[ 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...]
[ Dream logic is slow to untangle itself from his awareness. Sunday extends his hand, and Aventurine can only imagine the Bronze Melodia means to drag him back to Harmony's nauseating purgatory. The light from the ship's screens is just colorful enough to seem like a dim, murky shade of Harmony's halo wreathing the Bronze Melodia.
Aventurine curls in on himself, tucking his face against his shoulder, hands still covering his ears. He babbles, all dream nonsense spewed between heaved, wheezing breaths. ]
No, no, no. I can't- I can't lose them again. I can't lose her again. [ Misery hangs on every word. Pain bleeds through the sleep-drunk slur as he begs. ] Don't make me do it. Don't put me in chains. Don't make me fight. Please. Please. Just- [ By measures, his voice clears, the words slow. ] Just... kill me ins-
[ He wakes in earnest. Not perched above Nihility's river, but curled in a pile on his ship floor. No aura of Harmony overhead, only flickering holographic screens. His arms go slack, falling from his ears to his sides. One lifts to cover his eyes as shame and nausea sweep over him in waves.
What is left of the Bronze Melodia still stands over him, still perfectly capable of tuning him, he assumes, even with clipped wings and claws removed. Aventurine thinks to bark at him to leave, but if he opens his mouth, he's certain he'll be sick. So, he just sits there, breathing heavily, feeling every ache anew now that he's been stirred from sleep, hoping Sunday just leaves. ]
[The last of Aventurine's nightmares seem to seep out of him into the air. Sunday can feel the music of the flight deck's atmosphere ripple and distort from the notes of fear before smoothing out into a dull, unremarkable tone as the Stoneheart emerges from his dream.
Sunday sinks to the floor, wings pinned back, in a purposeful attempt to make himself small so that he is not looming over his companion. No part of him thinks to leave, not when someone important (though infuriating) to him is in so much distress. The Bronze Melodia hears the words of those who suffer and offers comfort and counsel. While he no longer holds the position, those instincts are still deeply ingrained. Even before he was appointed to it, turning his back on those in need was never part of his nature.]
I am going to touch you now.
[He warns gently before reaching out and laying a hand on Aventurine's stiff shoulder.]
...Do you require any assistance getting back to your room? I won't leave you here on the floor.
[ Even knowing the touch is coming, Aventurine still tenses against it. Under Sunday's fingers, he trembles faintly and hates himself for showing so much weakness. His nerves burn, body and mind primed for violence, and for a few long seconds he can do nothing but try to steady his own breathing.
After what feels like an eternity, he lowers his arm, eyes red and face stained with tears. He stares up at Sunday, trying to decide whether he'll be sick if he opens his mouth. And Sunday, even with his wings pinned back, he looks every bit the ethereal creature all Halovians are claimed to be. It would be nice if Aventurine could take any comfort in that.
Instead, after a sigh that sounds more like a release of steam, he levels just one request, words firm despite his reedy voice. ] Tell me you won't tune me.
[Sunday's pearlescent feathers ruffle, his golden eyes widen, then soften. It is not a request he hears, but a plea. A plea to not do the thing he's done his whole life, which comes to him as easily as breathing.
The thing he had done to Aventurine one day in Dewlight Pavilion.
That day lives clearly in his mind. Once the Harmony's brand had taken hold, the Stoneheart started to unravel all over the streets of the Golden Hour. Whatever trial he'd faced had been a grueling one. Sunday opens his mouth to explain that he doesn't control the trial, that people are forced to face down their pasts in ways determined by their own burdens. But that isn't entirely true. At any moment, he could have absolved Aventurine, lifted the brand, and removed the pressure from his mind. Yet he didn't. Aventurine was intended to flush out the Hounds, and for that, he needed to act drastically. Afterward, if he succeeded, he would have been subsumed into The Oak Family. Along with 107,336 other souls, Aventurine should have joined Sunday's divine corpus. He'd escaped, however. Escaped and helped to bring the scorching sun hurtling back down to earth. If only he hadn't, he would not be in so much agony now. Neither of them would be.
For that, maybe he deserves to have the brand etched forever into his memory. Yet when Sunday looks into the haunted eyes, he doesn't see a man who deserves this much suffering. He sees a soul in desperate need, and he isn't sure how to offer comfort. How does he protect someone from a monster when the monster is himself?]
...Is that what this is about? [He asks, his voice as soft and melodic as distant birdsong.] Do you think I will tune you again?
[ It doesn't matter what he believes. What he knows is that Sunday, however shrewd and calculating, is a man of principles. If he promises he won't, then he won't. That, he is willing to hang his hat on.
Breath shallow and muscles still tensed, Aventurine is every bit the cornered animal, staring up at Sunday with unwavering intensity. It is, he knows, a monumental ask, to deprive one of the Harmony's strongest of the one thing that could unequivocally protect him were Aventurine to turn on him. Aventurine also knows that he hasn't given Sunday any reason to think that a betrayal isn't coming.
This, too, needs to be a transaction. As everything.
He swallows. ]
I can't-
[ His voice cracks. The wide-eyed hold Aventurine has on Sunday's gaze finally breaks, and he looks away, finding a line on the floor to study. ]
If I have to watch my sister die again, it'll break me. So, if this is going to work, I need to know it won't happen again.
[Sunday's wings twitch back, then hang guiltily against his shoulders.
