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Time had a weight to it on the Astral Express. Not necessarily the passing of hours or the ticking of clocks, but the way moments stretched and settled in the corners of cabins and corridors, lingering like dust in sunlight. Boothill thought of it as the kind of quiet that didn’t demand anything of you, and yet it observed everything.
And in that quiet, Sunday existed like a living echo.
Ever since he’d boarded the train, the former head of the Oak Family had carried himself as though the world were a cathedral and he both sinner and penitent. Boothill had watched him walk the narrow aisles with wings folded too tight, a soft tension in his shoulders, eyes glinting with the memory of things nobody should be able to forget. In his eyes, Sunday moved through the train like a half-forgotten hymn. His hands lingered near the railings, brushing lightly against the cold metal as if testing for solidity, and sometimes they trembled ever so slightly, betraying the careful control he tried to maintain. Boothill had learned to watch for it—the slight flinch when someone brushed too close, the tight press of Sunday’s lips when a word caught him off guard, the faint shiver along the spine of those pale, delicate wings. In some moments, he could seem impossibly still and statuesque, like a relic suspended in the train’s motion. In others, the way he bent to observe a loose thread, a misplaced book, or a stray sunbeam revealed a fragility that Boothill had long since learned to respect.
Boothill, for his part, wasn’t supposed to linger. The trails between stars were his usual life: planets, lawless sectors, and the occasional distant scream that needed answering. But this train—this damned floating mess of metal and steam—had anchored him for reasons unbeknownst even to himself. Someone had to watch the engines, to check the maps, to keep the small, spinning world of the Astral Express from unraveling between stops. He told himself that was why he stayed. And yet he always found his boots heavier on the floors, his gaze unconsciously following the thin line of Sunday’s shadow, tracing it without admitting why.
He could have kept moving, like always. He should have. But instead, he walked the Express with careful slowness, a hand occasionally brushing a rail, his ears catching the faintest creak of a cabin door, the rustle of pages, the soft intake of breath when Sunday thought nobody was listening. Boothill told himself it was vigilance. That it was habit. But deep down, he knew the truth: there was no habit here, only a quiet orbit, and he had chosen it willingly.
He hardly remembered how it had begun—dating Sunday, that is. Not in the sense of a single decisive moment, but in the accumulation of small, absurdly intimate gestures that had somehow added up into a constellation neither of them had properly announced.
It had started, Boothill thought, with a misstep: Sunday fumbling a book while reaching for a high shelf in the parlor car (the Halovian had long since grown used to his lover’s relentless teasing regarding his height). The book had slipped, and Boothill, standing behind him out of sheer habit, had caught it mid-fall. Sunday’s eyes had widened, pale wings fluttering in a reflexive shiver, and for a heartbeat the train itself might as well have halted. Boothill had made some lame, muttered comment about “being more careful with relics and hymns,” and Sunday had tilted his head in that way that suggested faint interest in the cowboy—so quietly that Boothill hadn’t even realized it at the time. He only knew that, afterward, he found himself lingering in the same car more often, standing a few feet away, arms crossed loosely, pretending he was reading logs or inspecting the railings, while secretly timing the subtle shifts in Sunday’s posture.
After that, the world contracted. Small touches became excuses, glances became confessions. Boothill’s hands would find Sunday’s in the quietest of moments, cradling them as if they were fragile relics, and Sunday had allowed it, sometimes stiff and startled, sometimes leaning just enough into the pressure to make Boothill’s chest tighten. First kisses had been tentative, awkward, beautiful in the way that only first love—or whatever this was—could be.
And now, looking down at Sunday, sprawled beneath him on the narrow bed of the sleeping car, the realization struck like a slow-burning comet: Sunday, for all his carefulness and old habits, trusted him. Even now, poised and waiting beneath Boothill, he let himself be seen fully, let Boothill feel the vulnerability that came with bare wings, bare skin, bare insistence of need.
Boothill’s hands rested lightly on Sunday’s sides, tracing the line of his ribs as if mapping constellations he’d memorized long ago. He could feel the rhythm of Sunday’s breathing beneath him, shallow and uneven at first, settling gradually as Boothill remained still, patient—and the world beyond the train ceased to exist here.
