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milksnake-tea · 10 days ago

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✩ CHAPTER SUMMARY : The spar between you and Sunday goes in an unexpected direction - well, at least for Sunday. Life as a Hunter has taught you to almost always expect unexpected directions.

✩ SERIES SYNOPSIS : Following the catastrophe of the Charmony Festival, rather than in one of Penacony's hospitals or prisons, Sunday awakens right in the base of one of the most notorious criminals in the galaxies. With nowhere else to go, he's left to follow you, the Stellaron Hunters' medic, in his attempts to become accustomed to his new life.

✩ WORD COUNT : 6.5k

✩ TAGLIST : @felibrary, @vxnuslogy, @https-mika, @greyrain23, @red-ninja15, @arienic , @immahuman , @sund4ykisser , @mysteriaqueen , @kiopanxp , @isa-l0v3r , @hesper-houkai-kat , @gamekillera , @nayukiyukihira , @randomidk-123 , @universetrash , @forevernyeong , @thedepartedcryptid , @heyhazelnut101 , @1000-leaves , @lowkeyren , @zhayur , @jellofishuu , @kascar-chronicle , @azaleaflowerr , @neigee , @fallintothechasm , @veritusratio , @astolary , @xphantasmagoriax , @semi-orangeapple , @ezra1yn , @xynthevoid , @apinu , @crysangria , @shenwi , @louchive , @mave-in , @mutiachan , @meerpea , @fxngtasy , @emiken-070907 , @tragedy-of-commons , @boothills-usbport , @mikashisus , @lunaegrl , @cakechase , @keirenny , @romyoia , @bunnihunnii , @insomniac-hours ( TAGLIST IS CLOSED )

✩ ADDITIONAL NOTES : hey bitches. guess who's back. FUN FACT THIS BROKE THE IMG LIMIT FOR POSTS ON TUMBLR BYE I HAVE NO IDEA IF ITS GOING TO HOLD UP ON WATTPAD (probably not. sniffles) BUT OMLLLL I REALLY YAPPED TOO MUCH W THE CHATS.... ALSO !! CHAT MSG ICON FOR SUNDAY CREDIT GOES TO THE LOVELY BUNNYCARROT ON TWT. ALSO KNOWN AS MY REASON FOR LIVING. also howre we feeling abt sunday release. IK I WAS GONE THAT ENTIRE TIME HE WAS DRIP MARKETED AND EVERYTHING BUT IN MY DEFENSE. i had to rewrite the sparring scene like 5 different times and the chat msgs like 3 times. so. erm. yeah ALSO ILL GET TO THE ALT TEXTS TMRW I SWEAR ITS JUST MIDNIGHT RN AND IM SCARED (of my mom) AND TIRED

ADDITIONALLY, I'VE HIRED BETA READERS !!! SAY HELLO TO GWEN AKA @tragedy-of-commons , VICTORIA AKA @theother-victoria , VISARA AKA @rainswept , AND MHIE AKA @iceunhie. GO CHECK THEM OUT THEY WRITE TOO and more consistently too sneezes BUT YEAH THEY'RE GOING TO BE MY VICTIMS I MEAN TEAM TO WHICH I YAP AND HAVE THEM EDIT MY SHIT <333 LOVE YALL

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In and out.

Inhale through the nose.

Hold.

Exhale through the mouth.

Again.

Sunday closes his eyes and breathes. He adjusts his grip on his rapier, making sure that his grip is firm and that its tip points away from him. Alone in the training room, the silence is more than enough for him to think, and force away the voices the best he can.

He reaches, he calls, and he tunes into the very roots that govern the universe. The Imaginary Tree is life and reality itself. It illuminates, it breathes, and it grows. It curls around his fingers, and it gives. Life flows into his veins, strings of pure energy lying right beneath his fingertips, and he pulls.

Imaginary manifests in melodies and staffs, guided by his rapier and weaving into a somber song. He lifts his hand, drawing the sheets and forming the beginnings of a symphony.

His brow furrows.

Even now, with years of practice and honing his technique, there's something pulling at his chest, a strain on his halo that tells him that this is wrong. Even if the Tree accepts his call and responds in turn, he can never fully accept its embrace. It is suffocating, its hold, and it is oppressing.

