[ 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?
[Sunday's eyes widen and he finds himself mutely staring at Aventurine for the second time in less than an hour.]
...Mister Aventurine, I am not asking for comfort, nor am I acting out of concern for the comfort of strangers-- [At the moment anyway. He has acted out of concern for strangers many times. His life's work, the one thing he has made his core ambition, his entire reason to keep living, is to ensure the happiness of people he will never meet. His wings fold back, and he casts his gaze demurely toward the floor.]
Not just now, anyway. [He looks back up, his eyes sharper now.] I am asking out of concern for your comfort. If we are going to travel together, it makes sense to be aware of each other's emotional states. If I am incorrect about that, please let me know.
[There was one more point, one more absurd thing Aventurine said that should be addressed.] And I am stripped of my blessings now. My body is no more sacrosanct than yours. You are permitted to gaze upon me. It is leering I dislike. If I catch you doing that, I will castigate you.
[ Cruelty would be so much easier to navigate and contempt more familiar to manage, but no, of course it must be more complicated than that. Of course Sunday would be the man Robin sees, unyielding, untrusting, but compassionate, paving that road to hell with overwhelmingly good intentions. How exhausting. Aventurine would almost prefer if the former priest still saw him as an evil spirit in need of exorcising. As it stands, he can't even feel satisfaction in taking advantage of kindness offered by a former enemy. Not when it feels like he's one of the sinful flock, now. Ick.
He pinches the bridge of his nose, barely registers Sunday's words until he starts speaking about gazes and leering. Aventurine blinks, hand falling to his side. There is the terrifying maestro who'd holed himself up in that oppressive little office in Dewlight Pavilion. Looking at him, Aventurine isn't sure what he feels -- fear, maybe, a jolt of something, certainly -- but what slips out of him is a snicker. His brows beetle, grin returning to his face. ]
Permitted to...? Spare the rod, Mister Sunday. You don't need to worry about me leering. Good instinct, though.
[ Aventurine can barely look at him -- fine features hidden behind the fluff of his hair, too expressive feathers always moving and giving him away -- without getting annoyed. All the same, he files that information away for later. Even without the halo, Sunday is jarringly handsome, and the ogling eyes of strangers will be unavoidable as they hop from world to world. Aventurine will have his work cut out for him, keeping unwanted attention at bay.
But, first things first. ]
Kind as it is for you to be so fussed with my comfort, right now, you're the one whose whole world has been turned upside down. [ Nevermind that he is still on leave, recovering from Harmony's brand, an Emanator's blade, and a walk through Nihility's sea. ] You don't trust me. That's to be expected. But it does complicate your concerns, you not believing half the things I say.
I'm not used to living in close quarters with someone else, let alone someone with our... shared history. It'll take some adjusting. There'll be plenty of little inconveniences. But, I... [ He doesn't quite wince, but a heaviness settles in his gaze as he stares into Sunday's face. The lines he's drawn between himself and Sunday are starting to take a more definitive shape. It feels like an elephant huddled in the back of his mind. A good thing Aventurine is good at ignoring things like that. ] ...setting aside the little things, I just don't want to see you shrink down, take up as little space as possible, and erase yourself because you think it'll make our lives easier. Okay?
[One wing twitches back slightly as he listens. Avnturine speaks evenly, cautiously, as if Sunday truly is a terrible lion of nightmares who may pounce at the slightest insult. At the end, the lion laughs. Is he really such a monster?]
The rod? Oh, Mister Aventurine, I would never resort to such barbaric methods of retribution. More likely, I would tune you so that you never see again.
[The notes of laughter in his voice fade quickly, but remain in his eyes. His expression is amused, not mocking.] ....If you are sure you don't want me to keep to myself, then I won't. However, I think it would be in both of our interests to establish some boundaries when we return to the ship. For example, I know the door to your bed chamber is a threshold I must never cross. I would appreciate it if you returned the favor. We wouldn't want you coming down my ladder unannounced after all. What if you saw me without my boots on? You might catch a glimpse of my ankle.
[ Sunday is laughing. Aventurine focuses on that, on the smile that lingers in his eyes even after the sound stops. It is a jest. Mostly a jest. Probably a jest. No cause for concern. He smiles through it, his characteristic sly grin holding steady, the only sign of discomfort an impatient, busy flex of his fingers.
