Chapter Text
Eight meetings.
That is the initial arrangement to ensure that he gets what he wants.
And now, that is all Sunday allows himself.
He knows that this is the last time he will flourish in this man’s arms; bodies now tightly pressed together in a sweaty embrace. In his lap, Sunday opens his eyes to observe his partner’s unkempt looks: stubble dotting the lines of his jaw, coarse brown hair draping over broad shoulders messily, and dark eye circles decorating brown hues.
Brown. A very common color when compared to his and Robin’s resplendent gold and green eyes.
But oh, how he wants it.
He sees the deep red that occasionally flares within the unassuming brown, and he knows nothing else will compare. No one else will ever be able to compare in his life.
A deep thrust makes him part his lips in a quiet cry as Gallgher goes further than he usually does; as if he wants to carve his existence into Sunday’s body.
Tonight he just might.
Maybe tonight it will take, or maybe Sunday is already…
“ Sunday .” The man in front of him pants, and Sunday revels in his husky voice. The deep bass is resonating comfortably in his chest. He kisses him for doing a fantastic job so far and moves his hips to ask for more. The large hands on Sunday’s hips grip just slightly tighter. He knows that the other is unraveling slowly but surely.
His fingers run down the muscular form of Gallagher’s neck. What a splendid Alpha.
His Alpha .
Sunday bites down on Gallagher’s lower lip, enough to draw blood. The taste of their kisses turn metallic but his partner does not seem to mind. Their pupils dilate; the blood perhaps reminding Gallagher of how it might feel if he just gives in to their desires and goes for the nape of Sunday’s neck. But the feeling of his cock in Sunday’s hole is too distracting— each drag and push feeling like glimpses of heaven. The man does not slow down his thrusts, and the shameful sound of flesh slapping against flesh continues to fill the room.
Sunday moans in wanton abandon and claws at Gallagher’s back.
Fill me. Give me what I want.
Knot me. Knot me now.
The man gives two stuttering, final thrusts and empties into him. Sunday comes untouched as well, ropes of hot cum spilling between their torsos. Their bodies burn with exhaustion and a warmth that Sunday has never felt prior to meeting Gallagher. They peer into each other’s eyes as they come down from their high and try to steady their breathing.
No knot again.
None for the past seven meetings, and none for the eighth.
None ever, because Gallagher does not love him and this is purely transactional.
The post-nut clarity hits Sunday harder than usual and he has to shut his eyes tightly, to stop himself from crying. He feels like getting up and running away. To just call it a day. But they remain slotted against each other out of habit, to try and ensure that Gallagher’s seed would take.
His partner notices, and in the worst scenario possible, gently brushes his greyish-blue locks away from his face.
“Sunday?”
Gallagher calls Sunday’s name once more, unaware of the anguish he is causing him. Worry and confusion crosses his handsome features. He thumbs Sunday’s cheeks comfortingly, and his other hand subconsciously places itself on Sunday’s abdomen. In the air, Sunday catches a soft scent of pheromones.
“Everything okay? Does something hurt?”
Yes, it hurts. Sunday wants to say. But he takes a deep breath and composes himself.
“I’m alright. A little dizzy, that’s all.”
“Do you want to lie down then?”
They both look at the wet mess dripping slowly out of Sunday’s hole despite Gallagher’s best efforts to keep him plugged— gravity being their greatest enemy. Their thighs are now a mixture of sweat, slick and cum. He sees Gallagher grimace in guilt and begin to shift, probably to reposition the both of them.
“No.”
“No?” The man pauses and looks at him quizzically.
“I’m…too tired to move.”
“I’ll do all the work then, birdie. You just relax.”
“No.” Sunday repeats himself, and grabs Gallagher by his biceps to stop him. Seeing how insistent he is being, the other man sighs in resignation. Sunday knows how childish this looks. Before he can feel any further guilt or shame, his partner pulls him in to rest on his chest.
He makes a soft gasp. Gallagher’s heart beats loudly in his ear.
“You’re being silly, you know that?” The sound of the other man’s voice rumbles in his ear along with the steady drumming of heartbeats, “Don’t pass out on me now.”
“I won’t.”
They sit in silence. Sunday takes the moment to regain his strength and Gallagher starts patting his hair. Large hands roam too far downwards and brush across his nape, which draws a shudder from him. Immediately, the feeling disappears. As much as he tries not to, Sunday’s wings droop sadly, subtly.
Then it is Gallagher who breaks the silence.
“Who do you think they’ll take after?” The question is as sudden as it is loaded.
Sunday understands the entire sentence perfectly, but he still looks up in surprise. The other man has never shown any prior interest in the possible future of their copulation. Gallagher looks away nervously under his gaze.
You, I hope. Sunday swallows the small voice in his heart.
“Whoever the…omega from the other family is going to be, I hope.”
The atmosphere quickly shifts. There is a sour and unhappy scent in the air, but Sunday is unsure if it is coming from him or Gallagher. He presumes it is himself. The thought of the child looking like anybody but Gallagher makes him feel sick. Still, he does not deny that It will be the most convenient outcome.
He barely notices Gallagher’s arms around him tighten.
“What happens if it doesn’t take?”
“Then it’ll become troublesome, because the engagement party is tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” Comes a shocked reply.
Sunday sighs deeply, and leans his forehead against Gallagher’s left shoulder. He wants to remain in this euphoric dream for a while longer. In the arms of his (self-proclaimed) Alpha. Outside of his time here is a cold and cruel reality. He will marry an omega from another noble family and they will have to play house for the rest of their lives till they die. They will care for each other just enough to uphold their marriage, and nothing more.
This arrangement will save Robin from the same fate, and open more doors for her to chase the things she wants.
It is better this way. He is already used to living for the sake of their family since their childhood. This way, at least Robin gets to be free.
Sunday touches his belly. He hopes that he is pregnant.
At the very least, he will be able to keep one part of Gallagher with him forever.
“Yeah, tomorrow. Which is why this meeting will be our last. I don’t intend to meet with anybody else when my engagement is finalized.” ‘ Including you ’ is the part he is unable to say out loud.
He freezes when he feels Gallagher nuzzling the area dangerously close to his scent gland, on the side of his neck. His movements seem strangely possessive.
“Why do you seem so miserable about it then, birdie?”
Sunday forgets that in such close proximity, his partner can sense his mood through his pheromones.
The man licks his neck, and Sunday’s breathing slows.
“I…I’m not.” He barely manages to stutter out.
“Is it because you’re worried that you’re not expecting?”
Sunday fidgets in the other’s arms as Gallagher peppers kisses and nibbles on his sensitive flesh. He tries to push the larger man away to escape from the ticklish sensations, but is easily captured and held down much tighter. Inside of him, he can feel Gallagher getting hard once more.
That was fast. He gasps.
“Maybe we should go a few more rounds just to be sure.”
Gallagher, who has consciously and purposely avoided touching his scent gland for the entirety of their weeks together, is now licking and nibbling at it. There is an alarm ringing in Sunday’s mind, telling him that he has to stop him. If he bites down, the consequences will be dire for the both of them.
“You—”
The other man lifts Sunday by his waist to detach from him, earning another gasp from Sunday. His body feels like it has just been emptied out and immediately he yearns to be filled and warm once more. He briefly claws at Gallagher like a kitten being put in time out, and is laid down on soft covers.
This man is driving him crazy.
Sunday breathes heavily in anticipation underneath Gallagher’s watchful gaze. He is lying a little too far up to look at his partner properly— no matter though, because a calloused hand grabs his leg by the ankle and drags him downwards. Sunday’s breath hitches, as if it is the thing to do.
Gallagher covers his lips in an open mouthed kiss.
With their tongues gliding over each other, Sunday feels another pit of desire growing within his lower body. There is a gentle, rubbing sensation going across his wings. Gallagher is caressing them and tracing their outline with his fingers.
He flips Sunday on his stomach and inhales deeply at his scent gland. Sunday feels another jolt of anticipation and hesitation run through his body.
The man’s teeth linger, touching flesh for a moment too long, but does not commit.
Gallagher lifts his hips by wrapping one arm beneath his abdomen, and makes Sunday prostrate himself like a gift to him. The other arm stretches out, palms open to press Sunday’s upper body into the covers. His large hands then move to hold Sunday’s steady by the hips.
The omega in Sunday mewls in satisfaction.
Outwardly, Sunday mewls weakly too; turning to match his unsure but excited gaze to Gallagher’s confident one. Perfect. Gallagher is perfect.
“I hope you’ve told them that you’re not going to be home tonight.”
He tugs at the rim of Sunday’s already slick hole to take a good look at his earlier work, before he slides in with one thrust. The feeling of being filled up once more makes Sunday cry out in ecstasy. He buries his face in the covers, and misses the way Gallagher’s eyes narrow possessively. Each successive thrust threatens to slide Sunday upwards, but large hands hold him firmly in place. On his end, Sunday does his best to arch his back and push his ass against Gallagher’s crotch.
The lewd sounds of their lovemaking feels more damning than before.
Sunday can feel how wet Gallagher’s crotch is getting— his slick smearing unforgivingly on tan skin. His hands clutch at the covers helplessly.
“ Gallagher .” He mewls into the covers.
The thrusts get rougher and a hand comes down to grab his neck, shoving him deeper into the sheets. Sunday tries not to think about how he is getting the life choked out of him from behind. If he does, he might lose the will to ever leave this place. It is a rare moment of pampering. He likes it rough himself, but Gallagher rarely gives into him and constantly tries to be careful with their lovemaking.
As if he is something that will break if Gallagher is not careful.
He focuses on trying to breathe in-between each thrust.
Above him, he can hear the man grunting in exertion. A hand suddenly reaches down to give his shaft attention. Gallagher expertly strokes him in quicker tandems than the thrusts.
Sunday moans loudly and immediately loses concentration.
His hips falter, but Gallagher catches him in time. Unfortunately, his partner’s thrusting slows because of the angle.
“Hey now, birdie. You have to keep your hips up.” He chides, but there is also a hint of a smile in his voice.
In response, Sunday nods pathetically beneath Gallagher and resumes his previous position.
“Good boy.”
The praise creates a sensation that shoots through his spine from the bottom-up and he whimpers. I’m being very good, yes. Overwhelmed by all the physical sensations, Sunday is unable to control himself from tearing up.
He turns to look at Gallagher with tears in his eyes, hoping he looks pathetic enough for the man to dote on him more.
Gallagher smiles helplessly, and stops momentarily to pull Sunday into a soft kiss.
Good. But not good enough. Sunday laments, still searching for any hints that his partner might give him his knot.
The other man, unaware, continues his earlier endeavors and pleasures Sunday while resuming his thrusting momentum. He bites down on Sunday’s shoulder and this surprise sends him over the edge; he spills messily onto the sheets below and his inner walls tighten. Gallagher comes at the sensation as well; spilling his load into Sunday as always and emptying himself as much as possible.
The hand that is covered in Sunday’s cum, runs down Sunday’s belly and presses down on the shape of his length from the outside. He really is buried deep in.
As Sunday struggles to catch his breath once more, he feels a finger catching droplets of cum that might have fallen out, and stuffing them back into him.
While Gallagher is still sheathed inside of him.
His hole twitches at the intrusion of a finger, in addition to a fully erect cock, stretching him.
Sunday blushes at the thought of how vulgar the sight must be.
He should move. But in this position, it is less likely for anything to spill outwards and be wasted. Logically, it does not make sense to shift for a while.
Now that he is calmer, Sunday also accepts that they might be done for good, and closes his eyes in resignation.
Instead of starting the usual aftercare, Gallagher pulls out once more and flips him on his back.
The wetness of the sheets hits him and he opens his eyes to stare at the man in shock. The pheromones in the room thicken and there is a glazed look in Gallagher’s eyes. He runs his thumb over Sunday’s gaping mouth, and Sunday realizes that he can taste himself on the other’s finger.
“We’re not done yet.”
A chill runs up his spine. The way Gallagher is looking at him is very unlike his usual laid back gaze; the red hues normally hidden in his eyes are burning unnaturally bright.
What is happening?
The other man leans down to kiss him on his chest, and his tongue slides over hardened nubs. A strange sort of panic and confusion rises within Sunday, much like when someone is staring at a rapidly receding shoreline moments before realizing that it is the starting signs of a tsunami. The sensations are pleasurable but he is terribly distracted by his own mind.
He knows they have always thought of their copulation as a means to an end. So why does this suddenly feel so different?
Is it because of the way Gallagher looks at him?
Meanwhile, the culprit is calmly playing with his nipples while leaving a trail of kisses as he moves downwards.
He pauses at the spot underneath Sunday's navel.
And gently presses a firm kiss that lingers longer than the others.
Sunday is speechless.
He parts Sunday’s legs to either of his sides, and slides himself comfortably between them. Porcelain white thighs now rest comfortably on tanned and muscular shoulders. Gallagher shoots him a dangerous look, and kisses the side of his shaft.
“What are you—”
He is unable to finish his sentence once more, as the other swallows his length fully in one motion. Sunday almost comes immediately but holds on at the last moment. His pupils are blown; dull-gold eyes never leaving the sight of Gallagher’s head now bobbing on his cock. The man sucks deftly on him and runs his tongue over the sensitive slit.
Sunday arches his back into the feeling and curses his role in his family.
He curses the meaningless marriage he is about to enter.
He curses himself for not being able to obtain Gallagher’s true affections.
Gallagher amps up his efforts by fondling Sunday’s balls gently and running his fingers over the sensitive line beneath them.
All the way to Sunday’s glistening hole.
He presses two fingers in at once, and Sunday unravels with a cry.
The sudden spurt makes it hard to stay put, but his partner resists the urge to pull away and swallows the load that Sunday releases in his mouth. After the first mouthful, Gallagher regains the capacity to suck and kiss Sunday’s slit further, which he does to coax more cum out of the halovian. As he works Sunday through his orgasm, he adds a third finger into the already loose hole and pumps it swiftly.
Sunday feels like he might die.
“Stop!” He cries and pushes away at brown, coarse hair to get Gallagher off him.
Surprisingly, and obediently, the older man relents and finally releases him. He sits on his haunches and licks the remnants of cum off his own lips. Sunday watches the man’s attempt to clean himself up through trembling breaths— Gallagher is wiping his face with the back of his hand and smearing juices everywhere instead. It truly is debauched. He looks like an animal that got itself into a mess after eviscerating a carcass.
Seeing the halovian’s expression, he gives up, and smirks at Sunday instead.
“Did you like that, birdie?”
Instinctively, Sunday twists his body to try and crawl away.
But a hand encircles his ankle instead and drags him downwards again. With his legs over Gallagher’s shoulders one more, this position allows the older man to easily fold him in half. A burst of possessive pheromones cover Sunday.
“You know, I’ve been thinking since just now.” He murmurs, their faces inches apart, “What if I keep you here instead? The child will be mine after all. I’ll take care of you both.”
What is he saying?
Sunday wonders if Gallagher has managed to read his deepest, darkest desires. His body shakes, not in fear, but in desperation, and the desire to not attend the engagement party tomorrow. Every fiber of his being is screaming for Gallagher to just take him away.
He swallows hard.
“I’m not yours to keep.”
Like a captive bird that does not know how to leave an open cage, his sense of duty wins out.
It must have been the lighting in the room or Sunday’s delusions— the red hue in Gallagher’s eyes disappear like a flame being put out, and the look on his confident face morphs into a crestfallen one. Nevertheless, he smiles weakly and kisses Sunday on the forehead.
Gallagher seems more like himself now, but Sunday regrets his answer.
He feels the head of Gallagher’s cock slowly penetrating him below and they melt together, possibly for the last time for tonight.
Possibly for the last time, forever.
As Gallagher pushes in fully, Sunday wraps his arms around his neck and kisses him deeply. His tears stain their cheeks. Without speaking his love out loud, will the other man know him enough to understand?
Probably not.
Sunday feels stupid. He is definitely the bigger fool between the two of them. Who approaches someone for a business deal, tells the other person to keep their feelings separate, and breaks their own rules by falling in love?
If Gallagher cleaned himself up and put himself out there, Sunday is sure that both men and women alike will be tripping over themselves to be his.
Meanwhile Sunday requires an arranged marriage in order to settle down.
And he has the audacity to behave like he is in control of this messed up situationship?
“You’re distracted.” Gallagher breathes out as he grabs Sunday by the cheeks, “Don’t think of him tonight. Just focus on me.”
“Who?”
“Your fiance-to-be.”
“I don’t even know who it’s going to—”
Gallagher silences him with another kiss and deep thrust. The larger man crushes him beneath his weight; a perfect mating press. They have been going at it like rabbits almost every time they meet. It really is a miracle that Sunday has not conceived before today. He is almost certain he will by tonight.
He wants to. He has to.
But not for the engagement.
For the sake of keeping this handsome stray connected to him somehow.
Maybe it is because they have been going at it for quite a few times today— it takes longer than usual for Gallagher to finish. Still, he works at it dutifully; fatigue clearly mars his already exhausted looking features. Sunday cards his fingers through coarse brown hair encouragingly. He wonders, just briefly, if their child will have the same terrible brown hair.
A curse, and a blessing.
He smiles at the thought, and Gallagher slows his pace to peer at him.
“You rarely smile.” He grunts out as he laces their fingers together, above Sunday’s head, “What’s got your pretty little head smiling like that?”
“Your hair. It’s very coarse.”
Gallagher tilts his head accusingly, “I must be doing a terrible job tonight if you have to amuse yourself with things like that. I swear I’m doing my best here.”
“No it’s just…”
He feels a frustrated little nibble on his jawline and it takes everything in him to not burst out laughing. However, Gallagher notices and purposely angles his thrust in the direction that Sunday likes. True enough, the Halovian lets out another little moan.
“Just?” Gallagher teases as he picks up the pace, as if challenging himself on keeping Sunday from finishing his train of thought.
“It’s just…”
Sunday squirms and stutters; too distracted to finish his sentence. Gallagher is hitting the good spot at a nice pace now, and he is burning up despite the exhaustion.
“I won’t understand you if you don’t say it, Sunday.”
“Y-Your hair…” He starts once more, giving a low moan at the feeling of Gallagher’s cock pushing him open in the deeper parts of his body.
“I was just thinking that it would be nice if our child gets it.”
Gallagher freezes momentarily.
The sudden lack of movement surprises Sunday, who tries to look at him for reassurance that nothing is wrong. But the older man buries his face in Sunday’s neck instead, and refuses to budge when Sunday prods at him. He starts up his pace once more but it is now strangely jerky at best; no longer the smooth gliding confident movements that Gallagher was doing earlier.
The change scares Sunday. And confuses him.
Did he say something wrong? But the pheromones coming off Gallagher are still pleasant.
If anything, they smell even better than before.
Unease builds in him anyway…
…until he feels Gallagher getting larger inside of him.
The stretch starts off good at first, but does not stop and becomes somewhat painful to hold in. Sunday panics and calls out for his partner, “Something’s wrong. Gallagher—” He tries to move to get away from the feeling but the weight of the other man on top of him keeps Sunday from moving an inch. Inside of him, the stretch feels impossibly tight
Gallagher holds him close and murmurs ‘I’m sorry’ over and over again as he finishes, spilling an unprecedented amount of cum into Sunday and quickly stilling so that he does not hurt him further.
They lie in shocked silence as they wait for Sunday to get used to the feeling.
“Was that…” Sunday swallows hard, “Did you just knot me?”
Isn’t that what you wanted? His tiny voice reminds him.
But there is a more pressing issue right now— one that Gallagher is also aware of, from the way he refuses to meet Sunday’s eyes. Knotting does not occur often between unmated pairs for a reason:
The Alpha must have feelings for the Omega, or it can simply be a deep desire to impregnate them.
Which is it?
Gallagher shifts guiltily and tries to remove Sunday’s legs from his shoulders, to get him comfortable. They are going to be stuck together for a while. Unfortunately, this does not get them very far, and Sunday is still forced to keep his legs open to accommodate the knot.
Helplessly, and looking like a kicked dog, Gallagher hooks Sunday’s legs over his elbows.
“I know this is less than ideal.” He grimaces.
Sunday is unsure if he means the position or the knot.
If it is the knot, is it really less than ideal? It is technically perfect actually, for the sake of what they have set out to do since eight meetings ago. The only thing that bothers Sunday is the meaning behind the knot.
He tries his best not to read too hard into it, and to just enjoy how satisfied his inner omega feels.
“Well, it’ll definitely take this time.”
Sunday gives the other man a small smile and opens his arms, gesturing for him to come closer.
Upon seeing that Sunday is not pursuing the matter or blowing his top, Gallagher allows himself to nuzzle into Sunday’s arms; the two basking in the afterglow of the act. Realistically speaking, Sunday feels like his body is about to snap in half at the waist. Gallagher looks pretty worse for wear as well, from the amount of energy he exerted tonight. Maybe going for five rounds is their limit.
Still, it is a very satisfactory night together.
He kisses his scruffy looking Alpha on the forehead, and Gallagher almost purrs . The nice smelling scent of his pheromones is now more subtle because Sunday is absolutely soaked in it from head to toe.
He will have to try and remember to cover it up tomorrow morning.
A disappointed pang hits him and ruins the otherwise perfect moment.
Don’t think about it.
“If you ask me though, I think it’s best if they looked like you.”
Gallagher’s voice breaks through his thoughts, and Sunday looks down. The man is using his chest as a pillow when their eyes meet.
“Why?”
There is uncertainty in Sunday’s voice. He thinks about how this whole situation came about— a no-strings-attached relationship where Gallagher agrees to provide Sunday with a heir for the Oak Family in return for monetary compensation. There is no love between them from the start.
And as such, he should definitely not expect Gallagher to love the child.
Sunday does not blame him for not wanting to be tied in any way to a child that he did not want. But he hopes that at the very least, the child is not hated or blamed by their father for circumstances they cannot control.
Gallagher seems to pick up on Sunday’s unease, and gently reaches out to caress his face with the back of his fingers.
“Have you seen yourself? You’re beautiful, birdie. Imagine if they get your good looks, especially your eyes.”
Oh.
That is what he meant instead.
Sunday blushes and covers his face with his wings, but Gallagher unhooks an arm from Sunday’s leg to brush them away easily. When he is uncovered, Sunday looks up to see Gallagher’s gentle gaze filled with incredible fondness.
Almost as if he…
His heart twists painfully in his chest.
But like a fish bone that cannot be removed, the words still lodge themselves painfully in his throat.
Gallagher leans in to kiss him, and Sunday melts into it.
He wishes circumstances were different, or that their social status were closer. Sunday does not need or want to be the eldest son of the Oak Family. He can be a commoner or even part of the Floating Dream Palace, like Gallagher.
Anything, just to be with him.
But in the end, he is just a bird that cannot fly, locked in a cage.
That night, Sunday dreams of a little girl.
They are in a night market, and she is walking in front of him. She cannot be older than four years of age. The carefree little girl carries a stick of candied apples in one of her tiny hands, and holds someone else’s large hand in the other. He observes her messy, but familiar brown locks and a terrible ache rises in his chest.
She turns around to face him and Sunday is struck by how beautiful she looks with her golden eyes.
But that is not all he notices: The girl is a Halovian. She has wings beneath her hair, and they are a splendid brown with jewel-like red feathers adorning the inside.
She smiles at him; her slightly droopy eyes crinkling happily.
He knows those eyes.
“Daddy!” She calls and Sunday feels his breath catch in his throat. He moves to try and reach her. He wants to hold her.
“Daddy, look! Papa got me some sweets!”
His gaze shifts to the person next to her and his eyes water at the sight. He is familiar with the broad back that faces him, and even more familiar with the man’s side profile when he turns.
“Darlin’, remember your promise to me. You have to share the candies with your daddy. He likes them too.”
“Okay, papa!”
The handsome visage of Gallagher bends down to pick up the little girl, and Sunday watches as he places a kiss on her chubby little cheek. She giggles and squirms in her father’s arms at the feeling. They bathe in the glow of the lights coming from lanterns that are hung up for the market.
Then the love of his life lifts his gaze to look directly at Sunday with a warm smile on his face.
“What’s wrong, dove? Come ‘ere. We’ve been waiting for you the entire day.”
“I don’t…” Sunday starts nervously, “I don’t know if I can.”
He squeezes his eyes shut tightly. He is afraid that this is a dream. He knows this is a dream.
When he reopens them, Gallagher is standing in front of him with their daughter in his arms.
“We’ll come to you then.”
He places their little girl into Sunday’s arms and she starts attempting to wipe his eyes with her tiny sleeve. Sunday takes in her scent: milk and a hidden flower-like fragrance. Up close, he sees that she has his jawline but also her father’s nose. Sunday nuzzles and hugs her close. His daughter. Their little girl.
She’s perfect.
“Daddy… don’t cry! I’ll give you all of my candy…”
Gallagher chuckles and kisses him on the forehead. He then automatically moves to hold him and their daughter close by snaking an arm around Sunday’s waist.
“Uh oh. Daddy heard that you’re going to eat all the candy without sharing. Look, it made him so sad.” Gallagher teases the little girl. Upon hearing that, tears also well up in her golden eyes. She starts looking very apologetic.
Sunday frowns and gives him a nudge with his elbow.
“Don’t make her cry.”
His mate (are they mates?) smirks at him and uses his thumb to wipe away the large teardrop that is threatening to fall from her tiny eyes. Sunday recognizes that gesture. She immediately calms, sitting in her daddy’s arms while being comforted by her father.
“Daddy is fine, don’t worry.” He taps her button nose lightly and smiles, “I just got a little scared because I couldn’t find you and papa earlier.”
She sniffles and Sunday thinks that apart from Robin in their childhood, his daughter is the cutest thing ever to grace the waking world.
(The waking world?)
“Then, it’s okay now? Because Daddy is here.”
“Yeah. It’s alright now.”
“That’s right. Daddy has to learn to be brave too.” Gallagher shoots him a knowing look, and a sense of unease fills him. Sunday feels like the man is seeing through him.
“I have my answer, Sunday. Do you know yours?”
Sunday blinks in confusion. The night market is distorting and falling away, but his eyes are transfixed on the Gallagher in front of him. The image of his love is breaking apart slowly into tiny pieces of shredded paper and scattering to the wind. He looks at his arms in panic; his little girl is now a shining red egg.
As he tries to grasp her tight, she melts into his body and disappears.
Gallagher’s voice rings out in his head, clear as a bell.
“You know where to find us.”
He awakes with a start in the mansion of the Oak Family.
His hands immediately move to his still flat abdomen before he can even orientate himself.
Sunday feels something change within him— a burning desire to escape destiny fills his veins.
But not for himself.
Even if he is to be locked away forever, he wants his child to be free. Wants their child to be free.
The Oak Family cannot have this child.
Notes:
Thank you for reading my self-indulgent one-shot!
If you like it, do leave a kudos to let me know! It will make me very happy.
And do leave a comment if you feel like you might want to see this expanded.
Chapter 2: Full Fic Teaser
Summary:
I would like to say it's an announcement but it's really not that serious lol
Notes:
I wrote this down in an excited frenzy because I was very inspired this morning. Thought I could share this with you guys.
Anyways with the brief skeleton of a full fic sorta sketched out, I would like to say that I will slowly but eventually explore the Defying Destiny setting further!
I'm not sure how long it will take because I'm not the best with multi-chapters (I'm really new to this writing thing and I have no stamina sorry haha), but I will do my best to etch out bit by bit of this fic everyday. Please note the following as well:
**Some details in the teaser below may be subjected to change depending on how the fic evolves eventually!**
Feel free to scream in the comments to give me motivation!
Lastly, I dedicate today's teaser to everybody who has taken the time to graciously comment on Defying Destiny. I really didn't expect it to blow up. I'm just writing for fun because I cannot be normal about Gallagher and Sunday.
I hope you enjoy.
Chapter Text
“You’re making a mistake. This child is far more important than you think.”
Gopher Wood circles him, like a calm and unbothered predator staring down a cornered prey. Sunday tries to respond to his intimidation by snarling softly back, but it is futile because they both know that being with child instantly makes him the more fragile being of the two. He does not think that the actual leader of the Oak Family will hurt him or his baby at this precise moment; yet whatever he is planning is definitely going to be unpleasant.
The old man finally stops and clasps his hand behind his back.
“Gallagher. The name of your sire and the child’s father. Did you think I wouldn’t know?”
Sunday tenses up in response to the familiar name.
“And speaking of things we do not know, you’re unaware, aren’t you? Of his true form and intentions.”
A hint of a small smile graces Gopher Wood’s thin lips as he reveals the unspoken truth. The moment Sunday’s mind starts scrambling to process the words, he thinks he can hear a sharp ringing in his ears like his body is trying to violently scrub out the memory of even knowing .
There’s no way. He wouldn’t…
“Why don’t you ask him yourself, Sunday?” The old man gestures towards Gallagher who has now arrived and is impassively taking in the scene in front of him.
Sunday swivels to look at Gallagher— a stray from the Floating Dream Palace, the man whom he has grown to love against all odds, and the father of his unborn child. Despite catching the scent of a distressed omega, the alpha makes no movement to comfort him or refute Gopher Wood’s claims. This unnerves the halovian who feels his entire mouth go dry.
His hand covers the small bump of his belly protectively as the next words leave his lips.
“What does he mean by that?”
“Why does he say that you’re Mikhail Char Legwork’s son and the original inheritor of Penacony?”
Chapter 3: The Bird and The Hound
Summary:
(This is the start of the full fic. Please treat this as the first chapter in terms of sequencing.)
The Floating Dream Palace receives a message from the Oak Family: Sunday is to be visiting them soon for an unknown reason.
A bird and a hound meets for the first time, and Sunday struggles with his own feelings against fulfilling his duties.
A proposal is then made.
Notes:
Small TW: Vivid descriptions of not wanting to be physically intimate with someone. No sexual assault (SA) happens in this story, but Gopher Wood is messed up and Sunday is a tormented little bird.
Some context before you begin:
1) This story deviates from the original HSR Penacony storyline and setting quite a fair bit. Please take it as an AU, and in many cases, do not assume certain facts you've learnt in the game as facts for this story. Otherwise you will accidentally confuse yourself haha.
- Penacony is a normal city here and not a world inside a dream.
- Gopher Wood is Sunday and Robin's adoptive father, and current leader of the Oak Family.
- The Harmony (Xipe) still exists, along with some slightly more supernatural elements.
- +Other storyline related stuff that I cannot reveal at this point2) Floating Dream Palace - In name, a place where various talented individuals perform as artists (like a performing theatre). In actuality, also a courtesan house. Gallagher is part of this establishment, but his role is questionable.
3) Dewlight Pavilion - Stronghold and home to the Oak Family
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“Hey, did you hear?”
Gallagher is busy cleaning the cups at his bar when he overhears two of the girls chatting away happily. They are currently on their late morning to afternoon break and the residents of the Floating Dream Palace are all in good spirits. The two girls, recognizable by their outfits as the famous twin fan dance performers Venus and Gaia, clink their whisky glasses.
“Word on the street is that the Sunday is looking for a mate!”
“Sunday? From the Oak Family?”
Venus giggles at her sister’s excitement and rests her cheek comfortably on her propped up hand by the countertop.
“Yes that Sunday! The most handsome specimen of an Alpha in all of Penacony. It seems he wants to settle down before he fully inherits the Oak Family. This means that his mate will be the next First Omega!”
“It could be a Beta too!”
More girls hear the excited chattering and join the two. Soon enough, the bar counter looks like it is being surrounded by a group of adorable but overly enthusiastic kittens. Gallagher pretends to not care about the topic at hand, but the efficacy of his cleaning slows and his movements become more deliberate. Every so often, his eyes will dart to the side to keep an eye on the group; to ensure that none of them get into any serious mischief.
It has nothing to do with curiosity, really.
“Oh, what I would give to spend just one night with Sunday.” One of the girls swoons softly and pouts. Her friends dissolve into more giggles around her.
“One night? Shouldn’t you be hoping to become his wife?
“That’s right! Aim higher!”
“Alright, that’s enough, girls.” A voice breaks through the chatter and Siobhan sidles up to the group and takes a seat by the counter as well, “Leave the poor thing alone. Also I hate to burst your bubble but marriages for people like Sunday are determined by their families. And normally the candidates have to be from one of the Five Great Families.”
There is a disappointed, collective vocalizing of ‘aww’ by the group and the girls move to surround Siobhan instead. One of them throws her arms around Siobhan and takes a cheeky whiff of her pheromones near her scent gland. Siobhan does not seem to be affected by this intrusive action; she merely pats the girl on her head instead.
“Siobhan you used to be from the Iris Family! Why don’t you try for the position then?”
Siobhan gives a helpless chuckle at the naivete of the girls and gestures for Gallagher to slide a drink over.
“That’s something from a long time ago. Besides, I’m an Alpha. Sunday’s mate will definitely be someone who can provide him with children. Betas might be begrudgingly accepted by the Family, but Omegas have the best shot.”
Venus sighs next to her; it is her turn to pout, “That sounds like such a drag. They’re missing out on so much when they box themselves in with so many rules.”
The girls nod collectively at Venus’ wisdom. They are all evidently disappointed by this turn of events. None of them particularly expects to become Sunday’s wife but the idea that his marriage is bound by so many archaic guidelines makes the outcome entirely predictable and unexciting.
Gallagher clears his throat.
Immediately, the girls’ attention snaps to him as he places a drink down for Siobhan.
“In a way, we live very privileged lives compared to Mr. Wings, don’t you think?”
Siobhan smiles and lifts her cup to do an air toast to Gallagher. Venus rolls her eyes but does it with a clear lack of malice towards the man. “Master, is this a cry for appreciation?”
“Ah. Rules.” Gallagher tilts his head accusingly at her. Next to Venus, Gaia covers her own mouth in surprise— as though she is the one who accidentally broke the rule of not addressing Gallagher by his real position in the establishment. Behind her, the rest of the girls fidget restlessly and some let out soft ‘oohs’. Siobhan chuckles at the sight. The girls really are a lively bunch.
“Now clear off and go rest or get ready for work tonight. Nobody remains here. I have to discuss taxes with Siobhan and it’s going to be incredibly boring.”
At the dismissal of the bartender, the girls disperse like birds on a tree. Each of them make their way to other rooms in the Floating Dream Palace and none remain within earshot of the bar counter. Gallagher’s instructions are very clear and they have enough common sense to understand that he needs time alone with Siobhan to discuss important matters. All of them have deep respect for the two and despite their gossiping nature, none of them will ever pry for secrets pertaining to the two alphas.
If it is something meant for everybody to hear, the alphas would have already mentioned it openly in front of them.
Siobhan watches the last of their girls disappear past a door frame and turns her attention to Gallagher. Her expression is still an amused one.
“Very astute of you.”
Gallagher shrugs, “Could tell from the way you entered. Thank goodness you arrived too, I would have never been able to control any of them in their excited state.”
“I think otherwise. You would make a great father to a group of rambunctious little girls.”
“We both know that is untrue.”
Siobhan’s smile gradually falls as a somewhat tense silence envelops the both of them. She decides that it is time to get to the point of their discussion.
“I just received a message from the Oak Family. Sunday intends to visit us three days from now.”
Gallagher makes a face at the news. What is this feeling?
His business partner accurately guesses his disdain and fiddles with the glass in her hands, “I know you aren’t particularly fond of them, or any of the Families in particular. So I have not officially accepted or denied their request. Let me know what you think about this.”
He ruminates deeply.
It has been several years since the fall of the Penacony Founding Family, belonging to the Watchmaker Mikhail Char Legwork. Since then, the members of that family have dispersed; some being assimilated into the other five families while others dedicate their lives to helping the people of Penacony as normal commoners.
In the midst of change and uncertainty, Mikhail’s royal lineage had gone missing as well.
With the absence of the Founding Family, the Oak Family naturally and easily rose to power. There are rumors that the missing royal lineage of the Founding Family is linked to the Oak Family, who more than likely slaughtered them in a thirst for control over Penacony.
Whatever the truth, one thing is for certain: The Oak Family will not relent in matters that will undermine or question their authority.
Which brings him to the current issue— the existence of the Floating Dream Palace.
The Floating Dream Palace is located in Penacony’s red light district. It functions both as a theater for the girls who showcase their talents and a courtesan house for the ones who have more passion for the pleasures of the flesh. Gallagher does not force or suggest for any of them to pick either road. There are also some who cannot do either, and they are relegated to helping out with miscellaneous jobs instead. Men are not unwelcome as staff, but they are very careful with who they accept because of the sheer number of vulnerable women in the building.
The main point of the establishment is an unspoken sanctuary for those who are unable to find opportunities or help elsewhere. People who fall between the gaps and go unnoticed by the Family.
Hidden in plain sight, it is proof that life under the Families is not exactly all sunshine and rainbows like they promised.
Gallagher hopes that this visit is not a show of unnecessary pressure from the Oak Family.
“You said Sunday is visiting? Did he say why?”
Siobhan shakes her head.
“They didn’t say why. Only that it is of the utmost importance and privacy. We will have to close our business for the entire night that he is here.”
That really is strange.
Gallagher muses over the unexpected and potentially dangerous request. If the Oak Family has already indicated that this visit is pivotal, are they even in a position to decline?
“Oh, I forgot. They did mention something strange. They want us to get all the eligible alphas in the building ready for a one-on-one session with Sunday.”
The man raises an eyebrow. One-on-one? Don’t tell me he wants to come all the way here to do some illegal sparring with other alphas.
…Or it could also be sparring of a different kind?
Maybe Sunday is kinky that way.
At his expression, Siobhan dismisses his thoughts with a wave of her hand, “Whatever you’re thinking, stop it. Don’t be weird. Plus, our establishment isn’t one that entertains illicit activities.”
“It’s a bit unnerving.” Gallagher finally concludes, “I can’t tell what they want or why they are being so private about this.”
“Hey, we’ve been doing this for a while. If there’s one thing we learnt, it’s that everybody’s got a part of them that they are trying to hide.” Siobhan takes another swig of her whisky and places the glass confidently on the table, “And it just so happens that we are very discreet with secrets.”
He sighs. They really are not in a position to say no; the number one priority is the safety of everybody and this establishment they call home.
“Let them know that we will be ready for Sunday’s visit in three days. You can get the other alphas ready too. But split them according to their roles so we know who to call when we figure out what Sunday actually needs.”
Siobhan hums at the instructions and nods faithfully.
“And who, pray tell, will figure out what he needs?”
She almost seems to be expecting Gallagher to leave the matter to her as usual, but he folds his arms and grins at her instead.
“The most charming bartender in this building, of course.”
Sunday arrives exactly on time, three days later.
He looks at the watch normally hidden under his long sleeves and exhales softly. There is tension in his entire body, especially his shoulders. Hidden in his chest is a small desire to linger outside of the building so he does not have to face the problem at hand. But Sunday understands the danger of being recognized at this location by anybody who might know him.
Which, unfortunately, makes up the entirety of Penacony.
He really does not care for the popularity that comes with being the next in line to inherit the Oak Family; yet it is an unavoidable problem for someone of his status.
Just like the other unavoidable issue that he is currently trying to resolve.
His guards push open the doors of the Floating Dream Palace and he strides in coolly. Sunday takes in the grand look of the establishment and admires the huge raised stage they have in the middle. He imagines the beautiful performances that appear on that stage night after night, like a never ending beautiful dream. There are tables and chairs strategically placed around the ground floor for the sole purpose of relaxing and enjoying said performances, and casting his gaze upwards only reveals more of them overlooking this grand stage.
It’s quite breathtaking actually. For a brief moment he forgets about his worries.
“Mister Sunday.” A woman’s voice calls out from a few steps away. Sunday shifts his gaze in surprise, but the expression on his face remains stiff. He is unaware that he has stopped in the middle of the hall.
“Welcome to the Floating Dream Palace, where the most passionate dreams come true.”
She bows deeply with an arm neatly pressed against her waist. Sunday almost scoffs at the cliche tagline; yet he holds back out of courtesy and self-awareness. If he really thinks about it, is he not here for that exact thing?
To make a desire of his come true.
The lady straightens up and smiles at him. Sunday regards her coldly because he is here for business and not pleasure. He is also on guard due to the pheromones she is exuding.
Alpha. He notes.
“My name is Siobhan. Your messengers have informed us about the importance of your visit today. I hope it pleases you that the palace is currently empty with the exception of yourself, your entourage and a few of our staff.”
“It’ll do.” Sunday responds calmly, “And what about my other request?”
Siobhan smiles, but it does not reach her eyes. Having to handle Sunday for more than a minute must already be frustrating for her. Still, he gives her credit for a job well done so far. The woman calmly gestures to an elevator behind her.
“It is being prepared as we speak. May I interest you in some drinks at our VIP lounge while we wait?”
Maybe she is expecting him to reject the offer, but ingesting alcohol before the upcoming ordeal actually sits really well with Sunday. He is quite sure he does not want to be fully sober for the rest of tonight. The halovian nods politely at her and raises his hand to silently inform his guards to stay. The men halt in their tracks and relax in their current positions.
Siobhan invites him into the elevator, but exits after pressing the button for the correct floor.
She shoots him a knowing smile; this time one that is more genuine than the one before. He finds it weird that she seems to be deriving pleasure in placing him in the elevator but he reasons with himself that it probably has more to do with not having to handle him any further.
“My colleague will receive you upstairs. If there is anything you desire, please let him know and he will inform us.”
With that final instruction, she waves him goodbye and the metallic doors close on him.
Sunday clasps his hands behind his back and relaxes in the elevator as it ascends. He closes his eyes to enjoy his quiet surroundings.
Finally.
Finally he is alone. Even if it is for only a brief moment.
He is unsure why he feels this way— there is relief in being bathed in solitude. Sunday has never shied away from his duties to the Oak Family or Penacony. Perhaps the endless work and attention lately has affected him more than he thought. He recalls when Gopher Wood, the head of the Oak Family and his adoptive father, announced Sunday’s upcoming engagement in front of him and a dozen other family members.
The man did not inform Sunday prior to the meeting about said marriage. There is no remorse in his voice either, when he instructs Sunday to start thinking about methods to acquire an heir with an omega mate.
Omega. Therein lies the problem, isn’t it?
It is not as if Gopher Wood is unaware of Sunday’s affliction. Yet he still makes decisions for his own convenience and leaves Sunday to clean up the mess.
The elevator rings, slowing to a stop.
When the door opens, Sunday is greeted by the sight of tousled brown hair, boring brown eyes and a broad chest. He freezes for a moment–- the second surprise of the night actually getting the better of him this time, and notices that the person is also wearing a shirt that is too small for him and a magenta colored tie that does nothing to either make him look proper or cover his exposed bits of flesh.
He takes too long, and the door attempts to close.
The mystery person reaches in immediately and uses one strong arm to stop the closing door, causing the sensors to detect his movement and reopen sluggishly.
As the person leans down to look at him, Sunday feels his heart leap into his throat.
There is an unmistakable whiff of alpha pheromones coming off the man.
Thankfully, he seems quite polite about it and is not purposely using them to intimidate or attract Sunday. In fact, it is almost as if the man is trying to reign in his own scent so as to not agitate his new visitor.
Sunday swallows hard. The man is rather attractive.
Noticing his lack of movement to exit the elevator, the alpha grins at him, “Cat got your tongue and your legs, birdie? This isn’t the VIP lounge, you know.”
He snaps out of it, and his gaze hardens. The man is absolutely not attractive.
Sunday pushes the man firmly aside in a way that is very inelegant and unlike him. The alpha jokingly lets out a ‘oof’ sound and releases the doors of the elevator only when Sunday has safely disembarked. The thought of having to wait for the man to lead the way irks Sunday, but the corridors in front of them branch off threateningly and he would rather not spend his night being lost in a gigantic pleasure house.
He folds his arms impatiently.
The man does not bow to greet him. Instead, he seems to decide that Sunday’s reaction earlier was humorous and opts to test his luck further. He extends a hand in the form of a handshake.
“The name’s Gallagher. I’ll be your bartender for the night.”
Of course he is just the bartender. As a person that is blessed by the Harmony themselves, Sunday is not lucky unlucky enough to have him as his alpha for the night.
He eyes the large hand in front of him wearily like a skittish cat; refusing to touch it lest the man uses it to make more cheeky jabs at him.
Gallagher’s eyes light up, as though he has expected this and it is exactly the reaction he wants.
“What? You don’t want to hold hands? Alright, don’t blame me later if you get lost in this area.”
Sunday nearly hisses at him. The new bartender is extremely good at getting under his skin. Small grey wings under his ears flap in irritation for the first time in a long while; giving away his true feelings, and Gallagher watches him with increasing fascination. Thankfully, the man does not make any further comments.
Thankfully, and disappointingly.
One more word and Sunday will use the suggestive power of Harmony to make the man kneel in penance.
It would have been a sight to behold.
The walk to the VIP lounge does not take too long, but Sunday is too painfully aware of Gallagher’s presence that it makes the silence unnerving. The older man confidently leads him through the twists and turns of the neverending corridors while not wasting another word. He observes the board back in front of him and the way the fabric of his pants wrap around his thighs and behind.
Sunday catches himself daydreaming and looks away with a frustrated blush.
Gallagher can be pretty easy on the eyes as an alpha when he is quiet. But is someone like him even capable of shutting up for long?
Stop it. He chides himself. Even a monkey would be more attractive than him.
And monkeys are much more unpredictable and noisy.
“Here we go.” Gallagher grunts out as he pushes open an unassuming but sleek door. Immediately, a new area opens up in front of them: comfortably carpeted, filled with a limited number of tables and chairs and at the very end, a brightly lit bar countertop made of aged and meticulously lacquered wood.
The lady downstairs, Siobhan, was not lying about them clearing out the building for Sunday’s visit. Gallagher and himself are the only ones in this idyllic lounge.
He takes a seat at the countertop and Gallagher immediately gets to work.
“So… Sunday.”
The corner of halovian’s lips twitches— the lack of respect is apparent from the way he calls Sunday without any honorifics. Sunday lets it slide because he is desperately trying to not react to every single small thing.
Gallagher tosses the cocktail shaker in the air behind his back and catches it smoothly with his other hand. At least he is good at what he does. Sunday muses appreciatively.
“What is a lovely thing like you doing in a place like this tonight?”
He is unsurprised that the bartender is not aware of the purpose of his visit. After all, the Oak Family has mentioned close to nothing to the liaison Siobhan as well. However, being reminded of it still leaves a bad taste in his mouth; Sunday closes his eyes in resignation.
“There is something I require. Something only another alpha can give.”
Gallagher’s movements still and his mouth parts ever so slightly. The lack of noise coming from the cocktail shaker catches Sunday’s attention and he opens his eyes to turn his gaze on the bartender.
Gallagher is currently looking at him with a strange expression.
Upon seeing Sunday’s confusion, he quickly looks away and continues mixing the drink in his hands.
“Sorry,” he mumbles, “I mean hey I knew you were good looking but your voice really caught me off guard.”
His voice? Is there something wrong with it? Anybody else would have shifted in their seat nervously, but Sunday maintains his elegant composure with practiced poise. Still, it is the first time anybody has ever had any issue with his voice.
“Here you go. Wake and Slumber.”
Before he can ask, the bartender effortlessly distracts him with a tall cocktail glass of green and blue hues. On the edge of the glass, a tiny decoration of Robin hangs pleasantly. Sunday almost smiles at the sight of his sister— there is a sense of deep pride in knowing that Robin is now so famous that she practically appears everywhere he goes.
Even when things feel like they are getting too overwhelming, seeing his sister around makes him feel like he is never alone.
The halovian lifts his eyes to meet Gallagher’s; his expression now much softer. It is a silent ‘thank you’ of sorts, but he is not expecting the bartender to catch it. Nobody ever does anyway, yet Sunday does it all the same.
Imagine his surprise, when the bartender smiles back at him— handsome confidence and all.
“You’re welcome.”
Sunday’s stoic countenance falters.
He grabs the drink and places it to his lips, carelessly taking a huge mouthful of it. Immediately he feels the burn, and coughs a little at the strong kickback of the alcohol. A bitter aftertaste blooms on his tongue, along with the burning sensation that now lingers in the back of his throat. Gallagher watches him, alarmed and quickly pulls out a serviette for him.
“Shit, I forgot to warn you that this one is quite strong.”
“I’m fine.” Sunday managed to reply in between involuntary coughs, “I was careless.”
He fetches the serviette from Gallagher and dabs at the edges of his mouth to wipe off any excess liquid that spilled forth. Sunday frowns. For a cocktail drink that reminded him of Robin— green eyes, blue wings and all— it is so unexpectedly strong.
Well, he supposes it is not that far off. Between the two of them, Robin has managed to bravely spread her wings to fly while he remains on the ground, watching her. She is the stronger twin for sure.
The bartender continues to observe him with an apologetic expression, “You don’t seem too happy. How about I make you another drink you’d like to make up for this?”
Sunday shakes his head, “This drink is fine. You’ve gone through the trouble of creating it already.”
“Yeah well…” The older man rubs the back of his head sheepishly, “I’ve also made too many assumptions while putting it together. I figured you’re someone who’d prefer something stronger, and you’re famously close to your sister, so I added some of her likeness to it.”
Ah. That explains.
Everybody thinks of him in a certain way. It is perfectly natural that the bartender makes assumptions based on things that he has heard as well. Sunday does not feel offended in the slightest. Still, he decides that he should correct Gallagher in the event he has developed any misunderstandings.
“I am close to my sister.”
“Yeah, but how should I put it? The vibe you’re giving off is a little bit more like…”
He pauses. The bartender places a hand on his chin and muses for a bit. Within seconds, his eyes light up with inspiration. Gallagher moves to grab a smaller, circular glass this time. He adds a couple of ice cubes to the drink, and mixes only two types of liquid in with it.
He stirs, and the drink turns a brilliant, glittering gold.
Then with much care, he tops it off with a beautiful deep blue that resembles Sunday’s inner vest. For decoration, the bartender picks a blue colored bird.
Sunday is speechless when Gallagher pushes the second cocktail towards him.
“Glimmering Dreamscape. Try it.”
This time, Sunday is much more cautious with his approach. He places the drink carefully to his lips and takes only a minute sized sip.
A sweet flavor blooms on his tongue as the cocktail warms him gently from the inside out, like cozy morning sun rays on skin. Despite the cold blue hues and opulent golds, the drink is comforting and gives him a strange sense of familiarity; like finding a simple yet precious piece of treasure in a box long forgotten. Each sip is a dreamlike moment to be cherished.
His face must have expressed some form of delight because Gallagher grins as he takes another much bigger sip.
“Perfect, isn’t it? I think this is a bit more like you.”
Sunday manages a small smile as he taps the tiny bird sitting at the edge of the glass, “You are very talented.”
“When I have a good muse, yeah.” Gallagher gestures to him, and Sunday feels all the animosity from earlier melt away. He thinks he can grow to really like this bartender.
Gallagher leans back against a countertop behind him and folds his muscular arms.
“There’s no point in forcing yourself to accept something you don’t like, or suppressing your real self at the Floating Dream Palace. We’re meant to provide our guests with an endless, passionate dream after all.”
The statement makes Sunday pause over his drink. It feels like the bartender is seeing through him, even though it should not be possible. Gallagher is talking about the Glimmering Dreamscape.
So why does it feel like the man has somehow managed to strip him bare?
Sunday’s smile falls.
While with Gallagher, he has momentarily forgotten the purpose of his visit.
“I’m not here for pleasure.” he says to the other man, but it echoes in his head like a reminder for himself, “It’s purely business tonight.”
He tries his best to reel in his own feelings and keep his expression stoic as usual. Sunday does not want to be held by a random stranger for the sake of accomplishing the Family’s goals. Yet he has to comply. He must. It is important.
Something must have given it away, because Gallagher moves to close the distance between them and lean over the counter.
The bartender’s expression is earnest. Sunday notes that he is wrong about the brown hues in Gallagher’s eyes. There is actually a hint of red that, when mixed with the brown, reminds him of a sunset instead.
It is beautiful, and Sunday feels like he is being let in on a secret.
“Is there anything else I can do for you then?”
Yes. Keep me here with you tonight.
He suppresses his desire to run from everything, and promptly swallows the second half of his thoughts. They cannot stay in the VIP lounge till daylight. How will they both explain it to others? Sunday to the Oak Family, and Gallagher to his employers at the Floating Dream Palace. And even if they did, Sunday cannot imagine the conversations that they might have.
The halovian looks at the Glimmering Dreamscape in his hands. He silently cherishes the small moment of joy he was offered earlier.
“Yes, you should ask Siobhan if the alpha I requested is ready to meet me. And to bring us to a bedroom where we can be undisturbed.”
The moment the words leave his lips, there is a look in Gallagher’s eyes that Sunday cannot place. Disappointment maybe? The red hues seem to disappear as he pulls back to stand upright. The atmosphere is formal once more.
“Right.” Gallagher nods and picks up a handset nearby. He pushes a couple of buttons and holds it up to his ear.
“Siobhan? Sunday is asking if the alpha is ready. If he is, we can bring them to the Daffodil bedroom that we’ve prepared earlier.”
Sunday takes a final, longing sip of the Glimmering Dreamscape.
The bartender makes affirmative grunts into the receiver and mutters a few ‘okay’s before putting the phone down.
“She says he’s ready. I’ll bring you to the room and you can meet him there.”
Sunday sits on the couch, cross legged with a glass of whisky in hand.
No Glimmering Dreamscape for him this time.
The room that Gallagher brought him to is wide and spacious; with ample space for an entire family to live in. It is quite possibly their equivalent of a presidential suite— there is a long table for dining, a living room filled with couches and a television, and a room with a king sized bed that is segregated by false walls. While not prominently visible from where he is sitting, a quick tour earlier informs him that the bathroom is equipped with both a rain shower and a bathtub.
Nothing really compares to the Dewlight Pavilion of the Oak Family, but Sunday is impressed nevertheless.
If only circumstances are less detestable.
“Mister Sunday, is something on your mind?”
The alpha that Siobhan brought in earlier comes to sit on the couch with him, and slides an arm around his shoulders to pull him in. Sunday resists the urge to cover his face with one of his wings in response to the pungent alpha pheromones the man is giving off.
Absolutely no self-awareness at all.
To give the man credit, he has been verbally polite with Sunday and even addresses him with honorifics (unlike someone). He also looks pleasant enough. For an alpha, he is almost as tall as Gallagher and coincidentally has the same chestnut brown hair. No messy stubble either.
It is just that, for some reason, Sunday finds his scent repelling.
In fact, he has been so distracted by it that he has not been able to explain the purpose of his visit and what he needs from the alpha. And as the minutes pass, the confused but determined alpha is increasingly touchy-feely with him for some reason.
He misses the bartender.
Has it always been so difficult to speak to people?
“Are you wearing some sort of cologne tonight?”
The alpha tilts his head quizzically at Sunday’s question and shakes his head, “No, I showered and kept myself clean before meeting you.”
“Is that so.”
Silence.
Adam (or Alan? Sunday cannot remember) tries to shift the mood by taking Sunday’s whisky glass from him and setting it down on a glass table nearby. His hand glides upwards over Sunday’s neck to his jawline where he tips his chin upwards. Resplendent gold eyes meet boring brown ones.
For a brief moment, Gallagher’s face flashes across his mind.
“There’s no point in forcing yourself to accept something you don’t like.”
Adam tilts his head downwards and leans in to kiss Sunday.
For the first time in a long time, the halovian panics.
The movement is instantaneous— he shoves the alpha off him quite roughly. Their lips are not even close to touching but Sunday feels like throwing up. He rises to his feet in anger and disgust.
“ Leave. ” He orders firmly.
“M-Mister Sunday?” The poor alpha on the floor manages to stammer out.
“I won’t repeat myself. Tell Siobhan I want to see Gallagher instead.”
The look on his face must have been terrifying because Adam nods and scrambles to his feet like his life is in danger. He bows and makes a quick exit from the room.
When he is finally alone, Sunday takes in a couple of shallow breaths. He shudders. His heart is beating so quickly that it is getting difficult to breathe.
He imagines that alpha’s body over his; large unfamiliar hands groping his body and a hard, unforgiving length penetrating him in his most intimate area.
He imagines a child with the same unlikable features, growing inside of him.
All for the sake of the Oak Family.
Sunday shakes where he stands.
For some reason, he also recalls Gallagher’s soothing smile at the bar earlier, and tears well up in the corner of his eyes. Pain lances through his chest.
The mighty and proud Sunday, reduced to this by a single problem. To stop his tears from falling, he bites his lower lip hard enough for it to bleed.
He does not recognize himself when he grabs the nearby whisky glass and smashes it against the floor.
