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“Are you sure?” Anaxagoras asks again. “I wouldn’t wish to make your sister uncomfortable. I understand that I’m rather… eccentric and, in the words of some… fellow scholars, ‘an off-putting and deeply unsettling presence not unlike that of a big, green gadfly.’”
Sunday simply nods with a subtle upward quirk of his lips, wings gently fluttering with the dream’s midnight breeze. The Golden Hour is bustling, as always, filled with noisy and excitable crowds. However, this particular walkway is quite peaceful, with only a select few people milling about and admiring the view of the shimmering Grand Theater in the distance. “Of course Robin’s willing to meet you. She keeps telling me about how excited she is.” He pauses, lightly tilting his head like a bird. “Besides, I always knew you weren't the irrational lunatic that most see, and Robin has always been more clear-sighted than I. You’ll get along.”
Anaxagoras softly exhales, subconsciously taking Sunday’s gloved hand in his. Sunday glances down at their linked hands, face dusted with a barely noticeable pink. Anaxagoras can’t help but smirk a little at how easily his angelic bird of a boyfriend gets flustered so easily. Around them, the people pay the two no mind. How refreshing, and so unlike the Grove filled with nosy scholars with apparently nothing else to do in life other than sit back on their chairs and loudly complain without the slightest clue what they’re complaining about. Anaxagoras, of course, only complains when he understands the matter at hand; in other words, he also complains very often.
His thoughts drift back to the man in front of him when he feels the soft brush of a gloved thumb against his own bare hand. “Then, only if you’re sure,” Anaxagoras finally says to the gently stirring night.
Sunday abruptly stops walking, turning back to face Anaxagoras. His gold earrings briefly catch in the light, sparkling like a nighttime star, or perhaps a spark of sunlight; at the same time, the Grand Theater’s luminance gives Sunday’s hair a silver glow against his gold halo. The Halovian really is beautiful like this, his soft, angelic beauty highlighted by the colorful city lights.
And perhaps it is true that Anaxagoras does not believe in all-seeing, full-heartedly benevolent gods or angels. The cold, vast Aeons are proof that there is no god who truly loves humankind the way mortals desire to be loved. After all, what is “love”? Every human soul is flawed, and from this dark, irreparable fracture of the soul (“isolation”, though it has many names), a seed finds its roots and blossoms into a radiant, undying flower; the “love” embedded in a human soul. Gods, of course, are inherently free of all flaws, so “love” cannot find its roots.
Yet here stands Sunday, the angel with shattered wings, whose sin was his ascension to the cold heavens; one could compare him to Icarus, the man who reached too far for the sun’s warmth, only to fall in burning disgrace. But, Anaxagoras would argue, Icarus flew towards the sun for himself. There is no shame in doing so; if given the chance, Anaxagoras would have done the same, if only to defy the curse set upon the Amphorean skies. And perhaps he had, sometime in one of his 33,550,337 lifetimes. But when Sunday reached for that forbidden warmth, the forbidden light, it was never for himself to hold; he dreamt of warmth to scatter across wintry plains and light that burns away the shadows.
But what then is warmth if there was never cold? And light without dark? What is an everlasting night, an evershining day? Wherein is the joy of life without the sorrow of death?
All these questions Anaxagoras could answer simply: Humankind could never perceive it, for we would live in indefinite stagnation!
Looking into Sunday’s honey-golden eyes, Anaxagoras knows that Sunday never dreamed of stagnation, but simply of love and stability, an unfractured peace-
“–you good?”
“Hm?” Anaxagoras blinks, jolted out of his ponderings. He imagines his face is probably flushed. “Ah, sorry about that. What did you say…?”
Sunday chuckles. “You’re only asking about Robin so I can praise you, aren’t you?”
Anaxagoras blinks in surprise before throwing his head back with a short laugh. “Of course! Of course.” He sighs, shaking his head with a smile and tilting his head towards Sunday’s. The Halovian’s eyes briefly widen in surprise. “You know me too well,” Anaxagoras says with a mock-sigh.
Sunday smiles, taking back Anaxagoras’ hand and walking again. “See? I’ve parsed all your tricks already.”
“All my tricks? That’s a rather bold statement, dear Sunday. A true performer’s tricks are never a fixed assortment. My tricks are ever-changing and always spontaneous.” He tilts his head with amusement. “If I don’t change up my act every once in a while, how would I ever entertain any audience?”
“And each trick, too, must be from the heart, yes?”
