Work Text:
Here is the link to the artwork I made to accompany this fic!
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“Has anyone ever told you that you have quite the pretty face?”
Reca scoffed, setting his teacup down with a clatter.
“....People don’t tend to mention that much. I think they’re too freaked out by my personality to spend much time admiring my… ah, face.”
His winged friend couldn’t hide their smirk. “Well, you do. You’ve got a rather… soft appearance to your looks. Dare I say… feminine.”
“And? Your point is?”
Sunday turned to face Reca confidently.
“You and I are of the same burden, my friend. That much I can tell. We weren’t always the way we are now, and things won’t always be the same, so why not have a little fun with it, while we still can?”
Reca sighed, picking his teacup up once more, staring into the empty porcelain.
“I don’t look the part anymore. My time has already passed. And, besides— everyone sees me as a man, no matter whatever neutrality I feel on the inside. It’d be silly for me to try to be anything else. I wouldn’t be taken seriously.”
The director glanced at his friend through the corner of his eye. Sunday remained as gentle as ever, though their smile was still absent.
“You’re only as ‘cringe’ as you make yourself out to be.”
Reca laughed, his expression amused as he threw his head back in delight.
“You’re funny, my friend. You make it sound so easy.”
“Isn’t there something more you want, though? Are you not willing to fight for it?”
Reca turned to face Sunday head-on. “I’ve trapped myself in this ‘masculine’ box for quite a long time now. Society’s expectations are much too confining for a memokeeper like myself.”
“So you admit it…”
“I do. But there’s not much to be done about it. I am not a masculine nor a feminine entity, but in society’s eyes, I will always fit one binary or another, whether it’s my past self or my present self. This world was not built for those of us who do not fall under a certain category. Perhaps this is the basis for why the world labels us as ‘freaks.’ ”
Reca waived his hand at a waiter, gesturing to his teacup. The pair was silent for a moment as the server returned and refilled it.
Alone once more, Sunday gazed at the sketchbooks that lay strewn about the booth’s table.
“What would you change? If you had the chance, I mean.”
The film director smiled as he lifted the cup to his lips, taking a sip of the bitter black tea.
“I want the freedom to choose. I don’t want to be a ‘him’ … At least, not all the time. I want to wear pretty clothes, like you do. I’d just like to be free. That’s all.”
Sunday smiled softly.
“You can have those things, you know. It’s not too late. I just… want you to be happy.”
Reca placed the teacup gently on the table, resting his head in his hands and smiling calmly at Sunday.
The winged friend gazed softly at the director. “Would it… make you happy…?”
“Can I get you some more tea…?” A waiter asked from beside the pair’s table. Sunday’s eyes flicked from between the server and Reca, who looked like he was in dreamland, with his head resting happily in his palms.
“Ah, I think they’re okay… it just got refilled,”
“Got it. Let me know if you need anything else.”
Once alone again, Sunday turned to Reca.
“See how normal that conversation was?”
“Yes, yes, I noticed your choice of words… Very cunning, winged fellow.”
“So will you consider it? Letting yourself be happy, that is...”
“Indeed, I’ll consider it. You’re lucky, you know.”
“...How so…?”
Reca picked up one of his sketchbooks, flipping it closed as he spoke.
“You don’t seem to care about what others think as much. For you, my dear Sunday, life is about helping others to the best of your ability. But for me, life is about putting on a show. Who wants to see a show if the show doesn’t prove anything? Who wants to see a show if it just falls flat?”
“Do you really think so lowly of yourself…?” Sunday muttered as Reca flipped another sketchbook shut.
“No matter. People don’t care about the little things, Sunday. They want something big, that’s never been done before… not some lonely memokeeper’s pathetic identity crisis.”
“Stop it, Reca!”
Reca blinked.
“Maybe I want some lonely memokeeper’s pathetic identity crisis. Maybe the rest of the Astral Express does, too. Hell, maybe the other memokeepers do! Maybe all of our friends do! You’re pushing aside all of the people who care about you… All of the people who are willing to change for you. You did it once long ago, didn’t you? It can’t be that hard to do it again. You’re not as alone as you think you are.”
The film director stared into his lap, his features dim.
“I’m sorry…” Sunday mumbled, “it had to be said.”
Reca rubbed his face, still hunched over the sketchbooks that lay on the table.
“No, you’re… right.”
His bright crimson eyes danced across the words printed on the covers of the spiral-bound notebooks.
“I need to stop being so foolish.”
Sunday smiled optimistically at their director friend.
“You’re a ‘they’ in my eyes, then.”
Reca glanced upwards, their eyes meeting with Sunday’s, a slightly lopsided, but 100% genuine smile etched into their features.
With their heart softened by Sunday’s words, and having taken their first step towards freedom, Reca gave a small laugh.
“Thank you, my dear Sunday.”