Chapter Text
When March asks Sunday to search for the Conductor and bring them to her so she can get some time sensitive assistance with making dinner, he doesn't expect it to be so difficult.
After all, to Sunday, the Express has never been that big. He hasn't explored the entire thing, too anxious about the idea of accidentally going somewhere he isn't allowed and getting told off, so he spends most of his time in the same five or so cars. He knows there are more beyond that - Himeko told him there's a car full of gym equipment that no one but Dan Heng has attempted to touch in years - but he hasn't asked to see any of them. Thus, they don't exist to him. At least, not until today, when he realizes the Conductor is not in the Party Car, the Parlor Car, the Passenger Car, the Central Storage Car, or anywhere close to the kitchen, either.
This means Sunday is forced to venture out of his comfort zone and search further beyond.
He could, theoretically, go back to March and tell her he couldn't find the Conductor, but March had seemed extremely stressed out and he doesn't want to upset her further. Judging by the sharp smell of burning, the three kitchen tools in her left hand and the way she was cursing Stelle's name into the phone in her right, Sunday pieces together the idea that she was supposed to have help with dinner tonight who happened to no show. He'd offered to help, but March had begged him to just get Pom-Pom instead, which was very slightly insulting - Sunday knows he's not a perfect cook, but is he really that bad? Either way, he doesn't want to leave her alone for longer than he has to. He also has the concern that if he goes back to March, she might tell him to look after the three pots on the stove and whatever's sizzling in the oven on his own while she goes looking, and frankly, the possibility of that makes his feathers stand on end.
So he heads beyond the Storage Car first, towards the back of the train.
One thing about the Astral Express is that it's bigger on the inside. When he'd timidly approached Himeko to ask her about this, she'd just laughed and not directly answered his questions, so he's still not sure why this is the case, or how. Sunday's seen some crazy things on Penacony within the sweet dream he spent most of his life in, but experiencing things like this outside of dream bubbles is something else. Even now, after having spent months and months aboard the Express, he still finds himself awed as he heads into the next carriage and ends up in a space that's so much larger than it can possibly be from the outside, the wings by his ears fluttering with excitement.
He's not sure what car this is supposed to be - more storage, possibly, and there's another flight of stairs like the one in the Party Car that leads somewhere where there's definitely not supposed to be space for a second floor. He dodges piles of boxes, the urge to tug at his feathers growing stronger the further he ventures in and the more disorderly mess he encounters. Eventually, Sunday shields his vision with his wings like an equestrian putting blinders on their anxious horse so he can't see what's on either side of him. Once he gets to the next door, he breathes a sigh of relief. Nothing can be worse than that, at least.
The next car is the gym, he finds. It's neat in here, a clear sign that Dan Heng is one of its only inhabitants. It doesn't surprise him that Dan Heng works out, either. He appears extremely physically strong, so much so it makes Sunday feel rather pathetic. Maybe he needs to start working out too. Mr. Wood did always tell him he could do with some more muscle, but he'd never seen a point in it before now.
The Conductor is not in here, at least, so he moves on, trying not to think about Dan Heng in this room any further. For whatever reason, it makes his face flush.
Sunday heads through a few more cars, searching high and low for any sign of the three-foot-tall rabbit hybrid who runs this train so intensely. Unfortunately, he's catching no sign of them, and he's starting to get desperate. Is there some area of the Express he doesn't know how to get to? Maybe he has to go up those stairs from several cars ago? He seriously has no clue what he's doing.
However, he's finally rewarded for his search in the last car. He cracks the door open, expecting to find nothing and have to race back to March, but at long last, he spies exactly what he's looking for. Pom-Pom, standing in the middle of a dimly lit room, staring somewhere opposite Sunday. It seems some of the lights on the walls are busted, as only a few of them are on. Boxes line the walls, as well as a few other various objects Sunday recognizes, such as music stands, a large guitar case, an easel, piles of books and a set of chairs that all face the wall where no one sensible would sit on them.
However, none of this is what has caught Sunday's attention in particular. He's staring at something in front of the Conductor, something that appears to be the same thing they're looking at too.
It's a large white piano. Sleek and shiny, albeit with a sooty black mark on the lid of it as if something had exploded on top of it. A matching cushioned seat sits below it. Behind the thing is a crumpled tarp, as if it was recently covered and only just unveiled. In the darkness of the room, the instrument practically glows.
Pom-Pom must hear Sunday's breath catch, because they turn around faster than Sunday can even think to say anything.
"Passenger Sunday," they say, blinking up at him slowly. "Are you looking for me?"
Sunday can't reply for a moment. His eyes are fixed on the piano. He can't explain why, but something about it is captivating.
It's been a very long time since Sunday's played piano.
"Uh, Passenger Sunday?" the Conductor repeats, and Sunday blinks, stiffening as he glances down to meet their eyes, widened slightly in expectation. Aeons, he doesn't even remember what they said.
"I - sorry," he stammers, clasping his hands together before him in an effort to keep him from tugging his feathers. "I was just - I didn't know there was a piano aboard the Express."
Pom-Pom glances back at it, a small sigh leaving their lips. "Ah, yes," they say, shaking their head. "That old thing... it belonged to Akivili, many years ago."
They say this in the same tone one might say we found it on the side of the road amongst the trash and not this instrument belonged to the long-dead Aeon of the Trailblaze.
Sunday makes a noise like he's been punched in the throat. "It - it belonged to -?"
"Akivili, yes," Pom-Pom replies, sighing yet again. They cross their arms, staring at the instrument with clear disdain. "THEY didn't take good care of it, let me tell you that! Who kept it in such good shape for as long as THEY had it? Pom-Pom, of course! Then, you know what? That dastardly Aha goes and sets off a bomb right on top of it, ruining all my hard work!"
They say this in the same tone one might say ah, the cat got loose and scratched it up and not those marks on the lid were actually directly caused by the Aeon of Elation.
Sunday tries to speak and finds no words come. His throat feels like it's closed up.
Pom-Pom clears their throat, clearly recognizing Sunday's shock as they snicker. "It's pretty cool, right? You'd think so, at least. A lot of the stuff in here belonged to Akivili. THEY were so finicky, always wanting to start new hobbies and do new things. Most of the things here, THEY barely used. But this piano - oh, THEY played it all the time. Pom-Pom can't bear to get rid of it..."
They sigh yet again, shaking their head as the light in their eyes fades slightly. "It doesn't matter. Pom-Pom was just in here debating cleaning up, but it's not easy, you know, getting rid of things like this... so, Passenger Sunday, what are you doing here exactly?"
It's then that Sunday recovers from his shock and gasps softly. "Oh! I'm sorry - Miss March sent me to find you! It seems like Miss Stelle didn't show up to make dinner, and she's juggling a lot at once, so I think she needed assistance...?"
Pom-Pom drops their head in their hands and groans. "Aeons above, help me! Ok, I'll go see her. These lazy Nameless, good for nothing - I'm going to put Stelle on dinner duties for the next week, I swear, all she wants to do is eat and not help the rest of us make!"
Sunday swallows back laughter as the Conductor waddles past and swings the door open, still muttering to themself.
