Work Text:
Once again, Sunday was kicked out of the party car. Like any day, he had decided to help Pom-Pom clean, still stubbornly believing he should work to earn his place here. He got caught by Welt Yang, was promptly scolded and sent to do something for himself for once. Something for himself... Sunday didn't really know what that entailed. Everyone was busy doing their own thing that day, working or having their own 'me time'. It was about time Sunday found something to do for himself, other than updating his diary of course.
He found himself sitting in his room, staring out the window, mulling over things his 'father' had said back then. Robin and Sunday were quickly assigned roles when they were first adopted. The creative star, and the heir to the Oak family. He was discouraged to pursue the arts despite his taste for them. He vividly remembers those nights when he would practice piano in front of Gopher Wood, and was told that 'if he wasn't going to play perfectly, maybe he shouldn't play at all'. Same thing with painting.
But he did have technical expertise. He knew how to read a partition, he knew how to conduct an orchestra, he had a keen understanding of anatomy and colors... but like his adoptive father had said, 'there was nothing there'. Nothing exceptional. Nothing personal. Just cold technique.
If he were to pick up the arts again, would it be a waste of time and energy like back then? Would the Astral Express members chastise him for his lack of personality? Maybe he shouldn't be thinking that way, after all, they weren't like that. He internally scolded himself for even thinking this of them for a second.
...He hesitated, staring at the door to his room. Asking for paint and a canvas... did the Astral Express even have that? It couldn't hurt to ask, but he found himself shy. Break it into small steps, break it into small steps. Thank Welt for this technique. Walk out the room. He gives himself these small instructions to follow, trying not to think of what comes next. He steps out into the hall. Go find Pom-Pom. He lets his feet guide him to the conductor. They were in the parlor car, as they often were. Ask for a canvas and paint. He hesitantly walked up to the small creature.
"Hello again..." He tried to straighten his posture, giving him the false confidence he needed.
The conductor stops sweeping to look the halovian in the eyes. "Ah! Welt gave me back the broom I lent you. I told you they wouldn't like you helping me."
Sunday hangs his head in shame. "I apologize for that."
"It's no problem. It's nice having the extra help, but you should do your own thing sometimes."
"That's what I was told." He internally tries to gather the courage to just ask for what he wants. "...About that subject... do you know if there are any blank canvases and paint somewhere in the Express?"
"I believe so! Were you looking to make some art yourself? Follow me." Pom-Pom waddles ahead, Sunday quickly following.
"I wouldn't call myself an artist in any way... but I thought it couldn't hurt to try my hand at it again."
"Don't be so humble, I know you found the piano in the Express. You're pretty good!"
"You... heard me? I apologize, I didn't mean to bother-"
"The room is soundproof. But there's a sort of radio system set up, so we can hear what goes on in the music room if we want to. Your playing really isn't a bother or anything."
"...It's just reading a partition..."
"Would you say the same thing about other piano players?"
"No?"
"Then don't say it about yourself, silly." Pom-Pom opens a door, revealing a room dedicated to art supplies in all forms. Paint, crayons, even rocks for sculpture. "Welcome to the art room! You can just take the material and paint in your room... but don't make a mess. It's easiest to paint here."
Sunday thanks the conductor before they take their leave. He enters the art room, wings fluttering in bashful excitement. So much material! Everything he could possibly need to make art is right here. Was he really worthy of all this...? No, no, he couldn't overthink this now, Pom-Pom led him here after all, he was given permission!
He sets up a canvas on the wooden easel. ...What now? He wanted to paint, but he didn't know what exactly. He stands in front of the blank surface for a bit, wondering what he should paint. ...Maybe... Maybe his sister? It had been a while since he saw her. But maybe as a 'thanks for everything', he could paint her as a gift. Out of anyone, she would never judge him for his lack of 'personality' in art... It's decided then. He'll paint Robin. For motivation, he puts on some classical music that he is so fond of on the rooms speakers.
He gathers his memories. Anatomical studies, color theory, these books he read on art as a teenager. He sets his phone up on the easel, next to the canvas, and opens it on a picture of Robin. He couldn't afford to paint a stranger who only vaguely resembled his sister. He starts with the sketch, with a graphite pencil. Defining muscle, facial features, the pose, the environment... time flies by. He had forgotten how much he enjoyed this. His art had no value to his eyes, but he still loved the process of making it. It all came back so naturally to him.
