ashoney | (no subject)

[ Self-pity is for people who aren't in crunch. Making space for anything like that is liable to tip the carefully balanced scales, and right now the last thing Aventurine needs on his plate is another round of recalculations. The wager's already climbed a bit higher than he'd anticipated, and that's time better spent catching his breath. Harmony's weight is only just beginning to really needle his senses. More is sure to come as the will of that Aeon attempts to make an ant of him — if only THEY could see that he is already playing worker bee for someone else.

Not far from the Golden Hour's main drag, in an alley between luxury shops, he finds a spot to steal a few seconds he probably shouldn't spend, and leans heavily against a pillar.

Something moves in the corner of his already blurry vision. Probably a trick of the Tuning or another Fool, but his attention snaps to it, anyway. Surprise flickers across his features, settling into unbothered neutrality. Aventurine ignores the sweat breaking on his brow. ]

Bronze Melodia.

[ Aventurine had killed the last man who'd leashed him with his bare hands. Then, waiting for the chance to do so had been the hardest part. Here and now, it is the absence of any feeling at all that is most unbearable. ]

If we keep meeting like this, people are going to get the wrong idea about you and me...

[The streets of the Golden Hour are alive with music. The footfalls of dreamers, the creeking wheels of food wagons, laughter, chatter, and shouting weave together into the Harmony's elegant tapestry of sound. Yet there is a distortion now that was never there before. A new melody is forming, strung together by the Harmony's notes, but in a different order. In most places it is quiet, in others it is loud.

It is getting louder here.

Sunday pauses at the mouth of an alley and peers into the shadows with bright golden eyes. He doesn't need to look hard to find what he already knows is there. Most souls in the Golden Hour have a quiet music to them, but the one slumped in the alley dances a different song. His song.]

Tch. Don't flatter yourself.

[Slowly, he steps into the darkness, hands clasped behind his back.]

As you've pointed out, I am still Bronze Melodia, as well as the Oak Family Head. If anyone sees us together, they will make the sensible guess that I am guiding a wayward member of my flock...

[A wayward member who seems to be resting on the job. Sunday frowns. His expression is more disappointed than angry.]

Hm. Alas, I have found my sheep resting as the wolves are circling it.

...What are you doing, Mr. Aventurine?

[ What a vulture. Aventurine meets his soon-to-be executioner's disdain withe a pleasant but strained smile that falters under the pressure baring down on him. He shuts his eyes. Lifts a hand to massage his temple. ]

Ngh- just fighting a migraine.

[ No use trying to mask the venom in his voice -- 'annoyed' is probably an undervaluation of what he should be feeling right now, all things considered. But Sunday has made himself an inconvenience once more, and after Aventurine had only just gained certainty in his chosen path. He falls silent, taking a second more to collect himself. Then, with a deep breath, he straightens, adjusting the lower hem of his vest once he's standing tall again (because he knows it will be annoying). ]

I'm hardly one of your little lambs, Bronze Melodia. [ His eyes narrow, head tipping to the side. ] And I'm hurt that you don't seem to have faith in my investigative abilities. Can't you leave a man to his work?

[Sunday watches Aventurine adjust his vest with heavily lidded eyes. How improper. But the gambler knows this and is trying to annoy him. He decides not to take the bait, though his feathers visibly ruffle and his halo slightly darkens.]

You are a businessman. You know as well as I that it is often necessary to check in on one's...investments.

[The hands clasped behind his back fall to his side, but his posture remains stiff. Almost inhumanely so. Many of the small movements he used to make as his natural body language were stifled long ago. Only his wings and halo ever show his true feelings anymore. That is a flaw in his otherwise immaculate presentation, one he will have to address.

Later.

Not now.]

And you are an investment, Mr. Aventurine! So why not take a moment to let me into your process?

[ Disgust flickers and fizzles, a spark that cannot quite catch before it's smothered under Aventurine's better sense. Sunday cannot hurt him any more than he already has -- already will, if he insists on creating greater delays. How annoying, but not yet a problem. A single breath, barely a laugh, escapes Aventurine's parted lips. ]

Well, as you know, I'm on a rather tight timetable.

[ His voice is smooth in spite of the pressure baring down on him, like the sound of an action movie booming through walls one theater over. ]

You're welcome to shadow me as I work. [ As though he isn't already. Still, Aventurine slips his glasses back on and sweeps one arm out, inviting Sunday to accompany him as he walks. ] But trying to explain all the hows and whys? That'd be undue distraction from my very important responsibilities.

[He catches the flicker of disdain, which draws a small grin to his lips. It is satisfying to be so hated by the sinful.]

Of course. I would never dream of distracting you.

[Sunday steps aside and sweeps an elegant hand toward the mouth of the alley.]

Please. After you.

[ This is... inconvenient. Fresh off feeling like he had just found his right path, here's another penny on the track to derail him. It'd be funny that the Bronze Melodia seems so insistent about disrupting his plans, but he's a little too invested in the outcome at this point. Death, for the moment at least, is a goal that must take a very specific shape -- one that can't involve a clock slowly ticking down.

It doesn't help that the smug bastard seems delighted that he is an obvious annoyance.

Aventurine exhales a short, sharp breath, then steps into the lead. ]

You know, really I would have thought the head of the Oak Family might've had more pressing matters to attend to than playing key warden. [ He does not glance over his shoulder, refusing to look at Sunday, certain that it will only make him angrier. ] Do you give every man you condemn the luxury treatment or am I a special case?

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