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Sunday ran his hands under the cool water, feeling it wash over his fingers and splash into the sink below.
It wasn’t the right temperature. It was too cold. He had to start over, change the temperature, but- He grit his teeth, wings fluttering. He couldn’t start over. His hands were contaminated- already too cold, too wrong, too late.
He bit out a sharp sigh, pulling his hands from the water and adjusting the nozzle. It took him several tries to reach the a temperature that felt right, and each try only raised the volume of the whispers in his mind.
He ran his hands under the warm water, pouring exactly two pumps of soap into the center of his palm. It was too late to fix it. His fingers tingled, the feeling of the cool water crawling under his skin, and he got the sudden urge to smack his hand against the side of the sink in order to make the feeling stop.
He didn’t know why the thoughts had been so loud today. All day, he’d been fighting with himself- barely having come out of his room, unable to stomach the thought of conversing with the others while his mind was in such tumult. Nothing was wrong with him, technically. He just- couldn’t control himself.
He squeezed his hand harshly where he’d been scrubbing it with the soap- willing the thought away as if he could force it out. He was in control. He was. He had to be.
Shakily, he turned the dial to shut off the water flow. It made a harsh squeaking sound, one that made him want to claw his ears out. He turned the water back on, then shut it off. No squeak, but it didn’t feel right. He did it again. And again. And again-
Finally, he was able to pull himself away from the sink, ignoring the voice screaming in his head that it still wasn’t good enough- He didn’t want to risk that terrible sound again. Besides, he needed to finish his nightly routine. Any longer spent dawdling at the sink and he would be late getting into bed. The feeling would sit underneath his skin, pulling him away from sleep, and then he’d toss and turn all night. Which would likely only lead him towards another awfully loud day like today.
He dried his hands on the towel hung by the door, carefully toweling off every last drop of water from his hands.
They still tingled from the too-cold water.
Contaminated, disorderly, wrong- His mind whispered venomously. He took a deep breath, toweling his hands one more time. One time too many. His hands shook as his mind ran rampant.
Why couldn’t his mind just quiet? Surely it was his own fault- it was his mind, after all. Maybe it was some sort of divine retribution- A punishment for his misdeeds. Consequence for allowing himself to fall into such a state of disarray.
Stepping softly out of his room, his socked feet padded quietly down the hall towards the dining car. He would get a glass of water from the clean, cold, water filter. He would drink it swiftly, but not too fast as to upset his stomach, and then return to his room to tuck into bed for the night. Then, all would be well.
He could still fix this.
His hands shook, and he briefly wished he’d grabbed his gloves. But he never wears them to bed- he can’t break his routine, cannot invite questions-
But he always wore gloves, and there would be questions if one saw him without them anyways, as an outside perspective would have no familiarity with his nightly routine, and thus that he did not wear his gloves to bed-
Questions were bad, questions meant his image had cracks, questions meant he wasn’t doing well enough, wasn’t orderly enough-
He took a deep breath, feeling like thorned vines had wrapped themselves around his chest just to squeeze. Opening the cabinet, he grabbed a glass- medium size, straight walls, second from the right in the front of the cabinet. Clean and spotless.
He softly shut the cabinet, softly as to not make noise, not disturb the already sleeping passengers of the Express, and stepped over towards the fridge where the water filter sat. Most of their water on the express was already filtered, but it had been a long-time habit of Sunday’s not to trust any sort of tap water.
Contaminated, vile, disgusting- His brain whispered. Fortunately, he was getting filtered, clean, water.
His hand was still shaking.
As he lifted the glass towards the fridge, it slipped from his grip.
It landed on the tile floor with a loud crash as it shattered.
Sunday’s breath hitched. He broke it. He broke the glass. The floor was untidy, a chaos of sharp, disorderly fragments. The noise, achingly loud, echoed in his ears like a broken record. It crawled underneath his skin like a parasite, and he could do nothing except stare at the scattering of glittering shards.
That sound- He needed it gone-
He was being disorderly. He was making a mess, he was disrupting his fellow passengers’ sleep- He was wrong- There was now one less perfect glass in the cabinet. There was now an uneven number. The glass was ruined, broken gone- The pieces scattered across the floor could prick the foot of an unsuspecting Nameless when they got up in the morning, scattering crimson droplets across the floor like sin, stain, vile misdeeds-
He needed to fix it. He had to fix it.
Clean up the shards. Pick them up- piece them together, rid himself of that sound and the evidence of his wrongdoing-
He tried to listen to the logical part of his mind that told him a shattered glass could not simply be pieced together. It was nearly drowned by the discordant cacophony of whispers screaming in his mind.
He needed to do something. But as he stared at the glass on the floor, he found he was utterly frozen. His lungs refused to take in breath, his limbs refused to move. He could only stare, completely paralyzed.
