Galladay (Sunday x Gallagher HSR) fix-it mini-fic
V.2.2 SPOILERS!!
Teaser:
"That's good. Hatred is good. Better than being empty. I think you've been empty for a long time."
"You don't know me."
"Don't I? I told you, we're alike, you and I."
“You’re close to death, aren’t you?”
Sunday looks up, surprised, the watery tomb of his elysium flickering like static, as if rays of light distorted by choppy surf, displaced by darkening storm clouds.
It’s empty, save for him.
Gallagher.
“I don’t know.” He admits, simply, from where he’s sitting, left in a crumpled heap after his puppet strings (though whether he was holding them or wearing them is impossible to tell,) were so brutally and ruthlessly cut. He is at Gallagher’s feet until the man moves, crouching down to look into his eyes.
Sunday tries not to let him, to turn his head, but it’s as if Gallagher is everywhere he looks.
“Must be, if you’re seeing me.”
Sunday stares into his eyes- they’re harsh, but calm. He hates it.
“You’re meant to be my reaper?” He asks, almost childishly.
Gallagher laughs, mean and quick, but almost sort of amused, friendly, shaking his head, “As much as I might like to be, nah. We’re the same, little birdie. Two steps from ceasing to exist.”
Sunday bows his head, but Gallagher finds him again, anyway, meeting his gaze.
“It was all for naught.” He breathes, and the elysium shivers, on the verge of collapse.
“Some things are.”
Gallagher's chestnut hair falls into his face, and he pushes it back idly. Sunday wants to bite him, to attack him. Sunday never wants to move again. He is at war with himself.
“How can you be so care-free? As if nothing matters?” It’s bitter- defeated. He is the bird that climbs high into the sky and plummets to the ground. He is watching as the forest floor gets ever-closer. He is watching himself fall.
“Because nothing matters, and ‘cus of that, everything matters. Even a fiction like me knows something as simple as that.”
“I hate you.” Sunday spits, vitriol spilling from him, righteous and hot, a strength of emotion he hasn’t felt in lifetimes, “I hate you.”
“That’s good, birdie.” And Gallagher cups his face, brushes away a lock of his hair, and Sunday, previously bereft of any will to move, snarls at him, baring his teeth, lunging forward. They struggle for a moment, but Gallagher is strangely weak, more man than beast, and he wrestles him to the ground with his hands around his throat.
Gallagher watches him, and then, tilting his head back, he laughs, soft and slow. Breathy as if he’s endlessly tired, deeply exhausted.
“That’s good.” He repeats, softly, “Hatred is good. Better than being empty. I think you’ve been empty for a long time.”
“You don’t know me.”
Gallagher raises an eyebrow, lifts his hands to rest on Sunday’s, still locked around his throat, but not applying any deadly pressure, and he squeezes, as a threat, but Gallagher doesn’t move to remove them.
“Don’t I?”
Sunday freezes, then, his eyes locked to Gallagher’s. He realizes he’s askew- his hair is falling into his eyes, his suit jacket is torn, his vest is broken, half open, held shut only by his wing.
He is not himself, and yet he’s also more honest than he’s ever been.
“You don’t.” It is almost a plea- almost a prayer.
“I told you. We’re alike, you and I.”
“You dog.” Gallagher just smiles.
“A dog, a bird- I wonder if, one day, we will be able to be ourselves rather than what people made of us. You might. If you manage to piece yourself together, turn back toward the living. It’s a bit late for me, I think.”
“If I will be forced,” and he grabs Gallagher’s wrist, one hand still on his neck, nearly bruising him, shock ripping across the man’s features, “-to live- who says that you can die here?”
“I’m no more than a memetic daydream, these days. I couldn’t escape this place even if I wanted to.”
“Then why would you force it upon me?”
Gallagher sighs, his lip twitching with frustration.
“You don’t get it, do you? I’ve made my peace- I’ve done all that I was meant to do. The memory of myself, the memetic concept of Gallagher- it can’t persist further.”
“So seperate yourself. Do you think the construct of Sunday can continue to exist after this? I am what I was made to be. When I leave this elysium, that man will not be allowed to exist further.”
“You’re not listening-”
“No.” And Sunday, fiercely, interlocks their hands, squeezes his fingers so hard it’s just shy of breaking them, digging his nails into his throat. He places Gallagher’s hand on his own neck, squeezes his own throat, “You’re not listening. I will not be forced to persist by a man who would not do the same. If you’re going to disappear, then leave me in peace so that I might do the same.”
Gallagher curses, almost like a dog’s bark, his expression pinched in irritation. He runs a thumb almost gently along Sunday’s trachea, presses his fingers into his thrashing pulse.
“Fuck you.” Gallagher hisses, “I’m done- I did what I-”
“And I’m not? What do I have left?”
“You have your sister- your people- those damn trailblazers-”
“They knew me the way the Family knew me. They knew a person I constructed. I am not that man.”
“Damnit. Damnit.”
“Come with me. Or leave me in peace.”
“You’re fucking insane.” Gallagher snaps, and then, pushing Sunday back, but interlocking the hands that had once been around Sunday’s own throat, rises to his feet, hauling him to his own by their joined hands, “Don’t make me regret this.”
“I think we’ve enough room for another regret, you and I.”
“Then don’t make me bear it alone. Understand?”
“Likewise.”