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“Does this kind of thing not happen much on Penacony?”
Sunday looks up, brows raised to face March. “What do you mean?”
Instead of a reply, she takes another sip of her startaro bubble tea, eyes skimming the room as assistants, stylists, and all other manner of personnel bustle around them.
“Photoshoots,” March clarifies after the pause, setting down the beauty blender she’d been holding in her other hand. That wrapped up the last of Sunday’s makeup she had to help with — not that he needed it in the first place, really. He and Robin differed a great deal as people, but the one thing the siblings had in common was that their looks were nothing short of angelic (and a source of great envy for March). “You just seem kinda nervous, so I was wondering if this wasn’t a regular thing for you back home.”
Sunday shifts in his seat, eyes moving back to fix ahead. March doesn’t miss the way his hands break its iron-tight interlace of fingers to settle very inconspicuously onto his lap. “I wouldn’t call it a regular thing, but it definitely wasn’t uncommon. I’m far more familiar with working behind the scenes than under the lens, though.”
“Mm, makes sense. I’ve seen you on magazines before.” March leans forward, then, eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Soooo. Why the nerves?”
The change in Sunday’s expression is carefully curated — the slightest furrow of his brow, a minute dip in the corners of his mouth. “Years of experience doesn’t mean a complete lack of unease.”
“Pssh. Well, yeah, but this just feels… it’s different!” She glares at Sunday like she could telepathically wring his secrets out of him if she tried hard enough. “Something’s bothering you. I know it. I feel it.”
Unfortunately, there was only one person here with mind-manipulation powers and it wasn’t March. Sunday gives nothing away as he stares back at her. “And I feel that you simply have an overactive imagination.”
“If it’s the IPC you’re worried about, don’t be,” a third voice says. Dan Heng joins them as he strides up behind Sunday, a clipboard tucked beneath his folded arm. “Himeko already made sure with Jade that no one here would lay a finger on you.”
And that gets Sunday to crack a little, a hand reaching to fiddle with his sleeve. “It’s not that. I’m fine, really.” Gratitude still pangs at his heart despite the misaimed guess — he can’t thank the Express enough for all they do for him, but at present he would really prefer to be left alone with his problems. The lack of company wouldn’t help solve them, but it’d certainly make it a more comfortable affair.
“Is there someone else you don’t like?” March wonders, making a far too obvious show of craning her neck this way and that to do a sweep of the room.
“Or anything involving the shoot you’re not comfortable with?” Dan Heng tilts his head. “You can always tell Himeko or Welt if you want to back out. They won’t hold it against you.”
“It’s just pre-shoot nerves, it has nothing to do with anything,” Sunday says, reticent. “I appreciate the concern, but — ”
“General? Generaaaaal.”
It’s not the volume of the voice that makes them look — it’s easily drowned out by the dozens of other conversations taking place around them — but rather the familiarity of it. All three of them turn to the corner on the left of the room, where Stelle is tending to her current model for the photoshoot.
Her… currently unconscious model.
“Hey, hey, just open your eyes for a second!” Stelle snaps her fingers pleadingly, voice raised to try and reach General Jing Yuan through the haze of sleep as he lies slumped in his chair. “General, if you wake up right now I’ll even buy you a snack. How does that sound?”
“Is she talking to an Arbiter-General or a kindergartener?” March mutters.
Infantilising tactic or not, it seems to work. Jing Yuan’s amber eyes flutter open as he mumbles something too low for them to hear — probably what snacks he’s feeling partial to — and Stelle cheers as her camera goes off in a flurry of flashes.
“She’s taking up the job well,” Dan Heng says.
March laughs, “As she does with everything!”
But Sunday only remains silent. March blinks. Turning back to him, she takes in the fact that his gaze hasn’t strayed an inch from that head of grey hair, something unreadable swimming in his eyes as his jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.
Dan Heng and March glance over him to exchange a look.
She gives the leg of Sunday’s chair a swift kick, and he snaps up immediately. “Huh? I — s-sorry, did you say something?”
“You were staring,” March says. And so obviously, too. What an amateur.
“Your problem is with the cameramen, then,” Dan Heng concludes. “Or more precisely, just one of them.”
A flush crawls up Sunday’s neck at an impressive pace. He doesn’t offer a verbal response to any of that, but the way his wings twitch at the word cameramen is answer enough.
March huffs, almost offended. “Why, though? I thought Stelle being here would make it easier for you!”
“It’s — this doesn’t involve Stelle. I told you that it’s just pre-shoot nerves.”
“You’re soooo bad at lying,” March says. Sunday was honestly pretty decent at it as long as it didn’t involve certain people. It just so happened that Stelle was a VIP on that list.
