Chapter Text
"—and after all that, we had to ban glitter for good on the Express. It took us ages to get it all."
Welt wasn’t looking at him as he wrapped up the story, focused on climbing the stairs towards the Parlor Car, but Sunday nodded to his back anyway. Who knew asking about the list posted near the bar would prompt such a response about crafts-turned-war? A storied history indeed, these Nameless. "Are all the Express’ rules laid out so clearly?"
"Ha, nothing so formal." Having reached the landing, Welt glanced over his shoulder, crinkles around his eyes. "I think the conductor was just frustrated when they wrote that, the kids are usually good about cleaning up after themselves."
Sunday preferred clear-cut guidelines without ambiguity, a means to tailor his behavior, but he supposed that was one more aspect of accompanying the Trailblaze to adjust to. The door slid open with a quiet hiss as they approached. He eyed the seal connecting the cars, their only protection. It would be so easy for them to break it and drop him into open space. Welt stepped through and Sunday followed obediently.
"Well, so concludes our tour." Welt waved a hand as if to show off the Parlor Car they’d returned to once more, pausing on the other side to allow Sunday into the room. "I think I covered everything you need to know for now. Any more questions?"
Sunday folded his hands politely in front and mustered a thankful smile. All he needed to know—was that a warning against poking deeper? Generally speaking, Welt had given a good overview of the Express’s amenities and the functions of its primary cars, but there were a host of questions Sunday had stocked up during their walk.
He’d keep the rest under his tongue for now. "No, you were very thorough, Mr. Yang. Thank you for taking the time to show me around."
Welt looked as if he had more to say, but he only sighed. The way he studied Sunday prickled uneasily over his skin. It was the same searching gaze that had fixated on him throughout their tour, the pensive weight on his back from his "trial" in Penacony.
It felt… strange, speaking with this man absent of that pressure to prove himself. Not an adversary any longer, but it didn’t seem right to treat him as a simple ally of convenience, either, and Sunday had spent so long mired in politics that he felt wrong-footed otherwise. He’d shown himself trustworthy enough to board; where did that leave them?
Instead of giving any physical reaction, Sunday looked over the railing to take in the Parlor Car from a new vantage point. It hadn’t truly sunken in yet, he didn’t think, where he was and what all he’d left behind, but the elegant trimmings and whale-lights were familiar enough even if the underlying sense of warmth wasn’t. Soft music drifted over from the phonograph as Himeko and Dan Heng chatted quietly below. Where had the other three disappeared to?
"I’m sorry we don’t have a room ready for you right now," Welt offered, sounding genuinely troubled. Sunday turned to find him frowning.
"No need to worry. This was meant to be a vacation for you all, it’s no surprise you weren’t expecting to take on any guests. You’ve been more than gracious enough to me already."
"Frankly, it’s embarrassing that we don’t have any spares for guests when we get so many visitors, and the cars exist even if they're jumbled up right now. We’ll figure something else out soon, I know sleeping on those couches would kill my back."
A joke? Sunday chuckled, stiff to his own ears. "I’m sure I can make do. I’m only temporary here, after all, so there’s no need to trouble yourselves further on my behalf."
"Ah, it's no more trouble than we should be taking on anyway."
Again with the prickling against his awareness. Conversation below had ceased, he realized; Sunday glanced down again and tensed at the pair of eyes fixed on him. Himeko called up to them over the engine’s perpetual hum. "The conductor says dinner will be ready soon, if you’d like to join us?"
Sunday looked to Welt, unsure, only to be waved on with a smile. Relaxed, genuine. "I suppose it would be rude of me to refuse."
Inexplicably Welt’s smile softened. "You could go back to the Party Car if you’d like some quiet time, I know today’s been a lot for you. If you get hungry later, you’re welcome to anything unclaimed in the kitchen."
He didn’t want that. He'd hardly eaten in captivity and not at all since Jade's visit had brought him freedom, and surely it was alright if they were directly inviting him? "I’ll join you, if it’s not too much trouble."
"Not at all." Welt brightened and extended a hand towards the stairs down. It never failed to ease something in Sunday’s chest to see someone pleased by a decision he’d made. "Lead the way, then."
When they walked into the kitchen it was buzzing. Sunday hadn't gotten a good look at the room during their tour, given Pom-Pom had been in the middle of prepping dinner, the counters equally scattered in used tools not yet cleared away. The conductor stood on a stool by the sink, working through a stack of dishes. A hearty, savory smell filled the room.