What if he missed a shard? He was only mortal, he couldn’t be perfect no matter how he longed to be, had to be- He would miss one. He would miss one and injure his crewmates, and it would be his fault.
He needed to fix it. Louder and louder the whispers shouted, telling him to pick the shards up one by one and put them back together. Erase his sins, cleanse himself- rid himself of the filth staining his hands, the many sins of the night stacking up against each other.
Fix it- He had to fix it-
“Sunday?” Mr. Yang’s voice rung out like a shout in the darkness, though he knew it was, in actuality, barely above a whisper. More words followed, but they were drowned out by the ringing in Sunday’s ears as he startled violently. He whipped around so fast that he slipped, falling to the floor.
He felt a sharp pain in his hand, and held it up to see crimson blood dripping from the side, sullying the floor and staining his sleeve.
He was only making things worse. He was the problem, wasn’t he- How could he fix it when every touch of his made things worse-
He couldn’t breathe. His head hurt, his chest hurt, and he couldn’t breathe. He felt like he was dying- His mind was turning itself inside out, screaming voices tearing him down for his sins. He had failed. He had failed spectacularly, the Express wouldn’t want him around anymore once they knew what a mess he truly was-
He couldn’t-
He couldn’t breathe-
His ears were ringing, and his vision was blurred. All he could focus on was that steady drop of crimson, evidence of his sins a bright contrast to his pale skin.
Sin, stain, filth, dirty, contaminated, wrong wrong wrong WRONG-
He squeezed his eyes shut, curling in on himself as the panic worsened. How could he mess up this badly? If Mr. Yang was here, then that meant he’d woken the man up- disrupted his sleep, failed him-
He needed to regain control. He needed to be presentable. He needed-
He couldn’t be seen like this. This wasn’t Sunday, this wasn’t- This wasn’t acceptable. Gopher Wood’s voice rung in his ears, telling him to pull himself together, and he choked on a sob. The sound of his own voice grated against his ears, more evidence of the cracks, the failure, and he wished that he could tear out his own vocal chords.
He curled in on himself impossibly tighter as his breath came in reedy, short gasps. The urge to pull at his feathers rose, and he barely managed to suppress it. He could not add one more sin to the pile, could not sully his appearance further-
His chest hurt. His hand hurt. His ears were ringing something fierce, and he felt like he was drowning. The whispers in his mind were screaming at him, and he just wanted it to stop, please, make it stop-
He was pulled out of his thoughts by the feeling of a hand gently carding through his hair. Sunday pressed his face further into the soft warmth of a sweater (-when did he get here?-), and he realized he was being held. Mr. Yang was rocking him side to side, tapping steadily on his back and breathing deeply to the rhythm, setting an example that Sunday could follow.
He- he could do that. He could follow such a simple instruction.
Sunday tried desperately to suck in a breath, to not disappoint Mr. Yang, but all he managed was a pathetic wheeze. Mr. Yang’s hand gently scratched at his scalp, holding him close. The ringing in his ears faded just enough to hear him murmur, “It’s okay, you’re alright. Everything’s okay, Sunday. Just breathe.” before he took another deep breath for Sunday to follow. The calming voice was a soothing balm to his panic, and Sunday found himself wanting, craving more of that comfort.
Trying again, Sunday sucked in another breath. He managed more than just a wheeze this time, if only just. Welt murmured encouragement in his ear, and Sunday tried again. The vice around his chest loosened ever so slightly. He tried again, focusing on the feeling of the slow tap tap tap on his back.
Then he tried once more.
And again.
And again.
“Good job, you’re doing great. Take another deep breath, with me.” Mr. Yang guided, and Sunday followed. Everything else faded away as the steady rhythm became the only thing that mattered.
Slowly, his breaths became deeper and deeper as his panic subsided, and the thorns around his chest loosened. He came back to himself enough to recognize the tears in his eyes, and the damp patch on Mr. Yang’s shoulder. His uninjured hand was clenched tightly to the soft brown fabric, while his injured one lay on the floor beside them among shards of glass. He took another deep breath through his aching throat.
Then another.
In, and out.
In… and out.
He went boneless with exhaustion, slumping forward into Mr. Yang’s grasp with a sigh. The older man continued to sway, the sensation proving to be quite a centering one. Sunday’s grip on the man’s sweater loosened as he leaned into the motion.
Slowly, the motion ceased as Mr. Yang recognized the end of Sunday’s panic. Sunday kept his face hidden as if it could shield him from the questions that were sure to follow.
He was exhausted enough that he could fall asleep right then and there, and he would have if not for the lingering anxiety still plaguing his thoughts.
“..How are you feeling?” Mr. Yang asked. One of Sunday’s wings twitched, and he did not want to answer. Still, he pulled back, separating himself from the hug.
