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There are a multitude of little rules, Sunday learns, that govern life on the Astral Express.
He begins scribbling them down in the first page of his new journal, a neatly bulleted list in order of discovery. Some of the rules are just common sense. Don't treat the conductor like a pet (with the corollaries of Don't attempt to pet Pom-Pom and Don't eat Pom-Pom's snacks unless you want to suffer), for example. Don't touch Dan Heng's bedding. Don't try to stop Stelle from rifling through garbage like the trash panda that she is. Or Don't drink Himeko's coffee. Sunday made that mistake once, despite the rusted and bitter aroma, and spent the next hour convinced that the poison she gleefully drank would dissolve his guts.
At least his suffering had entertained the younger members of the crew, while Himeko herself had been huffy about it. Mr. Yang had given him a sympathetic look and, more importantly, a hefty dose of antacids.
Others are a little more... difficult. Don't pry into anyone's past makes sense. Sunday knows all about wanting to hide the skeletons in one's closet—Aeons know he has more than his fair share of them—but having served as Bronze Melodia he can't help but be curious about his new companions. March and Stelle were pretty open about theirs, but then, neither one has much of a past to begin with. Dan Heng caved and explained a tiny bit about his past as the Imbibitor Lunae after Sunday stumbled upon him in his Vidyadhara form. Himeko gladly told him about the history of the Express and how she had restored it to its former glory, all while neatly concealing all information about who she had been before.
Which is fine. The past is only one part of what makes a person what they truly are, and he's content with the precious bits of information they're willing to share. For the most part.
The one rule he chafes against, though, is the one that was expressly given to him by the entire crew: Do not, under any circumstances, pry into Mr. Yang's past.
So, of course, that is the one person on the Astral Express he's desperate to know more about.
For all that Sunday has been following him around like a baby duck, he's learned surprisingly little about him. Welt Yang is older than the rest of the crew, though no ones knows precisely how old. He's an animator, though the impressive breadth of his knowledge belies that humble explanation. His world is far away and he's looking to return to it. He draws and plays video games and is astonishingly parental for all that he never mentions a family. Shush, of all things, was the most helpful, but all he could relay was that Mr. Yang had boarded with a friend—one that had done something horrible to the crew before leaving.
None of that explains the sheer strength that hides behind his unassuming demeanor. The man can control gravity with a flick of his wrist and summon miniature black holes at will! He can make objects out of thin air! And yet, for all his power, he rivals Robin in being one of the kindest, most gentle people Sunday has ever met.
It's the type of kindness, he knows, that only comes from intense suffering.
And that is what has Sunday so intrigued.
For all that Mr. Yang is cheerful and self-effacing with the rest of the crew, there are moments that give him away. The quiet longing that crosses his face when he scans over star charts. The shame that shadows his eyes when he watches Himeko at work. The nights when Sunday can't sleep, he often finds Mr. Yang secluded in the Party Car, a drink in his hand and grief writ broad on his face. Not that he can ever address it; Welt is always quick to hide those emotions behind a warm smile and gentle words, eager to change the subject away from himself.
But it bothers him. Mr. Yang is kind, and trustworthy, and it feels wrong to see those kinds of expressions on his handsome face. It feels ever more wrong to watch him push his own pain aside to help everyone else.
Sunday is a meddler at heart, he knows. He tried to bring peace to an entire planet—using terrible methods, admittedly, but as Mr. Yang put it to him one night when the guilt felt like it would choke him, your heart only wants the best for everyone. To have a heart big enough to hold that kind of wish is something special. You should take pride in that.
He'd never felt so exposed as in that moment. He'd never felt so seen.
If Sunday is not allowed to hide his pain, he decides, then neither is Welt Yang.
Which is why he finds himself standing in front of a door, hesitating to open it. The car beyond the passenger cabins is something of a catch-all at the moment; Dan Heng and Mr. Yang had converted part of it into a home gym, the other half containing communal showers and bathroom. He's used the treadmill on occasion, when he felt restless and Pom-Pom wouldn't let him pace the cars. But another unwritten rule is Don't bother Mr. Yang mid-workout.
Well, as Stelle likes to say: rules are made to be broken.
The door closes quietly behind him as he enters. The only sound is labored breathing and the rhythmic scratch of a phonograph needle that's hit the end of a record. At first he doesn't see anyone; the room is not as brightly lit as usual, and the only thing out of place is a missing barbell off the rack. A second glance reveals Mr. Yang in the far corner his back to Sunday in the corner, and once Sunday sees him, his wings snap over his mouth.
Welt Yang is an extremely attractive man. No one in their right mind would deny that fact, and Sunday is quite sane. But the sight of him standing in front of a mirror, clad in nothing but tight-fitting athletic shorts that hit mid-thigh, takes his breath away. Sweat plastering his hair to his face, all broad shoulders and rippling muscles leading down his back into a narrow waist, well-toned legs and ass... and scars like shattered glass radiating out from between his shoulderblades. He looks up and for the briefest moment their eyes meet in the mirror.
