Chapter Text
Sunday thinks he’s going to die.
The operative word is thinks, because he isn’t—and he knows he isn’t—but his face has gone so numb he can’t be sure it still exists. Perhaps his spirit has astral-projected clean out of his body to wander the vast, indifferent nothing of the Outlying Snow Plains. Perhaps his thoughts are merely an echo now—residual energy trapped in a temporal pocket where his emotions have slipped their leash, or, Aeon forbid, he’s actually a glob of memoria and his current stream of consciousness is just an amalgamation of what used to be “Sunday”, doomed to suffer a never-ending loop—
“Sunday.”
He jolts, almost leaping out of his skin. Sunday turns just in time to see Welt Yang pat the empty stretch of log beside him, oblivious to his existential ire, and by extension, his toes, which feel perilously close to falling off.
“Come sit here,” Welt calls like a siren beckoning.
Sunday blinks, brain snagging at the invitation, before making his way over to Welt’s side of the campfire. He looks as undignified as he can be with his hands jammed into his armpits and waddling gait, but he finds he couldn't care less, especially when everything feels stiff, cold, and decidedly miserable.
The Astral Express was only meant to be visiting—dropping off supplies and news from the wider galaxy to supplement whatever IPC-filtered intelligence Belobog received from Qlipoth’s faithful. A small gesture of defiance, Sunday muses. One the Supreme Guardian neither confirms nor acknowledges, yet one Sunday knows is necessary all the same. For her to lead, and for the city to endure.
They’d barely gone past pleasantries when Stelle pointed out Bronya Rand’s haggard appearance: sickly pallor, dark undereyes, visible slouch—the works. Painfully brusque as their companion was, it proved a useful observation; otherwise, they might have remained ignorant of Belobog’s current state of affairs: an unexpected cluster of Fragmentum monsters, hardier than the rest, and too few Silvermane Guards to beat back the encroaching horde.
So here they are, Sunday and Welt, left to guard the campsite while the kids and Himeko ran off to rout the monsters straggling at the borders.
“It’ll be a nice field trip,” Welt remarked brightly when they’d first trudged into the snow. Sunday had been cautiously optimistic. To his credit, the cold hadn’t started biting into his layers then, so his lack of foresight could be excused. And anyway, who was he to contradict brilliant, beautiful Welt Yang, whose sheer breadth of wisdom and experience left him with little to do but nod along and offer an enthusiastic, deeply unhelpful, “Sure.”
He sinks into their makeshift bench, their shoulders bumping as they huddle closer together. At Sunday’s feet, a portable geomarrow furnace thaws his aching limbs while a pot of stew simmers over the campfire. Sunday isn’t entirely sure what manner of delicacy their guide, the youngest Landau, left them with, but it smells incredible, suspicious ingredients bobbing ominously beneath the surface notwithstanding.
Beside him, Welt chuckles, perhaps feeling him very nearly vibrating from the cold. The older man scoots closer, thigh pressing against his, sharing what little body heat he has in the hope it might keep Sunday’s teeth from chattering.
It doesn’t.
Though it isn’t all useless, the heat that creeps up Sunday’s cheeks is almost instantaneous. He mumbles his thanks and keeps his eyes on the fire, heart thumping loud enough in his ears that he half-expects the man beside him to hear it too. Funnily enough, Sunday bites back a smile—because really, who wouldn’t be happy sitting this close to someone they are very much attracted to?
Apparently, being battered by a wind that seems personally offended by his existence isn’t enough to keep his hapless crush on Welt Yang in check.
“I apologize you’re stuck with me on camp duty,” he pipes up, trying to school his face into something more neutral. Or more guilty. Even though he’s long past shame and has settled into the slightly less volatile, it-is-a-thing-that exists-but-I-will-not-act-on-it. “You must have been excited to join in on the action.”
“Not especially,” Welt confesses, grinning. “Sometimes I just enjoy taking in the sights.”
Sunday surprises himself with a sudden laugh. This ridiculous man. What lengths will he go to just to make Sunday feel better about babysitting camp and a pot of lunch? He spreads his arms wide, gesturing at the empty sprawl of snowfield around them. “And what sights would that be?”
A beat of silence. Nothing but the crackle of the fire and the soft burble of the stew between them. A single word pings in Sunday’s head in March 7th’s voice, bright and unforgiving: Cringe. Oh no. His wings fluff up on reflex, betraying his embarrassment before he can stop them.
