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Another sleepless night. At last it chases Welt out of his cabin, making him abandon the mechatron model that he had spent the past few hours building to pass the time. He makes his way quietly down the Express corridors in pursuit of something… Maybe a cup of warm milk, or something of the like. Maybe just a simple walk to clear his head.
The lights of the party car are dimmed, its tinted windows looking out into the endless night, permeated only by the distant glow of faraway stars. It’s quiet, too - the phonograph has been turned off, and now the silence is only interrupted by the idle humming of a multitude of appliances. Shush has powered down, and is currently resting in his charging station behind the bar, his blinking standby light one of the only sources of illumination in the darkened space.
There is a second, more mysterious light coming from one of the booths. It might have perplexed someone else seeing it, but Welt is pretty sure he knows what - or rather who - it's coming from. As he approaches one of the little nooks of plush chairs, he finds exactly what he had suspected that he would - the faint glow originates from none other than Sunday.
The little dove rests with his head lowered upon one of his arms, outstretched across the table. In the other hand he clutches his little book, the journal that he never lets out of his sight. Next to him rests a nearly empty glass, and in spite of his apparent state of unconsciousness, his halo remains faintly aglow. Fast asleep, he is obviously unbothered by his own luminescence.
Knowing nothing about Sunday, one might assume at first glance that the lad might perhaps be drunk, having passed out from overindulging… But even without having to give the remainder of the drink a sniff, Welt can guess that the glass in front of him holds nothing but his favorite flavor of sweet soda.
It makes Welt smile when he notices that the young man’s face isn’t simply covered by his hair - falling asleep, he seems to have folded his wings over his eyes, much like a dove might hide its head under its own feathers to sleep. How very endearing.
It isn’t the only endearing thing about this display. In stark contrast to his usual state of ironclad full coverage down to the fingertips, Sunday appears to have departed from his room in his sleepwear - which turns out to be an elegant set of silk pyjamas in a shade of baby blue. His pale hands remain uncovered where they rest upon the table, the long sleeves pulled back slightly to reveal his wrists, even a sliver of forearm… His feet are bare, but on the floor, Welt spots a pair of fluffy white slippers - something he remembers March 7th gifting him not too long ago.
Everything about his attire seems so very different from Welt’s, who sleeps in a pair of loose gingham slacks and an old T-shirt that has seen better days.
Only when pondering the floor at the sight of Sunday’s feet does Welt realize that the socks that he’d put on to walk over here not only do not match, but one of them might, in fact, not even be his. (How did that kid’s raccoon-patterned sock even make its way into his pile of clean laundry?!)
It feels almost forbidden, a little sacrilegious, seeing Sunday like this, studying him so much in such a vulnerable state. Sunday rarely ever exits his cabin after retiring to it for the night, certainly not after having changed… And definitely not to catch a late night nap in the party car.
Of course it isn’t exactly late on the Express, either, as it is presently drifting in between star systems and not stationed on any habitable planet… But Pom-Pom likes to keep the 24-hour simulated day and night cycle going even on intergalactic voyages, lest all the passengers’ circadian rhythm get thrown completely out of whack.
Somebody seems to have placed a blanket over Sunday’s shoulders - Pom-Pom, perhaps, maybe Himeko… Though upon second glance, judging by its teal color, it might actually belong to Dan Heng.
Clearly, whoever put it there did not have the heart to wake Sunday. Perhaps, they too stood here for a while in awe of his delicate form, overcome with tenderness for him, not wanting to ruin a precious moment, or to disturb him, to make him feel embarrassed for passing out in such a public space.
But precious only goes so far. Be it embarrassing or not… This is no place to get a good night’s sleep for a lad who has not yet gotten on far enough in years to ruin his back. There will be enough time for a sore spine in the years to come, Sunday, that’s for sure.
Letting out a soft sigh, Welt finally resolves to reach over, gently brushing his fingertips across one of Sunday’s little wings. The downy feathers feel soft against his skin; it almost makes him shiver.
“Sunny,” he says softly, not wanting to startle him awake.
No result. Sunday does not even stir, reacting to the touch with only the faintest twitch of his face.
“Sunday,” Welt says again, only a little louder, moving from gently brushing the wing to gently stroking the boy’s back. It feels so much like waking up a napping cat…
Sunday’s face scrunches up, his wings fluttering, momentarily pressing tighter against his eyes. He makes a little noise, a soft mrrh of a sound… But for a while it seems that he might yet not awaken. It shakes Welt’s resolve a bit, and he almost changes his mind about waking him, thinking that perhaps this is why whoever had covered him up let him sleep here after all.
