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Sunday did not leave the house with their headphones often. In fact, such an occurrence was so rare, it was almost safe to say they never left the house with their headphones. Earbuds were a more common comfort, as they were capable of hiding the little things amongst feathers and hair and placating expressions, but those were still rather rare to be seen with. This did not mean that Sunday didn't prefer the headphones when going out—hell, they often needed the muffling device more than not, but they had an image to uphold that did not include appearing as any less than the proper Head of the Oak Family, a true child of Xipe.
On days like these, especially, when everything seemed too loud and sharp and discordant in their ears, and their mind, already finely tuned to the melody of Penacony—and in turn the Dreamscape—was easily overwhelmed by things they were typically able to ignore, they longed for the soft pressure of silence.
On days like these, Sunday wished they'd never left Dewlight Pavilion. But, instead of granting this wish, They had sentenced Sunday to disorientation of horrifying degree, mind sluggish and heart racing—a frustrating juxtaposition—as they fluttered about the Dreamscape. On any other day, they would have simply been able to find their way back home—their control over the Dreamscape and their presence in it came easy, after all—but when they were overwhelmed to this degree, their capabilities were severely impaired. So, yeah, they really wanted their headphones, and to be out of the stupid Golden Hour. They were only supposed to be overseeing some preparations for the Charmony Festival and then leave once they'd ensured everything was running smoothly, but keeping things in order proved more frustrating than initially thought. It was too loud, too bright, too much too much too much.
Whatever.
Sunday grimaced at the lights surrounding them, attempting to recollect their thoughts. Where were they going? Where could they go? They couldn't leave Golden Hour in this state, at this level of distress and disorientation and general unwellness, but they couldn't just stand around and let everyone watch as they fell apart, either.
A wave of something— frustrationdespairdiscomfortoverstimulation —washed over them at the thought, making a pressure grow in their chest and the wings tucked safely under their coat flutter in upset. They shouldn't be here, not like this. A low tune akin to a whine slipped out of their throat, permeating the air with a dark shade of blue. Unharmonious. Forgive Me, Forgive Me, Forgive Me. They inhaled sharply, biting down on their tongue as they found an uninhabited corner of the plaza, thanking Them for Their grace as they slipped between shops and buildings and settled against the cool brick of the makeshift alleyway.
Breathe in, breathe out.
Squeezing their eyes shut, Sunday pulls their knees up to their chest, hiding behind them and burying their hands in their hair. It was still so loud. The hum of their halo felt suffocating, and in that moment Sunday wanted nothing more than to break it to pieces. They felt that same something welling up their throat and behind their eyes until they were all but keening, rocking their body forwards before harshly slamming themself back into the brick behind them. The effect was less favorable than it was when they did so with their head, but their halo meeting the brick posed the threat of such an unpleasant noise that Sunday opted for the second best option.
Still, it wasn't enough.
It didn't hurt enough.
And wasn't that dreadful.
In some last ditch effort to feel anything but downright awful, Sunday grabbed onto their halo, vision blurring and tipping and trying to readjust to their sudden lack of half their visual input as the sharp edges dug into their hands, pulling at the fabric of their gloves. They didn’t realize they'd started crying until it was all they could hear, breath stuttering and harsh and weepy. Their face practically seared at the wetness of tears, as if detesting all that was considered Holy about their being. The thought did nothing but make them cry harder. This was ridiculous. They were ridiculous, and awful, and horrible, and stupid stupid stupidstupidstupidstupi—
"Mr. Sunday?"
They jolted upright, choking down their sobs as they tightened their grip on the halo humming dully in their hands. A man was standing beside them, at the entrance of this hidden corner, brows furrowed and eyes narrowed into an expression that Sunday couldn't decipher. They blinked once, twice, three more times as they struggled to gather their thoughts, to explain themself, to ask for forgiveness, to—
"Sunday?"
And, oh.
Very few people were close enough to Sunday to refer to them without formalities, and even fewer acted upon this allowance.
Gallagher had placed himself on the ground next to Sunday, that same expression sat firmly on his face as he watched them almost cautiously. He'd seen this happen before, Sunday knew that, but they still felt shameful at him catching them like this. Forgive Me, Forgive Me, Forgive Me.
They opened their mouth to respond, but the only sound that came out was a jumbled mess of warbling, something faintly birdlike in nature, which only made Sunday try and fail to keep themself from crying again. Letting out another sob, their hands moved down to the wings buried in their hair, tugging hard as they began rocking again.
"Sunday, you're hurting yourself," Gallagher started, voice brought down to a volume low enough for Sunday's aching mind. Sunday only shook their head, near hyperventilating at the newfound panic mixing into their thoughts. They needed to do something more —to move, to hurt, to do anything to make this stop.
