[Some of the warmth returns to his face as he gazes out at the sea to watch the birds loop and dive from the sky into the waves.]
I need to learn what makes the hardships worth enduring.
[Because there must be something. Beneath the struggle, the aching grind of life is a spark that drives people forward. On Penacony, that spark was lost long ago, consumed by the Stellaron. He wants to see that spark.
He wants to believe in the strength of human will as much as the Nameless do.
His silver wings fold back as he chuckles.]
You are wiser than you are given credit for, Mister Aventurine.
[Finally, he lifts his head to regard his companion, and the warm smile dissolves at the sight of an entire cream puff disappearing in one bite.]
[ Mouth still full, Aventurine gives a noncommittal hrmph in acknowledgement of Sunday's compliment. He doesn't agree. The mistrust is usually well-placed. He is not half as well-read or worldly as those he works with, just an infernally lucky soul who can't seem to find the fall he deserves.
He doesn't have time to feel any particular way about that, though. Sunday's expression blanks at the sight of him, chipmunk-cheeked, devouring a pastry, and he barely has time enough to cover his mouth before he starts laughing. Of course Sunday, gifted all the time in the world to be as Orderly as possible, is not prepared for the eating habits of a corporate drone. Oh, he is in for such a rude awakening.
Just in time, Aventurine presses his forearm to his face, catching a laugh, sealing his mouth and nose as he almost chokes on cream and sugar. The bright sound threatening to spill out thrums deep in his chest and high in his throat, instead, a humming, violin sound as he swallows laughter and tries not to cough.
He lets his stifled giggles peter out before he finishes chewing, and does not speak until he's swallowed the pastry. ]
Sorry to make you regret that very nice compliment so quickly, Feathers. [ Aventurine wheezes, delight plain, before he takes a swig of still hot coffee. He smiles, though, big and bright. His cup is nearly empty, so he scoops up a few of the bags he'd set down on the bench beside him and stands. ] Let's head back, before you really start to regret your choice in chauffeur.
[Sunday follows Aventurine to his feet and takes one last delicate sip of coffee. His heart is racing for reasons that have nothing to do with the caffeine but, he realizes, surprised, he is not as afraid as he thought he would be.
A long journey awaits him, and he is eager to see what happens next. If he can push past the anxious knot he feels whenever he thinks about his lack of control, this journey could be fun.
Fun... as long as he keeps one step ahead of The Family. If they don't kill him for his heresy, they will use him to hurt Robin. He knows what powerful tuners can do. None of his thoughts would be safe. She wouldn't be safe. Aventurine wouldn't be safe.
The excitement of a journey sinks beneath a whirl of anxiety. His mind latches onto the worry as something familiar, a lifeline in the confusing world he finds himself in, and his wings tense.
He draws a breath, prepares himself to ask if Aventurine is prepared to kill him to keep him out of The Family's hands.
Why are you constantly fantasizing about this man killing you? he inwardly scolds himself. What is your problem?
Stop it!
Sunday releases the tension in a shuddered sigh and smiles.]
If I have regrets, they will not be because of you, Mister Aventurine.... That said, yes, let's return to the ship.
[ Travel jitters. Had he felt those the night he and Lady Jade killed Kakavasha and forged a new Aventurine? He can't recall. Mostly, he remembers how little anything had changed. Shackles traded for bangles, a sack cloth shirt replaced with a fine new uniform, a new master to replace the dead one, and all of his anger, all of his fear and shame, still totally intact. It was, he supposes, both absolutely singular and too much to actually process.
Aventurine's gaze lingers on Sunday's once more, expression betraying nothing. Reductive, to call it travel jitters. All the same, he's not sure there's any good way of addressing it, so he gathers up bags onto his arms and leads the way back the way they'd come, through the Hammer's market district and the IPC's main office.
He makes light conversation to fill silence and avoid thinking about regret and distress, mostly about local landmarks or how he understands Lushakan city ships function, as they load up the sleek black shuttle and disembark. A perhaps surprisingly small package is waiting for them when they return to the ship, a sturdy little crate, no bigger than a family-sized pizza delivery, is anchored to the cargo door. Aventurine pushes a few buttons to open the ship's hatch, and the package rockets itself inside. The shuttle follows in after it, settling into place in silence. ]
That's going to be heavier than it looks. [ He says, meaning the space delivery. ] A whole mattress, pillows, blankets, everything, vacuum-sealed down to a carryable size. Let me help you get it down into your room.
[ Odd, to call it his room. Aventurine's fingers linger a moment on his safety harness before unhooking it. No, not odd. Just a calculated move to make the bird feel more comfortable in his temporary quarters.
The shuttle opens once the cargo bay is sealed. Aventurine does not rush to climb out this time. ]
Last thing we need is you throwing your back out, right? First, though, I'd like to plot a course to our next stop. We're better off not hanging out too long in the place everyone thinks the Express was going.
[Abandoning control has not become any easier. Sunday sits quietly in the passenger seat throughout their trip, feathers twitching from a deep effort not to think, to just let events carry him where they may. Even if it means surrendering his fate to Aventurine. The passenger seat, he realizes, is slowly turning into a metaphor for his life.
It is difficult to accept, almost impossible, no matter how hard he tries to still his mind.
When the shuttle stops in the cargo bay, he is the one who rushes to climb out. Maybe a quick stretch and a comfortable flex of his wings will quiet the worried spiral he's been in since sitting on the bench in Lushaka. That brief moment of joyous excitement at the thought of a journey had been fun before his own anxious nature brought it crashing down and forced it into a more painful but familiar and easily understood shape.
It takes a moment for him to notice Aventurine is speaking. He glances over after another pretty stretch and flutters his wings.]
Where will our next stop be? Snowland? Jarilo-Six? I heard the Nameless stopped there already so I doubt anyone suspects they'll show up there again.
[ A poised and silent statue the whole ride back, then he springs up like someone with a stringent fitness routine. Aventurine only watches, wondering at how he's found himself with the only other person, besides himself, in the interastral alliance as dedicated to performance as a Masked Fool.
That's an exaggeration - probably. But the point still stands. Sunday pretends, but the weight of his anxiety in stillness settles heavily on Aventurine's shoulders, and every quiver of white wings gives away his discomfort. Aventurine, himself, finds he cannot help but steal glances when feathers ruffle.
It seems they each have a bad habit they need to get unter control.
Aventurine clears his throat as he climbs out of the shuttle, like the sound might snap Sunday out of that nervous trance he seems to be in. ]
Jarilo-VI is definitely an option...
[ Topaz's territory, not his, but infringing on her turf, while certainly suspicious, does not immediately point to him housing a fugitive. Just another instance of that famed Stoneheart squabbling that everyone likes to gossip about so much. It may also be a good way to loop her in on the scheme.
A plan worth considering, but one of many. There are benefits to other places, pros and cons to letting the bird pick or making the choice, himself. A sea of ideas to turn this way and that and study for possible dangers, but, at the moment, there are more immediately pressing matters. Sunday has that about-to-pluck-all-my-own-feathers look about him.
He walks around to the other side of the shuttle, closer to his traveling companion, and leans on the hood, arms crossed. ]
What's on your mind, Mister Sunday? Our cage isn't so bad, is it?
It's...It's nothing. [He says and realizes, with shame, that it's true. Nothing has happened between his excitement on Lushaka and now that should cause this much anxiety. All he's done is think, despite trying his best not to.
Sunday sighs and clasps his hands against the small of his back to prevent himself from fidgeting.]
I am excited for our journey, but I am also... afraid. It's a fear I suspect comes from how little control I have over my own life.
[His wings tense again. It feels like he's just admitted to a weakness. But he knows the landscape of his own heart as well as those of his flock. "The Oak Family Head is obsessed with control" is not an unusual observation. Everyone who has met him walks away with that impression. Most of them --Aventurine included, he suspects-- believe he lusts for power, that he delights in tormenting those beneath him and wrapping his environment around his fingers. That he derives an erotic thrill in watching people dance around at the ends of his puppet strings until they exhaust themselves. Maybe some of that is true. Sunday knows his heart has darkness within it that he hasn't yet confronted. It isn't entirely true, however, or even mostly true.
His control has always been a form of security. When everything around him is predictable, he is safe. Even when chaos sometimes descended on Penacony, he faced it with regal dignity, for his cocoon of control kept him upright in the eyes of storms while everything else was upside down.
Not anymore. His control is gone, and he is stormtossed, unmoored from everything he was once sure of.
Sunday is silent for a while, still as stone, except for the flexing of his wings.]
...I will be okay, Mister Aventurine. Please do not worry yourself over me.
You'll be okay. [ Aventurine levels his agreement without reservation. ] You've barely been free a day. And are somewhere in the realm of twelve system hours from having been torn away from everything you've ever known.
