Fabolous - Tumblr Posts
✩ CHAPTER SUMMARY : When Sunday wakes up, the last thing he expects is to be in the middle of the Stellaron Hunters' infirmary.
✩ SERIES SYNOPSIS : Following the catastrophe of the Charmony Festival, rather than in one of Penacony's hospitals or prisons, Sunday awakens right in the base of one of the most notorious criminals in the galaxies. With nowhere else to go, he's left to follow you, the Stellaron Hunters' medic, in his attempts to become accustomed to his new life.
✩ WORD COUNT : 2.3k
✩ TAGLIST : @dr-felitas, @vxnuslogy, @https-mika
✩ ADDITIONAL NOTES : guys idk what im doing imma be so fr. BUT HEY !! we are here <33 also sunday has ocd and religious trauma so uh. be on the lookout for that lol. not beta read we die like sunday's mom
series masterlist || next chapter >>
Beep. Beep. Beep.
Incessantly, it drones on, matching the repetitive beat of his heart. With his eyelids too heavy to lift, it’s all he can listen to - the whirring of a fan, the lub-dub in his chest, and, of course, the high-pitched beeping of the machine next to him. It’s maddening.
A pained grunt leaves him as he tries to move. His abdomen screams in anguish, the flesh feeling as though it’s about to be ripped apart by the seams. His lower wings are no better - cramped and crushed, they crumple against his body, cracks and pops sounding as he shifts.
It takes almost all his strength to squint his eyes open. His vision is blurry, disorientated, but he thinks he can see tiles.
Somewhere next to him, he hears wheels roll against clean floor tiles, and then the shuffling of cloth. Suddenly, a blinding light shines into his eyes. He immediately recoils, an unbecoming hiss escaping him.
“Reaction looks good, no cloudiness… You awake in there, birdie?”
Sunday squints out a glare, or well, he glares the best he can while having the sun in his face.
“Feisty. That’s good,” his company observes, but decides to take mercy on him anyway. Dark spots litter his vision as he blinks into reality, his eyes readjusting.
The ceiling isn’t that outstanding, just the standard white tiles of any other hospital. There’s a curtain hanger in the corner of his eye, and other than that, he can’t see much else.
He tries to sit up again, but his arms, weakened by the fall, fail him. An arm catches and steadies him.
“Careful there. You’re still recovering from the fall.”
Sunday wearily looks over at who caught him. An unfamiliar face stares back. He’s mildly surprised - he knows every worker on Penacony by name, so to find someone he hadn’t met yet…
“How are you feeling?” they ask, helping him to sit up. “Dizzy? Pained? Ready to take another nap?”
He tries to focus on them, but can’t as his gaze wanders to the rest of the room.
His earlier assessment proves to be accurate, or at least, he got the general idea right. It’s smaller than he originally thought, and it isn’t as neat and organized as the hospitals back on Penacony.
A doctor’s desk stands in one corner, covered in first-aid kits, notebooks, and holographic screens. Standing besides it is a mini-fridge and a microwave, and a cabinet looms overhead - likely containing more medical devices. There’s another bed other than his. It looks like it hasn't been used in months.
His gaze lands on the one thing that’s painfully out of place in this room - a rifle, dark, long and equipped with a bayonet, lying in a display case alongside many other firearms.
Figures. A wanted criminal of his magnitude wouldn’t be held in an esteemed hospital. He’s lucky he isn’t in a prison cell.
“I don’t…” Sunday shakes his head. “Where am I?”
“You’ll find out soon enough.”
Indignation sparks. “I’m… sorry?”
His captor caretaker sits back on their office chair. They look to be around Robin’s age, but their attire… To put it bluntly, it wasn’t anything a respectable healthcare worker would be caught wearing on duty.
“It’s best if you don’t ask too many questions right now,” they advise. “You can stress out later. Now, look at my finger.”
“I-” Reluctantly, Sunday does as he’s told, following their finger with his gaze as they move it around. “May I at least have your name?”
“Mm…” They quickly type something down. “Not right now.”
“But-”
“Eat this.” Sunday nearly chokes as something’s shoved into his mouth mid-sentence. Spluttering, he eventually manages to chew, but it’s not without another heated (or at least, he hopes it’s heated) glare at the so-called doctor.