“Naturally.” He turns to face Sunday. “I’ll always be thankful that you are a performer like me. We have a kind of tacit understanding that’s rare to find. And of course, you’ve always been so gentle to the world around you… yet another rare trait.”
Sunday quickly nods and not-so-subtly turns away, folding pale wings over what’s definitely a spreading blush. He tightens his hold on Anaxagoras’ hand, as if gripping his hand could distract Anaxagoras from Sunday’s embarrassment. How entertaining it is to scramble Sunday’s organized mind with just a few genuine words.
“Perhaps…” Sunday starts, headwings quivering slightly with embarrassment. “You- Perhaps, ah…?”
Anaxagoras merely laughs and pats Sunday’s shoulder, after which they walk in silence for a few minutes, Sunday slowly unfolding his headwings as they walk.
As they do, Anaxagoras can’t help but take notice of the warped buildings that line the horizon. They twist and turn, sinking in and out of sight. Light sparkles from the distant windows, dotting the night like the twinkling stars above. The Grand Theater hangs low in the sky, bathing the dream in a gentle blue light.
While Anaxagoras was distracted, Sunday had led him towards an older looking building, tucked away from the glamor of the advanced city. It looks pleasant enough, with warm, dim light spilling from the windows. Underneath each window, pink cosmos flowers bloom with delicate petals, emitting a soft glow. The building looks cozy and inviting, but oddly enough, there’s no door in sight.
Anaxagoras turns to face Sunday. “I suppose this is Robin’s place?”
“Mhm,” Sunday nods. “It is.”
Anaxagoras can’t help but notice the warm pride in Sunday’s voice, nor the twinge of bittersweet nostalgia. Distantly, Anaxagoras thinks of Diotima’s smile. She’s somewhere in Penacony as well, wandering the streets with some of their other friends.
“It’s nice,” Anaxagoras remarks. “Very quaint, like a cottage nestled in this city.”
“I’m glad you think so, too,” Sunday replies with a small smile.
He then steps forward, placing a gloved hand over the unmoving wall. He shuts his eyes, murmuring something under his breath. It’s low, spoken with gentleness but too quiet for Anaxagoras to discern any of the words.
Nothing happens.
“Hm,” Sunday frowns, opening his eyes and pulling his hand away from the wall. “That’s odd…” The Halovian shakes his head with a sigh as his headwings fold inward.
“What’s wrong?” Anaxagoras asks.
“The dream isn’t responding to me…” Sunday contemplatively taps his chin. After a brief moment, he perks up. “Ah, got it.”
He turns to Anaxagoras with a curious look in his eyes. “I believe it’s because of you,” Sunday finally says, clasping Anaxagoras’ hands in his. “Here, you have to do it, too.”
“Me…?” Anaxagoras blinks.
Sunday lets out a short laugh. “Yes, you. Your presence is still too unfamiliar to the dream. Despite the fact that I’m here, it’s difficult for the memoria to allow us in.”
“Can’t we just call your sister?” Anaxagoras scowls. “This all seems rather unnecessary if she can just let us in.”
A hint of something flashes across Sunday’s expression, reinforced by the twitch of his wings. It’s too brief for Anaxagoras to tell what it is. “That… that won’t work. Here, I’ll explain once we get inside.”
Anaxagoras sighs and because he loves Sunday too much to complain, he simply says, “Alright. Just tell me what I need to do.”
Sunday hums in satisfaction and briefly releases Anaxagoras’ hands to stand behind him. He takes Anaxagoras’ hands once again and raises them to touch the wall. Placing his chin on Anaxagoras’ shoulder, he softly murmurs in his ear, “Just relax.”
Anaxagoras hums distractedly as his mind wanders off to how nice it feels with Sunday so close to him. His feather light hair tickles Anaxagoras’ face, and with Sunday almost plastered on his back, Anaxagoras is tempted to lean against him. Last time he did that though, Sunday nearly fell over. It’s an incident Anaxagoras finds great enjoyment in bringing up, not that he’s in a place to judge.
“Just breathe,” Sunday murmurs. “I’m helping you resonate with the dream.”
Anaxagoras feels an odd kind of pulsing warmth in his chest, unfamiliar but not unwelcome. He decides to focus on his breathing, letting himself inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale…
After a brief moment, he feels the wall shifting beneath his hand. The material seems to shift outwards, away from his palm, and in its wake stands a pleasant, periwinkle blue door.
