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“…Head of the Oak Family,” Blade called out, approaching the halovian from behind. Climbing down the window, into Sunday’s office.
It was… stuffy. It was a meticulous mimicry of a living space, browns of numerous shades meeting his aged eyes, tomes surrounding him.
Sunday smiled, turning to meet the Stellaron Hunter’s eyes, “Mr. Stellaron Hunter,” he said in reply, slightly bowing his head in courtesy— “back again?”
Blade huffed at his words, as the halovian patted the short stool in front of him, inviting him to sit. As they met eye to eye, something shined in Sunday’s eyes—before he closed them, standing and muttering a prayer.
…In the past, Blade had tried to tell him to not waste his energy doing this for him, but, somehow—Sunday always won the argument. Blade’s mind quieted, the murmurs finally stopping their ceaseless torment, “You…”
“Yes, Mr. Blade?” Sunday replied, eyes closing as a new set of eyes opened, “Just relax, alright?” he said, placing his hands on his shoulders gently, being careful not to startle him.
The Stellaron Hunter hummed in response, “Why do you… like doing this so much?” he asked with a huff, “Surely it must be a pain to do this for someone as broken as myself.”
The other thought about it for a few moments, before replying. “Being able to bring someone so broken even a moment of reprieve outweighs the toll it may have,” Sunday said, words careful, seeming almost practiced.
The way the halovian presented himself was… strange. As if he was above it all, above struggling at all. It pissed Blade off, just as much as it reminded him of…
“What are you thinking of?” A delicate voice came into his ear, “Your muscles are tensing. Didn’t I tell you to relax? Miss Kafka truly is correct, there’s always something on your mind. How about this, Mr. Blade?”
At this point… he hadn’t a single clue what to expect next from Sunday’s mouth.
“You can focus entirely on me. My voice, and my touch,” Sunday muttered, breath brushing against his ear—a chilling sensation that warmed his bones.
It was… an odd request. Not one he’d expect from one meant to be a priest. Though, he supposed it was worth a try. Sunday was plenty pretty enough.
His touch was… gentle. Though, it seemed restrained by something. Though, with those unmarred, pretty hands of his, Blade wasn’t sure what he could possibly be holding back.
His voice… was like that of a siren, one that could convince a man to commit the worst of sins. It was haunting. Yet… something reeled him back in, and perhaps that was the most haunting part.
“...You’ve tensed up even more,” Sunday noted, seeming almost slightly amused, dragging his fingers across his back, nails just barely scratching against his nape—sending a shiver down his spine.
It felt almost foreign, a sensation his body—or rather, what was left of it—had long forgotten.
Sunday hummed, the sound reverberating through his ears, “It seems like you’re having a hard time relaxing, even after I directed you—why is that?”
Blade had nothing to say to that.
“...I see,” the halovian replied in his silence, “What is it that you don’t want to admit to me, Stellaron Hunter?” he asked, idly loosening knots in the other’s hair.
“There is nothing, …Sunday,” Blade replied, balling his hands into fists, “Nothing that concerns you, Oak Family Head,” he practically hissed, refusing to look into those cold sun-like eyes.
Yet, it seemed like the halovian had different plans, gently grasping his chin and turning it towards him, “Really?” he asked, pools of amber piercing through his hearts.
“...Yes,” Blade reaffirmed, pulling the other’s hand off of him, “Truly, there’s nothing,” he said, face warming in frustration.
“Hm…” Sunday hummed, glancing down at him, “Stubborn, aren’t you? What am I to do with you….”
Why was he pushing so hard? There was really nothing wrong, and he had no idea what Sunday was seeing that he didn’t. It was being made his problem that the halovian was overthinking it.
“You know I’m not something you can fix,” Blade scoffed, crossing his arms, “I’m a broken blade, and the cracks run too deeply to be repaired.”
The other hummed, “Anything can be repaired with enough care,” he replied, as if consoling a small child, rubbing his back lightly, “even the most shattered glass can be made back into a mirror.”
Tch.
What a naïve way of thinking. He’d long been stripped of the privilege to think like that. His hands felt cold, chest empty—before being filled by a strange humming, the sound almost akin to a violin.
“Even if I could be ‘fixed’, I don’t deserve it,” Blade muttered, despite his shoulders loosening, hands falling to his sides, Sunday holding back a smile at that.
The angel hummed, “Even if you think that, doesn’t mean I have to be inclined to agree,” he replied in an almost sickly sweet tone, yet the words felt empty, “You’re more than simply a Blade, Mr. Stellaron Hunter.”
At that, Blade felt the inclination to scoff, but decided to spare the man’s senseless faith in him. He supposed it must’ve needed some level of delusion to be the head of the Oak Family, leading the land of dreams clearly requires one to be quite the dreamer.
Blade was just that. A Blade, nothing more and nothing less—an immutable fact, no matter how much Sunday believed otherwise. Though… If the halovian wanted to waste his own time, Blade couldn’t care any less, if he wanted to waste those gentle fingers on someone like him, as long as it didn’t interfere with the Script.
Sunday’s grasp… was warm, like a nest built just for two. For just Sunday and Blade, but that was an incredibly self-inflated assumption to make. Sunday cared for all beings equally, as he’d long displayed, leaving his heart on his sleeve.
It was… a naive mindset, one that Blade could never afford to have.
“Shh… You’re safe with me,” Sunday said, …an ironic statement—since Sunday was the one who should be the one worried about his safety, with a wanted criminal quite literally in arm’s reach—but he decided to stay silent.
Suddenly, his chin was lifted, eyes met by gold and sapphire. It was a strangely mesmerizing sight, a smile creeping back onto the angel’s lips, “You’re doing so well for me, Blade,” he muttered, voice no higher than a whisper.
This moment… was untainted by any past memories, this moment belonged only to Blade and Sunday. Briefly, he understood why someone would commit an unpardonable sin for someone with eyes as beautiful as those.
“Sunday…” Blade muttered, not thinking before calling the angel’s name.
The halovian tilted his head, moving his hand to rest on the side of Blade’s neck, “Yes?”
He paused, unsure of… what to say next. Before he could even think it over, he raised his hands to grab at his collar—pulling him so their lips met, hungrily.
Sunday hesitated for a moment, before leaning down to reciprocate, sharing in the same air.
With Sunday’s eagerness in tow, Blade pulled the other’s jaw open with his thumb, plunging his tongue in—acting completely on impulse, thoughts still lagging behind.
Absent-mindedly, he wondered if Sunday had ever done this before, or… if he was the first to defile him like this.
He’d… probably never done anything like this—being a family head of Penacony.
Perhaps this would be good for him. …That is, if it was anyone but Blade.
…
The rest of the night was a blur—Blade wasn’t sure how, but, eventually, he’d made it back on the Stellaron Hunters’ base.