The trial must truly have been grueling. It is understandable, then, that Aventurine would never want to be tuned again, would never again want to feel a powerful member of The Family drill into his mind and change the music of his soul. Promising not to tune feels wrong, however. Sunday isn't sure it's a promise he can keep, and he only makes promises he can keep. An oath is pointless if it is so easily broken.
If Aventurine attacked him or fell victim to another tuner, there would be nothing that Sunday could do to defend himself or this strange man, whom he is slowly developing affection for.
And right now, Aventurine looks like a man who needs tuning. The animalistic panic in his eyes, the shallow breaths, and the curled body all make him seem more like a cornered rabbit than a human. He doubts the Stoneheart can hear his own thoughts over his soul's screeching, pounding melody. Tuning could quiet things down and release the taut wires in his mind.]
I promise not to subject you to the consecration. [Sunday answers. That is a promise he can keep.]
...But Mister Aventurine, there may come times when I must tune you. If we encounter The Family, their tuners will try to alter your mind and force you to reveal my location. Only my counter-tuning will free you.
[This is when he should lie down on the floor, eye to eye with Aventurine, like the friends he's seen lounging in Aideen Park. But they are not friends, and he prefers sitting upright. It helps him feel more in control of the situation, and if he is in control, he conveys strength. When upright, he can be a pillar or a rock, or a lifeline. His companion can hold on to him, metaphorically or literally, until he feels himself again.]
I'll propose another bargain. I promise never to aggressively tune you. Is that acceptable?
[ The very idea of fingers threading back into his already jumbled head to pluck strings and change the sound again squeezes Aventurine's lungs until it hurts to breathe. It doesn't help that Sunday hovers over him, but Aventurine makes no move to push him away. He shuts his eyes, gulps air, and holds it, as though this new wave of anxiety is a churning sea he can weather if he is stubborn enough. In silence he sits, unmoving until his body believes that it is not about to be made a puppet. No tuning is coming. Not now, at least, and there is certainly an argument for the leeway Sunday requests. If the Family does still have designs on their wayward Emanator's host, there could be worse in store for the both of them, beyond even Harmony's consecration.
At least the brand will not come from Sunday, if it is to come. Aventurine can accept those terms.
Held breath escapes in a soft sigh, not quite resignation. In speaking of his sister, he has divulged a truth about himself that no one else knows. Not even Lady Jade, who has nearly the whole of the rest of him tied up on contracts. He truly has given the last of himself away. He is nothing now. All for the Amber Lord.
Aventurine lifts a hand, reaches up and closes gloved fingers around Sunday's upper arm. ]
Help me up, please. [ His way of consenting to this new arrangement. ] I think I'll just... shower later.
[ As though he intends to get any sleep, after that dream. ]
[Sunday stiffens when Aventurine dares to reach out and purposefully touch him, but quickly relaxes as he rises to his feet.]
Mister Aventurine, I...
[He begins as he stiffens again, this time to provide firm support for the other man to lean on. He wants to ask if Aventurine will consent to a much-needed tuning, but it feels like a poorly timed question, after watching the Stoneheart writhe on the floor in fear of that very thing.
Another question comes to him, one he's sure he won't like the answer to. But if he doesn't ask, neither of them will sleep tonight. They will both be too twisted up by anxiety.]
How long have you had these nightmares?
[A heavy question couched in a simpler one. He wants to know if this started at Dewlight Pavilion.]
[ Aventurine's hand slips from Sunday's shoulder just as soon as he's hoisted himself up. A murmured 'thank you' escapes him, and he puts his attention on smoothing the ruched fabric of his vest and trousers. A comb of his fingers through disheveled waves does little to tame them, but he's never been in the habit of being perfectly coiffed. It's all about looking as unbothered as possible, anyway, building momentum so that it's less obvious when he finally drags the back of his hand across his face to swipe the tears from his cheeks.
Sunday grasps for something to say, and Aventurine acts like he doesn't hear. He can guess at what's coming, and none of the options are ones he's particularly eager to talk about. When the question finally comes, Aventurine lifts his gaze, offering a soft-eyed look that says enough, you know. ]
The IPC has me under the care of a Doctor of Chaos who believes my usual trouble sleeping has been exacerbated by my experiences on Penacony. [ It's easier to clinicize it, to recite what he's had to explain to administrators a dozen times now. ] It's more likely a result of walking through Nihility than carrying Harmony's brand, so...
[ Aventurine clears his throat. Even he is not sure that that's true, not when the Harmony figures so neatly into the worst of his nightmares. Still, Sunday hardly needs to feel guilty for something he cannot help, something Aventurine did bring upon himself. ]
[Sunday's wings fluff as he listens to Aventurine dodge around the answer, though the knowing glance says enough. Guilt hardens like ice in his chest, stilling his heart for a moment.]
Mister Aventurine, I'm...
["Sorry," he nearly says, but instead turns away. That day in Dewlight, he was convinced of his own righteousness. Yet the more he looks back on it, the more he regrets. What had he actually accomplished? The Hounds were driven toward him as he planned, and he was treated to a grand show at the Theater rivaled only by his own performance later. And he learned Robin had never been in real danger. All he had done was torture an innocent man.
He has done an unspeakable amount of damage.
Damage that he realizes he needs to heal. Earlier, he'd cleansed Penacony of the Order. Now, he must do the same for Aventurine. He cannot avoid his original question.]
