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The Astral Express is colder than he was expecting. The air conditioning runs chilly in every room, even the parlor car. The parlor car where Sunday has been sleeping since he left Penacony.
Caelus had offered to share his own room, but Sunday much preferred his privacy, as well as to not here the boy snoring through the whole night with his sensitive ears. The couch in the car is at least comfortable, but it’s too empty. It’s not molded to his body. It doesn’t come with a little sister to kiss goodnight, or a “father” to tuck him in.
The couch is lonely.
And Sunday is feeling it now more than ever while Caelus and Dan Heng are on Amphoreus. Normally, one or both of them would be available for conversation, but since communication got cut, Welt and Himeko had been busy trying to find some sort of solution. And March 7th..
Regardless, it’s sleeping hours. Welt and Himeko had tucked in early, stating that they needed to get an early start on planning for one of them to take the voyage to save Caelus and Dan Heng.
Sunday had been feeling off all day. Unfocused and shy and unsure of what he should do. He kept tripping over his feet. He couldn’t even keep his food in his mouth while he ate. Clumsy. Like a child.
Though, that was an accurate description after all.
It was something he was acutely familiar with. Age regression, the mind reverting back to a younger state in order to cope with stressful situations and trauma. Sunday had been experiencing (and repressing) this since he was a young teenager, his mind desperately trying to handle the overwhelming situation of being the Oak Family head as a child.
But here and now, where he doesn’t have strong arms to hold him, Sunday is spiralling. He can’t get a hold of his breathing, and his hands are itching up to pull on his hair and around to yank on his wings. He wants to pluck them free of every single plume and feather. He wants to pull out his hair until there’s nothing left. Scratch at his skin until blood blooms beneath his finger nails.
He wants to cry.
He wants someone to hold him.
He wants his pacifier and his bottle and his Daddy.
“Sunday?”
He feels like he’s been punched in the chest. Frantic eyes flit up to find Welt standing over him, bending down, examining him. He says something else, but Sunday is too focused on the concern on his face, and the comfort he feels now that someone is here with him, and the anxiety washing over him like a cold blanket.
“Sunday,” Welt says again, and Sunday hears it this time because Welt is grabbing his hands to steady them. “Sunday, are you alright?”
“Am I..” He flounders, opening and closing his mouth a few times as panic settles in, and he starts to try and find a way out of this situation. “What?”
Welt crouches down in front of him, getting on his level and still holding his hands ever so delicately. “Are you okay?” Welt asks him, slower this time. Like he’s talking to..
Sunday shudders under the gentle gaze and tries not to sob out loud. “I..” He can’t get words out, tears falling down his cheeks silently and creating tear tracks he knows look ugly on camera. “What?” he asks again, trying to wrap his head around the fact that someone has come to help him.
“Sunday, do you know who I am?” is what Welt asks next, and even though Sunday knows, he can’t say it, just nodding solemnly as he swallows another cry.
And then Welt asks him something he never could have expected.
“Can you tell me how old you are?”
Admittedly, it’s a good question. He doesn’t know.
So he shrugs, motions to get his hand back. Holds up three, then two fingers when Welt lets go.
“Okay. That’s good, good job, buddy.”
Buddy.
“Can I help you stand up?” Welt asks him, and he nods again quietly, holding tight to Welt’s boney, old hands. He gets to his feet, and wobbles, and Welt steadies him. “Hang on, I gotcha. Can you walk?”
Sunday shrugs, because he doesn’t know. He tries, takes a single step. Stumbles, and Welt catches him swiftly. “Okay. Hold on.” Welt then leans his cane against the arm of the couch and picks Sunday up by his glutes, easily lifting him to hold on his hip. Sunday gasps, and mumbles something that sounds like, “strong.”
“Why thank you,” Welt laughs back. “Let’s go to the bathroom and get you cleaned up, okay?”
Sunday nods. He’s very tired, and hungry, and needs a toilet desperately.
Welt carries him, sturdy, to the restroom down one car from the parlor and shuts the door behind them. “Do you need to go potty?” Sunday nods, and so Welt helps him get his pants down before sitting him on the toilet and turning around. It only takes him a minute to do his business before he starts to wine, and so Welt turns around and helps him right himself before sitting him back down on the flushed and closed toilet.
Sunday feels a little bit better with his bladder empty, but starts to fuss when Welt runs a warm, wet washcloth over his face. “I know, I know. Just a minute.” It’s over as soon as it began, Welt taking the towel away a second later and tossing it in a nearby hamper. “There. Let’s brush your hair, too, okay?” Sunday just nods again, chest fluttering a bit at the attention.
The only person to ever care for him like this..
Welt begins to brush his hair, and it’s slow, and careful, conscious of the wings sitting at his neck. “All of your wings are so pretty, little bird. How many do you have? Can you count them for me?”
Sunday tries to think. Two on his neck. Two on his lower back. Two on each wrist. Two on each ankle. Two on his privates. He tries to add them together, can’t, and holds up two fingers for Welt.
“Just two?” the older man laughs. “I think you have more than that, dear.”
Sunday just shrugs. Numbers are hard.
Welt finishes brushing his hair soon, and moves on to touching the wings near his neck, spanning them out even as Sunday wiggles. “I’m just making sure you didn’t hurt them,” he says soothingly, and Sunday stops moving. Once Welt seems satisfied with the state of his wings, he lets them go and pats Sunday’s cheek softly.