Then they stop in the doorway, glancing back to look at Sunday, who hasn't yet moved. "If you want to take a look at anything in here, you can," they tell him, sending a hot shock through his chest. "Pom-Pom can tell you're at least a little interested. None of this stuff ever gets used nowadays, so do whatever you want with it, Pom-Pom doesn't mind as long as you keep things at least fairly tidy!"
Without giving Sunday any further time to formulate a reply, they leave, the door sliding shut behind them.
Sunday stands there for another long moment. Anxiety thrumming through his veins, as it so often is, but now for a different reason than usual. How could someone so casually offer him the opportunity to play a piano that not one, but two Aeons have touched with their own fingers? It feels almost blasphemous.
He takes a step towards the piano, then another. The mess around it comes into view the closer he gets. Was all of this really Akivili's? He can't see what one person could do with so much stuff. Then again, Akivili was not a person. Perhaps Sunday couldn't understand.
He runs his gloved hands over the lid, amazed. How long has it been since he played the piano? It must have been before Robin returned to Penacony for the Charmony Festival, at least. The thought makes him ache.
Hesitantly, he reaches for the latch on the lid. Heart pounding for no reason. What, is he expecting Gopher Wood to appear and tell him off? Akivili THEMSELF to smite him down on the spot? Both of those beings are dead. Pom-Pom had given him permission, and they're the one who has the most of a right to.
Still - still, the idea of opening it and touching the keys is so nerve wracking that he loses his confidence and turns away, leaving the room and the ghosts it holds within it behind without further investigation.
He finds himself returning not even a day later.
He doesn't know what compels him. Maybe it's something to do with the fact that he used to love playing piano, more than any other instrument, and it's been such a long time since he's even seen one. Maybe it's Akivili THEMSELF urging him forwards. Probably not that last one - if anyone, it'd be more likely to be Aha, mischievous as they are. Sunday is not a Nameless. He shouldn't be touching the Aeon's piano, regardless of what the Conductor said.
However, it's on his mind, and he can't dismiss the thoughts. He heads back to the end carriage, twisting his hands together in an attempt to keep himself from tearing his feathers out, and just stares at the thing from across the room, making no move to get closer. This is all he does for the first ten or so minutes. He debates it mentally, and once again decides he shouldn't and leaves, believing he's thoroughly convinced himself of what's right.
Then he's back again, fifteen minutes of dithering later.
He cleans up. The room is a disaster, full to the brim with Akivili's nonsense, and Sunday can't stand to leave it like that. He can tell Pom-Pom's tried before, judging by the way things are organized, but he also wouldn't be surprised if the reason why all of these things are still here in this state is because the Conductor can't stand to get rid of it all. He may not have been here long, but he knows enough about Akivili and THEIR relationship with the Conductor to understand. Hopefully, they won't be upset at him for moving things around like this.
Once it's tidy, he spends some time just looking at the piano. It truly does look very well taken care of, just as Pom-Pom had said. It's dusted and waxed, kept out of the view of the windows so as to avoid light, and when Sunday eventually dares to open the lid, he can see the keys are all clean in between, no grease left behind from fingers. Not that Sunday thinks an Aeon would have to clean THEIR hands anyway - besides, in all the depictions of Akivili he's ever seen, THEY'RE wearing gloves.
He's being silly thinking about this so intently, but he's really trying to distract himself from the fact that he wants to play the piano.
It belonged to an Aeon, he thinks to himself, and not only that, but it's not the Aeon of the path he walks. Would it be completely disrespectful for him to use it? It feels as though there should be someone else to tell him what to do. He was taught all his life how to behave and speak, how to worship and respect Xipe and later, Ena. Gopher Wood would faint if he saw what Sunday was doing. Just touching a relic that belonged to a dead Aeon feels like too much.
The dead Aeon of a path that isn't his. It's blasphemous.
Even if Pom-Pom had said it was ok...
Even if he'd gotten permission...
Before he can think about it, he's sitting down at the bench of the piano. It's soft and comfortable, sturdy beneath him. He shifts, thinking about what he's doing. He should be so much more anxious than he is. Somehow, somewhere, the nerves had melted away.
The keys don't move as Sunday drags his fingers across them, not pressing down. It's been so long since he played. Is he even going to remember how?
He hesitates, and then - plunk - presses a D key. A high pitched note rings out, and is quickly stifled as Sunday jolts his hand away from the keys as if they had burned him. It's loud. Obviously. It's a piano.
His breaths come slightly too quick for a moment, and he's briefly reminded of a childhood memory in which a Halovian boy from the Iris Family had held his hand while they snuck away from a fancy dinner, and the utter terror of being caught had fought with the pure glee of the rebellious activity he was taking part in. He's feeling something similar to that now, although there is currently no threat of Gopher Wood looming over him, violet eyes burning with fury at his disobedience even as his lips smile. Why he's so confident he's somehow going to get in trouble for this, Sunday doesn't know. A lot of his life has been like that - full of anxiety that he's going to be punished for something, even if he has no idea what.
...That's probably mostly the OCD speaking, if he thinks about it now. Sunday almost laughs.
Then he presses another key, and another. Unfortunately, Sunday finds out very quickly that this piano is extremely out of tune, and a search around the room determines that there is no tuning kit anywhere to be seen. Maybe Akivili's Aeonic abilities made it so it never needed tuning before THEY died. Sunday supposes he'll never know.
Despite this, he plays for a little while longer, determined to at least loosen himself up to the idea of playing again before he has to quit. The tunelessness is annoying enough that he'll definitely have to ask the Conductor for a tuning set. He's already dreading the idea.
Before he finishes, he comes up with an idea. He heads into the next room and sets his phone down, opening up his camera so he can record audio. He starts recording, then returns to the last car and hesitantly plunks the piano a few times, as loud as he can before he cringes too hard to continue. Then he returns to the room where his phone is and plays back the recording he just made, which reveals utter silence. Good. Akivili's playroom must be soundproofed.
He heads back to the more populated cars, resigning himself to waiting for the next time Pom-Pom isn't busy to ask them for help with the piano.
Stelle is in the Party Car, playing on a long handheld device with great focus.
"Sunny," she says, when she notices him approaching through the swathes of grey hair she's peering through. She pushes it away and tilts her head. "What are you up to?"
"Nothing," Sunday replies, because that's technically not a lie. "What about you? You seem busy."
Just as Sunday thought, being asked to talk about herself distracts Stelle from Sunday's suspicious skulking very quickly. "Just got the new Yamagochi Life game," she says, and waves her device around, which Sunday now recognizes as the newest gaming console made by the IPC, the IPC Switch. "You're just the man I wanted to see, actually, Sunny, I'm literally working on making you right now and I have to quiz you."
Sunday blinks. He doesn't recognize what anything she's just said means. "Making me? What does that entail, exactly?"
Stelle gestures for him to come sit beside her at the bar, which he does, shuffling close so he can peer over her shoulder at the screen. She shows him fully, and Sunday finds his lips parting in surprise. Stelle has, in fact, made "him" - a chibi cartoon version in a hasty mockup of his usual outfit, smiling cutely against a yellow background.
"It's a game where you make little characters called Yuus and they interact with each other and shit," Stelle explains nonchalantly, fiddling with the buttons. "I'm making everybody I know, which is a lot of people, by the way, I'm swamped with work here. Anyway, this is your Yuu. Isn't he cute?"