Forgive me, the timing of this offer truly could not be worse, but... Would you consent to a tuning?
[Golden eyes dart up to meet Aventurine's gaze and one bare hand settles against his chest, though only briefly before he catches himself and hides in it his sleeve once more.]
I can quiet the nightmares. Please allow me to rectify the damage I've caused.
See, this is the problem with preconceived notions about others. Give a man an inch, and he'll unravel every mystery about himself. Aventurine is, admittedly, a little sour that Sunday seems so set on revealing himself to be closer to his pop star sister's version of himself than the horrid monster Aventurine himself remembers, but perhaps it became inevitable the moment the albatross failed to board that train.
Despite an instant and urgent desire to cut the former Bronze Melodia off, Aventurine catches his breath and holds the words back. Better to hold his tongue than spur another argument, exhausted as he is. Aventurine stares, looking a little like he's got a frog stuck in his mouth as Sunday treads carefully over his next words.
It sort of beggars belief, that offer.
The corner of his mouth twitches. His brows knit up high. He really does try to keep his composure, but then Sunday looks at him with those earnest sunset eyes, all pure and honest intent. A soft snrk slips past Aventurine's lips, despite his best effort. Then the bird goes squirrels his hands away like they really are something lewd, and Aventurine cannot help the laughter that spills out of him.
He turns away, pressing a knuckle to his eye as wave after wave of pained giggles bubble out of him. Oh, what a day it has been. What an achingly sincere man, the fallen Oak. ]
Mother Goddess. [ There is too much fondness in those two words, mumbled on an exhale. ] Are you...?
[ Of course he's serious. Aventurine still hasn't figured out whether Sunday even tells jokes.
Aventurine turns and looks Sunday over while rubbing his temple to alleviating pressure. Meditation, exercise, warm herbal tea, time away from work, from screens, journaling, the dreaded talk therapy sessions -- none of them have worked to stop the nightmares. Medication and drink put him to sleep, certainly, but it's hardly ever completely restful.
Subjecting himself to tuning feels almost unthinkable. And yet, what but shuffling and stacking the whole deck could possible set his thoughts in proper order? Sunday has given his word. His mind will not be consecrated. There will be no violence. And, meeting that dour, golden gaze, pupils the color of a deep ocean, Aventurine can believe him.
[Sunday watches Aventurine's handsome fast twist from the effort of not laughing out loud at the sheer lunacy of their situation. It lights a spark of humor in Sunday's eyes to see it. Better laughter than outrage.]
Heh. Now, I hope you will forgive this next part as well. [His eyes shine.]
When I am done, you are likely to feel very tired. So, it is best if we do this in your bed.
[Hearing how that must sound immediately after saying it, he draws a breath, flexes his wings, ...and says nothing. Best, maybe, not to address it. He hopes the sincerity in his voice shows he is neither joking nor seeking to take advantage of Aventurine's pain.]
I won't leave you to collapse on the floor again. We both should get some adequate sleep. The last thing we need is to awaken unrested later and have more reasons to be hostile with each other.
[Though he knows it won't be easy, he yearns for peace between them. Some men thrive in conflict and war, but it has never been comfortable for him. Even the Nameless, who had fought his divine form and cast him from the sky, had only done so after he'd tried to find a peaceful resolution to their disagreements. He'd failed then. He doesn't want to fail again now, with Aventurine.]
[ Aventurine resists the urge to comment on Sunday trying to get him into bed, well aware of how badly those sorts of jokes go. Instead, he strolls back to the console, navigates away from windows with work and news and pulls up the autopilot menu. An eight hour snooze timer on notifications that aren't emergent frankly feels excessive -- Aventurine cannot remember the last time he slept more than five in one go -- but it's not like there is anything between Lushaka and Jarilo-VI but star rail and warp points.
Once it's all set, he slides fingers beneath the strap of one of his gloves, loosening it. ]
Well, I guess you're invited to my bedroom.
[ He cannot help feeling a little incredulous at how quickly Sunday has turned the tables on him. The man did say he liked being in in control, though. If this helps alleviate the desire to tear his own feathers out, Aventurine supposes he can permit a bit of leeway. ]
Just give me a minute. I need to change, first.
[ Aventurine strolls past Sunday like he hasn't just recovered from a panick attack, like Sunday is not aware of half the wretched weights settled on him for the sins of greed and uselessness. He is terribly good at pretending, even fooling himself into thinking he's totally fine as he slips into his bedroom and fetches clean pajamas from a dresser drawer.
He changes in the bathroom. Deposits the clothes he'd worn to Lushaka, still smelling faintly of sea salt, in the wall hamper before washing his face and brushing his teeth. The pajamas he puts on aren't as obviously luxe as the black silk satin number he'd worn for the Penacony photoshoot, but they are fine linen in powder blue, embroidered on the lapels. He stares into the mirror a moment, adjusting the collar until no scars are visible.
Easier to focus on his appearance than the very real and climbing fear of Sunday climbing into his head again. He breathes through it before finally leaving the restroom. ]
Alright! Let's get to it.
