Chapter Text
The day begins on an interesting note as a strange gagging sound blares through the Astral Express's dining room at breakfast.
Sunday, former head of the Oak Family and normally the picture of dignity and composure, is bent over the dining table with a piece of toast lodged in his windpipe. One hand flies to his own throat while the other frantically smacks his sternum in an attempt to cough up the object. Another weak cry tries to claw its way out of his mouth, but no sound comes out at all. The lack of oxygen causes a burning sensation to spread through his lungs. In the distance, the crew members' worried cries slowly melt together into a monotonous buzz.
Suddenly a pair of arms grab his midsection and squeeze hard, repeatedly slamming upwards into his torso with enough force to bring tears to his eyes. The pressure crushing his ribs and lungs is too much, and the little air in his lungs shoots out in a violent sputtering gasp. A large wad of something flies out of his mouth onto the table.
"Sunday! Are you okay?!" The rest of the Express crew swarm around, expressions both worried and fearful. Sunday feels a rush of air as his savior—Stelle—throws out her arm, signalling the others to keep their distance.
"Let him catch his breath first." Indeed, Sunday collapses in his seat coughing and gasping for air, limp wings fluttering feebly. Now that the adrenaline is beginning to wear off, humiliation takes its place as redness creeps up his neck.
Thankfully, the rest of the crew all seem to be distracted watching Stelle carefully pick up the crumpled whitish object on the table, a mixture of curiosity and revulsion on her face. The subsequent crinkling sound reveals that the object isn't a piece of toast or any kind of food at all, but instead a piece of paper.
"What the hell is this…?" she mutters, unfolding it. An awkward silence falls over the room, and the next few minutes that pass feel more like hours. Sunday looks up, chest still heaving, just in time to see Stelle's expression change from incredulity, to annoyance, and finally settle on stony resignation. She holds the paper out to let Sunday see the neat handwriting and Xianzhou Hexafleet stamp adorning the front:
Greetings, Mr. Sunday! Sorry for sending this message in such an… unorthodox way, but there was VERY limited time and I had a feeling that you'd be fine. Call it a diviner's intuition (￣▽￣)ノ
Now to business—I know I've been off-the-grid for a bit, but I've found some massive leads as to what's been happening. I noted my findings in three fortune pouches, but wasn't careful and got ambushed in Entertainment Plaza (╥﹏╥) Things got out of hand and now the pouches are scattered all over the city. If it's not too much trouble, could you be a dear and gather them up for the next time we meet? It shouldn't take long at all and you'll have my eternal gratitude! ദ്ദി ( ᵔ ᗜ ᵔ )
Cheers,Yao Guang
P.S. bring Miss Trailblazer with you. I think this could be a great opportunity for you both to gather some information together ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ
"… Does she think you're her errand boy or something?"
"More importantly, do you feel alright now, Sunday?" Mr. Yang asks, giving the the abandoned half-slice of toast on the table a distasteful side-eye. The younger man nods stiffly, though small embarrassed coughs wrack his frame.
"I'm—er, fine." It doesn't hurt to speak or anything, but the hoarseness still present in his voice makes his skin crawl.
Mr. Yang's worried gaze flicks between the letter and its unwitting recipient. "Hmm… the task doesn't sound dangerous, but frankly, I'm a little skeptical about whether it's worth the risks. Two high-profile Supplicants wandering about in the open could attract a lot of unwanted attention if we're not careful."
"I can help! I can help!! I've got an idea for an undercover operation!" Before either of them can reply, March 7th tackles Stelle in a hug. The pink-haired woman grins so eagerly that Sunday can see the sparkles in her eyes. "You can count on me for all your costuming needs!"
The trailblazer groans dramatically. "Wow, someone's excited. Who invited you to this outing again?" she quips, pinching March's left cheek. "Honestly I don't mind going as long as Sunny is comfortable with it, but I don't want to force him."
As March continues chattering away in excitement, Stelle turns to face Sunday. She tilts her head questioningly at him, and though her expression remains neutral, her molten gold eyes crinkle a bit in concern. The message gets across, loud and clear.
The other crew members' gazes feel heavy, but something in Sunday's chest loosens, ever so slightly. He nods.