It swallows him as though it were the Voracity, engulfing him in its jaws and consuming him, draining him of all that he is. It forces itself upon him - it eats away at him, and his breath is almost taken, almost snuffed, save for the small sliver of mercy that keeps him alive. It dominates the once carefully balanced conversation, and it commands him, trust me, accept me, join me, become me.

And Sunday has never been one to like being commanded.

A pleasant conversation morphs into a spiteful argument, a battle for the upper hand, venom dripping from each of their tongues as each tries to take control. As Sunday struggles against the roots, the orchestra becomes strained, the tempo becoming faster and faster, and all of the strings crescendo until it's loud, far too loud.

The strain in his mind transfers to the physical realm, and the staffs so carefully penned by his sword flicker and waver while his halo begins to glow in the effort to keep it all under control. His brow furrows and his movements become frenzied, frantic, until the Tree rebels yet again, and he's had enough.

Frustration flares and he brings down his hand and cuts off his connection with the Tree, tearing through the melody and ending the performance there. But then he realizes what he's done, and shame floods out his annoyance.

A sigh leaves him.

Losing his composure... how unbecoming of him. He forces himself to pay attention to his breath, and the hand that isn't holding the rapier curls into his palms, the familiar prick grounding him.

He should know better than to be so easily moved. He inhales deeply, raising his gaze to the ceiling, and exhales.

There we go.

If the orchestra won't obey, he will command them. They are forged from his very blood and tied to his veins. They are him, in a sense, and he will not stand for a civil war.

He raises his sword once more, and to the orchestra, he speaks - Again.

And this time, he leaves no room for argument.

His rapier is a guide and a scripture as Imaginary drips from it once again. With the orchestra in toe, he begins to move.

Combat to him is not unlike a dance, in which the participants are himself, his opponent, and his sword. He has learned the hard way that brute strength, as much as it would be useful, is not his forte (spending one's life asleep does wonders to their physical state), and so he must rely on precision and observation to gain the upper hand.

He steps, swiftly and with purpose, and the Tree is his partner. Wisps and streaks rise from where his feet had once touched the ground, and with every stab at a fictitious enemy, the Tree strikes with him in the form of diamond stars and sound waves. Sweat beads at the back of his neck and his hand trembles with the strain of keeping the Tree under control, but he stands firm nevertheless.

But then he hears a squeak - an awfully familiar squeak, belonging to a companion he hasn't seen since the fall - a companion that only appears on two conditions: if they are called upon, or if he is in danger.

And he didn't call upon anyone.

There's a tingle on the back of his neck, and he swerves and narrowly avoids a stab towards his eyes. His Echoes rush to his defense, swarming his assailant and driving them back in a storm of gold lights.

He hears his attacker splutter with surprised laughter as the Echoes bat at their face angrily, some even ramming into their sides with their heads or tugging at their clothes with what little strength they have. It takes him a second before he realizes just who his companions are attacking.

"Enough," he commands. The symphony dissolves as his rapier lowers and his other hand raises to placate the swarm. Immediately the Echoes retreat to his side, keeping their nonexistent eyes on the person before him, to which he lets out an exasperated sigh. "Was that really necessary?"

You bat away at one last belligerent Echo that was particularly keen on head-butting your cheek (it does absolutely no damage) before turning to him with that smile of yours.

"Just testing your reflexes, princess."

In your hand is the sword that nearly stole his sight. A thin taper of obsidian steel, it lies loosely in your grip. Veins of neon blood ran through its blade, its color far too bright for Sunday's liking.

But the hue seemed paler than from when you briefly fought with Blade; it isn't as acidic nor as blinding as back then, but it still unnerves him nevertheless.

You throw his Echoes a brief glance with a chuckle. "I've yet to see those before. Are they new?"

"No." Sunday shakes his head. He pets one with his finger to calm it down, as the majority were still baring their metaphorical teeth towards you. "For as long as I can remember, these little ones have been by my side. They're... rather protective."

"I can tell," you hum a laugh. Taking a step forward, you test your luck with the strange creatures. Many back away defensively as you approach, although one or two linger curiously. "Aw, aren't you the cutest?"

Sunday sighs as you pinch one of the Echoes. The doll unleashes a flurry of squeaks as you toy with it, stretching and squishing it like a stuffed animal while its siblings squeak furiously and swarm you again.