[ He does not pause on his way from bath to bed, walking straight through and swiping his arm as he enters his room so that the sliding door stays open. Still trying to convince himself and Sunday both that he is perfectly resilient, he tosses himself on the bed Sunday had earlier so politely remade. Arms tucked behind his head, he does his best impression of inviting, relaxed calm, but when he tries to think of something smart to say, nothing comes to mind. So, he reclines, trying not to press his fingernails too firmly into his wrists as he waits. ]
[Sunday stands still in the hallway, lost in thought, waiting for Aventurine to get ready. His thoughts feel scattered, feverish, and dreamlike, as if he were the one who had just been jarred out of a hallucinatory nightmare and not his companion. Images of Penacony leap through his mind in a discontinuous cavalcade. The Golden Hour, Dreamflux Reef, the infinite seas of memoria, the stars and all creation seen, briefly, through the eyes of a god. If not for Aventurine, he would still see the world through those eyes.
Sunday should hate the Stoneheart for causing his fall. He doesn't.
The man did what he felt he had to; they both had. And neither should continue suffering for it.
Aventurine emerges from the bath, and Sunday wordlessly follows him to the bedroom. The Stoneheart reclines on the bed, a picture of relaxed calm so perfect that it is clearly staged.]
Try to actually relax.
[Sunday says and walks up to the bed's side.]
This may take a while if you are tense.
[That said, he lifts his bare and graceful hand, forgetting for a moment about Aventurine finding the sight of it unpleasantly lewd. Elegant fingers curl forward into the air as Sunday reaches into Aventurine with his mind.
The tuning begins as it always does: with the strange feeling of breaching someone else's consciousness. Normally, the sea of the soul is bright and vibrant with shimmering strings of notes. All a skilled tuner needs to do is find the right string and tighten or loosen it until the notes are adjusted to suit their whims.
The sea within Aventurine is vast and dark; the strings are black, cold, and frozen. When Sunday reaches for them, he feels himself pass through them like a wind through a valley.
His fingers clench, and he stares down at Aventurine with wide, haunted eyes. A terror swells within him not over what he's seen, but over what he hasn't. This, he thinks, is what it feels like to gaze past the event horizon of a black hole.]
I...cannot tune you.
[Sunday tries to keep his voice calm but his already pale face has gone ashen, his feathers are splayed in distress.]
Your soul is silent.
No. More than that. It's...more silent than silence. I do not feel a quiet where the melody should be, I feel nothing. I feel...a void. [He draws a shuddering breath] There is nothing in your soul. No music that can be tuned.
[The extended hand starts to tremble, and he slowly lowers it to his side.]
I can't help you. [His voice softens, barely above a whisper]. I'm sorry.
[ Once, during one of countless spats hashed out before parting ways, Dr. Ratio had accused Aventurine of becoming a philosophical zombie. He'd never heard the term before, and after everything that had transpired on Penacony, found it rather funny - until he'd done the reading. After poking through a few dense academic articles, he'd put the whole matter away, unwilling to dwell on it or the doctor's apparently dire opinion of how he handles himself. And preoccupied with mapping Sunday's escape after Robin secured his freedom, Aventurine had nearly forgotten about it entirely.
He doesn't move when Sunday chides him, but he does shut his eyes. There's no way he'll be able to relax properly if he has to stare into that face while the man pokes and prods his brain back into shape. He thinks he can tell when Sunday makes his attempt, a faint, muffled feeling, not at all the searing pain of the consecration. But then... nothing more happens, and Aventurine grits his teeth, half-expecting some attack.
There is an initial rush of relief at those words, I cannot tune you. For half a second, he is well and truly safe from the one thing that frightens him as much as Diamond's own wrath.
Aventurine opens one eye, catches a glimpse of an expression that does not match the calm in Sunday's voice, and slowly opens the other.
He thinks of philosophical zombies. ]
Oh.
[ What else is there to say? Sunday has just said to his face what all of his associates are whispering behind his back: he is empty, a yawning void where a person should be. At least the bird has the courtesy not to avoid the topic entirely where he can hear.
A part of him wishes he felt something about this news, about the way it was delivered, about the horror on Sunday's face. He doesn't.
Maybe this is why his emotions feel like they barely reach him, blocked by brick and drywall. He scoots himself up to sitting and moves to the edge of the bed, smoothing down his pajamas with steady hands. Once there are no wrinkles or rolled fabric, he lets his arms settle around his midsection, not quite hugging himself. Aventurine stares at the wrapped parcel of Sigonian textiles he'd removed from the smuggler's compartment earlier.
It occurs to him that his shattered cornerstone had spared him a true death in IX and the fate of a Sin Thirster. Though the IPC and the Doctors of Chaos had fussed, Aventurine thought it foolish. He has a purpose, a very clear one, and keeps finding himself with more responsibility in pursuit of his one real goal. He cannot fathom becoming a Self-Annihilator.
It's not possible. It's just not.
He has been quiet for far too long. ]
Well, I don't want to keep you up any longer than I already have, Feathers. You should go get some sleep.
[ He finally glances up at Sunday, no smile, no jolly indifference. Just, nothing. ]
["Feathers". His eyes narrow at yet another unrequisted nickname, but it's not important enough to scold Aventurine over.
The man is barely reacting, which is concerning. For a moment Sunday swears he sees something move across the other man's face that is more than just blank. Not a lack of emotion, but the antithesis of it.
He does not leave when he is dismissed. There is no place other place he should be right now. Even if he retreated to his bed, he knows he would not sleep. He would remain awake, haunted by the silent darkness of the room around him and the memory of a soul with no music. Briefly, he wonders if Aventurine fully grasps what that implies, but he doesn't ask.
Instead, he gently seats himself on the bed at Aventurine's side.]
