[There is snide disbelief in Aventurine's voice when he looks up from his phone and a glimmer of acid in his jewel-like eyes.]
Of course I am.
[But the gambler doesn't understand. He could never understand the immense burden Sunday had carried when he invoked the Harmony's consecration.
With a sigh, Sunday slips into the cramped shuttle. The tight space doesn't bother him, not after so much time spent in a confessional, but the sheer black is strangely oppressive. This must be the IPC's idea of modern stylishness, very different from the whimsical architecture of Penacony.
Once he is fully seated, he leans forward to address Aventurine.]
I am agreeing to accompany you, Mister Aventurine, but please do not speak to me that way. [While his voice is mostly light, there is a steely edge to it.] I'm sure I must be a burden to you, but I am not the one who assigned you whatever job this is. So don't take your frustrations out on me.
[ Aventurine does not immediately close the shuttle doors. He angles further in his seat, tucking an elbow against the plush headrest of the pilot's seat. His eyes reflect the dim overhead light, the red glow of accent lights inside the otherwise dark craft interior as his gaze flicks down and then back up. ]
Do you remember how you smiled? That smug little grin on your face when you invoked an Aeon you don't even worship and branded me, I mean. You liked it, didn't you? Punishing me for my arrogance. A death sentence wasn't enough. But dragging me back through... famine and fire and war because I wronged you? Oh, that did it, didn't it? Justice undeniably served.
[ Aventurine takes a breath, voice calm, musing over their past interactions as though he does not ruminate over them daily, as though they do not figure prominently into his restless, horrifying nightmares, bleeding into Nihility's ocean. Outside, the Hounds close in around the shuttle. ]
I don't carry Harmony's brand, anymore, Mister Sunday, but I do carry your smile still. And I am here because of you. So, I don't think my "frustrations" are misplaced.
[ One of the Hounds, a broad-shouldered man, crouches down as though about to reach into the shuttle. Aventurine turns, sitting forward once again, flicks a switch on the shuttle dash and the doors snap shut soundlessly. Another button press, a tilt of the controls, and the shuttle rockets skyward, zipping past other vessels to leave Penacony's cloud of memoria, bound for Aventurine's private ship. ]
But, sure. We can keep it professional from here on out.
[ With any luck at all it won't be much longer. If he plays his cards right, the albatross will board the train and he can go back to just being at the bottom of Diamond's naughty list. ]
[Sunday thinks, reflecting on that night in his office when he, maddened by the news of his sister's death, made the one move available to him.]
You had come to purchase my paradise from under me when I was so close to ascension, were you not? [Which is not something he'd been told, but something he'd figured out. The timing of Aventurine's arrival and his movements afterward had suggested something untrustworthy about him. Sunday suspected the IPC was using their ambassador as a means of destabilizing Penacony and having an excuse to retake it. He hasn't spent much time outside his home, but he knows how corporations operate and what greed motivates them to do.]
Using you to investigate my sister's murder seemed like the best option. It would solve two problems at once. And when you approached me, your confident swagger disgusted me. We hadn't yet spoken, and you already considered yourself the victor. So... yes, I enjoyed it. I enjoyed watching you experience humility. It was justice...
[But the way Aventurine talks about it sounds wrong. As if Sunday had bored into his mind, dragged his memories to the surface, then threw them about like unwanted refuse. Sunday doesn't remember doing any of that. All he remembers is a desperate gambler giving away his gems, then making his way to the Grand Theater.]
Your noisome flailing scattered the Hounds directly into my grasp and they were the ones I was truly after.
[Guilt knots his chest when he hears himself say those words. The Hounds were the true cause of his pain and frustration. Aventurine had been a convenient pawn, that was all. One that had been damaged in the midst of the game, and he'd never noticed. He reaches out and grasps Aventurine's shoulder.]
You were intended to undergo a trial. At the end, I was to decide whether you could coalesce into the Harmony or perish. I wanted you to face my judgment, yes, but it was not my intention to harm you. I am sorry that happened.
[A gentle squeeze, then he sits back and watches his home spiral away into the distance outside the shuttle window.]
[ Aventurine does not flinch under Sunday's touch, but he does roll his shoulder once he's drawn his hand away. He sits in silence, not feeling nothing, just refusing to acknowledge the roil of it all inside, gloved hands tightening on the controls. No reason to answer what was hardly an apology, anyway.
Even with Mythus and the Fools directing separate shows, the Oak Family and Sunday singing songs distinct from each other and the Harmony, even with layers upon layers of betrayal woven into every tale, every part had been played to perfection. Each actor in their role, using others to meet their specific goals. Aventurine perhaps more than most -- though he had, it seems, been well used in return.
He thinks again that perhaps he'd deserved the brand and the punishment that followed. Diamond binding him anew was both further deserved punishment and not enough. No matter how he hates it, hates this, he feels neither cleansed nor uplifted by experience. Nothing makes his survival feel earned. And yet he still wakes at night in a cold sweat, terrorized by the idea that what little of him remains might sublimate as he sleeps, destroyed or consumed by Harmony's whole. To know that his bespoke torment is the one thing Sunday had not conducted himself -- why, then? Had there been a reason for it? A purpose in it at all?
Lights streak by. Penacony shrinks into a glittering cloud, ahead only the sea of stars waits. Faster, faster, past ships meant for travel in deep space, into the dark. He and Ena's fallen prince, another cast off of the machinations of gods. He hates having anything in common with the albatross. Hates his stupid non-apology. The quiet music of his voice compared to what he recalls in his dreams. That he has the capacity to be so gentle, so warm, when what he'd done had been so relentlessly cruel.
The dash beeps. A red light flickers. ]
Damn. [ Aventurine banks the shuttle just in time to catch the tail lights on the express glowing red. As his mouth opens to protest, the train stretches into a long line of light, blinking away for parts unknown, silver trail left in its wake. ] Damn!
[ He fights the urge to sit in stunned silence and steers the shuttle back toward his own ship, one modest silver-white vessel idling among many others within Penacony's orbit. A few more button presses, a hangar opens on the vessel, and the shuttle docks with ease. Aventurine pulls out his phone and begins typing furiously; he needs to know where the Express is going, what their current options are.
While he waits for the shuttle doors to open, he turns in his seat again, fixing himself up with some of that confident swagger that Sunday evidently despises. ]
Looks like we're both stuck in purgatory a bit longer, Mister Sunday. Don't worry. I'm sure we'll both land on our feet.
[ Finally, the shuttle opens. Beyond its doors is a small, brightly lit cargo bay, all cream with patterned turquoise accents, neatly organized boxes on stacked and labeled, all of it considerably warmer than the ominous red and black of the shuttle.
With a bit more urgency than he means to show, he climbs out of the shuttle. ]
But we really shouldn't linger in Asdana. So, where to? Washtopia?
[It takes a minute for Sunday to realize that Aventurine is flying not for his own vessel, but for the train sitting in the outskirts of Penacony's orbit. Red lights flash, then the Star Rail leaps from its position like a pouncing ferret and vanishes upward into the stars. In the span of a heartbeat, the Nameless are gone. Akivili alone, if the Aeon indeed still lives, knows where they are now.
Sunday's wings flutter as he processes what just happened: From the Family, to the IPC, to the Nameless, and back to the IPC again. It feels like every faction in the cosmos is battling for his destiny in the wake of his fall, though the Nameless don't seem to know they are part of that conversation. And that's the problem.
He sits back, silently, resigned to his fate until the shuttle comes to its final stop and opens its doors. Aventurine nearly scrambles out into the bright cargo bay beyond, but Sunday remains seated with a dour expression.]
You are assuming the Nameless will agree to take me with them. [He says without looking up.] What if they don't?
Oh, they would've. [ Aventurine stops before a simple wall screen. ] I just... failed to get you there.
[ He makes it sound like a mild inconvenience, a personal oopsie-daisy that can be amended later. Better, that way.
A few taps on the screen, and it fills with hundreds of notifications. News alerts about a dozen different things, all the work emails he'd forwarded once things on Penacony got hairy, and notifications from people who have not earned his direct line. The Doctors of Chaos seem to have picked up on those dips of his toward hopelessness, judging by the number of automated emails from them. He wrinkles his nose. ]
So, you've got a few options, and I am not allowed to pick for you, since that wouldn't be in keeping with Madam Jade's little agreement.
[ He slides out of his coat, folds it neatly over his arm, and then turns to lean against the wall of his ship, arms crossed over his chest. ]
Herta Station, option one. You are still under the thumb of the IPC, but Miss Asta, the administrator there, she's a fun time. Best case scenario, you get to plug away helping others with research into Memoria until we can negotiate a meeting with the Nameless. Unlikely, but still possible, Madam Herta herself takes an interest in you, and I'm not fool enough to wager what happens then.