[ Whether falling slow or moving too fast, terminal velocity takes time to reach. That's not physics, Aventurine doesn't know physics, it's just a fact of life. Sunday is trying to find his, the way he seizes up with tension, goes silent, tries to grasp at the wisps of the figure he'd been on Penacony. Ironic that the one thing that does move on him is the wings. If only he'd notice that, himself; open them up, and ease his landing, a little.
Aventurine shoves himself up and off of the shuttle, walks past Sunday to fetch one of the screens embedded in the wall. The seemingly seamless screen comes away with a press, now a tablet in his hand. He keeps his back to the former Bronze Melodia, flipping through screens. ]
I may not agree with your insistence on psychic punishment as a form of restorative justice, but I refuse to believe that the most conniving man in Penacony -- that's a compliment -- is going to let his first major fall take him out entirely. You're better than that, Mister Sunday. [ There's a smile in his words when he adds, softly and very nearly fond: ] Or worse.
You're going to find your footing. You just need time to learn what you can control, and what isn't worth your time. The Nameless will help get you on the right path, I'm sure.
[ Sunday certainly won't find it traveling with him, a servant without a future, bound to the galaxy's newest form of Order. Aventurine ignores that thought and pulls up the application he'd been looking for, little used. Finally, he turns back to Sunday, holding the tablet out in offering. On the screen is a complicated equalizer and an array of menus for music genres. ]
Why don't you pick something out for us to listen to while we work?
[Conniving doesn't sound like a compliment, but he thinks he knows what Aventurine means. Many people know the former Oak Family Head is more fastidious than most. Few know he is also far more cunning. "Cunning". That is the word he'd prefer.]
You are far too kind, Mister Aventurine, [he says with laughter in his voice.] But I would prefer it if you didn't make me sound like a common criminal.
[He turns and when the tablet is offered to him he accepts after a moment of hesitation.]
You are trying to give me something, however small, that I can control. It is a touching offer but quite embarrassing. [As if on cue, his wings twitch forward to conceal the slight flush of his cheeks.
He looks through music menus with swipes of his gloved hand. Classical music is what he wants; sweet and perfect harmonies from the universe's fragmented history would be soothing.
Something else catches his eye.
His fingers hang above the song title "Hope Is the Thing With Feathers." Is it proper for someone to know he likes her songs? That he has always liked her songs? Ever since they were children, he's been her biggest supporter and greatest fan.
He decides that, for now, it doesn't matter, and taps the screen, eager to hear his sister's voice again.]
[ Aventurine grins in answer, evidently pleased with himself and his own ability to be just a little bit annoying. Then Sunday goes and blushes. Penacony's conniving fallen prince conceals rosy color behind pearl white wings like he's more nervous fussbudget than wannabe tyrant, and right away Aventurine is outdone.
A huff escapes him. He is starting to think he might be getting hustled. ]
You have got to get used to little embarrassments. [ He flounces with a smile, arms spread wide as he heads for the cockpit to pull up a list of potential destinations. ] You're far too big a criminal to let those derail you.
[ He expects something orchestral, with strings and woodwinds, maybe a choir. Aventurine is not surprised, however, when the heartbeat pace of a familiar pop song begins a building pulse through the ships' speaker system.
It's easy to understand the impulse, wanting to surround yourself with the people you love. He runs fingers over one of the stretches of turquoise Sigonian fabric draped along the main hall. ]
You coming? [ He calls, glancing over his shoulder. ] Can't settle on our next destination all by myself, now.
[Sunday huffs, the only sign that he heard the "criminal" remark, then follows after Aventurine with the tablet held against his chest.]
I am right behind you. Forgive me, I'm--
[He trails off, not wanting to admit that he yearns to linger in the cargo bay a while longer and listen to the acoustics of his younger sister's voice rising against the high walls. The clear melody of her song makes his heart ache, as if he'd plunged a dagger into himself by choosing to listen to it.
He may never see Robin again.
Tears start to well in his eyes, but he blinks them away before he steps forward to catch up with the Stoneheart.]
I'm here.
[He says.]
Though... I don't have much of an opinion on where to go. As long as it is a meaningful stop on my pilgrimage and keeps me out of The Family's hands, I promise I'll accompany you willingly.
[ There's a touch too much gloss in those sunset eyes. Aventurine notices as soon as he turns, and says nothing. Is this really the monster that'd planted Harmony in his head for his own pleasure? Here, Sunday is all fluttering wings and frigidly demure responses and now tears. The tears do it, wake some ugly, rust red feeling in him, the only sort of thing that ever feels more strong than a sound overheard from a room away -- anxious, nauseating anger. He can feel his heart thump at the base of his throat.
Sunday's behavior, it's weakness, is what it is. The sort of weakness that gets you worse than killed. A firm hand here would be a kindness. ]
You should-
[ He starts and stops himself.
Robin's song continues to play softly from speakers in the walls, filling what should be silence with oddly hopeful noise.
Aventurine clenches his jaw. He is no better than the men who dragged him across the galaxy and propelled him to this point; he is a cheat, a liar, a murderer, too, but he needn't always match their cruelty. The bird is just twelve system hours removed from shackles, he'd said it himself. And either way, he is hardly some dour child in need of parenting. If Aventurine insists on trying to find control in nudging Sunday in specific directions, he's going to exhaust himself in a day. He needs a different tack. ]
It's your journey. [ Aventurine says, like it's a reminder. ] But if you really don't care, why don't you go unload the shopping bags from the shuttle? I'll go set a course.
[Sunday opens his mouth, then closes it again before any questions can slip loose. Wordlessly, almost meekly, he walks back to the shuttle.
His tears must have been apparent. Somehow, Aventurine had seen the pain in his eyes, had noticed his weakness.
Heads up! A steady rhythm A destination that's ever near It comes! Stride to our kingdom And see the light of day
The juxtaposition of Robin's song with the dark uncertainty in his heart sends pain stabbing through him. How dearly he wishes he could embrace the optimism in those lyrics, but the light of day always feels out of reach. Even when he'd been a child, looking up into the eternal night sky of Penacony, the sun seemed a distant, almost theoretical thing. Yet worlds needed suns. He vowed to be the sun for his people, knowing that he could not bask in his own light but would hang in darkness until the end of time. The Nameless brought their all to bear against him, and he fell, his fire extinguished. Now, the sun no longer, and free from Penacony, he should be able to see the light of day. The skies still feel dark and clouded.
His emotions are unstable from one moment to the next. Optimism and excitement for his journey always curdle into fear. Aventurine sees the fear, which makes Sunday feel pathetic.
He is not a fallen sun, he isn't even an ember. He is a smear of charcoal someone dragged from Penacony on their boot heel. Useless. Pathetic and useless.
Maybe some people are not meant to see the sun. Maybe some lives are never intended to be complete.
Sunday slides to the floor and lets the tablet fall from his grip as he hugs himself, digging nails through the fabric of his gloves into his upper arms. He squeezes harder and harder until the pain makes his feathers molt.
When Aventurine returns he is still on his knees, doubled forward, clawing at his arms in penance for his sinfully chaotic heart.
Am I happy? Excited? Afraid? Hopeful? Full of despair and hate? What is wrong with me?]
[ For a Stoneheart, there is always a backlog. The IPC is old, and there is no shortage of stars with unsettled debt, unprofitable ventures, and breached contracts. Aventurine's to-do list will always be longer than he could ever have time for, having to pick through it on his own looking for "snow" does not make him any eager to crack into it.
Sunday has him feeling storm-tossed, but Aventurine is the picture of calm as he slides into the pilot seat. With focused calm, he pulls up a half-dozen holographic windows, admiring the color as the cockpit fills with neon neapolitan color. The backlog scrolls and scrolls, loading seemingly without end. He lets it go for a few seconds, firing off a cheeky message to Lady Jade that he's sure will earn an eyeroll. When the list isn't finished loading by the time that's done, he huffs and pulls up the profile for Jarilo-VI.
Almost immediately, he receives a call from Topaz. Against his better judgment, he accepts it, and spends the next four minutes doing the verbal equivalent of walking into a sibling's room and flipping the lights off and on rapidly while they try to do homework. He harasses her for tracking her territories' database entries. They bicker. She mistrusts him, but still asks whether he's safe. He dances around the truth and promises to leave a little gift for her in Belobog, none of which she believes. But, it's not bad. She ends their call to accept "a much more important one," and it... helps, actually.
His face feels a little less hot as he jots in the coordinates for Jarilo-VI, and he stretches out most of the rest of his tension when he stands.
He makes it to the end of the hall, cargo bay door slid open, when he spots Sunday on the floor. His heart sinks. Quiet, calm, he steps away. In hurried steps, he makes for the kitchen, fetches a bottle of filtered water from the little refrigerator, and brings it with him back into the cargo bay.
Aventurine steps up beside him, makes note of fallen feathers. He does not touch Penacony's deposed prince, but silently sits down on the floor beside him, legs criss-cross. Wordless, he twists the cap off the metal water bottle, then pulls the tablet out from under Sunday before setting the bottle on the floor within his reach, should he want it.