“You gave him Adam?!”
Gallagher yells at Siobhan in disbelief when they finally meet back at the VIP lounge. She raises an eyebrow at how agitated he is becoming.
“Yes, like we arranged in advance.”
Gallagher lets out a frustrated exhale and runs a hand through his hair. It is true. They did sort through all the alphas objectively and properly before they finalized a small list of suitable candidates for Sunday’s visit.
By all accounts, Adam should be more than suitable for a one night stand with Sunday. They trust that the man will be gentle and patient with whatever needs Sunday has.
So why does he feel so aggravated?
Is it because the Sunday he met earlier is so different from what he had expected? Before their meeting, like everybody else, he thinks of Sunday as cold, aloof and powerful. Yet this impression cannot be any further from the truth. Gallagher’s mind runs through the various subtle expressions Sunday has made since they met at the lift, and his joy at receiving something that is personally tailored for him.
The real him.
Sunday is not the cold and calculative person everybody makes him out to be. At least, not fully.
“Fuck.” Gallagher swears under his breath. They have made a mistake. Whatever the reason for this meetup, he should have tried talking Sunday out of it instead.
“Why are you behaving like this?” An increasingly confused and frustrated Siobhan reacts to his outburst by crossing her arms across her chest, “This meeting was called by Sunday and he had no specifications other than the other person being an Alpha. I don’t appreciate being yelled at for decisions that we both made together, in accordance with our client’s request.”
At her reprimanding tone, Gallagher realizes that he has overstepped.
“Sorry, I just… I think we might have made a mistake. I shouldn’t have yelled at you.”
The apology works, and Siobhan relaxes a little more. They have been best friends for very long after all; she cares for Gallagher in the same way he cares for her. Even if that care is not very obvious at the moment because he is acting out of sorts. She uncrosses her hands and places one of them on Gallagher’s shoulder.
“Did something happen when Sunday was with you?”
The hound shakes his head.
“No. But I’m not sure if acceding to his request is the correct thing to do in the first place. I have a bad feeling about it.”
Before the two of them can continue their discussion, Adam bursts into the lounge, eyes wild with fear. He stutters while he quickly relays Sunday’s message.
“I-I’m not sure why, but Mister Sunday just got really upset and told me to leave. Then he asked me to tell Siobhan that he wants to see Gallagher instead.”
There it is. The problem he was worried about.
Gallagher’s body moves before any of them can gather themselves from the shock of Adam appearing. Siobhan yells his name as he exits from behind the bar counter, but he does not turn to look at her. The always stoic looking Sunday being visibly upset? It is almost unthinkable.
“Take care of Adam! I’ll check up on Sunday.”
With a wave of his hand, Gallagher disappears behind the sleek wooden door that Adam just entered from.
The poor alpha swallows hard and looks at Siobhan for reassurance.
“Did I do something wrong? Are we in trouble?”
When Gallagher arrives at the Daffodil room, Sunday is standing in the corner and staring out of the glass window. Because his face and body are both turned away from the door, the hound does not know what to expect. His eyes fall on the shattered glass scattered over the floor.
The trembling sight of Adam earlier tells him that this is not done by him.
“Sunday?” He calls out, uncertain.
The halovian turns. His gaze is eerily empty.
“You’re here.”
“What happened?”
“It’s not his fault. I just lost control earlier.”
Gallagher eyes the glass again, and at the dried blood that has gathered on Sunday’s lower lip. It can’t be. The hound’s gaze darkens as he crosses the threshold to approach him. He reaches out to grab Sunday by his shoulders, but stops at the last moment and lets his arms fall to the side instead.
“Did he try to force himself on you?”
Gallagher knows that the question is like a lit matchstick and the situation is akin to a room full of gasoline. But he still has to know. They have zero tolerance for such affairs in this establishment. In the event it really happened under both his and Siobhan’s watch, he will never forgive himself if they were left unaware to help and the perpetrator gets off unpunished.
Sunday looks up at him. He is not sure if it is a trick of the light, but his dull gold eyes finally seem less tormented.
“No.”
The hound lets out a breath he did not know he was holding.
“Okay. Alright. That’s good.”
They stand in silence. Gallagher is unwilling to push Sunday with more questions until he feels better. They will have a proper conversation when things are less volatile. For the longest time, neither moves away nor makes a sound.
Then the unthinkable happens.
Sunday leans into his chest gently and inhales. Instantly, Gallagher can tell that his smaller body is starting to relax.
Again, Gallagher’s body reacts faster than his brain when his hands come up to hold Sunday’s shoulders. He does not push him away.
The halovian takes a few more deep breaths in his arms and Gallagher very subtly but politely scents him on top of his head. For hopefully a calming and protective effect, of course. The greyish-blue hair he is buried in is incredibly soft and there is a very muted but nice scent coming from Sunday. It must be weird for two alphas to be holding each other like this, yet he cannot find it in him to push Sunday away.
Not when Sunday is behaving like the only place he can breathe is in Gallagher’s arms.
“I have embarrassed myself tonight.” Sunday starts, voice now muffled by his own chest.
“That makes the both of us.”
The halovian looks up at him, confused by the statement.
“Should have asked you straight out earlier, why you’ve come here for an alpha. But I didn’t want to pry if you’re not willing to share. Company policy, after all.” he gives him a weak smile, “If I had, we could have avoided all this.”
Sunday responds with a small, sad smile of his own and buries his face back into Gallagher’s chest.
“It’s complicated. I couldn’t discuss this with anybody but the chosen alpha.”
He pauses, evidently thinking hard.
“But I guess it doesn’t matter anymore.”
Sunday shifts and grabs one of Gallagher’s hands to place on a medicinal patch that is covering his scent gland. The patch was hidden by his neckline and hair earlier, and impossible to see unless Sunday purposely shows it off.
The older man freezes in place but does not move away because of the way Sunday is now looking at him.
In one move, he rips off the patch using Gallagher’s fingers.
An overwhelmingly pleasant and intoxicating smell fills the room and the hound’s head. He tries not to react unnecessarily at such a crucial moment, but the salivary glands in his mouth seem to have malfunctioned. Gallagher can feel drool pooling up inside. Sunday smells too fucking good .
Omega.
He snaps back to reality when Sunday shifts uncomfortably in his arms— he was accidentally releasing pheromones in response to the nice scent Sunday is giving off. Hell, he thinks that he might actually be getting hard. Immediately, he lets go of Sunday and takes two steps back.
“S-Sorry.”
“Don’t be. I’m telling you the truth because I’d like to ask a favor of you.”
Gallagher resists the temptation to kneel. To yield. To do anything that Sunday asks of him.
“I want you to sire a child with me. The future heir to the Oak Family and Penacony.”
Okay maybe everything except that.
It takes all of his willpower to bite out the next few words. He takes another two steps back in hopes that his mind will clear up enough to respond.
“If you truly know me, know who I am, you wouldn’t be asking me of this.”
“I know enough to be comfortable with this arrangement. I’d rather it be you than any of the other alphas out there.”
“This is a mistake.”
“The Oak Family expects a child from me. My upcoming engagement is to another omega. If you do not agree, I will have no choice but to ask Adam to come back and be my sire.”
Gallagher looks at him in disbelief. After such a violent reaction to Adam earlier, Sunday is willing to call him back for the sake of having a child? Surely it is a bluff.
“Even if not Adam or you, there are other alphas in the building. One of them can definitely give me—”
He clamps a hand over Sunday’s mouth. The alpha side of him does not want to hear any more of this nonsense coming out of his lips. There is a strange sense of possessiveness, and he does not want to see a repeat of the mess earlier as well. Sunday watches him carefully from above his large hand. The halovian’s lips are starting to feel unbearably soft against his skin.
“I cannot be your mate.”
Sunday’s gaze falters at the sentence, but he immediately puts his guard back up. Gallagher removes his hand so that the man can respond.
“That’s fine. This will be purely transactional. You will sire me a child, and in return you will receive payment for it. There will be no feelings involved and you will have no involvement or custody over the child after its birth.”
“That’s insane.” he gasps, “The child will still be half mine no matter how much the Oak Family tries to deny it.”
Sunday grabs his hand firmly by the wrist and Gallagher watches the determination blaze within his eyes.
“Please.”
“Sunday.” Gallagher wants to shake off the person in front of him, but he does not. He is unable to. “You know exactly how insane this sounds. Children are not a means to an end.”
Not that the Oak Family cares.
Gallagher is aware from their interactions earlier that Sunday is only behaving like this because he is thinking in the best interest of that twisted Family. If Sunday truly thought of having a child as a means to inherit and continue the legacy of the Family, he would not have reacted the way he did to Adam. Anybody would have been suitable.
So why is he insisting this from Gallagher instead?
“If it’s you, it’ll be less painful.”
They both go silent for a brief moment. Gallagher’s eyes widen with surprise at this confession.
When he does not receive a response, Sunday continues in a shameful whisper, “If it’s you, I know I will suffer less through this process. And eventually, so will the child.”
Gallagher is speechless. Whatever Sunday just said is way more effective than all of his threats.
And way more distasteful.
“That’s unfair.” he whispers, “You cannot push the responsibility of fixing something so twisted onto me.”
Sunday releases Gallagher, as though he feels burnt by his skin. He averts his gaze out of guilt, and takes a deep breath to alleviate the tension in his body. They are both aware that Sunday has crossed a line.
“I apologize.” he no longer insists or looks at Gallagher, “I’ll…leave to get washed up. Do give it some thought, and if you don’t want this then just leave to get Adam back. I won’t be sending him away again.”
Gallagher does not stop Sunday when he moves away. He does not call his name or look at him either. Disappointment, mixed with hurt, mars his already fatigued features.
Sunday knows, but he leaves nevertheless.
As he heads to the bathroom, he pauses at the door frame to the bedroom and turns to look at Gallagher briefly. The man is still standing at the same spot, staring unflinchingly at the ground. His broad back now looking haggard from the weight of the proposal Sunday sprung on him.
The two of them say nothing else to each other. They recognize that, for the moment, they both require space to calm down and think.
In the painful aftermath of their conversation, Gallagher thinks of his dad. He misses him.
He had blue hair the color of the sky too.
Just like Sunday.
When Sunday returns from a prolonged shower, he is greeted by Siobhan who bows respectfully in the living room. The shattered whisky glass has also since been cleared, and Gallagher is nowhere to be found.
He closes his eyes in resignation.
So this is his answer.
“Mister Sunday, Gallagher has asked me to pass on a message to you.”
She is calm, but Sunday knows that the entire night has been taxing on everybody and it is all his fault. He resigns himself to any message that he is about to hear.
Siobhan pauses, as if she is thinking on how to best deliver her next few words to him.
“He says that he agrees to your proposal. But tonight has been quite exhausting for you, so we will pick up things when you are both feeling better.”
Sunday opens his eyes to look at her in surprise.
“He agreed?”
She nods affirmatively, “He agreed. But thinks it is unwise to go about conducting your business today. We will leave it up to you if you’d like to stay overnight or to head home. Do let me know how I can assist.”
He muses over it. It has probably been only a couple of hours since he entered the front doors, but Sunday is thoroughly exhausted. It is true that he prefers to be left alone in a safe space for now.
He will apologize again another day. Hopefully they can start afresh and on better terms.
“I’ll be heading back. Do send Gallagher my regards.”
Notes:
The reason why this chapter came out so late is because I struggled a lot with how I wanted to present the start of their arrangement. The words scribbled on my palm were literally "Sunday catches the eye of Gallagher who agrees to be his sire", but halfway through writing they started yelling at each other instead of an originally planned comedic concept.
I wrote and rewrote the scenes over and over again to figure out why, and ultimately realized that it came out this way because my subconscious wanted the story to reflect Sunday's pessimism and torment. And how Gopher Wood, the monster that he is, takes advantage of that. In contrast, Gallagher is a good man who won't (and doesn't want to) take advantage of him.
If you feel like Sunday is unlikable in any way, then the scene has succeeded in conveying what it's supposed to. If you somehow understood where Gallagher and Sunday are both coming from, then you have been paying really close attention to a lot of small details and thinking about it.
Either way, it makes me very happy as a writer. ❤️
I'm not the best with words but I really like them a lot. And I really appreciate you, dear reader, for reading the nonsense I write about them.
As always, I appreciate all kudos and comments! ❤️ If you loved this, please let me know. It'll help me with the next chapter.
Chapter 4: 1st Meeting (The First Night)
Summary:
Siobhan tries to talk some sense into Gallagher.
Eventually the person he has been thinking about reappears to apologize, and the two draw some boundaries for the arrangement.
As the atmosphere starts to heat up, Sunday spends his first night with Gallagher.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
“You’ve been strangely downcast since Sunday’s visit the other day.”
Siobhan throws Gallagher a questioning look as she watches him fail to put a full colored ball into a hole. They are having a slow day, so the staff are taking turns to have breaks. Currently, the two of them are polishing their pool skills.
Or at least, she is. With each shot, Gallagher is just pushing the balls around the table; his mind obviously preoccupied.
“No I’m not.”
“Gallagher. We’re not children. I’m not going to play the ‘nuh-uh’, ‘yuh-uh’ game with you.”
He sighs. The man pulls himself upright, straightens his posture and places an arm on his hip. Seeing as he is still unwilling to speak, Siobhan focuses on the game instead; she slides her body across the table to make a difficult shot, but shifts her attention back to him the moment she is done.
“I just think the Family is insane, and I’m disappointed that there are people who condone this.”
Without the man even saying a name, she knows that he is referring explicitly to Sunday. Whatever the two of them discussed during his visit must have been serious enough to rattle the normally easygoing Gallagher. He has not mentioned anything about it to her and she is not keen on prying— she is unsure if her knowing their secret will change anything anyway.
Siobhan purses her lips.
“I used to be from the Iris Family, you know.”
“Right, sorry.” It feels like Gallagher has been apologizing to her a lot lately. While her inner alpha does not mind him yielding, it is starting to get repetitive.
“That’s not what I meant. I just wanted to say that I have seen terrible people do terrible things. And I have also seen good people being forced to do reprehensible things— things beyond their own moral codes and beliefs. Sometimes you don’t get to choose.”
Gallagher makes a shot, and the full-colored balls roll around pointlessly once more.
“Everybody’s got a choice.”
“Not if these are things that are worth more than their own lives. The Family likes to make you choose between yourself and the things you want to protect.”
She tilts her head at him— her halo twinkling in the light.
“Let’s say they make you choose between the entire Floating Dream Palace— staff, building and all— and yourself. What will you sacrifice?”
He frowns at her seemingly pointless question.
“I won’t make a choice. I’d pick both.”
“Yeah but let’s say you can’t. You don’t have the capability or resources to pick both.”
“I’d sacrifice myself then.”
She does not immediately respond verbally to his answer, but takes a moment to let it sink in his head. Gallagher’s frown slowly softens as the seconds tick by, and morphs into an expression of understanding. His lips part in breathless shock. At least the hound is not a lost cause.
“When we don’t have the resources or help to do what we want, we can only do our best. And pray to Xipe that we can be forgiven for the things we do.”
As the halovian moves to the other side of the table to make her shot, she places a hand gently on Gallagher’s shoulder— like a reassuring pat.
“Don’t be too hard on Sunday. When he failed to see you waiting for him in the room that day, he seemed genuinely sad.”
With her piece said, Siobhan bends over once more with trained flexibility, and lands the final 8-ball into a hole with a beautiful curved shot.
Maybe the halovian still feels ashamed of his proposal. Or maybe Sunday is already sick of his attitude.
Sunday does not visit them for another week or so. The Oak Family does not call beforehand to inform them of a meeting either.
It is now four in the morning, closing hour for the day, and Gallagher looks at the mess on his normally neat countertops. He has to clean up before he can leave to sleep for the day, but fatigue blankets him like a fog. In his mind, he remembers Sunday’s desperate and unyielding expression as he begs for something he clearly does not want.
What is he holding so close to his heart, that he must suffer in its place?
Siobhan is right. He was too hard on Sunday that night.
Despite their first encounter, he knows that Sunday is not a weak-willed person by any standards. Still, the Oak Family has him in a vice-like grip. Most likely in exchange for something precious, they chained his legs to a perch and locked him up in a golden cage where he is forced to sing for them in perpetuity.
This is why I hate the Families.
Gallagher sighs, and grabs a few of the glasses easily with his large hands, to bring to the sink.
As he stacks them neatly to make more space for more glasses, he hears rustling coming from behind him. Without turning to look at the person, he calmly responds, “Sorry, dear customer. The bar is closed for tonight.”
There is silence and then an uneasy shift. The situation strikes him as strange because a customer will normally groan and make plans to leave, and a staff member like Siobhan would have said something by now.
“Are you still angry?”
The voice, sounding equally beautiful as the first time he heard it, rings out from over the countertop.
He turns around fast enough to almost give him whiplash; the glass in his hands nearly slips out at the force but he grips onto it tightly at the very last minute.
Sunday is looking at him, unsure, with a bouquet of blue hyacinths on hand and a bottle of dark red liquid in his hands. Gallagher immediately recognizes it as a Penacony special, Ut Somnium , a rare 60 years aged whisky that only exists in limited quantities. Each bottle is worth a staggering 1.9million credits or so.
At the sight of the halovian, relief floods his veins but he does not understand why.
Gallagher does not know how to respond to that question either. Yet he tries.
“No, but I’m a little busy.”
Sunday places the flowers and bottle on the table— Gallagher nearly wants to dive over and encase the thing in an impenetrable casing, much like people normally do with expensive artworks. But he refrains from making any unnecessary movements.
“Is it something I can help with?”
Gallagher looks at Sunday in his pristine and elegant mostly white outfit, and back to the cups in the basin. He should not ask this of him. He really should not.
He should no—
“Well, if you insist, you can help me with these dirty cups. You can enter through the side and leave your gloves on the countertop.”
The desire to see Sunday bending over doing something way beneath him wins out. Gallagher realizes that perhaps he is still miffed. Just slightly though. The aim is not to see Sunday suffering. He only wants to watch him squirm in some discomfort when mildly inconvenienced.
A part of him also expects Sunday to decline but the halovian obediently moves to the side of the countertop where he enters to join Gallagher. Then, like a work of art, he gracefully removes his white gloves and rolls up his sleeves.
He turns to Gallagher and blinks, uncertain of what to do next.
The hound rinses off his hands and dries them with a nearby towel. He retrieves a simple black hair tie from a drawer and gestures for Sunday to turn around. Again, Sunday obediently does as he is told.
This is very unlike the first time they met.
Gallagher is not sure if he likes this Sunday better or the one that glares at him for wanting to shake his hand.
Gently, the older man reaches out to scoop long strands of greyish-blue hair on both sides of his neck, and pulls them towards the back. Sunday squirms a little as Gallagher’s fingers brush across his neck lightly. As he ties up Sunday’s relatively long hair into a low ponytail, Gallagher notices that he is once again wearing the scent suppressing patch.
It makes sense. Nobody is aware that he is actually an omega, and he definitely wants to keep it that way.
His fingers linger a little too long on Sunday’s soft hair. Still, he eventually lets go because they have things to do.
“Done.”
Sunday turns his head to the side in order to catch sight of the low ponytail. A movement that is as comical as it is futile. Gallagher smiles at the effort, and almost laughs when Sunday realizes that it is impossible to look at it without a mirror. The halovian notices his smile and looks away, clearly embarrassed. The defiant look he normally wears is back on his face once more.
Yet Sunday continues to be uncharacteristically patient with him today. There are no petulant glances or rude gestures where he pushes him away.
“Alright. Let’s get to work. I’ll clean the cups with the sponge and soap, while you just help me with rinsing them off. Be careful, they can be a little slippery.”
The hound expects chaos. Maybe a cup or two being broken.
But Sunday works comfortably well in tandem with him, and perhaps due to his own upbringing, is aware how different cups have to be treated and left to dry. The mountain of cups that initially felt overwhelming to Gallagher now seems more like a fun little sidequest between the two of them.
He wishes it can always be this peaceful with Sunday.
As they wrap up their little endeavor, Gallagher notices that Sunday has a small bit of soap suds staining his left cheek. He reaches out thoughtlessly and wipes it off with a wet index finger; earning him a surprised gasp from Sunday.
The younger man looks at him, eyes wide and confused.
“Oh uh. It’s just a bit of soap that got onto your face.” He does his best to clarify, but Sunday’s behavior is making him feel extremely self conscious as well. He clears his throat, “We almost done so uh… let me finish up here while you sit and wait over there.”
He gestures to the seats by the counter.
Sunday fidgets slightly on the spot; clearly still unable to put the earlier interaction out of his mind. Gallagher tilts his head at him. He is wondering why the other man is determined to stand instead of making himself comfortable.
“I think we should talk.”
Oh.
The conversation is inevitable after all. Where they last left off, he had told Siobhan to relay a message to Sunday— informing him of his agreement to the crazy proposal the halovian had asked of him.
He is still not sure if it is the right decision, but he knows that Sunday will find a sire for his child, with or without him.
And despite all the uncertainty, Gallagher is very certain that he does not want Adam near Sunday any longer. Or any other random alpha, for that matter.
“Sure.” he tries to play it cool, and places the remaining glasses aside to wipe his hands on a towel, “Is this why you’re here at this odd hour?”
Sunday casually rinses and dries off his own hands using another towel that Gallagher offers him. When he is done, he unrolls his sleeves but does not put his gloves back on. The hound notices that his fingers are pale and slender, and his nails perfectly manicured and shaped. They remind him of those carved from marble for the statues of goddesses.
It must be a sin to be so perfect.
Gallagher almost regrets putting such perfect looking hands through the rough work of dishwashing with him.
“Yes, but I also wanted to see you.”
The answer comes as a surprise, and his heart leaps in his chest.
“I wanted to apologize again.”
Right.
“I’m not angry at you, so you don’t have to.” I’m more miffed at the circumstances.
“Then, I would like to thank you. For helping me out with this issue.” As expected of a person used to being in a leadership position, Sunday wisely does not linger on playing the blame game. Instead, he steers the conversation towards a more positive note so that the remainder of their discussion is more palatable.
As if he is suddenly reminded of something, he quickly adds, “There won’t be any feelings involved, don’t worry.”
It is exactly what he should want to hear, but for some reason the corner of Gallagher’s mouth twitches. He ignores it.
“That’s…good to hear. Are there any other ground rules you want to lay down before we begin?”
Sunday muses to himself. He seems to have not expected an actual arrangement or even a modicum of respect from the sire of his child. Gallagher frowns. He tries to imagine how violent the entire affair would be if another alpha was given the reins of this situationship.
Thankfully, the other man does not notice his unhappiness or misinterpret it.
“We’ll probably do this for only eight meetings or so. I don’t have a lot of time before the engagement is finalized.”
Right. There is an engagement. Sunday mentioned it the last time they spoke too. He has to resort to this because the other party is an omega. There is no way two omegas can have a child together.
“...marriages for people like Sunday are determined by their families. And normally the candidates have to be from one of the Five Great Families.”
Siobhan’s reminder to the girls rings loud in his head. Gallagher wonders how the fiance-to-be is like as a person, and if Sunday even loves the person he is about to marry.
“That’s fine with me. If, by an unfortunate chance, nothing comes out of this by the end of the eighth meeting, you should probably look for alternative solutions anyway.”
The ‘solution’ is left unsaid between the both of them. Sunday is free to choose another alpha if he wishes, but Gallagher refuses to be the one to tell him. Of course, there is always the possibility of adoption. But he figures that since Sunday is going so far as to sleep with a stranger for a child, a solution that involves the continuation of the bloodline is preferred.
For everybody’s sake, he hopes it will not end that way.
“If this doesn’t work, I’ll…” Sunday’s voice trails off.
He goes quiet. Gallagher recognizes that look. Sunday is at a loss as to what to do if the arrangement does not work out.
“It helps to not think about it.”
Sunday looks up at him. Gallagher shrugs casually.
“We hear a lot of things while working here. Sometimes the customers talk about how they are trying for kids with their mates but it hasn’t worked out. For those who are desperate to have children, psychological stress apparently affects performance.”
The hound feels a surge of bravery, and simply allows his instincts to guide him. He places a hand on Sunday’s cheek and thumbs it gently.
“All I’m saying is, since we’re already going to do it, you might as well enjoy the journey.”
His fingers purposely brush across Sunday’s beautiful grey wings and his gold earrings. In one skilled movement, he slips the hair tie off the ponytail he gave him earlier. He applauds himself internally for his perfect guess— Sunday’s hair really is smooth and soft enough to not get caught in the hair tie.
The atmosphere is instantly switched up.
Sunday covers the lower half of his face with one of his wings and there is a pleasantly sweet smell coming off him despite his best efforts to stay calm. Gallagher knows that this is what Sunday wants and is an eventuality that he has expected since they parted.
But it riles his inner alpha up anyway.
He reaches out once more towards Sunday; watching him carefully for any signs of rejection. The halovian looks away from his hand, but does not move or tell him to stop. His face is turning a bright shade of red. Gallagher slips his fingers among soft, greyish-blue hair and presses softly on the area covered by Sunday’s scent suppressing patch.
The hound then wordlessly slides a finger towards the edge of the unassuming patch and the man in front of him shudders.
Sunday gives him a pleading look with his eyes, “Maybe… somewhere more private where people won’t catch my scent.”
The look drives Gallagher mad. He was not aware that Sunday is capable of making such a face.
Rationally, he agrees with Sunday’s request. But if the halovian allows him space to be a little bit selfish, he thinks he will steal a kiss right now.
And steal a kiss he does.
Gallagher easily brushes aside the wing that is covering Sunday’s shameful expression and covers his lips with his own. They start off slow, without any open mouth kisses, and part a few times to look at each other. Immediately he can tell that Sunday is completely new to this, but the man is somehow a fast learner. Sunday wraps his arms around Gallagher’s neck to pull him closer, and the older man smiles into their next kiss.
Sunday is starting to keep up with him.
Still, he can tell that his partner is forgetting something important.
“Sunday.” Gallagher murmurs, hot breaths tickling their faces, “Don’t forget to breathe.”
Sunday lets out a soft, confused noise. There is a dazed look in his eyes and all he can do is respond by attempting to make shallow gasps for air.
“Is this your first time?”
They kiss once more and Gallagher licks him on the lips. Sunday makes a stuttering, nervous gasp and nods.
“Everything?”
“Everything.” Comes the embarrassed and hushed reply.
And to think he tried seducing Gallagher the last time they met. This Sunday? Does he even know what any alpha would have done to him if given the chance?
What Adam could have done to him?
Gallagher snarls softly at the memory. Sunday involuntarily lets out a submissive and surprised whine that he immediately regrets. The man covers his mouth with his hands in disbelief.
The hound kisses him on the forehead instead.
“Oh Sunday. What am I going to do with you?”
They stumble distractedly into a room rather close by to the VIP lounge. Well, more of Sunday really. Gallagher is calm as he sets the bouquet of blue hyacinths and the Ut Somnium on a nearby table. The man had muttered something about the gifts being more precious than his ‘cheap commoner ass’ and grabbed them along with Sunday’s hand as he led him out of the lounge.
The door to the room they are in this time has the insignia of a Gardenia.
Sunday realizes that the rooms in the Floating Dream Palace seem to be named after flowers, and are decorated differently. The Gardenia room has a more minimalistic look and neutral palettes compared to the Daffodil room he was in the other day. The colors are more rooted in wooden browns and clean whites with a warm lighting.
Interestingly enough, the ‘bed’ is an extra large sized mattress left on the floor. And the floor seems to be…made of tightly woven straws? He is unsure. Still, it gives him a cozy yet elegant feel compared to the overly luxurious Daffodil room.
His unfortunate stumbling occurred earlier because of the interruption in their quick pace— Gallagher had asked him to remove his shoes and to leave them by the small cobblestone area right inside the door.
Sunday had tried matching his pace, and in the process stumbled into Gallagher’s arms embarrassingly.
The hound did not seem to mind though. If anything, he simply teased him for being a little too eager. Overwhelmed by conflicting feelings of gratitude for the man catching him and his own frustration at being teased, Sunday does not dignify him with a reply.
Now Sunday stands in front of the bed, at a loss, while Gallagher is setting aside the gifts.
Before he can figure out his next course of action, he feels large arms enveloping him from behind and a less-than-polite sniff at the nape of his neck.
“Why are you just looking at it?”
“Is the bed supposed to be that close to the floor?” Sunday questions him innocently.
Gallagher tilts his head, “You’ve never seen one of these before?”
“No, I’ve always seen them with bed frames.”
“Mmmm. I’m glad I picked this room then.”
Without any warning, he rips off Sunday’s scent patch and starts scenting him all over. Sunday turns around in alarm and Gallagher takes advantage of it by removing his jacket. He kisses him deeply this time. The man flicks his tongue at Sunday’s lips to ask for entry and Sunday acquiesces by parting them.
He struggles to understand the technique or meaning behind their open mouthed kisses, but Gallagher is more than patient with him. It only takes a short while— soon enough the kisses feel more than pleasurable.
It is easy from there; he relaxes into Gallagher’s arms as he is further stripped of his vest and inner shirt. Not wanting to waste any time or be outdone by his partner, Sunday starts unzipping the hound’s vest, unbuckling weirdly placed belts and unbuttoning his shirt.
When he can feel warm skin under his fingers, he slides his hand upwards and palms the man’s chest.
Aeons… the man is ridiculously well-built for a bartender.
“Have you ever thought of how pointless this tie is?” Sunday manages to utter when they finally break apart.
Gallagher unclasps Sunday’s pants casually and nibbles on his earlobe while doing so, “I think it has character. Adds to the look.”
“At least get a shirt that actually fits you if you want to look neat.”
“Who said anything about looking neat?” Gallagher grins cheekily and palms Sunday’s length through his underwear. This immediately shuts him up.
The halovian’s brain focuses so hard on the sensation of being touched down there (even if through fabric) that his gaze goes blank. Gallagher grips him firmly between the legs and runs his middle and ring fingers over the sensitive area beneath his balls.
Sunday watches helplessly as his own knees betray him and give way momentarily. The insufferable man in front of him takes advantage of this opportunity to lay him down onto the bed where they continue stripping articles of clothing off each other.
“I-It’s not your first time.” Sunday gasps as he bucks with some shame into the other’s hand.
“I’ve had some lessons.”
When it finally gets too constricting working within the confines of the halovian’s pants, Gallagher pulls it all off him in one fell swoop.
Sunday is left horrified as the older man whistles appreciatively.
“Birdie, do you know how wet you look right now?”
It is a stupid question. Of course Sunday knows. He has been feeling nothing but slick down below for the past five to ten minutes since they first entered the room. Why is he teasing him about this? Shouldn’t he be more worried if Sunday was not turned on right now?
“You should tell me more about your lessons. I’ll dry up in no time.” he huffs; yet not genuinely offended.
Gallagher laughs and effortlessly loosens his tie, before shrugging off his shirt and vest.
“So you’re the jealous type.”
He sits cross legged before grabbing Sunday by the wrist and pulling him into his lap. Now their bare upper halves are pressed against each other. Under Gallagher’s hungry gaze, Sunday feels himself swallowing the retort he had in mind.
“You’re not going to remove your own pants?”
They both look at Gallagher’s magenta colored pants briefly— it is starting to get really stained with Sunday’s slick. Strangely enough, the hound seems to be in no hurry. Gallagher licks Sunday on his collarbones and sucks on pale flesh nearby hard enough for a mark to bloom.
“There. Your first hickey.”
Out of curiosity, Sunday tries his best to look at the mark but fails because of the angle.
Disappointment is an understatement.
Gallagher senses it immediately and peppers comforting kisses along Sunday’s jawline to pacify him, “You can check it out in the mirror later. Or I can just leave more marks.”
“Anyways, back to your question: it’s your first time, so I’m taking it slow. If I remove my pants now, I might get too impatient and end up hurting you.”
Sunday frowns, “I can take it.”
“No, you can’t.” Gallagher shoots him a dangerous look, “At least not without some help first.”
“How would you know if you don’t try?” he presses the hound stubbornly, quite confident in his capability to handle anything.
The older man sighs. He runs a finger down Sunday’s spine and the tingle he feels is overwhelming enough for him to throw his head backwards and arch his back. The hand is now threateningly near his slick covered hole.
Sunday lowers his gaze to look at his partner questioningly as the digit circles the rim.
Gallagher does not shy away or distract him with anything else. Instead, he keeps their eyes locked as he slowly pushes into the soft orifice.
There is tightness like nothing Sunday has ever felt before.
The new sensation is weird at best, and unpleasant enough to hurt at worst. As Gallagher continues to push in, Sunday has a realization that the finger is not even fully sheathed yet. He breaks eye contact reluctantly to lean over Gallagher’s shoulder and whine in discomfort.
“See what I mean?”
Gallagher kisses him on the temple, “If we don’t take care of you, you’re going to walk away thinking that it’s meant to always feel this bad. And in the worst case, you might tear down there.”
The finger stops, now fully sheathed. Sunday buries himself in the small of Gallagher’s neck and inhales his scent; desperately trying to will himself to relax.
“Now be a good boy and just trust me. Knees up.”
Sunday complies and immediately the pressure is more manageable.
“Good. Don’t flatten them alright? Keep them up and your legs open.” Sunday gets a kiss for his efforts and his inner omega purrs at the praise. Gallagher’s finger makes piston-like movements in him while seemingly searching for something at the same time. It still feels awful to Sunday but he endures it as much as he can. Thankfully, it does not last for long.
When the intrusive digit is removed, Sunday exhales in relief.
“Change of plans.” Gallagher kisses him, open mouthed, while he strokes Sunday’s length. The older man expertly uses Sunday’s slick as a lube so that the friction from each stroke does not hurt him. It is finally more pleasurable and the halovian starts to relax. Distracted, his knees fall and the hound chides him gently.
“Knees up.”
Sunday nods, a little apologetic that he forgot. Soon enough, he understands why Gallagher insists on it. A finger slips in again but from the front this time. There is less resistance because Sunday is slightly more relaxed and way more distracted from the pleasure of being stroked. Again, Gallagher does the same pistoning motion but with his finger curls itself towards the front of Sunday’s body.
There is a jolt when he presses against a particular spot and Sunday lets out a gasp in surprise.
Gallagher finally smiles.
“There, huh?”
He speeds up his movements both on Sunday’s length and inside of him. Each time the finger goes in, it presses against that delicious spot and leaves Sunday wanting for more. The halovian’s hips start to jerk in tandem with the motion— growing desire pools in his abdomen. It feels good.
Unable to handle the growing pleasure, Sunday starts letting out soft gasping sounds. Gallagher observes him carefully with a dark look, as if he knows that his little canary can do better than this. Sunday is still consciously trying to suppress the sweet sounds that are leaving his lips.
From this point onwards, the hound seems to grow increasingly impatient.
As expected, Sunday comes— hot ropes of cum splashing across their torsos. Gallagher takes the opportunity to insert another finger when he sees that the halovian is completely blissed out. It goes in with little resistance and he starts a different, scissoring motion to stretch him out.
Sunday cups Gallagher’s face in his hands. The look in his eyes is still dazed.
“How long more?” he breathes out.
“At least four fingers, birdie.”
The halovian grunts after a particularly decent stretch, “I worry you won’t survive till then.”
They both look at the elephant in the room— there is a noticeably huge bulge in Gallagher’s pants that is pressing against Sunday’s bottom and making it increasingly difficult for the older man to maneuver his fingers.
Caught red handed, Gallagher smiles sheepishly and buries his face into Sunday’s chest. His member has been so swollen that the restricting space inside his pants has been hurting him for a while already. Sunday wants to offer to unzip his pants for him to relieve some of the pressure but knows he will have to do more than that to be actually helpful.
“ Fuuuck .” Gallagher exhales against his skin, “I want to take it slow. I must. But Aeons help me, Sunday I want to fuck you so badly right now.”
And I want you so badly right now too.
But newly gained experience has taught Sunday better than to push himself by skipping steps.
“Let me help.”
What was that saying again? Fake it till you make it? With false bravado, Sunday unbuckles Gallagher’s belt and unclasps his pants. He tugs at fabric as much as he can, till he releases the hardened length from the torturous confines of the man’s clothes.
It springs to life in front of him and he makes a small gasp at how large it is.
He sits in shock. Does that even belong inside of someone?
A small, rational voice inside of him panics, “We chose the wrong alpha! Quick! Tell him everything has been a mistake!” Sunday mentally grabs the voice like one would do with a misbehaving, small gremlin and shoves it into a box; sealing it deep within his mind. A member of the Oak Family does not back down from a challenge.
“Birdie?”
He must have frozen in place for a second too long because Gallagher looks up at him worryingly. The hound has also removed his fingers from Sunday’s hole.
“Huh?”
“I appreciate the help with my pants, but the traumatized look on your face is hurting my feelings a little. Is it that ugly?”
Sunday blinks.
“Actually on second thought, don’t answer that.”
Seeing that Gallagher has already managed to have such a bleak interpretation of the situation, whatever else that comes out from his mouth certainly will not be worse. Right?
The halovian swallows hard.
“It’s not ugly at all. I was just um…” Sunday’s wings close to cover his blushing face embarrassedly, “Just visually taking in its size.”
Gallagher makes a pathetic face at him, “You don’t like it?”
“Is it normal for it to be half as thick as my thigh…?”
There is a clear and deafening silence.
Then Gallagher wraps his arms around Sunday’s waist and he buries his face back into the halovian’s chest once more. There are small mumbling sounds of sad dissatisfaction; Sunday is only able to make out words like ‘can’t stick it in a dick sharpener can I’ and ‘alphas don’t choose to have a third leg but here we are’.
He quietly unfurls his wings to look at the pitiful display in front of him.
It seems like he has struck a nerve or hurt the man’s feelings. Or both.
He feels apologetic— there was a really good and intense vibe going but he ruined it by overthinking and caused Gallagher to second-guess himself. Sunday tries to soothe the alpha by stroking the back of his head and pressing occasional kisses into the brown hair on top.
“I don’t dislike it. I’m just not sure if it’ll fit.”
Gallagher finally lifts his head to look at him; there is a more serious look accompanying his features now.
“So you don’t want to stop?”
Sunday shakes his head.
“Last chance to say no.”
The halovian kisses his hound on the lips to further placate him and instantly an expression of relief washes over Gallagher. When they are done stealing as many kisses as they possibly can, Gallagher lifts him by the waist so that they can switch positions. While Sunday comfortably falls back to lie on his back, the older man stands up to remove the remainder of his outfit.
Since he is in the midst of getting ready to continue, Gallagher also grabs the lube available behind a small sliding cabinet nearby.
The man leans over Sunday and lifts one of his legs; pushing the halovian’s thigh against his chest. He pours a generous amount of lube into his hands and onto Sunday’s hole before tossing the bottle aside. Initially, the viscous gel feels somewhat cold to the touch but soon enough Sunday feels nothing due to the heat of their bodies.
Gallagher leans in to suck at pale skin and busies himself by creating more hickeys on Sunday’s neck while simultaneously pressing three fingers into him impatiently.
Sunday barely notices the stretch this time.
Remembering the ‘help’ he wanted to offer earlier, he reaches down to grasp their lengths— using both hands to rub them together.
The lube and slick everywhere does its job; there are squelching sounds and it feels especially lewd. Gallagher starts to involuntarily buck into his hands. The man above him stops his initially obsessive conquest of his neck, and Sunday can hear his partner’s breaths getting more harsh and shallow.
The halovian looks down at their lengths pressed messily together, and he feels his hole twitch at how crude the entire sight was.
Amidst the pleasure, his half lidded eyes flutter open and he catches Gallagher looking at him with an indiscernible expression. The hound offers no explanation; instead opting to lean into a kiss.
It is easy to tell now, how Gallagher likes being kissed. Sunday thinks about the speed at which he is adapting and learning, and he feels a small sense of pride.
Sunday feels the stretch of a final finger being added and the sensation bottoms out close to Gallagher’s knuckles. They break apart and it is the hound’s turn to cast his gaze downwards to look at his handiwork.
The alpha gasps in awe.
“All four fingers. And you’re still sucking me in so tightly.”
Sunday releases their lengths wisely— to prevent either of them from coming before the main event. He lifts his other leg to his chest and secures it with his hand. The halovian shoots Gallagher a longing gaze.
“I was wrong. I’m the one who won’t survive if you keep me waiting any longer.”
Despite Sunday’s plea, the hound continues to tarry. He is unsure if Gallagher is doing it on purpose; the man removes his fingers and licks the slick to steal a taste.
An audible whine escapes Sunday’s throat at how hollow his insides feel right now.
“ Please. ”
The man responds by caressing his face and Sunday leans into it. Gallagher’s large hand feels warm as it brushes over his cheeks and slowly traces his earlobe down to his golden earring.
After an eternity of admiring Sunday, Gallagher finally moves to hook both of Sunday’s legs over his elbows and places his hands on both sides of his body.
“I’ll go in slow. If it still hurts just tell me to stop moving.”
Sunday nods. Anything, as long as Gallagher would just hurry on with it.
The tip breaches him easily. True to his word, Gallagher pushes in agonizingly slow . There is tightness but no longer any pain. Sunday acutely feels each inch as it slides into him and it is ridiculously satisfying. He thinks that the sensation might be addictive.
But the journey to reaching the end of this satisfaction is taking too long and his patience is wearing thin. It makes him feel particularly vicious.
He grabs Gallagher by the hair roughly; to the hound’s alarm. Sunday’s grey wings flap irritably as he nips him on the bottom lip.
“If you don’t pick up the pace, I am going to make sure you regret it.”
Gallagher stares at him like he just grew a second head but the further hardening of the alpha’s own length gives away his true feelings. The man only snaps out of it when Sunday snarls softly and rolls his hips.
The movement fully sheathes Gallagher’s length into him and Sunday relishes in how amazingly filled he feels. The newly achieved milestone makes him satisfied enough to release his grip on Gallagher’s hair.
“ Move. ” he barks out. The sound comes out harsher than he intended it to be.
“Aeons,” Gallagher mutters under his breath as he tries to calm the omega down by nuzzling him, “Has anybody told you how bossy you get when you really want something?”
The nuzzling works and Sunday immediately feels a modicum of embarrassment for his behavior, but not for long because Gallagher starts thrusting into him at a delicious pace. Two or three thrusts in, the hound shifts to angle them against that nice spot inside of him. It is as if stars are blooming behind his eyes with each movement.
Oh. Oh Great One. Triple-Faced Soul. The tiny voice was wrong. Gallagher is perfect.
In his mind’s eye, Sunday thinks he can see fireworks burst across the sky and disappear. A lovelier sight than anything that he has ever had the fortune to see. And when his eyes finally focus, he catches the handsome visage of Gallagher above him— rough stubble, eyebags and all.
Sunday wraps his arms around the man’s neck and pulls him in for kisses. He devours the alpha like there is no tomorrow.
The pace noticeably slows because Gallagher is distracted and the slight change in angle means that each thrust is not hitting that nice spot anymore. Almost immediately, Sunday makes an unhappy sound of protest.
“Yeah yeah I know, princess.” Gallagher chuckles at how quickly Sunday has gone from ‘will it fit’ to emitting needy noises like the spoiled omega he actually is.
Sunday finds it easy to ignore Gallagher’s verbal jabs as long as he is doing a good job at railing him into the sheets. And thankfully, Gallagher is a master at it.
The halovian comes quickly from the repeated stimulation and the tightening of his walls during his orgasm pushes Gallagher over the edge as well. The alpha unapologetically unloads inside of him before slowly releasing Sunday’s legs. It seems like he plans to rest on top of him after finishing.
They both struggle to catch their breaths; hearts beating so loudly like they just ran an entire marathon.
Gallagher tries his best to lower himself slowly, but it is evident that his strength is slowly leaving his body. The older man loses all energy the moment he feels their bare skin touch. There is a sudden increase of weight on Sunday’s chest, and he can feel his cum smeared to all hell between their torsos— but he ignores it all. He is simply too exhausted to care.
As he turns his head to the side, he sees the alpha resting drowsily with his eyes closed.
Sunday gives him an appreciative peck on the cheek.
This causes the alpha to stir and crack open one eye languidly. He snuggles into the small of Sunday’s neck and without saying a word or even pulling out…
…proceeds to fall asleep.
Sunday blinks.
He waits, but Gallagher does not wake in the next few seconds either. Sunday briefly contemplates his life— he is the regal heir to the Oak Family; most sought after ‘alpha’ in Penacony, lying immobile on a cum soaked mattress, crushed under the weight of the man who just railed him into next week. Sandwiched between them is…more cum, and they are so filthy now that it is quite possibly a hygiene hazard.
Sunday smacks his lips silently— his mouth feels dry from a lack of hydration as well.
Now the halovian really wants a bath. Maybe a second round in the bath. His mind adds eagerly.
Or maybe not. He quietly muses at the sight of a snoozing Gallagher. The man is pretty much dead to the world. Sunday is also currently too exhausted to move him; he does not want to anyway. Cleaning up will have to wait till Gallagher wakes.
So he does the smartest thing anybody in his position would do:
He hugs his alpha partner close and falls asleep to the man’s warmth.
Siobhan has just finished checking their alcohol stock on the shelves when Venus approaches the bar counter with a disappointed frown on her features. She turns, puzzled at the girl’s presence.
“Venus, shouldn’t you be getting ready for your afternoon matinee?”
“But Siobhan…” she whines, “I can’t find Gallagher anywhere today. I wanted him to help pick out my outfit and accessories for the performance later.”
The alpha purses her lips. She knows exactly where he is.
After all, she was the one who opened the doors to an unexpected guest late last night.
Siobhan shrugs, “He worked the night shift yesterday so you won’t be seeing him this morning. He’s probably asleep now.”
The girl looks down, positively defeated. “I thought I’d find him wandering around checking up on us anyway, since he’s been sleeping so badly for the past week. Gaia and the other girls just don’t get my style like he does.”
Venus gives a small hiss at the thought of the hideous outfit combinations that she was shown earlier.
“He’s not superman, you know. Even someone like him needs proper sleep every once in a while.” Siobhan puts her hands on her hips and shakes her head at how spoiled all the girls in the establishment have become thanks to Gallagher.
I guess it’s also a testament to how hard he works for everybody.
Venus shuffles on the spot dejectedly. It is obvious that she misses the man despite her usual taunts and jabs towards him. The girl has never been honest with her words, unlike her more innocent sister Gaia. Everybody is so used to seeing Gallagher around at random points of the day that they have started taking it for granted.
Siobhan understands that both hers and Gallagher’s presence are reassuring to them. But they whine more to Gallagher because he is more prone to pampering the residents by helping out everywhere. She, however, believes that they have to be independent enough to hold the fort if the two of them were ever forced to leave for a period of time.
Penacony is unpredictable after all.
Still, her heart softens at the sight of Venus looking so downcast.
“Come, I’ll help you out with your outfit. I’m done here anyway.”
Venus’ eyes light up, “Really? You will?”
“Of course. I’ll help you with your hair as well.”
“Siobhan you’re the best!” Her face scrunches up in gratitude and she grabs the alpha’s hand after Siobhan exits the counter.
“Slow down. You’re going to trip and fall.” She chides softly to calm an ecstatic Venus who is practically buzzing as she leads her to her room. Despite her own words, the girl’s joy is contagious, so Siobhan cannot help but smile. She gets why Gallagher goes out of his way to constantly do small things for the residents.
She hopes he is currently having a good time too.
Notes:
Hope you enjoyed the chapter!
Here's something fun for you to do: In the next chapter there will be some bonding time between the two. If there is a specific question you want to see one of them to ask the other, do comment below and I'll consider weaving it in if it matches the direction of the chapter. Try to keep it relevant to the pair or the fic setting! (eg. questions like 'which countries would the two characters visit in real life' are not considered relevant)
As always do leave me kudos and comments if you liked the chapter ❤️ I particularly love listening to or discussing what you enjoyed about it.
Chapter 5: 2nd Meeting (Lovers' Festival)
Summary:
Gallagher invites Sunday for the Floating Dream Palace's celebration of the Lovers' Festival.
Drunk on thoughts of each other, they spend another nice night getting to know more about their preferences and past.
But alas, Sunday has wandered too far towards the boundaries of his cage...
...and Gallagher, who is not in a position to want him, continues to overstep while keeping various secrets of his own.
Notes:
I just found out somewhere that Gallagher canonically has very soft and nice hair (based on the person whose traits he siphoned to become 'Gallagher').
But I really like the idea that Sunday loves his coarse, unruly hair despite it being the antithesis of everything he usually enjoys.
There's something beautiful about loving traits about someone that others might see as a flaw. So I will be keeping it that way for this fic!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Sunday once again arrives at the Floating Dream Palace— this time, at the tail end of the week after a successful first session with their resident bartender.
Dressed in additional flowing garments unlike his usual attire, he is sporting a baggy overcoat and a scarf that easily doubles as a hood to hide his halo and face. For extra assurance, he adorns a bejeweled and intricate masquerade eye mask across the upper half of his face. He folds his small grey wings close to his head, to keep them hidden from anybody who might spare him a glance.
There is a huge crowd in the establishment today, after all.
The halovian subtly tries to blend in with the growing audience after entering through a side door. It is one of the Floating Dream Palace’s many well-kept secrets , both Siobhan and Gallagher had touted previously. Despite their best intentions and secrecy of the door, he still fails spectacularly— the establishment is packed to the brim tonight and a multitude of chattering people begins to approach his location unknowingly. Their eyes are trained on the performance on the main stage, but instinct is guiding them to seek a less crowded and comfortable spot to make merry amongst themselves.
Sunday frowns. It takes everything in him to not draw attention or make any sounds as he is jostled by the crowd. The sheer amount of Penaconians squeezed inside one hall is enough to make him extremely uncomfortable.
If this keeps up, will someone eventually recognize him?
Maybe it was a mistake to accept Gallagher’s invitation to attend their establishment’s celebration of the Lovers’ Festival. He closes his eyes in part resignation; ready to use the tuning power of the Harmony in a worst case scenario.
Right as he is about to have his back pressed against the wall, the crowd abruptly stops in their tracks and Sunday is finally able to catch his breath.
Thank the Great One. He exhales in relief.
It takes him a while to realize that someone has effectively boxed him in against the wall, and is currently observing him.
Concerned that he might have inadvertently drawn a stranger’s attention, he tentatively looks up— only to see the object of his growing affections smiling at him.
So that is why the crowd stopped. Gallagher is using his stupidly large body to hold them at bay while placing a hand on the wall next to Sunday’s head. The crowd is not jostling them on purpose, so most people assume they have run out of space and seek to disperse in a different direction instead.
“You look familiar. Have we met before?” Gallagher inquires cheekily and Sunday resists the urge to roll his eyes.
He plays along anyway.
“I don’t think so.”
“Makes sense. It isn’t possible to forget someone like you.”
Gallagher grins at him like a dog seeking approval from its owner for a trick well done.
The happiness must be contagious, or perhaps Sunday is merely grateful to be safe in a corner, because he gives a small chuckle in response. Gracefully, he lifts a hand to obscure part of his face as he does so.
“You’ll have a cheeky answer for me no matter my response, am I right?”
“Yeah. If you had said ‘yes’, I would have gone with “ you’re right. I held you in my arms just earlier this week. ””
“Just like now.” The older man does not miss a beat as he pulls Sunday in close by the waist.
The abrupt movement catches Sunday by surprise and causes him to freeze up in the hound’s arms. The realization quickly hits him, and his face bursts into a bright red. His thoughts are a frantic mess— it will not take much for Gallagher to guess if he has successfully gotten under his skin.
He stiffly lays his hands against the man’s chest and tilts his head bashfully downwards. As if on cue, his small grey wings come forth to shield his face from the hound’s gaze as much as possible.
“Someone might…see…” comes a shy protest, barely audible amidst the cacophony of the crowd around them.
“Nah, they won’t. I reckon Venus and Gaia are keeping them really entertained right now.”
Sunday’s gaze quickly shifts beyond the person holding him, to the brightly lit main stage where the famous twins are performing a most alluring and captivating fan dance in perfect, synchronized movements. The fans seem to have a life of their own as the sisters gracefully create wave-like movements with their bodies and toss them to each other. The long pieces of chiffon cloth attached to their fans chase their movements; always staying for a moment longer than expected in the air, like a lingering desire.
Finally, his attention returns to the charismatic Gallagher who has been observing him quietly the entire time—- a fond smile still present on his scruffy features.
Sunday stares at him, captivated by the sight.
The Floating Dream Palace definitely lives up to its reputation.
“Come on.” The bartender finally whispers as he grasps Sunday’s hand in his, “Let’s head to someplace quieter.”
Sunday feels a tug as his partner starts leading him towards a small corridor. Parting the crowd is a small feat for Gallagher’s larger stature; Sunday barely has to struggle. All he needs to do is to trust in the hound and they will get to where they have to be.
Alpha. A small voice in Sunday’s mind purrs proudly. With a firm grip on each other, the halovian follows closely behind without complaint. Just two unassuming figures easily weaving and making their way through the crowd, among the shadows of the brightly lit lanterns in the main hall.
He is content.
At the same time, his heart beats wildly fast. It feels forbidden. For the first time in a long while, he is doing something that would normally enrage the Family. Enrage his father. Gopher Wood asked him to take care of the issue of having an heir, but he definitely did not expect Sunday to be fornicating with the likes of Gallagher.
Let alone spend any spare time he has outside of work with him.
Father would have a stroke if he knew.
Thoughts of Gopher Wood encircle his mind, but they are quickly blown away by Gallagher’s wide smile and audacity— he lifts their joined hands to his lips and places a chaste kiss on Sunday’s knuckles. Bathed in the light of freedom that the Floating Dream Palace offers, the younger man is ripped from the shadows in his mind.
It is a strange sensation. They are simply making their way through a familiar establishment and Gallagher is merely shielding him from the crowd (as a professional host should).
Nothing out of the ordinary.
Still, like a cocoon of bliss, the feeling that they are sharing a secret that belongs only to the both of them, wraps itself around him.
Any further sounds from the crowd is drowned out by Sunday’s focus on the man in front of him— loud rapturous cheers at Venus and Gaia’s performance notwithstanding. Without noticing, they arrive at another one of the Floating Dream Palace’s mysterious lifts.
Where will Gallagher be taking him this time?
No matter where it is, Sunday feels no hesitation or fear. He revels in the safety that only the hound is capable of offering him.
He laughs inwardly at the irony of the situation. At how different things are from their very first meeting by a lift. Back then, Sunday would have strangled the man with his messy tie if he could.
Now he just wants to bury himself into the man’s chest and never leave this rapturous night.
Like an alluring incubus, Gallagher pulls Sunday into his muscular arms as the lift doors close.
It was a VIP box.
Instead of getting down to business immediately, Gallagher decides that they will stay to watch the festivities a little longer. It is something he had planned since he extended the invitation to Sunday, after all.
What caught him by surprise was the look on Sunday’s face while he was watching Venus and Gaia earlier: a precious, childlike expression of awe and joy. As the hound takes in the sight, drunk on fascination, he wonders if the halovian has never had the opportunity to partake in a celebration like this.
It is such a ridiculous notion. Someone as important as Sunday, missing out on any festival in Penacony?
Immediately an image comes to mind: A stoic Sunday riding a slow moving car, waving politely while he is surrounded by tons of bodyguards. The people of Penacony cheering at the side and scrambling to catch a glimpse of the famously handsome and capable successor of Penacony. Every single omega and woman hoping that he would spare them a glance. Unable to freely move about, he sits in the open sedan like a bird displayed in a cage for all to see.
Unable to partake in the festivities or get close to anybody else.
Sunday puts on a small, taut smile; an expression of false joy, incomparable to the one with childlike wonder that he exhibited earlier.
It is probably more likely than Gallagher thinks.
His heart twists wistfully in pity.
Not forgetting his manners or his role, the older man gestures for Sunday to take a seat while he double checks the lock on the door and taps gently on the glass window pane next to him.
“This entire room is soundproof, and the glass is specially coated so the people cannot look in despite us being able to view the stage. It is reserved for the most important of our clientele who usually prefer anonymity.”
He moves to take a seat next to Sunday who is clutching the sides of his hood apprehensively.
“In fact, you can have mind blowing sex against that glass while overlooking the stage, and nobody outside will be any the wiser. They will neither see nor hear anything.”
The halovian releases his hood but is now staring at Gallagher with a scandalized expression.
“Are we…?”
“Aeons, no.” Gallagher makes a face, “I doubt you’ll be comfortable and I’m not fond of deep cleaning this entire room.”
He gestures to the main stage below.
“I just thought it would be nice for you to catch some of the performances lined up for tonight.”
