Archive of Our Own ^beta

Sunday hasn’t met Kakavasha, but he knows of him.

The boy was new to town, lived downtown in a crummy part of the city with his sister that Sunday had seen pick him up sometimes. She was older than him, though not by much, just enough to be able to work some kind of job that obviously drained her, and she often came by to take him home late because of it. If his circumstances affected him in any way, Kakavasha didn’t show it. 

He was fair-skinned with small hands and big, curious eyes, with a mischievous sort of gleam that was undampened by adults’ lectures (how enviable), whose hues were unlike any combination Sunday has ever seen. It was mainly colored some shade of magenta, not unlike a very pink iris, his iris – the eye kind – was in a diamond shape, stark blue surrounding deep black, as if it needed a peculiar shape to make people stare. Complementary, though, and attention-catching. Sunday thought they attracted gazes just fine without the oddity.

From the little Sunday’s seen of him, Kakavasha was a strange boy with strange interests; he liked to collect shiny little rocks in the school’s courtyard and stash them away in his locker. He polished them cleanly, like they could fetch a high price if he found the right person to sell them to. Their teacher learnt from the time she threw them out, and Kakavasha was utterly distraught. So, he got to keep his rocks. Even without his eccentric hobby, though, Kakavasha would likely still have no friends.

He wasn’t on bad terms with anyone, per se, but the considerable distance the other kids maintained with him was the world’s biggest open secret. For some reason or another, he was the kid no one wanted to even so much as share a desk with. The teacher let him have an entire desk to himself, so he could stuff his connected table’s compartment with other shiny trinkets if he wanted. 

As a result of this, Kakavasha’s free time was typically spent alone. He was restless whenever they had to do quiet time, and disappeared to run and climb in the courtyard when they were allowed out. Strange.

Sunday was the same in that he was also friendless, though for different reasons. He had too many extracurriculars for a child his age, and none of his peers were ‘on his level’, deemed unfit to acquaint himself with by his father. But he had books, and he had his sister, so he didn’t mind that his days were filled with silence more often than not. Notwithstanding his contentment with his sociality, Sunday found that he had never been more compelled by anyone or anything in his life, Robin’s performances aside. But he had no intention of doing anything with that interest. 

Originally, Sunday believed Kakavasha couldn’t care less for anything other than shiny, collectable objects, but he was proven wrong on one boring day, with clear skies and, subsequently, piercing sunlight.

He didn’t like to stay cooped up inside all the time, contrary to popular belief. He liked the fresh air, liked gentle wisps of wind that tickled his ear feathers, and he had his favorite tree that all the other students knew to stay away from, just so they wouldn’t disturb him. Let it be that way; he could never read with others hovering around him anyhow. To them, he was an untouchable prince of ice. To Kakavasha, he was… entertainment, suddenly. 

“What’cha doing?”

A slight shadow overlapped with the shade cast by His Tree, creating a small veil of darkness in the silhouette of a boy. When Sunday looked up, he was startled by the sight of wide, questioning eyes that shone like gemstones staring right back at him.

He blinked in surprise. Kakavasha stood in front of his sitting form with his hands wrung behind his back, his body language communicating, ‘I am bored, so I am bothering you.’ The other kids were in the playground, a small pace away from this spot, but still in sight. Kakavasha had disappeared at the beginning of the bell to recess, and broke the habit of only returning exactly when the bell sounded again just to talk to him now.

His hands were only a little dusty, but he wiped them when Sunday looked. Eventually, the shorter boy found his voice and cleared his throat before responding lamely,

“I was reading.”

Kakavasha tilted his head. “Reading what?”

“Reading my book.”

The taller boy frowned. With his face shape, it looked like he was pouting every time he showed displeasure. He probably meant to. 

“That’s not really an answer.”

Sunday wanted to ask him what he wanted, but that kind of straightforwardness once earned him a few slaps of a ruler against his wrist. Rude , he was told he was being. He huffed, lifting the cover of his book for the boy to take a look at the title. 

Kakavasha stared blankly at the emboldened characters, no visual indicators of the content on the book in sight, a leather-bound gift in navy.

“...I can’t read that.” He said sulkily.

Sunday laid the book down again, pursing his lips. At least, more than Kakavasha was, the shorter boy was the deferential type, unless he had better ideas. At this point in time, he didn’t. “It’s a collection of fairy tales. I’m reading Princess and the Frog right now.”

Kakavasha lit up like Christmas lights. “Oh! I know that one. I think our teacher told us once, but I don’t remember the details.”

Sunday was startled by Kakavasha’s enthusiasm and paused. He looked at the page he was on, then at the blond’s face, waiting, somewhat expectant, then sighed. “If you’re interested, I can…”

And to this day, Sunday still wondered what compelled him to make that offer, no matter how haltingly. Perhaps he wasn’t as immune to Kakavasha’s natural charm as he thought he was. As weird as a person could be, you can’t help but want to look at a spectacle. If not in curiosity, then in awe.

When he remembered Kakavasha’s reaction then, though, the answer becomes clear to him. The shorter boy had beamed even more brilliantly than the Sun itself, like a ray of light penetrating the cloudy sky of Sunday’s days, and interrupted the rest of his words with a chirpy, “Yes!”

Kakavasha planted himself next to Sunday, seeming victorious like he’d won the biggest bet with himself, or he was just unbothered about openly showing his pleasure. With the boy’s warmth by his side, Sunday felt a little awkward as he flipped the pages until he returned to the very first one of the chapter.