Sunday manages to cobble together maybe sixty percent of a joke—just enough to acknowledge the social wreckage—when Welt chuckles and gives a small shake of his head.
What is meant to be a handful of seconds of awkwardness quickly morphs into something far more precarious. Sunday waits for Welt to say something benign. To hum in that offhand, amused way he does when Sunday attempts humor. To offer something comfortably cheesy, like every place can turn into a beautiful piece of scenery with the right people, or the like.
But to Sunday’s utter dismay, he does nothing of the sort. Just smiles at him with the kind of tender, gut-wrenching fondness that makes his kneecaps melt into nothing.
Oh.
He thinks the wise thing to do is to breathe. He doesn’t, which is probably why Welt takes mercy upon him and breaks eye contact to look for an aeonsdamned ladle.
“Lunch should be ready,” he says. Sunday doesn’t miss the smile in his voice even as he’s partly turned away.
Suddenly, there’s a bowl already cradled in his hands, warm and almost sacred in this frigid weather, a welcome distraction from the moment that’s just passed. Sunday hadn’t paid it much notice earlier, but it has his full attention now; the familiar scent of roasted tomatoes, basil, and garlic rises with the steam, settling something in his chest and sending his stomach churning for reasons that have little to do with anxiety.
“Snow Plains Combo Stew,” Welt introduces, with the sort of gravitas one might reserve for something far more dignified. Sunday almost snorts at the way his glasses have fogged over, obscuring his eyes entirely. “I’m not sure what’s in it, exactly,” the man adds, mild and earnest, “but it smells wonderful.”
Welt ladles a bowl for himself, leaving Sunday to wonder whether whatever just happened was some fever dream or if hypothermia has finally caught up to him. Either way, he decides there’s nothing left to do but eat.
So he does.
Warmth blooms through his chest with the first spoonful. The flavor hits him so suddenly it’s almost reverent—like stumbling into a sanctuary when he’d only meant to duck out of the cold. The meat is slightly charred, rich and tender, steeped in the familiar acidic tang of slow-simmered tomatoes. There’s black pepper on the back of his tongue, a gentle heat that builds instead of bites, and the earthy, starchy comfort of soft potatoes.
Then he bites down on a pocket of melted cheese, creamy and saline, stretching just enough to make him pause. It feels like a small revelation. Sunday sighs and lets the steady heat settle low in his belly, gently coaxing him back to his center.
He tucks into the rest of his lunch contentedly. With a few more bites, he and Welt slip back into their familiar rhythm of conversation. Welt doesn’t return to the earlier topic, and though something treacherous—something that felt a lot like hope—threatens to surface, Sunday smothers it with reason before it can take hold.
It was probably the hunger. Or the cold. Whichever. Sunday doesn’t much care to examine it any further than he already has—if panicking like a startled pigeon can even be called examination. There’s only so much he can reasonably expect from the Astral Express crew. Especially from Welt. And he doesn’t dare read intention into a handful of offhand comments and a hyperactive imagination fed by his own, frankly pathetic longing.
He is going to box whatever this is up, shove it deep into the back of his mind, and let it gather dust and cobwebs until he inevitably outstays his welcome in existence.
It’s the sensible thing to do.
-
Sunday is a filthy liar.
He shouldn’t be thinking in retrospectives—not with their current predicament—but he can’t help feeling a rush of affection when Welt squeezes his hand from under the table. It’s a warm, reassuring gesture in the face of such overwhelming dread. A little lifeline now that he’s welded to his seat, forced to endure the presence of not the usual one, but three Xianzhou Arbiter Generals.
To be fair, no one expected a simple food crawl to snowball into an impromptu meeting with the Divine Foresight, or for that meeting to swiftly turn into invitations to a dinner that was marginally less stuffy, yet still very much attended by some of the Alliance’s highest officials. Under the circumstances, Sunday feels justified in panicking. He is, after all, technically a fugitive. And if that entitles him to a security blanket—even one that forces Welt to eat with only one hand—so be it.
“Have you been traveling with the Express for long, Mister… Workday?” The Foxian general, Feixiao, leans on her elbow and regards him with an amused expression. Something in her smile scrapes at the back of his skull. Sunday resists the urge to throw up.
