Chapter Text
Something is wrong.
Sunday can tell as much from the moment he wakes up, eyes fluttering open to the soft light the Express uses to mimic morning. It's a sight he’s grown accustomed to, yet today it leaves him with a knot in his throat, with clammy palms sticking to his bedsheets. It is when he draws his first breath of the day, only to find it uneven, that an inkling of something sinks into his bones.
Still, he does not address it.
No, not at first.
Instead, he perseveres – or, rather, he denies, though the thought is dismissed as quickly as it’d come. It won't do, not at all, to leave his bed unmade, and so he goes about making it. He takes his time, checking whether the blanket is folded just right, its corners matching those of the mattress, smoothing down any wrinkles marring its surface. Then, once that’s done with, he steps back and arranges the pillows too.
Pillows, yes. Plural, for there are two of them.
It should irk him, this plurality, for it’s nothing but a display of needless indulgence on a bed for a single occupant, but the conductor had insisted. Sunday hadn’t been able to refuse – couldn’t even fathom the possibility, not on his first night on the Astral Express, and by the time his wariness of the crew eased, so too had his distaste for the extra pillow.
It’s…comfortable, after all. And a mere pillow, at that. It can't do that much harm, surely. The Express has plenty to spare, both in supplies and space. It seems to expand as needed, in fact, rooms sprouting from thin air – Sunday hasn’t witnessed the phenomenon himself, but he’s been assured of its existence countless times.
So it’s fine, having two pillows.
What isn’t fine, however, is the scratchiness of his throat, the way each swallow lingers, pushing against inflamed tissue as it goes down. Then there’s the blockage in his right nostril, slight but noticeable enough, forbidding him from drawing breath the way he should. The normal, proper way.
That’s – not fine. Not at all, and it’s this uneven breath, this tension pressing on his sinuses, that aids the puzzle pieces, allowing them to slip into place.
He’s sick, he realizes, and with it comes the fluttering of his heart in his chest, abnormal and abrupt. A rhythm disrupted.
The pillow he’d been dusting tumbles to the floor. It’s delayed, this wretched epiphany, for he knew. He knew the moment he woke up, the moment he was faced with the discomfort nestled in his throat and the stuffiness of his nose. Yet he’d had hope, hope that it’d be nothing but a fluke, this mix of sensations – and oh, how foolish he’d been, to think that any Aeon would have any mercy left for him, for the sinner who’d turned his back on not one, but two such greater beings.
He’s a fool, and not only that; he’s sick too. As if one affliction wasn’t enough.
Disease is coursing through his body, spreading slowly but surely, and with it comes the rush of memories – of Stelle and March pulling on Himeko’s sleeves, excitement dripping from their words as they pleaded and argued. It could be fun, Stelle had said, her voice almost covered by March’s whine of I’ve always wanted to go karaokeing!
Then Dan Heng had interjected, murmuring something or other about the improper use of the word, and the conversation devolved into chaos that Sunday couldn’t follow. By the end of it, however, one thing was clear – the Astral Express crew was due a visit to one of Planarcadia’s numerous karaoke venues.
And Sunday had agreed.
He’d agreed to go. Foolishly, recklessly, he’d wanted to go – had been curious about it, enough to bite back the instinctive rise of the ever-present anxiety simmering in his chest.
And now he’s sick.
Not only that, but he’s probably contagious too – full of germs looking for a home, for another system to infect, and the crew would be oh so close. They always are, living on a train will do that, but a karaoke venue is so much smaller than the Express. He knows this for certain, as much as he wishes he didn’t; he’s seen pictures, read those illustrated books March keeps pushing him to borrow. It’ll be a tiny room, filled to capacity by nothing but two couches and a karaoke machine, maybe a little table too. He can picture it as clear as day – the cramped air, the way every song would be underscored by a cough. The looks everyone would shoot him, full of pity and scorn and everything else he’d deserve, going out in his condition.
He’s going to get everyone sick.
I can’t go out like this, comes the thought – no, the solution, but it’s quickly followed by a spasm of his wings, feathers quivering as they rush to cover his face, to hide the childish, downturn of his lips. He should stay in his room, he knows – isolate himself, utter whatever platitudes are necessary to convince the others to leave him be, keep to himself till he’s healthy, till he’s presentable again.
But he doesn’t want to.
The thought haunts him as he bends down, picking up the pillow with slow, mechanic movements. He doesn't want to stay in his room, to weather it alone. It won’t kill him, such a situation, but it’ll certainly try. If not the silence, all-encompassing and stifling, pressing in from all directions, then it’ll be the fact that he’s disappointing them, that he’s letting them down simply because he wasn’t strong enough, smart enough to prevent this. To prevent this disease from latching onto him – aeons above, it’s like he’s still a child. He cannot even stick to a schedule, cannot even keep himself healthy. How is the crew supposed to trust him, to rely on him if he’s like this? And during the Phantasmoon Games too –
Oh, Aeons, what if General Yaoguang calls on him today?