It takes him what feels like an age to finally speak, wrestling with himself, with words. Softness is cruelty. The bird needs to learn to steel himself if he wants to survive in the great big, dark, empty universe. But, oh, how Aventurine himself had longed for just one person to be gentle when he was lost.
An impasse, but if he doesn't say something now, he's not going to say anything at all. So, Aventurine improvises. ]
Your own head is causing you enough trouble. [ Aventurine pulls in a steadying breath before finally lighting a gloved fingertips on the back of one of Sunday's hands. ] Your hands don't need to help, Mister Sunday.
I've brought you some water. I know it doesn't feel like it, but you're going to make it through this. You're not going to disappoint her.
[Sunday barely notices when Aventurine sits beside him. The world beyond the curtain of his hair and wings no longer exists. It is a gray and shapeless place that will only cause pain if he looks at it.
The hand gently falling upon his own startles him into alertness. He lifts his head, but doesn't look at his companion.]
I do not need your damnable pity!
[He snarls, then finally glances toward Aventurine with bared teeth. The Stoneheart must be tired of him, he thinks. The fallen scion of the Oak Family is a creature of fiery passions that had once been aggressively contained. Sunday feels like he is warring against himself to keep them that way.
And it isn't Aventurine's fault. He doesn't deserve to be snarled at. For reasons Sunday still doesn't understand, Aventurine has been at his side since he gained his freedom and has only been kind. Annoying. But kind, and never overstepping.
A sudden urge sweeps over Sunday to grasp his companion by the back of the neck, pin him to the frigid floor of the cargo bay, and take him. People do it all the time; it is perfectly ordinary. One brief, passionless encounter between them to blow off some steam. That is what people do, isn't it?
Sunday looks Aventurine in the eye for a brief moment, then looks away, his wings pinned back against his neck like the ears of a cornered cat. The grotesque urge passes as quickly as it came. It would be a terrible sin to do such a thing and have it mean nothing. It would mean nothing. At best, they only tolerate each other.
Sunday knows his reeling mind and surging adrenaline are seeking an escape, that is all. He squeezes his arms again, letting the stress out on his own body, then picks up the water bottle.]
...Have you charted a course to our next destination yet?
[ He doesn't even have time to be annoyed. Sunday looks into his eyes for less than a second, but it is enough. Aventurine does not process what he glimpses past the violence it carries, does not bother to note that the Bronze Melodia is so shamed by it that his eyes cannot linger more than a moment. His own cut to the metal bottle just as Sunday grasps it, then up to a nondescript metal box on a wall shelf where he's stowed a gun. Too far. The heavy tool box is more unwieldy, but closer.
It is one thing to weather a man's storms. Inasmuch as Aventurine believes such things, there is probably some virtue in offering patience and warmth to someone whose life has been so thoroughly gutted. It is another, entirely, to allow a man who has been violent before the chance to do so again, worse.
Aventurine stands without answering and sidesteps to the crate containing Sunday's new bedding. The biometric scanner on it beeps when he presses his gloved hand against it, before hissing from hydraulics forcing the crate open. ]
Jarilo-VI, like you said. [ There is no weight in his voice, but it lacks the usual buttery bounce, too. ] ETA three days, three hours, I can't remember how many minutes.
[ Aventurine does not quite access his cornerstone, but he does wordlessly borrow a drop of its power to scoop the vacuum sealed bedding out of the crate. He hefts it up onto his shoulder with a grunt. It's next to nothing with a sliver of the newly forged Aventurine stone buoying him back up. ]
I'm going to take this to your room and get it unpacked. [ There is an unusual firmness in his voice. The fair weather and blue skies of Lushaka feel a million miles away, already, even if they haven't yet warped off. ] You are going to sit here and drink that entire bottle. I'll let you know when you can go dress your bed.
[ He refuses to put his back to Sunday as he moves to the cargo bay's entrance. ]
Do not follow me. [ And then, unwilling to leave a mystery on the table with a monster in his cargo bay and his own safety on the line, he adds, ] Calm yourself. I won't tolerate a repeat of anything that happened in Dewlight Pavilion.
[Sunday lifts his head and stares at Aventurine's retreating form. Is that what this is about? Is he such a monster that he needs to tame his emotions or risk lashing out at the people around him?
He drains the bottle, then rises and walks down the hall. When he sees the twisted, fake wires concealing the ladder to his room, he stops several paces away and waits for Aventurine to emerge from the shadows.]
I followed you. Please do not be alarmed.
[The once fiery edge to his voice has quieted into embers, but remains flickering in his golden eyes. Slowly, like a hunter trying not to startle a rabbit, he crouches, swings his arm, and sends the metal bottle skidding across the floor.]
I don't know what you think you saw in me just now, but it wasn't violent intent. [Or maybe it was, in some ways. The storm in his blood was not seeking a blissful, quiet experience. It was, however, seeking a consensual one. Not that it's important. The impulse passed.]
I had thought to ask you something, but decided against it. Any anger you saw in me was anger at my own weakness.
[Which is a lie, but one that is close enough to the truth that it's easy to tell.
He clasps his hands behind his back.]
...I noticed you looking around the room. You were searching for a weapon.
My offer to stay confined to my quarters remains. If that isn't enough, then I will grant you one more choice, but I will only offer it this once, so please consider it carefully.
[Sunday draws a breath, his wings flutter out to the width of his shoulders.]
If you are that worried about me harming you, then go back to the cargo bay and retrieve your gun. Slay your lion. Finish me..
[The words are spoken sternly, clearly, with no hesitation, but his eyes worriedly dart from Aventurine to the floor, then back again.]
...I... admit I do not want to die. I want to live to create my paradise for mankind and honor an old promise...
I want to see things I have never seen before.
Even so, my sister and Lady Jade may have made a mistake. When I challenged the Nameless, it was not my intention to survive. I was to ascend into the divine King of Humankind or perish. Sunday was supposed to end there and then, at the Charmony Festival.
[Which, now that he says it out loud, explains the confused storm that has raged between his ears since the moment he was freed from his cell: Free, to live a life he had been certain he would never live.]
Maybe your Aeon War happens because of my survival. After witnessing a mortal nearly becoming one of them, with the intent of destroying them, they must have some thoughts. My life may be a cancer in the weave of the universe.
So, who knows? Excising me may be the most righteous choice. And it is a choice I now leave in your hands, Mister Aventurine.
[ This sort of manual labor is admittedly something Aventurine had left behind rather swiftly after assuming his new rank within the Stonehearts. Not for lack of fondness for honest work, only because it didn't seem in keeping with the persona he was to cultivate. If anything, when he imagines himself free, he imagines himself on a farm, isolated except for a few animals to keep him company. But the shapes in that picture blur more with each passing day.
So, he'll settle for setting up a mattress (and no bed frame. ridiculous.) for the monster now living in his basement; anything to distract from the racing of his heart, though even that is quick work. Once set in place, it's a matter of pulling a ripcord and stepping back. Exposed to air, the plush mattress and its topper fluff and unfold. Tucked into the center, the expensive beddingly neatly folded, the wave-like bow admittedly crushed by the pressure of the vacuum seal. Altogether less of an undertaking than he was expecting. A few more minutes of solitude would've been nice.
Aventurine stands in silence until the mattress has fully uncurled, ear turned toward the ladder in anticipation of footsteps that never come. Then, with that lick of Preservation's power still coursing through him, he nudges the bed into the corner with his foot flush with the lines of the shelves set into the walls. Satisfied with the positioning, he relents his Cornerstone's power and climbs back up the ladder steps to the ship's hall.
Sunday is there a few paces off. Aventurine jumps, curses himself for being so obvious as he takes one wide sliding step back toward the cockpit, and squares his shoulders as he straightens again. He does not look at the can as it rolls toward him -- he will not take his eyes off of Sunday, at the moment -- but catches it under his heel.
Aventurine lets him say his piece without interruption. Every shift in intonation, each subtle movement, feels like it holds more truth than the words Sunday, himself, seems to believe. He's pretending at composure, though. It's a feeble curtain to hide a continued spiral and a penchant for unnecessary ruthlessness that Aventurine is already well familiar with.
And of course, he goes right back to begging for some kind of punishment.
The desire to step forward and slap him across the face is matched only by the impulse to keep as much space between the two of them as possible. Aventurine stands, still and silent, neither smiling nor frowning, unreadable until he has mastered his anger.
Then, with a shift and flick of his foot, he kicks the metal bottle up and snatches it out of the air with his hand. ]
If you don't stop disrespecting your sister and the gift she gave you, I will shoot you. [ He points the open mouth of the bottle at Sunday. ] In the knees. So stop. Stop begging for punishment you're not going to get.
