Chapter Text
“Here it is,” Himeko says as she flicks on the overhead lights. “Though I will warn you, it's going to be quite the task to find what you're looking for.”
Sunday slips into the space beside her and immediately bangs his toes on what feels like a solid lead pipe. Himeko pointedly does not laugh as he buckles over with a groan and he pointedly does not let loose the string of curse words that want to escape his lips because holy shit that hurt like an absolute bitch. ”So I see,” he manages through gritted teeth. With his luck, he probably broke something. “And you're sure there are musical instruments in here?”
“If you're looking for a grand piano, you'll be disappointed,” she says, lifting the—oh, that actually was a lead pipe—off the ground and shoving it to the corner with a grunt. “But there should be a few other kinds in here somewhere.”
He stands back up once he's sure he can bear weight on his foot again and dusts his hands off. The storage above the makeshift gym is limited at best, and with all the miscellany gathered from other cars stacked haphazardly to the ceiling, it's going to be a challenge to get through. The conductor keeps Sunday busy, at least a little, with basic chores like cleaning; but the urge to do something creative has been itching at his mind for a few weeks now, and he's desperate enough to scratch it that the prospect of digging through dusty old boxes for is an actual relief. “It's fine. I'll be grateful for anything to practice with. Thank you for allowing me the opportunity.”
Himeko rests a hand on his shoulder. “Don't thank me. It's our responsibility to ensure our passengers are comfortable, after all.” She lets go, starting to step away, then pauses at the top of the ladder. “Oh. March wanted me to ask you if you'd be willing to help her with party setup this weekend.”
“Party?” Sunday looks up, grimacing, from the box he's digging around in. March's idea of a party tend to lean towards nail polish and mud masks and using her unfortunate guests as dress-up dolls. The only person allowed to treat him like that is Robin. “What kind of party is she throwing?”
“Nothing elaborate,” she says. “Just a little surprise party for Welt's birthday—“
Sunday shoots to his feet, his skull thumping hard enough against the ceiling to make him see stars. “Son of a bitch!” he hisses under his breath. “It's—I mean. I didn't realize. It's his birthday?” he asks, like an idiot because of course it is, it's implied in the whole birthday party thing.
She chuckles. “Don't hurt yourself over it,” Himeko says. “And not exactly. We don't really know when his birthday is, so we pick a random day out of the month to celebrate it so we can surprise him. He says the time from his world doesn't translate to how we keep it.” She purses her lips in a frown. “It's not really a party, just a cake and some gifts. He gets uncomfortable if we try to do anything more.”
“That sounds like him,” he agrees, rubbing his head. “I, ah. Please tell Miss March I'll be happy to help her in any way I can.” Before she can turn away, he forces himself to ask: “What—kind of gift do you think would be appropriate?” Not as if he actually had the money to do anything fancy, but. This is Welt Yang they're discussing: resident jack-of-all-trades (or brains of the operation, depending on who you ask); unofficial father to half the crew; and the man Sunday desperately wants to do filthy, sinful things with.
“I think he'd love anything you give him.” Himeko arches an eyebrow with a grin. “But... hmm. You've seen the black records in the phonograph? They're all his. If you have any recordings, he'd like that. Though I know he also dearly loves live performances.” She winks at him as she begins to descent the ladder. “Perhaps a... private concert?”
Sunday has to fight very hard not to melt through the floor in his embarrassment.
It takes several hours and a few more bumps and bruises before Sunday's hunt proves fruitful. Himeko had been right in that there were several musical instruments stashed away up here. Unfortunately, most of what he found was useless: an empty trombone case; a tambourine with half the cymbals missing; a piccolo that had somehow been bent into a pretzel. Drumsticks with no drum, a child's toy piano with missing keys, even a tiny triangle covered in rust. He'd been about to give up hope when he found the instrument that he now holds carefully across his lap.
The violin is not in perfect shape; the wood is badly scuffed, and the strings are broken on both the instrument and the bow. But there are spare strings in the violin case, and the conductor had found him a little tin of wood polish. Sunday lets the ambient sounds of the train fade into the background as he carefully buffs the lower bout. It has been a long time since he's taken care of a string instrument. Piano is his instrument of choice, has been since he and Robin were small children and they would sit on the bench together to play.
