” Dan Heng pauses like he’s piecing something together in his mind. “I think avoiding him is the worst possible decision.” 

Sunday snorts. “Why? Because he’ll think it’s his fault that I’m suddenly slinking around dark corners and refusing to meet his eyes?”

“Actually, yes.” This time, Dan Heng looks at him seriously, mouth pressed in a hard line. “Mr. Yang has the tendency to carry everything on his shoulders. He hides it well, but…” 

Well, now that he puts it that way, Sunday immediately feels the guilt crash into his sternum. He withdraws his hand and starts fidgeting with his rings, twisting them nervously as worry frays at his conscience. 

“Don’t go blaming yourself for that, too.” Dan Heng smiles feebly, immediately recognizing the current state of Sunday’s mind. “You don’t have to tell him anything if you don’t want to. Just—” He gestures vaguely, sighing as he stares off into an open space. 

“Just try not to avoid him, alright?” 

Dan Heng offers another weary smile as if the conversation had drained him. He turns back to the wall of Data Bank entries, his intention to end the discussion clear. Sunday appreciated the time he'd taken to listen. 

“Duly noted.” 

— 

Sunday wakes with a strangled cry. The image of the sparkling riverbank, the dizzying pink-orange hue of the sunset, the ball of mottled feathers, stark white and red in his hand, had burned behind his eyelids. He lies heaving on his bed, the echo of his own screams ringing faintly in his ears. A cold dread grips Sunday. His hands shoot up, almost of their own volition, and he stares at them, palms open. Empty. He moves to drag them down his face in relief. 

He chuckles a short, sharp sound. The absurdity of it strikes him: his subconscious apparently only operated in extremes, offering him either arousal or sheer horror.

Sleep is a lost cause. Sunday swings his legs over the edge of his bed, the familiar creak an accompaniment to his resignation. He entertains the idea of seeking refuge in the Party Car, rationalizing that suffering through a mild emotional crisis because of Welt Yang might be preferable to being steeped in his own nightmares.

And anyway, he promised Dan Heng he would stop avoiding the man.  

The door hisses quietly open, as though expecting his visit. 

The Party Car takes on a different glow during the later hours, the electric blue of its windows jarring with the dim oranges of the bar’s interior. Shush seems to have retired to his quarters, his eerie absence signaling the time of the day, which was: entirely too late. 

Sunday pads quietly to his designated seat, clutching the edges of the coat draped over his shoulders like a comforting blanket. Relief washes over him at the sight of the empty car, until the clink of ice against glass shatters the silence

“Mr. Yang?”

Welt looks up, his lips slightly parted around the rim of his glass. 

“It's Welt," he reminds Sunday gently.

Sunday stares, not really sure about what to say next. He’d carefully chosen countless threads of discussion just a few minutes earlier, but somehow his mind had been wiped clean. A barren landscape. He couldn’t even hope to fumble for words. 

“Hm. I didn’t think you would be here.” Welt scans the train car, a quick, furtive look. He sets his glass down and studies it intensely, almost as though he is trying to will himself sober. 

Sunday doesn’t miss the undertones of an accusation. A prickle of defensiveness rises in him. Had Welt been expecting him previously? He didn’t think it would matter if he came to the Party Car or not—they hadn’t exactly been planning their meetings, hadn’t they? It wasn't as though they had agreed to spend their insomnia-riddled nights in each other's company.  Sunday pushes down the myriad of questions bubbling up his chest and settles for the most immediate, pressing thing: 

“Are you drunk?” Sunday ventures closer, a subtle shift in his stance that allows him to observe Welt more closely. 

He is struck by the older man’s disheveled state. Welt’s normally sharp features were softened by weariness. The lines around his eyes deepened with shadows, revealing a bone-tired exhaustion that gave him a haunted, almost fragile appearance. He looks like he hasn’t slept in days.  

Welt takes a moment, squints at his hand, and then at Sunday. “Yes, actually, I think I am.” 

Sunday grips the lapels of his coat, wrapping it tighter around himself. His head swivels around quickly to search the area again for any sign of the others, but they are, fortunately, alone. 

He feels a pang of protectiveness. Welt clearly doesn’t want anyone to see him like this.

Sunday swallows the lump forming in his throat. “Do you want me to go? I can give you a little privacy.”

“No, stay, please. If you don’t mind,” Welt says slowly, hesitantly. He rubs the back of his neck before giving Sunday a sheepish look. “I think I might need someone to guide me back to my room.” 

Sunday's brain lags behind, struggling to grasp the words. When they finally click, he snorts unexpectedly, dissolving into a peal of unrestrained laughter. It's a bright, unexpected sound, like the tinkling of a crystal bell. 

Welt watches him, blinking dazedly. 

“Wow.”

Sunday dabs the tears from the corners of his eyes, the laughter fading as a wave of self-consciousness sweeps over him. His wings, like startled birds, lift and fold slightly, obscuring the lower part of his face. "What is it?" He asks, voice muffled.

“Didn’t realize you could laugh like that,” Welt says softly, glancing down at his own hands. A faint red tinge stains his cheeks. Sunday can’t decide if it’s because of the alcohol or something else entirely.

His breath catches in his throat, a sudden surge of affection squeezing at Sunday’s chest. Before he can stop himself, his hand reaches out, fingers brushing against Welt's cheek.

“You should sleep,” he finds himself saying, voice a shaky whisper. Welt looks up at him with bleary eyes.

Warm, honeyed amber connects with Sunday's rich, burnished gold. It strikes Sunday then, that this is the first time they'd truly looked at each other in days. The realization hits him with the force of a physical blow: he missed Welt. The yearning is a raw, visceral thing, threatening to spill over into tears.

A shiver makes its way up Sunday’s spine. He begins to draw his hand back, but Welt's fingers close around his, gently but firmly holding him in place. Welt leans into the touch, lips brushing against Sunday’s palm.

“In a bit,” he rumbles. Welt sighs before his eyes flutter shut. 

The full force of it slams into Sunday, a collision that knocks the air from his lungs. He’s tried convincing himself that he could simply dismiss these feelings, that he could easily forget and leave the sweet dream as he did so many times before. Unscathed. But the truth is, he didn't want to. He felt these feelings, however complicated and difficult they were. He might never have the chance to express them, might never even be able to tell Welt, but they are his. 

His life, in a blink, had become a landscape of shifting sands. What was once a clearly charted course for him now felt uncertain, from his place in the world to the very ground beneath his feet. Sunday’s future, once painted in lights and technicolor, was now a blurry, indistinct horizon. But this —this feeling, this undeniable affection for Welt Yang—was solid ground. It’s the first real thing he knows, truly knows, is his own.

So Sunday embraces it. Thrusts the stake into the ground amidst the swirling chaos and hopes for the best. He’ll worry about the rest tomorrow. 

For now, he’ll simply be present.

Chapter Text

The next day starts like this:

Sunday bursts out onto the corridor, practically vibrating with energy as he bounds toward the passenger car. A palpable joy radiates from him. Joie de vivre , if you will. March 7th watches him pass, a slight squint in her eyes as she takes in his radiant, almost luminous, form.

“You’re in a good mood.”

He pauses to consider her comment. Sunday inclines his head, a bright smile lighting up his features. 

“I suppose I am.” 

His wings give a little flutter and he continues on his merry way. 

March is left staring after him, confused, and admittedly, a bit disturbed. 

Chore Day assignments are doled out without incident, the only strange occurrence being Welt’s absence as they convened before breakfast. Sunday suspects a hangover; he'd been witness to Welt's unsteady gait on the way back to his room the night before. It is on his list of anticipated things, however sad he is about not seeing the man. 

A flush quickly creeps up his neck as he recalls the warm arm draped over his shoulders and the scent of whiskey and pine filling his senses.

Sunday pats at his warming cheeks lightly, taking a deep breath to calm himself down. 

Welt was obviously distressed before his arrival in the Party Car. That he didn’t immediately close himself off didn’t mean he was okay with being seen during a momentary display of weakness. Especially not by Sunday, someone he'd only known for a few months.

He likes to think that this new, reformed Sunday knows not to get too caught up in the thrill of someone’s vulnerability. But he’s become keenly aware there's still a part of him wired to think he's found a way in, a lever to pry open someone's life. Sunday doesn’t want to think that that fragment of him will continue to persist even as he wills himself to change. To be better. 

The thought of manipulating his way into Welt's inner world made him recoil. He couldn't, wouldn't, do that to Welt Yang.

Still, the lingering sensation of Welt’s lips on his hand remains vivid. 

Sunday is paired with Stelle this time for supply organization. A fact that comforts him somewhat given that he can channel his focus on something else. She isn’t a chatterbox by any means, but she is someone Sunday can describe as a… beacon? A firework?  A presence that simply demands to be known. He never thought he’d be glad for it. 

He’s balancing a couple of boxes in his arms on the way to the supply closet when a furious banging suddenly erupts from the other side of the door. Sunday resists the urge to roll his eyes. Stelle seems to be right on cue. 

“Perhaps it would be prudent to not get yourself stuck in confined spaces?” he suggests, nudging the door open.

Sweat plasters Stelle’s hair to her forehead. She mimics gasping for air, clawing at her neck in an exaggerated pantomime of suffocation. Sunday resists the urge to thump her head with a book spine.

"Why did you leave me alone?" she semi-whines. She makes a show of brushing her shoulder, releasing a fine layer of dust into the air. Sunday’s wings shield his face as he coughs delicately. 

“I needed to bring over the rest of the boxes first.”

Her pout deepens, but after a moment, Stelle seems to decide the argument isn't worth the energy. She shrugs, looking over her shoulder at the closet. 

“Door’s broken. It won’t open from the inside.” 

Sunday nods absently before setting the boxes down. “Noted.”

They lapse into a comfortable silence, broken only by the sharp rip of packing tape, Stelle's occasional tuneless whistle, and the rustle of materials as they work. Stelle, to her credit, is also not one to half-ass anything. The cleaning task suddenly morphs into a strategic operation. She wrangles chaos into order, mapping categories and locations before deciding which items go where. 

By the time they were almost finished, everything had been arranged according to her mental blueprint. Inside the boxes, supplies had been arranged into neat rows, smaller items nestled within larger ones to maximize space, labels neatly printed in Stelle’s blocky handwriting to detail the contents with practical precision. Sunday hums in appreciation.

“Good work.”

“Thanks.”

Stelle turns to look at him then and gives him a thorough once-over. She beams brightly. His accomplished expression immediately turns dubious. “Can I help you?” 

“Just thought about how much you’re fitting in already.” 

He lets her words simmer before replying, “I’d say it would be strange if I didn’t. It has been a few months since I joined the Express.”

Stelle looks like she is considering this, working her jaw slowly as if chewing on the next words she wants to say. Sunday arches one brow expectantly. 

True to form, she does the next unexpected thing. Stelle stands, patting her skirt. She glances quickly at the boxes, then at Sunday, another comment poised on her lips. But she seems to abort the idea of replying altogether. Instead, she hurries toward the parlor car. 

Bewildered, Sunday follows. He has to jog to keep up with her steps.

It really wouldn’t do him any good to overthink her words. But Sunday, however overtly calculating, also has a bull-headed streak. He isn’t about to let this one go. 

He credits this sudden persistence to the chafing pressure of wanting to change. Of course, his logic dictates that it is impossible to make big swathes of progress in a matter of months—especially when he is still working on dismantling years of deeply rooted indoctrination. It’s ridiculous to expect as much. 

But he won’t deny that it feels nice to actually hear acknowledgment coming from someone else. However small it is. Pride nestles somewhere in his chest, a cool, fizzy thing. 

“Ha ha. Already? Feels like just yesterday you were siccing Harmonious Choir at us.” Stelle barks out a laugh, all teeth, no grace. Sunday flinches when she claps him squarely on the back. 

“Anyway,” She halts suddenly. Perhaps resigned enough to admit that she’s doing a shit job of shaking him off. “It’s great to have you here. Just thought you should know.” 

In revenge, probably, she flicks his forehead and makes a run for it. Sunday spots pink at the tips of her ears.

He blinks, briefly thrown off by her comment and the endearing awkwardness that came with it. He always perceived her as a headlong rush, a force of unbridled momentum, so it is doubly refreshing to see this shy, albeit still straightforward side of her.

Despite their stark differences, Stelle’s unreservedness reminds him so much of Robin. He misses her terribly. 

For a long while, he stands rooted to the spot, his thoughts turning inward. He questions the value of this journey, which is, admittedly, currently marked by limited observation and action. He thinks he has gained so much in comparison: A feeling so profound that he feels like his chest might burst from it, and a family so eager to include him in their circle even though he is still scared to call them his own. 

Sunday allows himself a smile and turns to the window to look at the stars, perpetual witnesses to the small, burgeoning shifts in his existence. 

He is unsure if the fluttering thing in his ribcage right now is happiness, but if so, he would like to bask a little more in its warmth. 

—

Sunday is perplexed.

Lunchtime, and he finds himself watching Welt, listening to the cadence of his voice as he speaks with Pom-Pom about logistics. He is faintly surprised when the man takes a long detour around the condiment cart before seating himself beside Himeko. Disappointment makes Sunday’s shoulders sag, but he quickly pushes the feeling aside. Important discussion, he reasons, attempting to focus on his meal. He resolves to speak with Welt afterward.

Later, Sunday passes Welt leaving his room clearly in a rush. The man flings his scarf haphazardly over his shoulder and practically bolts toward the parlor car. Nothing more than a curt nod and he was gone, leaving Sunday wondering what all the fuss is about. 

Huh. Sunday blinks after him. But it’s okay, they’ll talk next time.

The day wears on, and Sunday's inability to find Welt begins to gnaw at him. It is an anomaly, given the man's typically ubiquitous presence. He finds himself in the Party Car, surrounded by Stelle and March 7th bickering over card game rules and Black Swan’s amused interjections, only to discover that Welt had already withdrawn to his room to rest. 

It is much of the same the next day. And the day after that. 

It’s been two days since then. And, as Black Swan notes quite delicately, Sunday has started looking quite grumpy.

Under normal circumstances, such as a mission, this behavior wouldn’t warrant anything more than a little footnote. However, Welt’s stark absence during what essentially is their lull period highlighted the difference. It is, frankly, driving Sunday mad. 

At first, he was concerned, thinking that maybe Welt had come down with something. But it quickly became apparent that the man was selectively avoiding him—a conclusion he came to after observing the Crew’s complete lack of worry. 

“You think so?” March asks him one day as they’re folding laundry. “He looked pretty chipper when I met him for breakfast. He was even humming to himself.” 

That complicates things. 

Had Sunday done something to offend him? Their last interaction—him escorting a tipsy Welt back to his room—ended pleasantly, all things considered. Welt even smiled (warmly, Sunday might add) at him before mumbling a good night. 

He chides himself, recalling his own deliberate distance from Welt just a few days prior (he swears he’ll reflect on this later). But he can’t help it. Anxiety metastasizes in his gut, making him review every interaction they’d had up until the last one. The question of his transgression, real or imagined, chips incessantly at his peace of mind. 

Sunday rubs at his eyes tiredly, at a loss for what to do. 

“Sunday?” Himeko calls from the entrance of the Party Car, she scans around the area, as if looking for something. 

“Have you seen Welt? I need to discuss engine enhancements with him but I can’t seem to find him anywhere.” 

He chuckles almost bitterly. His eyes flick quickly up the ceiling, asking the Aeons a quiet question of why. 

“We haven’t talked to each other in a while, honestly.” Sunday gives her a wan smile. Then, “I’m probably not the best person to ask where he is right now.” 

Himeko inclines her head at him, curious. Shoot. Sunday probably gave away too much. He crosses his arms over his chest, very much the picture of a sulking child. 

“Huh, that’s weird of him. He was talking ecstatically about you just yesterday. I had the impression you hung out just recently.” 

Sunday flushes. What exactly has Welt Yang been saying about him? He forces the question down and fixes Himeko with an apologetic look. “I’m sorry. I wish I could help, but I really haven’t seen him.” He bites his lip. Hesitates, then, softly, “Do you know if I did anything to upset him?” Sunday clasps his hands together on his lap, unsure about what to do with them. 

A tender expression settles on Himeko’s face. “Oh, Sunday,” she says, her voice laced with a gentle firmness. “If you’d stepped on Welt’s toes somehow—which I doubt you did—you’d know about it.” 

She touches his shoulder as if to urge him forward. “My advice is to ask him directly. Don’t worry, he won’t bite.” 

—

One day, he finally chances upon Welt walking down the corridor. The man glances up from his phone, sees Sunday approaching, and delivers a quick smile before returning to his screen. 

The feeling that comes to him in that moment is so sudden, so strong that Sunday has to brace himself from it. He is incensed . His eyes narrow, painting his barely contained frustration in bold strokes. It fucking ticks him off, actually. 

