[ This would be easier if Sunday just hit him. Preferable, even. Not that he loves getting popped on the nose, but at least he wouldn't have to think about the fallen Oak's willingness to throw himself upon the pyre to keep the The Family from setting roots anywhere else. How relentlessly noble of him, the ever eager martyr.
Was there a time when he, himself, was so defiantly idealistic? Or has he always been an opportunistic dog? He can't recall, but the way Sunday talks of sunlit landscapes makes him think that maybe he has always been IPC slime. Either way, it seems Sunday has a very clear portrait of him painted in his mind already. ]
I'm not. [ No sugar slips into Aventurine's voice now. He slides his phone back into his pocket to give Sunday his full attention, but does not remove his glasses. ] There is no such thing as true freedom, Mister Sol. The real cruelty would be in lying to you about that.
[ He shrugs one shoulder. ]
You are not wrong. You fell, you have no resources, and, to borrow your metaphor and change it a little, you need time to let your eyes adjust to the dark. But you call your room a cage, and that's not entirely correct. The whole ship is one.
I hate to... bring up our past dealings- [ Mentioning it at all feels like taking a pick to his head, putting painful fissures in his carefully managed composure. ] -but, from where I'm standing, you're less a broken bird I'm minding and more a lion I am trying very hard not to upset. I've experienced your teeth and claws, Mister Sol, and I am reluctant to see them drawn again. So, I hope you realize that the cage is ours. I'm just trying to make it a more comfortable one.
[Sunday's golden eyes widen for a moment. The air between them is suddenly thick and tense, as if Aventurine has just admitted a traumatic secret. He isn't sure what the secret is, or what just happened, but something happened.]
I see.
[A deep breath. He is a monster then, a ravenous beast in this man's eyes. On Penacony, many people must remember him in similar ways. That thought makes his heart clench in a mixture of shame and guilt.
The breath heaves from his lungs in another shuddered sigh.]
Well, this lion would rather not bear his claws again either. But if you are that worried, I do not mind staying in my room until we...
[Find the Nameless? Aventurine had mentioned they were likely laying down new rail somewhere, which means they have traveled to a place so distant, so difficult to find, that Akivili THEMSELF has never been there. Terminus alone knows when they will return to the mapped cosmos again.
[ Now, unthinking, Aventurine removes his glasses to peer at Sunday with eyes unhidden and a gaze not colored by polarized lenses. He tucks them neatly into the breast pocket of his vest, sparing himself an extra second before answering properly. It is, quite frankly, ludicrous how lovely Halovians are even at their worst moments, Sunday's too taut stillness and wide, gleaming golden eyes all the more ethereal for his surprise. What a horribly pretty thing he is, totally unaware of just how much damage he can do, like so many monsters. ]
No. That's not- no. Look- come on.
[ Stars, is he flustered? Certainly not, but he doesn't want to stand here in the middle of a Lushakan street hashing out trauma in front of anyone nosy enough to listen any longer. So, he beckons and starts walking. ]
I'm not going to lie to you and pretend we're chums, alright? But you can't lock yourself away, either. My comfort one way or another doesn't matter. It's just business.
[ He says those words as much for himself as for Sunday, even as he wonders why it matters to him so much, even as realization starts to dawn. ]
Your sister had a very clear idea of where you went wrong. [ Conquest. Domination. Jade had used those words, specifically, when relaying their conversation, knowing exactly which nerve they would hit for Aventurine. ] I'm not equipped to set you on the right path, but I do know that hiding in a dark room isn't the way to do it.
[ Aventurine stops beside a large wooden building with tall latticed windows, diamonds of colored and clear glass peering into a show room of housing goods and furniture. He crosses his arms over his chest. ]
If you don't get out there, see new worlds, and really meet the people on them, then you're going to-
[ He stops. Even if he could bring himself to say it, Sunday wouldn't understand. There's no set of words powerful enough to match the feeling Aventurine gets, the only feeling not dulled at all, when he realizes what he truly sees, and fears, in the former Bronze Melodia, a man poised to stumble down the same Path as Oswaldo Schneider.
He bites down on the insides of his cheeks. A huff of air escapes him, a neat release of steam. ]
It'd just be better for you if you experienced life.
[Sunday follows when beckoned and trails behind Aventurine. The Stoneheart continues to speak, mentions his sister, and prattles life lessons as if he were a wisened sage and not an opportunistic gambler.
Sunday draws a breath, prepares himself to ask where Robin said he went wrong, then decides against it. Knowing her, and how well she knows him, he can guess what she might have said.]
You are worried I will lock myself in the same cage I was in on Penacony and commit myself to my Path once more. [When Aventurine stops again, Sunday stops one pace behind him, features stoney, feathers splayed.]
...Would it help if I promise that won't happen?
[He had thrown his all into the creation of his Path. He forged it with divine hands. It would have been the Path to end all others, one that gave humanity the chance to live free of Aeons. Philosophy, the Path of Humankind, where no Aeons walked, the virtuous were uplifted, and the wicked burned beneath the gaze of the perfect sun.
...It had all seemed like a sure thing. But the Nameless defeated him. They had proven their Path stronger and cast him from the sky. If The Philosophy had been truly righteous, he would not have failed. But he did. He'd been wrong.
Now he has to find a new way to create his paradise. By walking among mortals with his broken wings binding him to the land, maybe he can find a better way. One that truly reflects the warmth he feels in his heart for the people of the cosmos...
None of his thoughts are spoken aloud, but he falls into a silence that fills the air with their weight.]
...I am trying to provide succor [He says after several long moments have passed.] You don't make it easy for me. You say we are not friends, and you clearly do not want me around, yet when I offer to sequester myself, you say you do not want that either. [A pause, he looks up at the latticed windows. Their crossed patterns remind him of his confessional.]
And you say your comfort doesn't matter, but it matters to me. Everyone deserves days of respite, Mister Aventurine. Yourself included.
[ It won't help. A foregone conclusion when all strong convictions, every deeply held belief, and each promise made comes with a price tag, when every person is apt to become currency in those transactions. Still, Aventurine isn't foolish enough to say as much out loud. Better to preserve some plausible deniability. Aventurine will not, cannot put his trust in anyone, but no one else needs to know that for certain.
Especially not Sunday, a ridiculous little bird with too big storybook ideas about right and wrong, whose every emotion seems to settle in the air like a weighted blanket.
Aventurine catches himself halfway to shaking his head in response to Sunday's assertion that he deserves rest. He doesn't. There's too much work, too much to make up for, and not enough system hours on any world to see his many schemes through in a way that will satisfy the blood spilled on Sigonia.