Until exactly what he didn’t wish to happen indeed ends up coming true - Sunday awakens with a start, practically shooting up into a sitting position with a sharp inhale. His halo flickers briefly before finally settling into its usual glow, and as his wings come away from his face, the soft light reflects in his startled, widened eyes.
Still bleary with sleep, he looks around in a panic momentarily before settling his gaze on Welt’s face, his expression softening. At last, he seems to relax - and only once he has deflated does Welt realize that his wings had briefly puffed up a bit from the fright.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Welt says, raising his hands in apology, though his tone carries a tinge of amusement at just how often Sunday tends to resemble an actual little bird. “I didn’t mean to startle you awake, please don’t be alarmed.”
“Mr. Yang…” Sunday mutters, rubbing as his now mildly flushed face, his voice raspy with sleep. The blanket slips a little from his shoulders, and he reflexively reaches to pull it up before pausing and just staring at it, in apparently confused as to where it had come from.
“My apologies, I didn’t mean to-...” he starts, but Welt silences him immediately with a little wave of his hand before he can make it any further.
“Nonsense, stop it. The entirety of the Express is as open to you as it is to everyone else on board. If you wish to sleep in the party car, you are well within your right to… I simply thought that a bed might be more comfortable?” Welt keeps his tone mellow and soft, determined to convey that he isn’t so much scolding the lad as he is expressing concern for him and his comfort.
Sunday seems to understand what he means, though, as he sleepily nods, stifling a yawn. “Mhm…” He hums, quietly collecting his notebook and pen. He pulls the blanket tighter around his shoulders, hiding his hands in it as he holds the journal protectively against his chest, shuffling out from behind the table.
He trails after Welt quietly, and all ruffled up like this, he really resembles a little dove, or rather a duckling, the way he follows him towards the passenger car.
“What has got you out here this late, Sunshine? Is something the matter with your cabin?” Welt asks him, slowing his step to allow Sunday to catch up and then idly resting a hand on his lower back in a manner he hopes is comforting and casually affectionate.
Sunday just shrugs, shaking his head. “I couldn’t sleep… I didn’t want to be alone, so I thought I might venture out to have Mr. Shush keep me company… I must have lost track of the time.” He does not volunteer any more information, and Welt does not pry for it. How sad, though, he thinks, that the company of a robot bartender would be preferable to the privacy of one’s own private room, that he might find too lonesome. Or asking one of the Express’s night owls who would have surely been awake.
“What are you doing up this late?” Sunday asks him instead, rubbing sleepily at his face.
Welt laughs under his breath. “I got a little too immersed in building a model. I find it hard to turn my brain off when I get absorbed in something, so I thought I might venture out to find something to help me wind down for sleep. Seems I found you instead.”
Sunday says nothing in response. He stays quiet for a time, simply walking by Welt’s side, his slippers shuffling softly on the carpeted floor.
“Thank you,” he says after a while, seemingly apropos of nothing, when they reach the door to Welt’s cabin. “...For having my comfort in mind.” How precious he is. It tugs at Welt’s heart yet again.
“You don’t need to thank me. Is there anything I can do for you? Get you anything?” He leaves the question open ended, easy to politely dismiss.
“I’m okay, Mr. Yang. Thank you.”
Alas. Just as he had expected.
Welt gives Sunday a gentle smile, idling in front of his room as he watches him walk slowly towards his.
“I’ll probably be awake for a while longer if you change your mind.”
“Mhm.”
“Good night, Sunday.”
Welt’s just about to enter his own room to maybe at least lie down and read, if not sleep, when Sunday’s voice stops him in his tracks.
“Actually… Mr. Yang?” the little bird says, hesitantly.
Welt turns towards Sunday, seeing him standing in front of the door to his cabin, his hand on the door, hesitant. He’s looking at the floor, his feathers fluttering almost imperceptibly, and Welt could swear that even from a distance, he can see him blushing a little bit.
“Can I stay with you?” he asks, an almost uncharacteristically bold request. Welt can see him tense up, bracing for rejection.
He smiles at him, his heart softening. “Of course,” he assures him, before Sunday can change his mind or somehow psyche himself out of the whole thing. “I have a very large bed. And a creaky old spine, so we have made sure that it’s extra comfortable to sleep in. You might like it.”
This is a rather bold assumption - that in asking to stay with him, Sunday is not only asking to share his company, but his bed. For all he knows, Sunday may have wanted a simple chat, a little distraction before he would retire to his own cabin… But seeing that flustered face is emboldening Welt to go all in on this hunch.
Sunday catches his gaze - and when he reciprocates a little smile, Welt rests assured that he has indeed not gotten ahead of himself.
He opens the door, stepping aside in silent invitation. After you, he mouths.
Then, after Sunday has disappeared inside, Welt follows, the door closing quietly behind them.