"I see... he is cute," Sunday admits, a smile creeping across his face as he examines the mini him on the screen. His wings are slightly off colour, and his eyes are bluer than his own, and also - "Where's my halo?"
Stelle looks at him, startled, then back at the screen, eyes bulging. "Fuck! How did I forget a fucking Halovian's halo?"
Sunday laughs, and Stelle shakes her head, pressing a few buttons to move on from customization. "Whatever, I'll fix you later, your fucking halo is gonna be so complicated to draw anyway. Anyway, I have some important questions. What's your favourite colour?"
That isn't what Sunday expected. He considers, twirling a lock of hair around his finger, then decides. "Purple."
"Purple?" Stelle repeats, inputting his answer even as her eyebrows furrow. "Really? But you're so covered in blue."
Sunday shrugs. "I prefer purple."
"O-k," Stelle sings. "And your birthday?"
Sunday blinks. "On the Trailblaze Calendar, the seventh of July."
"Lots of sevens," Stelle comments, cracking a grin. "Is that why you love that number so much? I'll have to keep a note of that mentally, too, I have all the other Nameless's birthdays memorized. Ok, and - men or women?"
"Uh," Sunday utters, trying to comprehend that question. "What?"
Stelle tilts the screen at him, which shows a question asking Choose Sunday's dating preferences. The options read male, female, nonbinary, none and other. "Which one?"
"None," Sunday replies firmly. His face is burning. "Pick none."
"Nope," Stelle says, unmoving. "You have to give a real answer. Men, women, which?"
Sunday sighs, cupping his cheeks to try and look less like the question has flustered him. "Put... both, I guess."
"Both," Stelle mutters as she clicks his answers. "Both - both, really?"
"Yes?" Sunday confirms, turning to look at her surprised expression. "What's the problem?"
Stelle shakes her head. "No problem, I just assumed you'd only be into men. No offense, you just don't seem like the kind of guy who'd like women."
Sunday thinks about that for a long moment. "I'm... trying to decide whether that should offend me or not."
"No, no, I said no offense," Stelle promises, sitting up in her seat. On the screen, the Sunday Yuu leaps into the air with joy as he's completed, halo-less. "Well, that's you done. Congrats, you're free to venture into the world. Now I just have to wait for replies from - literally everybody else I know who I texted yesterday and today, and then they can all join us."
Privately, Sunday guesses that a lot of people are probably also going to be extremely confused about these questions and that Stelle might not get as many answers as she wants, but that's not his business to worry about. He's not exactly busy right now, what with having to wait to find the Conductor when they're not in a crisis, so whatever Stelle is doing is far more interesting than the nothing that he is until he can get a tuning kit.
"Who are you making next?" he asks, genuinely curious. "If you haven't made Robin yet, I'd be happy to help."
Stelle visibly considers this, tapping her chin with a screwed up face. "Hm, ok," she agrees after a pause. "I suppose you're a valuable source. You can help me make a few of the people we encountered on Penacony, I'm sure your memory is better than mine."
Thinking about Penacony is going to make Sunday's head hurt, so he doesn't. "Alright," he says with a nod. "But I'm not giving you any of Robin's more personal information, so you can put her down for none in advance."
Stelle heaves out a heavy, dramatic sigh. "Fine, fine, fine, I guess... let's go find somewhere more comfortable to sit and see what we can do."
So they go sit on the couches instead, Stelle's console held in between them while they work, and Sunday drains away the rest of his evening drawing people he once knew, offering up advice on personality traits and giggling behind his hands when Stelle makes a mock up Gopher Wood and locks him in a basement with no doors.
"A tuning kit?" the Conductor repeats, tilting their head to the side with their ears flopping. "What would you need to use that for? Doesn't your little mask enhance your abilities anyway?"
"Not that kind of tuning," Sunday explains, wringing his hands together behind his back. "For the, ah - the piano. It's out of tune."
"Oh," Pom-Pom says, a thoughtful look crossing their face. "Oh, is it really?"
It's the next morning, and Sunday's in the kitchen while the Conductor makes themself breakfast, watching as eggs are flipped and bacon sizzles, an open bagel on a plate awaiting the ingredients to be put inside. Pom-Pom scoops up swathes of butter and spreads it across the bread, clearly still thinking about what Sunday said. The knife swipes across their paw and leaves a buttery stain that they don't notice.
"We must have something somewhere," they mutter aloud, more to themself than to Sunday. "What exactly do you need? Pom-Pom would be happy to take a look."
Sunday thinks, listing them off. "A tuning lever, rubber mutes, a screwdriver to access the tuning pins... I believe that should be it. I can write everything down as I go in my notebook."
"Mhm, sounds simple enough," the Conductor hums. Their eggs sizzle as they scoop them onto their bagel, filling the kitchen with a delightful smell. Sunday's mouth waters at the sight, but he's already asking Pom-Pom for this complicated kit and wouldn't feel right also asking if he can use their food. He'll have to go shopping later. "You can help me look later. I have some tasks to do first, but I'll make this a matter of priority! How does that sound, Passenger Sunday?"
Sunday laughs awkwardly at Pom-Pom's enthusiasm, hands twitching to tug at his feathers. "I appreciate your assistance very much, Conductor, but there's no need to rush if you're busy..."
Pom-Pom turns their gaze upwards, studying him for a moment, and then laughs shortly. "You know, Passenger Sunday, of the younger Nameless on this train, you're certainly one of the most considerate! And so helpful, too, always doing the chores without being asked... of course, Passenger Dan Heng does this too, but he also occasionally tries to practice cloudhymn while cleaning and ends up getting water all over the ceiling. Pom-Pom has to mark him down a few points for that!"
The mental image makes Sunday stifle a laugh. As he does, he hears the door creak behind him, and both of them turn to see Himeko walking in. She's wearing a loose white dress underneath a red housecoat, slippers adorning her feet. "Good morning, you two," she says with a yawn, and Sunday echoes it back, with Pom-Pom offering extra enthusiasm. Himeko smiles absently and sets about on the stove with the pans Pom-Pom left behind. Sunday watches her start some bacon and toast wistfully, stomach rumbling silently.
Then Pom-Pom speaks again, bringing him back to earth. "So you tried playing it? Is everything else in working order?"
Sunday nods, trying to ignore the way he can feel Himeko's eyes on him suddenly. "Yes, it works just fine, it's simply out of tune. I think once that's fixed, it's going to be perfect."
"That's good news," Pom-Pom says with a fierce nod. They smack their bagel closed, satisfied. "You know, Passenger Sunday, it's been a very long time since anyone else has even tried to play that thing. As far as Pom-Pom can guess, you might be the first person to have touched those keys since Akivili THEMSELF."
This makes Sunday feel somewhat queasy all of a sudden. "I see... that's interesting. You are... sure it's ok for me to be using it, Conductor?"
"Ah, of course!" Pom-Pom agrees, turning around with their plate of food in hand and hopping off the stool they were using to reach the countertop. Their blue eyes glitter as they look up at him. "I wouldn't have said so if it wasn't. Like I said, a lot of the stuff in there is useless nonsense now, so anything that anyone else wants is something less for me to have to clear away! Well, I'll come find you later, Passenger Sunday. Don't leave the Express or anything!"
"I won't," Sunday replies weakly, as Pom-Pom waddles away to goodness knows where. They probably have their own room that's more comfortable to sit and eat in. Sunday can't say he's not slightly jealous.