He steels himself just in time to catch the false name, albeit belatedly. No one has ever praised him for his spontaneity. So. “Oh. A while. Perhaps around five months by this time?” His tone comes out more clipped than intended, and it prompts Welt to rub soothing circles on his knuckles.
“Six,” Dan Heng corrects.
Fortunately, the company he keeps is far more interesting than he is. Stelle can spin laundry into a full-blown war epic (I wrestled a True Sting spray stain for fifteen whole minutes, blargh), and Dan Heng, reserved as he is, somehow manages to redirect most of the attention onto himself via his past associations, which keeps the table entertained and only minimally invested in Sunday’s affairs.
Not to mention the food is enough to keep another lobe or two of everyone’s brains occupied.
The turntable spins, a roulette of delicacies blurring through his vision: chili offal beef stew simmered until meltingly tender, generous platters of crisped melon and diced chicken, jars of amber Huadiao wine aged to their most fragrant peak, bright Yusheng raw fish salad drizzled with sweet and sour plum sauce, and a nine-squared grid hotpot that sends up spicy, tear-inducing plumes of steam.
He watches helplessly as Dan Heng pushes smashed cucumbers onto his plate. If Sunday weren’t so busy wrestling his anxiety into submission, he might have managed to indulge in more than a few polite bites of plain tofu.
Another squeeze. Sunday briefly looks up to see Welt discussing the intricacies of Puffergoat Belly Bliss with the elderly General Huaiyan. Their discussion is animated. Genuine, as though Welt doesn’t have half of his mind busy with making sure Sunday doesn’t piss himself in front of these Very Important People or inadvertently blow his cover through a series of unfortunate verbal missteps.
It’s entirely too generous of him. Welt doesn’t have to go out of his way to make him feel comfortable, yet he does, even when it inconveniences him.
Or perhaps Sunday is reading too much into it. After all, it’s not as though they committed to anything else but uncomplicated fucking.
The thought sends a faint shiver down his spine. Sunday can’t decide whether he’s mildly appalled with himself for entertaining it over dinner, or secretly thrilled. Either way, his wings fluff at the rush of heated memories crowding his mind—the still-bruised tenderness in his hips, the faint sting along his collarbone, the ache in his thighs. He straightens in his chair and crosses his legs on instinct. Truly, he wonders how much harder he’s going to make this dinner for himself.
Barely a week after their return from Belobog, Sunday had pried open his metaphorical box of secrets and promptly reduced himself to helpless, discombobulated babbling—thanks to one too many lingering looks from Welt and an ill-advised number of shared drinks. One thing had led to another, as such things so often do, and they had ended up stumbling into the older man’s cabin, entangled in something very messy and very embarrassing. Possibly both.
What he’s sure of is the aftermath: the bone-deep satisfaction as he curled beneath Welt’s sheets, in Welt’s arms, drinking in his scent like a man long starved. At the time, he remembers feeling light. Good. Like sinking into a cool mattress after a long day’s work, or the first stretch in the morning after waking up.
Normally, he would have worried about what came after. Regret, perhaps. Guilt. Shame. Maybe even denial. But some part of him, the part that had been collecting the pieces of Welt Yang left behind for others, held fast to an audacious conviction: that it would work out. That he could hold onto this selfish, silly moment for longer than a day.
And he had—for a month now, after a long discussion about what they were, and an even longer one about what they wanted. By this point, he had slipped into Welt’s room more than a handful of times and stolen moments with him in forgotten corners of the Express. It hadn’t escaped Sunday that he’d become forward in his desire. Even greedy.
He reasons it’s because it won’t last. Welt will eventually tire of him, and he will hurtle toward grief soon enough. But today there is this dinner and Welt’s hand around his, and he will take what he can get.
Somehow, it’s this that lulls him into some semblance of calm. Even now, trapped in this stifling room, half-filled with people with enough authority to see him condemned—or worse—it’s this shape of melancholy that steadies the pulse jumping in his throat.
Sunday eases back into his chair, tired from the effort of straining against the entire weight of his body, and just… melts. There’s a kind of resignation to it that he hadn’t expected. Like loosening a grip he’d held far too tightly. For a moment, he thinks he should feel a little bit more relieved, but it’s taken over by exhaustion and an overwhelming need to sleep.