“Are you hungry? Do you want to get a snack?” Welt asks him, brushing some of his bangs back. Sunday nods, reaching up for Welt again. The older man lifts him easily again, holding him on his hip. While he walks, Sunday feels the almost irresistible urge to put his thumb in his mouth, aching for his pacifier he knows is safe in Penacony in.. in his bar.
They arrive in the party car soon enough, and Welt sets Sunday down in one of the chairs at the counter before sliding into the one next to him. The robot behind the counter asks Welt a question, but Sunday isn’t listening, all too happy to be sitting in the high seat and swing his feet back and forth. “Sunday?” Welt catches his attention. “Can you tell Shush what you want?”
Sunday likes Shush. The robot is always polite, and treats Sunday like any of the other members of the express. He’s had countless treats from the bartend, mostly during nights where he’s too wired or sleep, or missing him desperately and needing a distraction. Shush is good people, even if he’s not a people.
There’s a menu in front of him, even though Shush can make more extravagant things. But Sunday has always liked the classics, and points to a tiny cartoon drawing of a croissant, made courtesy of March 7th.
“Understood. Coming right up, Master Sunday,” the robot says, and Sunday claps his hands happily, not able to force his mouth into a smile like he wants. Shush is like magic to Sunday, because it should be impossible for the robot to slide him the croissant and Welt a peach tart only a few minutes later.
“Eat slowly, Sunday. The treat is hot,” Welt assures him. And so Sunday lets his croissant sit for a moment before he grows too impatient and reaches for it. It’s still a little warm, but not enough to burn his fingers as he brings it to his lips. Welt doesn’t talk to him while he eats, letting Sunday finish the treat in silence. And when it’s gone, Sunday feels a bit better again, and very, very sleepy.
Welt notices, because the man is too perceptive for his own good. “Are you ready to lay down again now?” he asks, and Sunday shakes his head. Going to lay back down means going back to the parlor car, alone on the couch, even if it is comfortable. He makes a whining sound in Welt’s face, but he doesn’t skip a beat. “How about if you came to sleep with me? Would that be okay?”
Sunday likes that idea, and nods. Welt bids goodbye to Shush before lifting Sunday up again and taking him to the passenger cabin. Welt’s room is way too far for Sunday to understand as he starts to stir on Welt’s hip. “I know, darling,” Welt coos, “you’re just so tired, aren’t you?” Sunday really is, and makes it known with another rebellious wiggle. Welt doesn’t let it phase him as they keep walking.
If there’s one thing that Sunday knows like this, it’s that Welt is very private with his bedroom. So for him to open the door to let Sunday in on his hip, it feels special. The room is mostly dull. Grey and black bed, dark walls, simple dressers and lamps. But in the corner of the room next to the door to his bathroom sits a square of puzzle mats and a small dresser full of toys and a clear box. If Sunday squints, he can see pacifiers in the box.
How does Welt have these? Why does Welt have these?
“You’re not the only little one aboard the Express, Sunday,” Welt says, setting him down on the bed. Sunday immediately gets to his knees and begins to crawl towards the colorful matting, but Welt grabs him by the hips and pulls him back just before he can fall off the edge. “Tomorrow, Sunday. Sit still while we get ready for bed, please.”
Sunday can do that, sitting back down and bending his toes back and forth as Welt changes clothes. He’s not looking, but Welt comes back soon enough to touch his cheek softly again. “Ready to lay down? Need anything?” Sunday shakes his head. His tummy is full and his bladder is empty. But he can’t stop thinking about those pacifiers in that box, nodding his head towards them to get Welt’s attention.
“Oh. The pacifiers? Those belong to the other little. Do you want me to see if I have a spare?”
Sunday nods again. Quickly.
Welt steps away, and Sunday tries not to watch him go, not wanting to get his hopes up. But then Welt comes back, says, “Sunday, I found one for you.” Sunday turns quickly, finding Welt’s hand holding a white one with a blue shield. “Do you want to try it? It’s clean.”
Sunday nods, because he’s gone months without his now and he’s needy. Welt holds his chin still and slips the pacifier between his lips. Sunday gets to sucking on it without a moment of hesitation, and feels his eyes start to water. “Oh. Oh, buddy, what’s wrong? Why are you crying?”
Sunday whines softly, reaching up to brush the tears away from his eyes. And then reach for Welt with wobbling arms. “Oh, I know,” Welt says, finally crawling into the bed and pulling Sunday to lay on his left side. “Shh, baby boy, I know. It’s alright to cry.”
He sobs openly for a while, because he just doesn’t know what else to do with himself. He’s just so shaken up and he misses his Daddy so, so much. And finally, Sunday gets the words out. “Want my Daddy!” he cries, his voice trembling and fingers clutching to Welt’s shirt. “Daddy, Daddy, Daddy.” He can’t stop crying. He’s exhausted. He’s lonely. His pacifier has fallen out of his mouth.
Welt shushes him again, starting to pat gently at his back before reaching to re-place the pacifier. “I know,” he says again. “I know.”
Welt’s shirt is soaked with his tears by the time the sobbing dwindles down into pathetic sniffling, and he’s so much more tired than he was before. Welt, of course, notices and brushes some hair back to make a space before his lips meet his forehead in the gentlest press. “Go to sleep, little bird.”
Sunday doesn’t have the energy to cry anymore, even if those two words make him want to scream.