And even with the matter of deserving set aside, it's the assertion, itself, that sticks in his craw. ]
How can you say that? [ Aventurine turns to look at Sunday. He wants to curl his arms around himself more tightly, but he doesn't. ] Less than a day ago, you told me you enjoyed humbling me. Your necessary divine justice made me- [ Aventurine stops himself, jaw tightening until the memory, the rising terror behind, and the desire to speak of it at all pass. ] How can you say my comfort matters, now?
[Sunday blinks slowly as Aventurine turns to him, bridling at the memory of a moment they both shared long ago in that office in Dewlight Pavilion.]
At the time, you and I were at odds. We were both using each other as pawns in our schemes, so let's not dwell on it.
The way I see it, you are no longer my opponent, but my traveling companion. As my companion, your comfort matters. [Which feels foolish to say now, when Aventurine does not want comfort. Many people don't. Their pride or sense of duty prevents them from seeking or accepting it. That is a flaw of humanity Sunday had wanted to fix once. He doesn't anymore. But it still disappoints him to see it.]
...You do not want me to be kind, nor do you want my claws. You do not want me to avoid you, but you do not want me around. What do you want?
[ Not dwelling on it sounds like a swell idea. Were it that simple, it's exactly what Aventurine would do, without question. But Sunday's words, his insistence on playing the calm, rational mediator now, make an ordinarily dim anger burn hotter than he can recall anything feeling in recent memory. He swallows it all down, anyway, hell bent on faking complacency. He can weather this, he is certain. And even if he can't, Broad Street aboard the Hammer's Coral is not the place to hash out a conflict involving Emanators and IPC secrets and new Aeons.
Aventurine shuts his eyes and breathes until fire and panic dim to twilight. ]
Just don't treat me like your jailer, and I'll be satisfied.
[ It's not a lie, at least, but he's also done having this conversation in a public place. ]
This isn't the best spot to discuss the matter further, Mister Sol. So, let's do what we came here to do, shall we?
[ The candy coating returns to his voice as he turns, hand resting on the shop's front door. ]
Pick out whatever you like! Pillows, bedding, blankets. We can find a mattress for you in the back and have it all sent to the ship.
I had some unpleasant theories about your plans for me.
[Has he called Aventurine a jailor? Maybe he has. For all Sunday knows, he died in his fall from the heavens but failed to notice in all the confusion.]
I apologize if you were annoyed by that. I hope you know, however, that you've kept your intentions deliberately abstruse. "Valuable asset" is the term you IPC people use. To you, that's what I am, right? You could have collected me just to sell me to the highest bidder--
[Here, he sucks in a breath, folds his wings back, and falls abruptly silent. Shit. He doesn't know the full details of Aventurine's life, but he knows he just said something careless. Foolish. Foolish. After all his time spent as an orator, he should know better. Guilt and embarrassment churn into a corrosive mixture in his chest.
His silence drags on a moment longer before he glances at his companion with sincere golden eyes.]
Sorry. [He doesn't elaborate, knowing that Aventurine will only grow more agitated if he does so. Instead, he gently removes himself from Aventurine's side and steps past the door into the shop, where his attention is immediately drawn to soft, white sheets hanging on a far wall. They are not as extravagant as the fabric he swaddled himself in on Penacony, but they still look very comfortable ...and very expensive.
Aventurine had told him to pick what he wanted, but insisting his host spend so much money on bedding that likely won't be used for long is a waste of credits. So he focuses his search on cheaper alternatives.]
[ He's not wrong. Lady Jade spun a favor into a web, tangling the twins of Order into the IPC schemes. Just yesterday, Aventurine's own phone was filled with now deleted messages speaking of deliverables, packages, and assets, all referring to this one Halovian. Together, he, Jade, and Topaz had decided that the most beneficial place for the former Bronze Melodia to roost would be the Astral Express, and it had been his own hand that mapped the paths that might get him aboard the train. It'd see them reap the greatest rewards, after all.
Another link forged between the IPC and the Express. Another hand aboard the train to protect them in the coming war. Debts from still beloved, if fallen members of the Family. And, if Aventurine is honest, his monster set upon a path that might see him rehabilitated, less likely to lapse into old habits he insists he has no intention of repeating. Everyone insists they'll do better next time, though, and no one ever does.
Really, the only wrong assumption is that there had been a bidding war. There hasn't been, not yet -- Aventurine had found the idea repulsive, and Jade had just been delighted to see anything like conviction spark behind his eyes -- but it's coming. Plenty of IPC big wigs want a piece of the fallen Oak, and they'll offer plenty to get him. For now, Aventurine can spin stories to delay the inevitable, but if they can't find the Express, if he loses Diamond and then Jade's support, if the wolves do inevitably close in, he...
Well, all for the Amber Lord, right? Sunday is right to mistrust him. He is a weasel, perpetuating a cycle that he, himself, has lived and loathed.
He barely hears Sunday's murmured apology. Holds the door for him in silence, and follows behind. Without a word, he walks over to the expensive sheets that had caught Sunday's eye and examines them. Expensive does not always mean excellent, but these are indeed fine quality. He selects a set of them from beneath the hanging display, neatly folded and bound up with a velvetty ribbon crinkled and silvered so that the bow tails look like cresting waves, and tucks it beneath his arm before rejoining Sunday at his side.
Aventurine stares down at the cheaper sheets. ]
I despise the idea of people in shackles being passed around and put to use. It's disgusting. And while I can't promise you much, Sunday, I will do my best to preserve what little freedom I can, where I can, within the scope of my responsibilities as a manager of the IPC. I will not let anyone sell you.
[ That said, he glances sidelong at Sunday, knocks his head toward the building's west wall. ]
If you're looking for the itchiest set of sheets as a form of further attrition, they're over there. Otherwise- [ He points to the other wall, where colorful blankets have been hung beside hand-woven rugs. ] -those quilts are made by locals. The fabric is synthesized from kelp. Might be a nice keepsake.
[Sunday believes that Aventurine believes in his own words. When all the chips are down, to use a trite but, he thinks, relevant turn of phrase, will Aventurine honor his promise?
Sunday isn't sure, but decides it isn't worth wondering more about. Not right now. If his companion believes it then, that at least speaks well of his character.]
Attrition?
[He laughs.]
Not everything I do is a form of penance, Mister Aventurine. I simply thought that spending so much money... [His eyes wander first to the quilts, then to the artistically tied bundle under Aventurine's arm.] ...on a man who will not be with you long would be a waste of the IPC's resources.
Am I mistaken?
[He hopes not. If one of the greediest corporations in the cosmos wants to keep him happy, it implies myriad unpleasant possibilities. Anyone who wants to keep him comfortable and content actually wants to keep him close and under their thumb.]