Reaching into the crowd, his arm parts the figurative sea and grabs you by the scruff of your neck. With a tug and a pointed look, he pulls you out of the mob's fury.

"Please refrain from teasing them, doctor," Sunday reprimands softly. "I'm afraid they can only take so much before they become overwhelmed with anger."

"How terrifying," you reply cheekily, shrugging off his grip. "But that's a tough request. Just look at them; can you really blame me?"

To further prove your point, you reach out and scratch a nearby Echo under where its chin should be, your smile widening as it struggles to decide between squeaking in indignation and purring in content. Eventually, however, it gives in and leans into your touch, vibrating happily as you scratch it.

After a few minutes of this, Sunday clears his throat. Last time he checked, you were here to spar, not play with his familiars, even if the sight was admittedly endearing.

You spare him a glance, he returns it with a pointed look and raised brows. Thankfully, you get the message and release the Echo without any objections.

Sunday glances to the Echo as it returns dazedly to his side. Raising his hand, he allows it to hover just above his palm.

A silent conversation unfolds between the two of them, with Sunday raising a brow and the Echo assuring him that it was fine - even if he can sense its content, it never hurts to make sure. His halo glows momentarily, before he lowers his hand and dismisses his familiars.

"Are you satisfied now?" he asks in mild amusement, turning back to you.

"Mhm," you hum with a smile, eyes still lingering on the spot where the Echo used to be. "How about you? Ready?"

Imaginary sparks on his rapier, but Sunday pays it little mind. "As ready as I can be, I suppose. But shouldn't you warm up?"

You shake your head. "It isn't necessary. You'll see when on your first mission: You have to be ready to fight at any time and place. Warming up is a luxury reserved for beginners and athletes."

And then, as if to prove your point, Sunday sees you move before a flash of black cuts through his vision, and only by instinct is Sunday able to dodge. Only this time, you don't stop with just one strike, no, it's one after the other and Sunday curses internally and meets you with his rapier.

If Blade is a raging torrent, then you are a lightning storm. You move with the speed and viciousness of a viper, never staying in one place for too long and focusing the majority of your power into swift, seemingly never-ending stabs. It's methodical and almost surgical, the way you jab and twist and cut away at him with terrifying precision, but it's a dance Sunday can get behind.

Strike, shift, dodge, parry, strike again.

It's a rhythm that Sunday eventually falls into once the initial shock ebbs away into an afterthought. He grits his teeth and pushes through, his feet never setting on the ground for more than a second before he's forced to jump aside once more.

And for a moment, his gaze locks with yours, and a brief smile slips onto his lips as he finally finds his figurative footing. Slowly, the dance turns into his favor, and he begins to push back, daring to strike back and attempt at hitting you - but you are too quick, too experienced, and like Blade, he is unsuccessful.

But he's keeping up, surprisingly, and that is enough for him. For now.

At least, that's what he thought.

Once you see that he's acclimated, you switch up the tempo. What was once a waltz morphs into a violent tango. You duck under his arm and jab and then-

He hears a pop. And for a second, there is nothing.

But then comes fire. It burns and stings and eats away at his flesh, and he feels it travel from his extremities all the way to his abdomen, circling, concentrating, enveloping that specific spot.

Sunday gasps and lurches back, hand already clutching his wound before he registers what has happened. He looks down, expecting the worst - he expects blood warming his hand, he expects flesh and ripped skin, he expects a gruesome scene.

But when he tentatively removes his hand, breath rattling his chest, there is almost nothing. There is blood, yes, but not much - only the slightest bit beading at the miniscule incision you've made in his stomach.

He furrows his brows, his mind running at impossible speeds to comprehend what had just happened. First is shock, then there is bewilderment, and then betrayal and then anger and then bewilderment again.

There is not a single hint of remorse on your face. No, your face is an undisturbed lake, already poised to strike again - and you do. This time you scrape his shoulder - but Sunday doesn't let you hit a third time.

The gold of his eyes gleams, and the next time he swings, Imaginary coats his blade and a slash of sound fires. With the shock from being stabbed still lingering, the attacks aren't as strong as he'd like, but they are enough to fend you off until he's recovered.

At least, that was the plan.