Though tuning is a threat Aventurine cannot take lightly, Sunday has allowed himself to be more than an inconvenience, stronger than the meek, injured animal. It is too great a victory to let his own nonsense ruin things. If they are to spend weeks together, better a companion unafraid to show his true colors than one who pretends to be nothing at all. Aventurine knows how that sort of thing usually goes. ]
Well, much as I love consequences for my actions, I'd hate to disrupt my poker game, so I better be on my best behavior.
[ He manages a laugh, easy, warm sound. ]
Most wise of you, Mister Sunday. Could you imagine if I walked in on you preening your feathers? I might faint, then we'd be in real trouble. [ Aventurine fishes a card out of his pocket and offers it out. ] Consider the room below deck your domain until I get you where you need to go. Take this, buy whatever feels right for an eclectic journey. I'm going to go get us a couple of coffees.
I did survive decades before I met you, Mister Aventurine. [Sunday says, the smile still evident in his voice as he accepts the card.]
I'll be fine.
...I prefer my coffee [with heavy cream, plenty of sugar] black. [The Oak Family Head does not indulge in sweets. Even clipped of his wings, Sunday finds some old habits hard to shake.
Once he is left alone, Sunday wanders around the shop and other nearby storefronts, perusing clothes and travel sacks. He selects silk sleepwear, the one with too much chest exposed for his liking, and a fluffy bathrobe with matching slippers to cover himself with. In a store with cold-weather wear, he purchases a sleek, fur-lined coat that hangs to his ankles and complements his frame. White, with blue trim. Everything he buys is stylish. After all, necessity doesn't mean he can't look his best.
Warm weather clothing is more difficult for him. Shirts show much more skin than he is accustomed to. After some fussing, he finally settles on a short-sleeved top and loose linen trousers.
By the time Aventurine returns, he is standing on the side of the road, gripping multiple overstuffed bags. A few passersby give him lingering glances that he mistakes for ogling at first, then he realizes he must look like a wealthy tourist preparing for a pan-galactic cruise.]
[ The look Aventurine levels at Sunday before parting is incredulous, teasing.
He takes his time, stopping at open air stalls they'd passed to browse wares and clear his head. It's a relief, he decides, that Sunday seems to be finding his footing. In lieu of something more cleanly cruel and monstrous, Aventurine will gladly take a bit of fire. Even if it does scare him more than the shrinking, injured bird he's been traveling with for the last day, poking a bear feels better than walking on eggshells. More real. (Not that he has any business wanting authenticity from anyone.)
It's a simple thing, popping into the music shop and procuring the violin. The merchant (husband of the woman who crafts most of the wooden pieces) recognizes him from their earlier stop. He clearly expects Aventurine to haggle, but he doesn't. However fine the instrument, the dent it puts in his bank account could be hammered out in one night at the right card table. He is, instead, generous with praise for the craftsmanship while the shopkeeper retrieves the piece and packs it into its case and wraps it all in brown paper, and laughs off a comment about the handsome young man he'd been by with earlier being "one lucky guy."
Next, the coffees. He orders from a spot he'd come to the first time he'd been to Lushaka. Back then, he'd been new to the Stonehearts, only recently inducted and unsure of how to behave himself in polite society. The little shop with the walk up window had been a reprieve. Still nicer than anything he'd ever experienced as a pit fighter, but a little more grounded in reality. The coffee is strong. The pastries better for being made in house. Aventurine purchases two cream puffs to go along with the two black coffees, and leisurely makes his way back, enjoying the feel of real sunlight baking his skin. (The bird probably needs sunscreen, he thinks off-handedly, when he notices what a warm day it is.)
When Sunday comes into view again, arms laden with bags from the shopping district's designer stores, Aventurine can't help but laugh. A bright bark of sound that he can't quite stifle with his own hands full. ]
I guess you really don't need my help to spend money.
[ He does a bit of juggling as he sidles up beside Sunday, large nondescript bag with the violin hoisted up onto one shoulder, coffees in carrier and pastries in paper sack moved over to one hand. He extends the other, open, to Sunday.
The delight at the sight of Sunday's many purchases is plain in his voice. ]
Slide some of those on my arm so you can take your drink, Mister Shopping Spree. Got us some pastries, too. The coffee's real strong, so I wanted something to balance it. Would you like to eat here on deck, or head back to my ship?
[Sunday glides forward, as effortlessly elegant in his movements as the birds wheeling overhead.]
The deck [He answers as he shifts the loops of his bags over Aventurine's arm. His now free hand accepts the coffee and he steps back with a grin that, this time, fails to reach his eyes.]