Hm , he thinks, squaring his shoulders. Well, Himeko did tell him to ask Welt directly. 

Something possesses him, and it’s definitely not Sunday the Head of the Oak Family, because his next act couldn’t be any more jarring from the carefully constructed image of his compartmentalized self. It happens in a flash—and Sunday doesn’t quite know where he draws the strength to grab Welt by the lapels, push him into the nearest closet, and back him against the far shelf in one swift motion, but he does it anyway.

“Mr. Yang,” he says, very evenly. He’s pretty surprised at the way his voice drops low. Way to go, Sunday. 

As the door closes behind him, Stelle’s previous incident briefly flashes in his mind. He decides he’ll worry about that later. 

For his part, Welt wears an expression of stunned disbelief, glasses knocked crooked on his nose. Sunday’s eyes drift to where his Adam’s apple bobs up and down his throat. 

“Sunday?” Welt’s voice goes up an octave. Sunday feels his breath fan across his face. “Uh. Why are we—”

“This seems to be the only way to get you to look at me while we’re talking.” 

Welt stiffens. To his credit, the man actually looks guilty. He shifts uncomfortably under Sunday’s gaze, as if physically burdened by his conscience. Sunday can almost see the way his mind struggles to put words together.

He purses his lips. As much as he is angry, he doesn’t really want to make Welt  miserable. 

“Did I do anyth—” Sunday pauses. He considers his words more carefully and decides that, no, he doesn’t want to be apologetic. 

“Why are you avoiding me?” 

Welt recoils, a look of surprise crossing his features. The shock from being accosted and shoved into a cramped space seems to make it harder for him to deliberate on a proper answer. He blinks dazedly, as though seeing the room for the first time.

Meanwhile, Sunday fights the urge to stare at his mussed hair and parted lips, concentrating instead on his fingers curled around the material of Welt’s coat. He clears his throat loudly, drawing Welt's attention back to him.

“Please tell me. I don’t think I enjoy the feeling of being avoided, if I’m being honest.” Sunday laughs, a thin, fractured sound that quickly dissolves into a breathy exhale.

Worry ripples across Welt’s features. 

He fidgets under Sunday’s touch, gaze landing on a point somewhere over his head. There is a tightness in his eyes, the kind that hints at a tangle of thoughts he can’t quite unravel. Welt sighs softly, a small exhale that shifts the hair on Sunday’s forehead. He stays silent for a few more beats. 

“I—” he pauses, rubbing at his forehead in frustration. “You shouldn’t have seen me like that.”

“What do you mean?” Sunday asks, gently this time. He lets go of the lapels, hands sliding over Welt’s forearms as though to soothe him. 

“I was not at my best.” He looks down on Sunday, long lashes casting shadows along his cheeks. “I’m ashamed to have had you see me like that.”

Sunday's brows furrow, a deep crease of worry forming between his eyes. Something squeezes at his chest—the overwhelming desire to protect this man sweeps over him again. 

“Mr. Ya—Welt,” 

Welt looks up at him, startled. Sunday takes both his hands in his and stares down at them. 

“You’re allowed those moments. Everyone is.” He smiles ruefully, keeping his voice earnest. “No one can take them away from you. Not even us.” 

Welt doesn’t say anything for a long while, his silence almost unnerving. Sunday’s worry spikes. He is suddenly overwhelmed by a torrent of thoughts. That maybe he is overstepping. That maybe he isn’t in any position to say these things. That maybe it is wrong of him to come barging into Welt’s life, telling him what he can or can’t do, when Sunday can’t even put himself together on most days. 

Then, Sunday thinks, as he looks at this man—this wonderful, kind soul that extended a hand to him, that he doesn’t care. Welt can resent him for intruding, and he’d still want him to know that it’s alright to be vulnerable. To be defenseless with the people who cared. 

Perhaps it is hypocritical of him to say these things so soon, but Sunday believes he's learned something about sharing burdens.

He takes one steadying breath and squeezes Welt’s hands to ground himself. To bring himself out of the molasses of his own mind. 

“I don’t think it’s a good idea to shield everyone from what you’re feeling. Your family knows you are strong, but they also know you are just you.” Sunday looks down on their joined hands, somewhat comforted by the fact that Welt has not pulled away. 

“You don’t have to tell them everything, but you can choose to share the weight with someone.” 

Welt, after a moment, appears to process his words. Sunday reads the slight drop of his shoulders as a sign of quiet acquiescence. The older man sighs, a heavy weariness settling over him as he lowers his head. 

“Then,” Welt says, almost shyly, “I’m sorry to have you share this with me.”

“I’m not.” Sunday smiles up at him, jubilant at this small victory. He reaches up and straightens Welt’s glasses. 

He sees something flash in Welt’s eyes then, something he doesn’t recognize yet, and it breaks the trance. 

Dust motes dance in the weak fluorescent light, illuminated like tiny, frantic fireflies. The air, already thick with the scent of lemon cleaning polish and dusty cardboard, seems to compress further as Sunday’s awareness shifts. 

His breath catches as he becomes suddenly, acutely aware of their proximity. Alarmingly, Welt seems to notice too. 

The usual buffer of polite distance vanishes between them, magnifying every sensation—from the rise and fall of Welt’s chest, to his fingers grazing against Sunday’s palms. Sunday swallows the lump forming in his throat as he watches amber eyes dilate in the low light. 

Amidst it all, Sunday hears the soft sound of Welt’s breathing, a rhythmic whisper in the confined space.

“Uhm. So,” he starts, if only to fill the oppressive silence. Welt doesn’t break eye contact.

“I didn’t really think this through, but we might be stuck in here for a while.”

Welt hums, the vibration of it sending shivers down his spine. Sunday nervously licks his lips. He notices Welt's eyes flick to them and then, with a visible effort, return to his own.

It is an understatement to say that Sunday feels incredibly, supremely , nervous. Among other things. 

“Mr. Yang, we should probably—”

“Welt,” he corrects with a light huff. “You got it right earlier, if I recall.”

A smile curls at the corner of his mouth. Sunday probably would have been more relieved seeing it if his jackhammer heart wasn’t threatening to burst from his ribcage. He swallows thickly, willing himself to look away.

“Odd choice of place for a heart-to-heart,” Welt remarks, lightly pulling his hands away. Sunday releases them, as if burned. He'd completely forgotten he was still holding them.

Sunday glances up through his lashes and sees Welt still smiling, a look of indulgent relief softening his features. It’s Sunday’s turn to release an exasperated huff.

“Maybe if you weren’t so keen on avoiding me, I wouldn’t have been forced to resort to this.”

“You were very much avoiding me just a few days ago, too. But I don’t remember shoving you inside dusty closets.”

Sunday scoffs. “Ah, yes. I had to catch you drinking yourself into a near-stupor instead. May I remind you that I had to half-carry you to your room after the fact?” 

Welt arches an eyebrow, and Sunday instantly shrinks into himself. The memory of Welt's lips on his hand flares in his mind, flushing his cheeks and causing his wings to twitch nervously. Sunday attempts to shield his face in his hands, but Welt's close around his, drawing his gaze up.

“Why are you hiding?” he chuckles softly. Sunday’s stomach flip-flops at the way his eyes crinkle at the corners. 

“I’m not hiding… I’m just…” the rest of it dies in Sunday’s throat. Because he is hiding. There’s no use trying to deny it. Stupid Welt and his stupid smile. Stupid Sunday who got both of them stuck in this stuffy, airless room. 

“You’re not stupid.” Welt chides gently, but Sunday feels his stupidity escalating regardless. Because who else says their thoughts out loud at a time like this? He groans, mortified, and lets his forehead bump lightly onto Welt’s chest anyway, because what the hell, he might as well go for it. 

For a moment, Welt stiffens. Sunday is quite ready to be politely pushed away, even if it throws the entire situation into a whole new realm of awkwardness. He is so ready he actually scrunches his face to brace for it.

But there is no push. Nothing remotely signaling rejection. Instead, Sunday feels the gentle weight of Welt’s chin on his head and the comforting pressure of his embrace. 

A deep ‘You okay?’ vibrates from Welt, prompting Sunday to burrow his face into the man's chest. He inhales the familiar scent of pine and leather, a comfort despite everything. The telltale warmth of a renewed blush is already starting to spread across his face. Sunday clings to Welt’s lapels again, emitting an indignant, muffled sound of embarrassment. 

“That’s new,” Welt laughs.

Well. If making Welt laugh like this is the price, then perhaps a little embarrassment is worth it.

He’s getting ready to protest again when the door suddenly slides open. 

Panic sends Sunday leaping back, his head colliding with a nearby shelf. He turns to find Dan Heng staring, green eyes darting between him and Welt.

Dan Heng’s eyes widen a fraction when the puzzle pieces come together.

“Pardon me for intruding,” he announces stiltedly before attempting to close the door.

Fortunately, Welt isn't entirely disoriented. He braces the door open with his foot, a maneuver requiring him to step forward. The sudden shift jostles Sunday, and Welt, reacting instantly, grips him by the waist, his thumb lightly tracing the line of Sunday’s ribs.

Sunday's breath falters, and he fights back an embarrassed flinch. He looks to Dan Heng, seeking a moment of distraction, but finds him just as flustered, ears tinged with a delicate pink.

“Please don’t let me interrupt your…” he looks pointedly at Sunday, “...cavorting.” 

Sunday just stares, his eyes flat, accepting his fate.

“Dan Heng, just—don’t.” 

Chapter Text

Sunday remembers only snatches of it.

The sound of twinkling piano keys filtered through their sitting room, filling the gaps in his memory with the notes of an old song he and Robin used to play. The scent of freshly baked pudding tarts wafted from somewhere in the house, rousing fragments of a childhood painted in nostalgic sepia.

He remembers really wanting those tarts.

So when Sunday, who was still bearing the characteristic impatience of a child of six, was told he could not, in fact, have the pudding tarts until after dinner, he thought it was only understandable to fly into the miniature equivalent of unbridled rage. He had cried and windmilled and kicked the shins of any adult that attempted to calm him down. 

Gopher Wood was very much worried that his charge would be unfit to carry on the Oak Family legacy. Or rather, his legacy. 

It was decided, then, that some discipline was in order. 

On colder days, a phantom ache still blooms in Sunday’s hands. The ghost of violence creeps into the scars and settles there, lingering in his bones. They are nothing like the sharp sting of his past punishments, but a dull, persistent throb that he acknowledges but refuses to dwell on. He does not flinch upon them anymore. They are simply shards of a memory that had embedded themselves too deep and had healed over too many times to remove. 

Perhaps, as a small act of rebellion, Sunday never learned patience. Contained tolerance, sure, but never something as virtuous as patience. He often listened to confessions this way, sitting in a small, stuffy box with only the soft droning of a confessor to keep him company. Years of being educated in the ways of Bronze Melodia taught him to endure the repetitive, agonizingly slow crawl of human failings.

But never patience.

Instead, he had also cultivated a simmering resentment, a quiet, internal stew. He desired things—control, perfection, the fulfillment of his meticulously crafted visions—and when those desires were thwarted, he, well, stewed. He isn’t proud of it. It sits alongside other, equally unpalatable truths: his irrational loathing of cucumbers, his once-plot to ensnare humanity in an eternal, harmonious dream. These are flaws, yet they are undeniable. As true as the sun hung upon the sky. 

So, as he sits across from Welt Yang, surrounded by the noisy banter of Stelle and March 7th arguing over the nutritional value of croutons, he feels a familiar childish want rising from within him. Sunday, Repentant Fugitive and Chance Passenger of the Astral Express, is currently stewing in a particularly potent brew of impatience. 

He wants Welt Yang, or at least, he wants… something from Welt Yang. He isn’t entirely sure what, but the constant, distracting pull towards the man is becoming increasingly intolerable.

Managing his own, unreciprocated desire was easier. It was a solitary struggle unburdened with the weight of expectation. He could watch Welt from afar, choked with his own pathetic longing, and maybe still come out of it in one piece.

But now. Now it feels as though he has to constantly watch for something. Every word and gesture is magnified—blaring against his senses at all times. It is a constant pressure that builds behind his eyes, willing him to looklooklook .

Sunday begins cataloging the signs: Welt’s stolen glances over his morning coffee, the fleeting brush of his hand on Sunday’s wrist during board games, the quiet curve of his lips when they pass each other in the corridors. They could be innocuous enough interactions on their own if Sunday hadn’t seen it—the flicker of something that passed in Welt’s eyes when they were confined in the closet.

Years of political maneuvering in Penacony had given Sunday an almost preternatural understanding of people. While he still carries the weight of past compromises, his ability to discern others’ desires had become second nature. Necessity had made it so he learned to manipulate his way into conversation, gain favors, pull strings. It had become so easy that it almost rendered his telepathy redundant. 

Something in Welt’s composure fissured in that one instance. Sunday was too distracted by his own burning want to react to it immediately, but there is something there. He isn’t sure to what extent it goes, but it’s an unmistakable thread that had unspooled itself, unraveling in that sliver of a second. 

So he pulls on it.

At first, they were simple things. A hand that squeezed Welt’s arm, a casual lean that pressed their bodies close. Innocent enough, almost, but each touch was a calculated nudge. Small catches that Welt could easily dismiss if he wasn’t paying enough attention.

The problem was, if it was a problem, Welt always paid attention.

What were once deniable touches gave way to something more overt. The lingering warmth of his hand against Welt’s arm, hushed confidences whispered directly in his ear, a patented smile that Robin had once dubbed his “Catch and Release Smile”.

“What?” A surprised, breathy laugh escaped him the first time she mentioned it. They were sharing tea in the sunlit bay window, the afternoon light painting their cups a warm hue. 

“Don’t lie,” Robin had said, a tart delicately balanced in her hand. “I know that smile and you do it when you know someone likes you.”

Robin always did know him well. 

“It’s not as calculated as you think,” he’d said, setting down his cup. At that time, he was sure it wasn’t. 

He was at the cusp of adolescence then. Sunday was a symphony of long lines and aristocratic grace. His charisma, indisputable. He was fated to gather hearts like starlight, and to scatter them amongst the void when he saw fit. 

He was fully aware of his sway, but oblivious to its breadth.

“You’re hopeless,” Robin huffed. She bit into her dessert, a stubborn pout forming on her lips. “Must you always dance around these attractions?”

“Dear sister,” he flashed her a knowing smile. “That's half of the fun.”

—

If Welt is bothered, he doesn’t really show it.   

Sure he would sometimes wear a bewildered expression, or he would flush furiously on days Sunday was feeling particularly daring. But Welt never pulled away or increased their distance. In fact, Sunday notes with some satisfaction, he seems to almost lean into the touches.

Sunday revels in the delicate push and pull of their connection. A mutual construction. They gather moments like smooth river stones, piling them on top of each other in perfect balance. Quiet, beautiful cairns set upon a tranquil scenery.

He thinks this should be sufficient. To even exist in the shared space of unspoken attraction, especially with someone like Welt Yang, is an extraordinary privilege. It’s more than someone like him deserves. 

Sunday should be grateful, but an ugly swath of greed pulses somewhere beneath his skin. 

—

“Could you pass me the Phillips?” 

Sunday stands rooted at the mouth of one of the passenger cars, holding a tray of refreshments. Unfortunately (or fortunately, depending on how he looks at it) his brain has once again found itself caught between what he suspects to be a nascent sense of arousal and embarrassment. 

Welt stands atop the ladder, silhouetted against the overhead light fixture he is inspecting. His coat and cane lie in a crumpled heap on the adjacent seat, abandoned.

Sunday’s eyes follow the lines of Welt's arms, drawn to the subtle shift of muscle beneath the thin black shirt. The fabric pulls taut across Welt’s chest, and Sunday glimpses a triangle of skin peeking above the waistband as he reaches upwards.

“Uhm,” Sunday says intelligently because, against all belief, he’s not an animal. He sets the drinks down and focuses on dragging his eyes away from the man’s form. Near his feet, there is a toolbox with a clutch of screwdrivers. He makes a blind grab for any number of them. 

“Where’s Himeko?” Welt asks conversationally, he wipes the sweat from his forehead and pushes the hair away from his face. 

“I didn’t see her. I thought she was here with you.” 

Sunday approaches, holding out a whole bundle of tools. Welt laughs from his perch. 

“It’s the one with the green handle.”

“Okay.” 

“Thank you.” 

After some work on an offending light fitting, Welt nods, a small gesture of self-satisfaction. He descends the ladder and grabs his cane, banishing the shadowy orbs that had gathered near its base.

"Convenient,” Sunday murmurs, extending an icy can of soda. Welt’s hand closes around it, a silent thank you. He peels off his one glove with his teeth before tucking it in his back pocket. 

