Chapter Text
There's something about practicing violin again that is unexpectedly exhausting.
The next three days go like this: Sunday wakes at 6:45AM on the dot. Gets dressed and performs his morning ablutions just in time to take his now customary seat beside an extremely groggy Welt at 7:30. He allots himself one hour for the morning meal, most of which is split between nibbling at his breakfast (tea with a splash of milk, a small bowl of berries, and two thick triangles of toast topped with avocado, flaky sea salt, and a poached egg, eaten with a fork to keep himself tidy) and listening to the usual morning chatter. Wait another hour for Stelle to get herself ready for the day—this is more than fine, as it's not until after three cups of coffee (half-caff only, light roast, three sweet creamers each) that Welt wakes up enough to have a conversation.
The rest of the day alternates between hour-and-a-half practice sessions and breaks to do chores and help the rest of the crew with their secret party planning (he ends up wrapping everyone's presents for them after seeing Stelle just stick hers in a garbage bag). Stop for food twice more before one last hour of practice. End the day with two hours to decompress (Welt is teaching him a game called Wei Qi), then a warm soak and massage for his hands before finally crawling into his bed at 10:30PM. Rinse and repeat.
The only regret he has with the routine is that it means less time to spend with Welt, particularly in the wee hours of the morning. As much as Sunday's enjoying sleeping the night through, it does make him feel a little guilty, especially knowing how little the other sleeps.
Which is why, when Sunday wakes at 1:47AM the night before the party, he wanders off to the Party Car instead of rolling over and going back to sleep like he desperately wants to. Or, at least, he starts to. As he walks past Welt's cabin door he hears... something. It's soft, barely a whisper—it could be anything, really. Maybe he's talking in his sleep, or watching a cartoon, or even listening to an audiobook. There's nothing terribly suspicious about it. But the feeling of wrongness in the air makes his halo flicker, makes the hollow bones of his wings ache.
Halovians are sensitive to stray emotions in their environment. Sunday has always been particularly skilled at blocking them—it was a necessity for his work as Bronze Melodia—and even now that he's left Penacony, he keeps his guard up. He has enough trouble dealing with his own emotions; allowing unfiltered notice of everyone else's emotions is far too overwhelming to his senses. But with most of the passengers asleep, it's safe enough to lower those shields.
He immediately regrets it.
Emotions have flavors as they age. What spills out around him now is an ancient kind of grief, soured and choking, that rolls through the aether in waves; it's bitter with self-hatred beneath, like spoiled wine so old that it's turned to vinegar. Sunday slams his walls back up a split-second later. Tears pinprick at the corners of his eyes.
He's felt this from Welt before, in tiny little flashes. In the moments he talks about his son, or the world he came from. But his control over his emotions has to be even greater that Sunday's, to be able to hide a tsunami of pain like that.
Sunday brushes the nascent tears away and straightens up, hand raised to knock on his door.
Before he can do so, however, the gravity holding it in place melts away. The door slides back partway, just enough to allow Sunday to slip through. It's nearly pitch-black inside, the only light coming from the starts in the window and the faint lights along the outside of the Express... and the faint glow of Welt's eyes, barely visible from the far corner. Sunday hesitates as the glow focuses on him for a moment. “You can come in,” Welt says in a voice that's far too quiet.
Sunday does, padding over in bare feet to stand awkwardly at the foot of his bed. It takes his eyes a bit to adjust to the darkness, but the sight that greets him when they do makes his heart clench. He's never seen Welt like this before: he's curled up in the corner on his bed in his pajamas, back pressed against the wall and arms hugging his knees to his chest like a child. He looks small in a way Sunday's never seen before. “... mind if I join you?” he asks.
The question earns him a tiny nod. The bed is cold under his knees when he climbs up on it; Sunday pushes the pillows out of the way so he can sit beside Welt, leaving a scant few centimeters between them. This close, and without his glasses hiding it, he can see the bags shadowed under those honey eyes, how the weight of exhaustion pulls against his body until it trembles. After a second, Welt tilts his head towards him. “What's wrong?” he rasps. “Are you okay?”
Of course his first thought is to Sunday's well-being and not his own. Of course. Sunday's heart aches as he shakes his head. “I'm fine. I should be the one asking you that instead, I think,” he replies, turning his body towards him. “Can't sleep?”
The only answer he gives is in how he curls just a tiny bit tighter into the corner. “Are you hurting anywhere?” Sunday presses. “Or... was it a nightmare?”
Welt breathes out what might be a laugh, were it not for how tiny and despairing the sound is. “I wish it were that simple.”
“Do you... want to talk about it?”
He glances at Sunday out of the corner of his eye. His lips part in shock—why would he be surprised at the offer?—before he slumps further, crossing his arms atop his knees and resting his chin on them. “No,” he says. “Yes. I don't know.”