With a sigh, Gallagher repositioned himself so that he was no longer slouching, face shifting into something stern. "Sunday, I'm going to touch you, okay?" Sunday jolted, a low hum piercing the air as if an outright disapproval of Gallagher's words. He shifted, though refrained from getting any closer. "I know, that sounds terrible, but you're hurting yourself, and you need to calm down and get out of here. I can help you if you let me, but you have to let me."
Sunday knew there was some objective truth behind the hound's words—their voice, their humming, was prohibiting Gallagher from acting fully out of his own volition. I’m Sorry, Forgive Me, I’m Sorry. For using Their gifts against him, for using such gifts at all, for using them to assert control, to assert Order–. I’m Sorry, I’m Sorry, I’m Sorry, Please Forgive Me, Forgive Me, Forgive Me.
After a moment's hesitation, Sunday ceased their noise, swallowing down the soothing melodies nestled in their throat, in their lungs. Gallagher nodded in what they assumed to be satisfaction before slowly interlacing Sunday's hands with his own, easing them away from Sunday's wings. It made their skin crawl, a low warble alerting Gallagher to their discomfort as Sunday shifted, slowing their rocking.
"Good, that's good," Gallagher murmurs, and, oh, how Sunday loathed him so. How unfair this was. They feel their grip on his hands tighten, but the hound does not make any sign of acknowledgment, so Sunday does not stop. In another time, another instance, a different place and circumstance, they would find themself filled with unbridled anger. Such hate is a natural state for them, most days. They are too tired for it, now. And Gallagher is too kind. Sunday shudders, wings puffed up beside their head. The pressure of his hands is grounding, and the heat of them is almost scalding, because Gallagher is always very hot in temperature, but they are suddenly rather cold. Unbalanced. Unharmonious. Forgive me, Forgive me, Forgive me. When they begin their humming again, Gallagher does not tell them to stop.
Sunday isn't sure how long they stay like that, the two of them, but at some point their mind must've drifted off, because Gallagher is very suddenly trying to grab their attention, brows pinched tight. He looks concerned. Sunday can't help the twinge of guilt that pricks at their mind, a silent prayer to Xipe at the tips of their fingers, pressing into Gallagher’s own. They are sorry. They are sorry for so many things, too many things. They can't help but feel guilty. Forgive me, Forgive me, Forgive me.
They swallow around the dulled anxiety in their throat, eyes flitting up to Gallagher's face before falling back down to his hands. The man in front of them seems to relax minutely at their reactivity.
"Are you okay to get up?" He questions after a moment, and it takes them a moment too long to respond, lips pursed. Gallagher does not push, and Sunday idly wonders how he's so patient.
They nod, finally, and Gallagher seems pleased with the response, slowly rising off the ground and easing Sunday up with him, his grip on their hand tight but not painful.
They stumble a bit, swaying at the sudden change, eyes pressing shut. It does little to block out their vision, given the sight from their halo remains unhindered, but they feel the pressure of the Harmony dampen into something comforting rather than stifling, and it helps them regain some semblance of control. They resist the urge to utter their thanks, aware of Gallagher's eyes on them.
"Birdie?"
Sunday opens their eyes, looking back down at their hands interlaced rather than up at Gallagher, knowing that it would only cause a lapse in their newfound stillness. Sunday twists on his fingers in intervals of seven. They take a breath before looking back up to offer a weak, "I'm alright, now, I think. Thank you." They utter it once more to Xipe, head dipping slightly at the weight of their silence. Thank You, Thank You, Thank You.
Gallagher shrugs it off, expression odd. Sunday has never been all that good at reading people, but still, Odd, Odd, Odd . "Don't worry your little head over it." It sounds genuine enough, so Sunday doesn't respond beyond nodding passively. They let go of his hands after a moment, straightening out their clothes.
"Right, well, again… I should be going, now."
Gallagher tilts his head down, not unserious, and huffs a pretty thing. "Don't want to stay with me any longer?"
They flush, wings fluttering behind their ears for a moment. They don't dare respond, flustered and embarrassed over themself. Gallagher tries not to laugh at the display. Their face prickles uncomfortably, and they begin twisting their own fingers in sevens. Stop That, Stop That, Stop That.
They pinch down on their ring finger, letting the sharpness of their nail through their glove bring them back to the conversation at hand. Deep breaths.
Collecting themself once more, Sunday clears their throat. "Goodbye, Gallagher."
He smiles something unpleasantly handsome, face much too sad and much too kind and Sunday can't do this, and—
"Bye, Mr. Sunday."
Forgive Me, Forgive Me, Forgive Me.