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Once, there was a boy.
He would grow up to become a disillusioned man, the stuff of nightmares with a prince’s winning smile that never quite reached his lifeless golden eyes. In the days, months, and years that followed the failed culmination of a lifetime’s work, he became known as the monster whom his beloved planet needed to be saved from, as if it hadn’t had a hand in making him who he was in the first place.
But before that, there was a boy.
His name was Sunday.
He liked singing the same way he liked coloring carefully inside the lines. When his sister sang, she did it for the joy of performing, and it didn’t matter to her if she was off-key or if the words were wrong. Sunday, on the other hand, never sang in front of others unless he could guarantee a perfect performance. He was young, and so much was out of his control. This much, at least, was not.
“Let’s sing together!” Robin said one day, tugging on the sleeve of his shirt to get his attention.
But Sunday could feel the heat draining from his hands to gather at the back of his neck, right underneath his wings, and he shook his head while forcing himself to smile. “I’d rather hear you sing instead, Robin.”
The fear would not leave him, not even when Robin twirled under fairy lights they set up in her bedroom and he clapped along to the music floating from the radio. Her angelic voice was not yet secure in its own power to banish her brother’s anxieties.
It was only when she fell asleep, exhausted from the exertion of a child’s performance, that Sunday would retreat into the privacy of his own room and try his hand at the same song.
The second he felt his voice strain to hit a note Robin could sing effortlessly, he retreated, and told himself he’d try again tomorrow.
He didn’t.
Robin sometimes asked him if he ever had a dream, which Sunday privately thought was a rather silly question, given that they lived on Penacony, the world of dreams itself. He’d say something along similar lines, but she would just respond with a younger sister’s exasperation, “You know what I mean!”
Sunday did, in fact, know what she meant, but that was its own can of worms in and of itself. What did it matter, when he could only dream of Penacony? He was destined to descend every evening to the Dewlight Pavilion, where he could not even enjoy a sip of SoulGlad before he had to perform his duties as a member of the Oak Family.
She didn’t have the same duties; Robin was allowed to sing, dance, and run around to her heart’s content. “Our little songbird, free to fly where she wishes,” Sunday would tease, but she kicked him in the shin once when he called her that in front of her friends and he hadn’t repeated the nickname since. It hadn’t hurt; it was only a dream, after all. Still, the shame of humiliation stung deep. He didn’t want to repeat the experience.
Robin wasn’t like him. She wasn’t afraid of anything. She dreamed, and it was bigger than Penacony. She’d become a singer that spread harmony throughout the stars. Sunday didn’t really understand why she wanted to leave a dream as nice as Penacony, but he supposed it was different when one dreamed only of obligation.
His sister got what she wanted, and Sunday was alone again. Now and then, in the brief moments of consciousness before sinking into the Dewlight Pavilion or the Golden Hour, he would think, “What’s the point?”
Looking back, he wouldn’t be able to explain what he wanted to ask, even to himself. Did he mean of dreaming, or of his work? Was he thinking about Robin’s fame? Was he asking what the point of that was? Or was it a different question entirely?
He thought about what he asked the crew of the Astral Express in the theater and wanted to cry all over again.
Ren stared blankly at him. “Why are you telling me this?”
Sunday laughed, but it was not the practiced laugh he was familiar with. It was slightly too loud, almost like it was being ripped out of him. “I don’t know!”
“Dude…” Silver Wolf said slowly. “You’ve got problems.”
“This isn’t very orderly,” was the only thing Sunday could think of to say when the Stellaron Hunters arrived to break him out of his apartments, where he’d been sequestered until the IPC and the other Family heads could reach a consensus on what exactly it was they wanted to pin on him.
“This guy sucks,” Silver Wolf whined at Kafka, “I don’t want him on our side. He’s so freaking lame.”
“I’ll let you drive,” Ren said, deadpan, before Kafka could reply.
He didn’t. Silver Wolf had to sit in the backseat with Sunday and Sam, and the hacker made her displeasure well-known to everyone the entire trip back to the ship.
Sunday didn’t dream before Penacony. It was only after he and Robin were taken in by the Family that he would bolt up in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat after having dreamt of destruction and death. When he was old enough, he spent his nights in the Golden Hour, people-watching as he sat under the giant Clockie statue or accompanying Robin to performances she wanted to see. Eventually, he became a familiar sight in the Dewlight Pavilion and was rarely seen outside the premises.
After Penacony, Sunday found himself revisiting the confrontation in the grand theater more often than not. He would hear Robin’s song echoing throughout the building, and when Caelus said the purpose of sleeping was to wake up—
He did.