“It helped me to talk about it.” Sunday hesitates before brushing Welt's bangs out of his face with the backs of his fingers. He leans into the gesture, his eyes fluttering closed at the touch. “It could help you too. I'm willing to listen.”
“...I don't want to trouble you.”
“You won't be.”
“And you don't have to—I don't want you to feel obligated.”
“I know. And I don't.”
“I....” Taking a deep breath, he chews on his lower lip for a moment before sighing. “...you're certain?”
“I am.” Sunday pushes back his bangs again, this time letting his knuckles linger along his high cheekbone. “There's nothing you can say that will make me see you any differently, you know.”
The way Welt startles at that proves his suspicions right. He shudders, the glow of his eyes flickering, before he looks away again. “Do you know what day today is?”
What an odd question. For a split-second he wonders if he figured out about the party and is angry with them, but—no. He might not like celebrating himself, but he wouldn't be angry—or grieving—over something that small. Right? “Octem 14th. Unless you mean the IPC calendar?” he asks after some consideration. “I think it's the 5th of Jade on that.”
“My home world has a similar calendar to that of Akivili's,” Welt says. Every time he blinks, he casts little lights and shadows against the photographs strung along the wall. His gaze seems fixated on one in particular—an old black-and-white picture of a laughing light-haired man wearing glasses, standing next to a puzzled-looking dark-haired man in a scarf. “It's got quite a few differences, but not so much that I can't make calculations. I made the mistake of trying to figure out when my birthday would fall this year and....” He swallows. “And I—it's....”
Sunday can see the muscles in Welt's jaw ripple as he struggles to find the words. “So it's your birthday, then?” he gently prods.
“...no. That won't be for another few weeks. On my home calendar, it's November 24th.” Welt's eyes grow liquid in the darkness, the faint glow filtered through tears Sunday knows he will not shed. “It's... an anniversary. One I wish I could forget.”
Even without lowering his emotional shields again, Sunday can feel it—the agony such a memory brings. It's evident in the unshed tears and uneven breaths and the tremor of his voice; it's in how he keeps trying to make himself smaller, the way a young child might hide from the monsters under their bed. Welt tenses when Sunday places a hand on his shoulder, not relaxing even as he rubs small circles against him with his thumb. “I'm sorry.”
Welt shakes his head. “It's been eighty years,” he murmurs. “I should be over this.”
Sunday has lived with trauma untreated for just under nineteen years now, since he was nine and the stellaron disaster put him in the hands of a monster. That is heavy enough; he can't even begin to imagine the weight of holding trauma for eight decades. “If I've leaned anything, it's that pain doesn't really care how long it's been. You know that as well as I do.” His halo flickers—he doesn't think he'll ever be comfortable discussing his own trauma, even in such an oblique way—but then Welt nods and the relief that brings makes it glow just a bit brighter, a soft light to help dispel some of the darkness.
Beside him, he takes a deep breath. Another. Sunday waits him out, content to just listen, even if to the silences. Welt closes his eyes with the last breath and when he opens them again, the light inside is completely gone, irises blacked out in the shadows. “...he murdered them,” he whispers. “Dad. My hero. All I could do was watch.” His voice trembles. “He killed them and it's all my fault.”
There's something achingly young in his voice when he says it. It reminds Sunday of the night when he'd talked about his abuse at the hands of his guardian; Welt had sounded the same, then, when confessing that he too understood that kind of betrayal. Sunday bites his lower lip. There's something there unsaid, something he's not seeing—but at the same time, what he is seeing paints an ugly picture all on its own. “I don't understand,” he says, as gently as he can manage. “How could it be your fault if someone else killed them?”
“I shouldn't have been there,” he manages. His fingers dig into his biceps, the nails cutting white crescents into the skin beneath. “I escaped—he told me what he'd do if—I just wanted—” Something dark wells up along the edges of his nails as he rakes them viciously down his arms. The words start to pour from him, stuttered and frightened and halting as if his mind is going so fast his voice can't keep up. “Mr. Welt was my hero. He protected me, he gave me everything and I got him killed! He gave me his name—he saved my life and—and Dad! Oh God, Dad. If I wasn't—such a stupid child! Dad wouldn't have—he wouldn't have—he warned me, if I had just kept quiet—”
Welt chokes violently on the words. No tears spill from his eyes; and yet his shoulders begin to shake and his breath keeps hitching with terrified, noiseless little sobs that catch and tear at his lungs despite how he tries to suppress it. Somehow it's even worse to see him like this, desperately trying to hide away the shame and overwhelming grief, than it would be to see him actually break down. “It should have been me,” he whispers in between choked breaths, so quietly Sunday can barely catch it. “God, I wish it'd been me.”
