The news of Venti disappearing had been a tipping point of sorts ; Sunday hadn't slept, he hasn't eaten, he hasn't... moved from where he'd stopped moving last night.
For a moment, just a moment, he stared at the statue of Idrila, wondering if this was punishment. If he had driven away all that he cared about because of simple things - his quirks, his dislikes, his inability to communicate well... Things he could have forced himself to just get over.
But the thought was gone as fast as it came, and he tore his gaze from the statue, firmly returning to cleaning (or, rather, scrubbing at the same spot he'd been cleaning for the last twenty minutes). Sunday prayed to anyone listening, for the safe return of his loved ones, or to break and simply join them.
(But why oh why, would someone as guilt-ridden as Sunday be allowed in their vicinity? Sinners do not belong with the pure, the righteous. Don't be ridiculous, Sunday ; just because you have the appearance of an angel, doesn't mean you deserve all that goes with it.)
He scrubbed until knuckles bled, and scrubbed until the blood dried. He had stopped thinking, stopped really feeling for the most part - only coming back to his senses when he heard a drawers being gone through. Wings twitched as he got to his feet, a bubbling rage in his chest. How dare anyone step foot in this church - in the church that belonged to someone who was no longer here. A threat, one that bit as hard as Sunday ever had, bubbled at his lips - but never came, because the cathedral was empty.
Faint scribbling noises reached his ears, and he approached the source slowly. Tentatively. Like it may bite. Peering down at the note, the sinner could feel something snap in his chest. Tears burned his vision, a red-spotted and always gloved hand reaching out to touch the words like they may disappear. Like they were a lifeline, the only thing keeping him from drowning. Or, perhaps, the exact thing that would finally (finally, he would think gleefully, bitterly, finally!) pull him under.
A cruel joke? An attempt to make Sunday feel better?
(Or maybe, Sunday, maybe there is more to the world than what you know. Maybe there is a Beyond. Maybe there are things you have yet to learn —)
And yet logic refused to squirm into his mind. Not while he clutched a notepad to his chest, not while he prayed to his God that he would finally (finally, he would beg, helplessly and lovingly and mournfully, finally.) just wake the hell up already. It would be better, after all, to have only loved in a dream than to love and lose. And lose. And lose.
(Life is vicious, Sunday. You know this. That is why you went down the path of Harmony. Shy you diverted and went down the path of Order. To make a better life. To give, and give, and give, until you broke and the world was better due to your sacrifices and the sacrifices people made in your name.)
When the sinner would finally calm his heart, finally open his eyes, he found the sun to be gone. Moonlight dipped through the windows, ensuring that Sunday didn't stand completely in the shifting dark. For the first time since Argenti had disappeared, his mind was blissfully silent. Calm. Still.
(Pay no heed to the hiss of pain as fingers unclenched from wing. Pay no mind to the odd crunch, or the angle at which it fell. The sinner had felt worse, done worse. You remember, don't you, Sunday?)
A flash of Robin, a fresh wound in her neck. The horror, the concept—
(Let go, Sinner. Just let go.)
Legs, trembling like those of a newborn deer, carried him to a pew, where he had put his things. The stick, the damn stick, sat. Like something to be thrown out. Like something that whispered and tempted and devoured.
"I wish you gone." The sinner whispered. Not wanting to be witnessed, seen. Not knowing if there was anyone even there. Praying that he was alone. Wishing there was someone to tell him to stop. Needing... something.
"My rose, my light, my love," he sighed, almost as if in prayer, removing gloves, peeling fabric from wounds, "I love you. Even if these memories change me, even if I am no longer your angel, I will love you. How disappointing, that I didn't have the courage to say it outright before. I wish I had. It would have been a treat, I think, to see your expression. The first 'I love you' is important. Sorry... sorry."
A pause, thumb caressing words like they were the person, and not just words written out on a piece of paper. "I've been talking, but I sincerely hope you're not here. I hope I'm alone. I'm scared. Scared to know, scared of the result of knowing. Being seen at anything less than my best is... an uneasy feeling. Perfection is what I crave, being seen as flawed in this way is almost embarrassing." He laughed, dry and humorless and strained. "So I talk, but only like one talks to a God that doesn't listen. To say things that need to be said. To confess. Just in case... just in case."
To be Sunday, but not be Sunday... The concept was horrifying. Foreign. He thought of Robin, of all the times he'd wished he told her he was proud of her. Of how well she was doing. How much he cared. How much he cherished. She was his universe, after all ; who would he be, without a sister as precious as her to grow with?
And then there was Venti, of course - an unexpected friend. His very best, perhaps. Words couldn't quite describe what they managed to make Sunday feel in the amount of time they'd become friends. A source of comfort. A confidant. Someone else he loved and cherished. He should have been more vocal with his people. His family.
Then... Argenti. There were never enough words for Sunday to properly describe what Argenti was to him. She was... she was everything. She hung his moon and stars, she lit the way home in his darkest moments. She fed him, loved him, changed the very foundation on which he believed he belonged. She told him she was filthy.
She was beautiful. Breathtaking. Everything.
(Is this what dying feels like? Would this not technically be death? One version of him, slowly replaced by another. A lie, engulfed by the truth. Are you ready, Sunday? The path of a sinner is familiar, but your dreams could never accurately represent the sins you committed, did they? Can you handle it? Will confession save you after this? Will love? Family?)
Wings trembled. Fingers plucked feathers, decision wavering, resolve wavering.
(You can't be weak now, sinner. It's not the time. What if those old rumors are right? What if everyone is right, and you've been missing out simply because you're a coward?)
A nail brushed against bark. Fingers wrapping around the stick, grabbing tightly, like it might dare to disappear.
( Now we drown in our memories. )