Kafka was not good company, meaning that she liked to smile enigmatically and not answer questions. Silver Wolf enjoyed making fun of him and calling him various nicknames that were based on two things: him being boring—Sunday did not agree with being labeled boring—and his tendency to look perfectly groomed at all times. Once, she was present when he opened a package he’d ordered online, which resulted in him being “Turtleneck” for a week.
Sunday suspected that Sam did not like him. He was fine with this, since he wasn’t sure he liked Sam very much either.
All this to say, Ren was the closest thing he had to a friend. The other man wasn’t much of a talker, but he didn’t glare at Sunday or make sarcastic remarks every time Sunday opened his mouth to speak. That was enough for friendship, in Sunday’s opinion, or at the very least, the makings of it.
This did not mean that Sunday was suddenly open to seeking advice on what it meant to dream of a man he wasn’t really all that familiar with, or if it meant anything at all. Weeks (months, really) into their acquaintance, Sunday gathered the composure to ask. Ren got up and left the room.
Moments later, he re-entered and announced, “Silver Wolf says that’s a crush.”
Sunday sat there in stunned silence, processing. He wanted to scream, “You told her?!” He wanted to scream a lot of things. He wanted to scream, period.
Instead, he asked, “What do you think?”
Ren made a noise that was a cross between a grunt (of what, Sunday did not know) and a stifled scream (of exasperation, maybe? It wasn’t a loud sound) before clearing his throat. “Sometimes, when someone hates another person very much, they show up in their dreams. Are you unfamiliar with hatred?”
Sunday was not, and he told him as much. “I’m fairly certain I do not hate him,” he felt compelled to add.
“Congratulations,” Ren said, “it’s a crush.”
“Wh—! How—! I—!” Sunday spluttered, unnerved. Finally, he settled on, “Who asked you anyway?!”
“You did,” Ren reminded him.
Robin
[3:00]
Robin, I have a question.
It’s urgent.
It is urgent, but not an emergency.
Robin, please respond.
[3:20]
?
Is something wrong, brother?
Nothing’s wrong.
Why would you even think that?
Don’t answer that. That’s not my question.
…
Okay.
What is it then?
This is a hypothetical question.
If a person kept dreaming of a pivotal moment that changed their worldview, is there meaning in this?
What?
Did my message not go through?
No, it went through.
It’s just a stupid question.
You’ve gotten very rude since I’ve left.
Ignoring that.
In your hypothetical, does this dream take place in a theater, by any chance?
Perhaps.
What is the pivotal moment you’re talking about?
The person asked a question and received an answer.
So, the answer, then.
…
Perhaps.
[3:45]
Robin.
What now
You didn’t answer me. It’s been 15 minutes.
Go to sleep
It’s not late where I am.
Beloved brother, it is almost 4 in the morning for me.
Please consider that I might like to sleep 😊
My apologies.
Thank you
I will cease messaging you once you have answered my hypothetical.
…
Maybe the person felt seen by the answer
And it moved their heart
In a way they keep coming back to
I do not understand.
I am going to block you now.
Good night!
Unblock me first.
[4:15]
Robin.
[4:30]
Have you unblocked me yet?
[4:45]
I am your BROTHER.
What did it mean, Sunday wondered, to dream of being seen?
To have been sitting in despair for years and disillusioned with human nature, only for someone to look past the persona he’d built around himself and speak into existence a truth he’d been running from his entire life?
How could someone know Sunday’s greatest fear when he didn’t even know it himself?
What other truths was Sunday wearing on his sleeve, if a stranger could see him so clearly?
“I would like to make a visit to the Astral Express,” Sunday announced.
Silver Wolf smirked. Sunday knew instantly what she was going to say next.
“Is it to see your—”
“I do not have a crush,” Sunday interrupted firmly. “He is practically a stranger to me. I cannot be infatuated with someone I do not know.”
“Bro, that’s like the whole point of a crush…” Silver Wolf muttered quietly.
“I think we should let him,” Ren said from where he was seated. “Maybe we could even take him there, and Silver Wolf could get a limited-edition figure from Aurum Alley she was talking about while Sunday has whatever conversation he needs to have.”
Sunday was surprised at the support. It must have shown on his face, because Silver Wolf’s smirk grew wider.
“It’s not about you, Ankle Socks.” Silver Wolf turned to Ren. “Lemme guess. Are they docked at the Luofu again, or is someone special spending his vacation time there?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Ren said. “He’s too busy to visit them.”