[ Doing his best impression of someone unbothered, Aventurine turns and walks into the kitchen. Stepping away gives him an excuse to raise his voice in something other than fury. ]
There is no such thing as divine justice, Sunday. Just violence and retribution doled out by angry men and a whole lot of prose written to try and justify the means and end. I don't want justice for you. I'm not going to kill you or beat you or... lock you in a closet, weirdo.
[ He pauses, tosses the bottle into the sink, and is quiet long enough for it to stop clattering around. Then, he steps partway out into the hall, leaning against the kitchen entryway with his arms crossed. ]
I want you to learn to live with it instead of spending your time looking for a pyre to throw yourself on. That's the easy way out, and you're not getting it.
[Sunday's burning gaze cools as Aventurine speaks, scolding him for daring to squander the gift Robin gave him. The gift that was foolish, unasked for. One with a cost he dares not imagine.
One he yearns to accept despite that horrible nagging guilt telling him that he doesn't deserve to.
His wings flutter upward, then down again.]
There is such a thing as divine justice. [There must be, or what did he devote his life to?] One day, I will be forced to face my judgment.
But very well, you've made your choice. I won't die, not at your hands at least. So I will live as much as I can. I will not stay in my cage or make myself small for the sake of your comfort either, as you've requested.... Though, at the same time, you were looking for a weapon to draw if I glanced at you strangely. So, forgive me if I am anxious. I am not certain of my options.
[Even the directions to walk in feel suddenly too limited. Ahead to the cockpit would be intruding on Aventurine's space, as would the bathroom. His own room is still being prepared and he doubts Aventurine wants him standing so close. After a moment of consideration, he turns and walks back into the cargo bay, his wings limp against his shoulders.]
[ Guilt coils in Aventurine's gut, but the feeling only serves to feed his frustration. He will not apologize, not after what happened. Not when he finds he cannot even school his own reaction to Sunday's sudden movements, still. In the end, he can only stand and watch as Sunday stalks off, crestfallen.
But what is he to do? Venom answers every attempt at kindness. When he tries a firmer hand, he finds the bird wilting and timid. Even earnest engagement and honesty earns little but sour disinterest. Every avenue is blocked, and it does not help that Sunday holds fast to his divine justice. But there had been nothing divine in the ultimatum he'd delivered on Penacony; Xipe did not order the brand, and Aventurine cannot let that go anymore than he could accept that he deserves to live at all.
Every avenue is blocked. They are trapped in this little tin can, neither trusting or believing the other, until better, more patient people can teach Sunday of a kinder reality.
Aventurine paces halfway down the hall before deciding he isn't ready yet. He does a heel turn, pulling out his phone and firing off a message he knows is useless. "Heard the express is laying new tracks" sent to a number that may not even belong to the Stellaron Hunter Silver Wolf. When she does not immediately reply, he pockets the phone and auto-pilots himself into his room.
In search of something to keep himself busy, he moves to his closet and fetches a sturdy, shallow canvas basket embroidered with a teal diamond pattern. He tosses in a few extra toiletries he'd stashed for later use, a hair brush, toothpaste and fresh tooth brush, tissues, unscented bar soap and a pleasantly floral lotion, a travel pack of headache medicine. This, he delivers to an empty shelf in Sunday's room before finally feeling calm enough to re-enter the cargo bay. ]
It's been a very long day. We both need to rest. Good thing your room is ready for you to put together as you'd like.
[ It's the only thing he can think to say as he moves past Sunday to fetch a few of the overstuffed shopping bags. ]
You're welcome to anything in the kitchen or bath. I'm going to get some work done. I'll be in the cockpit if you have any questions about the appliances and facilities, alright?
[Sunday is standing, leaning against the wall, and scrolling through the tablet of music choices when Aventurine walks in. He glances up from the list of his sister's songs only long enough to make a small sound of acknowledgement. Then, deciding that isn't a proper response...]
Thank you, Mister Aventurine. I think I will take a bath, then get some sleep.
[He steps away from the wall.]
I promise not to occupy your bath for long. When I am done, I advise you do the same.
[There is more he should say. An apology for his behavior over the last twenty four hours. But he can barely think of where to start. A delayed apology, given well, is better than an abrupt one, given poorly. So he places the tablet delicately on the floor, then pads away in the direction of the bathroom.]
Take all the time you need. I keep unusual hours, anyway. [ He leaves the violin to be retrieved later, but shrugs the rest of the bags up onto his shoulders. ] Flick your hand up in front of the wall panel to the right of the mirror. It's hiding all the soaps and salts.
[ No fire or frost to contend with, a relief that makes him aware of just how much he aches after more than a day of flight and panic. Aventurine waits for Sunday to leave before scooping up the tablet and setting it back into place in the wall near the door, and gives him space to reach the bath before following behind. The bags are deposited in neat, orderly lines at the foot of the stairs up from Sunday's room, which could use a bit more furniture, upon another glance. A mirror, somewhere to hang things, a bedside table and frame-
All foolish thoughts Aventurine puts away again as he ascends the ladder and throws himself into the pilot seat.
There is work to do. There is always work to do; many and varied tasks splayed across six multicolor holographic screens, but Aventurine sees to just a few emails before his head starts to bob. Increasingly annoyed by the glow and his own lack of productivity, he stirs enough to close all but two windows, one scrolling headlines about Penacony, and another, the list of messages to his private number.
There, he leans back in his chair, one hand only just propping his cheek up as he falls, heavily, to sleep. ]
[Sunday decides to accept the offer of time and soak in the bath for a while. Earlier, he had showered, just to wash the smell of his cell out of his feathers, the pieces of drywall from his hair, and the stench of terror from his skin. It helped him feel human again.
Now, he relaxes in the scented water as much as he can, until he feels tension ease from his muscles. As he gazes into the eddying steam, he thinks back on the day. The worst distortions of the Order are cleared from Penacony, and the city should be safe now for his sister to govern. That, maybe, is the most important thing. His having to learn how to live as a person from now on feels so distant from that goal that it is difficult to think of it as important at all. Aventurine is right, however. It is important.
Everything Robin has gone through has been for Sunday's sake. The worst thing he could do is rob her of the person she loves more than anyone in the world. Even if they are destined to never meet again, just looking to the stars and knowing the other is out there is a comfort. If he does anything that will cause her to read the news of his death, or have it carried to her by The Family, it will destroy her. It would be the cruelest thing he'd ever done.
So he has to work past this uncertainty and pain and fully live. For her.
If his life has only ever been a sequence of missions carried out for the sake of others, that is his mission now: Live, learn, and be happy for Robin. Then, with the wisdom of a journey, create the paradise he'd promised her.
The soothing water lulls him to sleep, and he awakens later when it turns cool against his skin. He reaches out —elegantly, though there is nobody present to observe his elegance—and presses a button on the rim of the tub to drain it.
After he steps out, he towels himself off and retrieves his sleep clothes from where he'd left them neatly folded on a shelf beside his day wear. Now clean, warm, dressed in soft silk and a fluffy robe, he walks out of the bathroom.]
My apologies for my rudeness, Mister Aventurine. I fell asleep.
[The hall remains silent, save for the soft hum of machinery. Sunday glances around, then walks toward the flight deck. Aventurine is still there, slumped in front of the control center, fast asleep. It seems almost rude to awaken him, but if he stays in this position all night, he will be sore, stiff, and poorly rested. The last thing either of them needs is more reasons to be in a sour mood.
So he reaches out to gently poke the Stoneheart's shoulder.]
Mister Aventurine, you may use the bath now. And you may want to relocate to your bed.
[ Aventurine dreams of a fleet of covered wagons floating on a gently undulating sea of sand. As ever, it rains. As always, the droplets are as much falling stars as water, lighting up the sky he remembers so clearly from his childhood. As usual, his mother and sister, flaxen haired, lovely, and faceless, tend a fire and braid colorful rope and murmur nonsense that he nevertheless understands to be talk of his blessed luck and the Avgins' future, assured so long as his heart moves his blood.
He sits, himself but not, cross-legged, and tries to enjoy their company for as long as he can.
There is singing. At first he is sure it is the other Avgin families passing time in their own wagons, as the clan floats on. It is joined, though, almost without his notice, by a deeper choir, one that grows louder, overpowering the music he knows. The two blur together, less voices lifted in song and more the deafening hum of summer cicadas, the hive crying out one last time before death.
Kakavasha knows what comes next.
Looking skyward, Sigonia's gemstone auroras distort. The strange web of the sky fractures into a thousand puzzle pieces that flake away, exposing Harmony's halo and the chorus singing beyond. As if in answer, the wagon shakes. His people scream.
He expects the land to crack and give way, but there is no solid land, here. Just endless moving sand, churning now into a vortex, pulling Avgin wagons toward some central poin that Kakavasha knows is the mouth of oblivion's river. Though he scrambles, though he tries, the ropes, the reins, the steering lever all slip through his fingers. His mother goes while his back is turned, and his sister-
The floor drops out from under him. The sea of sand, the wagons, and all of his people plummet into the nothing below. But he, the choir pulls him. Harmony, THEMSELF, reaches for him, with a hand that opens three brilliant sapphire eyes.