Something deep within Sunday's heart shatters to see the depths of his self-loathing put so nakedly on display. The concept of survivor's guilt is something he's familiar with. He hadn't suffered much from it, not with him and Robin being so young when their mother died; but it wasn't horribly uncommon in his time as Bronze Melodia to have someone come in to confessional, wracked with misplaced guilt over the death of another and desperate to be punished for surviving. Empty platitudes and coercion towards the Order was the only answer he had to give back then. He'd never even tried to understand where they were coming from, thought their pain to be performative in nature. But this is now, and he understands it: the rush to find someone to blame; the desperation to take control. The need to hurt because it's the only way to control the guilt and the shame.
The guilt clings thick to Welt like quicksand, thick enough that it penetrates even Sunday's mental shielding, and Sunday doesn't have any rope to guide him out. He has no answers—there are no answers, sometimes, to tragedy. Welt is the one who showed him that. All he can do is reach out a hand. Even if he sinks deeper, Sunday will willingly drown with him.
It's a pale mimicry of what was done for him, but it's a start; Sunday pries his hands off his biceps before he can hurt himself further, then kneels directly in front of Welt and places both hands on his shoulders to sooth the trembling. “Welt, look at me. Please?”
He hesitates before lifting his head just a fraction. It's so timid, so childlike a gesture, that it hurts to meet his eyes. “I'm so glad it wasn't you,” Sunday breathes. He runs a hand over his cheek, tilting his head up a little more. “I am. And I'd bet anything they were too.”
One tear, glistening in the light of Sunday's halo, slips down Welt's hollow cheeks. A second one follows. Welt buries his face back into his knees, rocking himself, his shoulders heaving as he chokes back the tears and the silent cries that so desperately want to break free. It brings tears to Sunday's own eyes to see him like this, mired in self-hatred over something he couldn't control and refusing to let himself grieve for it. Refusing to show himself the same grace he shows others. It's not fair. It's not fair and Sunday doesn't know how to change that.
“You can't know that,” Welt forces out once he can manage to speak without audibly crying. One hand clutches his thin sleep shirt, right over the center of his chest. “And—they'll never tell me.”
Sunday rests his cheek atop the crown of Welt's head and lets his own tears slip one-by-one down his cheeks. “No. They won't,” he says. He wishes the dead could speak, wishes that his father and his revered Mr. Welt could assuage his guilt. But it's been eighty years, long enough that any echoes of them would have long faded. Pulling him in, Sunday gently encourages him to unwind just enough to rest his forehead against his shoulder. He then drapes his arms around Welt's shoulders in a loose hug, a protective cage against the darkness around them. “They can't. But I will. I'm so glad you're here.”
The tension bleeds out of Welt in increments as he sits with him. Eventually, after sitting so still that it makes Sunday's shoulders ache, the tension falls away and leaves him nearly boneless in its wake. His arms finally collapse to his sides, exposing the long, bloody scratches he had dug into his arms in his grief. They're not terribly serious, but a few of them are still oozing crimson; the white half-moons of his fingernails are stained red at the edges. “You're bleeding,” Sunday breathes. He starts to pull away, mild panic threading under his skin at the sight. “Wait here, I'll get—”
Welt grabs onto Sunday's wrist like a lifeline. “Don't—don't leave me,” he begs, desperation edging his voice. His empty eyes are bloodshot with the tears he refuses to let fall. “Please. Don't leave.”
His heart aches at the quiet pleading. “Of course,” Sunday murmurs. “Of course.” He shuffles until Welt can comfortably curl up into him, then wraps his arms back around him to hold him close. “As long as you need. I'll be right here.”
He presses his face into side of Sunday's chest, waiting until encouraged to wrap his arms around Sunday's slim waist in return. One last little sob escapes his lips before he forces himself quiet again. They sit in the embrace for an hour, then two, the digital clock on the nightstand counting down shuddering breaths and murmured reassurances until the exhaustion finally, mercifully, drags Welt into a restless sleep.
Sunday waits to make sure he's deep in before he slips off the bed in search of a first aid kit. Welt somehow doesn't wake when his wounds are cleaned with soap and water and stinging antiseptic; he barely even twitches when he inexpertly winds gauze over the worst of the scratches. Caring for him like this gives him time to think.
How old was he when this happened? Sunday's thoughts rage about his mind in desperate spirals. What was his original name, if the name Welt was a gift? Who was it that murdered the people he loved? What did he mean by escaped, by keeping quiet? Why did it still terrify him so much?
Who let him suffer with this guilt for eighty godsdamned years?
And—when did he figure the dates out? How long has he been pretending everything's fine? How much sooner would Sunday have discovered this if he'd kept to his insomniac schedule?
He can hear Welt in the back of his mind, scolding him that it's not his fault. It doesn't help. Not when his failure to help is spread so broadly about him. No, Welt would blame himself instead, for the moral failing of being merely human. “You're such a hypocrite,” he whispers to the sleeping man as he sits back on the bed. Gentle repositioning coaxes him into laying beside him instead of crossways, with his head in Sunday's lap. A little sigh escapes Welt as he unconsciously nuzzles in, the glow of his eyes flickering back to life behind long lashes for a split-second before he closes them again. Another sigh, and his breathing finally, finally evens out, slow and deep and steady.