Silence reigns with Pom-Pom gone, leaving Sunday to decide what to do. He's been told not to leave the Express, and honestly, shopping is such a hassle anyway when one is a wanted criminal who has to use tuning to disguise one's face anytime one goes anywhere. Maybe he can have toast. The bread is communal use as far as he's aware, although even then, Sunday's not a Nameless, so he's not sure if he's even included in that.
"Bacon, Sunday?" he suddenly hears, and he jumps his from position where he's squinting furiously at the countertop to see Himeko at the stove, smiling warmly. She's gesturing towards her pan, in which bacon is already sizzling, hot from Pom-Pom's previous use. The smell is divine. Sunday is used to good smells from living in the Dreamscape where everything is perfect, but he so rarely ever ate real food because of that. Adjusting is still strange to him.
"No - no, I couldn't," he stammers, waving her off politely before he can stop himself. He can't agree to her making him breakfast, no matter how much he wants it. "I already... had a breakfast plan, so..."
She stares at him for a moment, contemplative, before turning back to the open packet of bacon and taking four more pieces out to plop into the pan. "I'm making you some anyway," she says decisively, in a tone that leaves no room for argument. "You're so skinny, Sunday, I hope you don't mind me saying, but I rarely see you eat and you could definitely use some more foods like this in your diet."
As much as Sunday's embarrassed at the idea that she's doing this for him for that reason, she's not wrong. Sunday hasn't had a healthy relationship with food a day in his life. Even before his mother's passing, he was always picky, afraid to eat certain foods because they "looked wrong" or "felt gross." He'd rather snack on tiny things like a bird than eat a meal. This is another thing that, looking back in it, was definitely an OCD trait.
It didn't help that Mr. Wood only encouraged his unhealthy grazing habits. He did the same to Robin, but it always seemed to faze her less somehow. Neither of them ever acknowledged it, so he never got the chance to ask her why Mr. Wood's words never seemed to stick to her like they did to him.
"Thank you," he says gratefully, albeit slightly awkwardly, too. His hands stray to his wings, clinging to handfuls of feathers. "I - appreciate your kindness."
Himeko chuckles, lips twitching upwards even further. "My, you're so polite, Sunday," she comments, the compliment stirring warmth in Sunday's chest against his will. He can't help it - he's so weak to kind words. Then she continues, dropping the bombshell. "You're welcome to use the foods in the fridge as you wish unless they're labeled otherwise, you know. They're for everyone."
Sunday swallows, nodding slowly. "Oh - alright. I didn't know if I..."
Counted. He doesn't say that. Both Himeko and Mr. Yang have told him in the past how welcome he is here, to make himself at home and relax, and he's never been able to. He doesn't know if he ever will. In the space in the library where he sleeps is a travel bag packed with the few things he owns, sat by the door in case, for whatever reason, he has to leave as quickly as possible. It's so difficult to trust that he'd ever be able to feel safe here permanently. Not that he's planning to stay here permanently.
"Of course you do," Himeko replies easily, reading his mind. "Don't worry about such things. Would you like a coffee, Sunday?"
Now this gives Sunday pause. All three of the younger Nameless had warned him against ever accepting a coffee from Himeko - even the ever serious Dan Heng, white in the face, had told him to always say no in the most polite way possible if he wanted to have a good day. Stelle and March had regaled much more vulgar tales of hours spent on the toilet or tastes so disgusting it couldn't even legally be called a drink. Sunday cannot imagine, for the life of him, how someone could possibly make such bad coffee without it being intentional. If it weren't for Dan Heng's warning, he'd believe the rest of them were being dramatic. As it is, he kind of fears saying yes.
However, Himeko has been so kind to him, and she looks so hopeful in such a way that it seems like she's preparing herself for disappointment, and she manages to drink it just fine despite being a human without any kind of special tolerances as far as Sunday knows, and he's also really curious...
"Alright," he says, offering her a smile. "I'll take one. Thank you."
He can see Himeko's eyes light up. Clearly, she hadn't expected a yes. "Perfect," she gushes, and darts to her coffee maker, a lovely red machine in the corner next to the microwave. Sunday notices that someone seems to have propped two cutting boards up on either side of the thing, as if warding against explosions. "A good, round breakfast is the best way to start the day, that's what Welt and I always tell the others. March and Stelle skip it so often, they're almost never awake this time of day."
That's definitely true. Sunday once saw Stelle stagger down from her room at four pm. Then again, he knows for a fact she had been drinking with March and Dan Heng the night before, so it shouldn't really have been that big of shock.
He laughs politely, and watches as Himeko works, still standing somewhat awkwardly by the counter without much of anything to do. So he goes to sit at the kitchen table, stiff as a board, pulling out his phone to give him something to fiddle with in the meantime. No new messages, of course. The only remaining contact in his phone who's still alive and isn't a Nameless is Robin. Their conversations remain silent, and have been since Penacony. Her last message, a See you then! Love you! sits heavily in his inbox. He doesn't click on it again.
"So," Himeko says, breaking the silence. "You've been playing the piano at the end of the Express?"
Sunday glances up, moderately startled. Himeko smiles over her shoulder in that knowing way that she does, the sounds of the bacon being gently pushed around the pan indicative of why she can't turn around fully.
"I've always wondered if someone would one day use it again," she says, sounding somewhat wistful. "I found it so long ago, when I explored after first repairing the Express. It was completely unharmed apart from that one mark on its lid, along with everything else in that room. Like some Aeon's whim had kept it that way, even in death. I was fascinated by the idea, but I never cared to play it. I always was more scientific than creative as a child. I leave all the art and design to Welt."
Sunday opens his mouth, but doesn't know what to say. Himeko's casual demeanour is somewhat unsettling, even though it shouldn't be, even though Himeko has exactly zero reasons to be leading him into a verbal trap. Perhaps he did spend too much time around Mr. Wood when he was alive. It certainly couldn't have helped Sunday's developmental skills.
"The Conductor - gave me permission," he eventually manages, tone meeker than intended. Sunday used to be so good at projecting an image of confidence. "Before I tried playing it, I mean. I hope that's alright."
"Why, certainly," Himeko agrees, sounding surprised that he even felt the need to clarify. "Most of the things on the Express are for everyone to use. The amenities, the food in the fridges, the space. I was only curious about what it was like to play it."
Right, she's just curious. Sunday relaxes, but only slightly, instinct still holding him back. "It would have been perfect if it was tuned," he says, and laughs to let her know he's meaning it lightheartedly. "For having not been used in so long, it's in very good condition otherwise. Once the Conductor and I find the tools I need, I should be able to tune it back to normal."
Himeko looks rather thoughtful for a moment. Beside her, the coffee machine hisses, and she leaves the bacon to rush over to it and crack it open. The stench of something almost salty fills the room, so heavy it almost makes Sunday cough. He's starting to regret agreeing to this, even for a home cooked breakfast.
"Perfect," he hears Himeko mutter to herself, and then she turns her head to look at him, eyes glittering. "Sunday, what exact tools do you need to tune the piano?"
Sunday blinks. "Ah... a tuning lever, rubber mutes, and a screwdriver. I'm not sure what kind it takes, I would have to test..."
