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milksnake-tea · 5 months ago

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✩ CHAPTER SUMMARY : Firefly and Silver Wolf return from Penacony, bringing souvenirs of all kinds alongside them.

✩ 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 : 6.3k

✩ TAGLIST : @vynicity , @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 , @tetrxctys , @emiken-070907 ( send me an ask off anon if you want to be added !! remember to specify that it is for this series )

✩ ADDITIONAL NOTES : mentions of alcoholism in this chapter !! also check out the tags, i've added something that needs to be looked at but tldr the reader will be dealing with themes of alcoholism, addiction, escapism, and survivor's guilt. it'll be tackled in later chapters, but just putting that as a warning now! sunday's pfp art is by @/thotep

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Weeks have passed since Sunday had first arrived at the Delphi.

With Silver Wolf and Firefly busy with their mission on Penacony, life is relatively mundane. If you don’t have a script to fulfill, then Elio lets you run free to do whatever your heart desires - ironic, considering the nature of your work.

Every Hunter has their own way of passing the time between scripts. Kafka often goes shopping for fancy dresses or yet another velvet coat to add to her increasing collection of them. Silver Wolf, on the other hand, shrinks away from the real world and into the comfort of her room to game - you know this because her room’s right next to yours, so you can hear whether or not she wins or loses.

Firefly never spends too long on the Delphi; rather, she takes up her suit and flies off to visit nearby planets, eager to experience their wonders as any normal tourist would. As for Blade, he sulks off into the training rooms, either sharpening his sword or perfecting his technique.

But what about you? What do you do in these torturously boring times? What is your way of keeping yourself entertained?

Drinking. It’s drinking.

Because apparently making candy-flavored drugs isn’t bad enough.

Simple piano played in the background of the Delphi’s bar, where it came from you’ve long given up on trying to figure out. Golden lights hanging from the ceiling clash against chestnut wood, filling the bar with a hazy, warm color.

You’re alone in the bar, sitting laxly in one of the many stools that line the countertop. Lazily, you spin a jigger in your hands, absentmindedly adding and shaking and tossing until you’re left with a clear, peach-tinted cocktail topped with creamy white foam and mint leaves.

The drink is known as a White Sand, a cocktail you discovered when visiting a tropical planet known for its tourism. You’re still new to mixology, preferring to just drink wine straight from the bottle, but you can’t deny that trying out different combinations of recipes, some delicious and others diabolical, is a surprisingly great way of passing the time.

Just as you’re about to take a sip of your drink, your phone dings. You’re tempted to ignore it, but after the second, third, and consequential pings, you begrudgingly take it out with a sigh.

You roll your eyes a bit despite the smile on your face. Drinking your cocktail with a little more spite this time, you type out a response.

Spinning around on the stool, you uncross your legs and, taking your drink with you, make your way to the training room. Thankfully, the walk isn’t too long - just an elevator ride down and after a few minutes of walking through the facilities, you’ve arrived.

You take a deep breath as you come to the doors of the training rooms, mentally preparing yourself for what was to come. Just to be safe, you summon your sword in your dominant hand and hold your cocktail in the other.

Your sword isn’t anything impressive when compared to the others’ - it isn’t as flashy as Silver Wolf’s or Firefly’s, nor is it as intimidating as Blade’s. It supports a simple yet elegant design, and it’s thin, tapering to a sharp point.

But what makes it unique are the bright veins that run through it, filled with a deadly poison that you’ve personally curated through testing and researching natural poisons found across the stellar seas. Just one graze or prick of your blade, and your victim becomes paralyzed within seconds, dead with a few more.

Normally, you wouldn’t bring it out - you prefer your rifle and bayonet over your sword - but what lay behind these doors required a little more agility than what could be accomplished with one hand and a rifle.

With a sigh, you step through the doors and brace for impact.

“[Name]-?” Sunday looks behind him as you enter, only to curse and bring up his rapier as Blade lunges at him once more. It’s a fatal mistake, being distracted in the middle of a fight, and Sunday learns this the hard way when he’s caught off balance (rapiers are NOT good at blocking, especially if you’re a beginner) and Blade mercilessly drives a kick into his stomach.

You narrowly jump out of the way as Sunday flies past you and into the wall with a crash.

“Don’t let your focus wander.” Blade barely finishes speaking before he lunges at Sunday again with a swing of his broken blade.

See, you’re technically supposed to break up the fight and tell them of Firefly’s message. Technically.

But you kind of want to see where this goes.

And so you lean back against the wall, swirling your drink idly and watch the show without lifting a finger to help Sunday.

Sunday manages to dodge Blade’s attack, which is better than when you saw him a few weeks ago. Last you saw him, he was getting beat left and right both physically and mentally (Blade does not know what sugarcoating is).

See, as of late, Blade’s taken up a new hobby to entertain himself - that being training the newbie in the ways of combat. While it’s arguably true that Blade is the best suited for this (Kafka is Kafka, Silver Wolf can’t be bothered, Firefly doesn’t know what’s within a normal person’s capabilities, and you would treat it like a chore), his methods are… less than ideal.

Basically, he teaches you the basics for the first two weeks, and then makes you fight to the death against him until you get better not because you want to, but because you have to if you want to live.

You know this, because you went through this too. So did Silver Wolf. Firefly didn’t have to because one, she was already a capable warrior and two, she’s Blade’s senior, as weird as it sounds.

For the most part, Sunday seems to be doing relatively well, being able to parry, dodge, and attack the best he can. Obviously, he’s unable to land a hit on Blade (it would be impressive if he did), but being able to hold his own is more than enough.

The rapier he wields is a gift from his master. Although Blade can no longer craft weapons as he used to, his eye is still as sharp as ever. The rapier itself is an elegant thing, sporting a silver handle with a sapphire embedded near the handguard. It still holds considerable weight, but is light enough so that Sunday can wield it despite not having any prior training.

Every so often, the Halovian’s halo glows, indicating a mental attack of some kind. But the glow is faint, meaning that it isn’t anything that could seriously debilitate Blade, who is especially sensitive to attacks regarding the mind.

You smile to yourself. Always thinking of others, wasn’t he?

The mental attack creates only a momentary stagger in Blade’s movements, a brief falter, but Sunday seizes the chance. His wings, which have gotten stronger with every visit to your office, flare out in a cape of night. He still can’t fly, but they’re strong enough to propel him out of Blade’s range.

His wings tuck, and he strikes his rapier again, but this time it isn’t with the intent of piercing Blade with his sword. Instead, his halo glows stronger, and small staffs of music shoot like miniature missiles at Blade.

Of course, Blade slashes through each music note easily. Even as Sunday conducts his personal choir with his rapier as his baton, there’s still a slight tremble in his hand, still not fully used to the weight of the rapier.

Not only that, you notice, the staffs aren’t exactly strong either. They waver, and they’re thin, as if one pull of your finger could break them into ribbons.

Your phone dings again, reminding you of why you were here in the first place.

Right. You’re supposed to stop them. How many minutes has it been? At least two.

You gulp down the rest of your cocktail (there wasn’t much left), relishing the taste for just a moment before you lunge and intercept Blade’s attack. Your sword meets Blade’s in a flurry of sparks. You grunt, planting your feet on the ground and push off, throwing Blade off of you and forcing him to skid back.

Blade is less than pleased by your interruption despite expecting it. You can see that he’s half a mind to turn the training onto you. Before he can try anything, you point your sword at him, stopping him with a warning look.

“Sorry, but class is going to have to end early today.” You twirl your sword mindlessly in your hand before summoning it back into your inventory. “The girls are coming back from Penacony, and Firefly wants us in the living room in ten. And before you ask, if I have to go, so do you.”

The last part is directed at Blade, who grumbles in response.

“Fine.”

His sword disappears from his hands as he straightens. You almost don’t catch Sunday sighing in relief behind you. A laugh bubbles in your chest as you turn to him, crossing your arms.

“Old man’s been hard on you, hasn’t he?”

Sunday sighs, rolling back his shoulders as his rapier dissolves into nothing.

“I should be used to it by now,” he admits, “but Blade’s teaching style is more erratic than what I’m used to.”

“You’re getting better, though. At least you can actually hold the rapier now.”

Sunday chuckles. “That’s true. It doesn’t feel as heavy anymore; I suppose I’ve gotten stronger.”

“You sure have.” You look him up and down.

He’s wearing a long-sleeve compression shirt and simple joggers so as not to ruin his other clothes with the sweat and tear that comes with Blade’s training sessions. His body is still relatively slender like it was when he first came to the base, but you can see hints of his labor beginning to bear its fruits. His arms are definitely more toned, and while he still predominantly wears gloves, you spy a callus on one of his right hand’s forefingers.

Ever since he’d first stretched his wings, it was as if a light had returned to his eyes. He is still reserved, still quiet to a degree, but his presence has become brighter, in a sense. You see it in the tiniest changes - the lift of his eyes, the genuine crinkle in his smile, the gradual relaxation of his shoulders.

In your opinion, he’s never looked better.

Then again, your only visuals of him prior to now were when he was at his lowest, so maybe it wasn’t a good comparison.

You realize you’ve been staring for longer than what’s socially acceptable. Meeting Sunday’s confused smile, you playfully stick your tongue out before waving him off.

“Don’t just stand there. Go wash up and change, you smell.”

Sunday blinks. “I do?”

The genuine worry in his voice almost makes you feel bad. In an effort to make him feel better, you pat his head in two heavy movements, earning a high-pitched squeak with each pat.

“I’m just messing with you,” you tease, ruffling his feather-like hair before finally releasing him. Sunday huffs, slightly puffing out his cheeks as he immediately starts fixing his hair. He reminds you of a baby bird.

Resummoning your wine glass, which you had put away before intervening in the spar, you pull out a vintage wine bottle from nowhere and pour out some red wine. Sunday wrinkles his nose.

“Drinking again, I see,” he sighs. “Isn’t it a bit early for that?”

“For you, it is,” you say, throwing the wine bottle back into your inventory. “I, however, am not like you.”

“You’re destroying your liver.”

“My liver can handle it. Ask Blade, he knows. Isn’t that right, Blade?”

“Don’t bring me into this,” mutters Blade, in the middle of changing back into his normal clothes. You shrug.

“See? He didn’t deny it.”

Sunday crosses his arms. “He didn’t confirm it either. [Name], I cannot in good faith let you go on about this self-destructive path-”

“And on that note, I should get going,” you cut him off, pointedly ignoring the look he gives you. But before Sunday can start up his thirty-minute lecture, you’re already turning your heel and walking off with a cheeky wave. “See you up top!”

“Hey-!” Sunday shakes his head as you saunter out the doors, pressing a hand to his forehead. He already feels a migraine forming. “What am I going to do with them…”

Blade hums sympathetically, wordlessly offering Sunday a bottle of water and a towel, which he accepts gratefully.

“Don’t bother,” says Blade, looking at the doors where you’ve just left through. “They’ve always been like that. Trying to reason with them is fruitless.”

Sunday turns his head slightly to glance at Blade, his brow creased with worry.

“Still, this habit of theirs…”

Blade sighs. “It may look bad to you, but trust me. This is better than what they were doing before. At least with alcohol, their body can recover quickly.”

“What do you mean by that?” Sunday turns fully to face the other Hunter. “Surely, alcoholism can’t be a better alternative.”

For a long, heavy moment, Blade merely stares at him silently, waiting for him to come to his own conclusion. The air turns suffocating the longer the silence drags on, but Sunday endures. He meets Blade’s gaze calmly, and waits.

It isn’t too long before Blade relents. Maybe it’s because they have an appointment soon, or maybe he doesn’t feel like playing mind games with Sunday - or both.

“Have you ever seen them get alcohol poisoning?” he finally says, a little breath to his voice like a sigh.

Sunday blinks, caught off guard by the question. “No, but-”

“There’s your answer.” Blade begins to walk off. Before he disappears, he glances back. “Save your concern. Don’t pry where you aren’t welcome.”

The doors slide shut, leaving Sunday alone with the echo of the Hunter’s words. He squeezes the bottle tightly.

Don’t concern yourself, huh?

How could he not? In Penacony, his ears were meant for hearing the woes of his kin, and his heart forever cut to bleed for them. Sympathy is carved into his skin; it was second nature to him already.

But he remembers that moment in your office, the sudden coldness that came with an attempt of sympathy. And he remembers that he isn’t on Penacony anymore.

His eyes shut, a sigh escaping him. His wings tremble restlessly, referencing his thoughts.

Sunday opens one dark wing, and flaps it.

It’s frustrating, constantly being told to sit still and mind his own business. You’ve already helped him so much, but whenever he tries to do something for you, whether it be small, such as helping out with a chore or something more serious like this, he’s always shut down.

He feels useless, like a leech or a freeloader. All he’s done is take and take and take, unable to give.

He buries his face in the towel Blade gave him with a groan.

He hates it.

He should be doing more - he should be more.

“Still here, I see.”

Sunday flinches. He looks around wildly for the source of the voice, but he sees no one. Was he already beginning to hallucinate? He shouldn’t be, he was sleeping enough thanks to your medicine, but maybe four hours a night still wasn’t enough-

“No need to panic. I’m down here.”

Sitting at the foot of the doors is a familiar black cat with familiarly unnatural blue eyes.

Sunday relaxes. “Ah, Elio.”

Out of respect, he bows to his leader. The Destiny of Slave tilts his head, soundlessly leaping onto a nearby bench.

Sunday tries his best not to be unnerved by his gaze, but he can’t help it. Despite being on the Delphi for a little more than a month now, he’s rarely seen Elio, and as such hasn’t gotten used to his piercing eyes.

A small surprised sound leaves him as Elio jumps onto his shoulder, perching himself on him snugly. The seer’s back brushes against his wings as he readjusts himself.

“What addles your mind?” Elio asks. Sunday wants to lean away from him, but it’s impossible with the seer on his shoulder. “Firefly will be arriving in two system minutes. You will be late.”

Right, the meeting- meeting.

Sunday’s mind jumps at the word, dragged back into its own habits. Late, late- he can’t be late, that is unbecoming of someone like him, shouldn’t he know better? Instead he wasted time by asking useless questions- Stop thinking, stop thinking, you’re taking up valuable minutes- Get a move on, move, or they’ll hate you, they’ll take it as a disrespect, they’ll never accept you as their own-

“That’s enough.”

A paw baps the side of his head gently, snapping Sunday out of his thoughts.

Dull pain pricks at his palms. With a start, he realizes that his nails are digging into them, as they always do whenever his mind starts racing. He quickly relaxes his hands with a sigh.

Elio hums knowingly.

“You think too much,” says the seer. He stretches on Sunday’s shoulder, letting out a small meow as he does. He looks and acts so much like a real cat, Sunday has to remind himself not to pet him.

“I apologize,” is Sunday’s automatic response. Internally, he winces. You’d scold him if you heard him.

Elio shakes his head.

“The others won’t ostracize you,” he says matter-of-factly, in a tone that leaves no room for argument.

“Is that a part of your prophecy?” Sunday asks, eyes glittering with dull mirth.

“Perhaps. It is also their nature. One doesn’t need to be a seer to know that.”

The seer lashes his tail. Sunday doesn’t know how to feel about being comforted by a cat, but knowing who Elio is, and the absolute certainty behind his words manages to quiet the noise in his mind enough to let him think clearly.

“I… I see. Thank you,” he says sheepishly. Elio shrugs.

“It’s nothing,” he assures. “If you need further consolation, you can pet me.”

Somewhere a record screeches to a halt. Sunday stares blankly at Elio, who stares back innocently as if he hasn’t said anything wrong.

“Absolutely not,” Sunday says flatly, with half a mind to shove the seer off just to see what would happen. “You’re a grown man.”

Elio’s eyes gleam. “Am I? Or am I a cat who has learned to disguise as human?”

Sunday doesn’t bother entertaining him. Rolling his eyes with an amused sigh, he begrudgingly gives Elio a small scratch on the chin.

“Happy now?”

Elio closes his eyes, the beginnings of a purr rumbling in his chest. The vibrations are soothing against Sunday’s skin, like how white noise aids one in sleeping. One of Elio's ears flicks, and Sunday has to bite down a smile.

“This isn’t for my happiness,” Elio says despite clearly enjoying the scratch. He blinks his eyes open, forcing Sunday to look into the sky. “You are feeling better.”

The seer tilts his head, looking past Sunday in amusement. Before Sunday asks what exactly it is he’s looking at, he hears a distant flutter, and his wings brush against fur. His face flushes.

Elio chuckles, his tail flicking back and forth. “Come on now, the others are waiting.”

Pinching the bridge of his nose, ears burning, Sunday nods.

He really needed to fix this wing problem of his.

—

Three floors up, you wait with Kafka in the main living room.

The Spirit Whisper user has only arrived recently, having sped back to the Delphi from whatever corner of the universe she was shopping at. Her recent escapade shows on her outfit, a brand new velvet coat (this one a dark red) draped over her shoulders.

Her gloved fingers fly expertly across the neck of a violin, a mahogany bow in her other hand as she maneuvers the violin into an eerie melody. Her shoulders sway as she does, her pupiless eyes fluttering closed every so often with the music.

“They’re here,” you announce, crossing one leg over the other and leaning back in the plush sofa chair in which you sit. Your eyes are focused on your phone, which tracks Firefly’s and Silver Wolf’s location on an app the latter had designed herself.

Kafka hums, her deft hands never stilling. “Is that right?”

There’s a creak as the door opens behind and Blade walks in. With a simple nod to both you and Kafka, he slinks off to his corner of the room and summons his sword to hug against his chest. Kafka smiles demurely.

“Say,” she says, finally setting down the violin, “Bladie, how’s Birdie’s training going?”

Blade shifts the sword, looking up. “He needs to work on his footwork.”

Kafka hums. “Do you think he’s ready for a mission?”

