[ 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.]
[ Well, at least he's cognizant enough to be cautious. That's good. If the man who'd managed to fool the Family and most of Penacony weren't at least that paranoid still, Aventurine might've worried. As it is, he can't even be mad that Sunday still seems to expect torture and betrayal. It'd be foolish to think otherwise, really. And if he were smart, he wouldn't do anything to disabuse Sunday of that notion.
He shrugs one shoulder. ]
If I jammed a crowbar into the cable facade while it was pulled down, maybe? But I'd rather not damage my own ship. That was an expensive off-the-books add-on.
[ He grasps the false cables again from the alcove where they've retracted, illustrating how they move up and down, telescoping into themselves. ]
So, no. You'll have two mechanical release buttons below at both entrances, one for the cables and one for the panel. There's also an... admittedly annoyingly convoluted hatch to the outside. And it's all analogue. Not electronic. So you won't be trapped if we lose power, either.
[ He gives the cables a shove, locking them into place once more, but uses them to hold his weight as he leans into Sunday's space, amusement playing across his features. ]
Kindly, Mister Sunday, I'm looking to get rid of you long-term, not keep you as my little secret.
Well, now it sounds like you intend to have me assassinated once we reach Lushaka.
[He folds his arms and defiantly glowers as Aventurine leans into his space. It is obvious that the Stoneheart intends to disturb him, and he refuses to give him the satisfaction of a single flinch. He steps in closer to Aventurine, lets his gaze linger on his kaleidoscopic eyes a moment longer, then looks back into the darkness.
The hidden compartment seems like a perfect hiding place, it's true. Yet he is not convinced that he will not be tortured. How will it happen, he wonders? Sensory deprivation would be easy enough. Seclusion. Aventurine could pipe music into the chamber to blast Sunday's senses with non-stop, discordant noise. Or, he might want to get his hands dirty with Halovian blood. Sunday's imagination, now flying into orbit without him, spins out a thousand gruesome scenarios of him being tormented in a lightless room. Torn, beaten, lacerated, wings tattered, feathers scattered... The images are so stark in his mind that his jaw tightens.
He cannot stop imagining it. Whenever he tries to think about something else, he fantasizes about Aventurine brutalizing his body. Between his dark thoughts and his insistence that he could live in a cargo bay, sleeping on crates, he begins to wonder if there is something seriously wrong with him.
Only his guilt, he reasons. The Sweet Dream Paradise had been a terrible mistake. In his attempt to create a world free from suffering, he caused suffering. He tried to prove himself righteous and failed, proving himself a sinner. And for this he should suffer. Hurt is what he deserves to feel. The world should be punishing him, yet he keeps getting second chances. It doesn't seem right. So, with nobody torturing him, he's torturing himself as a show of contrition. Now that he sees this, he sees it is ludicrous.
Sunday blows out a breath, and turns his head toward Aventurine.]
I do believe you won't harm me. So far, you have done nothing more than graciously offer me your hospitality. My apologies if it takes a while for me to accept it.
[Then, he looks back down the stairwell but his gaze is distant and unfocused now.]
[ There's something fun about the way he refuses to budge. Even with those wax wings of his melted, he aims to be a monolith. Staring into his eyes is unnerving, moreso for the turmoil that plays out so plainly in blue and gold, but Aventurine isn't about to lose a game of wills to the man who'd cheated to topple his before. ]
I wouldn't have you assassinated...
[ He leaves the second half of that statement open to the imagination as he releases the cable facade and climbs down into the smuggler's compartment. At the last rung of the step ladder, a warm golden light clicks on, illuminating the space. Backlit by it, Aventurine turns, knuckles pressed to his hips, and stares up at Sunday. ]
You're entitled to your caution, and I don't hold it against you. I would cling to it, if I were you. [ He angles his head, the wavy curtain of his bangs falling into his eyes. ] But believe me when I say I have no interest in rushing into conflict with you again.
[ That feels like perhaps too great an admission, so he turns and steps into the room proper, out of view, but leaving space for Sunday to climb down as well.
The room is, indeed, little more than an impressive walk-in closet, tall enough to stand upright in, and, empty as it is, room enough for the two of them to fit comfortably. The hum of the engine is almost inaudible -- the walls seem to have been soundproofed. Several hand-spun rugs, one of them a weave the color of Aventurine's eyes, are layered on the floor. It is all otherwise clean save a few old scuff marks in the exposed parts of the metal floor. The walls are lined with floor-to-ceiling shelves, nearly all of them empty, save a bundle of patterned fabrics neatly bound by twine and then wrapped in clear plastic for further protection. Aventurine fetches the bundle and tucks it under his arm.