Himeko whirls around at such speeds that Sunday almost jumps. "I believe I might have those things somewhere," she says in a triumphant tone, teeth bared in a grin. "I have boxes upon boxes of tools stored away places, and I know I certainly have many screwdrivers, but even the lever and the mutes, I must have somewhere or other. How about we look after breakfast? If we can't find them, we'll wait for Pom-Pom's assistance and see what they've got. But I'm sure that, given there is a piano here, we must have the tools to tune it, and I'm also sure that the whim to acquire them must have passed me by at some point knowing that."
Her willingness to help him is surprising, but Sunday supposes he understands - he, too, would be, and he's incredibly curious as to what a piano that belonged to an Aeon sounds like at its true potential. So he nods, a smile crossing his face, accepting her assistance without care for why she's giving it.
He watches as Himeko fiddles with mugs somewhere out of his view, and then returns with two of them and sets one before Sunday. The salty smell returns in full force, so powerful it makes him wince. He glances into the swirling brown liquid in the mug, which looks like normal coffee, really. It can't possibly be that bad. It can't possibly.
Anxiety bubbles up inside of him as he hears Himeko serving up the food, although that feeling is not unfamiliar to him. In fact, it's basically the norm. He's just drinking coffee, for goodness sake. It's not like it has poison in it.
...It's not like it has poison in it.
Sunday gets to his feet and goes to help Himeko in putting together their plates at the counter, which she thanks him for several times even though she was the one who made it. They take their food and sit back at the table. Through the window above the sink, the train yard that Madam Pearl had stationed them in is visible, sky light. Even in the morning sky, the Phantasmoon hangs far away from them, bopping left and right behind the wisps of clouds.
Himeko brings her own coffee to her lips, making herself look very relaxed on the other side of the table, so Sunday can't procrastinate any longer. The fear of hating the drink enough that he'll gag or otherwise make it obvious and offend her is real, but putting it off certainly isn't going to help, so he takes a deep breath and lifts the mug, the smell only strengthening.
The Navigator must notice him wavering, because she lowers her mug and sighs softly, shoulders sinking. "Really, Sunday, you're terribly sweet, but you don't need to -"
Sunday knocks back a large gulp of coffee before she can finish.
It's instantly very odd, so much so that he briefly doesn't know what to do with himself. It doesn't taste salty the way he'd expected - in fact, it tastes extremely bitter, sharp in his mouth. There's a faint coffee flavour to it, certainly, but it's not what it should be like at all. The texture is more like what he would imagine drinking paint would be similar to. The taste sticks in his mouth.
However - however, it's interesting. It doesn't make him gag. It's harsh, sure, but drinkable. In fact, in the back of his mind, he distantly recalls that this tastes somewhat like a cake Robin tried to make for him once, where she'd misplaced certain ingredients and accidentally forgone sugar entirely. She'd been so apologetic, but he'd eaten every bite, because although it was bitter and the texture was all wrong, there was something warm behind it all. Something he couldn't explain.
Himeko is staring at him, a breath clearly caught on her lips, eyes wide with obvious anticipation. Nervousness twitches in her eyebrows, her expression flickering as she tries to decide what she thinks Sunday's feeling as he sets the mug down, pondering absently.
"...It's strange," he eventually admits, locking eyes with her and lifting his lips. "But it's extremely interesting. I don't dislike it."
"Really?" Himeko breathes, sounding rather disbelieving. She shakes her head, hands floating anxiously in the air between the table and her face. "Sunday, you can tell me the truth. I know my coffee isn't for everyone, and I know the others must have warned you that it would be bad, and you're terribly sweet, really, you are, but I can't..."
"I mean it," Sunday promises, and it surprises even himself. By all means, this drink should be awful. But just the very fact that its flavour is unique enough for him not to hate it makes him somewhat excited to drink more. After all, Himeko is already brightening at the fact that he's saying this. "I will admit I was warned against drinking it, but this is nowhere near what I was expecting. Miss March made it sound like I was going to die."
Himeko chuckles, cheeks flushed. "Well, I do make my coffee differently each time. I imagine they must have truly disliked the versions of it I made for them. The younger Nameless have all sworn off against trying it after their first times, even Dan Heng, who usually tries to be polite enough to agree to anything... I can't exactly blame them. Even Welt usually refuses to drink it. You must just have gotten lucky, Sunday, to have gotten one of my blends that's palatable enough for the average person to drink."
"Perhaps," Sunday chuckles, and takes another sip, the flavour all consuming on his tongue. "But I'd be willing to try it again. Your tastes may be rather peculiar, but so are mine, so I can't really hate it."
Himeko looks so joyful at this statement that Sunday can't help but feel slightly prideful that he'd managed to make her smile so wide. "If you want to taste my new blends when I make them, I'd be far more than delighted to have a second opinion on them," she says, and splits a piece of bacon with her knife, nudging it onto a fork to bring to her mouth. "You're an angel, Sunday."
"We prefer to be referred to as Halovians, actually," Sunday jokes, and her genuine laughter fills him with such warm self satisfaction that he rides the high for the entire rest of their conversation over breakfast.
As it turns out, Himeko does have the tools Sunday needs.
Her room is beautiful, yet horrendously messy in a way that makes Sunday cringe. Her dark canopy bed is adorned in crimson sheets that are rumpled and strewn half on the floor, and her oak wood drawers are all partially open to varying degrees, revealing unfolded clothes. The soft red rug on the floor is covered with several toolboxes at the end of her bed, stacked atop one another, placed messily from place to place, even atop the cushioned window seat beneath the silky curtains that match the coffee brown ones on her bed. It's a perfect mix of elegance and tough mess, the scattered wrenches, bolts, and unrecognizable tools that look more like weapons left amongst softly coloured makeups, half melted candles in rosy scents and satin dresses that hadn't been hung up in her closet yet after their last wash.
The urge to organize everything is so strong that Sunday nearly yanks out a chunk of feathers in order to suppress the urge to start moving things without permission.
"I knew I had something like this," he hears from across the room, and sees Himeko's ruby head pop up from underneath her bed where she is very un-elegantly kneeling, rummaging around for something hidden. Sunday doesn't even want to know what it looks like under there. He learned long ago that the only way to suppress organizational compulsions is to force himself into obliviousness about the state of certain things - hence why he's always declined March's invitations to enjoy a movie night in her room with Dan Heng and Stelle. "This is what you need, right, Sunday?"
She holds up an L-shaped tool with a long wooden handle and a hollow metal end attached to a small ball. Sunday grins and nods from the doorway, loosening his grip on his feathers beneath his coat. "That's it," he confirms. "Thank you, Miss Himeko."
"No need for the "Miss" business, Sunday," Himeko tells him, already plunging herself back underneath her bed to resume her search. "I'm not your superior, and I'm only thirty two, I can't imagine I'm that much older than you. How old actually are you, Sunday?"
Sunday hesitates, rather embarrassed of the answer. "I'm twenty four," he says, delegating himself to twisting his hands together instead of making more of a mess of his wings. He really should shed this jacket - Mr. Yang had told him not to keep his wings cooped up, and he knows he shouldn't, too.
There's a pause after this admission. "You're younger than I thought," Himeko eventually admits, tone soft. "Really, only twenty four? Halovians age the same as humans, don't they?"
Sunday nods, then remembers Himeko can't see him. "Yes, essentially. How old did you think I was, then?"