He doesn’t want to remain in his room, but if he goes outside, that’s equivalent to saying he’s available, to saying he can help. But he can’t. Not like this, with a throat that won’t let him swallow and a nose that barely allows him an inhale.
Sunday’s grip tightens, fingers digging painfully into the pillow, twisting the fluff out of shape. He’s acting childishly, disorderly, yet he cannot stop. It…unsettles him, this maelstrom of thoughts, the way they collide in his mind, and so his heart slams against his ribcage with every hurried, uneven beat. Every time he swallows, every time he tries for an open-mouthed inhale, his throat rebels, blooming with an itch that he can’t quite reach – one that will soon bloom into a cough, and he cannot stop panicking.
Because that’s what it is.
Panic.
Unadulterated panic. Tainted by self-reproach, sure, but the base feeling lingers – so much so that his feathers quake, that his breaths escape him in the form of harsh exhales. It hurts his throat, almost, and with the quickly fading twinge of pain comes a thought, as persistent as an oil spill: I can’t get them sick. I need to stay here.
But the mere possibility of having to do so has his stomach rolling, bitterness blooming on his tongue, in the back of his raw throat. It’s a horrid taste, one that brings forth phantoms of the past. Even now they cling to him, digging into his flesh and pressing bruises into his very soul. His fingers twitch and for a moment, Sunday entertains the thought of checking them, but they aren’t reddened with exertion.
He knows that.
After all, he hasn’t been clawing at the door, wings puffed up in fright. Only once has he acted so irrationally, for he didn’t know any better. Didn’t know that it’s what he had to do as a sick child: lock himself away till he felt better. Gopher Wood hadn’t meant to frighten him; he was simply leading by example, showing Sunday the correct way to behave without unnecessary words. And he hadn’t meant to hurt them either, when he caught Robin with the key. No, he just decided they were too old to keep sharing a room.
It was a simple coincidence. That’s all.
They would’ve been split up even if Sunday hadn’t fallen ill that day, surely. As a child, he might’ve harbored other suspicions, but as an adult, he outgrew them, knew better than to entertain such thoughts. Couldn’t afford to, not when there was so much to be done as the leader of the Oak Family. Perhaps somewhat of a worry lingers, hiding in the crevices of his mind, but he lets it be. Lets it float away, back to the dark recesses it came from.
He can’t focus on it, anyway, for matters of greater importance are at stake and he must find a solution quickly, lest he lose everyone’s trust, all the kindness and softness and shared laughter he’s enjoyed so far. But he cannot breathe quite right and the pillow he’s holding must be dirty, yet he can’t let go of it. Can’t make himself let go.
It’s –
Everything is –
A mess.
Aeons, he’s a mess. He shouldn’t even invoke their names, not when he’s this disorderly, this weak. This soft.
Because that’s what this is, the feeling roiling inside his chest: a chink in his armor that the Sunday of yore, Bronze Melodia and head of the Oak Family, would’ve never permitted. Yet this current version of him, living with the Astral Express crew and trailblazing a new life for himself, not only permits, but embraces it.
He has changed. Has become soft – malleable, even. Perhaps disgust ought to sink its claws into him, but all he can muster at the thought is a relieved sort of resignation.
The anxiety remains, though it’s assuaged, and so Sunday’s wings fall from his face. Breath seems to come easier now. Yes, his nose is still obstructed and feathers are brushing against his cheeks with every shaky exhale, but still. He inhales, deliberately this time. Counts it. Releases it.
With each measured breath, order is restored.
Marginally at least, for the urge to check on his fingers, to try the knob of his door, persists, but it has centered him, this steady pattern; a sliver of fragile composure has returned to him. Guided by the gradually slowing rhythm of his heart, Sunday opens his eyes.
Soft light, enveloping the room in its gentle glow, is the first thing to greet him. Then there’s the pillow, creased with the imprint of his fingers from being clutched so harshly but still whole, and his hands too, white around the knuckles.
Guided more by instinct than reason, he brushes the creases into compliance. A twinge of something – not quite pain, more of a vague ache – runs through his fingers at the movement, but he welcomes it. It’s a reminder, after all. A consequence of behaving so erratically, so childishly –
Sunday stops. He freezes with the pillow in his arms once again, mind racing with a sudden insular thought.
It occurs to him, abruptly, that he is no longer a child. Hasn’t been for a long time. Childhood deserted him longer ago than he cares to remember, bartering his wonder and curiosity for impeccable symmetry, for a reverence of rules that has settled into the very marrow of his bones.
That being said, it is not with a child’s mindset that he must approach this. He’d been looking at it from the wrong angle, is the thing – influenced to do so by the maelstrom of emotions his fit brought about.
Isolation is not the answer.
Not for an adult, anyway. In such a case – for someone independent enough to make his own mistakes and face the consequences, that is – different solutions present themselves.
Mind made up, Sunday straightens. He lets the pillow drop from his arms and onto the bed, nudging it into proper alignment before making his way to the small set of drawers housing his clothes. Vigor follows in his wake, threaded through with something sweeter – relief.
He’s found a solution, it seems. Not only that, but a compromise too.
He will not disappoint the crew.
Not today.