He removes his hand from the door, and at the same time, Sunday steps back from Anaxagoras. He briefly mourns the loss of Sunday’s weight against his. “There,” Sunday nods, gesturing at the door. “We should be good now.”
“… Robin is your sister. Wouldn’t it be more appropriate for you to knock?”
Sunday tilts his head with an amused smile. “Hm, I suppose I’ve teased you enough today. Yes, I can knock if you so wish.”
“Huh?” Anaxagoras blinks, still processing the first part of what Sunday said. “What do you…?”
The brief flutter of Sunday’s headwings is the only indication that he’s heard Anaxagoras’ question as he gently knocks at the door. After a brief moment, the door is opened by a young Halovian lady.
Of course, Anaxagoras has seen Robin countless times, featured on billboards, posters, advertisements, and whatnot. He’s watched her music videos and interviews, as well as the streams of her concerts. Yet seeing her here, casually dressed like any other local wandering the streets and with her hair carelessly tossed over her shoulder, is almost… amusing.
“Brother?” Robin gasps. She immediately throws her arms around his shoulders. “Oh my gosh! It’s been so long!”
She steps away and turns her cerulean gaze to Anaxagoras. “You must be Mr. Anaxagoras?” she says, tilting her head. Anaxagoras is struck by the way her pleasant expression and neat wings resemble a polite pigeon.
“Yes,” Anaxagoras confirms. “And you, Ms. Robin?”
“That’s me,” Robin nods. “There’s no need to be nervous. You can forget Penacony’s Sweetheart, the cosmic songstress… I’m just Robin.” She smiles with what must be practiced ease. It’s the same smile he’s seen countless times on all those posters and billboards, but seeing it in-person makes Anaxagoras realize that there’s no trace of the fabricated mask adorned with shards of the cold spotlight and the shimmering diamonds of the ever-shining cameras; the crowd’s cheers that might have echoed with every turn of her head are silent. Robin’s “stage smile,” so to speak, holds a kind of unusual warmth, the comfort of morning sunlight gently filtering through the greenery overhead to land in water-like golden ripples, the kind that feels as if the light itself is gently holding you. It’s a rarity, a bit reminiscent of his student Hyacine, or even Diotima.
Robin steps aside and gestures for Anaxagoras and Sunday to enter her home. Now inside, Anaxagoras can appreciate the wood furnishings and the lovely potted plants throughout the room. The pastel hues of flowery pinks and blues framed with the fern green leaves brighten the dark wood furniture, and the combination reminds Anaxagoras of the Twilight Courtyard’s decor. It seems that Robin shares much in common with Hyacine; however, Anaxagoras knows better than to jump to conclusions in this way. It’d be just as unfair to treat her as a Halovian version of Hyacine as it would be to treat her like a flawless, shiny statue.
“Here,” Robin gestures to a quaint dining table. In the center, there’s a plate of fresh pudding tarts. “Please, sit down.”
Once everyone is settled, Robin turns to Sunday. “Well, how’ve you been? Anything fun with the Astral Express?”
Sunday takes a pudding tart from the center of the table and takes a bite. “Of course. The Express was docked at Belobog for quite some time, and I personally found Belobogian culture fascinating. That civilization faced relentless ice and snow for centuries, and you can see the Preservation’s will throughout the city. Even when it comes to daily matters, the people’s persistence shines like an everlasting flame.” Sunday pauses, tone softening. “I think you’d be quite fond of the Belobogian people. Don’t you have a concert there soon?”
“In about a month,” Robin agrees. “I’m so excited to have the chance to meet them! I’ve also heard that prehistoric Belobogian music is quite renowned. If I have the chance to, I’d love to attend a concert. Brother, did you and Mr. Anaxagoras get to see any concerts?”
“Ah…” Sunday pauses, headwings sheepishly folding in on his face. Anaxagoras can’t help but smile at his embarrassment. The Halovian probably doesn’t even notice, and… it’s sweet to see how much Sunday cares about his sister. “I’d wanted to wait for you so we could all attend it together.”
“I see…” Robin lets out a soft laugh. “Don’t feel bad! I’d love to see one with you two.” She then turns to Anaxagoras. “Apologies, Mr. Anaxagoras. I didn’t mean to exclude you from our conversation. How have you been?” She smiles at him like he’s an old friend.