But thinking of Robin at their music lessons makes him remember when she left, and when she left he was alone, her shield gone when Gopher Wood had—
Well.
Sunday breathes in. Repeats the gentle words of a man wiser than him by far, you have nothing to be ashamed of. Pushes the breath and the shame back out.
He doesn't want to think about that right now.
So. Back to polishing.
After a while, someone comes and sits next to him on the bench. Sunday doesn't look up from his task, content to stay in the silence as he carefully wipes away the excess polish from the fine crevices along the sides of the violin. It's comfortable to just have another person near as he works. To not be alone with the intrusive thoughts that make him itch for a little more control.
“I was unaware you played violin,” Welt finally says as he examines the polish tin. His knee knocks companionably against Sunday's own. “Then again, I was unaware we had one to begin with.”
Sunday can't stop the little smile that warm voice brings. “Miss Himeko gave me permission to look through the storage,” he says as he puts the rag aside and wipes his hands. “I haven't played one in quite a while, but I'm sure it won't be hard to pick back up again.”
“How many instruments do you play?”
“I'm most proficient with the piano, but I can also play violin and cello. A little guitar. I've tried a few woodwinds, but I never could get the hang of them.” There's two glasses of ice water on the table that weren't there before; it's not until Welt motions to one that Sunday realizes just how thirsty he is. He manages to sip at it with proper decorum, despite how much he wants to just chug it. “Thank you.”
Welt just smiles at him over the rim of his own glass. It's unfair just how thoughtful he is, sometimes, always noticing the small details most would overlook. It's especially unfair given how hard it is to return the favor. “What about you? Do you play any instruments?” Sunday asks after another swallow.
“I learned the basics of piano when I was a kid. Never had the time to get proficient, though.” He shrugs, chuckling. ”I'm not great at it, but I do enjoy playing.”
“It's a pity the Express doesn't have a piano. I'd offer you lessons,” he offers. “Or we could... play together sometime?”
Welt's smile turns soft. He pushes his unruly white-streaked bangs out of his eyes for a moment, exposing the glowing gold rings within them. “I'd love to.”
The strings are much harder to deal with than the polishing. Welt sits in companionable silence as Sunday works, connecting each string from the tailpiece over the bridge and up the neck, wrapping each string around its peg and pulling it taut. It's been many years since he's done this, and it doesn't help that these are synthetic strings instead of the catgut Sunday prefers. Still, after a time (and several muttered curses that make Welt laugh), it's done. It still needs fine-tuning, but that can be left for after dinner when he can get some privacy. “I wish I'd found some sheet music,” Sunday says as he lays the violin back in its case. “It's not like I can't compose my own, but it's been ages since I've written for anything other than piano.” He idly wipes a bit of stray polish off the side of his gloves. “Do you think Miss Himeko would have any floating around? Maybe in the Data Bank?”
“I've never seen anything like that in our database. Though... hmm.” Welt studies his face for a moment before splaying his fingers over the tabletop. “I can do you one better,” he says. “I can only offer music from my home world, but. Is there any specific genre you'd prefer?”
A thrill shivers up Sunday's spine. The chance to hear music from an unknown world—from Welt's world, music he might have played himself once upon a time—is far too good to pass up. “Why not a few of your favorites?” he replies, trying not to look too eager as he leans forward on his elbows. “I'm sure Mr. Yang has a refined palate when it comes to these sorts of things.”
Welt's laughter has to be Sunday's favorite kind of music: rich and warm in its depth of sound. “I don't know about that,” he says, “but I can give you a few favorites, sure.”
And then. And then his eyes glow scarlet; the pupils and golden rings in them multiply, morphing into jagged gears that slowly turn like clockwork. His outstretched hand glows the familiar red-purple of his gravitational powers, the light spreading out in a grid until it coalesces into a thick sheaf of paper with music notes and lyrics written on them in an elegant hand. “There,” Welt says, casually, as if he hadn't just performed a miracle. “You'll want to adjust them, since they're for a variety of instruments, but that should be good enough for a start.”