"...Maybe in your early thirties, closer to me?" Himeko suggests, after yet another pause. She peers back over the mattress just in time to catch Sunday's horrified expression. "It's nothing to do with your looks, I swear - you just act so terribly mature that it's impossible to believe you're so young. I hope I didn't offend you, Sunday, I didn't mean it as an insult of any kind..."
"No, no, it's fine," Sunday manages, still reeling from early thirties. He knows that's not that much older than he is, in the grand scheme of things, but does he really not at least look his age? People were always surprised to find out a twenty-something was Bronze Melodia, but he'd never had to hear someone guess how old they thought he was. "I suppose I don't act the way most people my age do. It shouldn't really shock me."
"Ah-a," comes a triumphant cry, and it takes Sunday a moment to realize that it's not in response to his words. Himeko finally sits up, clutching a clear plastic bag full of small rubber blocks, tapered at the ends, with metal handles that end in loops. "I just knew I had these somewhere, I clearly never used them. Are these good enough, do you think?"
"They're perfect," Sunday tells her gratefully as she stumbles to her feet and crosses the room, picking through the mess carefully. She nods at his confirmation, then turns and grabs a bag from her desk, unzipping it and pulling out three ordinary looking screwdrivers to show to him with a smile.
"And I believe these should do to open it," she finishes, gesturing towards him with them. "If we need anything else, we can come back and I'll hopefully be able to find it. I apologize for the mess in here, really, I've been meaning to clean it for a while - but I know where things are amongst the chaos, at least usually. Occasionally."
They exit the room, the door sliding shut to hide the disaster that Sunday now knows lies beyond it. His wings twitch, both behind his ears and against his waist. "I'd be more than happy to assist you with organization," he offers, unsure whether he wants her to accept or reject him. It might not be good for him to try and clean a whole room from scratch such a mess so soon after his recent relapse back into OCD behaviours. "If you'd like. I'm very good at that sort of thing, if I do say so myself."
He does say so himself. Sunday is an expert at turning disorder into Order. It's part of the reason why he's sick. He doesn't say that part, of course.
Himeko hums like she's considering, trying to fit all of her tools into another bag she'd grabbed from her room before they left. "I couldn't make you do that," she decides after a pause, shaking her head. "It's my own mess to deal with. If I ever need organizational advice, though, I know just the man to go to."
Sunday laughs. He recognizes this as having been a bonding experience, which is rather exciting to him as someone who hasn't had much of a chance to have personal interactions with Himeko yet. The younger crew members are constantly hanging around him and pestering him for attention, excluding the elusive Dan Heng, who ends up being dragged into March and Stelle's nonsense just as much as he is anyway, and Mr. Yang has been keeping a fairly close eye on him since Sunday's minor breakdown several months ago and often starts casual conversations with him. Sunday hasn't seen Himeko as often. They never tend to spend time in the same places at the same time, and while they've spoken, it's never been for all that long. Or outside of extreme circumstances - Sunday doesn't count the chaos of his Amphoreus Trailblaze towards this.
So getting to properly talk with the Express's Navigator like this is an opportunity that Sunday doesn't plan to waste.
They head towards the end of the train. Dan Heng is reading a book in the Parlor Car, and greets them as they pass, but otherwise has nothing else to say. Stelle and March, Himeko tells him, have gone out with Mr. Yang to check out an imagenae mech cafe that the younger Nameless had found online and were desperate to take the older man to. Sunday silently finds the idea of that extremely amusing. If he knows one thing about Mr. Yang, it's his love for robots and mechs.
Sunday hopes to see the Conductor on the way so he can let them know that they don't need to go looking for the tuning supplies, but he doesn't, so he resolves to find them later once he's done.
"I realize I interrupted you earlier," Himeko speaks, and Sunday turns to look at her with surprise. They're heading through an empty car at the moment, doors blocking off what Sunday's sure is more disorganized storage that he can't bear to look at, and it's extremely silent apart from their footsteps. "When we were discussing your age. I do apologize, I only recalled just now that I had done that."
"Oh, that's quite alright," Sunday says, smiling gently. "I didn't have much else to say on the matter."
Still, Himeko looks somewhat thoughtful, biting the inside of her lip. "What kind of activities do you do with your time, Sunday? I mean, outside of your work as Oak Family head or Bronze Melodia, what sort of things did you enjoy doing?"
He doesn't know what to say for a long moment. He doesn't even know if anyone's ever asked him something like that before. What does Sunday enjoy doing... what does Sunday enjoy doing?
"I..." He hesitates, swallowing. "Ah, that's a good question. I never often had much free time. The only thing I ever was able to spare any time for was playing piano, which was always my favourite of the many instruments Mr. Wood made Robin and I learn in our youth. There wasn't very much else."
He doesn't mention his enjoyment of singing, because he finds it rather embarrassing and doesn't tend to allow other people to hear him doing it anymore. Robin is the one who sings, and Sunday is the one who wasn't chosen by Xipe to perform at the Charmony Festival. He was never bitter about that, not one bit, but it did become more of a childish activity for him, to sing without reason or purpose. Goodness knows Mr. Wood made sure he knew he had no reason or purpose.
A door opens into the car with all the exercise equipment, which has shifted since Sunday was in here yesterday. Someone must have been using it. Himeko makes a small noise at his last words, one that Sunday finds hard to interpret. He hopes it isn't pity. That's the last thing he wants to receive from the crew of the Astral Express, who he put through so much torment. He wonders what Himeko's thinking.
They're silent again until they get to the last car. The piano is sitting waiting for them, its tarp on the floor in the exact place Sunday left it. In the light of day, the instrument practically glows. Sunday strides across the room to it, lips already turning upwards at the thought of getting to do this. It's been so ridiculously long.
Beside him, Himeko giggles. "Excited?" she asks, handing him the bag of tools that she'd insisted on carrying and sitting on the stool beside the piano. "You look it."
"I am," Sunday says, which he's almost embarrassed to admit. Mr. Wood never appreciated outward expressions of emotion like this from Sunday, which he had always privately thought was ridiculous, because what did the fact that he was male have to do with being joyful? "Allow me to test whether the screwdriver will fit, and then I'll have no need to keep you any longer, Miss Himeko."
He kneels down, fumbling to unscrew the piano panels and expose the strings. Himeko is silent behind him, which he assumes is because she must know he'll need silence once he starts tuning the strings, but then she speaks again and proves him wrong.
"Just Himeko is fine, remember," she says softly. "Sunday, you... wouldn't mind if I wanted to stay, would you? I'm fascinated by the process of doing something like this which I've never done before, and I'd absolutely love to hear you play once you're done. Would that be alright, do you think?"
Sunday - hadn't expected that. However, he has no reason to say no. How could he possible mind her staying with him during an activity that he usually does without anyone to keep him company?
"Of course, I don't mind," he says, and smiles at her over his shoulder. "It may take some time, and I won't be able to make good conversation, but if you're fine with that, I'd appreciate you staying."
The screwdriver is the perfect size, and the panels pop off easily where they're supposed to, allowing Sunday access. He has to remove his gloves to begin his task, which reveals ugly, mostly self-inflicted scars on both his hands themselves and his wrists. Remnants of frenzied incidents and compulsion-fueled attempts to silence intrusive thoughts. He hopes Himeko either doesn't notice or doesn't comment. He'd already once been asked by Stelle when she witnessed him washing dishes, and had had to clumsily try and explain that he hadn't done these things to himself out of a desire to feel pain, but because he'd been caught up in thoughts that he couldn't stifle. Needless to say, it was an awkward conversation, and he doesn't think she fully understood.