“I’ve been well,” Anaxagoras replies respectfully. “Before we continue this conversation, Ms. Robin, I must make a few rules clear. Rule number one–” Out of the corner of his eye, he notices Sunday failing to suppress a smile– “Do not call me Anaxa. Rule number two: Never interrupt me. Silence is golden.”
He watches Robin’s reaction carefully. Most people he introduces his rules to would scoff at his “disgusting pride” or would mock his “ridiculously pointless” rules. Robin merely smiles as she eats a pudding tart, her amused look strongly resembling Sunday’s. In fact, looking at them next to each other, their family resemblance is stronger than ever. After a moment, she says, “I see. Thank you for telling me, Mr. Anaxagoras.”
To Anaxagoras’ surprise, Robin continues speaking. “Seeing as I am a singer, this may surprise you, but I also believe that silence is one of our greatest treasures. If there was never silence, the sweetness of music would fade into dullness. People don’t constantly need to be talking or singing or making noise because silence… is its own kind of music.” She smiles apologetically, and her wings briefly flutter. “I understand that’s probably not what you meant, but I couldn’t resist sharing my own thoughts.”
Anaxagoras blinks in mild surprise. He’d always known Robin to be one of the more thoughtful superstars, and he’s often seen her talk about her perspectives on interviews and whatnot. Still, it’s different to see her speak about her views in person, here around a simple dining table with just her, Sunday, and himself.
“Don’t apologize,” Anaxagoras says. “You’re far more thoughtful than most of the scholars I’ve encountered. What we interpret as ‘silence’ is the sound of our own minds thinking and reflecting. Of course, people can think out loud as well. I’ve had a number of students who preferred puzzling out questions by speaking to themselves or to others rather than silently thinking. However, when a person won’t stop making mindless noise, they are but a stubborn fool.”
“I think I understand what you mean. We speak when we have something to say, but when we have nothing to say, or nothing to say yet, it’s best to listen to those around us and observe. After all, speaking is naturally accompanied by listening, just as a bird’s singing is learnt and refined by listening to the birdsong around it.”
Anaxagoras smiles at her analogy. Sunday was right; Anaxagoras actually likes Robin so far. A rare occurrence. Perhaps there’s something about the nature of Halovians? It’d be an interesting idea to test sometime, especially since there’s a relatively high concentration of Halovians in Penacony. Sunday mentioned the owner of one of the local bars, Siobhan, is also a Halovian and a close family friend of theirs. Anaxagoras wonders if he’ll ever meet her someday. “Your passion for music is evident through your thought process,” Anaxagoras finally replies. “I approve.”
A soft chuckle comes from beside him. “I didn’t know Robin was your student,” Sunday says. His golden eyes soften as his gaze drifts between the two of them, a relaxed smile on his face. Something about Sunday’s kindness makes Anaxagoras’ ache in some strange way… How different this Sunday is from the Sunday whom Anaxagoras had met all those months ago, the one afraid to even dare to be human and leave his role as a distant god.
“I do not know if ‘student’ would be the correct term,” Anaxagoras replies. “Robin is far wiser than most. I have nothing left to teach her.” He pauses, debating his next words. “You remind me of my teaching assistant, Hyacine. She’s quite the optimistic and determined lady, much like yourself. Back in Amphoreus, she was a renowned healer who brought joy to every one of her patients, and she also had endless patience for fools.”
Robin smiles at his last remark. “I’ve heard about Ms. Hyacine from the stories of the Astral Express. She sounds like a lovely person. I can’t wait to meet her.”
“She is,” Sunday nods. “She’s kind, bubbly, and energetic. She also has a… pet named ‘Little Ica.’ They’re a chubby little pegasus who serves as a therapy animal. You’d be fond of them, too.”
“If we brought Little Ica to Penacony, they’d eat the food out of all the shops…” Anaxagoras grumbles under his breath. “Good thing they’re staying with those Trailblazers for now.”
Robin widens her eyes in amusement and quietly laughs, headwings fluttering. “Do they… have that much of an appetite?”
Beside her, Sunday merely smiles. “I’m not sure that could happen. After all, the memoria of the dream should be able to sustain a constant supply of food.”
Suddenly, something comes to Anaxagoras’ mind. “Wait–” he blurts out– “What was it with the door earlier today? You said something about the dream being sensitive to outsiders, but why do I doubt that now… ?”
Robin looks between the two of them. “But the dream isn’t…” Her brows furrow, but Anaxagoras can already see the lighthearted glint in her eye. “Brother, did you… ?”