[ Aventurine thinks he should make a ribald joke about sleepovers. A surefire way to drive Sunday off, certainly, which he's fairly sure he would prefer at the moment -- even under ordinary circumstances, Aventurine dislikes bringing anyone to his own bed -- but the words don't come. So, he just sits, swaying a little when the bed gives under Sunday's added weight, dimly aware that something inside of him hurts.
Sunday asks a question that has no simple answer. Aventurine stares at the carefully wrapped textiles again, tracing the gold paisley lines embroidered into turquoise fabric. ]
Didn't get a chance to read one of the many, many reports about it? [ A huff escapes him, not quite a laugh. ] I gambled.
[ He lets his hands fall to the bed, fingers pressed into his familiar, downy comforter. ]
To prove that the Family wasn't fit to manage Penacony alone, I needed the Express to release their little Stellaron, or that Emanator to unsheathe her blade. If you'd believe it, the Emanator's blade, leveled right at me and no one else, was the safest option. So, I made her do it. And she cut right through the Dream... and me.
[ One hand drifts up to the collar of his pajamas. He pulls it down just far enough to show off part of the diagonal welt cut up the left side of his chest. Just a glimpse, before he releases it and smooths the fabric back down again, careful not to expose any of his other scars. ]
Just a bruise in the waking world, thankfully. But, her blade severed the strings of Harmony's consecration while also... casting IX's shadow. I was caught in it. So, instead of waking or wandering the primordial Memory Zone, I wound up in a sort of... dream version of Nihility's endless sea.
[ Aventurine looks at Sunday again. Hard not to draw some rather dire conclusions from that description alone. ]
What was left of my cornerstone saved me from IX's... [ It is not a gaze. Not a will. ] pressure. Radiation. [ He smirsk faintly. ] The Propogation wasn't going to let me go that easily, you know.
[ No one ever does. He has only ever moved from one master to the next with violence, never free, never able to hope for more. ]
The Emanator and I spoke of many things. I read a note from a friend that gave me what I needed to wake from your dream. And then I... walked through it. I walked through Nihility. [ Aventurine swallows. ] Because I still have work to do.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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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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Aventurine curls in on himself, tucking his face against his shoulder, hands still covering his ears. He babbles, all dream nonsense spewed between heaved, wheezing breaths. ]
No, no, no. I can't- I can't lose them again. I can't lose her again. [ Misery hangs on every word. Pain bleeds through the sleep-drunk slur as he begs. ] Don't make me do it. Don't put me in chains. Don't make me fight. Please. Please. Just- [ By measures, his voice clears, the words slow. ] Just... kill me ins-
[ He wakes in earnest. Not perched above Nihility's river, but curled in a pile on his ship floor. No aura of Harmony overhead, only flickering holographic screens. His arms go slack, falling from his ears to his sides. One lifts to cover his eyes as shame and nausea sweep over him in waves.
What is left of the Bronze Melodia still stands over him, still perfectly capable of tuning him, he assumes, even with clipped wings and claws removed. Aventurine thinks to bark at him to leave, but if he opens his mouth, he's certain he'll be sick. So, he just sits there, breathing heavily, feeling every ache anew now that he's been stirred from sleep, hoping Sunday just leaves. ]
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Sunday sinks to the floor, wings pinned back, in a purposeful attempt to make himself small so that he is not looming over his companion. No part of him thinks to leave, not when someone important (though infuriating) to him is in so much distress. The Bronze Melodia hears the words of those who suffer and offers comfort and counsel. While he no longer holds the position, those instincts are still deeply ingrained. Even before he was appointed to it, turning his back on those in need was never part of his nature.]
I am going to touch you now.
[He warns gently before reaching out and laying a hand on Aventurine's stiff shoulder.]
...Do you require any assistance getting back to your room? I won't leave you here on the floor.
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After what feels like an eternity, he lowers his arm, eyes red and face stained with tears. He stares up at Sunday, trying to decide whether he'll be sick if he opens his mouth. And Sunday, even with his wings pinned back, he looks every bit the ethereal creature all Halovians are claimed to be. It would be nice if Aventurine could take any comfort in that.
Instead, after a sigh that sounds more like a release of steam, he levels just one request, words firm despite his reedy voice. ] Tell me you won't tune me.
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The thing he had done to Aventurine one day in Dewlight Pavilion.
That day lives clearly in his mind. Once the Harmony's brand had taken hold, the Stoneheart started to unravel all over the streets of the Golden Hour. Whatever trial he'd faced had been a grueling one. Sunday opens his mouth to explain that he doesn't control the trial, that people are forced to face down their pasts in ways determined by their own burdens. But that isn't entirely true. At any moment, he could have absolved Aventurine, lifted the brand, and removed the pressure from his mind. Yet he didn't. Aventurine was intended to flush out the Hounds, and for that, he needed to act drastically. Afterward, if he succeeded, he would have been subsumed into The Oak Family. Along with 107,336 other souls, Aventurine should have joined Sunday's divine corpus. He'd escaped, however. Escaped and helped to bring the scorching sun hurtling back down to earth. If only he hadn't, he would not be in so much agony now. Neither of them would be.
For that, maybe he deserves to have the brand etched forever into his memory. Yet when Sunday looks into the haunted eyes, he doesn't see a man who deserves this much suffering. He sees a soul in desperate need, and he isn't sure how to offer comfort. How does he protect someone from a monster when the monster is himself?]