[ A chuckle escapes him, a resigned little sound. ]
Trying to convince you that I'm not scheming to lull you into complacency feels like a bad use of my time. You're far too clever for that.
[ Aventurine gives the fine sheets tucked under his arm a second look, holding the bundle in one hand and fiddling with the decorative bow. It's good to have an eye-catching prop; looking distracted, himself, helps to hide the fact that he's thinking hard about what to say next. They are apt to go in circles like this forever -- or, at least, until that damned train reports to a registered station or Diamond tells him to shut this nonsense down, whichever comes first. ]
The IPC does have a business spending category specifically for expendetures made when courting valuable investments. It's just a line on a drop down menu on one of my monthly reports, but there's a hard limit for each "asset" calculated before we pursue, and nothing spent under that number is a waste. Lots of legal restrictions tangled up in that. An absolute ton of paperwork, too. Guarantees an audit at year end, which is a pain. But considering what we do at the Strategic Investment Department, I'm very familiar with the process.
So, maybe everything I do is a step in a business process. I'm buying your favor, because that's what the IPC wants. At year end, I'll fill out a form and get reimbursed and the hole in my pocket gets all patched up.
[ He finally looks up, head angled slightly, one shoulder higher than the other. ]
Or, maybe, I don't see the point in hoarding credits. Maybe the money spent on your bedding is an IPC resource inasmuch as I am an IPC resource, and it's my money. Maybe... once, I was handed a stipend and a handbook, told to get the ruins of my life in order ASAP, when what I really needed was a shower, and a bed, and a few hours sleep. And maybe, seeing the opportunity to create a softer landing for someone else in free fall is my attempt at balancing the scales.
Whichever story makes you feel more secure. [ A wry grin. ] I'm not in the business of mind control. [ He tucks the sheets back under his arm. ] And if you're hellbent on cheaper sheets and blankets, I won't protest.
[Sunday starts delicately removing rings from one hand. There it is. He is an asset, an investment, a future tool to be collected on later. Years of media training keep his handsome features carefully neutral, though some acid flickers behind his eyes.]
...I do not want to be indebted to the IPC. If you are expecting me to return any favors to your company, you will be disappointed.
[His time spent as a nascent divinity is scattered and dream-like in his memories. When he fell from the sky and his expansive consciousness collapsed in on itself, he forgot most of the sensations and impossibly vast thoughts he'd had. But some of it remains. "All for the Amber Lord!" is a cry he can still feel echoing in the deepest parts of his soul.
He cannot fall into the IPC's grasp.]
I do not like them.
[He says as he tugs one black glove loose from a perfectly manicured hand. Admitting when he dislikes someone has never been easy. But the IPC isn't a someone, it is a corporation, a group of people so vast that any individual within it has long since been subsumed by the whole. The Family isn't the only faction that knows that trick. People have lost themselves to collective thought for as long as there have been people.
He once believed he could solve that problem.
He doesn't anymore.
His now bare fingers reach out to dance across the cheaper sheets, feeling the coarseness of the material. Then he touches the elegantly folded fabric Aventurine carries. It is soft beneath his skin, certainly the preferable option. Admitting want is uncomfortable, so he communicates his choice by tapping the bundle twice.]
I know accepting hospitality without repaying it is discourteous, but I hope you understand my reasons.
[ Leave it to Sunday to make an ungloved hand feel indecent, like he should move to block anyone else from seeing something so scandalous. Aventurine cuts his gaze away. An absolutely ridiculous impulse caused by a ridiculous man who does, indeed, see him for the rat he is.
Of two tales, Sunday has chosen the less flattering one, and that is for the best in the long run -- no foolish attachments from the bird with the supposedly soft heart. They know where they stand now. And at least they've settled on sheets. ]
Don't worry about me, Mister Sunday. I have no expectations and I don't count debts, I count cards.
[ Even were he in the habit of holding people to any sort of standard, which he is not foolish enough to do, it'd be rather unfair to demand any more of the former Bronze Melodia. He is, after all, a large part of why Sunday is here, fallen from grace and on the run, to begin with; from the shadows, Aventurine ripped victory from his hands and helped to dash his dreams across Penacony's perfect gilded streets -- he certainly deserves the mistrust, and the venomous gaze, as well. ]
Now, I can't speak for Lady Jade, she's the most likely to come calling, but the IPC is the last place I want you to end up. [ Marketing would smell the Trailblaze on him and scoop him up, remolding a monster. ] If you trust nothing else about me, believe that it won't be me pulling you into Preservation.
[Sunday looks over at Aventurine and notices the disquiet on his face as he shifts his gaze to something in the middle distance. It isn't clear what has made him uncomfortable. Sunday suspects it must be their conversation.]
Heh. [He tries to inject some humor into his voice, to put his companion at ease.] I appreciate that. I would rather not be involved with the Preservation for a while.
[The Path had upended his entire life. Looking back now, he is grateful for that. If Philosophy had been truly righteous, he would have been victorious. But he had lost, had collapsed beneath the combined might of Trailblaze and Preservation, and watched his Path for Humanity turn to ash. Which means Trailblaze had been righteous, and Preservation had backed up the wiser choice.
Still...
He laughs, the sound rich and musical despite the pain laced through it.]
The last time I met your Amber Lord, THEY struck me in the head with a hammer. That is not an experience I am eager to repeat.
[ What a pretty sound, made all the finer, fissured as it is by regret. Such a thing is sure to be Sunday's downfall; all his weaknesses on display, free for anyone with ears and eyes and the desire to bring him down further. He could stand to feel less, find a mask and start wearing it. In lieu of that, it's just more work for Aventurine. Someone needs to make sure no one else takes advantage of his hubris, his rigidity, his too soft heart.
Aventurine looks him over, gaze sticking to the shoulders and up. Odd to see the acid gone already. Maybe he isn't entirely hopeless when it comes to hiding his true feelings. Strange bird. ]
Hey, most things don't typically survive the first hit. [ Not that it'd been a true fall of the hammer, cushioned as it was by Ena's dream, no reverberations to herald a new Era. ] You should be proud. A testament to that hard head of yours...
[ Aventurine has never been good at offering real, earnest comfort. Complicate that with the particularly messy tangle he and Sunday have found themselves in, and it's damned near impossible. So, he wanders off slowly to go and peruse a shelf of throw pillows and small, hand-stitched stuffed animals. ]
[Sunday feels another trickle of annoyance when Aventurine looks at him, eyes trained on his face as if he were trying to avoid the sight of anything upsetting. There doesn't appear to be anything dangerous in the little shop with them. If there is, he doesn't know about it, and he doesn't like not knowing.
He opens his mouth to ask, but Aventurine is already gone, perusing a shelf of plush animals that is somehow more interesting than their conversation.]