He crouches, looking from floor to ceiling, measuring things up. ]
A twin bed will fit, I think. The frame can't be too opulent or it won't fit down here, but...hmm.
[ He likes the idea of decorating, gets a little distracted with it, then reminds himself that Sunday is a temporary addition. At the absolute most, it'll take a week or two to track down the Nameless and hand off the albatross. No reason to wade too far into the reeds.
So, he glances back toward the entrance, to Sunday. ]
[Sunday follows Aventurine into the darkness, his steps cautious and delicate as he climbs backwards down the steep steps.]
Forgive me. [He says bitterly as he takes the final step down to the floor.] It was not my intention to imply that you are incapable of slitting my throat yourself.
[Does Aventurine want to hurt him or not? He isn't sure. The dynamic between them is constantly shifting like a tide. Whenever he feels sure of where he stands, he turns and finds the beach has transformed beneath him, and Aventurine is still, somehow, always on a higher ground. Always has an advantage. Sunday's lack of control is unsettling. He needs to establish control.
Within the now well-lit room, the Stoneheart's expression is as infuriatingly inscrutable as ever. The threat, if it was indeed a threat, is forgotten in favor of excited chatter. Aventurine gestures around the small space as if giving a grand tour and peers from wall to ceiling to measure the room's size.
Sunday's wings twitch back against his shoulders.]
Better than the cargo bay.
[He echoes, not moving from the base of the steps.
He notices now that the sounds of the engine are muffled down here. The room is soundproof and used, he is certain, for illegal activities. Likely, nobody outside the room can hear what happens within it. If Aventurine somehow draws a pained scream from him, then--
Stop it.]
Mister Aventurine, I don't need a bed frame; the mattress alone will suffice. Neither of us wants me to be here long, right?
[ Sunday's snide return earns a genuine chuckle and a flicker of a smile that makes apples of Aventurine's cheeks. It shrinks just as soon as he realizes the joke was hardly made in good humor, which is near immediately. He's not sure why he'd expected otherwise. Not when Sunday looks to be struggling to decide whether he should fall to pieces and scatter across the floor or make like a black hole and collapse in on himself.
So, Aventurine stops himself from protesting the lack of bed frame, because Sunday is not wrong. It's a foolish investment, money wasted on a man who doesn't want to be here by a man who doesn't want him around, either. To push would be arguing for the sake of arguing, and wouldn't Aventurine rather spend his time doing literally anything else? ]
Yeah. Right. Well. If you change your mind, just say the word. [ A glance at his wristwatch tells him there's still more than an hour until Lushaka comes into view. He takes a step closer, but can't exactly escape the little room with Sunday still blocking the way. ] Now, I'd like to go take a bath.
[Sunday looks Aventurine over with a gaze usually reserved for six-legged things. Had that been a chuckle just now? Not a derisive laugh but genuine, warm, amusement?
The tide has shifted again, and again it is Sunday who is left on uncertain ground. He steps away from the ladder.]
[ There is no shock, no hurt to be found in being looked at like something strange and disgusting. It's too familiar, too mundane, to be anything but utterly ordinary. On reflex, Aventurine meets the look with a knowing, empty smile. Whatever spark of warmth he'd felt between the laughter and excitement of buying something new dies there in the tiny room, an alien feeling that hadn't belonged anyway.
What does surprise him and then promptly fills him with disgust, is the way he notices how tightly coiled every muscle in his body had been only after they all relax -- when Sunday moves out of the way, when he isn't trapped. ]
Distraction helps with the... racing thoughts, the memories. A repetitive task, exercise, or a simple puzzle game. Not reading. You want to turn your brain off. There's a tablet upstairs in the kitchen, nothing but match-3 games, block puzzles, things like that. If you want to give it a shot.
[ Aventurine bites down on the insides of his cheeks, jaw tightening. Pointless, every attempt at extending an olive branch when the wrinkles he's trying to smooth out are caused by a man who still terrifies him. He angles himself so as not to brush against his new traveling companion when moving by him, and leaves him behind without another word.
He selects a fresh change of clothes from his own room -- something more in line with the Stonehearts' standard uniform, though still flashy, accented in gold -- before heading into the bath. Aventurine is slow, methodical about how he undresses. One ring at a time, then each bracelet and bangle, organized on a side table. Gloves, shoes, socks. Start the water, hot enough to billow steam. Clothes, undergarments, into a laundry bin that folds flush into the wall.