Later, Sunday stands in his usual corner of the party car, gazing out the window at the stars and multicolored swirls of nebulas drifting by. A stray comet shoots past the window in a trail of blue flame. He doesn't even blink.
Shame still spills over him, weighing down his limbs like cooling wax. As soon as he could do so without it being awkward, he'd excused himself. The disgusting, humiliating sounds that had come out of his mouth after Stelle had helped him are burned into his ears, and he can't even imagine how wretched he probably looked from the crew's perspective.
Logically, he knows that none of the crew would think less of him—even March is tactful enough not to joke about certain topics. Yet the worst part of it all is that despite all his supposed growth, Sunday himself seems to be the only one truly bothered.
Shouldn't he know better? By this point he's already helped the Astral Express through several potentially world-ending catastrophes and made blunders of far greater magnitude, yet one little choking episode is what makes him fold.
He buries his face in his hands.
"Sunny? Sunny, look at me—!"
Someone grabs onto Sunday's shoulders and shakes him vigorously. The fog clouding his mind quickly retreats to reveal Stelle a few hair-lengths away, deep gold eyes wide with worry and staring into his own.
For a few moments, neither of them react. Then, reality crashes down on Sunday and he jerks away as though burned. He opens his mouth, ready to apologize, but Stelle moves faster.
"Listen to me, Sunny. You've been working nonstop on missions since we landed, and you look like you haven't slept in days." She steps closer again with a steely expression on her face, then pulls up a chair and points to it. "Calm down. Rest."
He sinks into the chair without a word. A second later, Stelle slams a glass of cold water down on the table with a loud clatter. The ice cubes clink innocently. Sunday just stares.
"Well go on then."
"Stelle," he tries feebly. "You don't have to—"
"I'm doing this because I want to." She crosses her arms. "Let me fuss over you for once, okay?"
They are both stubborn creatures, but the difference is that only one of them can recognize a lost cause. He sighs in defeat and raises the glass to his lips.
The trailblazer makes a satisfied noise. "Thank you."
Sunday snorts despite himself while sipping his drink. "I feel like I should be the one saying that."
The woman merely hums, pulling up a chair next to him and sinking down into it. "A few minutes ago you looked like a deer in headlights. Reminded me a bit of how you were when you first boarded the Express."
The comparison is not without merit. Sunday chuckles once without humor. "And I don't suppose much has changed since then."
"Really?" Stelle leans back in her chair and turns to look directly at him. Her eyes take on a piercing quality. "Even just the way you carry yourself says a lot about how much more relaxed you are now."
Sunday bites his lip. "I don't necessarily think that 'being more relaxed' indicates anything."
She shakes her head slowly. "I disagree; it means you're willing to be more open with your feelings. The fact that we're even having this conversation reflects that, right?"
More protests rise to the tip of his tongue and die there. A strange feeling smolders in the man's chest, one that he can't immediately name but instinctively wants to bury deep within his brain. He lowers his gaze to the water glass and half-melted ice cubes.
Then, he hears something completely unexpected: "Permission to hold your hand?"
His head jolts up in shock. "I'm sorry?"
Sure enough, Stelle is standing there with her hand outstretched in an open invitation. She tilts her head at him and blinks owlishly.
(A distant memory resurfaces: two small children laugh and dance together on a makeshift stage. The little boy trips, and his sister runs to help him back up.)
Why is he not immediately turning her down? His heart is racing; he doesn't understand.
Surely he's just nervous. Physical contact is not something Sunday goes out of his way to seek out—in fact, he usually spurned other forms of touch back in Penacony, even something as simple as a pat on the shoulder. Shaking hands as a greeting is something he's used to, but Stelle's offer feels different. More personal. He tugs at the turtleneck collar of his shirt.
Sensing his hesitation, Stelle adds: "I sometimes sit with Dan Heng and March and hold their hands when they're feeling down, so don't worry about it being awkward. But if you're not comfortable at all then please tell me."
Oh. Oh, okay then. So she holds hands with all of their friends. That means she also considers him… a friend. And besides, isn't part of walking the path of the Trailblaze about trying new things?