Tch.
[Sunday tugs his glove back on and walks up behind the Stoneheart, pausing a few paces away to mind each of their preference for personal space.]
Mister Aventurine, if I have said something to upset you just now, then I would like to know what it was so I can avoid saying it in the future.
[ Aventurine selects a palm-sized fish with a long, colorful tail. Topaz will like this. And if not Topaz, specifically, then certainly one of the creatures running around in that menagerie she calls an apartment.
He's holding it between thumb and forefinger when Sunday stops behind him. Annoyance angles the bird's words to something almost sharp, and Aventurine can hardly fathom why. Had Sunday's words upset him? He's not actually sure -- not when mistrust is part and parcel of his day-to-day. He's simply learned to ignore it. It shouldn't matter, anyway. They have both been honest with each other. Aventurine fears him, but will work through his fear. Sunday looks and sees Preservation's dog, but hardly has his choice of traveling companions at the moment. They are not exactly poised for charming banter.
He turns, unsure of what to say until his jewel-tone eyes flick down on impulse and spot the glove back in place. (Thank goodness for that.) A crooked grin inches partway across his face. ]
Believe it or not, it's nothing you said, Mister Sunday. I'm not exactly unaccustomed to being thought untrustworthy.
[ No use in lying, but he decides there's not use in being totally serious, either. Aventurine holds the little green fish up in front of his face, wiggling it as he speaks in a slightly pitched-up voice. ]
It was your glove. So much skin, Mister Sunday. I was caught off guard. [ He lowers the fish, still smiling. ] Problem solved now, though, huh?
[Sunday's golden eyes flicker with annoyance, his feathers visibly ruffle.]
...If you refuse to be honest, please at least refrain from mocking me.
[The sharpness in his voice twists into a snarl, replacing his usual musical tones with ice. Whatever had actually bothered Aventurine seems to have passed, but Sunday refuses to believe it was the sight of his ungloved hand. The truth is, he knows, likely not important for any reason other than that it is the truth. One thing every experienced official knows is small lies add up over time into big ones.]
I do not trust you, but it would be easier for us both if I did. [He sighs, knowing that Aventurine will not elucidate this situation, not over a brief moment where he seemed anxious about something.]
...Well. I guess we should discuss more important matters, right? I will need bedclothes.
[ Disbelief, he expects. It's the lightning in Sunday's voice that catches him off guard. Smile still hanging on his face, Aventurine shifts his weight to the back foot, angling his body to put the arm clutching the bedding between himself and his lion.
Aventurine does not snap back. He just tucks the little fish under his arm with the bedding, trying his best to keep his heart from rattling up into his throat from the sudden rush of adrenaline. ]
Of course, Mister Sunday. There's another shop not far from here that should have what you need. If not on hand, then we can pick up the instructions for it for the ship synthesizer. Once we're done here, I'll show you.
[ There is no point in arguing, and he's certainly in no rush to agitate Sunday (and himself) further, so he pleasantly, attentively shows Sunday to the mattresses. Does not make any unasked for suggestions, does not try to press any bruises, just plays the part of affable host as he guides Sunday through the store, pays, and sets up delivery instructions.
It's not until they are back on the street that he slips, letting a bit too much personality in as he leads Sunday to the next shop over. ]
If you'd like to pick up a few day-to-day pieces, as well, feel free. You like blue, don't you? Great planet to land on for that.
[Sunday is grateful when Aventurine says nothing and slides back into the falsely pleasant, unctuous mannerisms he's become accustomed to. It at least makes the flow of conversation easier to predict. There will be no more awkward surprises between them. Not until they are back outside.
He examines the display of mattresses and nearly selects the cheapest one he can find, eager to be polite, but quickly reconsiders. Whether he wants it or not, the IPC will pay for his passage with Aventurine. As long as they don't expect to buy his obedience, he decides he's okay with wasting their money. They have enough of it. So he settles on a fluffy, silk-lined mattress instead.
Once they are outside, Aventurine speaks again, some of his amused chirp rising again in his voice.]
...More clothing isn't a bad idea. [Sunday admits.] I am a fugitive, after all. It might be wise to change up my appearance...
[He hesitates, then looks back at Aventurine with his wings hanging limply against his collarbone, an anxious thought having sapped all strength from them.]
...You mentioned the Nameless might be laying a new stretch of rail. I know what that means, Mister Aventurine. If they have gone where even Akivili has never been, they might not return for a long time. Waiting here for them will only get us killed. So, where do you intend to go?
[ With his wings like that, he looks like a flower, wilting. Ironic, considering they are surrounded by water and sunlight, but Aventurine does get the impression that Sunday is more an orchid than a dandelion. Unfortunate that Aventurine's luck has never extended to house plants. He suspects much the same here, incapable as he seems to be of not upsetting Sunday further.
Still, there's no use in lying when the truth so consistently beggars all belief for the former Bronze Melodia. He will go right on being mostly honest, he supposes. Maybe eventually it'll shake out in his favor.
He waits to answer until he's held open the door to an unusually modern clothing shop and the both of them have gone inside. Aventurine spares a look over his shoulder, then scans the show room before he responds. ]
I'm still part of the Strategic Investment Department. [ Despite his best efforts. ] And the IPC has no shortage of low performing assets that I personally need to audit and assess. With the Doctors of Chaos keeping me on partial administrative leave, I thought it a good time to start chipping away at that list.
[ In short: a road trip of sorts to a bunch of backwater worlds and stations. A near perpetual excuse to be on the move and out of reach, under the guise of the diligent work of a dedicated IPC manager. Sunday will probably not like it. But Sunday does not understand the full scope of Aventurine's role.
That said, he's not sure how much fly time they'll get out of a bluff like this. Surely enough to come up with a more sound plan. He hopes. ]
Wherever we are, I'm confident we'll hear from the Nameless just as soon as they're reachable.
[An ongoing voyage across the stars, one stop after another, until the Nameless reappear on the horizon of someone's radar. It's a sensible plan, one Aventurine has hinted at already, but an important question remains unanswered.]
Forgive me [Sunday looks around the clothes shop and pauses briefly when his eyes pass over a rack of comfortable looking bedclothes.] I should have been more specific. After Lushaka, where will we go?
[He gingerly steps over to the rack and examines a two-piece silk pajama set. The top leaves more of the upper chest exposed than Sunday prefers, but the material appears to be well made. He starts removing his rings, then remembers Aventurine's strange behavior only minutes before, and drops his hand back to his side with a defeated groan.]