Sunday’s stomach does a little flip. His composure is, blessedly, still intact. 

The crisp pop of the soda can punctures the silence of the car. Welt sips at his drink gingerly and Sunday silently thanks whichever Aeon decided he’d had enough heart attacks for the day. 

“Stelle told me she was going to get the soda. You shouldn’t let her bully you into doing things for her.”

“I didn’t,” Sunday corrects. “Dan Heng needed her over for something.”

Ah, Dan Heng . Beautiful, taciturn Dan Heng. The same Dan Heng whose big brain has a lightning-fast processor, able to leap to conclusions with such velocity that Sunday finds himself sprinting madly to catch up.

“We weren’t doing anything.” He had said in a furious whisper. Sunday had finally cornered the young man in the kitchen two days after the supply closet incident. 

Following his brief, uncharacteristic display of shock, Dan Heng now had the gall to look completely unbothered. He chewed on his chips with the unhurried pace of a geriatric tortoise. 

“Sunday. Seeing both of you practically tangled together in a dark, enclosed space has already given me enough context.” Then, he sighed as though he had rehearsed this very conversation a few too many times in his head. “It’s fine. Why are you dwelling on this?”

“Because nothing is going on between us. I was giving Welt a… a pep talk!” Sunday half-wailed. “Also, ‘tangled together’ is an overstatement and you know it!”

Dan Heng’s eyes narrowed. He shoved another chip in his mouth. “'Welt', huh.”

Sunday planted his head on the counter, opting for silence.

Welt’s voice jolts him from his memories: “We’ll be making the short stop to Jarilo-VI in a few days.”

“Hm?”

“To drop off the gift from General Jing Yuan.”

“Ah, of course.”

It happens before Sunday can stop himself, but his nose does a displeased twitch at the mention of the general’s name. He chastises himself internally and chances a quick glance at Welt. Fortunately, he doesn’t seem to notice Sunday’s small, juvenile display of distaste.

Instead, the man fixes him with a steady gaze over his glasses. “I was wondering if you’d still be interested in joining me? We did discuss going on a mission, just the two of us.”

Sunday’s gratitude to the Aeons might have been premature. He didn’t think Welt would remember the invitation, or even bring it up again. The unexpected follow-through sends a nervous flutter through his wings. He purses his lips.

“If that’s what you wish,” he finds himself saying, like a coward. Sunday berates himself for not committing when it counts.

“Oh.”

Welt’s expression falls. The subtle upturn of his lips fades, leaving behind a thin line of disappointment that settles like lead in Sunday's stomach.

As a former authority figure, he had been accustomed to the detached precision of delivering measured disappointment. It was a pragmatic necessity. A routine born from his rigorous training as the Oak Family successor. It was a tool honed to a razor’s edge, an art form perfected through years of disciplined education.

With Welt, however, he finds himself unexpectedly reeling. His thoughts race, frantically scrambling for ways to amend this miscalculation. 

But Welt is the first to speak.

“That won’t do,” he steps forward, closing the distance between them. “I’m asking what you want, Sunday.”

The force of his words lands between his ribs, like an invisible blade. Sunday feels as if he has been struck. He opens and closes his mouth, voice trapped in between desperate apologies and self-rationalizations. They tangle like a useless knot at his throat. He can’t comprehend the paralysis gripping him—he isn’t a child, nor is a stranger to social graces. But the weight of Welt’s disappointment feels like a physical blow, a crushing reminder of the fragile nature of this second chance. He stammers, as though clawing at the air, desperate not to let this tenuous connection dissolve like smoke between his fingers. 

"Sunday?" Welt's approaches again, voice now laced with a distinct worry. He watches Sunday's frozen posture, the way his eyes seem to struggle to focus. "I'm sorry," he offers, a gentle hand reaching out. "I didn't mean to pressure you."

"No, I—" Sunday’s eyes, wide with a sudden fear, lock onto Welt’s. His hands shoot out, gripping Welt's forearms with surprising force, as if fearing he would disappear. "You don't have to apologize," he stammers, voice tight. "I'm just—it came out wrong. I’m sorry.”

Head bowed, Sunday struggles to find the right words. "I want to go with you, truly," he says, his voice earnest. "I didn't mean to sound hesitant."

An oppressive silence fills the space between them, thick and cold. Sunday's eyes remain fixed on the floor, his fingers twitching on Welt's arms even as he tries to still them. He anticipates Welt's pity, the soothing words meant to mend the broken pieces. But he knows it won’t be the same between them anymore. He has irrevocably tilted the balance of their relationship, sending the delicate cairns crashing into a heap of fractured trust.

With a feather-light touch, Welt gently lifts Sunday's chin, drawing his gaze upwards.

"Listen, Sunday," Welt begins, his expression reassuring, his tone measured. "Let’s table this, yes?" He offers a small smile. "It's alright. And please, no apologies. The offer still stands."

Welt's thumb is a gentle caress against his skin, his tether to the present. A reminder that he is still here. He hasn’t left. 

“I really didn’t mean to make it sound like I didn’t want to go.”

"I know. I believe you." Welt replies, voice quiet. His fingers find their place on the delicate curve of Sunday's neck and shoulder, a comforting pressure that eases the tension in his body. Sunday savors the weight of it.

He looks up at Welt and is struck by the new, unfamiliar lines of worry creasing his face. A guilt has settled somewhere there. Sunday wishes he could vanish it away. 

His fingers move instinctively, gently sweeping aside the stray strands of hair that shadow Welt's gaze. What he finds there, a burning concern and raw worry, stops him cold. He can’t reconcile the sight with himself, the idea that he is the source of such distress.

“I’m alright, Welt. Please don’t worry.” 

"Mhm," Welt murmurs, taking Sunday's hand into his. He nestles into the palm, a tender echo of his drunken night. With a soft, tentative press of his lips, he kisses it, eyes searching Sunday's face for any sign of displeasure.

There are none. In the quieter recesses of Sunday’s thoughts, he carefully selects another smooth river stone and adds it to the stack.

He moves until there is no space left between them, chest pressing against Welt's. Sunday leans closer, feeling the warmth of Welt’s breath fan across his cheeks. Amber eyes fill with a quiet acceptance. They soften, growing heavy with anticipation. 

Sunday draws a sharp breath. A silent preparation. He closes his eyes, the movement deliberate, a release into the unknown.

“Sunday, March is looking for you in the kitchen.”

Sunday’s eyes snap open. He and Welt spring apart. 

"Huh—?" He spins around, face flushing crimson.

Himeko's eyebrows pinch together, her eyes taking in the scene. Then, a flash of understanding. Her face smooths, though a faint, suppressed smile plays at the corners of her lips.

“She says you were supposed to make lunch?” 

“Oh. Right.” 

With an awkward, hurried shuffle, Sunday makes his exit, leaving Welt to watch him go.

— 

Sunday can’t sleep. Par for the course, really. But this time, it isn’t his dreams that keep him awake.

The day's events cycle through his thoughts, a relentless, punishing loop of his fraught encounters. He clings to the idea that he has at least survived. Sunday's mind feels like a frayed wire, sparking and sputtering, as if he'd just tiptoed through a death trap, each step a calculated risk, each near-miss a mental jolt. He is utterly depleted, every ounce of his energy siphoned away

Sunday drags a hand down his face. His eyes flutter closed as he pauses at his mouth; an attempt to recapture the warmth of Welt's kiss on his palm. Gentle heat blooms in his stomach. It’s a comforting, almost drowsy sensation.

He pushes himself upright. Much as he would like to indulge in his fantasies, there are other pressing matters to attend to. Foremost, Welt’s invitation to him.

Sunday shifts uneasily, worrying that he hadn’t made his reply clear enough. That he has somehow left room for Welt to doubt his sincerity. It wriggles at the back of his skull, a numbing tension that spreads across his scalp. He needs to erase any ambiguity, to make his intentions crystal clear.

He would like to go on this mission with Welt. Very much.

That's what he wants to say, at least, but the sight in the Party Car stuns him somewhat. Welt, again stripped of his usual coat, is wearing the familiar heather grey t-shirt—the same one from their initial meeting that one night. He has his legs crossed, a bag of candy balanced on his knee as he watches the starlight paint the passing cosmos.

Sunday, for the lack of a better greeting, tilts his head at him. “Why are you eating candy?”

Welt’s amber gaze flicks to him. He smiles, the candy pushing slightly against his cheek.

“I’m trying not to drink.” 

A breathy laugh escapes Sunday. "And this is supposed to help?" 

He sits across from Welt, reaches for the bag, and pops a piece into his mouth. The sour, almost comforting tang settles on his tongue.

Welt watches him closely.

They share the bag between them, punctuated by Welt's soft commentary on the constellations. Sunday, his posture rigid, braces himself to finally say what is on his mind. He tries to find the perfect moment, the perfect words. He is, admittedly, terrified of being misunderstood, of saying the wrong thing again and creating another rift between them. But he knows he has to speak, lest the opportunity slip away.

But Welt's voice, a gentle interruption, beats him to it.

“You said it's unwise of me to shield them from my worries.” 

Sunday blinks, his wings giving an involuntary flutter as the forgotten conversation resurfaces. An image of the younger crew and Himeko flashes through his mind. “I did.”

Welt appears thoughtful for a moment. “Did I ever tell you I have a son?”

Sunday presses his lips together. Himeko had mentioned it in passing the first few weeks he had joined the Express. It had seemed inconsequential then. Now, however, it resonated with a newfound weight.

"You must miss him, being so far from home," Sunday says hesitantly, his voice soft. He glances down at the bright blue candy pinched between his forefinger and thumb, then places it on his tongue.

"I do," Welt confesses. He turns to the window, the blue light of space casting him in a melancholic glow. "I don't know if I'll ever find a way back. I think... I think I'm using them as stand-ins." He looks down at the bag of candy. A frown tightens his lips. 

Then, “Do you think I’m terrible for it?”

“No,” Sunday replies with utmost surety. He meets Welt’s eyes. “You’re simply a parent who misses his child, that’s all.”

"And I don't believe you see them as stand-ins," Sunday continues, earnest yet gentle. "They are, after all, family as well."

A genuine smile lights up Welt's face, a touch brighter than before. "You're part of that family now, too, you know."

The warmth that stirs in Sunday's chest is a small, flickering thing, like a newly kindled ember in a cold hearth. To be considered as part of his family? The pang of undeservedness that follows is a sharp ache. He's not sure if he is worthy of this, especially after everything. Everything being the weight of his past transgressions. Everything being this tenuous, beautiful thing he holds for Welt Yang. Sunday feels caught in a painful paradox; he craves the warmth offered, but his own ingrained sense of unworthiness threatens to extinguish it. 

As if handling a newborn bird, he cups the meager flame. 

"Ah, and yet you don't shield me from what worries you," Sunday teases. He lets a playful grin spread across his face. 

“You’re different.”

“Because I’m new?”

“Because you know what it’s like.” Welt gives him a wan smile. “To yearn so deeply for a world without suffering, that you'd willingly bear the weight of that sacrifice.” 

Sunday stares at him, a dazed expression on his face. He struggles to process the revelation. It strikes him then, with a startling clarity, that his knowledge of Welt is limited to their shared time on the Express. The man before him, the one who existed before, remains a mystery.

Welt might not care to delve into his past, but Sunday finds himself inexplicably drawn to it.

There’s a space between now and tomorrow that Sunday wishes would stretch. Maybe by then, he’d have mustered enough courage to say what needed to be said. But for now, he just shifts uncomfortably in his seat, fear and this new swell of affection threatening to suffocate him.

Welt—for all of his profound wisdom—simply smiles from his seat, oblivious.

“Oh, this is the last one,” he says before quickly bringing the candy to his mouth. 

“Ah!” 

Welt’s posture tightens, startled by the sudden exclamation. "Yes?"

"I wanted that.” Sunday narrows his eyes at him. He crosses his arms and looks away, disappointed. 

Welt cocks his head, a thoughtful pause stretching into a moment of visible deliberation. Sunday recognizes the expression: his thinking face. Then, something like mischief glints in his amber eyes. 

He rises from his seat, closing the distance until he's standing directly before Sunday. Welt reaches out, gloved hand tilting Sunday's chin upward, his fingers brushing lightly against his lower lip. Sunday's breath hitches, mind reeling, veering sharply into unexpected, inappropriate territory.

But Welt doesn’t waver, his breath is a warm rush against Sunday's skin. His fingers trace the curve of Sunday's jaw, a slow, deliberate exploration, before leaning in to press against his lips. 

A gasp startles out of Sunday, a mix of surprise and a confusing flicker of pleasure. Welt's tongue slides along his lower lip, coaxing his mouth open. Sunday immediately obeys.

But before he can even deepen the kiss, the soft pressure of Welt's tongue meets his, slipping the candy between their lips.

Sunday blinks as Welt pulls away, victory manifesting as a small smile curling at the corner of his mouth. 

“Mhm,” he nods, looking entirely pleased at Sunday’s flushed face. “Payback for earlier, I suppose.”

He turns away toward the exit, humming a tune as he goes. 

Chapter Text

In hindsight, Sunday thinks Welt should have known this would happen.

Or maybe not. He’s not sure the man could have had any inkling of what it means to express explicit interest in Sunday and to actually have that interest reciprocated. Granted, Welt might have anticipated some form of focused pursuit given Sunday’s past, but surely not… this. It is a leap to connect calculated eternal entrapment to romantic attraction, after all. And it was possible Sunday had compartmentalized those aspects of himself completely. But he digresses. 

The point is!

Sunday can be a little intense.

Restraint isn't entirely absent, though he admits he isn't immune to opportunity. Welt had been the instigator, the one to initiate. Sunday reasoned, quite logically, that he’s simply capitalizing on an opening. It’s only fair.

A soft groan escapes Welt’s lips as he surfaces from the kiss. “Sunday,” he pants. The air still thick with the heat of their proximity. Sunday trails feather-light kisses on his jaw, his hands roaming.

With a sudden, almost frantic motion, he snatches Welt’s glasses, tossing them onto the kitchen counter with a clatter. He surges forward again, lips crashing against Welt’s in another deep, consuming kiss. Welt stumbles backward, the cool edge of the counter pressing against his spine, one hand gripping the surface for support, the other threading through Sunday’s hair.

Sunday’s patience, already a brittle thing, splinters under the weight of Welt’s body against his. The warmth radiating from him, the flex of muscles beneath his t-shirt, the taste of him on his tongue has become too, too much. Sunday’s fraying nerves hum with barely contained want, a sputtering livewire screaming for release. He snakes a possessive arm around Welt’s waist, arching the man’s back off the counter to press closer. 

Welt jolts at the pressure, groaning against Sunday’s mouth. He gently pushes off, breaking the kiss to look dazedly at Sunday. 

Euphoria swirling, Sunday registers a distinct sense of satisfaction. His plan had succeeded. A silent, triumphant take that echoes in his mind, directed squarely at Dan Heng.

—

A few days before

After Welt's little stunt with the candy, Sunday had been forced into a moment of contemplation. He needed to formulate A Plan. Decide how to proceed. How to go about this whole thing. As for the question of genuine desire? That was a redundant thought, dismissed with a mental scoff.

In the spirit of fairness, he wasn’t planning to completely blindside Welt. He'd grant the man a brief respite, a few days of calculated solitude. A chance, perhaps, for Welt to gather his thoughts, reassess, or even silently retract the implications of their initial kiss. 

The waiting, however, was its own kind of torment.

It had been a couple of days since then. Sunday had to admit he was becoming increasingly used to this game of hide-and-seek. Not that it wore on his nerves any less. 

Welt hadn’t even approached him the morning after it Happened. Was it some kind of heartless prank? Sunday didn’t want to entertain the idea, because that wasn’t very Mr. Yang-like of Welt. Then again, teasing him via unconventional candy transfer wasn’t exactly very Mr. Yang-like either. Or was it? Just one more thing for Sunday to confirm when he manages to disentangle himself from this knot of confusion. The scope and breadth of how Welt expressed his worldly desires was unfortunately not in his realm of expertise. Yet. 

So, again, Sunday is forced to stew in his blistering pool of longing. He could (maybe, probably) endure this.

Thankfully, his first breakthrough arrived amidst the chaos of the spice cabinet, a testament to March and Stelle’s heathen disregard for alphabetical order. Sunday, with a controlled exhale, commenced the meticulous task of restoration, grouping similar bottles with exacting precision and relegating the dissimilar ones to the far ends of the storage. Perched precariously at the summit of the chaotic spice pile, however, was a slender bottle of coriander. It mocked him. Sunday strained on his tiptoes to reach it but remained frustratingly inches short.