Himeko and Dan Heng had gone ahead, settling into their places around the center table with familiar ease, what had been empty earlier now host to a large pot of brown chunky liquid and an array of smaller bowls. Six bowls. Welt walked past him to the empty seat beside Himeko, leaving the one between him and Stelle. He turned to wave Sunday closer. It shouldn't have felt so much like stepping willingly into a trap when Sunday had attended far less peaceful dinners in the past.
A handle stuck out of the pot; Himeko used it to serve herself a portion then offered it to Dan Heng. It seemed March and Stelle had already done so, with Stelle busy shoving spoonfuls in her mouth while March leaned in close, having set a hand on Dan Heng's shoulder when he settled in at her other side as if she were seeking support. "You're really telling me I was worried we had rats all that time while you were just—"
She glanced up, and Sunday felt caught out when their eyes met across the table. March faltered. "Um- you were… They were catcakes? Running around?"
Stelle muttered something about babysitting, to which Dan Heng scoffed. Sunday tore his gaze away and inspected the bowl and cutlery set out for him, but he could still feel March's eyes on him as he took his seat. When she didn't respond Stelle lifted her head; from the corner of his vision he saw her follow March's line of sight, only to huff and return to her meal, clearly dismissing him.
A silver handle poked into view, Welt offering him a turn with the ladle. "Here, feel free to take as much as you want."
"Pom-Pom wasn't sure what passenger Sunday would like," the conductor called over their shoulder, oblivious to the tension setting his teeth on edge. "We picked up some recipes to try, but it's just stew today."
A test of restraint? Sunday took the ladle and nodded gratefully before serving himself a small portion, less than half filling his bowl. He stared down at the chunks of various vegetables a moment. Welt had turned to discuss the train's supplies with Himeko, Dan Heng and March gone quiet while the latter picked at her food. Stelle picked up her bowl and slurped at the thick broth to Dan Heng's half-hearted admonishment. He gave Sunday a wary glance and fell silent once more.
They were hesitating around him. Watching him, even if he kept his own focus glued to his meal. It tasted ashen when he worked up the nerve.
The politician in him wanted to speak up, take charge and control both the flow of conversation and others' perceptions of him, but he'd grown so weary of such performances. These people wouldn't appreciate it, either. At the very least he knew how to force down a polite enough portion under watch, controlling his pace to disguise any hunger or nerves, though the people around him were more cautious than predatory this time.
"What'd you think?" Welt asked once he'd scooped up the last of the broth. Sunday would have much preferred something lighter, not that he'd ever say such a thing.
"Ah, it was wonderful. My thanks to the conductor." Sunday stood and pushed in his chair, his stomach clenching around the meal like an ungrateful wretch. He picked up his dishes in lieu of digging nails into his palms. "Should I wash these in the sink?"
"Oh, here, let Pom-Pom take care of that!" Pom-Pom hopped down from their stool and shuffled towards him, already reaching for his bowl. They'd thrown on a little apron with pink stitched hearts. "Passenger Sunday should relax for his first night onboard!"
It was only out of politeness. Sunday should insist. But Himeko and Welt were smiling at him, Dan Heng openly staring now, and he needed to escape. Retreat into solitude. He handed over his dishes with a murmured thanks and all but bolted. Before the door shut behind him he heard voices raise, chatter sparking between March and Stelle without his dampening presence. Guilt hounded him on his way back to the Party Car.
Their robot called out a greeting as Sunday entered, then returned to rearranging bottles on the shelf, a chorus of gently clinking glass. Sunday paused at the top of the stairs, feeling lost. The room felt emptier than before. Reds and browns and golds, elegant detailing, plush booths good for hosting guests—it reminded him of the Reverie Hotel except down-tuned, lacking the grandiosity meant to draw in visitors. There was an everpresent thrumming beneath his feet, whatever energy powered the train, paired with a faint hum from the lights overhead.
This car was draped in warm colors, not the mix he’d long been used to, with greenery kept close and cared for rather than being relegated to an occasional ornament. Similar, but so different that it left him jittery. It was all meant to be friendly, inviting, a home away from home, but a place had never felt less fitting.