Welt seems to notice. He turns his head sharply in Sunday’s direction and, from the looks of it, doesn’t like what he sees. Worry creases his forehead. It’s not one of Sunday’s favorite looks on the man, but it sends his heart aflutter all the same.
“Mr. Workday?” He asks softly, leaning in closer.
“I’m fine.” Sunday smiles and pats his hand under the table. “Just tired.”
The sound of clinking plates and chatter suddenly floods in from all directions. To his far right, March 7th is eagerly showing off photos to General Jing Yuan’s protege and Diviner Fu Xuan. Farther to his left, one of General Feixiao’s lieutenants is chiding another over the sparseness of spices on his plate.
He lets the noise wash over him, submerging in the low hum of a world that feels strangely distant. It will be fine. His companions will sort everything out. In a few more hours, this dinner will be behind them, and he’ll finally be able to sleep to the gentle rocking of the Express.
There’s a tug on his arm, and suddenly, Welt is pulling him up and guiding him out of his chair.
“Is Mr. Workday alright, Welt?” Himeko asks from her seat. “He’s looking a bit pale.”
Sunday can’t see his face from how he’s turned, but his voice is light and reassuring. “He’s okay. We’re just going to step out for some air.”
Sunday’s world doesn’t spin so much as lag, the edges smeared as if by a palette knife. Chair legs shriek against tile. A hand settles lightly on his back. A door slides open. It isn’t until the lights change drastically that he registers the shuffling of his own feet. His entire body jolts, feeling as though his soul has snapped violently into place.
Sunday blinks, perplexed, his vision adjusting too slowly for the scenery around him. Then he feels a squeeze. He looks down to find Welt’s hand still around his.
“We’re almost there,” Welt says, his face catching in the dim light coming from the latticed windows. Sunday can’t read his expression.
The gardens are blessedly silent, the colder temperatures having driven most diners indoors to the warmth. Beyond the restaurant walls, however, the Luofu’s nightlife drones on—distant voices, drifting laughter, the low murmur of a crowd carried on the air like the tide. Lantern light from the market spills over the tops of the walls in soft gold and vermilion, pooling against stone and foliage.
Welt leads him toward a small pavilion set farthest from the noise. He sits on one of the benches, stretching his legs out until his knees pop softly with the motion. For a moment, Sunday only stands there, uncertain and faintly adrift, until Welt pats the seat beside him, like always.
“You alright?” The older man asks after he’s settled. His hand is cool as he smooths it over Sunday’s forehead.
“I’m fine, I’m just—” Overwhelmed. Anxious. Actually terrified of being caught. Of being left behind. A sigh. “I told you. I really am just tired.”
Welt hums. The set of his mouth tells Sunday he doesn’t believe him, which is fair. But he doesn’t press. Instead, he brushes his knuckles softly along Sunday’s cheek. It’s an absent gesture, one that Sunday has learned to recognize as worry.
His chest tightens at the touch. He should be used to it by now; they’ve shared far more than this. Yet the gentleness of it, the feelings hovering just beneath the surface, nearly undo him. Nearly—until Welt pulls away, breaking the moment to pull something out of his coat.
Sunday stares at it, uncomprehending, then looks at the man for an explanation.
“It’s a tuskpir wrap.” Welt beams with the pride of someone who’s successfully pilfered sweets from the kitchen. Or the dessert tray, as it were. The red-and-pink roll is set carefully in a paper napkin. Welt holds it out to him, giving no further explanation until he notices Sunday hasn’t moved to take it.
“It’s light and not that sweet.” The smile wavers a bit, turns hesitant when Sunday only continues to stare. “I thought your stomach might agree with it better.”
It’s a little absurd if he’s honest with himself. He clearly needs… something. Something that’s decidedly less sugary, more practical—like actual help. And knowing Welt, he’s aware of this too. Knowing Welt, he would have offered comfort, consolation. Maybe advice. And if Sunday asked for it, possibly even a very brisk, very reckless distraction off to the side, preferably obscured by shrubbery. And yet.
“You—” Sunday starts, something tightening painfully in his throat. His voice goes watery as he takes the cake, gingerly cradling it in both hands. “—You stole a cake for me?”
“Stole is a strong word.” Welt chuckles, relief apparent in the way he relaxes into a slouch. “But essentially, yes. I suppose I did.”