[ He lifts the hand not draped in his heavy jacket, ticking two fingers up. ]
Speaking of fools, you could chase Elation. You're a small enough pawn now that it's probably funnier to THEM if you're kept away from the Family. Honestly? That'd be my choice- [ It wouldn't, but he's still stuck in play-acting. ] -but it doesn't seem your style.
[ Another finger ticks up. ] Enroll you under a pseudonym at the Intelligentsia Guild. [ A fourth. ] A remote planet, far from the Family's reach. I set you up with enough to get a shuttle and you go. [ And the thumb. ] That red-haired Knight of Beauty will take you if you say anything that sounds remotely like you might pledge yourself to Idrila. But I think you'd go insane, personally.
[ Aventurine settles his arm down again, tips his chin up and stares at the ceiling of his ship. (His ship. He's so close to his bath and his bed he can almost taste it, even with what must be a hundred angry emails and a censure waiting for him in his inbox.) He sighs, shoulders visibly relaxing without the feathered coat collar there to obscure the tension. ]
Stellaron Hunters. Not sure they'd take you. If they did, you'd be roped into their little "script", made a tool of fate. IPC itself, might as well give you to the Family. [ An agonizing pause. A heavy sigh. ] Or... you... stay with me. We stay moving, because I know I can keep you... out of their hands. Or, hey! Maybe we'll kill each other, problem solved!
[ Every reasonable possibility and a few not-so-reasonable options accounted for in his plan. Percentages, likelihoods, interpersonal relationships and obstacles all reduced down to a bullet list, like a presentation. Of Stratagems, indeed. ]
[Sunday gracefully emerges from the shuttle and looks up at the screen. Notifications, alerts, and emails flash across it. None of it makes sense to him, but it must all make sense to Aventurine, who is making himself comfortable in the corner of Sunday's vision.
This is all too much. Too much happening at once, and too much information to process when his heart is racing, and his mind is burning. Aventurine lists potential destinations, and Sunday has to struggle to pay attention.]
My wish is still to create a paradise. [He says, still staring at the screen. Out of the options Aventurine mentions, the Space Station might be the best. From there, he can stow away on another vessel. But then what? He cannot spend the rest of his life on the run. Eventually, he needs to find a safe place where he can mend his broken wings, then take flight again.
After a few long moments, he finally looks over at Aventurine.] A lot has happened today. Will you at least give me time to think about this?
[ Between the incredulous snort of laughter and the half-growled tone, there's no hiding Aventurine's disdain for that particular idea -- particularly when it's brewed in the mind of a man who thinks free will is a shortcoming.
Now, he could press for an answer. First instinct, best instinct, in his experience, and there's a good chance the first pick would be, "Away from here. Away from you." That would work out best for both of them, probably. Or at least for the migraine incubating behind Aventurine's right eye.
He doesn't, though. Just stands there, leaning and staring, thinking in silence, mouth a thin line halfway to a smile. With their first choice recipient unavailable at the moment, he supposes it'd be reasonable to delay their next step for a few system hours. It'd get his bosses off his back, probably; delay a passive aggressive meeting that could've been an email. And, either way, they can't hang out on the edge of Penacony like this, well within the reach of Bloodhounds and Alfalfas and Irises.
And Sunday does look a little haggard -- as haggard as one who is always so close to physical perfection can, at least. Looking at him, Aventurine's stomach pits, thoughts bouncing across each time he'd been yanked from all he'd known, forced to both make a decision and live with the consequences.
He sighs, shoves himself away from the wall, turns and heads deeper into the ship. Before he speaks, he reminds himself that this is about catching more flies with honey than anything else. ]
Sure. As long as you don't try to Tune me, kill me, or lecture me about my sinful lifestyle, take your time. Grab a bite, take a nap, a shower. [ He throws his arms out in an animated shrug. ] Make yourself at home!
[ Beyond the cargo bay is a single short, narrow hall, between sets of sliding doors, the walls are draped artfully with pretty, patterned fabrics, all thick soft textures and jewel-toned colors. A lttle tacky, maybe, but it makes the space bright and muffles the persistent hum of a modern spacecraft.
Aventurine, himself, is bound for the cockpit, already thinking of places to hide temporarily. There's little chance of Sunday doing anything too ridiculous in the meantime, he is fairly certain. Especially so, after watching him wind himself in a short sprint around the hotel. ]
[Sunday can't guess Aventurine's thoughts, but the disdain is obvious, even before he speaks.]
Kill you? [A breath halfway between a gasp of incredulity and a laugh.] You have a very strange impression of me, Mister Aventurine.
[It's something he should address, he decides, but not now, not when his flight from Penacony has left him too frayed to think. Every moment since Aventurine found him in the Golden Hour has moved too quickly for him. The rest of his reluctant companion's brazen, half-hearted welcome even takes a few seconds to fully land. Though one word stands out, bigger and brighter and more important than the others. Shower.]
Well, now that you mention it... If you do not mind me using your facilities, I would appreciate a chance to bathe. [He hasn't washed his physical body since he was freed from his cell.] Sleep would be appreciated, as well. My time spent in the dream was... far from restful. Maybe by the time I wake, I will have your answer.
[He stands firm, shoulders squared, one hand held against the small of his back, trying not to look as tired as he feels.]
[ A bath before sleep is a good idea. Both in general — he'll have to indulge when he finally has a moment alone — and to ensure Sunday doesn't attempt any Dream shenanigans before they're well away from Penacony space. Not that he looks capable of anything that might be called a shenanigan at the moment, like a bird that's just exhausted himself throwing his body at windows trying to flee a building. That he's still doing his best impression of someone who hasn't just been through hell is... funny. It's funny.
He's felt that way more than once, and probably would've pledged loyalty to someone offering a no strings attached bath and bed.
Sunday cannot see it with the gambler's back to him, but Aventurine's expression softens. ]
Yeah. Of course. Like I said. Make yourself at home.
[ A few more steps and then he comes to a sharp stop, turning toward a sliding door that opens with a wave of his hand.
Inside is a bathroom, sparkling clean and sparsely decorated. Aside from the standard facilities, a lavishly large tub and separate shower take up most of the far wall of the room. Another hand gesture and a side panel opens, revealing plush turquoise towels and a mind boggling array of soaps, shampoos, lotions, and serums, both rare and expensive and (judging by the bright pink cartoon cat made of bubbles on one bottle) absolutely not. ]
Take your pick. This one- [ He selects a glass bottle that looks a bit like a dragon's egg, green and scalloped and shimmering, uncaps it and sniffs. Clean, warm, all mellow spices, not too overpowering. He sets it back on the shelf, then scoots out of the way. ] -you might find inoffensive.
As for sleep... My quarters are across the way. [ He points a thumb at the opposite door. ] You can use my bed. I'll set out some things for you to wear, since I'd prefer nothing that came in contact with centuries' old mortar and dust meet my sheets.
[ If he had any shame, he might be embarrassed at how easily he slips into service mode for a man who'd condemned him to death. If anything, though, it's easier, turning his brain off and just being the corporate cog, schmoozing an annoyingly attractive client for his employers. ]
[Sunday follows after Aventurine and watches him open doors with simple gestures of his hand. The technology is impressive, but he doesn't bother commenting on it. IPC ships always have impressive technology. Their greed and constant hoarding of wealth allow them that much. It would be more noteworthy to see doors swinging on hinges.
What captures his attention is the bathroom. He stares into it as his reluctant host continues talking, unaware that Sunday is no longer listening. The bathroom sparkles enough to be a facility from the Dewlight Pavilion, which makes him feel more at ease about using it.]
Alright, Mister Aventurine.
[His demeanor is weary and not entirely friendly as he walks into the bathroom, closes the door with a wave of his hand, and starts to disrobe. Every garment is folded neatly and placed in the corner before he steps into the shower. As he tips his head into the water, he feels the dull fog of confusion wash away, leaving his options lined up before him with clarity. If he is dropped off somewhere, he will remain there, possibly until the end of his life. The Intelligentsia Guild, The Geniuses, the Stellaron Hunters, the Fools of Elation, and the Knights of Beauty are all factions that he has heard of, but they were so distant from the internal politics of Penacony that they were abstractions bordering on mythology. He doesn't know enough about any of them to know how to survive among them, let alone survive long enough to escape and continue his mission of building Paradise.
Any save one. Aventurine, he knows. He'd studied the man intensely before their first meeting. Aventurine is a gambler, but a sly and cautious one. He could keep Sunday out of the Family's hands long enough for him to get his bearings.
It's decided, then.
After his shower, he wraps himself in a towel (the softest he can find) and walks into the bedroom. It is more spartan than he expects it to be. The bed is luxurious, but there are no gold trimmings or velvet cushions. There are still jade, or aventurine, colored sheets. He has to appreciate the Stoneheart's devotion to aesthetics.