Sunday leans over just enough to press his lips against Welt's cheek. “But I love you anyway,” he murmurs against his skin. “Sleep well.”
There's no answer as he, too, lets himself drift off.
Stelle and March are returning from breakfast when Sunday finally shuffles his way out of Welt's cabin that morning. Their eyes go wide at the sight of him—exhausted, disheveled, and still in his pajamas—and he gets maybe two seconds to realize he should be embarrassed before March gasps. “You didn't!”
Sunday slaps a palm right over her mouth. “I swear to all the Aeons,” he growls, “if any of you wake him up, I will end your existence.”
The threat just makes Stelle grin. “Daddy needs a nap after you rocked his world, huh?”
That implication brings a violent flush to his face—but it also pisses him right the fuck off. He's too tired to pretend he's not, because how dare she. “This isn't funny, Stelle!” he snaps, keeping his voice low. “You—”
“Kids, leave him alone,” Himeko scolds from behind them. She looks from Stelle to March to Sunday as they turn towards her, her eyes lingering on the latter. Her lips purse into a thin line; she reaches out and runs her thumb over Sunday's cheek and the dried tear tracks on it. “Did you have a bad night?” she asks gently.
Sunday shakes his head, his headwings fluttering about his cheeks. “Not me,” he says with another glance at Welt's cabin door.
“Wait....” March's hands go to her lips as the words sink in. “Is Mr. Yang okay?”
Himeko's expression turns dark for a moment. “I'll take care of this, March. You two go get Dan Heng and stay in the Party Car for a bit. I don't want anyone to disturb Welt right now. Sunday, come with me.”
Stelle just looks confused and a little put out as March grabs her sleeve. “But—”
“I'll explain later,” March hushes her. She mouths Sorry about that at Sunday as they pass. “C'mon, we need to go.”
Sunday watches them exit before following Himeko down to the Parlor Car. “How bad is it?” she asks as soon as the door between the cars closes. “I need at least a general idea of what we're dealing with.”
He fidgets with the ends of his sleeves. “Bad,” he says. “Really bad.”
“Dammit. Okay.” She rubs a hand over her face. “Do I need to call a doctor?”
“It's not—like that.” It feels a bit like a betrayal to discuss it. At the same time, though, Sunday's intelligent enough to know that this is not something he can hide or fix. “Something... triggered some bad memories for him. It kept him awake most of the night.” He hesitates, guilt lowering his voice when he adds, “He hurt himself. I don't think he meant to, but—”
Himeko inhales sharply at that. “He's only done that once before.” She balls her fists up at her side. “Did he mention someone named Void Archives?”
“I don't think so?” He's never seen Himeko with as much vitriol on her face as she has when spitting out that name. “Not by name, anyway. Who are they? What did they do?”
“Besides being a rat bastard?” she grumbles under her breath. “He's—it's complicated. I'll let Welt explain. Just... don't ask him about the Archives until he's back to normal. It triggers unpleasant memories for him, sometimes. It's why I asked.”
Well, that makes it sound like this Void Archives is some kind of abusive ex-boyfriend. Sunday makes a face at the thought. “Maybe later,” he agrees. He nibbles at his lower lip for a moment. “The Express doesn't have a therapist on call by any chance, does it?”
That makes her chuckle, though it does nothing to erase the worry in her expression. “No, but that makes me wonder if we should.” She looks out over the empty Parlor Car. “Everyone who travels with us on the Express has their demons. We do our best not to pry, but we also do our best to help each other out. The problem is admitting enough to allow for that help. Welt would rather pretend that he's perfectly fine even when he very clearly is not.”
He nods, her words bitter to his ears. “I've noticed,” he deadpans.
“But he'll talk to you.” Himeko gives him a tired little smile. “It's part of why I'm so glad you're traveling with us. You're not a child he feels that he needs to protect, and you're not someone he feels he owes something to. You can get through to him in a way we can't.” She ruffles his hair a little, her smile turning wry. “And you care enough about him that I don't have to worry about you taking advantage of the fact. I've said it once, but it bears repeating: you're good for him.”
It doesn't need repeating, but he's glad to hear it anyway. It helps assuage the worry of not doing enough to help. “I suppose we'll need to postpone the party until he's feeling better,” Himeko sighs. “The kids'll be disappointed, but I'm sure they'll understand.”
“I think that's the worst thing we could do right now. We just... need to make a few changes.” The memory of Welt curled up in front of him, his voice shaking in repressed sobs as he'd confessed his guilt over surviving when his father and hero had not, won't stop haunting him. Neither will the memory of how he'd only broken into actual tears after Sunday had told him that he was glad he'd survived. Maybe, just maybe, he'd needed someone to tell him that.