His sister touches his shoulder as he flies, tells him something about a bath.
Kakavasha reaches for her, grasps something warm, something solid that doesn't slip through is desperate, crushing grip. The infinite darkness below and the neon halo above abruptly meld and blur into less dreamlike shape. ]
Don't go. [ He wails, tears welling in eyes that are open but unfocused, as Sigonia's destruction melts into the main cabin of Aventurine's ship. A shuddered sigh rushes out of him as he blinks tears from his eyes, vision clearing. Not his sister in his grip, but the Bronze Melodia, here to pull every pain he has ever felt out of the tightly locked chest in his mind and run him through it all again. His own personal devil, delivering the justice he knows he deserves, but cannot take again.
The man who is no longer Kakavasha, but not yet Aventurine yelps, kicks himself out of his chair and spills hard onto the floor. ]
Get out of my head! Get out of my head you bastard! Not again. Not ag-
[ Disoriented and barely out of his dream, he scrambles across the floor until his shoulders find a wall, hands flattened against his ears as though that might protect him from Harmony's music. He presses himself into a corner of the room, breath escaping in rasping gasps, knees drawn up against his chest. He does not want to die like this. Not like this. Not like this. ]
[Aventurine jerks awake, kaleidoscopic eyes wide with panic. Sunday reaches out to steady him, but the Stoneheart tumbles from his grasp and scrambles away from him as if his touch were fire.
The visceral reaction is so unexpected, Sunday leaps back, his own body pressing against the opposite wall, his wings lifted wide and ruffled in a reflexive need to make his silhouette more imposing.]
Mister Aventurine, please! It's just me, please calm yourself. [He lifts his hand, fingers spread to show he is unarmed. Unarmed and ungloved. Remembering that Aventurine had been visibly distressed at the sight of his bare fingers earlier, he quickly stows his hands away into the wide sleeves of his robe.]
You were having a nightmare. Come on, I will help you back to your... [Sunday steps forward, reaches out with one sleeve, then makes eye contact with the other man. In the bright, bejeweled gaze, he sees a feverish, animalistic fear that he can immediately recognize. The malefactors of Penacony had looked upon him with this same expression in the brief, horrible moments of lucidity they had after realizing the Oak Family Head had hollowed out their minds and souls.
Something clenches itself around his heart and squeezes until he stops breathing. His golden eyes widen, the unfurled wings curl downward.]
Take my hand. [He says softly. It is a test, though not of Aventurine. Of himself. If his companion reaches for him, then the source of that horrible panic is something from Sigonia, and Sunday can help him find solace. If not, then...]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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[Some of the warmth returns to his face as he gazes out at the sea to watch the birds loop and dive from the sky into the waves.]
I need to learn what makes the hardships worth enduring.
[Because there must be something. Beneath the struggle, the aching grind of life is a spark that drives people forward. On Penacony, that spark was lost long ago, consumed by the Stellaron. He wants to see that spark.
He wants to believe in the strength of human will as much as the Nameless do.
His silver wings fold back as he chuckles.]
You are wiser than you are given credit for, Mister Aventurine.
[Finally, he lifts his head to regard his companion, and the warm smile dissolves at the sight of an entire cream puff disappearing in one bite.]
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He doesn't have time to feel any particular way about that, though. Sunday's expression blanks at the sight of him, chipmunk-cheeked, devouring a pastry, and he barely has time enough to cover his mouth before he starts laughing. Of course Sunday, gifted all the time in the world to be as Orderly as possible, is not prepared for the eating habits of a corporate drone. Oh, he is in for such a rude awakening.
Just in time, Aventurine presses his forearm to his face, catching a laugh, sealing his mouth and nose as he almost chokes on cream and sugar. The bright sound threatening to spill out thrums deep in his chest and high in his throat, instead, a humming, violin sound as he swallows laughter and tries not to cough.
He lets his stifled giggles peter out before he finishes chewing, and does not speak until he's swallowed the pastry. ]
Sorry to make you regret that very nice compliment so quickly, Feathers. [ Aventurine wheezes, delight plain, before he takes a swig of still hot coffee. He smiles, though, big and bright. His cup is nearly empty, so he scoops up a few of the bags he'd set down on the bench beside him and stands. ] Let's head back, before you really start to regret your choice in chauffeur.
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A long journey awaits him, and he is eager to see what happens next. If he can push past the anxious knot he feels whenever he thinks about his lack of control, this journey could be fun.
Fun... as long as he keeps one step ahead of The Family. If they don't kill him for his heresy, they will use him to hurt Robin. He knows what powerful tuners can do. None of his thoughts would be safe. She wouldn't be safe. Aventurine wouldn't be safe.
The excitement of a journey sinks beneath a whirl of anxiety. His mind latches onto the worry as something familiar, a lifeline in the confusing world he finds himself in, and his wings tense.
He draws a breath, prepares himself to ask if Aventurine is prepared to kill him to keep him out of The Family's hands.
Why are you constantly fantasizing about this man killing you? he inwardly scolds himself. What is your problem?
Stop it!
Sunday releases the tension in a shuddered sigh and smiles.]
If I have regrets, they will not be because of you, Mister Aventurine.... That said, yes, let's return to the ship.
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Aventurine's gaze lingers on Sunday's once more, expression betraying nothing. Reductive, to call it travel jitters. All the same, he's not sure there's any good way of addressing it, so he gathers up bags onto his arms and leads the way back the way they'd come, through the Hammer's market district and the IPC's main office.
He makes light conversation to fill silence and avoid thinking about regret and distress, mostly about local landmarks or how he understands Lushakan city ships function, as they load up the sleek black shuttle and disembark. A perhaps surprisingly small package is waiting for them when they return to the ship, a sturdy little crate, no bigger than a family-sized pizza delivery, is anchored to the cargo door. Aventurine pushes a few buttons to open the ship's hatch, and the package rockets itself inside. The shuttle follows in after it, settling into place in silence. ]
That's going to be heavier than it looks. [ He says, meaning the space delivery. ] A whole mattress, pillows, blankets, everything, vacuum-sealed down to a carryable size. Let me help you get it down into your room.
[ Odd, to call it his room. Aventurine's fingers linger a moment on his safety harness before unhooking it. No, not odd. Just a calculated move to make the bird feel more comfortable in his temporary quarters.
The shuttle opens once the cargo bay is sealed. Aventurine does not rush to climb out this time. ]
Last thing we need is you throwing your back out, right? First, though, I'd like to plot a course to our next stop. We're better off not hanging out too long in the place everyone thinks the Express was going.
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It is difficult to accept, almost impossible, no matter how hard he tries to still his mind.
When the shuttle stops in the cargo bay, he is the one who rushes to climb out. Maybe a quick stretch and a comfortable flex of his wings will quiet the worried spiral he's been in since sitting on the bench in Lushaka. That brief moment of joyous excitement at the thought of a journey had been fun before his own anxious nature brought it crashing down and forced it into a more painful but familiar and easily understood shape.
It takes a moment for him to notice Aventurine is speaking. He glances over after another pretty stretch and flutters his wings.]
Where will our next stop be? Snowland? Jarilo-Six? I heard the Nameless stopped there already so I doubt anyone suspects they'll show up there again.
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That's an exaggeration - probably. But the point still stands. Sunday pretends, but the weight of his anxiety in stillness settles heavily on Aventurine's shoulders, and every quiver of white wings gives away his discomfort. Aventurine, himself, finds he cannot help but steal glances when feathers ruffle.
It seems they each have a bad habit they need to get unter control.
Aventurine clears his throat as he climbs out of the shuttle, like the sound might snap Sunday out of that nervous trance he seems to be in. ]
Jarilo-VI is definitely an option...
[ Topaz's territory, not his, but infringing on her turf, while certainly suspicious, does not immediately point to him housing a fugitive. Just another instance of that famed Stoneheart squabbling that everyone likes to gossip about so much. It may also be a good way to loop her in on the scheme.
A plan worth considering, but one of many. There are benefits to other places, pros and cons to letting the bird pick or making the choice, himself. A sea of ideas to turn this way and that and study for possible dangers, but, at the moment, there are more immediately pressing matters. Sunday has that about-to-pluck-all-my-own-feathers look about him.
He walks around to the other side of the shuttle, closer to his traveling companion, and leans on the hood, arms crossed. ]
What's on your mind, Mister Sunday? Our cage isn't so bad, is it?
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It's...It's nothing. [He says and realizes, with shame, that it's true. Nothing has happened between his excitement on Lushaka and now that should cause this much anxiety. All he's done is think, despite trying his best not to.
Sunday sighs and clasps his hands against the small of his back to prevent himself from fidgeting.]
I am excited for our journey, but I am also... afraid. It's a fear I suspect comes from how little control I have over my own life.