...Is that what this is about? [He asks, his voice as soft and melodic as distant birdsong.] Do you think I will tune you again?
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[ It doesn't matter what he believes. What he knows is that Sunday, however shrewd and calculating, is a man of principles. If he promises he won't, then he won't. That, he is willing to hang his hat on.
Breath shallow and muscles still tensed, Aventurine is every bit the cornered animal, staring up at Sunday with unwavering intensity. It is, he knows, a monumental ask, to deprive one of the Harmony's strongest of the one thing that could unequivocally protect him were Aventurine to turn on him. Aventurine also knows that he hasn't given Sunday any reason to think that a betrayal isn't coming.
This, too, needs to be a transaction. As everything.
He swallows. ]
I can't-
[ His voice cracks. The wide-eyed hold Aventurine has on Sunday's gaze finally breaks, and he looks away, finding a line on the floor to study. ]
If I have to watch my sister die again, it'll break me. So, if this is going to work, I need to know it won't happen again.
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[Sunday's wings twitch back, then hang guiltily against his shoulders.
The trial must truly have been grueling. It is understandable, then, that Aventurine would never want to be tuned again, would never again want to feel a powerful member of The Family drill into his mind and change the music of his soul. Promising not to tune feels wrong, however. Sunday isn't sure it's a promise he can keep, and he only makes promises he can keep. An oath is pointless if it is so easily broken.
If Aventurine attacked him or fell victim to another tuner, there would be nothing that Sunday could do to defend himself or this strange man, whom he is slowly developing affection for.
And right now, Aventurine looks like a man who needs tuning. The animalistic panic in his eyes, the shallow breaths, and the curled body all make him seem more like a cornered rabbit than a human. He doubts the Stoneheart can hear his own thoughts over his soul's screeching, pounding melody. Tuning could quiet things down and release the taut wires in his mind.]
I promise not to subject you to the consecration. [Sunday answers. That is a promise he can keep.]
...But Mister Aventurine, there may come times when I must tune you. If we encounter The Family, their tuners will try to alter your mind and force you to reveal my location. Only my counter-tuning will free you.
[This is when he should lie down on the floor, eye to eye with Aventurine, like the friends he's seen lounging in Aideen Park. But they are not friends, and he prefers sitting upright. It helps him feel more in control of the situation, and if he is in control, he conveys strength. When upright, he can be a pillar or a rock, or a lifeline. His companion can hold on to him, metaphorically or literally, until he feels himself again.]
I'll propose another bargain. I promise never to aggressively tune you. Is that acceptable?
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At least the brand will not come from Sunday, if it is to come. Aventurine can accept those terms.
Held breath escapes in a soft sigh, not quite resignation. In speaking of his sister, he has divulged a truth about himself that no one else knows. Not even Lady Jade, who has nearly the whole of the rest of him tied up on contracts. He truly has given the last of himself away. He is nothing now. All for the Amber Lord.
Aventurine lifts a hand, reaches up and closes gloved fingers around Sunday's upper arm. ]
Help me up, please. [ His way of consenting to this new arrangement. ] I think I'll just... shower later.
[ As though he intends to get any sleep, after that dream. ]
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Mister Aventurine, I...
[He begins as he stiffens again, this time to provide firm support for the other man to lean on. He wants to ask if Aventurine will consent to a much-needed tuning, but it feels like a poorly timed question, after watching the Stoneheart writhe on the floor in fear of that very thing.
Another question comes to him, one he's sure he won't like the answer to. But if he doesn't ask, neither of them will sleep tonight. They will both be too twisted up by anxiety.]
How long have you had these nightmares?
[A heavy question couched in a simpler one. He wants to know if this started at Dewlight Pavilion.]
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Sunday grasps for something to say, and Aventurine acts like he doesn't hear. He can guess at what's coming, and none of the options are ones he's particularly eager to talk about. When the question finally comes, Aventurine lifts his gaze, offering a soft-eyed look that says enough, you know. ]
The IPC has me under the care of a Doctor of Chaos who believes my usual trouble sleeping has been exacerbated by my experiences on Penacony. [ It's easier to clinicize it, to recite what he's had to explain to administrators a dozen times now. ] It's more likely a result of walking through Nihility than carrying Harmony's brand, so...
[ Aventurine clears his throat. Even he is not sure that that's true, not when the Harmony figures so neatly into the worst of his nightmares. Still, Sunday hardly needs to feel guilty for something he cannot help, something Aventurine did bring upon himself. ]
Don't worry about it.
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Mister Aventurine, I'm...
["Sorry," he nearly says, but instead turns away. That day in Dewlight, he was convinced of his own righteousness. Yet the more he looks back on it, the more he regrets. What had he actually accomplished? The Hounds were driven toward him as he planned, and he was treated to a grand show at the Theater rivaled only by his own performance later. And he learned Robin had never been in real danger. All he had done was torture an innocent man.
He has done an unspeakable amount of damage.
Damage that he realizes he needs to heal. Earlier, he'd cleansed Penacony of the Order. Now, he must do the same for Aventurine. He cannot avoid his original question.]
Forgive me, the timing of this offer truly could not be worse, but... Would you consent to a tuning?
[Golden eyes dart up to meet Aventurine's gaze and one bare hand settles against his chest, though only briefly before he catches himself and hides in it his sleeve once more.]