[ Aventurine does not respond right away. The truth will only serve to antagonize Sunday more, and the certainty with which that thought hits crashes over him like a wave of pure exhaustion. So, he watches, quiet, as Sunday peruses clothes, moves to remove his gloves once more, and then immediately thinks better of it. Oh, this little adventure of theirs is going to be a long one.
He crosses his arms over his chest and shrugs one shoulder, casual. ]
You should buy for cold and warm, humid and dry. [ Another reason the bird is better suited to Trailblaze. Whatever blessing still lingers on that train would make such matters moot for him. ] And before you get cross with me again, I'm not trying to be difficult. The less obvious our next destination for anyone who comes asking about you after we leave, the better. Which is why I don't know exactly where we're headed next, yet. It depends.
[ His gaze falls to Sunday's hands, acutely aware of how his little joke before the bed sheets has only made things infinitely more difficult. Particulars matter. The pretty bird needs a perfect habitat, not to put forward a particular image, but just to function.
Aventurine chews the inside of his cheek, biting down until the pain in his mouth is greater than the swirl of discomfort in his stomach. ]
I can wait by the entrance if you'd like to take your time browsing.
[Sunday draws a breath, feels a hiss ready itself on his tongue, then Aventurine admits to not knowing where their next stop will be. The Halovian deflates in mid-snarl.]
I do not intend to take long.
[Golden eyes shift to lock on to Aventurine's gaze and hold it fast.]
But I would like to feel the fabric. So, if the sight of my ungloved hand really is an affront to your sense of propriety, maybe you will be more comfortable standing away from me.
[ There is something to admire in how relentless Sunday is. Were Aventurine not on guard for the moment when the bird decides to reach into his mind and move things into a more pleasing shape again, he might be more forthcoming about how charming he finds Sunday's willingness to square up to any challenge. As it stands, though, he only stares back, unflinching, fearing any sign of weakness might provide an opening. ]
You should think more of your own comfort and worry less about what I'm feeling. [ He shoves his hands into his pockets. ] No one is going to pay you the same courtesy out here.
[ Outside of the Sweet Dream, he means. Even on Penacony, where Sunday was more than a king, the people surrounding him had been manipulative -- well, all of them save his sister. It is no different out here. The sooner he learns that, the better.
Just as soon as he commits to the thought, though, he rolls his shoulders and gives a heavy sigh. Honesty. It's the only way. Any lies will stack up, higher and higher, until they all eventually topple, and the two of them don't even have the foundation to fake a house of cards. ]
Your hands are fine. It was just... a surprise. I don't exactly have a lot of experience with clergy. Aren't you sacred or something? I doubt you want someone like me looking at you, and- [ A huff. ] It's- it's really just, you don't want to be comforted, I can tell. And even if you did, I don't know how to do it. It seemed more effective to keep moving. [ When in doubt, maximize productivity. Focus on goals. ] Alright?
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Was there a time when he, himself, was so defiantly idealistic? Or has he always been an opportunistic dog? He can't recall, but the way Sunday talks of sunlit landscapes makes him think that maybe he has always been IPC slime. Either way, it seems Sunday has a very clear portrait of him painted in his mind already. ]
I'm not. [ No sugar slips into Aventurine's voice now. He slides his phone back into his pocket to give Sunday his full attention, but does not remove his glasses. ] There is no such thing as true freedom, Mister Sol. The real cruelty would be in lying to you about that.
[ He shrugs one shoulder. ]
You are not wrong. You fell, you have no resources, and, to borrow your metaphor and change it a little, you need time to let your eyes adjust to the dark. But you call your room a cage, and that's not entirely correct. The whole ship is one.
I hate to... bring up our past dealings- [ Mentioning it at all feels like taking a pick to his head, putting painful fissures in his carefully managed composure. ] -but, from where I'm standing, you're less a broken bird I'm minding and more a lion I am trying very hard not to upset. I've experienced your teeth and claws, Mister Sol, and I am reluctant to see them drawn again. So, I hope you realize that the cage is ours. I'm just trying to make it a more comfortable one.
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I see.
[A deep breath. He is a monster then, a ravenous beast in this man's eyes. On Penacony, many people must remember him in similar ways. That thought makes his heart clench in a mixture of shame and guilt.
The breath heaves from his lungs in another shuddered sigh.]
Well, this lion would rather not bear his claws again either. But if you are that worried, I do not mind staying in my room until we...
[Find the Nameless? Aventurine had mentioned they were likely laying down new rail somewhere, which means they have traveled to a place so distant, so difficult to find, that Akivili THEMSELF has never been there. Terminus alone knows when they will return to the mapped cosmos again.
He wings visibly tense.]
...Until I can leave your company.
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[ Now, unthinking, Aventurine removes his glasses to peer at Sunday with eyes unhidden and a gaze not colored by polarized lenses. He tucks them neatly into the breast pocket of his vest, sparing himself an extra second before answering properly. It is, quite frankly, ludicrous how lovely Halovians are even at their worst moments, Sunday's too taut stillness and wide, gleaming golden eyes all the more ethereal for his surprise. What a horribly pretty thing he is, totally unaware of just how much damage he can do, like so many monsters. ]
No. That's not- no. Look- come on.
[ Stars, is he flustered? Certainly not, but he doesn't want to stand here in the middle of a Lushakan street hashing out trauma in front of anyone nosy enough to listen any longer. So, he beckons and starts walking. ]
I'm not going to lie to you and pretend we're chums, alright? But you can't lock yourself away, either. My comfort one way or another doesn't matter. It's just business.
[ He says those words as much for himself as for Sunday, even as he wonders why it matters to him so much, even as realization starts to dawn. ]
Your sister had a very clear idea of where you went wrong. [ Conquest. Domination. Jade had used those words, specifically, when relaying their conversation, knowing exactly which nerve they would hit for Aventurine. ] I'm not equipped to set you on the right path, but I do know that hiding in a dark room isn't the way to do it.
[ Aventurine stops beside a large wooden building with tall latticed windows, diamonds of colored and clear glass peering into a show room of housing goods and furniture. He crosses his arms over his chest. ]
If you don't get out there, see new worlds, and really meet the people on them, then you're going to-
[ He stops. Even if he could bring himself to say it, Sunday wouldn't understand. There's no set of words powerful enough to match the feeling Aventurine gets, the only feeling not dulled at all, when he realizes what he truly sees, and fears, in the former Bronze Melodia, a man poised to stumble down the same Path as Oswaldo Schneider.
He bites down on the insides of his cheeks. A huff of air escapes him, a neat release of steam. ]
It'd just be better for you if you experienced life.
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Sunday draws a breath, prepares himself to ask where Robin said he went wrong, then decides against it. Knowing her, and how well she knows him, he can guess what she might have said.]