He slips out of the towel and into the offered clothes, then crawls beneath the sheets, careful not leave any wrinkles in the fabric. Sleeping in another man's bed makes him uncomfortable, but he doesn't have long to think about it before exhaustion carries him away into a deep, dreamless slumber. He sleeps for longer than he intends to, a few hours at least, but wakes up feeling more refreshed than he's been since his fall. After he slides from the bed, he turns and gently tugs the blanket up to the pillow. It looks crooked, so he soothes his still worried mind by making the bed up perfectly; sheets smooth and straight, pillows fluffed and inviting.
With one final glance back at the bed to be sure of his work, he creeps into the bathroom, gets dressed, and takes time preening his feathers until the vanes shine silver in the light. Once he's made sure he's as pristine as he can be in his uncoordinated outfit, he walks out to find Aventurine.
He is standing tall, wings and hair fully brushed, eyes the color of a sunrise, clothes hanging from his body in a perfect, orderly way. When addressing a host, it is important to be presentable.]
I've made my decision. [His voice is clear and firm.] I choose to stay with you.
[ Aventurine jolts at the sound of his voice, head slipping from where it is perched precariously on bent knuckles.
Sunday finds him spilled into the pilot's seat in the cockpit, a tight but still walkable space silvered by light from multiple holographic screens. Starlight streaks by in the windows beyond, pencil thin lines of white and yellow and red. The vessel is moving at warp toward a new destination.
It takes Aventurine a few seconds to collect himself, stirring from his own restless not-quite-sleep. Still-gloved fingers card through his hair, then massage the spot above his eye as he compute's Sunday's decision. When he finally turns to face Sunday, he is wearing a charmingly boyish grin, the only mask he can think to put on that will cover the dread creeping up from low in his stomach. It nearly slips at the sight of him, all cleaned up and flawless again, far too close to the Bronze Melodia for his liking. ]
You're joking.
[ He's not, Aventurine knows. And it's his own fault for even presenting himself as an option. Sunday would never accept the comfort of insignificance at a station or academy, the mediocrity of IPC middle management. No, it's his sweet, foolish paradise or nothing.
Annoying as it is, there's value here to be extracted. A dream as silly as "a paradise where everyone is happy" is an easy enough weakness to exploit. And as long as he is Mister Stick-in-the-Mud's escort, Aventurine gains leverage against his own employers; freedom to move as he pleases, so long as it is not into Harmony, Destruction, or Nihility. If he plays his cards right, Diamond may even be pleased with this turn of events. And when Diamond's happy, well, everyone's happy, right? He can almost feel the choke collar going slack. ]
Alright!
[ A shrug, then he pushes past, refusing to look at Sunday long or give him the chance to glimpse how tired, how aching, how rattled he feels, and makes his way to his ship's modest kitchen. ]
Well, we're bound for Lushaka. According to my superiors, that was one of the Express's possible destinations. [ It'd been one of the only useful bits of information he'd gotten in the sea of messages that have come his way since his path converged with Sunday's again. ] They vote on where they go, you know, together, as a family. I doubt they'll be there, but it's a safe place to pause while we get our bearings. Hungry?
[Sunday's feathers ruffle slightly, disturbing the smoothness he'd accomplished through a nearly half hour of careful preening. Aventurine seems upset by his answer. Maybe that's not surprising, but he had offered.
He turns and follows along into the kitchen.]
I'm fine. Thank you.
[Actually, he is starving to the point of feeling light-headed, but he doesn't want to be any more of a burden.]
Mister Aventurine, if I am staying, we should make a few arrangements, yes? Sharing the facilities is...regrettably unavoidable. But I will need a place of my own to sleep. I do not mind the cargo hold, if you have any blankets to spare. [The thought alone hurts his back and shoulders, but he is a fugitive now. His days of sleeping in fine silks are behind him. One way or another, he has to get used to making himself comfortable where he can.]
[ The kitchen is small but not cramped, clean as the rest of the ship and meticulously organized with clear thought given to workflow. It is certainly not an under-utilized room. Well-seasoned pans hanging from the walls and cutting boards marked with lines from sharp blades paint a picture of a person who doesn't enjoy only takeout and fine dining for every meal. An assortment of blind box toys from planets across the IPC's systems holdings decorate one wall, as well as a shelf of games and toys -- decks of cards, a fine, folded chessboard likely a holding case for its pieces, and hand-held gaming devices. At the far side of the room is a booth set against another observation window.
Aventurine, too tired to put too much effort into a meal but too finicky to settle for snack food, auto-pilots to washing rice. ]
Oh, so you don't want to share a bed with me? How disappointing. We could keep each other warm.
[ Though he keeps his back to Sunday as he works, his grin slips through in his voice. He slides the rice maker pot into place and then turns his attention to the kitchen's little freezer, enjoying the way the air seems so much denser when he ruffles the former Bronze Melodia's feathers. ]
You're not a prisoner, Mister Sunday. On Lushaka, we can get you a real bed. I can't promise anything opulent, but there is a... [ Smuggler's compartment. ] ...well, it's sort of a walk-in closet. Less cold and more private than the cargo bay. [ He opens the freezer. Pauses. Smiles, cat-like. ] Although, my bed is always open.
[ It's just too entertaining, being a bit of a shit. Especially when it's a joke he is certain cannot possibly come back to bite him. Aventurine retrieves two servings of frozen meat and veggies he'd prepared in his downtime after the Doctors of Chaos had let him return to partial duties at work. He turns to look at Sunday now, finally, a butter-wouldn't-melt look on his face. ]
You don't have any dietary restrictions, do you? Vegetarian? Vegan?
No. I do not have any restrictions, but thank you for asking.
[Sunday shifts his feet together.
My bed is always open...
He's sure it's intended as harmless, playful ribaldry, but it's a joke he's heard many times before. Too many times before.
The people of Penacony gossip, women among their friends, men wherever there are ears to hear. It didn't take long for a game to rise like a grotesque beast out of the seedier bars and taverns in The Moment of Scorchsand. Within the sweet dream, it was possible to manifest as one's ideal self. The game was to learn what people looked like in the waking world, and use that to determine who was worthy of seduction. Wealthy women's names were past around often, but not as often as Sunday's. "The Bronze Melodia is as beautiful outside as he is here in the dream. If not more so. He would be the perfect prize."
Mostly, it stuck to gossip. A few bolder individuals still approached him, however, and tried to talk him into their beds. They always opened with a bawdy joke that he suspects were only ever half-jokes.
My bed is always open...
If it is only half a joke, then certain parts of the last several hours make more sense.
He's silent for a long moment, then...
He laughs. The soft musical sound bubbles from his throat before he can stop it, so he stifles what little of it he can with his gloved fingertips.]
Aheheheh! I've been such a fool.
Well, I suppose I should congratulate you. Not many get as far as you have.
[ That gamely bend is there in his voice, though his astonishment is also plain. he also turns abruptly, dumping the contents of both glass containers into his rice cooker hastily and poking them into place with a wooden spoon. In silence, he fiddles a bit more, pouring this sauce, adding that powder, pressing buttons on the machine. For a few seconds, the only sound are the admittedly chipper chirps of the cooker.
Looks like he's overplayed his hand. Again. Severely. Were it nearly anyone else in the IPC's systems, he might've made a game of it -- sexy chicken or something. And he would eventually, inevitably, end up in over his head, doing something meaningless with someone he keeps at arm's length and then never speaks to again. But this is not nearly anyone else. This is one of the monsters that lurks beneath Kakavasha's bed. He is not about to bring it between the sheets with him.
He closes the rice cooker lid a bit too hard, presses start, and turns to lean against the counter, his arms crossed. As their dinner cooks behind him -- nevermind that Sunday said he wasn't hungry -- he levels his gaze at the former Bronze Melodia. It is not often that he drops his smile, but he does, here and now. His nervous fingers busy themselves with the wooden spoon. ]
I don't actually know what you mean, but, just to be clear, that was a joke. While you're traveling with me, you are not to enter my quarters unless I invite you. The rest of the ship? Sure. Explore to your heart's content. You aren't a prisoner here, Mister Sunday, like I said. But... [ Aventurine pauses. His gaze falls. For the first time in longer than he can remember, he finds he struggles to string his next words together. ] You and I are not friends. And I...
[ He can't quite finish that sentence, but thankfully, the rice cooker chimes a sweet little song. Abruptly, he stops and turns, fiddles with kitchen shears, bowls, and spoons, prepping the contents of the cooker -- seasoned rice, veggies, poultry, mushrooms -- and doling it out in two bowls. When he turns again, it's only to offer one of the two bowls out to his new traveling companion. ]
[Aventurine seems pale, almost aghast by Sunday's reaction. Sunday wonders if normal people would be offended to see someone so openly agitated and disgusted at the very idea of sleeping with them. He feels no offense, only relief.]