To Anaxagoras’ surprise, Sunday actually laughs. He’s only seen the Halovian do that on a few rare occasions. “I was messing with him.” Turning to Anaxagoras, he clasps his hands in his own and gently says, “There was no issue with opening the door… I just wanted to see you squirm.”
“Sunday–!” Anaxagoras yelps, feeling his face heat up in embarrassment. How did he fall for that silly trick? Anaxagoras summons his most offended tone. “So you tricked me?”
A pink flush comes over Sunday’s face, and his wings almost immediately fold inward to cover it. “It was funny…” he murmurs, avoiding Anaxagoras’ gaze. “Your reaction I mean…”
“No, it’s not that. It’s just… I never knew you could be this mischievous,” Anaxagoras replies. He grins, internally laughing at Sunday’s flushed face. “You should do it more often.”
“I… apologize if I’m ruining the moment, but…” Robin gives Anaxagoras a cheerful smile. “I quite approve of you! For my brother, I mean.”
“Heh…” Anaxagoras smiles back at her. “I’m glad to have your approval.”
“I am… also glad,” Sunday murmurs. He’s removed his wings from his face now, seemingly recovered from his embarrassment. What a shame… He looks cute when embarrassed.
For about another hour, after they’ve finished all the pudding tarts (Anaxagoras found he took quite a liking to them), they chat about random matters, from music to research developments to Sunday’s baby photos (he looked pretty flustered at that, which isn’t unexpected. As much as Anaxagoras adores his boyfriend, Sunday’s baby photos are unfathomably ugly) and everything in between.
After sometime, they end up on the couch somehow, the radio broadcasting some mindless noise, something about the upcoming movie sponsored by SoulGlad.
As Anaxagoras listens to Robin talk about her childhood adventures stealing snacks for Sunday and herself, he thinks more of Diotima. Unlike Sunday and Robin who are twins, Diotima is quite a few years older than Anaxagoras. Maybe he didn’t realize at the time, but thinking back, she worked so hard to take care of him and herself despite being just a teenager. Diotima never said anything about it to Anaxagoras, but he’s certain that she wished for a simple, care-free childhood free of so many responsibilities.
He rests his head on Sunday’s shoulder and imagines her somewhere in the heart of Golden Hour, window-shopping and enjoying the life she never had to the fullest.
“… and I still pay visits to those children whenever I stop by Lushaka,” Robin finishes, sipping her tea. Her gaze drifts between Anaxagoras and Sunday, and she smiles warmly. “I’m sorry, I must’ve bored you two with my stories.”
“Not at all,” Sunday replies, gently placing a gloved hand on Anaxagoras’s shoulder. “I love hearing about your travels, though I know it’s been a while since I’ve gone to one of your concerts…” Sunday sighs, and though Anaxagoras can’t see his expression, he imagines it’s something melancholic. “I’ll definitely go see you perform in Belobog.”
Sunday looks down at Anaxagoras. “Comfortable?”
Anaxagoras lets out a tsk and sits upright. “Don’t flatter yourself. I was merely… reflecting.” He looks between Sunday and Robin and back at Sunday. “You already know this, but you and Robin are fortunate to have each other. I can tell she definitely makes you happier.”
Sunday’s eyes widen a fraction. “I– I’m sorry about–”
About Diotima, Anaxagoras hears.
“It’s not about that,” Anaxagoras smiles, flicking Sunday’s forehead. “Diotima’s here, now.”
“I see…” Sunday nods. Beside him, Robin lets out an amused chuckle.
“You know, brother, the more I hear Anaxagoras talk the more I like him,” Robin smiles.
“Oh? It’s usually the other way around,” Anaxagoras notes.
Robin laughs. “Alright, alright. I see. Well, speaking of Ms. Diotima, we should probably meet up with her and the others, shouldn’t we? We wouldn’t want to keep them waiting for too long.”
Sunday nods. “You’re right.”
A few minutes later, the three of them are outside, bantering about dromases like they’re children again without a care in the world.
Maybe in a world without Irontomb, where he’s simply born a real human outside of a program written for Destruction, more of his days would look like this.
And when, across the street, he sees Hyacine along with Phainon, Mydei, Castorice, and Polyxia all accompanied by Diotima, he can’t help the smile and carefree wave he gives them.
Penacony, Land of the Dreams. A fitting name, because perhaps this, a life he never had, was a dream of his. The only difference is that despite being bathed in a sea of memoria, Anaxagoras cannot deny that everything that matters is real.