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Sunday knew it would be hard coming to live on the Astral Express. He hasn’t left Penacony since he was adopted, long enough ago to be barely remembered if at all, and he thrives on having immediate surroundings he can control, or that at least are familiar to him and operate on familiar rules. The Express is neither of those things, and in fact seems to pride itself on its inconsistency and chaos. It maddens him, sometimes.
On the Express, breakfast is not served at a consistent time each day. It varies somewhere within a window of half a system hour, which is perhaps satisfactory for the Nameless, but for someone like Sunday, who has been raised on the strictest order and schedule–
Whenever he wakes up before breakfast, he sits on the edge of the bed, fists clenched and back straight, until they call him out of the room, as though expecting someone to break into the small area designated for him in Caelus’ room to evaluate his readiness. Whenever breakfast comes while he is still sleeping, he startles awake at their call, heart pounding, and has to take a moment to slow his breathing before coming down to eat. He isn’t used to being interrupted while sleeping unless– well. Unless something is wrong.
It isn’t even that loud. Caelus makes a very polite roommate, knocking lightly on the temporary wall they’d erected whenever he needs to inform him of anything, and even when he’s awoken by one of the others– even when he was awoken by March, whose volume left him in a cold sweat for several more minutes than normal on waking, prompting an apology when he finally felt composed enough to come down for breakfast– it isn’t that bad. He’s had worse. So the extent of his reaction… frustrates him. He deals with it, though. He always has.
Perhaps it’s his fault, for not expecting something new and unexpected to come up here on the Astral Express.
It isn’t unusual for the call to come later in the designated interval; most of the Nameless are not early risers, and the Express follows local time, so system lag is common. March 7th sometimes doesn’t show up for breakfast until everyone else is almost done. The first time he saw that he thought…
Well. It doesn’t matter what he thought. It didn’t happen. She was fine. She sat down in her usual spot and ate with her usual wing-curling noise and no one said anything about it and it was probably the first time he was relieved to see her at the table.
It’s a system hour past the latest they’ve ever called out to him, and Sunday is still sitting on the bed. No one has told him it was alright to come down. No one has said it was time for breakfast. What are you doing out of bed, boy?
His stomach growls.
He has endured much worse. He’s gone without food for a day… maybe multiple… he isn’t sure of the specifics. This is nothing in comparison. Why, then, is it so…
Somehow, he has allowed himself to believe that the Astral Express crew aren’t like that. That they are his wardens, but kind ones, ones who care about him to some extent, but why would they be kind, after everything he put them through?
Do you deserve to eat?
No, Sunday thinks, lips forming the words silently as though his father is truly in front of him. No, I don’t.
Time blurs. Sunday doesn’t move, doesn’t feel like moving. If he was needed, he would be called. He shouldn’t take the initiative. Who was he to assume they would actually need him for anything? Ena knew they already didn’t, they just kept accepting his help and giving him chores to help him feel like he was doing something but none of it was something he actually needed to do. They got on just fine before he came along. They’re getting on just fine now.
It’s so quiet. Is it so quiet? Maybe he just can’t hear. His hearing has always become odd at times like these. It isn’t so bad, though. He doesn’t really need it at the moment. He’ll hear if someone calls for him, that’s the important thing, and surely they would call for him at some point, wouldn’t they? Even if it was just to tell him to remove himself– they can’t expect him to know what he’s supposed to do without direction, without prior example, is it supposed to be implied? What could he have possibly done that would have prompted this?
Sunday scrubs through his memory for anything in the previous day, the previous week even, that could have caused this, but he comes up blank. It has to be some new rule, then. They do things quite differently on the Astral Express than he’s used to. Which is, of course, not an excuse.
A part of him, a small, petulant part, is angry with them. He is supposed to be an adult– is supposed to be past this. He is supposed to be in control. He is supposed to be in control of it all and yet he couldn’t even do that right, not even after he’d been raised to do it.
You’re being an embarrassment.
…Voices.