Sunday took a deep breath and headed down the stairs to tuck himself into the first booth. It would be best to sit and remain unobtrusive. He flipped through his book and forced himself still otherwise, checking how many pages were left to fill, but eventually he realized he wasn’t even taking in any of the words. More of his focus was stuck on determining the pitch of various bottles as they made contact, trying to tease out a melody.
He let the book fall shut and returned it to his side. There was a tremor in his hands, he realized, slight as it may have been. Pathetic as it was. Deep breath. Turn away untoward thoughts, deny their looping.
No lookouts and no control of the space. Perhaps looking around would calm his instincts instead. His fingers sank into the cushioning as he shuffled out—softer than the Reverie’s—and he took his first loop of the room. Again he took in little, eyes skipping over details, but on the second he slowed his pace.
A pleasant area, truly. Curves and guiding lines, the light easy on the eyes. He ignored the darkness yawning behind grand windows and continued pacing, familiarizing himself. Surely it was alright to examine the space they’d allowed him in if he refrained from touching their things? Even if the cutesy miniature outfits reminded him of Robin’s childhood dolls, and the piano…
He paused beside it. Pale and sleek, a well-maintained polish that almost seemed to trap the starlight from the window right beside. He couldn't help but be curious if they kept it in tune.
The most tempting item throughout the train, albeit one he hadn't been given permission to inspect. It had been years since he’d played, since becoming a family head at least, but no matter how rusty he’d gotten his fingers itched to pull back the cover over its keys.
"Are you planning to play me a song?" A cheerful robotic voice from behind; Sunday jumped and spun around. Shush leaned around the corner, but judging by the sound hadn’t stopped messing with the bottles. "They just moved that back in here. Welt plays sometimes, but let me tell you, reading off some sheet music isn’t enough to win this tin heart!"
"Ah… Not today. Apologies." Welt played? Welt came in here and played piano? Would Sunday’s presence keep him from something he enjoyed? He’d managed to calm his heart, but its flutters renewed now, banging against the bars of his ribcage.
"Hmm, well, you know what they say—" A crash. Shattering glass. Sunday flinched, wings instinctively hiding his reaction. Even if the only witness was a simplistic robot. Idiot. "—uh, oops?"
Sunday jerked his head in a nod and scurried off to the booth furthest from the Parlor Car door. There he plopped onto the seat and allowed himself to bury his face in his hands a moment, carefully slowing the breaths warm against his palms as Shush muttered to itself. The tinkle of glass swept into a pan and set aside.
What was he doing? What he was he doing here? It wasn't even a matter of comfort zone, he didn't fit. He'd be lucky if they didn't kick him off at the first stop. They'd invited him to learn about the Path that had speared through his ideals, but they gained nothing from his being there.
However long he was lost in thought, the light around him eventually gave out. Jarred, Sunday lifted his face to find the car's lighting gone gentle, even Shush noticeably quieter. Right, Welt had mentioned an auto-dimming feature at their agreed-upon bedtime. Sunday hadn’t commented when asked if it should be changed. His time in the dream had warped his body’s sense of time, after all. Hopefully he’d be able to get some sleep tonight anyway.
Welt had also mentioned that he and Himeko typically met up at the same time each day, though the others’ waking times and thus breakfast varied. It was offered structure all the same.
Sunday curled up on the booth, tucking up his legs in hopes of being out of view from the doorway. He stared out at the stars. Somewhere out there, on some planet no more than a mote of dust from here, he might find what he was looking for. He couldn’t help but wonder if his sun had come close to rivaling any of the specks out there, glitter against the galaxy’s canvas.
The sound of Shush humming over the scratch of cloth. A sensation of eyes that he tried his best to ignore even as his skin prickled. Circling thoughts of Penacony, his family, his role; he refocused on the feel of his chest expanding with each breath anytime his thoughts strayed and locked his eyelids tight.
…
Except sleep wouldn't come. He fidgeted in place, trying to find comfort, but no matter how many times he stopped his squirming and performed breathing exercises he remained wide awake. Trying for peace brought every triviality into hyperfocus, from the itch of his wings to the ache in his wrists.
What he wouldn't give for The Family's resources right then. He'd struggled to sleep since his mother died, his only reprieve frustratingly evasive until he'd gained the abandon of the Dreamscape, and now the sudden absence of aids left him with a body unable to compensate. Being out in the open didn't help.
Another trial to overcome? He'd struggled with restlessness during his school days and when fresh in his position, each time with a plethora of work or studies left to occupy his mind. Maybe work could again be his salvation tonight.