Sunday visibly relaxes. It brings Gallagher some satisfaction and pride when the tightly strung man shows enough trust in him and their establishment to finally remove his mask and hood.
A beautiful golden halo appears before Gallagher’s eyes as Sunday sheds the overcoat and scarf to transform into his usual handsome visage. Gently and elegantly, the man removes the masquerade eye mask adorning his face as well, and sets it on a small table nearby.
The hound eyes the mask with equal parts relief and regret.
Why does Sunday look good in everything he wears?
A brief memory flashes through his mind: Nothing too far-fetched now, just Sunday melting in his arms while mewling out his name.
—And why does he still look beautiful beyond comparison when he is wearing nothing ?
Gallagher catches himself at the last moment and clears his throat. The hound acutely realizes that he has probably been staring.
“To be very honest, I didn’t expect that you’ll accept my invitation for tonight.”
Sunday’s gaze flicks to him, and an unexpected nervousness creeps up his arm like a snake ready to strike. The gold hues in Sunday’s resplendent orbs consume him whole. He can almost hear a small, professional voice resembling his own, telling him to keep it together and to not falter where it matters the most.
“Should I not have?” The halovian inquires innocently.
…Thankfully, Sunday does not seem to notice anything.
“No, no… I’m just pleasantly surprised, given how busy everybody knows you are. And we’ve just met earlier this week.”
The younger man quietens; deep in thought. He fiddles with his fingers absentmindedly— face filled with an expression that might resemble guilt. At the very last minute, he seems to swallow what he really wants to say.
“I do not mind meeting more often.” comes the long awaited reply.
A pause.
“...for the sake of what we set out to do, of course.”
Just as Gallagher feels his hopes rising (about what? he wonders), Sunday does not forget to keep them tethered to reality. He feels silly now. Right. Their transactional partnership.
“Either way, I’m happy to see you.” The hound admits with a smile.
And this answer seems to please Sunday as well, because he mirrors Gallagher’s expression with a genuine smile of his own.
The smile strikes a chord with something within the hound, and Sunday seems to be doing it a lot today.
Gallagher is about to make another cheeky comment when their happy reunion is momentarily halted by loud cheering from outside the VIP box— the rise in atmosphere easily capturing both of their attention. On the stage below, they seem to be getting ready for a game of sorts. Siobhan, dressed up to the nines, has taken center stage, and two employees of the establishment readily accompany her as assistants. She spreads her arms wide and bows deeply; welcoming everyone present tonight, to the Floating Dream Palace’s wonderful celebration of the Lovers’ Festival.
They set off a series of mini, indoor fireworks— a display of opulence and impossibility that is characteristic of Penacony. And Gallagher manages to catch the glimpse of Sunday’s face, all lit up by the most colorful of fleeting lights.
It is beautiful. He is beautiful. Sunday, like Penacony, is impossibly divine.
“Is that Siobhan? She looks splendid today.” His voice interrupts Gallagher’s thoughts once more, washing over him like a comforting melody.
Immediately, jealousy .
Rising from the pits of somewhere unwanted deep inside of him.
“Don’t let her hear you flattering her like that. She insisted on wearing that flashy red-green suit despite advice that she’ll end up looking like a walking decorated pine tree.” Gallagher desperately tries to keep his tone jovial, because the truth is that Siobhan did ultimately manage to carry the look well.
He shifts unhappily. He is dressed up today too.
What about me?
Sunday seems to catch on, because he chuckles and takes his eyes off Siobhan for a moment to placate the hound with his attention, “You look different from the usual as well.”
Gallagher shrugs; trying his hardest to pretend like he does not understand what Sunday means or that he does not care. It is also conveniently the only reply he can dignify that statement with, whilst not embarrassing himself.
He misses the way Sunday’s eyes soften at his petulant behavior.
“What are they doing now?” The halovian casually changes the topic, and Gallagher peers below at the stage for an answer for Sunday.
“Looks like they’re at the drinking game segment. It is something that we frequently play with our customers. For huge events like tonight, we’ll invite a customer up to the stage— both the challenger and representative of the house must answer or drink to around twenty questions. If it is a question you don’t want to answer, you take a shot. The one who ends up taking more shots loses, and the winner gets to ask one favor of the loser.”
Currently, Siobhan is watching a customer down their shot. To Gallagher’s chagrin, Sunday is observing her with keen interest once more. His small grey wings flap gently, as if he is trying to decipher or accurately pinpoint something in Siobhan he does not seem to understand.
Whatever it is, it unnerves him. Sunday shudders.
“What usually happens when either side loses?”
“If we lose, drinks are fifty percent off for all participating customers— the ones who go on stage— for the next week or so. If the customers lose, we’ll think of some simple penalty games for them.”
With the metaphorical stage also set for the both of them, the hound gets an idea: he stands and fluidly moves to grab drinks off a nearby shelf.
“Personally, I like making people showcase their talent for me. Any talent at all. Siobhan is much more sadistic though. She prefers banning a word from their dictionary for the rest of the day, and watching them struggle.”
Sunday swallows hard in a way where one would think that Gallagher has just confirmed his worst fears. He quickly averts his gaze from Siobhan, seemingly worried that staring at her for any longer might draw her unwanted attention.
Conveniently, the drinks that Gallagher has just set on the table, are a good distraction.
Sunday eyes them suspiciously.
“What are you doing…?”
The hound grins.
“Let’s play it too. Just you and me.”
Confidently, he opens a bottle of mineral water and fills a small shot glass with it, before pushing it over to Sunday’s side. Incredibly boring looking. A mundane drink.
“No alcohol for you though. Just in case.”
Gallagher watches as small grey wings flap in confusion at this gesture. Sunday obviously thinks that he does not need to be coddled when it comes to drinking. Maybe he prefers the bottle of Gin sitting on Gallagher’s side, as long as the hound mixes it with something sweet for him, of course. At this lack of understanding, Gallagher raises a brow at the halovian and points gently with his thumb at Sunday’s abdomen.
Immediately, Sunday flushes a bright red and his hand instinctively covers the area protectively.
“Oh.” The realization is almost audible between them.
A mundane but suitable drink.
Below them, there are cheers once more as Siobhan is finally forced to down a shot. She does it gallantly, in a manner that is befitting of a head of the Floating Dream Palace. When it is done, she smiles and raises the glass to the audience; turning it upside down for dramatic purposes.
Sunday shifts nervously in his seat. A movement that does not go unnoticed by Gallagher.
“Don’t worry, I promise I won’t ask too much of you when you lose.”
This actually dissipates the tension a little, and Sunday barely suppresses a scoff, “We can revisit this statement later if you actually win.”
The hound shrugs confidently; a grin still plastered to his face, and gestures towards Sunday.
“Since you’re new to this. I’ll let you start first.”
“How?”
“Ask me a question. If I refuse to answer it, you win a point.”
When put on the spot, Sunday’s thoughts seem to vacate his mind entirely.
“Perhaps… do you have any games you’re fond of?”
Gallagher laughs, “This one’s easy. Drinking games.”
Sunday visibly deflates at his failure to ask a good question. Small grey wings droop slightly. An adorable sight.
“My turn.” The hound fills his own cup with a respectable amount of Gin, “Do you have any favorite drinks?”
The halovian muses for a moment, before nodding, “I really liked the Glimmering Dreamscape you offered me the other day.”
“It left such an impact on you? I’m honored.”
Now that he is slowly getting used to the rules and pace of the game, Sunday gives Gallagher his next question.
“Since you like having others showcase their talents… do you know how to play any instruments yourself?’”
“Yeah.” Gallagher makes a show of placing his hands and fingers accordingly, “I play the saxophone.”
“Oh…” The idea obviously captivates Sunday. He shoots Gallagher a look of interest.
“If you win, I’ll play it for you, in addition to granting you a favor.”
This turn of events seems to light a newfound competitiveness in Sunday, judging from the way he leans in slightly; back straightening even further. Another adorable display of determination, really.
Because despite the generous offer, Gallagher is not intending to lose.
“At the moment, we’re not doing so well though. It’s still zero points for both of us.”
On the main stage, Siobhan is clearly faring better— she watches in satisfaction as a member of the audience downs a shot.
“How about flowers? Do you have a favorite kind?”
“Blue roses.”
Gallagher nearly raises an eyebrow. Those do not exist, do they? Even the flowers he chooses are very indicative of his personality...
“What about you?”
Another memory flashes through Gallagher’s mind. His father is giving his dad a bouquet of red carnations. “I love you.” Each stalk seems to say. And dad, who was way taller than him back then, hugs the bouquet close; making an expression that he cannot properly discern as a child.
Was it happiness?
On that day, a little boy starts liking carnations because they remind him of that expression on his dad’s face.
But that is all in the past.
His consciousness snaps back to reality where Sunday is eagerly awaiting his answer. Perhaps the halovian is hoping that he has finally stumped him. Gallagher takes a moment to think about it.
“....Crabapple blossoms.”
“Pardon?”
“Once, a traveling merchant who was making a pit stop in Penacony visited us. While his visit was mainly for pleasure, he explained that his business specialized in a piece of technology that could capture moments.”
“You mean like a camera?”
“It was a little different. I’m not sure how it works, but it can capture and project moments into reality. He happened to show me a garden filled with flowering crabapple blossoms.” Gallagher’s hand closes in on itself reflexively at the thought of the falling flowers, “Standing under the trees, I just thought they’re really pretty.”
Sunday does not respond immediately; opting to let him reminisce instead.
Finally Gallagher smiles and leans back against his seat.
“We’re both pretty good at this game. Let’s up the difficulty.”
The hound makes a show to check that both of their drinks are filled to the brim, as if sure that they will be utilizing it soon.
He glances dangerously at Sunday.
The next question is, expectedly, a loaded one.
“Is there someone you like romantically, right now?”
This earns him a hard stare from Sunday. Gallagher knows that he is likely judging him for the low blow, and the halovian might have also realized that bartending experience has taught him that this is one of the harder questions for most people to answer.
Still, in this case, ‘no’ does not feel like a difficult answer to give.
Before Sunday is able to give his reply, the hound takes another step figuratively, to corner him.
“An iron-clad rule of this game is you can never lie. If it is something you don’t want to answer honestly, you have to drink.”
Go on. Tell me ‘no’.
To his surprise, Sunday downs the small cup of water.
There is silence in the room.
The both of them sit in disbelief at Sunday’s answer. Or lack thereof. Before Gallagher can digest the information that he was just given, his partner unforgivingly puts him on the spot in turn.
“Your turn. Are you currently fond of anybody?”
No. His mind answers confidently. But when he takes a second glance at Sunday, something in him falters.
Not wanting to answer either, Gallagher lifts his cup to give a small toast and downs it.
“There’s someone?” The halovian whispers breathlessly.
“A lack of answer doesn’t always mean affirmation. You skipped yours as well.” He quickly reminds his partner with a sly smile. The look Sunday shoots him is evident— the halovian does not fully trust his answer.
Yet he does not pursue the issue.
In comparison, the rest of the night passes rather uneventfully; by its end, they get through all 20 questions successfully with Sunday having drunk more cups than Gallagher.
The winner is clear.
The halovian shifts in his seat; shocked by his loss. Sunday is evidently slightly distraught at the thought of having to serve a punishment whilst losing the opportunity to listen to Gallagher’s saxophone performance. The sight is so endearing that the hound almost thinks of conceding.
But this favor that Sunday now owes him will come in handy later.
He casts a glance at the stage beneath them: as the celebrations wind down, the cast of the Floating Dream Palace start preparing for what seems to be a theatrical play of sorts.
Ah.
Gallagher moves to sit nearer to Sunday on the long couch that they are on. Again, it might be a little sly of him but he ensures that they are close enough for their thighs to touch ever so slightly.
Warmth on warmth.
He feels just a tad bit drunk on the Gin. ( “Excuses” , a voice sounding suspiciously like Siobhan echoes loudly in his mind.)
“Do you know what the story of the Lovers’ Festival is about? If you’re not familiar, I’ll fill you in before their play begins.”
“It’s about a pair of lovers that can only reunite on a singular day, yes?”
Sunday’s wings rustle softly as they give a thoughtful flap and his earrings make a nice ringing noise, similar to wind chimes. Gallagher nods.
“A pair of star crossed lovers meets a tragic end in their first lifetime. Admiring the radiance of their love, it is said that the Aeon of Beauty, Idrila, sent a shooting star to reunite them in every single one of their subsequent lifetimes. Once a year, the star glides across the night sky and its comforting light forms a bridge that brings them together.”
Gallagher pauses, deep in thought.
“So that no matter how far apart they might be, they will always find each other.”
Judging from the halovian’s expression, Sunday seems to have noticed that something is bothering him. The hound tries his best to quickly brush it off and continue with his explanation.
“As a melting pot of cultures and stories, this legend eventually landed, and gained popularity in Penacony. Now people mainly use it as a day to celebrate love.”
He gestures towards the window pane and they both divert their attention towards the main stage once more. In the spotlight, a familiar face— Adam— is seen declaring his love dramatically for a beta co-worker that Sunday has not met before. The co-worker is shedding tears for some reason, and reluctantly pushing him away. Undeterred from pursuing his love, Adam holds onto her tight and wipes the cascading tears from her eyes.
Their theatrical and over-the-top acting earns them a fond smile from Sunday.
Unfortunately, this comfortable and quiet moment does not last long. As if struck by a sudden thought, the halovian turns to Gallagher, seemingly hesitating to voice out something. The older man responds to this by lifting his eyebrows, gesturing with a nod of his head encouragingly; all while staying silent.
Sunday lowers his gaze before vocalizing his query. A rare moment for a normally confident man like him.
“It is true that this is a Penaconian holiday but why is the Floating Dream Palace, of all places, celebrating this festival?”
Ah. Gallagher notes. He understands Sunday’s hesitance to bring this up. It is a very presumptive question.
“Because we specialize in things that do not last?” The hound accurately reads his partner’s thoughts, “Like a wondrous but fleeting performance, a drink that provides a momentary reprieve…”
“...and a night of passion.”
Sunday looks away as the last example falls uncomfortably to settle between them. He pretends to distract himself with the stage below, yet both he and Gallagher know that nothing is registering in his mind visually.
Gallagher senses the feelings of insecurity and unease radiating off the halovian, but is unsure where they are coming from.
“It’s not all fleeting.”
He reaches out to hold Sunday’s hand and to marvel at how its smaller size meant that it fits quite nicely in his own.
How has he never noticed that Sunday is an omega before all this?
“Every moment here is a memory that belongs to our customers, that they can keep for years to come. In your case, you will be leaving with something tangible as well.”
A child.
Sunday shoots him a momentarily conflicting gaze, before it eventually softens into what seems like newfound reassurance.
“Besides!” Gallagher’s chuckle breaks through the tension, and he releases Sunday’s hand, “Holidays are a good way to make money. Everybody’s got to eat, don’t they?”
The movement evidently disappoints Sunday, who holds one hand with the other, staring blankly while rubbing away at the palm of his glove. Gallagher spreads his arms over the back of the couch and pretends, with his entire willpower, that this disappointment is a figment of his imagination.
“Tell me more about yourself. Things that I don’t already know.”
“Even if they’re boring as hell?”
“Come on.” there is a soft, exasperated huff.
“You really wanna know, huh?” Gallagher scratches his chin thoughtfully and muses, “Well, uh… I came from a tiny family of four. My parents, me and a little brother.”
“My father was an explorer. A traveler. He would often disappear for months and years on end. My dad, however, fell in love with Penacony and had us. So he would stay in one spot, and be unable to follow my father.”
On the stage, Adam and the co-worker who is playing his lover, are cruelly torn apart. Their bodies helplessly tossed aside to collapse on opposing ends of the stage.
“My brother and I grew up without our father, mostly. So it doesn’t really bother us that he is never home. But my dad always waited.”
Gallagher takes a deep breath and exhales, like a soft sigh. He does not blame Sunday, but recounting the past always feels like a drag.
“Then one day, our father just stopped coming back. And our dad passed on shortly after due to health reasons.”
“If you asked me though, he probably died of a broken heart.”
Huh. It surprisingly still hurts to recount the events. Gallagher plasters the usual smile onto his face to reassure Sunday who is now frowning and giving him a concerned look. The pity is unnecessary, really. It is all in the past after all. Now he has the Floating Dream Palace, Siobhan and all its staff.
“Kind of silly, isn’t it? I told you it was a boring story.”
“It’s not.” Sunday responds softly and helplessly, “I appreciate you sharing it with me.”
Ever the shrewd bartender (old habits die hard), Gallagher takes advantage of the moment to find out more about Sunday as well. He sits up straight and thumbs Sunday’s cheek; when Sunday does not yell or push him away, he knows that the other man is in the mood to talk.
“What about you, birdie? What is your family like?”
It is Sunday’s turn to muse.
“For as long as I can remember, it has always been just my mother, me and Robin in a small home.”
The statement strikes Gallagher as strange but he does not interrupt the halovian. Thankfully too, because the question on his mind is answered almost immediately after.
“The renowned Gopher Wood of Penacony is my adoptive father. He took me and Robin in after our mother had passed on. There was a disaster that claimed her life. We were merely children… On our own, we never would have survived.”
Another actress, personifying Idrila, appears onstage to bestow her blessing upon Adam and his lover— A lovely shooting star, with unmatched brilliance, that will reunite them every year in the future.
“The only payment for our continued survival is obedience. We have to behave as Father tells us to, and live for the Family. And if it’s not already obvious: only Alphas can inherit the throne of Penacony— since omegas are deemed to be the lesser of both genders. So I’ve kept my real secondary gender a secret.”
“Robin is my only family left; my only sister. She is also an omega.”
“I…”
Sunday’s voice trails off. Gallagher follows his gaze and realizes that he is staring hard at ‘Idrilla’. There is an unreadable expression on his face.
“That day, I was the one who opened the door to her singing career. I opened it, pushed her out into the world, and quickly shut it before the Family could notice.”
“Father was furious. But it doesn’t matter. As long as at least one of us stays here for the Family, for Penacony, it doesn’t matter to him which one.”
“With the missing lineage of the Watchmaker, the five families are all Penacony has left. And the Oak Family has to lead them to ensure Order. Father is deeply obsessed with this. This authority and power must be continuously succeeded by a capable and loyal member of the Oak Family.”
There is a momentary silence as Sunday openly talks about the darkest parts of the five families in front of them— as if they have not known all of this already. Gallagher does not interject.
He only reaches out to squeeze Sunday’s hand lightly.
“Recently, I’ve started viewing it differently... Even if Father’s orders are absolute, it is also true that the head of the Oak Family will always be in a position to help more people like Robin and myself. It won’t be immediate, but someday things will be better for Penacony. For everybody.”
“That’s why this child is important.” is the unspoken line between them.
No tears form in Sunday’s eyes; the halovian remains impassive, but Gallagher has heard enough. Wordlessly and calmly, he pulls him into a gentle embrace. Despite not being fond of being pitied or soft consolations, the halovian allows himself to indulge in this display of affection for once, and melts into its reassuring warmth.
Sunday whispers in his ear softly, “I know you abhor this arrangement. But I swear upon the Great One that I will protect and nurture them with my life.”
“Enough.” Gallagher murmurs back to him, the sound unexpectedly coming out breathless and slightly choked up, “You don’t have to explain anymore.”
They share another comfortable moment of silence; merely two pitiful creatures licking each other’s wounds. Below them, the stage erupts into thunderous applause as the two lovers are finally united on a bridge lit up like starlight. The world celebrating, unraveling in elation, unaware of the sacrifices many have made to create a momentous occasion such as this.
But now Gallagher knows.
He knows and is unable to look away.
Siobhan was right.
It is not as simple as running away from the entire farce. If Sunday had requested for him to take him away and shelter him from the Oak Family and Gopher Wood, he would. But underneath every last bit of Sunday’s perseverance, hardship and loneliness, is a deep love for Penacony and Robin.
The halovian is not caged by Gopher Wood.
Sunday said it himself.
He was the one who shut the door to the cage.
And he knew the consequences when he did— an eternity of loneliness for the greater good.
When he pulls back, the expression on Sunday’s face is not an aggrieved one. Neither are there any signs of oncoming tears. Sunday is calm, collected and waiting for the hound to feel better. The younger man seems confused at why Gallagher is suddenly so upset. Maybe he thinks that the hound is still unhappy about their arrangement?
The halovian reaches out to caress Gallagher’s face with an unprecedented softness; comforting him instead. As though he is not the one who needs it the most.
Gallagher’s heart twists painfully in his chest.
He leans in, and kisses the man in front of him deeply.
They barely make it to their room this time.
Propelled by only two things, the desire to have privacy and Gallagher’s stubborn aversion to deep cleaning that VIP box, the pair staggers and stumbles through hallways; stealing random kisses and tugging on each other; bantering and coaxing; Sunday pushing Gallagher forwards so they can get to their room quicker and Gallagher constantly turning around so he can look at his absolutely divine little bird.
Like an unspoken magnetic attraction— pushing and pulling constantly.
Apparently the floor they were on was purposely cleared out by Siobhan and Gallagher.
And thank goodness they did, because there was no way they would have made it to the room unseen. It would have been disastrous too, because being in such a rush meant that Sunday is currently not in disguise— opting to hold his coat and mask in his hand instead.
When they arrive, Gallagher pins Sunday against a door covered in painted Purple Hydrangeas.
The halovian is beyond embarrassed that they are acting like animals. But is unable to resist his instincts and the man in front of him.
Slipping a tongue into Sunday’s mouth, the hound greedily devours him— his hand deftly sliding a key into the keyhole of the painted door as he does so. As the wooden door swings open, Gallagher catches Sunday before he can fall and guides them in without looking. He expertly nudges Sunday with each individual foot and gets him to take a step back so that they can slowly make their way in.
He does not spare the door a second glance when he snaps it shut and locks it behind his back.
Through the corner of his eyes, Sunday can see the shower from where they are standing: this room has a rain shower like the room on his first visit here. Something strikes him as odd, but he is unable to pinpoint it while Gallagher is still greedily kissing him.
They fall onto the bed, and finally part— both taking a moment to catch their breath with chests heaving and pupils blown wide open.
It feels like their first night all over again.
In an attempt to clear his head, Sunday finally breaks eye contact by turning his head to the side. The scent of the clean duvet is comforting, and it strikes him momentarily that he is able to see the rain shower because the entire shower is made of glass and can be seen from the bedroom itself.
He briefly wonders if they will be using the shower tonight.
A hand comes up to grab his chin firmly and directs his attention back to the starving Gallagher.
“Sunday . ” He begins, as he starts stripping his tie with one hand.
“Yes?”
“ Sunday. ” The hound says once more; this time, urgently, like he is afraid of something.
“I’m here.”
The hound brings his wrists together and wraps the loose tie around them. Sunday does nothing as he watches himself be bound by magenta colored fabric. Gallagher works with an obsessed fervor to tighten the knot and eventually pin Sunday’s arms above the both of them.
Sunday feels no fear despite the obvious lack of control on his part.
He knows that Gallagher will release him the moment he voices it. If nothing else, Sunday could always use the tuning powers of the Harmony on him.
But he does not wish for it. He hopes that they can be fully honest with each other.
He feels this way only with Gallagher.
Which is why he is puzzled by the strange way the hound is suddenly behaving.
What will binding him accomplish?
“Is there something you want?”
A look of confusion crosses Gallagher’s features momentarily as though he is somewhat unaware of what he was doing. Then, sudden clarity. The hound remembers who he is with, and what he is doing.
And eventually, the mask goes back on. Just like always.
Gallagher smiles at him— an expression that falters for a brief moment, “Thought we can try something new today.” For the first time in a few minutes, he moves calmly to bring Sunday’s bound hands towards him.
Neither make a sound as Gallagher pulls off each of Sunday’s gloves with his teeth, and drops them carelessly onto the duvet. He licks the halovian’s fingers reverently; fat tongue occasionally getting into the grooves between them and full lips making sucking noises.
Sunday is captivated once more; this time by the look of worship he is given.
The man then prys his hands open sideways and kisses his palms.
He does not realize that his breathing has gotten heavier, and that there is an aching that burns and pools in his abdomen. An intoxicating smell has filled the room but his scent blocking patch is still firmly stuck on. The desire that permeates obsessively through the air is not his.
Right. The scent blocking patch. He is still fully clothed.
“Gallagher,” Sunday whispers but this immediately commands the hound’s full attention, “how are you going to get us naked when my hands are tied like this?”
“Patience.” The hound works confidently and licks the inside of Sunday’s palms. The risky behavior earns him an involuntary twitch from Sunday.
Patience? Gallagher’s response has the opposite effect instead— Sunday can feel impatience building with each passing moment Gallagher spends seducing him. Right as he is about to watch the feeling overflow from a cup containing all his suppressed desires, the older man surprisingly relents and releases him from his restraints.
The hound then rolls them both over and sits up with Sunday firmly in his lap.
He kisses him wordlessly and strips him bare; save for his pants.The efficacy pleasantly surprises Sunday. The second time is always easier, but someone’s an equally fast learner when it comes to figuring out his clothes.
The halovian shudders at a wave of cold air hitting his shoulders. It makes him instinctively wrap his arms around himself—
—a feeling does not last long, as Gallagher holds him close in his arms and continues his strange quest to worship every part of Sunday’s body. This time he distracts himself with Sunday’s jawline and nibbles on it downwards to his Adam's apple.
Their lovemaking is strangely… slow tonight. Again.
Not wanting to wallow in feelings of frustration alone, the halovian unbuttons his partner’s vest and shirt; pressing a cold palm against tan skin. Cheekily, he slides it downwards to where the hound is trying desperately to hide his desires.
Gallagher’s breath hitches, and he automatically dips a hand into the back of Sunday’s pants.
There is a moment where Sunday feels like success is within his grasp; that the ache he has been feeling for so long can be taken care of…
…only to be thwarted at the final moment when Gallagher pauses to grab his cheeks instead.
The hound gives just one side a squeeze, and Sunday can feel him smiling into his skin as he flicks his tongue at a nipple.
Sunday moans at the feeling, but decides to punish Gallagher anyway by pinching the side of his torso.
“Ow.” comes the audacious reaction.
“If I get any wetter, we’ll have enough lubrication for the next few visits.”
“You don’t like this?”
I do but I just want you inside of me. There is a burning ache that is only growing and not going away. And Sunday is very certain now why Gallagher has not removed his scent patch.
Ever ready to speed things up, the halovian reaches up and rips the patch off in one swift movement.
Sure enough, he can visibly see Gallagher’s pupils start to dilate and the mound that has been pressing against him from below grows bigger and harder.
For everything that Gallagher has done to make himself seem mysterious, he is so terribly easy to read and manipulate.
As the hound’s breathing starts getting heavier, he desperately nuzzles his face into Sunday’s chest. This new reaction pleases him, and the younger man cannot help the devious smile that escapes his lips.
When nuzzling starts to feel like it is still not enough, Gallagher hugs Sunday close and gives a couple of unwilling ruts against him. He is still trying to take it slow. The man’s resistance is stronger than he expected.
Sunday releases just a bit more pheromones.
And the alpha gives him a soft, helpless whine.
“I wanted to take my time today…”
“You can always take your time while you’re inside.”
The halovian gets off momentarily to remove the rest of his outfit, and slick immediately drips down his thighs. A sight that probably set something in Gallagher off, judging by the way he pulls him back into his lap. Now sitting with his back facing the hound, the older man nudges Sunday’s legs further apart with his own legs and reaches down to fill his hole with two fingers.
Ever so experienced. Sunday notes as his partner starts making pistoning movements with said fingers. He lets out an encouraging moan. They feel so good but he needs something more .
But noticeably, Gallagher’s clothes are still on. An issue for him, if he were to get what he wants.
Sunday reaches a hand behind him, and somehow manages to unbuckle his belt and unzip his pants without looking. With that, the hound’s length is released from their torturous confines, and he is rewarded for this with a cathartic groan.
Almost gratefully, Gallagher nibbles away at the base of his jawline and on his light grey wings.
He takes this opportunity to reach back to place his hand behind Gallagher’s head; fingers carding through coarse hair, to pull him closer for a kiss.
As Gallagher wordlessly adds an extra finger, Sunday instinctively starts to buck his hips. He makes sure to rub against his partner’s length as he does, and his slick embarrassingly gets everywhere.
Both noticeably at their limit, Gallagher lets out a resigned sigh, and finally gives up on his stubborn idea of having slow, body worshiping sex. Sunday is insatiable and obviously prefers something rough and dirty.
“Birdie… you’ll be the death of me.”
“I’m unsure why you keep putting off something that we both clearly want.” Sunday gives him a small smile as his movement slows. He tilts his head at the older man in feigned innocence and pecks him on the cheek.
“I think you want it more than me.”
A lie, but Sunday is feeling generous so he does not rebuke the statement.
“If you say so.”
His feigned subservience must have been obvious enough to annoy Gallagher because the man punishes him by lifting him and sliding in fully to the hilt.
All in a single thrust.
Sunday does not make a sound from the initial intrusion. Gallagher is gentle after all, and he is still somewhat loose from their lovemaking earlier this week. He simply feels the inside of his body part to accommodate the alpha’s cock fully; naturally. His inner omega almost purrs at the sensation.
He feels so full. So complete.
The second thrust jolts him back to reality and he finally lets out a gasp.
“Oh thank the Aeons. I thought I killed you there.” Gallagher laughs, a deep and obviously blissed out sound. Sunday knows the hound is desperately trying to hide how euphoric he feels, but they really should not bother when they are so easily betrayed by their pheromones in such close proximity.
“Be careful.” The halovian subtly adjusts himself so that his knees and lower legs are flat and supported by the bed, “I’m actually very fragile. If you break me, you won’t get another chance.”
It was a joke. Yet it draws out a surprisingly hesitant side of the hound that makes itself known through the slowing of his thrusts.
Sunday cannot help but throw his head back slightly and part his lips in an uncharacteristically cheshire-like grin.
He is so fond of his gullible partner.
With a good grasp on his newfound position, he lifts himself up, shocking Gallagher who flinches at the feeling of his cock being abruptly exposed to the air. As he turns around, he can see that his partner is still processing the action; quite possibly wondering if Sunday is unhappy and about to leave. Luckily for him, the halovian sits back down, straddling the hound one more.
Part of it is luck, and the other part is actual confidence— Sunday fully sheaths himself to the hilt once more.
And as his hole below greedily devours the hound, he reaches out to wrap his arms around him and pulls him in for open mouthed kisses as well.
Judging from the new expression on Gallagher’s face, the older man nearly cums.
“Mmmff– Sunday–” He makes a few muffled sounds, quite possibly pleading for Sunday to stop moving for a few seconds so he can collect himself.
Too bad Sunday is currently enjoying himself too much to stop. If Gallagher comes, they will just have to go for a second round. Or third round. As many as it requires; as many as it makes them happy.
Instinctively, he clenches tighter below in a desire to milk the alpha dry. He starts riding the hound with a comfortable roll of his hips.
And another. And another.
Gallagher’s arms around him tighten and the alpha curls into his neck helplessly. Like a child holding on for dear life on a teacup ride where Sunday has mercilessly put them into a full spin.
It does not take long for Sunday to feel a rush of foreign warmth pooling inside his abdomen, and a huge gush of liquid staining the place where they are connected.
Displeasing. His inner omega notes. It is displeasing how this position and a lack of knot makes it difficult to keep such precious, spilled seeds within his body.
He slows his rolling motion to look at Gallagher, who is breathing heavily and all dazed.
“Oh.” Sunday begins with a smile, lovingly brushing brown locks away from a sweaty forehead, “Thank the Great One. I thought I might have killed you there too.”
The alpha shoots him a warning look that barely has any bite. Was that some adoration in his eyes as well?
Sunday tries not to overthink and to just revel in the moment.
Inside, they can both feel Gallagher softening slightly now that the deed is done. Yet Sunday is pleasantly surprised that the lack of fatigue this time gives him better insight into the stamina of his partner— the alpha is also not satiated.
Gallagher is looking like a pathetic, soggy dog in his arms, but his cock is still half hard within him.
Are all alphas like this? It is genuinely impressive.
The halovian stops moving and simply sits there, basically keeping his length warm and snug within. He cups Gallagher’s jawline with one of his hands and tilts his head just enough to pepper kisses on the hound’s cheek.
“You have a terrible personality.” The hound finally laments when he has caught his breath, and Sunday can feel strong hands kneading on the sides of his hips longingly.
“I knew you could take it.”
Sunday leaves it to the hound to decide if he meant his personality or what they have just done.
In response, Gallagher simply pulls him backwards with him, falling onto the bed before rolling over to a position where he can prop himself up comfortably to observe Sunday. They part below, and immediately the younger man can feel some of the hound’s seed spill haphazardly out of him.
He whines, a thoroughly unsatisfied sound.
“It’s getting wasted.”
Mine. It should be all mine.
Above him, Gallagher caresses his face and runs his thick finger over sleek and beautifully preened grey feathers, completely unbothered by the wastage. This prompts Sunday to sit up slightly to look at how much seed is being wasted, and the sight makes him chew the inside of his cheek unhappily.
“Don’t worry. We can always put more in there.”
The hound kisses his forehead placatingly, and Sunday’s inner omega finally calms. A wash of pheromones covers them both. Gallagher’s pheromones.
Huh.
He seems to be doing that a lot more lately, compared to when they first met. Being all unrestrained, and actually releasing pheromones to cover Sunday.
Not that Sunday minds, since he thinks that they smell heavenly. A part of him wonders if he can shamelessly ask for a couple of shirts for the eventual nest he has to build. Pheromones from the father of the child will help in their development after all, and will keep the expecting omega calm and content.
Right. The nest…
A nest he will have to build without the father of his child.
“You’re overthinking again.” Gallagher makes a movement to flick his index finger against Sunday’s forehead firmly, and the miniscule pain jolts him back to reality. Offended, he covers his forehead with both hands and glares at the man. But all it does is make the hound smile at him.
Gallagher then leans in to kiss him slowly, and Sunday melts into it.
As they start to go for another round, a burst of bright light fills the pockets of Sunday’s coat. Now discarded on the floor along with his clothing articles, the phone vibrates intensely but silently.
Above, on the bed, Gallagher slips his length into Sunday once more.
Preoccupied with no other thoughts than those involving the man in front of him, Sunday allows himself to be filled up to his heart’s content.
Safely wrapped up in the alpha’s arms, he misses how the phone’s screen flashes menacingly and urgently…
[ F A T H E R ]
Notes:
I hope you enjoyed the chapter! Am terribly ill at the moment but I have reread & rewritten this chapter enough times, methinks. I apologize if there's any errors. I will fix it when I'm better.
In a lot of ways, this chapter ended up revealing a bit more about Gallagher than I was initially comfortable. I don't know why it surprised me when I'm the one who wrote it. 😂 I think it's because somewhere in my mind, the idea of limiting the readers understanding of Gallagher, and then eventually having everybody see the truth alongside with Sunday, is rather exciting.
As always do leave me kudos and comments if you liked the chapter ❤️ While I'm sick, I keep looking at the AO3 inbox like a child pining to be outside haha.
Chapter 6: 3rd Meeting (The day I did not tell you how I truly felt about us)
Summary:
Gallagher ruminates, only now realizing the severe consequences of giving in to Sunday's proposal to sire a child.
Meanwhile, Gopher Wood punishes his son for cancelling on meeting his omega fiance, yet all the while secretly pleased that he might potentially be with child.
Robin returns to Penacony, expecting a much happier Sunday as per their housekeeper's messages; desiring to meet with the person who has brought about this wonderful change.
Tightly strung and suffering under the weight of multiple expectations, Sunday finally crashes out.
Notes:
"The greatest thing you'll ever learn is just to love and be loved in return."
TW: Bodily assault. Not of the sexual kind, but something non-consensual and invasive happens.
TW: Thoughts of defenestration and hurting oneself.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“You know… I’ve been thinking about it a lot.”
Gallagher flicks the lighter open and shut, deep in contemplation. Next to him, the warm light from a singular, lit floor lamp flickers and a shadow stirs.
It opens an unsettling purple eye to observe him.
“What do you think are the odds?”
He reaches out to caress the shadow and it makes a sound almost akin to purring. A winged-like blade momentarily exits the darkness it is hidden within; skin splitting open to reveal another five more psychedelic purple eyes, before retreating back into obscurity in contentment.
“The child is half mine. Doesn’t that mean that there’s a chance it’ll receive a ‘gift’?”
The shadow tilts its head and blinks.
Gallagher laughs, almost bitterly, and flicks the lighter shut.
“You’re right. Their dad won’t be very happy about this. Might even see it as a curse.”
Flick. His face is lit up by the warm light once more. Whatever that is accompanying him does not mind the flame, but does not stare for too long into the light either. Instead, it nuzzles further into his large hand for comfort.
“I did try to warn him. If he knew me, if he knew who I was… he wouldn’t choose me as the sire.”
The shadow makes a sad moan in response, as though perfectly aware of how this train of thought makes Gallagher feel. The man shifts uncomfortably in his chair; thoroughly judged by the entity next to him.
“Is it that obvious?”
A thin, jagged looking tail comes up from the side to wrap around his remaining arm that is loosely dangling over the chair’s arm. The shadow silently comforts him.
“Right. You’ve not met him, so it’s difficult to understand why I feel this way. Birdie is impossibly perfect.”
The perfect mate that does not belong to him. It is such a wistful thought.
“His children would all be perfect too. If he had chosen wisely.”
Now at least the first one will be contaminated by his blood. Another wistful thought. Gallagher is just racking up regrets as he grows older. It is disappointing how he never seems to learn.
He really should have rejected Sunday’s proposal.
Instead, he gave in to his greed and wanted something he cannot have. How he has the audacity to even want is beyond him— he does not deserve anything more than what he has now, not after all the decisions he made a long time ago.
Sunday’s desperation that night simply gave him a good excuse to pretend that the fault for this situation lies elsewhere. Lies with the Oak Family.
From within the darkness, the shadow gives another, louder and uncontrolled tragic moan. It does not understand Gallagher’s worries, but it shares his sadness, desires and solitude.
I wish…
I wish for the child to not be cursed by my bloodline.
But deep inside, he knows he would be proud if the child receives a ‘gift’. His child. Sunday’s and his.
His family.
Still, it is far too dangerous. The moment the child displays even a sliver of potential, Gopher Wood and the Oak Family will immediately know who its other father is. Both Sunday and the baby will be in danger. Things are already precarious as they are now.
The hound takes a deep breath and leans back into the large lounge chair. He tilts his head backwards and looks directly into the nothingness above him.
The abyss gazes back.
He cannot bear to say the next sentence while staring into such an unblemished gaze.
Gallagher covers his face with both hands, and closes his eyes in resignation.
“Maybe it is better if he never gets pregnant in the first place.”
The recent levels of paperwork have been intense.
And for once, Sunday feels like he is burning out from what is expected of him. He has been enduring a small headache since late morning and his body just feels tightly strung all over. The halovian gives his shoulders a small, futile roll to help with its stiffness before staring at the small pile of paper left on his desk.
His punishment.
Gopher Wood was quite mad that day, after all.
A leader of the Oak Family does not have time for leisurely activities— there is always more work to be done somewhere. More help to be offered to others in Penacony. For Sunday to have cancelled a meeting with his potential fiance to go gallivanting somewhere , is unacceptable.
Not even rest warrants such precious attention from someone like Sunday.
“What could possibly be so important?” Father had asked him. And in his panic, Sunday uttered a half-truth: “I was busy with the task of procuring an heir, with the engagement coming soon, after all.”
Father’s expression had softened at the sound of that. He knows Sunday would never disappoint him.
It still did not reduce his punishment though. The halovian does not know what he could have done better. Maybe the next time he should consider bringing paperwork to the Floating Dream Palace?
His abdomen twists uncomfortably at that thought.
He hopes that he is not currently expecting, because no child will survive when their carrier is under such an intense level of stress.
Sunday covers the area protectively and tries to take a deep breath to relax.
The feeling is unbearable. Like he is trapped in a body that does not belong to him, and is desperately trying to claw his way out. He wishes that people do not need to breathe in order to survive.
All breathing does in a moment like this is make him realize his helplessness.
A basic necessity for survival, and Sunday is currently doing a terrible job at it.
As a stop-gap measure, he reaches for a bottle of folic acid by his table and pops a pill into his mouth. He then takes a quick sip of water and allows himself to feel the pill sliding down his throat.
In itself, the folic acid does not resolve any of the serious issues that may arise if he really is expecting in this period of time.
But psychologically, Sunday thinks he feels better.
See? If anything, he is taking care of himself just enough for any potential child in his belly.
He leans back and closes his eyes.
He will be the worst parent ever. He should never have asked Gallagher to sire his child— now that he has gotten to know the hound better, he regrets that the child of such a carefree person has to go through hell with him.
Has to stay in hell with him.
Sunday remembers his earlier promise, “I swear upon the Great One that I will protect and nurture them with my life.” And tears well up in his eyes. He must not falter. In the future, he has to be strong enough to shelter the child by himself.
To become an unyielding force of parental love and protection in the place of the child’s missing father as well.
Like Robin, the child will grow up only knowing love and the boundless sky.
And maybe…
Just maybe…
When Gopher Wood and Sunday are both long gone, his child can finally meet their biological father. At the beautiful palace where the shadows do not reach.
Perhaps enough time would have passed as well, for the child’s father to forgive Sunday and to love his child.
A few curt knocks on the door takes him out of his thoughts. He does not realize, until now, that he had been praying.
“A moment please.” Sunday replies tersely, wiping his eyes quickly with his long sleeves— hiding all evidence of weakness.
The person outside the door ignores his reply and he hears the door handle twist open rather quickly. Long, immaculate black robes stride into his office without any regard for Sunday’s availability. Without looking up, Sunday is already aware of who the intruder might be.
There is only one person in Penacony who has the audacity and authority to demand his full attention at any given point in time.
Gopher Wood stands, book in hand, and smiling gently down at his son. A picture of halovian grace and unabashed sophistry.
“I’ve heard that Robin is dropping by soon.”
Sunday does not miss how his Father’s gaze lingers on his hand that is still covering his abdomen protectively. He quickly removes it so as to not arouse suspicion.
“Is everything alright? Would you need help with welcoming her?”
“Thank you for offering, Father. But that will not be necessary. It is a simple task that does not require the Family to trouble you.”
“Nonsense. We are family after all.” Gopher Wood moves to his side and leans down to pat his gloved hands.
Sunday stiffens but he keeps his gaze firmly locked with his Father’s.
“I do miss Robin quite dearly… And I’m concerned that you have been overworking yourself. Have you been suffering from any health issues lately? Gastric, perhaps?”
To his alarm, Gopher Wood places a gloved hand directly on his torso. He is unsure if it is done on purpose, but in the worst possible outcome, his Father has his hand over where his womb should be instead of his stomach.
The elder of the Oak Family gives the area a gentle and reassuring pat.
Sunday feels like he might throw up.
“Father, I feel fine.”
“Do you? Just in case, let me help.”
It happens too quickly. Bright light glows at Gopher Wood’s fingertips and Sunday is unable to scramble away from the man’s touch in time. He feels the elder halovian’s power fill his abdomen with warmth; penetrating skin and perhaps even searching for something. The power digs through Sunday’s womb like unwanted tendrils— touching any potential and precious life inside.
Invasive and unwanted.
The entire process takes only two seconds.
Satisfied, Gopher Wood stands back upright.
Sunday is unsure of what the man has actually done. But a feeling of dread anchors itself deeply in the pits of his stomach. Surely…Surely Father wouldn’t…
The look of horror and apprehension on his face must have been a sight to behold, because his Father decides to address it for once, instead of ignoring it altogether.
“Mmm? You have a question?”
“Father… did you… was there…?”
“Gastric? Yes, unfortunately. Quite a severe case at that too. You have worked hard.”
The elder halovian reaches out for Sunday’s hand once more to pat it reassuringly. Like an adult comforting a lost child.
“Perhaps it would be good to take a break when you are with Robin this weekend.”
Sunday trembles in his seat, visibly shaken by the thought of whatever had just taken place. He stares hard at Gopher Wood’s hands, covering his, and his mind runs itself through his worst fears.
If there was a baby… Gallagher’s baby… Their baby…
“Sunday.”
The halovian does not answer— he drowns, neck deep in self-blame for not realizing sooner that the extent of his punishment might not have stopped at just paperwork.
“ Sunday. ” Gopher Wood finally demands, and he looks up weakly at his Father. The exhaustion from consecutive days of paperwork is swallowing him whole, along with the paranoia he now feels.
He hates how his name sounds, coming from the man.
“Another thing I might have to add: you’re not expecting. Do not worry, child. I know you are working hard on this task. It’s just a pity that it has not come to fruition yet.”
Was that the truth?
“You swear?” This time, it is Sunday who clutches at his Father’s hands instead, “You swear in the name of the Great One—”
“Sunday. My child. There is no baby, as much as we both hoped there would be. I regret having to be the one to disappoint you. All I did was heal some of your gastric.”
There is pure sincerity dripping from every single word that leaves his Father’s mouth, but Sunday knows better. His Father has mastered the art of sophistry, as easily as others would breathe. He will not be able to tell.
He takes a deep breath.
“Please, Father. This task has been of the utmost importance to me. The sooner I get it done, the faster we can move with other pressing matters like Penacony’s governance and the engagement.”
The young leader of the Oak Family fixes an unyielding gaze onto the Family Elder.
“Was there a child in my womb or not?”
Gopher Wood’s eyes light up in what one can only describe as immense pride. His scarred and worn out dark blue wings could not help but give a few excited flutters beneath his ears. Sunday clasps his Father’s hands in his tightly, and his eyes blaze a dangerous gold. All weaknesses now purged from his earlier frantic self for someone else’s sake.
“No, my son. In the name of the Great One, I assure you that there was not.”
When Robin arrives in Penacony, the first thing she does is throw herself into Sunday’s arms to give him a tight hug.
“I heard that Father punished you. I was worried.”
Sunday holds her close and caresses the hair on the back of her head. His baby sister is finally home and their reunion comforts him greatly.
“Nothing that you have to worry about, dear sister. It’s just a misunderstanding, and Father merely asked for me to take on some extra paperwork.”
Robin, ever astute, does not let him go and instead, opts to whisper in his ears, “Has the person who caused this ‘misunderstanding’ been handled?”
“Yes.” Sunday responds with a small smile and buries his face in her hair, “It has been handled. I have just appointed a new secretary this morning to take over their place, and to help me with matters.”
“Good.” She releases him in satisfaction, “I was going to lend you a hand if you were too busy with other matters to handle this. I know how hard you work, brother. I cannot bear the thought of anybody making things more difficult for you.”
Sunday laughs. He is aware of how tightly strung it sounds, but he knows Robin will not comment on it.
“You know me. I’m more than capable enough to handle everything, even if there was.”
“You are.” Robin agrees, but her wings droop ever so slightly.
“Well, now that you’re in town, is there anywhere you would like to go? I have the whole weekend available to be a tourist with you.”
She clasps her hands behind her back, and shifts from one foot to another; clearly mulling over something.
“I guess… There is one place. I’ve been exchanging messages with Martha, you see. In case of emergencies. And lately she says that “the young master has changed somewhat, as if there is something that brings him joy.””
Her eyes dart over to Sunday’s scent patch, hidden beneath his hair.
“Now that we’ve met, I can see that there really is something… or someone .”
The halovian shakes his head disapprovingly.
“I should remind Martha that making speculations in the Dewlight Pavilion is dangerous.”
“It is,” His sister laughs and hooks an arm around his own, “But big brother, when I was hugging you earlier, for the briefest of moments, there was a scent on you that I’ve not encountered before.”
Sunday whips his head to the side in alarm, to face his equally intelligent and perceptive twin.
“Even more curious… It’s the scent of an alpha. ”
They both know that Sunday holds the status of an alpha in the public’s eyes, and that their Father would never openly allow him to fraternize with another alpha. The truth remains unspoken between them, but it is clear that there is only one other possibility for Sunday to have come in close, private contact with an alpha.
In Robin’s emerald green eyes, something akin to happiness twinkles.
She clasps their hands together in contentment and tugs gently at his sleeve.
Sunday’s heart softens at the sight.
“Oh big brother. There’s nothing I want more than to meet this person that brings you joy.”
“Gallagher?”
Siobhan calls out worriedly as she feels for the switch along the wall. The room, shrouded in darkness, feels cold and eerie. She swears that a moment ago she heard his voice coming from the corner and several low moans.
Is the Floating Dream Palace haunted? Does she need to do a blessing?
“Are you in here?”
Her fingers finally touch the light switch and she flicks the lights on with an unprecedented sense of urgency.
As her eyes slowly adjust to the new stream of light coming from everywhere, she thinks she might have seen a large shadow disappear in the corner of her eyes. It seeps into the floor and directly into someone’s sitting shadow.
There is no way right? It is probably just her imagination.
“Yo.” Gallagher greets her with a smile, while leaning languidly against the large armchair. Charismatically, he raises two fingers to his temples and does a small salute.
Large and imposing, not lacking in looks, and with a carefree attitude.
Anybody would be enamored by the alpha.
But Siobhan just feels the hair stand on the back of her neck, as though she is in the presence of something wrong .
“Gallagher…?” She calls out hesitantly once more.
“Yeah. I heard you the first time. What’s up?”
The atmosphere shifts as he stands, and the room no longer feels as cold or intimidating. Everything is as it usually is. The hound smiles at her, and even though it does not reach his eyes, Siobhan is comforted by its familiarity. This is the Gallagher she knows.
It must have been her imagination. They have been overworking themselves lately, after all.
“Nobody was able to find you earlier. I was concerned.”
“Oh! Sorry. I guess I must have fallen asleep on that large chair back there. You know how it is. We’ve been doing 16 hour shifts non-stop for the past week or so.”
“Right…” Siobhan folds her arms contemplatively, “I do think we are due for some rest and recreation. Any more of this and we’ll probably go crazy.”
I’m definitely going crazy. Seeing shadows and all.
“So?” Gallagher tilts his head at her knowingly, “Are we actually getting some rest?”
The halovian sighs at how perceptive her partner can be when it comes to work. One of his unexpected talents, really.
“...No.”
“What is the emergency this time?”
“None. Just a low profile visit from a high profile person.”
Gallagher scratches at his chin thoughtfully, “You normally handle those well enough by yourself. If you’re roping me in, it must be someone of actual interest.”
“To you, yeah. This is related to one of your high profile clientele.”
Siobhan frowns. She is unsure of what to make of this. First Sunday, and now this? The thought of someone of such status stepping into the Floating Dream Palace used to be unthinkable.
The two move to the bar counter nearby, and Siobhan takes a seat on one of the high stools. Gallagher starts to prepare something that will perk the both of them up— most likely one of their strongest blends of coffee. This has got to be one of their longest weeks to endure, and it is only going to be even longer.
“The intergalactic songstress, Robin, is doing a short stopover in Penacony.”
At the sound of Robin’s name, Gallagher’s eyes go wide and he turns to face Siobhan; cup tightly gripped in hand.
“She wants to meet you.”
“Me? Whatever for?”
Oh I don’t know… maybe because you’re having a thing with her brother? Siobhan watches as Gallagher pretends to not be thrown off balance by this piece of sudden news— the ceramic cup nearly slips from his hands once, as he is wiping it dry with a towel, and another time when he is trying to grab its handle to place it under the coffee machine.
“Sunday has informed me that he will be visiting along with her as well.”
The cup drops to the floor and shatters.
Gallagher curses softly under his breath and places his hands on his hips. The man is at a loss as to what he should do.
“That’s coming out of your pocket.” Siobhan adds unhelpfully, and the hound finally snaps out of his stupor. He starts sweeping up the ceramic pieces begrudgingly.
“I don’t want to meet her.” The hound concludes as he finishes cleaning up the mess he made.
“Does that statement include Sunday?”
He goes silent, and Siobhan rolls her eyes.
“Robin is Sunday’s most precious sibling. If you turn her down, you will draw Sunday’s ire.”
The man says nothing and prepares another ceramic cup with his back turned towards her. Like clockwork, Gallagher automatically rinses the inside of the cup with both boiling and room temperature water before wiping the entire thing once more.
Seeing as he is being extremely unintelligent about this whole issue, Siobhan decides to press him further.
“He will dislike you.”
A lie. Because Siobhan is most certain that whilst all the omegas and women in the world can potentially dislike the hound, Sunday is the only one who will continue to be fond of him. She does not know what exactly her fellow halovian sees in him, but the man is in deep . At least, judging from the way he looked the other day, when she opened the door to him with his apology bouquet and bottle of Ut Somnium .
Her gaze flickers to Gallagher who drops the cup he is holding into the sink at her statement.
And eventually, this one will be as well.
“What would we even talk about?” Gallagher throws his head back in a deep sigh, clearly exasperated.
“Penacony. Her brother. Anything.”
She cannot believe that a bartender as experienced as Gallagher is asking such a simple question.
The hound continues to prepare a third cup; all the while muttering something about ‘the brother is difficult enough’ and ‘now there are two’. Third time’s definitely the charm, because he succeeds in procuring the precious dark liquid, and sets it on the countertop for Siobhan to partake first.
Siobhan takes a grateful sip and nods at him tiredly.
“I suggest you hurry up with your own coffee too. The faster you have some, the better. Because you have two hours to figure it out.”
She takes another sip, like it is an average tuesday for them.
“They will be arriving at 7pm today for dinner.”
The fourth ceramic cup slips out of Gallagher’s large, clumsy hands…
…and shatters unforgivingly like its predecessors, on the pristine lounge floor.
Timeliness definitely runs in the family, because Robin and Sunday both arrive at the Floating Dream Palace at exactly 7pm, as stated.
Similar to his first visit, the establishment has been cleared out and is noticeably void of people.
“Miss Robin, we are deeply honored.” Siobhan bows with an arm neatly pressed against her waist (much more deeply than when she first greets Sunday, he notes).
“My name is Siobhan and I welcome you to the Floating Dream Palace, where the most passionate dreams come true.”
“It is so lovely to be here.” Robin’s wings flutter excitedly and she absentmindedly holds out a hand out of habit to Siobhan, like they might have been old acquaintances. Charismatically, the alpha reacts by taking her hand and pressing a gentle kiss to its back, “Enchanté.”
Sunday’s eye twitches. An involuntary reaction that he tries to keep unnoticeable.
Robin makes a surprised gasp upon noticing her mistake, but is pleasantly delighted by the turn of events. She places a hand on her cheek, “Oh my! De même!”
“I have long heard that this is how the locals greet each other from the planet you’ve just performed at. I hope this familiarity pleases you.” The head of the Floating Dream Palace gives Robin a genuine smile that actually touches her eyes, which earns her a nice little giggle from the songstress.
The halovian narrows his eyes at her.
“Mister Sunday, a pleasure to be in your company as well.” The alpha acknowledges him comfortably, in spite of the suspicious looks that he has been giving her.
She’s good. I’ll give her that.
Ever in control, he nods politely, “I hope you have been well.”
Completely unaware of Sunday’s displeasure with the overly familiar way she was greeted, Robin chirps up from the side,“If you don’t mind me asking, are you the one who will be having dinner with us tonight?”
“Unfortunately, no. That will be my colleague instead.”
Fortunately. Sunday thinks to himself.
“An incredible pity.” The songstress states, somewhat downcast. She looks to Sunday and her wings flutter. He knows that look in his sister’s eyes. Robin is definitely up to something again.
“Big brother, I think we should invite Siobhan to join us for dinner.”
And there it is.
Sunday sighs inwardly.
“If it makes you happy, dear sister.”
“Of course it does,” She claps her hands once in celebration and smiles triumphantly, “It would make me very happy if you were to join us for dinner, Siobhan.”
The head of the establishment does not miss a beat when she agrees politely to her guest’s request— the epitome of confidence and wiliness.
The shamelessness reminds him a little of Gallagher, really.
He cannot help but ask.
“Where’s Gallagher today?”
Siobhan shoots him a knowing look but says nothing that is out of bounds or above her station, “He is currently tying up some loose ends at his workstation. Please do not worry, he will be joining us shortly.”
At the thought of seeing his alpha again, Sunday visibly relaxes. He clasps his hands together and rubs his right palm absentmindedly through the thin white fabric of his glove. The memory of his encounter with his Father earlier in the day still plaguing him.
He can still feel the warmth radiating from his Father’s hand as it gropes the inside of his empty womb, hoping to find an unexpected prize.
If either Robin or Siobhan had noticed his unease, they have both politely elected to not mention it.
For that, Sunday is grateful.
