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“Mx. Trailblazer,” Sunday speaks up and clears his throat. “May I ask why there are so many catcakes that resemble me stacked in the Party Car?”
They look up from the portable console they have acquired from a particularly overstimulating store in Duomension city. The ploos and their chirping still rings in Sunday’s ears, doubled and tripled via tuning. March was so kind to press her palms to his ears for a while when he spaced out too much, grounding him back in reality. How cruel the Phantasmoon’s gifts, how cruel the man who yearns for them.
“Oh, it isn’t just yours!” the Trailblazer says and gives him a thumbs up. “I caught my 13th Silver Wolf one yesterday, too.”
Sunday blinks.
“Ah, I see.”
“The Sundae Angelicas are all precious angels, though. That’s why it’s such a good idea to keep so many of them roaming around, they take care of all the others.”
The warmth stirring in his chest has become familiar. He has read the entry on the little creatures. Warm and patient. Warm and patient, as always. Is that how you see me?
“That’s wonderful to hear,” Sunday manages, eyes growing misty and voice faltering.
The Trailblazer walks over to ruffle his hair.
“Aw, Sunny, no need to cry. It’s a good thing.”
“It is.”
“Now that you mention it, maybe they are getting lonely, though. I should consider adding a couple friends to keep them company.”
The hint of mischief in their tone used to scare him so much more. They are silly, this one, seeking chaos and disorder, but Sunday knows their demeanor for what it is now. Levity to cover up, to ease the burden for everyone else. No matter the calamity slumbering within them, their heart beats only for a better future.
The next time Sunday walks through the Party Car he catches sight of the delightful creatures frolicking about again. Some of them come to greet him but this time only some of them sing their happy tunes. Half of the Sundae Angelicas have been relocated and the new creatures bounce towards him at much higher speeds. Their soft bodies bump into his legs.
Sunday laughs. He lifts one of them up into his arms, rubbing the top of its shell gently. Loud purrs erupt from within its squishy little body. A gentle creature, gold and teal and-
Sunday hesitates. What a strange development, what a twist of fate. Guilt has no time to take root before the catcake bumps its head into his palm, demanding more pets. It stretches far for love.
“Wow,” Shush says from the bar, its voice ever-chipper. “Those Honey Dice sure seem to roll in your favor, Passenger Sunday!”
The laugh track it plays to accompany it is grating enough for Sunday to scoot away towards the far corner of the room. Miss Himeko, wise as always, let him know that ignoring Shush is both alright and encouraged.
The mountain of catcakes greets him, too. All the Sundae Angelicas, sweet and lazy, have a Honey Dice with them. Sunday pets the creature in his hold absentmindedly, watching the rest of them preen and cuddle each other. He can’t pry his gaze away.
Next is a suspicious arrangement of pictures in the Trailblazer’s display area.
“We saved a slice of cake for you,” Dan Heng told him after dinner, smiling softly. “It’s in the fridge upstairs, make sure to get it before a ravenous raccoon devours it.”
Sunday has given up trying to tell them that this care isn’t necessary, isn’t deserved, is too much for someone like him. They don’t believe so and with every moment spent beside them he starts to agree. You’re as worthy of consideration as everyone else.
The Trailblazer is deeply immersed in a shooting game on their computer and Sunday leaves them to their devices after a short greeting. His target is the fridge, after all, and nothing else.
“Sunny, wanna watch me play?” they ask, suddenly.
Sunday sits down on the bed with his plate and lets them explain to him why their gun shoots bubbles and why the enemies they so bravely face all explode upon death. They go on and on but instead of zoning out he finds himself relaxing, wings and all. Shoulders slouched and posture skewed and it’s fine, it’s more than fine. Lemon lingers on his tongue.
“And that’s just the first map!” the Trailblazer says, gesturing wildly. “There’s a billion more! Can you believe that?”
“Unheard of.”
“Right?!”
In their flailing their hand brushes close to the framed pictures behind them. Sunday’s gaze follows their fingers only for his whole body to freeze up, spoon still between his lips.
It is his own face greeting him, selfies and snapshots and group pictures from the last months. Instead of the original photo’s subjects his likeness has been cut out and lovingly arranged to mingle with a second person.
“Oh, do you like it?” the Trailblazer asks without a hint of shame. “I was making collages and your color schemes match so well. Look, the one with your new earrings next to his magazine cover-“
Sunday stares at the many images of himself beside the man he sentenced to death so casually. A bluff, perhaps, or that terrible cocktail of grief and vindication and superiority. Winning never felt so terrible. In hindsight, his own glee was a sickness.
“I,” Sunday starts and swallows the bite of cake still on his tongue, “am not sure I follow.”
The Trailblazer nods sagely.
“’tis a lonesome fate, to be an artist such as I.”
“This was… a thought experiment of sorts?”
“Sure, let’s call it that!”
“Have you conducted any with other friends of yours?”