“…have to throw snow down my shirt?”
“You were already fighting dirty!”
“Using my ice isn’t fighting dirty!”
“It is when I don’t have the same powers.”
“Well then use your Stellaron!”
“I… don’t think it works like that.”
Caelus and March 7th. They… right. They were on a trip to Jarilo-VI to destress after Amphoreus, and because March liked the snow. Neither of them had been on the train since midday yesterday. Had… had Himeko and Welt Yang been getting them out of the way for this? Maybe they didn’t want them to have to see Sunday go, they were both so kind, or maybe they just didn’t want to be around for the inevitable awkward goodbyes but now he’d even fucked that up because he’s still here, he hasn’t taken the hint and gotten out and he’s going to be in trouble they’re going to take him back to the IPC back to the Family back to his father—
Someone knocks on his wall. What would have ordinarily been a light flinch turns into a full-body jump, both pairs of Sunday’s wings spasming. He has to reach out and steady himself in order to not fall over on the bed.
“You in there, Sunny? We got you something in Belobog.”
Sunday opens his mouth to say ‘don’t call me that’, as if by reflex, barely stopping himself in time. Got him something? In Belobog?
They must not have known.
He closes his mouth. Opens it again. “Come in.”
The door creaks open, March 7th throwing much less of her weight behind it than she would for most after nearly knocking the entire temporary structure down earlier in Sunday’s stay. Grinning, she brandishes some manner of object at him, too fast for him to really make out the details. Is she really moving that fast, or is his vision blurring?
“We got you a snow globe!” She deposits it on his nightstand. “Since it’s too cold for you down there, we thought you might like a little model of the city. It’s really intricate, it looks like the real thing!” She gestures towards some part of the object, which he has only vaguely registered as being spherical. “Cool, right?”
“...It’s very nice. Thank you.” Sunday hesitates too long before he speaks. They both notice. It’s strange; while most of the world is blurry and indistinct, he can see every detail of both their faces in stark relief, can watch their eyes droop and narrow with perfect clarity. Disappointed. Upset. His fault.
“...Sunday?” The word is spoken softly, carefully, and Sunday almost wishes Caelus would use his stupid nickname. “What’s wrong?”
He shouldn’t tell them– shouldn’t involve them. They shouldn’t have to feel bad about this when it could only be because of something he’s done.
“I apologize,” he hears himself say. “I was just leaving.”
He stands abruptly, so much so that both of them flinch away, giving him room to fit through the entrance (barely) without touching them– he is glad for that. Perhaps they will be so stunned they won’t think to follow until–
A hand grips his arm.
Where are you going, boy?
Sunday goes completely rigid.
“Hey,” March’s voice comes from behind him, from the direction of the hand on his arm. “We didn’t mean to barge in on you. Are you alright? You don’t look… I mean, you look kind of pale.”
Sunday tries to open his mouth to respond, but finds it sealed shut. It’s his most effective tactic for whenever he earned his father’s ire. Stay still and silent, moving and speaking only after direct commands, and he would soon be satisfied. Obedience brought a swift and relatively painless punishment. Resistance brought only pain, and anything could be resistance.
“Sunday, hey,” Caelus moves in front of Sunday, worry etched clean on his features. “Look at me. What’s going on?”
“Breathe,” March says, appearing at his elbow, her grip becoming gentler but not retreating. “C-C’mon, deep breaths– should I get Mr. Yang or–”
“No!” Sunday surprises himself with the strength of his own outburst, eyes widening as he realizes his mistake.
What did you say to me?
“No– no Mr. Yang, okay. Himeko?” Sunday stares, terrified.
“I don’t think he likes that idea either,” Caelus says quietly. “Here– Sunday, do you want to sit down?”
It doesn’t matter what he wants. Caelus seems to take his silence as an affirmation, though; he steps closer, very slightly, and Sunday trembles, retreats. They repeat the process until his legs hit the bed and he falls back onto it, unable to hide the slight hitch in his breath when Caelus steps yet closer. March hovers behind him.