Ever the gracious host, Siobhan invites the both of them to head upstairs to a special dining room. They take the same elevator that Sunday took on his first visit, and Sunday takes the opportunity to rest in silence while Robin chats away with Siobhan regarding something that his mind does not register.
When the door opens, he does not exit immediately. Still lost in his thoughts.
Upon noticing that someone is waiting for him at the door, he looks up, dazed.
( “Cat got your tongue and your legs, birdie? This isn’t the VIP lounge, you know.” )
“Big brother?” Robin’s voice abruptly cuts through the memory.
Sunday blinks. Gallagher is still missing.
“Sorry. I was just lost in thought.”
His sister eyes him worriedly and Siobhan takes the opportunity to look into the distance, as if she is searching for something. Someone.
Sunday sees the expression on her face and the hesitation in her normally confident eyes.
It is all too much for him.
He exits the lift so as to not trouble the two ladies further, and as calmly as he can, looks straight at Siobhan.
“He’s not coming… is he?”
At his statement, Robin turns to Siobhan; a shocked and hurt expression crossing her beautiful features. Not because her brother’s important person has declined to meet her, but that the person has done it while fully knowing that her brother is here as well.
Despite the terrible situation, Siobhan holds his gaze with her usual confidence and shakes her head.
Sunday feels his stomach drop at the gesture.
“We last met around 2 hours ago. While I have not heard from him since then, I know that he will definitely come.”
She says it with a sense of wisdom and finality; like everything is predestined and cannot be changed. It makes Sunday feel inclined to believe her.
He wants to believe her.
“Mister Sunday, if I may.” Siobhan lifts a hand to ask for his own, “I have noticed that you are worse for wear tonight. I am unsure why it is so, but do allow me to guide you.”
Beside them, Robin nods encouragingly, having noticed his fatigue earlier but just now realizing that she has mistakenly assumed it to be his normal state.
To both of their surprise, the halovian cooperates and places his hand in Siobhan’s. She quickly takes the opportunity to provide him with some tuning, and her halo glows. It thrums with a surprising amount of power— immediately, Sunday can feel relief flooding his veins like a painkiller. It pushes away some of his fatigue, anxiety, paranoia, and most importantly, the feeling of his Father’s power staining his soul.
He almost balks at the realization that he is in worse shape that he initially thought. Perhaps he should have asked Robin to help him with tuning earlier, but he really does not want her to worry.
When they are done, Siobhan’s halo dims back to its usual color and the power that she just displayed is hidden away once more.
Sunday is both grateful and concerned.
“You’re strong.” Almost on the level of Robin and myself.
Siobhan smiles mysteriously, “I have to be.”
“Thank you.”
“Please do not worry, it is nothing. I hope you are feeling better.”
The halovian nods appreciatively at Siobhan and Robin holds his hand in relief. He knows what she is thinking— it must be extremely comforting for her to know that even in her absence, there is somewhere her brother can turn to receive tuning.
The Floating Dream Palace has been godsent, thus far.
“Now, let’s head to the dining room. I’m sure you’re both hungry.” The head of the establishment bows once more and redirects their attention towards a long corridor.
They weave through another couple of winding hallways that the two siblings cannot memorize. Now with renewed trust in Siobhan, they continue to rely on her guidance to get to where they have to be. At the end of their journey, the alpha pushes open one side of two heavy and imposing doors for the halovian siblings to enter. She does it so effortlessly with one arm that Sunday almost wishes that he was born an alpha instead.
It would have made everything so much easier.
But it would also mean that his path may not have crossed with Gallagher’s.
Will it still be worth it?
And speaking of the hound, it turns out that his earlier worries are unfounded— because his alpha is currently putting the finishing touches to a feast they have set up on the long table in front of them.
Upon noticing the group’s presence, Gallagher’s face breaks into a wide smile.
It may look like he is welcoming all three of them, but Sunday notices that the man is looking only at him. His heart twists painfully in his chest and his body moves before he can contemplate if it is proper to be so obvious with his feelings.
He catches himself at the last moment and stops right in front of Gallagher.
“You’re here, birdie.”
“I am.”
His expression must have still said too much, because the alpha caresses Sunday’s cheek longingly with the back of a large hand, without shame. Gallagher takes the opportunity to subtly scent Sunday as a greeting— as though it is common or casual for any alpha to be so intimate with an omega who is not his mate.
Sunday does not push him away or express offense at the gesture. Instead, he encourages the behavior by grasping Gallagher’s hand and leaving his own scent on the man’s wrist as well.
As much as he can through the scent blocking patch, at least.
He feels like he can finally breathe.
Behind him, Robin gasps softly at the scene unraveling in front of her. She looks at Siobhan with wide, excited eyes darting to and fro, as if exclaiming, “ Are you seeing this? Is this actually happening?! ”
Siobhan, to her credit, merely shrugs at Robin with a smile. Relief floods her face too, at Gallagher’s appearance.
After a moment, the two lovebirds finally snap out their trance and Gallagher waves at Robin from beyond her brother. Sunday flushes a bright red and moves aside so that they can start with their introductions.
He clears his throat.
“Robin, this is Gallagher. And Gallagher, this is my beloved sister, Robin.”
“Pleased to meet you.” She tilts her head upwards to look him directly in the eyes and Gallagher slouches just slightly to ensure that she does not have to try too hard. It reminds Sunday of a giant bear attempting to squeeze itself into a cave that is barely three-quarters of its size. The thought of it is terribly endearing.
Enough to make him smile.
“Pleased to make your acquaintance as well. Sunday has been telling me all about you.”
His smile falls immediately; now replaced with a frown.
“No, I have not.”
Gallagher smirks, obviously emboldened by Sunday’s expressive disapproval.
“He tells me that singing has always come naturally to the both of you and he is extremely proud of what you have accomplished with your gift.”
What.
Robin, completely convinced that Sunday would most definitely inform such an important person about the minute details of their childhood, excitedly nods, “Yes! Brother used to sing lullabies to me when we were very young. He is the very first inspiration for my career, really.”
“Oh? I can see why. His singing voice is extremely compelling.”
The man lies with as much ease as he breathes, and Sunday feels like his eyeballs are about to fall out of their sockets from the way he constantly shoots Gallagher warning looks.
“You should do it more often.” The man concludes as he turns to Sunday.
The halovian has heard enough.
He grabs the hound by his ugly tie and forces an unnatural smile onto his face when he turns to Robin, “Please excuse us. I need to speak with him privately.”
Unfortunately (or fortunately?), his sister responds with an excited series of nods— far too eager to send him off with the misbehaving alpha. Aside, Sunday can see the disappointment in Siobhan’s face at Gallagher’s behavior. She probably also expected him to behave in front of Robin.
“Take your time! I will be here with Siobhan.”
“Please, go ahead and start on your dinner first. We will hopefully return shortly.”
They end up in a closet, one room over.
Sunday pins Gallagher against the back of the walk-in closet, and seethes, albeit with way less anger than he expects.
“ What are you doing?”
Gallagher shrugs, “Getting to know your sister.”
“By telling her lies? By giving her an impression that you’re the second person to ever hear my singing voice?”
The hound’s eyes widens in pleasant surprise.
“Nobody else has ever heard you sing other than your sister?”
“Of course not!”
“Well, can I be the second person then? I mean, she’s already under the impression—”
“No!” Sunday throws his hands up exasperatedly, “I’m not singing for anybody!”
The halovian continues to seethe with anger; very much like a fluffed up feather ball of righteous fury. Sunday sees the endearing look Gallagher gives him, but he frowns and averts his gaze instead. He will not be forgiving him so easily this time.
Unruly, misbehaving, wretched dog—
“I’ve missed you, Sunday.”
Oh.
Gallagher brings up a hand to cup his jawline and to redirect his attention back to him. When their eyes meet, Sunday feels the anger seep out of him like air leaving a deflating balloon. His feathers no longer feel as ruffled, and he can tell that the pheromones in the air have grown just slightly thicker.
Someone is trying to placate him with their scent.
Decidedly, he is not averse to it.
The halovian does not let it show though, and he scowls at the hound.
He must have picked a masochist among all the alphas in the Floating Dream Palace, because Gallagher does not seem put off by his scowl. Quite the opposite, really. The older man looks like he has been thoroughly tamed, and with an expression like Sunday is the only good thing to ever happen to him in his life…
Gallagher kisses him.
Immediately, the voices in Sunday’s mind and his worries over the past week are blown away. Far, far away where they belong. It has always been like this— the only thing that matters when he is in the Floating Dream Palace, are the both of them being together.
They break apart.
Gallagher is breathing heavily, pupils blown, and Sunday’s eyes are filled with tears that threaten to spill over.
“Hey… Hey now, birdie.” The hound clumsily wipes his now falling tears for him, but all it does is to invite more tears to fall, “I’m sorry, I didn’t know it would make you so mad that you’d cry.”
“You’re incorrigible.” Sunday manages to squeak out breathlessly between sobs.
“I know.”
He kisses him again, and Sunday cries even more.
“I know. I’m the worst. Sorry.”
The stress from the week finally implodes within Sunday and he clutches onto the hound’s shirt to anchor himself as he bawls, as unstrained but also as softly as he can, into their messy kisses.
He does not want to admit it, but he missed the safety of his alpha and he is scared that he is getting too reliant on another person that is not himself.
Gopher Wood terrifies him, and there is a growing worry about what his Father and the Oak Family will do to his child when he is finally expecting.
Can he protect them all alone?
Gallagher stops kissing him on the lips to give Sunday some room to breathe, but he comfortingly continues with kissing his cheeks instead and licking away painful tears. The omega trembles in his arms with each choked breath he takes, and the hound patiently helps him through his pain.
He wishes he can tell him what transpired earlier in the day, but Sunday knows that it will do nothing to help.
If anything, it might create more problems.
“I-I’m not expecting yet.” He manages to blurt out, after a couple of minutes in tears.
There is a pause from the other side, but Sunday is too distraught to notice it.
“Is that what’s upsetting you this badly?”
Sunday thinks about how much he wants to remain here, in this stupidly small closet, with Gallagher and their child forever. Where they will all be safe. He has long forgotten that Robin and Siobhan are still one room over, waiting for the both of them to partake in dinner.
He shuts his eyes tightly.
And lies with a nod.
It is way easier to lie than to explain to the alpha that he is actually worried about what will happen if he is expecting. Gallagher is not his mate, and has stated clearly in their first meeting that he cannot be his mate.
“But you’re obviously not in a state tonight for anything.” The man murmurs, tone downcast and evidently preoccupied with thoughts of his own. He caresses Sunday’s cheek lovingly.
Wistfully.
Sunday opens his eyes, now red and puffy from all the crying he has done, to look at Gallagher questioningly. The alpha is acting somewhat odd.
His stomach lurches within him. He feels like his worst fears are on the precipice of being realized.
“Is something wrong?”
Gallagher hesitates.
And then eventually relents under Sunday’s frightened gaze.
“Everything, maybe.”
“What do you mean?”
“Sunday. It is obvious that this entire arrangement we have going on is causing you extreme stress. And I’m also worried about…”
Gallagher’s voice trails off. There is something that he is not telling Sunday. Something else that is an issue, outside of everything that he is already worrying about. Something other than Gopher Wood and the Oak Family.
“I’ve been thinking about it for a while. We should call it quits.”
What?
“We should have done this from the beginning. I should have never agreed to such a dangerous proposal from you, no matter our personal desires.”
“I’m sorry.”
There is another pause where the closet is filled with only silence.
Then Gallagher is looking at him, quite possibly attempting to gauge his reaction.
The look on his face must have been terrible. Whatever expression his face has twisted into must have been heart stopping, because Gallagher obviously panics upon seeing it. The man scrambles to grasp at his upper arms to keep him anchored on the ground next to him.
But Sunday is already fleeing. Both in his mind and physically.
“Sunday—”
“ Stop. ” For the first time, Sunday uses the suggestive power of Harmony on a vulnerable Gallagher, and the alpha freezes on the spot.
“ Don’t touch me. ”
His voice trembles, sounding like a soft but anguished wail that cannot contain itself.
He sees Gallagher’s pained expression in the corner of his eyes and another surge of pain makes itself known through his now constricted chest. More useless, fat tears roll down his face. Useless. Useless. Useless. Like a child crying over spilt milk. The halovian makes a small, choked noise and wraps his arms around himself, removing Gallagher’s hands from his being as he does so.
He should have known it was too good to be true.
And like everything else in his life, he cannot keep it.
It is time to wake from this euphoric dream.
He hears the closet door slam open before his mind registers that it is him.
He feels himself fleeing from the Floating Dream Palace, stumbling over nothing as he runs through winding corridors, before he realizes that he is running.
Getting lost in the building is no longer an issue.
If he cannot find the exit, he will simply toss himself out of a window to get to the outside.
It will definitely be less painful than how he feels right now.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
Gallagher bites inside of his cheek hard enough to make it bleed. Move damnit! Yet the power of Harmony continues to exert its absolute hold over him. He closes his eyes, and readies himself to call upon the power of the Enigmata.
Sunday.
Every bit of him screams. He has made a severe mistake.
Don’t leave.
Just as a large shadow starts gaining form in the hidden corners of the closet, a soft melodious voice cuts through the veiled whispers:
“Big brother?”
Beautiful, emerald colored eyes, second only to familiar dull gold, come into view as Robin peers into the closet—- its doors now hanging loose from its hinges and ajar because of the force Sunday applied when he fled. The hound immediately allows his power to dissipate and the whispers stop before they catch the songbird’s attention.
“Sir Gallagher?” She gasps in surprise at his frozen form, and is quickly joined by Siobhan who frowns at the state they have found him in.
“What the fuck.” He can almost hear his co-worker verbalize under her breath as she reaches in to pull him out, only to realize that he is immovable. She is polite enough to keep that side of her reigned in, in front of Robin.
The halovian quickly realizes the bind that he is in and proceeds to help him out of it.
“ Move. ”
Gallagher exhales a sigh of relief as he shakes off the remnants of Harmony inside his mind. He steps out of the closet, now able to fully utilize his body once more, and looks at the two ladies with utmost urgency.
“Where’s Sunday?”
“We should be asking you that. What happened here?” Siobhan gestures to the damaged door and Robin clasps her hands in front of her chest, equally concerned, “Where’s Mister Sunday?”
Gallagher does not dignify her with an answer, but quickly takes off in the only other direction Sunday could have gone.
He follows the winding corridor the best he can, and makes turns that are purely based on instinct and the lingering scent of omega in the air.
As hard as he tries, and as quickly he moves, it is not enough.
The frenzied alpha comes to a halt in front of the side door that he and Siobhan had once informed Sunday for the Lovers’ Festival. It is now left swinging open, exposing the inside of the building to the sight and damp chill of a heavy downpour outside.
On the rain soaked floor lies a singular, gold earring.
Now abandoned.
Just like its owner.
Notes:
This chapter is the wildest and quickest one I've written for this fic. The ideas came to me so abruptly and continuously that I was shocked at how easily this chapter wrote itself.
GALLAGHER!!!! DON'T DO IT GALLAGHER!!!!! /walter white screaming in a car meme.jpg
Please leave me kudos and comments if you liked the chapter ❤️ Comments especially, discussing what just happened. I'll be more than happy to answer them because this entire chapter has me so overwhelmed and excited as well.
Chapter 7: Interlude (If the world was ending)
Summary:
Gallagher pines, for the moon has eclipsed his sun.
"But if the world was ending
You'd come over, right?
You'd come over and you'd stay the night
Would you love me for the hell of it?
All our fears would be irrelevant
If the world was ending
You'd come over, right?
The sky'd be falling and I'd hold you tight
And there wouldn't be a reason why
We would even have to say goodbye."- If the World was Ending
Notes:
The title refers to both lyrics in "Die with a Smile" (Lady Gaga, Bruno Mars) and "If the World Was Ending" (JP Saxe).
Highly recommend listening to these two songs before/during this chapter for reasons.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The day Sunday ran out into the rain, Gallagher spent all night searching for him.
Plagued with thoughts that the emotionally distraught halovian might be shaking like a leaf, all drenched and alone in the unforgiving weather, Gallagher does not give up. Eventually, he becomes thoroughly soaked himself, but he presses on— convinced that it cannot be worse than the state Sunday must be in.
At dawn, a worried Siobhan finds him collapsed at the doorstep of the Floating Dream Palace.
He runs a high fever over the next few days; constantly coughing away and drifting in and out of sleep because the medication Siobhan got him.
On the third day, Gallagher wakes up to the feeling of someone patting his arm with a consistent rhythm, similar to how one might lull a child to sleep. In his drowsy state, he thinks he hears a voice sounding heartachingly like Sunday’s.
The voice is singing and it is beautiful.
His heart breaks into a million pieces at the lullaby but the pain does not cease at all. Turns out, when the heart shatters, the yearning simply increases a million-fold because now there are more individual pieces to feel the longing with.
Maybe it is a psychological effect— the melody makes him feel better.
“Sunday?”
The hound opens his eyes and gives a few involuntary coughs.
Familiar blue hair shuffles into view, but the eyes…
The eyes are not a tempting gold.
They blink at him and Gallagher does the same. Eventually his vision comes into focus enough for him to register bright emerald eyes peering at him. Gallagher recognizes them immediately, having only met their owner the other day.
“Miss Robin?”
The figure finally nods.
“What are you doing here?”
“I heard you collapsed.” She places a gentle hand on his forehead to gauge the severity of his illness, “It’s quite bad. You’re burning up.”
“I’m alright.”
The hound tries to sit up so they can converse, but his world spins and he collapses back onto the soft pillow. He turns to face her, apology evident in his expression and she gently gestures that she prefers him resting anyway.
“I heard from Siobhan that you ran out into the heavy rain and did not return till dawn.” The songstress frowns and shakes her head disapprovingly, “Now, why would you go and do that?”
“I wasn’t thinking.” Gallagher tries to laugh it off in front of Robin the best he can, “I’m not the brightest bulb in the room. I saw the open door and mistakenly assumed Sunday ran out into the storm.”
“I got worried.” He punctuates his explanation with a helpless sigh.
Next to him, Robin looks away and an expression of regret crosses her features.
“You’re so silly.” She whispers.
Gallagher laughs once more, a raspy and broken sound. His chest hurts, quite possibly from his cough.
Quite possibly from that comment.
She really is her brother’s sibling. Even the way she says it makes him think of Sunday.
“My brother did get caught in the rain, but the Dewlight Pavilion has informed me that he also got home safely that night.”
“That’s good to hear.”
Gallagher closes his eyes. He feels a headache coming and going, and the more time passes, the more difficult it is to stay awake. There is a shuffling sound next to him and Robin is now lightly touching his arm.
He flinches at the gesture— finding the sight of it unnatural and unwanted.
They may be twins, but ultimately Sunday and Robin are as different as night and day. Where one birdie has managed to accidentally make a cozy spot in his heart, he does not wish for any more of his kind to do the same.
But physically, he does not have the strength to push her away. So all he can do is shoot her a questioning look and wait for an explanation. Robin notices the discomfort in his eyes and moves a little closer in concern.
“I can tell that you are still feeling under the weather. Shall I provide some tuning for you?”
“Thank you for the kind offer, Miss Robin.” He turns her down, and takes the opportunity to politely remove her hand from his being. “I will ask Siobhan for a favor later.”
The rejection sends a clear signal to Robin that she has overstepped, and upon her realization of it, she blushes in embarrassment. Now will she leave him be? The hound feels like he might pass out at any given moment.
To his surprise, she pushes for the tuning again instead of backing off.
“Actually… the reason I’m here today is because Siobhan says that she ‘ won’t waste her power healing idiots who spend all night in a severe storm voluntarily ’ .” Robin grimaces, “...Her exact words, not mine.”
Yeah, that sounds about right. It explains why Siobhan has only provided him with medicine thus far, and it does explain why Robin, who is an acquaintance, is paying him a sick visit.
She must be quite furious.
“She says you could have died if she didn’t find you in time.”
Robin peers at him with bright emerald green eyes that seem to see through him. It reminds him of Sunday on the night of the Lovers’ Festival. Yet in this case, their eager and curious gaze only makes him uncomfortable since he sees her as a stranger.
“So Sir Gallagher, won’t you let me help? I promise it will be comfortable. You can nap while I work at it.”
A concept that she is evidently not familiar with.
Gallagher does not have the physical strength to continuously turn her down. Just do what you want , he wishes he could say. Instead, he sighs and chooses to shut her out visually by closing his eyes. She touches his arm once more, but he does not fault her this time because he knows that physical touch is required for tuning.
It must be the fever— he feels uncharacteristically vulnerable.
The moment Robin starts singing, he thinks that deep within the song he can hear Sunday’s voice again. It is the worst sort of fever induced hallucination.
He covers a large hand over his face, pained.
It is just wishful thinking. Why would Sunday be here?
He was the one who sent him away. “We should call it quits.” “We should have done this from the beginning.” Gallagher had said, as though he knew any better than Sunday about what they should do in such a difficult situation.
Yet what else could they have done?
Because as much as he knows the best way would be to communicate his concerns to Sunday, he cannot reveal the entire truth to him.
And judging from the expression on Sunday’s face that night, the man is keeping something from him as well.
Even if they continued their situationship, they will only create regret upon mountains of regret.
This is the best outcome.
So why does he continue to hold on to the thought of Sunday?
Gallagher hears the sound of the rain hailing against his windows from outside his room. The storm has not ceased since Sunday ran out three days ago. The gloom presses him firmly into his bed—- both his heart and body feel so heavy. Now with Robin singing next to him, he feels increasingly drowsy.
Just as he is about to fall into slumber, the awful crack of lightning outside dredges up a terrible memory:
He is standing at their dad’s grave with Misha. The sky cries relentlessly, raining without pause while Penacony grieves. Gallagher allows himself to be drenched—- all thoughts of shielding himself with an umbrella are forgotten, as he dissociates in front of the funeral procession. From this day forth, they are orphans.
Misha, a splitting image of their dad, lays his favorite red carnations on his casket. His little brother is crying miserably.
And Gallagher cannot help but wonder if part of this is his fault.
“Dad, have you ever hated me for looking so much like our father?”
If he had looked more like their dad, like Misha does, perhaps it would have softened the blow. Perhaps there would have been space for his dad to heal and move on.
After the funeral, he eventually goes on to disappoint his dad further by not involving himself with the Penacony his dad loves dearly.
He runs away. Just like his father did from their family.
“Venus, quick! Look!”
Siobhan looks up from the first floor’s bar countertop to see the young girls of the Floating Dream Palace gathering at its glass windows. The bunch are eagerly craning their necks; peering out curiously to catch a glimpse of something. As more of the ladies gather, the noise coming from the area near the windows increases exponentially.
Gaia, the most excited and biggest offender of the bunch, can be seen dragging her sister to the front.
In most cases, Siobhan would leave them be and allow the girls to spend their leisure time in a manner that pleases them. She will watch over them, but not partake in the activities they are engaging in.
However, as Gaia continues to drag an uninterested Venus around, Siobhan thinks she hears the name ‘Sunday’ leave her lips.
And that is how she ends up at the glass windows, peering out as well. Her face grim with a stiff expression of concern for what she is about to see.
Right across the street, where a nice little cafe stands, Sunday is affectionately holding the hand of an unknown omega. He is the epitome of a perfect gentleman as he leads the male omega to his seat. The omega, very enamored and delighted to spend time with him, blushes as Sunday helps with pushing his seat in when they settle down.
“I can’t believe it! Oh gosh!” Gaia squeals as she watches on with everybody else.
“Oh Sunday is so handsome! And that must be his Fiance! They look so perfect together.”
Venus sighs— a gesture that is very unlike her. It is clear that her thoughts are occupied elsewhere. Siobhan gives her a small smile and pinches her cheek softly. This catches her attention, and she finally pouts.
“It is far too beautiful a day for you to look so troubled. Are you not interested in Sunday?”
The young girl watches the two people in the distance. A picturesque view of harmonious partnership.
Her lower lip trembles.
“I don’t really care.” Siobhan can tell that Sunday and his fiance can implode now for all it matters and the girl will feel the same.
“Master is still really sick. It is so unlike him. They say idiots don’t catch colds, and it is true.”
Venus tilts her head up, shifting her gaze to Siobhan. The normally sassy girl who taunts them is now gone and in her place is a scared little one instead. Her eyes gloss over with what looks suspiciously like tears.
Yet she does not cry.
“So why is he taking so long to get better?”
Siobhan’s heart softens at the sight.
She pulls Venus in for a side-hug; keeping it as subtle as possible because she knows that the girl would become angry if the others were to notice her moment of weakness.
Beside them, Gaia is oblivious to everything— a blessing because it is precisely this aspect of her personality that keeps her happy and positive all the time. Her obliviousness suits her sister well, because now Venus can receive Siobhan’s silent comfort without feeling exposed to the other girls’ patronizing gazes.
The young girl’s affection and loyalty towards Gallagher surprises Siobhan. And whilst she does not take pleasure in seeing Venus looking so distraught, she is comforted by the realization that Gallagher is more beloved than he often thinks he is, in the establishment.
At least, enough for the people he has saved to feel concern regarding his well being.
Across the street, Sunday gives his fiance a controlled and charming smile. He wipes away remnants of cream stuck to his cheek as they take pleasure in consuming two different flavored slices of cake.
It is a lovely, sunny day.
Very unlike the night where something clearly happened between Gallagher and him; leaving them both worse for wear.
“Master!”
Venus’ voice cuts through her thoughts and Siobhan whips around to find a struggling Gallagher attempting to drag his feverish body towards the main door. The look in his eyes is unmistakable, and she becomes keenly aware of his intentions at once.
She rushes over and blocks the entrance with her smaller self.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
Gallagher barely seems to register her presence. His gaze remains transfixed; staring into the distance where Sunday is across the street. Panting heavily from exertion, he does not spare her a glance as he replies.
“He’s there right now.” He murmurs, a man obsessed.
Siobhan scowls deeply. She threateningly bares her fangs for once.
“Turn back right now and head to bed.”
Aside, the girls have noticed the commotion and are starting to cower. All huddled up in a group, they watch on confused and terrified because Siobhan rarely loses her temper. It is even rarer to see her stare down another person using her alpha traits.
The heads of the establishment are suddenly locking horns with each other and this sets off an atmosphere of unease.
Only Venus stands tall through the tension. Concerned, she tries to go to Gallagher but is held back by her sister Gaia.
“Siobhan, he’s right there.” The hound pleads. He finally acknowledges her, but his gaze is unsteady and he looks as if he is about to pass out.
“You’ve barely held on and had to receive tuning that day!”
“Please.”
“He is simply doing what is expected of him since the beginning.” She points out as cruelly as she can, in hopes that Gallagher will snap out of it, “And none of that concerns you now.”
At that last statement, the light leaves Gallagher’s eyes. Crestfallen, the strength leaves his body and he crumples to the ground like a folded piece of paper. He knows that she is right. They both know that this is what is best for him, and for Sunday too.
Before he passes out and injures himself, Venus catches him in her arms and cradles him worriedly.
She exchanges a look with Siobhan.
“Everybody, leave now!” The older woman yells in frustration as she dismisses the lot of them, “And nobody is to mention anything about today.”
One by one, the girls scurry off quickly while nodding; some throwing concerned glances at the unconscious Gallagher who lies unmoving in Venus’ arms. Gaia chooses to stay with her sister, and moves to kneel down beside her instead. She silently offers her help to move Gallagher back to his room and Venus nods gratefully.
At the sight of his worn out state, Venus is ultimately unable to refrain from shedding a tear. She hugs him close and rests her chin atop his forehead.
Siobhan runs a hand through her hair exasperatedly.
Of all the types of couples they can be, why are they the couple that breaks up and makes it everybody else’s problem?
Were they even dating in the first place?
She does not know the extent of Sunday and Gallagher’s relationship. Yet she now wishes they had refused Sunday’s request all those weeks ago. Clearly, someone is not ready for all the responsibility.
If she had known her colleague would be such an absolute fool…
She gives a tired sigh and seethes quietly.
Venus and Gaia barely succeed in lifting Gallagher together— staggering to their feet as they do so. Not wanting the girls to injure themselves, Siobhan gestures for Gaia to vacate her spot under his arms for her, and takes over with ease. With her strength as an alpha, the three ladies drag him back to his room for a much needed rest.
After passing out in front of at least a third of the Floating Dream Palace, Gallagher sleeps through his illness for another full day before eventually waking. When he is finally conscious, he withdraws into himself and barely speaks a word to anybody; constantly deep in thought.
Even eating seems to be a chore for him now. Siobhan will bring him his meals on time and he will only consume an average of one meal per day.
As a result, the road to full recovery for him is slow.
Right as Siobhan is about to tell him to get his act together, Venus breaks down first. Upon seeing the normally prideful Venus bursting into tears at the sight of him wasting away, Gallagher finally relents and starts eating properly.
The relief everybody feels is palpable.
She leaves the job of nursing Gallagher to Venus, and focuses on keeping the Floating Dream Palace functioning on her own. Everybody relies on her more in moments like this.
“You’re strong” , she remembers Sunday commenting.
“I have to be.” She murmurs in reply once more.
As long as she and Gallagher hold up, the residents of the establishment will never have to exhibit any of the independence she prefers for them to have. The warmth of a teary-eyed Venus leaning against her side is still fresh on her mind.
She finds it so ironic.
Gallagher is the one who usually coddles them more, but turns out that she is the one who finds it more difficult to let go when push comes to shove. She wants them to be independent, yet prays that there will never be a day where their mettle is truly tested.
Another week passes with not much trouble.
They slowly but surely get back on their feet and revert back to familiar schedules— both Gallagher and the Floating Dream Palace.
Unwilling to burn out while Gallagher is still recovering, Siobhan gets as much rest as she can whenever possible. At times, her office functions as a second bedroom for her to catch a quick nap between shifts; other times, she takes a moment of solitude to clear all incoming administrative work.
She is alone in her office when a message arrives:
“Dear Siobhan, I hope this message finds you well. I deeply regret my shameful and sudden departure the other day, yet I find myself in need of your assistance once more. Not as the head of the Oak Family, but simply as Sunday.”
Her heart sinks as she finishes reading the request.
Sunday will be visiting the Floating Dream Palace again.
And once again, he is requesting for an alpha to accompany him—
An alpha that is not their resident bartender.
Sunday arrives at the familiar establishment once more, and as always, exactly on time. It has been two weeks since he left the once beloved place in a desperate hurry. The building looks exactly the same as it always does; untouched by time and by his grief.
Unsurprisingly, the one who welcomes him back is the head of the Floating Dream Palace.
Siobhan begins to bow, and he raises a hand briefly to stop her.
“It is unnecessary between us from now on.”
She straightens her posture and casts him an indiscernible look. The alpha remains silent but she does shift her gaze to the two bodyguards behind him. Sunday understands her unspoken question. After all, he has not been accompanied since his first appearance in the Floating Dream Palace.
“They will leave when the alpha you’ve chosen meets me here. I prefer to be guided to the room directly by him.”
“....without any interference.” He finishes.
And judging from the woman’s expression, she is deeply aware of what he means.
Siobhan claps, and a tall, incredibly handsome man appears from behind her. The new alpha is as tall as Gallagher, but otherwise displays traits that are completely opposite of the hound. His hair is silver like the coldest moonlight and his eyes are a stunning blue. And unlike Gallagher’s bulky frame, this alpha has an obvious sleeper build instead— an initially unassuming thin frame that belies actual strength.
In terms of genetic traits, Sunday sees no flaws in this new alpha. Siobhan has outdone herself.
“Introduce yourself to Mister Sunday.”
The alpha stops in front of him; eyelashes long and beautiful, framing a set of almost inhumanly bright eyes.
“Rhoeas. My name is Rhoeas.”
Sunday lets out a small involuntary chuckle as a response.
“ Papaver Rhoeas ? The poppy flower?”
The silver haired man nods, “To sleep and forget.”
“No.” The halovian casts Siobhan a knowing look, “Your particular species is the one that remembers.”
The head of the Floating Dream Palace avoids his gaze. Perhaps feeling guilty about being exposed by Sunday so easily. He wishes he can tell her that she need not feel terrible about this. In fact, this turn of events somewhat pleases him.
“You’re perfect.” The halovian says to Rhoeas as he offers his hand, “Won’t you take me to our room, Rhoeas?”
The alpha nods and without hesitation, takes Sunday’s smaller hand in his.
Behind him, the two bodyguards relax and each take a step back. Siobhan does not move from her spot either, and allows Rhoeas to do his job of guiding Sunday to their room.
Everything is going smoothly.
They call for a lift— the very same one that Siobhan put him in, the first time he arrived at the Floating Dream Palace.
It pings to a stop in front of the two of them, and the doors open.
Perhaps a little too smoothly. Sunday thinks wistfully as he gazes into a familiar pair of brown eyes, now present in front of him.
Gallagher pauses at the sight of Sunday with his hand held tightly by another alpha. The halovian makes no move to acknowledge him or explain himself. After all, why should he? Beside him, his new silver haired alpha tenses slightly.
“Rhoeas.” Sunday calls out to remind him of his job.
“Please excuse us, sir.” The alpha finally addresses Gallagher who is still standing motionless in the middle of the lift. He places a foot by its doors so that they will remain open long enough for the hound to exit and for Sunday to enter.
Gallagher does not move. He continues to stare at Sunday with a look of hurt on his face.
Sunday sighs.
“Let’s just take another lift.”
As he tugs at Rhoeas’ hand and turns to leave, he feels another larger hand come up, grasping tightly onto his wrist. Sunday does not have to turn to know who it belongs to. In the unforgettable nights they have spent together, these hands have explored every part of his body, and have long since been carved into his being.
“Sunday.” The hound begs.
His heart twists painfully in his chest. Memories of when Gallagher called their partnership off flood his mind. He was way too tightly strung back then to properly consider the rationality behind it. But now he understands.
This is how it should have been from the start.
Find a nice alpha he has no affection for; one that is pleasant enough to endure, and get the deed done.
Their first mistake was Sunday choosing someone that he could actually grow fond of.
“Come on, let’s talk. Please.”
“No.” Sunday responds firmly, “There is nothing left to say.”
He lets go of Rhoeas’ hand and wrenches himself free of Gallagher’s. The halovian starts walking away, and he can see in the distance, Siobhan’s shocked expression and the two bodyguards approaching menacingly.
“ Sunday. ”
Sunday takes a deep breath.
He really likes the sound of his name, coming from Gallagher’s lips.
“Restrain him.” Sunday hears himself say as he comes to a stop in front of the two bodyguards. They move past him and he knows, without turning around, that the hound is being grabbed. There are sounds of a small struggle but Gallagher does not make things too difficult for his bodyguards.
After all, what else can he do even if he did break free of them?
Would that change anything between them?
It is all Sunday’s fault. So now he will fix everything.
From behind him, Gallagher lets out a grunt of exertion as he starts attempting to resist with more strength. Siobhan moves forward in concern, watching as the bodyguards subdue him by pressing his head into the cold ground.
A hand comes forward to grasp Sunday’s once more.
This hand is cold and foreign.
“Mister Sunday.” Rhoeas speaks up, slightly apologetic, and Sunday gives him a small smile.
“I’m exhausted. Shall we?”
He knows, as they walk away, that Gallagher is watching the way Rhoeas slips an arm around his waist. He knows that the hound will burn the sight of Sunday’s side profile looking up at the new alpha into his mind; will not miss the way the corners of his mouth turn upwards in a display of false yet hopefully believable affection.
Sunday keeps the act up.
All the way till the doors of the second lift close, and they are out of sight.
With their master gone, the bodyguards finally let Gallagher go. And as per Sunday’s instructions, begin to leave the building.
Siobhan watches their huge frames exit the main doors of the Floating Dream Palace with some relief. These men represent the Oak Family, but not necessarily Sunday. And having them stomp around the establishment like they are in charge is simply unpleasant. It is no wonder Sunday opts to send them off as soon as he can.
On the floor, Gallagher lies motionless like a thoroughly beaten stray.
Siobhan kneels next to him and places a hand on his arm.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Would it have changed anything?” She reminds him, tone apologetic and sorrowful, “He specifically stated in his message that he doesn’t want to see you.”
Gallagher closes his eyes and wills for the floor of the Floating Dream Palace to swallow him whole. He soaks himself in the feeling of having ruined everything. She is right, as always. If Sunday does not wish to see him, then what good will talking do for the both of them?
“Siobhan.”
“Yes?”
“I think there’s something wrong with me.”
For once, she does not chide or use any form of tough love on him. Instead, she bends over and wraps his shoulder in a hug.
“It’s the right thing to do. But I can’t seem to let him go.”
He can feel her lower lip tremble, as if she knows why. But his co-worker responds with silence; unwilling to provide him with the answer.
“You have to try.” She rubs his muscular arm encouragingly, “He will be here for the next few days as well. If it gets too much, you can hide away in your room. I will take care of everything else.”
True to her word, Sunday arrives at the Floating Dream Palace the next day. And the day after as well.
A consecutive series of visits that Gallagher has never had the privilege to have.
Also true to her word, Siobhan supports the hound through the entire fiasco. She takes over whenever he is overwhelmed, but to his credit, he refrains from burdening her as much as he can by busying himself with his work.
Sometimes, when he is busy tending to the bar, he thinks he sees Sunday walk past the door to the lounge.
The first time it happens, his heart does a tragic flip in his chest.
The second time, Gallagher realizes that he ends up keeping his eyes trained on the door long after Sunday has disappeared, as though hoping that the halovian will walk past once more.
He leaves the door open ever since.
On the fifth night of Sunday’s visits to their establishment, Gallagher finally breaks down. Every day is a constant struggle to get the thought of Rhoeas holding Sunday out of his mind. He feels like he is being driven mad by the thought of his omega showing the sides of him that belong only to him, to someone else.
That’s right. Sunday is his omega. Only his.
In a trance, he pops open the bottle of Ut Somnium . And proceeds to consume the whisky like one would with a common soda drink.
Within an hour, the exquisitely crafted glass bottle is nearly empty.
With nobody to share his sorrows and Sunday’s infinitely expensive drink with, Gallagher indulges in how light and dizzy he starts to feel. He sways, now happier, and places his head down on the wooden countertop.
“You’re going to hurt yourself like this.” A soft melodious voice rings out above him.
The hound lifts his head and blinks blearily. ( “Are you still angry?” The voice seems to whisper in his mind.) This feels awfully familiar.
The figure above him moves just close enough for him to recognize them in his wasted state.
“Oh… It’s you, Miss Robin.”
And once more, he is disappointed.
She smiles, somewhat sorrowfully, “Were you expecting someone else?”
Gallagher instantly thinks of Sunday who is spending the night with Rhoeas once more and gives her a small wave of his hand.
“Not really.”
He shakily pulls out a whisky glass from under the countertop and offers the drink to her. Robin eyes the Ut Somnium that is currently being clenched tightly in Gallagher’s hand and discreetly rests her hands over her abdomen.
“No thank you. I’ve been advised to avoid alcohol.”
Gallagher nods sagely and puts away the empty glass cup, “I’ve heard it’s not good for your vocal chords, yeah. Very wise.”
She takes a seat in front of him and does not seem bothered by the fact that he forgets to offer her alternative beverages or at the very least, a glass of water.
“How have you been feeling since the last time we’ve met? Do you require more tuning?”
The hound smiles at her, all dizzy yet still charming, and gives another small dismissive wave of his hand. “I’m all better. See? No need to waste your power.”
“In fact,” He slurs a little as he points at her, “I’m surprised someone like you would go around providing tuning for strangers. Even Siobhan tends to hold back on using tuning in general.”
Sunday has also never used his powers in front of him.
Well, with the exception of that fateful day.
His mood sours at the thought of Sunday binding him with the power of the Harmony, and at how helpless he was to stop him from leaving or explaining himself. Frowning, he begins studying the countertop persistently. As though the answers to his current problems can be found mysteriously carved into wood.
“You’re not a stranger.”
Gallagher’s eyes flick back to Robin who is sitting calmly on the high stool; her emerald colored eyes with a gaze so pure that he feels unworthy being on the receiving end of it.
“I don’t know why things turned out the way they did. But I know that you made my big brother the happiest he’s ever been in that small period of time.”
The alpha bursts out laughing and pours himself another glass of the whisky.
“Yeah? I find that difficult to imagine. All we had was something superficial after all.”
He presents a toast to the troubled looking songstress…
…and downs the whisky in one shot.
The alcohol burns as it travels down his throat. The pain pleases him greatly, and he thinks to himself: If he is lucky, perhaps alcohol poisoning will also take him by the time the sun rises on his decrepit excuse of a body.
“You need to slow down.” She urges him once more.
“I’m sorry, missy. I’m afraid I lied.”
“Gallagher—” Robin catches herself in time and repeats it correctly the second time, “Sir Gallagher.”
The hound does not notice the obvious mistake; too caught up in his own, and the rush of the alcohol in his system. He raises the empty glass and shakes it to and fro obsessively, in a bid to concentrate.
“I don’t know Sunday as well as I’ve led you to believe.”
“For example, his singing. You’re still the only one who has ever heard it.”
He feels like he is burning alive— by the growing warmth of the alcohol, and the fact that he does not know, and is not entitled to know, every single aspect of Sunday’s life.
And why is he even telling all of this to an unfamiliar Robin? The lack of logic in everything and anything he is doing frustrates him.
Desperately wanting to be alone, Gallagher stands to make his way back to his room. He does not feel bad that he is being discourteous to Robin as he excuses himself, still dragging the bottle of Ut Somnium with him over the countertop.
After all, he is already filled with much bigger regrets.
The bottle makes a grating and unpleasant sound over the meticulously lacquered wood. Gallagher does not know it now, but he will be extremely displeased with himself for doing so in the morning. In fact, this lackadaisical behavior might be worse than impulsively downing the entire bottle of expensive whisky in the first place.
And the tragedies do not stop there, because right as he exits from behind the bar, he momentarily trips on his own feet and Robin rushes forward to catch him.
He falls into her arms and his face lands right over her shoulder, burying itself into her long blue tresses.
As he blinks and tries to orientate himself, he notices that a nice smell is coming off her.
A very nostalgic, nice scent.
Sunday? His heart calls, and he pulls back to confirm his thoughts. Emerald eyes blink back at him in shock. No, the person in front of him is still Robin. She flushes a bright shade of red, looking like a deer caught in the headlights.
Maybe Sunday’s scent rubbed itself off on her when they were together earlier. Maybe twins just have similar scents.
The songstress does not say anything, but merely holds him steady and waits for him to say something. Anything.
“Sorry.” He murmurs, and pushes himself off her, “I’m just gonna… I think if you don’t mind, just leave me in the large chair there. I need to get some shut eye.”
Gallagher tosses himself into the large armchair nearby and relinquishes the bottle of Ut Somnium to the floor next to it. He will worry about cleaning up later.
This whisky really is quite strong.
As his thoughts slow, he cannot help but ponder about how something feels off ever since Robin’s appearance in the lounge. There is a nagging, instinctive feeling like there is something extremely obvious that he is not noticing.
Too bad for Gallagher though, there will not be enough time for him to figure it out.
Because within moments, sleep takes him.
Robin kneels next to him by the chair and tilts her head. With unexpected tenderness and accustomed intimacy, she pushes away the messy brown bangs that are covering Gallagher’s sleeping face.
“You really aren’t the brightest bulb in the room.”
She shifts another offending strand to the side and steadily works to uncover his unshaven face. Rough stubble dots the entire lower half of his normally handsome visage, and her nose crinkles at the strong smell of whisky now contaminating his breath. The hound is despairingly messy and all disheveled, more so than usual, but her heart still sings with joy at the sight of him.
She pauses, observing the rise and fall of his chest to ensure that he is definitely deep in sleep.
When she is certain, the songbird moves closer to take in an intimate view of the person she likes so much.
Silly dog .
Closing her eyes, she leans in to kiss him.
Slender, gloved fingers glide over his rough jawline as she presses their lips firmly together. They part, and she steals another to fulfill her own yearning.
“Don’t you get it? You’ve already heard my singing.”
Like shredded paper dispersing into the air, the guise of the Harmony falls apart.
Sunday laces both his and his hound’s fingers together and kisses them.
He drapes himself over Gallagher’s lap and closes his eyes; humming a melody to begin tuning for the man. After all, he can’t have him actually dying from alcohol poisoning now. Not after making all that effort to save him from his fever in the previous week.
The halovian’s halo thrums with power and its bright light fills the room.
Gallagher stirs, but does not wake. He is currently being lulled into a pleasant dream by Sunday’s singing. In his dream, perhaps he is with the one that will make him happy, sharing a lifetime of bliss. Far, far away from their roles in Penacony— away from the mess Sunday has created for the both of them.
He stops singing for a moment and curls up against Gallagher’s comforting and large hand.
“I’m sorry.” Sunday tears up slightly as he murmurs, “I know you don’t want this.”
“But just for tonight, won’t you let me stay by your side?”
The hound does not respond.
Yet when Sunday resumes singing, he thinks he feels Gallagher’s large hand hold him tighter.
Ever so subtly, it curls against his own…
…and does not let go until the morning comes.
Notes:
🙃 Surely I won't be so cruel as to make it so that Sunday's firstborn isn't Gallagher's right...? Surely...? 🙃
You all think his firstborn is Alouette, but what if... 🙂
Aside, I'm thinking of potentially releasing another side fic (eg. like 'Trouble comes in pairs') for this AU. Mainly to thank all of you now that we're insanely close to 1300 kudos. It has been such an insane journey that began with a weird fever dream about contract baby-making between Sunday and Gallagher. 😂 Honestly I just wanted to write about intense pining with lovemaking back then.
I wish I can set up polls in AO3 but alas...
So please vote for one of the following below, through commenting:
1) Pregnancy+Birth fic (story involving the eventual birth of Alouette OR Altair+Wolfram OR another sibling idk galladay seems like the kind to go at it like bunnies)
2) Pregnancy fic only (most likely fluff)
3) AU of this AU (stuff that is generally not possible for the setting of this fic. Like if you want some omegaverse galladay fluff. eg. In another lifetime, theme park date)
4) Surprise me! (author's choice)The voting will close whenever I upload the next chapter. So comment to vote as soon as you can!
Thank you for reading ❤️ Please leave me kudos and comments if you liked the chapter ❤️ Comments especially bring me so so much joy.
Chapter 8: 4th Meeting (All or Nothing)
Summary:
Aventurine enters the fray while Gallagher and Sunday has yet to figure out how to proceed with their awkward relationship.
Tasked by the IPC to secure an important business venture in Penacony, he accurately turns his sights to Gallagher whom he wants to use as a bargaining chip against Sunday.
As the hound despairs over the continuously worsening situation, Aventurine offers him some terrible advice: sometimes the best way to solve a problem is to create an even bigger problem.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
In Penacony’s famous grand hotel, The Reverie, a handsome man dressed in dark green agonizes.
He sips on the special alcoholic beverage prepared by the hotel lounge’s bar and makes a face of disdain. Nasty. Nothing is going well today.
Thankfully, his phone finally rings— perhaps it is a new victim volunteering for the privilege of hearing him rant.
“Dear, dear Director Topaz! You’re just in time.”
Without even hearing her reply, he knows that she is rolling her eyes in response.
“Aventurine.” She acknowledges, “I’m incredibly sorry to hear that I am.”
“Don’t be! I’m superbly pleased with this check-in. It is the best thing that has happened to me all day.”
“I take it that things are not going well? Should I be informing Miss Jade?”
At the sound of that name, his expression gradually turns serious, “Everything’s fine. As expected, really. If this job were so easy, the IPC wouldn’t bother posting me to this luxurious and fantastical city.” Jade is a particular person that he wishes to not offend. If she were to find out that his work in Penacony is not going too well…
Aventurine shudders. That would be…for a lack of better words, Disastrous . With a capital D.
Topaz laughs at that indirect admission. The worst sort of response.
“I knew it. Your inability to negotiate something as simple as a business deal precedes you.”
“Oh come on, what’s life with a few setbacks? Besides, you know me. I’ve never lost a bet.” He nervously plays with a coin between his fingers, rolling them to and fro with precision, solely based on muscle memory.
“Details, now.” Topaz accurately sees through his flashy talk and smokescreen, and though amused, does not bother with indulging him further.
Aventurine sighs. It is always about business with his workaholic colleagues.
He throws a look at the bartender who is busy cleaning glasses on the far end of the countertop, and once he is certain that the man is out of earshot, he elucidates.
“To put it bluntly, the Elder of the Oak Family, Gopher Wood, is not interested in making a deal with us. He is aware that giving us a monopoly over the construction materials or a new form of energy for Penacony would mean that the IPC will essentially own the city. After all, Penacony would be reliant on our supply.”
“Obviously. But the one in charge now is Sunday, his adopted son.”
“That’s right. The most handsome man in all of Penacony, they say. And before you ask: yes, the rumors are not exaggerated. Sunday is as peerlessly beautiful as rumored, and equally cold.” Aventurine pretends to swoon a little while he stirs the terrible tasting drink in front of him, pretending as if Topaz is able to visually perceive him at this very moment.
For all he knows, she might just be.
“You sound genuinely impressed.”
“I am! Because Sunday is very aware of what the IPC wants as well. Like father, like son. An alpha of that caliber and with those looks? Anybody would salivate.”
He hears the smile in Topaz’s voice through the next sentence.
“Careful. Wouldn’t want your boyfriend to hear that you’re complimenting another alpha.”
A threat.
Aventurine amuses her, but she does not forget to tighten the leash as she rewards him. He instinctively reaches for the scent gland at the back of his neck, and turns his face to sniff his wrist.
The scent is gradually fading, but as of now, he still smells like the Doctor.
“Which is why your call is blessedly in time, the IPC’s beautiful, kind-hearted Director Topaz. There is something I need to get done and I require your assistance.”
“That depends on what it is. I have enough work as it is on my plate and if this results in overtime for me, you will incur a debt.”
“It’s nothing difficult!” Aventurine reassures her, all smiles and performative cordialness. He ignores her quips and jabs, knowing fully well that going along with the conversational flow of an IPC director is the worst thing one can do.
“There is an investigation I need to undertake. And I can already see that it will potentially take me to unexpected places.”
The man shrugs; he does not really care about how dangerous the situation might get or what he will have to offer in order to triumph over it. What he really cares about, comes next.
“The methods in which I work often displeases him. I don’t want to sleep on the couch for another night.”
“Dear, dear Director Topaz.” Aventurine pleads with honeyed words, “Do keep this a secret from Ratio, won’t you?”
There is a brief pause as Topaz mulls over his words.
“...I’ll consider it.”
The phone line cuts off, and Aventurine places his phone face down on the bar’s countertop in satisfaction. The man flips open a piece of paper with a crudely written message inside:
Sunday often visits an establishment.
The Floating Dream Palace in the red light district.
He sets the piece of paper alight with a candle nearby.
If convincing Sunday is not a viable way to solve the problem, then why not force him to accept the resolution the IPC wants? It is not really blackmail. Just some intelligence gathering so that he sounds more persuasive when they have a second, more productive meeting.
After all, there are no ‘forever enemies’ or friends— only unending benefits. In the universe, a single truth stands supreme in negotiations: What does one stand to gain or lose from this?
“As I said, it was in your best interest to have accepted my offer earlier, Mister Sunday.” he mutters to himself with a smile.
Aventurine stands; his drink unfinished. He puts down a surprisingly large tip on the table for the bartender who (bless his heart) probably tried really hard to make the nasty tasting drink. Please use this for further mixology classes, or a career change. Whichever pleases you the most.
He places a fedora on his head and his usual gold glasses with rose-tinted lenses. The man knows he looks perfect. Irresistible; confident. Void of weaknesses.
Just the way he likes it.
He checks the gaudy looking gold watch on his wrist— it is still early in the day, but Aventurine thinks that he can do with a second round of drinking.
If an establishment can satisfy the usually difficult Sunday, surely it will bring him much joy as well?
As he walks away, Aventurine flips a coin.
Heads . He says in his mind as the coin falls. Expertly, he catches it on the back of his left hand by slapping his right hand over the expanse of flesh.
He does not hesitate to reveal the result.
And as always, he wins the coin flip.
All or Nothing. Aventurine laughs as he thinks of his usual mantra, best said while dancing on the knife’s edge.
And I am always the final winner.
Gallagher wakes with a start in a large armchair.
“Ow…” He sits upright, and the sudden movement has him gripping his head as his world spins, “Aeons… What did I do last night?”
The hound racks his brain for the answer.
Right. Sunday was in the Floating Dream Palace again; visiting Rhoeas. The thought of it just felt like it was too much for one night and he drowns his sorrows using the bottle Ut Somnium .
He glances to the side of the chair where he vaguely remembers leaving the beautiful glass bottle. It stands forlornly; thoroughly emptied with the exception of a few drops at the bottom. The poor bottle never stood a chance.
To make matters worse, he is quite sure that Robin had found him drinking right before he collapsed. Gallagher was so wasted then, that he forgot all decorum and failed to offer her an alternative drink when she refused the alcohol. Heck, he barely remembers saying goodnight to her (he did not just wave her off, did he?), but he definitely remembers tripping and falling onto her.
Gallagher rests his elbows on his thighs and puts his head in his hands. He curls in on himself and groans.
Utter despair.
Sunday will be so incensed if he finds out that Gallagher had treated his most beloved sister with such extreme discourtesy.
Will he? Gallagher’s mind backtracks as it mulls over the question. Will Sunday really feel bothered by how a lowly bartender treats his sister now that they are done?
A clean break. No partnership, no situationship, and certainly no relationship to speak of.
He slumps back into the large armchair. For once, he is glad that they invested in such an expensive piece of furniture. Its velvety cushioning is the only form of support he has had since last night.
Gallagher continues ruminating as his head slowly clears up. The chair and Ut Somnium must be magic, because strangely enough, this is the most clear headed he has felt for an entire span of two weeks. Sure, the thought of Sunday still hurts, but he definitely feels more like himself now.
“So Sir Gallagher, won’t you let me help? I promise it will be comfortable. You can nap while I work at it.”
The memory of Robin performing tuning for his feverish self floods his mind.
“I really ought to thank her at least.” He mutters, standing up.
The hound checks the clock on the wall. 7am. Still a lot of time to wash up, grab a gift and start preparing the lounge for the evening to night shift.
“Come on, Gallagher. Get it together. You can do it.”
Rubbing his face in exhaustion with one large hand, he moves to keep the empty bottle of Ut Somnium behind the counter. The man cannot bear to throw it away just yet. Besides, it might be good for something later on.
He abruptly pauses.
At the small exit of the bar, where one moves in and out to get behind the counter, a distinctly colored feather sits silently against black flooring.
Gallagher picks it up by the spine and turns it over and back a few times.
It is a blueish-white feather.
This puzzles him, but his breath catches in his throat anyway.
Aren’t Miss Robin’s feathers white with purple gradients?
It feels like he is so close to unraveling the truth of something. Yet he relents at the last moment and chalks it up to his irrational pining of two weeks. It cannot be. Just impossible.
Still, he tucks it away in his vest for now. In the event that it belongs to who he hopes it to be, the feather may very well be the last thing he will ever have of him.
Occupied with thoughts, the hound washes out the empty bottle of Ut Somnium and sets it out to dry. He lifts his head and fixes his gaze on the now closed lounge door. (Did he do that last night?)
Only the Aeons know what he will give in order to see a familiar figure walk past those doors once more.
His heart blooms with desperate longing. Gallagher wishes that Sunday will visit the Floating Dream Palace later.
He prays that he does, but he also prays that he does not.
The hound finishes all the errands he set out to do by early evening: he looks fresh; there are now blue roses in a bouquet, propped up against the wall, next to the empty bottle of Ut Somnium, and the lounge has been cleaned thoroughly.
Gallagher stares at the blue roses helplessly.
There is no way he will be able to guess Robin’s favorite flower, so he went with the next best alternative instead: her brother’s favorite flowers. Is this line of thinking flawed? Perhaps. After all, he is the one who clearly mentioned to himself that the siblings are different like night and day.
But blue roses are reasonably more special than red roses, and she probably receives the latter very often during her performances.
Besides, it matches her hair, doesn’t it?
No point in agonizing over it further. There is no time to get more flowers as his shift is starting soon. And who knows when Robin will drop by once more.
As if right on cue, a man walks through the open doors of the VIP lounge. Stylishly flamboyant and confident, he sits down on a high stool in front of Gallagher and peers at him through rose-tinted lenses. The customer’s gaze is all-consuming, but it reminds Gallagher of someone he knows so it does not faze him even the slightest bit.
“They tell me that this is the VIP lounge. But why is it empty? Is it so exclusive that nobody ever comes here?”