He gets to work, and Himeko sits silently, only occasionally interjecting to ask a question after tapping his shoulder to get permission first. Sunday could probably do this in his sleep even after all this time. Tuning the piano used to be his favourite part of using it when he was younger, before his OCD diagnosis. His teacher had thought he was just weird, and had reported to Mr. Wood once that he "became tremendously upset upon learning the piano didn't need to be tuned with each use." He still finds that somewhat funny, even now.
It's a dreadfully mindless task. Sunday loves those more than anything. He doesn't even mind the silence apart from the occasional plinks of the piano keys as they slowly become more and more tuneful, until he reaches the end and finds all of them are perfectly in tune.
"There we go," he says, a tone of triumph in his voice. It's been so long since he said anything that he thinks he startles Himeko a little, who had such an intense look of concentration on her face as she watched him that her surprise is clear. "It's a complicated process, but it's very enjoyable for me. However, I'm glad that's taken care of. It should be back in full working order by now."
Himeko shifts to the left to let Sunday sit. He's somewhat nervous, now, since Himeko had told him she wanted to stay and hear him play. It's more pressure to actually be good, now. Not that Sunday thinks he isn't good at the piano. He knows for a fact that he is. Still, if he messes up, it would be more than embarrassing.
"Do you... have any requests?" he asks her, curious as to what she'll say.
Himeko tilts her head, but shakes it after a moment. "I don't believe so. I'm interested in whatever you pick to play."
Sunday nods, and slowly begins playing a simple tune, one he and Robin had learned together in their youth. My Singing Star, it's called, and it uses enough of the keys that it could easily help familiarize a child with where each one is. It's a good way to refamiliarize himself with the notes, and eventually he's playing quickly enough that he's confident he won't mess up. Really, he never should have doubted himself in the first place. Piano playing is one of the few things Sunday has always known he was best at.
"You're very quick," Himeko comments in a hushed tone, as if afraid to speak too loudly over Sunday's music. "How long have you been playing?"
Sunday taps the keys, the wings behind his ears fluttering. "Since I was very little. I'm unsure exactly how old I was, but I could play before Mr. Wood took Robin and I under his wing, so to speak. I received a lot of teaching during that time."
"Ah, alright," Himeko hums. Sunday catches sight of her hair from the corner of his eye, shifting slightly closer but still leaving him space. "I take it Robin can play too? I recall March played us some of her albums before we jumped to Penacony, but I don't know how much of it she composed herself."
The idea that March had been a fan of Robin's even before meeting her makes Sunday smile. "She composes much of the music used in her songs herself too," he tells her, warmth seeping into his tone. "Her songs are very dear to her. She wouldn't often trust someone else to write something for her to sing over. She takes inspiration from a lot of places, though. She even once gained the inspiration for a song from a tune I played for her on my own."
"Wow, really?" Himeko says, sounding surprised. "That's amazing. Do you play on any of her songs?"
This time, when Sunday laughs, it's not quite as amused. "No, I don't. She always told me she'd love to have me on one, but we never have time for it, and now... well. I would have done it if there had been an opportunity. Unfortunately, there was always too much going on."
He tries not to think about things like that. It only hurts, especially when he's currently playing solo on a piano that looks so similar to the one he and Robin played duets on as children. Grief is familiar to Sunday, far too familiar. He knows what its hands feel like around his throat. Cold, yet gentle, most of the time. He doesn't care to give it an opportunity to squeeze. It's not as though Robin is dead. She's just far away, that's all. Sunday will see her again one day.
He finishes the song, the notes trailing off into the emptiness of the room. It's a lonely sound. Beside him, Himeko breathes, reminding him of where he is.
"It's one of those things," he says, smiling bitterly. "I'm sure you understand."
Himeko hesitates, her hands in her lap shifting against one another slowly. "I do," she returns, her voice soft. "Just one of those things... I've said that to myself many times before, in an attempt to comfort me. It doesn't make all that much sense if you think about it, does it? What even is "one of those things?" Anything, I suppose."
Sunday supposes she's right, and it is somewhat of a strange phrase. Mr. Wood used to say it often in Sunday's childhood. Why are so many people suffering? It's just one of those things.
Perhaps he'd just picked up on saying it without thinking.
"Yes," he agrees. "It is rather silly."
He picks a new song, a classic that he can tell Himeko instantly recognizes by the way she smiles. He will admit that he's maybe showing off a little at this point, enjoying Himeko's occasional praise, but he's also just fascinated with the sound he's producing. Fully tuned, Akivili's piano sounds just the same as any other would, which should have been what Sunday expected, but it wasn't. What he'd thought it would be like to play it, he doesn't know. At the end of the day, it's just a regular piano.
"I thought it would sound more fantastic," he admits, over the sound of the keys being pressed in quick succession. "Did you think so, too, and that's why you wanted to listen?"
He doesn't know what he thinks she'll say, but it's not what he gets. "No, not particularly," she tells him. Her feet shift where they're crossed at the ankle, the tip of her slippers brushing against the nearest piano leg. "I did want to see what the process of fixing it would be like, but I also just wanted to hear you play. You've been more withdrawn around me since you joined us, Sunday, and I suppose I was looking for an opportunity to become closer with you. That's how I got Dan Heng to come out of his shell after he joined, and March, too, back when she was still so confused and scared - focusing on their interests truly pulled them out into the light."
The answer stuns him, so much so that he falters on the keys. He looks at her with wide eyes, taking in her kind expression, her bare face revealing all. "You - that's really all you wanted?"
"Of course," Himeko replies, as easy as anything. "I don't like the idea of yourself being unaware of our relationship. We're allies, now, but I'd quite like to be a friend of yours, as well, and give you the space to do as you wish for as long as you like, safely, without anyone around to tell you otherwise."
Sunday slows his hands on the keys, trailing off skillfully. His heart is beating rather rapidly. Without anyone around to tell you otherwise. It's clear who she's alluding to. He wonders if she knows more about Gopher Wood than he thinks she does.
"I'd like that too," he tells her. He transitions tunes, into something slower and more relaxed. "I thought you were just as curious as I was as to whether a piano owned and played by an Aeon would be unique from any other."
"Oh, well, it would have been wonderful to hear that too if it was," Himeko says, grinning warmly. "I didn't expect it though. Although the Express does work in interesting ways that is more than likely linked to the power of the Trailblaze, I fixed almost everything else on his train entirely by myself. If an instrument that THEY had favored had been blessed with unique abilities, of all things, I would have been rather annoyed."
She's joking, of course, but now Sunday has a question. "The Aeon of Trailblaze was no longer around when you found the Express, correct?" he asks, watching her expression. "Just the Conductor?"
"No, just the Conductor," Himeko sighs. She leans forward on her knees, gazing out the window nearby. "It was here on Planarcadia that the Express found me. I have always wondered if maybe Akivili was somehow the one to have guided us together from beyond, even still. It was just all so perfect that I still can't quite believe everything worked out the way it did."