“Darn, darlin’...you feel like a whole darn hymn book under my hands,” the ranger murmured, voice low and gravelly. “I reckon I could memorize ya forever and still find somethin’ new. Feels like you’re made o’ glass an’ fire at the same time...Ha, you’re a mighty fine sight, you know that?”
Sunday let out a soft, drawn-out noise, a mixture of contentment and anticipation, and the way his chest rose beneath Boothill’s hand made him grin wider.
“You don’t have to say much, baby,” Boothill murmured, brushing another kiss along the ridge of a wing. “Just let me take care of you, alright? You’ve been real good tonight.”
Of course, Boothill had never been built for the kind of sex most people imagined. As a cyborg, there was a permanence to what he lacked, a fact he had long ago stopped pretending about even in his own mind. He, by design, had nothing to offer that way—no anatomy to match the usual expectations of intimacy—but that had never mattered. Not to him, and certainly not to Sunday. Boothill’s touch was more than enough. It could bring Sunday to the edge, could make him shiver, sigh, arch, and melt without a single thing needing to be “complete” in anyone else’s eyes. The delicate span of wings beneath his palms, the subtle quivers of his ribs, the faint shivers that ran along his spine—all of it was territory Boothill had mapped out and learned to navigate with precision.
The Halovian had responded to it all with an enthusiastic eagerness, the way one responds to sunlight or to wind—soft, instinctive, and unhesitating.
Sunday had learned, too. Learned the curve of Boothill’s hands, learned to allow himself to be consumed by it, by the slow build and release of sensation Boothill could orchestrate, by the pleasure that existed entirely in the dance of their bodies and the devotion in his cowboy’s hands. Boothill had always said, in his low, husky drawl, that there were a million ways to make someone feel like they were the center of the universe, to prove that they were adored. And Sunday had learned to take it all in, to let the praise wash over him, to let the sensations roll through him like waves, to feel utterly seen and utterly wanted.
Boothill let his fingers drift higher along Sunday’s shoulders, tracing the soft lines where pale wings curved against his back. He lowered his mouth slowly, pressing gentle, feather-light kisses along the top of the wing closest to him. “Mmm...you alright there, sugar?” He murmured, voice low, rough at the edges but soft in its intent.
A quiet hum slipped from the Halovian, wings fluttering in response. “I...I’m fine,” he said, small, firm, almost breathless. Boothill nodded, his free hand drifting lower at the confirmation of pleasure, tracing along Sunday’s body with the same slow, deliberate attention he gave to every other curve and plane. Fingers hovered and brushed, teasing lightly over his cock, eliciting soft, uneven breaths and tiny shivers that traveled along Sunday’s wings and down his spine.
Sunday let out a quiet sound, half gasp, half sigh, arching subtly into the touch. “Mmm…”
The sound was ephemeral and eternal all at once, fragile and perfect, and Boothill could only follow the contours of his beloved with his hands, mapping every shiver, every breath, every flicker of wings as if tracing sacred text.
“Aeons, you’re somethin’ else,” Boothill murmured, voice low and rough, but soft in its care. His hand moved with a gentle persistence, just enough to make Sunday writhe slightly, letting the cowboy map out the reactions, memorizing every tremble, every pause, every shiver. “Always so...forking...responsive...”
A small, almost imperceptible moan slipped past Sunday’s lips, wings fluttering faintly as he pressed into the warmth of Boothill’s body. “You...like that?” he asked quietly, voice firm but breathless.
“Like it?” Boothill’s chuckle was warm, low, teasing. “Hell, sugar...I love it. Every little quiver you make. You’re perfect like this—lettin’ me touch you, make you feel good.”
Sunday shivered beneath him, soft and tremulous, but there was a quiet majesty in the way he existed in that space—the slow tilt of his head, the delicate tension of his spine. Every whimper felt like a whispered hymn, every breath a psalm of beauty and fragility. Boothill had seen Aeons in archives, in the ancient texts and the murals aboard the Astral Express, but none had ever struck him with such immediacy, such intimate grace, as Sunday in this suspended, private orbit. He was like an Aeon made flesh, a being carved from the quiet light between the stars. Boothill’s rough hands were foreign instruments against such divinity, yet they moved with care, tracing paths over skin and feathers that could almost have been carved in reverence.
Another soft sound, half sigh, half laugh, escaped Sunday. “I truly don’t know what I did to deserve...someone like you,” he murmured, delicate and firm, wings trembling faintly as if the words themselves were a small confession.
