Chapter Text
"I miss your wings," Sejal would say, and Sunday would stare at the message for long enough to blur the last six letters.
Still, he would write, "Interesting you only mention one part."
And without missing a beat she would answer, "Others adjacent parts are also welcome to visit. If you remember to grab them, I might even kiss you."
"Only if?"
"Hmm. Tough question. Fine. Kissing is still on the table even if only one thing comes."
"You spoil me."
"Someone should."
They never talked about their feelings or their future, that plural, shared between them two 'they' remaining quiet and illusive. As if agreed in silent acquiescence that nothing born out of the dream could last far into waking.
Given that those last years in preparation for Charmony Festival Sunday was spending with his life as it was on a timer, it fit him just fine.
Still, bits and pieces of affection managed to slip through the layer of preterition, and each time he swallowed them hungrily, pecking Sejal's fingers for crumbs until they bled. Whatever she was giving him, couldn't be enough to satiate him, but Sunday never asked for more.
What right did he have for that?
Even if his heart would skip a beat when she would tackle him in the doorway as soon as the door was closed, warm and soft and sweet and kissing his head off until everything before him swayed, and he had to hold onto her, hugging tight, fingers digging into soft hips, leaving imprints.
"That was quite the greeting," Sunday said, hiding his shaken breath in Sejal's cheek as he pulled her closer.
"I think it was appropriate level of excitement to display since I'm getting the full package of real you," she laughed, but Sunday suddenly felt guilty.
Because as real as he could be with her, it was never in full.
She caught his wing between her fingers, ruffling the feathers.
"Oh, someone looks ready to hatch."
Sunday blinked.
"What?"
"You growing new feathers, right? Come on, I'll help you."
He let himself to be led into the room and pinned against the backrest with Sejal straddling his lap.
Only then the words returned.
"That's the reason you mentioned wings?"
"Mmm-hmm… Noticed it last week… Now, don't move, I don't want to hurt you."
Sunday opened his mouth to stop her, but nothing came out. His hands that found perch on Sejal's hips pulled her closer as he leaned his cheek against her head. Her nose almost touched his wing with how close she inspected it. Sunday found it hard to breathe with her smothering him this way, but didn't complain.
He was long used to taking care of himself. Not that it was hard with mirrors around.
Still, he remembered the childhood. Mom's soft touch and Robin's restless pinches—little she was always eager to free him as soon as possible. Sejal felt like neither. She held him close and firm, trapped in her embrace, her touch heavy, but not unkind.
"Heh. All ready."
She pulled away, but Sunday didn't let her, holding the back of her neck as he kissed her. Sejal first froze, but soon melted into his hold, her arms snaking around him, scent of her warm slightly wet skin and clean soap enveloping him like a second hug.
"Is that a display of gratitude, or you trying to change the topic? Because I only checked one."
"I can do that myself," Sunday finally said, his fingers trailing over Sejal's cheek.
"I know. I just want to do it for you."
They came so easy out of her mouth, those words.
Sunday caught them with his own lips, mulling, biting them over, rolling them on his tongue.
Many people were ready to do things for him. He hardly needed asking for volunteers, just assigning tasks was sufficient enough.
He never asked Sejal, though.
Whatever she was giving him, she was always the one deciding to share, pulling and pushing the line of admission, letting him in step by step.
Into her dreams, her body, her waking self, her touch, her…
Sunday couldn't bring himself to think the last word, even inside his own mind.
It wasn't fair of him to think about it. To want it. To ask for it.
Whatever Sejal was giving him should've been enough.
Except it never was, no matter how wide he opened his mouth.
"Hmm, seems someone's ready to welcome their new feathers," Kafka laughed, lightly ruffling his wing. Sunday flinched, pulling it away to cover his face.
"I can do that myself," he said calmly.
"Suit yourself," the woman smiled, leaning against the table he was sitting at. "But if you want some help, little bird, you know you can ask for it. We don't bite."
"I'll make a point to remember."
"No nervousness before your grand debut?"
"It would hardly be my first time following the predetermined script."
"Hmm. Good attitude. Keep it."
He didn't need instructions to do as such.
After dealing with the feather, Sunday washed his hands from keratin dust and looked in the mirror to determine whether or not he needed changing the suits.
In his pocket laid the phone with two named contacts, opened with draft letters consisting only of ellipses.
Sunday pulled it out to check them both, but didn't write to neither.
Silverwolf could probably restore the history of his communications, but Sunday could never ask for that.
Everything that was left at Penacony belonged to the past, and it was where it should stay.
Still, his finger slid over five pointed letters, pausing on the last one before leaving the app and turning the phone down.
No matter how wide he would open his mouth now, nothing would fall into it, and that was the way he chose for himself.