“Here,” Caelus says, extending a hand to Sunday. “It’s alright. Take my hand.”
Finally, orders. Orders are easy. He can handle orders. Sunday reaches out, shaking, and grasps Caelus’ hand in his. He expects to be pulled up, taken somewhere, but instead Caelus squeezes his hand lightly, then relents, then squeezes again, like a pulse.
“Breathe with me. In…” Caelus squeezes his hand four times. “Hold it.” Four squeezes. “Out.” Four more. “And hold again. …In.” The cycle continues, and Sunday follows the directives. He’s not so blind as to not understand what Caelus is trying to do, but he doesn’t know how to tell him that it’s worthless, that he shouldn’t be expending effort on Sunday anymore. In the end, the part of him that follows orders, regardless of who gives them, wins out, and he follows Caelus’ breathing until the rest of the world around him starts to come into focus. Blank, generic partitions, small and utilitarian but acceptable bed beneath him, nightstand beside it with a small globe resting on top, little false snowflakes sitting beneath an impressive model of some intricate mechanism. Caelus in front of him, March hovering at his shoulder, both of them staring at him with naked worry. They were so happy when they came in. He’s utterly ruined it.
“My apologies,” he says quietly, throat hoarse from his quick, aching breaths. “I appreciate the gift. It is very thoughtful.”
Both of them stare at him for a moment. “...You’re welcome,” March says after a moment. “Wait. N-No. What was that?! Are you okay?”
“Quieter, March,” Caelus warns, squeezing Sunday’s hand again to cut off the way his breaths start to quicken. “You don’t have to talk about it, but– what happened?”
“Did someone recognize you?” March fidgets nervously. “I-I know most of the people who visit the Express are alright, but– if one of them–”
“N-No– no.” Sunday steadies himself before he continues. “It was… simply a lapse in composure. Thank you for assisting me.”
They both stare at him with naked disbelief. Of course, his stomach takes the opportunity to growl as loud as it possibly can. Caelus’ eyes flicker down to it for a moment before coming back up to his face, and Sunday feels a sudden, instinctive urge to hide himself. “...Have you, uh, eaten?”
“...No.”
“At all? All day?”
“No.”
“Oh, are you not feeling well?” March winces. “Sorry. I didn’t realize. But I have some stomach medicine if you want, it really takes the edge off when I–”
“I’m fine. I’m not sick.” Why did he say that?
“Oh.”
They all lapse into silence for a moment.
“Do you… want to go down and eat something?” Caelus’ voice is very uncharacteristically small, and suddenly Sunday finds his throat very dry and his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth.
Now that he’s calmer, he can admit that yes, it’s unlikely that this event represents an outright dismissal from the Astral Express. Himeko and Welt Yang are not ones to veil their intentions, and they have plenty of reason to dislike him and ask him to leave– there would be no reason to resort to indirection. It is, however, well within the realm of discipline to deny him food for the day, perhaps longer, even if he isn’t sure what slight he’s committed yet. That much, though, is fairly trivial if annoying. He’s had to glean these things from context clues before.
It’s also apparent, though, that March 7th and Caelus do not know this, and if they have not been told Himeko and Welt Yang must not want them to be told, and they haven’t explicitly allowed him to eat yet. Which means that he cannot go down to the kitchen, and he cannot tell either of the people who have a sudden vested interest in getting him there why.
He swallows. “I’m… a little tired, really. I might take a nap.”
March narrows her eyes at him. “Uh, I heard that stomach growl just now. You’re not gonna fall asleep very easily on an empty stomach, you know.” He does. “Do you want one of us to bring something up for you?”
“No–! No. Thank you.” He swallows his sudden panic at the idea of March and Caelus being brought into his punishment for the simple crime of trying to help. No, if they will not give up this idea of him eating, he will have to go with them. At least that way, he can redirect the blame if they are caught. He slides off the bed, Caelus stepping away to give him room. “I’ll come downstairs with you.”