He sat up, intent on giving into the urge to tidy up a little as he’d abstained from earlier, only to grimace when he realized his ear feathers had left dust on the booth. Smears over the cushions from his tossing, more than usual. The powder down had built up over days without being able to properly bathe, especially without access to any products that would minimize the issue. When he looked down he could see pale flecks on the floor, even a few tiny tufts of feather he must’ve pulled out while scratching—filth he'd tracked onto their train like a slug.
He needed to vacuum immediately. If he were lucky, he'd get to it all before anyone noticed. But the late hour—he should sweep instead, shouldn't he, even if that risked missing particles or spreading them where he couldn't see? What if they found out he hadn't been thorough in picking up after himself? That they'd let in a dirty cretin who couldn't even respect the space they so graciously gave up to him.
He'd clean, and he'd find some way to clean himself. A water source to wet the down and clear off the worst of the powder lest it continue raining from him, even if he really should be combing it properly into the feathers, and then he would rinse his hands thrice over to ensure no grime remained.
A birdbath in the sink- He was no better than an animal, all filth and instinct and feral nature-
A sprite shot past his face. Brighter than the lamps, a pinpoint guiding light drifting along and twirling like it was beckoning him. He locked his burning eyes on it and followed. Another woke with a flash and kept a step ahead, illuminating his way. Was it worried he'd trip? They'd been more active since Ena's Dream collapsed, more helpful.
They ferried him to the nearest bathroom. He half-expected them to disappear, duty complete, but they flittered anxiously around his shoulders instead. No matter. He turned the faucet to the lowest—quietest—setting and at the last second remembered to remove his gloves. The cabin air was cool against his skin, the water colder. A ripple of gooseflesh up his arms. It was easy to slip into muscle memory, brushing over his ear fathers and passing his fingers under the stream when they ran dry.
But it was also wrong. His routine missing steps. He hadn't brought any of his personal affects, only what he could wear. It had been days since he'd been truly clean and would be longer still.
Once sufficiently damp, he carded his fingers through, brought his feathers back into line. He hadn't preened during his imprisonment. Had that been visible to the others, how he couldn't take care of himself much less an entire planet? What must they think of him?
He'd avoided the mirror above the sink, but he chanced a look at it now. At first glance he didn't seem as bad as he'd feared, but the longer he inspected himself the more details he could pick out: pale and rumpled compared to how he'd shown himself in the Dreamscape, sallow after his confinement. Shadows under his eyes that look worse in the lowlight. At least the shackles hadn't left marks, although perhaps the crew would have been gratified to see them.
They were kind people, he reminded himself, they didn't want to watch him suffer. It did nothing to shake a lifetime spent looking over his shoulder.
A tickle at his collar. One of the sprites had tucked into his scarf, curled against his neck. Sunday tucked a hand over it and glanced around for the other; it hovered by a cabinet off to one side, pulling in vain at the handle. He kept an eye on it as he washed his hands until they felt clean enough to reclaim his gloves. When he opened the cabinet door he found stacks of towels, varied colors and textures filling the shelves. The sprite darted for a set of smaller rags.
Sunday bit his lip. It felt like a crime, taking their things without their go-ahead. But what else could he use? Water should be enough for the worst of his mess. He could ask after their sanitary practices in the morning, should have done so earlier.
He pulled out two rags, dampened one, and hurried back to his chosen booth to wipe down what he could. The empty car felt lonelier at night, his steps louder.
The powder came off easily. Visually, at least. He scrubbed anyway. Usually cleaning would help center himself, but it did nothing to calm the painful pound of his heart. Maybe they’d have to toss the pillows. That’d be just like him, a ruinous touch. Once he'd patted everything dry he scooped up the fluff on the floor and wrapped it in the dirtier rag to cart off, standing to leave.
Only to stop short. There was a dark figure at the other end of the bar leaning on the counter, haloed by the lamplight. For a second he mistook the presence, then he registered the elegantly draped fabric, the colorful glint at her collar. The upward curve under shaded eyes.
"And here I thought the little bird had quieted down for the night," Black Swan said, melodic in a way that carried effortlessly across the room.
He didn't want to be anywhere near Black Swan. He steeled himself and approached anyway. "I apologize if I've disturbed you."
She didn't attempt subtlety, looking him head to toe and sticking briefly at his chest. Had he spilled water on himself? Always with that smile, that enigmatic gleam, and unlike the one he'd worn as a family head it reached her eyes, turned them sly. Like she'd already drawn her answers, cat that got the canary.
