Work Text:
After a mere dinner eaten alone beneath the buzzing light of his kitchen, Gallagher decides to break out of his comfort zone and finally do what he’s promised to himself for ages: sit out on the balcony and listen to his neighbour play those dear instruments of his.
By the time he’s pondered the decision, the sweet notes of a piano have already begun to slide inside his living room. The neighbourhood where Gallagher lives is incredibly silent that night.
With keen consideration, Gallagher realises streets always plunge into a placid silence whenever his neighbour begins to play. Perhaps it’s the effect of such a sweet talent—capable of quietening even the most thunderous soul.
While his neighbour plays his piano, Gallagher silently opens the French window and walks out onto his balcony. He pulls out his packet of cigarettes and slides one between his lips. After he’s lit it up, he rests his forearms on the railing and quietly listens to the mesmerising melody coming from the apartment before his.
His neighbour, whom Gallagher has never met, finally reveals his features. Surprise tugs at the strings of his heart: the man is angelic, his visage as sweet and melodious as the notes he plays. He’s peculiar, but in a mesmerising way: little wings sprout from shoulder-length bluish hair; equal bluish lashes flutter each time his golden eyes shift to look at the piano beneath him; slender, pale fingers move with grace on the white and black keys, rhythmic and enchanting. A simple shirt wraps the man’s lean silhouette, its lilac colour daintily complementing his ethereal palette. In the background, the room he’s playing in is an artwork of baroque architecture—a pretty fancy sight.
But Gallagher doesn’t ponder how rich or not that man must be. Instead, he thinks such an exquisite room suits the musician very well. It’s fitting for a man with angelic features.
Though as the melody goes on, something squeezes Gallagher’s heart. It’s not awe: it feels more like sorrow. He feels sad for his neighbour. But why would he?
The musician raises his gaze from the piano, his fingers still caressing the keys. His golden eyes lock with Gallagher’s. There’s no surprise in them, but rather a sour melancholy. A single tear runs down his left cheek. Still, a smile purses his lips, scrunching his eyes into a feeble gratitude.
Gallagher frowns. His cigarette falls from the balcony, the burning tip dying after it splashes into a pool of dirty water. His eyes widen with surprise—he feels as if notes are dissipating too, the musician’s fingers tired and heavy.
But no—it never happens. The melody carries on. It would until the musician isn’t dead, like a nightingale killed by its own sweet chirping.
His neighbour’s apartment is enormous. No furniture around, except for the piano and the stairs which led to another floor, where the musician is playing.
Gallagher doesn’t remember how he ended up there. He looked at the musician, and then—puff, now he’s with him in his magnificent apartment.
As he looks down, he realises the hall’s ground is a boundless expanse of warm gold lacquer: it reflects his silhouette like a mirror. He can see himself wearing a fancy suit, perhaps one fitting for a wedding.
The hall looks like a ballroom, but there’s no one dancing. Gallagher is alone—alone with the musician.
Notes bounce and echo in the room by the tall ceiling. As he looks up, he can see that it’s engraved with white bas-relief, some of which has been painted with golden foil.
And then there’s the musician, sitting on a velvet black stool in front of his dark mahogany piano. The tall French window beside him opens not to Gallagher’s apartment but to a starry sky. The view is oddly breathtaking—the musician keeps playing undaunted from the first floor, where a white-gold railing edges the corridors, until it merges with that of the staircase.
The musician never stops playing. He looks trapped in his own bubble, lost in a world which would be an enigma to anyone else but him.
Gallagher steps forward. And where he touched with the tip of his shoe, the delicate ding of a bell ascends, echoing in the ballroom. It’s delicate and silvery, as if he has just stepped on a crystalline surface. The golden ground even ripples in the faintest way it can—as if it’s a water surface.
The musician stops playing. He shifts his gaze, looking down at the distant intruder. His bluish lashes flutter as he blinks, making him look like he’s just awakened from a dream.
Gallagher knows he needs to tell him he’s very sorry, but he doesn’t want to. If he does, he will break the ephemeral silence in the big ballroom. And that, suddenly, feels like the cruellest sin he could ever commit.
The musician doesn’t seem bothered. Surprising his guest, he stands up from the stool. He brushes invisible dust from his black suit (so similar to the one Gallagher is wearing), which now replaces his lilac shirt. He adjusts his gloves, which he didn’t have before. His wings flutter slightly, golden earrings tinkling as he walks down the stairs.
When he reaches Gallagher, he bows, his right hand on his heart and his left arm bent over his back. It’s a greeting.
Clumsy, Gallagher does the same thing. As he stands straight again, the musician grabs his left hand. As he lifts it, he places his own on the older man’s right shoulder and whispers, “Dance with me.”
Gallagher arches both his brows, though he obliges. He brings his right hand behind the musician’s lower back and places it there—for some unknown reason, he knows what he needs to do.
Which is weird: he disdains dancing.
The music flows in the ballroom again. Gallagher can not recognise what kind of instrument is being played—he just knows it is not the piano this time. Notes are nonetheless made of the same sweetness, if not more.
As notes bounce around the ballroom, Gallagher discovers he can lead the musician into a perfect dance. They dance together as if they were meant to do that from the moment they were born, touching every note of the melancholy melody with perfect gentleness.