“He can hold his own,” Blade admits, “but I wonder if he has the heart to kill. He could easily incapacitate me with his attacks on the mind, and yet he chooses not to.”

“It’s because he cares,” you jump into the conversation, setting your phone aside. “He may not act like it, but he’s rather soft-hearted. He probably doesn’t want to hurt you.”

Blade scoffs. “That kind of foolish sympathy will only debilitate him on the battlefield.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” says Kafka. “Who knows? Maybe Birdie will surprise us. One doesn’t nearly become an Aeon without some kind of moral ambiguity.”

Blade doesn’t look convinced, but he was never one to argue. He merely shrugs with a grunt, accepting whatever Kafka decides is the truth.

It isn’t like the conversation is set to continue either, as soon a portal made up of multicolored pixels spawns in the middle of the living room, and out walks Firefly, shopping bags hanging from all over her arms. Silver Wolf follows soon after, closing the portal behind her with a pop of her bubblegum.

“Welcome back,” Kafka greets, leaning on top of the backrest of your sofa chair. “Had fun at Penacony?”

“Fun is… one way of putting it,” Firefly chuckles bashfully. “It was definitely eventful. Speaking of which,”

She looks around the room for a certain someone.

“Where’s Sunday?”

“Probably changing,” you say, standing up from your chair. “He was in the middle of getting beat by Blade when I told him.”

“Ah, I see…” A small, nervous laugh leaves her. She quickly brightens, however, once you go in for a one-armed hug, the other hand still holding your wine glass. “That’s okay. His gift can wait. Here, let me give your guys’s.”

She rummages around in her shopping bag before pulling out what looks to be a large bubble, purples and blues glistening on its surface with the occasional person or place flashing.

“Here’s yours, [Name].”

You stare at it, dumbfounded. “A bubble?”

“It’s a dream bubble,” Firefly clarifies, gently placing it above your open palm. “Basically, they’re little memories or stories stored in a bubble - like a movie! There was this one vendor in Oti Mall who sold them, and, well… When I saw it, I knew I had to get it for you.”

Her shoulders jump, as if remembering something.

“Oh, and… Maybe it’s best if you don’t open it here.”

Raising a brow, you tear your eyes away from the strange bubble. “Why is that?”

Firefly shifts. “Well… you’ll know.”

That doesn’t sound reassuring. “Now I’m getting worried. Is there a trigger warning, or..?”

Firefly waves her hands hastily. “No, no, nothing like that! It’s just that, well… dream bubbles leave you unconscious, so…”

“Ah.” You blink. “That makes a lot more sense.”

“That wasn’t all I got you, though,” Firefly adds. She takes the shopping bag that she’d pulled the dream bubble from and hands it to you. “I know you like collecting drinks, so…”

At her words, you immediately forget about the dream bubble. Throwing it away somewhere, you eagerly reach into the bag and feel the familiar touch of cold glass. Your eyes gleam with excitement.

The bottle you pull out is tall and fat towards the bottom, the glass tinted a dark caramel while what seems to be liquid amber sloshes inside. Stamped on the front of the hefty bottle is a green and orange logo that tells you just exactly what this beverage was.

“SoulGlad, is it?” you read aloud, holding the bottle up to the light. “So this is the famous ‘beverage of dreams’.”

“I know you prefer wine,” says Firefly, rubbing the back of her neck, “but Siobhan recommended this - also it’s a staple of Penacony, so I figured, why not try that wasn’t alcohol for once?”

You pointedly ignore that last part. “Siobhan?”

“She’s a bartender I met on Penacony! Speaking of which, Blade,”-Firefly fishes out another shopping bag, this one smaller and darker in color- “Siobhan said that this drink is good for people like you. It’ll make you feel a little better.”

Blade raises a brow. He unhands his sword only for a moment to accept the bag. Briefly peeking at whatever’s inside, he raises a brow and closes the bag, nodding his thanks to Firefly.

The biggest bag turns out to be Kafka’s, as Silver Wolf had already received her souvenir prior to arriving on the Delphi.

The hacker’s gift currently sits on her head as she plays yet another game in the chair that used to be your. The holographic Origami Bird bears a striking resemblance to her, occasionally cocking its head and chirping every so often, the three large feathers on its head swaying with each movement.

“Wow~” Despite having just gotten a new coat, Kafka’s perfectly painted lips curve into a delighted smile at the sight of black and magenta velvet and bronze buttons. “Did you get this specially tailored?”

Firefly tucks a white hair behind her head, her cheeks flushed with joy. “Yes, I did. It was only a small extra fee, so I didn’t mind.”

“How thoughtful.” Kafka swiftly abandons her current coat and slips on the new one. “Thanks, I’ll be sure to use it often.”

Kafka pats Firefly’s head gently, smiling down at her like a mother would her daughter.

“Congrats on your mission, by the way,” she says. “Quite the stir this time, I wish I was there to have seen it all.”

Firefly chuckles nervously. “Yeah, Penacony was definitely… interesting.”

And then, as if summoned by his homeland, two doors slide open and Sunday enters with Elio nestled snugly in his arms.

“I apologize for being late,” says the Halovian, bowing slightly. Kafka laughs.

“Don’t worry about it,” she assures, waving a hand carelessly. “What matters is that you’re here, Birdie.”

Fuchsia eyes narrow amusedly at the seer comfortably cradled against Sunday’s chest.

“Having fun there, Elio?” Kafka teases. Elio squints at the woman for a second before letting out a disturbingly cat-like meow and nuzzling back into the warm wool of Sunday’s turtleneck.

As much as you want to laugh at the seer, your eyes are somewhere else. Besides you, Firefly has seized up, her posture stiff and awkward at the sight of the former Oak Head. Figures, she probably had… a lot of conflicts, to put it lightly, with Sunday, and seeing him so soon - not to mention with her boss - must be jarring.

You decide to give her a bit of comfort. Nudging her lightly, you offer her an encouraging smile. She returns it gratefully, before taking a deep breath and greeting her now-junior.

“Hi, Sunday,” she says tentatively with a shy smile. Sunday’s eyes soften.

“Ah, Miss Firefly.” He nods politely. “It’s good to see you again.”

“Yes.” Firefly shifts her feet. “How have you been?”

“Better. You Hunters have been far more accommodating than I had ever anticipated, although rather eccentric.”

“That’s good,” Firefly chuckles. She pulls out a light-blue gift bag, and, walking up to Sunday, extends it to him. “This is your initiation gift. I really hope you like it.”

“Ah, thank you.”

Elio jumps off Sunday so that he can accept the gift, and opts to climb Kafka instead. In the meantime, Sunday handles Firefly’s gift as one might handle a baby. Once he opens it, however, his eyes widen in shock and his breath hitches.

“This is…”

Firefly smiles softly. “I asked your sister personally.”

Grasped in Sunday’s shaking hands is a gleaming album of red and purple. His sister’s face smiles up at him from the recording booth as she sings to the hearts of millions across the universe. Signed in the corner in a pastel pink pen is her signature.

“I…” Sunday’s voice is choked in his throat. He sounds like he’s about to cry. A part of you wants to reach out and give him a hug, but you don’t think that’s the right course of action right now.

“There’s a note inside,” Firefly offers. “And as for the album itself, it’s like a mini phonograph, so you can play it whenever you want.”

Sunday’s hand clasps tightly over his mouth as to hold back the tears that threaten to break from his eyes. Golden rings scan Robin’s face, again and again, rechecking her signature to make sure that he isn’t seeing things.

“I don’t know what to say,” he whispers. “I…” He inhales deeply to calm himself and reign back his composure. “...Thank you, Miss Firefly. I can’t tell you how much this means to me.”

“You should be thanking your sister,” says Firefly. “She put some other things in the bag there for you, and- Silver Wolf? Did you give him your gifts yet?”

Silver Wolf doesn’t even look up from her game. “Nope. Give me a sec, I just gotta beat this level aaaaaand- done.”

She jumps up, her Origami bird fluttering in surprise as she does. Twirling her fingers, a phone materializes in her hold.

“Here’s your phone, newbie,” she says, stopping in front of Sunday. “I cleared it of all its tracking malware and transferred your frozen accounts from the IPC. Everything else should be the same.”

“Damn, you had tracking malware?” you comment, stealing back your seat now that Silver Wolf has left. Sunday sighs.

“Yes, the Dream Master was rather… paranoid.”

“That doesn’t matter though,” chirps Silver Wolf as Sunday takes back his phone. “I already got rid of it all, so it’s useless now. I also added you to the groupchat. Your sister’s been texting you like crazy, though. You might want to answer her.”

“...I’ll think about it,” says Sunday. The hacker shrugs.

“Do what you want, it’s not my business.” She starts up another level, evident by the 8-bit music playing from her phone. “Your old clothes should be in your room now; I put them on your bed for you.”

“You did? When?”

“Just now.”

You shoot a confused Sunday a smile. “Silver Wolf’s specialty lies in altering the data of reality.”

“Ah. Well, thank you Miss Silver Wolf.”

The hacker wrinkles her nose. “Just Silver Wolf is fine. Although, I have got to ask-”

She looks up, excitement and curiosity glittering behind her nonchalant facade.

“Why did you have so many copies of the same outfit? Are you like, an NPC?”

Sunday doesn’t seem to know what to do with Silver Wolf’s expectant gaze. He tilts his head.

“It’s merely a matter of convenience. I can’t wear the same clothes every day, that would be unsanitary. But the public has a certain image of me, and I had to uphold it - hence the clothes.”

“Oh.” Silver Wolf deflates. “That was significantly less interesting than I thought it’d be.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Don’t mind her,” you butt in. “She just likes to over exaggerate things so that she gets disappointed by them because she sets her expectations too high.”

“I do not!” Silver Wolf kicks you childishly, nearly spilling your wine in the process. You shoot her a glare.

“Yes, you do, I have receipts- do you want me to pull them out? I will pull them out.”

“Yeah, right. Screenshots? Recordings? Please, you know that’s useless against a hacker like me.”

“I’m not that unprepared you heathen-”

Elio sighs as the two of you begin bickering. Kafka chuckles, patting him on the head while Blade has already started napping standing up. Sunday glances at the two senior Hunters nervously.

“Are they always- like this?” he asks. Elio shakes his head in disappointment.

“You’ll get used to it.”

—

Later that night, Sunday sits in his room. There’s little to no light, save for the small lamp that sits on his bedside table. Soft piano music plays in the background, accompanied with the soft soprano of his sister.

“In candlelight, as time unwinds, I find myself, lost in your eyes.”

He closes his eyes, leaning his head back against the still-white walls of his room. He welcomes the melody into his ears, allowing it to consume him in its song.

“In midnight tolls, as darkness folds, I see your tears, when we say goodbye.”

Flashes of Penacony’s scenery as he had fallen reemerge in his mind. He remembers the sunrise, the piercing light of the sun as it touched upon Golden Hour for the first time in years.

“Watching stars, as we drift on by.”

He remembers his sister’s embrace, the confusion and the fear, but also the relief and comfort of family.

“A touch,”

If he loses himself enough…

“A glance,

If he forgets enough…

“Fly away.”

He could almost believe that it’s his sister standing next to him that’s singing, not a recording.

“Will our paths converge, ‘neath the sun?”

Robin’s voice swells, and strings jump in to accompany it. Goosebumps chill his skin and his breath catches in his chest. His eyes squeeze, a strangling emotion he doesn’t recognize squeezing at his heart.

“A silent desire, in melody sung.”

For a moment, he sees her, he sees his sister, he sees Robin. It is almost as if she is speaking to him, singing to him, asking him of what fate has in store for them.

“Beyond this stolen night, we share a cherished dream.”

Indeed, they did. Her dream, their dream. A dream to fill the skies with their songs, to dance for the people they loved so much.

“Between souls whispered that it ‘seems’.”

But only one of them could make that dream a reality.

“Will shooting stars align ‘neath the sun?”

His eyes peek open, glossy and aching. The music heightens, and the dark ceiling blurs into the beginnings of a beautiful nightscape, full of twinkling stars and kissed by the retreating sun.

“In whispered hopes where journey's begun.”

Penacony smiles down at him, the home to which he’ll never return to. All twelve hours have passed, and a new day has begun.

“In dreams, we waltz the sky,”

His hand twitches. It flexes against the blankets, grasping for something, someone who isn’t there.

“You watch me drift on by,”

Oh, how he wishes he could hold her again, see her smile again, watch her sing once more. His heart aches to cradle his baby sister one last time, even if it’s for a second, just so that his last sight of her wouldn’t be of a smile with tears.

“In your memory, a whispered song,”

“A seed of hope where we belong.”

The song ends, leaving Sunday with a husk of a heart. A singular tear breaks free and slips down his cheek. For the first time, Sunday doesn’t think to wipe it.

His chest hurts, yet lighter, as if a weight has been lifted, leaving his heart to deal with the repercussions of bearing said weight for so long. He can breathe, painfully so, yet it is clear, crisp, rejuvenating.

He wants to see her again, but not now. Not yet.

But one day, they will.

His phone pings, snapping him out of his thoughts. He almost doesn’t want to check it, but it pings again and he picks it up reluctantly.

It’s you, he realizes, a small smile slipping onto his face.

Sunday grimaces at the memory. Last week, he’d made the mistake of admiring one of the flowers that grew over your door. Well, that flower turned out to be carnivorous, and very territorial, and it nearly took off a chunk off his finger had he not blasted it out of panic.

He still has to buy you a replacement.

He shakes his head, sighing with a smile. Out of reflex, he flexes the finger that had been bit. Had it not been for you, it would still be wrapped in bandages.

A soft laugh escapes him at your sticker. He scrolls up for a bit through the conversation, rereading it over and over again. Why? He doesn’t know. It just feels right.

His scrolling stops just over the attachment you sent. So this is his part of the script - Elio’s infamous prophecy that contains details of the future, down to the very second. He clicks on it.

Reading over it briefly, his brows furrow.

“Alfeasa-VIII, is it?” he murmurs.

He’s heard of the planet before; a prosperous kingdom with loyal and loving subjects that worshiped the Preservation. He’d never paid much attention to it, though, as the most interaction he’d ever gotten from it were a few of its nobles who came to Penacony for vacation.

His fingers stop just above a paragraph in his script that seems all too out of place.

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.

—

Bonus (left on read):

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reblogs w comments are appreciated !!

#—stellaronhvnters.#honkai star rail #honkai star rail x reader #hsr #hsr x reader #hsr sunday #sunday hsr #honkai star rail sunday #hsr sunday x reader #sunday hsr x reader #honkai star rail sunday x reader #sunday x reader #x reader #reader insert #y/n #━━ series : on the other side of morality #honkai star rail series #archives 🏵️

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milksnake-tea · 25 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.

✩ 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.

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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reblogs w comments are appreciated !!

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milksnake-tea · 4 months ago

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✩ CHAPTER SUMMARY : Despite what you tell Sunday, you can't sleep. Instead, you opt to join Sam at the top of the ship for some company.

✩ WORD COUNT : 4.0k

✩ 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 , @tetrxctys , @emiken-070907 , @tragedy-of-commons (send me an ask off anon if you want to be added !! if your name is bolded, it means i cant tag you )

✩ ADDITIONAL NOTES : LORD i don't know why this took so long actually … my bad guys 😭😭 luckily i grabbed back motivation tho !! so hopefully the next chapter will come out sooner (or not. college is starting in like a week). honestly tho, im not that happy with this chapter :(( but thank you for reading, and for sticking w me !! eating every one of u up

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“Watching the stars again, I see.”

The mechanized suit towers over you. In the darkness of the endless night sky, Sam’s flames, a duet of orange and teal, are all the more brighter. If you weren’t one of his comrades, you would’ve found him threatening.

Sam turns his head. Your footsteps are near-silent as you come up besides him, your arms crossed leisurely with a glass held carelessly in your hand.

“I thought you’d be asleep by now.” Such a stark contrast from the sweet voice of his pilot, but your years spent alongside him have turned intimidation into consolation. “Are you drinking again?”

“Not alcohol this time,” you chuckle, waving the glass. “Thought I’d try out some of that SoulGlad you bought me. It is a luxury item, after all.”

“Is it good?”

“It’s alright. I still prefer wine.”

Shaking his head, Sam returns his gaze to the cosmos. The topmost floor of the Delphi is like that of a greenhouse, minus the planets. A glass dome covers it from head to toe, allowing for a breathtaking view of the universe. The ship itself moves languidly so that the various nebulae pass in multi-colored clouds.

“It’s better in the dream,” Sam says. You look up curiously.

“So I’ve heard. ‘As rich and sweet as divine nectar’, was it?”

“Yes.” Sam’s robotic voice turns wistful. “Even though I was already in a dream, with just a sip of that, I felt as though I was floating. It was truly… a sweet dream.”

You smile softly. “I’m glad.”

The glass is cold against your lips as you drink the last of the soda. True to its advertisements, the carbonation leaves you feeling giddy and joyful… but it’s not enough. It’s too gentle, too kind, too… pliant. After all, knowing that you are asleep and dreaming- ruins the dream itself.

A sigh leaves you. Light gently shines down on you from the kaleidoscope of distant stars. Soft piano music plays in the background, courtesy of Kafka.

“I looked at the dream bubble earlier.”

Sam hums, his flames glowing brighter momentarily.

“Did you… like it?” he asks hesitantly. His meekness was kind of cute, like a puppy. It was one of the things that you like about him, though.

You spy a faraway planet in the sky. From here, it looks like a small speck amongst the vast universe. But to someone else, it might’ve been their whole world.

“Where did you find such a dream?” you say instead. “It couldn’t have been easy.”

It should’ve been impossible.

“I’m not entirely sure,” Sam admits. “Dr. Edward - he’s the person who runs the Dreamscape Sales Store - didn’t specify. Then again, the nature of his products is… peculiar, to say the least.”