[His wings tense again. It feels like he's just admitted to a weakness. But he knows the landscape of his own heart as well as those of his flock. "The Oak Family Head is obsessed with control" is not an unusual observation. Everyone who has met him walks away with that impression. Most of them --Aventurine included, he suspects-- believe he lusts for power, that he delights in tormenting those beneath him and wrapping his environment around his fingers. That he derives an erotic thrill in watching people dance around at the ends of his puppet strings until they exhaust themselves. Maybe some of that is true. Sunday knows his heart has darkness within it that he hasn't yet confronted. It isn't entirely true, however, or even mostly true.
His control has always been a form of security. When everything around him is predictable, he is safe. Even when chaos sometimes descended on Penacony, he faced it with regal dignity, for his cocoon of control kept him upright in the eyes of storms while everything else was upside down.
Not anymore. His control is gone, and he is stormtossed, unmoored from everything he was once sure of.
Sunday is silent for a while, still as stone, except for the flexing of his wings.]
...I will be okay, Mister Aventurine. Please do not worry yourself over me.
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[ Whether falling slow or moving too fast, terminal velocity takes time to reach. That's not physics, Aventurine doesn't know physics, it's just a fact of life. Sunday is trying to find his, the way he seizes up with tension, goes silent, tries to grasp at the wisps of the figure he'd been on Penacony. Ironic that the one thing that does move on him is the wings. If only he'd notice that, himself; open them up, and ease his landing, a little.
Aventurine shoves himself up and off of the shuttle, walks past Sunday to fetch one of the screens embedded in the wall. The seemingly seamless screen comes away with a press, now a tablet in his hand. He keeps his back to the former Bronze Melodia, flipping through screens. ]
I may not agree with your insistence on psychic punishment as a form of restorative justice, but I refuse to believe that the most conniving man in Penacony -- that's a compliment -- is going to let his first major fall take him out entirely. You're better than that, Mister Sunday. [ There's a smile in his words when he adds, softly and very nearly fond: ] Or worse.
You're going to find your footing. You just need time to learn what you can control, and what isn't worth your time. The Nameless will help get you on the right path, I'm sure.
[ Sunday certainly won't find it traveling with him, a servant without a future, bound to the galaxy's newest form of Order. Aventurine ignores that thought and pulls up the application he'd been looking for, little used. Finally, he turns back to Sunday, holding the tablet out in offering. On the screen is a complicated equalizer and an array of menus for music genres. ]
Why don't you pick something out for us to listen to while we work?
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You are far too kind, Mister Aventurine, [he says with laughter in his voice.] But I would prefer it if you didn't make me sound like a common criminal.
[He turns and when the tablet is offered to him he accepts after a moment of hesitation.]
You are trying to give me something, however small, that I can control. It is a touching offer but quite embarrassing. [As if on cue, his wings twitch forward to conceal the slight flush of his cheeks.
He looks through music menus with swipes of his gloved hand. Classical music is what he wants; sweet and perfect harmonies from the universe's fragmented history would be soothing.
Something else catches his eye.
His fingers hang above the song title "Hope Is the Thing With Feathers." Is it proper for someone to know he likes her songs? That he has always liked her songs? Ever since they were children, he's been her biggest supporter and greatest fan.
He decides that, for now, it doesn't matter, and taps the screen, eager to hear his sister's voice again.]
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A huff escapes him. He is starting to think he might be getting hustled. ]
You have got to get used to little embarrassments. [ He flounces with a smile, arms spread wide as he heads for the cockpit to pull up a list of potential destinations. ] You're far too big a criminal to let those derail you.
[ He expects something orchestral, with strings and woodwinds, maybe a choir. Aventurine is not surprised, however, when the heartbeat pace of a familiar pop song begins a building pulse through the ships' speaker system.
It's easy to understand the impulse, wanting to surround yourself with the people you love. He runs fingers over one of the stretches of turquoise Sigonian fabric draped along the main hall. ]
You coming? [ He calls, glancing over his shoulder. ] Can't settle on our next destination all by myself, now.
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I am right behind you. Forgive me, I'm--
[He trails off, not wanting to admit that he yearns to linger in the cargo bay a while longer and listen to the acoustics of his younger sister's voice rising against the high walls. The clear melody of her song makes his heart ache, as if he'd plunged a dagger into himself by choosing to listen to it.
He may never see Robin again.
Tears start to well in his eyes, but he blinks them away before he steps forward to catch up with the Stoneheart.]
I'm here.
[He says.]
Though... I don't have much of an opinion on where to go. As long as it is a meaningful stop on my pilgrimage and keeps me out of The Family's hands, I promise I'll accompany you willingly.
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Sunday's behavior, it's weakness, is what it is. The sort of weakness that gets you worse than killed. A firm hand here would be a kindness. ]
You should-
[ He starts and stops himself.
Robin's song continues to play softly from speakers in the walls, filling what should be silence with oddly hopeful noise.
Aventurine clenches his jaw. He is no better than the men who dragged him across the galaxy and propelled him to this point; he is a cheat, a liar, a murderer, too, but he needn't always match their cruelty. The bird is just twelve system hours removed from shackles, he'd said it himself. And either way, he is hardly some dour child in need of parenting. If Aventurine insists on trying to find control in nudging Sunday in specific directions, he's going to exhaust himself in a day. He needs a different tack. ]
It's your journey. [ Aventurine says, like it's a reminder. ] But if you really don't care, why don't you go unload the shopping bags from the shuttle? I'll go set a course.
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His tears must have been apparent. Somehow, Aventurine had seen the pain in his eyes, had noticed his weakness.
Heads up! A steady rhythm
A destination that's ever near
It comes! Stride to our kingdom
And see the light of day
The juxtaposition of Robin's song with the dark uncertainty in his heart sends pain stabbing through him. How dearly he wishes he could embrace the optimism in those lyrics, but the light of day always feels out of reach. Even when he'd been a child, looking up into the eternal night sky of Penacony, the sun seemed a distant, almost theoretical thing. Yet worlds needed suns. He vowed to be the sun for his people, knowing that he could not bask in his own light but would hang in darkness until the end of time. The Nameless brought their all to bear against him, and he fell, his fire extinguished. Now, the sun no longer, and free from Penacony, he should be able to see the light of day. The skies still feel dark and clouded.
His emotions are unstable from one moment to the next. Optimism and excitement for his journey always curdle into fear. Aventurine sees the fear, which makes Sunday feel pathetic.
He is not a fallen sun, he isn't even an ember. He is a smear of charcoal someone dragged from Penacony on their boot heel. Useless. Pathetic and useless.
Maybe some people are not meant to see the sun. Maybe some lives are never intended to be complete.
Sunday slides to the floor and lets the tablet fall from his grip as he hugs himself, digging nails through the fabric of his gloves into his upper arms. He squeezes harder and harder until the pain makes his feathers molt.
When Aventurine returns he is still on his knees, doubled forward, clawing at his arms in penance for his sinfully chaotic heart.
Am I happy? Excited? Afraid? Hopeful? Full of despair and hate? What is wrong with me?]
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Sunday has him feeling storm-tossed, but Aventurine is the picture of calm as he slides into the pilot seat. With focused calm, he pulls up a half-dozen holographic windows, admiring the color as the cockpit fills with neon neapolitan color. The backlog scrolls and scrolls, loading seemingly without end. He lets it go for a few seconds, firing off a cheeky message to Lady Jade that he's sure will earn an eyeroll. When the list isn't finished loading by the time that's done, he huffs and pulls up the profile for Jarilo-VI.
Almost immediately, he receives a call from Topaz. Against his better judgment, he accepts it, and spends the next four minutes doing the verbal equivalent of walking into a sibling's room and flipping the lights off and on rapidly while they try to do homework. He harasses her for tracking her territories' database entries. They bicker. She mistrusts him, but still asks whether he's safe. He dances around the truth and promises to leave a little gift for her in Belobog, none of which she believes. But, it's not bad. She ends their call to accept "a much more important one," and it... helps, actually.
His face feels a little less hot as he jots in the coordinates for Jarilo-VI, and he stretches out most of the rest of his tension when he stands.
He makes it to the end of the hall, cargo bay door slid open, when he spots Sunday on the floor. His heart sinks. Quiet, calm, he steps away. In hurried steps, he makes for the kitchen, fetches a bottle of filtered water from the little refrigerator, and brings it with him back into the cargo bay.
Aventurine steps up beside him, makes note of fallen feathers. He does not touch Penacony's deposed prince, but silently sits down on the floor beside him, legs criss-cross. Wordless, he twists the cap off the metal water bottle, then pulls the tablet out from under Sunday before setting the bottle on the floor within his reach, should he want it.
It takes him what feels like an age to finally speak, wrestling with himself, with words. Softness is cruelty. The bird needs to learn to steel himself if he wants to survive in the great big, dark, empty universe. But, oh, how Aventurine himself had longed for just one person to be gentle when he was lost.