“Alright. It’s almost dinnertime, anyway. Here, careful.” Caelus reaches out to steady him when his legs waver underneath him, and he almost manages to suppress his flinch at the sudden contact. He’s sure both of them notice. Neither comment on it. Instead, they amble towards the stairs in awkward silence. Sunday winces at every creak of the floorboards– but to tell them to be quiet would be to admit that he isn’t supposed to be doing this. He has to hope that the silence is enough to mask their presence.
They make it to the kitchen off the dining car without incident; Sunday doesn’t know where Welt Yang and Himeko are, but he supposes as long as they aren’t here it doesn’t really matter. At least, not until he has to get back upstairs without being seen.
He shouldn’t be doing this. He really shouldn’t be doing this–
“What do you want?” March is standing in front of the pantry, hands on her hips and eyes narrowed in concentration as she scrutinizes its contents. “I could fix us pancakes, I’ve been kinda jonesing for some, but it’ll take a minute and you seemed pretty hungry.”
March’s pancakes sound fucking heavenly right now. “That would be nice,” he says before his rational mind can catch up– but she could believably be making pancakes for her and Caelus. She does that quite a lot. “I-If you’re willing.”
“If I wasn’t willing, I wouldn’t offer, would I?” She winks at him as she starts pulling ingredients out of the cabinet. He goes to help, but Caelus stops him.
“You should sit down.”
“I’m perfectly capable of helping–”
“Capable, sure, probably. But you– sorry to say it, but you look half-dead.” Caelus shifts on his feet. “Sit down. I’ll help March. You know the kitchen can’t comfortably fit more than two people anyway.”
Sunday opens his mouth, but can find no retort. In the end, he’s been given another direct order, and instinct wins out. He sinks into a chair at the small kitchen table, sighing, and watches the two work. They move with a surprising amount of coordination for people who supposedly haven’t known each other too long in the grand scheme of things, and despite himself he relaxes slightly into the chair as he watches. When did the Astral Express crew become people he could relax around? When did the Astral Express crew become safe?
At least a few of them aren’t safe any longer. He hates to admit it– he should be past this– but it stings, just a little, as much as the return to familiar territory grounds him. They’ve been so… good to him. He almost let himself believe them when they said they wouldn’t hurt him. But that’s his fault, ultimately. He truly should have known that even if there were those who extended unconditional kindness to others, they would never show it to a sinner such as him. Human promises are flimsy and easily broken. Therein lies the appeal– the intrinsic superiority– of the Order.
There’s a sudden sizzling noise as March starts to pour batter onto the griddle. Sunday flinches at it, not because of the volume– Caelus and March have been speaking throughout– but because the sound of sizzling brings back unwelcome memories. It takes him a moment to steady his breath. He toys with the edge of his glove and swallows down thoughts of removing it and placing his hand flat on the griddle to repent.
He shouldn’t do that in front of March and Caelus. It would distress them.
Sunday stands, walking over to the pantry to pull out a plate as March starts to flap pancakes. “Would it be alright if I took a plate to my room?” he says, feigning casualness. He’s already established that he doesn’t like eating in front of others when he has the option. Too many opportunities for misconduct, and if others are also eating, too much potential for the most godawful noises known to man.
March and Caelus trade glances. Something in his stomach sinks. “Are you sure you don’t want to stay down here?” Caelus asks warily. “It’s not– you can do whatever you want. But earlier, you seemed–”
“I’m quite sure.” It comes out harsher than he means it to, and Sunday shrinks back slightly but holds his ground. “I’d like to be alone.” He fights back the urge to add if that’s alright.
“...Alright. Let us know if you need anything.”
“Thank you. For that, and for the food.” He’s being terribly ungrateful, he’s only adding to his sins, but with every word he speaks his throat seems to close further and he’s afraid that if he says too many he’ll choke on his own tissue. March gestures wordlessly for his plate, and he holds it out for her to slide on several pancakes. Hands trembling, he nods to her, turns around–
And locks eyes with Welt Yang.
