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It was tremendously hard to tell if it was morning or not.
As a passenger aboard the Astral Express, you were no longer in the audience of a daily ritual of sweet birdsong that announced the start of daybreak, nor did a shimmering sun mercilessly cast its awakening glare upon your poor, weary eyes, for all signs of cyclical nature had been replaced by an endless array of stars.
But even if the start of your days lacked the sight of newborn sunshine, the very kind that stained sleek curtains with gold and painted the perimeters of any chambers with a brush dipped in daylight, one glance at the slumbering Halovian next to you was enough to reaffirm your belief you’d never willingly trade away what you were currently privy to.
Sunday, whom always made sure he arose from the vices of slumber before anyone else on the Express had a chance to, was still weighing down his side of your shared bed, quiet and peaceful as his chest steadily rose and fell.
The flesh of his left cheek was smushed against the soft pillow that cradled his head, and his pale gray hair, which remained relatively unscathed from the whims of his nightly tousling, had fallen across his face and fringed itself in a way that, somehow, only drew out the vulnerability he had always kept stowed away during the waking day.
His long lashes would occasionally, slightly, flutter once or twice, as if he were about to stir awake, but it was always followed up by a firmer shift towards the bedding in an unconscious search of more comfort. Such a set of motions clutched your heart and squeezed it until every staggered beat served as a gentle reminder of how deeply and dearly you adored him.
He truly was a precious, heavenly sorts of sight, after all, wasn’t he?
If you weren’t fearful of rousing him, you would’ve already allowed yourself the pleasure of cradling Sunday’s unsquished cheek against the cup of your palm, allowing your touch to encompass the softness of his skin.
It was solely by a miracle that you refrained.
As you tried to dispel your desire to hold your beloved close, you distracted yourself with the notion that you'd utilize this current time to, for once, be the one to complete the morning tasks Sunday always partook in.
With all the intent in the universe to finally unravel yourself from the comfortable bedding that clung to you like a warm embrace, you lifted yourself away from the mattress, only for your efforts to be swiftly silenced by the sound of a hand rustling atop the sheets, carefully seeking out your flesh amidst silk.
In your peripheral vision, you glanced at the pale hand that pressed yours flat against the giving surface.
“...my star?”
Sunday’s voice, soft in tone, yet laced with the amount of weariness one would expect from someone half-asleep, made you give complete pause.
How could he still sound so angelic, even now?
“You’re... up.” you whispered, moreso like it were an absolute statement, and not the question it was meant to be.
“I... It is nearly the set time I always get up—” Your eyes trailed to the alarm clock upon your nightstand. 6:30. Of course, you knew Sunday always began his days before anyone else did, but you never expected it to be this early. “—so, truly, a difference of a few minutes shouldn’t come as such a surprise...”
“I didn’t even know when your alarm was set for,” you said quietly. “...but that does explain why the bed’s always cold in the morning.”
You met Sunday’s eyes in time to witness the guilt that flashed across his features, marring the once peaceful expression. With his gaze now averted and his wings slightly drooping with shame, Sunday simply murmured a ‘I'm terribly sorry...’ filled with remorse in return.
Regret was quick to burn deep within your throat.
It didn’t take long before you squeezed your fingers around his in a rushed effort to show him reassurance, “It’s alright,” you whispered, even if deep down you were certain you knew the reasons behind his habits, even if because of such aforementioned reasons, you knew it was everything but alright. “I understand.”
Sunday seemed to relax, softening the tensed grasp he held your intertwined fingers in.
Taking the leverage as a chance to scoot yourself closer, you laid back down alongside him.
“I understand, because you’ve always been like this, my love,” you finally continued, watching your thumb idly brushing over his knuckles. “...early to rise, hardly ever slumbering, all in the name of servitude—I understand , I truly do,” your eyes flitted back up to meet with his, and you really did try your best to conceal your worry. “...but, when will you realize it no longer needs to be like this?”
Despite your attempts at persuading him, Sunday remained obstinate. “So long as I stay upon the Express, my obligation to be remembered as a helpful passenger, rather than a past hindrance, will remain as a high priority,” he paused solely to take a deep breath, as if reassuring himself that, yes , these truly were the words he’d choose to stand by. “...even if it means operating upon such... admittedly, inadequate rest.”
Your stomach churned at the notion that he was still so deeply troubled by the Charmony Festival debacle.