An impasse, but if he doesn't say something now, he's not going to say anything at all. So, Aventurine improvises. ]
Your own head is causing you enough trouble. [ Aventurine pulls in a steadying breath before finally lighting a gloved fingertips on the back of one of Sunday's hands. ] Your hands don't need to help, Mister Sunday.
I've brought you some water. I know it doesn't feel like it, but you're going to make it through this. You're not going to disappoint her.
cw: uh
The hand gently falling upon his own startles him into alertness. He lifts his head, but doesn't look at his companion.]
I do not need your damnable pity!
[He snarls, then finally glances toward Aventurine with bared teeth. The Stoneheart must be tired of him, he thinks. The fallen scion of the Oak Family is a creature of fiery passions that had once been aggressively contained. Sunday feels like he is warring against himself to keep them that way.
And it isn't Aventurine's fault. He doesn't deserve to be snarled at. For reasons Sunday still doesn't understand, Aventurine has been at his side since he gained his freedom and has only been kind. Annoying. But kind, and never overstepping.
A sudden urge sweeps over Sunday to grasp his companion by the back of the neck, pin him to the frigid floor of the cargo bay, and take him. People do it all the time; it is perfectly ordinary. One brief, passionless encounter between them to blow off some steam. That is what people do, isn't it?
Sunday looks Aventurine in the eye for a brief moment, then looks away, his wings pinned back against his neck like the ears of a cornered cat. The grotesque urge passes as quickly as it came. It would be a terrible sin to do such a thing and have it mean nothing. It would mean nothing. At best, they only tolerate each other.
Sunday knows his reeling mind and surging adrenaline are seeking an escape, that is all. He squeezes his arms again, letting the stress out on his own body, then picks up the water bottle.]
...Have you charted a course to our next destination yet?
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It is one thing to weather a man's storms. Inasmuch as Aventurine believes such things, there is probably some virtue in offering patience and warmth to someone whose life has been so thoroughly gutted. It is another, entirely, to allow a man who has been violent before the chance to do so again, worse.
Aventurine stands without answering and sidesteps to the crate containing Sunday's new bedding. The biometric scanner on it beeps when he presses his gloved hand against it, before hissing from hydraulics forcing the crate open. ]
Jarilo-VI, like you said. [ There is no weight in his voice, but it lacks the usual buttery bounce, too. ] ETA three days, three hours, I can't remember how many minutes.
[ Aventurine does not quite access his cornerstone, but he does wordlessly borrow a drop of its power to scoop the vacuum sealed bedding out of the crate. He hefts it up onto his shoulder with a grunt. It's next to nothing with a sliver of the newly forged Aventurine stone buoying him back up. ]
I'm going to take this to your room and get it unpacked. [ There is an unusual firmness in his voice. The fair weather and blue skies of Lushaka feel a million miles away, already, even if they haven't yet warped off. ] You are going to sit here and drink that entire bottle. I'll let you know when you can go dress your bed.
[ He refuses to put his back to Sunday as he moves to the cargo bay's entrance. ]
Do not follow me. [ And then, unwilling to leave a mystery on the table with a monster in his cargo bay and his own safety on the line, he adds, ] Calm yourself. I won't tolerate a repeat of anything that happened in Dewlight Pavilion.
cw: suicidal ideation (sort of)
[Sunday lifts his head and stares at Aventurine's retreating form. Is that what this is about? Is he such a monster that he needs to tame his emotions or risk lashing out at the people around him?
He drains the bottle, then rises and walks down the hall. When he sees the twisted, fake wires concealing the ladder to his room, he stops several paces away and waits for Aventurine to emerge from the shadows.]
I followed you. Please do not be alarmed.
[The once fiery edge to his voice has quieted into embers, but remains flickering in his golden eyes. Slowly, like a hunter trying not to startle a rabbit, he crouches, swings his arm, and sends the metal bottle skidding across the floor.]
I don't know what you think you saw in me just now, but it wasn't violent intent. [Or maybe it was, in some ways. The storm in his blood was not seeking a blissful, quiet experience. It was, however, seeking a consensual one. Not that it's important. The impulse passed.]
I had thought to ask you something, but decided against it. Any anger you saw in me was anger at my own weakness.
[Which is a lie, but one that is close enough to the truth that it's easy to tell.
He clasps his hands behind his back.]
...I noticed you looking around the room. You were searching for a weapon.
My offer to stay confined to my quarters remains. If that isn't enough, then I will grant you one more choice, but I will only offer it this once, so please consider it carefully.
[Sunday draws a breath, his wings flutter out to the width of his shoulders.]
If you are that worried about me harming you, then go back to the cargo bay and retrieve your gun. Slay your lion. Finish me..
[The words are spoken sternly, clearly, with no hesitation, but his eyes worriedly dart from Aventurine to the floor, then back again.]
...I... admit I do not want to die. I want to live to create my paradise for mankind and honor an old promise...
I want to see things I have never seen before.
Even so, my sister and Lady Jade may have made a mistake. When I challenged the Nameless, it was not my intention to survive. I was to ascend into the divine King of Humankind or perish. Sunday was supposed to end there and then, at the Charmony Festival.
[Which, now that he says it out loud, explains the confused storm that has raged between his ears since the moment he was freed from his cell: Free, to live a life he had been certain he would never live.]
Maybe your Aeon War happens because of my survival. After witnessing a mortal nearly becoming one of them, with the intent of destroying them, they must have some thoughts. My life may be a cancer in the weave of the universe.
So, who knows? Excising me may be the most righteous choice. And it is a choice I now leave in your hands, Mister Aventurine.
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So, he'll settle for setting up a mattress (and no bed frame. ridiculous.) for the monster now living in his basement; anything to distract from the racing of his heart, though even that is quick work. Once set in place, it's a matter of pulling a ripcord and stepping back. Exposed to air, the plush mattress and its topper fluff and unfold. Tucked into the center, the expensive beddingly neatly folded, the wave-like bow admittedly crushed by the pressure of the vacuum seal. Altogether less of an undertaking than he was expecting. A few more minutes of solitude would've been nice.
Aventurine stands in silence until the mattress has fully uncurled, ear turned toward the ladder in anticipation of footsteps that never come. Then, with that lick of Preservation's power still coursing through him, he nudges the bed into the corner with his foot flush with the lines of the shelves set into the walls. Satisfied with the positioning, he relents his Cornerstone's power and climbs back up the ladder steps to the ship's hall.
Sunday is there a few paces off. Aventurine jumps, curses himself for being so obvious as he takes one wide sliding step back toward the cockpit, and squares his shoulders as he straightens again. He does not look at the can as it rolls toward him -- he will not take his eyes off of Sunday, at the moment -- but catches it under his heel.
Aventurine lets him say his piece without interruption. Every shift in intonation, each subtle movement, feels like it holds more truth than the words Sunday, himself, seems to believe. He's pretending at composure, though. It's a feeble curtain to hide a continued spiral and a penchant for unnecessary ruthlessness that Aventurine is already well familiar with.
And of course, he goes right back to begging for some kind of punishment.
The desire to step forward and slap him across the face is matched only by the impulse to keep as much space between the two of them as possible. Aventurine stands, still and silent, neither smiling nor frowning, unreadable until he has mastered his anger.
Then, with a shift and flick of his foot, he kicks the metal bottle up and snatches it out of the air with his hand. ]
If you don't stop disrespecting your sister and the gift she gave you, I will shoot you. [ He points the open mouth of the bottle at Sunday. ] In the knees. So stop. Stop begging for punishment you're not going to get.
[ Doing his best impression of someone unbothered, Aventurine turns and walks into the kitchen. Stepping away gives him an excuse to raise his voice in something other than fury. ]
There is no such thing as divine justice, Sunday. Just violence and retribution doled out by angry men and a whole lot of prose written to try and justify the means and end. I don't want justice for you. I'm not going to kill you or beat you or... lock you in a closet, weirdo.
[ He pauses, tosses the bottle into the sink, and is quiet long enough for it to stop clattering around. Then, he steps partway out into the hall, leaning against the kitchen entryway with his arms crossed. ]
I want you to learn to live with it instead of spending your time looking for a pyre to throw yourself on. That's the easy way out, and you're not getting it.
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One he yearns to accept despite that horrible nagging guilt telling him that he doesn't deserve to.
His wings flutter upward, then down again.]
There is such a thing as divine justice. [There must be, or what did he devote his life to?] One day, I will be forced to face my judgment.
But very well, you've made your choice. I won't die, not at your hands at least. So I will live as much as I can. I will not stay in my cage or make myself small for the sake of your comfort either, as you've requested.... Though, at the same time, you were looking for a weapon to draw if I glanced at you strangely. So, forgive me if I am anxious. I am not certain of my options.