You are worried I will lock myself in the same cage I was in on Penacony and commit myself to my Path once more. [When Aventurine stops again, Sunday stops one pace behind him, features stoney, feathers splayed.]
...Would it help if I promise that won't happen?
[He had thrown his all into the creation of his Path. He forged it with divine hands. It would have been the Path to end all others, one that gave humanity the chance to live free of Aeons. Philosophy, the Path of Humankind, where no Aeons walked, the virtuous were uplifted, and the wicked burned beneath the gaze of the perfect sun.
...It had all seemed like a sure thing. But the Nameless defeated him. They had proven their Path stronger and cast him from the sky. If The Philosophy had been truly righteous, he would not have failed. But he did. He'd been wrong.
Now he has to find a new way to create his paradise. By walking among mortals with his broken wings binding him to the land, maybe he can find a better way. One that truly reflects the warmth he feels in his heart for the people of the cosmos...
None of his thoughts are spoken aloud, but he falls into a silence that fills the air with their weight.]
...I am trying to provide succor [He says after several long moments have passed.] You don't make it easy for me. You say we are not friends, and you clearly do not want me around, yet when I offer to sequester myself, you say you do not want that either. [A pause, he looks up at the latticed windows. Their crossed patterns remind him of his confessional.]
And you say your comfort doesn't matter, but it matters to me. Everyone deserves days of respite, Mister Aventurine. Yourself included.
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Especially not Sunday, a ridiculous little bird with too big storybook ideas about right and wrong, whose every emotion seems to settle in the air like a weighted blanket.
Aventurine catches himself halfway to shaking his head in response to Sunday's assertion that he deserves rest. He doesn't. There's too much work, too much to make up for, and not enough system hours on any world to see his many schemes through in a way that will satisfy the blood spilled on Sigonia.
And even with the matter of deserving set aside, it's the assertion, itself, that sticks in his craw. ]
How can you say that? [ Aventurine turns to look at Sunday. He wants to curl his arms around himself more tightly, but he doesn't. ] Less than a day ago, you told me you enjoyed humbling me. Your necessary divine justice made me- [ Aventurine stops himself, jaw tightening until the memory, the rising terror behind, and the desire to speak of it at all pass. ] How can you say my comfort matters, now?
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At the time, you and I were at odds. We were both using each other as pawns in our schemes, so let's not dwell on it.
The way I see it, you are no longer my opponent, but my traveling companion. As my companion, your comfort matters. [Which feels foolish to say now, when Aventurine does not want comfort. Many people don't. Their pride or sense of duty prevents them from seeking or accepting it. That is a flaw of humanity Sunday had wanted to fix once. He doesn't anymore. But it still disappoints him to see it.]
...You do not want me to be kind, nor do you want my claws. You do not want me to avoid you, but you do not want me around. What do you want?
Please. Your honesty would be appreciated.
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Aventurine shuts his eyes and breathes until fire and panic dim to twilight. ]
Just don't treat me like your jailer, and I'll be satisfied.
[ It's not a lie, at least, but he's also done having this conversation in a public place. ]
This isn't the best spot to discuss the matter further, Mister Sol. So, let's do what we came here to do, shall we?
[ The candy coating returns to his voice as he turns, hand resting on the shop's front door. ]
Pick out whatever you like! Pillows, bedding, blankets. We can find a mattress for you in the back and have it all sent to the ship.
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[Has he called Aventurine a jailor? Maybe he has. For all Sunday knows, he died in his fall from the heavens but failed to notice in all the confusion.]
I apologize if you were annoyed by that. I hope you know, however, that you've kept your intentions deliberately abstruse. "Valuable asset" is the term you IPC people use. To you, that's what I am, right? You could have collected me just to sell me to the highest bidder--
[Here, he sucks in a breath, folds his wings back, and falls abruptly silent. Shit. He doesn't know the full details of Aventurine's life, but he knows he just said something careless. Foolish. Foolish. After all his time spent as an orator, he should know better. Guilt and embarrassment churn into a corrosive mixture in his chest.
His silence drags on a moment longer before he glances at his companion with sincere golden eyes.]
Sorry. [He doesn't elaborate, knowing that Aventurine will only grow more agitated if he does so. Instead, he gently removes himself from Aventurine's side and steps past the door into the shop, where his attention is immediately drawn to soft, white sheets hanging on a far wall. They are not as extravagant as the fabric he swaddled himself in on Penacony, but they still look very comfortable ...and very expensive.
Aventurine had told him to pick what he wanted, but insisting his host spend so much money on bedding that likely won't be used for long is a waste of credits. So he focuses his search on cheaper alternatives.]
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Another link forged between the IPC and the Express. Another hand aboard the train to protect them in the coming war. Debts from still beloved, if fallen members of the Family. And, if Aventurine is honest, his monster set upon a path that might see him rehabilitated, less likely to lapse into old habits he insists he has no intention of repeating. Everyone insists they'll do better next time, though, and no one ever does.
Really, the only wrong assumption is that there had been a bidding war. There hasn't been, not yet -- Aventurine had found the idea repulsive, and Jade had just been delighted to see anything like conviction spark behind his eyes -- but it's coming. Plenty of IPC big wigs want a piece of the fallen Oak, and they'll offer plenty to get him. For now, Aventurine can spin stories to delay the inevitable, but if they can't find the Express, if he loses Diamond and then Jade's support, if the wolves do inevitably close in, he...
Well, all for the Amber Lord, right? Sunday is right to mistrust him. He is a weasel, perpetuating a cycle that he, himself, has lived and loathed.
He barely hears Sunday's murmured apology. Holds the door for him in silence, and follows behind. Without a word, he walks over to the expensive sheets that had caught Sunday's eye and examines them. Expensive does not always mean excellent, but these are indeed fine quality. He selects a set of them from beneath the hanging display, neatly folded and bound up with a velvetty ribbon crinkled and silvered so that the bow tails look like cresting waves, and tucks it beneath his arm before rejoining Sunday at his side.
Aventurine stares down at the cheaper sheets. ]
I despise the idea of people in shackles being passed around and put to use. It's disgusting. And while I can't promise you much, Sunday, I will do my best to preserve what little freedom I can, where I can, within the scope of my responsibilities as a manager of the IPC. I will not let anyone sell you.
[ That said, he glances sidelong at Sunday, knocks his head toward the building's west wall. ]
If you're looking for the itchiest set of sheets as a form of further attrition, they're over there. Otherwise- [ He points to the other wall, where colorful blankets have been hung beside hand-woven rugs. ] -those quilts are made by locals. The fabric is synthesized from kelp. Might be a nice keepsake.
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Sunday isn't sure, but decides it isn't worth wondering more about. Not right now. If his companion believes it then, that at least speaks well of his character.]
