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On the first day, grant truth
On the second day, grant the calendar
On the third day, grant language
On the fourth day, grant value
On the fifth day, grant rules
On the sixth day, grant meaning
On the seventh day, grant dignity
And on the eighth day.. We will wake up from our dreams
Day 1.
Wonderful Robin has flown the nest to spread her warmth across the universe. Sunday cannot stop her, does not want to stop her , so he sees her off with a smile in his heart as he falls where he is sure no one will find him again. She will fly amongst the stars, shining just as brilliantly as all the ones that glitter in the night sky, and each will want to press a kiss upon her forehead as she passes through, lighting the way for millions.
Sunday will rot here in this cage of his own making. He has no dreams, no purpose, only the history of being the pariah of Penacony. He is the weight around Robin’s neck more than a bullet ever could be, and he thinks he would rather bow out now — gracefully and on his own terms. Robin will hate him, then she will forgive him, mourn him, and find her strength again, because that is how she’s always been.
The dream is over.
The last thing to do is to decide how to perform the final movement.
Should he weave the thread around his throat, a marionette tethered to its final string? He traces a finger around his neck and thinks. Perhaps it would be quicker to toss himself from a tall height, but images of that mangled charmony dove’s corpse crashing from the sky forces him to reconsider. It would draw attention. It would hurt. He would be afraid. If at all possible, he’d prefer to leave a smaller mess away from judging eyes and gossipping lips.
In the end, he decides to procure sleeping sedatives. An eternal slumber. It sounds peaceful .
He opens his closet, donning a black suit, pre-dressed for his own funeral. He gives himself a final look over in a full length mirror, adjusting his tie a final time.
Perfect. Not a single strand of hair out of place.
Laying himself down, he crosses his hands comfortably, feeling the medication slowly take effect. He doesn’t fight the comforting familiarity of sleep and lets the darkness overcome him.
Day 2.
Gallagher didn’t know what would become of him after the fall of Penacony. It turns out the answer was — not much. He had awoken in the very same bar he spent so much time in, only empty of another soul. Kicking his feet up on the counter, he swirls a drink in his hand. He had hoped he would see his old friends, but it wouldn’t exactly be hell if they were reunited would it? All things considered, it could be worse. It’s peaceful, even if boredom slowly fills his timeless days.
He wonders if one day this too will fade away. Perhaps when the memory of Penacony was drowned away, he too would meet his final death.
Downing the drink he was experimenting with in one go, he decides to wander around yet again, losing count on how many times he had circled the bar. Every barstool was in the same place. Every cushioned seat, even the back storage was exactly as he remembered. What a bore . He almost misses the extra visitor, would have if it were not for the slight breath from the corner of the room. A lifetime of honing his senses snaps his eyes to a familiar head of feathers, eyes closed, resting in one of the plush chairs. Gallagher raps his knuckles on the table, watching Sunday’s wings flutter as he rubs lingering sleep from his eyes. “Dreaming of me birdie? I’m honored.”
There’s something fascinating about catching the put-together man by surprise, and even more so when that facade of politeness peels away.
With an annoyed look Sunday spits out, “Even after death you nip at my heels like an unruly dog. How fitting it is for me to be punished with the likes of you.”
“Death?” Truthfully, Gallagher didn’t want to see any child of Penacony dead, not even Sunday who had followed his misguided ideals to the very end. He wondered who did it, it was hard to imagine the Astral Express doing so in the presence of Robin. Was it the dream master? It was not hard to imagine a father such as he to bring a blade upon his son’s own neck in the name of order. Yet there was still an undeniable spark of life that still resided in him. Something wasn’t right . He reaches out to cup Sunday’s face — life still swirled beneath those golden hues, but it was dimming. “You can still wake up. You don’t belong here.”
Sunday slaps his hands away, refusal written on his face.
“It’s by my own hands, your pity is wasted.”
“So that’s it? The Oak Family head gives up this easily?”
Sunday doesn’t rise to the bait, averting his gaze.
“Really, your mother died for this?”
He turns sharply, “Do not speak of her.”
“You’ll break Robin’s heart.”
“…I know,” he whispers.
Even with prodding Gallagher is unable to get another word out of him for the day.
Day 3.
What was once a comfortable silence, quickly becomes awkward as Gallagher watches Sunday from his peripheral. They have no choice but to hover in each other’s orbit, a heavy tension in the air. At long last, Gallagher slides a drink down the counter as a peace offering.
Gallagher lets out a sigh of relief as Sunday reaches out to take a sip, promptly spitting it out in disgust. “— and people actually paid you for this?”