Salt and soaps into the tub, all bright citrus-y scents. Aventurine thinks of nothing but the math of undressing, counting garments as he goes. He is careful not to glance at the mirror until it's fogged over. The scar where his skin had split, neck to navel, from the clash of the Emanator's blade against what remained of his cornerstone is mostly mended, but still red and healing. He doesn't care to look at it. Or the dozens of other burns and scars that mottle his chest, shoulders, back, and legs.
When he finally climbs in the tub, sinking into sudsy water, he is still for less than two minutes before he retrieves a tablet from the bath side table and busies himself with work. Emails and messages sent, calls made, all to track down the Nameless and ensure that the two of them are not immediately detained when they arrive in Lushaka. He even handles docking the ship from his tablet, and does not leave the tub until the ship is idled.
After a frankly excessive skincare routine, he dresses -- double, triple checks to make sure his clothes are neat, no scars are showing, and his hair is charmingly mussed -- and only then, when he is sure he looks effortless, does he leave the bathroom. He does not go looking for his companion, instead using one of the many electronic panels on the wall to deliver a message via intercom. ]
I'll be in the shuttle, Mister Sunday.
[ Aventurine adjusts his rings, his bangles, his wristwatch, and makes for the cargo bay. ]
[Sunday remains in the smuggler's chamber, not moving from where he stands by the ladder-like steps. Now that he is in solitude, the full weight of his situation has room to descend upon him once more. He is alone, his future uncertain; a bird with a broken wing spiraling downward to an unknown ground. Slowly, he sinks to the floor, gathers his knees to his chest, and begins to weep. The tears roll hotly down his cheeks, their warmth strangely soothing. His eyes flutter closed as he inwardly grieves a paradise that now may never be built.
Tears continue to come, each one a calming release of pressure from his heart, though never quite enough. Finally, he screams. His fingers clutch his legs until it hurts, and he screams, emptying his lungs of all the pain and uncertainty he can. Because there is no time for wallowing in pain now. He needs to sharpen that angony into an arrow and point it in a new direction. He is a fallen sun but, he reminds himself, suns rise again.
He stands and is heading up the ladder when he hears Aventurine's cloying voice over the intercom. His companion (or captor, he still isn't sure) will have to wait. He slips into the bathroom once more to straighten his clothes, brush his hair, and preen his feathers. Nobody should recognize him on the flagship, so the constant preening shouldn't be necessary, he knows. But it makes him feel better. A clean and presentable appearance is, at least, one thing he can control.
He doesn't leave Aventurine waiting long. When he walks into the cargo bay and ducks into the shuttle his stride is more proud and confident than it has been since his fall.]
Please forgive me if I am late. I do find punctuality important, but, well, I have been...out of sorts lately. [A maddening thing to confess, but it is also so overwhelmingly evident in his behavior that he doubts he even needed to mention it.]
[ As usual, Aventurine's busy fingers are moving, one hand drumming rhythmlessly against the shuttle controls as the other flicks through a holographic screen projected up from the center console. Emails, emails, and more emails. The Family has not made Sunday's escape public, at least -- they won't, he assumes, since to do so would be to create greater distrust in the general public. And Lady Jade has stepped in with one of her eloquent speeches about patience and long-term payoffs, blessedly taking some of the heat from HQ off of him, for now. It is not lost on him, though, that this will likely be another favor he owes her, and tries not to think of how it will come due down the line.
Sunday's appearance draws his attention. He swipes the screen away and turns in his seat to give the former Bronze Melodia a real look over. Too put together, too awake, to have spent the last hour and a half dissociating. Must've found the gaming tablet, then. Or had a good scream-cry. Been a while since Aventurine had one of those, himself.
He brings the mirrored sunglasses shoved up into his hair down over his eyes. ]
Don't worry about it.
[ With a few button presses, the shuttle doors close, the engine roars and the docking mechanisms disengage. In a soothing artificial voice, the ship announces that the cargo bay is opening, and within a few seconds, they are dropped into the void.
A glowing marble, sparkling blue swirled by white and gray clouds, immediately fills the front viewport, Lushaka. It grows larger when Aventurine tips the control forward. ]
Local time is just after noon where we're landing. Pleasant day. No rain. [ Thank goodness. ] Nothing in the news about you or Penacony...