“I didn’t know we were having breakfast for dinner,” he says drily, though not without amusement. “Or is this just for you three?”
Sunday stares, frozen. His hands tighten around the edge of the plate. He watches as Mr. Yang’s expression shifts from amusement to confusion and can’t bear to see where it will go next.
“Sunday?” March starts. It’s soft and tentative and it spurs him to action, because he isn’t the only one here. There are people he needs to protect.
Sunday steps forward, putting himself squarely between Welt Yang and the others. “I-It was my idea,” he blurts out. “They didn’t know. They haven’t done anything wrong. I tricked them.”
“What?” someone asks behind him, but he doesn’t turn around, focused solely on Mr. Yang, whose expression has fallen into unreadability.
“The punishment should fall on me,” he continues. “Not them.”
The three around him stand in silence for a moment. Sunday doesn’t dare to look away. Eventually, Mr. Yang breaks the silence. “Punishment… for what, exactly?”
Sunday swallows. It’s still not unfamiliar territory. In his childhood, he typically had to enumerate his offenses before punishment, to make it clear that he understood what he had done wrong. “For taking food without permission. And tricking them into helping me.”
Mr. Yang’s eyes flit between the three of them. Sunday tenses.
“...Tricking us?” March’s voice is soft and unsure from behind him. “What do you mean?”
“I–”
“Sunday.” Mr. Yang interrupts him, and his focus snaps back in front. “Have you… do you think you need explicit permission to eat?”
“...To eat food from the kitchen, yes. It isn’t mine.” When Mr. Yang says it like that, somehow it makes less sense than before.
Mr. Yang’s expression… softens, though there is still a darkness behind it. “None of us went to get you for breakfast this morning, did we?”
Is that rhetorical? “…No.”
Mr. Yang lets out a short exhale. “Sunday. You’re free to eat whenever you want, regardless of what we say. I’m sorry no one thought to get you this morning.”
“Usually I do it,” Caelus says unsteadily. “But— I was—“
“Out, yes, with March. You haven’t done anything wrong.” He looks back to Sunday. “And neither have you.”
And Sunday—
He can’t accept that.
He’s been cooped up in his room, apparently all day, freaking the fuck out over something that was never actually an issue at all, that was a simple slip-up on their parts, a misunderstanding on his end that put all of them out so much because he’s so useless he can’t even—
That can’t be, can it? It would be too cruel.
It’s a test. It has to be. Sunday has never had to discipline himself before— has never dared to presume he should— but the Astral Express is different.
A quiet voice in the back of his mind cries out no, he’s telling the truth, he wouldn’t do that to you.
It is drowned out.
PUT YOUR HAND ON THE GRIDDLE BURN IT BURN IT BURN IT FUCKING SCUM HOLD IT DOWN MAKE IT HURT DO IT NOW NOW NOW NOW
He thinks someone is trying to talk to him, but he can’t hear it.
GET A FUCKING KNIFE PUT IT IN YOUR MOUTH AND WORSHIP IT LIKE YOU DO COCK YOU SICK FREAK
He thinks he whimpers.
YOU WILL HURT YOURSELF YOU WILL HURT YOURSELF YOU WILL HURT YOURSELF TAKE THE BATTER POUR IT ON THE GRIDDLE MAKE IT HOT PICK IT UP AND DRIP IT INTO YOUR EYES CHOKE YOURSELF ON THE FUCKING FOOD YOU DON’T DESERVE NOW NOW NOW NOW NOW NOW NOW FUCKING NOW
He’s not upright anymore. There’s a crash from somewhere next to him and through his haze he sees SHARDS SHARDS PICK IT UP CUT YOURSELF OPEN
REPENT
The first thing he sees when the pain brings his clarity back is Welt Yang’s face. It is stricken in a way he does not recognize, and is unfamiliar with. The porcelain shard of the plate he dropped is still in his hand, dripping red from its jagged edge. It matches a dull, echoing pain in his other wrist.