“Hm.” Your eyes become lidded. “That’s unfortunate. I would’ve liked to know who had made such a wonderful dream.”

Sam glances at you hopefully. “You liked it, then?”

You hum idly. “Yes, it was… nice. Not totally accurate, but nice.”

You don’t have to see Firefly’s face to know that she’s smiling. “I’m glad. I was worried that, well…”

“That I’d get offended?” you chuckle. “Sparky, you know me better than that. Besides…”

Your arms uncross, and the glass disappears into multiple speckles of light.

“All that matters is that someone remembers it. As the years pass, accuracy holds less and less value.”

“I… I guess that’s true,” Sam admits. “Still, though...”

There’s a contrast in temperature as your hand comes to Sam’s shoulder, warm flames battling against cold metal.

“Don’t worry about it,” you comfort. Your lips are pulled into a smile, but you don’t know what expression lies in your eyes - nor are you sure you want to know. “I enjoyed that dream.”

Firefly doesn’t seem to be entirely convinced, but she doesn’t need to know what happened when you touched that bubble. She doesn’t need to know, and so she never will.

“How's our little superstar?” you ask, changing the subject. Sam hums.

“Still as fiery as ever,” he reminisces, head tilting upwards towards the sky. “They don’t remember us, which is to be expected. But their heart and antics are still the same. They’ve recently developed a… peculiar hobby, though.”

“Oh?” You raise a brow curiously. “And what’s that?”

“Trashcans,” he says flatly. The sudden change from gentle fondness makes you laugh.

“That sounds about right,” you chuckle. “They’ve always been a little weird.”

“I guess so,” Sam shrugs. “Then again, we all are, aren’t we?”

“Hm… maybe more than a little.”

“Hey now.”

The two of you burst into uncharacteristic giggles. With the effects of SoulGlad still ebbing away at your rationality combined with your lack of sleep, it wouldn’t be off to say that you’re somewhat delirious right now. Of course, it can’t compare to the numb bliss that came with alcohol, but it was still something.

Weariness beginning to take its toll on you, you lean against Sam, ignoring how some of the metal digs into your body. He looks down at you curiously, before patting you lightly on the head.

“You should sleep,” he advises gently. You hum, before shaking your head.

“Don’t feel like it.”

Hearing another distorted sigh, you laugh airily, only to let out a small yelp when Sam scoops you up. The mechanized suit is already huge, being at least twice your size, and so he only needs one of his arms to hold your entire body. He cradles you against his core, allowing the heat to warm you. It’s a sweet gesture, but truthfully, it’s unneeded - the Delphi is always at the perfect temperature, after all. But you appreciate the sentiment nevertheless.

“Sleep,” Sam urges once more. You look up at the metallic face that shows little emotion, if any.

“Why so insistent?” you question, raising a brow.

“Is it so wrong to care for a comrade?” Sam shakes his head. “You aren’t as resilient as you think you are. Even you will fall if you fail to get adequate rest.”

“So you say.”

“Don’t you have a mission soon? Staying up too late isn’t a good idea.”

You snort. “Then that makes two of us with bad habits, Miss Defies-the-Script-at-Whenever-Possible.”

Sam falls quiet for a moment. Initially, you’d think that it was out of guilt or because Blade had already scolded him about his habit a few weeks prior to Sam’s assignment in Penacony, but after staring at him for a bit longer, you realize that that’s not the case.

You shift so that you can sit somewhat upright in Sam’s hold. “Hey, lighten up. I was just joking.”

“I know.” Sam sighs again. “I was just thinking about Penacony.”

“What about it?”

“It isn’t anything bad,” he hastens to say. “It’s just… I felt so alive in that dream. I could jump and run and- do all sorts of things that I couldn’t in reality. It got me thinking.”

Uh oh. Not another philosophical talk. You’re not good at those.

Despite this though, you nod, encouraging him to continue.

Sam raises the hand that isn’t holding you and curls it into a fist. “I know I will die one day. That’s just a part of life that I can’t avoid, nor can anyone else. But if life itself, and everything else that comes with it, is already determined by fate, do we really have free will? Is my freedom of choice real, or simply an illusion?”

At his imploring gaze, you shrug.

“Well, think about it. Do you think Elio’s script is absolute?”

“Of course it is.”

You lightly poke where Sam’s nose should be. “Not exactly. It has holes and spaces. You know what Webs always says.”

“Yes, but…”

“Think of it this way,” you suggest lightly. “Elio gets his script from Terminus, and Terminus only knows the future because THEY’RE from said future. Meaning, they come from a future that we created, not them.”

Sam stays silent, so you continue.

“If we don’t have free will, then who holds that will? Terminus? HooH? Ena? We don’t know, and we may never know. But does it matter?”

Sam’s flames pulsate from under your palm as you place it over his chest plate. Your eyes have become downcast, hiding what may be brewing beneath your irises.

“In the end, we still choose in the end. Like right now - you’re holding me, but you could’ve also incinerated me.”

Sam deadpans. “That’s a horrible example. I am not so careless.”

“Yes,” you say, “because that’s the kind of person you are. You made that choice not to cook me alive, not Terminus or any other omnipotent being that cares so much that they feel the need to control the movements of insects like you and me.”

Your tone comes out a bit harsher than you intend, and it’s not until the words leave your mouth that you realize. Blinking rapidly, you still, your brain catching up with your mouth in real time. Sam too seems startled by your outburst, the flames flickering.

“Is everything alright?” he asks after a brief moment of silence.

You sigh, leaning back against his shoulder. Burying your face in your hands, you let out a tired groan.

“Sorry about that,” you mutter. “I think the lack of sleep is getting to me.”

“It’s fine. May I ask what happened, though?”

No, you may not, you think, but shove it to the back of your mind.

“It’s just-” you drop your hand to your side, “-it’s the usual.”

“This is why I keep telling you to calm down with the drinking,” Sam scolds gently. You grumble, leaning into him.

“You’re so insistent,” you mumble against the cold steel. “Kafka and Blade have already given up; why haven’t you?”

“Blade only stopped because he shares that same stubbornness you cling onto,” Sam points out, flicking your forehead with as much gentleness a mechanized suit can. “And Kafka wouldn’t know real concern if it shot her in the face.”

You give Sam a look, the red spot on your forehead already healing. “That doesn’t answer my question.”

Sam sighs again - there’s been a lot of that as of late. “I don’t want to see my friend destroy themself. The longer you drink, the longer it takes for you to heal.”

“My healing capabilities exceed Blade’s,” you couldn’t help but point out. “You’ve worked with me long enough to know that I won’t keel over so easily.”

Sam shakes his head.

“You know what I mean,” he says. “When it comes to the mind, you’re the weakest out of all of us - and you will only grow worse if you continue down this path.”

You blink. It’s easy to forget, with Firefly’s typically softer demeanor, the bluntness that comes whenever she takes on SAM’s suit. Granted, you’ve been working with her the longest out of everyone, so you really should be used to this by now. Maybe it’s the SoulGlad hitting.

“Fine,” you eventually give in. “I’ll sleep.”

Without hearing what Sam has to say next, you curl up in his hold and shut your eyes, ending the conversation right then there. Should you go to your room instead of inconveniencing your coworker? Probably. That’s the logical thing to do.

But Sam made the decision to pick you up, and you don’t feel like leaving any time soon. Besides, you know Firefly can get rather lonely during the night. As the only Hunter that doesn’t need that much sleep, she often spends the night by her lonesome, watching the stars from the Delphi’s roof and waiting for everyone to wake up.

“You know, I was going to ask you to play Egyptian War with me,” you murmur groggily. Sam hums.

“That card game again? The last time we played, I crushed your hand by accident.”

“I got better, though?” you point out.

“Still, I’d rather avoid that if possible. Just because you can doesn’t mean you should.”

There’s a pointed edge to his tone that you decide to ignore. With a shrug of your shoulders, you snuggle closer to Sam’s heated center. When he wasn’t committing mass arson or flaming up barbeque, he made for a surprisingly good pillow - as long as you didn’t mind the lack of cushioning for your head.

“Alright,” you hum. “Goodnight, Sam.”

Sam sighs, but shifts you in his hold so that you’re more comfortable regardless.

“Goodnight, [Name].”

As you slip in and out of consciousness, you think one last thought to yourself.

How nice it would be, to not have to dream.

Firefly… you don’t know how lucky you are.

—

Sunday finds himself unable to sleep much that night, and before he knows it, morning has come and the familiar chime of his phone’s alarm is rousing him from his bed. Even if he wanted to ignore it, he couldn’t. Just the sound is enough to send alarm bells through his nerves, essentially activating his fight-or-flight instincts.

As he drags himself through his morning routine, functioning on muscle memory more than anything, the same words that have been keeping him up last night drone on like a broken record.

I trust that you will make the right decision.

Why is the seer leaving it up to him? Does Elio not see all the possible futures? Is he not certain of what choice will be the right one? Why was he letting Sunday guess?

With a brief twitch of his wings, Sunday sighs.

“It seems that once again, the fate of an innocent world is in my hands.”

He shouldn’t be questioning Elio, truth be told. If this is all the information that the seer has elected to give him, then this is all the information he needs to know. Whatever decision he makes will be the right one, evidently.

Which, quite frankly, is both reassuring and terrifying.

There is always the possibility of accidentally damning the planet if he chooses wrongly. Mistrust or misread a candidate’s character, and the lives of billions of people will be turned significantly for the worse.

But Sunday isn’t that naive little priest anymore. He knows humanity for what they are, has seen their ugliness, and has embraced them regardless.

Elio trusts him, and he doesn’t plan on disappointing him.

And if he is to do that, he needs to get better at fighting.

With a twirl of his wrist, his rapier materializes in his hand. Once upon a time, he’d detested the feeling of weaponry in his hands. He’d vowed to never be the source of someone else’s suffering, and yet, he is, tossing and swinging his sword without so much as a care in the world.

Besides, that vow had been a foolish one. One simply could not live in a universe as cruel as this without harming another, intentionally or not. Even the most righteous have spilled blood.

And Sunday is no exception.

He studies the rapier carefully, making sure not to accidentally cut himself in the process (it has happened before). Even now, he can’t help but think of how uncanny it is, the way the sword is practically tailored to fit him and his aesthetic.

There was always the possibility that Blade could’ve forged it for him, except for one glaring problem: he’s learned from Kafka that Blade has long lost the dexterity of his hands, revoking his ability to craft forever. So then, to have such a sword pre-made and ready for him…

He smiles cynically.

Elio had already known he’d join, didn’t he?

That seer’s abilities never failed to unnerve and impress him.

He releases the rapier, and it shatters into multiple pinpricks of light. In the full body length mirror he’d bought on Euphrosyne, he rechecks his outfit, smoothing out any wrinkles and adjusting anything that’s out of place.

When he eventually steps out of his room, he’s greeted with an unexpected sight. Firefly - no, this was Sam, the Hunters have made sure to drill the difference into his head - freezes as Sunday stares at him dumbfoundedly.

“Ah-” Sunday watches in confused amusement as Sam sputters and scrambles for an explanation. The mechanized suit quickly straightens with an embarrassed cough. “Sorry. Just- pretend you didn’t see this.”

“Now, I couldn’t possibly do that,” Sunday chuckles, closing his door behind him. “What’s going on here?”

Sam sighs. “It’s well- it’s complicated…”

He shifts so that Sunday can see the being cradled in his arm - case in point, you. You appear to be asleep, cuddled up to Sam’s heated core, but once Sunday sees you, you peek your eyes open.

You shift, stretching a bit before nodding at him. “Oh, hey.”

“Hello, [Name].” Sunday returns the greeting as if this were a common reoccurrence. “What are you doing up there?”

“I was sleeping,” you say, propping up an elbow on Sam’s shoulder and leaning your cheek against your hand. “Now I’m in the middle of waking up.”

“On Sam?”

“Yeah? Everyone’s done it before.” You sit up, swinging your legs to dangle off of the crook in Sam’s elbow. “You should try it, he’s like a miniature fireplace.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Sunday would sooner die than let Sam pick him up and carry him around like that. Then he blinks, processing what you’ve just said. “Wait, did you say everyone? Does that include Blade?”

“It wasn’t willingly, if that eases your mind,” you laugh airily. “He was sleep-deprived and it was one of the rougher missions, so he ended up passing out. I don’t think I’ve seen that guy sleep so soundly.”

“And you are fine with this?” Sunday looks up at Sam.

“I don’t mind,” comes Sam’s reply. “Everyone looks so happy, and so I’m happy. The company isn’t so bad either, even though they’re often unconscious.”

“Love you too, Sam,” you chuckle. “Even if you watch me while I sleep.”

Sam makes a sound like a short-circuiting computer. “I do not-”

You pat the suit deftly on the head. "I'm just messing with you, Sparky. Don't go combusting on me now."

Swiftly jumping off of Sam’s arm, you stretch leisurely, not unlike a cat. Sunday can’t help but wonder, weren’t you supposed to be sleeping in your room last night, given your texts? What were you doing with Sam, and why did he have to carry you back to your room?

He doesn’t get to ask, though, as you beat him to the interrogation first.

“So, princess, where’re you headed to this early in the morning?”

“Ah,” Sunday straightens. His hand instinctively bends to behind his back. “I’m planning on doing some training with Blade, if possible. I’m afraid I’m still rusty when it comes to the sword.”

“Oh, good idea.” You nod approvingly. “Although, there’s one problem: the old man isn’t on the ship right now.”

Sunday blinks. “Sorry?”

“Silver Wolf kidnapped him,” says Sam bluntly, you shaking your head grimly beside him. “She found a new Xianzhou game and dragged Blade along so that he could help her out with some of the translations.”

“Translations?” Sunday repeats, trying to imagine the intimidating Hunter being dragged around by a girl as small and unassuming (given you don’t know who she is) as Silver Wolf. “But doesn’t she have a translating app on her devices?”

Sam sighs. “She does. But she wanted to bring Blade, and since he wasn’t doing anything beforehand, he played along.”

“So that’s why the old man’s kind of unavailable right now. As far as I know,” you say, “it’s just us three on the ship right now - Kafka left to do… something. I don’t know. You want to try sparring Sam?”

Sunday takes one good look at the hulking piece of flaming metal that is Sam. “I don’t think that’s wise.”

“It isn’t,” Sam confirms unnecessarily. “I would accidentally crush you or burn you in the heat of combat. Elio would not be pleased.”

“Could he really be mad if he already foresaw it?” Sunday isn’t sure how he feels about how casually you’re discussing his potential demise at Sam’s hands.

“How about we not let it get to that point?” he tries gently.

“Why don’t you spar him?” Sam suggests, tilting his head so that he looms over you. “You’re fine enough with a sword.”

Subconsciously, Sunday’s wings perk up. Glancing at you, he’s pleasantly surprised to see as you contemplating the suggestion.

“That’s true,” you admit. You nudge him with your elbow. “How about it then, princess? Wanna fight me?”

“We aren’t ‘fighting’,” sighs Sunday with a shake of his head. “It’s just sparring. But yes, I would be honored to spar against you.”

To be honest, he’s rather relieved that it’s you instead of anyone else on the ship. By no means is he saying that Blade is a bad teacher (as crass as his methods are, Sunday can’t deny that they work), but his fighting style is completely different from Sunday’s. Sunday prefers a lighter and more elegant approach to combat, while Blade’s style is, for lack of a better word, brutal - and from what little he knows of Sam, he doubts that his style is any more compatible.

But with what he saw from you yesterday, with your thinner sword and more relaxed body language, you won’t be as harsh nor as crushing as the other two - or at least, it’s less likely that you’ll throw him into the nearest wall.

You grin, flashing your teeth briefly. “Great. I still need to get washed up, so why don’t you head over there first and warm yourself up?”

Sunday nods with a slight bow. “Very well, I shall see you there.”

But just as he turns his heel and begins to make his way to the training room, his wings twitch as he catches snippets of your final conversation with Sam.

“Thanks for indulging me last night, Sparky,” you chuckle lightly. “And… sorry for making you deal with all of that.”

All of that? Sunday knows he shouldn’t be eavesdropping, but he can’t help it. It takes almost all of him not to glance back at you in curiosity.

No, he shakes his head, it’s none of his business. Whatever it is, it’s your private matter and he needn’t stick his nose into it.

Still… his bad habits get the better of him. Internally, he sighs as his wing raises just slightly to allow him to hear better.

“Don’t worry about it,” he hears Sam reply. “Are you feeling better?”

“Obviously. I think a nap on SAM could fix anything, really. You might even put me out of a job with how well it works.”

There’s a noise like a starting engine - Sunday thinks it’s Sam laughing. “I doubt that. Although, if you’re really sorry, you’ll lay off of the alcohol for me.”

“Yeah, no. Any other favor but that one.”

“[Name].”

Sunday imagines you raising your hand in surrender. “Alright, alright. I will try to not drink as much. Is that better?”

If Sam had said anything in response to that, Sunday didn’t hear it, for he’s already stepped out of the residency hall and into a much larger area of the ship. As the tinted glass doors slide close behind him, he finally allows himself a glance behind him.

What was that all about?

—

Once you hear the sound of the doors closing, you turn to Sam. Sam turns to you.

“He eavesdropped, didn’t he.”

“100%.” You shake your head. “I don’t think I’ve seen anyone take so long to walk down a hall. Plus, his wings gave it away.”

“He needs to work on his stealth skills,” Sam agrees.

“Well, to be fair, there’s not many places to hide in here. So I guess I can forgive him.” You look up at the robot. “I meant what I said, though.”

Walking to your door, you giggle as one of your plants nips lightly at your finger despite having been fed yesterday. You glance behind you. Sam’s already looking into the distance, at what, you’re not sure.

“Are you planning on taking a vacation?” you ask. Sam looks at you.