Sunday's jaw drops. He hesitantly reaches out and picks them up, ruffling through the sheets and expecting them to dissolve back into Imaginary energy at any moment. They're a perfect mimic of crisp black ink on smooth parchment, down to the carefully printed annotations and childish scribbles that adorn some pages. “That—that's incredible,” he manages, looking back up in awe. “That's—how did you do that?”
“Ah. I forgot you hadn't seen—“ A slow blush paints itself high across Welt's cheeks. “It's really not anything special,” he says.
“Nothing special my ass,” Sunday snorts under his breath, and startles when Welt begins to chuckle beside him. Damn the man and his hypersensitive hearing! “I've never seen anyone have such fine control over Imaginary energy before.” He lingers on one page—drawn in the bottom corner is a round blob of a boy with brown hair, holding the hand of a blonde stick figure in uneven glasses. Beside them, another stick figure wearing a skirt has been violently scribbled out in black crayon. “You must have a gift.”
And Sunday's accidentally stepped on a landmine, it seems. Welt's eyes take on a childlike ache that makes the golden glow dim as he looks down at the papers, one that speaks of scars on the heart and wounds barely healed. It's there and gone within the blink of an eye, replaced by the same quiet warmth he always exudes. “In a sense. I... inherited the ability from a friend,” he says eventually. “He was the special one.”
Sunday's fingers tighten over the sheet music. Aeons, he hates how quick Welt is to downplay the talents that make him so special; hates even more how quick he is to hide the things that hurt him. “We're just going to have to agree to disagree there, Mr. Yang,” he says, cutting him an arch look under his fringe. “Or I can go ask Miss Himeko for the dumbass spray.”
The threat only makes Welt laugh again, holding his hands up in surrender. “I'll concede the point, Mr. Sunday. I don't need to be sprayed twice today.”
“Twice? What did you do the first time?”
It's adorable how Welt's ears turn red when he's really embarrassed. “Never you mind what I might have done,” he says, trying for stern and failing.
Sunday chuckles at the petulant note in his voice. “All right, all right. I won't ask further.” He won't ask Welt, anyway; the rest of the crew is still fair game. He looks again at the sheet music, marveling at the realism of it. “You're sure I can have this? I don't want you to feel like you have to give me something this precious.”
“I'm positive.” Welt reaches out and covers Sunday's hand with his own, his thumb stroking the sensitive insides of his wrist. There's something boyishly sweet and shy in his smile as he adds, “I don't mind sharing something of my home. Not with you.”
If Sunday weren't sitting down, he's quite sure his knees would have given out from under him. He wants to grab Welt by the lapels of his coat and shake him breathless and then kiss the breath back into him because does he even realize what he's doing to Sunday's poor heart? One of the first things he was told when joining the Express was that Welt didn't share his past with anyone. And yet he keeps handing vulnerable little bits of himself to Sunday like offerings to the Aeons, trusting that he will treat them with the gentleness and care such a tithe deserves.
The thought makes his throat swell. “I'm honored,” he manages after a moment. “Thank you.”
There's a moment where it looks like Welt is about to say something else, but after hesitating for a second too long he lets go and stands up from his seat. “Well, unfortunately for me,” he says, “I promised Himeko I'd take care of dinner tonight. Better put those papers away so they don't get dirty.“
I'll cherish them all my life, Sunday wants to say. “I'll keep them safe,” he promises instead. “It'll take me a few weeks of practice, but... maybe after I get back into the swing of things, I can play for you all?”
Welt's entire face lights up like a miniature sun. “I'd love that,” he says, so sincerely that it makes Sunday's heart ache.
And in that moment he knows exactly what he's doing for Welt's birthday.
Getting reacquainted with the violin is, in fact, a bit more... frustrating than Sunday had originally expected.
He's not rude enough to practice where he might disturb others; the Party Car tends to be deserted during the day when everyone's working, so that's where he begins. Back straight, chin on the rest, elbow up and out to hover the bow over the strings. One slow breath, two, hold on the third—and begin.