[Even the directions to walk in feel suddenly too limited. Ahead to the cockpit would be intruding on Aventurine's space, as would the bathroom. His own room is still being prepared and he doubts Aventurine wants him standing so close. After a moment of consideration, he turns and walks back into the cargo bay, his wings limp against his shoulders.]
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But what is he to do? Venom answers every attempt at kindness. When he tries a firmer hand, he finds the bird wilting and timid. Even earnest engagement and honesty earns little but sour disinterest. Every avenue is blocked, and it does not help that Sunday holds fast to his divine justice. But there had been nothing divine in the ultimatum he'd delivered on Penacony; Xipe did not order the brand, and Aventurine cannot let that go anymore than he could accept that he deserves to live at all.
Every avenue is blocked. They are trapped in this little tin can, neither trusting or believing the other, until better, more patient people can teach Sunday of a kinder reality.
Aventurine paces halfway down the hall before deciding he isn't ready yet. He does a heel turn, pulling out his phone and firing off a message he knows is useless. "Heard the express is laying new tracks" sent to a number that may not even belong to the Stellaron Hunter Silver Wolf. When she does not immediately reply, he pockets the phone and auto-pilots himself into his room.
In search of something to keep himself busy, he moves to his closet and fetches a sturdy, shallow canvas basket embroidered with a teal diamond pattern. He tosses in a few extra toiletries he'd stashed for later use, a hair brush, toothpaste and fresh tooth brush, tissues, unscented bar soap and a pleasantly floral lotion, a travel pack of headache medicine. This, he delivers to an empty shelf in Sunday's room before finally feeling calm enough to re-enter the cargo bay. ]
It's been a very long day. We both need to rest. Good thing your room is ready for you to put together as you'd like.
[ It's the only thing he can think to say as he moves past Sunday to fetch a few of the overstuffed shopping bags. ]
You're welcome to anything in the kitchen or bath. I'm going to get some work done. I'll be in the cockpit if you have any questions about the appliances and facilities, alright?
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Thank you, Mister Aventurine. I think I will take a bath, then get some sleep.
[He steps away from the wall.]
I promise not to occupy your bath for long. When I am done, I advise you do the same.
[There is more he should say. An apology for his behavior over the last twenty four hours. But he can barely think of where to start. A delayed apology, given well, is better than an abrupt one, given poorly. So he places the tablet delicately on the floor, then pads away in the direction of the bathroom.]
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Take all the time you need. I keep unusual hours, anyway. [ He leaves the violin to be retrieved later, but shrugs the rest of the bags up onto his shoulders. ] Flick your hand up in front of the wall panel to the right of the mirror. It's hiding all the soaps and salts.
[ No fire or frost to contend with, a relief that makes him aware of just how much he aches after more than a day of flight and panic. Aventurine waits for Sunday to leave before scooping up the tablet and setting it back into place in the wall near the door, and gives him space to reach the bath before following behind. The bags are deposited in neat, orderly lines at the foot of the stairs up from Sunday's room, which could use a bit more furniture, upon another glance. A mirror, somewhere to hang things, a bedside table and frame-
All foolish thoughts Aventurine puts away again as he ascends the ladder and throws himself into the pilot seat.
There is work to do. There is always work to do; many and varied tasks splayed across six multicolor holographic screens, but Aventurine sees to just a few emails before his head starts to bob. Increasingly annoyed by the glow and his own lack of productivity, he stirs enough to close all but two windows, one scrolling headlines about Penacony, and another, the list of messages to his private number.
There, he leans back in his chair, one hand only just propping his cheek up as he falls, heavily, to sleep. ]
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Now, he relaxes in the scented water as much as he can, until he feels tension ease from his muscles. As he gazes into the eddying steam, he thinks back on the day. The worst distortions of the Order are cleared from Penacony, and the city should be safe now for his sister to govern. That, maybe, is the most important thing. His having to learn how to live as a person from now on feels so distant from that goal that it is difficult to think of it as important at all. Aventurine is right, however. It is important.
Everything Robin has gone through has been for Sunday's sake. The worst thing he could do is rob her of the person she loves more than anyone in the world. Even if they are destined to never meet again, just looking to the stars and knowing the other is out there is a comfort. If he does anything that will cause her to read the news of his death, or have it carried to her by The Family, it will destroy her. It would be the cruelest thing he'd ever done.
So he has to work past this uncertainty and pain and fully live. For her.
If his life has only ever been a sequence of missions carried out for the sake of others, that is his mission now: Live, learn, and be happy for Robin. Then, with the wisdom of a journey, create the paradise he'd promised her.
The soothing water lulls him to sleep, and he awakens later when it turns cool against his skin. He reaches out —elegantly, though there is nobody present to observe his elegance—and presses a button on the rim of the tub to drain it.
After he steps out, he towels himself off and retrieves his sleep clothes from where he'd left them neatly folded on a shelf beside his day wear. Now clean, warm, dressed in soft silk and a fluffy robe, he walks out of the bathroom.]
My apologies for my rudeness, Mister Aventurine. I fell asleep.
[The hall remains silent, save for the soft hum of machinery. Sunday glances around, then walks toward the flight deck. Aventurine is still there, slumped in front of the control center, fast asleep. It seems almost rude to awaken him, but if he stays in this position all night, he will be sore, stiff, and poorly rested. The last thing either of them needs is more reasons to be in a sour mood.
So he reaches out to gently poke the Stoneheart's shoulder.]
Mister Aventurine, you may use the bath now. And you may want to relocate to your bed.
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He sits, himself but not, cross-legged, and tries to enjoy their company for as long as he can.
There is singing. At first he is sure it is the other Avgin families passing time in their own wagons, as the clan floats on. It is joined, though, almost without his notice, by a deeper choir, one that grows louder, overpowering the music he knows. The two blur together, less voices lifted in song and more the deafening hum of summer cicadas, the hive crying out one last time before death.
Kakavasha knows what comes next.
Looking skyward, Sigonia's gemstone auroras distort. The strange web of the sky fractures into a thousand puzzle pieces that flake away, exposing Harmony's halo and the chorus singing beyond. As if in answer, the wagon shakes. His people scream.
He expects the land to crack and give way, but there is no solid land, here. Just endless moving sand, churning now into a vortex, pulling Avgin wagons toward some central poin that Kakavasha knows is the mouth of oblivion's river. Though he scrambles, though he tries, the ropes, the reins, the steering lever all slip through his fingers. His mother goes while his back is turned, and his sister-
The floor drops out from under him. The sea of sand, the wagons, and all of his people plummet into the nothing below. But he, the choir pulls him. Harmony, THEMSELF, reaches for him, with a hand that opens three brilliant sapphire eyes.
His sister touches his shoulder as he flies, tells him something about a bath.
Kakavasha reaches for her, grasps something warm, something solid that doesn't slip through is desperate, crushing grip. The infinite darkness below and the neon halo above abruptly meld and blur into less dreamlike shape. ]
Don't go. [ He wails, tears welling in eyes that are open but unfocused, as Sigonia's destruction melts into the main cabin of Aventurine's ship. A shuddered sigh rushes out of him as he blinks tears from his eyes, vision clearing. Not his sister in his grip, but the Bronze Melodia, here to pull every pain he has ever felt out of the tightly locked chest in his mind and run him through it all again. His own personal devil, delivering the justice he knows he deserves, but cannot take again.
The man who is no longer Kakavasha, but not yet Aventurine yelps, kicks himself out of his chair and spills hard onto the floor. ]
Get out of my head! Get out of my head you bastard! Not again. Not ag-
[ Disoriented and barely out of his dream, he scrambles across the floor until his shoulders find a wall, hands flattened against his ears as though that might protect him from Harmony's music. He presses himself into a corner of the room, breath escaping in rasping gasps, knees drawn up against his chest. He does not want to die like this. Not like this. Not like this. ]
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The visceral reaction is so unexpected, Sunday leaps back, his own body pressing against the opposite wall, his wings lifted wide and ruffled in a reflexive need to make his silhouette more imposing.]
Mister Aventurine, please! It's just me, please calm yourself. [He lifts his hand, fingers spread to show he is unarmed. Unarmed and ungloved. Remembering that Aventurine had been visibly distressed at the sight of his bare fingers earlier, he quickly stows his hands away into the wide sleeves of his robe.]
You were having a nightmare. Come on, I will help you back to your... [Sunday steps forward, reaches out with one sleeve, then makes eye contact with the other man. In the bright, bejeweled gaze, he sees a feverish, animalistic fear that he can immediately recognize. The malefactors of Penacony had looked upon him with this same expression in the brief, horrible moments of lucidity they had after realizing the Oak Family Head had hollowed out their minds and souls.
Something clenches itself around his heart and squeezes until he stops breathing. His golden eyes widen, the unfurled wings curl downward.]
Take my hand. [He says softly. It is a test, though not of Aventurine. Of himself. If his companion reaches for him, then the source of that horrible panic is something from Sigonia, and Sunday can help him find solace. If not, then...]
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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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