Just when he thinks the fire is over, lightning strikes. His body seizes up and he doubles over, coughing hideously into his already sullied hand. His rapier dematerializes. The glow snaps away from his halo and his eyes and his powers are deemed null. Every nerve is set alight, frenzied and panicked, as the rest of his body locks into stone.

"Wha-" Sunday clamps his mouth shut, appalled by his own voice. It slurs and sounds as if it'd been passed through a filter, nothing like what he is meant to sound like.

If you have an answer, he doesn't hear it. But he sees you, he sees your lips moving, and then it's your shoes scrunching up against the floor, and then it's your sword, and he realizes-

Panic seizes him, and then dark violet floods his vision, tinged by hints of the sun but bespeckled by the stars. He can't see, he won't see, his mind racing too fast to process whatever his eyes are telling him. His heart pounds in his ears, and all he can hear is the sound of his own breath.

It's quiet - too quiet.

Is he dying? It seems so. But he doesn't want to die, he can't die, not without the dream, not without that paradise, not without seeing Robin one last time.

And with that thought, the paralysis breaks. Sunday gasps as strength surges into him and he regains control of his body, and he nearly topples over as his knees almost give in from under him. But he manages to catch himself in time and avoids yet another humiliation.

He clutches at his chest, catching his breath. His body still quivers, and yet, he can stand just fine. The venom's sting begins to subside - although not completely, but enough strength has returned so that he can push it to the back of his mind.

But most importantly, he's alive. His hand, the one that isn't dirtied, trails up from his chest to his throat, feeling at where the edge of your sword should've cut. But there is nothing to be found. His skin is intact, with no sign of blade or cut.

"Wow, you've been holding out on me. I'm almost offended."

Sunday flinches at the sound of your voice and he whirls, only to not find you anywhere. His brows furrow in confusion, before you speak again-

"Up here, princess."

Sunday turns, and immediately his mind blanks. He blinks. Then he rubs his eyes. Then he blinks again.

"What in the world...?" he mutters.

At least you seem to be as confused as he is, although fond pride graces your smile despite it all. But that's not the confusing part - or at least, it isn't the most confusing part.

You hang upside-down from the ceiling, dark, vivid indigo thorns binding your feet together and your arms to your side. Your damned sword is still in your hand, but with the vines wrapping around you, you can't make any use of it.

"You tell me," you quip back, shaking your body slightly so that you can swing around like a punching bag. Sunday leans back to avoid you smacking into him. "I mean, they're yours, aren't they?"

What? Sunday shakes his head. "That can't be right. I've never even seen these before. Are you sure you didn't accidentally self-sabotage?"

Your face falls flat into a deadpan. "If I were that sloppy, I wouldn't be here anymore. These vines are yours."

"No," Sunday insists. "My abilities lie solely in the Imaginary, never Quantum. I've never..."

But he has,Sunday suddenly remembers, trailing off. You raise a brow.

"You do know that people aren't confined to one single element, right?" With a flick of your wrist, your sword slashes through the vines, the shreds of Quantum falling to the ground. You land on your feet and catch the handle of your sword in one fluid motion. "Take me for example. When using my sword, I'm of the Physical element. But any other time, I'm of Quantum."

You bend down and pick up a stray vine from the ground. It flickers and warps in your hold, a new constellation shining in its branches whenever you move.

"Webs's got something similar going on - She's both Lightning and Fire," you say idly as you come up to him. "So I'm not sure what you're worried about."

"That's not the issue," Sunday sighs. He steps back when you offer him that stray vine. "I have always been Imaginary. That other element- No, those powers, I have avoided using them for a reason."

As much as he wants to tear his gaze away from those vines, he can't. They glimmer back at him, inviting but patient.

No.

"So you have seen these before." Twirling the vine around your finger, you raise a brow at him. "They're pretty decent, especially to have caught me off guard. Why don't you use them more?"

Sunday sighs.

"They originate from the Harmony. And, well," he breathes an awkward laugh that doesn't quite meet his eyes, "my relationship with Xipe isn't the greatest as of right now. It wouldn't be wise to call upon THEIR blessing. Not unless I want to provoke the wrath of an Aeon."

It isn't the complete truth, but it is enough to get the message across.