[ There's more to say, but he waits, wanting to enjoy speeding through the clouds, toward endless blue water, as they enter the atmosphere. After a few more seconds silence, he starts up again. ]
My contacts say the Astral Express is... nowhere to be found, at the moment. Definitely not here, at least. Rumor is they might be laying a new stretch of rail. [ Aventurine glances at Sunday. ] That's huge, if so. It also means we don't know when they'll be available again, so while we wait, if you change your mind about that bed frame...
[ He doesn't mention that Welt Yang has a chip that can reach him instantly. That there is a reasonable chance that he, himself, might be the first to know where exactly they are. Instead, he tugs the controls toward him a little harder and the shuttle banks, slowing momentarily as its broad nose turns up and away from the water below before rocketing forward once more.
A dot on the horizon grows large very quickly, its details taking shape. It's clear it's a ship -- a sailing ship, more wood than metal -- right away, with four massive masts and billowing sails decorated in the colors of Lushaka and the IPC both. It is a vessel so large that it looks complete while it's still miles away, its size near overwhelming as they draw nearer. Aventurine slows once the flotilla of smaller vessels around it comes into focus.
Light occasionally glints off of a near transparent gold hex-grid dome that surrounds the vessel -- Qlipoth's protection shrouding the whole ship from the elements. The ship's body towers over the surface of the water, dotted with door-sized windows, some of them braced by railing, others billowing smoke or steam. Clusters of buildings and stalls -- most wood, some metal -- are scattered across the massive deck, some even climbing up the central mast. ]
Hammer's Reef, the IPC flagship here on Lushaka.
[ Aventurine brings them around to the back of the town-sized ship's deck, past a busier shuttle dock to one flanked by gleaming gold force fields. His shuttle passes through without incident, and as it does, a man's voice pipes in over the comm welcoming "Manager Aventurine" to Lushaka.
He chats with them a little, making friendly conversation in that smug tone of his. He glances at Sunday once more before telling the voice on the intercom that he's traveling with a "Mister Sol." In a few buttery words, he manages to shut down questions about his "unregistered passenger" and earn Sunday VIP guest clearance. It'll be easier that way, getting in and out of shops and IPC facilities and Lushaka, itself, if his companion is simply an important potential business parter Aventurine is courting.
With administration settled, Aventurine finally lands the shuttle in a space reserved for P44 employees. Just as soon as it's locked into place, he's throwing the door open to stretch his arms and take an enthusiastically deep breath. Thankfully, it seems no one higher ranked than him is currently on craft -- he's not sure he could deal with Sugulite or someone from Marketing, at the moment.
Sure it's safe, he ducks his head back into the shuttle to look Sunday over. ]
Hope you're ready to develop some sea legs, Mister Sol. Shall we check out the shops?
[ The smell of the sea fills the shuttle cabin. Lushaka is a noisy place, screaming sea birds and lapping waves, the creaking of wood and metal, and the persistent murmur of distant crowds. ]
[Sunday instinctively pins his wings forward against his ears, muffling the sounds of the city ship that land like discordant noise on his senses. It doesn't take long for the chaos to dissipate, revealing Harmony beneath. Footsteps pass them, seabirds wheel and cry, the ship groans, voices chatter. This is the rhythm of society, not so different here than it is in Penacony. Though it is a quieter, slower rhythm. Strangely, its steadiness is almost jarring after decades in the dream.
He raises his arms over his head, bending his body in a lithe, pretty arc. It had taken him years to learn how to stretch in public without looking foolish, and he is proud of himself. His back and shoulders pop and snap as they release their tension.
With relaxed muscles and acclimated senses, he feels his mood start to lift. Aventurine's voice, as irritatingly unctuous as always, brings it crashing back down.
Mister Sol indeed. Well, there are worse names that could have been picked.]
Yes, [He sighs] might as well get this over with. After you, Mister Aventurine.
[ Behind blessedly mirrored sunglasses, Aventurine rolls his eyes. What a performance, selling martyrdom and suffering still while totally unshackled, sins all but absolved thanks to his sister's faith. All that and still he preens, doing his best to make beauty and elegance look effortless. Talk about luck. Watching him, a smirk frozen on his own lips, the only thing Aventurine can't suss out is who Sunday is trying to impress.
Darkly, he wonders whether he's angling for the gaze of another Aeon, seeking some new power to bend to his will. Equally likely, he's just trying to be annoying. ]
Don't sound too enthusiastic, now.
[ Aventurine fights the urge to swan off, walking instead as the situation calls, as a guide, his body partially angled in Sunday's direction, steps slow.