“Christ—”
Mr. Yang drops the barbell he was holding in his shock, narrowly missing his foot. He whirls around, eyes wide and chest flushed. “Sunday?! What—“
Sunday takes a step forward, wings still firmly across his mouth. It's like standing in front of a broken Adonis, this—sculpted, with soft, dark hair spread in a V along his lower chest, faintly defined abs and a darker trail of hair runs from navel to below the edge of the spandex. Perfection, except the same shattered glass scars on his back are punched through the center of his chest. His ribs are misshapen in places, the brittle edges of old breaks visible under his skin. Rectangular Lichtenberg-like figures trace hair-thin all along his right arm and leg up to his neck, nearly invisible but for the faintest magenta glow. Puckered gunshot scars dot around here and there, some visible in the mirror on his back. There's a series of perfect spiral scars, stark white against his olive skin, that encircle his limbs and lower stomach, as if someone had unraveled him like a skein of yarn.
There are more, but they vanish as Mr. Yang grabs a towel to begin drying off his face, hiding his chest from view. “There's not an emergency, is there?” he asks, voice nonchalant—but his hands are trembling ever so slightly. “I wasn't paying attention to my phone, I'm sorry—“
Sunday chews his lower lip for a brief second, then moves forward until he's less than an arm's length away. Mr. Yang watches him, tense, his crooked not-quite-a-smile trying for casual and failing. Sunday's gloved fingers reach out, hesitate, then ghost over the center of the older man's chest where the scars are the thickest. “Do they hurt?” he asks softly, wings drooping back from his face when he flinches away.
His shoulders hunch up towards his ears as he lowers the towel. “Not often,” he manages. Those warm honey-brown eyes slide over Sunday's face; there's an almost heartbreaking look of uncertainty on his face, tinged behind with misplaced shame. “I—I'm sorry you had to see this. I know they're not pretty to look at.”
But you are, is what Sunday wants to say. You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen, and I have seen the dreams of the gods.
That, however, is too honest, too revealing; instead, Sunday props one leg up on the edge of the barbell and rolls his pants leg up. Splashed across his calf is a red, amorphous blob of a burn scar, ugly in how it breaks the symmetry of his body. Mr. Yang's eyes go immediately to it, brows furrowed. “There. See?” He twists his leg around, as if modeling. “Now we're even.”
It's a stupid gesture, he realizes after the fact. A childish move at best. There's no comparison of a single moment of pain to a lifetime of agony.
But Mr. Yang freezes, then snorts, his cheeks going red as he starts laughing. Sunday can't help but join in, the tension in the room dissipating like so much smoke. He almost stumbles putting his leg back down and that makes the laughter worse as he flails to keep his balance. But it's worth it. It's so worth the loss of his dignity to hear that joy.
Perhaps, he wonders in the back of his head, that was all that was needed—to just try and understand.
Sunday hands him his water bottle as the laughter dies down. “To be fair, you didn't lock the door,” he points out, and deliberately does not watch the sweat drip down over his Adam's apple as he swallows.
“No, I suppose that one's on me.” His little smile twists all rueful as he hands the bottle back. “It's not... they make people uncomfortable, when they see them. And I don't want anyone's pity.”
“You could just wear a shirt.”
That makes Mr. Yang chuckle again. “I usually do! I just haven't gotten around to laundry yet.” He picks the towel back up, looking him over. Sunday's content to stand there and let him think. There's still some self-consciousness there, still a little shame. “... you're not going to ask?”
Sunday immediately shakes his head. He could ask, and he's reasonably sure he would get at least some kind of answer. Why would anyone hurt this gentle, understanding titan of a man, when all Sunday has ever seen him offer was kindness? What kind of monster could have taken him apart like that? And how could he have survived it, given that most of the scars look fatal?
But this bit of trust is like a fragile bird in his hands, and he will not be the one to cage it. “It's not my place to, Mr. Yang. I trust that, if you want me to know the story, you'll tell me. If and when you're ready to.”
It's word for word a quote from Mr. Yang himself, but he doesn't seem to realize it. Instead, he looks him over for a long moment before a radiant smile blossoms on his lips. “You know you can just call me Welt, right?”
Sunday swears his heart skips a beat. “I don't want to be presumptuous—“
“After seeing this much of each other?” Mr. Yang—Welt—teases. He hesitates, then tucks a stray lock of hair behind Sunday's ear, his hand briefly caressing one fluttering wing. “I think it would be presumptuous not to.”
“... only if you tell me when your scars hurt,” Sunday says. He pulls up the courage to look him in the eyes as he lets his hand splay gentle across his chest. This time, Welt doesn't flinch away. “I just want to help.”
Welt looks down at him, his honest smile all soft around the edges. “It's a deal,” he says, and for once Sunday knows—he knows—that it's a promise that won't break.