He can’t move. A purple-black energy surrounds him, and he recognizes its hold from Penacony. Mr. Yang’s cane rests against his head.
Someone is breathing roughly, holding back sobs. It isn’t him. He’s openly crying.
rub the tears in your wound
The thoughts are blissfully muted by the throb in his wrist and the hold Mr. Yang’s power has over him. He still flinches.
“…Caelus, get the first aid box. March, freeze over the pieces so we can walk on this in the meantime.”
No one responds, but he hears them move, and feels a chill next to him.
smash it and eat the pieces if you want food so badly
“Sunday,” Mr. Yang says, and he sounds less sure than Sunday thinks he’s ever heard. It hurts. “Can you hear me?”
He goes to nod. Finds he can’t. Opens his mouth and doesn’t say anything.
“...It’s alright.” He feels the energy surrounding one of his hands recede, the one holding the plate shard–
swing it down do it again again again
He can’t. The rest of his arm is still held tight.
Mr. Yang reaches up slowly, making sure that Sunday can see the movement, and takes the shard from his hand. The blood stains his fingertips. He sets it down on the floor.
lick it clean
He raises his hand again, positioning it directly underneath Sunday’s, close enough to almost touch. Sunday wants to recoil as much as he wants to grasp it tight and never let go.
You’ve gotten him dirty. Your filth.
“One tap for yes, two taps for no,” Mr. Yang says softly. “Can you hear me?”
Sunday inches one finger down to brush Mr. Yang’s hand, once. It is warm. Mr. Yang exhales, then steels himself again. “If I let you go, are you going to do that again?”
He strains, but doesn’t– can’t lie. One tap.
“Then I’m going to keep you like this for now.” His voice is strained.
You’re hurting him. You can never hurt enough to make up for this, can you?
You must try.
“Why did you–” He cuts himself off, shaking his head. “...Are you accustomed to… needing express permission for meals?”
Sunday thinks, then taps once. Once Gopher Wood was forced to split his body throughout the dreamscape, Sunday had been granted more freedom in how he spent his days, what he did and indeed how he ate, but before that… yes. And before even that… he cannot remember. His only experience being at the whims of others is that of total and complete obedience. Even here, where things are different… he doesn’t work, doesn’t do anything to earn meals and a place to stay. Is it not right, that he takes only what is expressly given?
“Well. Like I said. That’s not how we do things here. You can eat whenever you like.” Mr. Yang leans in slightly, eyes narrowed, staring at Sunday like he’s looking for something but doesn’t want to find it. Sunday can’t back away. “...Does that upset you?”
Yes. No. He doesn’t know. It shouldn’t. But now he’s made trouble, he’s made so much trouble over nothing at all and they won’t even punish him for it.
They are trying to give him mercy. This is not mercy. Having had a taste of what punishing himself feels like, he does not want it anymore. If it were one of them… if it were Mr. Yang, he would at least be gentle.
There is no need for them to dirty their hands. Do what they will not.
“...I brought the first aid kit.”
Sunday jerks at the voice behind him, though it isn’t loud. A white box is passed over his shoulder, down to Mr. Yang, who opens it. He speaks again without looking up. “Caelus, could you give us some space?”
“Y-Yeah. Uh.” He steps over to the door, and pauses at the threshold. “...Is he…” He coughs. “Is he gonna be okay?”
Mr. Yang’s mouth tightens. “He will be alright. Thank you for bringing the supplies.”
Sunday isn’t sure he will be alright, but he wouldn’t argue even if he could. Caelus lingers for one more moment, then leaves, footsteps echoing through from the next car. Mr. Yang sighs.
“Can I touch you?”
He really would rather throw himself out into the vacuum of space, but he’s not stupid enough to say no. One tap.
Mr. Yang moves cautiously– it’s painful how slowly he moves, like Sunday is a prey animal who’ll flee at a sudden movement. He grasps Sunday’s injured wrist with one hand, taking something out from the first aid kit with the other. All of a sudden, the air stings with something. “...I’m going to disinfect this. It’ll sting a little.”