They raise a brow. “Don’t like sweets? That’s weird, could’ve sworn he said you did.”
He? Sunday pauses in his chewing.
The person pokes his cheek, earning a squeak from the Halovian. “I can see your thoughts on your face, Birdie. You’ll meet him soon enough, just keep chewing.”
Weakly, Sunday’s wing bats at their finger. They chuckle lightly at that.
“You look like a kicked puppy.” They lean forward, resting their chin in their palm. “Does it still hurt?”
Sunday shifts to sit straighter. To his surprise, instead of sharp pain like before, there is only a dub ebb before it fades away entirely. He shakes his head, swallowing the rest of the medicine. Whatever it was left a distinct taste of pastries, like the ones he’d steal off Robin’s plate as a child.
Robin… The thought of his sister tears at his heart. The more coherent he becomes, the more he remembers, and the guiltier he feels. The last he’d seen of his sister was her wings as she embraced him for the first time in years, right before they’d plummeted to the ground.
“My sister,” he manages to croak out, wincing at his own hoarseness. “Is she alright?”
He searches the other’s face for any indication that she isn’t. Just the wrong twitch of the brow could send him rushing out of the bed and to wherever Robin was.
But he doesn’t find anything in that eerily calm smile.
“The pop star?” They cross their legs leisurely. “Should be. Kafka said she saw nurses when she picked you up.”
“Kafka,” Sunday repeats. Horror slowly dawns on him as he realizes where he’d heard the name. But it doesn’t last long before he forces on a smile once more. “You don’t mean Kafka, the Stellaron Hunter? The woman with a 10 billion credit bounty on her head?”
“11 billion actually, if you round it up.”
“...yes, thank you.” Sunday’s smile strains painfully against his face. He’s never wanted to throttle someone so badly, not even that despicable Aventurine of the IPC. But knowing just who sat in front of him, it’s a battle he can’t win.
He takes in a deep, shuddering breath to calm himself.
He almost wants to laugh. It’s ironic, isn’t it? The esteemed Oak Family Head, fallen from grace and saved from eternal damnation by one of the most infamous criminals the galaxies have ever known. If his younger self could see him now, he’d surely kill himself from the shock.
Sunday blinks tiredly. Maybe he should just kill himself now, and get it over with.
“Hey.” A pen tilts his chin up. The Stellaron Hunter offers him a reassuring grin that does little to ease his nerves. “Chin up. Think of it this way. If we wanted to hurt you, we would’ve. But we fixed you up instead. My services don’t exactly come for cheap, you know.”
“Then what do you people want?” Sunday chuckles depressingly, almost self-deprecatingly. “My position as Oak Family Head is no more, and the Harmony has surely turned their back on me. Unless you wish to trade me into the IPC for a bounty, I’m afraid I have very little use to you.”
Logically, he knows he needs to keep his mouth shut - his life lies in the hands of these criminals, and the last thing he needs is them thinking that he’s useless. But he can hardly bring himself to care anymore.
“Look, I don’t question Elio.” His wings twitch at the name of the infamous slave to destiny. “But he’s never been wrong before. He brought you here for a reason.”
Sunday looks up. Given the expression on your face, he must look pathetic. You reach over and pat him lightly on the head like a parent would their child.
“Like I said, don’t question too many things right now.” You stand up, quickly checking your wristwatch. “Elio will be here in a few minutes. As for me, I have something to attend to, so I’ll see you around.”
Sunday’s hands freeze. A few minutes?
That’s not nearly enough time.
His hands find his cuffs, and he readjusts them, over and over and over again until the metal link gleams just right and there are no wrinkles left in sight. He pats down his suit hurriedly, straightening out his lapel and brushing off his shoulders again and again before they’re finally weightless. His gloves are pulled tight against his fingers. The medallion that hangs off of his shoulder, he positions it once more to be sure. Then, just when he thinks he’s done, his gloved hand brushes against a lock of grey hair, and he remembers-
He’d just woken up. He must look disheveled, messy, dirty and unsightly and nothing like the Sunday of the Oak Family that he was supposed to be, and if he wasn’t what they expected, they’d surely kill him, or dispose of him, or-
He looks up. You’re seconds away from the door.
“Wait!” he calls out hurriedly, inwardly cursing himself for his haste, but he needs to make sure he is perfect. His voice evens as you turn. “My apologies. Do you happen to have a mirror around here? And… a hairbrush, if you don’t mind.”