Sunday hated it, wanted to tear his secrets back out of her grasp and remain unknown. Not that he would. Not here.
"You seem disturbed yourself," Black Swan said, smooth as silk. "I could help relieve you of that burden, if you'd like?"
These pathstriders never could help themselves, could they? All in service of some absent Aeon.
"I don't need your help, Memokeeper," he snapped, colder than he had any right to be. She'd been instrumental in breaking his illusion, and she'd been polite thus far—she might've even been genuine, not after his memories of The Family as so many others. A slow, careful, controlled exhale. "I appreciate the offer, but I'm quite alright. I'll take my leave so you can get some rest."
His stomach growled, so sharp it startled him stiff. Black Swan half-hid a smile behind her hand; he couldn't tell if he'd flushed but his face felt warm, and he gave into the urge to cover his cheeks with his wings just in case.
"Sounds like someone's due to visit the kitchens," Black Swan said. He resented the held-back laugh lurking in the words, how the conversation had slipped out of his hands.
"…I wouldn't want to steal their food."
She raised an eyebrow, some of the amusement falling away, though her gaze was no less patronizing for it. "Do you really think they'd invite you here just to let you starve?"
He'd deserve it. But Welt had mentioned that he could, and dinner had been unfulfilling. "I suppose you're right. I'll… be going, then."
Black Swan gave him a little wave, a ripple through her fingers, with a look as if he were a child sneaking around after hours. Shoving down a spark of annoyance, Sunday inclined his head and walked past her. "Oh, little bird?"
Sunday stopped but didn't bother to turn his head. "Yes?" he bit out through clenched teeth.
"Take advantage of this opportunity," Black Swan said, suddenly serious. "Your sister paid dearly for it."
Sunday whirled, but the carriage was empty once more aside from Shush's quiet tune. He stared into the barren space for a moment. Robin's deal… Jade hadn't explained it to him, but he knew Robin was stuck on Penacony for the time being, trying to fix the mess he'd left behind. Thrust into a position she'd never wanted with their home in tatters. All those years he'd spent keeping Penacony out of the IPC's stranglehold, mediating Family disputes, fielding criticism from the other heads and interstellar visitors…
He shook his head and resettled his feathers. There was no point thinking about it now, and he didn't need reminded. He'd pay his own price when the time came.
On his way he stopped back into the bathroom and shook disgusting feather litter into the small bin under the sink. He rinsed both rags, but without knowing where they kept laundry for proper washing he opted to keep them on his person as he headed for the kitchen.
There was a crunching sound the second he stepped inside. A voice, humming. Sunday froze as the door slid shut behind him. The noises didn't pause, whether they heard him enter or not, but when he swept his gaze around the room he didn't spot anyone. Someone huddled amid the counters? Should he keep to himself, stay out of the business of whoever this was?
A quiet curse and the sound of something clattering to the floor, and his curiosity won out. Drawing closer, he could make out more of that hum, mischievous and pleased, falling up and down in a nonsensical melody. He knew who it belonged to before he rounded the counters.
Stelle sat in a cross-legged heap on the floor, hunched over her lap with her face lit by a flickering phone screen. There was a box of… cereal? propped against one leg, and Sunday watched as she reached bare-handed inside and pulled out a handful to shove into her mouth, crumbs raining everywhere amid loud crunching.
Grubby, unwashed hands double-dipping. His would have been smacked at the first attempt. "Miss Stelle?"
Her shriek was muffled by her mouthful. Small mercies, even if it meant an eruption of half-chewed debris. She spasmed, knees jerking up, and flung her phone; it skittered across the floor towards him, close enough to make out a muted Clockie cartoon.
"Shit! Sunday! Why're you—" Stelle coughed into her sleeve, and when she blinked up at him she jolted backwards in a double-take. "Woah, hey, your eyes!"
He wasn't sure what she meant, but doubted it compared to the gentle glow of her own, a deeper power leaking through the cracks. "I apologize for startling you."
"Just don’t sneak up on me when I have my bat out." She mimed a swing so hard it nearly toppled her over. "What’re you doing up, anyway? Couldn’t sleep either?"