Who better to reinforce that fact than the family he's surrounded himself with?
Himeko raises an eyebrow. “Oh? Care to elaborate?”
“We should all talk about it.” He looks down at himself, unshowered and still in pajamas, before his wings snap up to hide his blush. “But, uh... let me make myself decent first.”
Welt doesn't emerge from his cabin for lunch. He barely answers whenever anyone knocks on his door, offering only vague comments about an important art commission and how he's not hungry, really, he just needs to focus. The same happens at dinner time: he's doing just fine, thanks for asking, now please go away.
As Sunday is the only one who seems to be successful at calling out his bullshit, he's unsurprised when the rest of the crew elects him to drag the man out of his cabin.
There's a sense of deja vu in standing back out in front of his cabin door. Just like earlier, the gravity flickers away before he can touch the door; Sunday slips inside without any fuss. The room is empty, unchanged but for fresh linens on the bed. The bathroom door is open, though, and he quietly treads over to peek inside.
It's blatantly obvious that Welt's still upset. He stands in front of the bathroom mirror, unshaven and hair mussed, dressed haphazardly in a wrinkled blue button-down with the sleeves rolled up high and threadbare black denim. The garbage is full of bloody gauze at his feet; he examines the raw pink scratches on his biceps with the eye of someone long used to patching themselves up. His eyes are still bloodshot, the glow in them faint and flickering. As he watches, Welt prods at where the scabbing is the thickest only for it to start sluggishly oozing blood again. “You shouldn't do that,” Sunday says as he steps inside.
Welt flinches, hard. His eyes flash crimson, tiny crackling black holes dancing about him before erasing themselves from existence an instant later. “Sunday? How did you get in here?” he rasps.
“You didn't let me in?” Sunday gives him time to move away, if he wants. When he doesn't, he grabs an alcohol wipe, dabbing the blood and loose scabbing away before taping down a bit of gauze over it. Fortunately, it looks like that's the only spot in danger of reopening. “Your gravity let go before I could knock.”
“I must have done it subconsciously.” A tired sigh escapes through his quavering, forced smile before he lets the facade drop. He looks away again, folding his sleeves back down to hide the scratches. “I owe you an apology for last night, Sunday. And my thanks. I shouldn't have put you in that situation.”
“And if I may be perfectly blunt, Mr. Yang, you don't owe me shit.” Sunday lets himself bask in the tiny laugh the swear startles out of him. “I've told you before, I don't want you to sit alone with things like that. You've done the same for me.”
Welt looks at the floor, the hint of a smile tugging reluctantly at his lips. “And I always will.” He finally looks up, the furrow of his brow relaxing a bit under his messy hair. It's unfair how attractive he is when so unkempt, all wavy hair and a pleasing amount of scruff framing his strong jaw, shirt buttoned wrong and exposing the top swell of firm pectorals under. “But I'm fine now. So, what can I do for you?”
The lights suddenly sputter and go out, leaving the room in utter darkness before the red emergency lights flicker begin to buzz. Ah, just in time. “What the—”
“Passengers, please enter the Parlor Car for an emergency meeting,” Pom-Pom's voice echoes over the intercom. “Repeat, all passengers to the Parlor Car for an emergency meeting!”
“Goddamnit,” Welt swears, his cane flickering into existence under his hands. He looks to Sunday, the red lights painting his steely expression into something otherworldly. “Let me go out first. I want to make sure it's safe before you follow. Where are the others?”
Since when did Sunday find overprotectiveness to be hot? Since now, apparently. “Everyone was cleaning up the Buffet Car when I left.”
The emergency lights flicker again before going completely out, leaving a painfully loud buzz in their wake. The only light now is Sunday's halo and Welt's fiercely-glowing eyes, barely enough to prevent them from stumbling and falling as they make it away from the passenger cabins and down the stairs into the Parlor Car. “Something's not right,” Welt breathes as they hit the bottom of the stairwell. He reaches out for Sunday's hand. “I—”
Sunday leans over, his breath tickling the hair along Welt's nape. “Surprise,” he whispers.
“Surprise!”
The lights blaze back on. Welt flinches back, eyes wide in panic and cane sparking in his hands. Sunday can see the moment comprehensions dawns on him: two bundles of big, colorful balloons; a small fold-out table spread with crudites and charcuterie and a bottle of champagne; another little table holding a small opera cake drizzled in chocolate curls, surrounded by tidily wrapped presents. Above it all a messily painted banner hangs, the word FAMILY barely legible under the stars and hearts and crudely-drawn cartoon figures drawn on it. And in front... the Astral Express crew, their expressions varying from amused (Stelle) to excited (March) to worried (Dan Heng and Himeko).
His cane dissolves into violet sparks as he stares. “What... is all this?” Welt asks breathlessly, looking from one to another. Sunday's stomach lurches at the confusion in his voice. “Why...?”