I would not mind looking out at the sea before we depart.
[ Though he does not outwardly react, Aventurine takes note of the half-fueled smile right away. Faking joy, pretending at comfort, feigning satisfaction, those had been the first things he'd learned once his life was more than just basic survival. Sunday will need to learn the same, but Aventurine finds himself in no rush to teach him.
He hoists the bags up onto his other shoulder and leads the way toward a spot he recalls being a fine place to sit and enjoy the scenery. They needn't walk far to find the intended destination -- the Hammer is dotted with little patches of green overlooking the endless blue. He brings them to a bench, wood planks set in carved coral overlooking the ocean, and shrugs the bags on his arm off onto the ground. ]
No one gave you too much fuss?
[ It's the closest he'll come to asking what's wrong outright. ]
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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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...Mister Aventurine, I am not asking for comfort, nor am I acting out of concern for the comfort of strangers-- [At the moment anyway. He has acted out of concern for strangers many times. His life's work, the one thing he has made his core ambition, his entire reason to keep living, is to ensure the happiness of people he will never meet. His wings fold back, and he casts his gaze demurely toward the floor.]
Not just now, anyway. [He looks back up, his eyes sharper now.] I am asking out of concern for your comfort. If we are going to travel together, it makes sense to be aware of each other's emotional states. If I am incorrect about that, please let me know.
[There was one more point, one more absurd thing Aventurine said that should be addressed.] And I am stripped of my blessings now. My body is no more sacrosanct than yours. You are permitted to gaze upon me. It is leering I dislike. If I catch you doing that, I will castigate you.
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He pinches the bridge of his nose, barely registers Sunday's words until he starts speaking about gazes and leering. Aventurine blinks, hand falling to his side. There is the terrifying maestro who'd holed himself up in that oppressive little office in Dewlight Pavilion. Looking at him, Aventurine isn't sure what he feels -- fear, maybe, a jolt of something, certainly -- but what slips out of him is a snicker. His brows beetle, grin returning to his face. ]
Permitted to...? Spare the rod, Mister Sunday. You don't need to worry about me leering. Good instinct, though.
[ Aventurine can barely look at him -- fine features hidden behind the fluff of his hair, too expressive feathers always moving and giving him away -- without getting annoyed. All the same, he files that information away for later. Even without the halo, Sunday is jarringly handsome, and the ogling eyes of strangers will be unavoidable as they hop from world to world. Aventurine will have his work cut out for him, keeping unwanted attention at bay.
But, first things first. ]
Kind as it is for you to be so fussed with my comfort, right now, you're the one whose whole world has been turned upside down. [ Nevermind that he is still on leave, recovering from Harmony's brand, an Emanator's blade, and a walk through Nihility's sea. ] You don't trust me. That's to be expected. But it does complicate your concerns, you not believing half the things I say.
I'm not used to living in close quarters with someone else, let alone someone with our... shared history. It'll take some adjusting. There'll be plenty of little inconveniences. But, I... [ He doesn't quite wince, but a heaviness settles in his gaze as he stares into Sunday's face. The lines he's drawn between himself and Sunday are starting to take a more definitive shape. It feels like an elephant huddled in the back of his mind. A good thing Aventurine is good at ignoring things like that. ] ...setting aside the little things, I just don't want to see you shrink down, take up as little space as possible, and erase yourself because you think it'll make our lives easier. Okay?
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The rod? Oh, Mister Aventurine, I would never resort to such barbaric methods of retribution. More likely, I would tune you so that you never see again.
[The notes of laughter in his voice fade quickly, but remain in his eyes. His expression is amused, not mocking.] ....If you are sure you don't want me to keep to myself, then I won't. However, I think it would be in both of our interests to establish some boundaries when we return to the ship. For example, I know the door to your bed chamber is a threshold I must never cross. I would appreciate it if you returned the favor. We wouldn't want you coming down my ladder unannounced after all. What if you saw me without my boots on? You might catch a glimpse of my ankle.
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Though tuning is a threat Aventurine cannot take lightly, Sunday has allowed himself to be more than an inconvenience, stronger than the meek, injured animal. It is too great a victory to let his own nonsense ruin things. If they are to spend weeks together, better a companion unafraid to show his true colors than one who pretends to be nothing at all. Aventurine knows how that sort of thing usually goes. ]
Well, much as I love consequences for my actions, I'd hate to disrupt my poker game, so I better be on my best behavior.
