Chapter Text
“Hey, uhm… Sunday? Do you want to join us for dinner, or…?”
The higher-pitched, tentative voice came from the door a moment after Sunday opened his eyes to see who had knocked. It was March this time.
“No, thank you,” was the response the girl surely had learned to expect by now.
“Ah, alright.”
One would be a fool not to sense the relief in March’s voice as she skittered away. Sunday let out a soft breath, rubbing his midsection idly.
He had learned to politely turn down dinners with the rest of the trailblazers ever since his first day on the train, in which he had made the mistake of deciding to join them, hoping he could begin to assimilate into the crew. Needless to say, the atmosphere had been quite tense, and every attempt at conversation fizzled out awkwardly after a few exchanges.
When Sunday had finished his food and excused himself from the table, it had been impossible to miss the way everyone else had relaxed. And as soon as they thought he was out of earshot, March and Stelle began an animated discussion about some video game.
It had hurt, but he deserved it. It was only natural for the Astral Express crew to hold hate for him after what had transpired on Penacony.
Afterwards, Sunday decided to save everyone the unnecessary awkwardness by simply turning down the daily invitations to join dinner, under the excuse of “I’m not hungry” and the assurance that “I’ll get something later”.
(Of course, those were both lies.)
The only one who seemed to have given up on the matter was Dan Heng, likely having come to the conclusion that the answer would always be no, and it was thus a futile effort. Sunday didn’t know why the rest still persisted with acts like leaving a plate of food outside his door despite resenting him, but it was not his place to wonder.
And so, knowing he had no place at the dining table,
(or in their tight-knit family,)
Sunday chose to decline each time.
── ⋅ ⋅ ── ✩ ── ⋅ ⋅ ──
The room lent to him was suffocating.
The walls felt like they were constantly closing in, stealing all the air in the room. It didn’t help that Sunday kept the door closed basically every hour of the day, which led to it becoming much too hot and stuffy for his comfort.
(With each passing hour, it became more and more difficult to push away memories of a dreamscape with no exit. He was a bird, a child of the sky, born to spread his wings and soar. He couldn’t stay in a cage, he had to fly free, had to—)
He only managed to last a week barricading himself in the room lent to him before he gave in and went outside in the dead of night.
The parlor car was peacefully quiet, the soft but not quite silent hum of the engines serving as a calming backdrop. Sunday ambled towards one of the sizable windows, admiring the night sky’s deep indigo canvas, illuminated by countless speckles of ivory paint, with quiet appreciation.
Oh, how he longed to take flight, spread the midnight-black wings hidden underneath his coat and drift free.
(One day.)
But for now, he forced himself to stay content watching from the inside.
…
After a handful of minutes quietly gazing out the window, Sunday’s eyelids began to droop. There was a beat before he even realized he was becoming tired, and then he straightened in surprise.
In all the days he had spent in the room lent to him, Sunday had barely ever managed to fall asleep. The first two nights were especially the worst; he had spent every hour wide awake, paranoia keeping his consciousness firmly locked in the waking world. On the third day afterwards, he had nodded off every once in a while due to sheer exhaustion, although that didn’t really count as sleeping.
If he had to estimate, he had gotten around eight hours of sleep over the past week combined. Which was far from optimal, but—
(He was trapped, put on display for all to see. Thousands of eyes, boring into his soul, watching at every moment; he couldn’t sleep, not in a cage, not with everyone looking and pointing in scrutiny—)
So then, why could Sunday sleep outside of the room lent to him, in the parlor car? Was it not the same cage, essentially? How could his subconscious feel safe enough to be left defenseless here?
Well, there was no point in questioning. If he could finally get some much-needed rest out here, then of course he was going to take the opportunity.
Sunday sat down on one of the long couches, ensuring his posture was perfect out of habit, and closed his eyes.
── ⋅ ⋅ ── ✩ ── ⋅ ⋅ ──
The whale-shaped light fixture hanging from the ceiling lit up, as did the other small scones on the walls.
