Chapter Text
Sunday's night - or whatever passes for night on the Astral Express where the sun doesn't shine - begins as nonsensically as they all have, lately. With March waving at him as she exits the passenger's car, with a cheerful "bye guys, I'm clocking off!"
By this point, Dan Heng has usually retired to the Archives already, if he'd bothered to get out of them at all, and today is certainly no exception. Himeko is nursing a cup of coffee that seems to never run dry, and Welt is elsewhere doing... Whatever it is he does. Black holes. It's all within expectation by now.
And then Stelle comes in out of nowhere, fiddling with the Omni-synthetizer. She's fuming with anger from what Sunday can see from his sitting position. No, wait, that's literal smoke.
"Stelle, you're on fire," Himeko warns, eyeing the previously clean floor. Pom Pom will have her head.
"Again?" Stelle answers, more annoyed than alarmed, before hissing an "oh fuck!" and beating herself down to kill the flame.
That's... Also fairly normal, Sunday has come to realize. By Stelle standards.
The other passengers will certainly step up and help her whenever she manages to lug herself back to the Express with injuries, but they are otherwise unfazed by her general state. Just from his time being here, Sunday has seen her come back covered in fluorescent goo, with hair puffed up from electricity, with assortments of minor gashes and scratches, and with all sorts of oddities in her arms.
The cake-shaped cats had ripped a nervous "what the fuck" from him before he could catch himself, and the whole Express had fallen silent. Before everyone started cackling. Sunday will never outlive the shame.
Back to the present. Sunday comes back to himself just in time to see Stelle (now no longer on fire) move towards the Phonograph. He schools his wings perfectly in place to not betray anything, but he can't help the slight twitch they give when the first notes come on and he recognizes Robin's song.
"Had I not seen the Sun" was the only one he hadn't heard bits and pieces of before the album dropped. It makes sense, since it's such a soft song, and half as long as the others, but Sunday still feels regret.
It's lovely. And he'll never be able to tell Robin that in person.
Sunday sighs and leans back in his seat.
Honestly, he can't believe he's here. A Nameless. Though so far, his only work as a Nameless has consisted in moping around the train until someone (usually Himeko) starts getting annoyed with his aimless pacing and sends him out with March (or Stelle, when she's not off to god knows where) to stock up on amenities.
It's been... Something. Better than languishing in chains on a dark room, probably, though he couldn't really claim he was acting like it.
His wings twitch beneath his coat. He hasn't stretched them properly in days.
Sunday always takes care of his appearance. His wings, especially, and his halo, the most striking parts of his appearance as a Halovian. They always required accurate preening, not unlike the pruning of a Bonsai tree. Any feathers that sprung up the wrong way were promptly snagged out, guilty of the sin of having been imperfect.
But that never extended to the wings at the small of his back. How could it? They were lumpy, shameful, not even the right colour. All four of Robin's wings were white, like her hair, as was normal. As mother's were. And what do Sunday's look like? Dark purple. Like Ena's night. What a joke. To be shoved down under constricting clothes and treated as nonexistent, THAT was their just fate. The aches and pains that came with it were just proof that he was doing something right.
As the Head of the Oak family, it had been unthinkable for him to show himself in a disheveled state. For decency's sake, of course, but privately... Sunday could admit that the societal obligation had nothing to do with his fervour for order. Sunday used to feel that if he showed just a shred of sloppiness, everything around him would fall apart. Regardless of how true it was or wasn't at the moment, it had always been an internal feeling that he never managed to push down.
Sunday would go out in public with his pants lined up the the tips of his shoes and his shirt ironed to perfection, not a strand of hair out of order, and everything went perfectly well.
(Then, one day, he followed a Bloodhound into a Hotel room to see his sister's corpse, and nothing mattered anymore. He kept up the act for the sake of it, to have something to cling to. He'd put on his perfect outfit and his perfect voice, and smile placidly as a demon paraded around with his sister's likeness, and he would go back to his room and tug at the feathers until they fell off his wings. He'd claw at his face and clothes, and wring his hair like a man possessed.)
(His sister was DEAD.)
Now, Sunday is more relaxed in his approach to a pristine appearance. He gets to choose his own clothes after he burned the ones "father" bought for him years ago and he gets to style his hair in whichever manner he sees fit. It doesn't matter as long as it's in order. Lovely.
Stelle looks at him, and then at Himeko. They communicate with their eyes, lest Sunday take notice and think they're gossiping. Himeko shrugs helplessly.
It's worrisome, they think. Sunday is always quiet, but he gets even more so when Stelle puts on Robin's songs. She's considered stopping, but she caught his smile the first time she changed the music to "Sway to My Beat" after he boarded, and March told her he spends half of his time looking longingly at the Phonograph when there's a different song on, and she can't really help herself.
It's pretty clear by now that Sunday thinks he has not right to comfort. Not in front of them at least, and they can only hope he allows himself some at least when alone. So Stelle figured she could do this small thing for him, and change the music when he was in the Passenger's car. But now she wonders if she's not secretly putting a finger in his wounds.
Why are people so complicated?
"Mh? Did you say something?"
Stelle turns to Himeko at the question, but Himeko isn't looking at her. Sunday shakes out of his reverie to look back, shaking his head, "not at all, Miss Himeko," he replies, stiff as always.
Now that Stelle is looking at him... Isn't he looking a little sickly? More pale and gaunt than usual? She hasn't been seeing him at breakfast lately, but surely he must have eaten after, right?
"Well, I'd better go. I need my beauty sleep," Himeko gets up and walks towards the door. She exchanges a meaningful glance with Stelle as she walks past, and Stelle nods minutely.
She sits down in the couch opposite to Sunday, "so, how did the day go?"
Sunday blinks himself out of another stupor, utterly thrown off by the fact that someone is engaging in conversation to him. Here. Where he makes a point to be a wall flower.
"Oh, the usual. I just..." he looks around, uncomfortable, "hung around."
It's shameful to admit out loud, even though he has no obligation to be doing anything. But surely, it must look strange. Everyone does something, even when there's nothing to do. March 7th has her pictures, Dan Heng has the Data Bank, Himeko has her coffee - it's not much, but it's better than nothing. Welt has.... well, Welt doesn't seem to have anything going on either, but he doesn't look pathetic while doing nothing. He has a lot to say if you approach him first.
Sunday can't even manage that. He just wants to disappear. But he can't, not after Robin made a deal with that woman to free him. So Sunday is stuck here.
A Nameless.
What a joke.
Stelle hums, observing the way his eyes glaze over again. This guy dissociates an awful lot, doesn't he?
Then, he twitches. It's a sharp thing, his head tilts to one side 20 degrees, in a crude imitation to a puppet, and Stelle gives a full body shudder.
"Um. Sunday?"
His eyes do this thing where they close a fraction before returning normal, "yes?"
Stelle is officially horrified. If Sunday crawls on all 4 and starts moving towards her like a spider, Stelle WILL take out her spear and impale him.
"Are you. Er. Are you okay?"
"Certainly" he answers more quickly this time, and gets up.
Please don't turn into a biblically accurate angel. Pleeeease Don't Turn Into A Biblically Accurate Angel!
His lower wings twitch. It must be a severe movement for her to be able to see it through his coat.
PLEASE DON'T HAVE A TRANSFORMATION VINCENT EDGEWORTH STYLE!!!!!!
Sunday takes a single step towards the door-
--and promptly falls on his face, passing out.