Suddenly, the ballroom spins around them, its ceiling blooming like a midnight flower. The walls peel, revealing a dark, starry sky.
Gallagher finds himself dancing on a water’s surface, which mirrors stars as it ripples beneath gentle steps. The ballroom is gone, and now a bluish darkness wraps him and the musician with a soft hug.
The musician smiles, his little wings folding beside both his cheeks. His expression is relaxed, the melancholic frown gone. His golden eyes lock with the older man’s. They’re expressive, but his gaze is enigmatic—Gallagher cannot decipher it.
So, he finally asks the musician what has been bothering him since they locked gaze together, “What is your name?”
The musician’s smile deepens. “Sunday,” he whispers. His palm against the older man’s is warm and reassuring. The glimpse of stars reflects in his golden eyes, the moonlight kissing his lips as he shapes them around the letters of his own name.
Gallagher’s heart skips a beat. “Sunday,” he repeats, his voice a feeble murmur. A smile tugs at his lips. The musician’s name tastes like a lemon cake—sour like his melancholy, but sweet like his voice.
♪
Torpor tingles his lips.
Someone curtly says, “Wake up, Gallagher,” and flicks his ear. “You fell asleep at work again.”
Gallagher blinks, feeling like a million ants are crawling under his skin. He has drooled on his shirt after he fell asleep with his crossed arms on the desk. Numb with sleep, he notices he’s still gripping his phone tightly. He must’ve fallen asleep after a quite embarrassing call with Sunday; he had to whisper into his phone like an idiot so nobody could hear him talking to the priest.
Black Swan is leaning against the edge of his desk, arms folded on her chest. “What’s your excuse today?” she asks, looking down at the man. “Drank too much last night?”
Gallagher groans, uncrossing his arms and pushing himself up. Tossing the phone aside, he leans back on his chair. “No. I just picked up the slack. Las Vegas is a mess lately, y’know,” he huffs, leaning over again and resting his elbows on the desk. He rubs his eyes, tired.
“But you’re gettin’ old, Gallagher,” Black Swan sighs. “You can’t do that anymore. We need you fully operative.”
Gallagher glares at his colleagues. “Weren’t you workin’?”
Black Swan frowns. “We’re past the working hour. My shift is done, so is the other’s. Don’t you see—”
Nearly flinching on his chair, Gallagher grabs his phone and checks the hour. It’s past seven o’clock. He mutters a, shit, under his breath. Brusque, he pushes up from his chair and rushes to the hanger beside the hall. “It’s fuckin’ late!” he yells more to himself than to Black Swan.
Under the woman’s abashed look, Gallagher runs to his desk again and gathers his things. Black Swan blinks, confused, leaning away to dodge her colleague’s fury. “Late for what—”
Before she can complete her sentence, Gallagher is already at the main door, crying, “He’s goin’ to kill me this time,” and flying out in a mess of coat and working papers.
Black Swan sighs. She pulls a packet of cigarettes from her skirt and goes out to the office’s balcony. She leans on the railing, lighting herself the fag.
Gallagher’s frenzied panic has reminded her that Acheron has forgotten their anniversary again.
Thanks to some divine help or gentle Fate, Gallagher finds himself seated in the Oak Family’s Theatre. It’s been pure luck, really, because he just had the time to shower before picking up his boyfriend.
Sunday is now sitting beside him, a frown wrinkling his forehead. He’s still angry at Gallagher for making them arrive just in time, which isn’t something the Oaks’ head can do.
Gallagher knows his lovely priest will sulk for a whole week—even if he apologised so many times that he has run out of ways to say sorry.
He slumps on his seat, hoping the velvety chair will swallow him. It doesn’t happen, of course. With a sigh, Gallagher turns his head toward Sunday, ready to apologise once more. But as he does, the lights in the theatre dim. The red, velvety curtains slide aside on the stage.
A cone of light splashes the orchestra, and, at last, the singer—the priest’s sister, Robin.
As the orchestra begins to play, guided by their maestro, a piano fills the space. The young woman’s voice follows its gentle notes like a bird catching a butterfly in the sky.
Had I Not Seen the Sun.
Gallagher knows that song like the back of his hand—he’s lost count of how many times Sunday made him listen to it. The young man seems to be so fond of that melody.
In fact, besides Gallagher – as the song goes on – there’s a faint sniffing. As he looks at his boyfriend, he notices he is crying—a single tear running down his left cheek.
A memory takes shape in Gallagher’s brain, and suddenly, he is reminded of a weird dream dipped in gold.
With a gentle smile tugging at his lips, Gallagher remembers Sunday is the musician of his dreams. They are made of equal, bittersweet melancholy, after all.
Gallagher’s ribcage squeezes his heart with sudden affection for the young man. He grabs Sunday’s hand – he’s sure no one will see them in the dark row of the theatre seats – and makes their fingers intertwine.
When Sunday turns to look at him, his golden eyes shine. The lights from the stage gently kiss his face, trapping dust and shaping a feeble halo around his hair.
Gallagher’s heart skips a beat.
Sunday is not akin to an angel. He is an angel, sent to earth to protect him. And Gallagher, in that moment, cannot think of anything else but the love he nourishes for such a pure soul.