And besides, he thinks, Xipe is... weak. Strong for the many, but weak for the few. If Sunday wants to survive in the kind of environment that the Hunters call their norm, he can't rely on such a Path.

No matter how right it feels.

And yet, despite that thought, there's that little nagging voice in the back of his mind. The memories of his earlier practice resurface briefly in his mind.

"If that's what you want," you hum. You let the vine fall from your wrist and dissipate into flickers of light. "But if you ever need help with controlling those things-"

His clipped tone comes out harsher than he intends. "No. You've helped me enough."

But you hardly react. "Suit yourself."

Sunday blinks. He straightens, expecting something more, but all you do is start playing around with your sword, presumably readying yourself for another round.

"Aren't you going to attempt to persuade me otherwise?" he can't help but question.

You snort, flipping your sword into the air. "You're not a child; I'm not going to make your decisions for you."

Catching the dark handle as it falls, you point your blade at him once more, and Sunday instinctively takes upon a defensive stance, rapier poised to protect.

"But, if you want advice," you say, "there's a saying we often go by: 'When you have the chance to make a choice, make one you know you won't regret.'"

Sunday stills.

A choice?

His mind flashes back to the script Elio had given him.

At 22:38:10 system time, the reigning kingdom of Alfeasa-VIII will fall. [Name] will dispense multiple gas bombs at the banquet. They will give you one gas mask to give to a person of your choosing. Whoever you choose will become the next ruler of Alfeasa-VIII. I trust that you will choose wisely.

Always with the choices, it seems - ironic, considering that he never had much of a choice when it came to joining the Hunters. His options were them and the IPC - it didn't take a genius to see which was the safe option.

But... No, that wasn't fair. Up until Elio had spoken to him, he had been completely willing to lay his head beneath the guillotine, to atone for his sins and to accept his punishment.

He had chosen this path.

And Elio had chosen him.

And soon, he must choose a fate for an entire planet.

That's why he is here, after all.

He doesn't need a weak Path such as Harmony - he won't need it. He refuses to.

And with that, his mind is set.

Seeing how he straightens, tosses aside his dirtied glove for a clean one, and brandishes his rapier towards you once more, you smile approvingly.

"Ready for another round?"

You needn't ask. A step, a lunge, and a swing of his wrist, and the dance begins once again.

—

Unfortunately, you never did stop with the stabbing (something about him just "having to get used to it", which he isn't happy about). His entire body is littered with the smallest of scratches, cuts, and punctures from where you've nicked him, and he's pretty sure that half of what runs in his veins is venom instead of blood.

Movement spurs in the corner of his vision. Kicking off of a nearby exercise machine, you leap into the air and bring your sword down upon him in a one-handed strike, but unlike before, Sunday is ready for it.

He jumps out of the way and summons his Echoes at the same time. With their support, strength returns to him, and the Imaginary tree's whispers fear his ears once more. The orchestra sings, and their tune shoots out in sharp flickering missiles towards your landing figure.

But you are quick on your feet and easily maneuver around the projectiles, slipping and swerving like an otter does through water as they shattered around you. The veins of your sword glow, and so does the outline of your form.

His Echoes squeak in warning and he just barely manages to tilt his head in just the right direction before he hears the wall crack behind him.

With a start, he realizes that you'd thrown your sword. Blood beads at his cheek at where it had grazed him. But that's the least of his problems. You're still running at him, after all.

You jump and aim a kick towards his head. Sunday's wings unfold rapidly and he winces as pain slams his joints, but he manages to propel himself out of the way so that you hit the wall instead. Without so much as missing a beat, you grab and wrench out your sword and kick off the wall towards him.

Obsidian meets silver in a fierce clash. Sunday grunts as you press forward, having to use both of his hands to keep his rapier steady against your attack. Rapiers were never meant for blocking, but you leave him little choice.

The standstill persists for a short while, and Sunday realizes you're waiting - waiting for more of that godforsaken poison to kick in. And just as that thought passes through his mind, lightning attacks again, and he jolts, tasting iron.

And that is enough for you to quickly change the tune of the dance.

Maintaining full eye contact, your blade slips from the clash and throws him off balance. Instead it comes up from under, and its handle scrapes against his palm just enough so that you can once again knock his rapier out of his hands and off clattering against the floor. There is a cold sensation against his chin, and Sunday realizes that it's your sword.