You blink. Sunday’s heart pounds as he awaits your answer. Subconsciously, his fingers begin to fidget and dig into his palms. Was that too much of a request? Had he overstepped?
“So that’s why he told me to bring them,” you comment offhandedly, as if remembering a past conversation that had made no sense until this moment. “Yeah, just a sec.”
You open one of the drawers by the desk and rummage around a bit before taking out a handheld mirror and a hairbrush. Your shoes clicked against the floor tiles as you made your way back to Sunday’s side.
Sunday has to fight demons just to stop himself from snatching the hairbrush from you. Small tremors shake his hand as he takes it from your palm. He moves to take the mirror.
“Let me do it,” you interrupt, sitting down and holding the mirror up so that he can see himself. Sunday stills, before he smiles in appreciation.
“Thank you,” he whispers, although he’s not sure why.
Seeing his reflection, admittedly, he doesn’t look as bad as he’d originally thought. But still, his hair is messier than normal, and that’s all it takes for the voices to scream imperfect and unsightly.
His eyes flick to you. You only watch him with mild interest at best, but it feels as though your eyes are piercing into his soul, scrutinizing and judging every bit of him.
He digs his fingers into his palms, the mild pain grounding him. Then, he begins to brush.
The silence is deafening, but Sunday forces himself to ignore it. Meticulous and steadily controlled strokes and brushes gradually bring his hair back to the casual, yet elegant and put-together style it was usually in, and Sunday feels a weight lift from his chest.
“Did they give you any medication back on Penacony?” you ask suddenly. Sunday freezes.
“I’m… sorry?”
You tilt your head. “I’m just asking as a precaution, because sometimes we get Hunters who need these medications and can’t access them due to well...”
Ah. Sunday relaxes. Right, of course. You were just doing your job. You didn’t actually think there was anything wrong with him, that he was ailed.
“No, they did not,” he says pleasantly, finishing the final (excessive) touches to his hair. “Although I do appreciate the concern, there would be no need even if I did require such assistance. I have no intention of joining you all.”
You squint a bit at his answer, but don’t press. “You’re pretty prideful, aren’t you.”
“As is everyone.” Sunday sets down the hairbrush, pleased at last with his appearance. “Believe me, no matter how far you think me to have fallen, I will never stoop as low as to accept charity from the likes of you.”
A snort tests his patience, his eye twitching at the sound. You lower the mirror with a smile he can only describe as both infuriating and unnerving, as if he were a naive, overconfident child.
“That’s a lot of talk for someone who’s just become the Family’s number one enemy,” you snicker. “Where else are you turning to? The IPC? Pfft, good luck with that.”
“Where else but Penacony?” The corners of his eyes crinkle as he leers bitterly at you. “I am but a sinner, and as such I must face my punishment, whether it be eternal imprisonment or death.”
“That’s it?” You scoff. “You’re just going to accept your fate, just like that?”
Sunday closes his eyes. “Better to face a rightful punishment than to live as a criminal.”
He anticipates a scathing reply, but your conversation is interrupted by a creak of the door.
Meow.
A cat? His eyes snap open.
Standing in the now-opened doorway was a lithe black cat with yellow-green eyes that glow like fireflies. It licks its paw innocently, rubbing its head before it settles its gaze on you and Sunday.
A chill goes down Sunday’s back as they lock eyes. Under that cat’s eyes, he feels raw and exposed, as if someone had ripped him and all of his secrets wide open for the world to see. Instinctively his wings flare in a feeble attempt to defend himself.
“Well, that’s my cue.” The wheels on your chair roll as you stood up once more. “I’ll see you around, princess.”
“Do not call me that,” Sunday snarls. You laugh lightly.
“Don’t like it? I think it fits you pretty well.” You reach down, scratching the cat’s chin before respectfully moving out of the way. “Oh, and one more thing before I go.”
You turn around to give him one more lookover.
“Do try and stretch those wings more. Keep them cramped up like that any longer, and you’ll never fly again.”
With that, you shut the door, leaving Sunday alone with the cat and the eerie echo of your words.
reblogs w comments are appreciated !!
so i decided to design my own fairy, why? i didn't feel satisfied with regular fairy designs. and their name is Uyomi.