In the Sweet Dream, Sunday had been the obstacle. Bullying past him to meet the IPC's goals had meant playing to his expectations, not subverting them. That scheme is done, gone to seed and sprouted into something new, and what's growing has not yet demanded a course of action, though Aventurine has wasted no time in trying to math out as many possibilities as he can. For now, though, there's no need to play a part one way or another. They're just waiting, stewing in each other's company until the bird's true handlers show themselves again. The only thing he needs to do is convincingly be himself (or, be Aventurine, the IPC manager, buttering up some new business opportunity). ]
I've only been here once, myself. It's a really fascinating place. Nowhere else like it. Well, except Thalassa, I guess.
[ The IPC's corporate bees zip this way and that as they cross the docking area, all of them busy with their own tasks. A few stop to nod when they recognize him. More steal curious glances at his handsome, unknown companion without pausing in their duties.
Aventurine leads Sunday from the through an IPC administrative building, quiet and gleaming clean, all sleek plastic and metal surfaces, each wall a screen scrolling an endless array of headlines and stock market numbers. Stepping through the front doors out into Hammer's Coral proper feels a bit like passing through a time portal into some anachronistic new world. Wood, metal, and coral marry into rickety, angular buildings and market stalls, colorful banners flutter in the sea breeze.
He glances at Sunday, still feeling annoyed with (his placid expression, his dour attitude, the neat lines of his clothes, the way even his hair is elegantly wind blown) everything. Just. Everything. He, not yet learned in the importance of appearances, had looked halfway to hell when Jade had hauled him aside before being tried for murder. Again, he thinks of what he'd silently longed for then, and bites the insides of his cheeks until they hurt before finally speaking again. ]
If there's anything you see that's of interest to you while we're here, let me know. Otherwise, I think there's a nice little furniture shop not far from here...
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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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.
no subject
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.]
no subject
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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He shrugs one shoulder. ]
If I jammed a crowbar into the cable facade while it was pulled down, maybe? But I'd rather not damage my own ship. That was an expensive off-the-books add-on.
[ He grasps the false cables again from the alcove where they've retracted, illustrating how they move up and down, telescoping into themselves. ]
So, no. You'll have two mechanical release buttons below at both entrances, one for the cables and one for the panel. There's also an... admittedly annoyingly convoluted hatch to the outside. And it's all analogue. Not electronic. So you won't be trapped if we lose power, either.
[ He gives the cables a shove, locking them into place once more, but uses them to hold his weight as he leans into Sunday's space, amusement playing across his features. ]
Kindly, Mister Sunday, I'm looking to get rid of you long-term, not keep you as my little secret.
cw: torture, guilt
[He folds his arms and defiantly glowers as Aventurine leans into his space. It is obvious that the Stoneheart intends to disturb him, and he refuses to give him the satisfaction of a single flinch. He steps in closer to Aventurine, lets his gaze linger on his kaleidoscopic eyes a moment longer, then looks back into the darkness.
The hidden compartment seems like a perfect hiding place, it's true. Yet he is not convinced that he will not be tortured. How will it happen, he wonders? Sensory deprivation would be easy enough. Seclusion. Aventurine could pipe music into the chamber to blast Sunday's senses with non-stop, discordant noise. Or, he might want to get his hands dirty with Halovian blood. Sunday's imagination, now flying into orbit without him, spins out a thousand gruesome scenarios of him being tormented in a lightless room. Torn, beaten, lacerated, wings tattered, feathers scattered... The images are so stark in his mind that his jaw tightens.
He cannot stop imagining it. Whenever he tries to think about something else, he fantasizes about Aventurine brutalizing his body. Between his dark thoughts and his insistence that he could live in a cargo bay, sleeping on crates, he begins to wonder if there is something seriously wrong with him.
Only his guilt, he reasons. The Sweet Dream Paradise had been a terrible mistake. In his attempt to create a world free from suffering, he caused suffering. He tried to prove himself righteous and failed, proving himself a sinner. And for this he should suffer. Hurt is what he deserves to feel. The world should be punishing him, yet he keeps getting second chances. It doesn't seem right. So, with nobody torturing him, he's torturing himself as a show of contrition. Now that he sees this, he sees it is ludicrous.
Sunday blows out a breath, and turns his head toward Aventurine.]
I do believe you won't harm me. So far, you have done nothing more than graciously offer me your hospitality. My apologies if it takes a while for me to accept it.
[Then, he looks back down the stairwell but his gaze is distant and unfocused now.]
Show me to my room.
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I wouldn't have you assassinated...
