Chapter Text
6.2 weeks, 44 days, or 1056 hours: the amount of time Sunday has been on the Astral Express to begin his new lease on life after—well. The very short stint of godhood and its repercussions.
If anyone asks him how he's feeling up to this point, a variation on ‘I am doing all right, thank you’ would be his reply and the inquiring crew member would leave it at that, satisfied with his honesty.
Things are truly all right, Sunday tells himself. The train is wildly different from Penacony, calm and cozy.
There's no danger. Well, maybe Himeko’s coffee could count if she was feeling particularly experimental that day, but that barely classifies as a real threat.
Nothing gnaws on his being here, like time's running out, or someone was watching his every move. The heaviest thing he's had to do so far was to stop March from smuggling a third slice of cake to her room after dinner. Truthfully, he almost gave in thanks to March’s talent for puppy dog eyes, but he won in the end after a stern lecture of valuing one's health.
Yes, that was his life now, calm and cozy; coexisting in a suspension of space and stars with the people he once saw as adversaries. He thought there would be more push-back on him being here, but peace and laughter surrounded him as he is treated no less than an actual crew member.
What he did to deserve this, he has no idea. He still waits for the day the rug is pulled out from under him, because he can never really just enjoy the good things for himself.
That is probably the root of his current predicament.
It's late, all the day's duties have been fulfilled, and time for rest was due.
Sunday wasn't having any of it.
He left his room some time ago when silently staring at his ceiling wasn't going to help him find sleep, ending up on the party car’s barstool, nursing a drink with faraway focus. It certainly was not on Shush who was laying on bad joke after bad joke to his audience.
He sighs at the pitiful attempt to drag his mind away from the guilt that rises every so often, haunting even his slumber. All he can hear coalesces into grating, dissonant static, and the late night drinking doesn't help him forget like he thought it would.
The tourists in Penacony made it look so easy, for alcohol to wash away your troubles until all that remained was happiness. He must not be that type of drunk, he realizes. Or, some intrinsic, self-flagellating part of himself won't allow him to forget.
How miserable.
About to order his second cocktail thinking that would be enough for him to black out, the subtle whirr of the car door has him freezing.
Sunday now understands how March felt when he caught her with that cake. He feels like a criminal, somehow, even though having a drink was a perfectly acceptable way to wind down. Funny that even now, he clings onto maintaining the image of pristine, viceless propriety.
Before he even sees who’s discovered him, a thousand excuses run through the foreground of his brain, searching for the best one to dispel any allegations of alcoholism. It's not when the understanding warmth of Welt's gold eyes and soothing timbre of his voice does his mental gymnastics cease.
“Oh. Good evening, Sunday. Didn't expect to see you here.” No malice, no judgement, just pleasant surprise coloring the man’s tone.
“Good evening to you as well, Mr. Yang.” Out of all the people to find him like this, he's glad it's him.
Welt Yang. The reason why he's aboard the Express. He'll only admit this to himself, but he's also the reason Sunday tries so hard nowadays. It’s encoded into every fibre of Sunday's being to never disappoint and this extends to Welt, seeing how he vouched for him, despite everything he put the Nameless through. Now amplify that tenfold, because Sunday owes a great deal towards the man and his gentle kindness.
Snippets of his earlier days onboard trickle into his mind; a time where he was a hollowed-out shell of a person denying himself even the basic courtesy of living with dignity.
Always trying to make himself small.
Always trying to stay out of the crew's way.
Even bending over backwards, like he was taught to do, when they wanted him for something.
The perfect guest. A useful intruder.
But Welt didn't let these terrible habits fester for long, practically tearing at that ingratiating but self-deprecating facade of Sunday's.
Welt... welcomed him. Like a person... that deserved warmth, kindness, and to be treated well.
There was no suspicion in his eyes, in his words or actions when they were together. No lingering hatred or elaborate schemes to hold one over the repenting Sunday. He just simply... treated him normal.
Or more like a stray, really, Sunday admits. A sad, little wet fledgling that needed to be coaxed softly into this new, unfamiliar world.
Welt did it so innocuously too. Little by little.
With ceaseless invitations for Sunday to eat with everyone else during mealtime, doing it enough times that Sunday finally caved. And continues to do so every day.
And pointless conversations that Sunday originally thought was a waste of time, that surely this man had something better to do. But eventually, it got him sharing his own inane anecdotes. Every little conversation after the last left him feeling lighter? better? Something like that.
Not to mention the little hints Welt pepper in here and there to help him get closer to the rest of the crew. Dan Heng is curious about Penacony's history, March likes sweets too, Stelle has been binge watching Clocky cartoons.
It was Welt's own way of nudging him towards their companions: subtle, effective, and above all else, allowed Sunday the choice.
And Welt always, always let Sunday decide. Even when Sunday decides to take five steps backwards to hide away again, Welt never berated him, scolded him, so much so looked at him with pity.
Welt would still be waiting for him with understanding and that jarringly bottomless patience the moment Sunday emerges from his shell, ready to try again.
Thus, it's no surprise at all how he's basically latched on to Mr. Yang, like a little duckling following it's mother—even earning an earful of teasing remarks that he's Mr. Yang's new favorite child. That he's all Mr. Yang has been paying attention to nowadays (damn you, Stelle).
His face grows warm when he remembers, lips curling at such a ridiculous notion. If anything, all this extra attention just means he's the problem child of the group, brow furrowing in light frustration.
It's not until he hears Welt chuckle does Sunday realize he's failed to rein in his expressions, face an open tapestry of his thoughts. He blushes hotly in embarrassment, looking away from Welt's amused smile.
“Has something come up? You seem to be in a lively mood.”
Sunday couldn't resist his scoff, it was imprudent to his own ears so he follows up quickly to not offend the other. As if he could.