“Yes. There’s a tropical planet in the nearby system,” he says. “I think I’ll go have a visit.”

You nod with a smile. “Alright, have fun. Take pictures, okay?”

“I will. Good luck on your mission.”

With a snort, you push open your door, vines brushing against you as your plants greet you.

“With Kafka and Sunday on board? Yeah, I'll need it.”

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#—stellaronhvnters.#honkai star rail #honkai star rail x reader #hsr #hsr x reader #hsr sunday #sunday hsr #honkai star rail sunday #sunday honkai star rail #sunday x reader #hsr sunday x reader #sunday hsr x reader #honkai star rail sunday x reader #x reader #reader insert #y/n #━━ series : on the other side of morality #archives 🏵️

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milksnake-tea · 5 months ago

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✩ CHAPTER SUMMARY : Sunday spreads his wings for the first time in years.

✩ WORD COUNT : 3.8k

✩ TAGLIST : @vynicity , @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 ( send me an ask off anon if you want to be added !! remember to specify that it is for this series )

✩ ADDITIONAL NOTES : sorry for the later update yall, i had to study for a math placement test and write scholarship essays 😭 more emotionally packed chapter this time because apparently i can't go on too long without sunday suffering. its not that bad tho. have fun, and thank you to @vxnuslogy for betareading this chapter for me !!

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Unnaturally-colored lights illuminate your face in an eerie glow. All that can be heard in your dark office are the small clicks of your digital keyboard as you type and the soft tunes of your computer.

Holding out your hand, you extract some of the stolen medicine from your inventory and throw them into your synthesizer with an effortless wave. Your fingers tap against the table in small, repetitive motions as you idly watch the drugs separating into their basic chemical compositions.

It’s been a few hours since you’ve returned from Euphrosyne.

Shortly after Sunday’s first robbery (with heavy quotation marks), he’d dragged you into a cosmetics store in order to ransack it of its skincare products. Now, you weren’t completely clueless, but some of the things he picked out you didn’t even know existed - and you stole drugs on the basis.

You wince at the memory. Your wallet is still recovering from that escapade - with so many people in a smaller store, it was inconvenient to just drug them all, so you ended up having to pay the old-fashioned way, much to your chagrin.

You raise your hand to type a few commands into the holographic keyboard that appears beside you. The synthesizer glows, rearranging and recombining the chemicals until a completely new drug is born.

Sunday’s probably in his room right now, putting away the gifts you’d bought him and no doubt eager to return Blade’s borrowed clothes. In a few minutes, he’ll come walking through your doorway for the examination of his wings.

His wings… The image of them at the clothing store resurfaces in your mind with a furrowing of your brow.

While you have a good feel for his personality, you can’t understand why he’d keep his wings like that. If you were a Halovian and had wings like that, you’d fly whenever possible. Wings like those are meant to be used.

After all, aren’t birds born to fly?

A high-pitched hum from the synthesizer snaps you from your thoughts. The new drugs float patiently in the synthesizer’s hold, awaiting your final input.

Ah, right. You almost forgot.

You walk over to your desk and down to open up a drawer next to it. Inside is your stash of sugar and various packets of artificial flavoring - ranging from typical fruity flavors to root beer or even coffee.

It isn’t like the Stellaron Hunters are made up of notoriously picky eaters (except for Silver Wolf, but she’s different), but you still like to add a little bit of flavoring as a final touch, just to make the otherwise bitter medicines bearable.

Returning to the synthesizer, you unzip a bag of sugar and scoop out a cup or two and dump it in, along with a few drops of random flavoring you grabbed. With another quick typing, you assign each medicinal candy a flavor and an appropriate amount of sugar, and then it’s done.

And then, as if on cue, the familiar sound of heavy boots comes from behind you.

You squint as you look up from your synthesizer, the light from the hallway blinding you momentarily.

“Must you always do your work in darkness?” Blade mutters as he steps into the infirmary.

His youthful face shows no signs of weariness, but you can tell from his slumped body language how many hours of sleep he’d gotten - which is to say, zero.

You shrug, taking the finished candies from the synthesizer. “It helps me concentrate.”

A ragged sigh emits from your senior. “If you wish to blind yourself so soon, my sword is a faster option.”

“I’m good, thanks,” you chuckle. “Besides, a little eye problem isn't anything I can't bounce back from.”

Blade’s gaze is piercing as he stares at you, the slightest narrowing of his eyes revealing his disapproval. “Your constitution does not warrant recklessness.”

Your smile doesn’t reach your eyes. “Don't act like you're worried about me.”

He scoffs. Turning his head, the conversation ends there, leaving empty space behind. The silence isn’t unbearable; with Blade, things have always been this way, but there's an unmistakable tension in the air that you don't care enough to dispel.

You drop half of the candies into a jar before sliding said jar towards Blade.

“That should be enough for a month or so,” you say, leaning your elbows against the counter. “But don’t overdose, okay? Only use them when the mara becomes too much.”

Blade takes the jar without so much as a second glance. “I am aware.”

The shadow he casts as he leaves feels taller and more imposing than it should be. It catches the tip of your shoe, and you subtly take a step back.

The second Blade’s silhouette leaves your sight, a heavy sigh sags your body. Massaging your temple idly, you stare blankly into the light of your synthesizer.

“Great Mercy…” you groan, burying your face in your hands. “You just had to make it awkward, didn’t you? And we were doing so well too.”

You lift your head. Your vision feels hazy, and you don’t truly see your hands in front of you. The synthesizer’s glow blurs with the light in the doorway and the skin of your palms. For a moment, you are no longer in your office, but somewhere far, far away - a place you left several Amber Eras ago.

Inhaling sharply, you shake your head, dragging a hand over your face. Physically, it’s impossible for you to feel tired, but your mind is absolutely exhausted.

“That’s enough,” you quietly scold yourself. You roll back your shoulders and straighten from the desk, wiping your mind of any troubling thoughts. Blade never holds any grudges, and so neither should you.

Yeah… You shouldn’t.

You rest a hand over your heart. It thuds under your touch, still as frenzied and frightened as it was all those eras ago. Briefly, you consider ripping it out and growing a new one altogether.

“Mx. [Name]?”

A new silhouette joins the hallway’s light. You turn to see Sunday standing in the doorway, his expression candid - although slightly apprehensive. You wonder how long he’d been there - and hope that he didn’t see your exchange with Blade.

“You know, you don’t have to call me that,” you say, allowing your hand to drop to your side. Sunday blinks.

“Ah… I see.” He rests a hand over his heart in apology. “Forgive me, it’s a habit I developed in my line of work.”

Always with the apologizing, you think in amusement. “Nothing I need to forgive you for. All I’m saying is that you can just call me by my name, or whatever nickname you decide to force upon me.”

“A nickname,” he repeats. “Like the ones you call Ms. Kafka, and the others?”

“Don’t forget yourself, princess,” you joke, drinking in the way Sunday’s upper wings twitch at the name.

He sighs with a smile. “I was doing my best to.”

You hum out a laugh. “Yeah, I’m not going to let you. Come on in, let’s take a look at those wings, shall we?”

Immediately the lighthearted mood is vanquished. The air thickens, becoming almost suffocating. Sunday’s smile falters, the glow in his eyes dulls, and he crosses his arms in a vain attempt to provide himself a semblance of comfort.

Fear flashes over his eyes, and then a steady, unwavering determination.

“Right.” He breathes in, the breath shaking in his chest as he prepares himself. “The wings.”

—

It hurts.

Sunday knows he should’ve expected this - he hadn’t fully extended his wings in who knows how long, but still, the pain that strikes through his body is like nothing he’s ever felt before. Even the fall of the Charmony Festival hadn’t hurt this bad.

His body screams at him to stop, but the stretch is as painful as it is necessary.

“Breathe, princess.”

Your hand is an anchor at the small of his back, your palm flat against him as you aid him in extending his wings.

In the back of his mind, he wants to shove you away, for his larger pair of wings are surely a horrid sight - an image of grotesque, mangled limbs flashes in his mind. But the pain overrides his need to appear presentable.

Sunday’s breath rattles - it’s a deadweight in his chest, pressing down on his lungs and heart and comes out as a wheeze.

“Princess, listen to me-”

Your voice drowns in the sea of his thoughts.

His eyes squeeze shut. In a seizure of ill-willed panic, he forces his wings to open faster, biting back a scream as the tearing sensation returns in full force. His fingers dig into his palms in an attempt to ground himself, but adding pain to pain does little to console.

His mind becomes a storm-wrecked ocean, waves crashing and beating at him every time he tries to surface. Horrid thoughts howl above him with the harsh winds, screaming at him to open them faster, to get this over with, to not disappoint you.

Water fills his lungs and he chokes, hands scrambling for any sort of anchor but finding nothing in their grasp.

He’ll drown - he is drowning, slammed deeper into the waves again and again until-

Something grabs his wrist and pulls him out.

“Sunday.”

A strangled gasp shudders him. His eyes fly open.

The storm is gone. Replacing its howls is the distant hum of your synthesizer, and the dark waves are washed away by a gentle shadow. He sits no longer in groundless water, but instead on one of the two beds in the infirmary.

Your hand runs over his spine in a soothing motion while the other squeezes his shoulder firmly. Subconsciously, Sunday leans into your palms to stabilize himself.

He allows himself a few moments to breathe, gulping down vital mouthfuls of air. Like statues, his wings rigidly stay in place, in the middle of ripping themselves open. After a few minutes of silence, he finally composes himself enough to speak.

“I-”

“Don’t apologize,” you cut him off. Shame burns Sunday regardless. “Just listen.”

It takes Sunday a moment, one part because of his still-buzzing mind, one part another predicament entirely.

Your fingers linger around where the base of his wings are, in the window of the thin, long-sleeved shirt he’s thrown on for the examination. All of his senses are zeroed in on that small sliver of skin, tingling at the mere prospect of another’s touch - although he can’t tell if it wants or fears it.

“Sunday?”

With a start, he realizes you’re awaiting his answer. Heat rushing to his cheeks, he nods tentatively, signaling for you to continue.

“Your wings aren’t used to being pried open like that,” you say calmly. Instinctively he tries to find any hint that you’re annoyed, or irritated, or any of the sort. But he finds nothing, only a strangely secure serenity. “You have to take it slow; otherwise you’ll hurt them even more.”

Relief floods him when your palm lies flat against him once more.

Wait, relief? Why was he…

“Focus on my voice,” you interrupt his thoughts before he can get too embarrassed. “I’ll guide you through it. Now, may I?”

Sunday’s lips part to ask just what you mean by that, only for his voice to lodge in his throat as you ghost a hand over the base of his wing.

Granted, his second pair of wings isn’t as sensitive as the ones that lie behind his head - thank Ena for that - but they still are more sensitive than he’d like to admit. Allowing you, who he’s known for a little more than a day, to touch them… even if this is a medical necessity, he still finds himself a bit wary.

“May I ask what you’re planning to do, first?” he asks quietly, turning slightly so that he can glimpse at your face.

“Remember what I did back on Euphrosyne, with the clerk?” you reassuringly squeeze his shoulder one last time before hovering both of your hands over the base of his wings.

Sunday remembers the scene at the clinic. “Your lollipop, you mean?”

You chuckle. “That too. But no, I meant what happened after the lollipop - when the clerk hit their head.”

“Ah.” Sunday’s wings rustle. “That healing ability of yours. You intend to use it on my wings?”

“Bingo. You hurt them a bit in that frenzy just now, so I need to repair that. It’ll also make the stretch much easier.”

That makes sense, Sunday thinks. But there’s one thing he’s slightly worried about.

“Is touching my wings necessary for this procedure?”

You hum. “Not really, although it’d be more efficient if I did. If I handle your wings directly, I can further aid you in extending them and more accurately heal them when needed. Would you rather I didn’t?”

If it were any other person - save for perhaps Robin and his adoptive father, Sunday would’ve said yes right away. A Halovian’s wings were one of the most intimate parts of them, especially the ones that extend from their nape. Only close friends, family, and romantic partners were allowed to touch them.

But the more he thinks, the more he realizes that he doesn’t feel as inclined to those traditions with you. There’s something about you that puts him at ease, much to his chagrin.

For some bewildering reason, he trusts you.

It’s just a medicinal procedure, he tells himself.

“No, I don’t mind,” Sunday finally says, turning his back. “Do what you must, doctor.”

He hears an amused hum from behind. “Alright, princess. Follow my lead.”

Sunday lets his eyes flutter close. He feels your hands lay gentle on his wings, the touch sending tingles of static up and down. It’s almost ticklish, but it isn’t unpleasant.

Warmth blooms at the curve of his wings, ebbing away the pain and leaving him with an almost refreshed feeling, as if stepping out of a dark forest into a sunlit meadow. He realizes that it’s your ability at work. Slowly, his shoulders droop, and his muscles relax.

Then he feels your hands slide up his wings, applying pressure every so often like a massage, correcting the kinks in his bones and healing whenever needed.

His breath hitches at the feeling. A pleased hum begins to vibrate in his chest like static as he loses himself to the dream-like feeling.

Vaguely, he hears you instruct him to open and close his wings, and he listens, easing them open at a gradual pace. The hum in his chest increases in magnitude, his back arching slightly as his wings extend to their full length.

He sighs in satisfaction once the stretch is complete and the tips of his feathers brush against the ceiling in a veil of midnight blue.

“Someone looks happy,” you say. “Feels better, doesn’t it?”

Your voice comes from a higher place than before, making Sunday look up. You smile down at him, hand resting gently on the bend of his left wing.

His left wing…

His serene expression falters. Carefully, he folds that wing in front of him and takes the dark plumage in his hands. Running his fingers amongst the feathers, he stops with narrowed eyes at the feeling of a sudden edge in the sea of softness.

Just as before, his left wing’s flight feathers are still cut short, snipped so that he may never take to the skies.

This time, he had been the one to cut them - Gopher Wood needn’t be bothered with such trivial matters, especially after Sunday had become an adult. But he remembers his first cutting well - the sheen of the scissors, the iron grip on his wings, the fear he’d felt, all in the past but not truly left behind.

“They’ll grow back.”

Sunday glances up.

“I know.”

He doesn’t sound convinced, not even to himself. But what he wants to convince himself of, he doesn’t know.

Sunday lets go of his wing and lets it hang comfortably at his side. You slide off the bed behind him and pull up your office chair. Sitting on it with your chest against the back, you roll back in front of him.

“Try flapping them,” you say. “Slowly, just open and close until you get used to the feeling.”

Sunday obliges. The wings are larger and heavier than he expects, and it’s a bit of a struggle, but he manages. Winds spurs from every flap of his wings, rustling your hair each time.

“No pain?” you prompt, raising a hand to summon a screen and type some things onto it. Sunday shakes his head.

“No.” He flaps one more time just to make sure, but he feels nothing, only his wings’ new weight.

“Good.” You type a bit more before closing the window. “I wouldn’t try flying just yet - especially with those clipped feathers, but we can start out with a few exercises every day to strengthen them. Kind of like physical therapy.”

Something warm blooms in Sunday’s chest. His heart rate quickens, and for the first time in years, he feels excited, giddy, relieved. It’s almost overwhelming, all of it.

He flicks his wing again, and again, and again. A gleeful laugh bubbles up in his chest.

His feathers tickle against his cheek, as if his wings are trying to comfort him. He smiles at the thought, despite how silly it is.

But then he remembers where he is. Heat reddens his face as he meets your amused gaze, his upper wings instinctively covering his face as he coughs bashfully.

“Sorry, I’m afraid I got a little carried away.”

“Aw, don’t get embarrassed on me now,” you giggle, not helping his predicament at all. “It was cute, watching you get all giddy.”

He half-heartedly shoots you a glare, to which you only smile calmly in reply.

“Are we finished here?” he huffs, eager to change the subject. You hum.

“Yeah, basically. I don’t have anything to give you, unless you want some of those sleeping candies I mentioned earlier.”

Sunday blinks. For a moment, he contemplates the offer despite you probably having only mentioned it in passing.

The nightmare from last night still hangs fresh in his mind, and his inability to fall asleep still bears its consequences - the reminder brings back the dull ache at the back of his head which he’d tried to ignore. Sleeping still scares him - if naturally induced rest brings upon visions such as those, he’d rather not sleep at all. But he is still mortal, human, and as such, he cannot evade his body’s needs forever.

Yet at the same time, he doesn’t want you to think there’s anything wrong with him to warrant such medications.

Then again, you’ve already seen his wings.

“Those medications of yours,” he says softly, “do they get rid of dreams?”

You prop your elbows up on the back of your chair. “They do. Are you suffering from nightmares?”

He’s unable to stop the smallest flinch that confirms your speculations. You stand up, pushing the chair back to your desk.

“I get it,” you offer as consolation, although it doesn’t assure him as much as it piques his curiosity. “When I first came here, I had a rough time sleeping too. I only slept when I couldn’t stand anymore, and even Kafka was concerned - or well, as concerned as a woman like her could be.”

The synthesizer opens, revealing pre-made candies floating in its hold. Sunday recognizes them as the same ones Blade had walked out holding.

“When I found out Blade had the same problem - okay, well, not the same problem,” you correct yourself, “I started making these. After seeing them work so well on Blade, I figured I should take some too.”

Sunday tilts his head. “Blade has nightmares?”

“You can see it like that,” you say, bagging a couple candies with a wave of your hand. Thankfully, your hand doesn’t come in contact with the candies; otherwise, Sunday would leave them untouched in the corner of his room for all eternity. “But his ailment is far worse and more complicated than just that.”

Sunday briefly remembers the stories he’d read of the Xianzhou, including that of the curse its locals bear.

His gaze drops to his hands. “I see.”

Sympathy tugs at his heartstrings. For a second, he is the Bronze Melodia again, listening to the plight of the weak with a careful ear. Now, Blade is by no means what he’d call weak, but knowing he suffers from such a cruel fate…

He looks over at you, brows furrowed slightly. Your back is turned, meaning he can’t see your expression.