“It will be fine. Even if you make a mistake, Stelle will just take it in stride,” Dan Heng says. “You don’t need to hold yourself to a standard around her.”
“I am well aware of that.” Sunday’s fingers curl tight into his sleeve, looking more and more ruffled by the second. “Please refrain from making any further assumptions.”
March slumps, posture melting as she sighs. “So you’re just antsy that she’s the one taking your photos? I don’t get it — what are you even afraid of? She’s seen you naked before.”
“Don’t — !” Sunday whips towards her, face aflame and furious. “I told you already to never mention that again!”
“But it’s true! And you need to hear it,” March pouts. “What could you be embarrassed about if she’s already gotten an eyeful of everything?”
At least, March reckoned she did with how loud Sunday had shrieked when Stelle barged into the bathroom without warning that day. It had just been an unfortunate result of Stelle’s general airheadedness and freakish Stellaron-enhanced strength, a combination of which the door’s lock was no match for.
Sorry. I forgot I left my phone in here, Stelle said to a towel-wrapped Sunday once things had calmed down. She scratched the back of her head, genuinely apologetic when she suggested, You can see me naked too if you want to call it even?
March had never seen Sunday look more faint.
“Stop, stop, stopstopstop.” At present, Sunday swats a hand in her direction, impossibly red as his wings flap in agitation. “Never. Never bring that up again.”
“March,” Dan Heng says warningly. “You’re going to put him in an even worse state for the photoshoot than before.”
March throws her hands up in the air. “I’m only trying to help!”
“Well, you’re not!” Sunday hisses. March imagines that if this was the Sunday from half a year ago, he would have already implored Xipe to strike her down where she sat. Getting hit by a train did wonders for the personality.
“Okay, let’s all just calm down,” Dan Heng cuts in, holding up a palm. There was a good chance treating grown adults like kindergarteners was something that came naturally with the Nameless skillset. “Sunday, we know that whatever you’re apprehensive about concerns Stelle. We won’t push — ” (March sits up straighter to protest, then sinks back down when Dan Heng fixes her with a look) “ — but if there’s anything we can do to help, you can let us know. You’re part of the Astral Express, too.”
And that seems to finally do him in. Sunday’s face shutters, something leaden settling over his features as he hunches forward. His eyes flick up to where Stelle stands in the distance.
“I just…” Sunday pauses, hesitant and strained. “I just want to show her the best sides of me.”
She has seen so very many of his ugliest ones, after all. Some days it feels like it’s all he’s able to offer. And he wants to prove that he can be more than that, that he can be worthy of the Express, of her kindness, that he can one day mold himself into a man good enough to finally outrun the shadows of his past mistakes.
He looks at Stelle and truly, truly hopes so.
There’s a brief space of silence, then March snaps her fingers. “You want her to think you’re cool,” she interprets not-at-all liberally.
Sunday shoots her a pinched look. “Must you make it sound so juvenile?”
“But you’re not denying it,” she says.
“And there would still be nothing wrong with that,” The way the words roll off of Dan Heng’s tongue is a little awkward, but he rests a reassuring hand on Sunday’s shoulder nonetheless. “It’s... only natural when you’re in front of someone you like.”
Sunday lets out a sound between a sigh and a groan and a whispered oh, god, running a hand down his face. His lack of life experience already weighed on him heavily enough, he didn’t need crew members his age doing their best impression of one Welt Yang as an attempt at comfort.
“Sunday, just trust me on this,” March leans back in her seat as she plays with her straw. “Stelle already thinks you’re great — looking butt-ugly in a few photos isn’t going to change that. You have to remember that she literally digs through trash as a hobby .”
And that last part was a very good point. Sunday hated when March made those, sometimes. The one before it, on the other hand, was a slightly harder pill to swallow.
“She already thinks I’m great,” he echoes, too quiet to be heard. The small, childish part of him that he failed to fully stamp out fears he might jinx any truth in that if he says it out loud. He holds Stelle in his gaze, watching as she ruffles the Dozing General’s hair with an envious amount of familiarity.
Then, by some stroke of terrifying sixth-sense, she pauses, straightening — and turns to look right at Sunday. He jolts.
Then she proceeds to start walking over.
With front-row seats to Sunday’s face the second this happens, the whole scene to March is less like something out of a romantic novella and more of a clip from a nature documentary. Sunday does a stellar reenactment of prey animal behaviour by freezing like a deer in headlights at Stelle’s approach, looking utterly petrified as his hypothetical predator stalks closer — one with no murderous intent, just a whole lot of excitement.
“Sunny!” she says once she’s close enough, grinning from ear to ear. With how impassive she usually is, her smile is infectious — March can’t help but mirror it knowing she’s thoroughly enjoying her work today. “You’re almost up. Ready for the shoot?”