He was in the process of wondering whether the supply closet assignment was a fluke on Stelle’s part when a gloved hand darted into his peripheral vision.

“Here.”

Welt came up from behind him, a silent presence, reaching for the spice. One hand rested lightly on Sunday's waist as he retrieved the bottle and placed it gently into Sunday's open palm.

“Thank you.” Sunday said, his eyes probing Welt's for any sign of awkwardness. Welt, frustratingly consistent, wore his usual amiable expression. Either he was completely unbothered by what he had done just a few days ago, or he was doing a damn fine job at pretending. 

“I could’ve sworn we had a stool for this. I’ll ask Stelle if she left it somewhere.” 

“Hm.”

Then, Sunday caught it. So minute that it almost didn’t register. As Welt pivoted, Sunday caught the briefest pursing of his lips: like he was trying hard not to smile. 

Sunday’s stomach did a flip.

Was Welt still teasing him then? It seemed incongruous with his usual demeanor, this blend of mischievousness and disarming charm. Adorable. Sunday’s eyes narrowed, a silent vow of retribution. He’d get his revenge. 

So, as Sunday, or at least the old Sunday was wont to do, he commenced his many machinations. 

Naturally, this goes without saying that as Newly Reformed Sunday, he couldn’t come up with anything so malicious. He decided he was simply going to be annoying. Ena knew he’d succeeded at being a specific brand of Big Brother pest to Robin when they were children. There was no reason he couldn’t reawaken this dormant ability to be an insufferable nuisance when it really mattered. However, targeting Welt required a more tailored approach.

As with all things, he started small. The gestures remained familiar, but the stage had shifted; he executed them now with the Crew as his audience. He’d casually drop his chin onto Welt’s shoulder as the man scrolled through his phone, a subtle encroachment. He progressed to tentative leans against Welt’s frame, or the fleeting touch of his hand against the man’s lower back as they walked.

Then he escalated things. A casual brush against the front of Welt’s coat, a pretense of smoothing wrinkles. A lean across the lunch table, a delicate swipe at an imaginary crumb. And, Aeon forbid, the purposeful taking of Welt’s hand in the corridor.

“This is your plan?” Dan Heng asks him archly in the kitchen. “To touch him to death? Aeons know we’re the only ones catching strays from it. Stelle's going to need a chiropractor after all the whiplash she's getting just from watching you.” 

Their daily rendezvous at the kitchen counter had become an unlikely forum for discourse on the Express's affairs and beyond. Whether it was to snipe at the IPC or to clarify specific Data Bank information, Dan Heng and Sunday had become consistently drawn to this space. In recent times, when left alone, they would discuss Sunday’s romantic inclinations, as it were. 

Sunday was rightly offended at his tone. “If you have better ideas, Mr. Cold Dragon Young, I’m open to suggestions.”

"Direct communication would yield swifter results," Dan Heng suggested, his expression a mask of thinly veiled disapproval. Sunday found his lack of imagination baffling. "In fact," the younger man continued, "I refuse to participate in any scheme involving you and Mr. Yang. This variety, specifically."

Sunday raised a hand. “Your contribution is noted. Now simmer in its tedium.”

“Gladly. Spares me from the image of you sticking your tongues down each other’s throats.” Dan Heng’s entire body cringes, the image likely already floating in his poor mind. 

“Actually, he—”

"No," Dan Heng stated flatly, abruptly covering his ears.

“Until he talks to me about it first , I’m not going to say anything.” Sunday drops his voice lower “ He’s the one who kissed me .”

Dan Heng stabs his salad with a fork and mumbles around a piece of lettuce. “Both of you are embarrassing.” 

—

A few more days had passed since, and Sunday's initial confidence in his plan to wear Welt down had evaporated, leaving behind a hollow sense of futility.

They were trapped in one of the booths in the Party Car, arbitrating  an intense trading card game: Welt distracted with his phone and Sunday slumped low in his seat, his spine curving against the backrest. Why they needed a referee for this, Sunday didn’t know. Just that it was established there was a need after an Incident with Stelle. 

Sunday, understandably, was doing a piss poor job at officiating given how he was feeling particularly morose at his failed schemes.

Meanwhile, Welt remained absorbed in his phone. Sunday sneaked a glance, then subtly inched his hand closer. For days, he'd been meticulously mapping Welt's boundaries, gauging which touches were tolerated, which were ignored. Not that they elicited any notable reaction. Welt was largely unmoved, as though he had, to Sunday’s dismay, grown immune.

Sunday sighs. Thinking it pointless to try and initiate any more hand-holding at this point. 

He had to concede that Welt's resilience was remarkable. Not even a hint of a blush betrayed his composure, even when Sunday's touches grew bolder. He’d reached an impasse, unsure what other public displays might trigger a response, and he was loath to push Welt's limits. After this, he’d resolved to just approach the man and be done with it. Sunday didn’t know why Welt had dragged this whole game out in the first place, but he clearly won. Sunday knew when to admit defeat. 

He sighs again.

Still fixated on his phone, Welt's squinting caught Sunday's attention. He leaned closer, realizing the man was struggling to make out the tiny text on the screen. Sunday wanted to reach over and pinch his cheeks.

“They’ve stated a fixed price, but are open to trades for other figures,” Sunday blurted out, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. His mouth snapped shut with a soft click, the sharp realization hitting him that he'd probably breached some unspoken boundary, maybe even privacy by reading from Welt's phone. He sank into his seat, a flush creeping up his neck as he watched Welt type a quick comment on the post, hoping he hadn't crossed a line.

Sunday pulled back, suddenly aware of himself. Perhaps Welt’s lack of reaction was simply a reflection of his kindness, his natural inclination to be patient and tolerant. Sunday had likely grown too comfortable, too accustomed to the freedom he was granted around the Express. He needed to practice more self-discipline. Wasn’t he reforming?

He had begun to retract his hand when Welt's own settled over it, a decisive weight. He laced their fingers together, then calmly positioned their joined hands atop his knee.

"I've sent an inquiry," Welt remarked, not paying any mind to their linked hands. "Trading is tricky, but we’ll have to try." Then he continued scrolling on his phone, eyes still narrowed in concentration.

Sunday’s throat was suddenly thick with affection. “Let’s hope they respond back, then.”

Welt hummed, absently rubbing his thumb against Sunday’s. There was a sort of deep, languid satisfaction to the sound. Sunday yearned to mirror that contentment, if only for this specific moment. 

They stayed like that for a while, a stillness settling over them. Until Stelle's indignant cry of “UNFAIR!” echoed throughout the Party Car. 

—

Now

His throat feels raw from shouting. Sunday woke, parched, from a third nightmare, the persistent dread clinging to his periphery even as he managed to snatch brief snatches of sleep.

The dreams are not as insidious as before, often tapering off in the middle or waning in consistency. But some nights they still insisted upon him, as though reminding him that his past is never too far off. That he can’t stop running. That he is still in penance. It scares him sometimes, how easily he can forget. 

Sunday releases an exhausted sigh and gets up from his bed. Hopefully a drink will give him some small relief.

He pulls on a white t-shirt and rubs his eyes, trying to shake off the lingering fog of sleep. Another long night looms ahead. A small, guilt-tinged hope surfaces: that Welt might be in the Party Car. Even if it means he, too, had a restless night, at least they can be miserable together.

Sunday drifts into the kitchen first, stifling a yawn with his wing. But he halts mid-step, surprised to find Welt there, sketching. He’s dressed in a slight departure from his usual pajamas: a black t-shirt, sweatpants, and… slides? Welt leans forward on the counter, perched casually on the smooth surface, his expression focused as he works. His eyes flicker up as Sunday enters. 

“Can’t sleep?”

Sunday chuckles, half-surprised and half-happy to see him. “You know it.” 

He goes around the counter and grabs a drink from the refrigerator. Welt’s eyes follow him.

“New routine?” Sunday asks in turn before sipping on his drink.

“Mhm. The person I was looking forward to seeing wasn’t in their usual spot. I thought that maybe they finally got some sleep.”

Sunday can’t help but beam at him. He approaches and peers over to look at Welt’s drawing. It appears to be some sort of automaton. 

“What do you draw, usually?” Sunday asks in awe, marveling at the amount of detail poured into the work.

This is the first time he’s seen Welt sketching. He’s heard snippets about his animator days, working overtime to meet deadlines, securing funding to build a giant mecha. It all seemed so fantastical, so removed from reality, that seeing Welt's drawing now feels like a tangible link. It gives him a grounding point, a way to connect the myth to the man. Like a small, intimate window into Welt's world.

Welt’s stories are typically shared with excitement and enthusiasm, but Sunday knows that being an animator can be a frustrating profession. Now, he sees the depth of Welt’s passion—an unwavering commitment that speaks to a profound love for his craft. Sunday feels a sense of relief, glad to see that creating still brings him joy

“Oh, this and that. Interesting things," he says, sliding the sketchbook toward Sunday.

He expects to see technical sketches. Maybe of the Express or some other machinery. However, a flip through the pages reveals a surprising diversity. There are still life sketches interspersed with blocky architectural renderings and sweeping landscapes. Most striking, though, are the candid portraits. Welt has captured fleeting moments of everyday life, passengers on public transport, vendors in the market, their stories etched in fine pencil strokes. 

Sunday smiles as he looks at them all, feeling his heart grow two sizes bigger. 

“I don’t suppose there are any drawings of me here, somewhere…?” He asks with a playful lilt to his voice. Sunday puts his chin in his hand expectantly.

"Well," Welt murmurs, his eyes drifting away shyly, "it would be pointless to deny the obvious." He pauses, then adds, "Though I think I find you more beautiful than interesting."

Sunday feels heat creep up his cheeks, but tries his best to feign nonchalance. He splays a hand over his chest in mock offense. “Excuse you, I am plenty interesting.” 

Welt laughs freely, and Sunday savors the sound. "You know what I mean," the older man says, fixing him with a steady gaze. Sunday meets his eyes, letting the silence stretch between them, a playful tension simmering in the air.

This time. This time, he doesn’t shy away. The pretenses have long since crumbled, leaving room for only the raw truth. He pulls Welt into a close, enveloping embrace, breathing in the familiar, comforting scent of pine. Sunday tightens his arms slightly, with a gentle reverence, as if holding something precious and fragile. Welt’s hands find their place on his lower back, a reassuring weight. They let the quiet intimacy settle around them like a soft blanket.

Sunday looks up at Welt's face. Burnished gold meets warm, honeyed amber. His eyelids droop half-closed, lips moving ever so slightly towards Welt’s. A silence still hangs between them. A question. Welt’s breath catches in his throat, pulse quickening.

It’s Sunday that closes the distance. His lips brush against Welt's, gently, hesitantly. The warmth of their connection sparks a rush through his chest. For a moment, everything stills—time seems to stretch, infinite, like the Star Rail laid throughout the cosmos. Welt's eyes flutter shut as he melts into the kiss, his hand coming up to cradle the back of Sunday’s neck. His lips are far softer than Sunday remembers them being. The feel of them sends his head spinning, carrying him off into a weightless bliss. 

Sunday deepens the kiss, his tongue tracing the delicate line of Welt's lips. They part easily for him, yielding under his gentle coaxing. Welt tastes familiar, effervescent, like his favorite fizzy drink on a hot summer day. 

Kissing him feels like a kindling. Like a slow burn that spreads steadily through his veins. Sunday desperately wants more of it.

A soft groan escapes Welt’s lips as he surfaces from the kiss. “Sunday,” he pants. The air still thick with the heat of their proximity. Sunday trails feather-light kisses on his jaw, his hands roaming.

With a sudden, almost frantic motion, he snatches Welt’s glasses, tossing them onto the kitchen counter with a clatter. He surges forward again, lips crashing against Welt’s in another deep, consuming kiss. Welt stumbles backward, the cool edge of the counter pressing against his spine, one hand gripping the surface for support, the other threading through Sunday’s hair.

Sunday’s patience, already a brittle thing, splinters under the weight of Welt’s body against his. The warmth radiating from him, the flex of muscles beneath his t-shirt, the taste of him on his tongue has become too, too much. Sunday’s fraying nerves hum with barely contained want, a sputtering livewire screaming for release. He snakes a possessive arm around Welt’s waist, arching the man’s back off the counter to press closer. 

Welt jolts at the pressure, groaning against Sunday’s mouth. He gently pushes off, breaking the kiss to look dazedly at Sunday. 

Euphoria swirling, Sunday registers a distinct sense of satisfaction. His plan had succeeded. A silent, triumphant take that echoes in his mind, directed squarely at Dan Heng

He gathers his resolve. Sunday wants more . He dips his fingers beneath Welt’s waistband, relishing the older man’s sharp intake of breath, the delicious relinquishing of control.

“Sunday, wait,” Welt’s voice cracks, his hand a limp resistance on Sunday’s wrist. 

“You don’t want to?” Sunday asks, his voice a breathy exhale. He looks up at Welt through his lashes.

Welt looks down at him, amber eyes darkening. “More than you realize.” He licks his lips, and Sunday resists the urge to bite them. “But are you sure about this?”

In response, Sunday takes Welt into his hand. He hears his own voice, a pent up whimper built up at the back of his throat. Welt stiffens.

“Please.”

Welt kisses him again, more desperate and hungry, and Sunday all but whines into his mouth. His free hand ghosts up Welt’s side, tracing his contours, slipping beneath the hem of his t-shirt. Welt’s arm is a steady weight around his shoulders, while his other hand cards through Sunday’s hair. 

“Welt” Sunday chokes out, feeling the hot slide of Welt’s length against his palm. He’s suddenly, mortifyingly overwhelmed—the slick feel of Welt in his fingers, his hot breath at the crook of his neck, his mouth planting wet kisses on his throat. Sunday wants and wants and wants.

Welt’s weight settles into his hand, the subtle rocking of his hips sending shivers of pleasure through Sunday. A throbbing heat pulses in his core, aching with want. He pants against Welt's shoulder as he squeezes his tip with shallow strokes, the pressure just enough to make Welt cling. His breath is a broken whisper against Sunday’s ear.

“Fuck, Sunday. So good. You’re so good to me.”

The sound of Welt's voice is enough to send a shudder through Sunday’s body. His eyelids drift closed, a soft moan escaping his lips as Welt's hips move, a rhythmic rut against him. 

His breath hitches, a sharp intake as the friction intensifies, each thrust sending waves of heat radiating through him. Sunday's free hand clenches around the fabric of Welt's shirt, anchoring himself as the pleasure builds, a tightening coil in his core. Welt's voice rumbles against his ear, each plea and praise igniting the already burning ache between them. 

"Please. Please, Welt," he breathes, the name a prayer. His own hips begin to move instinctively, pressing into the hand that holds him, seeking the friction. The world fades around him, reduced to the feel of Welt's slick length in his grip, the sound of his ragged breaths, the building, unbearable pleasure that threatens to shatter him. 

“Come for me, please?” Sunday whispers into the shell of his ear. 

A low, guttural moan escapes Welt’s throat, a sound of pure, unadulterated need. He reaches his peak, a blinding wave of sensation washing over him. “Sunday. God,” He groans, curling into Sunday, wrapping him in his arms, gathering him close as he presses his face into Sunday’s neck.

A shudder rips through Welt, his body arching. The thick pulse of release floods Sunday's hand. Sunday's own breath catches in his throat, a wave of aftershocks rippling through him sends his knees buckling. He blinks dazedly, looking at a fixed point on the wall, feeling the slick evidence of Welt's pleasure coating his palm.

The kitchen sinks into stillness, broken only by the soft, ragged rhythm of their breaths. The air is thick, charged with the aftertaste of exertion, and for a moment, neither of them seemed to be in any rush to shatter the silence.

“ Oh. ” Sunday somehow manages, still hazy.

Welt’s head snaps up at the sound of his voice. “What’s wrong?” He asks, breathless. He gently cradles Sunday’s face, worry flooding his expression.

“I forgot to tell you. I want to go on that mission with you.” 

Welt stares at him, blinking slowly. He huffs in exasperation, still flustered by his unraveling, before chuckling at the absurdity of Sunday's comment. With a sigh, he pulls him into another embrace, his arms wrapping around him once more.

“Alright, alright.” 

Chapter Text

“Once again, I must extend my heartfelt thanks to the Astral Express for delivering such a profound gift. On behalf of myself and all the citizens of Belobog, please accept our deepest gratitude."

The Supreme Guardian of Belobog, a young woman named Bronya Rand clasps her hands over Welt’s, her eyes shining with unshed tears.

Something stirs in Sunday’s chest. A deep, resonant empathy for a woman who has done everything within her power to safeguard the happiness of those under her care. He is moved not just by her gratitude, but by her unguarded honesty. Sunday himself would never have shown such emotion, even at the height of his guardianship over Penacony. And yet, here she stands: a strong, capable leader, allowing herself to feel. To hope. As Belobog’s long-buried history begins to surface, so too does the glimmer of renewal in her eyes.