Sunday swallows a lump in his throat. "I'm not uncomfortable."
Immediately she brightens. "So it's okay?" she asks, clearly delighted.
"Yes. I would like to—to hold your hand." The words come out stilted, and he winces. "But I'm allowed to change my mind," he adds a bit too quickly.
Stelle looks vaguely amused, but her words carry none of her usual bite. "Anytime, Sunny. Now, c'mere." And she reaches for him.
Sunday visibly flinches at the feeling of being touched. Every one of his instincts scream at him to pull back into more familiar, controlled territory.
But he doesn't. Stelle's hand carefully wraps around one of his own, as if she were handling a priceless artifact. Even through his glove he can feel the rough calluses lining her palm, mementos of the many battles she's fought. And she feels so incredibly warm, almost like a beacon in the storm of his mind. Time seems to slow to a crawl between the two. Stelle leans in a bit closer and her long ash-colored hair brushes against his left sleeve, and her slender fingers trace idly over the rings on his hands. Sunday's heart hammers harder against his ribcage, echoing so loudly that surely Stelle can hear it too.
The spell breaks at the sudden sound approaching footsteps. March 7th pokes her head around the corner and waves. "Hey Sunday, can you come here for a sec? I've got your clothes ready—" She cuts herself off with a loud gasp, and her eyes widen to the size of dinner plates as she takes in the scene. Sunday hastily pulls away from Stelle, which only makes things look worse.
For a few horrible moments, no one speaks. March stuffs her fist in her mouth to stifle a giggle. If the Aeons are merciful (they are not), Sunday would be a puddle on the floor by now.
Finally, Stelle pipes up: "Hey, didn't you know it's rude to stare?"
Just like that, it feels as though an invisible string has been cut. March snaps to attention, rigid as a board. "S-sorry for interrupting! I'll uhh—wait right outside, okay?!" She slams the door shut, but not before Sunday sees the expression of absolute glee stretched across her face. He groans in despair and sinks down into his seat, posture be damned.
To his surprise, Stelle bursts out laughing. "What the hell was she getting so excited about?"
Her amusement is a mesmerizing sight to behold—shoulders shaking with mirth, rosy pink cheeks, twinkling eyes seemingly brighter than the stars outside. The Halovian doesn't notice how intently he's gazing at her until she speaks again.
"Well, guess it's time to face the music." Stelle mimes wiping away a tear. "Rest in pieces Sunny boy, taken from us too soon."
He'd almost forgotten that they still had a mission to do. Almost. Playing along, he nods gravely. "I'm well aware of how serious Miss March is when it comes to fashion. If I don't make it back today, give the conductor my regards."
"He's learning to joke now! I'm so proud." She playfully shoves him and laughs again. Her laugher beings to mind the sound of bells--but sonorous, clanging bells rather than a gentle tinkling.
It really is such a nice sound.
Sure enough, as soon as Sunday steps out of the party car, he's yanked by his scarf with a loud yelp. March stares at him with a catlike grin, and despite the notable height difference, Sunday feels as though she is the one towering over him. "So," she begins in a singsongy voice, "You two were having fun in there, huh?"
"Miss March, I'm afraid there's been a misunderstanding." Sunday says. Forcing his expression to remain neutral—despite the dread pooling in his stomach—comes as naturally as breathing. "We were just talking."
"Talking. Suuuuuure." Her grip on his scarf tightens. "Just so you know, denying it just makes you look more suspicious."
"I'm not denying anything."
"So you're saying I hallucinated you and Stelle holding hands?" March's expression turns irritatingly smug. "I won't judge your little lovers' tryst! Go ahead and kiss or whatever, your secret's safe wi—"
" Enough!" Sunday interrupts with such uncharacteristic fervor that March immediately releases his scarf. He straightens to his full height in an effort to compensate for his flushed cheeks. "If you must know, I was feeling unwell and Miss Stelle offered to let me hold her hand. I was informed that she does this for multiple crew members," he says frostily, glaring down at her.
Whatever strange misunderstanding March has concocted needs to be cleared up, and he can see the gears in her brain turning in real time.
"Ah yeah, you're right! I got too excited and jumped to conclusions—" She laughs sheepishly and pulls away from him. "Sorry about that!"
