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Sunday has been tuned into the compulsions in his own head for so long that when he manages to finally fight his way back to the forefront of his mind, four of his pretty feathers lay in one fist; crumpled and broken, their delightful colour stained with an unsightly red. The blood clashes with the colour of his gloves, though the sight does something to him in a way that soothes instead of panics. Anyone else would panic. But Sunday needs this. He needs to feel control again, needs to see his own blood spilled, if only mere droplets.
The IPC ambassador had pulled the wool over his eyes briefly not even a single system hour ago and despite regaining his composure as quickly as it had faltered, Sunday’s control over the Oak Family had yet to return from its momentary waver. If he doesn't bring himself back to the current reality, the faith that had been put into him and the authority he had gained will be lost.
In truth he knows that the announcement had done nothing to the trust the Family had in him. He knows that, if anything, his abrupt excusing of himself would have done more damage to his precious image than anything Aventurine could have tossed his way. And yet despite knowing both of these things, Sunday can’t help but duck into the empty conference room and frantically begin pulling at feathers until he bleeds.
He recites prayers so well known to himself that it feels like ecstasy on his tongue, the words almost angelic in their tone. His mouth is numb, tongue working over the familiar words so fast it sounds as though an intellitron’s communication module had been severely malfunctioned, and yet despite this, despite the sting of his harmful de-feathering, he feels more peaceful than he’s felt in weeks.
Sunday vaguely registers the sound of a door opening down the hallway, footsteps methodical and a little too fast-paced for it to be any of his staff. That doesn’t stop him from muttering his prayers, his free hand smoothing over his right wing in preparation.
He fails to notice his previously intended guest, called mere moments before the announcement for an impromptu interrogation, too busy shoving plucked feathers into his pocket and getting a start on the other wing.
“Oh birdie,” Gallagher says, his presence loud and brash despite the soft tone and the wickedly deceptive pet name. A little part of Sunday hates that he’d allowed, even subconsciously, Gallagher to get this close to him, close enough for his gloved hand to grip his wrist a little too gently for their relationship. Close enough for this traitorous murderer to be allowed to see him in such a state.
Sunday snaps at the nickname, his teeth baring for a mere second before he settles back into his careful façade. He tries to pull his hand free but to no avail. If he doesn’t pull out four feathers from his right wing, Dewlight Pavilion will descend into chaos and he will be next in line for “death”. Four more feathers. He needs to pull four-
“Hey. Cut it out, yer gonna ruin how pretty you look.” Gallagher’s hand tightens into something more recognisable, something painful.
“Get your filthy paws off of me.” His voice feels too thick, it doesn’t hold the authority he needs. So he clears his throat four times, tries to repeat himself only to snap his mouth shut when it again doesn’t come out the way he needs it to. Instead of trying a third time despite his brain begging him to try twice more, he instead grabs a handful of his hair and pulls his fingers through the strands roughly. One, two, three…four. It soothes him only a little, so he does it again.
The hound’s presence is doing nothing but setting his mind alight with need; need to show that despite his killings he’s still in control.
He yanks his fingers through his hair another four more times before he feels back in control of the situation, of himself.
Gallagher’s hand doesn’t stray too far after relinquishing Sunday’s arm, simply resting lightly on the halovian’s battered feathers. His touch is so faint, so fragile that it makes Sunday’s head spin. This man before him, his once trusted hound, has done nothing but cause Penacony as a whole to descend into chaos and for…what? For himself? As a way to get back at the Family?
The meeting he’d prepared is vaguely at the forefront of his mind, his accusations at the roof of his mouth simply waiting for his tongue to kick into action and yet Sunday doesn’t immediately mention it. He simply takes a moment to do a once over, his eyes darting from one messed up part of his attire to another.
“Filthy,” is all he mutters, his fingers pulling at the man’s tie with vigour. He doesn’t notice the sudden absence of Gallagher’s hand gently stroking a pattern into his wing, his sole focus on straightening his tie first and foremost. If you’re going to be accused of being a traitor to the planet, at least make an effort into looking your best, it’s common sense.
“When you are called to a meeting with the head of the Family, you are to ensure you are dressed to your utter best.” And fortunately for him, Gallagher doesn’t seem to want to entertain teasing him for the moment. He loosens the tie with a bit more force than necessary, leaving it lying flat against his chest as his hands move to his waistcoat instead.
After Sunday manages to button up the loose button over his chest — who even buys themselves clothes too small these days? — and straightening everything so that it is perfectly aligned, his attention is focused back on re-tying the tie.
“If I'd known all you wanted to do was feel me up I would’ve come by a lot sooner.”
And Aeons Sunday hates him. Hates his smug smirk, hates the way he always seems to rile Sunday up with the littlest effort. He hates that even with all the hate he feels, Sunday can’t seem to hate him enough to rid of him in this strange moment of domesticity they’ve managed to create.
Gallagher even brushes his hair aside to press his cold lips in a cruel kiss on his temple. It wasn’t the first kiss they’d shared, something about needing total control over each other had pushed them far beyond kissing, but it will definitely be the last, Sunday can promise this.
It’s again that he realises they shouldn’t be this close, the halovian’s hands dancing over his traitor’s chest as they fix and pull. They should have never been allowed to be so close he can feel Gallagher’s so called heart beating a steady rhythm in his hollowed chest.
Sunday can’t take it. While his heart beats, his victims’ do not. His sister’s doesn’t.
He pulls himself out of Gallagher’s sacrilegious embrace almost too abruptly for their quiet moment, his façade slipping back into place a lot faster with the daunting reminder that this man was his sister’s killer.
Gallagher doesn’t try to close their distance again despite loving getting up into the halovian’s personal space; he just saunters to the couch and sits himself down, pulling a lighter out as he plays with it.
“We both know why I’m here. You think it’s me, right?” The flame of his lighter dances over his face, his eyes bejeweled with amber. “Go on. Start your accusin’.”
“There is no need for accusations,” Sunday says in the calmest voice of someone who hadn’t been consumed by compulsions just minutes before, “I simply wish to know why; of everyone you could have killed, why her?”
The need to pull at his feathers arises again at the topic but he needs to ignore this. He needs to know what his little sister did to deserve the death she got.
“Your control is slipping,” Gallagher’s fingers toy with the flame of his lighter, mimicking someone casting a spell, “and that ain’t nearly my fault.”
“Answer the question you fiending mutt. Why did you kill my sister?” Despite his best efforts to maintain his carefully crafted persona, he can’t help the anguish of his loss infiltrate his voice.
And Gallagher just laughs.
Cruelly. Harshly. So unphased that if Sunday had lost his mind for just a little longer, he’d send the damned devil back to where he came. But instead, he pulls out a feather from the right wing with so much force he pulls his head with it. He can feel the pain and yet it isn’t enough.
His ritualistic feather pulling had caused his sister’s death, had caused Gallagher to descend into his madness. He can end this, right now with just three more tugs.
Gallagher doesn’t attempt to stop him this time, he simply watches with a haunted grin on his face, lighter flipped closed at the halovian’s outburst. He mutters something about fate, about it being a cruel joke and a part of Sunday wants to laugh.
This had never been about fate. It had all come down to Sunday and his incomplete rituals that had drowned the planet in chaos, the blame solely his.
He feels a faint wind at his back, that thing that had spawned from his own foolish neglectfulness surely sent to descend upon him too. His eyes never leave Gallagher’s cruel smile, traitorous hand waving in a mocking goodbye. Sunday only feels hate for him and he prays to Xipe once more that his devil dog knows this.
And then it’s all over, three broken, bloodied feathers remaining in his place.