Start with the scales. G major, three octaves, the notes low and sweet in their deep crescendo. A major, four octaves, low notes becoming piercing before dropping back down. D and C major next, before finishing with three painfully shrill octaves in F major. Six rounds for each arpeggio, his fingers aching as they become reacquainted with the grip and slide and pressure. The first few tries sound terrible, especially the complex A; his wings stay firmly clamped over his ears as he fumbles his way through, only sounding vaguely decent by the last few repetitions.
The lessons of his childhood come back slower than he'd hoped as he moves onto the minor scales. G to D to C, melodic and soft. Play each six times, no more than five seconds between the end of one and the start of another. By the third round of G minor, he feels the mastery start to come back to him. His fingers move more naturally; his arm sweeps back and forth with more grace.
“Can you count down five minutes for me?” Sunday asks Shush as he sets the bow down on the bar. “And could I get something to drink, please? Any kind of juice will do.”
Whatever inane reply the robot gives gets ignored as Sunday begins shaking out the stiffness in his neck and the pain in his fingers. Oh, he'd forgotten this, how his body tenses during play. There's no punishment given for playing notes badly here—no conductor's baton to crack against his knuckles or whip against his back, no harsh insults about his failure of an existence, no unwanted hands to slide over his body in a mockery of praise—but he keeps anticipating Gopher Wood to slither out of the shadows with every wrong move he makes.
Something small and bitter and angry curls up in the pit of his stomach. Sunday presses his lips thin as he accepts the brightly colored drink. No. No, he refuses to let that bastard's memory taint this. Not something as precious as music, especially not when he is carefully crafting a gift for someone he loves.
Welt would never punish him for making a small mistake. Closing his eyes, he lets that image erase the one of Gopher Wood—Welt standing beside him, asking permission before putting his hands on his back to shift his posture. Carefully adjusting his fingers along the violin's neck. Not flinching or scolding when a note comes out flat but smiling through the mistakes before gently correcting them. Sunday wouldn't have to pursue perfection in order to escape punishment, but could glide towards it instead on the back of genuine praise.
His carefully kept scowl melts away. Even if he completely fucked it all up, Welt would still genuinely appreciate the effort.
That thought is what drains most of the tension from his body. Sunday isn't naive enough to think that the realization is going to magically fix everything; he has too many deep-seated issues that he's always avoided thinking too much about. But, as always, it helps.
He helps.
“Your five minutes is up, passenger,” Shush says as he finishes off his juice. “Would you like to reset for another countdown?”
“No need,” he says, and picks the instrument back up. “I think I'll be all right.”
It takes a day and a half of solid practice before Sunday feels comfortable enough to move on to actual music. The crew came and went while he worked. Dan Heng had lingered as he warmed up with his favorite practice piece, Promenade Sentimentale, asking questions only when Sunday stopped to stretch his hands. That had been nice, actually—they'd gotten off-track and ended up talking for over an hour about the different instruments native to the Xianzhou Alliance. March and Stelle had popped in and out, each requesting more and more ridiculous things until he'd aggressively screeched his way through an off-key Twinkle Twinkle Little Star to drive them away. Himeko is his companion now, having sat through two hours of scales and practice while working on financial projections.
Welt has avoided him, only coming to talk with him on breaks. Sunday still can't figure out why.
“He's afraid he'll make you nervous,” Himeko says after he complains about it one too many times. Sunday is busy stretching his wrists, violin back in its case until later that evening. The last thing he wants to do is overdo the practice and injure himself, which, by the lingering ache in his third finger, is entirely possible. “Trust me,” she continues, “he's absolutely ecstatic at the prospect of hearing you play. I heard he gave you some special music?”
And maybe Welt has a good point there, because knowing that he's looking forward to it—even if he doesn't actually know how soon it'll happen—makes Sunday's hands want to tremble. “Some sheet music from his home world, yes. I wanted to play for him at the party like you suggested. Is that... not okay?”
“Oh, no, it's fine,” she chuckles. “I'm just happy to see him open up for once. You've been good for him, Sunday. I hope you know that.”