“...I am alright now. Thank you, Mr. Yang. And.. Apologies for the trouble.” He spoke clearly and properly, hoping to regain some of his shattered dignity. He needed to be presentable. To be anything else was to be a disappointment.
Mr. Yang shook his head. “You have nothing to apologize for. And please, call me Welt. I always tell the kids they don’t have to be so formal, but the message never seems to stick.”
Sunday frowned. “Welt then. And I have to disagree. I… broke one of the Express’s things, and had a… childish breakdown over it. I must apologize for that, if nothing else.”
Now it was Mr. Yang’s turn to frown. “You really don’t have to apologize for something like that, Sunday. Things happen, and you’re allowed to be upset by them.” Sunday wouldn’t meet his eyes. His mind whispered echoes of his earlier thought patterns, chasing themselves around in circles as one of his wings twitched.
“Hey. Look at me.” Mr. Yang said softly, holding Sunday by the shoulders. Sunday carefully met his gaze, and found that Mr. Yang was looking at him rather worriedly. “You have done nothing wrong. Okay?” He said firmly.
Sunday nodded, hesitantly. He wasn’t sure how much he believed it, but he was too tired to argue.
“At least let me clean it up.” He offered. Now that his panic had subsided, he could think a bit clearer. The cacophony of fix it had ceased, and all that was left was the feeling of guilt for causing such a disturbance. The least he could do was clean his mess and dispose of the shards.
But Mr. Yang shook his head. “You’re injured, and exhausted. Right now, all you need to do is rest. I’ll handle it, okay?” He said with a gentle smile. Sunday felt shame rising in his throat. He was capable, he needed to be the one to do it-
“You’ve done nothing wrong. Okay? And letting me clean it up for you isn’t a bad thing. It doesn’t mean you’ve failed somehow.” Mr. Yang cut in, cleanly reading his thoughts like he could see inside Sunday’s head. Sunday stared down at the shards scattered around them, guilt churning in his gut. Still, it seemed there would be no swaying Mr. Yang.
“Alright, Mr. Y- I mean, Welt. I shall… let you clean it up.” He acquiesced.
“Thank you, Sunday. But first, let’s take a look at that hand.” Welt said, standing up and extending a hand towards Sunday. Little shards fell from the legs of his pants as he stood, and Sunday winced. Still, he took the offered hand with his uninjured one, and stood, feeling a brief wave of dizziness overtake him before it subsided.
As he took a step, he felt glass crunch underneath his foot, thankfully not piercing through the fabric of his sock. He cringed at the mess on the floor, before following Welt out of the dining car. He desperately tried to silence the whispers in his mind, lest he work himself back up into a panic.
Welt led him into the medical car, where he pulled a small med kit out of the cabinet. Sunday sat down on a chair, guilt working it’s way up his throat once more. Welt carefully, and quite gently, cleaned and disinfected Sunday’s wound, before tightly wrapping it in bandages.
Once he was finished, he pulled a chair forward and sat down in front of Sunday.
“You don’t have to, but… Do you want to talk about what happened?” He asked.
“It’s… truly alright, Welt. I made a mistake, and..” He looked off to the side, unable to meet Welt’s eyes. “..Had a moment of weakness.” He said, so softly it was almost a whisper. “I apologize that you had to see me like that.” He frowned.
Welt sighed, and Sunday closed his eyes in apprehension. He wasn’t exactly sure what he was waiting for, but it was like some old instinct had flared to life at the disappointment in Welt’s voice. He felt as though he needed to brace for whatever punishment came next. He knew the Express wasn’t like that. He knew these people were… different. But it was hard to argue with instinct.
“Sunday. Look at me.” Welt said, ever so softly. The childish urge to squeeze his eyes shut and turn his head further away rose within him, but he fought it down. Opening his eyes, he met the older man’s gaze.
“If you don’t want to talk about it, that’s alright. But don’t beat yourself up about it, okay? Messes can be cleaned. Items can be replaced. You’re more important than a cup from the cabinet, okay?” Welt said, and it felt like he was resisting the urge to grab hold of Sunday's hands in comfort.
Sunday… didn’t know how to feel. He frowned, a lump forming in his throat. Welt continued.
“I know a few words aren’t going to change what you’ve likely been told your whole life. But you’re allowed to break every once in a while. You don’t have to be perfect around us. You don’t have to be perfect around anyone, not anymore. Trust me when I say that it’s alright.” Welt’s gaze was firm, and the lump in Sunday’s throat only grew. His vision blurred, and he found that he couldn’t speak.
Welt’s eyes softened, frowning in sympathy. “Come here.” He said softly, before pulling Sunday into another hug. It was one of the warmest embraces Sunday had ever felt, and for once, the whispers in Sunday’s mind were silenced.
Only Robin had ever brought him this kind of comfort.
Only Robin…
Oh.