Even the strongest have their vulnerabilities - this he knows well.

Then what does that make of you, who suffered like he did?

“You have nightmares too, then?” he asks gently.

“Had,” you’re quick to correct. “After a few Amber Eras, I got over them. I don’t take these anymore.”

There’s a clear edge in your tone that is chilling despite your otherwise easygoing voice. The message is clear - don’t push it.

Sunday tenses, his feathers bristling instinctively.

Right. He’s forgotten who you were - what you were. You may be kind to him now, but the two of you aren’t close, nor are you someone who needs his comfort. He is no longer the Bronze Melodia, and you are not his kin.

You’re a Stellaron Hunter - a criminal and a murderer.

You don’t need nor want his pity.

Your footsteps snap him out of his momentary moment of fear. You don’t look mad, or, well, anything, for that matter - just the same as usual. He could almost convince himself that nothing had happened at all.

The small mesh bag of candies is soft as you plop it in his palm.

“Don’t get too used to them, okay?” you sit down on the bed next to him, the mattress creaking as you do. He shifts his wing away so that it doesn’t drape over you like a blanket. “You can overdose on these, and it’s not fun.”

Did you know from experience? Sunday wonders, but decides against asking. He doesn’t want to push his chances.

“I’ll try,” he assures, folding his wings behind him.

“Looks like you’re already getting used to them,” you comment, leaning back onto your hands to look at his wings one last time. Sunday hums as you hold a hand out and run it along his plumage. “By the way, I’ve been meaning to ask. Do Halovians purr?”

Sunday’s mind malfunctions as he tries to process your words. “Excuse me?”

You drop your hand to look at him innocently. “Back when I was helping your wings out, you were making this purring sound, like a cat. I don’t know if you noticed but I wanted to ask-”

His wing smacks you over the head in embarrassment.

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milksnake-tea · 6 months ago

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✩ CHAPTER SUMMARY : Sunday (unwillingly) engages in his first acts of crime on the Planet of Indulgence.

✩ WORD COUNT : 5.76k

✩ TAGLIST : @vynicity , @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 (send me an ask off anon if you want to be added !! please specify that it’s for this series)

✩ ADDITIONAL NOTES : do you know how long i wanted to use this chapter title. it was supposed to be for chapter two but GRGGRRGGR anyways it's here now !!! this is definitely my favorite chapter to write so far, it is JUICY so have fun guys !!!

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Euphrosyne is a planet bathed in violet.

The second you step into one of the many overcrowded streets, the color invades your vision. Just about everything is bathed in this vivid purple-pinkish haze like a filter. Conversation flows almost as quickly as money does, and the sky and the stars are replaced with billboards and advertisements displaying the next big thing.

What you like about economic metropolises like these is that no one bats you an eye. They’re all too busy running to snatch the latest trending product before anyone else does. Here, it’s everyone for themselves, and being a second too late could be the difference between life and death.

“Keep up, princess,” you call over your shoulder. “Would be a shame to lose you so soon.”

You adjust your baseball cap onto your head to make sure it doesn’t get swept away by the crowd. Behind you, you hear Sunday maneuvering his way through dozens before he’s able to break free and catch up to you. He shakes his head, his wing feathers ruffled in irritation.

“I never thought I’d see a planet worse than Penacony,” Sunday mutters distastefully. He swiftly pats down his shoulder where someone had bumped into him. “No one here seems to know what basic manners are.”

“That’s high-end capitalism for you,” you laughed. “Everyone thinks they’re the center of the universe.”

You keep your eyes on the sky; looking forward will get you nowhere. But up there, that’s where you can find direction. There, there are the neon lights, the flashing signs of luxury cars, the skyscrapers that are only accompanied by the monorail that stretches throughout the planet.

It doesn’t take long before you find your target. Among the neon buildings and flashing billboards, an ivory tower shines like a diamond in the rough, a refined royal in the midst of puffed-up nobles. Its crown is made up of large, golden letters with a glow that can rival suns.

Many, many years ago, when you’d first joined the Hunters, Kafka had taken you to a similar store - same company, different branch, different star system. You weren’t like Sunday, who was starting anew, but she had insisted you at least get a new coat. That new coat ended up turning into three, with an add-on of five pairs of shoes and the entire sunglasses section.

A small smile slips onto your face at the memory. It’s been a while since you’d last hung out with Kafka. You should invite her out again sometime.

You’re snapped out of your thoughts by Sunday’s sharp intake of breath. His eye twitches as he’s once again pushed by some upper-class passerby.

Smiling sympathetically, you offer your wrist to him. “Here, hold onto me.”

He contemplates your offer for a total of five seconds before someone barrels past him again. Irritation flashes over his face like lightning and his halo begins to glow threateningly.

Before Sunday can commit his first murder in broad daylight, you reach out and grab his wrist so you can tug him behind you.

“Why isn’t anyone bumping against you?” Sunday complains, although relief from no longer being tossed around like a ragdoll bleeds through.

“No idea,” you reply, checking to make sure his halo has cooled down, which it has. “Maybe they just know their place.”

“Of course.”

You feel Sunday’s hand flex under your hold on him, but he makes no move to shove you off him. Apparently, he finds you to be more bearable than the crowd - although that isn’t exactly a difficult feat.

“Don’t worry, you’ll only have to bear with this for a little longer. We’re almost there.” As you finish speaking, you pick up the pace, skillfully slipping through the sea of people with Sunday following close behind.

Windows upon windows of mannequins adorned in designer clothing greet you when you finally arrive at the twelve-floor mall. Despite the brand’s renown, there’s no line to get in; instead, there are bouncers who scan you up and down to make sure you’re a customer, not a thief.

They scrutinize you and Sunday as you stroll in, but one look at your attire and Sunday’s perfect posture and they nod approvingly, stepping aside. You smirk a little at how easily they let you pass - prejudice’s a bitch, but when it works in your favor, you certainly don’t complain.

The doors open like gates to heaven with a whoosh. Workers dressed in suits and ties bow and greet you as you enter. Their smiles are almost as fake as Sunday’s; it’s actually impressive.

“Welcome,” they speak in one, pleasant chorus that oozes with customer service training. “How may we help you today?”

You speed past them, heading straight for the elevators. The workers’ smiles didn’t move at your behavior, in fact, you’d wager they were relieved you didn’t start yapping away at them. You hear the chorus bid you farewell as you tug Sunday into one of the many glass elevators, joining other well-dressed clients.

In some planets, the wealthy were as powerful as gods, and the tower made sure to emphasize that. Ascending the floors, watching the workers shrink and shrink until they were nothing more than insignificant ants, you wonder if this is how the Aeons felt upon ascending.

But then you remember that Aeons were unfeeling, neutral entities who probably regarded mortal lives as having even less value than insects.

“Say,” Sunday says suddenly. You shuffle closer to him in order to hear him over the other patrons. “Weren’t you supposed to be getting breakfast?”

You blink. Oh, right. That completely slipped your mind.

“I’ll get it later,” you shrug it off.

“It isn’t good to work on an empty stomach,” Sunday chides you exasperatingly. A grin slides onto your face.

“Aw, are you worried about me?” you coo, batting your eyelashes teasingly. “Don’t worry, I don’t plan on drinking anytime soon.”

“That’s not-” Sunday sighs and shakes his head, pointedly turning away from you. You chuckle, sneaking a peek at the displayed floor number at the top of the elevator. Two more floors to go.

When you finally leave the elevator, you’re greeted with what is essentially a palace. Much like its exterior, the interior is layered with marble floors, chandeliers, and reeks of wealth.

Suits and tuxedos of various colors line one side of the room, ranging from a distinguished black to a bold neon pink for those who like to stand out. The other side presents more casual wear, with comfortable shirts and pants that look simple but cost more than an average IPC member’s salary.

But what made all of them special, other than their superior quality and outrageous prices, were the open backs and windows that allowed for wings, claws, or any other limbs that may need freedom to move.

“You asked about your wings,” you explained to a befuddled Sunday, “and like I said, it’ll be tough to get them back to how they used to be. But it isn’t impossible.”

You stride over to the fancier side of the floor and pluck out a backless high-collared blouse.

“First step is letting them breathe.”

You hold the blouse out in front of Sunday in order to picture how it’d look on him. The darker colors highlight his feather-like hair and golden eyes, and the style fits. Nodding in approval, you turn it around to show Sunday.

“What do you think?”

Sunday’s ichor-filled eyes take on a more calculating gleam as he takes the blouse in his hands.

“It isn’t terrible,” he admits begrudgingly. “Although the color is different to what I’m used to wearing.”

You stare at the navy dress shirt he has on. “Is that right?”

Sunday rolls his eyes, his wings flapping a few times in annoyance. “Blade’s color palette doesn’t exactly match my personal preferences, I’ll have you know.”

You chuckle. “Alright, alright. Well, we have an entire floor to choose from. Pick out what you like, and I’ll go see if I can find anything for you.”

You move to put the blouse back, only to stop when Sunday drapes the blouse over his arm. He raises a brow at you as if daring you to question him. Raising your hands in surrender, you head off to find him an oversized hoodie because everyone needs an oversized hoodie - and you were not about to let Sunday be the exception.

You find said hoodie in no time - it’s relatively plain, as all fancy clothes tend to be, but the material lives up to its price. After picking out a few more items, your arms are pretty much covered in what will soon be Sunday’s wardrobe. Hopefully. If they pass the test, that is.

Taking a step back, you scan the shop for Sunday. There aren’t a lot of other customers outside of the two of you, although that’s to be expected, considering the target audience of this floor.

Your search proves unsuccessful, leaving you to assume that the Halovian had set off to the changing rooms.

“Princess, you in there?” you call out once you arrive, earning a few weird looks from nearby staff. Sure enough, a tired sigh responds from one of the stalls, giving away Sunday’s location. You don’t have to see him to know that he’s rolling his eyes.

“Yes, I’ll be out in a moment,” he replies. You hear the shuffling of cloth before he opens the door.

A low whistle leaves you at the sight of his new outfit. A black turtleneck sweater snugly hugs his body from under a chestnut wool coat that reaches just below his knees, with dress pants that match his sweater outlining his long legs.

“I’m starting to think you could wear a trash bag and still look good,” you joke. Like a baby bird, Sunday tilts his head at the compliment.

“Thank you?” he says, the tilt in his voice making it sound more like a question. His gaze falls onto the bundle of clothes that hang off your arm.

“I’m being serious!” You step into the rather spacious fitting room (perks of being in a high-end store) and set the clothes you’d picked out down. “If I’m ever in a situation where I need pretty privilege, I’m stealing you.”

Sunday closes the door behind you, taking great care not to accidentally shut it on his coat. His collection of clothes are fewer, which made sense considering that he was on the formal side and the fact that he was pickier than you when it came to fashion.

“I thought you didn’t like darker colors,” you comment, reaching into your back pocket and bringing out a pocket knife.

Before Sunday can question why you’re bringing out a knife in the middle of a clothing store, you sit down on a nearby stool and begin cutting off tags from the clothes you picked out for him. Alarmed, Sunday’s wings flare up.

“What-” Thankfully, he has the sense to lower his voice to a startled whisper. “What are you doing?”

Your fingers are fast as you rid each article of clothing from its tag. It’s evident that you’ve been doing this for years - and you have. Out of all of the Stellaron Hunters, you hate spending money the most, and stealing is fun.

“You didn’t think we were actually paying for all of this, did you?” you tease. “This place is crazy expensive.”

“...Somehow, I’m no longer surprised,” Sunday mutters, a layer of resignation and defeat in his tone. “But there are employees everywhere here. How do you plan to deal with them?”

“That,” you sing, “is a secret.”

Sunday furrows his brows, but doesn’t push. Cutting through the last of the tags, you stand up and motion for Sunday to give you the tags on the clothes he’s currently wearing.

The coat is easy; all Sunday has to do is slide it off and give it to you. It’s the turtleneck and the pants that are a bit tougher to work with.

You hear Sunday’s throat constrict as you reach behind him, your finger hooking at the high collar to find the tag. His wings bristle, and his muscles tense. You can practically hear the thump of his heart with how close you are.

“Relax,” you murmur, Sunday flinching at how close you are to his ear. “I’m not going to cut you.”

“I’m aware,” he replies, despite the nervousness wavering in his voice. You don’t miss the way his wings stiffen as the blade of your knife ghosts his neck.

Unable to help a glance down, you catch sight of his larger set of wings protruding from the back window in the sweater. Just like when Kafka had brought him in, they’re cramped and stiff, leaving you to wonder how long it had been since he’d last fully extended them. But the feathers seem to be doing better, at least.

“Mx. [Name]?” Sunday breathes out. You blink out of your thoughts.

“Ah, sorry,” you apologize. “I was just thinking.”

Deciding to take pity on the poor thing, you quickly find the tag and pull it up. A swift pull of your knife, a small snap, and it’s over. The tag joins the soon-to-be-burned pile in the corner of the stall, and Sunday heaves a sigh of relief as you step away.

“May I-” he winces at the warble in his voice- “I can do the last one.”

“You sure?” you question, handing it over anyway. “Do you even know how to use a knife?”

“I am not as sheltered as you think,” Sunday says defensively and unconvincingly. You raise your hands in surrender.

“Alright, alright. Just don’t cut yourself.” You stretch, glancing at the stall’s door. “When you’re done with that, take a look at the stuff I got you. Pick out what you like, what you don’t like I’ll either keep or give to Elio.”

Scooping up the fallen tags in your hands, you contemplate setting them on fire right then and there, but decide against it. If you were going to set off the fire alarm, it’d be better to do it after you’d already left the building.

“I’ll be heading out now,” you inform Sunday, crumpling the tags and shoving them away into your inventory. “When you hear the signal, meet me at the elevator and we’ll get out of here.”

Hesitantly, Sunday nods as he hands you back your knife. “And… what is this signal I’m supposed to look out for?”

A mischievous grin creeps onto your face.

“You’ll know.”

—

“I can’t believe you.”

You wave cheerfully to the staff as you leave, and they bow to you, none the wiser that twelve floors above lie their unconscious colleagues. Surprisingly, Sunday keeps up the farce flawlessly as he bids them farewell with a gentle smile before returning to you with an exasperated expression.

“Yes, as you’ve said about five times now,” you say casually, stepping back into the busy streets. Silently, the doors of the store slide closed behind you, the bouncers not sparing you another glance.

“When people say ‘wait for a signal’,” Sunday begins his lecture again, “they usually mean a light or a sound.”

“There was a sound, though?” you point out. Sunday deadpanned.

“The sound of twelve innocent employees knocking their heads on the floor doesn’t count.” He rubs his temple, still trying to process what just happened. “Just what did you do to them anyway?”

“Gas bomb,” you say, eyeing a man who comes dangerously close to hitting you. “Smelled nice, didn’t it?”

“Vanilla, if I recall,” Sunday affirms. “Although I do wonder why I wasn’t affected.”

You hum. “Did you cover your nose in time? The bomb I used was one of the weaker ones.”

Only the roar of the street replies to you. At Sunday’s abrupt silence, you halt in your tracks.

“Princess?” you start, only to falter once your sight falls in line with his.

Displayed proudly on an electronic billboard, snuggled amongst the various advertisements, is a picture of Sunday before the fall. There, his smile is still bright and joyful as he advertises the release of his little sister’s album to the world. He is still the Oak Family Head, still Robin’s beloved older brother, still beloved by the universe.

But all of that is crushed by the big, bold words that underline his photo.

WANTED

DEAD OR ALIVE

2,540,000,000

“Well, I’ll be damned,” you whistle appreciatively. “You’re just a few billion under Silver Wolf, and you haven’t even made your official debut yet. She is not going to be happy when she finds out.”

Sunday still doesn’t respond. When you look to check on him, you expect horror or maybe even despair, but instead, he gazes at the wanted poster with some sort of detachment, and even a little pride.

“Of all the pictures to use, they choose that…” he comments offhandedly, almost offended. You lean over his shoulder to get a better look.

“It’s cute.” You’re already fishing out your phone to take a picture. “The others are gonna love this - come on come on, we have to take a picture.”

A bemused smile slips onto Sunday’s face at your excitement. Playing along, he indulges you and poses beside his wanted poster with a peace sign. Like a mother at her child’s highschool graduation, you snap photos from all angles with the skill of a professional photographer.

“They grow up so fast,” you fake-sob, snorting when Sunday rolls his eyes despite his smile. Once you’ve finished with your impromptu photoshoot, he comes to your side to look over your shoulder as you swiftly text the group chat.

“The Stellaron Hunter… Family?” Sunday raises a brow as he reads aloud the name of your group chat.

“Yeah,” you chuckle fondly. “Silver Wolf found out that the Express’s group chat is called the Astral Express Family, so we’re parodying them.”

“Is that so?” muses Sunday, intrigued. The corners of his eyes crinkle at your antics in the chat. “For the longest time, I’ve thought of the Express and the Hunters as natural enemies, but you’re much closer than I expected. Even on Penacony, you joined forces in order to defeat me.”

“Well, Sparky has always said that we’re like two sides of the same coin,” you recall.

“Sparky?” Sunday repeats.

“Firefly,” you clarify. “Or Sam, if that’s more familiar.”

“Do you give nicknames to everyone you meet?” Sunday asks, the question more curious rather than demeaning.

You smile. “Only to people I like.”

Your phone pings again before Sunday can fully process the meaning of your words. Checking it, you see Blade - well, it was actually Kafka, since Blade would apparently rather drown than use his phone - sending a photo in the group chat.

Clicking on the attachment reveals a design for presumably Sunday’s official uniform. Midnight black fabric flows in a striking coat with blazing azure and gold accents. Put together, elegant, yet hinting at danger, the outfit bears both a resemblance to Sunday’s previous one and a bold nod to his new life.