The header, ‘Princess and the Frog’ was bold, prominent, but you can’t start a story without first knowing its name, so Sunday announced it anyway after Kakavasha settled down. That was what Robin always insisted he do, and she was a professional story-listening expert, skills honed by yours truly. 

Kakavasha looked over Sunday’s shoulder, even though he couldn’t actually read any of the words in the book. The shorter boy had to angle his wing away so Kakavasha wouldn’t crush it. Hesitantly, the length curved behind the back of the blond’s head and rested over his neck. It was clearly a little unnatural for Sunday, but Kakavasha didn’t seem to care. But if it was good for him, then... Sunday sighed quietly as he shifted his arm, careful not to jostle Kakavasha’s head too much. He turned his attention back to the book and began to read.

The start is an unfamiliar one to Kakavasha, because people often remember the climax of a story, uncaring of how it starts. They are also quick to jump to the end, so often, the origin of a tale is always the most ambiguous. Kakavasha listened with rapt attention, and with his flow uninterrupted throughout, Sunday grew increasingly more confident with his storytelling. He paused when he wanted to build suspense, slowed down when it was a sad moment, and exclaimed when evil was defeated, the way the world should be.

He found that there was a lightness to his heart as he continued to read to his apt listener, the kind he always felt when he could sneak a treat in between piano lessons, when Robin would stand on the table (the horror if their Father knew) and perform a concert for two. But it was different in a way he didn’t know how to name yet. 

Kakavasha’s hand rested on Sunday’s arm as he leaned against him. And, unmistakably, Sunday realized that he felt a little happy. He didn’t know why, or how much. As recess flew by, he thought that perhaps you don’t always need to liken a feeling with another; you are happy, just because you are happy.

“By the way, I’m Kakavasha,” the boy said softly after Sunday read, ‘and they lived happily ever after, the end.’ 

Sunday’s wing curled against his hair, and he shifted a little to look at the other. “I know that. Your locker is above mine.”

“Then, can I know the name of the kid who owns that locker?” Kakavasha asked with a roll of his eyes. Sunday felt like he was being teased, but not about what.

“It’s Sunday. Sunday Oak,” he replied, his blushline colored.

Kakavasha nodded slowly, like he was registering the words in my mind, or committing the syllables to memory. He then said with a smirk, “Strange name for a strange boy.”

Now, Sunday was sure he was being made fun of.

He pulled away and turned to look at Kakavasha, tone defensive as his wings pressed to his nape. “I could say the same about you!”

Kakavasha grinned, not at all offended. “Is my name strange?” 

“No, not your name,” Sunday grumbled. He felt embarrassed to have had such an outburst in the first place. “You, in general.”

And that got him to really laugh, the kind of reaction that lit up his entire body. That made an unknown feeling settle in the pit of Sunday’s stomach, his cheeks reddening. He never knew anyone who found so much humor in being insulted.

“You’re weird too! You can’t call me weird!” Kakavasha said between wheezes.

“ You approached me ,” 

“I can be weird and also talk to weird people,” Kakavasha said, a single finger raised like he just caught Sunday with a ‘got-cha’ moment. Sunday looked at him, bewildered.

“You just admitted that you are, actually, weird.” 

“Huh? Oh… you got me there. But like I said, you’re weird too.”

Sunday opened his mouth, wanting to argue, but couldn’t find anything witty to say in return. It was like Aventurine meant to say, ‘if I have to go down, you have to come with.’ Sunday's feathers puffed up, “W-Whatever. We’re weird together, then.”

Something about that phrasing must have stuck out to Kakavasha, because his teasing smirk evened into a quiet smile. A beat of silence passed. “I liked that story,” he blurted out of nowhere, his expression faltering just the slightest bit as he asked, “Read me another?”

Sunday was taken aback by the change in topic, but he didn’t dwell on it. His book was still lying open in his lap, and the next story, Beauty and the Beast, was one of his favorites. He nodded after a moment, just about to move so they could sit closer like earlier, already feeling his heart pick up in that weird rhythm, when their teacher called for all the kids to come back to class.

Sunday’s wings drooped with disappointment. When he looked at Kakavasha, he almost giggled, because the taller boy looked like he had just eaten something nasty. The taller boy stood up and dusted the dirt off his pants, extending a hand for Sunday to take.

Sunday can’t keep himself from feeling surprised with their every interaction. After a moment’s hesitation, his hand slid over Kakavasha’s warm palm, and he yelped as he was roughly pulled to his feet. He stumbled, tightening his hold on Kakavasha’s hand to stabilize himself and clutching his book in his own free one. His irritation melted away as fast as it came when he noticed the bright smile on Kakavasha’s face. 

“My sister usually picks me up late, so maybe…”

“I don’t think I can. But tomorrow?” And, Sunday rushed to add, like a reassurance, “we can still chat until I have to go after.”

“Okay.” Kakavasha grinned. “Tomorrow.”

Sunday turned to look at their teacher, who was doing a headcount, ushering the kids in one by one. He looked down at their hands, his over Kakavasha’s. Despite the small advantage in height, the boy wasn’t much bigger in this department. He squeezed it, already turning in her direction. “Let’s go back together.”

If Kakavasha’s hand was slightly trembly in the first few steps they took before he squeezed Sunday’s own back, neither of them mentioned it. They had something else to look forward to; everything before that, they had all the time in the world to make sense of.