I was about to reject you. I-- [A brief moment of hesitation, then he pushes forward with words that feel uncomfortable to say. They urgently rush out, as if he were ripping off a bandage.] --have no intention of sleeping with you, Mister Aventurine. Ever.
[Sunday folds his arms over his chest, pained humor still shining in his eyes.]
I know it was a joke.
[He says evenly.]
However, you must understand that half the time people say such things...
[Now it is his turn to leave a sentence hanging. There is little point in finishing it. He doesn't want to sound like a victim. Nothing ever came of Penacony's raunchy humor, anyway. He'd been harassed, touched without his permission, grabbed at by strangers... All unpleasant, but there are worse things that can happen to people. Many of them have happened to Aventurine. No man who can claim to be the last of his people in the wake of genocide has a simple life.
Sunday's wings twitch back against his shoulders.]
Ugh.
Please do not say things like that to me in the future. [His arms uncross to accept the bowl. Now that he smells the food, he can feel his stomach aching from its emptiness.] I will do my best to be useful where I can. Other than that, I promise it will be as though I am not here. Don't worry.
[Better for both of them, he thinks, if they can time their coming and going around the ship so that they never encounter each other.]
[ A single laugh bubbles up from the hollow of Aventurine's chest, escaping his mouth in one bright pop.
Powerful men tend to have things they're weird about. Sex is, in Aventurine's experience, usually in the number one slot, though not in this particular style. Still, it's not that surprising that Sunday, a once powerful man, would have such a visceral reaction to the idea of sleeping with a slimy gambler, he supposes. What's odd is how awkwardness seems woven through him, like ligaments between muscle and bone. Juxtaposed against the hungry smile Aventurine cannot forget despite weeks of trying, it simply does not sit right.
Perhaps Sunday is just traumatized.
Well, it's nice to know where he stands, at least. Mutual, polite loathing works for him. Terrible monster, meet disgusting bug. Make it work. ]
I understand, Mister Sunday. [ He does. Mother Goddess, he understands being meat, being a commodity. The weight of that comprehension makes his voice gentle. ] My apologies, I won't joke again.
[ That much is undeniably sincere.
Almost easier, being able to be nothing at all to someone. No performance, no forced niceties, no effort spent to make close quarters work. Just meeting the low bar of respect due until they can figure out where that damned space train went. He almost feels... lighter for it, though it's the kind of lighter that earns an automated email from the Doctors of Chaos, he's sure. ]
We'll reach Lushaka in three hours. I plan on docking us at an IPC-affiliated flagship where people won't ask too many questions. Once we're there, I'll put feelers out for news about the Nameless. [ He starts to poke at his bowl, then stops, glances up. ] You can tag along, if you'd like, or stay here and leave shopping for bedding to me.
[The apology seems sincere. Sunday feels like Aventurine has had experiences that, while not identical, are at least parallel to his own. His earlier indignant outburst is embarrassing now. He should apologize for that, but he doesn't. For the first time in his life, the words do not come to him. There is no elegant way of saying "Sorry your joke made me assume you wanted to bed me." Apologizing now would only drag this awkward, painful moment out longer. So, instead of saying anything, he stares down at his hands, the bowl held in them suddenly becoming incredibly fascinating.]
It would be more practical for me to remain here. [He says, after a silent minute has passed.
People on an IPC flagship are doubtlessly aware enough of galactic news to identify the wayward scion of the Oak Family. Even when disguised, he tends to stand out. To blend in with a crowd, he would have to dye his hair, or wear contacts, or both. He doesn't want to do that. The man he sees in the mirror is already less and less familiar as the days go by. His beauty remains, but the heat he once recognized in his own eyes is fading, replaced by a haunted, distant coldness. Just a month ago, he had been so sure of everything. Now he is a lost shepherd with no flock and no lodestar for guidance.
A shepherd who will be captured and shipped away like livestock to wherever he is most useful the moment he shows his face in public. Living on the run like this has been terrifying, agitating, and exciting all at once, but in a jarringly discontinuous way that he doubts he'll ever get used to.
Sunday shifts his fork through the rice, turning vegetables over as if searching for something edible. He realizes he is ruminating and has been for some time. He looks up again.]
...I do not mind staying. I'm sure you would enjoy some time to yourself, and you no doubt have personal matters to attend to. I admit, I am usually very particular about my bedding... [It has to be the exact right texture, the exact right amount of softness] But maybe it will be good for me to learn how to make myself comfortable in...less ideal conditions.
[ Sunday seems a million miles away. Aventurine watches a moment, then turns his attention to his dinner. With no one to perform for and an almost nauseating hunger knotting his stomach, he digs into his dinner like a man unaccustomed to the luxury of enjoying his food. Quiet, methodical, he works through his meal. The bowl is more than half empty by the time Sunday finally finishes his thought.
This bird wants a cage so badly. Freedom feels wasted on him. As are those enoki mushrooms, if he doesn't eat them soon. Aventurine tries not to look at the bowl, meeting Sunday's sunset eyes, instead. ]
Whatever you want. [ He gives a slight nod. ] But you're never going to find that paradise of yours standing still. And it's actually a good idea to steal comfort where you can when you find yourself in... "less ideal conditions." I'm offering, Mister Sunday. If you're particular, don't let me buy you something you'll hate. [ His grin returns, crooked. ] We hardly need another petty reason to dislike each other.
I do not dislike you, Mister Aventurine. [Sunday says into his bowl. The gambler relies too much on fate and is terribly impulsive. Watching him work is like waiting for a bomb to explode at an uncertain time. It is stressful, yet Sunday cannot deny that there is beauty in the destruction Aventurine causes. Somehow, it never fans out and engulfs everything the way Sunday worries it will. The destruction is elegantly directed.
How much of the gambler's antics is impulsivity, and how much is calculated? He isn't sure. That, too, makes him anxious. Yet it is also intriguing.
He looks up again and gestures loosely at Aventurine with his fork.]
If you are certain I won't be a bother, then I'll accompany you. I admit I am curious what an IPC flagship is like.
[ Not that Aventurine has ever been one to take words at face value, but that statement near beggars belief. Then again, lacking in manipulative finesse though he may be, Sunday seems more the type to lie by omission than blatantly to someone's face. (And then spend hours in sacrosanct agony begging forgiveness for such a sin. Aventurine can almost imagine Sunday bent in prayer, self-flagellating to punish the body for the irreverence of a lie. He doesn't, though.) If he truly doesn't loathe him, if this is not sugarcoating, then it certainly paints darker lines around the shape of Mister Stick-in-the-Mud's odd moral code.
Aventurine busies himself with a mouthful of food to delay a proper response. He needs to reconsider the looming thing that is the former Bronze Melodia in his mind. Though no less monstrous, it is... smaller. More digestible. Easier to navigate.
He swallows, chuckles behind his hand. ]
This is Lushaka, Mister Sunday. It won't be like the starships that orbit Pier Point. [ His eyes narrow, but there is nothing mean in them. It's almost excitement. ] I think you're in for a treat.
[ He takes one more bite, cleaning his bowl, not bothering to finish chewing before he scolds. ]
Eat, would you? [ Aventurine turns to wash his own bowl in the kitchen's tiny sink. ] I should show you what will be your quarters.
[Sunday blinks slowly, then looks down at his bowl of still untouched food. He pokes the fork back in, spears a couple vegetables, then delicately slips them between his lips. The flavor isn't what he expected. It's blander than he would assume Aventurine's cooking to be... But after weeks on the run and nearly dying multiple times, bland is what he needs. He takes a few more bites, then rests the fork against the lip of the bowl and lifts a hand to hide his mouth as he chews.]
Am I not sleeping in the cargo bay, then?
[He asks as he bustles past Aventurine to place his unfinished bowl of food on the counter. His gut wants him to empty it, but his still frayed nerves make his chest and throat too tight to eat anymore. The sight of leftover food makes him feel guilty. His wings twitch and he frowns.]
I would be out of your way there. [Then a memory slowly knits itself back together in the depths of his mind.] Oh, right. You had mentioned something about a walk-in closet. [Right before jokingly offering his bed. Sunday had nearly forgotten about the offer in the bewildering tension following that joke.]
[ Aventurine's eyes settle on the bowl again, barely touched. Do you always eat like a bird? he nearly asks, but he can also hazard a guess at how Sunday's nerves and muscles are currently convening with the rest of him. Except for a brief, forgettable thrill, there's absolutely nothing to be gained from being that catty to someone who seems to be operating on a thirty second delay.
A sigh breathed through his nose steadies him, and he lifts his gaze to Sunday's face once more with a look somewhere between impatient disbelief and sympathy. ]
No, you're not sleeping in the cargo bay. It's inhumane, first of all.