It's hard to keep track of time when the windows constantly show space. A sea of stars in an infinite abyss. Distracted by the music, he doesn't even hear March 7th calling him for dinner. Once. Twice. Thrice. Eventually, the bubbly girl gets a bit annoyed at being ignored and decides to go look for him in person instead of calling for him like a sibling screaming for the other from the first floor. She finally arrives in front of the art room, led by the soft music playing. She finds Sunday painting so peacefully, focused on getting everything right. She stands in silence for a bit, observing his gentle movements on the canvas. He has to eat, he can't skip a meal again, but she finds herself hesitating. Finally, she resolves herself, calling for him one more time.
"Sunday?"
He jumps out of his skin, muscles tensing, jerking his hand away from the canvas in a calculated move to not make an accidental stroke he'd regret. His eyes meet hers and relax, realising she's not a threat.
"Ah, Miss March. I apologize, I did not hear you coming."
"I see that. I've been screaming your name for a while now though... What are you painting?"
A twinge of panic rises in Sunday's chest. "You... can't tell...?" Was he really that bad? He wasn't going for anything abstract, it should be clear what he's painting!
"No, no, I can tell. I want to hear it from your mouth. Conversation, you know?" She snickers at him playfully, approaching to look at the work in progress better.
"Oh. Well, I got scolded by Mister Yang earlier today because I supposedly don't get enough 'me time'. So I figured picking up old hobbies might make up for it." He steps back, leaving space for the bubbly girl.
"So you're drawing Robin?"
"Mhm. She has a new album coming up, I thought it would be a nice 'congratulations' gift. Even if it's not perfect, she wouldn't mind..."
March 7th glances at the materials he used. A bunch of geometrical tools. "I don't know a lot about art, but it looks perfect to me so far. You used a ruler for the background, didn't you?"
"I did. Robin deserves the best after all, I can't send her something subpar..."
"You said yourself she wouldn't judge though."
"Just because her standards are lower when it comes to me doesn't mean I shouldn't do my best."
"Right... don't let it consume you. Anyway, talking about consuming, come eat!"
Sunday stores March 7th's warning somewhere at the back of his mind and follows her out of the art room, killing the lights behind him. He got used to eating with the crew now. The lively chatter, the good food... it was so easy to get used to being treated well, and it scared him. The silent, cold, oppressing dinners with Gopher Wood seemed so distant now. He's harshly reminded of why he's on his best behaviour. He doesn't want this warmth to go away.
"...day? Sunday? Woohoo?" He's snapped out of his thoughts by a hand waving in front of his eyes. He blinks to focus his eyes back in.
"Yes?"
"You seemed in your thoughts, you barely touched your plate." Stelle smiles at him teasingly.
Sunday glances down. The food is almost perfectly intact. He really had been more in his own head than he thought. But... old habits die hard. He had difficulty eating if he thought he didn't deserve it. And right now... he didn't finish his painting. But he can't afford to be difficult or worry the Astral Express. So he forces himself to eat, trying to keep his attention on the resuming conversation around him. He even gives interjections.
Soon enough, dinner is over, and it's time to sleep. Even as he carries himself to his room, he feels restless. His painting. It's sitting unfinished right now. He knows he should just sleep, he didn't have to finish his painting in one day, but he felt... antsy. He knew what to do on his painting next, he wasn't stuck or anything, so he felt like he should just go and do it now. He squirms in his bed for an hour, trying to get himself to sleep, but eventually gives in to his impulsive thoughts. A few brush strokes wouldn't hurt, right?
The halovian quietly tip toes to the art room, not wanting to wake anyone. This was a bad idea, wasn't it? He should be sleeping right now. No, no, he rationalises, he couldn't sleep and he's going to go paint a bit to lull himself to sleep. Not the other way around. It's not like he still had nightmares from Gopher Wood, right...? He wonders why he's lying to himself.
He finally reaches the art room, staying in the perfect silence so as to not arouse suspicion, and takes the brushes again. And he paints. One stroke after another, after another, after another, technical perfection which he knew everything about. Only hours later does he step back to take a look at the whole piece. It's... bland. Like everything he ever made. Cold, chirurgical, uncreative, empty. ...How could it be? He felt good during the whole painting process and now a sharp feeling of distress pierces him. Gopher Wood was right all along, wasn't he? There was no worth in the 'art' he tried to make. He's taken with the urge to destroy the painting. Destroy the canvas, pretend he never tried something so foolish.