"Something like that." Sunday stared at the box beside her. He couldn’t make out the wording, but there was some sort of large-beaked bird on the front, and she’d scattered multicolored pieces. A sweet treat. "You were hungry, I presume? Why sit on the floor instead of taking snacks with you? Or eating at the table?"
"Well, then it wouldn’t have felt as sneaky! Which means it wouldn’t have been as tasty."
It reminded him of when he'd been encouraged to eat fewer sweets as a child. One day Gopher Wood had been gifted a tray of baked goods coated in colorful adornments; knowing his father wouldn't eat them, Sunday had snuck down in the night and stolen a few. He'd tucked behind the counters just like Stelle, and no matter how many times he'd swept the floor he'd feared missing a crumb that would give him away. He hadn't been caught, but guilt had gnawed at him until he’d confessed the next day.
Not that it mattered. Surely the proof had been plain on his face anyway.
"Sunny? You good?"
He blinked back to himself. He'd zoned out staring at Stelle's cereal, apparently, and the mess scattered further when she shuffled forward onto her knees. She was staring at him in turn, an unsure furrow in her brow. Wait, had she— "'Sunny'?"
His wings fluttered around his face, and Stelle relaxed as her eyes tracked the movement. "Yeah! Everyone on the Express needs a nickname or two or ten."
"I suppose you'd know something about that," he acknowledged. The 'Galactic Baseballer' thumped a fist on her chest and threw up a peace sign with a cheeky grin, and Sunday got the sense that she'd given herself the lion's share of her own names. "Hold on, everyone? Even—"
He cut off the line of curiosity, but Stelle was like a bloodhound for teasing material. "Ohh, which one? Cold Dragon Young? Grampy Welt?"
Welt seemed mature, granted, but surely not old enough for that dichotomy. "Is this not disrespectful?"
Stelle hunched over to prop her chin in one hand. "You mean the lizard or the old man? ‘Cos Dan Heng just sighs, and Welt’s like a hundred years old or something, he doesn’t care. Come sit! I’ll fill you in."
A peace offering. Sunday should take it, ingratiate himself a little, but he couldn't help looking to the dirty floor and imagining all the particles latching onto his clothes. Stelle lunged, the box tipping over and spitting out a few flakes on its way down. She whipped her hands across the floor in a hurry, sweeping away both the evidence and any dirt or dust that had been there beforehand; bits scattered towards the fridge and under the lip of cabinets, until she'd cleared a spot to present with (dirty) jazz hands.
Sunday felt… rather ill, actually. Still, he moved closer and gingerly lowered into a crouch, then folded a leg under himself with a grimace. How did the crew do laundry? Would he have to wash his clothes in the sink, too? Speaking of washing, he still had a tight grip on those rags. He offered the cleaner one to Stelle. "Here, I rinsed this out a moment ago."
"You’re such a lifesaver." Stelle took the rag with a grateful sigh. Sunday turned his gaze to avoid seeing however she attempted cleanliness, and landed on her flickering phone screen. He leaned over to grab it and resettled into a proper straight-backed kneel.
He proffered it, too. "Is there a reason you chose a Penaconian cartoon to keep you company?"
Stelle made a little sound in the back of her throat; Sunday watched Clockie spin in a spirited dance while she wiped her hands on her pants and righted the cereal box. "Guess I was just feeling nostalgic," she said. "I dunno when I’ll see that guy again, so it’s kinda like saying bye."
"When you’ll see… Clockie?"
She took back her phone and locked the screen, banishing Clockie along with whatever product he was singing an advertisement for. "Oh, yeah, it was a whole thing. He taught me how to manipulate emotions. Kinda like your Tuning, I guess, except I could only do it in the Dreamscape."
Sunday stared at her. "You mean to say that you met him? And he taught you Tuning?"
"Well, the him that I met was an entity made up by the Watchmaker, you wouldn’t be able to see him. Not Tuning, either, it's called Clockwork. Completely different." She looked over at him and took on a defensive tone. "I promise I’m not crazy."
"I didn't say you were. Stranger has happened within the Dreamscape." Sunday leaned back against the counter, cool against his shoulders. After the initial shock, he supposed it wasn’t too far-fetched, at least not where the Nameless were concerned. More importantly… "Do you not have a kitchen to yourself?"
Welt had mentioned it offhand in the Party Car, having pointed out the spiral stairs leading to a poster-slathered door. A room above where he’d settled in. He hadn’t fallen asleep, and he’d crept out himself—he hadn’t noticed her sneak past. Had she ever gone up in the first place?
