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The air was crisp and fresh, a reprieve from the oppressive summer heat that carried the slightest sweetness. Dirt crunched under foot as you stepped off the line of people, two paid bags in your hand. Sunday hung back from the clusters of people, instead taking a picture of the orchard map and stepping away to research the variations listed on it.
The first attempt at this had gone rather poorly. That day, it was muddy and the harvest wasn’t that good. Most of the remaining selections were picked clean and he’d torn a sleeve reaching to prevent you from falling. He couldn’t fathom why people willingly picked their own fruit when it meant such an ordeal.
And so you planned better. Made sure the weather was ideal. You arrived as early as you could. He was still a little uneasy but prepared. More rugged but still stylish shoes joined a light modern jacket and while he still wore slacks, they were more durable than his suit pants. You could tell by his wings that he felt at ease, and when he cast a warm smile as you approached, you saw a fraction of a flutter skin his cheeks.
“We’re all set,” you said, holding up the plastic bags. “We can pick as many as we can fit. Where should we start?”
Sunday assessed the map again, this time marking up the photo, drawing a loop around certain patches that ended at the entrance. He showed you the result.
“This allows us to hit every grove that has the types you need—Granny Smith, Golden Delicious, and Honeycrisp—while also providing the most variety and enjoying the entire area,” he explained.
He pointed to particular groves along the way.
“I, for one, would love to try this…Keepsake variety,” Sunday said, making a note. “It is apparently sweet and aromatic.”
You stifled a laugh as you looked over the grove listings. “Sounds a bit Ludacrisp if you ask me.”
Your companion shook his head and shot you an enigmatic smile before you began to head towards a particular grove. Sunday extended his arm and you took it, nestling your hand in the crook of his elbow as you surveyed the orchard, the trees absorbing much of the surrounding chatter. The sky was clear and vibrant, a sharp contrast against the greenery. Grass rustled as you walked and when you came to the grove with Granny Smiths, both of you began assessing the best options.
“Was there ever anything like this on Penacony?” you asked. “Not apple picking, necessarily, but…did any dreamscape ever have its own seasons, ever emulate certain qualities from other planets? The Charmony Festival is once in an Amber Era but…”
You plucked one apple, and then another, dropping them into one of the bags. Sunday reached up above you and, after examination, pulled it from its perch with a snap, leaves shivering from the vibration. It joined the others with a hiss of friction against the plastic.
“The Moments of Oasis and Scorchsand both have certain qualities that would allow for it, but considering they are still parts of a dream and one is asleep…it makes for a poor substitute compared to the feeling of the sun pouring down and the tickle of leaves or hearing genuine laughter and excitement,” he said.
Sunday’s words sat with you for a moment as you watched his eyes skim the tree, looking for a suitable candidate. The morning sun glinted off of his halo and made his silver hair sparkle. He was clearly trying to be present and cognizant of the moment, focused not only on being efficient but enjoying the day.
You moved on to the next section, looking for Golden Delicious next, every once in a while pausing and taking in a particular view or scent or sensation. Along the way, you came across trees with irregular shaped apples, red coloration over yellow skin. Sunday checked the map and paused, careful in his section.
“So these are Keepsakes…” he murmured. “Quite vibrant.”
You held out the other bag, still empty, wordlessly offering your assistance. Two bags made it easier to keep the apples you needed for baking separate from what you considered the edible options.
He picked three but paused with the third. His hand hovered over the bag before it pulled it back, wings folding in careful consideration before he let the apple join the others.
“I don’t know if I’ll enjoy them. It seems quite wasteful to take up space if there’s another type you would like.”
“The whole point is to try something new, not just get what we need for baking, Sunday. Pick what you think you might want to eat,” you replied, adjusting the bag to lay a reassuring hand on his upper arm. “Don’t hold back all because of a possible what-if that might not be the end result.”
Sunday leaned over and pressed a soft kiss to your forehead. You felt his words of gratitude against your skin more than you heard them as his wings grazed your cheeks. You continued on until both bags were bursting; the smile on his face during the drive home was worth every aching bone in your feet.
The next day, you tied an apron around your waist and assessed the haul closely, ingredients laid out and recipe card nearby. It was an old thing, a copy of a copy passed down over the years, boxed at the corners with a coffee ring marring an edge. You knew it by heart by now. But you wanted Sunday to have the full experience.
He was already neatly folding up his sleeves and pulling them up so they stayed without constant checking. Much like yesterday, he was wearing clothes that wouldn’t need dry cleaning and could handle the inevitable mess. You couldn’t help tracing the lines of his hands up into his forearms, shaped from his time adventuring on the Express.