“Soooo many,” the Trailblazer says, laughing so boisterous their chair spins with their zeal. “Billions, even. I conducted thorough research. It is almost embarrassing how much. Ludicrous amounts. This is only the last in a long line of-“
Sunday chuckles, as much as his chest feels tight with guilt.
“Consider me thoroughly reassured and impressed.’
“Do you mind?”
And it is so genuine a question, their fingers worrying the zipper of their hoodie. Sunday couldn’t get angry if he tried. Whatever their reasons, they mean well. There is no harm in playing their game.
“I don’t think I do,” he says. “I support your artistic endeavors.”
“You’re the best. I don’t even have to bribe you with more cake!”
“Yeah, I’m not sure what kind of scheme they’re cooking up,” March says and tries a jigsaw piece on the left edge of the puzzle. “But it seems harmless. My best guess is they’re trying to desensitize you in case we run into Aventurine on our next Trailblaze.”
Sunday blinks.
“I would be able to stay professional regardless of our history.”
“Yeah, see, that’s all business-like and nice and all, but I think the goal is something more friendly than that. If you ask me, don’t force yourself to get along with someone you can’t stand. We’ll manage.”
“I-“
“And don’t start telling me you won’t be a burden or get in the way, this is about you being comfortable, okay? Because you’re one of us and our friend. So there.”
Sunday closes his mouth, wings puffed out to the sides of his face. What is there to say to March’s incredible observations? She places a puzzle piece on a pile of others matching its pattern.
“I fear very little,” he says, “knowing you have my back.”
March lights up visibly.
“That’s right, I do! So no matter what any IPC bigwig tries to do, you can count on me!”
Sunday laughs. Before him lays a piece with the pattern she is looking for so he lifts it up and adds it to the pile.
“They are quaking in their boots, I imagine.”
“As they should!”
They continue for a while, sipping their bubble teas and assembling the abstract interpretation of a cycrane. Wings blue and starry, its head adorned with blotches of red. The background has them stumped the longest, repeating mosaic triangles.
“I don’t think I dislike him,” Sunday speaks up again eventually with his hands folded on his lap. “We clashed, but…”
March sips her drink.
“But?”
“Part of me hopes it was not personal so that we may reconcile now that we are no longer on opposing sides.”
“Aw. I’m sure that won’t be a problem. The guy loves the Express, it’s all he ever talks about. So now that you’re one of us he’ll be besties with you in no time.”
Sunday gathers his cup between his palms.
“A civil relationship is all I ask. I did hurt him quite badly.”
“And he hurt you and you’re willing to bury the hatchet, right?”
“I suppose so.”
March taps his forehead.
“You worry so much,” she says. “How it could go horribly. Have you ever allowed yourself to think about how well it could go instead? How about we make up some really cool scenarios?”
The thought finds Sunday when he snuggles into bed that night. It is a childish thing, nesting, but wrapping himself up in comfort and spreading out his wings brings such an all-consuming buzz of pleasure in his restless brain. Safesafesafe, it sings. He buries his face in the pillow.
The Aventurine in his imagination is cautious but open-minded.
“Mr. Sunday,” he’d say, that charming lilt to his voice. “What a surprise. One of the Nameless, now? Fate sure is strange.”
Neutral. No hostility. Sunday’s heart beats a little faster. How indulgent, to wish for such easy forgiveness. Absolving himself. But thoughts are only thoughts. He lets them wander, for once, emboldened by March’s sweet encouragement. This isn’t hurting anyone.
“I would like to apologize,” he imagines himself saying. “I was cruel during our last meeting. I am glad to see you safe and sound and I hope you have recovered well.”
Maybe Aventurine would be surprised. Sunday hugs a pillow to his chest. The worries say, Mr. Sunday, do you really think an apology can make things better?
“Intriguing,” he imagines Aventurine might say instead. “Apology accepted. I do always like making new friends.”
Friends would be an excellent thing to be, Sunday thinks as he drifts off. Far away from that needless cruelty, far away from gilded cages.
“Passenger Sunday, there is a package for you!” Pom-Pom informs him, tugging on his sleeve. “Take a break from cleaning and see what it is!”
Their initial smugness over such a cleanly passenger has faded into concern whenever Sunday spends too much time with the chores. They chastise and remind him so gently to take his medication and drink water and sit down for a while to chat to rest his legs.
Sunday blinks.
“A package? I am not expecting anything.”
“Pom-Pom thinks one of the other passengers may have ordered it in your name! It has the Star Rail Fest logo printed on the side.”
The name rings a bell. In his quest to end Fulwish’s cult Sunday has not spared much time exploring Duomension City but the others gushed about the grand exhibition. Fans of the Nameless. Himeko showed him the little dove standing in for him just yesterday. Small and innocent and lovable. It stirs a mix of emotions in him, something wistful and bittersweet.
“I ordered a bit of everything,” the Trailblazer explains the second he gets anywhere close to the package. “To celebrate your inclusion in the Fluffy, Sunny! People loooove Sun Dove online, you don’t even know the half of it.”