“Well, it started as a birthday party,” Himeko teases as she wanders over, “but I think celebrating family is an even better idea, don't you?” To her credit, she doesn't let her eyes linger on his bloodshot expression, but instead leans up to press a fond kiss to his cheek. “You don't need a birthday to be worth celebrating, Welt. We just don't want you to forget how much we all love you.”
“But,” he stammers, clearly overwhelmed by the lights and sound and surprise, “but I haven't—“
“Nope! No buts! Time for a group hug!” March barrels into him, nearly bowling him over in her enthusiasm. Barely a second later, Stelle tackles them both; Himeko laughs as he staggers, an arm around his shoulders. Dan Heng walks up behind them, a private smile on his face as he leans against Welt's unoccupied side. Even Pom-Pom gets in on it by latching on to his leg with his stubby arms. “C'mon, Sunday, you too! Get in here!”
Sunday laughs as they pull him in. It's so very warm as they squish him into the haphazard pile, made all the more so when Welt lets himself collapse into it, clinging to them like a man drowning. His breath hitches; Sunday can see the moment it all breaks through, the wonder and marvel of being loved so well. “I love you all too,” he manages, his voice thick with emotion. “Thank you.”
“You're not going to start crying, are you, old man?” Stelle teases.
He laughs unsteadily. “I just might.”
“Oh shit.” She peels back in panic. “It's all Sunny's fault! It was his idea!”
Sunday squawks in indignation, his cheeks blazing red. “Why are you throwing me under the bus?! This was a group decision!”
“Nope, I agree with Stelle,” March proclaims as she digs out a handkerchief. “Blame Sunday!”
Welt's shoulders start shaking with quiet laughter. “Dan Heng, help me out,” Sunday pleads. “We did this as a group, right?”
The traitor just raises an eyebrow. “As I recall, you were the one making the arguments for this,” he says.
“Don't look at me,” Himeko adds before he can turn to her. “I'm perfectly fine with blaming you too.”
Sunday groans in frustration, his wings snapping over his eyes. “I hate all of you,” he proclaims.
“It's not a bad thing,” Welt laughs. He touches foreheads with him for a brief moment, enough for Sunday to see through his feathers the barest hints of moisture starting to swell. “Thank you,” he whispers for Sunday's ears only, before standing back up. “Now, as I forgot to eat lunch—”
“And dinner!” Pom-Pom scolds.
“—apologies, and dinner. I'm going to have a snack.”
And then it devolves into chaos. Food is gotten, cake is split—skipping the candles and singing, much to Welt's obvious relief—and everyone eventually settles enough to eat. Sunday finds himself sat besides Welt as the younger crew members begin to re-enact the chaos of the previous night's online gaming session, Himeko and Pom-Pom interrupting sporadically to remind them not to talk with their mouths full. “And then Silver Wolf's character just up and died, like boom! Headshot!” Stelle throws her head back, grinning. “She got so pissed I beat her that she hacked my next two matches. Mr. Yang, you've gotta help me set up better firewalls sometime.”
“I'll see what I can do,” he chuckles. Sunday whaps his hand as he tries to steal a chunk of his cake. “But I make no guarantees.”
“I'll take any help I can get! So, anyway, after she stopped being a sore loser—”
Welt makes another attempt to steal the bite. Sunday snatches it away before he can, then spitefully stuffs the chunk into his own mouth. “Mine,” he mumbles around it before swallowing. “Eat you own.”
“I ate mine already.” Himeko stifles a giggle as Welt pouts. “You're not going to share with this old man?”
He doesn't want to admit how utterly adorable Welt is when he acts that pitiful, but it's hard to do when the sight keeps making him want to grin. Sunday fakes a groan before picking the last curl of chocolate off his plate with his fork and poking it at him. “Fine. You big baby—”
And promptly turns scarlet as Welt eats it off his fork. “Thanks,” he smirks as Sunday's face turns beet red.
March's camera flashes in the background.
Beside them, Dan Heng loudly clears his throat. “Perhaps we should move on to gifts?” he says, pointedly not looking at their embarrassing behavior.
“Gifts?” Welt marvels. He almost looks embarrassed at that. “You didn't have to—”
“Of course we did! That's half the fun!” March squeals. “Dan Heng, help me move the tables!”
It's noisy, and clunky, and half the leftover ranch from the crudites ends up spilled on the floor, but eventually everyone packs into the bench around him. “You really didn't have to,” Welt tries again. It's obvious how touched he is by the sentiment; his entire face lights up in childlike wonder, eyes growing watery again as he picks apart the wrapping paper. “But I appreciate it.”