“You don’t have to still punish yourself like this,” you whispered, brows furrowed as your hand reaching up to finally wedge itself between his pillow and his cheek. “...please, show yourself the same grace you’ve shown countless others in the past.”
Sunday went quiet at your words, resorting to only taking a soft, deep breath, his expression unreadable as he weighed out your sentiments.
“I... merely wish I could see myself the way you see me,” he murmured moments later, his voice cracking and nearly successfully urging your heart to do the same. “I would love to, one day, be able to live up to the man your words paint me out to be.”
For whatever reason, you chuckled wearily at his remark, a sound bubbling with both misery and adoration. “Oh, my silly birdie,” you pressed your forehead up against his and forced down the loving tears that began to well at the corners of your eyes. “...why can’t you see that you already do?”
Sunday didn't respond.
As you trailed intricate, senseless patterns with every pass of your wandering fingertips all atop the expanse of his silk-clad canvas, Sunday’s free hand reached out to cease the motions, grasping your hand softly and bringing it up to his lips.
Sunday deliberately chose to squeeze his eyes shut before he started to brush fleeting kisses atop each and every one of your knuckles, almost as if he feared he didn’t deserve to delight in the sight of your reaction.
His lips froze against the last remaining bump once sudden realization struck him.
“...strawberries.” he murmured softly to himself, his words muffled against your skin.
“Huh?”
“You smell like strawberries,” Sunday rushed to explain, almost as if he hadn’t expected you to pick up upon his musings. “I... simply didn’t notice until now.”
You cracked a small, wistful sorts of smile at his clarification. After all, it had only been a few weeks prior that March had, with an ‘innocent’ grin on her face that was accompanied by a far-too-knowing wink, handed you a bottle of strawberry lotion minutes after noting your dry knuckles, rubbed raw and cracked from the constant streams of water you ran them under whenever you washed the dishes by Sunday’s side.
In truth, you weren’t certain if you’d enjoy such a scent permeating off your skin, but you and March both knew of Sunday’s sweet tooth, so you took the chance and held onto it, choosing last night to be the first time you ever applied it.
“I chose to wear it because of you.”
“Oh, I...”
As Sunday’s voice tapered off into a weak chuckle, his once stagnant wings began to happily flutter once, then twice, stirring up enough air to cause a soft breeze to ruffle through his hair, and in light of such a precious sight, you were certain that, quite coincidentally, the scent of strawberry-related products had magically nestled itself atop your favorites, too.
Sunday soon caught on to his external display of contentment, and he forced himself to still the appendages that dared to betray him.
You could hear him swallow. “Because of me?”
“Because of you.”
And it was with the reassurance of the validity of your confession, did Sunday’s hastily structured walls finally come crumbling down. Quickly, he pulled you closer against his form by wrapping his arms around you, pressing his forehead against your collarbone.
It was hardly a surprise to either of you when a few moments later, his pair of raven wings—despite rarely ever revealing themselves—popped up near his torso, sprawling out as best as their restricted wingspan would allow them, before protectively curtaining their plumes around you like a midnight-colored blanket.
“By the stars, I...” Somehow, you could tell he was slightly irked by the way his voice caught in his throat. “I still don’t believe I truly deserve you, dear.”
You simply shook your head before shifting the self-deprecating Halovian ever closer against you, nudging him forth to rest the side of his face against the top of your chest.
“You deserve all that I can give you, and so much more.”
Sunday’s breath staggered in his throat at the contact, his reaction almost as comically startled as it was the first time you both so intimately cuddled.
The tranquility of the moment was nonetheless shattered by the sharp trill of the digital clock resting atop of Sunday’s nightstand.
6:45.
With a stifled, tired noise that sounded much akin to a groan, Sunday’s gaze shifted back and forth between the clock and your form a dozen or so times, before he used the weight of his palm to gently shut the alarm button off.
After a tremendously shaky sigh escaped his lips, reverberating throughout his body and rumbling against your chest, Sunday finally chose to truly, deeply, look up at you, golden eyes—nearly shyly, you noted—boring into yours, trembling with both pure disbelief that he has you, and utter adoration because he does.
“Do you truly believe that I could... get away with staying here for a little while?”
“I think after everything, you deserve a moment of rest.”
And maybe, for once, solely because it had rung forth from your lips, he would finally allow himself the chance to believe that he did.