Chapter Text
nday.. Sunday..? Mr. Sunday?
Dancing black spots faded from Sunday's vision, drifting away as his focus returned. The flickering motion of gentle hand waves and Mr. Yang’s concerned gaze came into view once more. They were engaged in light conversation—small talk graciously initiated by the ever-kind Mr. Yang. Ah, had he really zoned out just as Mr. Yang was speaking to him? That wouldn’t do.
"My apologies Mr. Yang.. It seems that I was suddenly out of focus. Where were we again?" Sunday smiles wearily. Even his words come out shaky and muffled at the end.
Welt didn’t speak right away—or was he speaking, and Sunday just didn’t catch it? He wasn’t sure. Exhaustion weighed heavily on him. Strange… even staying awake is a chore for him now?
".... ou can just room with me.. idn't know that... unsatisfactory... "
Hm? What was Mr. Yang saying?
"So what say you, Sunday?" Welt asked him patiently.
Sunday didn’t catch a word Welt said, but he was too embarrassed—and too exhausted—to admit it. Instead, he kept his mouth shut, unsure of how to respond and afraid of disappointing Welt for not paying attention. You thought staying silent was the appropriate response then? He didn’t know. He didn’t want to know. His exhaustion ran so deep, it felt like his very bones were crumbling to ash.
Welt said nothing, and the silence stretched on, longer than Sunday thought possible. His body, shaped by years of discipline, refused to grant him the mercy of rest. No matter how weary he felt, it forced him to stay awake. Even as his eyelids grew heavier, dipping into the edges of sleep, he would jolt back to a fragile state of half-awareness. This relentless cycle had become his life these past few days—a quiet, unending torture.
But then, warmth spread over his shoulders… Why was it warm? Who…? Were there people? Had he missed the meeting? What—
Mr. Yang’s face came into focus. Glasses. He was wearing glasses, Sunday noted. Remembering details—appreciating them—was important. It helped form connections. Right? Wait… what was happening?
His legs moved on their own, following Welt’s quiet instruction to sit on the nearest couch. Sunday complied, though unease stirred in his chest. He didn’t like sitting. Sitting meant wrinkles in his clothes. He had to stay standing—tall, composed, always.
As Sunday tried to rise, Welt gently tugged him back down, tapping his shoulder lightly. Regaining some sense of the moment, Sunday instinctively blurted out the same templated response he’d used countless times in his previous profession.
“Yes..? Ah, I’m sorry, it seems that—”
“Sunday, you need to rest.” Welt’s voice cut through his words, calm but firm.
“Yes? Ah, yes. It appears so.”
Silence returned, thick and muffled. The soft hum of the Astral Express's engine filled the gaps in their conversation, a quiet reminder of the stillness around them.
Welt’s eyes lingered on him, concern now unmistakable. His forehead, already creased with age, tightened further.
“Was the guest room uncomfortable? You haven’t been able to rest properly, have you?”
“No… It’s—no, it’s more than adequate. It’s just me, me—”
What was he even trying to say?
“I was just… adapting. Maybe that’s why.”
Why what?
“The Astral Express’s hospitality is very welcoming... Mr. Yang. There’s nothing—nothing wrong with the guest room.”
“…I see.” Welt’s gaze lingered once again, unreadable yet soft. “I’ll leave you to it, then. But, Sunday… if I may suggest, you’re welcome to room with me. Some find comfort in the presence of others rather than being alone, no?”
His hand rested lightly on Sunday’s shoulder, grounding him as his thoughts began to drift.
“Ah… I wouldn’t want to be a bother…”
Turning to face Welt made his neck ache—every movement weighed him down. His ear wings felt heavier, somehow.
“You wouldn’t be.” Welt’s tone was gentle, but steady. “My room can comfortably fit two. I had a roommate once, and the space has remained clean since he left the Express.” Convince him further. Welt’s face didn’t need another wrinkle. If he kept that worried expression for even one more second…
What was he thinking?
“It’s alright… Mr. Yang. I’ll just try to adapt better, so you won’t—won’t worry. The guest room is comfortable to sleep in… I’m sure.”
Forming a coherent sentence felt like grasping at sand. How did he even get to this point?
“Alright, if you say so. Then, one last thing, Sunday.”
Sunday refocuses, barely.
“I initially thought to suggest you could stay in whoever’s room between me and Dan Heng, but Dan Heng’s feels too cramped for two. That leaves me as the only option. So, please remember—my door is always open for you. Anytime. Alright?”
“Yes. Thank you very much, Mr. Yang.” For your concern left unsaid. Sunday feared their kindness—the Astral Express crew’s quiet, unconditional care. He wasn’t sure he deserved it.
Later that night, Sunday tried.
Tried to rest, to sleep, to let his mind drift—but the effort felt pointless. Rest never came.
The quiet hum of the Astral Express followed him as he wandered, pulling him inevitably to the parlor car where his conversation with Welt occurred few hours ago. The space was empty, save for the soft glow of expansively vast lamps lining the walls, casting long, gentle shadows that danced with the rhythmic sway of the train. The faint clink of distant glass echoed from the dining area, a subtle reminder that life continued, even in the quiet hours.
Sunday stood in the center, back straight, shoulders squared—just as he’d been taught. It was easier to fall into old habits. Standing tall meant poise, meant discipline. That was familiar. Safe.
Yet the weight of uncertainty was heavy in his chest.
His thoughts teetered between Welt’s calm offer and the silent, unyielding promise he had made to—to remain disciplined, to never falter. Which vow did he honor? To whom should he keep it?
He blinked.
The cushions pressed against his back. Somehow, he had sat down without realizing it. The parlor car remained still, cradling him in its quiet embrace.
Acknowledging that rest wouldn’t come to him again tonight, Sunday decided to open his journal.
Unruly old scribbles, with splashes of color here and there greeted him at the start of the page—reminders of the good old days. Stickers were haphazardly placed, random shapes that the current Sunday would never allow to be paired together. He smiled wistfully.
It wasn’t always a good idea to open his journal. The vibrant colors and childish ramblings gradually faded into the corners of the page, replaced by the dull remnants of his old ambitions. Notes of solving the sinner’s affair, listed schedules, and the meticulously planned routines that bound him into the 'Sunday' mold now filled the rest of the spaces.
His chest ached so painfully that it deterred him to squint through the rest of the pages rather than truly reading them. Relentless, uncomfortable noises swirled at the back of his mind, threatening to surge forward and make his head throb with a cruel, persistent ringing. His journal slipped from his grasp, and he slumped unceremoniously forward in a futile attempt to reach it.
It was a harsh thud, and something on his face cracked. The noise intensified, aggravating the ache in his head even further.
Sunday groans as he tries to get up. He fails. His limbs weakened from the insufficient rest he had given it. It wasn’t until a moment later that he realized blood was dripping onto the red carpet. He was too exhausted for this. His consciousness began to slip away, and he momentarily found himself thanking the persistent ringing in his head for lulling him into unconsciousness— a rest he himself hadn’t even allowed to have.
Body sprawled on the carpeted floor, Sunday faintly heard hurried footsteps approaching. The next moment, his yet-to-shut eye caught a blur of gold, followed by warmth supporting both of his upper limbs. The pair of golden eyes seemed to search for his, though he couldn’t be sure. The noise in his mind was now fragmented, replaced by an unfamiliar echo—one that worriedly called out to him.
It was too much. Thankfully, his body finally granted him the rest he had long been denied.