[ He leaves the second half of that statement open to the imagination as he releases the cable facade and climbs down into the smuggler's compartment. At the last rung of the step ladder, a warm golden light clicks on, illuminating the space. Backlit by it, Aventurine turns, knuckles pressed to his hips, and stares up at Sunday. ]
You're entitled to your caution, and I don't hold it against you. I would cling to it, if I were you. [ He angles his head, the wavy curtain of his bangs falling into his eyes. ] But believe me when I say I have no interest in rushing into conflict with you again.
[ That feels like perhaps too great an admission, so he turns and steps into the room proper, out of view, but leaving space for Sunday to climb down as well.
The room is, indeed, little more than an impressive walk-in closet, tall enough to stand upright in, and, empty as it is, room enough for the two of them to fit comfortably. The hum of the engine is almost inaudible -- the walls seem to have been soundproofed. Several hand-spun rugs, one of them a weave the color of Aventurine's eyes, are layered on the floor. It is all otherwise clean save a few old scuff marks in the exposed parts of the metal floor. The walls are lined with floor-to-ceiling shelves, nearly all of them empty, save a bundle of patterned fabrics neatly bound by twine and then wrapped in clear plastic for further protection. Aventurine fetches the bundle and tucks it under his arm.
He crouches, looking from floor to ceiling, measuring things up. ]
A twin bed will fit, I think. The frame can't be too opulent or it won't fit down here, but...hmm.
[ He likes the idea of decorating, gets a little distracted with it, then reminds himself that Sunday is a temporary addition. At the absolute most, it'll take a week or two to track down the Nameless and hand off the albatross. No reason to wade too far into the reeds.
So, he glances back toward the entrance, to Sunday. ]
Much better than the cargo bay, huh?
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Forgive me. [He says bitterly as he takes the final step down to the floor.] It was not my intention to imply that you are incapable of slitting my throat yourself.
[Does Aventurine want to hurt him or not? He isn't sure. The dynamic between them is constantly shifting like a tide. Whenever he feels sure of where he stands, he turns and finds the beach has transformed beneath him, and Aventurine is still, somehow, always on a higher ground. Always has an advantage. Sunday's lack of control is unsettling. He needs to establish control.
Within the now well-lit room, the Stoneheart's expression is as infuriatingly inscrutable as ever. The threat, if it was indeed a threat, is forgotten in favor of excited chatter. Aventurine gestures around the small space as if giving a grand tour and peers from wall to ceiling to measure the room's size.
Sunday's wings twitch back against his shoulders.]
Better than the cargo bay.
[He echoes, not moving from the base of the steps.
He notices now that the sounds of the engine are muffled down here. The room is soundproof and used, he is certain, for illegal activities. Likely, nobody outside the room can hear what happens within it. If Aventurine somehow draws a pained scream from him, then--
Stop it.]
Mister Aventurine, I don't need a bed frame; the mattress alone will suffice. Neither of us wants me to be here long, right?
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So, Aventurine stops himself from protesting the lack of bed frame, because Sunday is not wrong. It's a foolish investment, money wasted on a man who doesn't want to be here by a man who doesn't want him around, either. To push would be arguing for the sake of arguing, and wouldn't Aventurine rather spend his time doing literally anything else? ]
Yeah. Right. Well. If you change your mind, just say the word. [ A glance at his wristwatch tells him there's still more than an hour until Lushaka comes into view. He takes a step closer, but can't exactly escape the little room with Sunday still blocking the way. ] Now, I'd like to go take a bath.
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The tide has shifted again, and again it is Sunday who is left on uncertain ground. He steps away from the ladder.]
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What does surprise him and then promptly fills him with disgust, is the way he notices how tightly coiled every muscle in his body had been only after they all relax -- when Sunday moves out of the way, when he isn't trapped. ]
Distraction helps with the... racing thoughts, the memories. A repetitive task, exercise, or a simple puzzle game. Not reading. You want to turn your brain off. There's a tablet upstairs in the kitchen, nothing but match-3 games, block puzzles, things like that. If you want to give it a shot.
[ Aventurine bites down on the insides of his cheeks, jaw tightening. Pointless, every attempt at extending an olive branch when the wrinkles he's trying to smooth out are caused by a man who still terrifies him. He angles himself so as not to brush against his new traveling companion when moving by him, and leaves him behind without another word.
He selects a fresh change of clothes from his own room -- something more in line with the Stonehearts' standard uniform, though still flashy, accented in gold -- before heading into the bath. Aventurine is slow, methodical about how he undresses. One ring at a time, then each bracelet and bangle, organized on a side table. Gloves, shoes, socks. Start the water, hot enough to billow steam. Clothes, undergarments, into a laundry bin that folds flush into the wall.