He sighs, raising his hands in yet another defeat. With a hum, you step back, and with you goes your sword.

"That makes five now," you hum, fishing out a vial of concerningly colored liquid and tossing it to him. Sunday sighs as he catches it.

"I can hardly call this fair," he mutters, unscrewing the vial and downing it like a shot of vodka. The antidote burns similarly to the alcohol, but rather than being bitter it is sweet like fruit tea - which he appreciates; alcohol was never his favorite beverage, and will never be. "You know, most would call using poison dishonorable."

"Good thing I'm not most people. Wanted criminal, remember?"

Sunday rolls his eyes as the cuts and aftershocks from the poison ebb away. You will never stop bringing that up, will you?

Before he can retort, both of your phones ping. At first, you elect to ignore it, pushing it to the side in favor of opening your mouth to speak. But then it pings again, and again, and again until you get the point and let out a frustrated groan.

"I swear, if it's Elio telling us to buy ink again," you mutter, fishing out your phone. Your brows raise. "Nope, it's worse."

"Who is it?" Sunday asks, grimacing as he flexes one of his hindwings. He must've opened them too quickly back then and pulled something in the process.

"Webs," you reply, already typing out a response. Your sword dematerializes and you walk off to sit down on a nearby bench against the wall. "Let's take a break - oh, and let me see your wing while we're at it."

Pausing, Sunday blinks at you. Was he being too obvious about it?

His phone vibrates in his pocket as he makes his way over to you. This time, however, the pings are more frequent and somehow, more heated, if that makes sense. You're probably arguing with Kafka, or... whatever the two of you do. You're fine enough on your own, and Kafka is... eerie, at best, but put you two in the same room, and Sunday wants nothing more than to bolt.

And to think he's going on a mission with the both of you in a week or two.

He sits down with the injured wing hanging limply towards you, already dreading his future. Almost instantaneously your hand is upon it. A gentle swipe of your thumb over where he's pulled a muscle or two, mending the fibers there, and the lazy yet methodical sifting through his feathers in search of other injuries, and Sunday instantly relaxes, a dull hum thrumming in his chest as he moves to get his phone.

But then, because apparently this universe wouldn't be happy if Sunday didn't suffer at least once every day, he catches sight of the hand he'd coughed into a while ago, and he freezes.

Technically speaking, he knows that his hand had been protected from the grime, and the only dirty thing is the glove sitting in his inventory. He has already replaced the sullied glove, there is nothing diseased on his person anymore.

But it doesn't stop his irrationality from suddenly pulling the already clean glove tight against his fingers.

It's not tight enough - yes, it is, Sunday, you can see the outline of your hands, you can feel it, it's tight enough, you're fine, nothing touched you- But what if it did? What if he coughed something out and it seeped through the glove and it touched his skin and now he's dirty and he should wash his hands- No, calm down, you are fine- but he doesn't know that, should he check? He should check.

Sunday nearly pulls up the wrist of his glove, until his thoughts assault him again- What are you doing, Sunday? Are you crazy? What if they see? You're dirty, you don't need to-

He pulls the glove back on so harshly it might've torn. But it doesn't - he makes sure of that, adjusting it yet again until the voices begin to quiet down enough for him to think properly.

"You okay over there?" you ask suddenly, glancing up from your phone. Sunday's mind starts running again, but Sunday himself appears to be calm.

"I'm fine," he assures, customer service voice resurfacing unconsciously. You raise a brow.

"If you say so," you say, clearly not convinced. Sunday prepares himself for an interrogation, but you return to your phone and drop your hand from his wing, evidently done with your treatment.

Sunday flaps his wing reflexively, pleased to find that the ache is no longer there. His phone vibrates in his hand, reminding him of why the two of you were sitting down and not sparring in the first place.

The second he opens the group chat, he's immediately assaulted with spam messages that make him regret opening it in the first place, and all thoughts of his gloves meld into the background noise of his mind.

Sunday lets out an exasperated sigh along with a shake of his head.

He can already feel his brain cells shriveling and withering away. Who was it that said that the Stellaron Hunters were a terrifying terrorist group, each capable of destroying entire empires with a mere pull of their finger?