Sunday mentally notes the way she'd deliberately said that the Express had found her and not the other way around. He wants to ask about it, but he's not sure he should delve. As much as he wants to know more about his Express crewmates, he thinks outright asking about their history would be rude. The slightly wistful tone of Himeko's voice suggests something personal.
"The Express is truly an incredible piece of machinery," he tells her, and means it wholly. "I find new things all the time, even after I've spent so long here now. I truly admire you for your skills, Miss Himeko."
Then he pauses. "Himeko," he corrects, smiling bashfully. "It sounds less polite to say it that way."
"There's no need to always be perfectly polite," Himeko says nonchalantly, eyes shining in the light of the sun through the window. "We're friends now, aren't we?"
Against his will, Sunday's smile grows wider, his wings fluttering again until he forces them to stop. "That's true," he agrees. "Stelle's been referring to me as Sunny since I first stepped foot aboard the Express, however. I suspect she started doing it to bother me, but now she's simply grown used to it."
Himeko laughs, the sound beautiful against Sunday's melody. "That's very likely. Don't let her away with being an annoyance for the sake of politeness though, Sunday. She's a lot, sometimes, but she'll quit whatever she's doing if she knows it truly irritates you."
Sunday's not too sure that that's true, but he nods regardless. "It's fine, really," he says, and then laughs lightly, slightly awkward. "I've grown used to the nickname. In fact, I even sort of - enjoy having one. Don't tell Stelle I said this though, please, she'll be utterly insufferable about it if you do."
"I won't," Himeko promises, face alight with mirth. "As long as you don't be too formal with me either, alright?"
Sunday's heart flutters, in a way he didn't think he was capable of it doing anymore. "Alright," he says quietly, unable to suppress the smile on his face. "In that case... it is a pleasure to play for you, Himeko."
Himeko's expression softens, but a glint of mischief appears in her eyes. "It's a pleasure to hear you play," she teases him, "Sunny."
At that, both of them laugh, Sunday's hands slipping off the piano to leave the sound of camaraderie to fill the air instead.
"Ugh," he hears, when he enters the Party Car later the next evening. "Not again, there's no way!"
"What's wrong?" Himeko asks, tone as gentle as ever. Sunday can see her sitting a few feet away from her, a digital screen pulled up in front of her where she seems to be scrolling through a news page. "Disaster on Stelle Island again?"
Sunday pads down the stairs and peers around the bar, where both women are resting on the couches, with one far more tense than the other. Stelle's shoulders are by her ears, teeth bared in a grimace as she glares at the screen of her IPC Switch. Himeko swipes her display away, clearly intrigued by whatever is causing Stelle so much distress, and shuffles over to look over her shoulder.
"This," Stelle announces, frustration evident, "is the third time I've had to fix something like this in the last half hour!"
Whatever Stelle is so furious about is clearly hilarious, because Himeko laughs, truly laughs, covering her mouth to try and stifle it slightly too late as Stelle whips around to shoot her a withering look.
"This isn't funny," she wails, fingers white against the device. "Why can't they all just behave and stop doing this to me?"
Then she clearly spots Sunday around the corner and her demeanour instantly shifts from despair back to fury. "You," she shouts, jabbing her finger at Sunday with an accusatory flourish. "You, the source of all my problems!"
Judging by the fact that Himeko is still giggling behind her hands, Sunday should know for a fact that he doesn't have anything real to fear, but the tone still sends a shock of terror that he's done something wrong right through his chest. "What - me?" he yelps, pointing at himself as if there's anyone else around. "I'm - sorry, what have I done?"
"You're you," Stelle growls, and then she gestures towards her screen, and Sunday realizes he's misunderstood her. What she's actually just said is, your Yuu. His shoulders drop, and he sighs, the terror melting away and leaving the faint rush of adrenaline behind.
"You had me worried there," he says, and strides closer, curious. "What has the mini me done? Surely he's not causing chaos."
Himeko just shakes her head, snickering, while Stelle huffs. "Look," she says loudly, while Sunday sits on the couch beside her. "Look what you're doing!"
Sunday watches. On the screen, his miniature character (who now has a halo, courtesy of himself) trails after a woman with pinned up pink hair, wearing a black and white ruffled dress and a rather serious expression. Sunday's Yuu has hearts in his eyes, a wide smile on his face that looks rather odd on him.
"What is he doing?" Sunday asks, confused.
Himeko is the one who answers. "I believe your character is in love with Master Diviner Fu Xuan."
Sunday stares. Stelle clicks furiously on his character, bringing up a tab labeled Relationships. Underneath the name, Sunday can see the writing underneath the only somewhat familiar name Fu Xuan - Head over heels.
"I've never even meet the Master Diviner," he argues, feeling his face heat up. It's somewhat unpleasant, seeing this character that looks like him act so ridiculously towards this clearly indifferent woman. "I'm not in love with her."
"In here, you are," Stelle tells him, and jabs the screen, picking up his character by the top of his halo and shaking him. "This is the third time I've had to try and force someone out of love today! Gepard and Phainon took me so long to fix!"
"Is that why you're shaking him?" Sunday questions, listening to his character yowl faintly as he's swung around. "You're planning to give him brain damage so he stops?"
Himeko snorts, hiding her face in the palm of her hand. Stelle huffs again, exasperated. "No," she groans. "I'm doing this out of rage. It's a punishment."
The joke if he's anything like me, doing that will definitely work comes to his mind, but he thinks it's slightly too dark to say aloud, so he just sighs, palming his face to make the flush go down. "Whatever you have to do to make it stop, please do it," he tells her seriously. "I can't stand to see myself act like a lovesick idiot."
The door on the other end of the car slides open, and Sunday hears March 7th before he sees her, heels clicking against the ground and bells ringing in her hair. She's dressed in a cute red outfit, practical and well fitting, hair tied into a tiny bun. Sunday waves at her, and she grins, skipping down the steps and across the car in response to various greetings.
"I've been practicing my swordplay again," she gushes, and strikes a few poses, wobbling on one leg and gesturing with what Sunday presumes is supposed to be her sword. "Sunday, Sunday, you should come watch me sometime. I've showed off to everyone else so far, but you've never seen me do it! I'm rusty from lack of practice, I better hope we don't come across Masters Yanqing or Yunli anytime soon!"
"I'd love to watch," Sunday tells her, which is truthful, too - March's combat proficiency is incredible, especially in using a bow that's almost the size of herself, so he'd be very interested to see how she was with a sword. "I'm sure you're very good at it."
"Eh, don't have too high hopes," March grins, slightly bashful at the praise, cheeks pink. Then she turns to Stelle, peering down at her screen. "What's up with you, then? Has anything interesting happened yet? Ooh, are you watching your Yuu, Himeko?"
"Not quite," Himeko tells her, amused, and Sunday opens his mouth to defend himself, but Stelle is too quick for him to even try.
"Sunday's in love with Fu Xuan," she declares loudly, and right as she does so, the sound of Dan Heng entering the car comes from the same end that March had. He stands there, blinking at Stelle's proclamation. Sunday could die.
"In the game," he cries, solely for Dan Heng's benefit, "and it is absolutely not my fault, if anything, Stelle is the one who's playing badly enough to make this happen this way!"
Stelle screeches, Himeko and March 7th explode into laughter once more, and Dan Heng simply looks exasperated before he turns around and leaves again without another word.