The hound smiles at the customer as a form of welcome and props himself up with his hands on the counter, arms straightened, to await orders.
“You’re a tad bit earlier than our usual crowd, dear customer.”
The man chuckles and begins playing with a coin minted in a custom design. Gallagher’s eyes narrow in slight alarm— where did the coin come from? He does not recall seeing the customer retrieve it from a pocket or bag.
“Please, call me Aventurine.”
“The name’s Gallagher.”
“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Gallagher.”
Aventurine continues smiling disarmingly and reaches out a hand to shake his. Gallagher obliges out of courtesy and notes how everything about this man, from his hand to his height, is noticeably smaller than the usual male customers.
Smaller than Sunday too. A small voice adds. He mentally waves it away with some frustration.
“Boy, you’re huge aren’t you? Just like the Doctor. Maybe more so.” The man comments in fascination as he stares at the difference in their hand sizes, “Just what exactly are they feeding alphas in this place?”
Gallagher releases his grip on the handshake and thankfully, Aventurine does the same.
“Soulglad, probably.” The hound jokes with a shrug.
“A man with humor. I like you.”
Aventurine winks and the smile on his face finally turns genuine.
“Now Gallagher,” he starts pleading with a whining tone, “I’ve had such a long, long week. Please save me. I need a good drink.”
He catches a nice scent in the air.
Not even going to bother hiding your secondary gender huh? This soothes Gallagher’s inner alpha and he knows exactly why: alphas do not instinctively recognize omegas as a threat. Which is quite possibly the worst evolutionary trait they can develop because omegas like Sunday and this one in front of him are definitely dangerous.
Aventurine knows that as well. Years of meeting and reading customers has taught Gallagher that the only reason he willingly tells others that he is an omega is to gain an advantage. For alphas, the knowledge lulls them into a false sense of security. And for people in general, his honesty helps him project an image of innocence and trustworthiness.
This level of awareness and craftiness is rare.
He should not let his guard down.
Under his customer’s watchful eye, Gallagher gets to work.
Using the most unpredictable ingredients, he mixes up an ‘Imagined Sunrise’. The sunset colored drink is mainly sweet, with a hidden bitter aftertaste. Very much how he imagines Aventurine’s personality to be.
He does not miss the way Aventurine eyes the red and yellow hues swirling in the large wine glass with some fondness. The drink evidently reminds him of something.
“A dangerous measure of awareness? Or merely a lucky coincidence?” His customer murmurs under his breath. He finally places the coin flat on the table to direct his full attention to the drink. Aventurine raises a toast to Gallagher and proceeds to take a sip of his cocktail.
“Mmmm.” The man smacks his lips appreciatively, “Awareness it is then.”
Gallagher does not know what he is talking about. So he waits to see if the man will enlighten him.
Whatever it is, Aventurine does not elaborate further.
“This has got to be the best drink I’ve had since stepping into Penacony. You’re very good.”
An image of Sunday managing a small smile as he taps the tiny bird sitting at the edge of the glass flashes across his mind. “You are very talented.” The halovian compliments him gratefully, eyes filled with an emotion and warmth that Gallagher cannot place.
Gallagher freezes for a moment. And it is all Aventurine needs to make a jab at him.
“Yet, not very good at taking compliments?”
The hound snaps out of it and forces a smile on his haggard face.
“I apologize. It has also been a long week for me.”
The omega makes a dramatically sad face at that statement and nods away, “I completely understand. We are long suffering individuals trapped on the same problematic boat. Adults who are forced to work long hours in this capitalistic society that cares not for our wellbeing. Alas!”
Finally, the man’s over-the-top theatrics draw a chuckle out of Gallagher.
“That’s a bit of an over exaggeration.”
Aventurine flair for dramatics is extremely different from Sunday’s usually reserved grace. The life of a chaotic party in contrast with the one who sits in a corner mulling over a drink quietly.
It has been a while since Gallagher has encountered someone like this. As cautious as he must be, it is still a nice change of pace.
At the sight of him chuckling, the man folds his arms and leans forward to place his weight on the countertop. It seems like things are progressing in a way that pleases him, because Aventurine also removes his fedora and glasses.
For the first time, Gallagher is able to study the psychedelic magenta and cyan eyes clearly.
It really does look very similar to…
“You know, only one other person in this entire universe is nice enough to tolerate a conversation with me.”
The comment interrupts his thoughts. Aventurine is now leaning closer and visually appreciating Gallagher’s messy looks.
“He’s the exact opposite of you though. A serious academic.”
The hound tilts his head at the unabashed flirting. Whoever it is obviously has Aventurine’s entire heart, judging from the way he speaks about him— so why does he bother sidling up to another alpha? He is not in the mood for a round of speed dating either. Not when Sunday still fills up every random crevice in his mind; popping up when he least expects him to.
“Then you’re a very lucky person. Who will not be doing any self sabotaging on a fine day like this.”
Gallagher reaches out to place a finger on the man’s forehead, and gently pushes him back into his seat.
Shocked by the unexpected response, Aventurine simply takes it— magenta eyes wide and all.
The face he makes nearly earns him another laugh from Gallagher. It seems like the omega has never been straightforwardly rejected like this before. And he can see why as well— Aventurine is quite the sight to behold. Blonde hair, a perfectly tailored outfit that makes him look sharp; blessed with matching intelligence that ensures he will always get his way.
Too bad for him this time, because Gallagher is already quite smitten with someone else.
…Something that Aventurine figures out quickly after he gets over the shock of being politely pushed back into his seat. Magenta eyes observe him keenly as Gallagher leans back on the countertop behind him. The hound assumes a position of relaxed confidence, both physically and in their conversation.
“An unmated alpha with someone in his heart.” Aventurine comments casually, yet with a look like a snake ready to strike.
Gallagher smiles, showing teeth this time, and gestures back towards him.
“An unmated omega with someone in his heart.”
“I really like you.” His customer grins and offers another toast before indulging further in his Imagined Sunrise. Gallagher knows that the ‘like’ Aventurine means is not the same ‘like’ he feels for the academic he was talking about. The ability to see through each other’s facade is rare, and now that they have both established a silent understanding of each other, they can finally have a proper conversation.
“I’m in town for some business. Unfortunately it has not been going so well.”
Aventurine waves the large wine glass of Imagined Sunrise around to watch the cocktail inside slosh around. The colors swirl accommodatingly, yet they do not mix.
“Tell me, Gallagher.” He places the glass down firmly on the countertop like a punctuation, “What do you know about Sunday of the Oak Family?”
At the sound of Sunday’s name, the hound nearly loses his earlier composure. His eyes widen slightly in surprise, but he catches himself at the last minute and reveals nothing further to Aventurine. He thinks about the blueish-white feather still sitting in his vest and his heart throbs.
“What do you wish to know about him?”
Aventurine’s lips split into a wide grin. Like a blonde cat that is so close to catching the grey canary.
“Anything! Perhaps… if there’s something I can do to get on his good side? Or if he’s fond of visiting a certain establishment for someone, like I am now.”
As he finishes the second sentence, the blonde lowers his gaze momentarily to his drink before flicking it back up at the bartender. The hound sucks in a breath of air. Someone has done his homework.
Gallagher keeps up the facade of calm.
“You’re better off asking someone from the Five Great Families than a lowly bartender. I’m only aware of the generic things that everybody else knows.”
“Besides… even if I did know something, I can’t possibly tell you, dear customer. You know, company policy and all.”
He makes a specific gesture that mimics someone pulling a zipper shut over his lips— pressing them tightly against each other as he goes.
Aventurine sighs deeply.
“Fine. I guess I’ll just have to look around more.”
Just as the hound thinks that the entire interrogation is over and Aventurine is finally going to behave, the man turns his attention to the bouquet of blue roses sitting nearby. Gallagher swivels to see what has captivated him and realizes that he is curious about the rare bouquet now. He heaves a sigh of resignation and shakes his head. The omega certainly does not waste any bit of time.
Like a hyperactive child, the man points at the beautiful bouquet and nods eagerly.
Whatever. Miss Robin probably isn’t coming today anyway.
The hound grabs the blue roses and places them in the omega’s arms. Aventurine admires them lovingly and takes a small sniff.
“They’re beautiful. Who are they for?”
“For a friend that has kindly done me some favors. She might not be dropping by today though.”
“Ah, the special friend?”
The blonde nods slowly once more, attempting to pull off his best impression of a sagely man; coupled with a small knowing smile. He looks so silly and annoying that it draws another long suffering smile from Gallagher. If Aventurine were less filled with obvious agendas, he thinks that they can have good moments drinking together.
“A normal friend. Now give it back.”
The blonde laughs in genuine delight at Gallagher’s reaction. He passes the bouquet back to the bartender; both of them now very evidently enjoying each other’s company. As the hound retrieves the bouquet, his hand accidentally grazes Aventurine’s and the man does not miss the opportunity to make a soft, teasing “oohh” at him.
Something makes a loud thump as it falls to the floor.
The two of them look up in the direction of the sound and find themselves staring at the lounge door where Sunday is watching them with an indiscernible expression on his face.
There is no time for Gallagher to worry about what Aventurine might think about him claiming he is unaware of Sunday’s visits to their establishment. When coming face-to-face with the person he has been wanting to meet for weeks, all his mind and body can do is freeze on the spot.
Rhoeas is (unfortunately) with Sunday once more. Bending down, he picks up a beautifully bound, deep blue colored book for the halovian— the source of the sound earlier.
“Mister Sunday. You dropped this.” The alpha points out unhelpfully.
Sunday is still staring at them, unmoving, at the center of the door. Gallagher wants to call out to him, but his voice is caught in his throat. He parts his lips open wordlessly and closes them; the action is then rinsed and repeated for a couple of times. All the while, he makes stuttering, soft gasping noises.
Aventurine is the first one out of the three to collect himself enough to speak.
“Oh. Fancy seeing you here, Mister Sunday! Now why did you not share with me recommendations for such a wonderful establishment?”
He quickly gestures at the hound.
“Gallagher and I, we’ve been having the best time!”
Gallagher and Sunday do not break eye contact and he thinks he sees something akin to his own hurt, flash for a moment in Sunday’s breathtaking gold eyes.
Then slowly… Sunday’s marble-like face, normally looking like it is personally sculpted by the Aeon of Beauty Idrilla herself, contorts in what seems like anger and perhaps disgust.
He does not dignify Aventurine with a reply.
Instead, he storms away in the direction that Gallagher has now memorized to be his room. Rhoeas throws a confused look in the hound’s direction that almost sounds like “what are you doing?” before hurriedly following behind the halovian.
The hound feels light headed. His knees buckle slightly, so he props himself up by placing both palms on the countertop. The blue bouquet rolls uselessly to the side— the root cause of the problem, along with the man in front of him.
“Huh. Sorry about that. Mister Sunday does not like me much, and it seems like he might also be mistakenly under the impression that I’m courting you with these flowers.”
Aventurine actually sounds apologetic for once. Perhaps it is the expression on Gallagher’s face. He knows that the man definitely picked up on the way he froze up in front of Sunday.
Or… in a more hopeful scenario, perhaps Aventurine thinks that Sunday’s anger stems from unwillingly encountering a work acquaintance?
Either way, things are bad. Sunday is upset and for the whole of 5 minutes, Aventurine is able to read him like an open book. He lost his professionalism and composure in front of everybody, all for nothing.
It is just one mistake after another.
Sick of things constantly getting worse instead of getting any better, Gallagher inhales sharply and proceeds to chuck the bouquet of blue roses into a nearby bin.
His blonde customer calmly watches him without any unnecessary remarks this time.
The hound turns his back to Aventurine, and pretends to be busy with cleaning a glass cup by the sink. He cannot face Aventurine or any customers now. At least, not until he calms down. Gallagher tries his best to take in deep breaths, focusing on the sight and texture of the glass in his hand.
He knows that despite the silence, Aventurine still has his eyes trained on his back.
A minute or two passes, and when the hound makes no further movement to retrieve the roses, Aventurine retrieves them for him and places them neatly back on the countertop.
“Were these for Sunday?”
A blunt and direct shot. Gallagher was right about how the blonde probably has some good guesses about how he feels towards Sunday now.
“No.” Gallagher admits easily. After all, the roses were for Robin.
In the corner of his eyes, he can see Aventurine waving to catch his attention. The hound turns once more to face him; helpless to his demands as the customer.
“Then don’t take out your frustrations on them! Look, they’re so innocent and lovely.”
He very wisely sets the bouquet aside so that it is out of Gallagher’s reach, and pushes the cup of Imagined Sunrise towards him instead.
“The way I see it…” Aventurine traces the sweet and bitter layers of the cup while ensuring that the alpha is keeping his eyes on him, “Things often have to get worse before they can get better. And speaking from personal experience, sometimes the best way to solve a problem is to create an even bigger problem.”
The hound simply stares at him, now calmer yet thoroughly exhausted.
“That’s the worst advice I’ve ever heard.”
Aventurine shrugs, “Better than none.”
He grabs his fedora and glasses and stands with an intention to leave. Whatever he is looking for, it seems like he has already found it. Gallagher has a good guess as to what it might be. His mind is occupied with the deep regret that he might also have been the one to reveal it to the unpredictable businessman.
To his surprise, Aventurine firmly points at the bouquet on the table, “I really like those roses. You better not throw them away.”
The man puts on his fedora and glasses, and with the brilliance of ten burning suns, winks at Gallagher.
“I’ll be back tomorrow to check up on them. If they’re well taken care of, I’ll give you a big tip.” And with a final smirk, he tips his fedora at his new friend.
Gallagher watches as he walks away— hand still waving in the air like he has no care in the world.
The older man knows, with acute intuition, that he is unfortunately not joking.
“Ciao!”
The next day, Aventurine returns with a bundle of gifts at an odd hour.
As he gets the helping hand behind him to drop them off on the countertop gently, Gallagher starts thanking the stars that he had the foresight to request for Siobhan to open the bar downstairs, while he entertains their unpredictable high roller of a customer. At least nobody else will see the chaos unfold or hear anything dangerous that the blonde might reveal.
Like for example, Sunday’s appearance in the Floating Dream Palace.
“Missed me?” Aventurine grins.
Not really. Gallagher quips to himself inwardly while choosing to respond professionally. They are not that close yet. And the hound does not want him to know more than what he already does from yesterday.
“Of course. Our establishment runs on the visits of our customers after all.”
“That’s such a stale answer.” Aventurine makes a face before tipping the helping hand generously and sending him off.
Gallagher stares at the pile in front of him. There are enough boxes to almost obscure him from Aventurine, and definitely enough boxes to obscure Aventurine from him. He sidesteps them to gain a better vantage point of his midday customer.
“What are these for?”
“Gifts! For you. But feel free to distribute them to your co-workers if it strikes your fancy.”
The hound frowns. It feels weird to receive gifts out of the blue. They have just met for the first time yesterday and Aventurine has only had exactly one cocktail. And if the gifts are for accidentally helping Aventurine plot against Sunday…
…then he wants absolutely nothing to do with them.
“It’s very kind of you. But I cannot accept them. The company will see it as…a strange bribery of sorts.” Gallagher ends the sentence half-heartedly because for the life of him, he is unable to find a convincing reason why a bartender in the red light district cannot receive gifts from a customer.
It is well known that gifting happens a lot in their line of work.
Aventurine catches on, because he tilts his head at him encouragingly, “Take it as a tip for yesterday’s fantastic drink.”
“In addition to the one I’m about to give you for taking care of the blue roses, of course.”
He gestures to the blue roses now sitting in the empty Ut Somnium glass bottle.
After chucking them into the bin, Gallagher fully loses the intention to give them to Robin. (Not to mention, he has also learnt his lesson about presenting a bouquet of flowers to random omegas.) Thankfully, she does not visit him either— so now the blue roses are permanently part of the bar’s decor while they are still in bloom.
He brings the repurposed vase over for Aventurine to take a closer look.
The blond rotates the glass bottle a couple of times to admire the effort that was put in: Gallagher has placed some light colored marbles in the bottle to provide support for the stalks, and added some flower food to the water. He touches the soft petals— the flowers have benefitted from the delicate care and are looking much livelier than before.
“Well done.”
The soft and genuine way Aventurine whispers his words catches Gallagher off guard. He has never expected the rowdy businessman to be anything but…well, loud.
He glances at the mountain of gifts. Maybe he is overthinking it.
Perhaps Aventurine just wants to do something nice for him.
“What are you thinking about?” Comes the usual, cheery voice.
Gallagher snaps out of his thoughts to find Aventurine observing him. Sitting next to the vase of blue roses, he realizes that they do complement the man’s looks; not as much as they will for Sunday, but definitely enough for someone to realize that he is a very attractive person.
“Wondering if we will ever have a straightforward conversation where we can trust each other.”
At his confession, Aventurine’s expression turns troubled for once. His smile is no longer as bright and he averts his gaze; choosing to be distracted by the roses instead.
After a brief moment of silence, he takes out his signature coin.
He rolls it around his fingers expertly, clearly deep in thought.
“Gallagher, would you like to make a bet with me?”
“What type of bet?”
“We’ll play a game of your choosing. If you win, you get to request the truth from me. If I win, I want the truth from you instead.”
The hound mulls over the offer. It sounds too good to be true. A game of his choosing? It goes without saying that he will pick the one that benefits him the most.
“What truth will you ask of me?”
Aventurine is uncharacteristically calm and serious as he flips the coin. This side of him unnerves Gallagher more than the loud, chaotic version of him that he usually displays.
He catches the coin with both the back of his left hand and the palm of his right.
“You will be truthful about everything you know about Sunday. Including your relationship or any feelings towards him.”
So there it is. The man’s ultimate goal really is about Sunday. Which means that Gallagher cannot lose this bet. It is a gamble that he has to basically stake his life on, because he will rather die than to put Sunday in a position where others can harm him.
Gallagher already knows which game he has to choose to create the best outcome.
“Alright. But if I win, I want you to come clean with everything you’re planning. What is your company after in Penacony, and how Sunday fits into your schemes.”
“All or nothing . ” Aventurine finally breaks into a satisfied smile, “Just the way I like it.”
The hound gestures with a thumb towards a dart board nearby.
“We’ll play darts. Best two out of three. No rematch.”
He retrieves a box of darts from underneath the countertop and gives Aventurine the most apologetic look he can, “And before we begin, I’ll have to warn you: I’ve never lost.”
“Heads.” The man responds, much to Gallagher‘s confusion.
Before he can ask him what he meant by it, the blonde removes his right hand to reveal the side of the coin that landed facing up.
It is heads.
“What a surprise.” Aventurine’s face stretches into the most unnatural and terrifying smile, “I have never lost a bet either.”
Gallagher feels the hair on his arm stand— the situation reminds him of his helplessness in the face of Sunday’s binding power of the Harmony. Aventurine is just exaggerating to throw him off his game. There is no way a normal human is capable of winning every single bet he makes in his life.
There is just no way.
…
…is there?
Just what exactly are they feeding the omegas in Penacony?
He shakes the feeling off. “All or nothing.” Aventurine had said. For Sunday’s sake, he will not lose. Even if Aventurine is blessed by the Goddess of Luck herself, darts is a game primarily based on hard skill and experience.
Furthermore, Gallagher really is undefeated.
They move over to the playing zone and allow each other three throws as a warmup. From the way Aventurine hits the board, the hound can already tell that the man is less skilled than he is. Still, he keeps the earlier threat in mind and resolves to play his best.
“Let’s begin, shall we?” Aventurine asks excitedly, like he is exhilarated to be dancing on the edge of life and death. Gallagher thinks he understands him a little better: where people shy away from risks or fear losing, Aventurine revels in the sensation of gambling with his life on the line.
Is it because he never loses?
Or because he does not particularly care about winning or losing?
They go at it for a short while and since they are still warming up, Gallagher wins the first round easily. He is about halfway to winning the second round and calling it a day when Aventurine suddenly strikes up conversation and asks:
“Have you heard about the disappearances in Penacony?”
Gallagher pauses, dart held in hand, and looks to his side at the gambler.
“Disappearances?”
“I’ve heard that random visitors or citizens of Penacony will go missing from time to time. This has been happening for a while.”
It has? Gallagher muses over the sudden piece of news. Why have I not heard about it?
As if he can read the hound’s thoughts, Aventurine folds his arms and holds out his left hand as he elaborates, “The media in Penacony suppresses the news so that there isn’t widespread alarm, and the people who go missing are usually those who have little to no family or friends that will come looking for them.”
“Do you have any inkling what this might be about?”
Gallagher frowns. Assuming that it is true, this is a very concerning piece of information. But he is genuinely none the wiser about this issue. In fact, Aventurine is the first customer to bring it up.
If something of this magnitude is real, then why is nobody talking about it?
He immediately thinks of the Oak Family and Aventurine’s keen interest in Sunday. This has absolutely nothing to do with the halovian… right? Why would the Family be kidnapping people and why would Sunday condone something like this?
Aventurine sees his confusion and concern, and accurately guesses that Gallagher is unaware of the situation, despite his assumed close proximity to Sunday.
“I guess you are also in the dark about it. Well, if you ever hear anything about this issue, let me know.”
“I don’t want to be attacked on my way back to the hotel.” The blonde jokes to lighten the mood, but Gallagher is already deep in thought. He will have to ask Siobhan regarding this later.
Try as he might, Gallagher is unable to recollect himself after that conversation, and expectedly loses the second round.
With one win each on their tallies, the third round will decide the winner of their bet. Gallagher is right about the game being about hard skill because the moment he manages to get his concentration back, Aventurine struggles to keep up.
Just when it might seem like the winner is decided, the dartboard lets out an agonizingly loud ‘crack’ at the final dart thrown by Aventurine.
The board splits into half and promptly falls into the floor, scattering the darts everywhere; rendering them unable to inspect the exact location where the last dart landed.
He stares at the mess, speechless.
Next to him, Aventurine shrugs.
“I guess it’s a tie?” The gambler grins at him, obviously satisfied with this outcome since he is losing. Gallagher places his hands on his hips and tries to decide if he should force Aventurine to use another dartboard elsewhere, to settle the final score.
No rematch. He instantly recalls himself saying.
“I told you. I’ve never lost a bet. Just a shame that we did all that for nothing and ruined a perfectly good dartboard.”
Before he can find his voice to question Aventurine about the validity of his luck, a stern voice cuts through the room.
“And pray tell, what exactly is a shame?”
The gambler turns on his heels and stares at the source of the voice in horror. For the first time since they met, something akin to fear seems to fill the omega and he instantly slouches to seem smaller; more vulnerable.
“D-Doctor…”
“Gambler.”
Ratio strides into the room, all exposed muscle on one arm and elegant blue on the other. An alpha possessing both brains and brawn. Behind him, Sunday makes an appearance as well. At the sight of them entering together, the hound’s stomach twists unpleasantly.
Jack of all trades and master of none. Gallagher directs at Ratio; huffing with a small amount of irrational jealousy.
Next to him, Aventurine is looking more tamed and sheepish than ever.
“I can explain…”
“Oh you definitely will. Why are you in the red light district, and in the lone company of another alpha?”
Ratio folds his arms unhappily, “Have your philandering ways finally caught up with you? Or are you dissatisfied with whatever we have?”
Oh yikes. Gallagher immediately understands. It is a domestic dispute.
This must be the ‘serious academic’ Aventurine mentioned in passing yesterday. The alpha that has his heart. And why is Sunday looking somewhat smug right now? Yeah, he is definitely looking like the grey canary that is watching their owner scold the blonde cat for trying to eat him.
“It’s all for work!” Aventurine blurts out hurriedly, “Everything you see or hear is only for work! There is nothing between us. I mean, I did give him some gifts, but that is to thank him for—”
Ratio’s sharp eyes narrow in displeasure.
“You gave this alpha courting gifts?”
He takes a step forward menacingly; increasingly angry pheromones rolling off him in waves. Gallagher is taken aback by how agitated they smell compared to Ratio’s controlled way of speaking. If it were any other alpha, he would probably have been jumped by now.
That said, it seems like a fight is inevitable.
“No! Those aren’t courting gifts! Veritas , please.” Aventurine whines and moves forward, releasing his own pheromones to placate his alpha. But it might be too late as Ratio is still staring Gallagher down.
The hound readies a stance. Aventurine really is nothing but trouble.
Just as Gallagher thinks to himself it has been a while since he has to stop a brawl in the bar, let alone be in one…
“ Back off. ” A deep, angry snarl resounds as Sunday takes his place in front of him and blocks his chest and neck off from the opponent. Gallagher’s stance falters as he stares at the halovian who is now shielding him with his full body. He feels his breath catch in his throat at the protective display.
Sunday is all angry, controlled growls as he stares down the alpha who is easily much bigger than him. He reaches behind him to find Gallagher’s torso; to push him away in the event Ratio decides to lunge at them.
But Gallagher holds Sunday’s hand with his own instead.
Again, it is because it is easier to pull Sunday behind him instantly if Ratio lunges.
“Take your misbehaving omega and leave, Doctor. I will not say it twice.”
At Sunday’s aggressive display of protection, Veritas Ratio evidently pauses— he is mentally weighing the benefits and consequences of picking a fight. And though he is still incensed by the sight of Gallagher, he cools off enough to consider more rational options: like perhaps listening to Aventurine’s explanation first.
Gallagher watches him intently.
“If you have any common sense, you will take that alpha and leave this room now. While I am still feeling generous.” Ratio finally responds.
The halovian gives the doctor one last displeased snarl and relents. A compromise is better than none. He shoots Aventurine an incensed look and pulls Gallagher along with him.
They quickly exit the room and into the dark corridors of the Floating Dream Palace.
The entire time Gallagher fails to hear or take in his surroundings. His heart is pounding so loudly and quickly that his own heartbeat is the only sound that fills his ears. The rush of adrenaline is palpable.
Not because he almost got attacked by another alpha. But because Sunday protected him like an omega would for their mated alpha, and is now holding his hand.
They head towards Sunday’s room and as they run along, Gallagher feels like his heart is so full that it might just burst.
Back in the VIP lounge, Ratio folds his arms once more and stares at Aventurine. Now that the anger has subsided with the absence of that messy looking alpha, all that is left to fill the gaps is the feeling of hurt.
“You say it is for work, but have you ever considered how something like this makes me feel?”
His partner averts his gaze guiltily, “Veritas, I’m sorry. I swear by the Amber Lord that nothing happened between us though. I was just questioning him for work related matters.”
“I’m aware.” Ratio moves to stand in front of the omega, “Even this close, I am unable to pick up his scent on you. The room has been void of that alpha’s scent after he left.”
“You’re lucky he is more gentlemanly than he looks.”
Aventurine pouts unhappily, “Isn’t it obvious who he actually likes anyway?”
The doctor thinks back to the way the man barely glanced at Aventurine the entire time; choosing to only react when Sunday stepped in front of him. It is difficult to miss how he subtly shielded the halovian. In fact, Sunday probably could not see it from where he was standing, but Ratio was quite sure by the look on the alpha’s face that attacking Sunday is much more dangerous than directly attacking the alpha himself.
“Tsk.” Ratio clicks his tongue disapprovingly, “Your reckless way of accomplishing your tasks constantly creates so many issues. Have I not asked you to cherish yourself more?”
“But I do.” The blonde whines submissively and presses himself against Ratio.
“ Kakavasha .”
Ratio watches impassively as Aventurine whips his head upwards in alarm.
“There will be consequences when we get home.”
The door slams violently. Loudly.
Still incensed, Sunday pins Gallagher against it. He trembles with rage; still able to catch Aventurine’s scent emanating off the hound. The image of Ratio nearly attempting to maul Gallagher and then commanding them to leave is still vivid in his mind.
Sunday does not know why he had initially assumed that the Doctor would simply grab his omega and leave. Alerting Veritas Ratio to the misdeeds of Aventurine was just part of the bigger plan to get him away from snooping around the Floating Dream Palace and seducing its bartender.
It is a rare oversight for someone of his caliber.
Unfortunately, Sunday is aware that he constantly loses all common sense when it comes to matters involving Gallagher. It is the worst sort of weakness.
“You have terrible taste. He smells revolting.” The halovian snarls, tossing Gallagher’s hand aside angrily and turning away before he loses his temper further. He moves further into the room, and the hound automatically follows behind him like a leashed puppy.
With his back facing Gallagher now, he fails to see how a look of hurt glosses over the hound’s eyes as the other takes in the sight of the room. Nothing is messy or out of place, but there are multiple signs that two people are constantly utilizing this room.
Two cups on the table. Two documents by the desk.
Two coats draped neatly over a desk chair and the sofa nearby respectively.
The hound narrows his eyes at the coat on the sofa. This one in particular, reeks of something unpleasant.
“You have terrible taste as well. This entire room smells fucking revolting.”
The voice that responds to Sunday is quivering from anger. The abrupt and angry pheromones rolling off the both of them triggers the ‘fight’ part of Sunday’s fight-or-flight mechanic and he turns back to glare at Gallagher.
“The room smells the way it does because someone smells like a certain gambler.”
Gallagher snaps and snarls back softly at the unfair statement. The snarl tells Sunday everything: It is not by his consent that some of Aventurine’s scent was left on his being. And even then, it is more of the gambler’s expensive cologne lingering than a purposeful scenting like the ones he and Gallagher used to share.
Brown eyes flick to the coat on the sofa once more; obviously wanting nothing more than to toss it out of the window.
Sunday recognizes the disdainful look in the man’s eyes.
Jealousy. Burning brightly like hellfire in a dark night.
He feels it as well, deep in his core, festering and twisting him into a shape that he hates.
It was a mistake to bring Gallagher to his room. Now they are just going to make everything worse.
“Get out.”
“What?” The hound moves forward instead, as if showing Sunday that he does not intend to leave, “Now that you’re done venting your anger on me, I’m getting tossed out of your cozy love nest?”
“Yes. I’m tired of you standing in my room smelling like Aventurine. And take your attitude out with you because I don’t want to deal with it.”
Sunday moves to open the door for him, but the hound pushes it shut once more with an arm instead. As they both stand by the door, Sunday’s hand on the knob and Gallagher behind him, the halovian realizes belatedly that the nape of his neck is extremely exposed right now. The scent blocking patch and his trust in the alpha are the only things that keep him from worrying about being bitten into submission.
Anger continues to pour off them in waves.
Sunday eventually lets go of the doorknob and turns to face the older man.
“If you have something to say, just say it.”
“You have no right to meddle in my affairs when you refuse to allow me to meddle in yours.”
“You’re right in saying that it is an affair . That omega is attached! Have you no common sense? If I weren’t here today—”
“If you weren’t here today, then his alpha wouldn’t have appeared! You brought him here. You created this situation.”
The statement draws a pause from Sunday because it is true. He looks away; anger finally simmering now but not completely gone yet. The halovian takes a couple of deep breaths— he still feels extremely defensive, but he knows that he has no moral high ground to speak of.
After all, the starting point of the altercation today is his own jealousy.
“You are a fool.” He mutters under his breath with some hope that Gallagher will fail to hear it.
“So are you.”
Curses. Sunday squeezes his eyes shut. There is a notion that Gallagher is moving closer to stand directly in front of him, but there is no need to raise his head for he already knows that the hound is unequivocally staring at his ashamed figure.
A large hand comes up to caress his cheek— the exact same way it did that night, before they had that huge fight. While it provided him with relief back then, the same gesture now makes Sunday flinch because he feels undeserving of it.
Judging from the way Gallagher holds back from completing the action by scenting him, the man must have taken his reaction the wrong way again.
“Why did you protect me?” The hound asks, resignation in his tone as he allows his hand to fall back to his side.
“Why bother?” The man continues when Sunday does not reply, and gestures vaguely at the room he shares with Rhoeas, “If this is what you want, then why bother with whichever alpha is attempting to maul me or whichever omega scents me?”
“What I want ?” Sunday finally looks up in disbelief and they both recognize that look of intense grief in each other’s eyes. “There are things I have to do, and these things have always had no regard for what I actually want .”
“How can you think that this is what I want, when you know the position I’m in? When you are the one who called our arrangement off in the first place?”
He pushes Gallagher gently back with both hands— frustrated, yet unwilling to hurt the other further.
“It’s true. I can’t meddle in your matters… of which omega you prefer to bed or which alpha you are going to fight.”
Sunday sits down on the nearby bed and buries his face in his hands.
“But my body moved before I realized what was happening. He smelled so angry and was approaching you so quickly that it was the only thing I could think of.”
There is only heavy silence after his unexpected confession.
Within moments, he feels the warmth of large hands on the side of his legs— Gallagher is kneeling on the floor in front of him. Sunday is unable to ascertain the expression on the man’s face as he continues to keep his face still hidden away. In his panic, obscuring himself is the only way he can think of to hide his real feelings.
Like a child, he stubbornly refuses to acknowledge Gallagher’s presence by looking up.
He is already feeling exposed and vulnerable enough.
“You could have died if he lunged.” Comes the much softer, yet slightly admonishing voice.
A hand comes up to remove one of Sunday’s hands, and his small grey wing immediately moves to cover his face in its place. It ultimately fails to obscure the single tear running down his cheek. At the heartbreaking sight, Gallagher begins to cruelly remove his other hand for whatever reasons he deems necessary.
There is only agony.
Sunday derives only agony from the realization that he is constantly crying in front of Gallagher. Since young, he was forged by Gopher Wood to only display the pinnacle of control and discipline. Yet each time Gallagher comes in, he tears it all apart; creates chaos in his heart, makes him behave uncharacteristically, and forces him to look.
The shame burns through him.
He hates how Gallagher often encounters his worst sides rather than his best.
Don’t look. A voice in his mind says. Don’t look at me when I am less than deserving.
And now he is about to admit something else that will add to this shame. That despite all the meticulous planning and self control he exhibits on a daily basis, the real Sunday can have bouts of selfishness.
Because…
“If I died then, at least I would have died doing something I want for once.”
The halovian looks away, unwilling to face Gallagher or the world now that he has said it out loud. Wet eyelashes flutter shut in a mess of salty liquid; his own feathers getting slightly damp as time passes. He hears the hound inhale sharply and feels his warm, comforting hand thumb his cheek.
Gallagher lets out a soft sigh.
“Sunday. No more games alright? Let’s be honest with each other.”
The suggestion captures Sunday’s attention sufficiently. He gazes at Gallagher, albeit weakly; vision still slightly blurred from his tears.
“I know it doesn’t have to be me. That, at the snap of your fingers you can have any alpha in Penacony you desire. Rhoeas is a good example of that.” Gallagher sighs again and shifts uncomfortably at the recollection of Sunday choosing the other alpha.
“But have you ever…even for a brief moment, wanted to have my pups?”
The way the man phrases the question makes Sunday freeze. It is short, clear and to the point: Gallagher wants to know if he personally ever wanted to have his pups specifically. If this arrangement is something that he desires, rather than being another painful obligation.
Is he asking about how I feel towards him?
He has to be honest, right? It is time to respond genuinely for the first time in two weeks.
But Sunday’s voice unwillingly catches in his throat and it is all he can do to stare at the hound helplessly. It crosses his mind— the thought of the Oak Family finding out how he truly feels and Gallagher being in more danger than he was earlier.
Gallagher notices his hesitation and to Sunday’s surprise, offers the entire truth in response rather than pull away in disappointment.
“I called off the arrangement because there is a ‘genetic mutation’ that runs in my family. The day we met, I was mulling over it. And I’m increasingly worried that this mutation will show up in the child.”
The sudden and terrible admission completely knocks all the air out of Sunday’s lungs.
Grey wings open up to reveal his own shocked expression as their hands shift to hold each other’s, “I-I don’t understand. Does this mean our child won’t be healthy?”
“The child will be fine. It’s not health related. It’s… slightly more complex than that.” Gallagher chews on his lower lip as he tries to figure out the best way to put it, “It’s a little like being able to see ghosts. People might find them weird for being able to do so.”
Gold hues eye him warily.
“You can see ghosts…?”
Gallagher chuckles, “Something like that. I don’t know how to explain it fully to you other than it won’t hurt the child’s health and that it is a special ability.”
He wipes Sunday’s wet cheeks almost too lovingly; his apologetic feelings bleeding through underneath all the other mess of feelings they have for each other.
“And we both know that being special is not necessarily a good thing. I…didn’t want this ability to be the reason you or the child are ever placed in danger. I don’t know if the Oak Family will welcome any form of deviancy with open arms.”
The hound goes back to holding both of Sunday’s hands tightly, now too nervous and wanting to avoid his questioning gaze entirely.
Yet he firmly keeps eye contact in order to convey his genuine thoughts.
“Despite this deficiency… despite how inadequate I have been, do you still want to have my pups?”
Sunday watches him in disbelief. He wants to ask with all of his heart, “If not your pups, then who else’s?” But he knows that Gallagher is not aware of a lot of happenings that have been going on behind his back. Everything from Gopher Wood, to Rhoeas, and to how Sunday truly feels about him. All of his own concerns.
For example, what about the issue of the hound being forced into this arrangement by him?
An ability that the Oak Family might not approve of? He is thankful that it is nothing as serious as a genetic defect that will affect the wellbeing of his child. Sunday is still more concerned with his ability to protect them in the event that Gopher Wood finds out their true parentage:
Born out of a contractual arrangement with a stray from the red light district.
When he first thought of borrowing seed from the Floating Dream Palace, Sunday had arrogantly and mistakenly assumed that it would be a cut-and-dry situation: lay with an alpha, bear a child, have no further relations with him and take care of any loose ends where necessary.
Yet now things have evolved to the point where he cares deeply for the alpha in front of him. Yes, he cares enough to instinctively jump in front of another large and angry opponent for him. There is no way Gallagher is just ‘a loose end’.
And because of these growing feelings, Sunday worries incessantly for the pup they may have too.
“If…” Sunday starts nervously, “If the Oak Family finds out, and wants to execute the child—”
He does not get to finish the sentence because Gallagher emits a low growl and the hold on his hands tighten significantly.
“That won’t happen. If, against all odds, you end up bearing my pups, I won’t let anything happen to you or them.”
Sunday feels his chest constrict from that declaration; his heart is beating so quickly in his chest that it gets difficult to breathe. Lightheadedness envelops him as he tries to register what this means in his mind.
“Even if we’re not—”
“Even if we’re not mates. I’ll always be there for you and the pups.”
Oh Great One. It is exactly what he has always wanted to hear, but he is so used to resisting the idea of wanting Gallagher’s accompaniment that his mind cannot seem to keep up with his heart. Unsure, Sunday continues to waver between both the feelings of exhilaration and confusion.
And why does Gallagher keep saying ‘pups’? Pups. Plural. Does he mean he wants more in the future?
“That’s… That’s too much to ask of you when this is something you are forced into.”
At this offhand statement, a look of confusion crosses Gallagher’s face.
“But I’m not? Sure, it may have started out strange, but I’ve been on board with this since the first time we did it.”
Sunday thinks that he is about to pass out.
Once again, the hound notices his lack of reply and tries to reassure him more, “Don’t you think if I hated it, it would have been more obvious? Birdie, I’m not the kind to have pups with just anybody.”
What about the omega from earlier? What about Aventurine?
“But you… Aventurine…”
Gallagher catches the look in Sunday’s eyes and starts rubbing his arm placatingly, “Nothing happened between me and Aventurine. He simply wanted information about you and Penacony from me.”
“I saw him giving you blue roses.”
“Ah.”
The hound shifts uncomfortably and Sunday holds his breath in the event that this is a sign that things are about to get worse once more.
“Those were for Miss Robin. While you were away, she helped me with my illness and I wanted to thank her. I didn’t know what she liked so I just…got your favorite flowers…”
His voice trails off, because Sunday is now burning a bright shade of red. O-Oh. But wasn’t that Robin actually…
The barrage of honesty is too much for Sunday. Every explanation thus far has been more than believable, so no doubt ever crosses his mind that Gallagher might be lying to him.
And even if it is all sweet lies, it is everything he has ever wanted.
Sunday wants to believe in them.
The impulse to fix everything between them makes him blurt out the next sentence without thinking.
“Rhoeas and I… Nothing happened between us as well.”
At the confession, Gallagher’s expression morphs from one of surprise to relief— a small smile now stretching his handsome features.
“We’ve never slept together.” Sunday admits sheepishly, “I’ve been using him as a secretary. Siobhan recommended him to me because of his capabilities. And thanks to his help, I’ve been using the extra downtime to get some rest.”
Being away from the suffocating presence of Gopher Wood and the Dewlight Pavilion has helped him heal mentally too. It is the reason why he has been visiting the Floating Dream Palace so often.
“So all the days when I thought he was holding you, nothing happened?”
Sunday shakes his head and places Gallagher’s hands on his abdomen. Golden eyes, now looking brighter than usual, meet captivating brown ones.
“Here… it’s still all you.”
There is a brief, sharp inhale. Then someone lets out a breath of relief. Maybe even both of them at the same time.
And finally…
Finally the tension breaks. Sunday’s heart does a somersault in his chest at the sight of Gallagher laughing, overjoyed, as he lunges forward to wrap him in his arms.
They both fall onto the soft bed together and the duvet visibly bounces from their weight.
“ Sunday. ” Gallagher whispers in his ear, “It has to be you and only you.”
His grip tightens and Sunday leans into the small of his neck, hands against the alpha’s chest; anchoring himself against Gallagher to let this familiar but rare gesture wash over him.
Oh how he missed it— being in Gallagher’s arms.
He is barely done indulging in the bliss he feels when the hound says the next few, carefully chosen words so tenderly that Sunday thinks he might be dreaming.
“Carry my pups. Be their dam. It will make me so happy if you say yes.”
The halovian cannot help but look up in disbelief at his handsome stray; running his fingers down the side of Gallagher’s face in a desperate bid to ensure that it is real. It is not a love confession but why does it make his heart sing? He wants to very loudly tell the world ‘yes’. He wants to tell the alpha in front of him ‘yes’.
Like the gorgeous sight of a double rainbow in a clear sky after heavy rain, a smile breaks out on Sunday’s face.
“You keep saying ‘pups’... Does this mean you want more than one?”
Gallagher nuzzles his nose with his own.
“It means as many as you want. Even if it turns out to be just one, it is enough for me if it is enough for you.”
They pause for a moment, taking in the sight and feeling of their faces being so close to each other’s. Sunday does not respond immediately— instead he closes his eyes and enjoys the warmth of Gallagher’s breath against his cheek. The man’s stubble is irritating the skin on Sunday’s lower face but the halovian barely notices it. Long eyelashes brush against tan skin, and just the mere existence of Sunday in his arms seems to make Gallagher so enraptured that he presses a light kiss to pale cheeks.
A field of flowers blooms continuously in Sunday’s heart.
One by one, the flowers take turns to become the most breathtaking versions of themselves.
Unable to resist, he encircles Gallagher’s neck with his own arms and they hold each other close.
A singular, brief moment intimate enough to last for an eternity.
Sunday’s feelings overflow the cup that he had once tried to desperately contain it with. For the first time, he does not struggle and simply opts to let it wash over him. He imagines the tide rising inevitably, just like a sunrise on a new day.
As he drowns among the field of flowers, he thinks to himself: It is so beautiful.
And as though it was already foretold by destiny from another time…
Sunday falls in love with Gallagher.
“Yes. I want your pups. Only your pups.”
The halovian observes the man’s facial features, waiting for the moment of realization to kick in. He wants to bear pups for only the man in front of him. As if there was ever any doubt that the reality will be anything but this.
Right as Gallagher looks like he is about to be rendered breathless, Sunday kisses him deeply.
“I will never carry anybody else’s for as long as I live.”
They take a moment to lock the door and stumble back onto the bed.
As Gallagher fervently strips Sunday, thoughts of taking a shower or being patient with foreplay vacate his mind. He runs his fingers over Sunday’s jawline and neck; both feeling feverishly warm, and is instantly rewarded by Sunday carding his hand through his brown hair. Consumed by desire, Gallagher obsessively pulls Sunday back in by the waist anytime he is more than a couple of inches away.
With each kiss, they remove a clothing article or two and toss it to the side.
And among all the pieces that fall to the floor, the one that brings him the most euphoria is definitely Sunday’s scent blocking patch.
Once removed, a pleasantly sweet and comforting smell permeates the room and covers him.
For a brief moment, Gallagher wonders if it is possible that fated mates exist because nobody has ever come close to how good Sunday constantly smells.
He takes an invasive sniff in the small of Sunday’s neck and the halovian laughs as he works at unbuttoning Gallagher’s vest for him.
“You’re like a dog sometimes.”
“Woof.” Gallagher remarks jokingly to draw another laugh out of him.
Just as Sunday is about to comment on the cheeky response, a blueish-white feather falls out of the unbuttoned vest and lands on the soft duvet.
They fall silent— both unsure what to think about the damning evidence.
Eventually, Sunday picks up the feather to observe it.
“How did you…” His voice trails off at the look on Gallagher’s face. Because with the feather held up so close to Sunday’s wings, the similarity in color is unmistakable. Sunday must have realized this as well, because he starts looking like a child who is caught with his hand stuck in the cookie jar.
“I thought it was weird. Miss Robin was visiting me so often and she did so many things that reminded me of you.”
Sunday immediately covers his face with his wings, but panics and removes them upon realization that it just gives Gallagher a clearer view to ascertain his guilt. The reaction is so adorable that Gallagher cannot help himself— he moves in to steal a kiss.
“It was you, wasn’t it?” They break apart and Gallagher feels like perhaps his heart might burst, “You never left.”
Sunday’s face flushes a bright red; the very same one he saw on Robin the other night. And Gallagher steals another kiss.
“You didn’t lay with Rhoeas and you kept visiting me. Tell me, did you spend that night in the lounge when I fell asleep?”
“N-No? Don’t flatter yourself!” The reply is as indignant as it is guilty.
Gallagher feels his lips curve up into a wide grin, teeth showing and all. He is trying desperately to not tease Sunday too much but he cannot resist how pleased the situation makes him feel. He feels exactly like a dog with two tails.
Ah. It is so difficult to stop this feeling.
He pulls Sunday in close for an enveloping hug. How does someone as wretched and worn out as him come across someone so impeccably perfect?
And yes, Sunday has agreed hasn’t he?
The very personification of perfection has agreed to bear him pups, and only him.
And even if they ultimately have to part due to Sunday’s position as the leader of Penacony, just the thought of being able to visit him and their child often is enough. It is more than Gallagher ever dares to ask for.
Right?
From a singular moment of insecurity, a greedy impulse from deep within blooms— the desire to mark Sunday and to make him his. Gallagher panics slightly at the urge and tries to shove it back into the Pandora’s box it came from. He cannot. They cannot.
His smile falls.
Sunday immediately picks up on the hound’s uncertainty, and with unexpected gentleness, cups the side of his face in concern.
“What’s wrong?”
It is like that night in the closet all over again. Sunday is worried and wants his reassurance. The smile falls from Sunday’s face too, as it slowly dawns on Gallagher. Everything from their two weeks apart to the uncertain future starts culminating into an instant where he recognizes his own heart.
I think I have feelings for you.
“I…” he starts weakly.
I want to be your mate. I want to cherish you.
Sunday, I...
“I don’t want morning to come.”
At the sound of that, a relieved expression floods Sunday’s features and he regains his bright smile. “Silly hound, you’re already thinking of tomorrow when the sun is just setting?”
Gallagher buries his head into the side of Sunday’s neck like a child, and is comforted by the other rubbing small circular motions onto his back. Still unsatisfied, he nibbles at Sunday’s collarbones in an attempt to ask for more.
“Can you stay for tomorrow as well?”
Sunday hums, “I’ll consider it.”
“ Sunday …” He whines uncharacteristically, like a thoroughly tamed alpha.
“I’ll stay if you impress me tonight.”
Sunday rolls them over so that he is straddling Gallagher and removes the rest of the man’s clothing. The hound takes the opportunity to strip his partner bare as well. As they toss Sunday’s inner shirt aside, Gallagher licks his lips at the sight of Sunday kneeling over him on the bed.
The monsters in his mind are momentarily quietened.
He kisses and sucks at the bare, pale flesh on Sunday’s torso.
And sliding a finger between firm cheeks, he is pleased to find that Sunday is completely wet.
Before he is able to make a remark about it, Sunday pulls him into an open-mouthed kiss, as though he has already expected some form of misbehavior. Thwarted, Gallagher dips two fingers into the tight hole instead, and starts making pistoning motions.
The halovian moans into their kiss.
As Sunday curls slightly, unable to focus on anything other than the feeling of being filled for the first time in a long while, Gallagher’s free hand pulls the halovian closer for him to envelop his hardened nipples with his mouth.
Obscene sounds begin to fill the room.
One moment Gallagher is flicking his tongue at the hardened nub and the next he is sucking on it like he might draw forth something if he tries hard enough. Sunday cards his fingers through the hound’s coarse brown hair, and grasps it tight when he inserts a third finger and presses down on a pleasurable spot.
“Sunday,” Gallagher breathes heavily through the aching desire, “Can I just put it in now? We’ll take it slow in the next round.”
Without answering, Sunday removes Gallagher’s fingers from his being and sheathes himself on the man’s entire length. As it goes in, the hound almost sees stars. The feeling of being enveloped tightly by both the pressure of Sunday’s walls and his bodily warmth overwhelms him completely.
Sunday makes a show of rolling his hips twice and Gallagher thinks perhaps it was foolish to assume they will only have one pup.
Although the halovian is now setting their pace, Gallagher chases after him by bucking his hips involuntarily at the right moments; crushing their crotches firmly together. It causes their skin to make a subtle, lewd, suctioning sound as they part, and with each trust, he reaches deeper into Sunday.
Gallagher’s mouth begins to hang open slightly as he watches, entranced by the sight of Sunday bouncing on his cock and the small bump that appears in his abdomen each time it goes in.
It triggers a response in him so ancient and feral.
No thoughts. Only breeding.
If he had it his way, Sunday would be constantly filled with only two things: cum or pups.
He snaps out of his dazed state when he feels a heat pool in his abdomen, threatening to overflow. Gallagher’s rutting motion starts getting jerky and he wraps his arms around Sunday’s waist to bind him just enough to take over their pace.
The hound cums quite hard inside of the halovian and makes a mess of his inside. As it happens, he exchanges their position with one swift movement; pushing Sunday backwards onto the bed and quickly thrusting into the now sloppy looking, cum and slick filled hole.
Gallagher groans from how incomprehensibly pleasurable it all feels.
And does not stop when Sunday also comes.
He feels the walls tighten around his slightly softening length and picks up the pace instead— desperately wanting to devour Sunday in his entirety. Gallagher thinks he hears Sunday begging for him to slow down (for once) and whining about being overstimulated.
The pace eventually slows to a stop, but only because his length has softened enough to make it impossible to continue without a break.
Sunday is staring at him with wide, unfocused eyes as they both try to catch their breaths.
When Gallagher is finally capable of having a singular rational thought once more, he grabs a nearby pillow and places it under the halovian’s hips to elevate them. The cum that was haphazardly leaking out now flows back into the deepest reaches of Sunday’s body instead.
He pulls out, and Sunday makes the most damning , unhappiest whine he has ever had to hear.
Still somewhat dazed, Gallagher shakes his head gently in an effort to clear it. He blinks hard. Once. Twice. It does not work.
But does it really matter? Nothing matters more than Sunday at this very moment.
Subconsciously obsessed with keeping his omega happy, he lifts the halovian’s leg and starts kissing his ankle.
“What was that ?” Sunday finally blurts out weakly.
“No good?” The thought of not pleasing him enough saddens Gallagher. He absentmindedly nibbles away at the perfectly carved foot. “Sorry, I’ll do better later… Just give me a moment.”
“Do better?”
Sunday looks at him like he just grew two heads.
“There’s better ?”
Gallagher’s mind, now a muddled slop, fails to process the statement. He strokes himself a couple of times encouragingly but his body is still not ready to go.
So he turns to pleasuring Sunday instead.
The hound kisses his way downwards to soft, inner thighs and runs a finger across the line under his balls. He dips two fingers back into the now abused hole and envelops a part of Sunday’s balls with his mouth. At the strange sensation, the halovian clutches helplessly at his brown hair and raises his hips in response.
Gallagher makes an experimental lick and sucking motion on the organ that is now balanced delicately against his lips.
And presses his fingers in deeply.
Sunday throws his head back and moans— unraveling with each touch. Gallagher watches him intently with the sole reason of finding out what pleases him. Anything that does not is pointless knowledge that he can just abandon.
As Sunday writhes, increasingly worked up underneath him, he feels himself grow hard once more.
The halovian easily cums a second time and Gallagher releases him just long enough to allow him to turn and crawl away towards some reprieve.
He grasps Sunday’s thin ankle and drags him back; lifting his hips as he does so.
Wrapping an arm around his waist, Gallagher spreads his palm over Sunday’s abdomen and feels the satisfying protrusion in his belly as he slots them back together. He imagines the halovian sporting a similar bump; only this time it is more permanent and plump with the most precious cargo.
Again, just being constantly filled with cum and pups.
As he makes a few more harsh thrusts, he leans over Sunday’s beautiful, unblemished back and gets dangerously close to his scent gland. Overwhelmed, Gallagher takes a whiff of the wonderful smell and kisses the area.
He desires with his entire being, something that he should not have.
Then, for the sake of Sunday, he retreats.
Because love is both holding on and letting go.
Sunday cries out in his arms after a particularly well-angled thrust— distracted by the pleasure and unaware of the hound’s greedy nature. Gallagher smiles at the sight of him enjoying himself and kisses his shoulder blade.
They climax together and the hound grasps Sunday’s jawline just firmly enough to turn his face towards him. Wordlessly, he draws him in for a kiss and presses their lower halves tightly together to ensure that none of his seed will spill.
“Did I do good?” Gallagher asks teasingly— a secret desperation hidden behind the question.
The halovian leans into him exhaustedly; still trying to catch his breath. He rubs the side of his own face against Gallagher’s face absentmindedly and closes his eyes. Perhaps Sunday is not interested in providing him with such an obvious answer.
As the possibility of Sunday carrying draws near, Gallagher holds back what he wants to say the most.
“Sunday…” He murmurs softly.
Be my mate.
“Stay with me, just for one more day… please.”
Notes:
Happy New Year everybody!
This was an incredibly difficult chapter to write and proof-read due to the characterization of Aventurine and its sheer size. Normally chapters are an average of 8k words but this one is straight up 13.5k words because it is a pretty important chapter. What do you think of it? I find it crazy that their love journey is the reverse of the norm. They're really going to have pups, be mates, buy a house and all that nonsense before someone finally says "I love you".
And now everybody knows the truth! Sunday's firstborn is Gallagher's. Always has been and always will be. 🥰
Aside, thank you to all who voted for the upcoming side fic! The winning option is 1) Pregnancy+Birth fic. It will be about the entire pregnancy journey for the Galladay twins, Altair and Wolfram. And don't worry I will stuff it full of fluff and domestic bliss. ❤️ It will be (hopefully) quite a long fic and the next update from me.
Thank you for reading ❤️ Please leave me kudos and comments if you liked the chapter ❤️ Comments especially, help me push out the next update quicker because I get excited discussing the fic haha.
Chapter 9: 5th Meeting (Ashoka, the one without sorrow)
Summary:
Gopher Wood calls upon the ghosts of his past in order to recall an important piece of information.
Now reunited, Sunday and Gallagher spend an entire day just babymaking and relishing in the feeling of being in each other's arms.
Meanwhile, on the other side of town, Ratio punishes Aventurine for venturing into the red light district without informing him.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Inside the Penacony Grand Theater, Gopher Wood ruminates silently on its main stage.
Hands clasped behind his back and eyes closed, he allows memories of the past to wash over him in waves. Everything is beginning to slip away— gradually but surely. The harder he tries to hold onto things, the more they dissolve through his fingers like fine sand.
Time is slipping away. Power is slipping away.
Now the memories are vague too. He cannot seem to recall specific details about things— about people — that happened merely a decade or two ago.
He continues to ruminate deeply.
Since the revolutionary liberation of this city, how much time has passed? How many sleepless nights have also passed since then?
“ Misha .” The leader of the Oak Family murmurs to nobody in particular, “Is this my punishment?”
“I suppose I deserved this.”
With an elegant wave of his hand, Gopher Wood draws on the power stored within the Grand Theatre to summon echoes of the past to the stage. He watches on impassively, as the echoes begin to move and depict scenes from his memories in a play of their own.
“I think congratulations are in order.” A younger version of him offers genuinely to a blue haired man who approaches him. Gopher Wood, still not yet the leader of the Oak Family, turns to face the man with a rare smile.
“Ashoka.” The person calls him endearingly.