They show him the pins and stickers and shirts, the towels and plates and figurines. The cartoon dove carrying his halo and cloak seems so happy where he is amidst friends. He fits in so well, that little bird, proud to spread his wings and joking along with the merry band of misfits.
“And then,” the Trailblazer interrupts his wandering thoughts of awe, “there’s all the fancomics and art and writing-“
The bottom of the box is entirely filled out with prints. On top of the stack rests a drawing of Sun Dove making tea for all of its friends, laser-focused on picking their favorite flavors. Next to it he spots what looks like handwritten letters covered in stickers.
“That is very kind,” Sunday says quietly. “Thank you. It truly means a lot.”
The Trailblazer’s eyes widen for a moment and there is a shred of guilt there, poorly hidden, before they settle back into an easygoing grin.
“Yeah, no worries. You’d never go seek this kinda stuff out on your own so someone had to step in and rectify that.”
Sunday smiles.
“It’s good to be thought of in this way, especially knowing there is no ulterior motive involved.”
“Uh.”
“It is a trust I struggled to give for a long time.”
“Um-“
“I feel safe in that knowledge, finally.”
“Alright, alright,” the Trailblazer squeaks and buries their face in their hands. “I may also have put some other surprises in there. I swear it’s nothing horrible! And you don’t have to keep it!”
Sunday chuckles.
“I do really appreciate the thought.”
“Whew! Guilt-tripping me into exposing my schemes… Well-played. Hug to make up, Sunny?”
They squeeze him so tight he can barely breathe but it is a comforting certainty. I’m not made of glass. I’m alright.
He forgets about the contents of the box for the rest of the day. So much else to do, from helping Dan Heng in the archives to playing chess with Mr. Yang. Only as he bids goodnight to them does the package enter his thoughts again.
Sunday passes it by once, twice, but not a third time. Cleaned and in his pajamas he gives in, settling down atop his bed to investigate this scheme.
The sight of peacock feathers still comes as a surprise.
“Remind you of someone?” General Yao Guang asked him when his gaze lingered on the Skyplume a moment longer than necessary. “I know that look.”
It isn’t like that, he had meant to protest. And it isn’t, in the end, as much as it is. To wish for a reunion and regretting the past needs no further context to be yearning.
Not every other piece of merchandise features Aventurine. The Fluffy seems to not have given him an official stand-in yet so none of the licensed products feature a charming peacock or smug fox. Perhaps a cat, Sunday muses, all of them fit Aventurine well.
The fanworks agree. Sun Dove is swept away by a charming magician, a suave pirate, or the elusive director of a megacorporation. Regardless of the shape Aventurine takes, Sun Dove and him seem horribly smitten no matter where fate takes them. The illustrations are imbued with so much love, every last panel wishing so much joy upon them.
Those that feature them in their human forms spark an ache in Sunday’s chest.
“Mr. Aventurine,” one of the versions of him, drawn in watercolor, says. “Would you grant me the honor of a dance?”
Many others are less bold. Some Sundays react bashful and flustered, their feathers always drawn with precious care. Some others are wary or uncertain, needing time (and pages) to warm up to the idea of making amends in a personal manner.
All Aventurines are gorgeous. Sunday traces one page with his pointer finger, following the line of that billowing coat, the shape of a coin cradled in clever hands.
“Pretty bird,” the Aventurine dancing with the boldest Sunday whispers. “Take a chance with me.”
It stirs a memory in his mind.
Most handsome man in Penacony.
Robin’s subtle reaction may as well have been a yelp to those closest to her. It makes him smile now, to think of how hopeful she must have been for his potential prospects. Sunday makes a mental note to include an explanation in his next letter. It rest, half-penned, on his otherwise so orderly table.
Sunday imagines something braver this time. A hand extended, inviting contact. Aventurine’s fingers in his, interlaced, intertwined.
He buries his face in his pillow. How strange it feels, how nice. Butterflies in his stomach, a restless kind of excitement. It’s not proper to wish for this without having done the work to earn it. An apology is needed and so is a long talk, so is establishing something new on the ashes of the old.
Sunday still imagines how Aventurine would kiss his hand, how they would sway together to a serene song. So close, chest to chest, a warm palm on his waist.
He squeezes his eyes shut, wings flapping helplessly. It can’t be put back into the box now. The thought is there, the wish for a resolution much too sweet for so bitter a story.
“Please don’t hate me,” Sunday mumbles to himself. “That’s more important than anything beyond.”
The movie night comes to an end and by now all the popcorn has been devoured and all nails painted. March insists first and it is a convenient excuse for Sunday to join.
“I’ve done Robin’s makeup and hair before,” he explains.
I miss it, goes unsaid.
So he braided Dan Heng’s hair, so he applied a cleansing mask to the Trailblazer’s much too animated face. When it is his turn to get his feathers cared for, Sunday falls into a pleasant daze almost instantaneously. He lets his body melt into the Trailblazer’s giant bed. A floating, unconditional peace.