'Errors are a natural stop towards success'. Welt Yang's words suddenly come up in his mind. Errors... yes. He just needed to fix it. Somehow. Someway. He'd find a way. This is a gift for his sister, she'd want him to be satisfied with himself, right?
Strokes, strokes, paint on paint, adding details, scraping some off... but it wasn't enough. He still found it dull. Lifeless. Flawed.
And unlike what he promised March, he becomes consumed, obsessively adding and removing details. Through his degrading mental state, the painting devolves from pure academism to full horror vacui, not a single spot left empty. The painting of Robin in a neutral area became a painting of Robin in what looked like an abyss of intricate details, nothing reality could provide. Finally... exhaustion has reason of him. He drops his paintbrush and palette to the floor, resisting the urge to crush them under his shoe, and leaves in a storm, repressing tears. Useless, stupid, why did he even think of trying something like this, Gopher Wood was right, he was no good at the arts, nothing of value, nothing, nothing.
He doesn't even acknowledge bumping into Welt Yang, too caught in his own head, beelining straight to his room, leaving the older man confused. Finally, he buries himself under the covers almost childishly, and falls asleep after a few minutes of mental berating.
It's the early morning. Welt was simply walking to Shush to get a coffee when he saw Sunday, looking frustrated and distressed, exhaustion marking his face, lightly bumping into him before running off again. How odd. Sunday had become a much calmer person as the months went by, letting control slip from his grasp for the first time in his life, so it was unusual to see him so... intense. After staying stunned for a few instants, he decides to follow the feathery man, to check on him. Sunday's door closes too quickly behind him, leaving Welt to ponder. Should he knock? Should he wait for Sunday to get out on his own terms to talk? Maybe that was the best decision. If Sunday had stayed awake all night like he suspects, he's probably just yearning for sleep now. What could have possibly tormented the young man so much? He decides to investigate further, walking to where Sunday came from. One door in the hallway had been left opened, which really wasn't like the gray haired man. He gently peeks his head in.
A painting was sitting on the easel in the middle of the room, right under the light. An uncleaned palette and brush layed on the floor, clearly having been tossed away in frustration. ...Welt is convinced that painting wasn't here merely two days before, when he visited the art room to gather art supplies for March. If his theory was correct... does that mean Sunday did all this in one day and one night? It couldn't be. The painting was so professionally done, filled with obsessive intricate details, all the while respecting every traditional rule of painting. Sunday's hands must be cramping now.
As beautiful as the painting is... Welt can't help but feel concerned. If Sunday really had painted all this so quickly, staying up all night to make it so intricate, doesn't that mean he's in trouble? Welt had become familiar with how the young man tends to spiral in his own thoughts sometimes. Besides, he knew nothing of horror vacui, but it certainly didn't look like what someone healthy would paint. He picks up the palette and paintbrush that had been thrown to the side like they were nothing. Usually so neat, Sunday had left them on the floor. He'd have to have a chat with Sunday. This isn't what he meant by having 'me time'. 'Me time' is supposed to be enjoyable, not a source of sleepless anguished nights. But he couldn't draw real conclusions until he actually got to talk with the painter. In the meantime, he cleans the art supplies that were used, as to not just let the paint dry in them. He didn't mind. Sunday wasn't a messy passenger at all usually, so leaving a few things behind him while he was clearly going through something was no bother. As he cleans, he keeps sneaking glances at the painting. It really is imposing. Robin, centered, from head to toe, surrounded by a busy street, as if she's going about her day. Her body is the only space allowed to breathe, clear skin contrasting with all the details around her. Like she herself is providing a light source. Welt doesn't know if that is intentional. But surely, the young singer would love this painting.
It takes five hours for Sunday to wake up again. Having calmed down, his mind reels as he remembers tossing his art supplies on the floor. He stands as quickly as he can, trying to will off the sudden light-headedness. He quickly steps in front of the mirror, trying to fix himself up a bit before rushing out the door. He bursts into the art room... only to find it completely clean, his painting sitting untouched on the easel. ...Ah. He was cleaned up after. Maybe Pom-Pom?
"Hello, Sunday."
He jumps out of his skin as the deep voice speaks behind him. Sunday's head snap around, eyes meeting Welt Yang's.
"Mister Yang...! My apologies, I hadn't heard you coming. Were you the one who cleaned up after me?"