“Your Majesty.” He responds.
Gopher Wood tilts his head in accompaniment to his own teasing tone. Still young, naive and arguably more handsome back then, the halovian’s peerless features light up at their easygoing exchange— the childishness of his youth on full display.
The new monarch of Penacony shakes his head disapprovingly, “You know I’m not one for these titles. ‘Watchmaker’? Sounds unique, maybe yes. But king? Never.”
“You’re such an oddity, Misha.”
“That makes the both of us then. Mr. Passerby-Angel.”
Gopher Wood shrugs, “A terrible coincidence. My adventures in Penacony have been scarring at best. Even without the war, I must tell my kind to stay away from this place as a holiday destination.”
The blue haired man laughs at his joke, and he feels his heart do a strange flip.
When the other man is finally able to collect himself, ‘Misha’ fixes his deep purple colored eyes on the halovian and they share an intimate moment of silent understanding.
Now Penacony can rest.
The price to pay for the city’s peace and freedom is steep, but they have ultimately triumphed over all odds. And now Penacony is home to everybody who dares to dream. Perhaps home to the both of them as well.
He moves to grasp the blue haired man’s hand gently— opening it to press a piece of cold metal to his black glove.
“A gift.” Gopher Wood explains uselessly, hoping that he would understand. “For your coronation.”
It is a pocket watch.
‘Misha’, initially taken aback by the gesture, softens at the sight of the intricate and aesthetically pleasing piece. The gold pocket watch sits in his palm comfortably like it always belonged there. Gopher Wood watches as the man’s fingers curl around the gift—- a sign of acceptance.
The halovian exhales in palpable relief.
His friend continues to admire it appreciatively and takes a moment to flip it around in his hand to get a better look at its detailing. Through a transparent window in the middle, one can observe the interlocked gears within and how they move in tandem.
And on the back of the pocket watch, carved intimately, are the words: Blest Be Mine Watchmaker.
“You shouldn’t have.”
“I had it made to commemorate this day. I know how much this means to all of us. To you.”
He releases the blue haired man, and ‘Misha’ responds by holding the pocket watch close to his chest gratefully. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, apparently mulling over something.
A look of anxiety crosses his normally carefree features.
“I have something I wanted to tell you as well.”
The halovian tenses. Did he understand? Or is this something else entirely?
He waits with bated breath— only to see the blue haired man move to cover his abdomen with his gloved hands. ‘Misha’ smiles at him, but it does little to soothe both of their nerves.
“I’m with child.”
He freezes.
The pocket watch sits over layers of fabric and skin, still in the other man’s possession, and continues to tick away. Beating in succession with the heartbeat of an unborn child.
‘Misha’’s firstborn.
Gopher Wood feels his mouth go dry, but he does not let it show on his face.
“Is it _______’s?” He mistakenly asks a question to which the answer he rather not hear.
“Yes.” ‘Misha’ shyly casts his gaze downwards as he confirms Gopher Wood’s worst suspicions. Unaware of his inner turmoil, the monarch continues, “It’s _______’s. I intend to tell him the next time he comes back to Penacony.”
A successor to the throne, and confirmation of their relations.
The halovian’s jaw slackens and his arms fall uselessly to his side. What is there left to be said?
“I’m also intending to tell him that I already have a name picked out for this child.” His friend looks back up with fondness, “If it is a boy, I want to name him ‘ Gallagher ’ in your honor. For all that you have done for us and Penacony.”
It was the worst idea he has ever heard.
Not fully in the know of Gopher Wood’s disappointment towards the situation, the blue haired man grasps his arm with the same measure of affection the halovian expressed when gifting the pocket watch earlier.
“Ashoka. When this child is born, I want you to be their godfather. We can love them together and teach them so many things.”
‘Misha’s’ deep purple eyes twinkle brightly with hope.
…And perhaps misplaced love and trust for the man in front of him.
“The future is now limitless for this little one.”
Gopher Wood eyes the man’s flat stomach apprehensively.
‘I don’t want to.’ A voice in his mind replies for him. There is something he desires more than that, and _______ is in the way.
This child is in the way.
But now is not the time to reveal that. He gathers himself after a moment, and impeccably masks the disorder he feels with a taut smile.
“I was right. Congratulations are in order.”
The echoes finish their performance and Gopher Wood, having recalled what he needs to and now visibly more anchored to reality, purses his lips.
“It should have been mine.”
Everything should have been his.
Instead, after the war ended, everything was taken away. Or maybe even before that, things were already slipping out of control without his knowledge. Either way, ‘Ashoka’ died on the same day ‘Misha’ did. He buries the name given to him with his friend and casts away his old self.
More accurately, he casts away the pretense of ‘Ashoka’ and fully returns to being Gopher Wood.
Despite the heartwrenching depiction of the past, the halovian does not waver. Nostalgia will not save anybody, let alone a whole city. He feels no guilt either.
If he were given the chance to return in time, he would do it all over again.
He does not ask for ‘Misha’’s forgiveness, and he does not care for anybody else’s.
As if on cue, an unkindness of ravens appear dramatically, swooping into the Grand Theater and making circles before one lands on his shoulder. It moves its head erratically, blinking curiously and proceeds to whisper dangerous things to Gopher Wood.
“Is that so?” He hums in amusement since his guess was right. Maybe this time Sunday can achieve what he could not previously.
While it is unexpected that they would meet, it is not unwelcome. After all, now that ‘Misha’ is gone, the only ones who have ties to him are his two sons. One is missing, and the other, who is more difficult to manipulate, is now almost within his grasp thanks to his adopted son.
Perhaps it is fate.
The halovian waves his hand once more and the ravens depart.
He stands motionless even after the sounds made by the flapping of their wings have long since quietened.
“I want you to be their godfather. We can love them together.” ‘Misha’’s soft voice plays on his mind like a broken record now that he is alone once more— his desire haunting Gopher Wood from decades past.
“Love the child?”
For the longest time, the man only desires one thing. And this desire has consumed him so completely that there is no space for anything else.
“You never understood me. That’s why we are here today.”
“When this is done— when Sunday has given me the child I need, I will send your firstborn to his sire. They can rot in the abyss together.”
“Maybe then, you will finally understand.”
Morning comes after a tumultuous night.
Sunday awakens slowly; already feeling more well-rested than he has been for weeks. As he stirs, he is suddenly keenly aware that there is someone in the bed with him. He can feel the warmth of their breath against his forehead and the gentle way they hold him close. His thoughts inevitably turn to Rhoeas— the only person granted access to his room in the Floating Dream Palace.
Or worse, perhaps an intruder.
His body reacts quicker than his brain, and Sunday reaches up to punch the person squarely in the jaw.
“Ow, fuck—” There is a yell of surprise and pain as the person releases his waist.
Sunday barely gives himself or his unwelcome bedmate a moment to register what is happening before he swings himself upright and sits on them; legs spread in a firm straddle and one hand threateningly closed around their throat. With his full weight now holding them down, the halovian has the upper hand.
He is in control.
Sunday opens his eyes but everything is still slightly blurry. The sunlight is also awfully bright today.
“You’ve got some nerve.” He starts coldly as he applies some pressure to choke the person, “Climbing into my bed this way— did you honestly think there won’t be any consequences?”
As his senses start coming back to him one by one, there is a stark realization that both he and the man below him are naked. The halovian seethes at the thought that this person— be it Rhoeas or a stranger— might have seen fit to help themselves to his body, however they please.
His grip on their throat tightens.
Sunday’s anger easily reaches a peak. How dare this vile creature besmirch something that does not belong to them? The only person who is allowed to touch him so intimately is—
He pauses.
The sound of the man choking is so awfully familiar.
And this firm, tanned chest…
After what feels like an eternity, his sight clears up enough to ascertain who lies beneath him: Gallagher. Holding his injured jaw with one hand and grasping Sunday’s arm with the other, the hound calls out to him weakly.
“S-Sunday…”
The halovian releases him in shock. “What? What are you doing?” His stance instantly slackens and he begins to soothe the poor man by stroking his chest.
Gallagher coughs in response to being released. Dolefully, he rubs his jaw and makes a few attempts to open and close his mouth. Just in case anything is dislocated.
Sunday winces. It is probably going to leave a bruise.
“I should be asking you that. I thought it was over for me.”
The hound sits up slightly, elbow propping himself up on the bed, and tilts his head questioningly at the halovian.
“One moment I was watching you sleep, and the next thing I know: you’ve sent a punch my way before attempting to kill me.”
“What are you, a female praying mantis?”
The joke lands well, but Sunday is too full of guilt to respond appropriately to it. His blueish-grey wings flutter weakly. It looks bad no matter how he tries to approach it. The halovian had momentarily forgotten that they spent the night together, and for some reason, immediately assumed it was Rhoeas or a stranger before remembering Gallagher.
Regardless of the excuse he is going to use, he should apologize first.
“I’m sorry. I was a little dazed from waking.”
“Birdie.” The voice is low, and warning him about the consequences that come with keeping things from each other.
“I-It slipped my mind. I thought I was being held by…”
Sunday’s voice trails off, because as expected, the expression on Gallagher’s face sours. He looks away, and Sunday’s heart drops in his chest. The halovian quickly leans in to placate the alpha. Resting his head on firm, tanned skin, Sunday releases his pheromones to express his desire to submit.
“I thought Rhoeas or some stranger was in my bed. It was rude and undesirable so I reacted on instinct.”
“Was my performance last night so terrible that Rhoeas is the first person that comes to mind when you wake?” Gallagher huffs indignantly and refuses to accept his submission, although Sunday can detect no ill-will in his accusation. He tilts his head up to try and catch a glimpse of the hound’s current expression.
He is still avoiding eye-contact with the halovian, but seems to feel more wronged than angry.
Like a child, Gallagher is waiting for Sunday to make it up to him.
Their first night together after a long while, and already Gallagher is making full use of the grace Sunday shows him. They may not be mates, but someone sure is acting like they have the privilege of one.
Decidedly, Sunday avoids coddling him for now.
“And what about mine?” He tosses the question back instead, “It must have been bad if you’ve lost sleep over it.”
At the statement, the hound finally meets his gaze. And for a moment, his heart does a strange flip that makes Sunday think of forgoing their conversation to just kiss the man silly. He wants to drown in those eyes of amber that hide a deeper shade of crimson.
Fortunately, he refrains. It would be too easy for Gallagher otherwise.
Because Sunday currently has the upper hand.
Equally guilty now, Gallagher tries to make an excuse for watching him sleep earlier. “Lose sleep? Me? Nah. I woke up a couple of minutes before you did.”
“Hound.” Sunday warns in return.
Gallagher begins rubbing the back of his head sheepishly, “Alright. I was up for an hour or two before you started stirring. I had a nightmare that…”
The man pauses, as if knowing that the answer he is about to give is ridiculous.
Gallagher coughs once more and looks away.
“I dreamt that I walked in on you having sex with Rhoeas. And it got me so riled up I uh…I woke up and couldn’t go back to sleep.”
Sunday raises a brow.
The hound withers under the look of incredulity Sunday gives him, “I know, I know. It’s impossible. But by the Aeons it really pissed me off. If I didn’t wake up I might have just mauled him there and then.”
“So knowing that you would have just choked him to death if he tried, is very comforting to know.”
The halovian shakes his head at his choice of a sire and sits upright.
“You are a child, Gallagher.”
The hound sits upright and gathers him in his muscular arms, and Sunday feels his breath catch in his throat. He looks at him earnestly, like a dog would with its only owner, and unexpectedly smiles.
“Would you have ripped Aventurine off me if you had seen the same?”
The smile is neither teasing or malicious. Gallagher gazes at him with a strange amount of affection for someone who is only here to sire pups for him and not become his mate. Something in Sunday’s heart twists wistfully.
And why does he mention Aventurine? Is Gallagher interested in him?
But that omega is taken.
Sunday is not. Even if they cannot be together officially, he greedily wishes that Gallagher would look only at him. It is not enough to have him be there for him and their pups. The hound cannot belong to anybody else.
If Aventurine expresses genuine interest in the alpha…
He thinks back to the day he saw Gallagher presenting a bouquet of blue roses to Aventurine and the way they smiled at each other. Sunday’s stomach churns at the thought. No. He should stop thinking about that moment. Gallagher has already clarified that it is a misunderstanding and that the roses are for him.
Well, the ‘him’ disguised as Robin.
Point is, none of it is for Aventurine. The roses, the affections, the—
Gallagher’s genuine smile of contentment whilst being with the gambler, flashes through Sunday’s mind.
“I would think… that I’d have difficulty explaining everything to Dr. Ratio.” He leaves his answer as open-ended as he possibly can. On the surface it sounds like Sunday would remain calm and pragmatically consider the issues that come with such a pairing. But deep within, Sunday knows that he actually means he will be unable to explain to the Doctor about Aventurine’s physical state when he is done with him.
The hound seems to miss the layers of meaning to Sunday’s answer.
“That’s your worry huh?”
There is a slight scent of disappointment. And it raises Sunday’s hopes.
“Are you hoping I’d treat Aventurine with ill-will?”
“It just surprised me, that’s all. I thought you’d be more possessive over your partners.”
Gallagher is playing a dangerous game. He throws around the word ‘ partners ’ like it means nothing. Sunday knows exactly what the hound means when he mentions ‘partners’— but he grows increasingly obsessed with the idea that it could mean what he thinks it means, rather than what it actually means.
Between them, it can only be: partners, like a sire or dam.
Yet he wishes it could be: partners, as in lovers or mates.
“I am.” Sunday reluctantly admits, and the hound stares at him with what can be described as a conflicted expression, “Which is why we should set a new rule.”
The halovian cups Gallagher’s face with both of his hands.
“If I ever find you in bed with another person, omega or otherwise, I will personally deal with the both of you.”
Maybe it is the way he says it. Or maybe Gallagher has other thoughts on his mind. Either way, the alpha shudders a little and his lower half reacts embarrassingly to that threat. Sunday does not mind though. He has been feeling somewhat frisky ever since he woke.
Not that Gallagher knows, because both of their gaze travel down to the hound’s now interested member and the man cringes at the sight.
Satisfied, Sunday makes a move to pretend to leave the bed.
…Only to be brought back down into Gallagher’s lap within seconds.
“ Sunday ,” The alpha breathes out pitifully, “Don’t leave.” Gallagher tightens his arms around Sunday’s torso, as if terrified that the halovian will slip out of his grasp at any moment.
Try as he might to resist (and Sunday knows he is definitely trying), the hound ends up bucking his hips upwards against him. Just a little.
“You said if I impressed you last night, you’d stay with me for another day.”
Intent on torturing the man, Sunday makes a show of rolling his hips once. Gallagher trembles beneath him. He wraps his arms around Gallagher’s neck and whispers, “Don’t you have work? You’re not being a very good employee.”
Gallagher looks directly into his eyes and Sunday can see the crimson colors of a flame, licking away at the edges of his blown pupils.
“I’m working.” The hound insists, “I’m accompanying a client right now.”
The sentence, despite being the most convenient excuse for the both of them, stings anyway. Sunday wonders if Gallagher will ever know that he now desires more from him. He does not want to be just a nameless face in the crowd of many that Gallagher beds.
“Kiss me.” He commands.
And the tension between them falls apart into pure catharsis as Gallagher reaches up to press their lips together. Melting into it, Sunday slides a hand up into the man’s hair and holds him even closer. They devour each other and then break apart for just barely enough air to indulge further.
Sunday feels lightheaded.
But when Gallagher slips his tongue into his open mouth once more, the combination of blissful sensations overwhelms him and he is pulled back into the man’s orbit.
Like clockwork, the hound moves downwards; hands expertly flicking sore nubs on his chest and lips pressing against his neck. He knows his greedy hound by now— Gallagher will mark him soon.
The alpha sucks firmly and laps at pale skin, and Sunday feels another hickey bloom under his touch. As Gallagher goes for a second one, Sunday tilts his head up to moan at the pleasure he feels.
Deft fingers slide over Sunday’s exposed scent gland.
He shudders.
The halovian curls in on himself and buries his face partially into Gallagher’s coarse brown hair. He inhales deeply. Want. He wants more. Now that he clearly knows how he feels towards the stray from the Floating Dream Palace, he cannot hide his desires from himself any further.
Won’t you make me yours?
His slick is everywhere on Gallagher’s crotch. It is smeared to all hell now.
The fingers pull back from the area near his scent gland— painfully aware of the appropriate distance the two of them should keep. Gallagher pulls back to look at the expression he is making. Under the alpha’s gaze, all Sunday can think about is how his heart is crushing itself under the weight of his unrequited love.
Tears almost fall.
“Birdie?” Comes the worried inquiry.
“Do you love me?” gets stuck in Sunday’s throat.
“Can you love me please?”
Sunday gives him a heartbroken, tired smile.
The halovian presses their foreheads together in an intimate and quiet gesture, “It’s nothing.”
It sounds so dismissive when he says it out loud. Maybe it would have been better to simply stay silent.
And yet, anything is still better than the actual words he wants to convey.
Gallagher kisses him on his cheeks, and Sunday pretends to harbor a small smile at how ticklish the sensation is. But all it does is amplify the pain.
He wonders if he is ruining the moment for the both of them— he cannot help but hate himself for it.
But the alpha, despite being oblivious to his actual thoughts, continues embracing all of him patiently and calmly. Gallagher is the perfect mate that he never will have as he hugs him close and murmurs:
“Sometimes I wish I knew what you are thinking in that pretty little head of yours.”
“...just so I can soothe you better.”
An answer that is perfect for someone from the Floating Dream Palace.
Sunday does not give Gallagher the knowledge of what he seeks. He does not share his thoughts— he simply cards his fingers through coarse, brown hair.
They part, and Gallagher looks at him with so much tenderness he thinks he might be dreaming. A large hand comes up to cup his cheek and Sunday leans into its comfort.
The hound thumbs his cheek wistfully. But the halovian is too distracted to realize why.
Blueish-grey wings flutter as Gallagher takes a moment to run his fingers over their ridges and soft feathers. Sunday closes his eyes to feel the sensations better.
If they had a child, would the baby have wings too? What color would they be?
A magnificent jewel red, burning brightly under layers of brown.
Looking just like their father.
Their lower halves slide against each other in a way that jolts Sunday back to reality. His slick, having smeared itself all over Gallagher’s crotch, now enables the alpha to rub his length provocatively against Sunday’s perineum.
Dangerously close to his hole.
The hound releases his wings and slides his hands down Sunday’s back. Grasping his bottom tightly, Gallagher spreads them so that the tip of his length fits snugly between the crevices.
He pauses.
“If you want to stop, now is a good time to say ‘no’.”
Sunday shakes his head and buries his face into the small of the man’s neck.
“ Please .”
The older man holds Sunday close, and presses in the tip tentatively. Just in case he has misread Sunday’s consent. When the halovian lifts his head and their eyes meet, Gallagher seems to lose all rationality.
He starts pushing himself into the still-soft hole, and Sunday’s body easily parts as though the alpha has belonged there all along.
Without any preparation at all, Sunday takes Gallagher whole.
They kiss as the hound completes sheathing himself within. And Sunday, although still less experienced than Gallagher, instinctively rolls his hips to the feeling of the alpha bucking upwards.
They chase after each other fervently.
Gallagher drenches him in his pheromones, and Sunday welcomes it by releasing some of his own. The deep, musky scent permeates every pore on his body; claiming him as its own. As much as this position gives Sunday control over their pace, the hound keeps up with him.
Each thrust feels like it is opening up someplace new inside of Sunday.
After a particularly intense one, the halovian jerks involuntarily and slows; his own length twitching and weeping from the stimulation.
But Gallagher is all gone and single mindedly chasing after the pleasure of burying himself within Sunday’s tight walls. He grasps Sunday’s hips tightly and helps him to bounce. Breaths erratic and bodies melted together, they carve each other’s existence into their respective bodies.
“Sunday.” The man groans needily against his lips.
He responds by attempting to lift his hips higher than usual; pulling apart from Gallagher so much so that only the tip remains.
…before engulfing him in one fell swoop.
The alpha trembles beneath him. His body shakes from the strain of holding back. Sunday knows what he is thinking: Gallagher wants to savor this moment for longer. Yet it seems like his own physical body is betraying him— ready to come at any given moment.
Something leaks out from within him.
The gravity causes his slick to flow out in obscene amounts, staining the sheets below.
Slick and perhaps, some of Gallagher’s precum.
Or has he already…?
No, judging from his tortured expression, not yet.
The halovian eyes the struggling hound and presses against his own abdomen. Gallagher’s expression changes to one of shock, as he obviously reacts to the pressure that Sunday’s touch creates.
The sensation is equally overwhelming for Sunday and he shudders.
But the halovian does not relent as he continues holding down the area where the hound’s length creates a protrusion. He rolls his hips a couple of times and Gallagher’s grip on him tightens. Gallagher bites his lower lips in desperation— he resists once more, the idea of releasing so quickly within Sunday.
The halovian sees this, and attempts to milk him dry.
“How are you…” He pants as he begins stroking himself instinctively to chase his own high, “How are you going to give me any pups if you’re holding back all day?”
Gallagher emits a low growl at the teasing he receives, and pushes Sunday back onto the soft mattress. They switch positions— Gallagher now on top and Sunday below him, legs still spread in a position that can easily evolve into either a mating press or the usual missionary. Knowing that he has hit the nail on the head, the halovian releases his own pheromones alluringly.
He does not mind relinquishing control over their pace. After all, this position is overall better for keeping most of Gallagher’s seed inside of him.
“I’m trying to savor the moment.” The man admits as he takes the bait.
He places Sunday’s legs together and hugs it close to his left shoulder. They both instantly feel the difference— the new position makes Sunday’s walls clamp down tightly on Gallagher almost inhuman length. The hound thrusts, and Sunday nearly sees stars.
He gasps, and tries to get a retort out, but Gallagher pounds into him.
“We can always go again.” Sunday eventually chokes out, “ Or do you not have confidence that you can satisfy me more than once?”
The witty remark causes the hound to punish him with a particularly rough thrust.
“Ah—!”
Above him, Gallagher grits his teeth and straightens up on his knees. He wraps his muscular arms around Sunday’s legs and lifts him easily; still keeping up a punishing pace despite having to keep the halovian’s lower half off the bed and securely midair.
“You’ve always running your mouth like that. Is it my fault for indulging this bad habit of yours?”
This time, Sunday is rendered physically speechless by the new position he is held in and the sensations that come with being pounded relentlessly. His own length is all but forgotten as his hands grip the sheets instead. The halovian’s toes curl in upon themselves and he twitches at the feeling of Gallagher working him thoroughly.
“Admit it, Sunday. You’re just desperate to be filled by me.”
Gallagher takes over Sunday’s earlier endeavor by grasping his smaller length between them; he applies enough pressure while giving it a couple of comfortable strokes.
Embarrassingly, Sunday unravels first because of the overwhelming sensation he feels both in his front and back. And as he comes, he tightens involuntarily around the hound— the newfound tightness causes the man to slow his thrusts.
The omega in Sunday whines softly.
No rebuttal at the ready for Gallagher’s accusation this time, he relents and reaches downwards desperately.
“Need…” He gasps with shallow breaths, “ Need you…inside.”
Gently, Gallagher lowers his bottom half back onto the sheets and folds him into a perfect mating press. The change in position is purposeful, because the hound captures his lips in a hungry kiss. Their tongues melt against each other as the man above him whispers teasingly, “Come on now, I’ve been inside for a while.”
The response is barely audible but Sunday catches it.
Gallagher says it as if Sunday had not noticed. How could he not? The thing penetrating him below over and over again is practically a third leg.
He takes the brief interim between their kisses to go for Gallagher’s throat.
Biting down on the small of Gallagher’s neck with a small amount of frustration, the halovian instantly tames his wild beast of an alpha. It is Sunday’s fault for not specifying what he means but he will rather punish the hound for it than to admit that his own orgasm has momentarily rendered his mind useless.
The man above him gasps.
“You know what I mean.”
Their eyes meet and Sunday thinks he sees, yet again, a strange amount of adoration in the hound’s eyes. Is that for him? He hopes so. At this precise moment, he cannot possibly imagine Gallagher envisioning someone else in his place.
He does not want to.
A curious crimson color fills Gallagher’s irises.
Like a rekindled flame, so beautiful, burning brightly.
…Sunday thinks he wants to be consumed by it.
Gallagher’s movements soon slow and stills as he empties inside. It causes Sunday to make a pleased little hum. Judging by the soft grunts and rumbling in the hound’s throat, he is equally satisfied as well.
The halovian wraps his arms around Gallagher’s tanned neck and nuzzles against his temple, “Don’t pull out.”
Without a knot, it is sadly more difficult to keep the entirety of Gallagher’s load within him. But even when slightly softened, the man’s length proves to be enough to plug up most of it. It can also be because the hound is far from done— Sunday has learnt enough about his sire’s actual stamina in one night.
The thought catches hold of him, and Sunday briefly wonders how much an actual knot would stretch him.
It leaves a part of him aching for more.
“Wasn’t intending to.” Gallagher answers gruffly, and there is a moment of internal shock before Sunday realizes that he is responding to his verbal comment about not pulling out instead of referring to giving him a knot.
Still, he knows it is too much to ask.
So why does he feel so conflicted inside?
.
…
.
They go for another two more rounds after the first.
An entire night and day spent in debauchery.
When they are done (for the moment, Sunday thinks), he finds himself laying on Gallagher’s wide chest; indulging in some rest and relaxation. The hound holds him close, like a lover would, and places a soft, almost unnoticeable kiss in his hair.
The halovian notes in his heart that Gallagher is very experienced in both the act and aftercare.
Sunday can almost feel a sour taste filling his mouth. Just threatening to rear its ugly head any moment.
Shifting just slightly, the hound moves to embrace him with both arms instead of one. He lifts Sunday’s chin and kisses him again— drinking fervently— like he cannot bear to part with the nectar of the gods laying in his arms.
“Do you do this with every single one of your ‘clients’?”
There it is.
Gallagher pauses and observes him. Under his gaze, Sunday shrinks from being seen holding the unwanted baggage of his obvious jealousy. Tiny grey wings come forth to hide his face.
“I won’t lie to you.” The hound starts as large hands come up to coax Sunday into unfurling his wings, “There have been ‘clients’ before, but it was an extremely long time ago. I’ve basically stopped after I had the opportunity to be a bartender instead.”
“Never liked any of that. But back then, I didn’t get to choose.” He adds, a little too despondently for Sunday’s liking.
“Now back to your question: no I don’t, birdie.”
Gallagher, having succeeded at getting him to remove his wings, thumbs his cheek softly, and Sunday almost regrets asking. But more than ever, now is a good chance for them to really get to know each other.
“You didn’t get to choose when you started this with me either.” The halovian murmurs unhappily at his own lack of grace previously, “And for that, I apologize.”
What makes this situation any different from the ones in Gallagher’s past then?
The hound has indicated last night that he is willingly siring a child for Sunday. Yet an uncomfortable feeling plants itself within the halovian’s chest.
Is he…unwittingly forcing this upon the person he loves?
Granted, Gallagher does not love him back, but that does not change Sunday’s feelings. It does little to lessen the guilt and hate he feels for putting the man through this.
“Hey, no need to apologize. You did give me a choice actually. Remember? If I didn’t want this, you told me I could get Adam back for you.”
“So why didn’t you? You could have avoided taking on another ‘client’.”
Gallagher pauses again.
A look of regret crosses his face at the thought of something. Perhaps he has just realized that he misspoke earlier by calling Sunday his ‘client’. Sighing, the hound closes his eyes as he leans his forehead against Sunday’s.
“I couldn’t.” Comes the simple reply, “Didn’t want to.”
“You’re the first one I chose for myself… I think.”
The statement is loaded, and Gallagher knows. So he tries to shrug it off casually by pretending that there might have been others in the past who were given the same privilege of being chosen by him. Someone who he might have forgotten.
‘I think.’ As if one can forget anybody being chosen among the many who were not, in a situation he himself describes as never having liked.
A small hope rises within Sunday. Perhaps he is different to the hound, after all.
“You think?” Sunday asks pensively, moving back to get a better view of the man in front of him; golden eyes trained on Gallagher’s face.
Under his gaze, the hound smiles weakly.
“Alright, alright. You got me. You’re the first.”
And the only one. So far. Hopefully, forever.
It is too much to wish for, isn’t it? So Sunday takes the word “first” and shoves it deep down into his heart where he will always hold it close. He knows it cannot have been easy for Gallagher— they are already in their adulthood yet this is the first relationship he admittedly enjoys.
Partnership. Situationship. A small voice chimes in.
Sunday smiles a little anyway.
Gallagher melts at the sight of his tiny smile, “You know, when you smile like that, you can easily bring nations to their knees. Get anybody and everybody to do things for you.”
“I wish.” Sunday shakes his head in amusement, “It would make a lot of business or political negotiations much easier.”
“Have you tried?”
“No.”
“Yeah well,” The hound seemingly hesitates, catching himself at the very last moment and changing his mind about something, “...you might be right. Definitely don’t go around smiling at others. They might find it weird.”
Sunday frowns, “Is it?”
“Yeah, but I don’t mind. So you can just smile like that when it’s only us.”
Huh.
Just as Sunday is attempting to figure out if Gallagher meant that his smile is undesirable, a bright light flashes to their right. The momentary burst is sudden and blinding; capturing both of their attention almost immediately. Yet aside from the room being lit up, nothing else happens.
The two look to the side of the bed and at each other.
It shines brightly only for a singular moment and then disappears.
Gallagher does not immediately make a move to check on the source of light, but Sunday peers off the side of the bed and ascertains that it is coming from within the hound’s discarded vest.
When the light dims, he dips his hand into its pocket to retrieve…
…a gold pocket watch.
The power of the Harmony hums softly within; strong enough to make the hairs on the back of Sunday’s neck stand. Familiar enough to rattle him slightly.
He flips it over.
Blest Be Mine Watchmaker.
“Blest…?” Sunday murmurs at the sight of the old word. It is not a commonly used one. In fact, the last known time he has encountered this word is—
“Sunday?”
Gallagher’s voice brings him out of his stupor. The halovian turns to face the hound and lifts the pocket watch into his sight. The hound’s lips momentarily part in surprise and then, as if a mask is slipped on, his face is stoic once more.
Sunday cannot tell if this item means anything to him.
“This was the thing that was glowing earlier. I can also sense a familiar power belonging to the Harmony from within it. Where did you get this from?”
Gallagher shrugs calmly.
“It belongs to my dad. He apparently received it as a gift from someone.”
The halovian flips the pocket watch back to its front in his palm. The gears inside have stopped working— quite possibly for years— but small metal pieces still shine brightly and look as polished as new. Completely untouched by time.
Whoever gave Gallagher’s dad this pocket watch must have cherished him a lot.
“Is this a gift from your father?” He inquires curiously about the other parent. It might be a landmine he is stepping on. Sunday vaguely remembers Gallagher’s story about his travelling father, and how his dad passed on from heartbreak after his father left and never returned.
By all accounts, Gallagher should hate his father.
Is he keeping this pocket watch because it is a memento from his dad?
Unsurprisingly, the hound’s scent in the air sours just a little and the man looks away.
“Hell if I know. I only kept it because it is one of my dad’s favorite items. A bit unfortunate if it turns out to be my father’s, but I don’t have much left of my dad to mind these things anyway.”
The pocket watch continues to sit in Sunday’s palm perfectly and silently.
There is no indication that it will glow once more.
“Blest Be Mine Watchmaker. Blessed Be My Watchmaker. Whoever made this…”
He crawls back into the hound’s lap and holds the pocket watch close enough for the both of them to observe. There is still some unwillingness in Gallagher to discuss the pocket watch, but he relents as long as Sunday diverts the topic at hand away from his father.
On the other hand, the halovian is transfixed.
“...is so strange.”
“How so?”
“Assuming you are the ‘watchmaker’, why would you give someone a gift that blesses yourself, the creator? Sounds a little bit narcissistic.”
Gallagher apparently realizes something that he does not and bites down on his lower lip subtly. Sunday waits for the man to elaborate, yet all he receives is a reserved silence. Whatever it is, it might be a family secret.
Or another sore point of contention regarding his father.
Unwilling to put Gallagher on the spot further, Sunday relinquishes the pocket watch into the palm of the man’s hand.
“I can sense the power of the Harmony within this thing. The burst of light earlier is probably related to it as well. Someone— probably the person who gave your dad this, sealed something powerful into this pocket watch.”
“You should probably get it checked out.”
Gallagher makes a face.
“You’re kidding.”
“Not at all.”
The word ‘Blest’ is extremely old and very rarely found. Most people use the more common and recent variation of the word, ‘Bless’, instead. In fact, the only time Sunday heard it being used in the past was when Gopher Wood referred to the power he once used to end the war in Penacony.
Blest. Exactly as he had called it.
In a single, destructive blow, with a power only matched by Emanators, Gopher Wood stripped the will of thousands and then upended the battlefield; turning the tide towards the side of Mikhail Char Legwork.
After the war, it is said that he is no longer able to use the spell because of the huge toll it took on his body.
Sunday frowns. There is no way Gallagher’s civilian dad could have come into possession of something on that scale of power. It might all be a coincidence. He is just overthinking this.
“Pocket watches aren’t meant to glow. Just get someone to look at it.”
When Gallagher does not reaffirm his desire to ensure that they are not looking at a walking time bomb, Sunday presses him stubbornly. There is a weird, gnawing feeling that he must insist they get it examined.
“Hound. Promise me.”
Gallagher stares at the pocket watch in his hand pensively.
“Alright.”
There is a knock on the door, and Sunday vaguely realizes that he has been holding his breath for quite a while. His muscles are all tensed up at the familiar-yet-unfamiliar appearance of the gold pocket watch. The halovian flexes his shoulders to unwind slightly.
He is not expecting any guests today, so the person at the door can only be a staff member of the Floating Dream Palace.
He takes a deep breath and exhales.
Craning his neck towards the door, he verbalizes as firmly as he can, “Yes?”
A pause.
“Mister Sunday?” A small, yet unmistakable voice comes from the other side. Instinctively, Gallagher sits up and shoves the pocket watch under the pillow. Strong arms wrap around Sunday and the hound buries his face into his lean chest possessively.
Everything happens so quickly. The halovian inhales sharply at this sudden, overprotective display.
“Mister Sunday?” The voice calls out once more.
At the sound of the voice’s continued beckoning, Gallagher snarls softly against his sternum. He squeezes Sunday tight.
“Give me a moment.” Sunday commands the person at the door, before turning his attention back to the childish man in front of him.
“What are you doing?”
“It’s him.” Gallagher replies petulantly.
“Him? You mean Rhoeas?”
Another unhappy snarl. And Sunday resists the urge to violently pinch the man on his cheeks till he comes to his senses.
“I don’t want him anywhere near you.”
“He has to report for work. We were so occupied yesterday that I have not made arrangements for him elsewhere.”
“I don’t care.”
“ Gallagher. ”
“If he takes even a single step into this room, I will—”
“ Nothing is happening between him and me. Nothing has happened either. But I do need to pass him some work if I were to frolick around with you today.”
A very angry, yet helpless growl rumbles against his chest. Reason and Instinct are having a vicious battle within the alpha.
Sunday sighs.
“Just…let it all out. Just scent me. And I’ll pass him the tasks by the door so he doesn’t go into pheromone shock.”
It takes a couple of minutes, but Sunday successfully puts on a robe and gets to the door.
When he opens it, the omega can see Rhoeas visibly flinch from the amount of pheromones leaking out from the room and on him. The silver haired man tries to take a step back but stops in his tracks at the thought of it being rude to the halovian.
Sunday sighs and places a stack of (also pheromone covered) books into the poor man’s arms.
“It’s fine. I know it can be overwhelming. Just take two steps back and listen to what I have to say.”
The alpha nods in relief and does as he is told.
“I need you to sort through the accounts in the first two books, labelling any discrepancies and all. The usual. Then match any incoming proposals with the previously completed projects in the next three and set them aside for my perusal. Help me sift through the rest of my electronic and physical mails, and set aside those that might be interesting or require immediate attention as well. Cancel all meetings for today. Take down messages for anybody who is looking for me.”
“If there is anything urgent, just drop me a text.”
“And for obvious reasons, don’t come knocking at the door unprompted from today onwards. Go ask Siobhan for a different room to work in.”
From within the room, a displeased growl resounds. Apparently Sunday is taking too long.
Rhoeas stares in shock— it also appears that the man has never heard such a sound coming from the well-mannered bartender of the Floating Dream Palace. Sunday almost shrugs. He barely bothers to hide Gallagher’s presence within his room, because the pheromones are already a dead giveaway regarding his bed partner’s identity.
“Don’t worry too much about that.” He waves the alarming sound away, “And don’t worry about getting into trouble with Siobhan. If you ever lose your job, I will just hire you under the Oak Family.”
He says the last bit as loudly as he can, in order to prevent Gallagher from being unjust towards Rhoeas in the future. Says it extra loudly, so that his sire can hear his warning all the way from within his room.
Their room, now.
Rhoeas nods, “Is there anything else you require help with?”
Before Sunday can respond, a large hand grips the door frame from behind him and Gallagher, all strangely menacing like a cranky bear for once, wraps one arm around the halovian and pulls him close. Rhoeas’ gaze moves downwards because he notices the movement of the arm snaking around Sunday’s waist.
…And he inevitably catches sight of Gallagher’s third leg.
The man is still naked.
Sunday realizes it, the moment the large member presses against him. The shock consumes him. The halovian feels like he is about to have an aneurysm.
In the lowest, most dominant sounding voice Sunday has ever had the pleasure displeasure to hear from him, Gallagher snaps at the silver haired alpha.
“What else do you want to help him with? Pups?”
The halovian’s eyes widen in equal parts shock and shame, but the brown haired alpha pulls him backwards into the room too quickly and forcefully.
He practically rips Sunday away from the other more reasonable and wronged alpha. Rhoeas manages to shoot him a grimace from beyond the door frame right as they are parted. As an alpha, he probably understands something that Sunday does not.
And although Rhoeas does not seem to mind, the door slams ungraciously in his face.
“U-Unbelievable! Is that how you treat your colleagues?”
Currently tossed over Gallagher’s shoulder like a sack of potatoes, Sunday is hauled back into the room and subsequently dropped onto the soft bed.
Gallagher climbs over him unhappily, “You were taking too long.”
“That was two whole minutes at the maximum!”
Unwilling to fight and terribly frisky from the desire to claim Sunday as his, Gallagher pulls him close. The halovian sees his plan and immediately covers the man’s mouth with his hands like a hapless owner who is trying to pry their misbehaving, large dog off themselves.
No kisses. None for his rude alpha.
Gallagher is unthwarted by this denial and continues to coax Sunday; large hands roaming around his smaller body at an alarmingly quick pace. Not wanting the hound to succeed in getting a reward when he is evidently in the wrong, Sunday turns and attempts to crawl away.
But Gallagher grabs him by his waist and holds him in place.
The next thing he knows, a tongue is in his ear— licking and nibbling around the cartilage’s shell.
Sunday gasps and red blooms on his cheeks.
“You insolent— wretched!”
Gallagher’s length slides intimately between his other pair of cheeks below, and Sunday knows that slick is practically pouring out of his hole right now. The halovian cannot help it. Gallagher is not stopping and he is getting increasingly aroused by the slightly forceful yet not at all brutalizing behavior of his partner.
He feels bad for Rhoeas but the possessive display by Gallagher is pleasing him more than it should.
It feels right .
Like something an alpha would do for his mate.
Just to test the brakes, Sunday goes stock still and says, “Stop.” He does not use even the slightest bit of the Harmony.
The alpha immediately drops everything that he is doing and calmly releases him. Gallagher eyes him hungrily— his engorged member now throbbing painfully between them. But he sits back on his haunches and waits for Sunday to say or do anything else.
Sunday lifts himself up on his elbows and turns back to gaze at the splendid alpha of his.
He releases a bit of his own pheromones and Gallagher’s eyes start to glaze over.
“What do you want?”
Unable to bear the burden of his own arousal in front of a perfectly scrumptious looking Sunday, the man starts stroking himself as he answers, “T-To fill you up.”
The halovian watches as Gallagher groans from how pleasurable each stroke feels.
“Do you think you deserve it?”
The hound trembles.
“No.”
“Do you think I will give it to you anyway?”
Crimson filled eyes look at him pathetically. Sunday immediately understands that the man does not want to come on the sheets. It is a waste, after all.
“ P-Please .” The hound begs through shuddering breaths, “I’m sorry.”
Sunday knows acutely that Gallagher is apologizing not because he actually sees the error of his ways. It is definitely more so because it is the only way Sunday will have an excuse to just give in and indulge the both of them.
“Come.” He says firmly, gesturing for Gallagher to cover him once more. Without waiting for the hound to move, Sunday turns away and lifts his hips into the air; prostrating himself in the most sinful way possible.
He does not have to wait long, because Gallagher slides into him almost immediately and rails him as much as they both desire.
The hound comes only after a couple of thrusts.
A warmth fills him from within, along with his partner’s pulsating member.
But Gallagher does not stop there. Despite going for three rounds earlier and just finishing up a fourth, he continues pounding into Sunday, still half-hard.
The alpha leans in.
And Sunday can feel the other’s breath, harsh and loud, against the nape of his neck. Gallagher inhales his scent and licks the area desperately. He nibbles. He creates hickeys. Yet he never oversteps.
Not that Sunday minds.
He thinks that perhaps it will be nice if Gallagher loses it completely and bites him.
They could, perhaps, bond before they figure out everything else. After all, they got into this situationship before they got to know anything about each other.
He looks downwards and sees the slight bloat of his abdomen— filled with so much cum and his sire’s length.
“How am I not pregnant yet?” Sunday murmurs absentmindedly to himself, thinking that Gallagher will not catch it in his dazed and fervent pursuit of melding their bodies together.
But of course, he does.
“Beats me. Between last night and today, I’m pretty sure you have enough for septuplets.”
The thrusting slows, and both of them catch their breath enough to look at each other.
“Do I want to ask why septuplets?”
“Because there’s seven days in a week.” The hound grins, now seemingly more like himself after claiming Sunday once.
“You do realize my name is Sunday. Not Wonweek . Right?”
“Sextuplets, then.”
“We barely have one and you’re thinking of six. I suggest you stop overestimating yourself.”
Gallagher gives him a good, proper thrust at that unceremonious jab to his ego, and Sunday lets out a surprised sound. With the way the hound keeps opening him up, he imagines that perhaps all that release is going somewhere within his belly.
And hopefully taking root.
“You’re right. Less talk, more work.”
A loud smacking sound reverberates throughout the small room.
On the other side of town, in the same exact prostrating position as Sunday: chest and knees touching the bed and hips offered up in the air—- Aventurine lies prone to whatever punishment Veritas Ratio dishes out to him.
He makes a small, pained gasp and clutches at the sheets below him.
It hurts a tiny bit because of how skinny he is, but he does not make excuses or moves to avoid each blow.
“Kakavasha.” Ratio grasps a fistful of his hair and pulls him up firmly to speak in his ear, “You know the safe word.”
The blonde shakes his head to show that it is not necessary.
And Ratio releases him.
Another loud smack resounds as the Doctor hits him on his rear; not holding back on either the punishment or the pace in which he thrusts into Aventurine’s tight hole.
“Tell me. Who is your alpha?”
Aventurine can barely catch his breath between the addictive pain of being punished and the sensation of being filled. He pauses because his brain is suddenly unable to process the question.
A second’s worth of delay and Ratio is once again hitting him on his raw spot.
“Ratio!” He whines needily, “Veritas Ratio is my alpha!”
“Again.”
Ratio grips him by the hair and yanks him up— this time more roughly than the last, since he is more confident in Aventurine’s continued consent. He inhales sharply at the omega’s scent gland and takes in the surprisingly coy scent that the gambler is releasing.
“You have a terrible memory. So I want to hear it again.”
Ratio thrusts hard into him, and Aventurine mewls out loud. He blinks hard. Only their lovemaking can give him the same rush he feels when he is walking on the edge of life and death. It fills up something within him. It makes him feel alive.
And normally it does not involve rough spanking, but even during then, Ratio is perfectly capable of knowing when to be rough or gentle with him. Like an expert handler, the man knows when to tighten his leash and when to allow him some breathing space.
Soft, academia hands enclose around the front of his neck.
The doctor now kisses him on his jaw like he is a marble statue meant to be handled cautiously. A loving work of art created by Gaiathra Triclops themselves.
He almost scoffs at the thought. What is there to love about a crafty Avgin?
Still, Ratio makes him forget easily. Forget about a world that hates him. Forget about his own self hatred.
In his arms, Aventurine is simply his most beloved Kakavasha .
“Who is your alpha?”
There is only one answer.
“ Veritas Ratio. ” Aventurine turns to look at him, and sees the Imagined Sunrise that Gallagher made for him the other day, “ You are my alpha.”
Satisfied, the Doctor rewards him with a kiss on the lips and generously wraps his hand around Aventurine’s length to pump it in tandem with his own thrusts.
They chase after their respective climax and easily unravel together— tumbling down from the peak without much care about anything else. Ratio empties his load inside of the gambler, and Aventurine dirties the sheets with his own.
The alpha makes to pull out, but is immediately stopped by Aventurine.
“Don’t.”
Ratio does not ask why. It will not matter anyway. All of their copulation will not bear fruit because of the numerous medications that the Sigonian is on. And even if he was not, who knows if Aventurine might be infertile by now? Years of abuse has left him malnutritioned when he was young, and plagued with irregular heats.
By all accounts, Aventurine knows he is seen as a damaged omega by the world. Unable to bear children. The most irresponsible, unruly type of dam. Unfit to be trusted with little ones.
Defective in every way possible.
But Ratio does not care. He indulges him and simply lays them flat on their sides to rest whilst still connected.
He wraps himself around Aventurine; comforting him now that the ‘punishment’ is over.
The gambler allows it. He likes how gentle the normally sharp-tongued Ratio can be with him.
“You really didn’t hold back today, huh?”
Without bothering to open his eyes, Ratio answers, “You deserved it.”
Aventurine grimaces.
“I admit that recklessly investigating Sunday and the Oak Family so deeply within the red light district is not a good plan. And I’m sorry for not telling you about it.”
No response to that.
It seems like his partner has chosen to continue fuming silently this time. The omega obediently picks up Ratio’s hands and presses a placating kiss to the back of long, slender fingers.
This works. At least, enough for Ratio to want to converse with him rather than stew in his anger.
“Why him? What is his connection with Sunday?”
Ah. Ratio is referring to Gallagher. His newfound bartending ‘friend’.
“Don’t know. But you have to admit that the two of them are obviously intertwined in some way.”
“How does that help you with work then?”
Aventurine turns to look at Ratio and the Doctor finally opens his eyes when he feels the gambler’s gaze on him.
“Veritas, something strange is happening in Penacony. It is like a murky pond: it may look calm and still on the surface, but there are dark happenings brewing underneath.”
“Sure, the IPC wants to acquire the city. But this cannot be done as long as the Oak Family is in power. Not to mention, people have been going missing as of late. Some parts of the city have quietly fallen into disarray as well.”
“It’s…really odd. I’ve taken a look at the damage. They say that it is just terribly maintained, older buildings.”
“But it almost seems like the city is decaying somehow.”
Ratio ruminates on the information he has just been given and stares at Aventurine. It seems like the Doctor has always had some suspicions about the rise of Penacony, but they always lacked any definitive proof.
Now, it seems like a hypothesized theory of his might prove true.
“The only remaining pioneer of Penacony from the war is Gopher Wood. He probably holds the key to the answer you seek.”
Increasingly engaged in solving their mystery at hand, Aventurine detaches himself from Ratio— earning him an unhappy click of the tongue from the Doctor. Oops. Perhaps Ratio enjoyed being inside after all.
He pretends to not notice the Doctor’s displeasure and grabs him by the arms.
“What are the odds that Sunday is aware too? He’s way easier to handle than that elusive old fart.”
Ratio shakes his head, “Low.”
“Sunday may look cold on the surface, but close scrutiny shows that he often engages in tedious work with zero benefits to him or the Oak Family. He loves Penacony and its citizens, and it is plain to see. Gopher Wood on the other hand…”
He pauses and Aventurine leans in eagerly. He loves listening to Ratio’s brilliant opinions on matters, and all the various hypotheses he comes up with.
“It’s more difficult to tell what ambitions he might have, or his ultimate goal. But he and Sunday don’t seem to be the type of people to walk on the same Path.”
The gambler’s eyes widen in surprise.
“What? You mean it figuratively, right? Like a difference in personality?”
Ratio sighs and holds him close, as if he is increasingly concerned about something.
“There’s a rumor that began circulating after the final battle that liberated Penacony.”
“People claim that: as the dust on the battlefield settled, the corpses that were littered around bear too much damage for his final spell to be one of the Harmony. After all, the Harmony only amplifies another existing strength rather than applying direct wide-scale destruction.”
“It’s almost as if whatever he used has suppressed their enemies instead.”
“Hence, there is speculation that the famous Gopher Wood, deliverer of Penacony and once-beloved right hand man of Mikhail Char Legwork…”
“...was a madman who committed the unspeakable and emerged from the throes of war as a follower of Ena, the Order .”
The normally talkative Aventurine is now silent.
If this is true, the implications are dire. The Order is an old Path that once fought during the swarm disaster. As the Aeon was later on assimilated by Xipe the Harmony during their ascension, people have forgotten how harsh and powerful They can be.
Ratio cards his fingers through blonde hair apprehensively for once.
“Kakavasha, I fear that revealing the truth about Penacony is going to put you in grave danger.”
Just his luck.
The IPC really does throw all of their most difficult projects at him.
Notes:
So...yikes. Gopher Wood has been unhinged for way longer than we all thought he was. What does he want, exactly? Nobody knows. 🤷 For those who are curious, the name 'Ashoka' that 'Misha' calls him at the start is referring to the Ashoka Tree.
For those who are unaware, my gift to you for 1300 kudos is up! You can find it here: Till all the stars burn out or alternatively, you can head to my profile and find the work titled "Till all the stars burn out". At approximately 44k words long, it is a comfortable read covering all 9 months of Sunday's second pregnancy (the twins!) and their birth. Lots of fluff. Tons of tension. Very fun.
Thank you for reading! ❤️ Please leave me kudos and comments discussing this chapter if you liked it ❤️
Chapter 10: 6th Meeting (Children of the Watchmaker)
Summary:
Gallagher has a dream of his dad and it makes him realize that his situationship with Sunday is spiraling out of control.
When they wake, Sunday disappears for another extended period of time and a devastated Gallagher copes extremely badly with the idea of being abandoned for good.
Thinking that it might be the only way he gets to see Sunday once more, Gallagher recklessly accepts an invitation from the resident troublemaker Aventurine- who then tells him that “Nothing in Penacony is what it seems.” Both men (sort of) find what they are searching for, but each of them also pays a high price in return.
At the end of it all, both Aventurine and Ratio have a terrible revelation regarding the fall of the Watchmaker's family...
...and the circumstances pertaining to the births of both his children.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Gallagher hears a bell ringing in his ears.
It is a refreshing and light sound... and perhaps somewhat nostalgic.
Is somebody calling him?
He opens his eyes.
When he next lifts his gaze, he is watching his younger self tell his dad that he is scared of ‘the monster in the corner’. ‘Sleepie’, as he calls the entity now, is much smaller and equally frightened. It curls up where it floats and eyes him nervously from a distance.
His dad smiles at him and gives him a small, encouraging push towards the entity.
“No! Dad… I’m scared.” Gallagher pleads, “Please don’t.”
“There is nothing to be afraid of. This creature is merely an extension of you.”
Saying which, his dad reaches out a hand to pat Sleepie. The younger Gallagher is unable to stop him in time and the man’s hand makes contact with one of the creature’s many closed eyes. Comforted, Sleepie purrs.
“See?” His dad smiles again, “Cute, isn’t he?”
The tiny hound hesitates.
“H-How did you know that he wouldn’t hurt you?”
“Something born of my own son’s power won’t harm me. Of course, he wouldn’t hurt you either.”
The man shoots him another encouraging look and gestures to the creature with a tilt of his head. Perhaps his dad is right. His dad is more knowledgeable than most, after all.
…Still, this monster has way too many eyes; too many sharp points and blades on its body, and too big a maw.
Only partly convinced, the little boy slowly raises a clenched fist towards Sleepie and looks away as he opens it up into a palm. His fingers are now easy pickings for the creature if it happens to decide that they look like tasty baby carrots.
Gallagher waits for the inevitable chomp of that huge maw onto his tiny hand.
But it never comes.
Instead, his hand lands on the same closed eye that his dad has touched earlier. In response to his efforts, Sleepie has descended closer to the floor and lowered its head for his easy access. The young Gallagher shifts his gaze back and stares at it in awe. He pats it once. Twice.
A tiny rub here and there.
Sleepie begins to purr again.
And as it enjoys the attention it is being lavished with, it slowly begins to snooze off. Gallagher chuckles because he remembers that this is when he thinks to himself: ‘I am going to name you Sleepie.’ True enough, the young boy laughs at the adorable sight and cradles the creature’s jagged looking maw in his hands as it sleeps.
“There. You’re a natural.” His dad straightens his back in satisfaction, “Maybe even better than me.”
Gallagher looks up at his dad who is rubbing the small of his aching back. Better than him? Does this mean that his dad also has a creature of his own?
“You have one too? Is it way bigger than Sleepie?”
“‘Sleepie’? You’ve already named him?” Comes the amused reply.
As though it is the most natural progression of things, young Gallagher nods.
The blue haired man laughs out loud. A beautiful and clear sound.
“Yes, daddy has an entity of his own. A big one. It has a name too.”
The man’s lips move to tell him the name of the entity, but the dream glitches at that exact point and Gallagher does not hear the word.
Huh? What was it called again?
The younger Gallagher smiles, having caught every last bit of it. But the older Gallagher is left racking his brain for the answer. Aside, the conversation between him and his dad resumes, regardless of his confusion.
“As the scion of our family, I’ve always expected you to have one too. Just like how I expect your little sibling to most likely be gifted with one as well.”
His dad rubs the swell of his own belly affectionately and Gallagher releases Sleepie to cling to his legs. He looks up at the rounded mound, deep in thought, and subsequently buries his face in his dad’s thighs. He really does not mind sharing his dad with another sibling but…
Ever since his dad told him that he is going to be a big brother, the man has been looking exceptionally frail.
It worries him.
“Both of you will have to learn how to utilize your powers to protect the things and people who are important to you. Do you understand?”
His dad pauses and caresses the side of his tiny face in his much larger hand.
“You mustn’t be like me.”
The young him blinks and looks back up. Gallagher does not understand what his dad means by that— isn’t his dad the strongest person in Penacony?
The Watchmaker.
The memory clears up even further at the mentioning of his dad’s identity. Mikhail, full of fondness, offers him a wistful smile and ruffles his hair gently.
“One day, when daddy is no longer around, you will have to be the one to teach your little sibling how to control their own powers.”
“But dad…” Gallagher begins to say as he finds himself standing in place of his younger form. Now an adult and having grown much larger than his omega dad, he physically towers over the man. Yet in front of his closest parent, he feels like he is merely a child once more.
The hound tugs at the hem of Mikhail’s shirt apprehensively. “I don’t know where Misha is, and I…”
He pauses— because he realizes that he will have to teach his own child how to control their powers too.
The child that he is going to have with Sunday, who does not know that their pup will be cursed with the Watchmaker’s lineage.
Right. He is reminded of Sunday, his innocent dam who will never continue this situationship with him or allow him to sire any children of his if the truth of his parentage gets out.
It scares him.
He knows that he is being selfish.
He knows that he really needs to tell Sunday the truth.
Yet Gallagher consistently keeps his secret to himself because his feelings for the halovian are spiraling out of control. He is terrified of losing Sunday. He just hopes he can reign them in before he makes a huge mistake.
Mikhail hugs him close, and Gallagher thinks he might burst into tears at how real the warmth from his dad feels. Fatigue creeps up his limbs and sinks itself into his core.
He is tired. He has been so, so tired ever since Mikhail’s death and the fall of their family.
Gallagher feels like he has been running away from things endlessly without rest.
His dad presses a golden pocket watch into the palm of his hand.
It glints.
“Don’t worry, my little pup.”
“Everything is going to be alright.”
.
…
.
Dawn breaks.
No matter the frivolity of the night before, a new day always comes to the Floating Dream Palace. A constant and unforgiving awakening from a blissful dream.
Gallagher awakes with a start; still feeling his dad’s warmth cradled against his chest.