Sunday’s eyelids fluttered open as the warm golden light pulled him from sleep. This meant it had just passed seven o’clock in the morning, and the other Astral Express crew members would likely be waking up and moving about.
He contemplated for a moment on whether to head back to the room lent to him, but ultimately decided he liked this space much more, and that he didn’t care too much about what the Trailblazers thought of him when they saw him sitting there in the parlor car; after all, they already viewed him as weird. So he closed his eyes again and allowed himself to be pulled back into the sweet nothingness of sleep.
…
“Is he like, meditating or whatever?”
“Don’t make assumptions, Stelle. He’s probably asleep.”
“But— seriously? Who sleeps ramrod straight like that?”
“Uh, should we… do something?”
“No, don’t disturb him.”
…
Sunday woke.
The outer space sky was as dark as ever. But the lights in the parlor car were off again, signaling that he had slept for at least eighteen hours.
He stood up, stretching briefly. It was a while since he had felt this well rested. Of course, that amount of sleep hardly made up for what he had lost over the past week, but it was much better than nothing.
It’ll probably be difficult to fall back asleep now that I’ve slept for so long…
Sunday debated going back to the room lent to him, but a single thought comparing it to that dreamscape had him visibly shuddering.
He chose to take a walk instead.
There were several cars on the Astral Express he hadn’t seen. He had only ever been in the Parlor Car, Passenger Cabin, and Buffet Car. He knew there was a Party Car too, but he got the sense that he wouldn’t really be welcomed in such festive places.
Sunday went to the Passenger Cabin first, noting every Trailblazer’s room. March’s was easy to spot due to the photos, sticky notes, and paper flowers plastered to her door, and he knew which one was Welt’s due to the sheer darkness of his window. Himeko’s and Dan Heng’s rooms could be discerned by scent (the former smelled like coffee and the latter of the sea), and he knew Stelle had her own room in the Party Car.
He passed through a few more cars whose purposes were unknown, as well as the Party Car, careful to be silent and not leave any traces. He arrived at another door, opened it, and—
Froze.
This car was filled with the lingering aroma of food; the tang of tomato sauce, the unfamiliar yet tantalizing scent of sweet desserts, a sharp hint of coffee…
(“What are you looking at, child? This food isn’t for you. Now scram.”
“A-Ah, but I… I’m so hungry… please, can I have one bite—”
SLAP!
“The utter insolence! For the filthy likes of you to ask for fine dishes? You’re lucky we’re at a banquet, or else your face would be purpled with bruises already.
“Get lost, now! And no food for the next three days. If I catch you stealing from the kitchen, I’ll break your other wing. Understood?”
“Y-Yes, Dreammaster.”)
── ⋅ ⋅ ── ✩ ── ⋅ ⋅ ──
Sunday was at war with himself.
One side, his primordial instincts, screamed at him to find something and eat it. He hadn’t eaten anything since that disastrous dinner a week ago, and it was showing. Even with the muscles of his midsection clenched in an attempt to prevent any hungry noises from escaping, his stomach was growling scarily loudly.
The other side, the one shaped and honed by Order, commanded him to stop. At his first (and only) dinner on the Astral Express, the rest of the crew had made it pretty clear that they wouldn’t accept them. He wasn’t one of them, had never done anything for them, so he didn’t deserve to take their food.
And so, he found himself in the middle of a metaphorical tug-of-war between the two sides of his conscience.
Sunday stood there, frozen, for a couple moments, feeling conflicting emotions tear at each other.
That was the Astral Express crew’s food. He wasn’t one of them. He was an outsider, only a Trailblazer by name and never by heart. That food wasn’t his to take; he couldn’t commit such a sin.
Sunday went to turn around, but his traitorous mind stopped to consider. This wasn’t even near the longest time he had gone without nourishment, but… wasn’t this supposed to be different? Wasn’t the Astral Express supposed to be a new path?