Raucous, unoffended laughter fills the room. “Alright birdy, I’ll make something more to your taste.”
Within minutes he slides another drink over. Hesitantly, Sunday brings it to his lips, a much more pleasant expression on his face as he tastes the sweet liquid. It had a slight fizz to it, he recognized it as soulglad, though it was tampered down with something with more cream. The alcohol in it was completely masked. “What drink is this?”
“It’s an ice cream float, without the scoop. Looks like the rumors are true after all, Mister Sunday has a sweet tooth!” Sunday’s grip around the glass tightens as Gallagher throws up his hands in mock surrender — “Hey! Hey! Don’t throw that at me, wasting food is a sin right? That’s gotta be written down somewhere.”
“An actual drink if you will.”
“Last I checked, that is a drink.”
“Something not for children .”
“There’s only the two of us here, I don’t think anyone will reprimand you for drinking what you like.”
Bitterly, Sunday sips on it staring at the float as if it had personally offended him.
“Did anyone ever tell you?”
“Tell me what?”
“If you’re alive, you can drink something like that whenever you want.”
Sunday knows this. It’s hardly a profound statement. Yet he grits his teeth, hands clenched beneath the counter top as he forces his expression into neutrality.
“You don’t need permission to live, Sunday.”
The silence alone is enough to answer – no one has ever told him that before.
Day 4.
Just as one could not sleep in a dream, the unconscious eluded them both in this pocket world. There was no hunger, nor fatigue, but that also meant more hours then they knew what to do with. The amount of unclean drink glasses stacking in the corner of the sink had begun to draw the ire of the Halovian. Today Gallagher watches Sunday push his way behind the counter to handle the glassware.
“End of your life, and you’re still making sure everything is sparkling clean.”
He ignores the jab, raising a glass to eye level to inspect the clarity. “I’ve also taken the opportunity to divide the bar. Please refrain from placing any of your mess on my half.”
Amused, Galalgher peers over to Sunday’s “side.” Indeed the bar was divided in a perfectly fair 50%, even accounting for the necessary walkways to move around the space without collisions. He had expertly lined up multiple chairs as a make-shift daybed as well as stacked several tables, before draping over clean tablecloth linens like a privacy tent.
Drying the glass, Sunday sets it down, wrinkling his nose at the collection of citrus peels that had begun to stack up from all the drinks Gallagher had been experimenting with. “Clean that up on your own,” he demands, retiring towards his abode.
Gallagher looks at the lemon peels. He looks at Sunday retreating beneath the canopy.
One is certainly more interesting than the other.
“Knock knock!” Gallagher calls from the outside. “How does it go again? I humbly request your blessing, esteemed advocate.” He had said once, in another world they would surely have great conversations. Now would be the time to test that theory.
“I do not have THEIR presence here. Asking is useless.”
“I’m not asking for THEIR advice I’m asking for yours.”
“I left my dirty glasses and peels all throughout the bar, thoroughly annoying my roommate. How will I ever make up for this grave sin?”
Silence.
“Come on, humor me for a bit.”
A heavy exhale of breath.
“Do you sincerely repent and vow to change your ways? You can start by tidying up and — ”
Gallagher grins, “Never,” and forces his way beneath the makeshift canopy laying beside the disgruntled Sunday, intruding on his personal space like an untrained dog.
“ You! ”
“I’m just looking for a talk. If you allow me this oh honored one , I’ll clean up from now on.”
Though he bristles, Sunday seems to consider the compromise. It seemed even the most disciplined individuals could be worn down eventually.
“You must have made really great pillow forts.”
Gallagher doesn’t expect a reply, but is pleasantly surprised when Sunday responds, “The very best. What kind of brother would I be if I couldn't make one?”
Gallagher ponders the implications of the destructive force called love. It had led him to enact the plan of a man long since dead and brought Sunday to the grand decision that choice was a burden. Flicking open his lighter a warm glow fills the darkened area.
“Don’t you dare smoke.”
“Relax birdie, just setting the mood.”
It’s quite a surprise that he’s gotten this far without being tossed out. He suspects its loneliness, the kind that seeps into your bones and settles in so quietly you don’t even know it’s there. Gallagher had that same kind of loneliness too.
He holds his hand up, shadow projecting behind the flame of his lighter. Gallagher had a theory, it was a silly one, but no more sillier than the dancing sodas and floating ice cream cones of Penacony.
“What do you think of souls? ”
“An immutable force of truth that resides in the flesh, unique to each individual and eternal.”
“I see, guess I don’t have one.”
“Of course you have one.” Sunday looks offended on his behalf.
“Don’t know about that one, I’m kind of a patchwork of people who don’t exist anymore.”