[ He sets his own bowl aside to dry, lids Sunday's with a square of colorful waxed fabric, and stores it back in the little refrigerator. A stirfry for lunch tomorrow, maybe, if the bird doesn't get hungry before then. ]
If we're somehow caught or inspected by Family sympathizers, the cargo bay puts you and all proof of your existence right there at the front door. [ Aventurine steps back out into the hall, stopping a few paces away, before a wall panel not decorated by draped fabrics. A screen on the surface reports on local times and weather for several saved locations. ] If there's turbulence or worse, it's the least safe room on the ship. But this-
[ He slides his foot forward into a hidden slot at the base of the panel, then presses palm to screen until he hears a click. Then, with a light kick, the panel accordions up, revealing a series of thick black cables behind. These, too, prove false, easily shoved up into a recess above them once another locking mechanism is released by hand. All of it manual, none of the smooth, modern electronics the IPC usually provides.
What is left is a short, steep stairwell -- halfway to a ladder, really -- into a room below. ]
-is out of the way. You can open it or lock it from the inside. Multiple exits in case of emergencies. And most importantly, it's private, it's warm, and it's quiet.
[ Aventurine turns to face Sunday, then quickly remembers at a glance not to expect him to be impressed with any of this at the moment. He's certain he will have to go over how to open the door up at least once more before they get a bed down there. ]
Do you want to have a look now, or...?
[ He would not be surprised if Sunday's preference was to sit alone in the kitchen in the dark for a while, at this point. ]
[Sunday wants to slink back into the bathroom, draw a warm bath, and soak in it until he feels his wits return to him. That would be rude, however. He's already showered, and using up any more hot water would be a waste. So he tries to steady his nerves, to self-soothe by focusing on the moment.
He is here, on an IPC ship, and Aventurine is the reason why. Why Aventurine is bothering to care for him, he doesn't know. There is so much he still doesn't know. With so little information, he has no control over his circumstances. Sunday, former Head of the Oak Family, is unmoored from himself and drifting into the darkness. There is no certainty that he will ever again see light or ever again grasp anything solid.
Focusing on the moment is not soothing him.
He blows out a low breath and looks around at the frame of the hidden door. If he wants to be protected, a secret room would be the ideal place for him to sleep. It would also be the ideal place to hold him prisoner. IPC agents, Family Heads, and Geniuses could come and go from the vessel and never know about the Halovian chained in its belly. Only a tuner, one stronger than Sunday himself, would ever sense his presence...
If he is trapped in the darkness, he will be at Aventurine's mercy. The Stoneheart can do with him as he pleases... Torture, most likely. Sunday's wings curl forward against his cheeks as he peers down the stairwell.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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Of course I am.
[But the gambler doesn't understand. He could never understand the immense burden Sunday had carried when he invoked the Harmony's consecration.
With a sigh, Sunday slips into the cramped shuttle. The tight space doesn't bother him, not after so much time spent in a confessional, but the sheer black is strangely oppressive. This must be the IPC's idea of modern stylishness, very different from the whimsical architecture of Penacony.
Once he is fully seated, he leans forward to address Aventurine.]
I am agreeing to accompany you, Mister Aventurine, but please do not speak to me that way. [While his voice is mostly light, there is a steely edge to it.] I'm sure I must be a burden to you, but I am not the one who assigned you whatever job this is. So don't take your frustrations out on me.
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Do you remember how you smiled? That smug little grin on your face when you invoked an Aeon you don't even worship and branded me, I mean. You liked it, didn't you? Punishing me for my arrogance. A death sentence wasn't enough. But dragging me back through... famine and fire and war because I wronged you? Oh, that did it, didn't it? Justice undeniably served.
[ Aventurine takes a breath, voice calm, musing over their past interactions as though he does not ruminate over them daily, as though they do not figure prominently into his restless, horrifying nightmares, bleeding into Nihility's ocean. Outside, the Hounds close in around the shuttle. ]
I don't carry Harmony's brand, anymore, Mister Sunday, but I do carry your smile still. And I am here because of you. So, I don't think my "frustrations" are misplaced.
[ One of the Hounds, a broad-shouldered man, crouches down as though about to reach into the shuttle. Aventurine turns, sitting forward once again, flicks a switch on the shuttle dash and the doors snap shut soundlessly. Another button press, a tilt of the controls, and the shuttle rockets skyward, zipping past other vessels to leave Penacony's cloud of memoria, bound for Aventurine's private ship. ]
But, sure. We can keep it professional from here on out.
[ With any luck at all it won't be much longer. If he plays his cards right, the albatross will board the train and he can go back to just being at the bottom of Diamond's naughty list. ]
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You had come to purchase my paradise from under me when I was so close to ascension, were you not? [Which is not something he'd been told, but something he'd figured out. The timing of Aventurine's arrival and his movements afterward had suggested something untrustworthy about him. Sunday suspected the IPC was using their ambassador as a means of destabilizing Penacony and having an excuse to retake it. He hasn't spent much time outside his home, but he knows how corporations operate and what greed motivates them to do.]
Using you to investigate my sister's murder seemed like the best option. It would solve two problems at once. And when you approached me, your confident swagger disgusted me. We hadn't yet spoken, and you already considered yourself the victor. So... yes, I enjoyed it. I enjoyed watching you experience humility. It was justice...
[But the way Aventurine talks about it sounds wrong. As if Sunday had bored into his mind, dragged his memories to the surface, then threw them about like unwanted refuse. Sunday doesn't remember doing any of that. All he remembers is a desperate gambler giving away his gems, then making his way to the Grand Theater.]
Your noisome flailing scattered the Hounds directly into my grasp and they were the ones I was truly after.
[Guilt knots his chest when he hears himself say those words. The Hounds were the true cause of his pain and frustration. Aventurine had been a convenient pawn, that was all. One that had been damaged in the midst of the game, and he'd never noticed. He reaches out and grasps Aventurine's shoulder.]
You were intended to undergo a trial. At the end, I was to decide whether you could coalesce into the Harmony or perish. I wanted you to face my judgment, yes, but it was not my intention to harm you. I am sorry that happened.
[A gentle squeeze, then he sits back and watches his home spiral away into the distance outside the shuttle window.]
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Even with Mythus and the Fools directing separate shows, the Oak Family and Sunday singing songs distinct from each other and the Harmony, even with layers upon layers of betrayal woven into every tale, every part had been played to perfection. Each actor in their role, using others to meet their specific goals. Aventurine perhaps more than most -- though he had, it seems, been well used in return.
He thinks again that perhaps he'd deserved the brand and the punishment that followed. Diamond binding him anew was both further deserved punishment and not enough. No matter how he hates it, hates this, he feels neither cleansed nor uplifted by experience. Nothing makes his survival feel earned. And yet he still wakes at night in a cold sweat, terrorized by the idea that what little of him remains might sublimate as he sleeps, destroyed or consumed by Harmony's whole. To know that his bespoke torment is the one thing Sunday had not conducted himself -- why, then? Had there been a reason for it? A purpose in it at all?
Lights streak by. Penacony shrinks into a glittering cloud, ahead only the sea of stars waits. Faster, faster, past ships meant for travel in deep space, into the dark. He and Ena's fallen prince, another cast off of the machinations of gods. He hates having anything in common with the albatross. Hates his stupid non-apology. The quiet music of his voice compared to what he recalls in his dreams. That he has the capacity to be so gentle, so warm, when what he'd done had been so relentlessly cruel.
The dash beeps. A red light flickers. ]
Damn. [ Aventurine banks the shuttle just in time to catch the tail lights on the express glowing red. As his mouth opens to protest, the train stretches into a long line of light, blinking away for parts unknown, silver trail left in its wake. ] Damn!
[ He fights the urge to sit in stunned silence and steers the shuttle back toward his own ship, one modest silver-white vessel idling among many others within Penacony's orbit. A few more button presses, a hangar opens on the vessel, and the shuttle docks with ease. Aventurine pulls out his phone and begins typing furiously; he needs to know where the Express is going, what their current options are.
While he waits for the shuttle doors to open, he turns in his seat again, fixing himself up with some of that confident swagger that Sunday evidently despises. ]
Looks like we're both stuck in purgatory a bit longer, Mister Sunday. Don't worry. I'm sure we'll both land on our feet.
[ Finally, the shuttle opens. Beyond its doors is a small, brightly lit cargo bay, all cream with patterned turquoise accents, neatly organized boxes on stacked and labeled, all of it considerably warmer than the ominous red and black of the shuttle.
With a bit more urgency than he means to show, he climbs out of the shuttle. ]
But we really shouldn't linger in Asdana. So, where to? Washtopia?