Sunday was a little lost, but understood the vague gist of their conversation. He decided to take advantage of whatever support he was getting, even if Ren was doing it for his own means. “Ren agrees with me.”
“Ren doesn’t always make the best decisions,” Kafka said, smiling. “In fact, maybe he should think about what would inconvenience me before he runs off to make eyes at his lover.”
“I didn’t say I would take her to Aurum Alley,” Ren argued.
“You implied it.”
Kafka’s smile was still pleasant and patient. Sunday found it quite off-putting, frankly. Everyone in the room was silent as Ren and Kafka continued to stare one another down. Eventually, Ren looked away and pulled out his phone from his jacket pocket, defeated.
“…What does this mean for me, exactly?” Sunday asked.
The screen of Ren’s phone lit up, and Silver Wolf peered over his shoulder to read the notification. “It means Ren’s having his date on the Astral Express,” she said to Sunday before addressing Ren. “Can you tell him to get me the figure?”
“No,” was Ren’s immediate response.
His phone lit up again not a second after he spoke. Both Ren and Silver Wolf glanced at it.
“He’s offering,” she wailed, “C’mon, why do you always have to be such a jerk?!”
“He’s trying to win you over!” Ren snapped. “Don’t you have any dignity?”
“No! Consider it a betrothal gift! A thousand blessings on your marriage!” Silver Wolf pleaded. “You’re part of the general’s household now!”
Sam looked up at the ceiling. It was difficult to tell where at, given the reflective nature of the visor where eyes would be in a non-robotic face.
“I genuinely did not anticipate that my request would lead to this,” Sunday said to Kafka as Ren and Silver Wolf continued to bicker like siblings. “You have my sincerest apologies.”
After they were granted permission to board the Express, Ren greeted the conductor fondly before turning to Sunday and giving him a dry, “See you later.”
Sunday watched as he strode quickly towards the opposite end of the train car, where a tall man dressed in layers of robes waited by the door. He couldn’t hear what they were saying, but he could see the other man reach out to tuck a stray lock of hair behind Ren’s ear before Ren grabbed him roughly by the elbow and practically dragged him out of the car and into the next.
“Do you want to talk to Caelus here or in his room?” Pom-Pom asked Sunday.
Sunday paused, thinking through his options. In the main car where the crew entertained guests was a little too public for his tastes, but in Caelus’s private quarters was…well, too private. He didn’t know the layout of the train enough to suggest any other options either.
“I think it might be best to see what Caelus would prefer,” was the conclusion Sunday settled upon, which seemed to satisfy Pom-Pom.
“That’s fine,” Pom-Pom said cheerfully. “He’s probably in the dining car. He’s been spending a lot of time there while March, Dan Heng, and Himeko are off-ship.”
“Have I interrupted your current mission, then?” Sunday asked to be polite more than anything else. It wasn’t as if he could turn around now that he was already on the Astral Express.
“It’s fine,” Pom-Pom waved a hand as Sunday followed the conductor through the various cars. “Between us, it’s probably a good thing you’re here to distract him from whatever weird thing he’s cooking up in there.” They stopped before a large door, upon where Pom-Pom gestured grandly and said, “Have fun! If you can bake, please help him. If you can't, please stop him.”
The door slid away as Caelus approached from the other side.
“I heard that!” He pointed at Pom-Pom, betrayal in his voice. “You complimented my culinary prowess just this morning, you traitor!”
Pom-Pom scrambled back towards the front of the Express and away from the other two, claiming that nothing of the sort had occurred.
Caelus scoffed, before turning his attention to Sunday. It was upon seeing the other man’s face that Sunday realized this conversation did not need to be in-person. He might have actually preferred that it not be, in retrospect. He should have just gotten Caelus’s phone number from someone. The other Stellaron Hunters all had it anyway.
“Hi,” Caelus said, his expression softening into a friendly grin. “What’d you want to talk about?”
Sunday felt his heart leap into his throat, and he managed to croak out, “Nothing in particular, I suppose. Just a few questions I had.”
He imagined buying every single one of that limited-edition figure that Silver Wolf so desperately wanted and ejecting them all out of the airlock, one by one, as she watched in despair. It made him feel a little better.
Caelus tilted his head—it was endearing, Sunday bitterly acknowledged, and wanted to kick himself for the thought—and brought a pan of burnt cookies into view. “Wanna try one?”
Sunday was going to volunteer to roll for her every time Silver Wolf sought out someone to help her get a limited banner character, and he would roll a three-star without fail. That’s what she deserved for putting ridiculous thoughts of crushes and romantic feelings in his previously-unconcerned mind.