I can quiet the nightmares. Please allow me to rectify the damage I've caused.
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He's definitely worrying about it.
See, this is the problem with preconceived notions about others. Give a man an inch, and he'll unravel every mystery about himself. Aventurine is, admittedly, a little sour that Sunday seems so set on revealing himself to be closer to his pop star sister's version of himself than the horrid monster Aventurine himself remembers, but perhaps it became inevitable the moment the albatross failed to board that train.
Despite an instant and urgent desire to cut the former Bronze Melodia off, Aventurine catches his breath and holds the words back. Better to hold his tongue than spur another argument, exhausted as he is. Aventurine stares, looking a little like he's got a frog stuck in his mouth as Sunday treads carefully over his next words.
It sort of beggars belief, that offer.
The corner of his mouth twitches. His brows knit up high. He really does try to keep his composure, but then Sunday looks at him with those earnest sunset eyes, all pure and honest intent. A soft snrk slips past Aventurine's lips, despite his best effort. Then the bird goes squirrels his hands away like they really are something lewd, and Aventurine cannot help the laughter that spills out of him.
He turns away, pressing a knuckle to his eye as wave after wave of pained giggles bubble out of him. Oh, what a day it has been. What an achingly sincere man, the fallen Oak. ]
Mother Goddess. [ There is too much fondness in those two words, mumbled on an exhale. ] Are you...?
[ Of course he's serious. Aventurine still hasn't figured out whether Sunday even tells jokes.
Aventurine turns and looks Sunday over while rubbing his temple to alleviating pressure. Meditation, exercise, warm herbal tea, time away from work, from screens, journaling, the dreaded talk therapy sessions -- none of them have worked to stop the nightmares. Medication and drink put him to sleep, certainly, but it's hardly ever completely restful.
Subjecting himself to tuning feels almost unthinkable. And yet, what but shuffling and stacking the whole deck could possible set his thoughts in proper order? Sunday has given his word. His mind will not be consecrated. There will be no violence. And, meeting that dour, golden gaze, pupils the color of a deep ocean, Aventurine can believe him.
He sighs. ]
Sure. Why not.
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Heh. Now, I hope you will forgive this next part as well. [His eyes shine.]
When I am done, you are likely to feel very tired. So, it is best if we do this in your bed.
[Hearing how that must sound immediately after saying it, he draws a breath, flexes his wings, ...and says nothing. Best, maybe, not to address it. He hopes the sincerity in his voice shows he is neither joking nor seeking to take advantage of Aventurine's pain.]
I won't leave you to collapse on the floor again. We both should get some adequate sleep. The last thing we need is to awaken unrested later and have more reasons to be hostile with each other.
[Though he knows it won't be easy, he yearns for peace between them. Some men thrive in conflict and war, but it has never been comfortable for him. Even the Nameless, who had fought his divine form and cast him from the sky, had only done so after he'd tried to find a peaceful resolution to their disagreements. He'd failed then. He doesn't want to fail again now, with Aventurine.]
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Once it's all set, he slides fingers beneath the strap of one of his gloves, loosening it. ]
Well, I guess you're invited to my bedroom.
[ He cannot help feeling a little incredulous at how quickly Sunday has turned the tables on him. The man did say he liked being in in control, though. If this helps alleviate the desire to tear his own feathers out, Aventurine supposes he can permit a bit of leeway. ]
Just give me a minute. I need to change, first.
[ Aventurine strolls past Sunday like he hasn't just recovered from a panick attack, like Sunday is not aware of half the wretched weights settled on him for the sins of greed and uselessness. He is terribly good at pretending, even fooling himself into thinking he's totally fine as he slips into his bedroom and fetches clean pajamas from a dresser drawer.
He changes in the bathroom. Deposits the clothes he'd worn to Lushaka, still smelling faintly of sea salt, in the wall hamper before washing his face and brushing his teeth. The pajamas he puts on aren't as obviously luxe as the black silk satin number he'd worn for the Penacony photoshoot, but they are fine linen in powder blue, embroidered on the lapels. He stares into the mirror a moment, adjusting the collar until no scars are visible.
Easier to focus on his appearance than the very real and climbing fear of Sunday climbing into his head again. He breathes through it before finally leaving the restroom. ]
Alright! Let's get to it.
[ He does not pause on his way from bath to bed, walking straight through and swiping his arm as he enters his room so that the sliding door stays open. Still trying to convince himself and Sunday both that he is perfectly resilient, he tosses himself on the bed Sunday had earlier so politely remade. Arms tucked behind his head, he does his best impression of inviting, relaxed calm, but when he tries to think of something smart to say, nothing comes to mind. So, he reclines, trying not to press his fingernails too firmly into his wrists as he waits. ]
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Sunday should hate the Stoneheart for causing his fall. He doesn't.
The man did what he felt he had to; they both had. And neither should continue suffering for it.
Aventurine emerges from the bath, and Sunday wordlessly follows him to the bedroom. The Stoneheart reclines on the bed, a picture of relaxed calm so perfect that it is clearly staged.]
Try to actually relax.
[Sunday says and walks up to the bed's side.]
This may take a while if you are tense.
[That said, he lifts his bare and graceful hand, forgetting for a moment about Aventurine finding the sight of it unpleasantly lewd. Elegant fingers curl forward into the air as Sunday reaches into Aventurine with his mind.