Salt and soaps into the tub, all bright citrus-y scents. Aventurine thinks of nothing but the math of undressing, counting garments as he goes. He is careful not to glance at the mirror until it's fogged over. The scar where his skin had split, neck to navel, from the clash of the Emanator's blade against what remained of his cornerstone is mostly mended, but still red and healing. He doesn't care to look at it. Or the dozens of other burns and scars that mottle his chest, shoulders, back, and legs.
When he finally climbs in the tub, sinking into sudsy water, he is still for less than two minutes before he retrieves a tablet from the bath side table and busies himself with work. Emails and messages sent, calls made, all to track down the Nameless and ensure that the two of them are not immediately detained when they arrive in Lushaka. He even handles docking the ship from his tablet, and does not leave the tub until the ship is idled.
After a frankly excessive skincare routine, he dresses -- double, triple checks to make sure his clothes are neat, no scars are showing, and his hair is charmingly mussed -- and only then, when he is sure he looks effortless, does he leave the bathroom. He does not go looking for his companion, instead using one of the many electronic panels on the wall to deliver a message via intercom. ]
I'll be in the shuttle, Mister Sunday.
[ Aventurine adjusts his rings, his bangles, his wristwatch, and makes for the cargo bay. ]
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Tears continue to come, each one a calming release of pressure from his heart, though never quite enough. Finally, he screams. His fingers clutch his legs until it hurts, and he screams, emptying his lungs of all the pain and uncertainty he can. Because there is no time for wallowing in pain now. He needs to sharpen that angony into an arrow and point it in a new direction. He is a fallen sun but, he reminds himself, suns rise again.
He stands and is heading up the ladder when he hears Aventurine's cloying voice over the intercom. His companion (or captor, he still isn't sure) will have to wait. He slips into the bathroom once more to straighten his clothes, brush his hair, and preen his feathers. Nobody should recognize him on the flagship, so the constant preening shouldn't be necessary, he knows. But it makes him feel better. A clean and presentable appearance is, at least, one thing he can control.
He doesn't leave Aventurine waiting long. When he walks into the cargo bay and ducks into the shuttle his stride is more proud and confident than it has been since his fall.]
Please forgive me if I am late. I do find punctuality important, but, well, I have been...out of sorts lately. [A maddening thing to confess, but it is also so overwhelmingly evident in his behavior that he doubts he even needed to mention it.]
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Sunday's appearance draws his attention. He swipes the screen away and turns in his seat to give the former Bronze Melodia a real look over. Too put together, too awake, to have spent the last hour and a half dissociating. Must've found the gaming tablet, then. Or had a good scream-cry. Been a while since Aventurine had one of those, himself.
He brings the mirrored sunglasses shoved up into his hair down over his eyes. ]
Don't worry about it.
[ With a few button presses, the shuttle doors close, the engine roars and the docking mechanisms disengage. In a soothing artificial voice, the ship announces that the cargo bay is opening, and within a few seconds, they are dropped into the void.
A glowing marble, sparkling blue swirled by white and gray clouds, immediately fills the front viewport, Lushaka. It grows larger when Aventurine tips the control forward. ]
Local time is just after noon where we're landing. Pleasant day. No rain. [ Thank goodness. ] Nothing in the news about you or Penacony...
[ There's more to say, but he waits, wanting to enjoy speeding through the clouds, toward endless blue water, as they enter the atmosphere. After a few more seconds silence, he starts up again. ]
My contacts say the Astral Express is... nowhere to be found, at the moment. Definitely not here, at least. Rumor is they might be laying a new stretch of rail. [ Aventurine glances at Sunday. ] That's huge, if so. It also means we don't know when they'll be available again, so while we wait, if you change your mind about that bed frame...
[ He doesn't mention that Welt Yang has a chip that can reach him instantly. That there is a reasonable chance that he, himself, might be the first to know where exactly they are. Instead, he tugs the controls toward him a little harder and the shuttle banks, slowing momentarily as its broad nose turns up and away from the water below before rocketing forward once more.
A dot on the horizon grows large very quickly, its details taking shape. It's clear it's a ship -- a sailing ship, more wood than metal -- right away, with four massive masts and billowing sails decorated in the colors of Lushaka and the IPC both. It is a vessel so large that it looks complete while it's still miles away, its size near overwhelming as they draw nearer. Aventurine slows once the flotilla of smaller vessels around it comes into focus.