He starts massaging the base of his knuckles, hating the hot feeling of a blush spreading across his cheeks. Praise is not something Sunday's ever been very comfortable with, especially when the praise is honest. “I'm just honored he'd give me that much,” he says, his wings fluttering up towards his cheeks. “After everything he's done for me, the very least I can do is try to repay it.”
“You shouldn't feel obligated to repay him.” Her lips pull into a frown. “I think that's the last thing he'd want.”
“I don't.” Looking through his feathers at her questioning gaze, he sighs and forces his wings away from his face. “I'm doing it because I want to, Miss Himeko,” he says, unable to mask the naked sincerity the confession brings. “All I want is for Welt to be happy. If anyone deserves it... it's him.”
She studies him for a moment, like one would a particularly interesting butterfly pinned to a board. It takes a great deal of effort not to squirm under the intensity. After a moment, she nods to herself as if making a decision. “The best way for you to make Welt happy is for you to be happy yourself, Sunday.” Himeko gets to her feet and places a hand on his shoulder, the hint of a knowing smile on her face as she passes him by. “After all... that's what he wants for you too.”
Sunday's gaze drops to his feet as he considers her words. To be happy himself? He knows what would make him content: seeing Robin free from her obligations with the IPC; being free of the specter of Gopher Wood; making penance for his crimes. Sleeping in a room that isn't makeshift from a broom closet. As for what could make him actually, truly happy, though? His heart clenches. There's only one answer, one person who could possibly do that, warmth and safety and care wrapped in honeyed eyes and a gentle smile.
Sunday had always believed that kind of love to be fictional, made up to sell movies to the unwashed masses. Robin was the only sense of unconditional love and support in his life; they were family, siblings, required to care for each other like that. But romance was just a facade people put up to excuse their need for sex, or a pretense put up in order to gain something. Romance was never unconditional.
Except... there are no conditions to how he feels for Welt Yang. There's no facade. Sunday had tried to talk himself out of it, at first. But he loves and he loves and he loves, not rejecting the imperfections and darkness within him but embracing every broken part under the calm facade. Being able to feel how real it is, even if one-sided, is already enough to make his heart flutter.
The sheer, unrivaled joy that comes, though, when he dares imagine Welt there beside him, dares to imagine Welt loving him back—
—oh.
Oh.
Sunday whirls around, his heart fluttering in his chest like an uncaged bird. “You can't mean—” he begins, almost afraid to believe.
But Himeko's gone. He's standing there alone with his thoughts.
Hope is the thing with feathers, his mother used to say, but right now Sunday's hope is like the sun, bright and warm and utterly terrifying in its scope. He feels a little like the mythological Icarus, in the seconds before he flew too close to the sun. Is he reading too much into things? Is he not reading into it enough? If Welt's happiness is tied into Sunday's, and all Sunday need to be happy is Welt, then....
Then....
His phone pings. Sunday startles, then scrambles to dig it out of his pockets.
Himeko
Stelle's room is soundproofed, if you'd like to practice somewhere without getting caught.
Sunday
Thank you. For everything.
He begins composing a message to Stelle, his fingers trembling in excitement, before another message from Himeko interrupts him. It's just two words, and yet it says so very much.
Himeko
Good luck.
Sunday
May I borrow your room? I'd need it for about six hours a day for the next three days.
Stelle
Uhhhh. Maybe? What's this about?
Sunday
I'm planning to play a few songs on violin for Mr. Yang's birthday. I'd like it to be a surprise, so I need somewhere soundproof to practice. Miss Himeko suggested your room.
Stelle
Ooooh he'll love that. Deal.
Stelle
One condition.
Sunday
That being?
Stelle
I want to sit in on it.
Sunday
It's not going to be very exciting, I'm afraid.
Stelle
Meh. If it isn't, I can entertain myself somewhere else.
Sunday
It's a deal, then.
Stelle is waiting by the door when he makes it up the stairs. “Didn't expect you here this fast,” she says, dragging him into the room by the sleeve. “But hey! The more the merrier, right?”