That almost felt a bit too fast. Sunday gives her a wary sidelong glance and the pink-haired woman loudly clears her throat.
"A-anyway, that's not what I came here to do! We have clothes to try on before you and Stelle go out today, so um…" She clasps her hands together and stares up with big puppy-dog eyes. "Will you still try those on? I'm sorry again for making you mad…"
Sunday sighs and massages his temples. "Yes. Fine. You're right about us having work to do, Miss March. And your apology is accepted."
"Yippee! I knew I could count on you!" March cheers and visibly springs back to life like a rejuvenated plant. "C'mon, they're in my room!"
Modelling clothes for March is nothing new to Sunday, as his willingness to go along with her schemes seems to have solidified his status as her favorite guinea pig ("and they didn't call him Penacony's most handsome man for nothing!"). Nevertheless, he always feels a little out of place, an awkward splash of deep blue and gold among the pastel pink wallpaper and stuffed animals. Today feels even more awkward than usual both because of what happened with Stelle and March's earlier prodding, and Sunday braces himself to deflect further interrogation attempts. To his relief (and slight unease), however, March says nothing more about the incident as she rummages through her closet, contentedly humming to herself with a smug smile on her face.
"With your looks and that flashy outfit, you're bound to turn heads!" She cheerily declares. Then she turns to him and her expression sours. "…except that's exactly what we don't want. Don't get me wrong, it's a great outfit, but who thought the two-color coat and all this jewelry was a good idea for a fugitive? You stick out like a sore thumb!"
Sunday opens his mouth. Closes it. "I have a hood," he mutters defensively.
March rolls her eyes and lets out a dramatic gasp, pretending to swoon on her feet. "Gosh, a hood?! Sorry about that, o Master of Disguise. Thou shall not be questioned again." She pulls several sets of folded clothes off a shelf in the closet. "Oookay, which of these do you want to try first? They should all fit if you gave me the right measurements."
One of Sunday's eyebrows lifts. "You really bought all of these… for me?"
"Well, technically I grabbed a few things for everyone, but I wasn't gonna leave you out or anything. And hey, the timing worked out, so you're getting your presents first!" March replies with a wink.
The outfits are all casual yet stylish, but nothing ostentatious. Each individual item is a varying shade of blue, dark grey, or white, and seems to be made with high-quality fabric. Sunday's fingers carefully trace over an embroidered gold pattern on a pair of dark blue pants. "These all look wonderful, I can't thank you enough. What do you need in return?" he finds himself asking.
Dead silence stretches between them. Mouth slightly agape, she just stares at him in utter confusion. Sunday squirms slightly under her gaze. "What." She finally manages in the most deadpan yet clearly offended tone he's ever heard.
Surely it wasn't that strange of a question to be asking… was it? During his time as Oak Family Head, he did often receive gifts—some of which were souvenirs Robin sent back while on tour—but more often as part of business deals or even attempted bribes. "Uh... do you need me to do something for you in return?" he asks again.
March blinks slowly. "… No? That's not… what people usually do when their friends give gifts."
"… Isn't it?" Sunday asks, a horrible sinking feeling pooling in his stomach.
"Not at all! Just think about it like this: if it were you giving gifts to the rest of us, would you be doing so to get us to owe you a favor?"
The mere thought makes him scowl in disgust. "I would never dream of it. Not after everything you all have done for me." He says.
"Well there you go then, turn that logic back around on yourself! The only thing I want you to do for me is to say whether you like the clothes and wear one of them on your outing today, but that's a given." March huffs, hands on her hips.
Sunday sighs heavily. It seems like he still has a lot to learn, and his head is starting to throb. "I'm sorry," he manages.
"Nono, I probably should've been less rude about it, I'm sorry too—gahhh!" March flails her arms about in exasperation. "Look, neither of us are at fault! Quit staring at me like a baby owl and try on the freaking clothes already!"
The corners of his lips curl upwards in a smile despite it all. "So insistent…"
The next hour of outfit modelling passes without much incident, and Sunday eventually settles on a white button-down dress shirt, dark blue blazer, and the embroidered pants he'd been eyeing earlier. By the time they're done, March is practically jumping with joy. "Go gettem, champ! You're going to knock Stelle off her feet with this look!"