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Sunday's wings flutter as he processes what just happened: From the Family, to the IPC, to the Nameless, and back to the IPC again. It feels like every faction in the cosmos is battling for his destiny in the wake of his fall, though the Nameless don't seem to know they are part of that conversation. And that's the problem.
He sits back, silently, resigned to his fate until the shuttle comes to its final stop and opens its doors. Aventurine nearly scrambles out into the bright cargo bay beyond, but Sunday remains seated with a dour expression.]
You are assuming the Nameless will agree to take me with them. [He says without looking up.] What if they don't?
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[ He makes it sound like a mild inconvenience, a personal oopsie-daisy that can be amended later. Better, that way.
A few taps on the screen, and it fills with hundreds of notifications. News alerts about a dozen different things, all the work emails he'd forwarded once things on Penacony got hairy, and notifications from people who have not earned his direct line. The Doctors of Chaos seem to have picked up on those dips of his toward hopelessness, judging by the number of automated emails from them. He wrinkles his nose. ]
So, you've got a few options, and I am not allowed to pick for you, since that wouldn't be in keeping with Madam Jade's little agreement.
[ He slides out of his coat, folds it neatly over his arm, and then turns to lean against the wall of his ship, arms crossed over his chest. ]
Herta Station, option one. You are still under the thumb of the IPC, but Miss Asta, the administrator there, she's a fun time. Best case scenario, you get to plug away helping others with research into Memoria until we can negotiate a meeting with the Nameless. Unlikely, but still possible, Madam Herta herself takes an interest in you, and I'm not fool enough to wager what happens then.
[ He lifts the hand not draped in his heavy jacket, ticking two fingers up. ]
Speaking of fools, you could chase Elation. You're a small enough pawn now that it's probably funnier to THEM if you're kept away from the Family. Honestly? That'd be my choice- [ It wouldn't, but he's still stuck in play-acting. ] -but it doesn't seem your style.
[ Another finger ticks up. ] Enroll you under a pseudonym at the Intelligentsia Guild. [ A fourth. ] A remote planet, far from the Family's reach. I set you up with enough to get a shuttle and you go. [ And the thumb. ] That red-haired Knight of Beauty will take you if you say anything that sounds remotely like you might pledge yourself to Idrila. But I think you'd go insane, personally.
[ Aventurine settles his arm down again, tips his chin up and stares at the ceiling of his ship. (His ship. He's so close to his bath and his bed he can almost taste it, even with what must be a hundred angry emails and a censure waiting for him in his inbox.) He sighs, shoulders visibly relaxing without the feathered coat collar there to obscure the tension. ]
Stellaron Hunters. Not sure they'd take you. If they did, you'd be roped into their little "script", made a tool of fate. IPC itself, might as well give you to the Family. [ An agonizing pause. A heavy sigh. ] Or... you... stay with me. We stay moving, because I know I can keep you... out of their hands. Or, hey! Maybe we'll kill each other, problem solved!
[ Every reasonable possibility and a few not-so-reasonable options accounted for in his plan. Percentages, likelihoods, interpersonal relationships and obstacles all reduced down to a bullet list, like a presentation. Of Stratagems, indeed. ]
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This is all too much. Too much happening at once, and too much information to process when his heart is racing, and his mind is burning. Aventurine lists potential destinations, and Sunday has to struggle to pay attention.]
My wish is still to create a paradise. [He says, still staring at the screen. Out of the options Aventurine mentions, the Space Station might be the best. From there, he can stow away on another vessel. But then what? He cannot spend the rest of his life on the run. Eventually, he needs to find a safe place where he can mend his broken wings, then take flight again.
After a few long moments, he finally looks over at Aventurine.] A lot has happened today. Will you at least give me time to think about this?
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[ Between the incredulous snort of laughter and the half-growled tone, there's no hiding Aventurine's disdain for that particular idea -- particularly when it's brewed in the mind of a man who thinks free will is a shortcoming.
Now, he could press for an answer. First instinct, best instinct, in his experience, and there's a good chance the first pick would be, "Away from here. Away from you." That would work out best for both of them, probably. Or at least for the migraine incubating behind Aventurine's right eye.
He doesn't, though. Just stands there, leaning and staring, thinking in silence, mouth a thin line halfway to a smile. With their first choice recipient unavailable at the moment, he supposes it'd be reasonable to delay their next step for a few system hours. It'd get his bosses off his back, probably; delay a passive aggressive meeting that could've been an email. And, either way, they can't hang out on the edge of Penacony like this, well within the reach of Bloodhounds and Alfalfas and Irises.
And Sunday does look a little haggard -- as haggard as one who is always so close to physical perfection can, at least. Looking at him, Aventurine's stomach pits, thoughts bouncing across each time he'd been yanked from all he'd known, forced to both make a decision and live with the consequences.
He sighs, shoves himself away from the wall, turns and heads deeper into the ship. Before he speaks, he reminds himself that this is about catching more flies with honey than anything else. ]
Sure. As long as you don't try to Tune me, kill me, or lecture me about my sinful lifestyle, take your time. Grab a bite, take a nap, a shower. [ He throws his arms out in an animated shrug. ] Make yourself at home!
[ Beyond the cargo bay is a single short, narrow hall, between sets of sliding doors, the walls are draped artfully with pretty, patterned fabrics, all thick soft textures and jewel-toned colors. A lttle tacky, maybe, but it makes the space bright and muffles the persistent hum of a modern spacecraft.
Aventurine, himself, is bound for the cockpit, already thinking of places to hide temporarily. There's little chance of Sunday doing anything too ridiculous in the meantime, he is fairly certain. Especially so, after watching him wind himself in a short sprint around the hotel. ]
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Kill you? [A breath halfway between a gasp of incredulity and a laugh.] You have a very strange impression of me, Mister Aventurine.
[It's something he should address, he decides, but not now, not when his flight from Penacony has left him too frayed to think. Every moment since Aventurine found him in the Golden Hour has moved too quickly for him. The rest of his reluctant companion's brazen, half-hearted welcome even takes a few seconds to fully land. Though one word stands out, bigger and brighter and more important than the others. Shower.]
Well, now that you mention it... If you do not mind me using your facilities, I would appreciate a chance to bathe. [He hasn't washed his physical body since he was freed from his cell.] Sleep would be appreciated, as well. My time spent in the dream was... far from restful. Maybe by the time I wake, I will have your answer.
[He stands firm, shoulders squared, one hand held against the small of his back, trying not to look as tired as he feels.]
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He's felt that way more than once, and probably would've pledged loyalty to someone offering a no strings attached bath and bed.
Sunday cannot see it with the gambler's back to him, but Aventurine's expression softens. ]
Yeah. Of course. Like I said. Make yourself at home.
[ A few more steps and then he comes to a sharp stop, turning toward a sliding door that opens with a wave of his hand.
Inside is a bathroom, sparkling clean and sparsely decorated. Aside from the standard facilities, a lavishly large tub and separate shower take up most of the far wall of the room. Another hand gesture and a side panel opens, revealing plush turquoise towels and a mind boggling array of soaps, shampoos, lotions, and serums, both rare and expensive and (judging by the bright pink cartoon cat made of bubbles on one bottle) absolutely not. ]
Take your pick. This one- [ He selects a glass bottle that looks a bit like a dragon's egg, green and scalloped and shimmering, uncaps it and sniffs. Clean, warm, all mellow spices, not too overpowering. He sets it back on the shelf, then scoots out of the way. ] -you might find inoffensive.
As for sleep... My quarters are across the way. [ He points a thumb at the opposite door. ] You can use my bed. I'll set out some things for you to wear, since I'd prefer nothing that came in contact with centuries' old mortar and dust meet my sheets.
[ If he had any shame, he might be embarrassed at how easily he slips into service mode for a man who'd condemned him to death. If anything, though, it's easier, turning his brain off and just being the corporate cog, schmoozing a
n annoyingly attractiveclient for his employers. ]Alright, Mister Sunday?
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What captures his attention is the bathroom. He stares into it as his reluctant host continues talking, unaware that Sunday is no longer listening. The bathroom sparkles enough to be a facility from the Dewlight Pavilion, which makes him feel more at ease about using it.]
Alright, Mister Aventurine.
[His demeanor is weary and not entirely friendly as he walks into the bathroom, closes the door with a wave of his hand, and starts to disrobe. Every garment is folded neatly and placed in the corner before he steps into the shower. As he tips his head into the water, he feels the dull fog of confusion wash away, leaving his options lined up before him with clarity. If he is dropped off somewhere, he will remain there, possibly until the end of his life. The Intelligentsia Guild, The Geniuses, the Stellaron Hunters, the Fools of Elation, and the Knights of Beauty are all factions that he has heard of, but they were so distant from the internal politics of Penacony that they were abstractions bordering on mythology. He doesn't know enough about any of them to know how to survive among them, let alone survive long enough to escape and continue his mission of building Paradise.
