“It would be my greatest honor to share my homeworld with you,” Sunday had said. Only once. Only at that moment, and barely loud enough to hear. Yearning, wistful, and buried in the distant haze of dawn, his breath feathered sweet where the ghost of his quiet nothings were pressed to the curve of your jaw. His face remained downturned, wings shading the flush of his alabaster cheeks.

At your drowsy silence he pulled away, eyes flicking to yours in a self-contained, reserved panic laced with elegant acceptance. He made as to speak; he let out his words slowly within the next breath.

“I… understand. Your reservations are, of course, warranted. Please accept my apology.”

But he had felt your shoulders shake with mirth at his bashful awkwardness, had felt warm fingers laced through his, and the tenderness of it all made him spill countless thank yous into sleep-soaked air. He laughed too, then, just a little sheepish, lips finding your temple as easy as breathing.

“If you will allow me, my starlight, I will teach you everything to know about the Dreamscape.”

And he was determined to stay true to his oath. The next time the Express visited Penacony, Sunday was quick to reserve a room, going through the motions with a tired fondness that weighted his shoulders and tied knots around every breathy chuckle until he sounded just like the man that had been ready to sacrifice everything for the pursuit of paradise.

It was with an aphonic sadness in his eyes that he led you to the glowing half-shell situated amongst a staticky, projected tropical backdrop that looped again and again with the gentle twitter of paradise-birds he had never seen before. The act of shedding his coat and vest in the faux comfort of Penacony’s advertised home away from home felt like he was revealing too much of himself at once– his wings itched, right between golden piercings meant to remind him of his duty. He was once the master of dreams, yet the babble of running water crashed guileless doubt against his choked throat, his pounding heart.

“Do not be afraid,” Sunday murmured, shedding his gloves to catch your hand in his. How selfishly selfless he was, assuaging your worries instead of his own. His bare thumbs were soft when he smoothed your knuckles, pausing once, as if to collocate your fear of drowning with his fear of the past; he wanted to admire you in the glow of the Dreampool without regret. “I will learn with you every step of the way– what it means to truly be free.”

A step, then another. Seven more to the lip of the pool; he sank up to his heart when he knelt. Soothing, delicate lavender and fresh linen threaded through the air as he pulled you to his chest beneath the drapery of tropical television static and hotel piano, the Dreampool sloshing quietly. He was ariose, a hymn better savored than remade.

Sunday smiled, bittersweet. He felt more bird than angel, more human than bird as he placed a fleeting, chaste kiss to your dampened knuckles. Water soaked through the thinness of his shirt and yours, rivulets running down, diaphanously, over his delicate collarbones and slim frame. When he met your eyes–apprehensive, promising–he thought Penacony could be Elysium for the first time.

“Relax,” he said, shaky-sweet like a confession, never more than a declaration. “Let us embrace the sweet dream together.”