“Sure,” Sunday said.
He smiled pleasantly as he broke a cookie in his attempt to dislodge it from the pan.
“Okay, good news.” Caelus said, after Sunday had finished speaking. “I don’t think you have a crush on me.”
“I never said I did.” Sunday pressed his gloved hands together as he inhaled slowly to gather his patience.
“No, I sort of figured it out from the stuff you skipped over when you were talking about Silver Wolf. Thought you might need me to say it out loud or whatever.” Caelus waved a hand dismissively in a gesture bizarrely reminiscent of Pom-Pom. “Anyway, so the other thing is that you need friends.”
“Ren is my friend.” Sunday wasn’t actually sure about this, but he thought it sounded better than if he’d said acquaintance.
“Ren is your friend,” Caelus repeated in agreement. “You need more friends.”
“Robin—”
“Sisters don’t count.” Caelus interrupted. “And I was offering to be your friend, by the way. You really can’t take a hint, huh?”
Sunday wanted to argue that last statement, but he rather had the impression that it would be, in Silver Wolf’s words, lame of him to do so.
“I think you like me,” Caelus said. At Sunday’s indignant expression, he scrambled to add, “As a person. Like, you want to be friends. With me.” He waved his hand around the dining car. “Maybe all of us, I don’t know.”
Sunday silently mulled this statement over. He supposed Caelus wasn’t wrong. He had indeed been intrigued by the members of the Astral Express upon their first meeting, and it was a feeling beyond his capacity to put to words. Maybe it wasn’t beyond Caelus.
“Present your argument,” he said.
Caelus stared at him for a beat, his eyes wide. Then, it was his turn to press his hands together and inhale slowly before he began to speak.
“You didn’t need to give us your sad villain backstory, and you definitely didn’t need to deliver it like a monologue, complete with visual aids.”
A strong start. Sunday mentally awarded Caelus a point.
“You also could’ve just knocked us out. Fighting us was unnecessary.”
Another point to Caelus.
“Wait, maybe you just really like talking.”
Rude. Clearly, this was where Robin had picked up her new propensity for disrespectful speech, if she’d been spending as much time with the Express as the visitor’s log he’d signed indicated she had. Sunday deducted a point from Caelus’s column in his mind and added it to the side that labeled Not Caelus (Me?).
“And you know what? Your bird example was weird. Was that a metaphor for yourself or something? Is Penacony the cage?”
“That was an actual bird that existed,” Sunday felt compelled to point out. “Ask my sister if you don’t believe me. In fact, I’m sure she’s told you that already.”
“Okay, real bird,” Caelus nodded. “Could still be a metaphor.”
“Anything else?” Sunday gave the Not Caelus (Me?) column two points.
“Who’s winning?” Caelus asked.
“I am,” Sunday said automatically. He frowned.
“Figures,” Caelus muttered. “Give me a point for figuring out the mental tally thing.”
“Fine.” Sunday did as he requested. “3-2. I’m still winning.”
Caelus pulled a bottle of SoulGlad out from somewhere behind him and nudged Sunday with it. “Are you having fun?”
Sunday took the bottle from him. 3-4. One point for the SoulGlad and another because, well…
“Yes,” he admitted reluctantly, “I’m having fun.”
“We were playing xiangqi,” Ren said defensively when he finally met up with Sunday in the main car hours later.
Sunday looked pointedly at Ren’s hair, which was braided far more neatly than it was this morning when Silver Wolf got her hands on it before they left—for someone that did her own hair every morning, she was awful at braiding other people’s hair—but didn’t say anything otherwise. He also didn’t point out the neatly wrapped, suspiciously figure-sized box Ren was holding in his left hand.
He suddenly felt very aware of his phone and the new contact saved in it as Galactic Baseballer when Caelus walked in, dragging Welt behind him, to say goodbye to them both.
“…Are you and I friends?” Sunday asked.
“Don’t be stupid.” Ren rolled his eyes so visibly Sunday wondered if it hurt. “Of course we’re friends, you moron.”
Sunday did not eject Silver Wolf’s new limited-edition figure out of the airlock when he returned to the ship.
This did not mean he didn’t consider it every time she called him “Cufflinks” for the next two weeks.
Silver Wolf was very much what Sunday thought Robin might have been like if they’d grown up anywhere but Penacony. It wasn’t her hobbies or her skills at hacking, but her personality. She was crass and mostly mean, but she could be sweet and earnest. She said what she thought and was very vocal when she didn’t want to do something.