Perhaps he could afford to be selfish… just this once.
And so, with a faint sense of foreboding, he slowly walked up to the table.
Obviously, with dinner having finished hours ago, there wasn’t much. The only things there besides the tablecloth were a box of donuts and a fruit platter. Sunday cautiously picked up one of the unused forks and speared a cube of pineapple with it. An irresistibly sweet tang rose from it, and before he could think twice, he popped it in his mouth.
It was bliss, having finally eaten something after nearly a week of starvation. His eyelids slid shut as he savored the sweet taste.
Then as soon as he swallowed it, comprehension dropped on him like a bucket of ice-cold water.
The fork slipped from Sunday’s hands and clattered to the table. His vision swam and bile rose in his throat.
WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?!
His chest tightened, the air suddenly becoming thick and hard to breathe. His shoulders shook, his hands trembled— he had just committed a horrible sin; how could he have been so greedy?!
He deserved the worst of punishments. To be so self-serving, taking the food of those who wouldn’t accept him—
Repent
Repent
Repent
There was no one here to punish him except for himself.
Sunday staggered to a nearby dish rack and fumbled to grab something, anything. His hand closed around a glass, and without thinking, he rolled up his left pant leg and—
CRACK!
Red-hot, fiery pain lanced through his ankle as the glass hit the bone and shattered. Countless small yet jagged shards tore through skin and flesh, sending blood splattering across the shining tiles of the Buffet Car. Sunday grimaced, biting his tongue in order not to make a sound—
(“Every time you scream is one more feather for me, child. So stay quiet or else.”)
—And shakily reached for a napkin. He pressed it to the wound, choking on a cry when he accidentally pushed a small shard of glass further in and felt it scrape against bone.
You deserve this, his Order admonished.
I deserve this, Sunday agreed.
As soon as the wound wasn’t actively dripping blood, he got to his feet and began to walk back to the room lent to him, forcing himself not to limp, even as pain streaked up his leg with each step he took.
(“Walk straight, child! Do you want all the guests to know that something’s wrong with you?!”)
He left the many shards of glass and small pool of blood there, as well as the red-stained napkin.
(“Child! Did you do it?”
“Yes, Dreammaster. Twenty feathers, just as you asked.”
“Where are they?”
“A-Ah, I threw them away—”
“What? How am I supposed to know if you’re telling the truth then, child?”
“I’m sorry… I-I promise I plucked all twenty of them—”
“No. Do it again, and make sure to leave them where I can see them.”)
This way, the Astral Express crew would know he had committed a sin and repented for it.
── ⋅ ⋅ ── ✩ ── ⋅ ⋅ ──
Sunday didn’t leave the room lent to him again for another two days.
Even though the soundproof door was closed and locked, he could still easily pick up on the Trailblazers’ distress. Their upset was akin to a dissonant note amidst a beautiful harmony— impossible to ignore.
He had hoped that administering punishment to himself would pacify the express crew and let them forgive his sin, but it seemed like they were still vexed.
No one came by to invite him for dinner anymore. Sunday figured that was for the better.
On the third day, when the Trailblazers’ anger had mostly subsided, he found himself venturing out again. He knew it was dangerous territory, leaving the room lent to him when everyone else on the train resented him, but he couldn’t stay in that cage for any longer when he knew there was a sky waiting for him outside.
Instead of going to the Parlor Car, however, Sunday decided to head for one of the unused cars and sleep there. That way, if anyone happened to be awake at a late hour, they wouldn’t run into him.
He chose to go the opposite direction as he had last time, trying to avoid going anywhere near the Buffet Car (he really didn’t want a repeat of what had happened last time).
Unfortunately for him, someone happened to be in the next car over.
As Sunday opened the door, he startled upon seeing the Conductor near the back, sorting through boxes. “I’m sorry,” he said immediately. “I did not mean to interrupt.” He turned around, fully intent on closing the door and fleeing, but then—
“No, it's fine!” The Conductor assured him. “Come on in.”