Something about that remark seems odd. "This isn't an outing for fun, Miss March. We're only dressing like this because we're supposed to be keeping a low profile." Sunday reminds her gently.
A hint of devilishness creeps into March 7th's smile. "Who said you can't multitask, hmmm? Anyway, you two don't have to worry your pretty little heads. If we're done, I'll give Stelle her clothes next."
He raises an eyebrow but chooses not to dwell on it further—let her have her fun. "Thank you for all your kindness," he says as he neatly re-folds the other clothes and places them in a large white bag that March holds out.
"That's what friends are for!" March sees him out with a cheery wave.
Half an hour passes as Sunday waits in the party car before the door opens—evidently March's fashion operation with Stelle was a lot faster. He looks up and his breath catches.
Stelle carefully makes her way down from the balcony. Gone is the carefree and somewhat unruly look she has on a daily basis—she's clad in a baggy cream-colored cardigan with black buttons and form-fitting black pants. Her ashy hair is also slightly tied back in a half-up-half-down style, and she doffs a dark grey newsboy's hat lined with gold to tie everything together.
For lack of a better phrase, she's stunning. The warm memory of her hand on his own still lingers. Naturally, this pushes his mouth to move faster than his brain.
"You look beautiful." What is wrong with him? Why did he say that? This is not one of those ridiculous social gatherings where he needed to earn the favor of simpering Family and IPC officials, so why is his immediate reaction to grace his travel companion with empty flattery about her appearance after everything she's done for him? He bemoans his apparent ability to embarrass himself in front of her without fail.
Somehow not sensing the tension in the air, the trailblazer beams. "Aww, really? I think you're way cuter, Sunny!"
…Cute? Cute??? In his current state, the simple compliment is all it takes for Sunday's poor brain to spiral away. He's used to being called beautiful and handsome to the point where the words have almost lost their meaning. Yet despite theoretically having a similar connotation, "cute" feels strange, like a pair of shoes that he's outgrown. And this is coming from Stelle of all people. Brazen, honest Stelle, who is never afraid to speak her mind. Is she trying to tell him something? His brow furrows as he attempts to untangle the strangely warm knot forming in his chest.
"Thinking hard?" Stelle asks teasingly, snapping him out of his stupor. Sunday clears his throat and mentally files the thoughts away for later.
"Yes, about how we should go about this operation. Today is apparently a skip day for the local university students, so while the Entertainment Plaza will be quite busy, we should be able to blend in just fine," he says, seamlessly changing the topic.
"Mmmmhm." There's an oddly pleased smile on the trailblazer's face as she thoughtfully taps her chin. "That's a good point. If anyone asks, I'll just say I'm an interastral relations major. The Express tends to get tangled up in a lot of different planets' affairs anyway."
A chuckle bubbles up Sunday's throat. "I must be frank with you, Stelle, I can't imagine you would like studying anything politics-adjacent."
(A distant memory resurfaces: a teenage boy with fluffy silver hair recites memorized lines to a hawk-eyed proctor while standing in a padlocked room.)
"… Yeah, I think you're right. Too much posturing and trying to show people what they want to see. But anyway, we're getting distracted. I've got something for you." She reaches out and gently pushes something into his hand. Sunday blinks down at the mystery item, which turns out to be a pair of non-prescription glasses.
Stelle puts on a matching pair and shoots him a thumb's-up. "Extra present from March. She thought that we'd be even less recognizable with these, and honestly? They look great on me!"
Of course this was another one of March's ideas. Sunday shakes his head with a smile and dons his pair. "Are we ready to set out?"
"I sure think so! First stop, Entertainment Plaza; then after that, we'll just have to wing it."
The idea of "winging it" was something he never would have even entertained a few months ago, Sunday thinks. But even this brief voyage with the Express so far has helped him understand his own feelings more than his years on Penacony ever did.
As the two of them walk towards the train door side-by-side, so close together that their shoulders almost touch, Sunday ponders his quickening heartbeat and the warmth pooling in his chest.