The flash drive rests carefully on her desk, catching a faint glint in the dim light of her office—a small, nondescript thing containing no more than fifteen seconds of footage. Just fifteen seconds of a fellow Belobogian, a man named Igor, partaking in the Xianzhou Luofu’s grand Wardance Festival light-years away from their isolated civilization. Proof that, in some distant, forgotten era, their people had reached the stars too.

Sunday smiles to himself as his gaze drifts toward Welt.

He pauses, wings suddenly fluttering in worry. 

Welt is smiling, but there’s a strain to it, as though his expression is shadowed by grief. 

—

They stand side by side in front of Qlipoth Fort, waiting for their assigned chaperone. Welt occupies himself by watching the flow of people in the nearby plaza, while Sunday fiddles around with his phone.

Bronya Rand had assured them a guide would show them around Belobog, mentioning it almost in passing as she proceeded to commandeer the paperwork spilling from her desk. It dawned on Sunday then, as he bent to help gather a few stray sheets, just how overwhelmed she truly was. Sparing even one staff member might be more of a strain than she’s letting on.

When he voiced this out, however, she merely waved her hand at him dismissively, as if he had suggested the unthinkable.

“It’s the least I can do,” she had said with a delicate sniff. “It’s your first time in Belobog, isn’t it? I must ensure you’re both given a proper tour.”

And so, here they are, standing outside the towering fort, braving the sharp chill of Belobog’s air. Sunday has taken it upon himself to document the outing on his phone, casually snapping photos and sending them to the Astral Express group chat.

He smiles at their many, chaotic replies (mostly from Stelle) and takes note of Dan Heng’s occasional recommendations. Among the flurry of enthusiastic messages, though, he spots a single line from March 7th that makes his thumb pause briefly over the screen.

how’s mr yang holding up? 

Sunday tilts his head at the message, not sure how to reply to it. He prepares to ask for clarification before it’s suddenly deleted.

He blinks, fingers hovering over the screen. Sunday starts to type out a question—only to watch the message deleted notification vanish beneath a rapid flood of new messages: Stelle’s enthusiastic list of the Ten Best Places to See in Belobog Before You Die, followed closely by an unexpected barrage of Data Bank links from Dan Heng, each one packed with historical deep-dives into Belobogian lore.

Not suspicious behavior at all, Sunday thinks as he exits the chat. 

He turns to his side slightly, casting a worried glance at his companion for the day. 

Welt seemed sufficiently excited before they set out on their mission (DATE!!! March 7th had yelled, her fist pumped in the air), so he isn’t sure what sparked the sudden change in mood. It isn’t that Welt was surly or grumpy during their excursion, but Sunday likes to think he’s gotten to know the man intimately enough to tell if he was trying to keep something under wraps.

Of course, this is not to say that Sunday is a veritable Welt Expert (yet), so there is a good chance he’s overthinking things. 

Robin had often said he had the habit of always trying to be at least ten paces ahead of anyone, never mind his intentions. 

“Sometimes all you have to do is keep in step, Sunday.” 

Sunday lines up the shot to capture a candid photo of Welt. The man doesn’t quite notice, presumably lost in thought as he stares at the Everwinter Monument. It stands a fair distance away, its glowing silhouette slicing through the crisp Belobogian air, an ethereal blue beacon at the heart of the plaza.

Then, through his screen, Sunday catches a flicker—a brief flash of something in Welt’s eyes. It’s a ghost of an expression, one that makes him think back to their meeting with the Supreme Guardian earlier in the day. Welt had seemed crestfallen, almost forlorn. At the time, Sunday couldn’t quite make sense of it, but now, as he watches him, he realizes he recognizes that look. He’s seen it before—back in that strange, unsettling room aboard the Herta Space Station.

“Is something the matter?”

Welt startles slightly, pulled from his reverie. His amber eyes blink rapidly as they snap back into focus. He makes a show of warming his hands up with his breath and giving Sunday an almost rehearsed  ‘yes, of course, why do you ask’ before slipping back into his usual, amiable mask.

Sunday narrows his eyes. This time, he doesn’t back down. “You had a look on your face… when you saw the Supreme Guardian. For a moment, I thought you two might have some hostile history, but it seemed to me like this is the first time she’s met you.”

Welt’s expression falters. A bit of surprise, and maybe panic? Sunday assumes that he didn’t expect him to keep pressing the issue, but if they are going to give this dating thing a try, he figures honesty might be the best place to start.

Sunday gently laces his fingers through Welt’s and gives him a questioning look. Welt hesitates, lips pursed, turning something over in his mind before finally letting out a quiet, resigned sigh.

“It’s nothing to worry about,” he mutters, almost burying his face in his scarf. He leans against Sunday’s shoulder. “In my world… I knew a Bronya too. The others mentioned the Supreme Guardian a few times, so I thought I was prepared to meet her.”

Welt lets out a soft, humorless chuckle. “Turns out I wasn’t.” He shrugs, a gesture that tries—and fails—to pass for nonchalance.

“She was a protege of sorts. I taught her a lot of things.”

There’s something else beneath Welt’s words—something deeper, unspoken. But Sunday decides that this is enough. He knows better than to dig before the soil is ready. Welt will tell him everything else when the time comes.

So instead, he simply tilts his head up, meeting Welt’s gaze. Sunday reaches up and brushes a lock of dark hair from his amber eyes.

“It’s not wrong to miss her, Welt,” he says softly. “You can feel sadness for these things and tell us.” 

Sunday doesn't know where it comes from—this deep-seated guilt Welt carries, as if missing things from his own world is forbidden, or as if he's not allowed to show how deeply it hurts that he can’t go back. But Sunday doesn’t need to know his reasons to understand. He simply takes from his own well, scarce and lacking as it is, and offers this parched man a drink, at least to help him through the day. 

“Aeons know I miss Robin a great deal myself. If anyone else told me I couldn’t even feel that for her, I would use tuning on them to do some very… morally ambiguous things.” 

The words startle a laugh out of Welt. Sunday’s breath hitches as he watches him, his profile caught in the harsh glare of the Belobog sun. The cold light frames Welt’s silhouette, crowning him in a soft, pale halo. 

For all of his compliments about how beautiful Sunday is, surely it hasn’t escaped the man that he is beautiful too?

Welt looks at him fully then, expression softening as he squeezes his fingers. “M’sorry I always have to have you look out for me.” 

“I don't mind.” Sunday grins, flushing under Welt's stare. "I'm realizing, stubborn as you are, that it's become my favorite thing to do, actually." 

—

Belobog’s Administrative District is reminiscent of the historical sets Sunday has only glimpsed in passing during his tours at Clockie Studios. He marvels at the sound of cobblestones beneath his boots, something about the cadence of his heels striking against the stone carries an echo of the bygones, as though he has been transported somewhere back in time. 

The sky is overcast, a slate gray that stretches beyond the horizon, and the light flurry of the eternal winter drapes a hushed chill over the city. 

Sunday cups his hands over his mouth, his breath misting in the cold. Childlike wonder spreads warmly over his chest. He can’t help but grin to himself. 

“Mr. Sunday? The cashier has rung up the books for you.” 

Pela appears beside him, his bag of books in hand. Sunday gratefully takes it from her and peeks inside, inspecting the contents. He’s pretty sure there are two or three more items than he originally bought.

“Miss Pela, I really appreciate the gifts. But are you sure I can take all of these?” He asks, for the nth time since the Intelligence Officer started sliding more books into his basket. Pela narrows her eyes at him and adjusts her glasses.

“I insist that you do. Especially since I added some of my own recommendations. You’ll have to tell me what you think of them.” 

Sunday beams at her, hugging his purchases (and gifts) to his chest. His wings flutter excitedly as they approach each other in a tight huddle to exchange contact information. 

“Done with your book shopping?” Welt calls from behind, his voice light. He inclines his head in greeting as he approaches. Sunday notices a single flower in his hand.

“Yes. Miss Pela and I were just discussing where else we might want to visit. Have you finished talking to Miss Himeko?”

“Mhm. She’s not sure what happened, but the Space Anchors will be offline for a bit. She’ll call back when she she finds a fix.”

Sunday worries his bottom lip. On one hand, the Space Anchor mishap means they’d have more time to explore Belobog. On the other… spending an entire day alone with Welt? He’s not sure his patience—or composure—can survive that. Not after what happened in the kitchen a few nights ago.

The memory warms his cheeks and, despite the biting Belobog weather, Sunday has the distinct urge to fan himself. 

“Don’t worry, Himeko will figure it out. For now, we’ll just enjoy the day, yes?” Welt steps closer. He reaches out, tucking a loose strand of hair behind Sunday’s ear, then nestles the flower beside it. Its soft, pale pink petals stand out delicately against the light of his hair.

“It’s called a Ball Peony,” Welt says, looking him over to inspect his handiwork. “They’re in season.” 

Sunday hugs the books to his chest again. He doesn’t need to look at a mirror to know his face must be a shade darker than the flower. 

“Thank you.” 

Welt smiles at him fondly. He turns to lead the way but pauses suddenly when his eyes land on Pela. 

“You alright there, Miss Pela?” 

The Silvermane Guard has her hands clasped over her mouth, her face ruddier than even Sunday’s. She squeaks out a ‘yes’ before trotting forward clumsily. 

Welt and Sunday look at each other and shrug.

—

For the most part, Pela embraces her role as their officially appointed chaperone and Belobog tour guide with unwavering diligence. She leads them through the city’s main thoroughfare with meticulous precision, then effortlessly navigates them through the Belobog Culture and History Museum. Sunday isn’t sure how she does it, but she manages to strike a perfect balance between answering every question, tending to their needs, and giving them enough space to explore at their own pace. If she weren’t part of Belobog’s military regiment, Sunday would almost swear she worked at the museum herself.

Strangely though, Sunday has noticed that she often hangs back to snap pictures at his and Welt’s directions. Specifically, during moments they’re bent over the tiny museum pamphlet or when Welt finds it particularly opportune to hold his hand.

They linger at the Industrial Hall a while longer so Welt can take a few reference photos, occasionally oohing and ahhing over the intricate automaton models. Sunday watches as he is gradually drawn into conversation, first by a hulking automaton called Svarog, who happens to be on museum duty that day, and then by a young girl named Clara, who approaches them shyly at first. The moment she learns they’re companions of Stelle’s, though, her nerves seem to melt away. She launches into an enthusiastic discussion with Welt about Old World technology and just how cool the Automaton Direwolves are.

They’re making one last sweep through the museum when Welt suddenly comes to a halt in front of a projected photo of a young Jing Yuan and Igor, both caught mid-laugh. He chuckles softly, snaps a picture, and sends it to the general along with a message that the flashdrive delivery has been completed. 

Sunday pouts minimally at this. 

“You know the boy in the photo?” Pela asks him, blinking curiously at his reaction. 

“He’s much older now,” Sunday replies tightly, then leans conspiratorially to whisper in her ear. “Less cute.” 

—

“Oh, man. This is insane! From a whole star system away?” Serval surveys the sleek black record with something akin to reverence. She twirls it carefully in her fingers to check the balance. “Granted, it’s not usually my type of music, but it’s music all the same. And from essentially another galaxy? I’m stoked.” 

Sunday puffs up his chest slightly, pleased with himself for remembering to bring the record along. March 7th had mentioned in passing that the rock music playing on the phonograph came from someone they knew in Belobog. He’d been hesitant at first—only skimming the tracks and offering Serval the barest descriptions of each one.

Still, she’d been unfailingly enthusiastic, firing off questions a mile a minute.

“It’s too bad Pela had to leave. She plays the keyboard too, you know. She would have loved to discuss this with you.” 

Sunday’s mind flashes back to Pela’s crestfallen expression as she was called away to another assignment, mumbling something about a missed opportunity to research for her fanfic. He is not sure what that means, but he sympathizes nonetheless.

Rock isn’t a genre Sunday was especially familiar with, but there’s always something profound about meeting another musician, like kindred spirits crossing paths. Once their conversation found its rhythm, he spoke with care, describing the tracks he liked most and pointing out the ones he thought would translate best into rock. Serval listened eagerly, nodding along with enthusiasm, and wasted no time placing the record on the player.

A familiar melody crackles out of her age-old phonograph, drifting pleasantly throughout the cramped shopspace. Sunday’s mind almost immediately latches onto the scales of the piece, transcribing the notes instinctively as they trickle out of the machine, delicate and shimmering, like threads of gossamer. His fingers move subtly against the counter, mimicking the motion of playing on piano keys.

Briefly lost in the music, Sunday doesn’t notice right away that Welt has leaned over the counter. He rests his cheek against his palm in a relaxed, almost cat-like manner, watching Sunday with an indulgent smile.

Sunday pauses, cheeks warming under the weight of his gaze. Without thinking, he lightly presses his palm against Welt’s face, like an impromptu little wall between them. Welt chuckles softly, and Sunday feels the curve of his lips moving against his hand.

“What?” Welt laughs. He catches Sunday’s wrist, peeking over his fingers.

Sunday doesn’t even dignify him with a response. He simply puffs his cheeks and tries to go back to the melody, but the notes and scales are already lost in the jumbled knots of his mind. 

—

He’s not sure what time it is by the time they exit the cable car to Belobog’s Underworld. Sunday takes in the sight with hesitance, recalling how Serval had mentioned that the area has recently been undergoing development. Still, she encouraged them to pay a visit, dropping the contact details of a woman named Natasha just in case. 

Boulder Town stretches out before him, a bustling settlement defined by its rugged, industrial architecture. Towering cliffs and jagged rock formations surround the area, almost hugging the buildings that form the town’s perimeter. In the distance, Sunday spots the lights of geomarrow radiators, tucked into different corners of the town, providing warmth to anyone who needs it.

Despite its tough exterior, the small town pulses with life. The streets are filled with locals and travelers alike, their comings and goings accompanied by the constant hum of machinery. 

Sunday and Welt wander through the narrow, winding alleys, unhurried as they take in the Underworld’s charm. Along the way, they stop to ask directions from an enthusiastic group of children who proudly introduce themselves as The Moles, before finally making their way to the busy open-air market.

Sunday’s wings flutter excitedly as he smells food wafting from one of the nearby stalls. 

“Oh!”

He jolts, shoulders tensing at the sudden exclamation. Turning to the side, Sunday catches a glimpse of two women quickly averting their eyes, their expressions flustered as if something had caught them off guard. He wouldn’t have thought much of it, but he hears snatches of ‘feathers’ and ‘real’ somewhere in their hushed conversation. 

His wings twitch, then flutter shyly upward, curling toward his face as he slouches, trying to disappear into himself.

Throughout the day, he had done his best to ignore the stares and the excited whispers that seemed to follow just a beat after he passed. It wasn’t like in the Luofu, where he could walk the streets without drawing much attention. Here in Belobog, his presence as a Halovian was clearly something new.

He didn’t blame them; it was probably just harmless curiosity. But even so, it left him feeling uneasy—nervous, maybe even a little jumpy—wondering what exactly they were thinking.

Welt seems to notice this immediately, because he gently takes Sunday’s hand and guides him toward a quieter path, away from the thickest part of the crowd. They walk in comfortable silence, letting the soft murmur of the town wash over them. Soon enough, the bustle begins to fade, and in the distance, the pinpricks of warm light glow brighter against Boulder Town’s dark, underground sky. 

They don’t say a word as they make their way towards Natasha’s clinic. Welt simply loops Sunday’s arm through his and lifts his hand, pressing a soft kiss to his knuckles.

Somehow, that is enough. 

— 

“I’m sure the kids will love these. Thank you for thinking of them.”

Natasha accepts the slim stack of picture books from Sunday, her expression softening as she places them on her desk. A quiet exclamation escapes her lips as she spots familiar titles, her fingers tracing the colorful, glossy covers with a nostalgic fondness. Sunday makes a mental note to bring more if they ever get the chance to visit again. 

“Though, I’m sorry to say you missed some of them. They must be on their way home now.” 

“I have a feeling they must have been The Moles from earlier?” Welt asks, looking up from his sketching. 

In front of him, a child named Eric pouts and prods at his hand, urging him to finish the drawing. Welt gives him a small nod and murmurs an apologetic ‘sorry’ before returning to his work. From Sunday’s seat, he can just make out the faint outline of Svarog taking shape on the paper.

“Oh, that would be them. I hope they weren’t getting into too much trouble?”  

“Not at all. They were very excited about giving directions.” 

Though busy tending to the sick and injured, Natasha seemed more than happy to welcome Sunday and Welt into the clinic once she heard they were with the Astral Express Crew.