“Hey, look,” you beckon, eager to escape Silver Wolf’s vengeful clutches. “Kafka sent over blueprints for your uniform.”

Passing your phone to him, you look back to the billboard. Other than Sunday’s wanted poster, there’s a number of other advertisements and newspapers plastered on it. One such newspaper - or rather, a holographic video of a news reporting - catches your eye.

A Halovian girl sings on the glitchy screen, a swirling glass in one hand and the other raised to the crowd. City lines border on the night sky in a gorgeous horizon behind her, her emerald eyes reflecting the fireworks that burst in little burning lights around her.

You’d be a fool if you didn’t know who this girl was.

“Your sister is beautiful,” you say, watching as she is bathed in the limelight and adoration of the people.

Sunday glances up from your phone, his eyes softening once he catches sight of the advertisement.

“She is, isn’t she?” he says, his voice gentler than you’d ever heard it. Wistfulness and pure adoration fills him, melting the gems in his eyes and relaxing the stiffness in his shoulders. His gloved hand raises, almost hesitantly, before he lays his fingers on the billboard. “She doesn’t look hurt from the fall… Thank goodness.”

A heavy breath of relief leaves him, shouldering the burden of worry that must’ve plagued him since he’d left Penacony. Suddenly, a memory of when he’d been brought in by Kafka flashes in your mind.

His back had been bruised badly, the backs of his wings nearly crushed from the fall. He’d probably hit his head, considering how long it took for him to wake up, and you had no doubt the pain he was in when he did awaken - it had taken one of your stronger medicines to fix him back up.

“You took the brunt of the fall for your sister,” you realize. “No wonder you were in such bad shape when you came in.”

Sunday chuckles hollowly. “Of course I did. It wasn’t her who nearly imprisoned the entirety of Asdana. What older brother would I be if I allowed my kid sister to get hurt from my mistakes?”

“I’m not condemning you,” you say gently. “I would’ve done the same.”

Sunday nods, although he appears unconvinced. Eager to change the subject, he glanced back at your phone screen and the chat.

“Firefly is taking my presence much better than I anticipated,” he notes. You hum.

“Well, she doesn’t have much of a choice, does she?” You lean over to see the conversation - currently, it’s just Sunday and Kafka trading ideas for his new outfit. Surprisingly, he hasn’t made any comment about the black theme.

“We all have pasts we want to leave behind. Being able to start anew and become more than what you were before - that’s what being a Stellaron Hunter is all about. In that sense, we’re no different from the Express.”

You elbow Sunday playfully, making sure not to hit his wings. The Halovian grunts in response, clearly not used to such gestures.

“Sparky was once in your shoes - we all were,” you say, chuckling as Sunday rubs his side (you didn’t even hit him that hard). “So there’s not too many hard feelings… Unless you stabbed her. Did you stab her? She doesn’t like getting stabbed.”

“I’m fairly certain I did not stab Firefly,” Sunday replies, a hint of amusement in his voice.

“Then you have nothing to worry about.” Snatching back your phone from Sunday, you begin to move away from the billboard, having caught sight of something far more interesting - a pharmacy. “Come on, let’s go. I just remembered, I have to pick up some groceries.”

“Groceries?” Sunday scans the surrounding streets for any sign of a grocery store or marketplace, which given Euphrosyne’s nature, obviously aren’t there.

“Uh… not those kinds of groceries.”

—

“Why are we here."

“Why do you keep questioning me.”

“Have you perhaps considered that you do a lot of questionable things?”

“Not at all. Now be quiet, the adult is speaking.”

“You-” You kick him in the shin, a traditional method of shutting people up. The employee at the pharmacy’s desk eyes the two of you tiredly - given how late it is, you’re sure they’re nearing the end of their tortuously long shift.

“Sorry about him,” you step in front of Sunday to talk friendly with the clerk. “Long day today?”

They snorted. “You can tell?”

“Yeah,” you laugh softly, already rummaging around in your pocket. Feeling a light, paper stick, you quickly close your fingers around it. “I’d know that look anywhere. Used to see it every time I looked in the mirror.”

That brought a smile to the clerk’s face - a cynical one, yes, but a smile nevertheless. “You don’t have to tell me that.”

“Tell you what,” you snap your fingers. “I was saving this for later, but you look like you need it a lot more than I do.”

From your pocket you withdraw a small lollipop, wrapped in colorful paper with some company name plastered all over it. At the sight of the small treat, a small light shines in their eyes.

“Oh, you don’t have to-”

“No no no,” you shush them and push the lollipop into their hands. “It’s my treat. Don’t worry about it.”

“Thank you so much,” the clerk sighs gratefully, unaware of your snake-like eyes watching their every move.

“Of course,” you coo sympathetically (Sunday shudders, evidently disturbed. His face almost makes you break character). “I know just how grueling work is for you all.”

The clerk nods, unwrapping the lollipop and popping it into their mouth. “I can’t thank you enou-”

Their eyes roll, and they collapse unceremoniously onto the register with an unappealing thunk (both you and Sunday wince. That must’ve hurt). Muffled snores soon begin to roll from their lips. A few seconds pass before you prod them with your finger, but they continue to sleep unbothered.

You step back and turn to Sunday with a blank expression. “I did not know that would happen.”

Sunday crosses his arms disapprovingly. Clearly he is not convinced by your impeccable acting.

“You drugged an innocent worker.” He enunciates every word clearly, sharply, and without a shred of emotion. “Again.”

“I didn’t use gas this time though?” you point out, as if that will make it better.

Sunday sighs as you leap over the counter and start stocking up. “You could just pay like a normal, law abiding citizen.”

You pause, raising a brow pointedly. Sunday blinks, before inevitably realizing the irony of telling a Stellaron Hunter with a considerable bounty on their head to follow the law.

“I stand corrected.”

You grin toothily. “Now you’re getting it.”

As you grab bottles of painkillers, allergy medicines, and a plethora of other medications, you hear shuffling behind you. When you glance back, you catch a glimpse of Sunday, taking one of the jackets that you’d stolen from the bag and folding it neatly into a makeshift pillow for the clerk.

“I think they’re bruising,” Sunday mutters, barely concealing panic as he slides the pillow under the clerk’s head.

“What?” You shove the last of the medication into your inventory before turning around to check on the employee.

You may be a criminal, but you aren’t a monster. If you could do anything about it, you’d prefer not to hurt anyone who didn’t deserve it. That’s why the concoctions you use with civilians are gentler, only instilling a small nap and short-term memory loss to whoever came in contact with them.

Lightly, you tilt the clerk’s head up to make sure the lollipop was still in their mouth. Thankfully, it was, and predictably, it was almost entirely disintegrated.

“It should kick in in a sec.”

“Sorry?” Worry overtakes Sunday’s voice for a moment.

“Hold on…” you narrow your eyes, closely monitoring the clerk’s state. If you’d made a miscalculation, you’d have to heal them the normal way.

But it seems that the Aeons are looking down on you, for a pale-colored light soon begins to flutter from the clerk. A relieved smile breaks out, and you gently let the clerk’s head rest back on the jacket.

“There we go.”

The light glows briefly, centering around the clerk’s head, and the bruise begins to fade - slowly but surely ebbing away until it’s completely gone. Hopping back over the counter, you pat Sunday on the shoulder.

“They’ll be fine,” you reassure him. “Let’s get out of here before they wake up.”

Wordlessly, he follows, glimpsing back at the clerk one last time before following you out of the pharmacy. For a moment, pure, yet serene silence hangs between the two of you as you walk down the crowded streets.

After what seems like a tranquil eternity, Sunday finally breaks the silence.

“What was that?”

You shift the clothes bags from one hand to the other. “Didn’t you see it back at the clothing store?”

He shakes his head wordlessly, which you can only tell he did because of the slight rustle of feathers against hair.

“When it comes to civilians, my creations are laced with a tiny bit of my power.” Euphrosyne has three moons, and all of them in the violet sky, you notice. “That way, there’s no lasting damage. I mean, it’s not their fault that their company is a good robbery target.”

Sunday ignores the last sentence. “You fed me something similar when we met, if I recall. One second I was in excruciating pain, and the next there was no pain at all. Was that candy also imbued with your abilities?”

“Yep,” you confirm. “Although you got the variant that’s for allies.”

“I figured, considering I didn’t immediately pass out,” Sunday hums out a laugh. “Although… I will say it puts me at ease, knowing that none of those workers were hurt during our escapades.”

You smile teasingly. “Aw, were you having a guilty conscience?”

“Of course,” he huffs.

“Well, you don’t have to anymore,” you say lightheartedly. “Rest assured knowing that out of all the crimes I’ve committed, assaulting someone who didn’t start the fight isn’t one of them.”

“You certainly have a way with words,” sighs Sunday, but he’s smiling. “But thank you, I suppose.”

“You’re very welcome, princess.”

For once, Sunday doesn’t give you a dirty or unimpressed look at the nickname. Rather, he keeps walking by your side. In the dim light of Euphrosyne’s moons, you can barely make out his face, and so you miss the bemused smile that slips onto his face.

“You know,” he says, “you still haven’t eaten yet.”

You stare at him. “Oh. Right.”

Sunday snorts knowingly. “Of course. There’s a food cart near that building over there. You don’t plan on drugging the chef now, do you?”

“Nah,” you wave your hand dismissively. “I respect food cart workers.”

“So you do have morals.”

“How could you say that after I healed someone?”

“You mean, after you did the bare minimum?”

You punch him in the arm. “I’m not liking your attitude, young man.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sunday says cheekily. You roll your eyes, opening your mouth to respond.

But then something wet hits your cheek, and then another joins it. Panicked screams and stomps erupt around you as people rush for shelter. You gingerly touch your cheek. The drop on your cheek doesn’t sting, thankfully.

“These people… quite like to overact, don’t they,” Sunday observes, as everyone stampedes for cover. “It isn’t even raining that much.”

“Eh, you know how rich people are,” you giggle, wiping your cheek. “But this is a surprise. Rain rarely appears on Euphrosyne, at least from what I’ve heard.”

“Agreed-” A man crashes into Sunday, the Halovian barely able to hold the two of them from falling on the pavement.

The man’s things clatter to the floor, one of which being an umbrella that he… apparently didn’t know how to use. Curses spew from the man’s lips, his face turning red as he glares daggers at Sunday. The Halovian’s smile is tight as he straightens the man.

“Please be careful, sir,” he says passive-aggressively, customer service mode activated in full force to hold him back from committing murder. “You could’ve gotten hurt.”

The man doesn’t bother to listen. He shakes an angry finger in Sunday’s face, grabbing what he can off the floor before running off. You stare awkwardly at his trail of dust before turning back to Sunday.

“You handled that better than I would’ve,” you say after a few minutes. Sunday exhales heavily, massaging his temple.

“Naturally. I worked with buffoons like that on the daily,” he mutters. “But it seems experience doesn’t make it any more bearable.”

You pat his shoulder. “Well, it’s over now.”

“Yes,” Sunday hums, bending down to pick something up. When he straightens, you see the man’s umbrella in Sunday’s hands. “I suppose it is.”

You blink. “When did you get that?”

“Just now,” he says sarcastically. “But I did kick it out of the way while he was cursing me out, if that clarifies things.”

You stare dumbfoundedly as he opens up the umbrella, acting as if he hasn’t done anything wrong in his life. Holding it above both of your heads, he offers it to you with a smug smirk you aren’t sure you like.

“Well? Shall we?”

You break out of your daze. Pride swells in your chest and you join him, snickering.

“They really do grow fast, huh?”

—

Somewhere near, in Penacony, Firefly stares at her phone nervously. Her body still singes from the burst of fireworks in which she’d experienced her third and final death on the Planet of Festivities, but it’s the least of her worries right now.

She rereads the chat just to confirm her suspicions. She’d already been skeptical when you suddenly asked Silver Wolf to get Sunday’s things, but this just outright confirms it.

Sunday, the man she’d just helped run over with a train at least eight times, the convicted criminal by both the Family and the IPC, the former Oak Family Head who’d tried to imprison her in an eternal dream, is now her coworker.

It isn’t like she wishes anything bad upon him; in essence, she understands that what he did was out of noble intentions and a wish to help the weak. But it had only been a few days at most since she’d last seen the Halovian, and here he was again.

She glances up at the fake sky of the dreamscape. The Radiant Feldspar soars overhead, and on board is Robin, Sunday’s sister who never stopped looking for him.

Firefly’s feet shift uncomfortably. It’s getting hard to breathe. With the Order’s protection lifted, the effects of her Entropy Loss Syndrome return, although not as bad as in reality.

Should she tell Robin? The songstress has been going mad with worry over her missing brother, and it probably hasn’t helped that the Family Heads’ lips are sealed regarding his fate. But Robin is singing right now, and Firefly doesn’t want to ruin that.

She shakes her head. No, she can’t say that. This is Robin’s brother, for Aeons’ sake. And she knows that Robin must be suffering right now, despite the smile she wears for the crowd.

Firefly exhales deeply. She pulls out her phone.

Here goes nothing.

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#—stellaronhvnters.#honkai star rail #honkai star rail x reader #hsr #hsr x reader #hsr sunday #sunday hsr #honkai star rail sunday x reader #hsr sunday x reader #sunday hsr x reader #sunday x reader #honkai star rail sunday #x reader #y/n #reader insert #━━ series : on the other side of morality #honkai star rail series #archives 🏵️

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milksnake-tea · 6 months ago

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✩ CHAPTER SUMMARY : Now light years away from his home, Sunday's past haunts him as he grapples with accepting his new life.

✩ WORD COUNT : 4.4k

✩ TAGLIST : @vynicity , @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 (send me an ask off anon to be added !! PLEASE SPECIFY ITS FOR THE SERIES 😭😭)

✩ ADDITIONAL NOTES : sunday focused chapter this time, i think i'm just going to be running around switching up povs hehe. i love this man (he is going to go through so much). SHOPPING WILL HAPPEN NEXT CHAPTER !!! GRGGRRGGR

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For the first time, Sunday is scared to sleep.

Despite being the pseudo-ruler of a Dreamscape, he hasn’t truly slept for quite some time. Even now, as he lays teetering the edge of consciousness, exhaustion is what drags him into slumber, not his own desire to rest.

The walls of his room haunt him - they’re so strikingly different from his quarters back on Penacony, stripped and bare and without any garnish or semblance of personality. What makes it worse is that his room is essentially soundproof - he can’t hear anything, not the footsteps of the Hunters, not the engine of the mothership, nothing that would assure him that he wasn’t alone.

He lays in clothes that are not his own - granted, they are comfortable and light, and he should be thankful that these criminals someone is kind enough to lend them to him, he should be and he wants to be. But Blade (he now recalls the Hunter’s name from the wanted posters that litter Penacony in reality) is no Halovian, and as such does not require the same slits in the back as Sunday does.

At the thought, the feathers against his bare abdomen become all the more apparent. To anyone else, they are soft and light, but to him, they scratch and itch and irritate. Sunday has always made sure to keep a barrier between his skin and his wings, whether it be a shirt, a vest, or simply keeping his larger wings lifted just enough so that they don’t come in contact with the rest of him.

“Keep them cramped up like that any longer, and you’ll never fly again.”

Your warning echoes in his head, stronger and louder every time it replays.

Sunday reasons that he shouldn’t feel fear at the thought - he was never meant to fly, after all. Unlike his sister, he was meant for the earth, for the people, for Penacony. For his weak subjects, he would stay shackled and carry the burden so that they could live in a paradise far away from the struggles of reality.

But his subjects were no more. Now, he is… free.

The word leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.

He tosses and turns in his bed, digging his nails into his palms to distract himself from the ache in his lower wings.

He shouldn’t want to fly. Gopher Wood’s voice clouds his mind, reminding him of his duty, his purpose. For the people. For Penacony. For everyone, everyone except for himself. He remembers the clipping of his wings, how he had watched the remains of his flight feathers drift to the floor, signifying his fate to remain with the others.

He wonders if those feathers have grown back yet.

He rolls over again, pulling the covers closer to him. In, and out, he breathes the way he knows will calm him down. Inhale through the nose, hold, exhale through the mouth. Clear your mind of any impurities, he tells himself. He banishes any thoughts of flight, ignores his wings, and shuts his eyes.

In and out.

Inhale through the nose.

Hold.

Exhale through the mouth.

Again.

Again-

“‘I long for a paradise where everyone can be at peace.’”

Sunday’s eyes snap open. He whirls, only to discover that he is weightless, translucent - almost like a ghost. There’s nothing but blackness for as far as he can see. But he’s left with little time to ponder when he hears that voice once more.

“That was my dream. Or should I say, our dream.”

Vines strangle his heart. It can’t be.

Tiny footsteps pit-pat in front of him. A figure gradually emerges from the abyss, Sunday’s breath catching in his throat as he finally sees who it is.

A white cotton vest over a purple-blue dress shirt. Big, round eyes that reflect foolish, childish naivety and a foolish, childish dream to help others. A golden halo that still glows brightly. Uncut wings.

“Who- Who are you?” he lets out a strangled whisper. He already knows the answer. He knows all too well.

The child smiles up at him. It’s bright, joyful.

He wants to run. But his feet are anchored and his limbs are frozen.

“You know who I am, silly,” the child laughs. Sunday flinches as he takes a step forward. “I’m me, and I’m you.”

The child stops just in front of him. His head reaches just the top of Sunday’s thigh, and yet Sunday feels so much smaller. His knees already feel weak, despite the child having done nothing.

“Mr. Wood said that one day, we were going to lead everyone to that paradise,” the child said innocently. “And in that paradise, no one would ever have to suffer. Everyone would be happy, and Robin would sing for them, on the biggest stage ever!”