The door opens eventually and someone else joins the room. A voice, familiar, commenting on his relaxed state and comfortable sleepwear. March replies, unbothered. Not an intruder. A friend, then. Sunday drifts off, imagining the teal in handsome plumage.
“If we end up heading for Astropolis, will you be alright?”
Himeko’s concern has grown from a rarity to a comforting constant. Sunday smiles.
“I will be, yes. The Trailblazer’s attempts at desensitizing me have had the desired effect. Whatever awaits, I will make amends.”
He is eager now to see it through. Giddy to get a chance to set things right and sow the seeds for a better tomorrow. It won’t be as easy as it is on those painted pages but it will happen, certainly, it has to. His wings flutter.
Himeko regards him with a pride that has Sunday squirm in place.
“You’ve come so far,” she says. “Look at you now. Whatever awaits, I know we can handle it together.”
I love them so much, Sunday notes in the letter that still feels unfinished. I feel guilty sometimes for how at home I feel here, as though I am betraying you and mom and even Gopher Wood. You were never the issue, you knew to leave that cage long before I did. I just wish it was easier for us, too.
He isn’t certain whether to leave it. She would like to know, he thinks, those notes in the margins he crossed out in those years apart.
I have been thinking about Mr. Aventurine a lot, he adds in another section, color-coded in green. Since we might meet again in Astropolis. What do you think of him?
The Robin in the fanworks resting securely in his room is always supportive, always smiling, always excited for him in his endeavors. Sunday clicks the pen once, then again, then again.
Aventurine makes his merry way into Sunday’s dreams, too. There he is, waltzing into a masked ball or a restaurant or simply a stretch of beach with all the confidence in the world.
“You don’t need to pretend for me,” Dream-Sunday tells him.
Real Sunday wakes up with his heart beating out of his chest. A step too far? A fantasy too indulgent? Is the worry itself a childish misgiving?
The cruelest parts of him know there is a lot to dislike. Dealbreakers, hindrances. Sun Dove has fewer compulsions, fewer edges. A round and gentle thing. No hangups, no panicked irrationalities.
Sunday spreads his wings out with a sigh once more. Creating a million facsimiles grants the truth little room. The bedsheets are soft, still, and the nest endures. No future is set in stone.
“I appreciate it, by the way,” Sunday says before they disembark, sunglasses pushed up into his hair. “It has helped put my mind at ease.”
The Trailblazer laughs a bit too loud.
“Ah, yeah, of course, any time, for, uh-“
“You were worried about me,” he presses. “About our possible meeting with Mr. Aventurine and how I might overthink it instead of seeing it as an opportunity.”
They nod sheepishly, their bottle of sunscreen still in hand.
“Yeah, I mean, you had a pretty bad falling out, right? I only know the gist of it but it seemed rough.”
“I am not proud of how I conducted myself, no.”
“He also tore a hole into the sky of your home, to be fair.”
“There is, indeed, also that.”
“Anyway, we’re all friends,” they continue and shrug. “So I’d just like you to get along. You’ve got a lot in common. All of Star Rail Fest definitely agreed. I didn’t even give you any of the porn but whoa are people enthusiastic about you two.”
Sunday clears his throat.
“Do you know how Mr. Aventurine feels about all this? Would he be comfortable with your decorations and all this… enthusiasm?”
The Trailblazer flicks one of his wings.
“You have to ask him that yourself, silly. That’s the whole point, isn’t it? If I tell you how it’s going to end you can’t make it your own story.”
“Alright,” Sunday says and can’t help the smile, again, as it tends to happen these days. “I will do my best to create something unique to me.”
“That’s the spirit, Sunny! Now, how many pudding tarts do I need to give you to convince you to play volleyball with me?!”
“Fewer than you may fear.”
Astropolis brims with summer charm. Commercialized, yes, with every corner boasting merchandise and tourist traps and promises of unforgettable experiences. However, the beautiful beaches and pools are more than real, the perfect weather and light breeze. Sunday sips on a cold soda on a stroll through the crowd. The vending machines chose for him, dropping a random drink into his hands. Orange flavor. Only now, cradling it already, does he spot the many billboards featuring it in Aventurine’s hands. That charming smile looms over most of the resort.
A message on his phone lets him know where to regroup for ice cream with the other Nameless later. He sends a bird giving a thumbs up and chuckles to himself at the many surprised and delighted reactions. Sunny’s using emojis now?
The summer sun warms his skin. Closer to the malls and attractions the seasalt breeze is mild but still lingers in every breath. Sunscreen and sweet soda and it all lulls his mind into a lovely relaxed stupor. Taking a breath, letting it go.
The flash of cameras in the distance draws him closer. Penacony lingers, too, no matter how far away the Express may take him. Sunday ducks under the leaves of a palm tree and emerges on the other side to freeze in place.