Boothill’s chest tightened. The warmth in his hands and lips faltered just enough to shift, a shadow crossing his expression. “Sugar...” he said softly, voice low, careful but carrying a hardness Sunday could feel even without seeing.
The quiet stretched between them, the train’s motion like a lullaby in the background, and Boothill’s mind drifted into reflection. Of course, Sunday had shared pieces of himself with his beloved—small, careful pieces at first, then larger, rawer fragments as trust had grown. Boothill had listened, always steady, and what he had learned about Sunday’s past had hollowed him out more than once.
He remembered the trembling fear in Sunday’s eyes the first time he spoke of that bitch, Gopher Wood. The meticulous cruelty masked behind a loving smile, the long shadows of control and shame that had left Sunday flinching at the faintest touch. It had been horrifying—truly, utterly horrifying—to hear the details, to see the lingering tension in Sunday’s wings, the subtle pressing of lips against himself when words cut too close.
Boothill had felt a fury simmering that he could not name aloud, that had to be tempered into calm hands and steady reassurances. He had had to sit Sunday down, carefully, and explain the truth in terms that would not frighten him further: that none of it had been normal, that none of it had been acceptable, that no one should have been made to endure that. And he had been patient, steady, because Sunday needed someone to anchor him through that revelation. Someone to tell him it was not his fault.
He had watched Sunday’s eyes go wide, pale wings trembling as the weight of that knowledge settled in, and he had felt a fierce, protective rage that had nothing to do with the train, or the stars, or any law of the galaxy: it was raw, personal, a certainty that he would never allow anyone to treat Sunday that way again. Boothill had made it his personal mission to rewrite those past horrors.
And so now, hearing Sunday whisper that he didn’t know what he had done to deserve Boothill, the cowboy felt that familiar, sour twist of frustration again. Not at Sunday, but at the world—and at the man who had tried to warp him.
He pressed a soft, lingering kiss along the edge of a wing, letting his warm breath brush against his feathers. Sunday exhaled softly, a tiny sound of relief and awe escaping him, oblivious to Boothill’s troubled look.
The cowboy’s hand drifted back down, fingers brushing against the sensitive place between Sunday’s legs. He didn’t rush; there was no hurry here. Each movement was slow, patient, a natural extension of the quiet orbit they inhabited together. “You’re damn well worthy of this...of me, of everything I can give you.”
Sunday let out a soft moan, wings fluttering lightly, the tiniest arch of his hips betraying the pleasure of the touch. “B-Boothill...” His voice broke softly, hips tilting into Boothill’s touch.
“Yeah, sugar?” Boothill murmured, leaning closer, lips brushing along the pale curve of Sunday’s neck. “You hear me, don’t you? Every little bit of you deserves this. Deserves me. Deserves every darn praise I got in my mouth for ya.” The ranger wrapped his hand more firmly around his lover’s cock, stroking him and eliciting more whimpering from the Halovian. “By Lan’s Glory, you take it so well...I could do this forever.” His hand moved faster, matching the tremor of Sunday’s body, coaxing and teasing in tandem with whispered praise.
Sunday shivered harder, wings fluttering faintly against Boothill’s chest, lips parting, quiet whimpers spilling into the dim light. “Boothill, I—”
“You don’t have to say nothin’,” Boothill murmured, voice low, steady. “Just let it happen, angel...take it all. You deserve every bit.” His hand moved in faster strokes now, following the natural rhythm of Sunday’s body, matching every tremble, every subtle arch.
Sunday’s breath caught in small gasps, tiny sounds slipping from his lips, the wings shivering and quivering as pleasure peaked. He pressed a little closer, silent words replaced by his body’s language, and Boothill’s steady hand followed, guiding, teasing, coaxing every shiver to its natural end. He let out a soft, broken sound, half gasp, half sigh, his body arching toward Boothill’s touch. His wings fluttered faintly, trembling as the warmth built inside him, a rising tide he could no longer hold back.
And then it came—the wave that lifted Sunday completely, subtle and exquisite, as if the train itself had stilled to cradle him. A rush of warmth, a quiver that traveled from wings to toes, a tremor of pure release that left him breathless and soft, pressing instinctively closer to Boothill’s chest. Tiny, joyful noises slipped from his lips at the release as Boothill’s hands stilled.