Sunday doubted he would be able to sleep when there was another presence in the same car, but he couldn’t refuse a direct order, so he nodded and stepped inside the car. “I hope I won’t be disturbing you,” he said softly.
The Conductor shook their head. “It's alright, really. Sorting through these is pretty mundane work, so I’d appreciate the company.”
Sunday took a second to go over the Conductor’s words before realizing that he had just been presented with another way to atone for his earlier sin. “Could I be of assistance?” He asked.
The Conductor gave him a pensive look for a moment before nodding. “You can go ahead and sort those papers. Go based on the number printed in the top right hand corner of each packet, which should correspond to the boxes here.”
“Thank you, Conductor,” Sunday said quietly, hoping he came across as genuine.
There was a pause, in which he held back a cringe (did he say something wrong?), before the Conductor replied, “Just call me Pom-Pom.”
Sunday blinked slightly before nodding, wondering why the Conductor— Pom-Pom— would give him their name to use, but deciding not to question. He approached the boxes,
Do not limp, do not let your stomach growl,
And turned to the large stack of books on the small table, flipping through them. He was pretty quick to realize that—
“This is sheet music?”
“Mhm,” Pom-Pom replied from where they were moving a box to the other side of the car. “One of our previous Trailblazers was an avid musician. She collected music from all over the universe, so we have tons of different styles here.”
Sunday hummed in acknowledgement, examining the sheet music. “Some of these are quite advanced.” He paused, a thought striking him. “...Are there any instruments on the Express?”
“Yup! As a matter of fact, we have a pretty big collection.” Pom-Pom nodded. “That Trailblazer played the piano and guitar, which are apparently the most versatile instruments. One of our other Trailblazers brought a traditional flute from the Xianzhou Fanghu, and Himeko was gifted and taught how to play a violin a couple of years back by an acquaintance whose identity she’s keeping anonymous.”
“A piano?” Sunday asked, internally wincing at how eager he sounded.
“That’s right. We have a grand piano, although it's been collecting dust for some time since Dan Heng’s the only one who knows how to play it, and he’s always busy with the archives.” Pom-Pom gave him a searching look. “Do you know how to play?”
He nodded hesitantly. “If it's not any trouble…”
Pom-Pom already knew where he was going. “Of course not! It’ll be great to finally put that piano to use. I’ll clean it off while you sort the rest of the music.”
“Thank you,” Sunday murmured gratefully as he returned to sorting the sheet music. “You’re too kind.”
“It's no problem, don’t worry about it.”
── ⋅ ⋅ ── ✩ ── ⋅ ⋅ ──
Once Sunday had finished sorting the sheet music, he could confidently ascertain that he knew exactly what the numbers on the books and boxes meant.
“They’re sorted by difficulty, correct?” He asked Pom-Pom as he handed them the boxes.
The sheets labeled with ones and twos seemed quite easy, at least at a first glance. The threes would probably be considered intermediate, at least by most people’s standards. Sunday could likely sightread the fours without much issue, and the fives were a bit more challenging, but nothing he couldn’t manage with a bit of practice.
“Yup yup!” Pom-Pom gave him a thumbs-up with their… ear? “I’ll put the boxes by the piano so you can choose which songs you want to try. This way!”
They led him towards the next car, chattering passively about different pieces. “The Trailblazer who got us the piano was quite fond of classical music, so practically half of our repertoire is that. We also have traditional music from the Xianzhou and Izumo, as well as some miscellaneous pieces she collected from different planets we visited.”
Sunday hummed in acknowledgement, pleased to know that there were many selections of classical music available. Those had always been his favorite.
“And here we are! I cleaned both the outside and inside of the piano as best as I could, but let me know if there’s a spot I missed.” Pom-Pom pushed open the door to the next car, held it for him,
(Why would they hold it for him?)
And stepped inside after him to place a box down. They went back to retrieve another box, which left only Sunday in the car.