Whatever Sunday means to say doesn’t quite make it out of his mouth. His lips open, then close, then open again in a soundless reply. He must’ve switched animals and started doing a fish impression instead. March kicks his chair for the second time that day.
“Stelle,” he manages to choke out. “Yes, I — um, I’m ready.”
“That’s good,” Stelle says, before she cocks her head. “Hey, no need to be nervous. You look great! And I’ll be your photographer for the day, so you can just relax.”
March does her best to cover up her laugh with a loud sip of bubble tea.
“Yes,” Sunday nods, almost mechanical. “As long as you’re here, I’m in good hands.”
“Ex-actly,” Stelle puffs up, a too-smug, insufferably suave smirk plastering across her face before she claps his shoulder. “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure to get all your good angles. See you in a bit!”
With a wave, she’s off again. Sunday doesn’t even have the wherewithal to wave back.
A full ten seconds pass in silence before someone decides to speak. “Wow,” March says.
“Not another word,” Sunday grits out. Dan Heng pats his shoulder once more, a quiet bastion of sympathy.
Really, it didn’t use to be this bad. Not too long ago, Sunday’s composure remained unfettered before Stelle just as it did in front of everyone else. And a little earlier before that, he was staring down at her from divinity’s perch with a sneer that suggested she was hardly more than an insect to be crushed to pave the way for paradise.
Somewhere between that point and now, the world narrowed in on her. Stelle began to feel synonymous with sunlight and stuttered breath and far too many things far, far too fast, and it became physically impossible for Sunday to look away.
It was disconcerting. And scary. But he was learning that a lot of things involving growth involved a loss of control, too.
“You sure you don’t need anything?” March asks, eyebrows knit in concern. “Water, mints?” She gives him a once-over. “A cold shower?”
“Cease,” he jabs a finger in her direction, no venom in the word. March laughs.
“No to the water and mints, too?” Dan Heng says.
Sunday shakes his head. “I’ll be fine.”
“Mr. Sunday,” a voice calls. Up ahead, a producer adjusts his cap, a stack of stapled papers in one hand. “If you’re ready to get started right about now…”
“That’s my cue.” Sunday rises to his feet, tugging down the lapels of his coat as his eyes search for lint or dust — force of habit. He knows there won’t be any.
“Good luck,” Dan Heng says. “Don’t stress yourself out.”
Sunday holds back a sigh. “I’ll do my best. Thank you both for the company.” He refrains from commenting on the quality of said company, but his gratitude is genuine.
March pumps her fist with a whoop. “Go get ‘em, tiger!”
“Don’t call me that.”
March watches as the assistants pull Sunday in front of his backdrop, a looming stained glass window framed by ivy and thorns. Fake feathers the colour of his own wings are scattered across the floor. Even from a distance she can see the crease in his brow, lips pressed into a thin line as he adjusts his cufflinks, a conductor’s wand held tightly in one hand.
“I feel like I just sent my son off to war,” March says. Dan Heng snorts.
Stelle staggers into view holding an industrial floor fan, plopping it gracelessly down before the set with a grunt.
Dan Heng eyes it warily. “That doesn’t bode well.”
Stelle looks over the appliance once, twice. Whatever she sees must leave her satisfied, and she plugs it in as she readies her camera, grinning all the while.
“Fan’s good to go!” she announces to the other personnel. Rolling back her shoulders, she stands up before she turns to Sunday. “Ready, Sunny?”
And here’s where March will concede and consider them worthy of a romance novella. Because Sunday looks at Stelle and his eyes go warm, warm, warm — the nervousness still there, but tempered with something so soft and achingly affectionate that it hurts. She watches his chest rise and fall with a breath.
“I’m ready,” he replies.
Stelle switches on the fan and the resulting wind sends Sunday stumbling backwards into a heap.
Dan Heng pinches the bridge of his nose.
A fan of that size shouldn’t be capable of producing near gale-force winds in any logical context, but it’s Stelle who brought it in so of course it does. The fake feathers whip through the air in a frenzy, and Sunday, who’s just made the valiant effort to pick himself up off the ground, gets slapped in the face by the flapping end of his tailcoat and goes down again.
March almost can’t bear to watch. Stelle, on the other hand, is taking so many pictures that the set looks and sounds like a warzone.
It’s the truth that Dan Heng and March have long since known, why they were absolutely certain that Sunday would have nothing to fear — to Stelle, every angle was Sunday’s best angle, for better or for worse.
“I’ll keep him in my prayers,” March says, solemn as she passes her bubble tea to Dan Heng.
He takes it. It’s going to be a long day. “Same here.”