Especially Kafka - she was the Hunter with the highest bounty and the most infamous out of all of them. Sunday had already long lost any expectations he had about you, but at least he still had some respect left for the quite frankly, creepy enigma that was Kafka.

Now, he isn't so sure.

Still, he can't deny the amused smile that was slowly creeping up upon his lips. He sneaks a look behind him, no longer feeling your hands on his wings, and he finds a similar grin on your face, a snort escaping you every so often as you play up this charade with Kafka.

A sharp pain smacks his shin. Sunday hisses and glares at you, to which you only smile at him from the corner of your eye.

"Hey, you're supposed to defend me," you chastised, shaking your head in mock disappointment. "Not give the local pyromaniac a reason to attack me."

Sunday rolls his eyes with a smile.

"I'll defend you when you replace this shirt," he says, tugging at the high-necked collar that hugs his form. At least, it did. Now it was littered with cuts and tears in the fabric, all done in by a certain medic. "I'm afraid I won't be able to make much use of it now."

"Hold on, pyromaniac's yelling at me." You quickly type out a few paragraphs in your defense.

Once you've (somewhat) escaped Firefly's wrath, you set the phone down and assess the damage you've done to Sunday's attire. Even if his wounds were now healed and the poison neutralized, fabric wasn't something you could heal.

You raise a brow. "How many of those did I get for you?"

"Five," Sunday answers automatically.

"And the old man has never torn up a single one? I find that hard to believe, considering how rough he can get."

Sunday cringes, his abdomen aching from the mere memory of all the times Blade has drop kicked him there. "To be honest, I'm just as surprised as you are."

You squint at that, before your phone pings again and you check it. Thankfully, it isn't another onslaught of messages from Firefly that you need to defend yourself from, and so you don't pay it much attention.

"I'll ask Webs to stitch it up for you," you say, patting him on the shoulder. "Unless you want me to head back to Euphrosyne and raid them of their entire stock."

Much to his horror, Sunday almost considers it. But then he comes to his senses and shakes his head. "That won't be necessary."

"Are you sure?" You prop your elbow on his shoulder, leaning into him. "It's doable, just give me ten minutes, a couple of bombs, and-"

Sunday pushes your face away with his finger, his ear wing coming up to act as a shield between you and his face. "We are not committing bioterrorism on an innocent planet."

"Who's we? Technically, it's only me, and that planet isn't exactly innocent, if you know what I mean-"

"[Name]."

You raise your hands in surrender as he narrows his eyes. "Alright, point taken. Oh, also, Webs's talking to you. Might want to answer before she starts calling you a homewrecker again."

"We can't have that," Sunday chuckles.

...What did he just get himself into? Sunday slowly turns to gauge your reaction, to which you only shrug, which isn't helpful at all.

"You'll be fine," you say. "Probably. Most likely. 50-50. Depends on the hour. Depends on how much she's had to drink."

He raises a brow. "How comforting," he says dryly.

You pat him deftly on the back before standing up and stretching. "It is what it is. We should go, though. Wouldn't want to keep the good lady waiting."

He moves to follow you, but before he can stand up, his hand comes to touch his throat, and he remembers the shirt, the shirt ruined by your hands.

Panic takes him by storm. He can't be seen like this. You are one thing - you've seen his wings at their worst, mangled and messy, but Kafka is another. Kafka is a higher up. Kafka is a senior. Kafka, in a way, is his boss outside of Elio.

And if she sees him like this, untidy and messy, he'd throw himself out into the cosmos and accept his death there.

But he doesn't have time to go into his room and grab a jacket, does he? Not if you're to head in at the same time, and he refuses to be late or have you wait outside his room while he changes into something more suitable. But what other choice does he have?

He begins to dig at his palms again, but this time, the pain fails to ground him. If anything, it makes his raging thoughts even worse as he thinks, thinks, and thinks of what he can do, what he could do- By THEM, this is why he always made sure everything was in order before he left the room. But you had to ruin-

His fingers dig harder at that thought. Irrational anger is swallowing him, and he tries to drive it down- It's a spar, Sunday.A spar with real swords, no less. He should've expected this. He knew what he was getting into- But for you to stab him? Wait, why is he still sitting down? Stand up, move, already, you idiot- Why did you have to ruin him like this?

He looks up, halo beginning to glow despite his rational telling him to step back and just breathe, only to get smacked in the face by a ball of thick fabric.