What… right. He tends not to get injured too often. Tended not to. Before the Express. Not in… unstructured ways, anyway. He spent a lot of his time in the dream, and there injuries could be healed (and inflicted) with the wave of a hand. There was no need for the tedious process of first aid.
Mr. Yang reaches out, and touches a soft, damp cloth to Sunday’s wound.
Stars explode behind his eyes. A sharp agony radiates out from his wrist, much more intense than he expected, and he squeezes his eyes shut– Mr. Yang flinches when he tenses, but doesn’t stop. It’s not as though he’s never felt anything like it before, and it really shouldn’t be such a big deal, it’s not that large a wound–
But he finds something in him settling. Curling into the pain, rather than stiffening away. It’s a reaction he’s never had before. All of a sudden, he has the unshakable conviction that this– this can be punishment, and not only that but he doesn’t… dislike it. If it comes from Mr. Yang… if it is delivered so gently… he even thought to keep Sunday restrained, so that he won’t jerk away on reflex and make it worse for himself. He’s long suppressed the urge to run away from pain, but it’s… pleasant, to have someone think of him that way.
Don’t think this is enough.
Of course. It never is. But it will be, for now. As Mr. Yang pulls away, Sunday lets out a shaky breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, for a brief moment mourning the bright agony of the antiseptic. If Mr. Yang notices his… reaction, he doesn’t show it, only reaching up again after a moment with gauze, putting a thick square of fabric to the wound and winding the bandage around his wrist to keep it in place. The sting is dull, and after the alcohol, not worth mentioning. Mr. Yang lets out a shaky breath, almost at the exact same time as Sunday.
“I’m… sorry.” His voice is a little scratchy, and clearly catches Mr. Yang off guard. He takes a moment to respond.
“...Don’t be.” There’s something inscrutable about Mr. Yang’s expression, and he doesn’t like that he can’t tell what the other man is thinking. “It’s just a plate. I was more worried about you. That’s a nasty cut.”
That’s also something he was apologizing for, but he doesn’t feel like correcting Mr. Yang. He swallows, instead. “I’m… a bit tired. If it’s alright, I’d like to–”
“Sunday.”
Damn it.
“I’m not going to force you,” Mr. Yang starts, and his voice is painfully gentle, “but I think you should eat something before you go back up.” He hears, unspoken, I want to keep an eye on you. I don’t trust you not to hurt yourself again. It shouldn’t sting– it makes sense– but something about it does.
He sighs. “I wouldn’t want to put you out.”
“You won’t. There’s still all this batter here, after all, we wouldn’t want to waste it.” Mr. Yang stands, walking over to the counter. “I may not be on the level with March’s cooking, but I can make something at least acceptable with this.” There’s a slight sizzle as Mr. Yang pours more batter over the griddle, and Sunday relaxes slightly when his brain remains mercifully quiet. “…Would you like to come over here?”
“If it would be alright.”
“I won’t ask if you want something that I’m not prepared to give to you.” Mr. Yang strides back over, not noticing— or ignoring— Sunday’s shiver at those words. Does he know just how much that means? He moves like he doesn’t, grabbing his cane from where it rests against Sunday’s forehead and extending a hand to help him up— the right, to match Sunday’s unharmed right hand. Sunday’s skin tingles at the contact. The urge to clean his hand after the touch of another is muted in a way he rarely feels. He follows Mr. Yang over to the griddle, staying a step behind him the whole way. He notices how Mr. Yang puts himself between Sunday and both counters, between Sunday and the griddle, between Sunday and the knife block. He shivers.
The noise of the griddle is calming without the voices in his head screaming about it, and Sunday finds himself relaxing just slightly. He fights it— doesn’t want to fall asleep now and knows it’s a danger from the adrenaline crash— but he finds his shoulders drooping regardless. The pancakes smell good, despite the change in chef, and the kitchen is warm. He’s almost reached something resembling sleep standing up when–
“...Everything alright in here?”