Is this what it feels like to be loved..? Truly, and unconditionally? Like…
Like a real father would?
With that thought, Sunday finally broke as the floodgates opened. His face twisted as he buried it in Welt’s shoulder, returning the hug with a fierce grip as if the older man was his only lifeline. He sobbed near-silently, old instincts and habits still forbidding him from taking up too much space. He knew, for once, that no one would fault him for letting it out. But something inside him still shivered at the idea of punishment, of disturbance.
Welt did not complain. He simply held him, rubbing a hand up and down his back in comfort as Sunday cried. He didn’t try and convince Sunday to let go of his fears. Instead, he allowed him this one small familiarity, as double-edged as it may be. Maybe he felt that Sunday had made enough progress for one night. Small steps, and all that.
Sunday did not know what to do with his… discovery. His thoughts and feelings were a whirlwind as everything came crashing down upon him. He was ever-so grateful for the gentle comfort that Welt provided, something he had not been allowed in years. He took in that warmth greedily, as if it was the only thing that could hold his shattered soul together.
It felt like hours before his sobs slowed to sniffles, before sniffles fell into silence. Welt still held him, and Sunday made no move to break away.
He was utterly, thoroughly, exhausted. He had been put through the emotional wringer, and felt like he could sleep for a week. At the same time, he dreaded the thought of going to bed. The last thing he wanted right now was to be alone.
“Why don’t we watch a movie, hm?” Welt suggested softly. “Take your mind off of things.”
Sunday nodded into his shoulder, too tired to formulate a proper response. For once, he didn’t feel like he had to. It was a novel feeling.
Welt broke away from the hug, and Sunday immediately missed the warmth. The air of the medical cabin felt cold in comparison. The older man stood, and extended a hand to Sunday. Sluggishly, Sunday took the offered hand and stood, before following Welt into the main parlor car.
The stars drifted past outside the window, the same view as always in the expanse of space.
Sunday was led to the couch, where he sat and simply stared at the floor for a few minutes. He heard footsteps leading away, then returning. He felt a soft blanket be laid over his shoulders.
Welt sat down beside him, turning on a holographic screen to display a simple animated film. He wrapped an arm around Sunday, and the halovian found himself leaning into the embrace, soaking up the contact like a starved man.
As the film played softly, and Sunday laid against Welt, wrapped in comfort, he found his eyes slowly drifting shut.
He didn’t fight it when sleep came to claim him.
Welt shut off the holo-screen, glancing down at the halovian tucked into his side. Sunday’s head wings drooped downwards as he slept, and he’d pulled the blanket around himself like a little bird burrito. Though Sunday looked exceedingly comfortable, traces of their hectic night could still be found in the redness around his eyes, and the slight frown still pulling at his lip.
Welt pulled his own blanket closer with his free hand, adjusting Sunday ever so slightly towards a position that was hopefully more comfortable for the both of them. Sunday, dead asleep as he was, didn’t even stir.
Soft, squeaking footsteps drew Welt’s attention away from the halovian. He looked over towards the door of the parlor car, where a sleepy-looking Pom-Pom clad in pyjamas was padding towards him.
“Pom-Pom would like Passenger Welt to know that Pom-Pom intends on cleaning up the spilled glass.” They said sleepily. “Pom-Pom would like Passenger Welt to stay here, and ensure Passenger Sunday gets some good rest. Pom-Pom can tell that Passenger Sunday hasn’t been sleeping well lately, and Pom-Pom would like to make sure that his health is taken care of.”
Welt nodded. “Thank you, Pom-Pom. You make sure to get some rest too, alright?” He said softly. Pom-Pom nodded with a yawn, before padding away in the direction of the kitchen.
Welt smiled, before leaning his head back to rest on the back of the couch. He’d made up his mind on not disturbing Sunday the moment he’d fallen asleep. Hopefully, Himeko wouldn’t give him too much trouble about spending the night in the parlor car. But as he lay awake, he began to think.
Welt knew that Sunday had a troubled past. Everything he knew about that Dreammaster upon reaching Penacony had rubbed him the wrong way. With all he’d seen since Sunday joined them, that feeling of wrongness had only grown. Sunday was obviously deeply affected by the way he’d been raised, the poisonous words of the Dreammaster plaguing his every move.
It would take a long time, and a lot of love to undo all of the damage that had been done to him. Given how the night had gone, it was clear things could not continue like this. They’d all been keeping their distance from Sunday, allowing him space to settle in and become comfortable in this new, shared space. But it seemed that had been a miscalculation on their part.
Tomorrow would be a new day, one that hopefully could be turned into a better one. As the soft hum of the engines in idle lulled him to sleep, Welt vowed to himself to ensure that Sunday would become part of their little family, too. After all that Sunday had been through… Well.
He deserved some love.
And Welt knew that his family would answer the call.