"Uh, yeah, and it's the best room ever! Just…" Stelle huffed and crossed her arms. Her phone dangled precariously in one hand, pout on her face and a note of disquiet in her voice. "It's too much sometimes, y'know?"
This was more familiar. Sunday settled his hands in his lap and spoke soft and cajoling. "What do you mean by that?"
"I mean—" Stelle waved her arms, and Sunday eyed her grip in anticipation of her launching her phone his way again. "It's nice! Of course it's nice! I've got my own pantry, and a gaming setup, even my own bath. They gave me a bunch of awards and stuff, too! You've gotta check it out sometime, it's sick." She slumped and fiddled with the flaps of her box, the corners already frayed. "Sometimes I want something a little simpler, y'know? I'm just Stelle."
The weight of expectations, huh? He did know that one. "If this helps remind you of that, I'm sure the others wouldn't mind. They appreciate Stelle for being Stelle."
"For being Stelle, huh?" There was a discordance in her voice, but before he could decide whether to pluck it out for discussion she broke into a smile, a small one that nonetheless lit every corner of her face. "Did they tell you I used to sleep in a box?"
"A box?"
"Yep! One of a hundred. Had to evict some old cords first, but it's not like we need twenty more power strips anyway." Her eyes unfocused in recall, and she let out a wistful little laugh. "My bed's so much better. It's funny, I don't even know why I'm thinking about it now, but if March hadn't thrown it out I'd be tempted."
Sometimes he too grew nostalgic for his mother's nest, laying on blankets padded by soft down as he listened to her song and held Robin tight. He couldn't remember the sound, anymore, only that it had been beautiful. "Would you prefer to sleep in a more enclosed space?"
Stelle blinked back to reality. "Is that a joke about me dumpster diving? Who knew you had it in you, Sunny?" She leaned in to jostle his shoulder with her own, and Sunday felt his face tighten at the intrusion before he pried it back open. "Hey, you're a good listener, you know that? Have you been practicing?"
A deflection; he’d allow her that privacy. "I'm sure you're aware of my time as Bronze Melodia. After taking up my- former position, I arranged meetings to continue listening to the complaints of Penaconians, as well. There is value in making sure that someone feels heard."
Stelle hummed and tilted her head. "Is that why you're out here? Worrying about what'll happen now that the responsibility isn't yours anymore?"
Once again he found himself struck by her perception. She'd had her serious moments, back when she'd pondered his questions and when she'd stood against him, but her stare hadn't felt half as piercing then. He had to look away.
Especially because she was right. He'd rarely departed his homeworld since his arrival, only a handful of short-lived trips to check up on Robin, always with the Dreammaster there to ensure a watchful eye in his absence. Now, his beloved home would be subject to The Family's whims and the circling vultures of the IPC. What would that mean for the average person?
He didn't have the right to worry about it anymore. "That would be accurate. Most of my life has been spent trying to ensure prosperity for Penacony, whether or not I ended up successful. I only hope it will flourish in my absence."
"You're out here to get some new experiences, right?" When he dragged his gaze up from his lap she was smiling again. Effortless faith. "Someday you'll go back with all kindsa ideas for making it better. But you're stuck with us now! No use worrying about it when you're galaxies away, right?"
She seemed… innocent. Sympathetic despite their history. Open, not in the faux way of one gauging another, but genuine and almost trusting—that urge to connect all Nameless seemed to share. How could she trust him, invite him in, when he was the reason she'd just had to don that responsibility again? He might even be the reason she'd decided to raid the kitchen for stress relief.
But he'd underestimated her once. She'd been through too much to arrogantly call her demeanor naivety, and it was precisely that Nameless strength of will he sought to understand. "I do hope to learn from you all. Based on the stories I've heard, you'll be interesting teachers."
"I've got so many stories, just you wait. No, actually, how about I show you some now? The online world is its own experience if you think about it." There was a glint in her eyes that left Sunday wary, but he had no reason to deny her.
"If you'd like."
"Yesss." Stelle shuffled closer and leaned in, pressing their entire upper arms together that time. Overwhelming, intrusive as before, but as he adjusted to the sensation, he found that it… wasn't bad. She lifted a knee and propped her phone where they could both see. "Okay, so the first thing you need to know is people chop these up to fit the music, and sometimes it sucks but other times they make me look so cool—"
Just what had he gotten himself into?