The gifts are incredibly thoughtful in their own right. March presents him with a plein-air sketchbook and set of travel watercolor paints, sized just right for doing landscape studies. From Dan Heng, an antique Vidyadhara scroll painted with calligraphy for good health, made to hang on a wall. Stelle gives him a giant boxed set of the first ten years of Clockie cartoons; Himeko and Pom-Pom's gift turns out to be new kid leather gloves and—to the amusement of everyone else—a fancy massage gun. Sunday's heart fills to bursting as each one leaves Welt more speechless than before, until his hands are trembling and his breath goes shaky around the edges. The evidence of their care lies all around him, in smiles and torn paper and understanding. “You've all been too kind to me,” he manages. “Truly. I—”
“Hold that thought,” Himeko says, laying a hand on his wrist. “You still haven't seen Sunday's gift.”
And that's his cue.
Sunday takes a deep breath, trying to quell the manic butterflies in his stomach. “I don't have much I can give you,” he says as he lays out his precious sheet music, “but I can offer this.”
Welt stares from the familiar sheet music to him in awe as he raises the borrowed violin. “Sunday....”
He smiles and closes his eyes. Back straight, chin on rest, elbow up and out. One breath, two, hold on the third—and he lets the music flow through him.
Ashokan Farewell is the name of the first piece Welt had given him, a wordless, aching melody that sings to Sunday of longing for home. Of open snowfields and golden sunlight. Of the old springtimes of youth and sepia-toned memories that never quite fade. His audience stares rapt as he glides the bow across, letting the notes hover and quake in their sweetness.
Then, allowing the bow to dance like water trickling, he moves into the next song. He can see the exact moment Welt recognizes it; he takes off his glasses, his glowing eyes veiled with tears as the opening notes of the hymn begin. Sunday parts his lips, taking in a deep breath to get ready—but then Welt gently, achingly, begins to sing.
“Amazing grace, how sweet the sound / That saved a wretch like me....”
It's not the voice of a trained singer by any means, but there is a purity of note there, a richness of sound that speaks to underdeveloped talent. It's not in his normal, deep baritone either, but something higher, more delicate, and thick with nostalgia. His gaze doesn't waver from Sunday's own, bright and shining and warm even as the first tears start to trickle down his cheeks. It's as if he's singing for Sunday and Sunday alone.
“I once was lost, but now I'm found / Was blind, but now, I see.”
Sunday has to take a shuddering breath of his own. He lets the notes warble into a segue, light and airy before going down again into the last song. He can hear Welt's breath catch, tremulous; but this is a verse Sunday needs him to hear, needs to sing from the bottom of his heart. He shakes his head at him, just barely.
“Are you going to Scarborough Fair?” Sunday sings, his voice light and sweet against the melancholy of the music. “Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme....”
He closes his eyes tight and lets muscle memory pull the next notes from the violin. It's wrenching in its sorrow, each note, all of lost and impossible love, but he won't let the words follow so dark. He can't watch them as he sings; not when he's about to confess something he never thought he would.
“Remember me to one who lives there... he is now a true love of mine.”
He can't hear the responses now. His soul demands he finish, demands he pour it all into the closing medley—personally written from Scarborough Fair to Ashokan Farewell to the last few bars of Amazing Grace—until the last note echoes in the stillness. It's only when that note, too, falls silent that he lowers the violin and allows himself to open his eyes. Everyone else is gone; it's just the two of them there, alone in the stillness to face each other. And Welt—
Welt is crying.
Tears stream down his cheeks like crystal waters, sparkling as they drip from his chin to stain the collar of his shirt. Sunday starts to panic—he didn't mean to make him cry—but then a tiny smile crosses his lips, soft and a little sad and so, so fond that it makes Sunday want to weep himself. He looks at Sunday like he has just descended from the heavens. It's a look of complete and utter adoration, and the realization makes Sunday go weak in the knees. “That was....” Welt laughs, or tries to, but it breaks halfway. “I never thought I'd hear someone play them again,” he chokes out as he wipes the tears away with the heel of his palm. “You don't know how much that means to me.”
Sunday lays the violin back in its case before he steps forward to kneel in front of where Welt sits. He looks vulnerable like this, allowing the tears to keep falling even as he reaches out to take Sunday's hands into his own. He presses his lips to Sunday's knuckles in a reverent gesture, soothing his thumbs over afterward. “I'm glad,” Sunday says. “Though I admit, it's not the first gift I had in mind for you.”
Welt leans forward on his elbows. Something electric runs down Sunday's spine; he can feel Welt's breath against his cheek, can count every last eyelash as it fans over his cheek. “And what,” he asks, his voice a low rumble, “was your first choice?”
He swallows. “This,” Sunday whispers, and kisses him.
It's a delicate little thing, just the slightest movement. Welt's lips are a little chapped along the center, but plush and giving under the slight pressure. He sighs under him, those strong hands creeping up to stroke along the edge of his wings; when Sunday licks along his waterline Welt sighs and parts his lips for him. He tastes divine, of saltwater breezes and sweet champagne and bitter cocoa when their tongues brush together along the tips. Sunday pulls back before he can drown in the feeling, a shuddering breath escaping him.