Sunday blinks in surprise. Her room looks empty, for the most part. Just the same old chaos, throw pillows and unmade bed and display cases and other people—
His brain skids to a halt. Other people?
March 7th looks up from where she's sprawled out on the floor examining different types of wrapping paper. Beside her, Dan Heng merely raises a hand in greeting, not even looking up from his phone where it's balanced on his knee. “Uh. Hello?” Sunday squeaks out, before rounding on Stelle and hissing, “I said I'd practice in front of you, not an audience!”
“Why can't we listen in?” March demands. She puts on her best pouting face; unfortunately for her, growing up with Robin has made him mostly immune. “You're just practicing, right?”
Dan Heng, Aeons bless him, actually considers the situation for a moment. “You meant for this to be a surprise.”
“Yes. Exactly.” Sunday sits gingerly on the end of Stelle's bed, cradling the violin case in his lap. He hesitates for a second. It's not that he doesn't trust the junior members of the Express, but when it comes to secrets like this... he doesn't really trust them. But it's not as if he has a choice either, unless he wants to practice in the eerie silence of the Engine Room where, it's rumored, Akivili's heart rests.
Frankly, he's had enough of dead Aeons to last a few lifetimes.
“I wanted to surprise Welt—I mean, Mr. Yang, with some songs for his birthday. This is really the only place I can practice without him hearing me.”
March sits up, leaning forward eagerly. “Oooh, what kind of music are you thinking about? He really likes older stuff.”
“Just a few songs from his home world. I haven't decided on—”
It's incredibly discomfiting when all three of them set their laser focus on him. “From his home world?” March asks. “How did you manage to find that?”
Sunday blinks. “He gave them to me? Surely he's shared something of his home world with you all.”
Another shared look passes between the group. “Mr. Yang has shared some of his animation work,” Dan Heng says, “but not much more than that.” He actually looks rather put out by the fact, which absolutely shouldn't amuse Sunday as much as it does. “Not as much as he's shared with you, it seems.”
“Aww, are you jealous, Dan Heng?” Stelle pokes him in the cheek. “You're still Daddy's favorite child, don't worry.”
“Ew, gross! Don't call Mr. Yang that, it's weird. Even if he is pretty much our dad.”
“Fine. I'll leave the Daddy talk to Sunny here.”
Sunday shudders in revulsion, his face so hot he's afraid he might spontaneously combust. “Stelle,” he groans into his hands, “what the actual fuck is wrong with you.”
Dan Heng pats him awkwardly on the shoulder. “We're getting off track,” he says with a frustrated sigh. “And maybe none of us should call him that? March is right; it's weird.”
“Killjoy,” Stelle mutters, but at least has the good grace to look at least a little sheepish. “So, uh, Sunny. What kind of music did he give you?”
Ignoring that awful pet name, Sunday hesitates before drawing the sheet music out of the violin case. Not the originals—those he has kept safe in his room—but copies he'd carefully penned overnight. He spreads all but two of them out at his feet. “There's a pretty wide assortment here. I have the first two pieces picked out; I just need a third to go with them.”
Stelle picks up the ending theme from Arahato: The Movie. “They look so complicated,” she comments as she flips through it. “This song's amazing, though. You should get him to show you the movie if you haven't seen it already. The boss fight at the end? Epic.”
“Oooh, we should do a movie night for it! I wouldn't mind watching it again.” March lays out a few more sets of sheet music. “I wish I could read music. But The Lark Ascending sounds like it'd be cool! Or … no, this one's got weird lyrics. 'Hello darkness, my old friend'? Talk about depressing.”
“Oh, The Sound of Silence?” His wings close a bit along his cheeks. That one had been a bit of an unpleasant surprise, for all that he knows Welt didn't mean anything by it. The lyrics were too reminiscent of Penacony, and of what he'd tried to do with the sweet dream. “I... think I'll try that one at a later date.”
Stelle looks over March's shoulder at another one. “I can't tell if this is a love song or or an apology,” she muses, her nose wrinkling. “And what the hell is an Antichrist, anyway?”