He tried. Really tried to hold it together, but he’s tired, inundated with too many unhelpful emotions, and frankly, so aeonsdamned hungry that the combined effort of the universe and his circumstances to screw him over finally tips him past the edge.
His vision blurs as he takes a small bite of the roll. It’s moist and delightfully fluffy. Sweet, tangy strawberry cream bursts in his mouth, fresh and bright, while a faint dusting of powdered sugar melts instantly against his lips.
He lets out a shaky exhale and, against better judgment, sniffs.
Welt wraps a strong arm around his shoulders and presses his lips to Sunday’s hair. “I’m sorry you had to go through that. We’ll plan our visits better next time.”
Sunday settles for nodding as he leans into him. He tucks the whole messy episode away, tying it off with a neat little bow—leaving many things unaddressed, but even more safely undisturbed. Things will be fine. He will be fine.
For now, he will eat his cake and enjoy it.
-
“Shoot,” Stelle mutters under her breath, eyes darting over the assortment of spices spread across the marble countertop. Glass clinks against stone as she picks up bottle after bottle, checking labels before setting them back down in carefully rearranged clusters. The soft clatter carries across the kitchen, accompanied by the tell-tale sizzle of food in a pan.
“What is it?” Sunday’s wings flutter, alert. He’d wandered in, summoned by the heavenly smell of a home-cooked meal and the kind of baked-in curiosity that comes from a childhood lived behind glass. He peers over Dan Heng’s shoulder and finds him cooking something that looks suspiciously like pancakes.
Lunchtime preparations aboard the Astral Express are well underway, the trio having volunteered to recreate some dishes they’d picked up during their stay in Amphoreus. To have them share some of the good experiences, they said. Stelle had eagerly taken charge, lauding her experience as temporary manager for a supposedly fairy-run restaurant.
Sunday wasn’t certain if he believed her. Fairies? Sure. Plausible. Stelle as manager? Dubious.
“I think we left some of the spices in the cargo hold,” Stelle says with a groan.
From the opposite side of the counter, March peers into an open crate and frowns. “Yeah… and a few other ingredients, too.”
There’s barely a beat of deliberation before Stelle snaps her head toward him. “You.”
Sunday stiffens. “Me?”
“Watch the food, please.” And in one smooth motion, she grabs Dan Heng by the collar, yanking him away from the stove before he can react, and bolts away.
“Bu—” Sunday starts, glancing helplessly between their retreating figures and the unattended pans. Panic bubbles up in his chest. Years' worth of botched lessons and charred culinary failures suddenly rush into his mind in a relentless stream. Oh, Xipe.
“Just make sure nothing burns!” March calls over her shoulder as she trots after them. Then, “Oh, hey, Mr. Yang! Perfect! Can you watch Sunday so he doesn’t set anything on fire? Kthxbyeee!”
Welt Yang—his savior, his knight in gray sweatpants—strides into the kitchen with a coffee mug in hand. Sunday can almost hear trumpets blaring at the announcement of his timely arrival. It takes him a single glance to assess the scene: Sunday standing helplessly by the stove, abject horror written on his face, a lone spatula clutched in hand. Welt coughs, quickly disguising a chuckle behind his fist.
Sunday is too relieved to take offense.
He rinses his mug in the sink as his gaze sweeps over the kitchen. Welt makes a thoughtful sound at the state of their work, which is all Sunday needs to feel more at ease.
“Don’t worry,” he says with a small smile. “I’ve made something similar back in my homeworld. We shouldn’t do too badly.”
Welt’s amber eyes flick briefly toward the entryway, checking that they’re still alone, before leaning in and pressing a quick kiss to Sunday’s lips.
It’s a small thing, one more layer added to the many touches and quiet intimacies they’ve shared. And yet, every time, Sunday feels exuberant. Like there’s a delicate fizz gathering in his chest, lifting him until he’s light, almost buoyant.
Then, almost just as quickly, a weight drops in his stomach. Sunday tries not to dwell on it; dwelling has never done him any favors. Overthinking won’t help—not when a line has been drawn. They had both been clear about what they wanted. Or at least, about what Sunday thought he wanted at the time. And this—this ache, this restraint—was simply the cost of honoring that agreement despite coming to the damning realization that he wanted more.