Any save one. Aventurine, he knows. He'd studied the man intensely before their first meeting. Aventurine is a gambler, but a sly and cautious one. He could keep Sunday out of the Family's hands long enough for him to get his bearings.
It's decided, then.
After his shower, he wraps himself in a towel (the softest he can find) and walks into the bedroom. It is more spartan than he expects it to be. The bed is luxurious, but there are no gold trimmings or velvet cushions. There are still jade, or aventurine, colored sheets. He has to appreciate the Stoneheart's devotion to aesthetics.
He slips out of the towel and into the offered clothes, then crawls beneath the sheets, careful not leave any wrinkles in the fabric. Sleeping in another man's bed makes him uncomfortable, but he doesn't have long to think about it before exhaustion carries him away into a deep, dreamless slumber. He sleeps for longer than he intends to, a few hours at least, but wakes up feeling more refreshed than he's been since his fall. After he slides from the bed, he turns and gently tugs the blanket up to the pillow. It looks crooked, so he soothes his still worried mind by making the bed up perfectly; sheets smooth and straight, pillows fluffed and inviting.
With one final glance back at the bed to be sure of his work, he creeps into the bathroom, gets dressed, and takes time preening his feathers until the vanes shine silver in the light. Once he's made sure he's as pristine as he can be in his uncoordinated outfit, he walks out to find Aventurine.
He is standing tall, wings and hair fully brushed, eyes the color of a sunrise, clothes hanging from his body in a perfect, orderly way. When addressing a host, it is important to be presentable.]
I've made my decision. [His voice is clear and firm.] I choose to stay with you.
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Sunday finds him spilled into the pilot's seat in the cockpit, a tight but still walkable space silvered by light from multiple holographic screens. Starlight streaks by in the windows beyond, pencil thin lines of white and yellow and red. The vessel is moving at warp toward a new destination.
It takes Aventurine a few seconds to collect himself, stirring from his own restless not-quite-sleep. Still-gloved fingers card through his hair, then massage the spot above his eye as he compute's Sunday's decision. When he finally turns to face Sunday, he is wearing a charmingly boyish grin, the only mask he can think to put on that will cover the dread creeping up from low in his stomach. It nearly slips at the sight of him, all cleaned up and flawless again, far too close to the Bronze Melodia for his liking. ]
You're joking.
[ He's not, Aventurine knows. And it's his own fault for even presenting himself as an option. Sunday would never accept the comfort of insignificance at a station or academy, the mediocrity of IPC middle management. No, it's his sweet, foolish paradise or nothing.
Annoying as it is, there's value here to be extracted. A dream as silly as "a paradise where everyone is happy" is an easy enough weakness to exploit. And as long as he is Mister Stick-in-the-Mud's escort, Aventurine gains leverage against his own employers; freedom to move as he pleases, so long as it is not into Harmony, Destruction, or Nihility. If he plays his cards right, Diamond may even be pleased with this turn of events. And when Diamond's happy, well, everyone's happy, right? He can almost feel the choke collar going slack. ]
Alright!
[ A shrug, then he pushes past, refusing to look at Sunday long or give him the chance to glimpse how tired, how aching, how rattled he feels, and makes his way to his ship's modest kitchen. ]
Well, we're bound for Lushaka. According to my superiors, that was one of the Express's possible destinations. [ It'd been one of the only useful bits of information he'd gotten in the sea of messages that have come his way since his path converged with Sunday's again. ] They vote on where they go, you know, together, as a family. I doubt they'll be there, but it's a safe place to pause while we get our bearings. Hungry?
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He turns and follows along into the kitchen.]
I'm fine. Thank you.
[Actually, he is starving to the point of feeling light-headed, but he doesn't want to be any more of a burden.]
Mister Aventurine, if I am staying, we should make a few arrangements, yes? Sharing the facilities is...regrettably unavoidable. But I will need a place of my own to sleep. I do not mind the cargo hold, if you have any blankets to spare. [The thought alone hurts his back and shoulders, but he is a fugitive now. His days of sleeping in fine silks are behind him. One way or another, he has to get used to making himself comfortable where he can.]
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Aventurine, too tired to put too much effort into a meal but too finicky to settle for snack food, auto-pilots to washing rice. ]
Oh, so you don't want to share a bed with me? How disappointing. We could keep each other warm.
[ Though he keeps his back to Sunday as he works, his grin slips through in his voice. He slides the rice maker pot into place and then turns his attention to the kitchen's little freezer, enjoying the way the air seems so much denser when he ruffles the former Bronze Melodia's feathers. ]
You're not a prisoner, Mister Sunday. On Lushaka, we can get you a real bed. I can't promise anything opulent, but there is a... [ Smuggler's compartment. ] ...well, it's sort of a walk-in closet. Less cold and more private than the cargo bay. [ He opens the freezer. Pauses. Smiles, cat-like. ] Although, my bed is always open.
[ It's just too entertaining, being a bit of a shit. Especially when it's a joke he is certain cannot possibly come back to bite him. Aventurine retrieves two servings of frozen meat and veggies he'd prepared in his downtime after the Doctors of Chaos had let him return to partial duties at work. He turns to look at Sunday now, finally, a butter-wouldn't-melt look on his face. ]
You don't have any dietary restrictions, do you? Vegetarian? Vegan?
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[Sunday shifts his feet together.
My bed is always open...
He's sure it's intended as harmless, playful ribaldry, but it's a joke he's heard many times before. Too many times before.
The people of Penacony gossip, women among their friends, men wherever there are ears to hear. It didn't take long for a game to rise like a grotesque beast out of the seedier bars and taverns in The Moment of Scorchsand. Within the sweet dream, it was possible to manifest as one's ideal self. The game was to learn what people looked like in the waking world, and use that to determine who was worthy of seduction. Wealthy women's names were past around often, but not as often as Sunday's. "The Bronze Melodia is as beautiful outside as he is here in the dream. If not more so. He would be the perfect prize."
Mostly, it stuck to gossip. A few bolder individuals still approached him, however, and tried to talk him into their beds. They always opened with a bawdy joke that he suspects were only ever half-jokes.
My bed is always open...
If it is only half a joke, then certain parts of the last several hours make more sense.
He's silent for a long moment, then...
He laughs. The soft musical sound bubbles from his throat before he can stop it, so he stifles what little of it he can with his gloved fingertips.]
Aheheheh! I've been such a fool.
Well, I suppose I should congratulate you. Not many get as far as you have.
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Well, that's not the response I expected.
[ That gamely bend is there in his voice, though his astonishment is also plain. he also turns abruptly, dumping the contents of both glass containers into his rice cooker hastily and poking them into place with a wooden spoon. In silence, he fiddles a bit more, pouring this sauce, adding that powder, pressing buttons on the machine. For a few seconds, the only sound are the admittedly chipper chirps of the cooker.
Looks like he's overplayed his hand. Again. Severely. Were it nearly anyone else in the IPC's systems, he might've made a game of it -- sexy chicken or something. And he would eventually, inevitably, end up in over his head, doing something meaningless with someone he keeps at arm's length and then never speaks to again. But this is not nearly anyone else. This is one of the monsters that lurks beneath Kakavasha's bed. He is not about to bring it between the sheets with him.
He closes the rice cooker lid a bit too hard, presses start, and turns to lean against the counter, his arms crossed. As their dinner cooks behind him -- nevermind that Sunday said he wasn't hungry -- he levels his gaze at the former Bronze Melodia. It is not often that he drops his smile, but he does, here and now. His nervous fingers busy themselves with the wooden spoon. ]
I don't actually know what you mean, but, just to be clear, that was a joke. While you're traveling with me, you are not to enter my quarters unless I invite you. The rest of the ship? Sure. Explore to your heart's content. You aren't a prisoner here, Mister Sunday, like I said. But... [ Aventurine pauses. His gaze falls. For the first time in longer than he can remember, he finds he struggles to string his next words together. ] You and I are not friends. And I...
[ He can't quite finish that sentence, but thankfully, the rice cooker chimes a sweet little song. Abruptly, he stops and turns, fiddles with kitchen shears, bowls, and spoons, prepping the contents of the cooker -- seasoned rice, veggies, poultry, mushrooms -- and doling it out in two bowls. When he turns again, it's only to offer one of the two bowls out to his new traveling companion. ]
You're going to be a pain if you starve yourself.
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I was about to reject you. I-- [A brief moment of hesitation, then he pushes forward with words that feel uncomfortable to say. They urgently rush out, as if he were ripping off a bandage.] --have no intention of sleeping with you, Mister Aventurine. Ever.
[Sunday folds his arms over his chest, pained humor still shining in his eyes.]
I know it was a joke.
[He says evenly.]
However, you must understand that half the time people say such things...