Aventurine wears the rays of that pleasant summer sun as effortlessly as any spotlight. His elegant suit has been replaced with something casual- shorts that expose toned legs and an open shirt that lets Sunday get more than a glimpse of his chest. No wonder the cameras chase him, no wonder every brand in Astropolis clamors to use his likeness. Every accessory is so carefully chosen, bracelets and a necklace and patterned golden sashes. Aventurine laughs, effortless and endlessly beautiful, locked in conversation with one of the Personal Assistants instead of the director. They’re on break, it seems.
Sunday stares, hands clammy, his heart beating in his throat. Hope is a powerful drug. To hope, in vain, that Aventurine will turn and notice him on his own. To hope that, any second now, a magic opportunity will arise.
But isn’t this already it, Sunday asks himself, isn’t this already a twist of fate in your favor?
And the Nameless do not stand idly by and watch as choices pass them by. The Nameless don’t duck away from that which is worth pursuing, may it be a grand legacy or a matter of the heart.
“Mr. Aventurine,” Sunday calls out.
Aventurine does turn, eyebrows raised. Parts of his hair has been dyed a light blue and braided. Cute, so cute. Approachable in a way that the posters and memories could never hold a candle to.
Sunday takes another few steps closer, tries for a smile. It all comes out shaky but determined, he hopes, proof of sincerity without that layer of cold that always kept him apart from the world. I want to live. I want to meet you there.
“I was looking for you,” Sunday says. “Hoping I could get a chance to speak to the most handsome man in Astropolis.”
His voice falters halfway through. A bold step, foolish and reckless. Not rehearsed, not planned, not anything but the heartfelt wish.
Aventurine’s eyes go wide. For a moment Sunday imagines there is a flush on his face, something flustered and bashful.
Someone within the group of people behind Aventurine calls out to him, too. The next shoot scheduled, the next round of pictures.
Time stretches on. Every blink becomes three.
“You shouldn’t be here,” Aventurine says, decisive.
Another demand for him to return to work from the crowd. A crease in his brow. Fear, of all things?
Sunday feels only cold. He nods, smiling politely.
“I apologize for the intrusion.”
Halfway down the road is when he lets his heart shatter as it so badly wants to. Stupid, Sunday chastises himself. Embarrassing, childish, pathetic, greedy idiot. What did you think that was going to accomplish?
The soda tastes too bitter to continue drinking it. The joyful day suddenly skews into grey as the maelstrom takes a hold of him. That vicious spiral always starts with shame.
You wrote yourself an absolution, you granted yourself a mercy you don’t deserve.
He sends a quick message to the group chat, stomach hurting at the thought of celebrating now. A few worried replies are too much and he hastens to the Express, to a shelter, to where he can wrap his wings around himself and ride our the horrid squirming mortification.
“It was not even a hostile rejection,” Sunday mutters to himself. “You surprised him. Of course he would feel cornered. Showing up out of the blue, saying something so horribly inappropriate, what was he supposed to reply?”
“Passenger Sunday, I thought you were going to be out with the others until evening?”
Sunday, squeezed into the corner of one of the red seats, looks up. One look speaks volumes. The conductor waddles over and hops up to sit next to him. Their little paw rests on his leg.
“Did something happen?”
Don’t trouble yourself with this, I will be fine, it is my burden-
“My attempted reunion with Mr. Aventurine did not go how I expected,” Sunday says, swallowing down all of that which he has fought tooth and nail to grow past. “Not in the sense that I had a set sequence of events I wished for, but rather… I may have said something foolish and he responded by telling me that I shouldn’t be there.”
Pom-Pom’s little face scrunches up in a frown.
“That is quite rude of him.”
“I’m not certain it was. He did not seem angry.”
“Could it have been a misunderstanding?”
“I hope so,” Sunday admits, wringing his hands until his rings click together. “But he was called back to work and I left to respect his wishes, or at least what I thought they were. Perhaps it was an overreaction.”
The little paw pats pats pats on his knee.
“There is plenty of time to clear things up. If your heart is in the right place you can always find a way to express it.”
And the ugly coil of terror dissolves much more easily these days. It still happens, it will always happen, but the spikes are not waves. They back down, they stay down. Sunday smiles.
“Thank you, conductor.”
“Get some rest now. It takes a lot out of you.”
Weak weak weak breaking down from such a little thing, burdening all those around you with your crazy irrational lunacies.
“It does,” Sunday admits and sighs. “Please tell the others not to worry when they return, I will be laying down for a while but I would like to join everyone for the movie night later still.”
Pom-Pom nods, satisfied.
“Good. If you need anything, Pom-Pom will be in the Parlor Car sweeping.”
“Please also remember to take breaks, conductor.”
The letter on the table is not yet finished. I fucked up so bad, Sunday imagines writing and the thought makes him laugh. So bad!!! Or maybe not. Yet to be determined. Your brother may be an idiot, Robin.
It wouldn’t translate well on the page. In fantasy, however, he relished the thought. Sillier, unburdened words. Dropping every formal phrase. Maybe one day.