Attrition?
[He laughs.]
Not everything I do is a form of penance, Mister Aventurine. I simply thought that spending so much money... [His eyes wander first to the quilts, then to the artistically tied bundle under Aventurine's arm.] ...on a man who will not be with you long would be a waste of the IPC's resources.
Am I mistaken?
[He hopes not. If one of the greediest corporations in the cosmos wants to keep him happy, it implies myriad unpleasant possibilities. Anyone who wants to keep him comfortable and content actually wants to keep him close and under their thumb.]
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Trying to convince you that I'm not scheming to lull you into complacency feels like a bad use of my time. You're far too clever for that.
[ Aventurine gives the fine sheets tucked under his arm a second look, holding the bundle in one hand and fiddling with the decorative bow. It's good to have an eye-catching prop; looking distracted, himself, helps to hide the fact that he's thinking hard about what to say next. They are apt to go in circles like this forever -- or, at least, until that damned train reports to a registered station or Diamond tells him to shut this nonsense down, whichever comes first. ]
The IPC does have a business spending category specifically for expendetures made when courting valuable investments. It's just a line on a drop down menu on one of my monthly reports, but there's a hard limit for each "asset" calculated before we pursue, and nothing spent under that number is a waste. Lots of legal restrictions tangled up in that. An absolute ton of paperwork, too. Guarantees an audit at year end, which is a pain. But considering what we do at the Strategic Investment Department, I'm very familiar with the process.
So, maybe everything I do is a step in a business process. I'm buying your favor, because that's what the IPC wants. At year end, I'll fill out a form and get reimbursed and the hole in my pocket gets all patched up.
[ He finally looks up, head angled slightly, one shoulder higher than the other. ]
Or, maybe, I don't see the point in hoarding credits. Maybe the money spent on your bedding is an IPC resource inasmuch as I am an IPC resource, and it's my money. Maybe... once, I was handed a stipend and a handbook, told to get the ruins of my life in order ASAP, when what I really needed was a shower, and a bed, and a few hours sleep. And maybe, seeing the opportunity to create a softer landing for someone else in free fall is my attempt at balancing the scales.
Whichever story makes you feel more secure. [ A wry grin. ] I'm not in the business of mind control. [ He tucks the sheets back under his arm. ] And if you're hellbent on cheaper sheets and blankets, I won't protest.
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...I do not want to be indebted to the IPC. If you are expecting me to return any favors to your company, you will be disappointed.
[His time spent as a nascent divinity is scattered and dream-like in his memories. When he fell from the sky and his expansive consciousness collapsed in on itself, he forgot most of the sensations and impossibly vast thoughts he'd had. But some of it remains. "All for the Amber Lord!" is a cry he can still feel echoing in the deepest parts of his soul.
He cannot fall into the IPC's grasp.]
I do not like them.
[He says as he tugs one black glove loose from a perfectly manicured hand. Admitting when he dislikes someone has never been easy. But the IPC isn't a someone, it is a corporation, a group of people so vast that any individual within it has long since been subsumed by the whole. The Family isn't the only faction that knows that trick. People have lost themselves to collective thought for as long as there have been people.
He once believed he could solve that problem.
He doesn't anymore.
His now bare fingers reach out to dance across the cheaper sheets, feeling the coarseness of the material. Then he touches the elegantly folded fabric Aventurine carries. It is soft beneath his skin, certainly the preferable option. Admitting want is uncomfortable, so he communicates his choice by tapping the bundle twice.]
I know accepting hospitality without repaying it is discourteous, but I hope you understand my reasons.
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Of two tales, Sunday has chosen the less flattering one, and that is for the best in the long run -- no foolish attachments from the bird with the supposedly soft heart. They know where they stand now. And at least they've settled on sheets. ]
Don't worry about me, Mister Sunday. I have no expectations and I don't count debts, I count cards.
[ Even were he in the habit of holding people to any sort of standard, which he is not foolish enough to do, it'd be rather unfair to demand any more of the former Bronze Melodia. He is, after all, a large part of why Sunday is here, fallen from grace and on the run, to begin with; from the shadows, Aventurine ripped victory from his hands and helped to dash his dreams across Penacony's perfect gilded streets -- he certainly deserves the mistrust, and the venomous gaze, as well. ]
Now, I can't speak for Lady Jade, she's the most likely to come calling, but the IPC is the last place I want you to end up. [ Marketing would smell the Trailblaze on him and scoop him up, remolding a monster. ] If you trust nothing else about me, believe that it won't be me pulling you into Preservation.
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Heh. [He tries to inject some humor into his voice, to put his companion at ease.] I appreciate that. I would rather not be involved with the Preservation for a while.
[The Path had upended his entire life. Looking back now, he is grateful for that. If Philosophy had been truly righteous, he would have been victorious. But he had lost, had collapsed beneath the combined might of Trailblaze and Preservation, and watched his Path for Humanity turn to ash. Which means Trailblaze had been righteous, and Preservation had backed up the wiser choice.
Still...
He laughs, the sound rich and musical despite the pain laced through it.]
The last time I met your Amber Lord, THEY struck me in the head with a hammer. That is not an experience I am eager to repeat.
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Aventurine looks him over, gaze sticking to the shoulders and up. Odd to see the acid gone already. Maybe he isn't entirely hopeless when it comes to hiding his true feelings. Strange bird. ]
Hey, most things don't typically survive the first hit. [ Not that it'd been a true fall of the hammer, cushioned as it was by Ena's dream, no reverberations to herald a new Era. ] You should be proud. A testament to that hard head of yours...
[ Aventurine has never been good at offering real, earnest comfort. Complicate that with the particularly messy tangle he and Sunday have found themselves in, and it's damned near impossible. So, he wanders off slowly to go and peruse a shelf of throw pillows and small, hand-stitched stuffed animals. ]
And to your resilience.
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He opens his mouth to ask, but Aventurine is already gone, perusing a shelf of plush animals that is somehow more interesting than their conversation.]
Tch.
[Sunday tugs his glove back on and walks up behind the Stoneheart, pausing a few paces away to mind each of their preference for personal space.]
Mister Aventurine, if I have said something to upset you just now, then I would like to know what it was so I can avoid saying it in the future.
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He's holding it between thumb and forefinger when Sunday stops behind him. Annoyance angles the bird's words to something almost sharp, and Aventurine can hardly fathom why. Had Sunday's words upset him? He's not actually sure -- not when mistrust is part and parcel of his day-to-day. He's simply learned to ignore it. It shouldn't matter, anyway. They have both been honest with each other. Aventurine fears him, but will work through his fear. Sunday looks and sees Preservation's dog, but hardly has his choice of traveling companions at the moment. They are not exactly poised for charming banter.