Sunday bites back a sigh. He’s been up and down this water wheel more times than he cares to count; sometimes he thinks he ought to treat it like a routine by now. Maybe then he’d be better equipped to handle the familiar swing of emotions, instead of feeling shitty about it every single time.
They set to work in comfortable silence—Welt tending the stove while Sunday shapes the remaining dough into pancakes. With Welt’s guidance, the task proves easy enough, though he keeps referring to the dish by a different name—cōng yóu bǐng—likely what it’s called back on his homeworld.
Sunday leans a little over the fire, the fragrant heat carrying the scent of sesame oil and onions, rich enough to make his mouth water.
“Want to try it?” Welt reaches for a small plate, already setting aside a pancake for them to share. He cuts it in half and balances a piece on his fork, already holding it out to Sunday.
Heat rushes to his ears. Sharing a bed is one thing; playing at something so domestic with a man he might already be hopelessly smitten with is entirely another. Sunday hesitates, fingers curling in on themselves. “Are you sure? I wouldn’t want to eat before the others.”
“Think of it as a taste test.” Welt winks, and Sunday feels suddenly compelled to scream into a void.
He lets one more second pass for propriety before closing his lips around the fork—and it’s instantly heaven. The exterior is crisped just enough to shatter at the slightest pressure, with layers that melt into buttery flakes and hints of roasted sesame to balance the taste of sweet onions.
Sunday can’t help but make a pleased sound, his wings flapping in delight. He could easily see himself eating more of these than what’s advisable.
“It tastes even better dipped in soy-vinegar sauce,” Welt says, taking a bite of his own. His eyebrows lift in approval. “I’ll suggest it later.”
“Interesting how fairies have food similar to that of your world.” Sunday chews thoughtfully. “It would have been nice to visit Amphoreus, if circumstances were different.”
It’s such a casual remark that he doesn’t expect the next reaction. Welt’s hand stills—just for a heartbeat. He schools his expression almost immediately, but Sunday knows him too well by now not to catch the subtle shift. Recognition dawns, and Sunday’s lips press together, remorse flickering across his face.
“I’m sorry,” he says, reaching out to rest a hand against Welt’s elbow. “Did I say something wrong?”
“No,” Welt replies, his voice flat. He winces at the sharpness of his tone and softens it quickly. “No… sorry. I—I’ve just been thinking about a lot of things.”
A tense silence drapes over the kitchen. Sunday lowers the heat on the stove and gently cups Welt’s face in his hands. His eyes are pained, cast downward as if ashamed. Sunday rarely sees him like this, with vulnerability so plainly etched in his features. In that moment, it’s hard to know how to help, when his own emotions are so tightly intertwined with Welt’s that his mind nearly goes blank with helplessness.
Still, Welt needs him. He can’t afford to think of himself now.
“I’m here to listen,” he offers. Welt lifts his gaze to meet Sunday’s. Perhaps there is some comfort there because he sags slightly, the tension easing in his shoulders.
"In Amphoreus,” Welt begins, his hands seeking Sunday’s. “Sometimes I wonder if there was more I could have done. Maybe if I hadn’t let them go there alone… Maybe if I had gone with them… they wouldn’t have had to endure things they never should have.”
Sunday inhales sharply. He would be lying if he hadn’t thought about it. It was good to see the younger crew safe, healthy, and returned in one piece despite all the odds being stacked against them. But for all Welt's worry and unease during their search, he had recovered all too quickly. He just… fell back into step. Settled into normalcy before Sunday even finished processing that they had just survived a potentially universe-shattering event.
It was as though he’d flipped a switch. Soldered every hairline fracture shut before it could surface. Instinctively, Sunday knew it wouldn’t last. The repairs were too quick, too careless. Soon, Welt would crumble, toppling down with his messy scaffolding of unresolved emotions. But he would never let anyone know. He’d fall soundlessly to the ground—like ash, settling softly even as it scorched everything it touched.
Sunday doesn’t want that.
“Even if you had been with them in Amphoreus, who’s to say they wouldn’t have experienced the same thing?”
Welt frowns, opening his mouth to argue, but Sunday presses a finger to his lips.
“And if they didn't,” he says softly. “Who’s to say they’d be safe on the next mission? Or the one after that? Will you keep protecting them, sheltering them from the world forever? Will you eventually stop them from trailblazing altogether?”