Boothill pressed gentle kisses along the top of his wings, murmuring praise, letting him settle slowly, fully, into the quiet orbit of their shared space. Sunday’s wings fluttered lightly against Boothill, quivering softly, and his breathing began to even out.
“I do so detest,” he let out a soft, drawn-out whine, almost a sigh that trembled along his wings, “that I am incapable of bringing you the same satisfaction.” His wings shivered faintly as he pressed closer, nudging against Boothill in gentle frustration.
Boothill froze for just a heartbeat, letting the words settle, his hand stilling over Sunday’s body. The roughness in his voice softened to something almost tender, almost protective. “Angel,” he murmured, low and careful, brushing a thumb along the sensitive curve of Sunday’s shoulder. “That ain’t somethin’ you gotta worry about. You don’t need to do that, I’m fine just like this. Bein’ here with you.”
Sunday’s soft whine turned into a shaky sigh, wings fluttering faintly, brushing lightly against Boothill’s chest. “But...I just...” His voice broke off into a small, breathless whimper, the frustration in him mingling with lingering pleasure.
Boothill pressed a gentle kiss to the top of one wing, humming softly, letting his lips trace the pale feathers in slow, deliberate patterns. “I know, angel, I know you want to. But don’t let it eat at you. You do enough just lettin’ me touch you...lettin’ me be here, lettin’ me feel this...That’s more than enough. You make me feel perfect just by bein’ you.”
Sunday shivered against him, letting out another quiet sound, small and helpless, but leaning closer into the surprisingly warm metal. Watching him rest now, shivering faintly and trembling softly beneath his hands, Boothill saw a living cathedral: fragile, sacred, light refracted through the pale architecture of wings.
He leaned forward slowly, pressing a feather-light kiss to the crown of Sunday’s head, lips brushing against the pale feathers of his wings. The touch was gentle, almost reverent, a benediction whispered in a quiet language of warmth and care. Boothill let his fingers drift lazily along Sunday’s shoulders, tracing invisible circles, as if blessing him in the simplest, most human way he knew.
“You rest, sugar,” he murmured, voice low, husky but soft. Sunday’s wings quivered faintly, and a soft, breathy sound escaped him—a response neither prayer nor sigh, but something like absolution. Boothill’s lips lingered against the top of his wings, pressing another slow kiss, and he felt the quiet intimacy fold around them like incense.
Sunday lifted his head slowly, faint tremors running through his wings as he searched Boothill’s gaze. His lips met Boothill’s in a soft, hesitant kiss, feather-light at first, then a little firmer as if he had been holding the words inside too long.
“I...I love you,” he murmured against Boothill’s mouth, voice trembling just enough to be endearing, full of quiet certainty.
Boothill’s lips curved into a small, rough smile, and he returned the kiss, letting it linger, brushing his cheek against Sunday’s as he murmured back, low and husky, “I love you too, angel.”
Soft little breaths and whispers threaded between them, kisses and murmurs overlapping. Sunday pressed closer, letting himself feel the warmth, the steady presence, the quiet orbit they had built together.
Sunday had always been incredibly expressive in ways Boothill never would have predicted. The words came freely from him, whispered and soft, steady and intimate—he said “I love you” more often than Boothill ever did, each repetition a little confession, a little pulse of devotion that Boothill could feel in every flutter of wings. He hadn’t expected it. Not from someone who had carried so much weight for so long, someone who had spent years tucking himself into careful control. He had assumed those words would come sparingly, with hesitation, whispered in rare, fragile moments. And yet Sunday said them with quiet confidence, with little bursts of earnestness, sometimes murmured as easily as breathing, sometimes pressed into the curve of Boothill’s chest like a benediction.
Boothill pressed a final, feather-light kiss to the crown of Sunday’s wings, murmuring under his breath, “You’re perfect, sugar...every bit of you.”
Sunday nestled fully against him, forehead pressed to Boothill’s metallic chest, letting out a small, exhausted laugh. “You know...we’ll have to clean up the mess eventually,” he murmured, voice soft and faintly teasing.
Boothill chuckled, low and rumbling, the kind of laugh that vibrated through his chest and into Sunday’s wings, making them twitch. “Don’t worry ‘bout a thing, angel,” he murmured, voice rough but amused.
“I’ll take care of it.”