He turns, unsure of what to say until his jewel-tone eyes flick down on impulse and spot the glove back in place. (Thank goodness for that.) A crooked grin inches partway across his face. ]
Believe it or not, it's nothing you said, Mister Sunday. I'm not exactly unaccustomed to being thought untrustworthy.
[ No use in lying, but he decides there's not use in being totally serious, either. Aventurine holds the little green fish up in front of his face, wiggling it as he speaks in a slightly pitched-up voice. ]
It was your glove. So much skin, Mister Sunday. I was caught off guard. [ He lowers the fish, still smiling. ] Problem solved now, though, huh?
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...If you refuse to be honest, please at least refrain from mocking me.
[The sharpness in his voice twists into a snarl, replacing his usual musical tones with ice. Whatever had actually bothered Aventurine seems to have passed, but Sunday refuses to believe it was the sight of his ungloved hand. The truth is, he knows, likely not important for any reason other than that it is the truth. One thing every experienced official knows is small lies add up over time into big ones.]
I do not trust you, but it would be easier for us both if I did. [He sighs, knowing that Aventurine will not elucidate this situation, not over a brief moment where he seemed anxious about something.]
...Well. I guess we should discuss more important matters, right? I will need bedclothes.
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Aventurine does not snap back. He just tucks the little fish under his arm with the bedding, trying his best to keep his heart from rattling up into his throat from the sudden rush of adrenaline. ]
Of course, Mister Sunday. There's another shop not far from here that should have what you need. If not on hand, then we can pick up the instructions for it for the ship synthesizer. Once we're done here, I'll show you.
[ There is no point in arguing, and he's certainly in no rush to agitate Sunday (and himself) further, so he pleasantly, attentively shows Sunday to the mattresses. Does not make any unasked for suggestions, does not try to press any bruises, just plays the part of affable host as he guides Sunday through the store, pays, and sets up delivery instructions.
It's not until they are back on the street that he slips, letting a bit too much personality in as he leads Sunday to the next shop over. ]
If you'd like to pick up a few day-to-day pieces, as well, feel free. You like blue, don't you? Great planet to land on for that.
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He examines the display of mattresses and nearly selects the cheapest one he can find, eager to be polite, but quickly reconsiders. Whether he wants it or not, the IPC will pay for his passage with Aventurine. As long as they don't expect to buy his obedience, he decides he's okay with wasting their money. They have enough of it. So he settles on a fluffy, silk-lined mattress instead.
Once they are outside, Aventurine speaks again, some of his amused chirp rising again in his voice.]
...More clothing isn't a bad idea. [Sunday admits.] I am a fugitive, after all. It might be wise to change up my appearance...
[He hesitates, then looks back at Aventurine with his wings hanging limply against his collarbone, an anxious thought having sapped all strength from them.]
...You mentioned the Nameless might be laying a new stretch of rail. I know what that means, Mister Aventurine. If they have gone where even Akivili has never been, they might not return for a long time. Waiting here for them will only get us killed. So, where do you intend to go?
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Still, there's no use in lying when the truth so consistently beggars all belief for the former Bronze Melodia. He will go right on being mostly honest, he supposes. Maybe eventually it'll shake out in his favor.
He waits to answer until he's held open the door to an unusually modern clothing shop and the both of them have gone inside. Aventurine spares a look over his shoulder, then scans the show room before he responds. ]
I'm still part of the Strategic Investment Department. [ Despite his best efforts. ] And the IPC has no shortage of low performing assets that I personally need to audit and assess. With the Doctors of Chaos keeping me on partial administrative leave, I thought it a good time to start chipping away at that list.
[ In short: a road trip of sorts to a bunch of backwater worlds and stations. A near perpetual excuse to be on the move and out of reach, under the guise of the diligent work of a dedicated IPC manager. Sunday will probably not like it. But Sunday does not understand the full scope of Aventurine's role.
That said, he's not sure how much fly time they'll get out of a bluff like this. Surely enough to come up with a more sound plan. He hopes. ]
Wherever we are, I'm confident we'll hear from the Nameless just as soon as they're reachable.
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Forgive me [Sunday looks around the clothes shop and pauses briefly when his eyes pass over a rack of comfortable looking bedclothes.] I should have been more specific. After Lushaka, where will we go?
[He gingerly steps over to the rack and examines a two-piece silk pajama set. The top leaves more of the upper chest exposed than Sunday prefers, but the material appears to be well made. He starts removing his rings, then remembers Aventurine's strange behavior only minutes before, and drops his hand back to his side with a defeated groan.]
Should I prepare for cold weather?
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He crosses his arms over his chest and shrugs one shoulder, casual. ]
You should buy for cold and warm, humid and dry. [ Another reason the bird is better suited to Trailblaze. Whatever blessing still lingers on that train would make such matters moot for him. ] And before you get cross with me again, I'm not trying to be difficult. The less obvious our next destination for anyone who comes asking about you after we leave, the better. Which is why I don't know exactly where we're headed next, yet. It depends.
[ His gaze falls to Sunday's hands, acutely aware of how his little joke before the bed sheets has only made things infinitely more difficult. Particulars matter. The pretty bird needs a perfect habitat, not to put forward a particular image, but just to function.
Aventurine chews the inside of his cheek, biting down until the pain in his mouth is greater than the swirl of discomfort in his stomach. ]
I can wait by the entrance if you'd like to take your time browsing.
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I do not intend to take long.
[Golden eyes shift to lock on to Aventurine's gaze and hold it fast.]
But I would like to feel the fabric. So, if the sight of my ungloved hand really is an affront to your sense of propriety, maybe you will be more comfortable standing away from me.
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You should think more of your own comfort and worry less about what I'm feeling. [ He shoves his hands into his pockets. ] No one is going to pay you the same courtesy out here.
[ Outside of the Sweet Dream, he means. Even on Penacony, where Sunday was more than a king, the people surrounding him had been manipulative -- well, all of them save his sister. It is no different out here. The sooner he learns that, the better.
Just as soon as he commits to the thought, though, he rolls his shoulders and gives a heavy sigh. Honesty. It's the only way. Any lies will stack up, higher and higher, until they all eventually topple, and the two of them don't even have the foundation to fake a house of cards. ]
Your hands are fine. It was just... a surprise. I don't exactly have a lot of experience with clergy. Aren't you sacred or something? I doubt you want someone like me looking at you, and- [ A huff. ] It's- it's really just, you don't want to be comforted, I can tell. And even if you did, I don't know how to do it. It seemed more effective to keep moving. [ When in doubt, maximize productivity. Focus on goals. ] Alright?
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cw: suicidal ideation
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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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nsfw a bit
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