And the piano.
What a beauty it was. A pearly white cover shining softly under warm lamps, alternating ivory and ebony keys stretching across its length… it certainly didn’t look old or dirty like Pom-Pom had suggested; in fact, it was perfect in every way.
Sunday cautiously, reverently, sat down on the bench, carefully brushing his fingers over the keys. They were cool to the touch and impeccably smooth.
Pom-Pom came back in, carrying a huge stack of boxes with practiced ease, before dropping them off by the piano. “Go ahead and look through. If you need anything, I’ll be two cars down that way.”
Sunday nodded in affirmation, then paused as a thought occurred to him. “...Will me playing the piano disrupt the sleep of the other passengers?”
Pom-Pom shook their head. “Nope! The cars are almost completely soundproof. You can only hear what’s going on in the other car if you press your ear against the door. So don’t worry and play to your heart’s content!”
He watched the little conductor go, a strangely warm feeling in his chest.
Then he turned to the boxes of sheet music.
The difficulty four pieces could serve as warm-ups, so Sunday went for that box first. There was a somewhat thick book lying on the top of an extensive stack, so he picked that one up and looked through it.
It was a collection of jazz-styled pieces from a planet called The Blue. He hummed approvingly and flipped to a random page.
Sunday sat down at the piano, scrutinizing the score for a moment, before lifting his hands and beginning to play.
…
Smooth, flowing jazz like a winding river.
(“Brother, brother! What’s that? It makes such pretty sounds!”
“It's a musical instrument called a piano. Do you wanna try it, sister?”)
A graceful, sensual waltz played in threes.
(“Mm, it sounds so nice. I could fall asleep…”
“Hey, don’t go taking a nap now!”)
Bouncy, cheerful chords and catchy rhythms.
(“Hehe, those look so fun to play!”
“They are! I can teach you how to play them, if you want.”)
Fast, aggressive scales and arpeggios interwoven seamlessly.
(“Wow, brother! You’re so good! How do your hands move so fast?”
“It comes with practice, sister. It took a lot of hand cramps for me to get this far.”)
Soft, muted chords on a lower octave, like an instrumental missing a voice.
(“Brother, when you play the piano, I always feel like singing along.”
“Really? Then I’ll play the lower accompaniment, and you can sing out the right hand part.”)
Sunday found himself drifting amongst a myriad of old memories, some of which were only beginning to resurface.
Memories of joy,
Laughter,
Happiness,
And what he left behind.
(“Are you ready, sister? This is your first time performing a duet on stage.”
“Of course! When I’m with you, there’s no reason to be worried.”)
── ⋅ ⋅ ── ✩ ── ⋅ ⋅ ──
For days afterwards, Sunday didn’t leave the piano.
It was his home, his solace,
His paradise.
He didn’t leave for anything (besides basic necessities) because, well,
Why would he?
The piano was everything to him. His salvation in this cruel cage.
It reminded him of things he loved.
Peace. Flight. Robin.
Home.
The Astral Express was not his home. Neither was Penacony.
Sunday’s home was, and had always been, music.
…
Time passed.
Sunday drifted between reality and something beyond, always playing the piano.
He bulldozed straight through the box of fourth-difficulty pieces within the first two days, and went through the majority of the fifth over the course of three. Some of the pieces proved very difficult, as they were written in unfamiliar styles with complicated rhythms and nuances. He practiced those for many hours, running through sections over and over until they were perfect.
He played songs in styles that were familiar, such as classical and jazz, and some that he wasn’t quite acquainted with, like traditional styles from lesser known planets.
Sometimes, when his vision blurred and head pounded from reading sheet music for hours on end, Sunday would close his eyes and improvise, weaving thoughts and emotions into profound melodies.
And when his hands began to throb from nonstop playing, he would allow himself to drift off to sleep.