He quickly peers down to find the object of his desperate affections snoozing away instead. Sunday has tucked himself right under Gallagher’s chin and is so comfortable that he remains deep in sleep despite Gallagher’s movements.
When his racing heart calms, Gallagher notices in an instant— they fit perfectly.
Like they are meant to be.
The hound silently observes Sunday’s sleeping form and brushes a stray strand of hair away from his face.
Even in sleep, the halovian is incomparably beautiful.
Long, cascading blue hair with a pair of equally graceful wings hidden underneath; not to mention, pale skin with multiple marks blooming in angry red all over. Lashes long and form slender— Sunday is a picturesque view to behold, even when he is merely leaning against him.
He thinks of the halovian’s gold orbs whose lustre can easily rival the various accessories that he wears.
Will their pup inherit those? And if it is a girl, does he need to worry about fending off ill-mannered, yet besotted suitors?
“Probably not.” Gallagher thinks to himself as he remembers how Sunday has easily held his own against the likes of another alpha more than once. Their pup’s other parent will be more than enough to keep unworthy admirers away.
As he continues to think of their little family, Gallagher catches himself in time.
His heart twists wistfully at the realization: It is so arrogant to assume he will still be in contact with both Sunday and their pup so many years into the future. The hound assumes that he will only be allowed to care for them for as long as Sunday desires it.
If Sunday’s marriage to his fiance goes well or their…
There is a pause as he digs through his mind for the correct word.
…their situationship proves to be more trouble than it is worth, it is likely that he will never get to see both the halovian and their pup ever again.
The hound shifts to plant a kiss into Sunday’s hair longingly.
Now is really all the time they have.
Sunday stirs from the kiss and looks up at him blearily, and Gallagher is struck with a certain sense of Deja Vu.
“Wait wait wait.” He starts in alarm, “Before you start strangling someone— it’s me, Gallagher.”
The halovian blinks at that declaration.
And proceeds to break into a small smile.
“What do you mean? Of course I know it’s you.”
Gallagher lets out a sigh of relief and rubs his jaw in recollection of the events from a day before—- the place where Sunday had struck him is still sore. The halovian pulls himself up so that their faces are now level and pecks him on the lips.
The gesture catches Gallagher off-guard and he stares back, mouth agape.
“Good morning.” Sunday whispers lovingly.
He feels like his breath is caught in his chest.
The hound opens his mouth to respond, but all he does is take a deep breath. Gasping slightly, he somewhat frantically starts caressing Sunday’s on his cheeks. Sunday makes the situation worse by contentedly holding his hand firmly to his face and making an expression like he is melting into Gallagher’s touch.
It is a good morning indeed.
After a moment, Gallagher flips them both over and hugs the halovian close. It is his turn to bury his face into Sunday’s chest.
“Why are you being like this?” He questions softly, despite not wanting to know the answer.
“What do you mean?” Comes the amused response.
A little frustrated, the hound blows air against Sunday’s chest and it comes out sounding awkwardly like half-hearted raspberries instead.
Like we’re lovers.
Neither of them say the obvious answer out loud.
“Being like…all adorable.”
Gallagher feels Sunday card his fingers through his hair at the statement, and another hand rubbing the nape of his neck absentmindedly. He is struck by the realization that it suddenly feels just so bare . As if there is something missing.
The halovian is the one to kiss him in his hair this time.
“Am I?”
Hope rises in Gallagher’s chest as he lifts his head to look into dull gold eyes. His dad’s reassurance rings in his ears: “Everything is going to be alright.”
“Yeah, you’re acting somewhat differently today.”
Sunday shrugs. A strange motion for someone who is normally so elegant and eloquent.
“Just felt like it. Should I have not?”
He tightens his hold on the man in front of him; desperately. Possessively.
“No, I like it. I feel like I am being rewarded beyond my worth right now.”
The halovian lets out another small smile, “You should be. We had a…really productive day yesterday.”
Oh. So that is why. Sunday is simply pleased because they have quite possibly made good progress on their partnership.
Is all of this really only because he thinks Gallagher has done well in breeding him?
Probably. He feels silly for getting his hopes up even a little when the answer was so blatantly obvious from the start. Gallagher shifts to hold Sunday by the waist; his hands encircling the halovian’s small frame easily. He kisses pale flesh distractedly.
Below, he slides his hardening member against the dip between Sunday’s cheeks. He thinks of getting to ‘work’ again.
It is pathetic, really.
There is truth in how he desires Sunday, but it is also sad how this is the only way he can keep Sunday’s attention on him. The only way he will not be discarded.
Siring a pup for the heir of the Oak Family is the only thing that ties them together.
Nothing more, nothing less.
The halovian chuckles, still comfortable in his arms, and pushes him away gently. “Stop, now. I’m still feeling so sore from everything we’ve done yesterday.”
Sunday cups his face with both hands and draws him close so their faces are within inches of one another.
Long blue eyelashes flutter close and then he is kissing him fully on the lips.
They part, and Sunday cajoles him with the sweetest voice, “Let’s take a break today. Grab some breakfast and do something else. I’ll need to check on my phone for work messages as well.”
Gallagher steals another kiss and he can feel the corners of Sunday’s mouth tilting upwards in more amusement.
“Insatiable.” He states helplessly at the hound.
Only for you. Gallagher holds back from verbalizing that thought and reluctantly releases him. Sunday seems surprised at this turn of events as well. He probably assumes that the hound will want it his way and they will not be leaving the bed for another day.
It is not entirely wrong.
But there is logic in Sunday’s persuasion; it is a good time to rest and to check in with their responsibilities.
Gallagher reaches to the side of the bed where his vest lies and retrieves a tiny golden earring from one of its many pockets. The light catches on its shiny surface, and the simple piece of jewelry glints in his hand.
Aside, Sundy is watching him intently; having recognized that earring.
“You dropped this the other day.” He makes a move to go closer to Sunday, “May I?”
The halovian nods.
It is probably just one of the many pieces of jewelry that Sunday possesses as heir to the second most famous family in Penacony. Yet there is a strange sense of intimacy as he quietly fumbles with removing its back so that he can slot the piece into the piercing on Sunday’s ear.
There is silence and only nervous, light breathing.
In a bout of obsessed delirium, Gallagher thinks to himself— this is most likely the closest he will ever get to something like placing a veil over Sunday’s head.
So he does it with utmost care and incomparable tenderness.
It slides in perfectly. Just like they do on the many nights they have spent together.
And he secures it with the back of the earring once more.
He sits back on his haunches to observe his handiwork, and for some reason Sunday is blushing. A grey wing comes up to cover his face awkwardly, and Gallagher immediately makes an excuse to brush it aside so he can drink in the view just for a little longer.
“Oh come on. I can’t check if it is in place, when your wing is covering it all up like that.”
An unconvincing lie. Sunday’s wing is barely covering any part of his ear.
Sunday knows, but he obediently and quietly removes the wing anyway. The omega, suddenly too shy to look at him directly, has his face tilted away slightly with his eyes flicking to Gallagher every now and then.
It is adorable.
“Sunday, you’ll be the death of me.” He murmurs under his breath whilst thinking that the other will not catch on. But Sunday does hear him— even if he does not quite necessarily understand what Gallagher means.
The halovian huffs a little, “I’ve removed my wing as you wished.”
He thinks Gallagher is chiding him.
In response to that, Gallagher reaches out to brush his finger against the now hanging gold earring that decorates Sunday. It makes a soft tinkling sound.
“Troublesome little birdie.” He says fondly.
Perhaps, a little too fondly.
Gallagher hopes that his feelings are not spilling out too obviously into the open. The last thing he wants is for Sunday to feel inconvenienced, disgusted or to have an excuse to break their partnership. He has to hold back; has to behave, in order to remain by Sunday’s side for just a moment longer.
Thankfully, judging from the look on Sunday’s face, he is unsure if he should take offense at that statement.
Good. This is good. The halovian should definitely think of it as a complaint rather than a display of affection. This way, they can pretend for a little longer. He can pretend for just a little longer .
“Now I’m cold.” Sunday purposely raises another random issue to spite him in return, “And before you say anything else— it’s not my fault that you are terrible at caring for your…”
He falters.
“...your bed partner.”
Gallagher easily misses the awkwardness in Sunday’s delivery of that last part. The unjustified complaint causes him to nearly roll his eyes. Instead, he opts to lie back down with Sunday; covering him fully with his much larger frame.
“There. Better?”
The hound has done it in a fit of impulse to please Sunday, but it really does feel much warmer when they are together. In his arms, the halovian smells heavenly. He sneaks another whiff by inhaling deeply.
The omega beneath him wriggles, “Almost.”
Gallagher lifts himself up for a brief moment so Sunday can adjust as desired and grab his phone. When it is done, he lowers himself once more so he can snuggle against his love the halovian.
He closes his eyes contentedly.
Everything feels too good to be true.
“Oh.” Comes a breathless and resigned sigh from above him, as Sunday checks the messages that have come in while they were busy.
Gallagher sighs back in response. He knows what is coming.
“Let me guess. Bad news?”
“Father is looking for me. I have to go.”
The hound squeezes Sunday in frustration.
“Why is he always looking for you when we’re together and not when you’re spending all that unnecessary time with Rhoeas?”
Gallagher peers up at the halovian and is immediately met with a raised eyebrow.
“Some might argue that my time with Rhoeas is spent more productively than when with you. At least work gets done.”
“Is there anything more important than siring the next heir to the Oak Family? Anything more tiring than creating new life?”
He knows that his argument sounds stupid. But there is no way Gallagher is going to let Sunday think that time spent with him is wasteful and useless. And most certainly not in comparison to being in the company of another alpha.
“I’m not going to get into this with you.” Sunday hisses softly and pinches both sides of his cheeks, “You’re incorrigible.”
“Well, bite me.” Gallagher grumbles unhappily as he is released.
Unfortunately, Sunday genuinely does not seem to consider staying. Despite the banter; despite the temptation… Gopher Wood’s summons seems to take precedence over all else.
The hound decides to up his game.
As Sunday attempts to leave the bed to get dressed, Gallagher easily pulls him back by the wrist into a kiss. Sunday barely resists as the hound places him in his lap and defiantly slides his length into a softened and much loosened hole.
The omega gasps at the intrusion.
Before he is able to protest, Gallagher starts bucking his hips against Sunday; both of his hands firmly planted on either side of the halovian’s hips to additionally help lift and then pull him flush against his own crotch.
He can feel that slick is beginning to pour out of where they are connected; smearing itself on every surface it comes in contact with— skin and sheets alike.
Sunday’s mouth begins to hang open in between gasps for air and enjoyable moans.
Gallagher nibbles at his neck.
“ Don’t go .” He pleads, a touch too desperately. He almost chokes on the way he tries to hold back from letting it sound more pathetic than it already does.
“You…” Sunday manages to start but is unable to finish, “Ah—!”
He feels himself push against something within the halovian and the repeated movement sets something off in Sunday. The omega begins to claw at his back and scrabble for purchase. Sunday gets tighter. Feels tighter.
Gallagher grasps him by the jaw and kisses him, tongue and all.
He really wants to keep Sunday for longer. But at the pace they are unraveling in each other’s arms, this will merely be a couple of minutes’ distraction at best.
He growls at how futile this attempt seems to be.
And Sunday whimpers in response through their many kisses.
Gallagher wishes they can be connected in a way that cannot be separated. Thoroughly. Eternally. Just melding together like this no longer feels enough. Carving himself deep into Sunday or causing his belly to swell with child is no longer enough.
Fuck. He desires so deeply and desperately to be one with Sunday.
His fingers reach up and linger on the halovian’s scent gland.
Both of their pheromones intensify within the room.
Without breaking pace, Gallagher lays Sunday down on his back for the final stretch and releases deep within him. Below him, Sunday comes as well. As catharsis burns through them, there is a momentary and insane impulse to just flip the halovian over and sink his teeth into the forbidden area.
It is so easy to just…give in.
Afterwhich, he can offer an apology to Sunday by allowing him to mark him back.
But Gallagher’s mind thankfully clears before any of that happens.
He does not turn Sunday over; only reaches for the side of his neck dangerously. At the very last moment, he bites down on the firm flesh of his shoulder instead. It is the first one that he has ever done to have drawn blood.
Sunday cries out.
The sound snaps Gallagher out of his stupor and he releases the halovian. Mouth stained with blood and increasingly apologetic, he checks on Sunday. The omega is all tears and shuddering breaths beneath him; Sunday has also tightened below just briefly from the sensation of being bitten.
He hopes in vain that it is from pleasure and not from pain.
“Sorry…” Gallagher swallows hard, “I’m sorry I got carried away. Are you alright, Sunday?”
The taste of Sunday’s blood on his lips is tangy and metallic.
Regret grows within the hound, yet not enough for him to fully regret doing it to Sunday. It feels like he has almost gotten something right. A correct step in a desired direction. And this lack of remorse hurts him further. Makes him regret more. Hate himself more.
By all means, he should be repenting right now. It is horrifying to realize that how he feels is far from it.
What is he? A dog with no self restraint?
…No. Even dogs know how to heel and wait when they are told not to consume food that is not theirs.
Gallagher is worse than that.
Unfortunately, Sunday does not help because he does not reprimand him like he normally would. Instead, the halovian is dazed— his eyes full of an emotion that Gallagher cannot place.
Sunday opens his arms and reaches up to him.
He picks Sunday up into a tight embrace, rather than allow himself the comfort of leaning down into Sunday’s bloodied frame.
And even though he is the one who has transgressed, Sunday apologizes instead.
“Don’t look so sad. There is nothing more I want to do than to remain here with you.”
“But I really have to go.”
“So wait for me… I’ll come visit again when I can.”
A week passes.
They have been unable to meet since then, due to the various matters that require Sunday’s attention. Gopher Wood has been strangely quiet too. Father has mostly left him alone, aside from calling him in for a short meeting the other day to announce that the Oak Family will be hosting a small masquerade party.
“We need to further discuss engagement details with your fiance’s family. Clear your schedule. And Sunday, I expect this party to be well-organized.”
Sunday works in a daze.
Anybody can tell that he is neither feeling physically his best nor emotionally available. He sorts through paperwork quietly and his communication with the people around him is terse at best.
Perhaps it does not seem too different from his usual demeanor for most, but Robin apparently notices.
She calmly draws up a chair opposite of him and takes a seat.
“Big brother.”
Sunday snaps out of his work-induced haze and directs his attention to her. She pours a glass of water, pushing it towards him and his bottle of folic acid knowingly.
“Let’s take a break? And chat with me for a bit.”
He pinches his nose bridge in an attempt to will away all the stress he has been feeling, and takes a deep breath. The halovian sets aside the document he is working on and pops a pill into his mouth before washing it down with the water.
“Sorry. There’s just been so much work to do.”
“I know.”
She looks down guiltily, “I wish I could help more.”
At her offer, Sunday finally smiles for the first time in a week. “You’ve already done enough. Unfortunately the rest has to be vetted and approved by me.”
“It’ll be good to remember to pace yourself then.” His little sister eyes him cautiously, “Too much stress is not good for the baby.”
He almost laughs. Sunday shakes his head. Nothing gets past his little sister, but on this matter she definitely misunderstands.
“I’m not with child.”
She frowns disapprovingly at his denial, “Not that you might be aware of. What if you really are? You’ve been working at a breakneck pace. Even if you can endure it, the baby you’re carrying might not.”
Sunday leans back and relaxes as much as he can into the cushioning of his seat. One of his hands covers his abdomen longingly. It is not that he no longer cares if he is with child or not…
But he deeply misses his sire.
He remembers the look Gallagher gave him right before he left— mouth all covered in blood and face marred with so much sadness it is unthinkable. Sunday wishes he knew what the hound was thinking back then.
What he might be afraid of.
He closes his eyes in resignation. If stress is bad for the child, surely being without the pheromones of their father is also bad for their development.
So perhaps it is better to not be expecting at all.
Robin stares at him intently, and then sighs. “Should I tell Father to cancel the masquerade party?”
Sunday looks up at her in surprise.
“Why?”
“The whole point of it is to finalize some engagement matters for your upcoming marriage. I won’t stop you from marrying a stranger for the sake of the Oak Family if that is what you want, but clearly things have changed.”
She pauses.
“ You have changed. Big brother. There is now something on your mind.”
“That’s…” Sunday avoids her gaze; now it is his turn to be ridden with guilt, “That’s different. My ‘situation’ with Gallagher and this engagement for the Oak Family are two separate things.”
Robin bites her lower lip— she is clearly upset with his answer.
“...I didn’t mention who or what it is.”
Sunday does not react with any surprise in being caught off guard by his sister. After all, he presumes his relationship with Gallagher has become extremely clear to her ever since their dinner together with him and Siobhan.
Well… almost-dinner.
And if it was not already clear back then, it is now.
Seeing his lack of response, Robin continues to fuss gently over him, “Is the engagement really worth it? And just the thought of your pup having to grow up without their actual father—”
“He says he’ll always be here for me and our little ones.” Sunday interrupts her stubbornly, “Even if we’re not mates, he will always keep us safe.”
She lets out a surprised sound at that declaration. Gallagher’s determination and the mention of them potentially having more than one pup evidently exceeds all of her expectations. Increasingly, Robin is in apparent disbelief at something that she thinks should be so obvious to Sunday.
The songstress takes a deep breath.
“Let’s look at it from another angle then. Big brother, are you intending to continue your relations with him after you’re married?”
Sunday muses. Is he?
If Gallagher is to be in the picture to protect and keep their pups and him company, it goes without saying that they will continue as it is, right?
And the alternative is impossible. Sunday will not let him go.
The halovian nods mutely; knowing that this will most likely bring on some reprimanding from his sister.
“How is that going to work? It will be so unfair to your then-husband and Sir Gallagher. Your husband who has made his choice aside, Sir Gallagher is just a civilian who is not beholden to any complicated family ties. He has the right to pursue his own happiness.”
Sunday visibly deflates in his chair. He knows that.
He should let the hound go to live a life of his own, away from the Oak Family and him. Gallagher is splendid as an alpha, and endlessly entertaining and loving as a partner. He will be able to find another omega out there who is much more suitable for him to settle down with.
Someone he actually loves.
“At this rate, you will end up having to make a difficult choice. I want you to think it through, big brother. And to steel yourself so that it will hopefully be less painful.”
“Your duty to the Oak Family or Sir Gallagher?”
Robin purses her lips. It pains her to say this.
“You’ll have to choose.”
A bitter taste fills both of their mouths. Sunday clenches his fist weakly at the thought. He does it with no small amount of resignation because he already knows his answer.
There has been no choice since the beginning.
Gallagher solemnly wipes the countertop dry.
As expected, Sunday has reneged on his promise to come see him. Yet, like a dumb dog, he waits patiently everyday for the halovian to mysteriously appear in the room Siobhan has now leased to the Oak Family.
He sleeps in the bed he once held Sunday in, and can scarcely bear to replace any items that have lingering traces of Sunday’s scent.
And like his many attempts to keep Sunday with him, the hound’s perseverance is futile.
Sunday does not appear. The sheets have been reluctantly washed for hygiene’s sake. And the room is starting to smell less and less like him.
On one particularly rough day, he approaches Rhoeas to ask if he has any remaining paperwork that he might want to return to the room. Something that he needs to submit to Sunday but could not earlier.
The kind alpha does not mention that all important information has already been digitized and sent straight back to the Dewlight Pavilion. He hands Gallagher a stack of files knowingly, and thanks him for saving him the trouble of heading to Sunday’s room.
Gallagher looks down at the surprisingly still-scented pile of paperwork. He thinks that perhaps he has been too harsh on Rhoeas.
And so the days pass.
Three days. Five days. A week. Nearly two.
Gallagher surmises that if Sunday does decide he will never return, he would just quietly wait forever.
Even if it is dumb. Even if he knows that it was just a lie.
“I think we should just demolish the VIP bar. I can barely send anybody up here when I know all they’re going to see is your sour face; looking like someone has died.”
Siobhan’s voice breaks his train of thoughts. She eyes him like she’s of the viewpoint that he is being awfully dramatic about everything. (Is he?) And takes a seat in one of the high stools by the bar, folding her arms. One of her hands grips a letter tight.
“The only reason you’ve not fired me is because deep inside, you know you should have told me about what Rhoeas was actually helping Sunday with.” The hound mutters begrudgingly with his head down. He is not in the mood to argue with her, or anybody for that matter.
“I’ve said it before: would it have changed anything?”
“At the very least, I would have felt less like shit during that period of time.”
“And then?” She questions him confidently, “Not taking that opportunity to give up on someone who is completely out of your reach, resulting in exactly how you are feeling and behaving right now?”
He keeps silent.
“We’re in the Floating Dream Palace; in the red light district. We provide the dreams. We don’t indulge in them.” Siobhan offers him the letter in her hand— one that is most likely related to more work.
“It is time to wake up.”
Gallagher acknowledges it with a distracted look, but does not make a move to retrieve it from her.
“...I don’t want to hear about it.”
Now getting annoyed at his constant inability to pull himself together when it comes to a certain other halovian, she flicks the letter in her hand irritably, “Ah, I forgot. You don’t like hearing about anything these days that aren’t about Sunday or the Oak Family.”
“I’ll just return this to Aventurine then.”
That catches his attention. Gallagher’s brown eyes finally land firmly on her and the letter in her hand.
The hound calmly extends a hand, palm upwards, to indicate that he wants her to hand it over. Siobhan complies easily. She knows him well enough by now.
Gallagher rips the unnecessarily flashy looking green envelope open and retrieves a card from within it:
.
Dear Gallagher,
Hi friend! It has been a while. I hope you’ve missed me.
Sorry I can’t come visit now. You should know why: I’ve got my ass handed to me by the Doctor thanks to Sunday so now I’m compelled to behave. Additionally, work has been real rough.
And speaking of Sunday, the Oak Family is holding a masquerade party soon to discuss engagement details for the crankiest bachelor in all of Penacony.
I happen to receive two invites.
You wanna come? It will be fun.
Who knows? You might even see Mr. Sourpuss in his natural element!
If you’re interested, dress sharp and bring along a mask. We’ll meet at the entrance to the Dewlight Pavilion in three days.
P.S: Don’t worry about Ratio freaking out this time. He knows I’m bringing you along.
Cheers,
Aventurine.
.
A masquerade party? Is this another odd trap by the famous gambler of the IPC? Not to mention, if it is meant to discuss Sunday’s engagement details, he might end up seeing less-than-desirable things.
The head of the Oak Family, Gopher Wood, briefly flashes across his mind. Sunday’s fiance too.
And less-than-desirable people.
The hound’s gaze focuses on the words “ Mr. Sourpuss in his natural element ”. Yet it is undeniably a good opportunity to get to see Sunday again— even if for just a short while. If Sunday doesn't want to or cannot come to him, then Gallagher will simply go to him instead.
He frowns, and hands the card to Siobhan who is waiting patiently.
“...He really just does whatever the hell he wants.”
She takes a quick glance through the contents of the card and smiles, “I like him.”
“Too bad for you, he’s taken.”
“Since when has that stopped someone?” Siobhan is not serious about being interested in Aventurine, but she takes the opportunity to make a jab about how the object of Gallagher’s affections is not exactly single himself.
The hound growls in protest. “That’s different.”
“Is it?” She responds, smug.
“Sunday’s engagement is—!” He wants to say that the difference is that Aventurine is clearly in love with the alpha from the other day, while Sunday’s engagement seems more political than anything else.
Seems . Because in actuality Gallagher does not know if Sunday approves or disapproves of it.
What if Sunday is fond of his fiance?
Gallagher falters at that thought.
“Thought so.” Siobhan lets out a small laugh— a little happier now that she has gotten Gallagher to say more than a few words in one conversation. And definitely ecstatic to be reminded of how they used to banter before things often got serious after Sunday’s appearance.
Maybe she is also relieved. As embarrassing as it sounds, he has been acting pretty bummed out lately. Also embarrassing is the fact that he feels a little better now that there might be an opportunity to meet Sunday.
She waves the card at him.
“You know what I’m going to say: I’m not sure if seeing Sunday again is a good idea. But you’re going anyway, yes?”
Of course he is going. Aventurine’s invitation may be a shot out of the blue but is not unwelcome. Siobhan also knows that he will want to, come hell or high water, because she does not bother waiting for his response.
As she wordlessly gives him the card once more, Gallagher remembers Sunday’s request and the dream he had of Mikhail. He fetches the golden pocket watch from his vest and places it on the countertop.
Immediately, she stills.
She eyes the pocket watch warily, as though she can see something in it that he cannot.
“Where did you get this?”
“It is my dad’s. The other day something odd happened: out of nowhere it started glowing brightly. Sunday told me that it might be related to how something had been sealed within.”
The hound pushes the pocket watch towards her.
“That ‘something’ is apparently related to the Harmony. Could you look into this for me? You’re an expert in that Path and the only one I can trust with this.”
Siobhan hovers her hand over it hesitantly— a spark forms where her own power touches the one inside of the pocket watch. It pops loudly and dissolves to nothing. She is aghast.
After a minute, she picks it up with her brows furrowed.
“It’s the Harmony all right, but there is something really off about it.”
“That’s why I need you to look into it. Sunday mentioned that whatever’s inside is quite powerful so do be careful. If possible, don’t break the pocket watch itself either, because it’s the only thing I have left of my dad.”
“I’ll try.”
“Thanks.” Gallagher exhales gratefully.
He pauses, as if realizing something at the very last minute. The man narrows his eyes at her.
“This also makes us even. You know, for keeping that entire thing about Rhoeas from me.”
Siobhan shakes her head disapprovingly at him. She does not bother to grace his pettiness with an answer.
Pocket watch now in hand, the head of the Floating Dream Palace exits the VIP lounge.
He arrives at the foot of the stairs to the Dewlight Pavilion, three days later, as instructed by Aventurine.
All decked out in a suit of red and black, Gallagher looks like the actual scion of the Watchmaker for once. He completes the look with a black dog-like mask that is equally embellished with patterns of gold. The snout is a tad bit more eye-catching than he wants it to be, but hopefully the black will help him blend in well.
As he awaits Aventurine’s arrival, Gallagher digs through his mind for all the lessons he acquired in the past, regarding how to hold himself when in the company of members of the upper class.
…Lessons which are surprisingly all learnt only after entering the Floating Dream Palace.
Ironically, being the most famous family in all of Penacony helped him little. After all, Mikhail barely cared for such things— he is often open and honest with the people he interacts with. It should have been a weakness but his dad is also endlessly charming and strong in aptitude. A true leader through and through. And the Watchmaker has mostly taught his children to be similar.
In a political setting, Mikhail is no less confident and regal than Gopher Wood, the current head of the Oak Family.
Gallagher decides he is going to wing it.
An appreciative whistle rings out next to him. Aventurine has arrived and is giving him a once-over. “Very nice.” He claps twice, “You clean up terribly well. I can see why Sunday is…”
His voice trails off. The gambler smirks knowingly.
The hound shoots him a sharp gaze from under the dog-shaped mask. In front of the IPC employee, Gallagher will neither deny nor confirm his relations with Sunday. Though, judging from the way he accepted Aventurine’s invite and from how they exited the room the other day, there is not much left to be said.
“Before we head in, a few things to note: we’ll stick together for the first half of the night. You’ll be introduced as my bodyguard— so keep that identity in mind and stay lowkey, won’t you?”
“If we survive long enough to not get thrown out, you’re free to explore the mansion on your own in the later half.”
Aventurine speaks about the possibility of being expelled like it is a common experience. Gallagher grimaces. This whole idea is beginning to sound increasingly silly.
The gambler is not a reliable ally at all.
Is he so desperate that he has to search for Sunday in this manner?
Aventurine catches on to the fact that he is having second thoughts and laughs, “Relax! Just warning you before the fun starts. Help yourself to the food and drinks. Appreciate the lavish decor. Enjoy yourself.”
The man tips one side of his fedora downwards mysteriously.
“If all goes well, we will both get what we want tonight.”
So there is an agenda. Gallagher recalls every interaction he has had with Aventurine and the way his eyes lit up previously when he said “ All or Nothing .” That is the way he is, isn’t it? Big risks and huge rewards.
And tonight is no different.
“Tell me,” Gallagher starts firmly, “Whatever you’re after tonight, does it have something to do with Sunday?”
Aventurine regards him with a casual smile.
“Don’t know. Most likely not, but I cannot say for certain.”
Evidently fond of the way he loses his composure when it comes to Sunday, Aventurine teases the hound endlessly. The gambler starts making his way up the stairs and whispers in Gallagher’s right ear as he passes by:
“So you better tell the little bird that he is in danger. And fast.”
.
…
.
In spite of Aventurine’s warnings, most of the night passes without much issue.
There are a couple of businessmen who recognize the famous director of the IPC. Apparently being “one of the ten stonehearts” is a big enough deal for many to want to curry favor with him. Which makes sense, after all. In an organization as big as the IPC, with their huge number of employees, the role of a mere “director” is barely anything to spare a second glance at.
Whatever the “ten stonehearts” is, it must be something truly impressive.
It makes Gallagher wonder: what is someone as important as Aventurine after in Penacony then?
A growing worry gnaws at him from within. The Strategic Investment Department of the IPC is renowned to be obsessed with gains. They adore acquiring anything and everything that is of value to them.
Laughter erupts just a couple of steps away from him.
Aventurine finishes a conversation with another masked member of Penacony’s upper echelon and turns to Gallagher. Often finding pleasure in adding more questions and offering no answers, he smiles, places a finger to his lips and then taps the gaudy looking watch on his wrist.
The first half of the night is over.
Gallagher looks around. None of the Oak Family’s royal members, Sunday, Robin or Gopher Wood, are to be seen. The much anticipated appearance of Sunday’s fiance has also yet to come.
The hound is crestfallen.
Just as he thinks it might have been another futile effort to chase after something he is never meant to have, there is a flurry of activity from the other side of the room.
Despite the masks that everybody has on, the newcomers are unmistakable— Sunday enters, looking more serious than Gallagher has ever known him to be, with an omega on one arm.
The omega’s looks and countenance are incomparable to the heir of the Oak Family. Still, it is nothing to scoff at. He gazes at Sunday with much affection and gentleness; all the whilst blushing and accepting the well wishes of people who have come up to them.
Sunday is stiff as a board and solemn. But the moment the omega directs any of the conversation towards him, it is as if he has become another person altogether; the man’s features soften and he starts behaving like he is standing with the love of his life.
Seeing the truth for himself almost knocks the wind out of Gallagher.
He misses how Aventurine obviously does not buy into Sunday’s act, and the pitying look that the gambler directs at him.
They stand among the crowd, quietly. Unnoticeably.
And the hound watches the entire scene unfold like a slow car crash; watches Sunday move around the ballroom with his fiance on his arm, greeting various people and showing off their relationship.
Just as the happy couple is almost in clear line of sight, Aventurine pulls Gallagher aside into the corridor and pins him against the wall firmly.
“Gallagher.” The gambler grabs his chin to force his gaze onto him. The movement pries his sight from the heart wrenching scene and peels him away from his jumbled train of thoughts.
“Remember what I’ve said? Things often have to get worse before they can get better. And the best way to solve a problem is to create an even bigger problem.”
Aventurine looks to the side and into the brightly lit room behind them. He is waiting for something. When he sees his goal approach, the man leans in so that the lower half of their faces is obscured.
The hound watches on in shock as Aventurine closes his eyes.
But the man merely whispers:
“Nothing in Penacony is what it seems.”
Satisfied, Aventurine pulls back and looks back into the room.
Sunday and his entourage are gone. The constant buzz from within the ballroom is also slowly dying down.
Fully aware that he has been used, Gallagher shoves Aventurine backwards. “Is this what you invited me for? You just needed an additional clown for your circus?” The words spill out, coated in calm, controlled yet unmistakable anger. In spite of the way they initially met, the hound has come to believe that there is much more to Aventurine than the scheming image he often tries to portray.
He thought it was evident from the way the man saved the blue roses, to the mountain of gifts he got for him when he thought Gallagher was feeling down–-
That the real Aventurine is much kinder. Much more empathetic.
And Gallagher genuinely believed, like a fool, that maybe eventually they can consider each other as friends.
Aventurine does not offer him any explanations or excuses.
He only removes his fedora and holds it to his chest. The man’s expression is indiscernible in the darkness of the moonlit corridor.
“Everything is for the Amber Lord.”
Justifiably incensed and with his thoughts turning to Sunday who might have seen them, Gallagher leaves him.
.
…
.
There is no way to tell which way Sunday has retreated to.
The Dewlight Pavilion is too huge. Maybe the only opportunity he would have had to meet him was in the ballroom earlier.
And then? A small voice chides him. Then what? Whisk him away in front of the sea of people who are here to celebrate his upcoming engagement?
Ignoring its calls to just go home, the hound tears through the corridors as quickly and noiselessly as possible. He opens numerous doors to empty rooms. It is unsurprisingly easy to navigate. After all, he knows this place like the back of his hand.
In the place he once called home, he chases after his sun under the pale moonlight.
…And ends up on a balcony where he finds Robin staring out into the distance absentmindedly.
As he approaches her, he realizes that she seems to be shedding tears quietly. All alone.
“Miss Robin?” Gallagher asks cautiously.
Her tinier form flinches from the sound and she panics. Hurriedly, the songstress wipes her face and puts her mask back on. The hound does not want to spook her further, so he remains where he is and waits for her to be ready.
After a minute or two, Robin turns to him. Her voice still wavering a little as she says, “Yes?”
“Why are you out here alone? It might be dangerous.”
Shoot. Gallagher realizes belatedly that as a man and alpha, he sounds way creepier and more dangerous than anything else in her vicinity. As expected, Robin has her guard up immediately and questions him back instead.
“Dangerous?”
Gallagher rubs his temples frustratedly. “I don’t mean anything bad about it. It’s just— I’ve just heard rumors. About Penaconians going missing in the night.” He fumbles with his words helplessly and fails to make himself look less guilty as time passes. There is truth in what he has said: Aventurine has pointed it out once before. Yet without context, it feels hardly appropriate to bring this up to her on a dimly lit balcony.
“Who is going to kidnap me in the Dewlight Pavilion?”
The hound visibly deflates. She is right. The security here must be airtight.
“My bad. I was just… the place is huge and dimly lit. I was…”
Searching for your brother.
Who might also be alone.
“Miss Robin, have you seen Sunday?” The lack of honorifics leave his mouth before he can stop it, and Gallagher does not miss the way she looks at him in response to his mistake.
“...Mister Sunday.” He concludes for a second time.
But it is too late. The damage is done.
“Who are you?”
At her firm questioning, the hound sighs and removes his mask. As the hand holding the dog-shaped accessory falls to his side, Gallagher expects to hear a surprised gasp from the songbird.
It never comes.
Instead, a look of hurt appears on Robin’s face. “I thought so.” She mutters under her breath and makes a move to leave. In his own panic, Gallagher grabs her by the wrist to stall her. Figuring out Sunday’s whereabouts from Robin gives him a better chance at success than wandering aimlessly till security expels him.
“Please.” he continues to plead politely, “I need to see him.”
Well, as politely as he can with his hand rudely grasping her tight.
“My big brother does not want to see you. So please, leave with the person you came here with.”
The person he came here with?
Gallagher thinks back to all of his encounters in the ballroom. With the exception of perhaps Sunday, none of the other Oak Family members has seen him with Aventurine. And even then, it is highly speculative on whether Sunday has actually seen them.
One can argue that she could have guessed it from the way a commoner like him would be unable to secure an invite, but he could easily have snuck in too.
So how does Robin confidently know that he is here with another person?
Driven by a maniac sense of impulse, he pulls her in close and stares into the shocked emerald orbs behind her mask.
A familiar whiff of pheromones hits him. It is faint but…
Gallagher drops the mask in his hand, reaches around her neck and brushes his fingers against its nape, where her scent gland should be. If it were actually Robin, he is willing to be hit or punished in any way she sees fit for invading her personal space.
But he is willing to bet that he is about to find…
His fingers graze the familiar texture of a scent blocking patch.
At the realization, both of their breaths catch in their throats. ‘Robin’ is now aware that he knows. Gallagher looks at her longingly; his facial features softening to display an expression that he only ever shows one particular person. He cups her face with one hand.
“Are you still going to continue lying to me?”
Seeing that she has been exposed, ‘Robin’ holds his hand to her face and resigns herself to its touch. She closes her eyes and trembles as she leans into it— as if she is both relieved and upset that this is happening.
“I didn’t think you’d be here tonight.” She begins as the guise of the Harmony falls apart right within Gallagher’s arms, “For as long as we’ve known each other, the dream has only existed in one place.”
“But like a fool, I kept wondering when we would meet again. It was all I could think about after I left the other day.”
‘Robin’’s mask falls uselessly to the floor, and Sunday curls up against him so he can hide his tear-stained face.
“I thought I was hallucinating earlier when I saw Aventurine kissing you in that corridor.”
“I feel like I’m going crazy... Why would you be here? Why would you come?”
Upon hearing Sunday’s confession about wondering when they would meet once more, Gallagher tightens his hold. So the halovian does want to see him again. The lack of contact is only because he cannot.
“I don’t know.” He offers Sunday both a lie and a truth through whispers, “I just missed you.”
Sunday remains silent as Gallagher feels more warm liquid fall upon his suit. “I don’t know.” He says again as he tries to get his mind in order. His chest feels tight; his heart aches, and he does not want to let go.
“I just wanted to see you again.”
He lifts Sunday’s face to take a proper look at him, and the halovian, though still tearing up, does not hide his face for once. Their eyes meet and whilst Sunday searches for something within his own eyes, Gallagher is certain that he has never seen anything with a more beautiful shade of gold than the one reflected in halovian’s eyes.
He kisses Sunday.
It tastes salty because of all the tears Sunday has shed. As the kisses slow, the hound attempts to lick them away. It finally earns him a small smile from Sunday— Gallagher then finds, belatedly, the familiar sweetness that they have indulged in for so many nights.
“Sunday,” Gallagher begs softly, “If you don’t want me anymore, please just kill me. Don’t just throw me away. I’m too dumb. I won’t learn how to stay away. I’ll just keep coming back like this.”
“I’ll just end up giving you trouble.”
Sunday reacts like he has just been burnt. Pain seeps into every corner of his features as he asks, “And what if you’re the one who tires of all this first?”
“Never.” Gallagher knows it is impossible because he has set Sunday as a seal upon his heart, even without a mating mark.
“Not even for Aventurine?”
“He clearly loves the alpha from the other day.”
“Then what about you? Who do you love?”
The question comes as quickly as lightning and strikes twice as hard. Sunday is looking at him like he is beginning to understand something. Fear creeps into Gallagher’s heart at the thought of having his deepest thoughts exposed to the one person who should not know.
He instinctively remembers his identity as the Watchmaker’s eldest son, and the various accompanying secrets he has been keeping from Sunday.
If Sunday found out… If Sunday knew everything…
Don’t say it. Every logical part of him screams. If you say it, everything will end. Don’t say it. Don’t say it. Don’t. Don’t. Don’t.
Never say it.
“There’s no one.”
The light in Sunday’s eyes goes out. Unbeknownst to Gallagher, both of their worlds crumble.
“I don’t need love. I just want to remain by your side. That’s all I want.” The hound says it to mean that he does not need anybody else’s love, and will not insist that Sunday love him back. He acutely understands that this will warp their relationship beyond anything desirable.
But they have come too far for him to live without Sunday now.
The halovian pulls him close so that his head is leaning comfortably against Sunday’s shoulders. Sunday then cards his fingers patiently through Gallagher’s brown hair— face completely out of his sight.
Gallagher can sense that he is looking up at the moon, yet Sunday neither continues his crying nor says anything.
After what feels like an eternity, the halovian speaks up in barely a whisper.
“Can you hold me? I want to be in your arms.”
.
…
.
They stumble along the corridor, similar to the night of the Lovers’ Festival. There is no bantering or coaxing this time, but they take turns stealing kisses as Sunday pulls him along. Gallagher recognizes their location from time to time.
He does not tell Sunday that he knows the Dewlight Pavilion like a second home, or why he does.
Stubbornly, he also does not tell Sunday the most important thing of all— that he loves him.
Would it change anything? Siobhan’s voice rings through his mind like a warped justification for his own stubbornness. Everybody and everything around them is telling him to simply give up. Sunday will never choose the Oak Family over him; will never be his.
The image of Sunday standing next to his omega fiance appears in Gallagher’s head.
Sunday had smiled like he was standing next to the love of his life back then.
He is just a stray with nothing to offer. Sunday cannot love him.
Will not love him.
Does not love him.
His dad was wrong. This is not a fairytale. Nothing is going to be alright.
They break into a random study and lock the door behind them. The halovian throws his arms around Gallagher’s neck, so he grasps him by the hips and guides him to the large mahogany table nearby. Leaning in close, the hound devours Sunday fervently as they go.
When they reach the table, he makes a sweeping motion with one arm and pushes everything off the table. The lamp, papers, pens. Everything.
He lays Sunday on the wooden surface and helps to lift the man’s hips so that he is fully seated on it.
Gallagher unbuckles the halovian’s belt while Sunday does the same to him. Both of their hands work at a shocking pace for people who have been apart for the entirety of only two weeks or so.
He strips Sunday easily, and his own pants have barely touched the floor when his fingers are already inside of the halovian.
Sunday twitches in his arms; his hands spread against Gallagher’s chest to steady himself.
“Don’t bother.” The halovian murmurs in his ear and guides Gallagher’s already hardened length to position it against the area near his hole, “Just… just do it.”
“Hurry.”
The hound removes his fingers and leans into Sunday.
Gallagher rips off the omega’s scent patch at the exact moment Sunday places the tip against the entrance to his wet hole.
…And inhales deeply against Sunday’s neck as he thrusts in.
Aventurine looks on satisfactorily at the scene in front of him.
From where he is standing— which is one entire floor above— he can see that Gallagher has successfully found Sunday on a balcony. And that the halovian is being held in the hound’s arms.
Whilst he did bring Gallagher along with ulterior motives in mind, it is truly nice to see the two lovebirds being reunited. It feels like a good deed was done, you know? And now, Gallagher will keep Sunday busy for the rest of the night; leaving him with one less royal to worry about as he goes about with his investigation.
He should hurry. Gopher Wood should still be busy with the party now that Sunday is no longer around to entertain the guests.
Now is a great time to break into the study of the head of the Oak Family.
Aventurine is sure that there will be some confidential documents that are of assistance to him.
He pulls out the knob of his watch and unscrolls a tiny map of the Dewlight Pavilion. The room is not far from where he is.
Like an experienced phantom thief, he runs off stealthily and deftly.
.
…
.
Soon enough, he reaches the main study room without too much of a fuss.
There are guards on patrol in other areas but none of them has caught sight of him thanks to his extreme luck. Aventurine slips into the study room and locks the door behind him. He lets out a breath of relief. The task is already half-accomplished.
“Now show me… what you have actually been hiding from everybody.” The gambler murmurs to himself as he starts ransacking the drawers in an organized manner.
In Gopher Wood’s desk, there is a surprising lack of helpful documents. Most of them are boring updates regarding matters around Penacony; things that he has already known such as people going missing and buildings eroding. To another person, it might be important findings because these are the minor things that the Oak Family has been hiding from the public.
Yet to Aventurine, they barely cut through to the crux of the problem that Penacony might be facing.
He flips through another stash exasperatedly. Still no results. Is there really nothing to be found?
This cannot be it.
The man folds his arms and taps his feet against the carpeted floor in contemplation. Oh. In a stroke of random genius, he decides to put himself in Gopher Wood’s shoes by sitting on his chair.
He surveys the room from the man’s throne.
Magenta eyes flick to an especially old looking section of documents. His gut feeling tells him that he should search the discolored files despite the issue at hand being a recent one.
As he opens the first file, Aventurine is struck by its contents: the file is full of medical reports pertaining to the Watchmaker of Penacony, Mikhail Char Legwork.
He reads out each line softly as he pours through them.
“...The omega has had a difficult pregnancy due to the presence of safflower and rosemary in his system… Suggestion: to increase the dosage in his food as the current amount is not enough to induce a miscarriage …?”
The gambler frowns, and flips the page.
“...Suggestion was denied as it might be harmful for the omega. Additionally, somehow both parent and baby have endured till 32 weeks. We can only observe from here on out, how this might have an effect on the remaining 8 weeks of pregnancy and labor.”
He flips once more, straight to the end of the file.
“...The baby was born safely, despite being only 36 weeks old. However, after a full 24 hours of laboring, the omega has hemorrhaged critically. We are sure that this is partially attributed to the harmful herbs in his system.”
“His physical health has taken a severe blow. This may affect his ability to carry and safely birth another child. More observation is required.”
A chill runs down Aventurine’s spine.
Was someone poisoning the Watchmaker of Penacony?
He skips to the next file. The next few reports describe increasingly alarming reports about the Watchmaker’s declining health and a few surgeries that he is put through for unknown reasons. None of the surgeries specify what they are for. The only thing written are the outcomes: all failures and that each one puts Mikhail closer to death.
Judging from each report, these are all written in secrecy. Why does Gopher Wood have something like this in his possession?
Aventurine flings the file aside and grabs a different colored one.
This next, particular one is not about Mikhail.
It is about his alpha, the famed general, Tiernan Breukelen .
As he glances through the report at an increasingly frenzied pace, Aventurine begins to panic. “There’s no way…” His heart races at the realization of what it means if the information recorded is true.
“And the year that is indicated here… this doesn’t make any sense—”
“I thought I sensed a rat scurrying about.”
Gopher Wood’s voice cuts through the study firmly.
Knowing the severity of his transgressions, Aventurine flinches and instinctively tries to hide the file behind him. It does not matter though, because judging from the way the man’s golden eyes peer predatorily at him from a distance…
…the head of the Oak Family has seen everything.
“Now tell me. Have you found what you have been searching for?”
Veritas Ratio is awoken by a loud rapping noise against his door.
He initially mistakes it for the rain, but soon realizes that it sounds a tad bit too heavy and consistent to be the weather. The alpha puts on a bedrobe and heads to the door; thinking that there can only be one person at this hour.
Yet even this is odd for him.
Kakavasha had gone to the party at the Dewlight Pavilion earlier this evening, and had mentioned that he will be back only in the early hours of the morning if all goes well. The Doctor looks at the clock on the wall— it is currently only midnight.
Just to be cautious, he looks through the peephole of their flat’s door.
And what he sees makes him fling it open at mach speed instead.
“Kakavasha—!” Ratio cries out as he moves to catch the bloodied form of the gambler in his arms. Aventurine collapses in relief now that he is with Ratio. The omega is currently in his transformed state— he must have used the cornerstone. It is something that even Ratio rarely sees.
Blood seeps through a gaping wound on the side of his torso, burnt marks litter his entire outfit and flesh, while half of the full mask he wears in this form is gone.
The gambler smiles weakly at him, “Yeah I’m certain he doesn’t use the Harmony.”
“You absolute fool!” Ratio exclaims breathlessly as the rain drenches them. He wants to pull Kakavasha into the apartment but he is worried that the gambler’s injuries are worse than they look.
And visually, they already look bad enough.
“Ratio,” Aventurine whispers urgently as he grabs the collar of Ratio’s robe, “Doctor, he had something to do with the death of the Watchmaker and his spouse.”
In his panicked state, Veritas Ratio struggles to keep up with his love who is bleeding out on their front porch.
Yet only one person comes to mind.
“Gopher Wood?”
Aventurine nods and a spurt of blood escapes his lips, “Oww. Fuck .” He gasps in pain as the red liquid coats his outfit. Ratio holds him close and as gently as he can.
“Don’t speak for now. We’ll get you some medical attention first.”
“N-No. No medical help. Penacony is his. We have to call the IPC.”
“I know. I know. Stop talking please , Kakavasha.” Ratio begs desperately as he attempts to staunch the bleeding with part of his robe.
“He’s been… He’s been harming the royal family of Penacony since the beginning. He attempted to get the Watchmaker to miscarry, and when it failed, he put him through surgeries in spite of his frail health.”
Aventurine closes his eyes, thoroughly exhausted. The worst is yet to come.
“Remember the train? The… The Swarm. He is responsible for using the Swarm to kill Tiernan. The one that took place a few years after Mikhail Char Legwork had their first child.”
The rain continues to pour onto them violently.
Ratio feels his breath catch in his throat. Something is wrong. Something does not add up.
“Wait. You’re saying Tiernan Breukelen died a couple of years after the war?”
He blinks; his thoughts are increasingly frantic.
“But this doesn’t make any sense. The timeline doesn’t add up.”
“Mikhail Char Legwork famously has two sons. And Tiernan was still seen in public with him right before, during, and after their second child was born. If what you say is true…”
“...who was the Tiernan who sired his second son?”
An explosion unexpectedly rocks the Dewlight Pavilion.
Both Sunday and Gallagher look up from where they have been making love haphazardly on the huge desk, and out of the window. Even from a distance, they can see that a wing on the opposite end of the Dewlight Pavilion has erupted into flames.
There is a flash of green and something escapes by diving headfirst out of the window; into the surrounding trees where there is cover.
An intruder?
Sunday sits up and pushes the hound gently off him. He cups the alpha’s face worriedly; face turned away and still distracted by the sudden turn of events, “You must go.”
“Not if you’re in danger.” Gallagher insists, but Sunday shoves him once more.
“You have to go. Whatever this is about, it will most certainly increase the number of guards around the building. If Father catches you here, the consequence will be unimaginable.”
“Sunday—”
“Leave.”
The halovian does not wish to use the Harmony on him, but if the alpha continues to waste time, Sunday might be forced to do so. They share a kiss that Sunday initiates— one that is both placating and loving, and he pushes Gallagher away once more.
“Please.” Similarly to how Gallagher wants to ensure his safety, Sunday wants nothing more than to know that the hound is far away from his Father’s clutches.
Because regardless of Gallagher’s own feelings— or lack thereof— Sunday loves him dearly. Loves him undeniably.
Gallagher grabs his hand and intertwines their fingers before lifting it to press a kiss to its back.
“I will come find you again if you cannot visit me. I promise.”
Sunday nods. He is against the man coming to the Dewlight Pavilion in the near future, but there is no time to argue.
“Go.”
They pull on their outfits and Gallagher checks the corridor for guards before slipping out of the room with one last reluctant look.
Now alone, Sunday looks at the mess around him and subtly smoothes out his suit. He has already thought of an excuse if someone were to discover the state of this room before he can clean it up later.
In the meantime, as heir to the Oak Family, he has to hurry to the site of the explosion.
.
…
.
When he arrives, Gopher wood is staring at the hole in the building with some amusement. The fire has long since been put out by someone. Sunday surmises accurately by the lack of personnel nearby that it should have been his Father himself.
“Father…?”
The older halovian looks up at the night sky and closes his eyes when the wind picks up to caress his cheek.
“Seems like it will rain tonight.”
“Are you alright? What has happened?”
“Nothing terrible. There was an intruder but nothing of value was stolen. However, seeing as the weather is about to change, it will make chasing down our little rat quite impossible.”
The man gives him an unbothered smile, “Quite fortuitous for them, really.”
Sunday moves to help pick up the documents on the floor but his Father immediately stops him with one arm held out calmly. “I will do it myself. You’ve had a long day and we have to ensure that all the guests leave the premises within the hour.”
“Yes, Father. As long as you are safe.” Sunday acknowledges politely. Since the man refuses his help with more at this current point in time, it will be best that he sticks to the task that is given to him.
The young halovian makes to leave, but Gopher Wood abruptly stops him in his tracks.
“Sunday, remember the person I’ve asked you to help find?”
Sunday pauses in time and turns back to face his Father, “You mean Misha Char Legwork?”
“Yes,” Gopher Wood confirms as he picks up one of the many documents now strewn across the floor. An indiscernible expression crosses his Father’s normally smiling features, “The second son of the Watchmaker. How goes your search with that?”
“My apologies, Father. He is still missing. But sources say that he has been sighted in Penacony lately.”
Gopher Wood does not seem to react to the bad news.
And Sunday thinks he might really be going crazy, because for a fraction of a second it feels like his Father loses his usual sophistry. The older halovian’s fingers run across a picture of something in one of the files. As calmly as he can, Sunday attempts to catch a sight of it with only a quick glance. He has to be as subtle as possible— so that it is not obvious to his Father that he is prying.
Is that an ultrasound photo?
“The Watchmaker’s death anniversary is coming up. It makes sense for his sons to be in Penacony during this period of time. Keep your guard up; we might see them soon.”
His Father inhales sharply. As if he is feeling determined about something.
“Remember, Sunday. Everything is for the sake of Penacony. If we leave loose ends outside, they might fester and become the very root of instability.”
Sunday nods. He understands this well. The scions of the Watchmaker’s family do not necessarily need to die, but capturing them is definitely important. Gopher Wood has left the second son to him, whilst his Father pursues the first son personally.
It is only a matter of time before the two of them are found.
“Go, now.” Content with his answers, the man dismisses Sunday.
The halovian bows to his Father and exits the room in the same way he arrives— with extreme prudence.
.
…
.
Outside, the rain begins to fall.
Not wanting any of the papers to get wet, Gopher Wood enacts a barrier around the edges of the building’s gaping hole to ensure that neither the wind or rain can take them.
He touches the picture of the ultrasound once more.
“Oh! The baby’s kicking.” Mikhail laughs happily on the couch and gestures for him to come over, “Quick! Come here, my love.”
Gopher Wood crosses the threshold of their living room and plants himself in the space next to the blue haired man. Eagerly, Mikhail grabs his hand and places it on his rounded, growing belly. From where they are, they can clearly see the baby move under taut skin and the halovian feels the unmistakable shift of something within Mikhail.
He inhales sharply.
It should not be possible. Mikhail’s deteriorating health and the fact that he is mated to Tiernan, makes this pregnancy an anomaly.
But the child exists. All the ultrasounds and the baby’s movements prove that it is true.
Is this his Aeon’s way of rewarding him?
Is this child really theirs?
Beside him, Mikhail is ecstatic. “He’s already so strong.”
“He?”
“Just a hunch. I think Gallagher is going to have a baby brother.”
A son. Warmth fills his chest as happiness multiplies from within. Happiness that he has never expected to be possible ever since the war ended.
And even though it is a miracle— even though they may not have another pup for the rest of their lives, the halovian wishes that this child will take after Mikhail.
Gopher Wood holds him close.
“Misha.”
“Hmm?”
Mikhail looks up at him innocently, a smile still present on his beautiful features. Gopher Wood briefly wonders if he could have felt like this from the start— if such contentment and happiness could have been his— were the both of them mates instead, and had a family of their own.
If only Mikhail was never mated to Tiernan.
His face twists itself into an uncharacteristic grin. Gopher Wood smiles with a full set of teeth showing and grins from ear to ear.
Uncharacteristic for him, but in character for the person he is disguised as.
And Mikhail is none-the-wiser as his perceived mate pulls him in for a kiss.
“I love you.”
“I love you too, Tiernan.”
Notes:
🙂 I hope everybody is sufficiently traumatized. I know I was when I had to write out the full backstory timeline for Gopher Wood/Mikhail/Tiernan.
Sorry if there are any mistakes! I'm ill at the moment and it's getting increasingly tough to read 13k words for the Nth time. I'm unsure if Gallagher should be such a pathetic wet dog but it is quite hard to gauge when you're burning up. It should be fine. After all, things have to get worse before they get better.
That said, this isn't over! As Aventurine famously once said, "Nothing in Penacony is what it seems". There's more to unravel in terms of plot and Galladay's relationship.
Will Sunday ever choose Gallagher over his duty to the Oak Family? Will Gallagher stop running from all of his problems and face them head on? Did Aventurine survive his encounter with Gopher Wood?
What *exactly* happened in the past and how does it relate to problems that are occurring in the present time?
I hope you all enjoyed this chapter ❤️ Please stay tuned for more, and do leave me kudos and comments for encouragement ❤️
Chapter 11: 7th Meeting (Birthright)
Summary:
As the death anniversary of Penacony's founder arrives, the line between memories and nightmares starts to blur for the sinner Gopher Wood.
Sunday is officially engaged, but it does not spark joy for anybody. Gallagher starts to notice that Sunday is oddly distant ever since the masquerade party, and the misunderstandings only get worse when everything points towards one terrible possibility: that the love of his life might have approached him under nefarious circumstances.
Troubled, he goes to Mikhail Char Legwork's grave to visit his dad... and bumps into someone unexpected.
Notes:
TW: Graphic violence towards a pregnant person and their unborn child.
TW: Self-harm performed by a pregnant person.