“Do you walk? Do you have a reason? Do you feel? To have lived is to have a soul Gallagher.”
“So you do know I have a name! Looks like my charm has finally worked on you.”
“…And your soul will undoubtedly rot as penance.”
Gallagher’s laughter fills the faux tent as he clicks the lighter off. It’s dark in here, and like this he can even hear the steady breaths of Sunday. “I think that maybe our souls do change. Maybe it’s made up of a thousand different parts. We borrow some from other people, and they take a piece of ours with them everytime they care about us.”
Sunday does not argue with him surprisingly. The only indication he’s still listening is the quiet hum he makes as if pondering.
“By your definition, then I would be the one lacking a soul.”
“I don’t know, maybe you never gave yourself a chance.”
“Speak plainly, or don’t speak at all.”
“I think you can count the people who love you on one hand, and you’re not one of them.”
The movement of his wings is ever so silent as he places them over his eyes.
“Good Night.”
“Good Night,” and Gallagher steps out, as if either of them could succumb to sleep.
Day 5.
Today Gallagher has prepared a vibrant drink, the colors of a sunset, sweet and light. He considers it a win when Sunday takes a sip without much complaint. “Orange juice?” he questions. “With a little fizz,” Gallagher amends. “I found some cooking gear in the back and a hotplate. Feast your eyes on this.” He slides over waffles with powdered sugar and sliced strawberries. He sees the little flutter of excitement in Sunday’s wings as he sits up in interest.
Gallagher watches Sunday eat cautiously as he always does, small pieces first as if eating food he enjoyed was an indulgence he could not afford. Then gradually, in larger bites, a slight puff in his cheeks, strawberry staining the corner of his mouth.
“When you get back,” Gallagher says, not ready to give up on Sunday's eventual return. “You should share mornings like this with someone you love.”
“Robin does important work,” he says, “she doesn’t have time to waste on having a leisurely breakfast with me.”
“What? Penacony’s most eligible bachelor doesn’t have a lover to rock the bed with?”
Frowning at the insinuation, “The people’s admiration hardly means they would have any romantic inclination towards me.”
Gallagher reaches out and swipes his thumb over the strawberry at Sunday’s mouth and licks it off his fingers. “Guess you’re not all-seeing after all. I would say yes in a heartbeat.”
Sunday startles, flushing red as his wings further betray his frazzled state. He picks up his drink and breakfast, stomping away. It isn’t as if he can go very far, and Gallagher can still see him angrily shoveling the rest of the waffles down. Ah there was that appetite Robin had hinted towards long ago.
Day 6.
Sunday can’t stop thinking of the way Gallagher’s hand had felt pressed against his lip. Golden eyes flicker over to Gallagher. He’s everything Sunday has always hated. Disheveled and sloppy with ill-fitting clothes. That untucked shirt which gave him a sinful peek of his toned stomach, and that lopsided tie that Sunday craved to adjust. It would be accurate to say the button on Gallagher’s shirt worked harder than the hound ever did. The worst part is that Gallagher is not all insufferable. He’s surprisingly introspective, and makes for good conversation. Beneath that crass and improper exterior was a kinder man then he expected.
“Not that I mind, but my eyes are up here.”
He’s quite frankly had enough of this teasing too. Is he allowed to have this? That was the point of being dead wasn’t it? To be free of obligation and propriety, for a simple exchange of a beating heart. He reaches out to grab that skewed tie, pulling the taller man down before he presses his lips against his. It’s not quite on the mark and he scrapes against the man’s stubble.
He freezes when no response is given back. “Forgive me,” Sunday says sincerely, “I’ve read the situation incorrectly and —”
Gallagher grabs him by his waist and pulls him in for a deeper kiss. It tastes subtly of smoke and alcohol when he licks into his mouth. With a startled noise, Gallagher lifts him up onto the counter slotting himself between his thighs grinding their clothed cocks together. Sunday can feel the heat in his groin, and the obvious bulge tenting in the other’s pants.
Gallagher kisses at his neck, peeling back his collar to suck a harsh mark into that delicate flesh. He drags his teeth upwards and nips that feathery wing, heart filled with triumph as Sunday groans, body tensing with the shock of pleasure.
He palms Sunday cock through his clothes. “How far you wanna go, beautiful?” he asks, both giving and taking the control he knew Sunday was accustomed to.
“All the way,” comes from those divine lips, a stark contrast to the animalistic rut against his hand.
Gallagher eagerly unzips Sundays with pants, sliding down his undergarments to release his cock. He wastes no time swallowing him down, bobbing his head, before pulling back and pressing a kiss to the tip. Pumping him with a leisurely rhythm, he speaks, voice half muffled against his thighs “You’re really pretty all over aren’t you, angel?”