As they made light chatter, Sunday took stock of the surroundings. The clinic was small but well-maintained, with a quiet, orderly atmosphere that spoke of care despite limited resources. It was a patchwork of the old and the new—worn, repurposed equipment stood beside recently installed medical tools, and the beds, though mismatched, were clean and neatly arranged. A faint scent of antiseptic hung in the air, and shelves along the walls were stocked with supplies, some clearly scavenged or handmade, others newly delivered.

From what she was eager to share, it seems that the clinic had already expanded, now supported by a few new doctors and nurses to help manage the workload. Several projects have also been launched in collaboration with the Supreme Guardian to improve healthcare across the Underworld, starting with larger-scale medical drives and more consistent supply shipments. While Natasha admits things aren’t quite at their best yet, Sunday hears the optimism in her voice. 

“Hey, doc! Look, it’s Svarog!” Eric totters up to Natasha, holding up the drawing for her to see. 

“Quite the artist, Mr. Yang.” The doctor smiles, clearly impressed, as she pulls a spare folder from her drawer for Eric to use. Gingerly, he slides the drawing inside, then tucks the folder under one arm, beaming up at Welt with unmistakable pride.

"Thanks, Mister!" He rushes towards Welt, his small body colliding with the man's legs in an excited hug, nearly throwing him off balance.

From his seat, Sunday catches Welt’s eye and smiles at him warmly.

—

“No, we’re fine. We’re staying at the Goethe Hotel.”

Sunday hears Welt’s muffled voice through the door. There is a series of mumbled affirmations, a soft chuckle, and then a weary sigh before silence settles in. The call must have ended.

Meanwhile, he’s standing in the hotel bathroom in a set of hastily bought pajamas, fifteen minutes after his shower because he cannot, for the life of him, calm down.

It seems that even after countless troubleshooting attempts and a variety of repair efforts—including, most notably, Stelle taking a bat to the main Space Anchor system—the network remained stubbornly offline. With teleportation disabled and no way for the Express to dock, he and Welt were effectively stranded in Belobog until further notice.

That is fine. Not totally unreasonable.

Apparently, though, they’re sharing a room. Which is also fine. They’ve had plenty of time to get used to each other’s presence in cramped spaces. Worst comes to worst, he and Welt would just suffer through mutual insomnia. Sleep was optional at this point anyway. 

However, this brings to light another, more pressing problem. 

Sunday watches in mild horror as his reflection grows red in the mirror. His mind helpfully supplies an astute image of their current 'situation': one (singular), twin-size bed. 

He braces his hands on the sink, chin dropping miserably to his chest. Sunday is unable to stand the sight of himself flushing like a grown man with a pre-teen crush. Somehow, he wonders if there is a version of himself out there who has cursed him with their bad luck. Or perhaps Ena, unsatisfied with his supplications and consequent jumping ship, has decided to throw his life into chaos to exact revenge. Sunday is not sure how vindictive one Aeon can get. 

He drapes his towel over his shoulders, self-consciously checking himself in the mirror again. 

He’ll be fine. Not like Welt hasn’t been staring at him all day and vice-versa. Objectively, doesn’t he always looks good anyway? Wouldn’t Welt have mentioned if he didn’t find him attractive? Bit late now that they’re essentially dating. But that’s just it, isn’t it? They’re just dating. It’s not like Welt has professed his undying love for him or anything. 

Sunday scrubs a hand over his face, nearly screaming. Ena, he is not good at giving himself pep talks. 

Before he can drive himself insane further, he yanks the bathroom door open, praying to whichever Aeon would deign to listen to grant him strength that night. 

He stops short just a foot from the bed. Sunday doesn’t know what he expected, but the sight that greets him is woefully mundane: Welt is stretched out on the bed in loose-fitting pajamas, propped up against a pile of pillows with his legs casually crossed. His glasses, for some reason, have been pushed up onto his forehead as he squintily reads from his phone. 

He looks up from his screen and Sunday vaguely registers him asking ‘did you want to get room service?’, before his brain decided to collapse into itself—or so he hoped. 

Instead, Sunday finds a vein throbbing on his temple and a vague sense of indignity roiling in his chest. How dare this man be so relaxed and unbothered while he suffers a mental crisis in a hotel bathroom for thirty minutes? It’s unfair. 

Welt seems to hear his thoughts because he just pats the empty space on the mattress beside him, a playful smile already on his face. 

Sunday stares at him, eyes narrowed and distrustful. For his part, Welt genuinely looks offended. He sets his phone down and splays one hand over his chest, his lower lip jutting out in a pout. 

Sunday’s brain very nearly short-circuits. 

“Sunday,” Welt finally says after a beat. He reaches out to tug at his hand, eyebrows raised in amusement. “You’re thinking about this too hard."

Sunday flicks his gaze up at the ceiling quickly, wondering which Aeon he would blame for this now, before crawling resignedly into the bed and into Welt’s open arms. 

Chapter Text

Sunday is marginally confident he knows what he's doing. His pride, dredged up from the ramshackle confines of his ego, won’t let him admit otherwise. So he rolls his hips, teasing, testing, eyes half-lidded as he watches Welt from underneath him. A small flame of confidence burns in his chest. This—this he’s sure of. He knows exactly what to do. What could possibly go wrong?

…Is what he would like to think. But Sunday is already trying to squelch the thoughts running through his head about how this could, in fact, go wrong in a hundred different ways. 

Welt stills and a small, teensy part of Sunday worries he’s ruined the moment until the man grabs him by the waist and flips him onto his back. He yelps, the sudden movement knocking the breath out of him. He blinks up, stunned, as Welt straddles his hips instead, his comfortable weight settling over Sunday. 

Welt hums, a low, satisfied sound that rumbles up from his chest. His amber eyes catch the lamplight, glowing faintly, and for a split second, Sunday swears he sees hunger flicker through them.

“Better,” he says, simply. Sunday takes a second to drink in the sight of him: the strong lines of his shoulders, his tousled hair falling over his eyes, the small, sure grin on his face. His stomach clenches, helpless at the power that this man has over him, and from somewhere far, far in his past, something like shamelessness surfaces, loud and bright, spilling over the dregs of his hesitation. 

He sits up suddenly, leaning forward to catch Welt’s lips. He kisses him, hungry and urgent, moving from underneath him with reckless abandon. The kiss is messy and sloppy and would have driven him to embarrassment in any other state, but Sunday is desperate for this touch, this taste. His heart stutters when Welt melts into the kiss, his hands wandering to Sunday’s sides, fingers sliding into his hair. Welt tugs gently to expose the column of his throat, pressing kisses there and moving downwards to suckle at the dip in his collarbone.

Sunday moans, his hips bucking involuntarily. He chases Welt’s lips again, desperate for the feel of them on his own, but Welt pushes him back gently on the pillows, his hands roaming over Sunday’s chest, on his stomach, then to his hips where they rest for a few frustrating seconds.

Welt hooks his fingers into the waistband of Sunday’s pajamas—a silent question. Sunday almost laughs. As if he hasn’t wanted this. Dreamed of this. He lets out a needy whine, and thankfully, Welt understands. He slides the pajamas and underwear down, his breath hitching faintly at the sight of Sunday laid out before him, already wet and wanting.

The look on his face makes Sunday want to draw his legs closed.

Welt leans over him, pressing soft kisses to his eyelids, then his mouth. He trails them downward, slowly, maddeningly, as he unbuttons Sunday’s shirt, his lips brushing a path over his stomach, then resting to graze on his hip. 

Welt hovers teasingly over his leaking cock, flicking Sunday a quick glance before he slowly takes it into his mouth. For a moment, Sunday is enraptured, vaguely remembering that he’ seen this scene play out in one, too many dreams. From the way the fierce heat blooms in his stomach, to the way his toes curl in taut anticipation. 

Somehow, somehow, this feels so much better. 

He twitches at the way Welt’s lips press around him, the way he rolls his tongue over Sunday’s cockhead, teasing, dragging, like he’s pulling the pleasure out from Sunday. Again, the image overlaps with one in his dreams, a snapshot in his mind that he’s been keeping hidden for far too long. But it doesn’t quite match up. The real thing is so much more vivid, so much more pleasurable, electric in the way that it sends sparks dancing across his vision, in the way that it makes his skin hum just from Welt’s touch. 

Welt flicks one more look up at him before placing a kiss on the tip of Sunday’s dribbling cockhead. It’s a preamble, a delicious prelude before the main performance, and it takes almost all of Sunday’s self-restraint not to come then and there. 

Welt takes Sunday’s entire length into his mouth, slowly, carefully. For a moment, Sunday just watches, reaching a new level of dumfounded high as he simply allows his cock to throb deep inside Welt’s throat, the pulse of it sending goosebumps pimpling up his arms. 

“ Oh, ” Sunday whispers in awe, because how else does one express the highest level of wonder?

His hands find Welt’s hair, fingers threading through the softness in some half-hearted attempt to anchor himself, to split his focus, just enough, so he doesn’t fall apart from the sheer sight of Welt taking him in to the hilt. A shuddering breath escapes him as he feels the catch of Welt’s teeth. His synapses fire wildly, like a Penacony billboard—relentless, disorienting—flashes strobing through his mind like cameras at a red carpet premiere.

“H-Hah—” Sunday’s back arches from the bed, suddenly jolting when he feels his cockhead hit Welt’s throat. He watches, entranced, as the man groans around him, gliding down then up, curling his tongue around the tip, then gliding down again. The sensation is immediate. Heat flares from his stomach, his thighs spasm erratically, and Sunday feels just about ready to scream. 

Instead, he chokes on an embarrassing sound that threatens to climb out of his chest. He throws an arm over his eyes, his hips bucking as Welt quickens the pace, sucking maddeningly on his cock, dragging his tongue on Sunday’s vein as though inflicting some sort of cruel punishment. 

Then, almost suddenly, as an actual punishment, he stops. 

Sunday peeks underneath his arm when he hears the soft pop of Welt’s lips pulling off of his cock. A beat of mental static for Sunday, his brain slow to register the sudden cold where Welt had been.

“That won’t do,” the man says, teasing, and Sunday can only watch dazedly as Welt draws his thumb across his own mouth, the wetness of Sunday's come catching the light.

Welt reaches up, gently taking him by the wrists and pinning them against his sides. He holds Sunday’s gaze for a moment before leaning in again. “Eyes on me.”

Sunday’s lips form a small “o” as Welt recommences sucking him off—open-mouthed kisses that make him nothing short of delirious. Sunday’s hips start to jerk helplessly, almost as though he’s chasing the rhythm Welt has set. It’s slow, torturous, entirely unlike what he’s accustomed to. 

Sunday is used to getting what he wants. He’s used to setting the scene, the pace. The whole tableau usually follows his lead. But with Welt, it’s as if he handed over the reins without a second thought. As if he’s surrendered his body—pliant, willing, entirely at the mercy of the man before him.

Sunday finds that he doesn’t mind this at all. 

A breath hisses past his teeth when Welt starts kissing the underside of his dick, his tongue curling at the base. Sunday, for his part, can’t quite control the choked-out whimper that escapes his mouth. Already, the sensation has become too much. His eyes snap up to roll to the back of his head—a small disobedience. Somehow, his mind stays clear enough to hope that Welt will forgive him for this. He promises he’ll be sorry later.

Sunday feels one of Welt’s hands settle on his hip, the thumb pressing into bone with just enough pressure to draw a soft, involuntary sound from him as his eyes flutter shut. Idly, he thinks he hears the a bottle being uncapped, but the lucid parts of his mind have finally lost their grip, untethering him just enough so that he’s started thrusting into Welt’s mouth.

He’s in the middle of thinking about something absurd, like how he feels like a butterfly being pinned to a board when a slicked digit presses against his ass. 

Sunday’s hand clamps over his mouth, trying to swallow back the obscene sound coming out of it—and failing. A ragged whine escapes his throat as Welt breaches the tight ring of muscle, his finger circling as if testing the fit. Sunday inhales sharply, his gaze flicking down to Welt,  who had abruptly released Sunday’s cock from his mouth. Welt's other hand now rested gently on Sunday's stomach, a flicker of concern crossing his features.

“Okay?” 

Sunday, even as he is driven to the edge of sexual delirium, a finger halfway up his butt, finds the sight of him adorable. If he could simply just reach down, wrap himself around Welt until this bout of cuteness aggression dies down, he would.

But sadly, as he looks down on his weeping cock, he feels like he has more pressing matters to attend to. 

“I’m fine,” he says, wings fluttering shyly over his face. “I was just surprised and—” 

He fixes Welt a stare over his wings, testing the weight of his voice. He clears his throat. “It’s been a while.” 

Something passes over Welt’s eyes, quick and minute. Barely a flicker, but Sunday sees it nonetheless, and he actually clenches around Welt’s finger. 

Sunday is mortified . 

He squirms, the weight of his embarrassment crashing over him like a wave. His body shifts instinctively, as if trying to cringe away from himself—and from Welt—but the man doesn’t budge. Instead, he holds firm, one hand pressing gently against Sunday’s stomach to keep him still. Sunday lets out a soft, frustrated whine, and Welt only chuckles, low and amused.

The look he fixes Sunday is unbearably affectionate, the amber in his eyes glowing with warmth under their room’s lamplight. Sunday’s wings fluff up and fold over his eyes this time, too afraid to see any more of Welt’s quirks that might turn him on. 

Welt sighs, and Sunday feels him pull his finger out. The bed shifts, dipping slightly between his legs and at his sides. Sunday, letting curiosity override his embarrassment, lifts one wing up to chance a peek. 

He finds Welt leaning over him, a soft smile on his face. He takes Sunday’s hand in his and brushes a thumb over his palm, moving in soothing circles. Sunday’s heart aches. He’s not sure what he’s done to deserve this care, this patience, and, even in the haze of arousal, feels guilty enough to wonder if he even deserves this intimacy. He sits up a little straighter, moving so he’s angled to look at Welt better. 

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, his gaze fixed on their joined hands. “I’m not usually this reserved during sex, I just—” He swallows the lump in his throat again and gestures vaguely in Welt’s direction.

“It’s you, so,” he says simply, as though that should explain everything. 

Welt laughs, light, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He leans over Sunday and presses a soft kiss on his forehead, then hovers over his lips. 

“Exactly,” the man says, before pressing a kiss there as well. “It’s just me.” 

Sunday’s face has scrunched up in that ugly open way he’s always hated—the way it is when he’s priming to cry. He loops his arms around Welt’s neck because what does he mean it’s just him ? Sunday wants to punch his chest, to knock the wind out of him in protest. He settles for squeezing him tightly. 

“I like you so much,” he mumbles into the crook of Welt’s neck. He plants his own kisses there, inhaling Welt’s scent, committing it to memory. “So, so, much.” 

A low hum rumbles from Welt, and Sunday exhales softly as the man shifts him, guiding him to settle fully in his lap. Welt’s hand glides down his side in a slow, soothing stroke. Then he kisses him—deeply, deliberately—and Sunday feels the curve of a smile ghosting against his lips.

“Me too. I—” Welt lays a hand on his cheek, brushing it softly. “I really want to take care of you, Sunday.” 

“Will you let me?” 

—

Sunday is working on his concept of control.

It’s a work in progress, not some impulsive fix he’s trying to cobble together in a day, but a conscious change he’s choosing to make. A shift he’s willing to impose on himself, if only to begin unlearning the warped sense of control that’s been etched into his mind. 

So. 

Sex.

It’s not unfamiliar territory for him. If anything, Sunday likes to think he’s well-versed in how these things usually go. He’s had no shortage of partners in the past—always of his choosing, in settings he selected, at a pace that suited him, and always, always on his terms. As with most things, Sunday prefers to be in control—not in the overt, domineering way people might expect from someone in a position of authority, but with a quieter, calculated precision. The kind that calmly sets things within his expectations. 

Sunday had the practice of it down pat. He favored measured coyness, leaning heavily on the profile he had constructed for his partner, taking into account their wants, their needs, their tastes. And he would bend all of these to his favor. Make small adjustments, amendments that they would forgo in the heat of passion, so subtle that they would follow his lead unprompted. 

In his younger years, he was quite smug about it, so much so that he would actively search for partners that varied greatly from one another, almost challenging himself to figure out the workings of each one on his own, slowly peeling off their layers, bit by bit, until they unraveled fully in his hands. 

It’s almost funny to him, then, that he’s been reduced to this. 

“Sunday?” Welt’s voice cuts through the haze of his thoughts. He reaches up to brush back the hair clinging to Sunday’s forehead, pressing another kiss there. Welt really does spoil him. He’s been kissed more times today than he can even count.

“You with me?”

Sunday blinks, eyes bleary with tears, and feels the heat pooling deep in his belly again. He looks down at himself, naked and spread before the man he seems to inexplicably want, and whimpers softly when he notices Welt is already two fingers deep into him.