And suddenly, as if a switch had been flipped, the light vanished from the child’s eyes. His smile drops, leaving only a blank, haunting stare that chills Sunday down to his very core.

“Why did you ruin that?” the child asks.

Sunday’s knees give out. He collapses, unable to do anything but stare, horrified and anguished as the child grabs his face with small hands, free of any calluses.

“Why?”

He tries to find an answer. His mouth opens and closes, but nothing comes out, because he knows - he knows there is no answer that could satisfy the child.

“Why?” the child asks again.

Tears prick at Sunday’s eyes. His breath hurts in his chest. He doesn’t know. He wants to look away, but the child holds his face with an iron grip.

“Why?” the child asks, but this time he is not alone.

A deeper voice joins him - a voice that has been with him ever since he’d joined the Family, a voice that has acted as his conscience, his shackle that reminds him of his duty. Sunday cannot look to see Gopher Wood, but he knows that he is here.

With each question, another member of the Oak Family joins the mass surrounding him, until all 107,336 souls have congregated, all accusing him, all filled with hatred and disappointment.

“Why?” they ask.

“Why did you ruin our dream?”

“Why did you abandon us?”

“No- I didn’t- I-” He chokes on his own words as he fights to placate his Family. He feels their eyes on him, covering every inch of his body with their gaze. Their voices converge into one buzzing noise, a horrid symphony that threatens to burst his ears and invades his mind.

“Why are you so selfish?”

Sunday gasps, lurching from his bed. His heart pounds in his chest, filling his ears with the loud thuds. Clutching at his chest, bunching the fabric in his fist, he gulps down air like a man dying of thirst. His face feels wet.

Furiously he wipes at his eyes, but it does little to help what has already been done. Yet he does it anyway, wipes until his eyes burn from more than just tears and his cheeks hurt. He needs to stop - he has to stop, he has a meeting- no, it’s not a meeting, he is no longer an official- but he will be seen tomorrow and he cannot, he will not be seen like this.

Come on, Sunday. Get yourself together.

In and out.

In and-

A wretched sob rips itself from his throat. He can’t stop it. He can’t. He is helpless to stop the tears as they fall down his face, one after the other in an endless stream. He curls into himself, his knees bunching up into his chest and he claws at his shoulders - but not too hard, lest he ruin the shirt he was so graciously given.

His wings ache once more as he weeps, and this time, he cannot bring himself to ignore them.

“You’ll never fly again.”

No. Sunday grips his shoulders harder. He doesn't want that.

He’s free. He’s alone.

He’s free. He’s selfish.

He’s free. He’s worthless.

He’s free.

And the thought terrifies him.

━

Countless hours pass before he eventually peels himself from the bed. What little sleep he manages to catch after his nightmare isn’t enough, but it will have to make do. He drags himself to the small bathroom connected to his bedroom and flicks on the light.

He’d showered last night, but he still feels dirty. He splashes water onto his face, silently relishing in the cold feeling. A heavy sigh leaves him as he grips the sides of the sink.

Looking up, he meets his reflection.

He looks horrible, to put it bluntly - or at least, by his standards. As a Halovian, eyebags and other blemishes don’t come by easily - otherwise he’d shut himself in his room until he got his hands on some concealer. If there’s one thing Sunday can always count on, it’s his so-called “natural beauty” that persists despite it all.

But he hates the tiniest details that no one but he can see, the smallest droop of his eyes and the slight dullness of his skin. His hair suffers from a terrible case of bedhead, and his wings look frazzled.

However, he straightens his posture, it’s nothing he can’t fix. If anything, tidying up one’s appearance was what Sunday excelled at.

It takes him about half an hour before he’s finally satisfied. Setting down the comb, he stretches, releasing the tension that had built up in his muscles. He looks outside to the alarm clock that rests at his bedside.

You didn’t specify a specific time for the two of you to meet, but it’s better to be safe than sorry, and Sunday refuses to not be punctual, lest you call him out for it - and he knows you will.

Opening the closet door, he’s greeted with the fruits of last night’s labor. The clothes he’d borrowed from Blade are all organized by color and by style, folded neatly without a wrinkle or crease in sight. A small smile slips onto his face at the sight before he picks out his clothes for the day.

Blade’s clothes are a little too big for him, and his aesthetic is the complete opposite of Sunday’s. While Sunday has always worn light-colored clothes adorned by gold and blue, Blade seems to prefer darker and more muted colors, with the majority of his borrowed wardrobe being black, navy, and brown.

Whatever. Not like he has any room to complain.

After slipping off his nightwear, he pulls on the shirt that’s closest to his size, a navy blue button up shirt alongside tighter black pants. He’s able to tuck the shirt into the pants so that it doesn’t look like a trash bag on him. Further modifications include folding the sleeve up to his mid-forearm, shifting his pants a bit higher so he doesn’t trip and fall, and securing a belt around his waist so that his shirt doesn’t fall out. Sunday wasn’t given any shoes to borrow, which he was thankful for; he wanted to have at least one familiar item on his person.

Checking himself out in the mirror, he smooths out what little wrinkles there are in his shirt and gives himself one last lookover. His bare hands catch the light. Sunday’s nose wrinkles at the sight.

He hates having his hands out. Without his signature gloves, he looks naked, but there comes another problem. His outfit is dark, and his only pair of gloves are white - they wouldn’t match at all.

Sunday clicks his tongue. That’ll be the first thing he buys on Euphrosyne. But as of right now, it looks like he’s back to the borrowing game.

He checks his appearance once more, before he switches the light and finally emerges from his room.

As it usually is with spaceships or any planet without a day/night cycle, it’s difficult to tell whether or not time has passed. But Sunday has long forsaken the concept of mornings and evenings, and has instead reduced his perception of time to system hours, as is easier to do on a planet such as Penacony.

He stops in front of your room, and raises his fist to knock gently on the door.

“Mx. [Name]?” he says gently, not wanting to wake the others - if they were even in their rooms. He knows Firefly isn’t; she must still be on Penacony.

There’s no response from you. Sunday clears his throat, and knocks again. He gives it another 30 seconds before he concedes. You’re not in there, for whatever reason. Perhaps you’re back in the kitchen? Or maybe your office?

He decides to check the kitchen first - it isn’t too far from the residency hall. Once he arrives, however, he’s met with the sight of another Stellaron Hunter, one he hasn’t met but knows his face.

Blade sits at the dining table, chair pushed too far back for Sunday’s comfort and whetting a broken sword. Sunday had expected him to be tall, his clothes were already proof of that, but he hadn’t expected the man to be massive. He’s at least a head taller than himself, which doesn’t help his intimidating aura. He seems to be of Xianzhou descendance.

The man looks up briefly as Sunday enters the room. His eyes are sharp, more hostile and more aggressive than any of the other hunters. They drown in a bright red, with flecks of gold coming through. Instantly all of Sunday's nerves are set ablaze, and they cry out danger and urge him to run.

The two stare at each other for what seems like an eternity. Sunday breaks from the daze first and offers Blade a cordial smile.

“Ah, you must be Mr. Blade,” he greets, resting a hand over his heart. “I’m Sunday, the newest addition to the Hunters.”

Predictably, the other man doesn’t reply. Internally, Sunday sighs. This was going to be awkward.

“I must thank you for lending me your clothes,” he continues, opening the fridge. He figures he might as well have breakfast before going to meet you. He hopes that none of the food has been claimed beforehand, and he’s pleasantly surprised.

Everything is labeled by sticky notes (he sees your rice from yesterday with the sticky notes labeling them as Silver Wolf’s and Firefly’s), and what isn’t is up seemingly for grabs. Seeing as how Blade isn’t up to a conversation, he opts to grab a small yogurt bowl for his breakfast.

It’s only when Sunday sits down to eat that Blade finally speaks.

“It was a trivial matter,” he says. His voice fits him, dark and raspy. “Save your gratitude for another time.”

Sunday hums. “It may seem trivial, but I would’ve had to sleep in my uniform had it not been for you. Thanking you is the least I could do.”

“Hmph.” Blade raises his gaze from his sword to assess Sunday. His gaze lingers on his hands for a few seconds. Sunday suppresses the urge to cover them up. “Have you ever wielded a sword?”

“No, I’m afraid not.” Sunday shakes his head. “My abilities are more dependent on the mind rather than the body.”

Blade scoffs, but it doesn’t feel derogative. “You’ll need to learn to wield a weapon if you want to survive.”

“...Thank you for the advice. I’ll keep that in mind.”

The conversation ends there. Blade goes back to sharpening his sword, and Sunday quickly finishes his breakfast. Standing up, he throws away the plastic bowl.

“Say,” he says, “might you have any idea where Mx. [Name] is?”

This time, Blade doesn’t look up.

“They’re preparing for your trip in the docks.” Sparks fly as he sweeps the whetstone down the blade. “Go down that hall and take the elevator to the lowest floor. You’ll find them there.”

He’s more kind-hearted than he lets on, Sunday observes. He smiles. “Thank you.”

Blade doesn’t reply.

Sunday briefly considers asking Blade for spare gloves, but after taking one look at the man’s bandaged hands, he drops it. They wouldn’t fit him anyway. Better to ask Kafka, or even you.

As he follows Blade’s directions and makes his way to the docks, Sunday can’t help but marvel at the sheer size of the spaceship. He wasn’t lying when he told you how long it’d been since he’d last left Penacony; he’d forgotten how big spaceships could get. The Delphi itself could be a miniature planet.

He finds the elevators in no time. The music that plays as he descends is… strange, to say the least. Classical instruments and synths make for an interesting combination, but he can’t say that it’s bad. Just unusual.

Then again, just about everything in this ship is. He crosses his arms and leans back against the elevator, training his eyes on the bulbous light in the ceiling. He already misses the serenity of Dewlight Pavilion and the roar of Golden Hour.

It finally dawns on him that he’ll never see those sights again. He’ll never again board the Radiant Feldspar or the Eventide of Blue Hour, watch with mild interest the events of Scorchsand, or browse the various stores in Dusk with his sister, knowing that he’d never actually buy anything. If he had known that he’d never come back, he would’ve bought something as a keepsake.

Sunday sighs, closing his eyes and waits for the elevator to arrive. The Delphi has a total of ten floors - what for, he can find out another time. He doesn’t feel like roaming.

A clear ding alerts him of his arrival. The elevator doors open soundlessly to reveal the docks.

As he walks in, he counts a total of five spaceships, each the size of a private jet. Like the room doors upstairs, each is customized to its owner, although this time the individuality is restricted to color schemes. There’s one empty dock, where he assumes the ship that carried Firefly to Penacony usually sits - although he doesn’t think that it was hers.

“You’re up early.”

Sunday manages to hide his flinch. You emerge from your personal spaceship. You’ve changed clothes, now dressed in something more appropriate for an outing. It’s casual, yet chic - internally, he nods in approval.

“Good morning.” Sunday nods to you. “How are the preparations going?”

You sit down on the front of the ship and cross your legs. “Just finished. Have you eaten?”

“Of course.”

“That’s good. I was worried you wouldn’t.” You look him up and down. “I had my doubts, but Blade’s clothes surprisingly look good on you.”

You were worried? Sunday brushes off the thought with a hum. “I appreciate the compliment. Although,” he massages his wrist, “I couldn’t find any gloves that would go along with the outfit. In fact, I was hoping that-”

“That I’d have some?” You raise a brow.

“...yes,” Sunday finishes. You click your tongue, looking around you before sighing.

“Only gloves I’ve got are the ones I’m wearing,” you say. You begin to pull off the black gloves from your fingers. Sunday stiffens.

“Oh, you don’t have to trouble yourself-”

“Relax, princess, it’s not a big deal,” you chuckle. Indignation flashes in him at the nickname - he wants to correct you, but he’s beginning to think that it’s a waste of effort.

Sliding off the spaceship, you search through your pockets before pulling out a small object. When you hold it into the light, Sunday recognizes it as a simple ring. His confusion must show on his face, for you are quick to offer an explanation.

“This is a perception interceptor. You can get it customized later down the line, but for now you’ll have to make due with the ring. Just press on it like this,” you demonstrate, pressing on the round, pearl-like button, “and you’ll be absolutely unremarkable to passerby and cameras alike. We can still see you normally, though. Perks of making them in a set.”

“Fascinating.” Sunday gingerly accepts your gloves and ring. The ring expands to fit him as he slides it onto his ring finger, and then he covers it with your gloves. They don’t fit him exactly, and they’re warm from when you were wearing them, but they’ll make due for now. Internally, he sighs in relief at his now-covered hands. “So when do we depart?”

“Aw, that eager to hang out with me? Didn’t realize you were already so attached,” you tease, laughing as Sunday rolls his eyes. “But seriously, you’re here a lot earlier than I expected. I was planning on grabbing breakfast before heading out.”

“I don’t believe we’re in any rush, so you still can,” Sunday offers, feeling a bit guilty, but you shake your head.

“It’s fine, I’ll just grab something from Euphrosyne. I’m sure you’re eager to get out of the old man’s clothes.”

“That’s not-” Sunday sighs, pinching his nose as you blatantly ignore him.

You hop down into the dock and wave your hand over some sort of sensor. A door slides open on the side of your spaceship, and you make a show of bowing to him.

“After you.” Sunday rolls his eyes for the third time since he’s arrived.

He carefully jumps down, taking great care not to ruin his appearance. He hunches briefly as he enters the ship, wincing as his halo knocks against its ceiling. The ship itself is rather cozy, with just enough room in the back for passengers.

You amble in after him after rechecking outside for safety reasons and make yourself comfortable in the pilot seat. The door closes soundlessly behind you. Buttons and switches click and systems sing as the ship starts up. He hears the engine fire up, and before he knows it, you’re pulling out of the Delphi and the view of the dock is replaced by the stars.

“Say,” you speak up after a few minutes of silence. “I forgot to ask, but how did you sleep last night? Most people don’t wake up that early.”

He debates whether or not he should tell you. “I slept fine, thank you. My body is simply accustomed to waking early for work.”

“Damn. I couldn’t do that,” you reply, despite clearly having woken up early to get ready. “But if on the chance that you have trouble sleeping, I have supplements that can help. Blade takes them sometimes.”

“He does?” Sunday says in surprise. You nod.

“Yeah, he’s the reason I started making them. But I have been thinking of forcing Silver Wolf to take some too - that girl will not sleep unless you tie her to the bed.”

The thought of a Stellaron Hunter with a 5 billion credit bounty being forced to bed like a child brings an amused smile to Sunday’s face. “Is that right?”

“You’d be surprised by how stubborn she is.” Despite your words, a fond smile comes to your face. Sunday knows that look well - it’s the look he wears whenever he talks about Robin. Perhaps the two of you were more similar than he thought. “But as I was saying, if you ever need help sleeping, you can always come to me and I’ll drug you up.”

Nevermind. You’re horrible.

“Your wording leaves much to be desired.” He crosses his arms and turns away from you. You chuckle.

“I just tell it like it is.”

Sunday scoffs. He doesn’t even want to bother with replying.

Leaning his head against the window, he busies himself with staring at the stars. They move aimlessly in clouds of various colors, glittering and burning all the same. With nothing to keep him distracted, his mind wanders back to that morning.

“You’ll never fly again.”

He inhales deeply. He glances at you in the pilot seat.

Here goes nothing.

“Mx. [Name],” he begins hesitantly, “What you said about my wings, when we first met.”

In the rearview mirror, you glance back at him. Sunday clears his throat, hastily turning back to the nebulae to avoid your gaze.

“As a medical… professional,” he says the last word uncertainly, “do you think I’ll ever return to the skies, with the state that they’re in?”

He hears you sigh. “I won’t lie, they’re pretty bad.” Sunday’s fingers dig into his arm. Anxiety already begins to reemerge. “But, it’s not irreparable.”

His wings perk up. Hopefully, his eyes flicker to you for a moment before returning to the cosmos.

“Tell you what, when we get back after this whole thing,” you roll back your shoulders, “I’ll take another look at them for you and we can go from there.”

“...Thank you,” he whispers, allowing more relief to show than he intended.

It doesn’t take long before the outside view changes once again. In the distance, he sees a ball covered in billions of individual little lights and swarmed with ships of all kinds, whether they be delivery ships, general travel, or personal. As your ship joins the swarm that encircles the glittering planet, you reach up and press a button on the ceiling. A loud whoosh sounds as a holographic cloak enshrouds your ship.

“Might want to activate the ring soon,” you call back. “We’ll be landing in a few.”

Sunday nods. He feels for where the ring lays under your gloves and presses down on the button, hearing as it clicks. A cold feeling washes over him like wind. Up front, he sees you adjust your wristwatch before returning your focus to landing the ship.

As you approach the docks of Euphrosyne, Sunday is able to make out buildings upon buildings, all tall and grandiose and glowing. People from all across the universe bumble about like ants on the sidewalks as traffic flows quickly and efficiently through the streets. More than once he sees the holographic symbol of the IPC flashing on the numerous billboards of the cities.

A pang of homesickness clenches his heart.

“Welcome to Euphrosyne, planet of Indulgence,” you announce. You park the ship neatly alongside many others before you stand up, stretching. Sunday hates the way he’s comforted when you smile down on him. “Ready to rebrand?”

Rebrand, he repeats in his head. Yes, the Sunday of the Oak Family was no more - that was an indistinguishable fact. Penacony is no longer the place he calls home, and the Family is no longer his.

All he is now is Sunday. Just Sunday.

He’s scared, but he has no other choice.

He stands up.

“Let’s head out, shall we?”

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reblogs w comments are appreciated !!

#—stellaronhvnters.#honkai star rail #honkai star rail x reader #hsr #hsr x reader #hsr sunday #sunday hsr #honkai star rail sunday #hsr sunday x reader #sunday hsr x reader #honkai star rail sunday x reader #sunday x reader #x reader #reader insert #y/n #honkai star rail series #━━ series : on the other side of morality #archives 🏵️

434 notes · View notes

milksnake-tea · 6 months ago

Text

✩ CHAPTER SUMMARY : After speaking with Elio, Sunday comes out to join the rest of the hunters - that includes you.