Sunday removes his shirt, leaving only the undershirt so his flight wings can extend again. They have healed so well. Soft even plumage. He hasn’t torn any in months.
“It will be okay,” he whispers and lays down on his side, hugging one of the large heavy pillows to his chest. “It wasn’t a death sentence. It wasn’t an apocalypse.”
Sunday tries to imagine nothing this time. No fixed paths, no predetermined opportunities. The next attempt will be better and less impulsive and respectful.
Aventurine, irreverent as ever, does not care even in fantasies.
“Clumsy, aren’t you?” he might comment. “I thought you would be a threat but look at you now. You’ve fallen far, haven’t you?”
Deserved, perhaps. Sunday dozes off unsure.
A knock on the door stirs Sunday from his nap. Slow and sluggish he lifts his head. His phone lights up with a message, joining the other 27 missed notifications. The clock tells him it has been two hours.
“Yes?” he asks. “Come in.”
Hesitation. Then, light streams into his room. A silhouette obscured by shadow until they step forward, closing the door behind them.
“Did I wake you up?”
Sunday blinks at the Aventurine in the middle of his room. Handsome, dazzling, carrying the scent of the sea with him. A little wearier far away from the cameras, a little less polished. A long day.
You shouldn’t be here, Sunday almost says. Wide eyes, his flight wings still spread out on the bedding. The exposed skin on his hands burns but his gloves still rest folded on top of his jacket and shirt. Everything so blurry, exposed, fragile.
“Sorry if I did,” Aventurine continues, shifting his weight from one leg to the other. “I wanted to talk. Like you said earlier.”
There is a tension in his voice, a tightness to his movement. Tuning tugs and screams at Sunday to take a peek, to slip so seamlessly into Aventurine’s hidden thoughts, to know and soothe and help. He forces his halo still.
“I would like that,” Sunday says. “I apologize for the way I put you on the spot, too.”
Aventurine studies him.
“Do you want to wake up and get ready? I can wait, unless you’d like to stay here.”
Half of a joke, deflecting, delaying. Sunday glances at his nest, wings flapping once. Bold and brave Nameless.
“You may sit, if you’re comfortable,” he offers and pats his bed.
And there it is again, that wide-eyed flushed surprise. Aventurine wears it so well. Few of the painted images ever tried for this, this shyness, this blatant vulnerability, but Sunday finds himself wishing to coax it out again and again.
Aventurine does sit down, never backing away from a challenge. His eyes stay glued to Sunday, appraising him halo to feather.
“Looked like I broke your heart back there, Mr. Sunday,” he says.
Sunday curls his hands into the blanket.
“It would be a lie If I told you it did not hurt but that does not mean my behavior was appropriate.”
He startles as a finger tugs on a strand of his hair, pushing it back into place. Aventurine’s eyes are bright even in the dim light. Oh, hope is so addicting.
“See,” he starts and clears his throat. “Appropriate or not, I liked it. You caught me off guard.”
“But-“
“I was going to tell you to meet somewhere safer. I couldn’t believe you just appeared in the middle of an IPC stronghold like that, what were you thinking?”
The fear was for me, Sunday knows without a doubt, suddenly. Oh, Aventurine.
“Not much,” he replies, still wavering halfway, “except wishing to reconcile with the most handsome man in Astropolis.”
Aventurine laughs, his hand touched to his lips. A startled little joyful sound. The skin around his eyes crinkles as he does. Any camera wishes it could catch this.
“Showing up like that,” he says, terribly fond. “All determined and sweet. What’s a guy to do with that, hm?”
“Like it, I suppose, as I’ve been told.”
“I suppose so.”
“I’m glad,” Sunday says and shifts his wings. “In truth, I was… I was hoping to meet you again under much more pleasant circumstances than the last time.”
“Would you say that is what happened?”
“Would you like it to be?”
Aventurine leans back. His hands are not steady, either, fidgeting every once in a while. Beautiful hands, at that, elegant and crafty. Do you play guitar, Sunday wants to ask. Do you paint or sculpt or craft?
“I came here a while ago to try and do the same,” Aventurine admits. “But you were asleep. Lost my nerve and left.”
Sunday sits up straighter. The wings beside his face flutter until they show up in his periphery.
“When was this?! No one told me.”
“I asked them not to. It was when you all had a sleepover, I didn’t want to- It wasn’t the right time.”
You thought you didn’t belong.
“I would have liked for you to be there,” Sunday says. “We are both friends of the Trailblaze. You are always welcome.”
A hand rests on his thigh. Aventurine hasn’t removed it, makes no indication he will. They inch closer, second by second.
“You are more than a friend of the Nameless now, aren’t you?” he asks with a smirk. “It suits you much better than those stuffy halls in Penacony, if you ask me.”
“And I think leisure suits you better than stress, too, Mr. Aventurine.”
“Ah, I wouldn’t exactly call these endless shoots leisure.”
“But this is, hopefully,” Sunday says and places his hand atop Aventurine’s. “You should stay for dinner.”