“I believe it's someone famous from his home world. Ah, may I see the ones you've already picked out, Sunday?”
Sunday hands them over to Dan Heng. “I'm not sure these songs will be to anyone's taste but Mr. Yang's,” he apologizes. “But you're welcome to look them over. If you think they'll be inappropriate....”
Dan Heng shakes his head as he reviews them. The music notation is somewhat different than what's used on the Luofu, but from the way he scans the notes, it doesn't seem to give him too much trouble. “No, actually. I think you've chosen well.” He flips through them a second time, then gives Sunday the barest hint of a smile—high praise indeed from someone who pretends to be so emotionless. “Try this one. I think it should match the mood you're going for.”
“Ooh, you found something good for Mr. Yang? Awesome! Let me see!” March moves to snatch them out of Dan Heng's hands. Her fingers wrinkle the corners of one pristine page before it rips, the sound shockingly loud.
Sunday snatches them away before any more damage can be done, clutching them protectively to his chest. His halo pops and fizzles with the rush of sudden anger. How dare she be so reckless with such a precious gift? What if those had been the originals? Would they have dissolved back into Imaginary energy, forever lost? Or—and the thought sends him into a spiral—would Welt be angry with him for being so careless? “March, be more careful!” he snaps, panicked. “It took me hours to transcribe those!”
The room goes dead silent. On either side of him, Dan Heng and Stelle tense protectively. He glances down at March; her posture is shrunken, flinching back from him, her eyes wet along the corners. “I'm sorry,” she says, far too quietly. “I was just excited. I didn't mean to.”
Only in that second does he realize what he's done. Oh, he's absolutely still angry about it—even these copies are such precious, precious things—but that's no excuse to lose his temper. Not when she meant no harm. “... I'm sorry for shouting at you, Miss March,” Sunday says after a moment. “I know it was an accident.”
The other two relax at the apology. “Still... I should have been more careful. Can you fix it? I have tape!” March asks, wringing her hands together. “Please don't tell me I ruined your gift to Mr. Yang!”
The corner hangs loosely, the rip going through several stanzas and obliterating the notes. “I'm afraid tape won't fix this,” he sighs. “But don't worry—you haven't ruined anything. It's just the one page. It won't take me long to transcribe it again.”
“I have all kinds of paper and ink! And pens!” She hops to her feet, her cheery demeanor faltering a bit. “Are you sure you're not angry? I wouldn't blame you if you were.”
Sunday shakes his head as he forces himself to let go of his anger. It's hard to hold onto anyway, with as earnest as she is about making amends. “Thank you for the offer, but it's fine. Really. No permanent harm done.”
“Quick resolution of a dispute and zero threats of brain jail,” Stelle pronounces as she drapes an arm over his shoulders. “That, ladies and gents, is what we call character development.”
Beside him, Dan Heng snorts. Which makes March giggle, and then they're all laughing as the last dregs of tension get washed away. Even Sunday—how could he resist joining in, after all that? They haven't scorned him for his anger. They haven't shoved him out or banished him from their circle. Even after that, they're still welcoming him, and the relief is almost dizzying.
“I'm glad I can be a source of amusement for you all,” he deadpans, though the small grin on his face gives him away.
“Yeah, yeah.” Stelle gives him what is probably supposed to be an encouraging pat on the back but instead nearly drives him off the bed. “So. Back to business. You think you've got what you need?”
Sunday opens his violin case, carefully taking the instrument out before placing the leftover sheet music back inside. “I believe so,” he says. “Now—and please don't take this the wrong way—get out. I'd like this to be a surprise for the rest of you as well.”
There's the predicted groaning of disappointment, but from the sound of it, it's more a token resistance than anything else. Dan Heng lingers just long enough to awkwardly pat Sunday on the shoulder. It's such a kind gesture that it makes his wings flutter. “Thank you, friend.”
Friend. The word slips out before Sunday can stop it; instead of being offended, though, the corner of Dan Heng's lips quirk upward in the slightest hint of a smile. “Good luck,” he says, the message an echo of Himeko's earlier words. “Although... I don't think you really need it.”