[ He manages a laugh, easy, warm sound. ]
Most wise of you, Mister Sunday. Could you imagine if I walked in on you preening your feathers? I might faint, then we'd be in real trouble. [ Aventurine fishes a card out of his pocket and offers it out. ] Consider the room below deck your domain until I get you where you need to go. Take this, buy whatever feels right for an eclectic journey. I'm going to go get us a couple of coffees.
[ And that violin. ]
You'll be alright on your own, yeah?
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I'll be fine.
...I prefer my coffee [with heavy cream, plenty of sugar] black. [The Oak Family Head does not indulge in sweets. Even clipped of his wings, Sunday finds some old habits hard to shake.
Once he is left alone, Sunday wanders around the shop and other nearby storefronts, perusing clothes and travel sacks. He selects silk sleepwear, the one with too much chest exposed for his liking, and a fluffy bathrobe with matching slippers to cover himself with. In a store with cold-weather wear, he purchases a sleek, fur-lined coat that hangs to his ankles and complements his frame. White, with blue trim. Everything he buys is stylish. After all, necessity doesn't mean he can't look his best.
Warm weather clothing is more difficult for him. Shirts show much more skin than he is accustomed to. After some fussing, he finally settles on a short-sleeved top and loose linen trousers.
By the time Aventurine returns, he is standing on the side of the road, gripping multiple overstuffed bags. A few passersby give him lingering glances that he mistakes for ogling at first, then he realizes he must look like a wealthy tourist preparing for a pan-galactic cruise.]
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He takes his time, stopping at open air stalls they'd passed to browse wares and clear his head. It's a relief, he decides, that Sunday seems to be finding his footing. In lieu of something more cleanly cruel and monstrous, Aventurine will gladly take a bit of fire. Even if it does scare him more than the shrinking, injured bird he's been traveling with for the last day, poking a bear feels better than walking on eggshells. More real. (Not that he has any business wanting authenticity from anyone.)
It's a simple thing, popping into the music shop and procuring the violin. The merchant (husband of the woman who crafts most of the wooden pieces) recognizes him from their earlier stop. He clearly expects Aventurine to haggle, but he doesn't. However fine the instrument, the dent it puts in his bank account could be hammered out in one night at the right card table. He is, instead, generous with praise for the craftsmanship while the shopkeeper retrieves the piece and packs it into its case and wraps it all in brown paper, and laughs off a comment about the handsome young man he'd been by with earlier being "one lucky guy."
Next, the coffees. He orders from a spot he'd come to the first time he'd been to Lushaka. Back then, he'd been new to the Stonehearts, only recently inducted and unsure of how to behave himself in polite society. The little shop with the walk up window had been a reprieve. Still nicer than anything he'd ever experienced as a pit fighter, but a little more grounded in reality. The coffee is strong. The pastries better for being made in house. Aventurine purchases two cream puffs to go along with the two black coffees, and leisurely makes his way back, enjoying the feel of real sunlight baking his skin. (The bird probably needs sunscreen, he thinks off-handedly, when he notices what a warm day it is.)
When Sunday comes into view again, arms laden with bags from the shopping district's designer stores, Aventurine can't help but laugh. A bright bark of sound that he can't quite stifle with his own hands full. ]
I guess you really don't need my help to spend money.
[ He does a bit of juggling as he sidles up beside Sunday, large nondescript bag with the violin hoisted up onto one shoulder, coffees in carrier and pastries in paper sack moved over to one hand. He extends the other, open, to Sunday.
The delight at the sight of Sunday's many purchases is plain in his voice. ]
Slide some of those on my arm so you can take your drink, Mister Shopping Spree. Got us some pastries, too. The coffee's real strong, so I wanted something to balance it. Would you like to eat here on deck, or head back to my ship?
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The deck [He answers as he shifts the loops of his bags over Aventurine's arm. His now free hand accepts the coffee and he steps back with a grin that, this time, fails to reach his eyes.]
I would not mind looking out at the sea before we depart.
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He hoists the bags up onto his other shoulder and leads the way toward a spot he recalls being a fine place to sit and enjoy the scenery. They needn't walk far to find the intended destination -- the Hammer is dotted with little patches of green overlooking the endless blue. He brings them to a bench, wood planks set in carved coral overlooking the ocean, and shrugs the bags on his arm off onto the ground. ]
No one gave you too much fuss?
[ It's the closest he'll come to asking what's wrong outright. ]
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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nsfw a bit
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