The Express crew’s eyes are as big as saucers seeing them appear in the kitchen together. The questions will arrive at a later time, March and the Trailblazer shaking with excitement and anticipation. For this evening, they continue as usual.
Aventurine, always polite and accommodating, helps with the cooking and setting the table and the cleanup as well. Only as the last dish is sorted away does he slump against the counter for a moment.
“You look exhausted,” Sunday says. “I would like to help, will you allow me?”
What exhilarating power, to be given this trust. Aventurine lets himself become putty in his hands. Sunday brushes his hair after a shower and massages his shoulders and only as his own hands get tired does he pull Aventurine into his bed.
“That’s a new one,” Aventurine mumbles, seeking warm skin against his. “Usually in those comics we don’t fall into bed on the first date.”
Sunday snorts.
“How many have you read?”
“Lost count.”
“Do you have a favorite?”
“Gonna have to think about it,” Aventurine mumbles and presses his face against Sunday’s shoulder. “This one’s pretty good though.”
“I’d have to agree.”
And perhaps they skipped a few steps, important ones, stumbling over their own feet in haste and curiosity. What a thrill it is, having Aventurine here and alive and real, his warm body only a breath away. Sunday nuzzles into Aventurine’s shoulder. He smells clean and fresh, his skin still flushed.
“Do you have one?”
“Hm?”
“Do you have a favorite?” Aventurine asks and there is uncertainty in it, a tentative honesty. “That friend of yours supplied you with plenty, too, I’d imagine?”
The thought of a package arriving at Pier Point sends Sunday into a fit of giggles.
“I liked all of them,” he admits. “Did your colleagues see any?”
“Oh, they have not let me live it down since.”
“There is something I want to show you tomorrow.”
“Oh?”
“All their meddling,” Sunday laughs. “Now that I know you might appreciate it too it seems so much more entertaining.”
Aventurine cards his fingers through Sunday’s hair.
“Looking forward to it, angel.”
All of the Sundae Angelicas hop up the stairs trying to follow Aventurine.
“I will be back with you in a moment,” he promises only to be swarmed again. “Darlings, please, dear Sunday wants to show me something-“
“To drown in catcakes is to die happy,” Dan Heng comments from one of the couches. “Or so I was told.”
“Are they always-“
“-this clingy? No, only with you.”
Sunday watches it all unfold from the top of the stairs.
"Usually they require bribes to get attached."
Aventurine has a look in his eyes that betrays the gears turning in his head, the many possible offerings he could consider. You don't need to do that, Sunday will insist when they are alone again. You having money never was integral to your appeal, Aventurine. There's no need to spend that much.
For now he beckons Aventurine along to the wall covered in pictures of them, cut apart from their unlikely circumstances to reunite under kinder stars.
"Oh, this is horrifying," Aventurine says with awe in his voice. "Very sweet but also horrifying."
"Like a serial killer's lair."
"Yes! Exactly that. A serial killer who loves us very much."
"They have mentioned you enjoy those types of movie quite a bit, Mr. Aventurine, is that true?"
Aventurine bats his lashes at Sunday.
"It may be."
"I do not handle scares well," Sunday tells him. "However, if someone were to hold my hand, perhaps I would be able to endure."
"Lucky you. I know just the man for the job."
Sunday takes pause as he sorts through the stack of merchandise that Aventurine has received. Comics upon comics and art upon art and yet none of them have the full picture.
"Different selection?" Aventurine asks, peeking over his shoulder. "We can trade if you like. Sharing is caring, right?"
"That is very kind of you."
"What's on your mind, songbird?"
"They are snippets of what could be," Sunday muses. "Simplified facets of everything that we are. If we were to be split up into every component of ourselves then each of them may contain at least one of us.”
“Like grains of sand.”
“It is quite overwhelming to think about.”
The pressure of a gentle touch weaves around his middle, an arm secured around his waist. So careful, on the ride to Pier Point and every time after. The jitters have not left them quite yet, the is this real? Can we have this?
“No one ever has the full picture, I don't think,” Aventurine says and squeezes Sunday tight. “Not even you or me. And that's alright.”
“Did you ever wonder if you could live up to the image on the page?”
“Hah. Breaking out the tough questions already? We haven't even had dinner yet.”
They make something from scratch, old-fashioned, creating with their own hands. Some of that horrid ache dissipates just by cutting vegetables in tiny pieces. Aventurine doesn't ask why Sunday needs different gloves to handle separate things, why he likes all ingredients separated first before adding them all together. Everything in its place.
“Is that something you're worried about?” Aventurine asks when the knives are all in line. “That Sun Dove the cartoon character doesn't have OCD but you do?”
Sunday laughs, the itch quieted, the flutter in his wings returned.
“It sounds silly when you say it like that.”
“None of those comics know what happened to my family. Do you think I'm worse for the things they didn't depict?”