"Yes." Welt wasn't done with his sentence, but Sunday let out an awkward breathy laugh, his mind twisting with guilt.
"I must really apologise... I don't know what came over me. I know you were the one to tell me to pick up hobbies again but I just don't think that's for me. The end result isn't satisfactory and I even trashed the art room in the process! I deeply apologise for all of this."
"Sunday- Stop. First of all, you didn't trash the art room. You left an unwashed palette and brush on the floor. The rest of your unwashed brushes were still in their cup on the side table. Now, while in normal circumstances I would scold you for not washing after yourself... Something is clearly going on with you. You didn't abandon your supplies because of laziness or entitlement, no. I want you to talk to me. What happened?"
Welt goes sit down on the couches, patting the spot next to him, expecting the feathered man to sit down. And Sunday does. He shakily approaches, almost nauseous with anxiety, sitting down at a small distance from the older man. The gentle tone the other had used reminded him of the eerily calm one Gopher Wood used when he messed up as a teenager, usually preceding cruel punishment. He shouldn't think like this, Welt was nothing like his adoptive father, but he can't help it. Though when he looks up at the brunette looking for anything in his face, he's met with an encouraging smile. So he starts talking.
"Gopher Wood never thought I was creative. Maybe he told me so just to make me focus on becoming the head of the Oak family, and for the sake of the rest of the plan which you, of course, already know about. I've always liked the arts, of course, I insisted on learning about painting, I insisted on learning to play the piano, conducting too. But it was never good enough for Mister Wood. And now... I have to admit that he was right all along. I might enjoy the process of art, but nothing truly exceptional comes out of me. Tonight I just... I wanted to make something that I liked. My standards seem impossibly high, because I kept making changes and adjustments but it still looked bland, lifeless. Uninteresting. 'Clinical', like he used to say. Eventually I just couldn't bear the disappointment anymore and I stormed off, dropping everything to the floor. I apologise for this once again."
Welt takes a second to think, analysing the young man. He looks so dejected, head turned to avoid even a glance at his artwork.
"I'm an artist too, you know. I don't really have much time to indulge in my craft anymore though. From artist to artist, let me give you a piece of wisdom. Painting especially, is a reflection of the artist. No two styles of painting are going to look the same if they come from your heart. And you... your style is greatly influenced by the academical training you put yourself through. The result is truly remarkable. You strive for perfection in every line, and that isn't necessarily a flaw, it gives your painting a certain look in the end. But you shouldn't berate yourself for it. You don't have to be 'creative' in the same way as others. You said yourself you liked your own art process, you don't have to change a thing just to assimilate with the modern way."
"...You don't think it has no artistic value?"
"I think it has plenty of artistic value. You don't have to paint in a fully abstract 'free-flowing' way for it to have artistic value. Not all art pieces have to be 'breaking codes' or revolutionary. I think Gopher Wood was terribly harsh on you because like you implied, he wanted you to just drop it and focus on the Order. He behaved like those sleezy art critics who only value overly pretentious concept paintings... because he wanted you to give up."
Sunday's shoulders relax completely, which was a rare sight, but getting more and more common these days. He didn't even question the older man's honesty, he wouldn't be one to lie to make him feel better. The silence that ensues is a comfortable one, full of understanding. After some time, a small smile grows on Sunday's face as he looks at his own painting.
"...This doesn't look like my usual style. The background isn't breathing at all."
"I meant to ask you about it, was it intentional to make Robin herself look like a light source?"
"No, no... I assume it must simply be a side effect of me constantly trying to fill the blanks as much as I could until I was satisfied. The end result does make her shine, doesn't it?"
"Why didn't you try to 'fill the blanks' on her?"
"I'm not sure. Maybe because I succeeded in making her look like herself and that was enough."
"Well I'm sure she'll love it. It was for her, wasn't it?"
Sunday nods. Maybe Robin would be a bit concerned about the overall appearance of the painting, but she would enjoy its aesthetic appeal. He'd have to assure her he feels better now. He really does feel better now, thank Welt Yang once again. He analyses his own painting. Robin walking in the middle of an overly detailed street, making her clear skin shine through. She'll like it. He's sure now.
Sunday smiles at the brunette.
"Thank you."
The older man smiles back, squeezing his shoulder carefully. "Its normal, Sunday. You're a member of the Astral Express now, and we support each other through everything. Right?"
"I understand." His wings flutter happily.