Light occasionally glints off of a near transparent gold hex-grid dome that surrounds the vessel -- Qlipoth's protection shrouding the whole ship from the elements. The ship's body towers over the surface of the water, dotted with door-sized windows, some of them braced by railing, others billowing smoke or steam. Clusters of buildings and stalls -- most wood, some metal -- are scattered across the massive deck, some even climbing up the central mast. ]
Hammer's Reef, the IPC flagship here on Lushaka.
[ Aventurine brings them around to the back of the town-sized ship's deck, past a busier shuttle dock to one flanked by gleaming gold force fields. His shuttle passes through without incident, and as it does, a man's voice pipes in over the comm welcoming "Manager Aventurine" to Lushaka.
He chats with them a little, making friendly conversation in that smug tone of his. He glances at Sunday once more before telling the voice on the intercom that he's traveling with a "Mister Sol." In a few buttery words, he manages to shut down questions about his "unregistered passenger" and earn Sunday VIP guest clearance. It'll be easier that way, getting in and out of shops and IPC facilities and Lushaka, itself, if his companion is simply an important potential business parter Aventurine is courting.
With administration settled, Aventurine finally lands the shuttle in a space reserved for P44 employees. Just as soon as it's locked into place, he's throwing the door open to stretch his arms and take an enthusiastically deep breath. Thankfully, it seems no one higher ranked than him is currently on craft -- he's not sure he could deal with Sugulite or someone from Marketing, at the moment.
Sure it's safe, he ducks his head back into the shuttle to look Sunday over. ]
Hope you're ready to develop some sea legs, Mister Sol. Shall we check out the shops?
[ The smell of the sea fills the shuttle cabin. Lushaka is a noisy place, screaming sea birds and lapping waves, the creaking of wood and metal, and the persistent murmur of distant crowds. ]
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He raises his arms over his head, bending his body in a lithe, pretty arc. It had taken him years to learn how to stretch in public without looking foolish, and he is proud of himself. His back and shoulders pop and snap as they release their tension.
With relaxed muscles and acclimated senses, he feels his mood start to lift. Aventurine's voice, as irritatingly unctuous as always, brings it crashing back down.
Mister Sol indeed. Well, there are worse names that could have been picked.]
Yes, [He sighs] might as well get this over with. After you, Mister Aventurine.
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Darkly, he wonders whether he's angling for the gaze of another Aeon, seeking some new power to bend to his will. Equally likely, he's just trying to be annoying. ]
Don't sound too enthusiastic, now.
[ Aventurine fights the urge to swan off, walking instead as the situation calls, as a guide, his body partially angled in Sunday's direction, steps slow.
In the Sweet Dream, Sunday had been the obstacle. Bullying past him to meet the IPC's goals had meant playing to his expectations, not subverting them. That scheme is done, gone to seed and sprouted into something new, and what's growing has not yet demanded a course of action, though Aventurine has wasted no time in trying to math out as many possibilities as he can. For now, though, there's no need to play a part one way or another. They're just waiting, stewing in each other's company until the bird's true handlers show themselves again. The only thing he needs to do is convincingly be himself (or, be Aventurine, the IPC manager, buttering up some new business opportunity). ]
I've only been here once, myself. It's a really fascinating place. Nowhere else like it. Well, except Thalassa, I guess.
[ The IPC's corporate bees zip this way and that as they cross the docking area, all of them busy with their own tasks. A few stop to nod when they recognize him. More steal curious glances at his handsome, unknown companion without pausing in their duties.
Aventurine leads Sunday from the through an IPC administrative building, quiet and gleaming clean, all sleek plastic and metal surfaces, each wall a screen scrolling an endless array of headlines and stock market numbers. Stepping through the front doors out into Hammer's Coral proper feels a bit like passing through a time portal into some anachronistic new world. Wood, metal, and coral marry into rickety, angular buildings and market stalls, colorful banners flutter in the sea breeze.
He glances at Sunday, still feeling annoyed with
(his placid expression, his dour attitude, the neat lines of his clothes, the way even his hair is elegantly wind blown)everything. Just. Everything. He, not yet learned in the importance of appearances, had looked halfway to hell when Jade had hauled him aside before being tried for murder. Again, he thinks of what he'd silently longed for then, and bites the insides of his cheeks until they hurt before finally speaking again. ]If there's anything you see that's of interest to you while we're here, let me know. Otherwise, I think there's a nice little furniture shop not far from here...
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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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yeah this is nsfw lmao
still nsfw
still nsfw
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nsfw
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