“Ah,” he says, because what else can he say when he’s halfway to passing out? “I’m okay. Really.” 

Welt pecks him on the lips. His free hand moves to rest on Sunday’s stomach again before he slowly pushes inside of him. Sunday tips his head back on the pillows, moaning when Welt crooks his fingers, probing, pushing against his walls. 

A gasp catches in his throat when a third finger is pushed in, stretching him wider, sliding in and out of him, each thrust a delicious pressure against his prostate. Sunday feels Welt’s other hand move to his thigh, stroking him there soothingly, telling him to relax, I’m here, I’ll take care of you. Sunday bites his lower lip to stop from screaming because even Welt’s voice has him in its grip. Sunday's eyes flutter back, saliva already gathering at the corner of his mouth. 

“Hah-hahh, please. Please, Mr. Yang, I—” 

Welt pauses, shifting on the bed again so he’s hovering over Sunday. His arm is braced on the pillow beside his head. 

“Sunday,” he says, voice deeper than Sunday has ever heard it. Welt’s eyes darken subtly as he looks down at him, and Sunday finds the pleasure-pain coiling in his stomach tighten even more. 

Welt pushes to his knuckles, the pads of his fingers dragging mercilessly against Sunday’s walls. Sunday chokes out a moan, his hips spasming. 

“Say my name again?” 

Sunday’s mind struggles to keep up, his spit already dribbling down his chin. “W-Welt.”

“Mhm. Good boy,” Welt kisses him full on the mouth and pushes his fingers back in, rubbing slow circles against his prostate.

Sunday moans into Welt’s mouth, clenching around his fingers, feeling the shape of them against him. He tries to pull back from the kiss to breathe, but Welt follows, catching his lip gently between his teeth before his tongue presses in again, deep and insistent. It’s too much—heat, pressure, the taste of him—Sunday’s head spins, his senses scrambled, every nerve lit up and burning.

He bucks into Welt’s hand, rising to meet each thrust, the wet, filthy sound of it pushing him further into delirium. He’s sloppy, uncoordinated, and he thinks he is very much flailing, but he mindlessly pursues the sensation, greedy, wanting, needing. He’s so close. And Welt is so good. For being patient with him, for being so kind. He feels he can lose control, let go, to simply play it by ear. Sunday thinks, in his addled state, if Welt could make him feel this good with just his hand, he’d probably be willing to surrender control every single time.

Something finally snaps, and Sunday briefly whites out. He shudders violently, his release spilling hot and thick onto his stomach. A raw sob tears from his throat as Welt withdraws his hand, leaving him clenching onto nothing. Sunday rocks with the aftershocks of an orgasm, shaking and gasping, and all the while, Welt whispers soothing words in his ear.

With shaky hands, Sunday reaches up, his fingers clumsy against the fabric of Welt's collar, and pulls him into a fervent, open-mouthed kiss. It’s messy and greedy, but in the haze of his arousal, Sunday finds he couldn't care less. He licks eagerly into Welt's mouth, his hands already working frantically at the buttons of Welt's absurd pajama shirt.

“Welt,” he whines, pulling at the stupid buttons that won’t seem to budge. 

Welt hums in that infuriatingly patient way of his, slipping off his glasses with practiced ease, then peeling away his shirt. He leans in, nuzzling into the crook of Sunday’s neck as he gently lowers him onto the mattress. Warm breath skims over Sunday’s skin, and his eyes flutter shut as Welt’s mouth parts softly against his throat.

Sunday mumbles some impatient, impertinent things until Welt drags his pajama pants down, finally freeing his already weeping length to press it against Sunday’s entrance. 

“Nghh. Hah. Ah, that’s— Please. ” Sunday thinks he hears his mind fissure when Welt pushes the head into his rim, stretching him open, slow, so agonizingly slow that he begins begging, apologizing, calling Welt by his name over and over until Welt’s cock is finally, mercifully, buried inside him to the hilt. 

Sunday’s head lolls back against the pillows. He feels so full, he doesn’t know what to do with himself. He’s overwhelmed. Breathless. Mindlessly, he grabs a fistful of the sheets to try and tether himself back to reality. From above him, Welt is telling him to breathe, relax, but Sunday just really, really wants him to start fucking him senseless.

So he does the first thing his sex-drunk brain lands on. He tightens. 

Welt groans, his head dipping onto Sunday’s shoulder. He mumbles something unintelligible into Sunday’s skin before kissing the corner of his mouth. 

“Fuck. Sunday, you’re so tight.” His voice is hoarse, on the edge of breaking, and Sunday finds some small satisfaction in the sound. 

Welt begins moving, each steady thrust bottoming out, stretching Sunday so taut that he feels as though he’s going to burst. Sunday’s own cock, still sopping wet from his earlier orgasm, twitches pathetically against his stomach every time Welt grinds into his prostate, the tight piston of his hips sending fresh waves of heat crashing into him. 

For weeks, Sunday has dreamed of this—ached for this. Fleeting glimpses in what little sleep he got left him restless, tangled in a knot of desire and shame. But now he’s here. Welt is here. And it’s so much better than he ever imagined—better than anything his dreams could have given him, it almost makes him want to weep. 

Another harsh thrust causes Sunday’s legs to slip from Welt’s shoulders, and his mouth drops open in a soundless moan. Welt mutters a soft apology and kisses the inside of his thigh. He digs his fingers into Sunday’s skin and moves his hand to press on Sunday’s hip, shifting him so he can fuck him even deeper, even harder with his thick, pulsing length. Sunday throws his head back, his eyes snapping upwards as the pleasure continues to mount. 

It’s unbearable—the way Welt slowly drags his cock against his walls, the way he withdraws until just the tip remains before ruthlessly slamming back in, again and again and again until Sunday is letting out these wrecked little moans, his body growing limp and heavy with each thrust. A strangled cry builds up in his throat, each agonizingly slow scrape sending jolts of pleasure shooting up his spine, driving him closer to the edge of an orgasm.

Welt’s slow grind stutters slightly when Sunday circles his hips against him, chasing the wave of feeling, doing anything to keep the sensation going. Sunday looks down at them—the clench of Welt’s muscles as his cock disappears inside of him, his pale chest flushed pink with exertion, Welt panting open-mouthed as he continues to pound into him, his eyes hungry with want. 

The sane part of his mind, the one that isn’t so cock-drunk, feebly thinks his body can’t keep up with this. 

“W-Welt, ah I'm-I’m almost—” he gasps, rolling his hips desperately, saliva escaping the corners of his mouth. 

A broken sound escapes him as Welt's hand presses urgently against his lower back, their hips slamming flush. Sunday comes. He’s a writhing, quivering mess, the entire length of his body seizes up as a delicious lick of heat curls up from his belly, then spills over his and Welt’s stomachs in clear streaks. Above him, Welt groans, guttural, his rhythm shattering completely. Ragged breaths tear from his throat as he drives himself deep into Sunday one last time, his hips bucking in short, sharp spasms with each burst of release. Dimly, Sunday registers Welt slump over him in exhaustion. 

He blinks blearily up at the ceiling and counts to Welt’s breaths. They flare over the crook of his neck, harsh and warm, but he finds he doesn’t mind it. Not if it’s him. He reaches up weakly to pat the man on the cheek, too limp to do anything more. 

Welt huffs out a quiet laugh and pulls back to look at him. Sunday is suddenly struck by the tenderness in his smile, stunned that something so beautiful could be meant for him. So he squints, trying to mask the tears threatening to spill over even as his mouth tugs down at the corners reflexively.

In response, Welt simply peppers his face with even more kisses, taking special care to place especially soft ones on his eyelids because Sunday can’t seem to stop fucking crying today. 

They clean up soon after—mostly Welt does, since Sunday’s legs are as wobbly as a newborn fawn’s—and before long, they’ve settled into each other’s arms, limbs tangled under the comfort of their blankets. Their voices stay low as they talk about faulty Space Anchors, speculate on the next warp jump, and debate whether they’ll have the energy to stop by the Party Car for a drink when they return to the Express.  

The conversation meanders and softens, words trailing off into warm silences. Sunday shifts slightly, sighing against Welt’s chest, and Welt’s hand finds his hair, absently running through it in slow, rhythmic strokes. Soon enough, their thoughts dim, their breathing syncs, and sleep claims them gently. 

They don’t realize it until much later, but this is the first good sleep they’ve had in a long while.

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. 

The familiar symphony bleeds through the fading edges of a dream, jostling him awake before he startles fully on the bed.

Sunday stirs. He instinctively reaches out, seeking warmth, comfort, something solid to anchor him. He buries his face into the first shape he finds and nuzzles closer, breathing in the familiar scent of pine. After a while, it steadies his heartbeat and chases away the cloying tendrils of a half-remembered nightmare. 

Beside him, Welt Yang shifts closer, one arm wrapping around his shoulders. He presses a half-awake kiss into Sunday’s hair. 

“Okay?” He murmurs, his voice thick with sleep.

Sunday nods minutely in his arms. He forces one eye open. “M’sorry. Did I wake you?” 

“It’s fine.” Welt kisses his hair again, his words trailing off as he wanders back to his own dreams. “Sleep.” 

Their nights have settled into this new routine. Finding each other in the dark. Reaching out across the sheets, grasping for shared warmth on Welt’s bed. Drifting back into whatever scraps of sleep they can manage, tethered by each other's presence.

It isn’t so bad—at least, not when they’re together. Most nights, Sunday can keep the worst of his dreams at bay. He wakes a little steadier, a little less panicked, a little less swallowed by self-loathing.

But on the nights when it becomes unbearable, when the weight is too much to carry alone, Welt is there. He takes Sunday’s trembling hands in his own and gently massages the tightness from his fingers. He gathers him close, cradling him in the solid strength of his arms, pressing Sunday against the steady rise and fall of his chest. His comfort is patient as it is quiet, a constant, soothing current: soft murmurs, grounding touches, the calm rhythm of his breathing coaxing Sunday from the precipice until he slowly comes back together, piece by piece. 

He does whatever it takes to guide Sunday back—to bring him home to himself. And it works, most of the time. But on the harder nights, when the dark lingers too long, they leave the bed behind. They wander to the Party Car, nursing drinks in silence or in low conversation. Sometimes, they stay awake together, fingers interlocked, waiting for the day to start. 

Sunday likes it. It is simple. Uncomplicated.

Though he admits he’s more often the one being comforted, he likes to believe he’s offered Welt something in return—some small measure of peace. He’s still unsure of how to give it, exactly. His hands feel clumsy, his words even clumsier, fumbling their way through tenderness he’s still learning to hold.

But when Welt smiles at him, warm and unguarded, when the shadows in his eyes seem to lift, even just a little, Sunday dares to hope he's doing something right.

He opens his eyes blearily and blinks up at Welt. He’s drifted off again, the furrow in his brow smoothed away, his face soft and untroubled in rest.

Sunday watches him for a long while. The way his lips slightly part in his sleep, the way his lashes cast delicate shadows across his cheeks, the way the steady cadence of his breathing fills in the silence between them. It surprises Sunday a little each time how he’s so easily mesmerized by him—how each time he looks at Welt carefully, he finds his breath taken away. 

Sunday is suddenly flung back to the first time they met, all those months ago in Penacony. 

Back then, Welt Yang had been little more than a footnote of a man—almost forgettable amidst the loud, dazzling presence of the Astral Express crew. Sunday had barely noticed him. Not during their introductions in the Reverie Hotel, not even when Welt had stepped forward to confront him, to stand in the way of his plans.

But then, at his lowest point, when each of his farewells had slowly chipped away at what little strength there was left in him, it was Welt who reached out. A sure hand amid the crumbling ruins of Sunday’s life. 

You are one of my Trailblazing goals.  

Something twinges in Sunday’s chest. He’s wide awake now, suddenly overwhelmed by the weight of feeling. It’s such a simple thought, and yet it floods him with warmth. Welt exists. Not in the Dreamscape, not in his own dreams, but here. Real. Breathing. With him. 

To think that a reality exists where he never reaches out to take that hand. That somewhere amongst the myriad of possibilities that stretch out before him, there is a thread wherein Sunday remains alone, floating adrift in an eternal dream. 

Sunday allows a single tear to slip down his cheek before he buries his face into Welt’s chest, willing himself back to sleep. As he closes his eyes, he thinks about how he has lost many things in his old life. But in this one, at least, he has found Welt Yang.

—

The day they returned from their mission—and their date, as March had been quick to point out—the crew greeted them with an energy that hovered between casual and conspicuously forced. Dan Heng and Himeko carried on as if nothing had changed, business as usual, while Stelle and March tiptoed around them, their every glance and word laced with the kind of nervousness one would expect from a caffeine-addled hamster. 

Despite the awkward atmosphere and the subsequent chaos that resulted from Welt’s over-enthusiasm (an event which shall be detailed more thoroughly in a later account), Sunday wasted no time cutting to the chase. He brought up the real issue: the malfunctioning Space Anchors.

Himeko had chalked up the interference to ‘space debris’, which Dan Heng seemed a smidge too eager to support. Sunday sensed blood in the water. He immediately honed in on the younger man, pressing for more possible explanations, trying to coax out more theories, or—and let’s be honest here—keeping an eye out for even the smallest of guilty flinches. 

But Dan Heng was not one to crack under the ministrations of an Express fledgling. He offered nothing. Even when Sunday pinned him with the most scathing look he could manage, he had simply replied with the emotional range of a brick wall and a single shoulder shrug. 

“I really wouldn’t be able to say,” he said vaguely, already inching toward the corridor. Moments later, he excused himself altogether, citing the ever-urgent task of reorganizing the Data Bank.

Sunday’s face pinched skeptically, but threw his hands up in resignation when Stelle proposed the existence of interstellar saboteurs—that perhaps the stars that be willed it so Sunday and Welt could frolic among the Belobogian snowfields, or some such.

Suffice to say, technically, the mystery of the faulty Space Anchors was never truly solved. 

— 

“Coming through,” Welt half-sing-songs as he heads toward the sink, carrying the rest of the dirty dishware. Sunday glances over his shoulder and gives him a nod, already elbow-deep in suds and soapy water. Welt sets the plates down, then gently rests a hand on Sunday’s waist, his chin finding a familiar perch on Sunday’s shoulder as they slip into quiet conversation about the day’s plans.

They settle back into the rhythm of their Express duties easily enough. Sunday is relieved that not much has shifted in the crew’s dynamic, even if he quietly suspects that each of them, in some way or another, played a role in his and Welt’s ‘unexpected’ stranding on Jarilo-VI. The awkwardness isn’t as obvious now, and Sunday gives them silent credit for at least attempting to be discreetly supportive of what is, by all accounts, the most exciting development in Welt Yang’s love life in forever—or at least since his last ex. But that is a story for another time. 

Welt is murmuring something about engine maintenance and possibly docking at the Xianzhou Luofu for assistance when a loud bang sounds from beside them. 

“Fuckshit—BALLS!” Stelle clutches at her shin, having just slammed it into the corner of the open dishwasher door. She hops back, nearly knocking into the counter behind her, face contorted in equal parts pain and betrayal.

March jerks around from the fridge, a smirk on her face. “That’s what you get for sta~ring~!” 

“Shut up,” Stelle snaps, gripping her leg. “Fuck, I just wanted to get some chips.” 

“Second cabinet to the right.” Sunday tilts his head at her, eyebrow raised. “You’re a little ways off.”

Stelle mutters something unintelligible about gratuitous PDA before accosting the said cabinet. Sunday watches with amusement as she rummages around for a fair bit, eventually emerging victorious with the largest bag of potato chips she can find. Just to drive the point home, she slams the cabinet door with enough force to make it personal.

“Stelle,” Welt warns, his voice low and sleepy. He’s still perched on Sunday’s shoulder like a dozing Doberman, eyes closed, quiet and entirely too comfortable. Sunday considers swatting him off, but he’s far too endearing like this to follow through. 

Stelle squeaks, mutters a quick “Sorry, Mr. Yang,” and scurries off—no doubt to stew in contempt while nibbling on her newly acquired snacks. March dashes after her, not about to let Stelle finish a jumbo-sized bag of chips on her own. 

The kitchen eases back into some semblance of silence. Sunday shakes his head mostly to himself, and finally dabs a soapy finger onto Welt’s nose, nudging him off his shoulder. 

“I’m washing the dishes,” he says, half-chiding, half-affectionate, as he turns back to his chores.

Welt grumbles softly in mild protest. It takes a little more prodding before he finally concedes, planting a quick kiss on Sunday’s cheek before shuffling off—ostensibly to nap. Sunday knows he’ll find him curled up in his room later, probably half-asleep with a book slipping from his hand.