"Wha-" He sputters and takes a step back, indignance and pure, utter, bafflement replacing his anger at record speed. Catching the fabric as it falls down, Sunday's eyes widen as he realizes what it is.

"Are you done freaking out?" you ask dryly. Your sword has reappeared in your hand and there's tatters of cloth on the ground by your feet. "Put that on if you're so worried about looking decent."

Sunday turns the hoodie around apprehensively. It isn't the one you bought for him - it's too bright in color for that, and Sunday wasn't one to wear this color if he could help it. Not only that, but the fresh cut where the back is supposed to be is ragged, making it obvious that the hoodie wasn't tailored this way.

You didn't have to... His brows furrow. Why did you do this? For him, of all people- and what you said, before, did you notice yet again?

That won't do. He's never been this bad before. He needs to relearn what made him Sunday, Head of the Oak Family. He needs to relearn the art of performance, needs to remember how to push down weakness and cover it with expensive paint.

"Did you wash this?" he blurts out, tearing his gaze away from the hoodie. You snort.

"Just the fact that you asked me that tells me a lot about how you view me. What the hell. After I just cut it up for you, too?"

"I apologize. It's-" Sunday inhales, wondering how in the world he was going to word this without sounding paranoid. "It's a habit of mine."

You shake your head with a smile, crossing your arms. "Yes, I washed it. It's straight from the inventory, so don't worry, you won't catch anything."

"I didn't mean it like that-"

"I know," you chuckle, "no need to get all worked up. Now are you coming or what?"

Sunday hastens to throw the hoodie over his head, patting his hair into shape as he follows you out of the training room. With his body still admittedly warm from the sparring, it's uncomfortable and admittedly disgusting to have such a thick sweater over all of it, but he'd rather melt covered up as opposed to being exposed in such a disheveled manner.

"Are you sure about this?" he still asks as you step into the hallway. "With all this sweat-"

"I don't care, princess," you sigh. "You don't even have to return the thing. Mercy knows how many hoodies I've got in my wardrobe - letting go of one isn't an issue to me."

Sunday's hand comes to grasp at the neck of the hoodie, feeling the fabric. He looks away from you, his gaze falling to the constant motion of his feet.

"I appreciate it," he murmurs, wings coming up to cover some of his face. You hum.

"Don't mention it. That's what friends are for."

Sunday feels his cheeks warm slightly. His wings shift further up his face. "Friends... That is what we are, isn't it?"

"Yeah," you say as if it were obvious. "What else would we be?"

He shakes his head, his wings unfurling to reveal his soft smile. "No, this is enough. I was simply caught off guard, that's all."

You furrow your brows. "To be called a friend? That's... concerning."

"Don't look too far into it."

"I'll tell Elio to ring you up with a psychiatrist."

"Please don't," he sighs. You snicker.

"No promises."

The conversation fades into a comfortable silence after this, with the only sounds being the gentle pit-pat and tapping of your footsteps. Sunday spots a new graffiti on the wall that separates your door from Silver Wolf's. This one is of a raccoon, one that oddly looks similar to that one grey-haired Trailblazer with the baseball bat. Beside it is an Origami Bird that resembles Silver Wolf. As the two of you pass, a vividly orange flower snaps playfully at him, but unlike the one he's yet to replace, it doesn't seem hungry. It placates under your touch.

"I wasn't lying, by the way," you say suddenly. Sunday glances at you with a tilt of his head. "About what I said in the group chat. You're doing better than any of us expected."

"Thank you?" Sunday isn't sure whether to take it as an insult or a compliment. The corners of your eyes crinkle.

"I'm being serious. I'm surprised you were able to fight through my poison at all, even if it was a mild one. Any other person would've given up the second the paralysis hit. But you managed, somehow. So good on you."

Sunday stiffens. Not knowing what to say, he merely gives you a nod of appreciation. His footsteps slow slightly as you come up to Kafka's mahogany door so that he stands behind you. As you raise your hand to knock, he feels a slight prick at his wrist - and this time, it isn't of his own doing.

As subtle as he can, he risks a glance down at that hand.

The pointed edge of a thorny vine peeks out from under his sleeve, the dark purple taunting as it sways ever-so slightly.

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