Out of the corner of his eye, Sunday caught you watching him and his wings fluttered as pink crossed his cheeks. You smiled and mouthed an apology, only for him to step behind you, hands on your waist as he nestled into your neck, feathers tickling.
“I am always flattered by your admiration, my beloved, but you shouldn’t allow yourself to be so easily distracted.”
With a peck to the curve of your neck, Sunday pulled away and plucked his own apron from the nearby rack, ready to start.
You washed the apples together before you began to peel them. At first, you expected to have to show Sunday how to hold the small knife and angle it just below the surface; he surprised you, picking up both with practiced ease. The skin came free in long, curling ribbons that were pushed aside to be baked separately.
“It wasn’t often but I used to do this for my sister,” Sunday said when he caught the curious tilt of your head. “Peeled and cored, with the skin left to be given to the visiting birds and other creatures in the gardens.”
There was more to the simple tale, you sensed, but you remained quiet and waited until he finished an apple before pressing a clean hand to the space between his shoulder blades. Chances were, like all things, he stopped not because he didn’t want to, but because of his growing duties as Family Head.
He said nothing else but cast you a soft smile before you stepped away to take care of the dough.
Butter, flour, baking powder, salt, were whisked together as Sunday continued peeling, humming as he went. You added ice-cold water to the dry mixture, mixing with a fork before you reached over and pre-heated the oven, the soft pop of the ignition barely audible underneath Sunday’s melody. Often, he wasn’t aware he was doing it but had said that it was a reflex when he was content, relaxed enough to focus his thoughts elsewhere.
You didn’t recognize the tune but swayed softly as you sprinkled flour across the counter and began to roll out the dough. Your heart skipped as he continued, his humming only broken by the snick of the apple corer and slices dropping into the ceramic bowl nearby.
With the dough tucked into the pie dish and pricked with a fork, you turned your attention back to Sunday, who was finishing the last apple. All of them were uniform and perfectly peeled, the air smelling tangy and sweet. Baking took a specific exactitude that seemed to fit him like a glove and he measured each ingredient out precisely as needed. You, in turn, stirred the apples to coat them, pausing only so Sunday could add a liquid after each thorough mixing. Lemon juice, and then water, and then flour for good measure.
“Wouldn’t that upset the flavor balance?” Sunday asked.
“It’ll keep the filling from being too runny,” you replied. “Otherwise it can ruin the crust, too. Can you pour this into the pie dish? I have to start on the dough for the top latticing.”
You made quick work of the second batch of dough, and rolled and cut strips, showing Sunday how to weave them between one another. Here, too, you watched his precision at work as he kept the strips equidistant, spacing them perfectly. Even after the edge of the dish was finished, both of you were left with a sizable amount of dough.
“We could decorate it a bit,” you offered. “There’s enough here for a braid around the edge, maybe?”
After a beat, Sunday said, “I have an idea. If you’d permit me?”
As soon as you nodded, he was undoing the ties of your apron, shooing you from the kitchen. Your face must have carried a look of concern, eyes darting to the oven, because Sunday only chuckled and wiped a stray dusting of flour from your cheek, smile steady.
“The recipe is very exact about the rest of the baking process, don’t fret. I’ll come get you when it’s finished.”
With no other choice, you retreated from the kitchen, the smell of cinnamon and cloves and apples and butter wafting through the entire living space. The timer went off roughly an hour later and Sunday retrieved you after you heard the oven open and close, the corners of his lips quirked upwards, proud in his triumph.
He covered your hands with his eyes and led you back out into the kitchen, chuckling softly when you mentioned how thick the scent was.
“That was your handiwork, you picked the arrangement. I merely measured,” Sunday said, the tip of his nose nuzzling the back of your head. “Okay, you can look now.”
His warm hands pulled away and you gasped at the golden perfection. The edge of the pie had a vine-like pattern and small flowers dotted the cross-sections. Tiny leaves were placed along the edge, carefully shaped to look like some of the leaves you picked up and pressed earlier in the season, the first leaves to fall this year.
You turned around, beaming. “It’s so pretty I don’t want to eat it! You have to have the first bite when it’s cool, I insist.”
Sunday, instinctively, was about to protest and defer to you as he always did, thinking of the joy of others; he paused when you shook your head and his wings relaxed, his face turning pink again. It brought him delight to see others partaking, you well knew, but why deprive himself of the same? He, too, deserved to feel the excitement and joy of his hard work every once in a while, not just witness that of others.
A compromise was reached—a shared first piece—and you swore you knew no greater joy than his expression, eyes closed as he ruminated on every flavor, wings fluttering with exuberance. Warmth spread through you as you took a bite, sugary spice running along your tongue with buttery crispness from the crust.
Next time, you reminded yourself silently, he had to try it with ice cream.