Sunday furrows his brow, disliking the next thought as it forms, but it is so painfully Welt that he needs to ask it, even knowing what the answer is. “Will you risk yourself the next time there’s danger?”
His questions are met with silence—not for lack of answers, he’s sure. But because Welt is thinking of him, weighing how best to spare his feelings. Because even in his frustration, Welt is kind.
One day, this man will be the death of him.
He places his hand over Welt’s chest, feeling the steady rise and fall beneath his palm. It’s more for his own comfort than anything—a reminder that he’s safe. That he’s here. With him. Making lunch now, and tomorrow, and many more in the days to come.
“I’m a hypocrite,” Welt finally says, letting out a wry laugh. Sunday’s wings flutter softly as Welt moves to embrace him. Big, warm arms wrap around his shoulders like an oversized scarf. His hands splay automatically against Welt’s back, rubbing slow, soothing circles.
“I know I told the kids they should lead their own adventures. But when we kept losing sight of them over and over again, I—” he exhales shakily and buries his face in Sunday’s neck. “I think at some point, I thought, ‘Are we really going to lose them this time?’. And I got scared.”
Sunday understands. He can’t bring himself to say it aloud, but he still remembers that first drop of fear—how it hit when he thought he’d lost Robin. How it settled in the pit of his stomach like ice, scraping at his insides to remind him of what was gone. How it twisted into denial, then flared into white-hot anger. How it burned through him like fuel, driving him forward through the final phases of his plan.
Shame blisters through him at the memory. Not now, he thinks, tightening his hold around Welt. There’ll be time for that later.
Time stretches as they stand there, accompanied only by the soft sizzle in the pan and the ding of the chicken in the oven. Sunday feels the weight of his own uselessness. Nothing he could say would reach Welt in a way he hasn’t already confronted himself. Of all the absolutions and comforting words he’s handed out as Bronze Melodia, they feel hollow here. Just little litanies meant only for temporary relief.
He wonders if he’s seen enough of the world to grasp the true depth of Welt’s pain. If, from the fragments of his past he’s managed to piece together, Sunday even has a chance of understanding what it means to be a ‘hero’. He wonders if Welt will even allow him to try.
After a moment, he feels Welt gives him one more squeeze before finally straightening up. He looks tired, but calmer—more at ease. Sunday is tempted to send him straight back to his cabin for a nap.
Instead, he makes one more attempt at comfort, praying he doesn’t sound foolish.
“Fear is normal,” he begins, the words jumping from his mouth in a stutter. Welt blinks at him in surprise.
He breathes deep and powers through a cringe. Eloquence be damned.
“But as much as you and I might want it, you’re not invincible. And that’s alright. We don’t need you to be. We just need you to be here.”
Sunday stares down fiercely at his house slippers, the cartoon rabbit faces on them scuffed from use—reminders of his time at the Express. Of each day he’s spent traversing a small corner of the infinitely vast universe. Of each day of tiny fulfillments collecting in a jar of paper stars.
“I didn’t join the Astral Express because I was promised salvation. And I don’t expect you to rescue me from every spot of trouble I find myself in. I joined because I wanted to find my own path forward. I wanted to prove it wasn’t impossible, even if I’m still picking through the wreckage of my past choices.”
He lifts his hand, brushing his thumb along the high curve of Welt’s cheek.
“But I’m still new to this. You of all people know… So. Don’t make such decisions for yourself. I don’t think I can trailblaze without you just yet.”
It’s shameless. So shameless that a laugh threatens climb out of his chest. Sunday isn’t sure where this wave of brazenness comes from, but he can worry about his selfishness later. For now, if Welt refuses to think of his own safety, Sunday can only hope he’ll think of him—of what Sunday needs—before making any reckless, self-sacrificing decisions.
Something flickers behind Welt’s eyes. The doubt clouding his expression softens, then crumbles away entirely. Before Sunday can second-guess his clumsy tirade, Welt tilts his head to press his lips to Sunday’s palm. Then he leans in, capturing Sunday’s mouth in a kiss—deep and sweet and earnest. As though, all at once, Welt owes him the world.
Fire blooms in his chest, a sputtering kindling he assumes is nothing more than his misplaced affection. It isn’t until much later, when they’re scraping the bottom of an entire pan of pumpkin sweet tart, that Sunday briefly entertains the faintest shift in their relationship.
He hastily smothers the thought and loses himself in the dessert instead.