TW: Brief description of a pre-term miscarriage.The first part is quite intense so please take note of the trigger warnings.
Also sorry, the plot has got to plot this chapter so there's not as much Galladay. But most likely this will be the last lore-heavy chapter for this fic.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“I’m afraid the prognosis is poor.”
The doctor delivers the news to him like it is just an average Tuesday; obvious apathy and disinterest in the topic of their discussion laid bare for the head of the Oak Family to see. The recipient of the news barely shifts in his seat; only a minute adjustment in his gaze tells any onlooker that he might have been musing about something.
If Gopher Wood was upset or angry, at the very least— his cold and impassive face showed none of it.
After an eternity of silence, the halovian interlocks his fingers and leans back against his seat. “Is it terminal?”
“It’s not, but it might as well be. There is no known cure and you will suffer in agony each time your rut comes along. Suppressants will only help you put it off to a certain extent, and when it fully hits, neither another omega nor painkillers will help.”
“There’s also the issue of a declining mental cognition: alphas who suffer from this often become more aggressive, lose their ability to reason, and partake in extreme behavior.”
“Simply put, they descend into ‘madness’.”
Gopher Wood inhales softly and closes his eyes. In the deep haze of his mind, a smiling and heavily pregnant Mikhail from a few years back, surfaces. A Mikhail who is none-the-wiser about how his growing belly torments the halovian–-
—for nestled deep within the omega’s womb is a detestable pup that is not theirs.
A one-sided imprinting. He really should have expected this from the way he has always obsessed over Penacony’s new Watchmaker. Now his body has finally finished digging the grave that his heart had involuntarily started in the first place.
“Assuming that the target of my imprinting is somehow available for physical relations or to provide me with pheromones, would it alleviate the symptoms?”
The doctor checks over his patient files in a strange, arbitrary movement and nods.
“If you are able to have physical relations or receive pheromones from the target, then yes, it will greatly ease your symptoms during your ruts. However, for as long as there is no mutual imprint— or what we call ‘bonding between mates’— this issue of yours will continue to persist.”
“And if…” The man in front of him emphasizes as he gives the halovian a straight look, “If this target of yours were to one day refuse or stop assisting you, you will suffer as diagnosed.”
“The only way out of this is either death or a mutual bonding.”
Death, huh. That is definitely out of the question. Especially not after coming so far with ending the war and establishing Penacony.
And definitely not right after having gotten rid of Tiernan.
Perhaps it is just as well. The halovian thinks to himself. If the various surgeries to break Mikhail’s mating bond eventually succeed, then not only will the Watchmaker be free from the torment of being bonded to a dead person— the love of his life will be available to bond with him too. It will resolve both of their issues.
Mikhail’s life will no longer be in danger and he, Gopher Wood, will finally see an end to his own suffering.
The halovian stares at, and moves his fingers ever so slightly as he recalls the wonderful sensation of carding his fingers through silky sky blue hair. The love of his life leans against his chest; drifting off in his own world while blissfully enjoying the constant drum of Gopher Wood’s heartbeat.
He inhales sharply.
Even if he has to lie to Mikhail for the rest of their lives, he will keep the Watchmaker captivated in a sweet dream made exclusively for the both of them.
“How is the progress on the other end then? I don’t want to put him through more surgeries than necessary. His body is already frail enough since he had his first child.”
“As per your request, we have placed Mikhail Char Legwork’s surgeries on hold due to his unexpected second pregnancy. And in the meantime we’ve gotten more experimental work done with volunteers who are keen on removing their mating bonds.”
The doctor projects a set of data from his smaller computer screen to a nearby wall.
“The success rate is currently at 73 percent.” The red of a laser pointer appears on the graph, “...with two regrettable fatalities.”
Gopher Wood purses his lips.
“Doctor, 73 percent is not enough.”
“Don’t worry, we think so too. However, there is still time till he delivers and the postpartum period as well. We estimate that it will be enough for us to figure more things out and stabilize the usual variables for a higher success rate.”
Golden irises flick back to the two fatalities on the graph, and displeasure arises.
Progress is slow. And while barely passable at best, this answer will have to do for now. They are at a complicated period in time and Gopher Wood surmises that if necessary, he will simply have to be convincing enough to keep Mikhail unaware for a while longer.
Having completed the tedious consultation with the doctor, he stands and makes to leave.
And as he does, the halovian does not forget to remind the medical practitioner, “Mikhail will be here next week for one last checkup before he delivers. I trust that it goes without saying: everything we’ve discussed today is to be kept from him.”
“If I find out that you’ve so much as breathed a word of this in his direction, there will be… undesirable consequences.” Gopher Wood retrieves an open locket from his coat, which he then places face-up on the table. A young girl’s portrait can be found neatly placed within.
“I hear that the view of Penacony from above is splendid. And the Radiant Feldspar always has an additional seat for a lovely child or two.”
He calmly pushes the locket towards the doctor— now fully showing his displeasure for the man’s earlier attitude and overall incompetency.
“Do we understand?”
The doctor shakily retrieves the item in front of him.
“Yes, absolutely.”
.
…
.
When Gopher Wood returns home, he finds Mikhail happily rearranging the pieces of clothing and cushions in his nest. In spite of it being already filled with at least five different cushions of varying shapes and sizes, the Watchmaker carefully adds another that the halovian easily recognizes to be from the couch in his study.
He smiles and leans against the door frame— the mere sight of his husband being enough to blow away the unpleasantness of the earlier doctor’s appointment.
“Misha.” Gopher Wood almost purrs, “At this rate, I’ll have to place a custom order for five more cushions to decorate the study, or risk meeting our guests at the nearby coffee place instead.”
The Watchmaker looks up at the sound of his voice and his face breaks into a huge smile. He cradles his large belly and gets up as quickly as he can. Mikhail then waddles over to him at a speed that is quite impressive for an omega who is 38 weeks along in his pregnancy.
Worried that he may trip, the halovian moves forward to meet his spouse in the middle of the room.
“Slowly,” He murmurs as Mikhail throws himself into his arms for a comfortable embrace, “Don’t want you falling down and injuring yourself or the baby.” Gopher Wood inhales the soft, contented omega scent coming from his love and plants a kiss in sky blue hair.
“You’re back, Tiernan.” Mikhail comments and pulls back just enough to grin at him.
And though, in that exact moment, Gopher Wood has immersed himself in their twisted roleplay just enough to forget that it is not him that Mikhail sees, he does not blanch at being pulled back to reality by the sound of Tiernan’s name.
The corners of his mouth lift to mimic a kind expression in return.
“How was the doctor’s appointment? Did you figure out why you’ve been feeling so unwell lately?”
The halovian shrugs it off in a way that Tiernan casually would, “It’s nothing much. Just fatigue maybe. And nerves, knowing that you’re due in two weeks.” He grins, and they momentarily peer down together at Mikhail’s rounded belly that is currently sat between them. As if to substantiate his point, Gopher Wood slides his hands downwards to cup its sides and thumbs at Mikhail’s waist.
Underneath his palms, he feels their baby shift.
“Really? You’re nervous?” Mikhail laughs in a way that fills up the entire room, “After all the trailblazing we’ve been through? And this isn’t even the first time you’re becoming a father.”
Right. Because it is Gopher Wood’s first child, but it is not Tiernan’s.
The smile on his face stays on like it is meant to be, and he distracts himself by leaning in to steal a kiss. Mikhail more than willingly obliges and the halovian indulges in it as much as he needs to quieten the growing dissonance in his chest.
The unhappiness dissipates.
They break apart and he scoops Mikhail into his arms easily, “It’s the first time I’ll be with you as you deliver. When Gallagher was born, ol’ Wood was with you, remember?” Arms come up to wrap themselves around his neck so that it is easier for him to carry Mikhail’s heavy form to the nearby nest. Appreciative of this subtle assistance, he plants another kiss on his husband’s pale forehead as a reward.
“I remember.” Mikhail comments softly, now more subdued at the mentioning of unhappy memories, “I had a difficult pregnancy so Gallagher came early. You were held up elsewhere so Ashoka was kind enough to keep me company while it happened.”
Mikhail goes even quieter at the next sentence.
“It took an entire day of laboring for him to be born. They say that he almost didn’t make it due to how long it took…”
His love tightens his arms further and buries his face in Gopher Wood’s chest.
“I’m sorry, Tiernan. If I were stronger, maybe Gallagher wouldn’t have needed to suffer like that.”
The halovian lowers Mikhail gently into the nest and holds him close until he feels better. When Mikhail releases him enough for them to make eye contact, Gopher Wood puts on the most understanding look he can muster. It is easy. After all, he remembers first-hand the agony and pain that the omega had to go through that day.
He remembers and knows everything that the real Tiernan does not.
“Don’t be silly. You did your best and Gallagher is a strong pup. Besides, everything turned out alright in the end, didn’t it? I heard that ol’ Wood’s abilities came in handy.”
“Yeah, he used the Harmony so that I’d have the energy to deliver Gallagher. Without him, the both of us might not be here today.”
Newly reassured, Mikhail finally breaks out into a small smile. A satisfied Gopher Wood moves to lay down and cuddle him in the well-made nest. Then, as carefully as he can, he tries to help support Mikhail’s gravid belly— all the while secretly enjoying the strong, persistent movements made by their child within.
He nuzzles his love placatingly.
It broke his heart that Mikhail had to have such a difficult first time delivery. It really did.
But it was necessary for him to not intervene until the very last moment. If it were not for the heavy hemorrhaging that threatened Mikhail’s life, Gopher Wood thinks he would have allowed everything to play out as it should.
Mikhail’s delivery would still be unfortunately tough but in return, Tiernan’s pup would have been thankfully stillborn.
And as the Watchmaker wailed in the anguish of losing the parasite, Gopher Wood would have held him close and reminded him that it was not Tiernan’s fault that he could not be there. It was not Tiernan’s fault that Mikhail had a weak and challenging pregnancy due to his constant absence and a lack of his pheromones.
It was also definitely not Mikhail’s fault that the parasite could not live.
Maybe he and Tiernan were just incompatible. Genetically and emotionally. Everything had been a mistake since the beginning.
Then, as the sun inevitably rises in the east and sets in the west…
...Mikhail will gradually turn towards him. To the person who has been by his side the entire time and who was there to help him through his most difficult moments.
To his true mate.
It truly is a shame that Gallagher survived his birth. Because of that, the halovian has had to adjust his plans accordingly. And now he is proud to say that, while it did take a while, things are moving in the direction that they should.
Their firstborn pushes against Gopher Wood’s palm and he grins hard enough for it to hurt. He leans down to press his ear to where movement is visible— taking in the sound of what might be a faint heartbeat— before pulling away to place a kiss on the rounded fabric of Mikhail’s shirt.
His mate, and his pup.
The halovian’s only regret is not being able to keep Tiernan alive long enough for him to watch this happen. Gopher Wood pulls his husband close and inhales his scent. This small act soothes the now-frequent feelings of unease and madness that gnaws at him.
Everything will be alright now that they are going to be mates.
“Don’t worry, Misha. This time I’ll be with you throughout it all. We’ll watch this strong little one come into this world together.”
He waits for a familiar, positive sounding reply, but oddly finds an unexpected pause in its place. It is as if time has frozen— Mikhail neither moves nor makes a sound, and the pup in his belly has gone unnaturally still after moving enthusiastically all day.
The halovian shifts to check on the man in his arms…
…but just as he is about to catch a glimpse of Mikhail’s expression, a mysterious hand darts out from the blind spot on his right and places itself over his, on his husband’s belly.
“How are you so sure that this one isn’t going to be a stillborn this time?”
Tiernan’s voice resonates deeply and unsettlingly next to his ear, and Gopher Wood turns his head sharply in its direction to briefly catch the silhouette of a dark shadow. Before he can react to the hostile newcomer, ‘Tiernan’ presses the halovian’s hand roughly downwards into the hardness of Mikhail’s large belly.
It is a potentially violent act; one that logically means that their palms will be exerting a terrible force against the omega’s pregnant belly and skin. Immediately, instincts have him anticipating that this will cause Mikhail to squirm and try get away from the pain that this induces.
Yet, to his surprise, all that greets Gopher Wood is the sight of his own hand melting and sinking deep into the rounded womb that contains his pup.
Shock paralyzes him.
He lifts his gaze and Mikhail is now staring back at him, mouth agape and trembling; a scream threatening to spill forth. The insides of Mikhail’s womb are warm and he can feel liquid— perhaps amniotic fluid or blood— parting to make way for his and ‘Tiernan’’s descending hands.
They reach the core of Gopher Wood’s ill-begotten fruit.
‘Tiernan’ forces him to wrap his hand around a soft indent that he quickly recognizes as the neck of their unborn child. In front of him, Mikhail twitches— a sign that his brain is beginning to process the pain and situation. The severity of it all strikes him instantly, and Gopher Wood snaps out of his stupor to begin resisting.
But ‘Tiernan’’s strength is too much.
Veiled whispers reach his ears once more.
“You should snap this one’s neck while it is still unborn. It is only mercy to do so.”
“After all, you and I both know that this child is not meant to be.”
His hand is gradually forced shut, and Gopher Wood acutely feels the pup’s pulse under his fingertips and the way it starts struggling when his grip gets too much.
No.
He attempts to pull away once more, and desperately tries to focus on preventing the worst instead of giving into the alarming sensations against his skin. In disgusting contrast to the comfortingly strong kicks from earlier, he feels the creak of the pup’s bones almost giving way.
No!!
The pup’s neck snaps cleanly. Irreparably.
At that precise moment— as if he can sense that the worst has happened— Mikhail’s eyes fill with tears and he shrieks. A bone-chilling cry.
His objective now complete, ‘Tiernan’ finally releases him; the defiling presence of the shadow disappears as mysteriously as it appears. And now without the pressure of someone physically coercing him, Gopher Wood immediately removes his hand from Mikhail's being. His golden eyes search frantically, but there is no hole left behind where his hand was forcibly pressed into Mikhail’s rounded belly and no blood on the omega’s clothes.
The halovian then looks around but there is no one else aside from him and a deeply disturbed Mikhail. As if hoping that the pup will still show signs of life, his husband scrabbles at his still-rounded belly hysterically.
When Gopher Wood eventually catches sight of his hand, he is so aghast at the unwanted sight of blood that—
In a rare moment of vulnerability, he loses his composure and lets out a mortified yell.
.
…
.
He should have known that it was too good to be true.
When he regains consciousness once more, Gopher Wood slowly but surely makes sense of everything— he is in a sequence of nightmares again. Or more accurately, a Hell of his own making.
Now he remembers everything.
With the resigned expression of a self-aware sinner, the halovian watches the events in front of him unfold: This time he is standing in the hall of the Dewlight Pavilion. He knows this particular scenario— Mikhail has found out that he has been masquerading as Tiernan this entire time, and that the child within him is Gopher Wood’s flesh and blood.
Disgusted and filled with disdain, he hurls his grievances and insults at the halovian while perched precariously on the railing, a whole floor above.
Gopher Wood stares at the hysterical Mikhail with a blank look.
Extreme displays of emotions do not suit the Watchmaker, but the nightmare definitely has gotten the part where he hates the halovian right. Mikhail has always been void of positive feelings towards him.
The apparition resembling the love of his life tells him, “You’re a monster and I would rather die than to ever bear you a pup!”
And leaps off.
The pregnant omega’s body hits the ground with a loud, sickening thud. Amidst it all, Mikhail has also managed to ensure he lands on his front. Gopher Wood approaches him with eyes full of torment, yet no remorse. All of this is unwilling penance, and he will be helpless to watch this all play out in the same way he once purposely stood by as Gallagher suffocated in Mikhail’s birth canal.
Blood pools around Mikhail, exiting from every orifice and wound imaginable, except one.
In every single nightmare he has had before the newest one, Mikhail tries to get rid of their child in various ways. And every single time, the omega is destined to fail. All this does is put himself in a cycle of neverending pain, and break Gopher Wood’s heart.
Because that is the point, isn’t it? To make him suffer.
The one who is in hell is Gopher Wood, not Mikhail Char Legwork.
As Mikhail groans from shattering his body against the cold marble, Gopher Wood gently turns him over. They both look at his swollen belly as his skin ripples with movement within— Mikhail with agony and Gopher Wood in sorrow— and like always, ascertain that the pup is perfectly fine.
“Get rid of it…” The man cries out weakly as his breaths grow ever more shallow.
“We can’t.” Gopher Wood solemnly replies, “You successfully gave birth to him, remember?”
The apparition of Mikhail falls immobile. And the nightmare, now faced with the sinner’s new line of reasoning, changes once more.
.
…
.
He recognizes the next scene as well.
They are in the Dewlight Pavilion once more. This time, both of them are back to where Mikhail has constructed his nest. Within the nest that was initially built on happiness, his betrayed husband labors to bring their child into this world. In this scenario, Mikhail has also figured out that the halovian has always been lying to him. He refuses to listen to any of his explanations and spits on his feelings.
In both an act of revenge and despair, the Watchmaker takes an entire bottle of abortifacient pills.
Of course, it does nothing but send him into labor. It always starts like this: Gopher Wood arrives in time to find out what Mikhail has done, and has to face the fact that it is too late; that their only 30 week old pup is coming early. As the target of this hellscape, all the halovian is allowed to do is watch Mikhail heave and squirm in his nest— split apart by the agony of something that is simultaneously labor and a miscarriage.
Nevertheless, each time it happens, Gopher Wood holds onto the love of his life and comforts him through it all. He endures all the resentment, hate and anger that Mikhail has towards him and their pup…
…and is eventually rewarded with a grotesque looking, severely deformed fetus. As unlikely as it is for the pup to survive in this state, its chest always heaves with effort in this nightmare.
“A monstrous union can only produce…monsters…” are Mikhail’s final words this time. In his eyes, Gopher Wood will never be able to escape the blame for wanting something that is not his.
Still, the halovian holds the deformed pup close and kisses it on the forehead. No matter what, it is still his child.
His and Mikhail’s.
“I’m sorry.”
And as always, this is the only scenario where he outwardly expresses any sort of remorse or regret for how things have come to be.
.
…
.
Their final stop this time is the rooftop of one of Penacony’s tall skyscrapers.
The cold breeze comfortingly caresses their hair, and Mikhail holds his hand quietly while they watch the shooting stars fall across the brightening sky. In the distance, the sun is perpetually frozen at dawn.
In reality, this has once happened. Only during then, the person to hold Mikhail’s hand was Tiernan. Gopher Wood had simply watched them from a distance in the shadows.
At the memory, an ache rises in his chest and freezes in place. Just like the sun.
“It’s not true, you know.” Mikhail murmurs quietly as he squeezes the halovian’s hand, “The idea that I’d rather die than bear you a pup.”
He does not say anything in response to that. Gopher Wood merely steels himself for when the nightmare will take an unexpected and cruel twist— as it always does.
The love of his life, looking more real than he does in every single other nightmare scenario, cradles his swollen belly lovingly and gives it a wistful smile. “It’s just… It’s hard, you know? Too hard when I try to reconcile everything in my mind. My overwhelming feelings for Tiernan that fill up almost my entire heart…”
“...and the quiet affection I’ve always held for you in the remaining corner.”
At the unexpected confession, Gopher Wood finally turns to Mikhail. They hold each other’s gaze earnestly as tears threaten to pool in the corners of the Watchmaker’s eyes. His own expression remains impassive. Whatever this is, it is definitely going to be one of the more torturous nightmares he has yet to experience.
“ Misha .” He manages to call out; a surprisingly choked sound.
“Ashoka, I’m sorry that I never told you all of this. And that, in my grief, I let things fester to the point of no return. I shouldn’t have allowed you to masquerade as Tiernan for so long, simply because of my own weakness.”
“I should have…faced it all much sooner.”
“Tiernan’s gone. And this little one isn’t meant to be.”
He strokes the curve of his beautifully distended belly. There is no disdain or disgust. In this moment, Mikhail truly and deeply loves their unborn pup.
But why? He struggles to understand.
The child is not Tiernan’s. Mikhail has always only held disdain for him and his child in these nightmares.
“I’ve known that it is impossible, but I also wanted to keep both you and our baby by my side, just for a while longer… Even when I clearly knew that all of this misery is born from your obsession with me.”
“Ashoka, for the sake of yourself, the children and Penacony, don’t you think it is time to let go?”
When he does not respond to Mikhail’s begging, the omega calmly releases his hand and fetches a curved blade from within his long sleeve. True to the halovian’s expectations, Mikhail plunges the sharp weapon into the side of his belly just deep enough to not hurt the baby, and slices himself open on the spot.
Blood pours endlessly from his gaping wound, but Mikhail does not flinch or stop until the hole is large enough for him to reach in to retrieve the pup from his belly. The man forcefully mutilates himself to deliver their child into the world, and a heartbroken Gopher Wood catches him when his exhausted frame ultimately crumples onto the floor.
The alpha hurriedly removes his coat and wraps it around the full term newborn. As he does, he notes that for some reason, the baby is a halovian boy with light blue hair.
It is not the second child that Mikhail bore in reality.
Feeling as though they might be nearing the precipice of something, he cradles the now dying man and their new halovian son close. Mikhail is losing warmth in his arms as time passes, so Gopher Wood tries his best to shelter the both of them from the biting wind with his own body. Distracted, he misses the way the love of his life watches him in silent adoration before turning his attention to the little one who is beginning to fuss.
“We both know how Misha came to be. It is why I selfishly named him after me.”
Mikhail gently caresses the baby’s soft cheeks with the back of a finger, and the baby continues to fuss as its eyes slowly open to perceive the world around him.
“But this one… I’ve always wanted to ask.”
Magnificent golden irises come into view as Gopher Wood looks down just in time to witness the tiny halovian baby gurgle happily at his parents. His breath catches in his throat as his own eyes peer at him from Mikhail’s embrace.
“What should we name him?”
He continues to drink in the sight of the pup in Mikhail’s arms: Sky blue hair like his dam and golden eyes with halovian features like his sire. A pup that is unmistakably theirs— a perfect amalgamation of all those years of unspoken feelings they might have had for each other. His arms tighten around both of them.
There is only one name in mind.
“Misha, I’ve always wanted to name him…”
Somehow, the white noise of the dream grows louder, and it soon becomes a little too loud for him to hear himself. In the distance, the light from the rising sun begins to grow brighter as well. The multiple shooting stars that decorate the sky above are no longer in perpetual fall, and the cold, biting wind slows and warms with the rise of dawn.
Time moves forward.
When Mikhail hears the name of their child, he smiles. Now content, he turns his face to bury himself further into his mate’s chest and closes his eyes. Like a flame forcibly snuffed out, his lifeless hand slips from the halovian’s grip.
But Ashoka catches it at the very last moment.
Desperately holding onto the shadow of his Misha like he does with his own grief for so many years…
The leader of the Oak Family cries.
A gentle touch on his shoulder, as soft as a butterfly landing on a flower, awakens him from his slumber. It does not shake him violently or demand his immediate attention.
It merely waits patiently.
Blue hair and golden eyes appear in front of him when he opens his eyes. Akin to a long awaited miracle, his adopted son slides into view.
“Misha, I’ve always wanted to name him…”
“...Sunday.” Gopher Wood speaks aloud as he finishes his sentence.
“Yes, Father?” In spite of the young halovian’s confusion, Sunday helps him up into a sitting position, “I apologize if I disturbed your rest. You were frowning and sweating all over. I presumed that you were having a nightmare.”
He eyes Sunday— the boy’s underlying tension whenever he is around him does not escape Gopher Wood. The older halovian takes a moment to reflect on his parenting. Quite frankly, Mikhail would have been disappointed.
With that nightmare fresh in mind, he realizes that he might have been given a second chance when Sunday and Robin miraculously entered his life. A sweet pair of halovian siblings: one somehow looking like he could have been Mikhail’s and his child in another life, and another blessed with the strength, determination and compassion he once saw in the Watchmaker.
A second chance that he has also inevitably destroyed with his own hands.
“It’s fine… I was just resting my eyes. Why are you here?”
“There are a couple of documents I need to run by you. And I wanted to see if you need help with tidying up after the incident that day.”
Oh. Exhaustion hits Gopher Wood as tension slowly seeps out his body. He removes his glasses and pinches his nosebridge. The halovian pats the velvet cushioning of the area next to him and signals for Sunday to take a seat.
His obedient son does so.
“Leave the documents on the table. I’m feeling a little worn out and would like to chat.”
Sunday does as he commands once more and offers him an outstretched hand, “Father, would you want me to do some tuning for you? To rid you of the exhaustion.”
He waves it off.
“No.” I just want to talk to my son for a bit. It is a bad habit. As per usual, he does not say the things he wants to say the most.
The young halovian retracts his hand and patiently waits for Gopher Wood to bring up a topic of interest on his own. Their strained relationship is left with no space for a young child to prattle on and on about himself— the overly strict head of the Oak Family made sure of that a long time ago.
An image of Mikhail cradling their young halovian son flashes through his mind, and Gopher Wood keenly feels some regret.
“How are preparations going for the upcoming engagement?”
“It’s just been confirmed. Our gifts have reached the Iris Family, and they are pleased with it. All that remains is for us to hold an official engagement party after this for formality’s sake.”
“And what of the matter pertaining to your child?”
Sunday tenses.
“I’m afraid there has not been much progress on that front.”
The admission causes Gopher Wood to eye Sunday’s flat abdomen. It is taking a surprisingly long period of time for his son to fall pregnant. In that aspect, Gallagher is no match for his father. Yet in an ironic twist of fate, the both of them are the same when it comes to disappointing him where it matters the most.
The same insufferable ability to just get in my way all the time.
Sunday seems to sense his displeasure and notices the way the older halovian is looking at his abdomen as he muses. In a protective gesture, he adjusts his own sitting posture so that his hands are covering his abdomen. Gopher Wood wants to tell him that it is unnecessary because there is little to no reason for him to have any ill-will towards Sunday’s pup. If anything, this long awaited child will be incredibly important to him.
But an explanation often leads to another. And there is just so much that Sunday does not need to know for now.
“I apologize.” He begins, and Sunday is visibly startled by this turn of events, “I should have given more thought to the fact that your fiance is also an omega. It might have been easier on you if we chose a beta instead— even if it meant that they would have been less compatible in other ways.”
“That aside, I want to ask why you did not consider adoption. Surely this solution is less troublesome than the current one you’re undertaking.”
His halovian son goes perfectly silent for a brief moment— clearly deep in thought. Gopher Wood recognizes that expression; Sunday, who already has an answer in his heart, is carefully choosing his next words.
“Well… I saw firsthand how difficult matters were when you first adopted me and Robin. While I am grateful for it and not ashamed of being your adopted son, it will simply be much easier to convince the other four Families if my heir has legitimacy of succession through birthright. After all, the Families can be quite traditional.”
Traditional, huh? The older halovian leans back on the couch’s backrest and stares straight at the dimly lit ceiling.
“And if the child is an omega instead of an alpha?”
To his surprise, Sunday smiles; unbothered and perfectly in control, “I am an omega as well. It has never been an issue, has it, Father?”
On display in front of him is an all-too-familiar confidence and strength. Gopher Wood had first seen it years ago during the war when an unassuming omega led the rebellion to tear through their opponents. Together, they ushered in a new dawn.
Even if it is a mask or merely mimicry, the fact remains that Sunday is at the very least, capable of playing the part.
A sense of pride swells within Gopher Wood at the magnificent leader his son has become. If you were truly of mine and Mikhail’s blood, this would have also been how I imagined you to be. While fate has tragically made that child an impossibility, it has also given him another. And as if to compensate the older halovian, Sunday constantly lives up to the expectations placed on him and more.
Life truly works in mysterious ways.
“I understand. You may leave if there’s nothing else.”
The young halovian gets up from his seat and politely inclines his head downwards just slightly to indicate that he will be leaving. He hears the gentle tapping of footsteps as Sunday makes his way to the door.
Just as Gopher Wood is almost left alone with his thoughts once more, a different sound catches his attention:
Sunday lets out an involuntary, soft, gagging noise— much like he is feeling nauseous and about to hurl. He grasps at his torso; stomach obviously churning within.
The older halovian slides his glasses back on and stands up with his hands folded across his chest contemplatively. “Sunday?”
“M-My apologies, Father. Breakfast was a little hard to stomach this morning but I forced some down anyway. It must not have agreed with me.”
Gopher Wood’s index fingers tap his upper arm as his thoughts take a certain hypothesis and proceed to run with it. Once. Twice. It slows to a stop. Hm.
…Perhaps Gallagher is not as useless as he often thinks of him to be.
Golden eyes flick back to Sunday’s slightly curled frame by the door— it does not seem like the boy is aware. And as Sunday’s loving guardian, it is only right for him to offer to use his powers to help alleviate the problem. He extends a hand in the same way Sunday did earlier, “I can perform a quick tuning for you if you’d like.”
Sunday shakes his head and seems to shrink a little more.
“Thank you for the offer but it will pass.”
“Do you want me to call for a doctor then?”
“It’s fine, I will call for one if needed. But only after this busy period of time.“
A stubborn child. In this aspect, Gopher Wood wonders who Sunday takes after. No matter— since his son is so against the idea of tending to himself, he will just have to relent for now. Pressing him on the issue will only raise suspicion and push Sunday away from their end goal. This will eventually create problems.
His own son has to always be aligned with his wishes. It is only natural.
“There is no end to work. Take better care of yourself, Sunday. And visit me more often with Robin.”
Visibly relieved, his son nods and excuses himself once more.
When the door to the study clicks shut, the halovian moves to his desk and pulls up an electronic calendar. It flashes today’s date plainly for him to see. As the significance of the night’s torment begins to dawn on him, Gopher Wood laughs softly to himself.
“No wonder.”
It all makes sense now— why the night terrors are worse than usual and why that final nightmare felt so real. Even with the passing of time and Sunday’s accompaniment earlier, he is still able to keenly feel his husband and their baby’s warmth within his arms.
“What should we name him?”
Mikhail’s voice rings loud and clear in his mind; his gaze is gentle and loving as he coos at their halovian child.
Today is the anniversary of the Watchmaker’s death.
Sunday is now officially engaged.
The joyous news spreads like wildfire throughout Penacony— reaching even the deepest parts of it, like the Floating Dream Palace in the red light district. Gallagher says and does nothing when he hears of the news: he makes no remark when Siobhan apprehensively shows him the front page of that day’s paper. There is also nothing out of the ordinary with his behavior when work comes around and they have to entertain their guests as they always do.
And when Sunday visits him that week, neither of them addresses the elephant in the room.
There is nothing to be said after all. This is the natural progression of things and both of them have long since been aware of it. If he does hold Sunday a touch too desperately or might have looked a little forlorn…
Well. Sunday doesn’t really notice or comment about it either.
In fact, during and after the deed, Sunday seems oddly distant. He is distracted all the time; as if he might be considering something grave in his mind or perhaps thinking about his demure looking fiance. Scenes from the masquerade play out in Gallagher’s mind and he realizes that Sunday’s look of adoration for his husband-to-be is seared deeply into his brain.
“I don’t need love. I just want to remain by your side. That’s all I want.”
That is what he once said, right?
Gallagher is not going to force Sunday to love him back or to choose him over his duties to the Oak Family. This is the correct distance and propriety that they should be having, and there is no need to press Sunday for more. It is enough, as long as Sunday allows him to stay by his side.
But why then… does he feel so hollow inside?
The hound tries to drive away the uncertainty by suggesting that they spend some time going for multiple rounds like they always do, but right at that moment Sunday makes a small gagging noise like he might be repulsed. He turns away from Gallagher and covers his mouth as though something is off-putting. (His pheromones maybe?)
“I apologize. I’ve been feeling slightly under the weather.” Heartbreakingly, the target of his unwanted affections uses a convenient excuse to turn him down.
“Oh… It’s fine. I bet you’re all worn out from work these days anyway.”
He wraps his arms around Sunday to hold him close and the halovian seems to feel a little better; likely pleased by how accommodating Gallagher is being. Sunday parks himself right underneath his jawline and closes his eyes to rest. He does not offer him tiny little kisses like he used to, or say much to Gallagher when they are lying together.
And when the halovian gets up to dress himself in preparation to leave the establishment, Gallagher automatically follows in order to scent him—
—only to be met with a small flinch and elegant fingers pushing him away on the chest.
Soft words are uttered in contrast to the clear rejection.
“You don’t have to from now on.”
His heart falls in his chest. But outwardly, Gallagher merely rubs the back of his head sheepishly and grins— a stupid, foolish smile— as he apologizes for overstepping.
“Sorry. Force of habit.”
Sunday nods in acknowledgement before quickly avoiding his gaze to turn away and cover his mouth. He suppresses another obvious need to retch and Gallagher eyes him with pity. The hound reaches out, wanting to soothe Sunday by rubbing his back for him, but eventually drops the idea when the memory of Sunday flinching at his touch surfaces.
He retracts his hand.
“Probably should get that looked at, birdie. Or take a day or two off work to rest.”
“Am fine.” Sunday swallows back the nausea in time to reply and wave it off. “I’ll see you next week. If not, the week after.”
Gallagher shoves his hands in his pockets. He is clearly not used to sending Sunday off without physically draping himself all over him. This way, at least he will look more natural and his hands will not wander.
Sunday of the Oak Family leaves. And as always, he takes Gallagher’s heart with him.
.
…
.
Another day passes and like clockwork, Gallagher goes down to the VIP lounge in order to set up his work station for the night. His movements are slow and casual— after all, it is still early in the day and at this hour, there should be nobody in the lounge, employees and guests alike. He pushes the heavy wooden door open with one arm.
And pauses at the presence he feels.
To his surprise, a mysterious raven sits on the countertop with a piece of paper held in its beak.
It stares hard at him— an incredibly judgmental look in its eyes— and drops the piece of paper when it decides that it has had enough.
Just as Gallagher thinks that he will have some trouble capturing a lost bird in time for opening hour, the raven takes flight and very cleverly swoops past him to exit through the wooden door. The act is so intelligent for the likes of a simple bird that the hound is taken aback.
He pulls back from the door frame to look upon its disappearing silhouette, deftly rounding the corner of the corridor. It moves with purpose and towards the exit; as if it has the map of the building imprinted clear as day in its mind.
Almost like it might be sentient.
Curiously, he approaches the tabletop to take a look at the piece of paper that was left behind:
“Reclaim your birthright to obtain your heart’s desire.”
Chills run down his spine. From within his shadow, Sleepie makes a deep, guttural groan. A psychedelic purple colored eye opens on the floor in response to his unease, and Gallagher’s normally brown eyes flash a dangerous hidden crimson.
Who is it?
Someone knows the secret of the Watchmaker’s family.
As if on cue, he hears footsteps echoing through the corridor, right outside the lounge.
The door creaks as another individual leisurely pushes the wooden door open. One of Sleepie’s many blades begins to manifest through his shadow on the floor, and the look in Gallagher’s eyes hardens. They get ready to tear through the person who might endanger everything they have strived to protect.
“Gallagher? Are you here?”
Siobhan’s voice hits the both of them before the visage of her does. Sleepie’s blades dissolve away like liquid back into the shadows in the span of a millisecond, and the fire in Gallagher’s eyes is put out.
When his friend pushes the door wide open, all she sees is Gallagher tensed up against the bar’s countertop.
“What’s the matter? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
He tries to relax, and makes a casual wave of his hand.
“It’s nothing. I got spooked by a bird. Don’t know how it got in here.”
“Huh? A bird? This deep into the building?”
“Yeah, precisely.”
“Well, where is it then? I’ll help you get rid of it before your shift starts.”
“It’s gone now. Managed to slip out somehow— the creepy little thing.” He smiles at her and fakes a shudder to lighten the mood. It succeeds, and Siobhan shakes her head helplessly at him. “Have you always been this bad with birds?”
She walks up to the counter while Gallagher takes his place behind it.
“They’re not exactly the easiest to handle.”
The halovian shoots him a knowing look, “Is this about our lost little critter, or about somebody else in particular?”
Moments with a beautiful yet emotionally distant Sunday floods his mind. He lets out a defeated chuckle that makes his chest ache, “I’m too old to be capable of wrangling pretty little feathered things.”
He subtly slips the piece of paper into the lower pocket of his white vest. The words on the parchment haunts him.
“Maybe it would have been easier if I were a part of the Five Families?”
He pretends to adjust the strap of his black leather glove, while the halovian regards him with a disapproving click of her tongue. Siobhan eyes him with caution, “It’s not like you to want something you don’t mean. You’ve never liked the Five Families. And even if you were part of them, it doesn’t guarantee that you’d be chosen by the Oak Family.”
“Yeah, well… they’d definitely be open to betrothing their heir to a scion of the Founding Family.” He murmurs to himself; hoping that Siobhan will not be able to catch it.
Unfortunately, she does.
“That’s even worse. Politically it makes sense, but hasn’t the Oak Family always hated the Founding Family? You and I both saw how quickly they moved to take over Penacony after the death of Mikhail Char Legwork. They cannibalized its remnants and pretended like they’ve never existed.”
“With such dark ambition, a child born of those two families combined will only serve as a pawn through birthright.”
“History will repeat itself— only this time the Oak Family will use the child as a legitimate reason to usurp leadership of Penacony instead. Is that something you’d want for your own family?”
Gallagher frowns at her well-thought out analysis of the situation. It is true.
In a scenario where his dad is alive and their family still spearheads Penacony, he can imagine Gopher Wood promising Sunday to him in exchange for more influence. Sunday will eventually bear him a child, and the time will come when his own flesh and blood will be used against his family.
And what of Sunday?
Will he choose to rebel against his own family for plotting against his mate and using their child?
Or…
Is Sunday more likely to be a key participant in the Oak Family’s schemes?
The more he thinks about it, the more the piece of paper left behind by the raven feels like a trap. Siobhan observes him with a frown; unimpressed by the way love makes even the most capable people blind.
The hound quietly admits to himself that he is slightly rattled. Things really have been quite odd lately.
Still, he keeps this apprehension to himself.
“You’re right. It’s just a stupid thought.” He reassures her with a tilt of his head and folds his arms. His friend lets out a breath that she does not realize she has been holding, and Gallagher thinks about burning the piece of paper in his vest.
“Besides, can you imagine? Me, a part of Penacony’s elites?”
“Obviously not.” She chuckles.
“Oh,” The topic at hand leads him to remember an important keepsake, “Randomly, what about the pocket watch? Have you made any progress with it?”
“Unfortunately...” The halovian reaches into her trousers to pull the watch from a pocket, “This thing is harder to crack than it looks. Whoever who sealed it shut did not intend for it to be opened once more.”
This feels too connected to be a coincidence. Once upon a time, Gallagher had assumed that the pocket watch was his dad’s original possession or a gift from his father. The turning point is when Sunday tells him that the power within is one of the Harmony. Ever since then, he has been having doubts.
There are many among his dad’s original group of friends that can wield the Harmony.
Yet only one person is an apex user of the Path.
Gopher Wood.
Could he be the one pulling the strings behind all the recent spate of events?
Amidst all the tension, a knock on the lounge door resounds through the room.
It opens just slightly, and Adam peeks his head around the corner. He sees both Siobhan and Gallagher in the same room, and immediately lets out a sigh of relief. “There’s someone here to see you, Gallagher. He says that it is urgent.”
The two heads shoot each other a look, and Siobhan deftly sweeps the pocket watch off the counter back into her possession. The hound then nods at Adam, who proceeds to invite the newcomer into the lounge.
A familiar silhouette steps into the room— tall, stern and unmistakably an alpha.
“You…” Gallagher regards the man firmly, arms still crossed.
“Veritas Ratio.” He introduces himself calmly. Like salt sprinkled on an open wound, the man’s sudden presence reminds Gallagher of all the times Aventurine has gotten him into trouble. Why is he here at this point in time?
Scarlet eyes land on Siobhan, “There is something important that must be said. May I speak to Gallagher privately?”
She briefly turns to the hound, who nods and assures her that it will be fine.
The head of the Floating Dream Palace then stands and makes to leave; yet seemingly unhappy anyway. As she signals for Adam to follow, the halovian stops midway and glances at Ratio once more— her displeased pheromones flare up, like a warning.
Ratio ignores it all. He is unfazed by the display of intimidation and unbothered by the fact that he nearly mauled the man in front of him, in this exact room, just a couple of weeks ago.
The door closes shut. And now it is just the two of them.
Ratio steps up to the countertop and the purple of his hair abruptly reminds Gallagher of the raven that flew off earlier. The hound’s eyes narrow in caution as Ratio speaks, “I’m here to apologize for Aventurine’s absence since the party the other day, and to deliver words from him.”
He stops, but does not take a seat.
There is a grave look on his face as he says the next few words, “Kakavasha wants you to be careful of Gopher Wood.”
Gallagher almost laughs.
“Who isn’t?”
“This is not a joke. The current head of the Oak Family is dangerous. We’re warning you about this because of your penchant to be involved with his heir .” The reference to Sunday causes Gallagher to tense up, and Ratio knows that he has successfully gotten the man’s attention.
The hound recalls the explosion that rocked the Dewlight Pavilion that night and a pang of worry hits him.
“Is Aventurine alright?”
“He’ll live. He just got out of intensive care last night.” Saying which, Ratio lets out a soft, unhappy snarl, “I had to come here in person because we don’t know how far Gopher Wood’s influence stretches. A call might be tapped, and a written message may get intercepted.”
The purple haired alpha folds his arms in turn, “I don’t know what you have going on with Sunday of the Oak Family, but this is our only warning: be careful of anybody who has ties with that Family. Especially those who are close to Gopher Wood.”
Scuttling about like an unwanted spider, the feeling called ‘dread’ crawls up Gallagher’s back and clamps its fingers down on his shoulders.
“What are you talking about…?”
Ratio sighs. He evidently bites back an insult in favor of being cordial, “The Oak Family has done terrible things in order to consolidate power in Penacony. A lot more than you’d assume. We don’t know if Sunday is part of this, but Kakavasha is concerned about you as a friend.”
He waves his hand like a professor presenting facts on a chalkboard, “You may not want to hear this, but what if Sunday has been working with his father all along?”
“What if they are both after something?”
Something?
The revelation strikes him like lightning. The raven from earlier; Siobhan’s warnings about how the Oak Family will only make use of the scion of the Founding Family if he still existed, and Sunday’s oddly distant behavior as his official engagement draws near.
Gallagher’s heart sinks and his lips part in disbelief.
It can’t be. It’s impossible. Has Sunday known his true identity from the beginning and approached him on purpose?
Were all those days laying in each other’s arms, in actuality, just calculated moves on the Oak Family’s chessboard?
His mind struggles to keep up and reconcile the gentle Sunday who whispers ‘good morning’ so lovingly to him, with the cold looking figure at the Oak Family’s masquerade. Which one is the real Sunday? Ever since their first meeting, it is Gallagher who assumes that Sunday is not the cold heir of the Oak Family that he tries to be in public. Not once has he stopped to wonder if it is the reverse instead.
But if Sunday has always been playing a role, then…
Aside, Ratio notes his abject horror. For the first time since they’ve met, the Doctor is sympathetic.
“You poor fool.”
Gallagher’s head spins and he places both arms on the countertop to steady himself.
What if their ultimate goal has always been the lineage of the Watchmaker?
It is already deep into the night when Misha Char Legwork arrives at his dad’s grave.
Under the cover of darkness, he hurries along. And as expected, he finds his older brother silently standing in front of it; years of torment apparent on his face. He hugs the bouquet of flowers in his arms close. How long has it been since they both met?
“Big brother.” He calls out, and Gallagher turns to look at him in surprise.
“Oh. Oh, the Aeons . Misha.” Misha has expected some hesitation or confusion, but the hound immediately rushes forward to pull him into an embrace, “Where have you been?”
The younger child of Penacony’s most famous Watchmaker smiles and holds his brother close. He puts the obvious question aside for now.
“How have you been? What about Sleepie?”
There is just so much to be said between them and yet strangely, so little time. Therefore he starts with the little things that matter the most. The pressure of their hug increases and Misha takes comfort in how Gallagher is as warm and reassuring as he remembers him to be.
“We’re fine. Now tell me, what about you and Clockie? I’ve been worried sick.”
The young boy giggles at his concern for him and his memetic entity, “We’re both alright. I’ve just been investigating a few things.”
“Investigating?”
Gallagher pulls away and Misha takes the opportunity to lay the red carnations on Mikhail’s grave. Hi dad, long time no see. He touches the cold tombstone in a way that resembles a gentle caress, before turning back to the hound.
“Yeah. I’ve been chasing a few leads regarding the death of our father, Tiernan.”
At the sound of their father’s name, a disturbed expression expectedly appears on Gallagher’s face. Misha knows that his older brother has always had complicated feelings when it comes to their father— an issue that unfortunately developed into full blown trauma when their dad passed on.
Perhaps his big brother blames himself for being unable to keep their dad safe, and bears some self-hatred for physically taking after their father.
A silly notion that is understandably valid. Yet a silly notion, nevertheless.
“I know you hate him for leaving dad alone for all those years, but I don’t believe that papa would simply disappear on all of us.”
It is time that they undo some of the hurt someone has purposefully sowed.
“Big brother…” Misha retrieves a rotten looking green scarf from his coat and shows it to Gallagher, “Our papa is gone, but not in the way you’d think. He was killed by the swarm while taking a train home back to us.”
Gallagher does not respond to that. He simply stares at the scarf with a look of defeated exhaustion on his face.
“I suspect that this might have been a deliberate act of sabotage. Big brother, someone didn’t want papa to come home.”
The hound makes a weak sound that can barely be considered a laugh.
“Gopher Wood?”
Misha nods. The head of the Oak Family is his first suspect as well.
“So he was greedy enough to ruin our entire family for the sake of obtaining Penacony.” Misha watches as his big brother lowers himself into a squat on the ground. Gallagher runs a gloved hand through his brown hair in despair. “And by running away after both of their deaths, I played exactly into his hands.”
“No…” The man stops himself before Misha can speak further, “Even if I were still the heir to Penacony, he would have figured a way to unite our families and cannibalize us from the inside.”
It’s not your fault. Misha thinks as he lowers his hands, still clutching the dirty green scarf tight.
From the beginning, Gopher Wood’s goal has always been our dad. Penacony is just…collateral. Everything else is just collateral, including them. Nothing could have withstood the insane obsession that burns within that man.
But this is something that he is unsure if he should share with his older brother. And even if he wanted to, the words somehow feel like they are lodged firmly in his throat.
“ Fuck …” The alpha curls in on himself in frustration, “I’ve messed up.”
Misha shakes his head to reject that line of thinking, “Like you said, he would have found a way to wrestle Penacony from us either way. I’m more concerned about what this means for the city from here on out. Something is happening within the shadows once more.”
“You are referring to the missing people.”
“Yes.”
His big brother stands and takes a deep breath to collect himself. The young boy watches the hound straighten and pull himself back into his full height. That’s right. This is more like you. Gallagher is a carbon copy of both of their parents as he asks if there is anything he can do to help with the investigation.
“No, we’ll risk drawing his attention if we’re together. For now, just go on with your life as you normally would.”
“It’s too dangerous for you to do this alone.”
“I’ll be fine. I’m not alone— Clockie is with me too.” He smiles, and from the shadows a smaller figure with the face of a clock for its head, waves at the hound.
Behind them, in the corners of the graveyard, other shadows seem to shift. MIsha wonders if they might have dawdled for too long. Even with the cover of night, having both scions of the Watchmaker at his grave during his death anniversary, is much too predictable. If the Oak Family spots them, there will be trouble.
He gives his older brother a small nod while tapping his wrist, and Gallagher instantly understands. He is evidently reluctant, but agrees that they should not loiter.
“Be careful then. And remember that you can always come find me at the Floating Dream Palace.”
The boy nods once more, “I will. I’ll check in with you again soon, big brother.”
They hug for one last time, and Misha whispers into Gallagher’s ear, “Do not blame yourself for matters of the past. Dad and I love you very much, and you’ll always be my favorite big brother.”
Gallagher ruffles his hair as they part; he is clearly embarrassed to be comforted by his younger brother. Misha wonders if he has said a little too much.
Yet when he hears Gallagher’s response, he is glad that he did.
“Of course I am. It’s not difficult to be your favorite when I’m your only big brother.”
“I love you too, kiddo.”
.
…
.
It is easier to run, yet he waits with purpose.
After Gallagher’s departure, it does not take long for another person to appear at Mikhail Char Legwork’s grave.
An even bigger bouquet of red carnations is placed against the cold stone as Gopher Wood calmly moves past Misha to greet the fallen Watchmaker. The second scion of Mikhail does not flinch or react in fear. In front of the person who has orchestrated everybody’s suffering, the young boy only feels defiance.
“After everything you’ve done, I’m surprised that you still have the cheek to appear in front of my dad.”
Gopher Wood is unfazed by his vitriol. He simply clasps his hands behind his back, posture unnaturally straight, and smiles.
The boy is unsure if he should scorn him by calling him a monster or praise the halovian for at least being somewhat self-aware. Aware that he deserves everything that is coming to him, including the disdain.
“That’s no way to speak to your father.”
Father? He shakes his head. A shameless proclamation.
“Dad was mated. He cannot possibly have children with someone who isn’t his bonded mate. You know very well how I was conceived.”
Any children accidentally or intentionally conceived outside of a bond will only result in a miscarriage. This is regardless of all other factors, including the feelings of any involved or even in the case of one-sided imprinting.
A mating bond is sacred, everlasting and cannot be defiled.
This declaration finally draws an expression from the halovian that is not humor. Gopher Wood raises his brows in surprise. It seems like he did not expect Misha to catch on, even if he does look a little too much like the dead Mikhail Char Legwork.
“Dad entrusted me with the truth of my birth in a parting letter. Besides, even if I were miraculously yours, I still only have one father: Tiernan Breukelen. And he is six feet under with my dad.”
As the words land, the area around them rumbles.
Gopher Wood takes a deep breath and looks to the sky.
“Since you know about the circumstances surrounding your birth, then you should know about Penacony as well. The city is running out of time, Misha. Just like your dad once was.”
The halovian’s words give him some pause.
A dark realization dawns on Misha pertaining to the missing people in Penacony lately. He staggers a little; horrified by how far Gopher Wood is willing to go to sustain any remaining memory of his dad.
“You… You should have known that this was inevitable. It is all because you tried to obtain something that wasn’t meant for you.”
The halovian begins to pace, albeit calmly. Gopher Wood still has patience in spades.
“I know how much Penacony means to your family. Now you and Gallagher are its only hope, but we both know he will never cooperate with the Oak Family.”
“Neither will I! This is inhumane and insane.”
Gopher Wood watches a part of the city crumble in the distance— golden eyes still filled with unfathomable calculations. The halovian is not one to beg, and Misha already expects that he has a series of backup plans in place.
“You’re being overly dramatic. Think of it as some people returning to where they rightfully belong. As for the others, they should be proud to serve as a cornerstone for such a beautiful city.”
I need to… I need to warn Gallagher— !
Having heard enough, Misha turns to leave. He knows that the head of the Oak Family will be unable to physically detain him for as long as he is accompanied by Clockie; it is the reason that he stayed behind to meet their father’s murderer. After all, not much can compare to the power that flows through the Watchmaker’s bloodline.
However, a lack of experience unfortunately causes the young boy to underestimate his opponent.
He ultimately freezes in place at the halovian’s next few words:
“Misha, you can run again. But in exchange, I will take your nephew… or niece, who is already growing within my son’s belly.”
The young boy turns in alarm— he is unaware that Gallagher has a mate. Gopher Wood’s confident gaze greets him as he does, and Misha is almost certain that the man is not bluffing.
“It will not be difficult, seeing as their dam is my son.”
Misha falters.
“You’re irredeemable.”
“Gallagher will have no say over this. He will be unable to stop me as well. But you agreeing to come with me right now, will spare the baby from unnecessary distress.” Gopher Wood puts on a kind expression, as if he thinks that this is a perfectly acceptable olive branch. “Think about it. Your time here is finite anyway. Why not use it to protect the remainder of your family and your dad’s legacy?”
All of the oxygen is instantaneously sucked out of Misha’s lungs. The man in front of him has truly lost it.
“I won’t be enough to stop the city’s decay! I’m merely a fragment of Mikhail Char Legwork’s powers while Penacony itself is his very own memetic entity . We were both never meant to last after his death.”
“You claim that you’ll leave the baby alone when I’m gone, but what if the city’s decay does not stop? Will you continue to kidnap humans to use as fuel or ultimately lay your dirty claws on my big brother and his family?”
A surge of emotions pours forth from within his chest as his very being momentarily overlaps with the remnants of Mikhail’s will.
Disappointment crosses his features. “When will it be enough, Ashoka? How much more must you hurt me until you are satisfied?”
“It is time to put the past to rest!”
There is only silence.
It is futile. Misha thinks, when all he receives in return for that passionate speech is a cold stare. Gopher Wood merely turns to Mikhail’s grave and ruminates.
“Ever since I first laid eyes on you in the middle of that torn battlefield… I’ve been yours. The fates are cruel, and have taken you from me. But I know that deep inside, a part of you still lives on within this glorious city.”
“And thus, for as long as I breathe, I will prevent Penacony’s collapse.”
“Even if I have to nourish the city with the entire cosmos outside of it, I will keep you by my side.”
Misha covers his mouth in horror. Like a promise to the Aeons above, Gopher Wood’s final words are spoken out loud with the taint of the Harmony and something else . The halovian raises his arms to the sky as he drowns in a fit of madness, and miraculously it begins to pour.
In Misha’s mind, he imagines this to be a physical manifestation of his dad’s sorrow and tears. Yet the monster that Gopher Wood has become simply treats each raindrop like a kiss from the Watchmaker instead. The cold rain pelts against them, but Ashoka smiles as he relishes in the ‘comfort’ that Mikhail showers him with.
When he finally turns his attention back to Misha, the spark of insanity he showed earlier is gone. All that is left is a cold, controlled look that burns with irrational determination.
“Misha Char Legwork. I will not ask again.”
“Choose. Yourself or the unborn child in Sunday’s womb.”
With the ultimatum now placed on the table, the halovian leaves without hearing his answer. He knows that it will be a favorable one.
And Misha is left alone by the Watchmaker’s grave; clearly horrified but unable to think of a way to stop him. For now, the only thing he can do is to buy Gallagher enough time to depose the monster that sits atop of Penacony.
Like sand in an hourglass, his lifespan is trickling away too.
“Dad…I… If what he says is true, then I have to keep them safe. I know you will disapprove but this is all I can do for our family with my remaining time.”
He grips the cold stone hard enough to feel its rough texture threatening to break skin. Below, the red carnations are now soaked through. Everything is drowned in the storm.
“Regardless of the reason you gave me life, I am yours and papa’s son. I have been and always will be.”
“When all this is over, I promise I will come home.”
Having said all that he needs to, the young boy gives the gravestone one final hug before he leaves in the direction of the Dewlight Pavilion.
Towering above him and unable to reply, Penacony’s tall buildings groan and creak in the rain. As the wind passes through the various structures, it whistles and bellows in a way that sounds like an anguished wail. In the middle of the city— situated there like its core— the Penacony Grand Theater’s circular face undoubtedly forms a large and irreparable crack.
On the anniversary of Mikhail Char Legwork’s death, the city’s heart breaks with no Watchmaker to mend it.
Notes:
I hope it's not too confusing. We've pressed 'accelerate' on the plot but everybody is an unreliable narrator. 😂 Gopher Wood's POV, especially, was really wild to write. There are bits in his narration that are steeped in the truth, while the rest of it is just him being super unstable.
Also I know not everybody is invested in the toxic old man yaoi but for those who are curious about how the halovian baby connects to Misha:
While it is not extremely obvious, Mikhail did fall pregnant with Gopher Wood's child when he was masquerading as Tiernan (and wanted to keep it), but he eventually miscarried because they were not mates. For reasons unknown, he decided to continue with the pregnancy by creating Misha using his power. Misha replaces the miscarried child. Finally, the cherry on top of this tragic cake is that Gopher Wood is unaware that they actually had a child together. When Misha was born, he immediately assumed that Mikhail's pregnancy was a lie from the very start, and saw it as Mikhail hating/mocking him.Regarding the complicated love-hate relationship between Gopher Wood/Mikhail/Tiernan... if there's enough interest, I don't mind writing a one-shot for it. Otherwise, we will only stick to things that are important for the plot of Defying Destiny.
I hope you all enjoyed this chapter 😊❤️
Edit: For those who are interested in occasional updates on fic progress and smaller threadfics, feel free to follow me on Twitter @CamelliaAO3. It was just created so do give it some time if posts don't appear immediately.
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