And as confident as he starts, Aventurine always does put on a grand show for himself most of all. Sunday turns to face him, to regard him with all the affection he has. Shoo away that glimmer of am I not good enough?
“I much prefer the full picture.”
"Exactly. I know everything there will ever be to know about Sun Dove. Sunday, however..."
Aventurine rests his head on Sunday's shoulder.
"He's mysterious," he continues. "Cute and bold and easily flustered. There's so much I don't know about him yet but that's the exciting part, isn't it?"
Every grain of sand an open door. Every facet, unexplored, an invitation. That too is Trailblazing, is making a choice he won't regret. We can try everything everything everything together. We can decide what sticks and doesn't. No path is more righteous than another.
"Oh, you're getting lost in that pretty head again," Aventurine murmurs. "I can tell."
Sunday laughs and nuzzles his hand.
"I have been told that is something I do, yes."
"How do I pull you back, hm?"
"Just like this," Sunday says. "You are very good at it already."
"I've always commanded your attention, hm?"
From Penacony to the months between to Astropolis, from slightly longer than necessary emails to the thoughts before falling asleep. Sunday hums.
"Once upon a time I might have said 'regrettably'."
"The feeling was very mutual, Mr. Sunday."
Sunday turns in his arms, cupping Aventurine's face only to feel it grow warm under his palms immediately. Searching his eyes, caressing his jaw.
"Is this?" he asks, smiling.
Aventurine nods, shaky and delayed. Another grain, carefully added and assembled.
In one story they write for themselves, they go to a record store together. Aventurine browses through vinyls and old video tapes and with every last one he explains in too much detail Sunday's heart grows a little fonder.
Sometimes Aventurine wears reading glasses.
"Helps me focus," he'll say and show them off, grinning wide. "And you like them too, don't you?"
Sunday does. Sunday likes the dimples when he laughs and the furrow in his brow when he gets stuck, if only for a moment, on a crossword puzzle.
In another story they lay in bed together, on the Express or in Pier Point, sipping cocktails garnished with mint they grew on a windowsill.
"Sleepiest bird," Aventurine chuckles, running his fingers through Sunday's hair. "Are you making up for lost time?"
The phrase echoes in the dates they have, the touches they allow themselves, the mercy granted to their worst days. Bake a cake they never had time for before. Buy a plushie, ride a fancy motorbike down a long highway sharing a seat until Aventurine's heart in front of him beats for them both.
The bakery's door opens with a lovely jingle. Sunday looks up from the croissant dough he was folding so diligently to greet the customer with a bright smile.
"Mr. Aventurine, I have your order ready."
The man that saunters in hops onto the counter without a second thought, pulling Sunday in for a kiss by his apron.
"What am I today, songbird?"
"You are a very cool math teacher," Sunday informs him. "All of your students adore you."
Aventurine kisses him again. He wears his tie a little wonky and his cardigan sports a giant picture of a cactus.
"And what does the pretty baker who remembers my order think?"
"He is a bit shy," Sunday says and can't help the laugh as he is peppered in kisses. "He will ask for your number, soon, though, if you keep appearing in his shop."
In the next dream he conjures for them they might be pirates on the high seas or knights in a decisive battle. Something mundane, something fantastical. Who has time for nightmares when there are stories to tell?
Aventurine wakes up laughing some days, blessed days, when they get to spend the night together.
"Catboys? Really, dove?"
Sunday notes it down as a success. Coax some more laughter from that well of sorrow, alleviate some of that heavy burden.
The Trailblazer gasps as Sunday leaves his room, bag slung over his shoulder.
"Sunny! That's your cosplay?"
"Mhmm."
"And is-"
"Yes, he is," Aventurine says, emerging from behind Sunday. "Adorable, aren't we?"
Immediately upon entering the event venue people emerge from the crowd to take pictures with them. March, proud of her handiwork, makes sure to show off every little detail in the design.
"I didn't do everything," she tells an enraptured fan from Belobog. "But I painted the halo!"
It suits Aventurine well, bronze spokes and blue wings. He fidgets with his headwings at times and the stricter constraints of his suit. Sunday brushes his fingers over his shoulders, soothing.
"A bit stuffy, isn't it?"
"I don't know how you wore this all the time, doll, I'm dying. Center line, trouser creases..."
"I have to admit this is very comfortable," Sunday says and flips a coin only to drop it between a few stalls. "Oh. Well."
The hat sits skewed on his head and the red-tinted sunglasses don't sit properly on his face because his own wings keep flapping in excitement. A bit out of place, a bit unusual. He fixes his shorter gloves and heavy bracelets.
"If you get cold, let me know," Aventurine sing-songs next to him. "With the cutout you have to be a careful. I packed an extra coat and scarf just in case."
Sunday kisses his cheek.
"My hero."
They continue down the artist aisles hand in hand.
The wall on the Trailblazer's room gains a few new pictures, none of them glued together. Friends, old and new, smiling at the camera together. Sunday and Aventurine remain part of the whole, remain a constant on this journey starward.