“Far from it actually, I couldn't sleep.”
“Ah.” The simple sound carried the weight of a world with it. Welt settles himself on the barstool adjacent to Sunday, an elbow on the counter as he regards him fully, like he's the only thing in the room. “Well, I'm here if you need to talk about anything.”
He's heard this line how many times now? But Sunday concedes that it has worked with varying levels of success, even pulling his darkest thoughts out into the open air when he was on a bank roll of nightmares.
That night ended with tears on his face and a soothing hand on his back. The bone deep exhaustion that caught up with him finally let him embrace uninterrupted slumber. Although, he hates thinking about how he ended up in his bed after that breakdown, blushing once again at the memory.
“I was thinking about getting so plastered that maybe, I'll finally get a good night's rest.” Sunday says it in jest, incredibly unlike him. He once again blames the alcohol.
It wrings another chuckle from Welt and Sunday already feels miles better when he first sat down.
“Who are you, and what have you done to Sunday?”
Sunday couldn't supress his own laughter, not when Welt shoots him an accusatory look, just doubling down on the ridiculous joke.
“What? Is this so out of character for me?”
Welt hums a contemplative sound, eyes briefly leaving Sunday's as Shush presents the man with his own drink. He didn't even know that Welt had already ordered.
“Only a little, but you're free to do whatever you want. As long as it's not unhealthy.”
It's Sunday's turn to think. Two cocktails when he doesn't even have a history of drinking is far from unhealthy but this line of thinking leads to the rabbit hole of addiction.
Sunday still gets another mojito, saying ‘it's only for tonight’ to himself.
A silence stretches between them, and Sunday yearns to fill it for some reason.
“I wasn't at liberty to be indulging like this when I was a Family Head.”
This grabs Welts attention. Sunday normally dodges such topics when they talk but tonight is different.
“Not even a sip at charity balls or parties?”
“No.” It's weighty on Sunday's tongue, drowns out the sweetness his cocktail. “Holding such a position required a clear head. Alcohol does quite the opposite to you.”
Welt understands instantly, answering with a prim nod.
“So what changed your mind?” The man sips from his glass, liquor befittingly amber, complimentary to his colors.
Hmm. Good question.
Sunday mulls over his newfound creativity in coping mechanisms. He never even thought about drinking at his lowest, most shameful moments. He chalks it up to the obsession of always wanting to be in control, even when life so graciously tells him it's impossible. So, why now?
“Maybe, I'm just running out of ideas.”
“I think…” Welt trails off, absent-mindedly swirling his drink. “Wanting to experience new things is only natural. I'm actually glad you're doing this out of your own accord.”
Ah, he thinks he sees the picture now. He’s been so thoroughly domesticated that he feels safe drinking in the Astral Express. He really has changed, has he?
“I guess I have you to thank for that, Mr. Yang.”
“I have no idea what you're talking about.” There's a sly, half-smirk hidden behind Welt's glass as he drinks.
Sunday is evidently a lightweight because his next words aren't as planned out as he liked.
“Silly man, you know exactly what you're doing to me.”
The room feels a few degrees hotter after Sunday's utterance of words. He's almost done swearing to Xipe to never drink again when Welt’s brilliant gaze lands on him, silencing all thoughts.
“And what exactly... am I doing to you, Sunday?”
A genuine question from Welt, but the way he says it has a bolt of electricity racing down Sunday's spine. It's also not helping when the man speaking to him looks absolutely devastating in the warm glow of the bar’s honeyed lighting. Welt's golden eyes are sharp and trained mercilessly on him. Sunday feels like he's pinned onto a velvet lined board, awaiting dissection.
It's been a long time since he felt this tense around Welt, the last instance was when Welt’s gloved hand grabbed his shoulder before he left Penacony. He shudders minutely at the memory, at Welt's brief display of his powers; the way his hairs stood on end when the pull of artificial gravity made itself known.
He immediately disperses the thought, seeing it's not helping him in the slightest. By the Aeons, he's at a loss of words. One might think years of diplomatic talks could never land him in a position like this, but it's in the nature of the Astral Express to prove him wrong.
Welt's gaze eases up, now less intense, as if sensing Sunday's internal dilemma. It slides away from Sunday, allowing him a moment of reprieve.
“My apologies.” Sunday's heart just about stills in his chest as Welt speaks. “That was…” He swiftly coughs into his fist. “Um…”
He doesn't really understand, but Sunday hates the uncertainty crossing over Welt's features. He feels compelled to remove the wrinkle in the other’s brow and go back to their easy going banter, to their happy ol’ selves.
“No, no. Don't apologize. I– spoke wrong.” Oh, he's babbling now. “What I meant to say was… I owe it to you… for—what do they say—‘coaxing me out of my shell.’” Sunday ends it like a question.
Sunday catalogs the unreadable look in Welt's eyes to study for later, but he learns to breathe again when a familiar smile curls on the other's lip. It's the one that lets Sunday know everything is alright.
“It's the least I can do. You deserve to feel included, Sunday. That's what I strive for everyday you are aboard the Astral Express.”
Is it possible to die and then come back to life in the span of a split second? That's what Sunday feels when Welt is done talking.
His damn wings, like traitors, flutter to cover his face, choosing only now to cover his deeply red-stained cheeks.
He's mortified, but at the same time, warmth fills his bones and wraps around him like a hug. Drinking is a dangerous pastime, he thinks.
Welt's dulcet laughter resounds in his ears again and Sunday's imagining what kind of picture he paints for the other. The once ruthless Head of the Oak Family, now rendered tipsy and blushing like a maiden.
Welt makes no comment beyond that, a mercy Sunday will so graciously take. The night goes on with less social blunders from Sunday and glasses refilled with liquor.