Sunday looks like a mess already as he pants softly to each stroke. “Touch yourself for me,” he says, as he guides Sunday’s hands between his thighs, embarrassment written across his face. Still he does as he’s told, obedient as if he craved order upon his own person. Clumsily he rubs himself from base to top as Gallagher frees his own aching cock. As soon as he can, he grabs Sunday’s hips, pressing it to his own, their lengths rubbing together as he takes over stroking them simultaneously.
Sunday buries his face into Gallagher neck, a choked sound as he writhes. “C’mon birdy, want you to cum so I can play with your hole while you’re nice and relaxed.” He pets those soft wings as Sunday presses closer, eager for touch.
“So damn perfect, how are you even real?” Gallagher whispers. He lets Sunday rock his hips forward, eager for more friction in his tight grip. Gallagher can tell he’s close as he frantically thrusts against him. He twists his wrist, reveling in the stifled whimpers as cum spills between them.
Sunday’s chest heaves, struggling to catch his breath. He seems too dazed to speak as Gallagher picks him up, resting his angel’s head against his shoulder as he carries him towards a store room. The bar was once Gallagher’s favorite place to slack, and thus he vividly recalled a very helpful piece of furniture he could use. Sunday looks unimpressed that there was a bed back here the entire time though he looks too tired to verbally make a complaint.
He thinks of tossing Sunday one day, perhaps at a more appropriate time. He would kiss him breathless, but today he presses him down with a voracious hunger. He goes to work undressing Sunday, about to toss his pants to the corner of the room when a strong grip grabs his arm.
“Fold it.”
“You’re kidding right?”
He’s about to tease, but that miserable pout is enough to stop him as Gallagher relents and folds it. “Alright whatever you want angel.”
He turns his attention back to his waiting angel who seems to have gotten shy now that he had the time to calm down. With his eyes subtly downcast, Sunday only glances up in increments, uncertain of where he should look. Gallagher decides to give him a strip tease, as he pulls off his tie and shucks off his clothes easily. That catches Sunday’s attention as he watches, wings curled inward just to peek over them as if he still felt the need to be proper. It’s rather flattering, but Gallagher advances forward, intent on getting Sunday in a similar state of undress.
He carefully slides the crisp jacket off his shoulders, taking care to fold it properly. When he turns back around he’s stunned by the single black wing that unfurls wrapped around his vest. Sunday looks miserable revealing it as he unhappily works on unbuttoning his inner vest. Gallagher takes the black wing in his hands and presses a kiss to it. There’s a story here, and he wonders if they’ll be a day when Sunday wants to speak of it. (There’s a quiet voice that tells him time will slip away.) Today however, Gallagher feasts his eye on the sight before him. He presses Sunday down, hand clasped around his wrists, as he hungrily kisses him making his way down his chest and pinching his nipples on the way down. Pushing Sunday’s thighs open he hooks his hand beneath his knees and presses it upwards eager to expose his hole.
Before Sunday can oppose his next actions he licks at his hole flattening his tongue, before dipping into that tight heat. Sunday jolts, “ That’s filthy, ” he accuses still pressing closer. Gallagher decides his mouth has better usage licking rather then talking as he tightens his grip around Sunday's thighs, forcing him to keep his legs open. He focused on his task, fucking his tongue deeper. When that tight muscle finally gives way, he presses a finger in besides his tongue, alternating between the two. Chin dripping with saliva he finally raises his head, to get a look at the disheveled Sunday. It’s a beautiful sight, and he revels in the way he throws his head back when he shoves two more digits in, without warning, working his wrist to increase his speed.
“Too much, I’m going to,” he loses his words, voice cracking as he reaches his climax.
“Fuck you’re incredible,” Gallagher murmurs, aroused by the fact that Sunday had cum on his fingers alone. One day he’ll make Sunday beg for it, but for now he’s more interested in giving him everything he can take. Withdrawing his digits he lets Sunday catch his breath. “Baby can I use your thighs?” As much as he’d like to fuck Sunday with his cock too, he looks like he’s at his limit.Sunday makes a questioning sound as if he did something wrong. “Not like that, just trying to take it easy on you.”
Sunday reaches down, one arm pulling his knees to his chest, and the other hand spreading his loosened hole. His eyes beg, wings shyly covering his lips. It’s a quiet whisper, but the request pounds in Gallagher’s ears, “Please?”
Shit.