The tuning begins as it always does: with the strange feeling of breaching someone else's consciousness. Normally, the sea of the soul is bright and vibrant with shimmering strings of notes. All a skilled tuner needs to do is find the right string and tighten or loosen it until the notes are adjusted to suit their whims.
The sea within Aventurine is vast and dark; the strings are black, cold, and frozen. When Sunday reaches for them, he feels himself pass through them like a wind through a valley.
His fingers clench, and he stares down at Aventurine with wide, haunted eyes. A terror swells within him not over what he's seen, but over what he hasn't. This, he thinks, is what it feels like to gaze past the event horizon of a black hole.]
I...cannot tune you.
[Sunday tries to keep his voice calm but his already pale face has gone ashen, his feathers are splayed in distress.]
Your soul is silent.
No. More than that. It's...more silent than silence. I do not feel a quiet where the melody should be, I feel nothing. I feel...a void. [He draws a shuddering breath] There is nothing in your soul. No music that can be tuned.
[The extended hand starts to tremble, and he slowly lowers it to his side.]
I can't help you. [His voice softens, barely above a whisper]. I'm sorry.
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He doesn't move when Sunday chides him, but he does shut his eyes. There's no way he'll be able to relax properly if he has to stare into that face while the man pokes and prods his brain back into shape. He thinks he can tell when Sunday makes his attempt, a faint, muffled feeling, not at all the searing pain of the consecration. But then... nothing more happens, and Aventurine grits his teeth, half-expecting some attack.
There is an initial rush of relief at those words, I cannot tune you. For half a second, he is well and truly safe from the one thing that frightens him as much as Diamond's own wrath.
Aventurine opens one eye, catches a glimpse of an expression that does not match the calm in Sunday's voice, and slowly opens the other.
He thinks of philosophical zombies. ]
Oh.
[ What else is there to say? Sunday has just said to his face what all of his associates are whispering behind his back: he is empty, a yawning void where a person should be. At least the bird has the courtesy not to avoid the topic entirely where he can hear.
A part of him wishes he felt something about this news, about the way it was delivered, about the horror on Sunday's face. He doesn't.
Maybe this is why his emotions feel like they barely reach him, blocked by brick and drywall. He scoots himself up to sitting and moves to the edge of the bed, smoothing down his pajamas with steady hands. Once there are no wrinkles or rolled fabric, he lets his arms settle around his midsection, not quite hugging himself. Aventurine stares at the wrapped parcel of Sigonian textiles he'd removed from the smuggler's compartment earlier.
It occurs to him that his shattered cornerstone had spared him a true death in IX and the fate of a Sin Thirster. Though the IPC and the Doctors of Chaos had fussed, Aventurine thought it foolish. He has a purpose, a very clear one, and keeps finding himself with more responsibility in pursuit of his one real goal. He cannot fathom becoming a Self-Annihilator.
It's not possible. It's just not.
He has been quiet for far too long. ]
Well, I don't want to keep you up any longer than I already have, Feathers. You should go get some sleep.
[ He finally glances up at Sunday, no smile, no jolly indifference. Just, nothing. ]
Good effort, though.
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The man is barely reacting, which is concerning. For a moment Sunday swears he sees something move across the other man's face that is more than just blank. Not a lack of emotion, but the antithesis of it.
He does not leave when he is dismissed. There is no place other place he should be right now. Even if he retreated to his bed, he knows he would not sleep. He would remain awake, haunted by the silent darkness of the room around him and the memory of a soul with no music. Briefly, he wonders if Aventurine fully grasps what that implies, but he doesn't ask.
Instead, he gently seats himself on the bed at Aventurine's side.]
...What happened that day at the theater?
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Sunday asks a question that has no simple answer. Aventurine stares at the carefully wrapped textiles again, tracing the gold paisley lines embroidered into turquoise fabric. ]
Didn't get a chance to read one of the many, many reports about it? [ A huff escapes him, not quite a laugh. ] I gambled.
[ He lets his hands fall to the bed, fingers pressed into his familiar, downy comforter. ]
To prove that the Family wasn't fit to manage Penacony alone, I needed the Express to release their little Stellaron, or that Emanator to unsheathe her blade. If you'd believe it, the Emanator's blade, leveled right at me and no one else, was the safest option. So, I made her do it. And she cut right through the Dream... and me.
[ One hand drifts up to the collar of his pajamas. He pulls it down just far enough to show off part of the diagonal welt cut up the left side of his chest. Just a glimpse, before he releases it and smooths the fabric back down again, careful not to expose any of his other scars. ]
Just a bruise in the waking world, thankfully. But, her blade severed the strings of Harmony's consecration while also... casting IX's shadow. I was caught in it. So, instead of waking or wandering the primordial Memory Zone, I wound up in a sort of... dream version of Nihility's endless sea.
[ Aventurine looks at Sunday again. Hard not to draw some rather dire conclusions from that description alone. ]
What was left of my cornerstone saved me from IX's... [ It is not a gaze. Not a will. ] pressure. Radiation. [ He smirsk faintly. ] The Propogation wasn't going to let me go that easily, you know.
[ No one ever does. He has only ever moved from one master to the next with violence, never free, never able to hope for more. ]
The Emanator and I spoke of many things. I read a note from a friend that gave me what I needed to wake from your dream. And then I... walked through it. I walked through Nihility. [ Aventurine swallows. ] Because I still have work to do.
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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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