Sunday wished Robin had felt comfortable enough to be like that around him.
He wished he’d been comfortable enough to be like that too.
One day, Sunday walked into what he thought was an empty room, only to find Firefly seated on the floor and doing leg stretches. Silver Wolf would later make fun of him for yelling, but Sunday insisted that he was simply speaking loudly.
“Stowaway!” He screeched. “Are you fucking haunting me or something?!”
Firefly stared at him.
“What’s going on?” Silver Wolf asked, peeking her head into the room. “Did you find a stowaway?”
Sunday pointed at Firefly. Silver Wolf glanced at her briefly before also staring at him. He was beginning to get the feeling that something wasn’t quite right about the situation, or maybe it was his understanding that was off.
“That’s Sam, you idiot,” Silver Wolf said, and left.
“I thought you were a robot.” Sunday’s ears heated up with embarrassment.
“And I thought you were supposed to be smart,” Firefly said in response.
Robin
[13:30]
You won’t believe what just happened.
[13:45]
UNBLOCK ME.
Please.
[16:10]
What happened?
I thought Sam was a robot.
Brother…
Look.
Sometimes, conclusions are drawn.
Incorrect ones.
Well, I’m glad you’re having fun, at least.
Explain, please.
I have to get ready for my next show now!
Talk to you soon!
Robin, come back.
What does that mean?
Are misunderstandings “fun” if they result in “banter”?
Robin.
…
Have a good show.
Thank you!
“Am I ‘fun’?” Sunday asked.
“No,” Silver Wolf said.
“Not at all,” Kafka agreed.
“You’re very uptight,” Firefly-as-Sam pointed out.
Sunday looked at Ren for support.
“I’m not fun either,” Ren said. “That’s why we’re friends.”
Galactic Baseballer
[8:00]
Am I fun?
To make fun of?
Yeah.
I hate you.
Nooo, come back.
Have you changed your answer?
No, same answer.
I’m renaming you.
IRL? I don’t think you can do that.
In my phone, you idiot.
Best Friend.
Ren is my best friend.
Treasure.
No.
Honey.
No.
Best Batter Ever.
What if I blocked you?
What if water was wet?
What?
What?
Your days are numbered.
Oooh, I’m so scared of the guy that gave me 50 chances to take him down.
JK, ily.
[Pom-Pom Heart Sticker]
How do I get those stickers?
Sunday doesn’t think it’s love, but he begrudgingly admits that maybe Silver Wolf is right.
He doesn’t hate the thought.
On Sunday’s first anniversary with the Stellaron Hunters, they threw him a party. Silver Wolf picked the cake she liked the look of the most, and Sunday considered it fortunate vanilla was his favorite flavor.
“This past year hasn’t been very orderly at all, has it?” Kafka asked later that evening, when Silver Wolf was snoozing on a chair, cuddled up next to Sam’s metal suit. Firefly was also suspiciously quiet; Sunday suspected she was sleeping as well.
“No.” The word left Sunday easily, accompanied by a short, quiet, happy laugh. It felt freeing to admit that he’d felt lighter than ever since the day they threw his life into chaos. No, maybe even before that. Perhaps it began with a familiar hat in the hands of a stranger that was no longer a stranger, or his sister’s earnest desire to change an injured bird’s destiny.
Ren returned with a jar of wine and three bottles of classic SoulGlad. He kept the jar for himself, passing the SoulGlad to Kafka and Sunday. “Thought you might want a taste of home.”
“Thank you,” Sunday said as he opened one. He found that it no longer bothered him when people called Penacony his home. Maybe Caelus was right, and it’d been his cage. But Ren was right too; once upon a time, Penacony had been his home.
“Caelus gave me the recipe,” Ren said, the corners of his lips curving into a small, teasing smile, “when he sent over a case of those.”
Sunday, who’d been about to take a sip, stared down at the homemade SoulGlad in horror. Kafka laughed before taking it from him and drinking with the confidence of someone that had never tasted Caelus's cooking.
“It’s fine,” she said, handing him her unopened one instead. “Enjoy it, Sunday. I’m sure he made it with love.”
Sunday took the bottle from her and thought about everything he had now. It was more than he had ever had before. He’d never been so celebrated for simply existing, nor had people liked having him around so much. Truthfully, he hadn’t known he could be this happy again, not since before he and Robin had even heard of Penacony.
He offered up a silent prayer to no one in particular for the ability to protect his happiness and the people that inspired this devotion within him forever.
Somewhere, an Aeon smiles and casts THEIR gaze on Sunday.