There was a time when Sunday wouldn’t have dared speak to Welt so casually, let alone scold him. But somehow, over time, they’d drifted into a rhythm that felt effortlessly… domestic. Familiar. Easy in a way that still surprised him, now and then. He’s still new to it, often moving with the kind of careful restraint that suggests he’s afraid to overstep. But Welt seems to sense when he's tensing under the weight of self-consciousness and is always quick to initiate their touches—gentle, reassuring cues that he’s doing just fine. Sunday is thankful each time. 

It wasn’t that long ago, after all, when he was still pretty much choking in his own anxiety when they had fully decided to pursue this whole thing. He distinctly remembers trembling, heart thudding like a rabbit’s, when they first teleported back to the Express hand in hand.

And really, who could blame him? Between his relatively fresh status as the newest member of the crew and Welt Yang, respected, beloved Welt Yang, there was bound to be pressure. Even if Welt never openly acknowledged it, the truth was clear: the crew cared for him deeply. Fiercely. They’d jump in front of anything for him, whether it was to protect him from looming intergalactic threats or your run-of-the-mill Penacony fugitive.

So, yes. Sunday was very much valid in his being a little too tightly wound about this whole affair.

It worked in his favor, then, that Welt turned out to be stubbornly, shamelessly clingy. Not in the overt, needy way; he didn’t go looking for Sunday or demand his constant presence. Instead, Welt spoke in the language of touch. He soaked Sunday in whenever he was near—holding his hand, threading his fingers absentmindedly through his hair—and the kissing. Aeons, the kissing.

Welt was a generous kisser. Not in some dramatic, sweep-you-off-your-feet kind of way—though he had tried that more than once, and nearly knocked Stelle off-balance just for daring to stand too close—but in the way he treated kisses like casual punctuation. A hello, a goodbye, a you’re standing too far away.

It didn’t matter if they were in the car corridors, the kitchen, or mid-conversation. If Welt passed by, odds were good he’d drop a kiss on Sunday’s temple, cheek, or lips without missing a beat. At first, it had left Sunday mildly flustered and warm in the face. Now, he barely blinked. Just returned them with a muttered hi or mind my tea, depending on the moment.

It was just... Welt. Affectionate, low-key, clingy, and apparently very committed to maintaining his average of at least three kisses per hour.

As a result, there was little need to tiptoe around the crew or navigate awkward landmines about their relationship. Welt’s blatant affection had made things abundantly clear. He left no room for ambiguity, no space for delicate maneuvering. Subtlety wasn’t part of the equation. Between the visible intimacy and his unflinching displays of fondness, he had already announced the status of their relationship—loudly, plainly, and unmistakably. Sunday needn’t worry about confusing anyone. 

To make up for that, however, Welt had also turned out to be sufficiently embarrassing.

The man had been positively glowing upon their return from Jarilo-VI, which, in hindsight, probably should have tipped Sunday off. Then again, there shouldn’t be anything suspicious about a happy Welt Yang, should there?

Sunday decided, unfortunately, after the fact, that he really needed to conduct a full psychological profile on the difference between pre-relationship Welt Yang and in-a-relationship Welt Yang.

Upon first entering the parlor car, Welt had practically dragged him toward the crew, launching into an enthusiastic rundown of everything they’d done, all the places they’d visited, how Sunday fared on his first duo mission, how thoughtful it was of Sunday to bring gifts for Natasha and the kids, and, how since it was so short notice, that they had to share a room and a bed at the Goethe Hotel. 

Sunday had stood there, internally screaming, watching the crew exchange suggestive glances, silently begging for Welt Yang to please stop gushing about him.

In the aftermath, it took him an entire week to salvage his reputation, enduring relentless choruses of “and there was only one bed!” from March and Stelle anytime he so much as stepped within three meters of them, and Dan Heng shooting him quiet, judgmental glances over every meal.

Welt hadn’t paid them much mind, as he was wont to do, so it fell to Sunday to retaliate. He responded in the easiest way he knew: engaging in as much socially acceptable public affection as he could without getting flagged by the conductor for indecency. Surprisingly, it worked. The teasing died off quickly, no further action required.

“Didn’t think this would be your style,” Dan Heng remarks dryly, as the chaos dies down and March and Stelle have slinked off to some dark corner of the Express, defeated. 

He and Sunday are perched on the kitchen counter, having one of their usual conversations when Welt suddenly breezes in, grabs a can of soda from the fridge, presses a now-customary kiss to Sunday’s cheek, and just as quickly disappears—an in-and-out operation with all the efficiency of a raid mission. Dan Heng watches him go, expression unreadable.

“You’d be surprised,” Sunday replies with a smirk, eyes on his phone.

“Right,” Dan Heng says flatly, and resumes eating his salad in silence.

Sunday studies him for a moment, thoughtful. Then, with a small nod to himself, he decides, out of mercy, or perhaps sheer self-restraint, to spare him the details of his late-night encounter with Welt in that very kitchen.

—

Since they’d started sharing a room on the Express, Sunday had noticed that Welt slept more and more soundly. So on nights when sleep eluded him, Sunday let him rest, choosing instead to wander the Express alone, letting the hours slip by in silence.

Lately, he’s also taken to memorizing every detail of the train—the corners, the corridors, the tucked-away places where quiet lived. He committed them to memory the way one might learn the shape of a home.

“Isn’t it home?” Welt had asked one night, worry creasing his brow, after Sunday wondered aloud whether it was presumptuous to even think of the Express that way.

He remembers not giving Welt a straight answer. It didn’t feel quite right at the time. The Express is a place where he feels safe, yes—but is that the same as home? He isn’t sure. Maybe he just needed time. Maybe this is what growing pains feel like. Maybe he just needs to get to know it better. 

So here he is, watching the blue light of space stream through the car windows, casting an almost ethereal glow across the interior of the Express. He blinks, momentarily unsteady, uncertain whether the haze drifting through his vision is finally the pull of sleep or the ghostly shimmer of memoria.

There are times, especially in these later hours, that Sunday wonders if he’s actually stepped into the Dreamscape, if he’s managed, by sheer will, to manifest a path from the Express to Penacony. He finds himself thinking he’d like that. If somehow, he had enough power within himself to bend reality at the edges, to make it so he could drift to where Robin was, without the fanfare, without the fuss. Just a way back to her. 

Because that is the heart of it, isn’t it? He misses Robin. Even amid the newfound softness around him—in a place where people cared enough to cushion his fall with kindness—there remained a part of him that was still jagged and hollow. An ugly, yawning wound left by the rending of a part of his soul—his sister, his home, his Robin—still ached. 

When he finds himself steeped in joy—in the warmth of this new family, their laughter, their words, their easy embraces swirling in his chest like a heady cocktail of euphoria—he wonders when he’ll get to tell her about it all.

When can he tell her about the stars he’s seen? About the first time he stepped onto the Xianzhou Luofu, wide-eyed beneath its towering plaguemark and artificial sun? Or the bitter chill of Belobog’s surface, where the snow was endless and the people, even more so, resilient?

How will she react when she finds out he’s found someone he cares for so deeply—someone he trusts enough to bare his soul to, imperfections and all?

Will she be envious that she wasn't the first to know? Will she be happy that he’s found his happiness? Or will she be sad—not out of resentment, but out of longing—that she wasn’t there to witness it? That she couldn’t be beside him, cataloguing each moment, teasing him through each stumble, coaching him even as he went his roundabout way to be with Welt Yang?

Sunday stands silently by one of the car windows, his forehead resting on the cool glass, and it aches and aches and aches, and he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do. 

He is grateful for the Astral Express, grateful to Welt Yang. But there are still things he’s not ready to share. Maybe, in time, he will. Just as it will take time to truly call this place home.

—

“Are you positive this is the way?” 

“Sunday, do you not trust me? Come on!” March 7th laughs, (appropriately), marching forward. 

Sunday can’t help the sudden flare of worry in his chest when he notices her movements become more stilted, more unsure as they push their way through Herta Space Station. Still, he follows her lead because, as March had succinctly put earlier during the briefing, she is the “senior member” in this expedition. So who was he to doubt her judgment? 

“Don’t you worry, you’ve got ‘lil ‘ol me with you! And anyway, this is just a supply run. Easy peasy!” 

Sunday’s wings flutter nervously. He’d like it very much if he didn’t get lost here again. 

Instead of spiraling into anxiety, he redirects his thoughts, forcing his brain to latch onto something productive. This time around, he focuses on soaking in every detail of the station. He mentally maps familiar areas and notes key structures, trying to memorize anything that might help him navigate more confidently on his next supply run. Thankfully, this helps ease his nerves somewhat and gives him the small satisfaction of pushing his worries to the back burner. 

After a while, he notices that the space station is surprisingly homier than he remembers. At first, the place had struck him as sterile, so devoid of life that everything seemed to blur into the same cold sameness. But now, in a calmer and more composed state, he begins to notice the subtle pockets of life scattered throughout: scientists loitering in lobbies, weary and disheveled; eager researchers darting toward their next experiment; the occasional staff member hunched over like a cheese curl, playing a mobile game. 

Granted, many of the station’s residents look a little worse for wear. But there’s something heartening about watching them push forward, each chasing their own goal like a comet carving its path through the cosmos. Sunday likes to believe they’ll all reach their destinations, however long it takes. Eventually.

He and March 7th continue to forge ahead, sticking to the busier corridors, squeezing past chattering researchers, dodging rushing security personnel, and even bumping into Peppy along the way. By the time they reach a slightly more open area, Sunday feels thoroughly harangued, having unwillingly absorbed half a dozen arguments while weaving through the throngs.

They take a short break on the elevated floor of the Base Zone—at least, that’s what March says, claiming they need a moment away from the crowds. But Sunday isn’t fooled. There’s a sudden tightness in her voice, a nervous flicker in her eyes that sets him on edge.

When she leads him to a quieter corner, her hands clasped tightly in front of her like she’s bracing for impact, a chill slips down his spine. He sucks in a breath, feeling his stomach drop to the floor. 

“Um. Sunday?”

March fixes him with a timid look. This expression is entirely new to him, and the mere sight of it sets off alarm bells in his head almost instantly.

His throat tightens. Are they lost? Is March okay? Why does she look so flustered? A sliver of dread crawls up his chest. 

Sunday’s eyes dart around the area in a panic, half-tempted to grab the nearest passerby and demand their help. Instead, he holds onto a nearby railing to steady himself, his head already caught in the dizzying flux of thoughts. 

Still, he forces himself to be calm. March may be the “senior member” on this mission, but he’s technically quite older. He has to be the (other) adult in this situation. So, Sunday squares his shoulders and takes a deep breath. They can get through this small misstep together.

“Okay. Breathe. Let’s be calm. Don’t worry. We can just ask arou—” 

“Please take care of Mr. Yang, alright?” 

Sunday freezes mid-gesticulate, barely registering her words. He pauses for her to continue, but realizes she is actually waiting for his reply. To which, he simply says:

“What.” 

“Oh, come on. Take this seriously!” March slaps him on the shoulder, and he flinches from the contact, more startled than hurt.

Sunday shoots her an offended look, still unsure why he apparently deserved such rough treatment. She only stares back, unwavering, clearly still expecting an answer.

“Why are you talking to me about this here, of all places?” 

“Because you’re always together on the Express!” March half-cries, throwing her hands up.

Sunday frantically motions for her to keep it down as a few heads turn—but she barrels on, unfazed.

“I can’t ever catch you alone to talk about Mr. Yang! He just appears! Like some cursed matryoshka doll that won’t stop spawning smaller, clingier versions of himself! And he does it so sneakily, too!”

Sunday nearly snorts at the image of several tiny Welts popping up all over the Express, clinging to him, showering him with affection. Honestly, it probably wouldn’t be so bad.

“Are you listening to me?”

“Yes, yes,” Sunday says, trying to placate a distressed March 7th. He hesitantly pats her on the head. “Of course I’m listening. I’m just… well, this is a bit sudden, isn’t it?” 

She squints up at him, and Sunday immediately clocks it as a kind of distrust—a hesitance to accept things at face value. March 7th might not admit it outright, especially given how she and Stelle had been so vocal in their support, full of teasing and jabs. But maybe some part of her had held back, more reserved than she let on. Perhaps the group's enthusiasm had swept her along, a tide of peer pressure that easily overwhelmed her uncertainty.

He can’t deny that while his relationship with Welt had developed at a rather glacial pace, the “announcement” itself—or lack of one—came rather abruptly. Maybe he’d overestimated how easily the crew would take it. Or perhaps he hadn’t given them enough time to process it properly. Either way, he’d have to talk it through with Welt later. 

He tempers his expression into something more serious, trying to convey that, despite the absurdity of their current situation, caring for Welt is something he treats with the utmost gravity. Sunday rests a hand on March’s shoulder, a gesture of reassurance.

“Miss March, I truly understand your worry, Mr. Yang—”

“Welt.” 

Sunday blinks at her, and she offers a small, sheepish smile. “He told us to correct you when you slip.”

He lets out a short laugh, shaking his head as his own smile tugs at the corners of his mouth.

“Welt means a great deal to you, and to the rest of the crew. And while I’m still finding my footing in this new chapter, both in our journey and in our relationship, I can at least give you my word: I’ll do my best to care for him, in the ways I know how.”

“I know words only go so far, especially when weighed against actions. But I hope you’ll trust me—even just a little—as I stumble my way through trying to make him happy.” 

Sunday gently lifts her chin with a finger, offering the most reassuring smile he can muster. It's another small gesture, one he knows won’t guarantee anything in the grand scheme of things, but if it eases her worries, even just for a moment, then it’s enough for now.

March smiles back at him, soft and almost shy. When she pulls him into a hug, it’s not quite like her usual ones. There’s something quieter in it, something threaded with hope and an unspoken promise. And in that moment, Sunday feels a deep gratitude for the simple fact that he’s found a few more good people in his new life.

—

“What do you mean you forgot the supplies?”

“Get off our backs, Dan Heng! Sunday and I had a moment!” 

— 

Sunday watches the stars drift past as the Express glides silently through space, their light catching in his eyes like gems scattered across a golden sea. He draws in a deep breath as though taking them into himself, then exhales slowly, a weary sigh slipping from the cage of his ribs.

He isn't haunted by nightmares tonight. Not exactly. Sometimes, he simply wants to sit by the window and look out at the stars—to remind himself of his smallness, and the vastness of everything beyond. To remember that there are wonders still unseen, far greater than himself.

Ironically, the thought steadies him. Even when he himself feels like stardust—adrift, a speck floating in the cosmos—there is still gravity. Something that holds him in orbit. Something that keeps him tethered. At the very least, he knows he won’t be easily swept away. That he won't suddenly be sent hurtling into the unknown. 

“Sunday?” 

Sunday turns his head slightly, a smile already playing on his lips as Welt approaches. He rises, letting Welt take the seat before settling gently into his lap. Welt lets out a tired yawn, jaw stretching wide like a dog’s, before resting his cheek against his own knuckles, heavy with exhaustion.

“What, no kiss?” Sunday asks, looping his arms around the man’s shoulders.

Welt side-eyes him, pouting. “No. You left me alone.” 

“Aw, you can handle it. You’re a big boy.” 

Welt turns to face him fully, amber eyes glowing—and oh, Sunday’s stomach does a small, traitorous flip. He knows he’s going to pay for that comment later.

He presses a soft kiss to Welt’s temple as an apology, chuckling when the man, still half-asleep, nuzzles into his neck.

They sit beneath the starlight, wrapped in each other’s arms, Sunday humming a gentle tune into Welt’s ear. He finds one of Welt’s hands and runs his thumb slowly across the back of it, soothing, steady—lulling him deeper into sleep.

His more idle thoughts, abruptly derailed by Welt’s sudden presence, drift instead to their plans for the week: a long-overdue trip to Washtopia, per the conductor’s not-so-subtle hints; a few IPC assignments that he’s still trying to pretend he’s excited about; and a scattered list of procurement requests from their associates at the Aurum Alley Merchant Guild.

Sunday is in the middle of reorganizing his schedule for the third time and wondering how he can beg off the IPC tasks, when he stops short, blinking as the realization hits him. His week is packed. Truly, impressively packed. It feels like there’s barely enough time to breathe, let alone daydream.

It’s been a while since he’s been busy. And oddly? He doesn’t mind it.

He huffs out a breathy laugh and rests his cheek against Welt’s hair. Sunday feels his chest swell with something bright and breathless. Something he hasn’t felt in a long while. It’s excitement for the life still ahead. For more adventures on the Astral Express, with his newfound family, and with Welt Yang.

His gaze drifts back to the stars, to the countless little blips scattered across the dark map of the galaxy, and wonders, quietly, what shape tomorrow might take.

—

END