[Now it is his turn to leave a sentence hanging. There is little point in finishing it. He doesn't want to sound like a victim. Nothing ever came of Penacony's raunchy humor, anyway. He'd been harassed, touched without his permission, grabbed at by strangers... All unpleasant, but there are worse things that can happen to people. Many of them have happened to Aventurine. No man who can claim to be the last of his people in the wake of genocide has a simple life.
Sunday's wings twitch back against his shoulders.]
Ugh.
Please do not say things like that to me in the future. [His arms uncross to accept the bowl. Now that he smells the food, he can feel his stomach aching from its emptiness.] I will do my best to be useful where I can. Other than that, I promise it will be as though I am not here. Don't worry.
[Better for both of them, he thinks, if they can time their coming and going around the ship so that they never encounter each other.]
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Powerful men tend to have things they're weird about. Sex is, in Aventurine's experience, usually in the number one slot, though not in this particular style. Still, it's not that surprising that Sunday, a once powerful man, would have such a visceral reaction to the idea of sleeping with a slimy gambler, he supposes. What's odd is how awkwardness seems woven through him, like ligaments between muscle and bone. Juxtaposed against the hungry smile Aventurine cannot forget despite weeks of trying, it simply does not sit right.
Perhaps Sunday is just traumatized.
Well, it's nice to know where he stands, at least. Mutual, polite loathing works for him. Terrible monster, meet disgusting bug. Make it work. ]
I understand, Mister Sunday. [ He does. Mother Goddess, he understands being meat, being a commodity. The weight of that comprehension makes his voice gentle. ] My apologies, I won't joke again.
[ That much is undeniably sincere.
Almost easier, being able to be nothing at all to someone. No performance, no forced niceties, no effort spent to make close quarters work. Just meeting the low bar of respect due until they can figure out where that damned space train went. He almost feels... lighter for it, though it's the kind of lighter that earns an automated email from the Doctors of Chaos, he's sure. ]
We'll reach Lushaka in three hours. I plan on docking us at an IPC-affiliated flagship where people won't ask too many questions. Once we're there, I'll put feelers out for news about the Nameless. [ He starts to poke at his bowl, then stops, glances up. ] You can tag along, if you'd like, or stay here and leave shopping for bedding to me.
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It would be more practical for me to remain here. [He says, after a silent minute has passed.
People on an IPC flagship are doubtlessly aware enough of galactic news to identify the wayward scion of the Oak Family. Even when disguised, he tends to stand out. To blend in with a crowd, he would have to dye his hair, or wear contacts, or both. He doesn't want to do that. The man he sees in the mirror is already less and less familiar as the days go by. His beauty remains, but the heat he once recognized in his own eyes is fading, replaced by a haunted, distant coldness. Just a month ago, he had been so sure of everything. Now he is a lost shepherd with no flock and no lodestar for guidance.
A shepherd who will be captured and shipped away like livestock to wherever he is most useful the moment he shows his face in public. Living on the run like this has been terrifying, agitating, and exciting all at once, but in a jarringly discontinuous way that he doubts he'll ever get used to.
Sunday shifts his fork through the rice, turning vegetables over as if searching for something edible. He realizes he is ruminating and has been for some time. He looks up again.]
...I do not mind staying. I'm sure you would enjoy some time to yourself, and you no doubt have personal matters to attend to. I admit, I am usually very particular about my bedding... [It has to be the exact right texture, the exact right amount of softness] But maybe it will be good for me to learn how to make myself comfortable in...less ideal conditions.
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This bird wants a cage so badly. Freedom feels wasted on him. As are those enoki mushrooms, if he doesn't eat them soon. Aventurine tries not to look at the bowl, meeting Sunday's sunset eyes, instead. ]
Whatever you want. [ He gives a slight nod. ] But you're never going to find that paradise of yours standing still. And it's actually a good idea to steal comfort where you can when you find yourself in... "less ideal conditions." I'm offering, Mister Sunday. If you're particular, don't let me buy you something you'll hate. [ His grin returns, crooked. ] We hardly need another petty reason to dislike each other.
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How much of the gambler's antics is impulsivity, and how much is calculated? He isn't sure. That, too, makes him anxious. Yet it is also intriguing.
He looks up again and gestures loosely at Aventurine with his fork.]
If you are certain I won't be a bother, then I'll accompany you. I admit I am curious what an IPC flagship is like.
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Aventurine busies himself with a mouthful of food to delay a proper response. He needs to reconsider the looming thing that is the former Bronze Melodia in his mind. Though no less monstrous, it is... smaller. More digestible. Easier to navigate.
He swallows, chuckles behind his hand. ]
This is Lushaka, Mister Sunday. It won't be like the starships that orbit Pier Point. [ His eyes narrow, but there is nothing mean in them. It's almost excitement. ] I think you're in for a treat.
[ He takes one more bite, cleaning his bowl, not bothering to finish chewing before he scolds. ]
Eat, would you? [ Aventurine turns to wash his own bowl in the kitchen's tiny sink. ] I should show you what will be your quarters.
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[Sunday blinks slowly, then looks down at his bowl of still untouched food. He pokes the fork back in, spears a couple vegetables, then delicately slips them between his lips. The flavor isn't what he expected. It's blander than he would assume Aventurine's cooking to be... But after weeks on the run and nearly dying multiple times, bland is what he needs. He takes a few more bites, then rests the fork against the lip of the bowl and lifts a hand to hide his mouth as he chews.]
Am I not sleeping in the cargo bay, then?
[He asks as he bustles past Aventurine to place his unfinished bowl of food on the counter. His gut wants him to empty it, but his still frayed nerves make his chest and throat too tight to eat anymore. The sight of leftover food makes him feel guilty. His wings twitch and he frowns.]
I would be out of your way there. [Then a memory slowly knits itself back together in the depths of his mind.] Oh, right. You had mentioned something about a walk-in closet. [Right before jokingly offering his bed. Sunday had nearly forgotten about the offer in the bewildering tension following that joke.]
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A sigh breathed through his nose steadies him, and he lifts his gaze to Sunday's face once more with a look somewhere between impatient disbelief and sympathy. ]
No, you're not sleeping in the cargo bay. It's inhumane, first of all.
[ He sets his own bowl aside to dry, lids Sunday's with a square of colorful waxed fabric, and stores it back in the little refrigerator. A stirfry for lunch tomorrow, maybe, if the bird doesn't get hungry before then. ]
If we're somehow caught or inspected by Family sympathizers, the cargo bay puts you and all proof of your existence right there at the front door. [ Aventurine steps back out into the hall, stopping a few paces away, before a wall panel not decorated by draped fabrics. A screen on the surface reports on local times and weather for several saved locations. ] If there's turbulence or worse, it's the least safe room on the ship. But this-
[ He slides his foot forward into a hidden slot at the base of the panel, then presses palm to screen until he hears a click. Then, with a light kick, the panel accordions up, revealing a series of thick black cables behind. These, too, prove false, easily shoved up into a recess above them once another locking mechanism is released by hand. All of it manual, none of the smooth, modern electronics the IPC usually provides.
What is left is a short, steep stairwell -- halfway to a ladder, really -- into a room below. ]
-is out of the way. You can open it or lock it from the inside. Multiple exits in case of emergencies. And most importantly, it's private, it's warm, and it's quiet.
[ Aventurine turns to face Sunday, then quickly remembers at a glance not to expect him to be impressed with any of this at the moment. He's certain he will have to go over how to open the door up at least once more before they get a bed down there. ]
Do you want to have a look now, or...?
[ He would not be surprised if Sunday's preference was to sit alone in the kitchen in the dark for a while, at this point. ]
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He is here, on an IPC ship, and Aventurine is the reason why. Why Aventurine is bothering to care for him, he doesn't know. There is so much he still doesn't know. With so little information, he has no control over his circumstances. Sunday, former Head of the Oak Family, is unmoored from himself and drifting into the darkness. There is no certainty that he will ever again see light or ever again grasp anything solid.
Focusing on the moment is not soothing him.
He blows out a low breath and looks around at the frame of the hidden door. If he wants to be protected, a secret room would be the ideal place for him to sleep. It would also be the ideal place to hold him prisoner. IPC agents, Family Heads, and Geniuses could come and go from the vessel and never know about the Halovian chained in its belly. Only a tuner, one stronger than Sunday himself, would ever sense his presence...
If he is trapped in the darkness, he will be at Aventurine's mercy. The Stoneheart can do with him as he pleases... Torture, most likely. Sunday's wings curl forward against his cheeks as he peers down the stairwell.]
Can the door be locked from the outside?
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cw: torture, guilt
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cw: yapping, Sunday's analogies
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cw: suicidal ideation
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cw: uh
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cw: suicidal ideation (sort of)
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not entirely worksafe
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nsfw a bit
also a tiny bit nsfw but also mostly just sad
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