✩ WORD COUNT : 3.4k

✩ TAGLIST : @dr-felitas , @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 (send me an ask off anon if you want to be added !! if your name is bolded, it means i cant tag you)

✩ ADDITIONAL NOTES : COUGHS OUT BLOOD why was this actually hard BYE. not too happy w this one but yall will be the judge of that .... i hate this chapter's title but i genuinely have no idea what to name this chapter. maybe ill change it one day. one day… ALSO I HAVE. PICTURES. FOR THE CHATROOMS BECAUSE. I DESIRE SILLINESS. i have alt descriptions if yall need it xoxo. unedited.

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“Despite the recent reverberation in the Dreamscape, the Family reports that Penacony remains mostly unaffected, much to the relief of many Dreamchasers. The Charmony Festival is set to resume on the Radiant Feldstar with Miss Robin conducting the opening ceremony. As for the now fallen Oak Family, reports say that the former head is currently-”

With a click and a hiss, small blue flames flare to life. You hum absentmindedly as you set down a wok, pouring in some cooking oil, and then throwing in onions, rice, egg and other ingredients needed to make the only food you really cooked regularly: Cosmic Fried Rice - or at least, your rendition of it. Soon enough, the kitchen is filled with the savory aroma of your favorite comfort food.

Footsteps tapped lightly behind you, uncertain and uneased.

Having been in the Hunters for quite some time now, you know each Stellaron Hunter’s footsteps like the back of your hand, and these are unfamiliar. A smile tugs at the corners of your lips.

“I’m assuming your discussion went well?” you say knowingly, mixing in soy sauce into the rice with your spatula.

Elio leaps onto the counter soundlessly - he never makes noise when walking, even on the rare occasion that he chooses to present as human. When you’d first joined, you’d thought him creepy for it, but now, you’ve grown used to it. You flash him a smile as he comes up to you, giggling as he butts your arm playfully with his head.

“Does the great Seer wish for a plate?” you tease. Elio only meows in response and sits down with an expectant look in his eyes. “Alright, alright. And what about the princess?”

You don’t have to see Sunday’s face to know he’s giving you a less than pleasant look.

“I will not be needing any, thank you,” he says flatly. You raise a brow, glancing back at him as you open the cupboard in search of bowls.

“Are you sure? My food apparently has somewhat of a healing effect. It might help you feel better.”

He shakes his head, his expression filled with nothing short of exasperation. “No, I’ll be fi-”

Growl.

Sunday’s cheeks bloom into a rosy hue as his wings stiffen in embarrassment. Elio tilts his head, narrowing his eyes in mild amusement. You, on the other hand, are not so subtle and have to kick yourself to keep from laughing for Sunday’s sake.

“Okay, that’s a yes then,” you chuckle, ducking your head so that he couldn’t see your face and busying yourself with grabbing a third bowl.

Sunday coughs into his fist, his smile tight. “My apologies. As I spend most of my time in the Dreamscape, I’m afraid it has been a while since I’ve had my last meal.”

“There is nothing to be ashamed of,” Elio speaks up suddenly. He is by no means a loud man, but when he speaks, you can’t help but be compelled to listen - much like your senior, Kafka. “I assure you, we have all seen worse. [Name] here just likes to tease.”

“...If you insist.” The chairs scrape against the tiles as Sunday takes a seat (Elio stays on the countertop, what for, you don’t care enough to ponder. Probably just wants to make sure you actually make him a bowl).

“Don’t worry about it,” you reassure. Elio follows you off the counter as you make your way to the dining table. “I always make extra in case hungry little birds like you or Elio come running around. Just dig in.”

You set down a steaming bowl of fresh fried rice in front of Sunday, the lap cheong sizzling and gleaming and the rice itself darkened from the soy sauce. Sunday nods his thanks, placing his hand on his chest before taking the spoon you offered him.

Elio hops onto the chair that’s seated directly across Sunday. The Halovian in question gives him an inquisitive glance, but before he can ask how Elio is supposed to eat as a cat, the seer begins to warp in form. You smile knowingly.

In the blink of an eye, the black feline is gone and in its place is a young man with hair the color of pearls and eyes a blue so bright you’d honestly thought he’d dyed them. You often joked that Elio had the fashion sense of a sickly Victorian child, and he wouldn’t be proving you wrong today. With ruffled sleeves and collars, an asymmetrical ribbon tying his rattail of a hairdo, and a big bow tied on his chest, he looked as if he’d come from a period several Amber Eras ago.

“I should’ve known Destiny’s Slave wasn’t a mere feline given intelligence,” Sunday observes, a tinge of intrigue and awe in his voice. Elio laughs elegantly, his voice like a bell.

“Naturally, no,” he hums, blowing lightly on his food before taking a bite. “Who knows how long it’d take to write the scripts if I were.”

“You could always do voice-to-text,” you suggest, taking a seat next to the seer. Elio contemplates it, but ultimately shakes his head.

“Technology hasn’t progressed to a point where that method is efficient, unfortunately,” he laments. You nod sympathetically.

“Truly a shame.” Across the table, Sunday still regards his food with some hesitance. You tilt your head, opting to throw him a little encouragement. “I haven’t drugged it, princess.”

“That’s… not what I was worried about.” Although now, he does look a little concerned. “Are you sure it’s alright for me to eat this?”

You sighed. “I wouldn’t have given you any if it wasn’t.”

Sunday stares at his spoonful of rice one more time before he finally takes a bite. He braces himself for… something (you don’t know what it is and frankly it’s better for your ego that you don’t find out), but surprise and delight washes over him as the flavors begin to settle in.

“Not bad, right?” You can’t help but beam in self-satisfaction; the joys of watching someone enjoy something you made were second to none, except maybe free-falling off of a skyscraper while being chased by the local law enforcement.

Sunday nods. Despite his controlled movements and dignified demeanor, you can see a little bit of childish eagerness that managed to slip through and reveal just how much he liked the food. The pair of wings that lay right behind his ears flapped for a few seconds, before Sunday notices and immediately forces them to behave. You bite down another giggle, but can’t stop the corner of your lip from twitching.

“It’s delicious,” he finally manages, swallowing. “You have quite the talent.”

You chuckle. “Thanks.”

Before you go and eat yourself, you quickly pull out your phone to text and alert the rest of the Hunters, who are either out on a mission (Firefly, Silver Wolf), brooding (Blade), or doing who knows what in who knows where (Kafka).

Fondness warms your heart as you read the two’s replies. Silver Wolf has always been like a little sister to you, annoyance-inducing and all, and Firefly is your closest friend after Kafka - although you’ll like to say that you’re close with all of the Hunters, even Blade. You wouldn’t be lying if you said that they were the closest thing to family you’d ever had.

You glance up at Sunday, who is now chatting amiably with Elio. His clothes are still the same ones as when he’d arrived from Penacony, meaning that they were somewhat dirty and roughed up.

Oh, right. You looked back to your screen. He probably doesn’t have any of his personal items - Kafka just snatched him and left it at that.

“Are you not going to eat?”

Sunday looks at you curiously from across the table. His bowl is almost finished, you notice - he wasn’t kidding when he said it’d been a while since he’d last eaten. Elio has disappeared without a trace, his bowl lying neatly in the drying rack.

“Yeah, I just have to text the others first.” You set your phone down. “What, worried for me?”

“Hardly,” Sunday scoffs quietly. “I simply didn’t want to see a hot meal go wasted.”

“I mean,” you take a bite, “were you going to eat it if I didn’t?”

You receive nothing more than a rolling of the eyes from the former Family Head in response. He’s more expressive than you anticipated - from what Firefly had told you, Sunday was more on the dignified, honorable, and refined side. But it’s a welcome change - you don’t know what you’ll do if you had another Blade on your hands.

Still, going back to the clothes… It’ll be a while before Silver Wolf returns with Sunday’s belongings (the script comes first, after all), and you weren’t going to let him run around in the same outfit for who knows how long.

You turn over your phone and click a button. Instantly, holographic screens pop up around you displaying all sorts of information, such as the spaceship’s current location and any planets floating around nearby. One of these planets in particular catches your eye.

“Well, aren’t we lucky,” you muse to yourself. Sunday raises a brow. You tap lightly on one of the many screens. It enlarges, showing a holograph of a popular tourist destination - Euphrosyne, a famous shopping and entertainment planet owned by the IPC. “Looks like you’ll be getting a new wardrobe sooner than expected.”

“Pardon?”

You lean back in your chair and dismiss the holograms. “Silver Wolf can only bring so much back from Penacony for you, and she’ll likely only be bringing back casual clothes or pajamas. You aren’t expecting to wear the same old uniform forever, are you?”

Disgruntled, Sunday looks away. “You’ve given me enough kindness by saving me. I couldn’t possibly ask for more.”

“Yeah, that’s the funny thing with gifts. You don’t ask for them, they just kinda appear.”

“You know what I mean.” Sunday lets out a tired sigh. He stands up and goes to wash his bowl. You shrug.

“There’s a tradition among us Hunters.” You stand up as well and make your way to Sunday’s side. Leaning in towards him, you smirk at the side-eye he gives you. “Whenever we get a new member - which is rare, mind you, we give them gifts as a welcoming ceremony, to help them get used to their new lives.”

“Is that right,” Sunday says dryly. He reluctantly pulls off his gloves and turns on the water. “And am I to presume that this new wardrobe of mine is your gift to me?”

“You could think of it as that.” You turn around to lean against the counter leisurely. “But it’d be more efficient if you were to come with me to Euphrosyne. I mean, unless you want me to take your measurements up close and personal-”

“That won’t be necessary, thank you.” Sunday abruptly shuts off the water from the sink. He’s turned his head in a way so that you can’t see his expression and his wings raise to further block your view. But, much to your amusement, he can’t hide the redness of his ears.

You trace the counter with your gloved fingers. “So… are you coming or not?”

“I… I’m not sure,” he says. “I am currently a wanted criminal. Wouldn’t it be unwise for me to walk in plain daylight, much less this soon after my conviction?”

Heels click from behind him, interrupting your conversation. You immediately brighten at the familiar footsteps, stepping away from the counter to greet your favorite senior.

“Webs!” you call out warmly. Kafka, the elusive wielder of the Spirit Whisper smiles demurely as she walks up to you and Sunday. “What’re you doing here? Last I heard, you were out near the Montour System?”

“Well, I heard there was food here, so I naturally had to stop by.” Kafka looks Sunday up and down, her smile growing as he stands his ground against her piercing gaze. “So, Birdie, you’re finally awake.”

“You must be Miss Kafka,” Sunday nods politely, a tinge of wariness in his voice. “I’ve heard much about you.”

“Really now?” Kafka languidly crosses her arms. “All good things, I hope?”

Sunday smiles. “That all depends on whose perspective you’re looking from.”

“Ha!” Kafka raises a hand to her lips. “You’ve got quite the attitude, don’t you? That’s good. You’ll need that in our line of work.”

“Thank you,” Sunday says, putting a hand on his chest. His gloves are back and his hands have dried.

“I heard a bit of your conversation earlier,” Kafka hums. “So you’re heading off to Euphrosyne, huh? Seems like everyone’s going on vacation nowadays.”

“Sure am,” you reply nonchalantly. “His Highness over here needs a new wardrobe.”

“Is that right.” Kafka chuckles at your nickname for Sunday, while the man himself throws you another unamused look. You stick your tongue out at him playfully - everyone in the Hunters gets a stupid nickname from you, and he sure isn’t going to be an exception. “Well, don’t let me keep you for too long. I’m only here for the food.”

“Yeah, yeah,” you wave her off. “Anyways. To answer your question, princess, we have a way of getting around security. But,” you cross your arms, spinning on your heel to fully face him, “we will need to do something about that fancy outfit of yours. You’ll look too out of place for our trinkets to work properly.”

Sunday steps out of the way for Kafka to pick up some rice of her own. “Then what do you suggest we do?”

You tap your chin a few times, thinking. Then you snap your fingers, suddenly enlightened with an idea. “I know just who to find. Webs, do you know where the old man is?”

“Bladie?” Kafka recalls. “Last I saw him, he was sharpening his sword in the training room.”

“Thanks.” You beckon Sunday to follow you as you make your way out of the kitchen. “Can you put the rice away for me? The girls will want some when they come back.”

“Sure. Have fun, you two~ Don’t get into too much trouble.”

—

There’s a skip in your step as you stride down the hallways. The walls of your mothership are covered in all sorts of things, ranging from Silver Wolf’s graffiti drafts to Firefly’s stickers, giving it a homey atmosphere.

“I should probably give you a mini-tour, huh.” You slow down your pace so that you can walk side by side with Sunday. “Where we’re headed into is the residency hall. Training room’s just beyond that, with our other… facilities.”

“I see.” Sunday chuckles at one of Silver Wolf’s graffiti, that one depicting a K.O. of a random NPC. “Your base is more comfortable than I’d expected. It’s almost cute, in a way.”

“Were you expecting a more intimidating setup?”

“I’m sure anyone would,” Sunday reasons.

“Fair point.”

You pass by the various rooms of the Hunters, each with their own distinct style. Silver Wolf boasts a retro-style door that bears a resemblance to ancient arcade machines, while Firefly’s is decorated with various flowers and fairy lights. Kafka’s room is marked by a simple yet elegant mahogany door with gold accents. A classical string melody always plays from behind it. Blade’s dark grey door has no decorations at all - and truthfully, that’s how you know it’s his.

And then there’s your room, distinguished by the various polaroid pictures strung along the top of the door frame, accompanied by an assortment of flowers you’ve picked up from your travels. Some were more carnivorous than the rest, and others more poisonous. One of them even snaps at you as you pass (Sunday barely manages to hide his flinch). You’ll have to feed it when you get back.

“This’ll be your room.” You gesture vaguely at the sterile white door that lies opposite from yours. Its barrenness matches its interior - you know from experience. “We have some basic furniture in there for you, but other than that, how you decorate is really up to you.”

Sunday doesn’t reply. You pause from your tour to see him staring blankly at his future home. His expression doesn’t change - you imagine years of serving as the Oak Family’s esteemed dog have trained that into him - but his eyes are tormented by conflict, uncertainty, and, most of all, guilt.

He really does have a lot on his mind… The poor thing. You know that he’s going through a lot right now, but perhaps you’re going a little too fast.

“How about this,” you pipe up. Sunday glances at you warily, and you almost laugh at that. Looks like he’s already started to distrust you and your ideas, like any other one of the Hunters. Except Kafka. You love Kafka. “We can save the trip for tomorrow, let you get situated a bit before heading off.”

The Halovian’s shoulders stiffen. “I’m quite alright, although I thank you for your concern.”

You huff good-naturedly. “I’m a doctor, princess, even if I don’t act like one. You’ve gone through a massive change. I’d be more worried if you were perfectly fine like you said.”

His gaze lowers. “...alright, if you insist.”

You gently pat him on the shoulder before heading off down the hall. Behind you, Sunday stays there for a bit longer, before he inhales deeply, the breath rattling in his chest - proof of his exhaustion. His sterile white door opens without so much as a creak, and then he’s gone.

As for you…

“Hey, old man?” You call out, your voice echoing eerily across the walls as the doors to the training room open with a quiet hiss.

Silence is all that replies.

“I’m stealing some of your clothes for the new guy, okay?”

Still no answer.

“This means that you’re not getting them back until we get him new clothes tomorrow.”

Nothing.

“Cool. Thanks. Great talk. Amazing, actually.”

And that’s it. You turn on your heel and walk back to the residency hall so that you can raid your senior’s room.

When you finally return to kick open the door to Sunday’s room, you’re greeted with a very judgemental Sunday. He sits stiffly on the bed as if he doesn’t know what to do with himself - although that changed the second you walked in.

“I heard your conversation - or should I say, your lack of a conversation,” he says slowly. “Are you sure this… ‘Bladie’ is fine with this?”

“Well, he hasn’t stabbed me yet,” you say cheerfully, setting down the various clothes you’d grabbed from Blade’s closet. “In his language, that’s a yes.”

“That’s- What if he hadn’t heard you?” Sunday continues to press nevertheless. He reminds you a lot of a scolding mother. “If it turns out that he hadn’t and he becomes angered, I won’t-”

“Who do you think is the senior here?” You narrow your eyes challengingly. Seriously, this guy talks way too much. “I’ve worked with the old man for at least an Amber Era. There’s no way he couldn’t have heard me - he’s ancient, not deaf.”

Sunday doesn’t look convinced. You heave a heavy sigh.

“Look. Do you trust me?”

“No.”

“Doesn’t matter. You’re going to have to.” You take a look around the room. Yep, it’s as boring and honestly, as mind-numbing as usual. Elio always did like his poetry, and looking at this room, which had as much soul and character as printer paper (along with the color, too), it didn’t take a genius to guess what he meant by it. “There’s underwear and pajamas in there, along with some casual wear for if you want to roam. Blade’s bigger than you, but it still should fit relatively well.”

“...Thank you.” He sounds like a broken record.

“Don’t mention it.” You begin to leave the room, but stop just before you pass the doorway. “Oh, and princess?”

“Yes?”

“You do want to go with me tomorrow, right?”

Surprise flickers over Sunday’s face. Then, another smile washes over him - this time genuine and appreciative, not one of his politician smiles.

“Don’t worry, I do,” he assures, a bit of a laugh in his voice. “It’s been a while since I’ve last left Penacony. Seeing another world after all these years… I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t the least bit excited.”

You don’t entirely believe him, but he’s sincere enough. “That’s good. See you tomorrow, then.”

He nods, already turning away.

“Yes. See you tomorrow.”

Bonus:

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