He slaps his engorged cock against Sunday’s spit-slicked hole. Hooking his thumb on his rim he pushes the head of his cock in. Whimpering from the overstimulation, Gallagher pauses rubbing at his hips soothingly. “You okay birdy?” He nods erratically, his wings now obscuring more of his face.
Intrigued, Gallagher bullies the feathered wings away, to come face to face to a teary eyed Sunday. With red rimmed eyes and a blush across his cheeks and neck, Gallagher feels smitten.
Rapidly he begins to fuck into that willing hole as Sunday scrambles to grip onto something. Gone are the gentle rubs, replaced by a bruising grip. He hopes to see his own fingerprints marked by purple bruises.
Sunday’s head swims, he can’t discern the pressure and fullness from the pleasure that builds at his pelvis. In that cradled space between flesh on flesh, at last it hits . He tightens around the impossibly wide girth inside him as his body convulses. Faintly he’s aware of cursing as warmth fills him too.
If reaching an unconscious state was possible he was certain he would blackout. Instead he quivers, gasping as Gallagher pulls out. Unable to sit up or speak, he basks in the care Gallagher shows him, as he feels a wet cloth clean off his body.
Day 7.
Gallagher can’t take it to heart when Sunday has difficulties looking him in the eyes. When he sees the red marks along his neck and peeks the bruises on his hips Gallagher is satiated from any teasing and prodding he’d otherwise be inclined to start. He admires the dressed down look Sunday has taken on, wearing only his inner shirt with a few buttons undone. He wishes he’d get a chance to see Sunday in his own clothes. He would complain too in his indirect way, unhappy over the ill fit and the loose buttons.
Gallagher realizes that he wants to keep him in this temple of their own making, like a sacred object only for his own eyes. How would he look wearing happiness? It might be just the thing that entices him to get on his knees and pray.
Now that’s a dangerous thought.
He has to remember that he’s supposed to be getting Sunday home, not into another cage, no matter how polished it may be. Gallagher was tied to Penacony indefinitely, but Sunday still had a chance.
Sunday glances up towards him, an inquisitive look – “What troubles your mind?”
“Wear this,” he shrugs off his shirt.
He waits for the signature Sunday smile, the same one he uses on drunk Penacony visitors talking nonsense, exercising the full extent of his patience.
To his surprise Sunday takes it, draping it over his shoulders like a light coat. The black complements his dark navy shirt effortlessly. Sunday plucks off the brooch from his coat and attaches it to Gallagher’s belt.
Gallagher throws back a drink, intimately aware of the unfairness of it all.
Day 8.
It won’t be long now before it’s too late, Gallagher realizes as he admires Sunday’s profile. He’s been doing that a lot, admiring, touching, tasting. Maybe he’s breaking his own rules, indulging in a sweet dream, but he’s always been a sinner prone to temptation.
“You must be getting bored of me by now.”
“I know what you’re trying to do. It won’t work.”
It isn’t the first time he’s tried to make Sunday go back by his own will.
“There’s still time for you to make different choices.”
“Choices — over and over again. Yet somehow I’m always left with the impossible one. I am satisfied and want nothing more.” His voice trembles with fury. They are on the precipice of a fight, he can tell the way those golden eyes narrow and his hand clench ever so slightly.
Gallagher relents at long last, “Okay, okay. I understand.” He walks over apologetically, taking Sunday’s face in his hands as he kisses those bitter tears that have begun to fall without permission.
Sunday is a beautiful, tragic thing. The cage is open, but he’s unwilling to step out of it even as life fades from him. Gallagher combs through those white strands as he hugs him close, cradling him in an embrace.
Quicker than the halovian can react, Gallagher grips around that pale length of throat, fingers digging in as Sunday claws down his arms leaving behind his own marks amongst the myriad of scars. “You have to go. You have to get out of here.”
He looks stunned. He looks hurt. He looks betrayed. Gallagher is faintly aware that he’s become another person in Sunday’s life who has mercilessly turned on him in the name of the greater good. He does not enjoy it, but it will be for the best. He has to believe that.
“I hate you,” Sunday chokes out, panicked, tears welling in his eyes as his efforts become increasingly weaker. He shoves, claws, tears at the face he’s come to like in these timeless days. Tenderly, Gallagher presses a kiss on his forehead as he snaps that delicate neck in one twist, so easily done as if he had hollowed bones. “Love ya, angel.” he says solemnly, as the form of Sunday fades away.
Sunday awakens, heaving and upchucking the contents of his stomach. He claws at his throat, he can’t breathe, it hurts . There is no taste of waffles or ice cream floats, only bitter bile. When at long last there is nothing left to cough out, Sunday glances around the room with tired eyes.
Attempting to force his body up, he crashes back to the ground. He is completely alone.