After nearly a week had passed, Sunday felt well-rested both physically and mentally. His muscles no longer ached, the fog clouding his mind had lifted, and the ever-present throbbing in the back of his head was gone.
He supposed that was the effect of having finally been reunited with home.
(Of course, he still often felt hunger pangs, as well as dizzy spells due to said hunger, but there was nothing he could do about that.)
── ⋅ ⋅ ── ✩ ── ⋅ ⋅ ──
The last chord rang out through the car, deep and powerful. Sunday remained still for a moment before lifting his hands and setting them down on his lap in an arch.
That was the last song in this book. It seemed he would have to move on.
Sunday shifted to the right edge of the bench and set the book he had just finished with down on the floor, before reaching for the next one,
And freezing.
The Dreammaster’s Selection of Penaconian Classics.
He picked the book up with shaking hands, flipping through the pages. He found one with a familiar title and set it on the music rest, and sat down.
Suddenly, he was no longer the fully-grown, independent former Oak Family Head. He was a young child again, a fledgling who had only just been introduced to the concept of music and instruments.
(“You look perfect at the piano, child. The picture of elegance.”
“Thank you, Dreammaster. Would you like me to learn how to play some songs?”
“As a matter of fact, yes. Here are some I’d like for you to learn.”
“...Dreammaster… I’m afraid these are much too difficult for me—”
“So? Learn them. I expect perfect memorization by the end of the month.”
“...Dreammaster, are there any easier songs I can try that will also be to your liking?”
“Do not talk back to me, child. These are my favorites, and I will have you learn them whether you like it or not.”
“Y-Yes, Dreammaster.”
…
“Don’t,” he murmured out loud, the words for himself more than anything. Attempting to play these songs will only unearth memories and cause pain. I should put the book back before—
…
“It's been a month, child. Have you learned the pieces yet?”
“I-I have been practicing, but these are professional level pieces; I don’t think I can—”
SLAP.
“HAVE YOU EVEN BEEN TRYING, THEN?!”
“Y-Yes, I have…! I’ve been trying to learn them for hours every day—”
“PLAY THE SONGS, CHILD.”
…
Lingering panic from those memories pushed Sunday’s hands to move, and he leaped into the first song without even realizing what he was doing.
He started at too quick of a tempo in his haste, but it was too late to change it. His shoulders shook and he fumbled the chords, much like he had done back then when he was a child.
He knew, logically, that if he got himself under control, he wouldn’t be making those blunders. But with those hauntingly, stabbingly familiar chords and melodies filling the air, it felt like he was a beginner pianist again, stumbling his way through a master-level piece while the Dreammaster watched with growing scorn.
He remembered the yelling,
“I GAVE YOU AMPLE TIME TO LEARN THESE PIECES AND YOU STILL FAILED?!”
“I’m sorry! I have been trying my best; I even stayed up overnight every other day…”
The insults,
“YOU HAVE DISGRACED THIS BEAUTIFUL MUSIC WITH YOUR FILTHY HANDS.”
“...I understand; I-I’m unworthy of such profound art—”
The agony.
“THIS IS A PUNISHMENT YOU MORE THAN DESERVE, CHILD!”
“It- It hurts…! Please stop, Dreammaster, I-I beg—!”
The notes became more frantic, the arpeggios faster and sloppier. The chords were placed unstably, and Sunday’s fingers slipped from the correct keys too many times to count. Sharps and flats were overlooked as naturals, causing dissonance—
DISHARMONY—
To fill the space.
It was all too loud. Thousands of thoughts raced through Sunday’s head, shattering into billions of fragments that swirled too quickly to comprehend. He was falling down— or up? He didn’t know.
It's too much—
“YOU WILL PLAY THESE SONGS WHETHER YOU WANT TO OR NOT.”
Let it end—
“WHY DID YOU PAUSE?! CONTINUE THE MUSIC.”
Please…
“WORTHLESS CHILD!”
desperation
cacophony
pain
stop
stop
stop
…
The door swung open.
“—Sunday?!”