Above him, Welt laughs under his breath, the sound like bells ringing. His cheeks are pink and flushed; his eyes glow like warm honey as he tilts his head back down. “How did you know what I wanted?” he murmurs, and kisses him again.
There is no hesitation with this one; Welt presses into him again and again, desperate, hungry. Sunday digs his hands into that gloriously thick head of hair, letting the strands fall through his fingers as he surges forward to stake his claim. He licks up into him, demanding entry that is gladly given. Each rough brush of his stubble, each back and forth glide of tongues, each drawn breath and little sigh—they sing through his veins, he is mine, he is mine, my love is mine all mine.
Every kiss is like someone is breathing life back into him. He kisses his lips, his cheeks, the fluttery sweep of his eyes to chase the last of his tears away. Sunday pushes Welt back into his seat and straddles his thighs, amazed that he is kissing Welt and Welt is letting him, returning each kiss with gentle fervor, his arms slung low around his waist and holding him close as if Sunday was made to be there. Perhaps he was. Perhaps the Aeons made him for the sole and glorious purpose of loving Welt Yang, and he will worship at this altar forever in praise of that gift.
Eventually, Welt breaks away to nuzzle at the juncture of his wings, idly pressing little kisses to the skin there as they catch their breath. “I've been wanting to do that for weeks,” he chuckles.
“Weeks?” Sunday leans back to pout. “I've wanted to get my hands on you since the fucking Penacony Grand Theater, and you're saying weeks?”
Welt laughs at him—rude—but he kisses him afterwards, so he'll let it slide just this once. “I'm sorry, little sun,” he says as he begins to trail kisses down his throat. “Would you like a gift to make up for it? You already have my undying devotion.”
Sunday laughs at the ticklish feel and pushes him away. He slides a hand down along his chest, fingers idly tracing circles there. “Tell me something about yourself,” he says after a moment's thought. It's a risk—but it's also a way to make a point, to press home the fact that he loves every facet of him, cracked edges and all. “Something nobody else here knows.”
An uncertain look crosses his face as Welt leans his head back against the cushions. But he doesn't reject the idea outright; instead, his pose speaks of deep thought over uncomfortable topics. The silence falls about them. Sunday can see the wheels turning, the sorrow the question brings and the refusal to sink back into it. Finally, he sighs and looks back to Sunday, his smile turning sad at the corners. “Joachim,” he says softly. “My actual name is Joachim Nokianvirtanen. Welt is... well. You know.”
He does. And he hates it, for the sake of that little Atlas who had to carry the world far too young.
“Joachim Nokianvirtanen,” Sunday repeats, stumbling a little over the pronunciation. He tastes it again, the roundness and hum of each syllable light on his tongue. “Joachim. I like it. It suits you.”
“You think so?”
“I always thought Welt Yang sounded rather abrupt. And heavy.”
He hums, a distant look in his watery eyes. “It's the heaviest thing I've ever carried,” he whispers.
Sunday sits with that. He doesn't push—he remembers all too well the hints he got about the hero who had burdened him with the world—but he sits with him, taking his hand and pressing kisses to the tips of his fingers until the ghost of it fades. “You don't have to carry it all the time,” he says once that distant look fades. “Not when it's just us.”
Again, he startles, a hesitant smile curving his lips. “You honestly prefer my real name?”
“I do.”
“...I don't ever want to put Welt down for good,” he says with a sigh. “It's been a part of me for too long. But I admit, I want to know how it feels to not be... him. To be myself.”
“I think you deserve to find out.” Leaning a bit forward, Sunday presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “So... may I call you by your name?”
Welt—Joachim—takes up one of Sunday's wrists and kisses the pulse point of it before laying it over his heart. “I would be honored to be Joachim again for you.”
Sunday melts at the gesture. How much has he dreamed of this moment, of being held so close, and how boring those dreams seem now, when he had the reality of it in his hands? To be treated so gently, so reverently? “You're a ridiculous man, Joachim,” he says. “Impossible.”
He laughs and leans forward. “So I've been told,” he murmurs, and kisses him again.
They lose themselves for a bit, in the chaste exploration of lips and teeth and tongue. “But maybe we should keep it between us, for now?” Joachim nips at Sunday's earlobe; he shivers and suppresses a moan, the sensation of it running hot under his skin. “I don't think I'm ready to explain a name change to everyone.”
“I don't mind.” Sunday presses butterfly kisses under his jaw, charmed by the feeling of rough stubble along his skin. “It means I get to keep that much more of you all to myself.”
Joachim laughs at the declaration, the sound giddy with the freedom of knowing and loving and being known and loved in return. “Then keep me, if you'll have me,” he whispers, and covers his lips with his own.