Sunday doesn’t jump, per se. But he tenses, hard, body snapping to attention and spinning towards the doorway, where Himeko is standing. Mr. Yang glances at her, then at Sunday, lingering longer on him before focusing back in on his cooking. “We’re alright. Just had an accident with a plate.”
She must know it’s more than that, must have been told by Caelus and March, but she takes it in stride anyway, nodding. “March is going to be angry that you took over her cooking.”
“I wasn’t sure she wanted to come back in.”
“Mm. She’s with the other two. They’re doing fine, but they wanted to check on you.” She casts Sunday a meaningful glance. “Can they come in, or should I tell them?”
“I– if you could please–” He knows he doesn’t have a right to ask for it, no matter how badly he wants to, and it sticks in his throat.
“He’s feeling a little overwhelmed,” Mr. Yang cuts in softly, halfway through flipping a pancake. “It might be better to give him some space for the moment. Unless you want to see them, Sunday?”
“I– no. Please. If that’s– I don’t– it’s just that I–”
“That’s fine.” Something in Himeko’s face softens. “They’ll ask at some point, but it doesn’t have to be now, or soon. I’ll ask them to give you some space.”
“...Thank you.” It still feels shameful. He doesn’t know why. They’ve given him express permission. Mr. Yang even went so far as to speak for him, correctly guessing what Sunday actually wanted. But even the wanting of it feels like a sin. He hurt them. He should be making it up to them, shouldn’t he?
“Don’t mention it.” She locks eyes with Mr. Yang, more information traveling between them in a simple gaze than he knows how to decipher, before turning on her heel and walking out.
Sunday lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding as the clack of her heels grows more and more distant, and Mr. Yang sighs quietly. “She’s a bit intimidating, isn’t she?”
“Yes.” Sunday pales immediately upon realizing what he said. “I-I mean, she’s– it’s not a bad th– I misspoke, I–”
Mr. Yang chuckles, switching off the griddle. “It’s alright. I said it. She’s just more cautious. Don’t let it get to you.”
“I expected it,” Sunday murmurs. He reaches for one of the plates Mr. Yang is trying to balance in his arms and is unsurprised when he slips out of Sunday’s reach instead. “To be honest, I wasn’t expecting them to agree to allow me onto the Express at all.”
“Well, that’s how we are. Surprising.” Mr. Yang shoots a crooked grin at him as he sets everything down on the small table, gesturing for Sunday to sit across from him. There are still quite a few pancakes, and they don’t look too much worse for having swapped cooks. Mr. Yang even grabbed the whipped cream– he notices Sunday eying it and grins, pushing it closer. “Sweet tooth?”
“I-I–” It’s not a bad thing. Not a reproach. Not the way Mr. Yang says it. “A little.” He still feels embarrassed, but it’s a light kind of embarrassment, without the weight of real shame behind it.
“You’re in good company. Though I prefer syrup.” He smiles again, and Sunday tries his best to match it. It’s unsteady, crooked, not nearly good enough to hold up to scrutiny– but Mr. Yang relaxes when he sees it, just a little.
Sunday takes a bite and all his hunger comes back at once; he barely is able to restrain himself from shoving the entire thing in his mouth in one go. Mr. Yang raises an eyebrow, but it’s amusement, not judgment. “Don’t eat too fast, you’ll make yourself sick.”
“R-Right.”
And he doesn’t know why it feels so different here. Anywhere else, any other time, he’d resent the advice. He’s an adult, he knows how to take care of himself, knows how fast he should eat and is very capable of self-control. But somehow, coming from Mr. Yang, it doesn’t feel like the thinly-veiled insult it should be. It just feels like concern. He’s not sure what to blame– it could be the adrenaline crash, could be his lack of food, could be the wound on his wrist still pulsing dully– but for once in his life he sits with an authority figure and doesn’t feel cowed, doesn’t feel nervous.
Is this how it’s supposed to be?
It scares him, how much he wants to find out.