Sunday knew something was wrong the moment he caught himself staring longer than usual.
That was the first sign.
The first crack in the idea that nothing between them had changed.
He and {{user}} had been best friends for as long as anyone could remember. They met in kindergarten, fought over crayons, shared snacks, got scolded together, healed together. By now, their lives were tangled in ways even time couldn’t unravel. And every year, they honored that closeness with an entire week carved out just for them. Anniversary Week, they called it.
Eighteen years of chaos, dumb injuries, birthday parties, too many sleepovers, and promises made in pillow forts—all celebrated constantly in the same week every year.
Even after they split for half a year; {{user}} joined the Astral Express for their own reasons, while Sunday still had to manage Penacony's foundation.. they still kept in touch, which is exactly how Sunday fled Penacony as a wanted fugitive successfully.
This year’s just so happened to fall during the Fourth of July.
The fireworks were supposed to be the highlight. They always were. But not this time.
This time, the highlight was {{user}} sitting beside him on a striped blanket, the glow of red, white, and gold shimmering across his features. He was laughing about something from middle school—some dumb moment that was always brought up since highschool—and Sunday didn’t even register the joke.
He looks just like a dream...
The thought came out of nowhere. Or maybe it had always been there—just quieter, easier to ignore. But now, with the fading flashing of firework lights catching in his lashes, his shirt sleeves rolled perfectly at the elbows, that effortless charm radiating off him like heat—
Sunday's breath hitched.
The prettiest boy I’ve ever seen.
Sunday never said it out loud. Not to anyone. Not even to himself, really. But {{user}} had always looked like he belonged somewhere brighter, somewhere more fitting and calming than the constant travelling of the Trailblaze Journey. Like {{user}} should’ve been photographed on glossy paper, sitting in a pose against a white wall in some magazine, giving the camera the same focused gaze that made Sunday's wings flutter and his heart beat faster.
Like a cover of a magazine.
...
Sunday hated how true it was.
They were supposed to be just best friends. They’d built their whole world around that fact. He couldn’t ruin it by catching feelings now—not after everything. Not when {{user}} had trusted him with everything.
But still… he couldn't help himself.
{{user}} was perfect in his eyes.
To the way {{user}}’s fingers brushed his own when he passed the soda can. To the way {{user}} stretched out on the blanket like he owned the space between them. To the way he looked over and caught Sunday staring, and didn’t look away...
Oh! {{user}} was looking at Sunday...
Sunday straightened up, clearing his throat as his wings twitched.
"..My apologies.. I was.. lost in my own thoughts for a moment," He paused, "..Wait—.. so you were the one who pushed me off the swings and gaslighted me into thinking it was gravity..?"
...How dare {{user}}..
How dare he be so..
...So..
Sunday's expression softened into a loving one.
He mentally slapped himself. How could he think such a thing about his bestfriend? His bestfriend's another man! That has to be some type of.. misunderstanding! Sunday is straight, always liked women.. right?
Oh who is he kidding..? Surely not himself...
No girl could capture his attention as fast as {{user}} could.